“You work as a stripper, isn’t that right?”
Opening up with a question like that—without any preliminaries—surprised the gallery. There were a few gasps. Chamique blinked. She had some idea of what I was going to do here, but I had intentionally not been specific.
“Part time,” she said.
I didn’t like that answer. It seemed too wary.
“But you do take off your clothes for money, right?”
“Yeah.”
That was more like it. No hesitation.
“Do you strip in clubs or at private parties?”
“Both.”
“What club do you strip out of?”
“Pink Tail. It’s in Newark.”
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Sixteen.”
“Don’t you have to be eighteen to strip?”
“Yeah.”
“So how do you get around that?”
Chamique shrugged. “I got a fake ID, says I’m twenty-one.”
“So you break the law?”
“Guess so.”
“Do you break the law or not?” I asked. There was a hint of steel in my voice. Chamique understood. I wanted her to be honest. I wanted her to—pardon the pun, her being a stripper and all—expose herself totally. The steel was a reminder.
“Yeah. I break the law.”
I looked over at the defense table. Mort Pubin stared at me as if I were out of my mind. Flair Hickory had his palms pressed together, his index finger resting on his lips. Their two clients, Barry Marantz and Edward Jenrette, wore blue blazers and pale faces. They did not look smug or confident or evil. They looked contrite and scared and very young. The cynic would say that this was intentional—that their lawyers had told them how to sit and what expressions to wear on their faces. But I knew better. I just didn’t let it matter to me.
I smiled at my witness. “You’re not the only one, Chamique. We found a bunch of fake IDs at your rapists’ frat house—so that they could all go out and do a little underage partying. At least you broke the law to make a living.”
Mort was on his feet. “Objection!”
“Sustained.”
But it was in. As the old saw goes, “You can’t unring a bell.”
“Miss Johnson,” I continued, “you’re not a virgin, are you?”
“No.”
“In fact, you have a son out of wedlock.”
“I do.”
“How old is he?”
“Fifteen months.”
“Tell me, Miss Johnson. Does the fact that you’re not a virgin and have a son out of marriage make you less of a human being?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.” The judge, a bushy-eyed man named Arnold Pierce, frowned at me.
“I’m just pointing out the obvious, Your Honor. If Miss Johnson were an upper-class blonde from Short Hills or Livingston—”
“Save it for the summation, Mr. Copeland.”
I would. And I had used it in the opening. I turned back to my victim.
“Do you enjoy stripping, Chamique?”
“Objection!” Mort Pubin was up again. “Irrelevant. Who cares if she likes stripping or not?”
Judge Pierce looked at me. “Well?”
“Tell you what,” I said, looking at Pubin. “I won’t ask about her stripping if you don’t.”
Pubin went still. Flair Hickory still had not spoken. He did not like to object. By and large, juries don’t like objections. They think you’re hiding something from them. Flair wanted to stay liked. So he had Mort do the hatchet work. It was the attorney version of good cop, bad cop.
I turned back to Chamique. “You weren’t stripping the night you were raped, were you?”
“Objection!”
“Alleged rape,” I corrected.
“No,” Chamique said. “I was invited.”
“You were invited to a party at the frat house where Mr. Marantz and Mr. Jenrette live?”
“That’s right.”
“Did either Mr. Marantz or Mr. Jenrette invite you?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“Another boy who lived there.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jerry Flynn.”
“I see. How did you meet Mr. Flynn?”
“I worked the frat the week before.”
“When you say you worked the frat—”
“I stripped for them,” Chamique finished for me. I liked that. We were getting a rhythm.
“And Mr. Flynn was there?”
“They all were.”
“When you say ‘they all’—”
She pointed at the two defendants. “They were there too. A bunch of other guys.”
“How many would you say?”
“Twenty, twenty-five maybe.”
“Okay, but it was Mr. Flynn who invited you to the party a week later?”
“Yes.”
“And you accepted the invitation?”
Her eyes were wet now, but she held her head high. “Yes.”
“Why did you choose to go?”
Chamique thought about that. “It would be like a billionaire inviting you on his yacht.”
“You were impressed with them?”
“Yeah. ’Course.”
“And their money?”
“That too,” she said.
I loved her for that answer.
“And,” she went on, “Jerry was sweet to me when I was stripping.”
“Mr. Flynn treated you nicely?”
“Yeah.”
I nodded. I was entering trickier territory now, but I went for it. “By the way, Chamique, going back on the night you were hired to strip…” I felt my breath go a little shallow. “Did you perform other services on any of the men in attendance?”
I met her eye. She swallowed, but she held it together. Her voice was soft. The edges were gone now. “Yeah.”
“Were these favors of a sexual nature?”
“Yeah.”
She lowered her head.
“Don’t be ashamed,” I said. “You needed the money.” I gestured toward the defense table. “What’s their excuse?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.”
But Mort Pubin wasn’t done. “Your Honor, that statement was an outrage!”
“It is an outrage,” I agreed. “You should castigate your clients immediately.”
Mort Pubin turned red. His voice was a whine. “Your Honor!”