"What do you remember next?"
"Waking up."
"Where were you?"
"I don't know. I was blindfolded. It felt more like a cell than a room. A bare cement floor. Cold. Very cold."
"Were you dressed warmly?"
"No." She lowered her head, embarrassed. "I was naked."
"What happened to your clothes?"
"I don't know."
There was silence for a second. She sipped a cup of water. The camera never moved, locked on her distress. "Alicia, I know this is difficult. But I want you to tell me what happened next. After you woke up."
"I was afraid to move. I just lay on the floor."
"How long?"
"Hard to say. Maybe a few minutes. Longer possibly." "Then what?"
"Then I heard something outside the door."
"Someone entering?"
She nodded, gnawing her lower lip nervously.
"Who was it?"
Her eyes welled. A hand appeared on screen, passing her a tissue. She took it and dabbed away a tear. "One of the men."
"You were still blindfolded?"
"Yes."
"What did you do?"
"I--nothing, really. Tried to cover myself, my breasts, with my arms. But nothing else."
"What did he do?"
"Came to me. I could hear his footsteps on the cement floor."
"Just one man, you're sure?"
"I--I think so. He walked very slowly, very close to me. Then he stopped."
"Did he say anything?"
She nodded, her face flushed with emotion. "He told me to kneel," she said, her voice cracking, "and to open my mouth."
"What did you do?"
"I did whatever he said."
"Then what?"
"I just knelt there, waiting. I could see nothing, but I sensed him standing right there. I was afraid. I heard his belt unbuckling. His pants unzip. And then he shouted at me. Wider! And I would open my mouth wider. It wasn't wide enough. He grabbed me."
"Where?"
"My jaw--prying it apart."
"Were you in pain?"
Tears flowed. "At this point I was numb. I just braced myself, expecting him to--you know, put it in my mouth." "Did he?"
Her voice shook. "I couldn't see."
"What did you feel?"
"Nothing at first. I sensed something was in my mouth. But it was sort of--hovering."
"Then what happened?"
"He shouted at me again. Close! So I closed my mouth." "And what did you feel?"
"Cold."
"Cold?"
She nodded. "It was long and flat."
"Flat?"
"Resting on my tongue, pushing on the roof of my mouth. After a few seconds I could feel the blood oozing from the corners of my mouth." Her eyes closed, then opened. She barely had control, her voice barely audible. "The edges were so sharp."
"A knife?"
She trembled, then nodded.
"He ordered me not to swallow. The blood gathered in my mouth. It had to go somewhere. My mouth was full. It was running down my chin."
"Then what happened?"
"The flashing."
"Lights?"
"I was still blindfolded. But it was like a strobe light seeping in around the edges."
"White light?"
"Yes."
"You were imagining it?"
"No, no. It was real. A bright flash of light, over and over."
"What was it for?"
"I don't know. I didn't know."
"Do you know now?"
She didn't answer.
He asked again, "Do you know what it was?"
She answered quietly. "Someone was taking pictures." On screen, the sobbing continued. From the safety of the closet, his tenyear-old eyes never looked away, barely even blinked. Here was a woman on the verge of hysteria. Yet he was strangely unfazed by the tears. For a second he felt guilty, mesmerized by this woman's suffering as his father reviewed it for study, so he could help her. But he couldn't tear his young eyes away from the screen.
The taped interview continued. "What happened next?" his father asked her.
"He pulled out the knife. Very fast. Cut like a razor." "What then?"
"He asked me; `Do you like the knife?"'
"Did you answer?"
"No. So he shouted again: 'Do you like the knife!"' "Did you answer this time?"
"I just shook my head. Then he shouted again. 'Say it loud! Say you don't like the knife!' So I did. I shouted back. Over and over he made me shout it `I don't like the knife! '"
"Then what?"
She swallowed hard. "He whispered into my ear." "What did he say?"
"'Next time, be glad it's not the knife."'
A deep groan emerged from the couch, clearly not from the videotape. The tape was switched off, controlled by the remote. Several seconds passed. His father didn't move. Then slowly he rose and turned around. The view from the closet was unobstructed. The look on his face was one of total exhaustion. But it wasn't his father's face that caught his attention. It was the unzipped fly, the spent erection. He was only ten, but he knew what was going on.