he’s goin’ to prison, right?” Kimbra turned eyes that looked as old as time on Fiona. “Cuz if he don’t do no time for this, I’m a dead woman.”
A shiver crawled up Fiona’s spine at the certainty in the girl’s voice. “If he threatens you in any way—”
“What y’all gonna do ’bout it, Miss Lawyer? Huh? That man’s Five-O. They do what they want,” she said bitterly. “Who’s gonna stop ’em?”
“I’ll stop him. If he comes near you, we’ll get a restraining order—”
Kimbra all but laughed in her face. “You still don’t get it, do you? If he wants me dead, I’ll just disappear one day. Won’t nobody ever know what happened to me. That’s how he’ll do it.”
She paused for a moment, her gaze sliding past Fiona as a look of pure terror crept into her eyes. Then she blinked it away and the defiant mask slipped back into place. “Y’all keep messin’ with the wrong people, Miss Lawyer, they might just disappear you, too.”
* * *
FIONA WALKED OVER TO THE jury box and planted her hands on the railing. Milo had done a fantastic job sum-marizing the evidence and recounting witness testimony in his closing remarks, but the defense attorney, Dylan O’Roarke, had been masterful.
He’d wasted no time in getting to the heart of the case. “In spite of the prosecution’s attempts to muddy the waters at every turn, the case is a simple one, ladies and gentlemen. It boils down to one single question. Who do you believe? A troubled runaway with a long history of drug abuse and a willful disobedience of the law? One who openly bragged about her hatred of the police? One who, as you heard more than one witness testify, swore to get her revenge on Detective DeMarco for an old arrest?
“Or do you believe Vincent DeMarco, a decorated police officer, an ex-Army Ranger who distinguished himself on a desert battlefield as well as on the mean streets of Chicago?”
Dylan had gone on and on, hammering home the same point until Fiona had seen at least one juror nod very slightly in agreement.
And now it was her turn to offer a rebuttal. She surveyed the twelve members of the panel, noting their expressions as they stared up at her expectantly, and then she said, very quietly, “One out of every three women in this country will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime. One out of every three.”
She emphasized the last five words as her gaze slid to a well-dressed, middle-aged woman in the second row who had sat rigidly throughout the whole trial. Her expression rarely showed anything more than an intense concentration, as if she were determined to perform her civic duty to the best of her ability, but beyond that the trial couldn’t touch her. Rape couldn’t touch her.
Fiona stared at her for a long moment until the woman was forced to meet her gaze. “It could happen to any woman in this courtroom. It could happen to me. It could happen to you.”
Something flashed briefly in the woman’s eyes. Denial, Fiona thought. She often found the toughest jurors to sway in a rape case were upper-middle-class white women who had a hard time identifying with a victim like Kimbra.
“Think of three women in your own life. Your mother. Your sister.” Fiona paused, letting her gaze move to a male juror seated directly in front of her in the first row. “Your daughter.”
He flinched.
“One out of every three women in this country will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime.”
Fiona straightened and paced slowly back and forth in front of the jury box. “The defense would have you believe that a man like Vincent DeMarco, a decorated police officer, a war hero from Desert Storm, a man of impeachable honor and character, could not have perpetrated such a terrible crime. A man like Vincent DeMarco could not be guilty of rape. And yet...”
Fiona turned to Kimbra. “Someone did rape Kimbra Williams on the night of April 17. Someone forced her into that alley and beat her until she could barely move. And when she still fought back, her attacker held a gun to her head and threatened to blow her brains out if she screamed.”
Fiona paused again, letting the mental picture seep in. “You heard testimony from the doctor who examined Kimbra on that same night. You saw photographs of the severe bruises and swelling left by the beating. Kimbra Williams was brutally attacked and raped. Of that, there is no doubt.
“But the defense has also implied that Kimbra’s fear may have impaired her ability to correctly identify her assailant. After all, it was a dark, moonless night, and she was terrified beyond reason. How could she—how could anyone—be so certain, under the circumstances, of her assailant’s identity?”
Fiona’s expression hardened. “I’ll tell you how. Vincent DeMarco’s face was only inches from Kimbra’s as he held that gun to her head. It didn’t happen instantly. It took minutes. For Kimbra, it took an eternity. Not only was she able to correctly identify her attacker, but I can pretty much guarantee you that his is a face she will never forget.”
Fiona allowed a shudder to ripple through her.
“The crux of the defense’s case, though, rests on Kimbra’s alleged hatred of the police. Her loathing for authority, they want you to believe, is the real reason for the charges against Detective DeMarco. She held a grudge against him for hassling her on the street so what better way to get back at him than to accuse him of a brutal crime? It’s been known to happen, they warned you.”
Fiona let contempt creep into her voice. “Only one thing wrong with that theory, ladies and gentlemen. Kimbra Williams was raped and beaten on the night of April 17. She didn’t lie about those bruises. You saw the pictures.
“For all we know, she was left for dead in that alley, but even if her attacker never meant to kill her, you can be certain that a man like Vincent DeMarco would not expect her to press charges against him. After all, as a police officer, he would know that fifty percent of all rapes go unreported every year because the victim is either worried she won’t be believed or is afraid of retaliation by her assailant.
“Retaliation is what the defense wants you to believe motivated Kimbra Williams. But let’s examine that for a moment. A girl in Kimbra’s position, a runaway who spends most of her life on the street, falsely accuses a police officer, of all people, of rape. How easy would it be for him to retaliate against her? She’s vulnerable. She’s alone. No friends or family to come to her rescue. Do you really think she’d take that chance?”
Fiona walked back to the jury box and once again placed her hands on the rail, leaning forward. “Vincent DeMarco’s fate is in your hands today, ladies and gentlemen, but regardless of what you decide, Kimbra Williams’s life is never going to be the same. Thirty-one percent of all rape victims develop Rape-Related Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, and they are nine times more likely to attempt suicide. A pretty grim statistic, isn’t it?
“But the most frightening statistic of all isn’t about the victim. It’s about the assailant. Studies have shown that the recidivism rate among rate among rapists can be as high as 50 percent. That means if Vincent DeMarco is allowed to walk out of this courtroom a free man, there is an extremely high probability he will rape again.
“Who will his next victim be, I wonder? That one woman out of three who will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime?”
Fiona gazed at them
