CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Stacey
It’s hard to believe everything that’s happened as I sat in the packed courthouse. I wished it was a closed trial but instead it seemed like everyone was here, my brothers, our parents, the lawyers, and worst of all, the media.
It was hell even walking up the steps of the courthouse, trying to dodge reporters, my head down, afraid to look up, shielded by my steps’ massive forms.
“Ms. Light, Ms. Light!” a reporter called. “Are you ready?”
I wasn’t testifying today, so I shot a worried look at my attorney. “Bob,” I whispered. “Did I miss something? I thought I wasn’t testifying until later in the case,” I said, panicked. Oh crap. Maybe I’d screwed up before the trial even began.
But Bob just took my arm and guided me inside, ignoring the reporters.
“No Stacey,” he said calmly. “It’s like what we talked about. Sometimes these cases brutalize the victim again, forcing them to re-live the trauma. Hang tight, you’re going to be fine.”
And sitting in the courtroom, I realized he was right. Hearing the perp testify was pure torture. Lester was his name, a middle-aged overweight man with a greasy face, his paunch visible even under the loose jailhouse jumpsuit.
“What was it about Ms. Light that made you target her?” asked Bob smoothly.
The guy winked like he was so smart.
“Stacey’s pretty, she’s popular, she’s famous,” he singsonged. “I figured if I got a naked tape of her, someone would buy it.”
“Refer to the victim as Ms. Light,” reprimanded the judge.
But hearing the answer hurt because it was as if my success had made me a victim. If I’d been a nobody, another face in the crowd, maybe no one would have wanted to buy the tape. My face flamed. Was I to blame?
“And how did you get her room number?” continued Bob, his voice even.
“It was easy,” Lester bragged, his bad skin greasy under the fluorescent lights of the courtroom. “I called the hotel operator and asked. I was surprised that she didn’t use an alias or anything like that,” he tossed-off casually.
I shrank in my seat, my face burning. Again, was it my fault? Should I have checked in as Minnie Mouse or Cinderella Jones? I shook, eyes hot with tears, unable to move in my seat, maybe if I didn’t move I wouldn’t cry. Seeking silent comfort, I clutched my brothers’ hands harder, hanging on for dear life.
But things only got more brutal.
“How did you film her?” asked Bob.
“It was simple,” confided Lester, looking to the jury like they were his best friends. “I rented the room next door and when she went out, I took out the peephole and sawed off the threads.”
“So the peephole was just a plug when you put it back in?” clarified Bob.
“Oh yeah,” jeered Lester. “When she got back, I waited until she was in the shower and then pulled out the plug and pressed my cell camera against the hole. I didn’t think it’d be anything more than a regular shower but oh my god!” he cackled. “That Stacey Light is one horny-ass bitch! Those toys! Did you see that wall dildo? How the fuck did she get it into herself?”
The courtroom erupted in a furor then, scandalized at his language, the clamor of voices filling my ears. Judge Martin banged his gavel, ordering for quiet.
“Mr. Miller,” he threatened, “you better start showing some respect otherwise you’re going to see just how nasty I can be.”
“Oh sorry Judge,” wheezed Lester. “Just voicing my opinion,” he tossed off casually, looking around and winking at the audience as if they were in cahoots.
But the worst part was to come because I took the stand next.
“Stacey,” began Bob gently. “What has this trial meant to you?”
“It’s everything,” I said slowly, trying to hold my tears back. “My life has been destroyed.”
Bob nodded sagely. “Tell us more,” he continued. “How has it been destroyed?”
Wasn’t it obvious? I was a laughingstock now, the girl who diddled herself, who humped sex toys with every hole. But I had to spell it out for the jury.
“People look at me wherever I go,” I said slowly. “They recognize me, they think I’m some sex fiend who can’t get enough. Women shoot me looks of disgust like I’m a dirty slut, and men,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’m harassed all the time now.”
“Harassed how?” asked Bob gently. “I know this is painful, but could you give us an example?”
“I was walking down the street the other day, and a construction crew was working,” I said slowly. “When they saw me, one of the guys took a shovel and started,” here my voice broke, I was so mortified.
But I had to go on.
“He started,” I began again taking a deep breath, “he took off his pants and started jabbing his ass with the shovel.” The memory was wretched still, the dirty man, his ass cheeks so white they looked like flabby moons, jabbing the shovel handle up his backside like he was a dog in heat. I’d almost died.
“You’re saying a full-grown man, on the job, in broad daylight, took off his pants and started humping a shovel?” asked Bob slowly.
“Yes,” I sobbed. “I mean, there weren’t a lot of cars or anything but his privates were out and the entire construction crew was laughing and calling me names.”
“What kind of names?” asked Bob gently.
“Obscene ones,” I stuttered. “Ass-Hole Chickie, Two-Holer, Double Banger, I can’t even remember.”
“And what did you do then?” asked Bob gently.
“I ran!” I sobbed. “I saw a couple other guys pick up shovels as well, loosening their belts, and I … I had to get out of there.”
“We get it,” soothed Bob, looking over at the jury. “And does this happen all the time now? The harassment, I mean?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice cracking. “Everywhere I go, people look at me I’m some sex doll, a Barbie with no inhibitions. But I’m just a normal girl!”
And it went on and on after that, the questioning. I described to the jury my constant paranoia, using aliases when I traveled, switching hotel rooms at the last minute, how I’d seriously considered changing my name.
“And I’m scared,” I concluded, my voice stiff. “I’m always looking over my shoulder, thinking someone’s taping. But it’s my job to be on camera,” I said bitterly. “And it’s pure hell for me now.”
Because it was true. I’d started filming again, reporting from the sidelines and it’d been disaster the first couple times. I couldn’t look into the camera and smile, instead I’d look around nervously, my eyes twitching, see who was around.
“Straight into the camera!” yelled the producer. “Look straight, big smile.”
And I tried, I really did, but with so many cell phone cameras, people holding them up to snap me, selfie sticks constantly waving in my peripheral vision, it was tough.
“So I can’t do my job,” I concluded softly. “I had so much promise, and now I’m the sportscaster afraid to be on TV. Me, Stacey Light,” I said bitterly, looking down. “I wish you could have just one day in my shoes.”
The hum from the crowd was sympathetic. After all, it was clear I was an innocent party and there wasn’t much for the jury to debate. The trial went pretty quickly after that, guilty verdicts handed down.
But when it came time for sentencing, I was left in shock.
“Six months in prison and probation for three years thereafter,” intoned the judge.
My head spun. Six months of jail time was ridiculous when my life had been destroyed, torn to tatters. The defendant had purposefully filmed me hoping to sell the video, and admitted it fully. I didn’t care if he was remorseful, if he was old, if he was in financial straits and “acted dumb, sorry.” Six months wasn’t enough.
It’s embarrassing what happened next. Through it all, I’d been strong. I’d gone to therapy, meditated, worked out like a maniac, even danced at the Donkey to regain my confidence.
But this punishment was nothing, a mere slap on the wrist for destroying my life, as if I meant nothing. And I lost it, my walls crumbling, my defensive shields reduced to smithereens. With a wail, I fell into a faint, caught by Pax and Peyton, their twin forms shielding me from the negativity, the pain. I couldn’t take it … not without them.