“Your Honor, I object to counsel’s use of the word assault.” “Objection sustained.” “Are the boys who molested you present in the courtroom?” “Objection, Your Honor. Molested is inflammatory.” “Sustained.” “Are the boys who touched you inappropriately on the school bus here today in the courtroom?” Chris and Kevin won’t look at me. But Shakes does, and we stare at each other. “Will the witness answer the question—” I try to speak. Nothing comes out. And then, as always, my eyes blink open, and I wake up with the judge’s voice echoing inside my head. So that’s pretty much where we are now. Every couple of nights, I have the same dream, a dream like the cheesy ending of the cheesiest TV crime show. The final courtroom showdown moment. The witness contradicts herself. Then she bursts into tears and, through her sobbing, cries that she doesn’t remember what really happened. The defense lawyer rushes the witness stand, demanding to know how she can tell one story, then another, and not know which one is true.
