Authors: Andrew Porter
The room where they had brought her was filled with photographs of historical buildings in Stratham, some of which belonged to the college itself, a large oak desk, and several potted plants. There was a soda machine in one corner, a microwave, and several filing cabinets covered with magnets and bumper stickers. There were flyers on the wall, advertising an annual potluck dinner, a weekly poker game, a St. Patrick’s Day bash. If this was an interrogation room, she thought, it didn’t feel like one, and it was maybe for this reason that she began to loosen her guard, that she began to believe that what was happening here wasn’t as serious as she’d initially thought.
They had left her with her soda for almost twenty minutes, had left her to consider, perhaps, what she might want to say. Then one of the two officers who had picked her up earlier outside her dorm, a man who had introduced himself to her as Detective Sprague, had returned to the room with a notepad and a pen and a small handheld tape recorder, which he’d placed down on the desk before her. Sprague was an older man, maybe in his early sixties, a man with graying hair and a potbelly and a warm, avuncular smile. He made her feel immediately relaxed.
“So, how do you like this weather?” Sprague asked, winking. It had been snowing all day, and there was talk of a blizzard approaching the following morning. “Probably a lot different from what you’re accustomed to, I’d guess.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Back in Texas.”
“Oh,” Chloe nodded, suddenly understanding. “You knew I was from Texas?”
“Your friend Mr. Cho told me.”
Chloe nodded again, though she suddenly wondered how much Seung had told him.
“Mr. Cho was actually very helpful to us,” he continued, “and we’re hoping you will be, too.” He winked at her. “Just so you know, we’re just trying to get the facts straight here. Just trying to get a handle on what actually happened. Your boyfriend’s not in any type of trouble right now. You should know that. Neither is Mr. Cho. We’re just trying to fill in a few of the hazy spots in the story, okay? And that’s where you come in. We’re hoping you can help us out with that.”
Chloe nodded, feeling a little nervous still. “I’ll do my best,” she said.
“Well, that’s all we can ask for, right?” Sprague smiled again. Then he reached for his pen and turned over the first sheet on the pad. “Mind if I write some of this stuff down?”
Chloe shook her head.
“Great,” he said, then he proceeded to write something down at the top of the pad. “It’s just that when you get to be my age, your memory doesn’t work like it used to, you know.” He laughed heartily to himself, still writing, then finally looked up at her. “Okay,” he said. “So why don’t we just start at the beginning, okay? Why don’t we just start with what happened that day. The day of the accident.”
That he was using the word “accident” relaxed her a little, but she still felt a tightness in her chest. “You mean like that whole day?”
“Sure. Why not? Why don’t you just start with when you woke up?”
“Okay,” she said, looking at her lap. “Well, you know, I woke up around noon, I guess.”
“And this would be in your own room?”
“Yes.”
“Not in Mr. Kittappa’s room.”
“No.”
“And Mr. Kittappa wasn’t with you?”
“No.”
“Okay. Sorry. Keep going. Like I said, I’m just trying to keep the facts straight.”
Chloe nodded. “Okay,” she said. “So I guess I went to class around twelve-thirty, and then I was in class until about four or so. And then I went to dinner by myself at the dining hall. And then I went to the gym and then, you know, back to my room, I guess.”
“And what time would that be? When you got back to your room?”
“Seven-thirty or so.”
“Okay. And you didn’t have any contact with Mr. Kittappa during this time?”
“No.” She shook her head.
“Not even a phone call?”
“No,” she said and shrugged.
“Okay,” he said. “So then when exactly did you see Mr. Kittappa that evening? After you got back to your dorm?”
“Yeah, about a half hour later. I took a shower, and then I walked over there to his dorm to give him something. A present.”
“A present?”
“Yes, a book.”
“Any occasion?”
“No,” she said. “It was just something he’d wanted for a while. The book.”
Sprague nodded and continued to write. “Okay,” he said. “So this would be around eight p.m. or so?”
“I guess so.”
“And when you got to his dorm room, can you describe what you saw?”
Chloe tried to picture it, but her memory was hazy. Suddenly time felt very fluid. “He was there with his friend Seung,” she said finally. “They were talking, you know. And they weren’t really expecting me, so I guess you could say they were a little surprised.”
