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  twenties and she lacks the experience to make a useful witness. A student board member, a boy I thought was having trouble staying awake for the last hour, asks her exactly how many rape victims she has counseled after she says that “Robin’s reaction was typical.” Three, is her reply. No one asks her any more questions after this admission.

  After she departs, Dr. Haglar says that the board will consider the hospital admission record which contains the nurse’s comments and the physician’s examination.

  Since this evidence is favorable (there is no indication whatsoever that Robin was hurt or suffered any sexual trauma), I have no problems with it.

  The last witness is Harris Warford, who tells the board that he saw Dade about nine-thirty, less than an hour after the rape was supposed to have occurred.

  “Did he seem any different to you or say anything about what had happened Dr. Haglar asks.

  Buddha-like in his calm passivity, Harris appears more relaxed than any witness so far.

  “Dade seemed puzzled more than anything,” he says quietly.

  “He told me he’d gone to study at Eddie’s house with Robin, but ended up doin’ her. He said it was weird because she was all hot, and then when it was all over, she got out of there like she didn’t even know him. I kidded him about how she must not have liked it, but he said she wasn’t hurt or anything.

  She just got up and took off.”

  This answer prompts a number of questions, but the most persistent come from Dr. Glazer, who asks, “Did Dade ever tell you or anyone you know that he liked Robin more than just as a friend, or that he’d like to have sex with her?”

  “After the time she and her roommate came to Eddie’s house in the spring, we ragged him some about her,” Harris says without changing his expression, “but he never said he liked her.”

  “Do you think he did?” Dr. Glazer presses him.

  “Dade had plenty of girls,” Harris says as if he were commenting on the weather, but not answering her question

  “He didn’t worry much about any particular one.”

  Dr. Glazer, judging from her expression, doesn’t seem to think much of that answer, but lets it go, and ten minutes later Dr. Haglar, after consulting with Ms. Dozier, announces we are done. I had expected the hearing to last much longer. Dade is visibly relieved, but if he thinks this was bad, the trial will be ten times worse. Dr. Haglar says that a decision will be made as quickly as possible, and shows us a way out through the back door to avoid the re porters. I look at Dade, who nods gratefully at him. He has to be ready for practice at three. I take it as a good sign that a couple of the students wish him good luck against Alabama.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, Dade asks, “What do you think they’ll do?”

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly as I try to keep up with him.

  “They weren’t as hostile as I thought they’d be. But we can’t forget that the burden of proof is not like it is in a criminal case. I think it will just come down to whether they want to believe her or you.”

  Amazingly, we have come out at the back of the Union, and there isn’t a reporter in sight. I remind him not to make any comment regardless of the outcome.

  “Remember that you have a right to appeal, and nothing will happen until that process is over, and it could take weeks. Good luck tomorrow.”

  He nods.

  “You’ll do more at the trial, won’t you?” he asks.

  “I know you couldn’t ask questions or say anything here” I laugh for the first time today.

  “A hell of a lot more. I can guarantee you that.”

  Twenty minutes later, as I go to check out of the Ozark, I have a message to call Barton before I leave town: he has a ticket for me to the Alabama game. Good of’ Barton!

  I had resigned myself to watching it on TV with Clan tomorrow. I hope he has a place for me to stay, too. The Ozark and every other motel around here has been taken this weekend for weeks, probably months. The game is at two, so I can still get home tomorrow night in time for my date with Amy. I’ll need to find a washing machine, too. I’ve run out of clothes.

  “Hell, you deserve to go to this game,” Barton says an hour later. He hands me a beer he has taken from a little bar he has in a small room off his office, which is now unofficially closed in honor of the Arkansas-Alabama battle to come tomorrow.

  “You’re single-handedly responsible for us having a chance to win it.”

  I pop the top on a Tecate and marvel at the human animal’s capacity for hero worship.

  “I haven’t done much,” I say modestly, knowing Barton won’t believe me.

