Corrine asked what happened next.
“Nothing. I kind of stepped backward and pulled my hand away, really abruptly. I didn’t know what to say. And then he turned away, fastened his belt, and started flipping through the memo, like it was no big deal. He told me he’d let me know if he had any questions. And then I left.”
Corrine asked Rachel whether she’d spoken to anyone about the incident.
“I told Zack Hawkins. He’s the executive director, officially the person in charge of the interns.” Corrine recalled the name from the FSS website. “I was so shocked,” Rachel said. “I found myself in his office, telling him what had happened.”
Corrine asked if Zack said what he was planning to do about her complaint.
“He said he’d talk to Jason about it—that he was sure it was some kind of misunderstanding.” Her dismay that there could be any confusion about Jason’s conduct was clear in her tone. “It was still eating away at me after work, so I went to the police precinct.”
“Did you talk to anyone else about the incident? Maybe your fiancé?”
Rachel looked surprised by the mention of a fiancé. “I’m still getting used to that word,” she said, admiring her ring. “No, I didn’t tell Mike, for the same reason I didn’t tell my mother. I don’t want to make a big deal of this—”
“I’m a police detective, Rachel. Are you saying you don’t want to press charges?”
“Like I said, I don’t know, but I didn’t feel right not saying anything. What if I let it go, and he ended up doing something worse to another woman? I guess I just wanted to file a report so it would be there. Do you know if this is the first time he’s done this?”
Corrine told her that the NYPD had no prior complaints.
Rachel’s lips pursed. “There’s no way for me to prove what happened, is there? It’s my word against his. The classic he-said, she-said.”
Yes, Corrine thought. And even if she had the entire incident on video, it wasn’t obviously a crime. According to Rachel, Jason never touched her on an “intimate” body part and didn’t clearly expose his own to her. After a few follow-up questions, she confirmed that Rachel’s allegations—if she could prove them—might be considered an attempt to commit an “offensive physical touching.” A Class B misdemeanor. Theoretically, a maximum sentence of six months, but much more likely to lead to probation and some form of counseling.
“And that’s assuming we can prove that his intention was to place your hand on his genitals,” Corrine added.
“So I should have lied and said he did it?” Rachel asked.
“No, because that’s not what happened, right?”
Rachel shook her head and wiped away a tear. “Sorry, I’m frustrated.”
“Have you thought about reporting it to the university? Isn’t your internship through the school?”
“Technically, but it’s more like a job, and Jason’s basically a rock star at NYU. Plus he’s got tenure, so I assume they won’t do anything. To be honest, my guess is that a lot of the female students wouldn’t have pulled away. I’m not sure I want to be ‘that woman’ on campus.” She looked down as if pondering her fingernails. “So does this mean you’re not going to do anything?”
“My next step would usually be to talk to any witnesses, but you say there weren’t any. I’d speak to Zack to confirm that you reported the incident right afterward—ask him about your demeanor. And I’d usually speak to the suspect before concluding my investigation. That’s if you want me to proceed. I can’t promise he’ll be charged—that’s up to a prosecutor—but at least the reports will be there.”
Rachel nodded.
“Is that what you want?”
When Rachel answered, she no longer sounded like a confused, conflicted student, worried about unwanted attention and a detour from her carefully planned professional track. Her voice was calm and decisive. “Yes, I’m positive. I just want him to admit what he did to me.”
As Corrine walked to her car, she thought about all of the reasons no ADA would ever touch this case for prosecution. The delay in reporting. Rachel’s defensiveness with Officer Kendall. The fleeting nature of the interaction. The absence of any type of force. Not to mention the stamp of ink on the back of Rachel’s hand, left over from a club, possibly from the previous night, only hours after the incident.
The complaint wasn’t quite right. But they never were. That was a truth that every sex offense investigator would admit if it weren’t wholly unacceptable. You’re not supposed to say that victims never tell the complete truth, because it sounds as if you’re calling them liars. They’re not liars. They’re protecting themselves. They’re preparing not to be believed. They’re anticipating all the ways that others will attack them, and are building a protective shield.
All things being equal, Corrine believed that something had happened to Rachel yesterday—or at least Rachel believed it had happened. The main reason Corrine thought Rachel was telling the truth? Because a liar would have made up something far, far worse.
She called her lieutenant from the car. He didn’t understand why she was calling him about a stupid misdemeanor until she explained who Jason Powell was. He responded with an annoyed obscenity.
As expected, he played hot potato and told her to call an assistant district attorney.
She called the New York DA’s Office Special Victims Bureau and asked for the supervising ADA, Brian King. He answered after three and a half rings. “Hold on a sec. Sorry. I’m inhaling lunch before a sentencing hearing. I wasn’t going to pick up until I recognized your number.”
“I’m honored.” She told King everything she knew so far about Rachel’s complaint.
“Schadenfreude,” he said. “Every time my ex-girlfriend saw him on TV, she used to turn up the volume. Have you questioned him yet?”
“No. We thought we’d get you roped in early. Make sure we do this right. One way to play it is to pop in and have a little chat. Get his side of the story. Maybe he admits something . . .” She let her voice trail off.
“Or maybe he kicks you out, calls a lawyer, and brings in a hazmat team to scrub down his sex den.”
“Lots of men have private bathrooms in their offices.”
“I don’t see this thing going anywhere. You know that, right?”
“Won’t be the first time. I just work the case. My guess is Rachel won’t want to press charges if it’s his word against hers, but I won’t know until I at least ask the question.”
“Fair enough. I’m thrilled to be involved early on,” he said sarcastically.
Corrine was a few blocks away from the FSS offices when her cell rang. She had only dialed Rachel Sutton’s phone number once, but she recognized it on the screen.
“Detective Duncan,” she answered.
Rachel identified herself, apologized for bothering her, and said she remembered something. “His underwear. They were white boxer shorts with red candy canes. It was so ludicrous, I almost laughed. Does that help at all?”
In a case of he-said, she-said, “she” had just racked up one small point on her side of the board.
5
Detective Corrine Duncan
Interview: May 15, 1:55 PM
Location: 1057 Avenue of the Americas, FSS Consulting I went to location to contact Jason Powell regarding a complaint filed by Rachel Sutton. I was told that Powell was not in the office. I then asked to speak with Zachary Hawkins, executive director of FSS Consulting.