After offering a lengthy intro and résumé, Anderson digs in. “Dr. Fordyce, what can you tell us about men like the defendant who start watching porn at a very early age?”
Dr. Fordyce nods. “Approximately seventy-three percent of males who start watching porn before age ten are more prone to erectile dysfunction than males who start watching when they’re older. Similarly, of these men, sixty-eight percent admit to having negative feelings toward women. And ninety percent admit to harassing, abusing, and committing acts of violence, specifically against women.”
“Ninety percent,” the DA says. “Ninety percent of young men who watch porn admit to committing acts of violence against women.”
“Objection!” DeFiore shouts.
I know these numbers are bogus. Statistics can be skewed up, down, and sideways. They cast no light on Billy’s guilt. And yet, the audience is buying it. Fordyce’s voice is melodious, his affect persuasive. His material is provocative, and he’s meting it out in bite-sized bits that leave us craving more. “Porn contains disturbing messages, overt and subliminal. Kids—I’ll say ‘boys’ because, statistically, the population skews male—are repeatedly shown, for instance, that no doesn’t mean no. Instead, by pushing, trickery, or physical violence, women can be persuaded, or forced, to perform desired sex acts.”
Here, Anderson makes a brilliant move. He invites Fordyce to step down, and then returns to the rape so he can illustrate, in cold hard facts, the connection between porn and violence. He recalls, at a rapid-fire clip, the eyewitnesses, detectives, EMTs, and hospital personnel who saw Billy at the crime scene or examined Diana right after. One by one, the witnesses testify that the defendant was out of control, that Diana was unconscious, and that Billy knew this but penetrated her anyway. The Glasgow coma score—13 out of 15—is raised no less than seven times. Pictures from the physical exam—bruises, lacerations, swelling—are admitted into evidence and published to the jury. One of the boys who helped tackle Billy asserts that my brother, who was looking into Diana’s eyes while he was on top of her, seemed aware of her condition. During his cross, DeFiore forces the kid to admit that the playground was dark, and he has no idea what he saw, but it’s not enough to mitigate the damage.
Anderson turns to the judge. “Permission to show one final photograph, Your Honor.”
When DeFiore sees what it is, he strenuously objects. But he’s overruled, the picture is entered into evidence, and then passed around the jury.
“My God,” a woman says.
Anderson holds up a poster-sized replica and sets it on an easel.
“Jesus,” Nate murmurs.
“Shush!” Lawrence hisses, though he, too, stiffens.
In the photo, Diana is asleep in the grass. Her clothes are torn off. Her hair is matted with leaves, pebbles, and pieces of dirt. There are bruises on her legs, and scratches on her face. Her skin is pale white against a tangle of dark hair. She is fragile and alone. A young girl, someone’s child, beaten to shit.
44
WE TAKE AN HOUR-LONG BREAK. IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM, the five of us are subdued. No one mentions the photograph. Instead, we study our phones. Back in court, the DA recalls Dr. Helmsley Fordyce to the stand. As the doctor sits down, the room is quiet. A new understanding has passed among the gallery. The stakes have been recalibrated. These are critical issues. Matters of life and death.
When the DA speaks, his tone is respectful. “Doctor, you said earlier that watching pornography can have a disastrous effect on a developing brain. Can you elaborate?”
Fordyce nods. “Current science is only beginning to reveal the neurological repercussions of porn consumption in children, but we’ve known for years that the impact on the mental health and sex lives of young boys—and girls—who watch porn is catastrophic. Briefly, I’ll explain a concept called neuroplasticity.” He smiles at Anderson. “Stop me if I’m nattering on.”
“No, no, Doctor.” Anderson makes a rolling motion with his hands. “Continue, please.”
“Neuroplasticity is the ability of neural networks in the brain to change through growth and reorganization. Basically, it explains how the brain can adapt, master new skills, and store memories. The process peaks during childhood and adolescence then decreases as we get older, which means two things. One, a child’s brain is, literally, shaped by his experiences. And two, these experiences determine a large part of his character for the rest of his life.” He looks at Anderson, who, again, gestures at him to keep going.
“The properties of video pornography make it a powerful trigger for plasticity. The brain is wired to respond to sexual stimulation. Put simply, when the body requires sex, the brain remembers which sources to tap to reexperience pleasure. But over time, the brain gets bored, and needs more exciting stimuli. With porn, there’s a leap from conventional sex to group sex, for example. Or forbidden imagery like pedophilia. Many times, it’s violence. While my work isn’t focused on selection, we do know that children who view porn at a young age develop a hypersexualized view of the world, which is itself another danger. Porn leads these kids down hallways they might never have traveled if the door wasn’t opened that first time.”
I’m listening intently, too intently. When Fordyce says “a hypersexualized view of the world,” it triggers a memory. Suddenly, my body is plunged into water. I have the strange sensation of drowning, as if gravity doesn’t exist anymore. My throat closes up. I can’t swallow. Lawrence and I are watching a movie. I’m young, thirteen, I think. Was I thirteen? I can’t say for sure. I remember saying yes, of course, I want to watch; I’m not a baby.
In the movie, a man is standing over a bed. A woman lies on her back. Her legs are spread. This confuses me. Why isn’t she wearing pants? She looks very unhappy even though she’s smiling. “Keep your mouth shut,” the man commands. I feel like he’s talking to me. “Don’t move.” He grabs his penis, angrily, as if wielding a weapon. There is a flash of naked legs. A rustle of sheets. They’re light blue with tiny pink flowers. The flowers are in rows, like a perfect garden. Those flowers are pretty, I think, wishing my sheets had flowers. “This guy is in a lot of these movies,” Lawrence is saying, like he’s the director, recapping the scene for a graduate seminar. “His name is Marcus Silver. The men tend to be anonymous, so it’s weird I’d remember him. In porn, it’s women who are the brand-name stars.” I have no idea why Lawrence is telling me this, but I wish he’d shut up. This is repulsive, I think, a word I’m proud to know. But I can’t bring myself to say shut up to him, which means I’m younger than thirteen. More likely eleven or ten, and this was one of his educational moments. Maybe it was when I told him about the naked people I saw on Nate’s phone? Keep your mouth shut, the man said. I’m talking to you.
My body trembles. I can’t stop blinking. Hypersexualized. Forbidden. You’re repulsive. Who’s repulsive? Me. Here’s the thing, the super-secret, I hated the movie but didn’t say stop. I kept watching, and part of me, part of me liked it. I am repulsive. A slutty slut at ten years old.