Crash Into Me_ A Survivor's Search for Justice - Liz Seccuro [46]
“Mike, wake up, honey, please! Mike! Pssst! Wake up—it’s on the morning news!” I pleaded.
“Whaaaa?”
“Just wake up and watch this with me,” I hissed. I was freaked out.
He rolled over and rubbed his eyes. They about burst from the sockets.
“Oh my God. The case is on television!” he bellowed.
“Um, well, yeah,” I said. “I’ve been trying to tell you this. I guess it’s a big story here. Maybe we should just hide out here all day so no one hassles us.”
“Hassles us for what? We didn’t do anything. He did.” Mike was right. But aside from hiding, I didn’t really know what to do until the hearing. We drove to a nearby shopping center to browse books, grab lunch, and kill some time.
Back at the hotel, I put on my courtroom outfit, which consisted of opaque black tights, a black tank top, a black knit skirt, and a pink wool jacket. I wanted to seem businesslike, but not overly somber. Pink was the color of my foundation’s logo, and my visiting sorority sisters had pledged to wear it, too, in a show of solidarity. As I dressed in the hotel bathroom, I laughed to myself as I was reminded of one of Ava’s favorite movies, The Incredibles. There is a scene when a character wants to morph into his superhero self and yells to his wife, “Where … is … my … supersuit?!” I was transforming myself into a superwitness. I donned all of the lucky jewelry my husband had given me over the years and tucked my St. Christopher medal into my shoe. It was the same medal I had hidden in my sock as I pushed to deliver Ava, and that had gone rather quickly and without much drama. I knew St. Chris would keep me safe from Beebe.
And then it was time and we could not turn back. That mug shot would be in court, alive and breathing, all six foot-whatever of him. In our rental car, we tooled our way past the Rotunda, Madison Bowl, Phi Kappa Psi, and the Corner. All the years fell away. The plan had been to walk over to the court with Dave Chapman, but Dave had seen the phalanx of cameras, lights, booms, talking heads, and microphones outside the courthouse and called my cell phone. He directed us to meet him there and park in back. We were escorted to the back door under armed guard. Mike gave me a brief hug and Cherri, my victim advocate, held my hand as we entered the room. The courtroom was much smaller than I’d imagined, and this gave me a bit of a start. All was quiet. I was last to arrive—clearly it had been orchestrated that way so that Beebe and I would not run into each other. I sat next to Dave at a long table. At a second table, facing us, were the lovely, raven-haired defense attorney, Rhonda Quagliana; her tall, white-haired boss, Francis McQ. Lawrence; and, of course, the accused. Not eight feet across from me, facing me square, was William Beebe. His face was completely blank and without any emotion. The gallery to my right was filled to capacity. So close were my sorority sisters and husband that I could have touched them if I’d stretched out my right arm. The judge, Edward J. DeBerry, sat to the left at the front of the room on a riser. I was marginally aware of armed guards and bailiffs positioned at every corner of the room, as well as members of the media and garden variety looky-loos who love to see a good session in court, especially in a potentially spectacular rape trial. This was “go” time.
MARCH 24, 2006
THE COURT: We’re here this afternoon on the case of William Beebe. Is the Commonwealth ready?
DAVE CHAPMAN: Yes, sir.
THE COURT: Defense ready?
RHONDA QUAGLIANA: Yes, Your Honor.
THE COURT: Okay, let the record reflect the Commonwealth is here in the presence of Mr. Chapman, Commonwealth’s Attorney. Defendant is present with his attorneys, Mr. Lawrence and Ms. Quagliana. Are there any witnesses in this case?
CHAPMAN: Yes, there are.
THE COURT: Okay, if they’ll come forward, please, and be sworn.
I was the only witness. Knees shaking, I smoothed my knit skirt and put one foot in front of the other in order to be sworn in.
CHAPMAN: Judge, we had