Someone Else's Husband(30)

“What do you mean?”

“I think I know who’s doing it. We have a history.”

I can almost feel his breath hot and wet against my ear like it was that night, the smell of peppermint mingled with cigarettes. Later I learned he sneaked them only when he was with me, or at least when he was away from her. And I felt special that he shared this vice with me. That had, of course, been part of his appeal to begin with—rich, worldly, sophisticated, with a dark side. He wasn’t actually a senator then. He was just an associate working with Noah’s dad, but he would be one within five years. It had, for a brief moment, felt like he could be my ticket to a whole new life.

We weren’t even together that many more times—maybe a half dozen after that first night, over as many months—before she found out. She’d probably been on the lookout. Surely I hadn’t been the only one. I understood that now. But back then? I’d been so young.

“Okay, who is this person?” The brusque policewoman raises her pen over her pad. She is taking this seriously now.

When I look down, I see that my hands have started to tremble.

“He’s…”

But with the NDA I signed, the $450,000 check I cashed, can I even say his name in this context? I was never to utter it to anyone in connection with myself. Or at least that’s what the NYU student lawyer at the free clinic told me was the implication of the agreement.

“Don’t sign this” had been her unequivocal advice. She wasn’t that much older than me, but I got the sense they were meaningful years. “I know he’s offering you a lot of money, but it seems to me from reading this and looking at you and seeing how upset you are that he committed a crime.”

“It’s more complicated than that.” I’d stared down at my lap and away from her searching gaze.

Was it really rape when you went on a date with the guy afterward? Could it ever be dating if he raped you first? I could go around in circles forever. One thing I knew for sure, though: Part of continuing to have sex with him enthusiastically had been about erasing how that first night had felt.

“You were saying?” the officer presses when I don’t pick up where I left off. “He’s…?”

She’s discerned the general contours—it’s the same shape that lies at the bottom of most dark situations between men and women. Theft and denial. The malleable nature of consent. A fresh wave of shame warms my cheeks. Not only might I have already violated the agreement by even coming here, but I could easily make things worse. If he wants me quiet, coming after me so aggressively seems like a weird tactic, but then the Senator did always have an anger problem. He is resourceful and persistent, too. If he decides I’m a mess that needs to be cleaned up to ensure his election—he’ll see to it that I am.

I stand. “I don’t think I can…”

The officer nods, looks down, considering. I am obviously not the first woman to change her mind. She is quiet for a long moment before flipping her notepad closed. Her face has softened. “Listen, you want my advice?”

“Yes.”

“Hire a lawyer. Have them write a strongly worded letter to this guy. Tell him to back off or you’ll pursue legal action—a restraining order, file a civil complaint, that kind of thing. A lot of people care way more about the idea of public embarrassment than they do about cops anyway.”





Grand Jury Transcript


Testimony of Frederic Kostov


Conducted by Abigail Hoffman, Assistant District Attorney



November 30


Q. Thank you for being here, Mr. Kostov. Can you tell me where you were at approximately 2:00 a.m. on September 11th?

A. At the store.

Q. This is a store you own?

A. Yes, a deli.

Q. Where is this store located?

A. On Avenue A, near East 3rd.

Q. Did you see anything unusual that night?

A. This fucking city. I see unusual things every day. Crazy shit all the time.

Q. Yes, I can imagine. But was there something that the police came to ask you about specifically?

A. They said a girl was murdered nearby and they asked if I’d seen anything.

Q. And had you?

A. I wouldn’t have really thought it was anything much, but once they explained, then it seemed relevant.

Q. What did they explain?

A. That this girl had been murdered in a violent way—the crime scene was very bloody. And that’s when I remembered.

Q. What did you remember?

A. There was a guy who had paint all over him. All over his pants.

Q. Paint?

A. That’s what I thought it was. Until they told me about the blood. I said I wasn’t sure, but that’s what it could have been—blood.

Q. What did they ask you to do after that?

A. They asked me to describe him to a sketch artist.

Q. Did they show you any photographs?

A. Yes, after that. A few pages with six faces on each.

Q. Did you recognize anyone from those photos?

A. Yup.

Q. Where did you recognize that person from?

A. He was the guy I saw across the street from my store with the blood on his pants.

Q. Let the record reflect that the witness selected Richard Falk from a photo array as confirmed by previous testimony.