Last Lie (16 page)

"That's serious stuff. It causes me to question Mr. Bryant's sincerity. And it leaves me to wonder if the alleged victim actually knew when she told the DA she wasn't going to testify--and if Mr. Bryant actually knew when he had his adversary's attorney read that crazy-ass public statement--that all the attorney wizards on both sides had already determined that it would never go to civil trial. Maybe that they even knew the outlines of what a final civil settlement would look like.

"An authority as expert as Roy Black--You know Roy Black? He is himself one of those fancy attorney wizards. He said he suspects that just such a thing occurred. He actually called what happened 'dirty.' "

Back to the Internet for me. If Roy Black said that happened, well . . .

"Wow," Sam said, in what I hoped was conclusion, "now that would be some major choreography, wouldn't it?"

Sam had no facts to support his theory, just supposition. His story sounded like a tale of lawyer wizards doing what clients, especially wealthy clients, paid their lawyer wizards to do. But there was an obvious question Sam wanted me to ask. He'd gone to a lot of trouble, so I asked it.

"Would that be legal? For the attorneys on both sides to get together and make all those arrangements without involving the prosecutors or the court?"

21

S
am puffed out his cheeks, leaving him looking not so much like a big chipmunk as an albino rhino preparing for a dive. He said, "Answering that is complicated. If one of Mr. Bryant's buds--you know, a member of his crew--With NBA players, is it
crew
or is it
posse
? Ah, who cares. If, say, an employee of his approached the alleged vic and suggested that she possibly, maybe, could enjoy significant monetary advantages down the road were she to refuse to testify in the upcoming criminal case . . . well, that would be witness tampering.

"If, behind closed doors, Mr. Bryant's lawyer wizards cooked up a slightly more vague but similar scenario with the alleged victim's lawyer wizard, it's . . . what? Is it witness tampering? Or is it damn good lawyering?" Sam said. "After all my years in criminal justice, I still get confused by those two, I admit."

I leaned farther into Sam's cave. Despite his campfire story, I remained uninterested in the cautionary tale of Kobe Bryant. Rich people and famous people have always had advantages in our legal system. My bottom line? If Mr. Bryant's accuser was indeed a victim of sexual assault, I sincerely hoped she had found a constructive way to sublimate her trauma. If the undisclosed civil settlement helped, so be it.

But there were things I did care about. I rehearsed my next words in my head, praying that I could do a reasonable impersonation of actual indignation as I spoke them. I said, "This story? I'm assuming that you are telling me this story now because there was a rape Friday night, Sam? Right across the lane from our house. Is that the point of your story? Are you telling me that nobody in law enforcement has even informed me that there is potentially an accused sex offender living next door to my family? I have a wife and two young children, Sam. The police have a responsibility--"

"No," Sam said. His voice was no longer a whisper. "I am telling you no such thing. Whatever happened across the lane from your home is not my case, it is not my jurisdiction, and I am in no position to reveal investigatory details or to confirm your speculation. Neighbor or not. But"--he lifted his index finger and briefly touched it to the end of his nose, leaving behind a toasted, buttery breadcrumb from his grilled cheese sandwich--"neither am I taking responsibility for any conclusions, however reasonable, you might reach on your own."

"You think my conclusion might be reasonable?"

"May well be. What I've been doing here this evening is a result of some reflection I did after my time in church last Sunday. The good reverend left me thinking about the great value that can come from speaking in parables. One man's experience, told properly, can be another man's life lesson."

I sat back as I pondered the Cordillera parable for any nuance I'd missed. "Sam, are you suggesting that no rape ever occurred in Cordillera? Is that it? That Kobe Bryant was somehow the victim in that fiasco? And that the same may be true here? Is that why I have nothing to worry about?"

"I never said you had nothing to worry about. And I don't know the answer to the was-Mr.-Bryant-guilty-of-anything-more-than-adultery question. I can tell you it was my impression in the end that the outcome that was negotiated had more to do with Mr. Bryant's future as a celebrity basketball star than it had to do with the alleged victim's circumstances, or with justice.

"When I do try to understand it? The Cordillera saga? I keep coming back to the attorneys' choreography. At the end of the day that case--a case at its heart about rape, a felony--was resolved without the involvement of the police or the prosecutors or the court. What started off as
The People of Colorado v. Kobe Bean Bryant
was ultimately resolved by some lawyer wizards who decided that"--Sam's voice changed in tone right there--"justice would best be served if the public never knew what the fuck really happened. Because of the agreements those attorneys reached behind closed doors, it's most likely that the rest of us will never know what happened between Mr. Bryant and the woman in that hotel room. Crime? No crime? Rape? No rape?

