Question of Consent: A Novel

Prologue

IT WAS DARK WHEN Lisa Altman left the theater that night. She left, as she always did after a performance, from the stage door at the side of the building. Only on nights when she premiered a new role were there crowds to meet her. This night was more typical. No one was there waiting—or so it seemed.

She walked down the narrow street toward Eighth Avenue. The other theaters’ large marquees were as dark as her own. Their shows were also over, and their patrons were well on their way home.

Long before Lisa heard any footsteps, she sensed there was someone there. It was a kind of intuition she sometimes had when she felt a person staring at her out of a large group of people in a theater; the entire audience may have been watching her dance, but the others were somehow looking with less intensity. Whenever Lisa felt this unnatural stare coming from one person in the audience, she would be able to locate him almost instantly. Invariably it was a man, and it always unnerved her and made her more self-conscious as she danced. It didn’t happen often, but it always gave her the creeps. And it was never her imagination.

Now, as she walked down the street, she knew someone was watching her, and she felt her body tightening. She looked over her shoulder. No one was there… that she could see. She quickened her pace, reached the corner, and headed up Eighth Avenue. For the next several blocks she walked faster than she usually did. She passed some hookers waiting for work, a porn theater, an all-night deli, some more hookers. No wonder the neighborhood was called Hell’s Kitchen.

She crossed over to the west side of the street, and as she did so she noticed, about a block behind her, someone else crossing the street. She was right—there was someone behind her. She walked faster. Another block and she reached the male porn theater on her corner and turned. She didn’t need to look. She knew the man was following her.

Her street was dark. One of the streetlamps was out. It had been out for days. Damn the city, she muttered. The rows of four-story brownstones on either side of the street gave off little light. She had reached the middle of the block when she first heard his footsteps behind her, following her. If only she could make it to her building, she would be safe. Each step made her more anxious, more afraid.

She reached into her large black leather tote bag to get out her keys so that she wouldn’t be delayed in opening the front door. The keys were at the bottom of the bag. She fumbled through the ballet shoes, the tights, the sweatshirt. She found her purse and pushed it aside. She kept walking, not slowing her pace. Her hand fluttered around the bottom of the bag. Finally, she found the small silver ballet shoe on her key chain. She grabbed the keys as she reached the stoop of her house. She raced up the nine steps to the front door, pulling the keys out of the bag as she ran.

She made it to her front door. She was almost safe, almost home. She searched for the right key, the large one with teeth on both edges. She found it and slipped it into the lock. She turned the key and pushed the heavy wooden door open. She stepped inside the vestibule and swung the door back. It was too late. He was standing immediately behind her.

He shoved the door toward her.

Lisa stepped back.

I’m not going to hurt you, he said. He was dressed well—fine overcoat, suit and tie, expensive hat.

What do you want?

I was hoping we could speak for a few minutes, he said in a soft, almost apologetic way. He looked over at the five mailboxes, each with a number, a name, and a bell underneath. There was her name, Altman, and under her name the number 1.

The keys dangled from her hand. She stood motionless, frozen, as if the music in a pas de deux had stopped and it were her partner’s turn to dance alone.

Open your door, he said softly.

She walked a few steps down the hallway and turned to her door. She slipped the key into the lock and opened it.

Go inside, he said.

Lisa obeyed. She was frightened. Without really thinking, she stepped inside her apartment. Yes, she should have screamed, or run, or hit him in the groin with her heavy bag. But without knowing why, she merely obeyed.

Part I

Chapter 1

THE CRIMINAL COURTHOUSE AT 100 Centre Street in downtown Manhattan was a massive structure, with two entrances in the front and windows—tall and narrow like gun slits—running up the side of the building.

A wooden rail separated the trial participants in the well of the courtroom, which took up the front third of the room, from the crowd of spectators seated in the rows behind the rail. Twelve regular and two alternate jurors were in the jury box, intently studying the witness.

I stood on the opposite side of the courtroom, near a window, leaning back on the wooden rail, about thirty feet away from the witness. I had stood there through most of the direct examination, occasionally looking out the window, not taking notes, with my arms folded across my chest. I certainly would not have appeared to the jury to be particularly impressed with the testimony or anxious about the time a few moments from now when I would cross-examine the witness—and that was, of course, exactly the impression I wanted to leave.

