Tell Me No Secrets Read Online Free Page B

loudly over the rear door POSITIVELY! NO VISITING in courtroom or cell block. To the left another sign declared QUIET, NO SMOKING, EATING, CHILDREN, TALKING .
    The visitors block, which contained eight rows of graffiti-scarred benches, was distinguished by an old black-and-white-tile floor. Just like in the movies, Jess thought, grateful to have been assigned to Judge Harris’s court for the past eighteen months instead of one of the newer, smaller courtrooms on the lower floors.
    “The defense would have you believe otherwise,” Jess continued, making deliberate eye contact with each of the jurors, before gradually switching her focus to the defendant. The defendant, Douglas Phillips, white, ordinary, quite respectable-looking in his dark blue suit and quiet paisley tie, made a small pout with his lips before looking toward the brown-carpeted floor. “The defense would have you believe that what happened between Douglas Phillips and Erica Barnowski was an act of consensual sex. They have told you that on the night of May thirteenth, 1992, Douglas Phillips met Erica Barnowski in a singles bar called the RedRooster, and that he bought her several drinks. They have called several witnesses who testified seeing them together, drinking and laughing, and who have sworn that Erica Barnowski left the bar with Douglas Phillips of her own free will and by her own accord. Erica Barnowski, herself, admitted as much when she took the stand.
    “But the defense would also have you believe that after they left the bar what transpired was an act of runaway passion between two consenting adults. Douglas Phillips explains the bruises on the victim’s legs and arms as the unfortunate by-product of making love in a small European car. He dismisses the victim’s subsequent hysteria, witnessed by several people in the parking lot and later observed by Dr. Robert Ives at Grant Hospital, as the ravings of a hysterical woman furious at being picked up and discarded, in his sensitive phrase, ‘like a piece of used Kleenex.’”
    Jess now devoted her full attentlon to Erica Barnowski, who sat beside Neil Strayhorn at the prosecutor’s table, directly across from the jury box. The woman, twenty-seven years old and very pale, very blond, sat absolutely still in her high-backed brown leather chair. The only thing about her that moved was her bottom lip, which had been trembling throughout the trial, and which had occasionally made her testimony almost indecipherable. Still, there was little about the woman that was soft. The hair was too yellow, the eyes too small, the blouse too blue, too cheap. There was nothing to inspire pity, nothing, Jess knew, to trigger automatic compassion in the hearts of the jurors.
    “He has a little more trouble explaining the cuts on her neck and throat,” Jess went on. “He didn’t mean to hurt her, he says. It was just a little knife, after all, barely fourinches long. And he only brought it out when she started getting feisty. It even seemed to excite her, he told you. He thought she liked it. How was he supposed to know that she didn’t? How was he supposed to figure out that she didn’t want the same things he wanted? How was he supposed to know
what
she wanted? After all, hadn’t she come to the Red Rooster looking for a man? Hadn’t she let him buy her drinks? Hadn’t she laughed at his jokes and let him kiss her? And don’t forget, Ladies and Gentlemen, she wasn’t wearing any panties!”
    Jess took a deep breath, returning her gaze to the members of the jury, who were now hanging on her every word. “The defense has made a big deal of the fact that when Erica Barnowski went to the Red Rooster that night, she wasn’t wearing any underwear. An open invitation, they would have you believe. Implied consent. Any woman who goes to a pickup bar and doesn’t wear panties is obviously asking for whatever she gets. Consent before the fact. Erica Barnowski was looking for action, the defense tells you,