The complaint wasn’t quite right. But they never were. That was a truth that every sex offense investigator would admit if it weren’t wholly unacceptable. You’re not supposed to say that victims never tell the complete truth, because it sounds as if you’re calling them liars. They’re not liars. They’re protecting themselves. They’re preparing not to be believed. They’re anticipating all the ways that others will attack them, and are building a protective shield.
All things being equal, Corrine believed that something had happened to Rachel yesterday—or at least Rachel believed it had happened. The main reason Corrine thought Rachel was telling the truth? Because a liar would have made up something far, far worse.
She called her lieutenant from the car. He didn’t understand why she was calling him about a stupid misdemeanor until she explained who Jason Powell was. He responded with an annoyed obscenity.
As expected, he played hot potato and told her to call an assistant district attorney.
She called the New York DA’s Office Special Victims Bureau and asked for the supervising ADA, Brian King. He answered after three and a half rings. “Hold on a sec. Sorry. I’m inhaling lunch before a sentencing hearing. I wasn’t going to pick up until I recognized your number.”
“I’m honored.” She told King everything she knew so far about Rachel’s complaint.
“Schadenfreude,” he said. “Every time my ex-girlfriend saw him on TV, she used to turn up the volume. Have you questioned him yet?”
“No. We thought we’d get you roped in early. Make sure we do this right. One way to play it is to pop in and have a little chat. Get his side of the story. Maybe he admits something . . .” She let her voice trail off.
“Or maybe he kicks you out, calls a lawyer, and brings in a hazmat team to scrub down his sex den.”
“Lots of men have private bathrooms in their offices.”
“I don’t see this thing going anywhere. You know that, right?”
“Won’t be the first time. I just work the case. My guess is Rachel won’t want to press charges if it’s his word against hers, but I won’t know until I at least ask the question.”
“Fair enough. I’m thrilled to be involved early on,” he said sarcastically.
Corrine was a few blocks away from the FSS offices when her cell rang. She had only dialed Rachel Sutton’s phone number once, but she recognized it on the screen.
“Detective Duncan,” she answered.
Rachel identified herself, apologized for bothering her, and said she remembered something. “His underwear. They were white boxer shorts with red candy canes. It was so ludicrous, I almost laughed. Does that help at all?”
In a case of he-said, she-said, “she” had just racked up one small point on her side of the board.
5
Detective Corrine Duncan
Interview: May 15, 1:55 PM
Location: 1057 Avenue of the Americas, FSS Consulting I went to location to contact Jason Powell regarding a complaint filed by Rachel Sutton. I was told that Powell was not in the office. I then asked to speak with Zachary Hawkins, executive director of FSS Consulting.
I identified myself as an NYPD detective to Hawkins and informed him that an intern had reported an incident allegedly occurring the previous day. Hawkins nodded as if he knew what I was referring to. He said that Jason Powell had left earlier in the day for a business trip to Philadelphia, even though I had not indicated to him yet that the intern’s complaint concerned Mr. Powell. I asked him directly, “Do you know why I’m here?” He said without hesitation, “This is about Rachel, right?”
Hawkins reported that he studied under Powell at NYU and began working at FSS after a few years at a hedge fund. He explained that this is the first time FSS has supervised student interns, under pressure from the university because Powell is still a professor while pursing outside business endeavors. Rachel Sutton is one of four interns, spending approximately 6–10 hours per week at FSS, primarily researching potential investments.
Hawkins indicated that Rachel Sutton went to his office the previous day, asked to speak to him, and closed his office door. She reported that Jason Powell had “sexually harassed” her. She stated that Powell had “been inappropriate” with her. According to Hawkins, when he pressed Sutton further for details, she responded, “He’s the one who should explain himself.”
I asked Hawkins what he did in response to her complaint. He admitted that he has no training in responding to workplace complaints, and that FSS is too small to have a human resources department. He said that he spoke with Jason Powell, who appeared “completely shocked and even outraged” by the question. Powell indicated that he could not think of any explanation for the complaint except for a brief conversation regarding Rachel Sutton’s recent engagement.
I asked Hawkins if he had any other information to provide regarding the incident, and he said he did not. He said he was “stunned” and “disappointed” that the police were involved, indicating his belief that there was a misunderstanding between the two parties.
After leaving FSS, I telephoned Jason Powell at a cell phone number provided by Hawkins. I identified myself as an NYPD detective (I did not specify SVU) and told him that I wanted to speak to him about a complaint I had received. He immediately stated that he would not answer questions unless he was in the presence of counsel.
Action: Reports forwarded to ADA King, New York DA’s Office Special Victims Bureau
6
Three Days Later
This is how I found out.
I am used to waking up alone, depending on which moment you count as “waking up.”
The first time is usually around three in the morning. Jason doesn’t know about these restless minutes. No one does. I tell myself they don’t matter, that they’re not real. They have nothing to do with my life as an adult—in this house, with Jason and Spencer. These lost blocks of time belong to the person I used to be. It’s as if sleep carries me into a time machine and I emerge briefly as my younger self: terrified, lonely, but more than anything, flat. That is how I used to feel all the time. Now, it’s only how I wake up—the first time, in the middle of the night, after an awful dream. I force myself to close my eyes and follow the “alphabet game” that Jason taught Spencer when we first spent the night under one roof together.
Spencer was nearly seven years old at the time. He was used to falling asleep on Long Island to the sounds of ocean wind and the hum of cicadas. Jason’s guest room was fifteen floors above Seventy-Fourth Street, but Spencer could not adapt to the staccato eruptions of sirens and honking horns.
He stepped into the living room in his Batman pajamas, rubbing his sleepy eyes. I looked apologetically to Jason and started to get up to take Spencer back to bed, but Jason pulled him onto the sofa between us.
“Start by thinking of something you like—a cartoon, a TV show, a subject in school.”
I wasn’t surprised when Spencer chose Harry Potter. He was an advanced reader for his age, but I suspected that the movies—and my mother—had helped him work his way through the books.