“I-”
“Did Adam Lee catch you masturbating his son, Albert?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. I have nothing further.”
No way was Paula going to let it end on this note. She approached the witness box.
“Redirect, Your Honor?”
“Go ahead.”
“Ms. Perkins, when Mr. Lee asked you if Adam Lee called you after your weekend together, you said no, but you wanted to explain why.”
“Your Honor,” Monty asked, “unless Ms. Perkins is a mind reader, how could she possibly know why my client did not call her?”
“Sustained.”
Paula continued. “Okay, Ms. Perkins, is there any fact, within your scope of knowledge, that would have prevented Adam Lee from being able to contact you by telephone?”
“Yes. I had my number changed to an unlisted one.”
“And you didn’t give Adam Lee your new phone number?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to hear from him ever again.”
“Why not?”
“Adam is a very sick person.”
Monty objected. “Is Ms. Perkins seriously testifying as to my client’s state of health?”
Paula pushed ahead. “What do you mean when you say that Adam Lee is a very sick person?”
“He hurt me.”
“How exactly did Adam Lee hurt you? Do you mean physically?”
“Physically. Yes. He tied me to the bed and hurt me physically.”
“When was this?” Paula asked.
“Our last night in the mountains.”
“And how exactly did Adam Lee hurt you physically?”
“He tied me to the bed.”
Monty spoke up. “Your Honor, I’m afraid I can’t quite see how inventorying the consensual sex acts of Ms. Perkins and Adam Lee is relevant to the case at hand.”
“Mr. Lee opened the door to sex acts as an indicator of character,” Paula pointed out to the judge.
“You did do that, Mr. Lee. You can’t have it both ways. Overruled.”
Monty sat down and dared a quick glance at Adam. Adam looked only at the table in front of him.
Paula asked, “Did you agree to let the defendant tie you to the bed?”
“Yes, but I thought it was just going to be for fun. Once he had me tied up, he hurt me.”
“What exactly did he do to you once he had you bound?”
“He cut me in tiny places with a knife. He spit on me. When I said no, he raped me, anally. I bled for days. But before he let me go, he used the bathroom on me.”
“How do you mean?”
“He peed on me.”
“After sodomizing you and lacerating you with a knife blade, Adam Lee degraded you by spitting on you and urinating on you while you were defenseless.”
“That’s right.”
“Why didn’t you report this to the police?”
“Because I knew I couldn’t prove it. We had been having sex together for a long time. I could hardly believe it myself. I thought I knew Adam. I didn’t know he was capable of… I just didn’t know he was capable.”
THIRTY-NINE
I wait for Monty in the interview room. Today, like every other day, the trial did not go well for us. Monty made small victories, but they were Pyrrhic. We lost more ground than we gained. There is much criticism in the press. Criticism of my brother’s handling of my case. They say it is a weak defense he has mounted on my behalf. I read with interest the coverage of Anne Hunter. She has been particularly unmerciful in her writings of every aspect of the trial. In the paper today, the Hunter woman continues her tirade. She slants her story toward the “weird sex acts” that transpired between me and Violet, and the “buried rage” that drove me to torture and degradation. She is, of course, quite right in her assessment. She criticizes Monty for not prefiguring the disastrous consequences of a line of questioning that opens the door to sexual histories. Again, she is correct in her assessment. Monty is performing poorly. There is, however, a certain line in her article that reverberates in my mind. A legal analyst, when referring to Monty’s ineptitude, says, “it is almost as if he wants his brother to be caught.” The words echo in my mind, picking up speed, and I find myself thinking of a time when we were boys. Of a girl I cared for. Of sexual awakenings. Of sexual cruelties.
Monty enters the interview cell, his face a mask of despondency. He has not contacted me since our last disastrous day in court. I wait for him to speak.
“Well, I won’t lie to you. I mean, we blew the Perkins woman’s credibility all to hell. Made her look like the slut she is. But what was that shit about you tying her up and peeing on her?”
“It was lies.”
“Well, it sounded like lies. I hope it sounded like lies to the jury. Like she was desperate to make you look bad. But that old woman hurt us. Hurt us bad. Jesus, did you really say that? That Rachel was dead?”
“I wasn’t myself. It was a joke. I didn’t mean it.”
“Believe me, you don’t come across as the joking type. That old woman is going to sink us. How the fuck did they find that old bat? Jesus, I should never have called that bastard Leo.”
“No, I would say that was a mistake. One of several.” This is the first time I have commented on his performance in a negative light. Indeed, it is the first time I have ever dared criticize my brother.
“What are you trying to say? If you’re trying to say something, just fucking say it.”
“I’m trying to say that several mistakes have been made.”
“Yeah, taking some tramp for a weekend of S amp;M and water sports, that was a mistake. Running around to the geriatric twins and bragging about how your wife was dead and it didn’t really matter because she was a real bitch anyway, that was a mistake. Thinking a jury is gonna believe you if you get on the stand and tell them how you cleaned every microdrop of blood off Albert and washed all of his clothes before the police got to the crime scene, that was a mistake. And you know what else was a mistake, Adam? Killing your wife, that was a mistake.”
“It sounds like I need a new lawyer. No wonder you can’t convince anybody I’m innocent; you don’t believe it yourself.”
“What do you expect, Adam? You sure as hell look guilty.”
“I expect my lawyer to make me look not guilty.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that the case is going so badly. I guess I’d rather believe you’re guilty than believe I might lose the case. That you might go to prison. Or worse. Because of me. Because I failed.”
The moment has passed. Neither of us likes this sort of tension. We assume our old roles of weak and strong. “I have faith in you,” I tell him. “It will be because of you that I am set free.”
“I pray you’re right.” He prepares to leave. He has had enough of me for one day. I sicken him. I represent his own failure. “Look, I’ve got to get to the office. I’m supposed to meet with your shrink, what’s his name, Doctor-?”
“Salinger.”
“He says he’ll tell the jury you’re not crazy and he doesn’t believe, based on his professional opinion, that you’re capable of premeditated murder.”
“Premeditated?”
“Well, that’s what you’re accused of, and Salinger won’t testify without the qualification. He says we’re all capable of murder given the right amount of rage and provocation.”
“You don’t think that it will make me look bad, the fact that I’ve consulted a psychiatrist?”
“Believe me, at this point, it’s the last of our worries. He’ll also say that your having the affair was a way for you to work through your marriage difficulties, and I’m pretty sure that we can get him to say that what you said to Mrs. Oldster was just a way of letting off steam or some such bullshit. Don’t worry. I’m thinking ahead. All is not lost. I still have hope.”
Monty clasps my shoulders and gives me a halfhearted hug. I know that in his eyes, I am already lost.
“Anyway, I’ll try to come back tonight.”
He opens his briefcase and takes out a pair of sunglasses. He puts them on and I remember. I remember the last time I saw those glasses. He was passing me in his car, on my drive-way, and the light reflected off them so that his eyes were like two holes of white light. I remember. I-