The Power of Testimony

The Crime
my pot—​got tired of waiting. He asked Cheryl where her room was,
and she told him it was in the basement. He yelled at us to get up
and then marched us down the wooden steps, single file.
The basement was unfinished except for Cheryl’s room. He
made us lie down on the bare concrete floor, and then he went into
the bedroom with Cheryl. The cold seeped into me through my
flannel nightgown. I wished for the worn carpet from the dining
room.
It’s almost over. Cheryl is the last one. They’re almost done, and then
they’ll leave.
But they weren’t, and they didn’t.
The intruder finished ransacking Cheryl’s belongings, but
instead of marching us back upstairs, he had Cheryl lie down on
the concrete floor beside me and Marty and Karen. Then he kicked
my feet and told me to get up. He took me just inside the doorway
of Cheryl’s room and had me stand next to him. He pointed the
gun toward my friends on the floor. He slid his other hand up under
my nightgown. His hand was hot and slick on my skin. My heart
raced, and I felt bile rising in my throat.
They said this was a robbery!
He felt me all over, especially my breasts. He kissed the side of
my neck and my cheek. The pillowy feel of his lips was foreign to
me. I felt repulsed. I turned my body away even though I was afraid
of making him angry. He hit the gun against my temple, a reminder
of his power.
I heard footsteps thumping down the wooden stairs—​a hollow
sound that made me both relieved and terrified. Relieved because
the intruder pulled his hands from beneath my nightgown. Terrified
because the leader was shoving Teresa in front of him. Teresa’s face
was unreadable in the darkness.
“What you doin’ down here?” the leader barked. I noticed that the
rough tone of his voice sounded almost put on, like a kid in a play
who was instructed to sound sinister. But none of this was pretend.
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