Trial won't blur family's memories of Cherica Adams By PETER ST. ONGE KINGS MOUNTAIN -- This is how Dean Adams remembers the victim: She was a sweet girl. And lively. And cute when she walked long ago to his brick barbershop from her grandmother's house, down this dirt driveway here, into the front door and the swiveling barber's chair. Not that she came often, you know. A smoky barbershop wasn't the place for a little girl to be. "A sweet girl," Dean Adams says again. That's the best way to describe Cookie, which is what everyone here called his niece. Not "Cherica," who almost seems like someone else now. A name in newspapers and TV reports. A character in an athlete's murder trial. The victim. Almost a year has passed since four bullets began the end of Cherica Adams' life. And now, as her family members follow the first week of jury selection in the trial of Rae Carruth, they brace also for the uncertainty of Cherica's memory. It's a legacy sure to be shaped by the competing interests of prosecution and defense, to be broadcast daily on cable television, to be seen by people who don't know anything about Cherica, and by people who thought they knew Cookie well. Which Cherica Adams will everyone see? Maybe it will be the one the family knows - the sweet and smart young woman, so stylish and so vibrant, but never more so than her last few months, when she beamed at the prospect of life with her new baby. Maybe it will be the Cherica the family knows less of - the topless dancer who some say was prone to mistruths about her life and Carruth. Already, defense attorneys introduced in pretrial hearings a witness who they say "had substantial concerns about times she felt Cherica Adams had misled her about Rae Carruth." "We don't know what they're going to say," Dean Adams says. "I just want to see justice." But justice, he knows, promises to be painful. Private and public memories At the least, family members will hear Cherica Adams' voice on Nov. 16, quavering with pain on the 911 tapes made after the shooting. They will likely hear poignant testimony, introduced in pretrial hearings, about a calm and composed Cherica talking to police and a nurse that night before she was led into emergency surgery. They also might hear testimony from a defense witness that she was shot not because of Carruth, but simply because she flashed an obscene gesture at Carruth acquaintance Van Brett Watkins, an angry man with a gun. "It'll be hard," says Dean Adams. "Rough on all of us." At first, he says, family members talked often about the murder, but as the loss has settled in, they've spoken of it less, especially publicly. Cherica's mother, Saundra Adams, who now shares an address with her daughter's friend Lakia Quick, has declined interview requests. Virginia Adams, Cherica's grandmother, says Saundra has asked family members to do the same. But Virginia Adams can't resist showing an 8x10 picture of Chancellor Lee Adams, Cherica's baby, in a denim jumper and red shirt. "He's doing wonderful," the great-grandmother clucks proudly. In his barbershop, Dean Adams has a wallet-sized version of the photo. Chancellor has provided some of the family's few bright moments this year, says Adams, who visits him regularly in Charlotte and two doors down at Virginia Adams' house - much like he did when Cookie was small. Those private memories are more public now. Cherica Adams was born in June 1975 to Saundra Adams and Jeffrey Moonie, who court records show were not married. Virginia Adams raised Cherica until she was 8 or 9, when the girl moved with Saundra Adams to Charlotte. Cherica Adams graduated from West Charlotte High School in 1993, attended Winston-Salem State University from 1993-95, then came home to work in real estate in Charlotte. Public interest, however, has focused on another pursuit - her six-month stint two years ago as a topless dancer at the Diamond Club in southeast Charlotte. She danced two nights a week in an oversized G-string and high heels. Her stage name was Sienna. Diamond Club co-workers, who have previously described Adams as smart and well-liked, declined to speak on the record for this story. "It's hit everyone pretty hard," said one manager this month. "Everybody thinks she's gotten a bad rap." But from classmates to co-workers, memories of Adams have been almost always upbeat: well-read, outgoing, even a little sassy. Employees at a Charlotte restaurant remember Adams being part of a small disturbance there a few years back. Adams was seated with a group of Charlotte Hornets cheerleaders who got involved in an argument with patrons at another table. The "dust-up," as one employee called it, involved some sprayed Mace, but no one was arrested. Adams also was drawn to the celebrity of professional athletes. Friends told The Observer earlier this year that she met Rae Carruth at a party hosted by former Carolina Panther Ernie Mills, but few know specifics of her relationship with Carruth. Last week, prosecutors said in pretrial hearings that when Carruth took Adams to the movies on the night of the shooting, it was only their second date since she became pregnant. Carruth's mother, Theodry, says she didn't even know about Cherica until the shooting. More surprises? Dean Adams looks to the barbershop floor at the mention of the topless bar. He says most of Cherica's extended family was unaware she danced; even now, he doesn't know what media details of her life are true. He's noticed that most everyone has said his niece was a nice person, sweet. "And she was," he says. What she will be is a question prosecution and defense attorneys will answer soon. "Generally, it's disastrous to question the credibility of a victim," says Charlotte defense attorney James Wyatt, who isn't involved in the case. "If the jury senses you're going after the victim, they better have the belief when you're finished that it was for a very good reason." Dean Adams says he will attend as much of the trial as his barbershop allows. He says his family doesn't know what to expect. But part of him doesn't care. "I'm not really worried about it," he says. He swivels toward the barbershop window. "It's in the Lord's hands now," he says, looking outside. "The damage is done." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Reach Peter St. Onge at pstonge@charlotteobserver.com.