"You picked number five?"

"Yes, I did."

"I believe that your testimony is, then, that you were raped on May eighth?"

"Yes."

"That you didn't see your assailant again until Marshall Street?"

"October fifth, yes."

"Then you saw him on Marshall Street?"

"Yes."

"There was a police officer right there, wasn't there?"

"Yes."

"Did you approach that officer?"

"No. I did not approach the officer."

"Did you go to the nearest phone and call the police?"

"I went to the Hall of Languages, where I had a class, and called my mother."

"So you called your mother……" He was snide. It brought me all the way back to the preliminary hearing, the way his colleague, Meggesto, had savored the words "Calvin Klein jeans." My mother, my Calvin Klein jeans. It was what they had on me.

"Yes."

"Then you talked to your professor?"

"I called my mother and then I called some friends, to try to get in contact with someone who could walk me back to my dormitory. I was very scared, and I knew I had to go to school. I couldn't get hold of anybody. I went upstairs to my teacher and told him why I wasn't attending class. I told him, and I walked to the library to find one of my friends to walk me the rest of the way home and go with me to the police and then I went back to my dorm and I had called the friend of mine who is an artist, so he could help me draw a picture, which he did not do. Then I called the police and they arrived with the Syracuse University security officers."

"Did you ever call security to give you a ride home?"

I began to cry. Was everything my fault?

"Excuse me," I said, apologizing for my tears. "They only do that after five or during night hours." I looked for Gail. I saw her staring intently at me. It's almost over, her look said. Hang on.

"How much time went by from the time that you saw him on Marshall Street?"

"Forty-five to fifty minutes."

"Forty-five to fifty minutes?"

"Yes."

"Now, you have not identified Mr. Madison from that moment until today; is that right?"

"Identified him, you know, in your presence?"

"Identified him here in the legal proceedings as the person that raped you."

"Not in legal proceedings, but I did today."

"Today you did. How many black people do you see in the room?"

Jumping the gun, knowing his insinuation. How many other black people, besides the defendant, do you see in the room? I answered, "None."

He laughed and smiled up at the judge, then swept his hand in the direction of Madison, who looked bored. "You see none?" Paquette said, emphasizing the last word. She really is quite incredible, he seemed to be saying.

"I see one black person other than-the rest of the people in the room."

He smiled in triumph. So did Madison. I wasn't feeling powerful anymore. I was guilty for the race of my rapist, guilty for the lack of representation of them in the legal profession in the City of Syracuse, guilty that he was the only black man in the room.

"Do you remember testifying about this lineup in a grand jury proceeding?"

"Yes, I do."

"Was it on November fourth, the same day as the lineup?"

"Yes, it was."

"Do you remember-looking at page sixteen of the grand jury minutes, line ten-'You picked him out of the lineup? Are you absolutely sure this is the one?'

" 'Number five; I am not absolutely sure. It was between four and five. But I picked five because he was looking at me.'

"So the juror says, 'What you are saying is you are not absolutely sure he was the one?'

" 'Right.'

" 'Number five is the one.'

" 'Right.'

"So you still weren't sure on November fourth?"

I didn't know what Paquette was doing. I felt lost. "That number five was the one? I was not sure five was the one, right."

"You surely weren't sure that number four was the one because you didn't pick him."

"He was not looking at me. I was very scared."

"He wasn't looking at you?" His syllables dripped with pitiless sarcasm.

"Yes."

"Did you notice anything unusual on May eighth, when you were accosted by this person, that you haven't told us about, about his features or scars or marks or anything, facial features, his teeth, fingernails, or his hands or anything?"

"Nothing unusual, no."

I wanted it to be over now.

"You said that you looked at your watch when you went in the park?"

What time was it?

"Twelve o'clock."

"You looked at your watch when you got to your dorm?"

"I didn't look at my watch. I-was very aware of what time it was because I was surrounded by police, and I may have also looked at my watch, and I knew that it was two-fifteen when I got back to the dorm."

"When you got back to the dorm? Were the police called when you got back to your dorm?"

"Yes."

"When you got back to the dorm, at two-fifteen, and there had been no police called yet?"

"Right."

"They came sometime after that?"

"Yes. Immediately after I got back to my dorm."

He had finally worn me down. It made awful sense that no matter how hard I tried, he would be left standing at the end.

"Now, you said, you testified that he kissed you; is that right?"

"Yes."

"Once or twice or a lot of times?"

I could see Paquette. Madison sat behind him, interested. I felt the two of them were coming in after me.

"Once or twice when we were standing and then, after he had laid me down on the ground, a few times. He kissed me." The tears were just rolling down my cheeks now and my lips trembling. I didn't bother to wipe them. I had sweat through the Kleenex that I held.

Paquette knew he had broken me. That was enough. He didn't want this.

"May I have a moment, Your Honor?"

"Yes," Gorman said.

Paquette went to the defense table and conferred with Madison, then checked his yellow legal pad and files.

He looked up. "Nothing further," he said.

The relief in my body was immediate. But then Mastine stood.

"A couple of questions, if it please the court."

I was tired but knew now that Mastine would handle me gently if he could. His tone was firm but I trusted him.

Mastine was concerned with working Paquette's former territory, going back to strengthen weak lines. He made a quick five points. First he established how late it was and how tired I was when I gave my statement on the night of the rape. He had me detail all the things I had been through and on no sleep. Then he moved on to my statement on October 5, the one Paquette had gleefully put forth to me-the feeling versus sure. Mastine was able to establish that, as I had said, it was an affidavit in which I retold the encounter with Madison chronologically. I first saw him from the back and had a feeling. I then saw him face-on and was sure.

Then he asked me if anyone was with me. He wanted to point out that because my father was present, I had elected to decline the presence of a rape crisis representative.

"My father is waiting outside," I said. This fact didn't seem real to me. Far away, in the hall outside, he was reading. Latin. I hadn't thought of him since entering the courtroom. I couldn't.

Mastine asked me how long I had been under Madison in the tunnel and how far away from his face I was.

"One centimeter," I said.

Then he asked me a question I felt uncomfortable with, one I had known he might ask if Paquette's approach warranted it.

"Could you give the judge an idea of how many young black men you would see on a daily average in your travels, or class or dormitory or at all?"

Paquette objected. I knew why. It went straight to his case.

"Overruled," said Gorman.

I said, "A lot," and Mastine had me quantify. "More than fifty or less?" I said that it was more. The whole thing made me uncomfortable, separating the students I knew by their race, pooling them into columns, and tabulating their number. But this wouldn't be the first time, or the last, that I wished my rapist had been white.