"People who cross paths with the alleged victim in the future will never know whether she was a victim of an assault or if she was a gold digger. Other women who cross paths with Mr. Bryant will never know whether to fear Mr. Bryant as a potentially violent sex offender or to sympathize with him as the victim of a well-played extortion. Which is, I imagine, exactly the way that someone wanted it."

"Mr. Bryant?" I said.

Sam finished his beer. "One has to decide, I think, who would have had the most to gain, or to lose, by any continued public disclosure of the facts of the case. Whose future would be most damaged by continued exposure? By an eyewitness's account, a second-by-second account, of the sexual, or violent, encounter that occurred in that hotel room."

"We're not talking about justice anymore, are we, Sam?" I said.

He wiped his mouth with his napkin. He missed the crumb on his nose. "Nah. Not so much. When someone is as prominent as Mr. Bryant, the accusation of sexual assault alone can cause a shit storm that will do as much damage as any truth-seeking prosecutor. Justice? It becomes a casualty, a secondary consideration. Protecting potential future victims? An afterthought."

I sat back a little. But I kept my voice low. "Sam, I do want to know what happened across the lane from my house last Friday night. Was there a rape? Is that what you're telling me?"

Sam sat back for a moment. When he leaned forward again, all the theatricality was absent from his delivery. "I do not know what happened between Mr. Kobe Bryant and the young woman in that hotel suite in Cordillera. Was it a rape? Or was it a consenting act between two adults? I do not know. The statements made by the two parties available in the public record are contradictory. And--"

"Like you, Sam, I don't know what happened in that hotel room in Cordillera. Perhaps though, unlike you, I won't lose any sleep trying to find out."

"You interrupted me," he admonished. "What I was about to say is that neither do I know what happened in the house across the lane from yours last Friday night. Was there a rape? I do not know. Was there some form of sexual communion between two consenting adults? I do not know that, either. When all is said and done, I expect that any public statements of the only people who were in the guest room in your neighbor's home will be contradictory."

Sam knew about the guest room.
Was that a slip, or was he telling me something?

He said, "Let that fact sink in, Alan. You . . . may . . . never . . . know. You will likely never know." Sam gave me a good half minute to allow all the ambiguity to settle. "Reflecting on Cordillera for another moment? Technically? That was an accusation of acquaintance rape. Acquaintance rape is a bitch," he said. "I've investigated more of them than I want to remember. Sometimes I think I know what really happened between the two people involved. Other times, I don't. But truth? Truth is damn elusive.

"Down the road, I expect that if it turns out that what happened Friday night was an acquaintance rape, the rape kit may provide some illumination. But not confirmation. I certainly expect that if DNA is tested, those results could shed further light, too. A positive result on a tox screen? That could be a game changer, too. Hard to say--there are often arguments of extenuating circumstances in these affairs. A man could always contend that taking any drug found in the woman's system was her idea."

I said, "I've always gotten the impression that you could tell, that at some point during an investigation you made some determination about who should be believed."

"I wish," Sam said. "Sometimes the facts are the facts. Both the man and the woman tell basically the same story. One looks at those facts and says, 'See, I was raped.' The other looks at those facts and says, 'See, we had sex.' "

He sat back. "You know Devil's Thumb?" he asked. "Above Chautauqua?"

"South of the Flatirons? The big rock formation? I do."

"Say you don't know the name of that big ol' rock. You're hiking the Mesa Trail and you look up at the big thing poking out from the Front Range, and somebody you're with asks you what the hell you think that rock looks like. What do you say?"

I was thinking it was a trick question. "It looks kind of like a thumb," I said.

"And?" Sam said. "What else does it kind of look like?"

I could feel the warmth of the beer. "I've always thought it looks kind of like a dick."

"Exactly," Sam said. "Same rock. Same angle. Same perspective. It's a thumb, or it's a dick. That's what the problem is with acquaintance rape. For one of the two people involved, it's a thumb. For the other, it's a dick. My experience is that there is no negotiating perception."

I thought he was waiting for me to disagree with him. I lifted my last french fry.