  “But at least he’ll play tomorrow, whatever they decide.”

  Outside, we can see students driving the square, honking their horns, their “Beat “Bama” signs plastered all over their cars. It is not even five o’clock in the afternoon, but Hogs football fans have waited years for a chance to play a game that means something. If we win, we’ll surely be ranked in the top five and have a real shot at playing for the national championship on New Year’s Day.

  “If the board’s smart,” Barton says, pouring bourbon for himself, “they won’t announce their decision until Monday. Why take a chance on messing with Dade’s head? That boy’s gonna need to concentrate all he can.”

  “That’s for sure,” I say. There is no point in tormenting Barton with the information that a good many people within the university community would like nothing better than to sky write over Razorback stadium tomorrow afternoon a message that the business of rape is more important than a football game.

  Within an hour’s time Barton and I are feeling no pain, which is fortunate, because he gets a call from his wife to turn on the five o’clock news. The “J” Board is reported to have made a decision. Barton snaps on his stereo, and we see the luscious female reporter, who is usually on later, reading into the camera, “.. . will no longer be permitted to take part in intercollegiate athletics the remainder of the year but will be permitted to attend classes.

  Clarise Dozier, the All-University Coordinator of Judicial Affairs, has just explained that any disciplinary action will not go into effect until the vice-chancellor and chancellor have ruled on any appeal and reviewed the actions taken by the board. This means that star wide receiver Dade Cunningham, unless head Razorback football coach Dale Carter says otherwise, will be in the starting line-up against the Crimson Tide tomorrow afternoon….”

  “Shit!” Barton whines at the screen.

  “Those assholes could have waited! If we lose, it’ll be their fault.”

  I reach for the phone and dial Dade’s room and get his answering machine. Hoping I don’t sound drunk, I say that he shouldn’t worry and that if he needs to call me, I can be reached at either Barton Sanders’s home or his office tonight and tomorrow morning. Barton gives me the numbers, which I read into the phone, wondering how Dade will react I hang up, pissed at the “J” Board but knowing it could have been worse. While Barton continues to rant, I try to think what lesson there is to be gained from their decision.

  Obviously, they don’t consider Dade presently a threat to Robin, but they believed her over him. Not a good sign, but I don’t know what factor politics, campus or otherwise, played into their decision. A lot, probably, since Dozier told me they try to achieve a consensus. I’d love to know what part war’s rallies played in this decision, but I know I never will.

  “You got problems,” Barton says, gloomily sipping at his drink.

  “If you can’t convince students and professors Dade is innocent, think what a bunch of hillbillies on that jury will do to him.”

  “Thanks for reminding me,” I say, glad Barton called about the ticket before we got the news. I don’t seem like such a hero all of a sudden. I call Sarah to find out her reaction, but only get her answering machine as usual. She is probably out celebrating with Paula Crawford. On second thought, they are probably furious Dade wasn’t kicked out of school. Nothing will ever satis
fy them.

  Unlike last week in Knoxville, the weather stays gorgeous all morning Saturday, and walking to the stadium it is easy to forget that football at this level is essentially a business. Hundreds of tailgate parties are going on simultaneously in a sea of Razorback red; multi generation Arkansans gather together outside their RVs in lawn chairs and wolf down tons of barbecue, potato salad, cole slaw, and baked beans and drink beer. Diet Coke, and iced tea, trading friendly insults with the healthy con ting gent of Alabama fans who are, as usual, cocky but not obnoxious, at least not before the game. Truly, it is a cultural thing, right or wrong, the way we live. If the fans are right, the Hogs are back. The Alabama game will prove it.

  During the warm-up I train my binoculars on Dade and am shaken as twenty yards downfield he drops a perfectly thrown ball. When he trots back in. Carter, who apparently has been watching too, says something to him, and Dade listens with his head bowed. He didn’t call last night or this morning. I spoke with his mother briefly be fore I left for the game, and she hadn’t heard from him either. If he is able to turn pro after this season, I wonder how much money this game alone will be worth to him.

