False Witness (14 page)

Her voice had a harsh and bitter sound and then she was silent. Lucy’s eyes locked on Sanderalee’s as though they were holding a secret between them, for one brief instant deciding whether or not to share it with us.

“You’ve told them nothing?” she asked.

Lucy said, “Just that you want to make a statement.”

I switched on the tape recorder. “Now, for the record, with Lynne and Bobby as witnesses, will you verify that this is, in fact, your true statement, as exact and accurate as you can remember, of the events of the evening of March fifth into March sixth, 1979?”

Lucy sounded as though she were conducting a swearing-in ceremony for a secret society: her voice was low and solemn and intense.

There was a deep sigh from Sanderalee. It was obvious that she was exhausted. “Yes, yes. This is my own true statement. Please. Let’s get on with it. I want to tell you what he did to me that night. As exactly as I can.”

L
UCY CAPELLA’S VOICE DRONED
on through the official identification: who she was, where she was, time of day, date, introduced Sanderalee Dawson, who was to make “a true statement about the occurrence at your apartment on date in question.”

Sanderalee’s voice was fragile in the beginning, but picked up in strength.

“On Tuesday night, after the show, I was still all keyed up. That happens sometimes, if it’s been a tight show for some reason or other. Funny, I can’t even remember the show that night—who was on or what we talked about.”

After her driver brought her home, Sanderalee changed into her running clothes and set out toward Columbus Circle.

“It was really cold and windy up there. I had my blue angora scarf wrapped around my face. It’s hard to breathe when it’s that cold. The place was deserted. The junkies and dealers were probably down in the subways somewhere. So I ran up Central Park West, as far as ... wait ... up to ... Sixty-fourth Street, and it was so cold that I turned around and headed back to the Circle. Then I slipped on a hunk of ice and turned my ankle. There, at Columbus Circle. Twisted it, it really hurt, because it was so cold. God, even my hands ached when I tried to massage it. And then ... wait a minute, this gets mixed up. Was I at the Jog-gon-Inn? In a booth and he came up to me, this man, a runner, dressed in navy running clothes, and he said he’d seen me twist my ankle at the Circle.”

Her voice was puzzled and she was trying very hard to put events into order. Concussion is a strange thing: it disturbs time-sequence memory. She was aware of something’s being wrong; after a long pause, she caught her error.

“No. That must have been another time. Someone else. The Jog-gon-Inn is closed on Tuesday nights. I was on the bench at Columbus Circle, bent over, rubbing my ankle and he came over. He said that he’d cut through the transverse at Seventy-second and saw me turn back at Sixty-fourth Street and had been behind me all the time. Saw me slip and twist my foot. He told me to show him my ankle.

“He said he was a doctor and knew about these things. And then ...”

She stopped speaking. Lucy’s voice, soft, encouraging, urged her on.

Sanderalee spoke faster now; tension was growing in her voice, as she remembered what she didn’t want to remember. The strain came through.

“We went up to my apartment because he said he was a doctor and knew about these things. I mean, what the hell? He seemed okay, you know? What was the difference, if he was or wasn’t ... so anyway, we went back to my apartment.” She faltered again. “This is very hard for me, Lucy. This is. Pain. You see, it intensifies the pain. Right through all the dope they’ve given me, when I think about going back to my apartment, with him, I can see it all again, it all comes back over me, I ... it’s hard. Too hard.”

Lucy stayed completely away from Sanderalee’s growing panic. She led her carefully through the sequence as she remembered its happening. He had rubbed her ankle, manipulated it gently; the pain actually subsided. He really seemed to know what he was doing. She went to the bar to prepare something cold to drink; running makes you thirsty. Some Perrier. The lime. Some cheese. Her back was to him. She was talking to him, about what he wanted to drink, about how cold it was, about how wonderful her ankle felt. And when she turned to face him, she realized he hadn’t said another word to her, after adjusting her ankle. The silence was a little frightening.

“He kept looking at me. So strangely. It was so ... awful. Oh my God, Lucy, then he said something, so peculiar. It was awful. Wait. It’s something very important, terrible but I can’t quite ... it’s there but I ...”