"It's likely that the events in the guest room at your neighbor's house took place out of sight of any witness's eyes. That would make it difficult for you, or for anyone, to ever know what went down. If the contention is acquaintance rape, and lab results indicate sexual contact, one of the two people is going to maintain what happened was rape. The other is going to maintain that what happened was consensual sex. Truth? Ha. Find it, I dare you."

"Truth is unknowable, Sammy?" He didn't like it when I called him Sammy. I blamed the beer.

"Forensic science may throw us a bone. But it may not. Usually doesn't. Rape kit may tell us that sex happened. Even, maybe, whom it happened with. But in your neighbor's house? I suspect that the fact that genitals were bumping won't end up in dispute. What will be in dispute is the mind-set and consent of the bumpees. Forensic science has trouble with mind-set. But . . . subsequent events are taking place, at least partly, in the public eye. That's where, I think, you need to focus your attention--on the things that happen next that
are
knowable."

"You talking about the lawyers again?"

"Yep. The lawyer wizards."

Sam was being patient with me. Back when I was a complete hockey novice, he was the same way as he tried, unsuccessfully, to explain the concept of delayed off sides.

"The reason you know so little now, and the reason you may never know much more than that, is because of the attorneys. That"--he raised his glass in a mock toast--"is my lesson. This case is starting to smell a hell of a lot like that case."

I didn't see it. I told Sam that.

Sam said, "Attorneys all across the land learned important things from the Kobe Bryant fiasco. Any defense lawyer who studied that case from start to finish learned how to handle certain . . . delicate accusations against a . . . celebrity client. You want to know why this dance, the current one, is happening completely off the public's radar?"

I knew my next line as though Sam had provided me with a script. "Because that's the way the lawyers want it."

"Lessons to be learned from Mr. Bryant? Shut everyone up. Attorneys everywhere learned from the situation between Mr. Bryant and his accuser that the earlier they are able to get everyone--I mean everyone, the cops, the prosecutor, the media, the accused, the accuser--to shut the hell up, the better things will turn out to be for the celebrity accused, and if the accuser knows what's good for her, maybe even the better it will be for the accuser."

"I don't get it. What's the advantage for the alleged victim?"

"That's the second lesson to be learned. The attorneys for the defendant make crystal clear to the accused the high price she will pay for pressing her allegations. Reputation? Mental health history? Relationship history? Drug use? Sexual history? Determined private investigators will find it all. And then some. A ruling from the bench that the accuser's recent sexual behavior could be admitted as evidence? The attorneys for the defendant will do everything they can think of to convince the accused that proceeding with criminal charges will guarantee mutually assured destruction."

"And then?" I said.

"Then each side will start assigning a price to going away."

"You're certain about this, aren't you?"

"Name me a celebrity in prison for sexual assault. Right now, today. I'm serious--do it. Off the top of your head."

I couldn't come up with one.

"Did Michael Jackson go to jail?" Sam asked. "For what he did?"

"No."

"You must have heard the testimony about him in bed with that boy in his house."

"Yes."

"From your perspective did that . . . behavior look like Devil's Thumb? Or Devil's Dick?"

I didn't answer. "He's dead, Sam."

"What? You're arguing statute of limitations? Tell that to Roman Polanski. For the record, the jury thought it looked like a thumb," Sam said. "There is no explaining juries sometimes." He drained the dregs of his beer. "Especially California juries." After five more seconds, Sam said, "Time's up. You think you can't name one because no celebrity ever took advantage of some woman, or some kid?"

"No. I don't think that."

"Name me a prominent politician who is in prison for sexual assault. Come on, quick." I shook my head. "You think it's because no politician ever took advantage of his position with some woman, or some kid?"

"No," I said. "I don't think that."

"Next category: sports heroes."

"Sam--"

"Okay, okay. My point is that justice doesn't catch up with the rich and famous very often. Certainly not in cases involving"--Sam hesitated as he searched for the right word--"sexual license. Usually the best that vics can hope to get is some measure of compensation. My point? The earlier everyone involved--lawyers on both sides, the accused, and the accuser--recognizes that the danger to the accused is not prison time but a slam-down beating in the court of public relations, the sooner the real work of resolving differences begins. And more and more, that work happens in private, not in court. Justice be damned.

"The other night I met the patrol guy who'd had the first contact with the RP on this incident."
RP
is cop slang for "reporting party." "Name's Heath Wade. Good cop. I told you detectives are always looking for something that will tell us whom to believe in an acquaintance rape. Officer Heath Wade gave me a reason. Lucy had asked him to tell her about meeting the alleged vic for the first time. Everything he could remember."