The prosecution and defense versions of what happened after Turner entered the bedroom differed more radically than their versions of what happened before he entered. The defense claimed there had been no resistance of any sort; I put Mrs. Haliburton on the stand and had her tell that she had resisted with every force at her command, but was finally forced to submit.
It was a rather telling blow for the prosecution when we got across to the jury that Charles Turner weighed two hundred and fifteen pounds, Mrs. Haliburton one hundred and twenty.
The prominence of the defendant made it a page-one case, but we carefully avoided giving the defense any ammunition with which to claim Turner was being railroaded in order to embarrass his father politically. We even went so far as not to try to get a signed statement from Turner, so that the defense couldn’t claim undue duress. We based our case entirely on the testimony of Mrs. Haliburton and her daughter.
Because I made a crusade of the case, and the newspapers enthusiastically backed the crusade, I got considerable personal publicity. As a young and unknown prosecutor facing one of the greatest criminal lawyers in the country, I was likened to David fighting Goliath. Over and over the papers eulogized my fiery spirit and oratorical eloquence.
I would like to say that my eloquence won the case for the prosecution. But I have to admit that if Charles Turner had been charged with any crime other than rape, and I’m including murder, the jury might have given him the benefit of the doubt. For there was the reasonable doubt that the plaintiff had cried rape merely to save her daughter’s opinion of her. The daughter’s testimony established beyond question that at least seduction had taken place, and furthermore the defense admitted it. But establishing forcible rape hinged solely on the word of the victim. And the jury was as obligated to consider Turner’s version of events as it was to consider Mrs. Haliburton’s.
The psychology in rape cases differs from that in all other crimes, however. The constitutional guarantee that the accused is innocent until proved guilty is exactly reversed. No one admits it, but the jury, the press, the general public, and often even the court, automatically regards an accused rapist as guilty until proved innocent. In effect he is told: let the burden of proof of your innocence rest on you.
In all other cases, of course, the burden of proof rests on the prosecution.
Probably the explanation is the general acceptance that no woman would undergo the public shame of admitting she’d been raped unless she had. She might lie about being cheated or robbed, but the average person can’t conceive of her lying about being raped. So despite the constitutional guarantee, in rape cases the burden of proof lies on the accused.
Charles Turner failed to prove his innocence. He was found guilty and sentenced to twenty-five years to life.
I never had any qualms of conscience about the verdict whenever I thought of it later. I was convinced Turner was guilty and got what he deserved. My sole emotion on the gradually decreasing occasions I thought of young Turner in subsequent years was gratification that I had been lucky enough to draw the case. For it had made me politically. The turning point of my career.
George Novy’s voice penetrated my thoughts. Not noticing my preoccupation, he was still talking about his female neighbor.
“She’s probably all of forty-five,” he said. “But she still has the body of a teen-ager. She lives alone too.”
“No husband?” I asked idly.
“She’s a widow. I talked to the guy who lives below her, and he says she has a daughter, but the daughter’s married and lives with her husband.”
A vague suspicion tugged at my mind, one involving an impossible coincidence.
“You know this woman’s name?” I asked.
“Sure. I got that from her downstairs neighbor, too. It’s Mrs. Haliburton.”
I don’t think I changed expression, but internally I went through a series of emotional spasms. It is a terrible shock to suddenly have thrust upon you the knowledge that you’ve condemned an innocent man to half a lifetime in prison.
Instantly I thought of a pardon, and how I might go about obtaining the proof necessary to request one. After remaining quiet for five years, it seemed unlikely that merely asking the woman to undo her wrong by confessing she had invited seduction from Turner would get me anywhere.
Then I realized I had the means to force a confession right at hand. I could induce George Novy to accept the woman’s overt invitation, arrange for witnesses and catch her red-handed in a situation exactly like the one which had sent Charles Turner to prison.
Then a cautioning thought intruded. I couldn’t free Turner from prison without exposing my own grievous error. Ordinarily such a thing wouldn’t have any serious repercussions, probably would only merit bare mention in the news. But at the present moment it would be political suicide.
For, you see, my opponent in the coming senatorial race was Congressman Charles Turner Senior. And the opposition would make political capital of the fact that, five years previously, I had railroaded his son into prison. At the very least Congressman Turner would draw widespread sympathy.
Sympathy means votes. There was no doubt in my mind that obtaining a pardon for Charles Turner would mean handing the senate seat to my opponent.
It was a problem I would have to postpone until I could give it serious thought, I decided.
George Novy said, “Incidentally, what was the name of that woman in the Turner case?”
The question killed all opportunity to postpone my decision. I had to decide what to do right now.
I made my decision.
“That was five years ago,” I said. “I don’t recall her name.”
New Girl
by De Forbes
She wanted him to follow her. He did. It went like clockiwork...
Sylvia walked the street. Haggerty, the cop, and Mr. Tambollio of the corner grocery watched her coming, turned to watch her go. Three of the Purple Pythons, on their way to a gang meeting, offered a suggestive remark; laughed as she passed them by, head high. Sylvia was an oddity in the neighborhood. The untouchable. The word had gotten around. “She’s new,” they said. “She’s young,” they said. “So maybe she’s a virgin. There are such things,” they said. They watched and waited... an easy thing to do.
Her full-skirted green dress accentuated her young pointed breasts, clung to her slender waist, swung in rhythm with her hips. Her high-heeled sandals, striking the dirty pavement, punctuated the evening sounds. Her long, gold-brown hair curled up to lie loosely on her shoulders. Haggerty sighed, shook his head. She was an open invitation — and someday somebody would take her up on it.
She passed the brick warehouse, wearing its chalked obscenities, and turned the corner. The neighborhood lost sight of her there, went on with its business. Love, hate, live, die. Routine matters.
Sylvia knew when he began to follow her. She hadn’t actually seen him, not this time, but she knew he was there and that he was coming after her.
She paused, as she always did, in front of the windows of Solly Klein’s Pawn Shop, looking out of habit for the watch. It was still there. Little bits of fading sunlight struck its beauty, reflected back in twinkling reds, whites, greens. It lay in eye-catching splendor in its black velvet bed. The most beautiful watch in the world, she thought, encrusted with rubies, diamonds, emeralds. He was still behind her.
She turned quickly, hair swinging free, skirt swirling, went on. The sky was darkening now, getting ready for the night. She stopped, studied a display of second-hand furniture through dingy panes. She couldn’t hear him, but something moved just briefly behind her in the shadows. Sylvia smiled a tight little smile. She didn’t know how to be afraid.