On a blistering red nosed January day, I crossed Court Street to put my arms around two hearts wrapped inside one cozy woolen body. I was in town to shoot a few sessions and help David with some NYC exteriors for "The Collectors". In what should have been the coldest week in the history of my life, Kristin and I spent more time together than we had since 1996. She warmed my heart in a way no one else could. As we stood outside of a cafe, big beautiful snowflakes fell off her eyelashes and collected on her baby belly. What kind of photographer was I not to have a camera by my side I thought. I also knew that this moment was only possible to see with my own eyes and nothing else between us. I'd have to remember. So much had come between us. That is one fact I could never forget. She dug her hand inside a bag and handed me a wrapped gift. My face went red; I had nothing to give her. When I returned to my friends house where we were staying, I carefully opened the wrapping paper revealing Patti Smith's "Just Kids". I stared at the bookstore's bookmark and wondered where I would keep it. Like the wet cold falling from the sky and disappearing into the earth, I am still deathly afraid of losing any part of Kristin. Even a paper placeholder. If I could sew her inside my heart, I would do that. All the tearing apart at the seams almost killed me. Like her gift said, we were just kids.
A few days ago, I went to check out a book from my living room's library that holds many books I haven't read yet. "Oh" I said aloud to no one as I rescued the black and gold paperback from dust and neglect. 120 pages later, I found myself visiting New York again. I could relate to being homeless, the kindness of urban strangers, the innocent promises of two kids vowing to never leave each other. Kristin and I never made such a vow but we lived together, took care of each other, and almost died together. On the same day I cracked the spine of "Just Kids", Kristin wrote "spent half the morning thinking today was sentencing anniversary. Perhaps that is a good thing!??" It is only now that we have the luxury of not needing to remember every detail of November 18, 1996. That is a good thing but even if we tried, it does not let us forget most everything.
What do you wear, I asked myself, to the second most important day of your life? It was a sticky summer and our ADA Martha noted that my lavender boho blouse that I wore to our meetings at the NYPD SVU unit's dank offices was probably not the best choice. I headed down Broadway below Houston scouring the bright happy skin revealing storefronts for a dark suit. I had looked in Los Angeles but came up naked. I settled on a dark brown and cream pinstriped suit and a short sleeved baby blue shirt with tie around the neck. For the life of me I still cannot figure out why I chose a shirt that was a blatent reminder of the ties and the knife to my throat. I wasn't making a statement. I liked the color. I've never worn the shirt again but I can't seem to part with it. At least these clothes will not end up in a crumpled brown paper bag for almost a decade.
I clearly remember the day of the verdict, but walking into the courtroom for the sentencing is hidden in somewhere deep in my bookshelf. While we were not allowed to be in the same room when we testified, we gave our impact statements separately together. I think Kristin and I have grown into the women we are very much separately together. I wrote my statement at think Cafe on Mercer Street; my brain challenged to tie words together to say to the judge and to the criminal. Kristin and I both split up our statements addressing the court, then the criminal. I stood in front of the judge with the criminal to my right. I asked the court if raping one person wasn't enough. One woman, two women, three, four or five that we know of - Kelly and her roommate, the mother to be, Kristin, me - only he knows how many lives he shattered. I prayed that this victim's impact statement did in fact made a significant impact. Not merely in the hearts or tear ducts of those who sat in the courtroom that day but in numbers, years, no parole. The sentencing of a criminal who hands should be taken away so that he may never touch another human being.
Inside the crumpled bag were the clothes that I wore on November 18th, 1996 back when I walked home from the 1/9 on Christopher Street: a black polyester turtleneck dress with a quarter length skirt, black stockings, a navy slip with pink, yellow, orange poppies, and black shoes that clicked down Waverly Place. What a strange and awkward reunion with my second skin I wore at age 22. I used to say I could find my way around NYC blindfolded. I never thought I'd find my way out of near death blindfolded. Kristin was wearing a Wonder Woman t-shirt. She had always been my super hero. An audacious beautiful woman with a sharp sense of humor. One of those people you wish you could be a little more like. She filled a room with her smile and laughter. I have a copy of her impact statement in my "trial notebook" filled with notes, numbers, thoughts, coffee stains from think, and doodles of stars and hearts.
Five years today Leroy Johnson was sentenced to two consecutive 25 sentences without parole. I often get asked what that day was like and notice how many liken it to a book - the end of a chapter. There may have been some relief but mostly I felt sad. Sad that I was a victim of a crime and the irreversible effects it had on me and Kristin. Sad that this rapist had a daughter. Sad that anyone could hurt another person - two people - the way that he did. It was right and I was grateful for Justice White and her sentence because you just don't see those kinds of sentences for this kind of crime in the US. That made us one of the "lucky ones" again by the sheer fact that we were in the minority of those cases that are solved, go to trial, receive a proper sentence. It may have been almost a decade later but we relived it all there that summer when the US made a splash (and then a dive) at The World Cup, where I took a leave of absence from work and lived in the city for a while to do the right thing. For those who will never have the chance to stand in front of a judge or address the criminal. The NYPD SVU unit never forgot us and I simply won't forget them - ever. One of my detectives held my hand as I walked to the courtroom to testify in a fatherly way and in that moment it meant everything.
Five years ago, we waited for the sentence. It's a very long sentence with short word count. Like a tweet you pray will be trending. Reliving Waverly Place was not something I ever imagined but for a few months we went back. We were just glitter kids with dyed hair in polyester bell bottoms sitting on a banana yellow futon couch. We were just post college kids with half patina painted walls who hung out at The Lemon Drop Shop. We were just kids in big platforms ready to grow up bright. And then someone ripped the sun out of the sky. On June 26, 2006 the sky was almost blinding. Almost. It was as bright as you could possibly stand. We put the sun back in the sky that shone bold and bright.