“Surprised?”
“Yes.”
“And do you know what they were talking about?”
“No,” Chloe lied.
“And how did Mr. Kittappa seem when you arrived?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I mean, did he seem upset? Angry?”
“No,” she said. “He seemed normal. You know, like, relaxed.”
At this, Sprague reached for his tape recorder. “Mind if I turn this on?”
Chloe stared at him, then shook her head.
Sprague pressed down the button, then announced to the room the exact time and date, who he was speaking to, and his own name and rank. “Okay,” he said, smiling at Chloe. “So approximately how long would you say you spent in Mr. Kittappa’s dorm room that night?”
“About forty-five minutes, I guess.”
“And what did you do while you were there?”
“Talked mostly.”
“About?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Lots of things. Friends, you know, class, stuff like that.”
“Stuff like that?”
“Yes.”
“Tyler Beckwith?”
Chloe paused. “Yeah, I guess his name might have come up.”
“In what context?”
“I don’t really remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No, I mean, you know, he’d been harassing Raja and all. Leaving signs on his door and stuff, so I guess we were kind of talking about that.”
“And you’re sure it was Mr. Beckwith who had left these signs?”
“Yes,” Chloe said. “Positive.” Then she told him about the navy-blue peacoat she’d seen, and how she’d seen Tyler Beckwith wearing that exact same coat a few days later.
Sprague looked at her then and nodded. “And did Mr. Kittappa seem angry about it? About the signs?”
“No,” Chloe lied. “I mean, he wasn’t happy about it, of course, but I wouldn’t describe him as angry.”
“And did he seem inebriated?”
Chloe peered at him now, suddenly feeling uneasy. “Inebriated?”
“Yes, Mr. Cho mentioned that he and Mr. Kittappa had been drinking some beer. Is that true?”
“They might have been,” she said, “I’m not really sure. I mean, they might have had a few before I got there.”
“But they weren’t drinking when you were in the room?”
“No,” she said.
Sprague paused for a moment and stared at her evenly, his friendly expression suddenly gone. “So when exactly would you say Mr. Kittappa decided to go over to Mr. Beckwith’s dorm room?”
At this, Chloe felt her stomach tightening, thinking immediately of Seung and wondering what the hell he had told them. She stared at Sprague but said nothing.
“Mr. Cho told me that at one point the three of you decided to go over to Mr. Beckwith’s dorm room and play a prank on him. Is that true?”
Chloe stared at the tape recorder. “Can you turn that off?” she asked.
“I’d rather not,” Sprague said. Then he smiled at her weakly. “So are you saying that you didn’t accompany them over there?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not saying that.” Then she thought of Raja and wondered what he would want her to say.
“So, you did accompany them over there?”
Chloe sat there for a moment, staring at her hands, then finally nodded.
“For the record,” Sprague said. “Is that a yes?”
Chloe stared at the tape recorder, then quietly said, “Yes.”
“And what were you planning to do once you got there?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you were planning to play a prank on Mr. Beckwith, what type of prank were you planning to play?”
“I don’t know,” Chloe said. “It wasn’t really something they’d thought out.”
“So you’re saying that it was Mr. Kittappa and Mr. Cho who came up with this idea?”
“Yes.” Chloe shrugged. “I guess so.”
“And what was your role going to be?”
“My role?”
“Yes, why were you accompanying them?”
“I don’t know,” Chloe said. “I was just kind of there, I guess.”
“So you weren’t planning to participate in this prank?”
At this, Chloe paused for a long time, her breath very shallow now, her mind racing, everything in the room feeling suddenly smaller. She thought of the two cans of shaving cream she’d brought along, the way she’d stood outside the door and waited for them. Was she on the record now? Were these things that could be used against her?
“Ms. Harding,” Sprague continued. “What I’m trying to figure out here is whether or not you were in the room when the accident occurred.”
“No,” Chloe said, shaking her head. “I wasn’t in the room.”
“You weren’t?”
“No.”
“So, if you weren’t in the room, then where were you?”
Chloe paused again. She weighed the pros and cons of telling him the truth. She stared at the tape recorder. “I was out in the hall.”
