 © Lisbeth Hamlin
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High Heels and a Yellow Pickup Truck Click to read Click to |
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© Lisbeth Hamlin
|
High Heels and a Yellow Pickup Truck Click to read Click to |
High Heels
and a Yellow Pickup Truck
I am a licensed private investigator who specializes in criminal defense law. From
alleged murderers to litterers, my job is to answer the question: "Did he do it, or
didn’t he?" A simple question. Many times, however, the answer is complex.
One case involved a forty-three-year-old man and a twenty-six-year-old woman. The woman reported that the man picked her up at a bar, drove her to a gas station, parked between two garbage bins, and raped her. The physical findings were consistent with rape. They showed that she’d had sexual relations within the previous twenty-four hours.
The police investigation included the statement of the victim, an interview with the gas station attendant, and an interview with the man. The victim said: "All I did was ask him for a ride home." The attendant said: "I was here that night, but I don’t remember seeing or hearing anything out of the ordinary." The man said: "I was with her, but I didn’t rape her. What we did was consensual."
I didn’t have much to work with. How do you prove consensual sex wasn’t a rape? The physical findings in consensual sex (unless there’s evidence of beating, abrasions, rips, or tears) are the same as rape. There is no distinction that physicians can make between a legal sexual entry and an illegal one.
My job was to find evidence that would show that the entry was legal.
The address the victim gave to the police was an empty apartment in an area frequented by prostitutes. My hunch was that the woman wasn’t picked up at any bar. So with high heels and a red miniskirt on, I walked the streets near the gas station. I was looking for anyone who may have seen the woman hanging around before the rape. Sure enough, two gas station customers remembered her. "That’s the lady that hangs out in front of the liquor store," said one, "over there next to the telephones."
I showed the photograph of the woman to the liquor store owner. "She’s a prostitute," he said. "Haven’t seen her in a few weeks, but I think she lives with another one, right down the street." I showed him a picture of the man and asked if he had ever seen him. "Oh yeah," he said, "he was here about two weeks ago." He remembered the man because the man was wearing a tailored suit and drove a new BMW, which he thought was odd for the area. "He met the woman right outside the store," he said. "I guess they worked out a deal because the woman got into the man’s car, and they parked right over there behind the gas station."
With the information the owner gave me about the roommate, I set up for a long wait. I parked my big bright lemon-yellow Chevy truck, which looks like a work truck (especially with the equipment rental service name inscribed on the side) at the gas station. After two weeks of gas station fare—coffee, stale donuts, rubber hot dogs, and cheese puffs—the roommate appeared.
I watched her for thirty minutes. I was hoping that the victim would show up. Then I made my move. I flashed a picture of the victim. "I don’t know her," the roommate said. "Never seen her before."
"That can’t be true," I said, "because I know she lived with you. You can either tell me where she is, or I’ll follow you until I find her."
After she had me pull down the straps of my coveralls and lift up my shirt (she thought I was a wired cop), she said: "OK. I’ll tell you. The lady is in Florida. She left because she was afraid of being arrested for filing a false police report. She told the cops that some rich guy raped her, but he didn’t. He refused to pay her so she turned him in on a rape."
So, why didn’t the man tell me that he was with a prostitute? "Because my wife," he said, "could deal with me having a one-night fling, but not with a prostitute. That would have ruined my marriage."
I turned my findings over to the defense attorney. Rape charges were dismissed and the man walked. I thought I had done a good job. Every detail I investigated pointed to the man’s innocence. But later I talked to the lady in Florida.
"He refused to pay me," she said. "I tried to get out of the car, and he raped me . . . who would ever have believed me?"
Consensual sex? No. It was rape.
Profile
Cheryl’s love affair with words extends far beyond putting her own words on paper. As a tutor, she helps others learn to read and write. She buys books and delivers them to shut-ins. As she says, "There’s a lot more than words that go into writing a story."
An old-fashioned person, Cheryl prefers handwriting to email, fax, or telephone. And as a reminder of the art of writing, she gives away unsharpened pencils—a unique trademark.
Cheryl is currently working on her first nonfiction book, Dear Writer: Postscript, Paper Relics.
—Colleen Adair Fliedner
Bio
Cheryl L. Schuck
Place of residence: Bellflower, California.
Serial publications: Cappers. The San Gabriel Valley Magazine. Lucidity.
Current project: Dear Writer: Postscript, Paper Relics.
Favorite books: 84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff. Martin Eden by
Jack London.
Clubs: Lead Pencil Club. Los Angeles County Volunteer Corps.
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