It was just another trial, or so it had seemed to me at the time, and Lisa Altman was just another victim… or alleged victim. She might have been telling the truth, or she could just as easily have been lying—it didn’t matter to me. All I knew for sure was that I was doing my job, defending my client the way I was supposed to, trying to win yet another case. And when it was my turn, after the prosecutor had finished with her, I would try to destroy her.

The acoustics were lousy. Not much sound bounced off the lowered ceiling in the courtroom, making me strain to hear every word. But I managed to catch every nuance, without appearing anxious.

The fluorescent lights were too bright. A glare bounced off the imitation marble wall behind the witness so that if I stared too long, the witness’s image jumped out at me. I periodically focused on the beautiful, twenty-nine-year-old woman in the witness chair. I would hold my gaze on Lisa Altman for a few moments, then look away.

Newspaper reporters were in the first two rows of the spectator seats, more reporters than I’d ever seen at one of my trials before—but of course, Lisa was an international celebrity. The thought occurred to me that if I were one of the world’s greatest ballet dancers, known for brilliant interpretations of tragic roles, I would probably get this kind of turnout on a regular basis.

The reporters looked more skeptical than the rest of the audience, but then, they usually did at my trials. On balance, the press treated me well, although I would have been happier if they had called me ruthless a little less often.

Judge Richard Bennett was on the bench. I had been in his court many times before. Some judges insisted on controlling every aspect of a trial, but Dick Bennett would let the lawyers try their cases without interfering too much in their cross-examinations. With his graying temples and bright blue eyes, Bennett was a commanding presence in the courtroom. But there was little he could do to protect the witness from me. On the other hand, the judge was a tough old bastard, and I knew that if the jury convicted my client, Bennett was certainly going to send him to the clink for a long time.

The court clerk was working on a crossword puzzle at his desk in front of, below, and to the right of the judge. The court reporter was silently typing into her little machine at her place in front of, below, and to the left of the judge.

The prosecutor, John Phalen, was seated at counsel table, taking Lisa through the direct examination. John was in his late thirties, with wiry, thinning hair that he brushed carefully to make it look fuller. He wore the basic polyester, double-knit suit so popular among law enforcement authorities.

The defendant, William Betz, was at the other end of counsel table, next to my empty chair.

The prosecutor should not have been seated. He should have been standing at the far end of the jury box. I always stood there when interrogating one of my own witnesses. That guaranteed that in answering my questions, the witness spoke loudly enough for the whole jury to hear. By standing behind the jury, I also forced the witness to face the jury and establish some eye contact.

I knew I would begin my questioning of Ms. Altman almost playfully, as I slowly tried to gain control over the length and tempo of her answers. Gradually I would gain control not only of the responses, but of the witness herself. I would dominate her, beat her, humiliate her, and finally dismiss her—at least that was my intention.

Your witness, the prosecutor announced.

I watched one of the newspaper artists drawing with pastels. I recognized myself on the pad—the long, narrow nose, the slightly messy hair, the accusing finger pointing at Lisa Altman in the cross-examination that was about to begin. Lisa looked very attractive in the drawing. The artist, however, could have been a little more generous toward me. He looked up and winked at me.

Your witness, the prosecutor said again.

I scanned the jury. Mostly women, they waited expectantly. I preferred to have women on the jury when another woman was being judged. For Lisa to be lying she would have to be moved by cruelty and spite. And women, I felt, were very good at understanding cruelty and spite. Women were more suspicious, less accepting, more vindictive. I didn’t care whether Dr. Orloff, my shrink, thought my view of women jurors was distorted.

The jury a lawyer picks looks like the inside of his own neurotic head, I had recently joked at a cocktail party. But deep down inside I really didn’t include myself as one of the neurotic. I won most of my cases, and that should have been proof for Dr. Orloff that my jury choices weren’t neurotic.

The witness is yours, Mr. Roehmer, Judge Bennett said. He leaned back, his head resting on the bump of a pillow on top of his black leather chair.

I nodded to the judge. I’d heard the prosecutor, but I wanted to build some anticipation before beginning. I took several menacing steps toward the witness.

I was well aware that all eyes in the courtroom were focused on me. The jury was composed of twelve critics to be persuaded; they watched my every movement. Spectators had filled the courtroom to cheer their favorite players. The witness, the client, the court attendants, the court reporter taking down every word—all were there to see and appreciate. God, there was much that I still loved about trials.

