I Will Find You by Joanna Connors Page B

Code to figure it out. The codes and laws appear to have been encrypted by the Enigma machine, impossible to decipher for anyone who has not been to Bletchley Park or law school. The maze of rules keeps turning you in different directions and leading you into dead ends.
    As the parole guy and I go another few rounds, I begin to think he agrees with me. He doesn’t say so, but he finally sighs and says, “Look. It’s just the law.”
    He winds up the conversation fast, telling me that the hearing will take place in lockup, inside the county jail. Oh, and one more thing: I can’t bring my husband with me. That’s the law, too. He’ll see me on the 24th.
    I hang up, stunned. I have to go into the jail and sit in a room with the man who raped me, with only a parole officer between us? I decide I can’t. I won’t. I have not been served with a subpoena that forces me to appear, I have only been called. What can they do if I don’t show up? Let him go? It seems unlikely.
    My husband isn’t stunned when I tell him. He’s furious. He calls the parole officer, who tells him I can bring my lawyer with me. He forgot to mention that to me.
    One problem: I don’t have a lawyer, and we can’t afford to hire one.
    The prosecutor can’t help me. “My” rape case isn’t mine at all—it’s the state’s, as in
The State of Ohio v. David Francis
. The prosecutor works for the people of Ohio. I am just a witness.
    My husband calls the Cleveland Rape Crisis Center to see if they have a staff lawyer. They tell him they don’t, but they do have an intern from the Case Western law school who might be able to help.
    On the day of the hearing, we meet Justine, the law student, outside the county jail, which is in the same complex as the police department and the Justice Center. We leave my husband in the waiting area and go through the metal detectors and the pat-down. Inside, the parole officer introduces himself and leads us to the jail’s common area, where the inmates usually eat. They still do, but now bunks line the walls, too. “They’re overbooked,” he jokes.
    Our entrance relieves the boredom of the dozens of inmates, who now have something to do: stare at Justine and me. The room goes quiet; the air feels charged with a furiousenergy. I shrink into Justine’s side and keep my head down as we walk past the staring men and toward my rapist.
    The guards, standing in a cluster near the door, ignore it all and continue their conversation. The parole officer leads us to a small, glass-walled room, where the inmates can still watch us. Which they do, intently.
    After we sit at a small table, the parole officer opens a file folder and looks through printed forms. When two guards bring David Francis in, Justine grabs my hand under the table and squeezes it.
    Perhaps there is a defense lawyer. Perhaps there is a court reporter transcribing everything. I will not remember these details in the years to come. I remember only that David Francis takes the chair directly opposite me, slouches until he is almost parallel to the floor, rests his cuffed hands on the table, and fixes me with a steady gaze that he will hold for the entire hearing. I avoid eye contact, but I can feel his eyes on me.
    The parole officer asks me to tell what happened on the afternoon of July 9, 1984. By now I am visibly shaking. Across the table, Francis makes derisive, clicking sounds while I talk. In my peripheral vision, I see him sit up straight when I mention that he kept losing his erection and that he never climaxed. He makes a sound that draws my eyes to his face. When he’s sure I’m watching, he purses his lips into a kiss. Justine tightens her grip on my hand. Beyond the glass, the inmates enjoy the unexpected show.
    This is my first official testimony. Giving it, I do not feel I now have the upper hand with David Francis. I do not feel safe. This hearing, this stupid, stupid hearing, breaks me intopieces I’m not sure I can put back together.