Her voice was suddenly very calm. Eerie. Coming from somewhere other than her own throat. It was a stranger’s voice, flat and remote. It was almost an imitation.

“He said:
‘This is not my fault. I have no control over it. I really am sorry, but it has nothing to do with me.’ ”

There was dead silence now. Sanderalee was right. It was peculiar. It was awful. It was important. And it was very, very terrible.

The rest of her narrative was about as cruel a collection of horrors as I’ve heard in many years of listening to and acting upon horrors.

Her memory drifted, became vague and confused and then, suddenly, she recited with the needle-sharp clarity peculiar to victims of a sudden, unanticipated, vicious physical attack.

“And when he was choking me, it was with a very strange kind of pressure. Not just, not just his hands wrapped around my throat but, oh God, he was sort of pressing with just his fingertips. Pressure. That’s it, he was using some hard pressure points and I think I blacked out, but only for a moment or so, but it was paralyzing, what he was doing to me, he hardly seemed to be exerting himself, it was so specialized, as if he was so positive of what he was doing ... like ... like a soldier or something.”

She described the rape and then the act of sodomy in a dead, flat tone of voice: quickly, thoroughly, clinically.

And then, moments she could not recall exactly.

“We must have, somehow ... there was so much blood ... wait, I know I was in the kitchen ... no, but first, I tried to defend myself, in the living room. I hit him, stabbed at him with a small silver unicorn, I think I punctured him in the face ... he ... there was blood on his face and he became so furious at that, oh God. That made him more crazy, I ... please ... I ... a drink of water, okay?”

The fact of his own wound seemed to have enraged her assailant. He slashed at her face with the side of his hand, first one side of her face and then the other, across her mouth. She could hear the cracking, breaking sound of shattered bones, could feel the rough edges of broken teeth, her lip, somehow she had bitten her lower lip. She felt not actual pain, but numbness; not actual terror, but disbelief.

“And then, I went into the kitchen. To call Mr. Doyle, old Timothy Doyle to help me. But first ... wait ... no ... wait ...”

She could not remember whether he had grabbed the cleaver or she had attempted to strike him with it and then he had gotten it from her.

“And then I was just there, on the floor in the kitchen and the blood was, the telephone was swinging back and forth and oh God, my hand, the blood and I didn’t know if he was still there, inside, if he’d come back to hurt me, to kill me. And then it was very quiet and then I felt the pain, my God, the pain then, then, voices and it was some men, was Timothy Doyle there? But he wouldn’t let them hurt me. I don’t really remember, I think Tim was there but then there was a younger man, another man he leaned in to me and tried to smother me, his mouth was on mine, I ...”

Lucy gently, calmly explained: the young policeman had saved her life. Had sucked the thick bitten-off lip flesh from her throat and breathed for her. She didn’t remember any of that.

“And then, drifting, I was floating. On drugs. That was the first thing I was aware of: I’m on something; somewhere and on something. A collection of faces, people in white, moving around me, talking from far off. Sudden pain, oh God, terrible, terrible. I tried to tell them, but my voice wouldn’t travel, there was pain inside my mouth, my tongue was cut, the edges of my teeth were ... broken; I couldn’t tell them how much I hurt.

“And then, faces, looking down at me, leaning over. And then ...” There was a silence, then a huge intake of breath and Sanderalee said, “And then
him. He
was there, and I thought, no, this is not true, he’s ... not here ... he’s in the next room, he’s coming back into the kitchen. It got all mixed up, I couldn’t seem to focus, but then I knew I was in the hospital. I
knew
that. I realized that. There were nurses and doctors and people all around me, and tubes attached to me. I couldn’t move or speak, but I could see and listen and hear.

“He
stood there, just looking down at me. It was
him.
He seemed to belong there, and I couldn’t tell anyone. I pretended not to see him. Oh, God, I didn’t want him to know I had recognized him.

“So I just lay there, watching and waiting and trying to find out who he was, how he had gotten in there with me. He would come in and look at me, at my hand, and then ask the nurses questions, and then talk with the other doctors. I knew about my hand, I remembered seeing it ... on the telephone receiver, back and forth and all the blood ...”

There was an absolute silence in the room. Then Lucy’s voice next, quietly asking, insisting: “Who was it, Sanderalee? Who did these terrible things to you?”

