I skimmed the post quickly enough to gather that the author was complaining about the “victimization” of the “brave woman” who had stepped forward to question Jason Powell’s “white male privilege.” I hadn’t had a chance yet to check that day’s Internet activity.
“Now it’s a race thing?” I asked, immediately feeling guilty for speaking to Spencer about this. I was supposed to be protecting him. “It’s just one blogger.”
“Look at the comments,” he said, not meeting my eyes.
There were twenty-four so far, not many compared to a mainstream website, but more than a few. I finally found the one Spencer was talking about.
His wife grew up four blocks from me. Thinks she’s hot sh*t. Always goes to the fanciest restaurants when she visits to make sure we know she “made it.” Truth is, she ran away in high school for 3 years and came home after she got knocked up. Only thing she has going for her is this guy. If he’s guilty, I say, KARMA BABY!
I recognized the name of the commenter, Deb Kunitz, as a girl two years behind me in school.
Another commenter had a follow-up question: I would have assumed his wife was a fellow academic or maybe in politics. Does this add another layer to the story? Maybe he can’t handle an intellectual equal?
A second reply followed: Sounds like an interesting angle. Please DM me on Facebook if you’re willing to give me specifics. I realized that the reply had come from the author of the original blog post. She had asked Deb for a “direct message,” a private e-mail, looking for the details of my background, which apparently might provide “another layer” to Jason’s “story.”
“The Pink Spot?” I said aloud.
“It’s like a snarky chick website. Fake feminism, if you ask me.”
How did my kid know all this?
“It’s fine, Spencer.” It would take access to police reports to figure out exactly where I had been for those three years, and even those wouldn’t contain all the facts. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”
I could tell he was thinking about saying more, but then he flashed a toothy grin over the back of the sofa. “Hey, Mom. Can you explain to me why it’s called The Pink Spot? Because I don’t understand.”
“You’re trying to put me in the grave, aren’t you?”
“Don’t kill me, but you totally sounded like Grandma right then.” He was back on his screen again, looking at something that had nothing to do with me.
21
Kerry Lynch answered the door in her work clothes, but she was holding a nearly empty wineglass, a small, fluffy white dog circling her bare feet.
“Cute little girl,” Corrine said.
“Boy, actually, but yeah, he’s a sweetie. Aren’t you, Snowball? I spoil him like crazy to make up for the fact I’m never home. Sorry you have a shitty mommy, baby.”
Kerry had sounded so shaken when she called that Corrine drove all the way out to Port Washington to take her report. In truth, she could also use the overtime.
When Corrine was standing in Powell’s foyer the previous evening, she’d seen the family photographs adorning the walls—Powell with his wife and a boy who went from missing two front teeth to a tall, lanky tween. Now that she was seeing Kerry Lynch in person again, Corrine realized that Kerry looked nothing like Powell’s wife superficially. Kerry was thin and pale with blade-straight, shoulder-length dark hair. Angela was curvier, with long, dark blond waves. But both women had strong, angular features, almost mannish if they hadn’t been so naturally beautiful. “Patrician” is what Corrine thought people might call the look.
Corrine followed as Kerry went to the kitchen and grabbed an open bottle of wine from the counter. She offered Corrine a glass, which she declined, and then headed back to the living room and gave herself a generous refill. The entire house was meticulous.
“Even after what Jason did to me, I heard a side of him on the phone this morning that terrified me. I think I made a mistake going to you.”
“I know this won’t be much comfort, but I have never had an offender follow through on verbal threats to a witness. If they mean to do you harm, they don’t announce their plans in advance.”
“You’re right. That was definitely not comforting,” Kerry said with a sad smile. She patted the spot next to her on the sofa, and Snowball eagerly jumped up.
Corrine wasn’t about to tell Kerry that the road ahead of her would be easy. She would be on trial as much as Jason Powell. At least the case against him was beginning to shape up. She told Kerry about the surveillance video she had gotten from the W Hotel and the call records they’d requested, which should corroborate the fact that he’d phoned her again that morning. “ADA King will apply for a warrant for a DNA swab from Jason tomorrow.”
“He hasn’t done that yet? I assumed it was off at the lab already.”
“He wanted to fill out the investigation a bit more first.”
“I gave you pictures and physical evidence. You’ve got that other woman’s story, too. What more do you need?”
“I know it’s frustrating, but lawyers like to go in a certain order.”
“Well, I can tell you right now, that DNA is going to be a match. Jason’s going to say it was consensual. And it will be my word against his.”
“Actually, we already got a statement from him. He denied any kind of sexual relationship.”
Kerry shook her head angrily and took another huge sip of wine. Corrine had seen this reaction before. Victims fully expected the perpetrators to depict them as willing participants. They braced themselves to be blamed. But for him to deny the encounter altogether was even more demeaning. If it never happened, it means absolutely nothing.
“Trust me, Kerry, that’s actually good news. When the DNA matches, we’ll have him trapped in a lie. Plus we have photos of the marks on your wrists. And the footage from the hotel is helpful. It’s clear you were making him leave your room.”
“But I didn’t call the police. I didn’t come forward until Rachel complained. And I continued to work with him in the meantime. I even met with him this week—here, in my house—alone.” She pulled her dog onto her lap. “He can say whatever he wants. Then how will I prove he’s lying?”
“If anything,” Corrine said, “the fact that he met you at your house conflicts with his story that nothing unusual ever occurred between the two of you.”
Corrine was putting the best light on this particular fact. She happened to know that ADA King was troubled by Kerry’s decision to meet Jason at her home instead of in a public place.
“So when will he get charged?” Kerry asked.
“My guess is that King will want you to go before a grand jury once the DNA results are back. Please hang in there, okay?”
Kerry nodded. Corrine had done her job for now, keeping the complainant on board.
“There’s something else you should know,” Kerry said. “Because it’s going to come out, I know it.”
A different detective would have told her that it really wasn’t necessary. Once Jason was charged, anything Kerry said to undermine the pending case would eventually become so-called Brady material—potentially exculpatory evidence that had to be disclosed to the defense.
Corrine said nothing, and Kerry continued. “Three years ago, I had an affair with Tom Fisher, the CEO of Oasis, my company. He was married. His wife read his texts. We got caught. People at work know. They might assume I was at it again—having an affair with a man I met at work. That’s part of the reason I didn’t say anything when it first happened.”
“Did you have an affair with Jason Powell?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then I don’t see what a relationship you had with Mr. Fisher three years ago has to do with any of this. Okay?”
Kerry looked relieved. She hugged Corrine at the front door and thanked her before saying good-bye.
22
An inch-thick stack of call records arrived for Corrine the following morning. The Powell home had no landline, but AT&T had sent logs for Jason Powell’s cell number as well as the other cell phones on the same account. She set aside the two extra logs—presumably for the wife and kid—and focused on Jason’s.