  Alabama’s preseason All-American safety, Ty Mosely, will be covering him all afternoon. If Mosely shuts him down, it will be hard for a pro owner to forget his statistics, since he will have seen the game. As the cheerleaders minus Robin Perry lead the crowd in calling the Hogs, it is impossible not to feel a shiver run down my spine. It is just a game, I tell myself. Of course, it’s not.

  The Hogs come out as fired up as the crowd and out quick the bigger Tide linemen as Carter keeps the ball on the ground even in obvious passing situations. By the second quarter with the Razorbacks on top 10 to 7, it is easy to forget Dade is even on the field. Jay Madison, the Hogs’ quarterback, has thrown a total of three passes, all screens to his backs. Incredibly, with one minute left in the half Alabama fumbles inside its own five, and the Hogs recover and go up 17 to 7 at the half.

  I realize my dominant emotion is one of relief. The game will put a crimp in some of Dade’s total season statistics, but if Arkansas wins, it can’t hurt him too badly. If Madison doesn’t throw the ball to him, he can’t drop it.

  Just at the kickoff I return to my seat from a trip to the bathroom. Predictably, someone was drunk and sick (it sounded like an animal giving birth to a too large off spring). The crowd around me is reasonably in control, but it won’t be if we win. I don’t look forward to the drive back to Blackwell County after the game, no matter what happens.

  As I feared, Alabama’s strength begins to tell by the fourth quarter, and their offense begins to look like Sherman marching through Georgia, and they go ahead 21 to 17 with five minutes left. Now, stuck on our twenty-yard line, we have to throw, and everybody in the stadium knows it.

  Quickly, the battle between Ty Mosely and Dade be comes awesome to watch. Dade is a step faster, but Mosely has an uncanny gift of being able to react while the ball is in the air, and unless Jay Madison throws the ball almost perfectly, Mosely will just get a hand on it and knock it away from Dade at the last moment. Though there is now double coverage on Dade, the Hogs are still able to move downfield, thanks to Madison’s success in finding secondary receivers. With the ball on the twenty with one minute left, Dade has caught four passes on this drive, three for first downs, so there is no doubt about his ability to perform under pressure. Forgotten is his dropped ball in warm-ups. Even if we don’t win, he has performed creditably.

  With second and ten, Dade accelerates faster than I’ve seen him all day and blows by Mosely and heads for the corner of the left end zone. The right safety comes over to cover him, but Dade suddenly plants his foot and cuts to the right at the instant the ball is thrown. The exact moment the ball reaches him, he is almost decapitated by the left safety who has come over to cover him. Somehow, Dade manages to hold onto the ball while being knocked into the end zone, and the stadium erupts as I’ve never seen it. In my excitement I trip over the seat in front of me and fall forward onto the back of a huge fat guy who is so deliriously happy he jumps up and down with me clinging to his shoulders.

  “We win! We win!” he screams as tears stream down his cheeks.

  Twenty minutes later I am on my way out of town, heading back to Blackwell County, listening to the postgame comments on the radio. Coach Carter calls Dade’s catch the greatest he has ever seen. His interviewer does not mention that if the All-University Judiciary Board’s decision is upheld, it will be the last one he’ll make as a Razorback this season. Caught hopelessly in traffic on Highway 23 (I’ll have to call Amy and tell her I’ll be late), I think that the reason men like sports is that if we try hard enough we can pretend for a couple of hours that the real world doesn’t have anything to do with us.

  10

  At two on Monday I am picking up peanut shells from my carpet when Clan saunters into my office. He has converted our office into a peanut warehouse Jimmy Carter himself could be proud of. He has agreed to go with me to the apartment of Gina Whitehall, my dependency neglect case, to see how difficult it might have been for the child to turn on the water. I have the trial later this week. The police have investigated the incident, and I don’t want to cross-examine a cop without having seen the place for myself.

