"Yes, I am," I said. I placed them on the edge of the stand, away from me.
"Who is tha-?"
"Me," I interrupted him. I began to cry. By trying not to, I made it worse. I sputtered.
"Are those photographs true and accurate portrayals of how you appeared after the attack on the evening of May eighth, 1981?"
"I was uglier, yes, but they are true portrayals." The bailiff went to hand me a glass of water. I reached for it but my grasp wasn't sure and it fell.
"I'm sorry," I said to the bailiff, crying more now. I tried to dab at her wet lapels with a Kleenex from the box she held.
"You're doing fine; breathe," this steely bailiff said. This made me think of the emergency room nurse on the night of the rape. "Good, you got a piece of him. " I was lucky; people were pulling for me.
"Do you want to continue?" the judge asked me. "We can take a short break."
"I will continue." I cleared my throat and wiped my eyes. Now I held a Kleenex balled up in my lap-something I had not wanted to be reduced to.
"Can you tell us what clothing you were wearing that evening?"
"I was wearing a pair of jeans and a blue work shirt and an oxford type of shirt and a cable-knit cardigan sweater that was tan, and moccasins and underwear."
Mastine had been standing near the prosecution table. Now he stepped forward holding a clear plastic bag.
"I am showing you a large bag which is marked exhibit number eighteen. Would you take a look at the contents of that bag and tell us if you are familiar with them?"
He held the bag in front of me. I had not seen these clothes since the night of the rape. My mother's sweater, shirt, and jeans that I had borrowed that afternoon were tightly packed inside. I took the bag from him and held it to one side.
"Yes."
"What are the contents of that bag?"
"They look to be the shirt and jeans and sweater that I had on. I don't see the underwear but-"
"How about where your left hand is?"
I moved my hand. I had borrowed a pair of my mother's underwear. She wore nude, I wore white. This underwear was stained so thoroughly with blood that only one clean patch reminded me of this.
"Okay. My underwear," I said.
They were received into evidence.
Mastine finished up on the events of that day. He established that I had returned to Pennsylvania after failing to pick a photo out of the mug books at the Public Safety Building. We moved to the fall, noting my return day in September for the beginning of my sophomore year.
"I direct your attention now to October fifth, 1981, the afternoon of that day. Do you recall the events of that day, that afternoon?"
"I recall one particular event, yes."
"Is the person who attacked you in Thorden Park, is he in court here today?"
"Yes, he is."
I did what I was warned not to. I focused my attention on Madison's face. I stared at him. For a few seconds, I was unaware of Mastine or of Gail, or of the courtroom.
"Would you tell us where he is sitting and what he has on?" I heard Mastine say.
Before I spoke, Madison looked down.
"He is sitting next to the man with the brown tie and he has a gray three-piece suit on," I said. I relished pointing out Paquette's ugly brown tie and identifying Madison not by his skin color, as I was expected to do, but by his clothes.
"Let the record reflect that the witness identified the defendant," Mastine said.
For the remainder of the direct examination, I did not take my eyes off Madison for more than a second or two. I wanted my life back.
Mastine spent a long time on the events of October 5. I had to describe Madison on that day. What he looked like, what he said. Madison raised his head from the defense table only once. When he did, and saw that I was still looking at him, he turned away and to the city of Syracuse outside the window.
Mastine questioned me in detail about what Officer Clapper looked like, where he was standing. Had I seen Madison approach him? From what direction? Where did I go? Who did I call? Why the time discrepancy between seeing him and calling the police? Oh, he pointed out, the discrepancy was because I had appeared at class to tell my teacher I couldn't attend? Had naturally called my parents and told them what had happened? Had tried to wait for a friend to walk me home? All the things a good girl, he implied, might do after running into her rapist on the street.
His purpose in all this was to make anything Paquette could go after in his cross moot. That was what made Clapper so important. If I had identified Clapper and he, in turn, had identified Madison, this made my case close to airtight. This was the key point of identification Mastine emphasized. What Mastine and Uebelhoer, what Paquette, Madison, and I all knew, was that the lineup was the weak link.
I had thought long and hard about what I was going to say. This time around I would not pretend a command I did not have.
Mastine had me detail my reasoning for ruling out the men I initially had. I took my time explaining the similarities between numbers four and five and how I hadn't been sure at the time I marked the box but that I had chosen five because of the eye contact.
"At the time that you indicated it was number five, were you in fact positive it was him?"
"No, I was not."
"Why did you mark the box, then?"
This was the single most important question of my case.
"I marked the box because I was very scared, and he was looking at me and I saw the eyes, and the way the lineup is, it is not like it is on television, and you are standing right next to the person and he looks like he is two feet away from you. He looked at me. I picked him."
I could feel Judge Gorman's attention heighten. I watched Gail as I answered the questions Mastine put to me, tried to think of good things, of the baby floating inside her womb.
"Do you know to this day who that depicted?"
"Number five?"
"Yes," said Mastine.
"No," I said.
"Do you know which position the defendant was in, in the lineup?"
If I told the truth, I could say that the moment I picked number five I knew I was wrong and had regretted it. That everything after that, from the mood in the lineup room, to the relief on Paquette's face, to the dark weight I felt on Lorenz in the conference room, had only confirmed my mistake.
If I lied, if I said, "No, I do not," I knew I would be perceived as telling the truth in my confusion between four and five. "Identical twins," I had said to Tricia in the hallway. "It's four, isn't it?" were my first words to Lorenz.
I knew the man who raped me sat across from me in the courtroom. It was my word against his.
"Do you know which position the defendant was in, in the lineup?"
"No, I do not," I said.
Judge Gorman held up his hand. He had the court reporter read over Mastine's last question and my answer to it.
Mastine asked me if there was any other reason I felt scared or hurried during the lineup.
"The attorney for the defendant hadn't let me have my rape-he wouldn't allow me to have my rape center counselor with me."
Paquette objected. He believed this was irrelevant.
Mastine continued. He asked me about the Rape Crisis Center, about Tricia. I had met her on the day of my rape. He emphasized the connection. All of this went to why, in his mind, I had made my one and only mistake. This mistake, he wanted to make certain, should not invalidate what occurred on October 5 and the corroborating evidence of Officer Clapper.
"Is there any doubt in your mind, Miss Sebold, that the person that you saw on Marshall Street is the same person that attacked you on May eighth in Thorden Park?"
"No doubt whatsoever," I said. And I had none.
"That is all I have at this point, Your Honor," Mastine said, turning to Judge Gorman.
Gail gave me a wink.
"We will take about a five-minute recess," Judge Gorman said. "I caution you, Miss Sebold, don't discuss your testimony now with anyone."