"Let me give you some context of the times during which these crimes occurred. The president of the United States was Richard Nixon," I began. I had tested the almanac listings of that year on my summer intern, a college student. She didn't seem to know who Spiro Agnew was, so I left out the fact of his resignation and the subsequent Saturday Night Massacre. The ceasefire ending the involvement of American ground troops in Vietnam didn't register very well either, in light of more recent military engagements"
"A first-class stamp cost eight cents, Elvis-Elvis Presley, not Costello-was a sellout nearby at the Nassau Coliseum, and The Godfather won the Oscar for the year's best movie," I said, making eye contact with the several jurors who had listed film as among their favorite hobbies in the voir dire questions.
And I nodded at number six, the bus driver who spent most of his afternoons at an Off-Track Betting parlor in his neighborhood, when I told them that Secretariat had captured the Triple Crown, the last time that feat had been accomplished in horse racing.
I told them what the prosecution case would prove, in colder, more clinical terms than the excruciating details they would hear from the mouth of Kerry Hastings. I read to them the charges-rape and sodomy, burglary and robbery-in the indictment returned by a grand jury, what used to be called a "blue-ribbon panel" of carefully selected citizens during the thirty-year reign of District Attorney Frank Hogan
"We will prove these charges by the testimony of witnesses who will tell you what they experienced through each of their five senses: what they saw, heard, felt, tasted, and smelled on that unbearable morning-and in the days and years that followed"
"You will hear from police officers, a doctor, and forensic biologists. You will see crime scene photographs and physical evidence that you can examine yourselves-things that will take you back to the tiny room in which these life-threatening acts occurred." I was standing in front of the jury box as I turned to the defendant and his counsel. I started to walk toward Gene Grassley, knowing that the sixteen triers of fact would follow my movement, would look at Floyd Warren when I pointed at him and accused him of the crimes
"You will hear from police officers-now retired-who responded to the 911 call made by a neighbor when Kerry Hastings's muffled screams pierced the warm night air. They will both tell you how they chased this defendant from the front door of Ms. Hastings's building, as he crossed the street and vaulted a chain-link fence, trying to escape them but getting caught less than a city block away. He had six dollars in his pants pocket, and there was a serrated steak knife that he had discarded on the ground in the course of his flight."
I watched as the jurors looked at Warren. He was dressed in a denim shirt, with an orange macramé kufi cap. He met their stares head-on, shaking his head from side to side. He no longer looked able to scale a seven-foot schoolyard fence
"And while Kerry Hastings's case grew cold, while justice stalled, science kept moving forward with a revolutionary technology called DNA." I gave the jurors the bare bones of the people's case. I wanted to pique their interest, engage them on the victim's behalf, and impress upon them the facts we would present
"And I will stand before you at the end of this case, when I have proven Floyd Warren's guilt beyond any doubt, and ask you to convict him of each of these crimes with which he is charged."
As I took my place at counsel table, I noticed that two more of the Latin Princes had entered the room. There were no words emblazoned on their chests today, just the image of a dagger, half covered in blood, on the black background of the T-shirts. A court officer stood behind my chair, facing them.
I tried to concentrate on Grassley's opening.
His remarks were short and he spoke in generalities, urging each of the jurors to keep an open mind. He knew that my evidence was overwhelming, and he was up against the dazzling science of genetic fingerprinting
You may call your first witness, Ms. Cooper."
"The people call Kerry Hastings, Your Honor."
One of the court officers went to the side door that led to the witness waiting room. When he came back in, every head but mine turned to Hastings, to inspect her, as she walked into the well of the courtroom, approached the stand, and was sworn in.
I rose to bring my notes to the lectern. I could see now that there were eight gang members in the room, along with a handful of my colleagues. It worried me that the group would try to stage any kind of outburst while Kerry Hastings was testifying.
For almost fifteen minutes, I took her through the basic information of her background-her education, her training, her impressive résumé of publications and academic awards. Her poise and dignity belied the anger that she had described to me, the anger she had carried internally for three decades. This jury was meeting a mature adult, robbed of a life she had planned for herself when her youthful dreams were shattered by Floyd Warren's brutality.
I had her describe how she went to sleep the night she was raped and what had awakened her.
"I heard a noise on the fire escape. My bed was right next to the window, and because it was such a warm night, I had left it open."
As she answered my questions, the young man in the front row began to cough.
"What kind of noise was it?" I asked her.
"It sounded like something rattling against the metal grating. That's when I opened my eyes."
"And what did you see?"
"I saw light-like flames-just outside my window. I sat up in bed because I was afraid that something was on fire."
"What happened next?"
"There was a man sitting on the window sill. He already had one leg in my room. The flames came from a cigarette lighter that he was using to see his way in the dark."
"What did-?"
"He dropped the lighter and grabbed my hair with his left hand. He pulled me toward him and held the point of a knife against my neck. 'Don't scream,' is what he said to me. 'Don't make me use this.' "
Kerry Hastings was almost mechanical in her recitation of the story. She was determined, this time, that she wouldn't give Floyd Warren the satisfaction of seeing her cry. I needed to slow her down and make her wait for me to finish my questions.
Several of the young gang members appeared to be having coughing fits.
"Were you able to see the face of the man who held the knife to your neck?"
The judge banged his gavel three times. Hastings jumped, surprised by the pounding noise directly behind her head.
"Let's have some order here."
"I saw him for less than a minute. He put-"
"Hold on, Ms. Hastings, will you?" Judge Lamont said. "I can't hear your answers."
Floyd Warren was smirking, pleased to see that the witness was rattled by the disruptive spectators.
Louie Larsen approached the kid in the first row and exchanged whispered remarks. Then Larsen walked to the bench and said something to Lamont.
"Carry on, Ms. Cooper."
"Had you ever seen the intruder, the man who came through your window, before?"
"No. I didn't know him."
"Let's go back, Ms. Cooper. I didn't get what she said about seeing the man."
Hastings turned toward the judge. "I only saw him for a few seconds. He put a pillow over my face before he turned me on my stomach. He didn't want me to see him."
"Wait for Ms. Cooper's questions, please."
So much for my smooth direct. Kerry Hastings's calm was dissolving rapidly.
The lead Latin Prince had another coughing spell, doubling over and clapping his chest.
Alton Lamont stood up and pointed at the door with his gavel. "Take it out of here, young man. Captain Larsen, let's clear the courtroom."
One of the officers directed the jurors to rise and file through the door behind the witness stand. Several of them stooped to pick up bags and backpacks, fixated on the confrontation between the judge and the Latino loudmouth.