  “Are you still going out there with me, or are you coming to weasel out?”

  “What a mess!” he exclaims, ignoring my question.

  “It looks like those bars where they throw the shells on the floor.”

  “Most of them are yours,” I say irritably.

  “How much weight have you lost?”

  Squeezing into one of my chairs, Clan snorts, his double chin wobbling like a helping of cranberry sauce, “Three pounds. You get sick of the damn things awfully fast.”

  I throw a handful of shells into the wastepaper basket beside me and then, despite my best intentions, I take another peanut from my desk drawer.

  Clan extracts a reddish substance from his teeth with a straightened paper clip and wipes it on his pants. We seem to be regressing into after-hours behavior without much prompting. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another nut, shaking his head.

  “I hate these damn things.”

  I grin at Clan. The son of a gun is irrepressible. His marriage is terrible; his law practice is at a standstill; he is a hundred pounds overweight; he has the emotional maturity of a five year old; and I wouldn’t trade his friendship for anything. As we talk, the phone rings. It is a psychologist friend I contacted at the university to see if there was any research on the reaction of small children to burns. I push the speaker button to let Clan hear. It is not as if he doesn’t know the client.

  “Gideon,” Steve Huddleston says, his baritone voice not quite as low over the phone, “I thought I better get in touch with you. I can’t find anything specifically on reactions of small children to the sort of situation you described.”

  Damn. I look at Clan and shake my head. I would have figured that with as much useless research as is cranked out in this country some academic psychologist would have zeroed in on this area, given all the attention to child abuse nowadays.

  “What do you suggest?” I say glumly.

  Gina Whitehall had better start preparing for a criminal trial. If her kid dies, she will be charged with murder.

  I listen to Steve clear his throat and watch Clan draw a finger across his own. He ought to be handling this case.

  Steve says, “If you’d like, I’d be willing to testify generally about the problem-solving ability of a child this age.

  The fact is that a two and a half year old wouldn’t necessarily be able to figure out that she could escape the pain of the hot water by climbing out of the tub. The literature shows by that age a child just doesn’t have the reasoning ability, and I imagine the panic a child would feel wouldn’t improve it any either.”

  Clan waggles his jowls at me in approval.

  “You realize the client can’t afford to pay you
an expert witness fee,” I say, making sure I’m not going to be hit with a bill down the road.

  “All I want is a subpoena,” he says, “so I won’t have to take a vacation day.”

  Spoken like a true state employee.

  “No problem.” I smile, watching Clan pop another peanut into his mouth.

  I’ll get him a subpoena, but I suspect I’ll forget about the statutory fee of thirty dollars. After all, he’ll still be receiving his salary from the state.

  “Can you be prepared to back that statement up with some research?”

  “That’ll be simple enough,” Steve says, sounding pleased to be part of this. Some professors love to testify.

  “Do you want me to bring it?”

  “Just know it,” I say. The Department of Human Services won’t be prepared to rebut it. There is no sense letting their attorney pick it apart. I give him the date and time and tell him I will be calling him back to go over it Thursday afternoon.

  “Where do you find these guys?” Clan asks, genuine admiration in his voice.

  “People like to help. You forget I worked for the state for years as a child abuse investigator. You get to know all kinds of folks. Let’s go,” I say, feeling a little better.

  This doesn’t mean we’ll win, but at least I’ll have something to argue to the judge.

  Clan looks sheepish as he says, “I can’t make it.”

  I had a feeling he would wimp out on me. I ask, “Why the hell not?”

  “I guess I feel too weird,” he says, looking down at the floor.

  “I slept with Gina once at her apartment.”

  I look at Clan in disbelief.

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Dan’s eyes dart around the room, landing everywhere but on my face.

  “That’s a hell of a thing to do, isn’t it?”

  I try to conjure up the scene: a fat, middle-aged, balding lawyer dropping his trousers to bed down a farm-girl whore who paid his fee with a screw. Now I understand better why he dropped her on me.