“Well, that’s what Olivia Randall says, and it doesn’t help that Kerry had an affair with the CEO. And meanwhile, Kerry won’t talk to me about it. I called Oasis’s in-house counsel with some general questions, and they basically told me to piss up a rope. This trial’s going to be a shit show—if it even goes.”
King had already been nervous about the complicated arguments Olivia Randall was promising to raise at trial, and that was before Kerry surprised them yesterday by filing a civil suit in the highest-profile manner imaginable. Corrine respected Janice Martinez’s work on behalf of crime victims, but she also knew that the woman’s priority was not obtaining a criminal conviction and sentence. She believed in punishment through the pocketbook. Now she was insisting that all communications with Kerry go through her, and was refusing to let Kerry answer any questions about her employer or her affair with Tom Fisher, insisting that those topics were irrelevant.
“I also read up on Powell himself.”
“Sounds like you did a lot of reading today.”
“I found an article he wrote for Huffington Post a year ago about the kinds of good works private companies are doing around the world—water purification systems like Oasis, low-cost solar lighting for third-world regions, a nutritional supplement that could cut infant mortality rates by a third in mothers without proper nutrition. The jury’s going to want to give him a medal.”
“Except they know by now that a man can be solid on his politics and a predator behind closed doors.”
Corrine considered once again whether she should tell King what she had learned about Angela Powell’s past. If he was worried about the jury seeing Jason Powell as a saint, it certainly wouldn’t help matters if they learned that he had married the woman who survived Charles Franklin’s horrific abuse and raised the son she had borne as a result. Corrine was actually surprised that Powell’s own lawyer hadn’t lobbed the information into the public yet. But if she had to guess, Angela was the one blocking that move. That detective in East Hampton had made it clear how hard the family had worked to keep the past in the past.
Having now spoken to the woman face-to-face, Corrine had no doubt that Powell’s wife had spent years developing a carefully crafted persona. She hadn’t flinched when Corrine told her about the prostitute. Standing quietly by her husband was one thing, but Corrine couldn’t imagine Angela jumping into a spotlight for him.
Corrine decided to keep the information to herself for now.
“Unless he’s not a predator,” King was saying. “If he was having an affair with Kerry and had suspicions about Oasis, it would make sense that he’d go to her to see what she knew. But maybe he made a mistake trusting her.”
She quickly ran through the logic of Powell’s defense. If Kerry believed that Powell was going to bring down Oasis, her own livelihood was on the line, too. She could have told her bosses—including the one she once had an affair with—that Jason was a problem, and then used their relationship to fabricate a sexual assault claim on the heels of Rachel’s initial complaint against him.
“You should have gone to law school, Duncan. That was a magna cum laude summary right there.”
“I hate to break it to you, but I make more money than you with OT, and can retire in five years with a pension. You can keep your JD.”
“You sure you won’t go out with me?”
“Stop asking. It’s getting sad. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re starting to believe Powell.”
“Don’t quote me on this, but I don’t know what to think at this point. It bothers me that Powell knew so much about Kerry’s relationship with her boss. It makes me think he’s telling the truth about the affair.”
“You do know a woman can be raped by someone she’s had consensual sex with before, don’t you?”
“You don’t need to fem-splain sex offenses to me.”
“Please don’t try to make that a word.”
“Look, I get it: I’ve prosecuted plenty of date rapes. Marital cases, too. But Kerry’s denying any kind of relationship with Powell. It comes down to her credibility.”
“If she had come in saying she’d had an on-and-off affair with some consultant at work, and one night he forced himself on her, what would you have done when she reported it weeks later?”
He didn’t respond.
“I mean, hypothetically, if she did have something going with Powell, does that really matter?”
“I take it back. You shouldn’t have just gone to law school. You should have taught it, Socratic method and all.”
“The point is, Kerry might have lied about some things, but not the ones that matter. Maybe she thought we wouldn’t believe her unless it looked less like date rape and more like ‘rape-rape.’” She used her free hand to make air quotes.
“That’s not going to fly with a jury,” King said. “And if I even hint to Janice Martinez that I’m questioning Kerry’s account, she’ll make me look like a misogynist Neanderthal with the press.”
“So you put on your case, and let Powell do the same. Let the chips fall as they may. Isn’t that what juries are for?”
“That’s not how it works, and you know it.”
It seemed to Corrine as if that’s exactly how it worked—or at least, should work. King seemed to think that it was his job—and his alone—to decide who should be punished and by how much.
“Anyway, I don’t know why I brought all this up. I was calling to tell you I got a subpoena from Olivia Randall, demanding access to our evidence because it relates to the civil case. Plus, she wants to suspend our prosecution until the lawsuit is resolved.”
The implication was clear. If they settled the civil suit, a joint request to dismiss the criminal case would be part of the package. “So what are you going to do?”
“What can I do? I’ll turn over what we have. As far as the timing goes, maybe you’re right. Let the chips fall. If the case goes away, it’s on Janice Martinez.”
As Corrine hung up, she could feel the case slipping away. Whatever was going to happen now would happen. Her work was done.
38
Three Days Later
What do you wear to court for your husband’s rape case?
I stood in my walk-in closet, remembering how absurdly fantastical it had felt when Jason and I first viewed the carriage house with our realtor—Julia, Juliette, Julianna, whatever her name was. The closet was nearly as big as my bedroom at Mom’s house, and it was in Manhattan, where everything was supposed to be smaller.
Now, two years after we’d moved in, the closet was still less than half full. I never was a clothes person. What did I really need? Jeans and T-shirts, some sweaters, a few dresses for special occasions. I opted for my go-to navy Trina Turk jersey dress, with three-quarter sleeves, A-line cut, and above-knee hem—originally purchased for Dad’s funeral.
I made a point to blow-dry my hair perfectly—the attachment aiming down on a big, round brush. I was careful with my makeup, using the expensive brushes pushed on me by the Sephora salesgirl instead of my fingers. I checked the mirror before I left the bedroom. Not bad.
Jason was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. If you didn’t know the context, you might have guessed it was our anniversary or some other special occasion. Sometimes I forgot how merely looking at him used to make me feel.
“Olivia still doesn’t know whether she’ll be there?”
Jason shook his head and popped a Nicorette from his pocket into his mouth.
There was the courthouse. She was Kerry Lynch.
We held hands as we walked out the door, a driver waiting for us outside. Please don’t let her be there.