“The tall one, with the glasses. The surgeon who they told me did the most work reattaching my hand. He did this to me, beat me, hurt me, raped me, cut off my hand. All of it. He did all of it.

“Dr. David Cohen.”

I
INFORMED MY OFFICE
that for the time being, Bobby Jones, Lucy Capella and I could be reached at my home number. Lucy had carefully checked out the fact that Dr. Esposito would be the attending surgeon to check on Sanderalee Dawson that day. She was satisfied that Sanderalee was being guarded by competent teams, from our office and from Barrow’s office.

The three of us spent hours playing and replaying the tape: each of us scribbling notes, questions, phrases on the long yellow legal pads of our profession.

At about one-thirty, Jameson Whitney Hale, Himself, called. To make an appointment for me with Glori Nichols. Honest to God, that was why he called.

“Mr. Hale, I’ll be in the office either much later today or first thing in the morning to tell you why I do not think it would be wise for me to follow through on that matter.”

“Lynne, I think possibly there has been a simple misunderstanding of aims, goals, whatever, which can be very easily clarified.”

I had the distinct impression that Jameson—that is, Whitney Hale—was not alone in his office.

“Mr. Hale, I’m here with my Chief Investigator, Jones, and my super-special Investigator, Sister Lucy Capella. We are up to our eyebrows in something which may or may not be absolutely crucial to ...” Caution prevailed. Jameson Whitney Hale may or may not be alone; may or may not be smitten—a perfect word to describe what may or may not be his relationship with that sensationally perfect All-American girl, Glori Nichols.

“We are all three of us trying to make heads or tails out of some evidence just uncovered on an investigation that has had us puzzled for a long time now.”

I ignored the raised eyebrows, the set of sky blue and the set of black brown stares.

“I just think you ought to take a quiet moment out,
we
ought to take a quiet moment, perhaps in my office, perhaps over a drink, where you gir—... where you two top-professional women can compare notes and ...”

Jameson Whitney Hale was definitely not alone; was definitely smitten; was behaving in a very uncharacteristic manner; would have to be protected from himself.

“Just ask the lady if she’ll agree to give me
final cut,”
I said, as though I knew exactly what was involved. Thank God for Jhavi. “That is all that’s holding things up. There’s no point in talking further with your friend ... with Ms. Nichols if she won’t give me the
final cut.
It’s a very simple request.”

“Lynne, is there anything in particular I should know about what you’re up to right now?”

“Not at this time, Mr. Hale. You’ll be the first to know, as-soon-as, sir.”

We agreed to “get back to each other.”

“What the hell is ‘the final cut’?” Bobby wanted to know.

“It’s the last slice of pizza in the pie, Bobby. Why don’t one of you super assistants call the local pieman. I’m starved.”

L
UCY CAPELLA TOOK HER
list of questions back to the hospital with her. She was to remain on the spot: at Sanderalee Dawson’s beck and call.

We had decided that the most important concern, at the moment, was keeping Sanderalee absolutely silent about her accusation. She was to mention it to no one. If she hadn’t already.

All three of us had exactly the same question: had she told any of this to Regg Morris?

My recollection of our last, brief conversation in his limo suggested that he had heard most of what was on the tape before we did. That would be for me to handle.

Bobby Jones was assigned to do a thorough background report on Dr. David Cohen: day of birth up to and including what the man was planning to have for breakfast tomorrow morning.

Bobby was more than a little reluctant. “Lynne, this is—to say the very least—ludicrous.”

“What’s ludicrous? Besides the whole thing? What
specifically
is ludicrous?”

“You know exactly what I mean.
Dr. David Cohen,
for God’s sake. Look, she just happened to open her eyes and there he was, probably she was at a critical moment, some kind of crisis point, trying to grab on to reality, and she opened her eyes and there he was, looking down at her. So he just became incorporated into her nightmare, as a participant. As the perpetrator.”

“Yes, that’s a very sound hypothesis. However.”

“However?”

“However, Sanderalee Dawson didn’t open her eyes and look up at
you,
or at
Regg Morris,
or at any of the many doctors and hospital personnel who’ve been in and out of her room and say:
Him.
That’s the man who did it.”