Lisa Altman sat with her legs crossed—well-defined, muscular legs. Her hands rested, one over the other, palms up, on her lap; she had long, lovely fingers. She wore a handsome brown tweed suit. Her blond hair was pulled tight in a bun behind her head. Her eyes were fixed on me—pale gray, cold eyes conveying a self-possession, a confidence, that seemed to me a kind of bravado intended to challenge me. We both knew I had to break her to succeed, and although I might have been imagining it, I sensed, in the slight tilt of her head, a dare. But at the same time, I could feel a vulnerability beneath that affect of defiance.

I began with my hands in my pockets, my weight evenly distributed. You said on direct examination that you make a living as a ballet dancer, I said in a casual, conversational tone, my eyebrows arching upward. Did you ever study acting?

Yes, Lisa Altman answered quickly.

I immediately sensed her tension. That would make it easier. The nervousness would create the impression she was evading or lying.

Wouldn’t you say that you’re acting while you dance? I spoke slowly. I always tried to speak slowly in front of a jury.

She shifted stiffly in her chair. Yes.

About how many hours a day do you practice?

Eight, ten hours. But most of that is simply physical exercise, not acting. Lisa must have known—with good reason—that traps were being laid for her by this professional manipulator who knew all the rules.

But surely much of that is rehearsing performances?

Yes, of course.

And you practice five, six, sometimes even seven days a week, don’t you?

Yes.

In fact, you’ve received excellent reviews for your acting abilities, haven’t you?

Yes.

Why, you’ve been called one of America’s most expressive, most convincing dancers, haven’t you?

Yes.

I knew that the courtroom was a very different theater, and that her acting abilities in this arena hadn’t been tested yet. Mine had been. I smiled. Yes, you’re very good.

Objection, John Phalen said from his seat at counsel table.

I withdraw the remark. But I did want to ask, I said, maintaining my focus on the witness, how many performances have you given so far in your life? Hundreds, would you say?

Yes, hundreds, she said defiantly.

I liked beginning in an unexpected area. If I could rattle the witness, I knew I had an edge on the rest of the cross-examination. And since there was no risk in these questions, I could, at the very least, get a feeling of how she’d move. I was already pleased. Her short answers were a good sign. Eventually she would try to lengthen her answers with explanations, but I sensed I could set a pattern of short answers that I would be able to force her back to later. Dominating a witness meant limiting and controlling all responses.

In fact, you performed on stage the night after the incident in question, didn’t you?

Yes.

Now, you said on direct examination that you never met the defendant before that night, isn’t that correct?

Yes, that’s correct.

Never met him backstage or anywhere else, correct?

She hesitated. Yes.

I could see that the jury sensed she wanted to say more. Since the line I was pursuing wasn’t crucial to my attack and since I wanted to avoid giving the impression I was trying to trick her, I backed off. Did you want to improve that statement?

Well, actually, I do remember about a week before that night, after a performance, he pushed into me backstage. But we didn’t actually meet.

I shook my head disapprovingly. "Now, now, Ms. Altman, my question was–didn’t you say on direct examination that you never met the defendant before the night of the alleged incident?"

Perhaps I was being too literal. But we didn’t really meet.

So the defendant had bumped into you prior to that night?

Yes.

Have my questions been helpful to you in jogging your memory? I asked, almost playfully.

Perhaps I was too literal. It was a misstatement.

Do you remember making the same, how shall we say, ‘literal misstatement’ to the grand jury? Do you remember saying to the grand jury—I read from my transcript—‘No, I never met him before that night’? Do you remember saying that, Ms. Altman?

I guess I do. Yes.

You were under oath when you testified before the grand jury, weren’t you, Ms. Altman?

The witness nodded.

You have to answer out loud so the stenographer can take it down for the record. What is your answer?

Yes, she said, leaning forward a bit.

Then the statement before the grand jury was—I pretended to grope for a phrase—…a literal misstatement also, wasn’t it? Because now you admit that you did, in fact, see the defendant as recently as a week before the incident.

No, I don’t remember being asked.

I walked over to counsel table. Permit me to refresh your recollection, I said. I searched through several books of transcripts waiting in a pile on counsel table. I came to the one I was looking for and flipped the pages to the passage I wanted. I walked slowly over to Lisa with the book in hand. She reached for it. I slowly pulled the book away. Lisa watched me, observing every movement I made as I walked in front of the witness stand. I could tell she was a woman who didn’t like to be teased.

When you said ‘backstage,’ I remembered him pushing into me. I told him to watch where he was going.