“Outside the door, you mean. Outside Mr. Beckwith’s door?”
“Yes.”
“And how close were you to the door?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “A few feet, I guess.”
“And the door was closed?”
“Yes.”
“Could you hear what was happening inside the room?”
“No,” she said. “Not really.”
“And how long, approximately, would you say you were standing outside the door?”
“I don’t know,” Chloe said. “Probably less than a minute.”
“And what was your reason for being there, for standing outside the door, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I don’t know,” Chloe said, thinking again of the cans of shaving cream she’d been holding. “Just waiting, I guess.”
“For Mr. Kittappa and Mr. Cho?”
“Yes.”
“So why then—if you were waiting for them—why did you leave so soon?”
Chloe felt suddenly dizzy, the room around her shifting, her stomach growing nauseous. All at once the air felt very thick. “I think I need to use the bathroom,” she said.
“Ms. Harding, we’re almost done here. If you could just answer a few more questions.”
Chloe clutched her stomach, tried to concentrate.
“What I’m wondering specifically, Ms. Harding, is whether you heard the sound of Mr. Beckwith being hit?”
“Hit?”
“Yes, with the cricket bat.”
Chloe looked at him, confused.
“You’re aware that Mr. Beckwith is in the hospital, right? That he’s in critical condition.”
“Yes, of course.”
“But you didn’t know about the cricket bat?”
“No,” Chloe said, shaking her head. And she didn’t. This was the first she was hearing of it.
“So, Mr. Kittappa didn’t say anything to you about hitting Mr. Beckwith with the cricket bat?”
Chloe felt the sickness in her stomach returning, tried to picture what Sprague was describing. It seemed absurd. “He wouldn’t have done that,” she said.
Sprague smiled. “We’re not saying that he did it on purpose.”
“No,” Chloe said. “What I’m saying is that he wouldn’t have done that. Period.”
“Ms. Harding—”
“I don’t know what Seung told you, but he’s a fucking liar. That’s something you should know about him.” She could hear herself shouting now, could feel her body standing up.
“Look, Ms. Harding, please sit down.”
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Ms. Harding.”
“I’m gonna be sick,” she said. “Do you want me to get sick in here?”
At this, Sprague finally stood up and opened the door, pointed down the hall. Chloe was moving at a near sprint now, and when she finally got to the bathroom stall, vomited twice very quickly. She could feel the room spinning, could hear herself crying, and though she’d eventually catch her bearings, eventually collect herself, she understood at that moment, as she stood there above the bowl, that she was done talking to Detective Sprague, that she was done talking to anyone at all for that matter, not without a lawyer.
WHAT THEY NEVER
talked about afterward, even in the days that followed, even as the world around them seemed to fall apart, what they never talked about was the guilt they both felt. The guilt they felt for what had happened. The remorse they felt for the boy who had once tormented Raja, the boy who had humiliated his family, the boy who had caused him endless pain, the boy who they had both hated. It was impossible now to feel anything even close to hatred for him. It was impossible now to feel anything but a deep, profound numbness, a sobering regret. Still, it wasn’t exactly sadness. Sadness was harder to muster. Sadness would come later. What she felt now, more than anything else, was simply remorse. The boy had a family, after all. He had friends. He was planning to major in French. He was planning to be a teacher. These were things that all came out in the school newspaper afterward, in the same article that implicated Chloe and Raja and Seung in the “crime.” These were also things that would be brought up later, when Chloe was called before the Student Judiciary Council and forced to defend herself. Did she know that Tyler Beckwith had volunteered at a homeless shelter in high school? they wanted to know. Did she know that he had been a National Merit Scholar and a star lacrosse player? The picture they painted of him was so angelic, so sublime, that she almost wanted to correct them at times, almost wanted to remind them of the signs that he had written, of the noose that he had hung on Raja’s door, of the way that he had slashed his tires. But she never did. Her own guilt was so profound that all she could do was sit there and nod. Apologize. Take her licks. In the end, they decided that since her involvement was only tangential at best she would not be formally expelled. Instead, she would be put on temporary probation,
suspended for a semester, then reassessed the following fall. At the time, the sentence seemed surprisingly harsh.