“At first, everything was fine. We had a few drinks. The guys were nice enough, and they were buying.” Again, she paused. “One of them seemed to really be into me. He kept telling me how much he liked my dark hair. How I had a striking look.” She sighed and then cringed. “I had been with Butch for so long it was exciting to have someone flatter me like that. I had no interest in things going any further than some innocent flirting.”

“And what about the guy?”

Helen shot Bo a glance and then returned her gaze to the wall. “After a while, I went to the restroom. When I came back, I had a full drink waiting on me. By this point, my friend was pulling on my arm, telling me it was time to go, but I wanted to stay. I was having a good time.” Helen started to cry. “After drinking about half the glass, I began to feel a little woozy. I told the guy I’d been flirting with that I thought I might be sick and, a few minutes later, we left.”

“Did he slip something in your drink?”

Helen nodded. “GHB.”

“How did you—”

“Later. After I woke up the next morning, I checked myself into a hospital. They did a drug screen, and that’s what showed up.”

Bo exhaled. The room suddenly felt smaller to Helen. She cleared her throat, knowing she had to finish telling what happened. “I don’t remember much after leaving the bar. Vague images, like a television screen that’s losing its picture, are all I could make out. He was on top of me . . . behind me . . . inside me.” She bit her lip and finally looked at Bo. Her attorney was gazing down at the concrete floor and slowly shaking his head.

“General, I’m so sorry,” he managed, his voice hoarse. When he looked up at her, she could tell that he meant it.

“Me too,” she said, wiping her eyes and pounding a fist on the metal table. “But it doesn’t change the fact that on October 15, 1977, I was drugged . . . and raped.”

“When did you find out you were pregnant?” Bo had waited several minutes to ask the question, and Helen was grateful for the reprieve. She was drained. The only other person she’d ever told the story to was Dr. Rose Marie Servick, a psychiatrist she’d seen for years in Nashville.

“Six weeks later, the Monday after Thanksgiving.” She moved her eyes from the wall to her attorney. “Don’t you want to know about the morning after?”

Bo didn’t say anything. He blinked his eyes and waited.

“I woke up fully clothed on a couch in his den.”

“What?” Bo asked, clearly expecting a more horrific description.

“The bastard even had the gall to ask me if I wanted breakfast.”

“Like nothing had happened.”

She snapped her fingers. “Nothing.”