AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter 32
Several weeks flew by, and things seemed to get better. We moved fully into the new house and began to settle into a different routine there, one that often included strolling around the property or the quiet Brookline neighborhood each evening when we both got home from work.
Brandon made good on his promises and actually started seeing a therapist regularly, despite the fact that he grumbled about it every time he came home. A safe was installed in the back of our closet, and I stopped smelling whiffs of cigarette smoke after particularly stressful events. His trainer stopped accruing bruises and cuts every time they worked out. Brandon even had a few nights here and there without his nightmares.
But his campaign schedule picked up too, and there were several weeks when I barely saw him. When he crept into bed around one or two in the morning smelling of gin and the cigars powerful men smoked in their studies and the backrooms of the men-only clubs that still existed in Boston.
I frequently wouldn't get home before eight or nine myself after continuing my twice-weekly catechism classes with Father Garrett, who had managed to invite a reporter along to listen to one full session last week, much to Cory's horror. I couldn't claim to be any more of a believer than I used to be, and I certainly wasn't as excited as I should have been about my baptism in the spring or the huge church wedding that Gloria continued to plan, but at least neither thought made me feel faint anymore. So that was something. Although we had taken some steps toward normalizing our lives, both of us were running ragged, and I for one couldn't wait for the next year to pass so this stage could be over.
On an early morning in November, we went to New York for the days of the trial on which we were scheduled to testify. The trial itself had begun a week prior, and because Messina was small-time enough that he couldn't afford an expensive attorney, the trial was relatively quick for the number of charges levied against him.
Dad had given his testimony the day before, at the end of a list of other men like him who had been swindled and beaten at the hands of the loan shark. Zola hadn't given us much information––he couldn't ethically do so––but we all knew the long list of charges from the arraignment.
Brandon and I were scheduled on the last day of the prosecution's case. The defense had few witnesses scheduled, and all of them would testify within a few more days, so we were planning to stay through the following week for the verdict. With any luck, the jury would deliberate quickly and announce soon.
"The prosecution calls Skylar Crosby to the stand, your honor."
The judge asked me to raise my right hand and swore me in with the Bible. It was a curious experience, considering how much more familiar I was with the text these days. In the crowd, I could see Brandon smirking––he was thinking the same thing.
Zola approached the bench, and we launched into the routine that we had practiced more than once over the phone in the weeks approaching the testimony.
"Ms. Crosby," he began. "Can you explain to the jury what happened on the night of August fourteenth?"
I nodded. "Yes."
On it went. Prodded by Zola's gentle questions and mild meta-commentary––mild enough that he raised minimal objections from the defense––I told the story of my abduction. I avoided Messina's cruel gaze throughout, certain that if I looked at him even once, I wouldn't be able to keep my face straight or avoid breaking down. My palms were slick with sweat as I spoke, and my skin pulled tight like the shell of an egg. One slip, one misstep, and I felt like I could crack in half.
And yet, for all that, the testimony went rather smoothly, with only a few missteps when Messina's lawyers tried to cross-examine me. I was an ideal witness, Zola said––a straight history, photographic evidence, and not easily intimidated on the stand. My challenge instead would be not to take the defense attorney's bait.
"They'll try to gaslight you," Zola had said over the phone. "You know it, and I know it. They won't be able to ignore the fact that you were at the Navy Yard, or that you were assaulted, because we have the hospital and police reports. But they'll do everything they can to make it seem like you wanted to be there, that it wasn't actually a kidnapping. They'll make it sound like you did it to yourself."
"What were you wearing the night of your alleged 'abduction' by Mr. Messina?" Primo Cipolla, the defense attorney, began.
"Objection." Zola shot up from his seat at the first question. "Immaterial. Ms. Crosby's clothing has no relevance to whether or not she was abducted by Mr. Messina."
"It does to whether or not she was inviting the attentions she claims my client offered her," Cipolla argued back.
The judge tapped his mouth with a pen. "Perhaps. I'll allow it. Proceed, Mr. Cipolla."
Shit. That wasn't a good sign if the judge already appeared predisposed to think a woman's clothing made her more susceptible to rape.
Cipolla turned back toward me with a slight smirk. "What were you wearing that night, Ms. Crosby?"
And for once, I was incredibly happy that I had absolutely no sense for fashion.
"A pair of old jeans that used to belong to my dad," I said flatly. "And a T-shirt I bought at a thrift shop."
There was a titter around the courtroom, and Cipolla's face turned red. "After a major political event? You were seen that evening in this, were you not?"
He held up the blue column dress I'd worn to the benefit. In the picture, I was sitting down with my legs crossed, the slit in the column dress riding a bit higher than it should to reveal most of my thigh.
I just looked up. "Then you also know I was seen leaving before Mr. Sterling made his announcement to enter the race. I went home and changed, Mr. Cipolla. I was upset and wanted to go for a walk. Don't you like to change into comfortable clothes after a night when you've been eating too much?"
Again, the courtroom tittered, and Cipolla's face turned red as I glanced down at his rotund belly, which pressed at the button holes of his suit jacket. At the other table, Zola tightened his jaw and shook his head infinitesimally, and I closed my mouth. I wasn't being a good witness right now––Cipolla was already getting to me, and now I was goading him back.
"Fine, fine," he said as he walked back to his desk and dropped another picture on the ledge of the stand.
"Where are you in this picture, Ms. Crosby?" Cipolla asked.
