Chapter 23: Victim Aiming
When You’re the Target
I should not have been there. It was way too early for me to be any kind of help to the police. I could barely help myself. I didn’t know what to do, but I did know it was time to leave New York and go home. My friends packed up my dorm room for me because I couldn’t step foot in there. School felt so foreign to me after staying in an NYU-provided suite for me and my parents as they took turns victim-sitting while I dealt with the aftermath of the attack.
When we arrived at my mom’s apartment in Providence, the first step was finding me the aforementioned puppy, which only took a couple of days. Then, we looked for a therapist for me. After doing a Google search of whoever was nearby that dealt with trauma, we found someone and I made an appointment to see her. The first appointment went well enough. I got my diagnosis of PTSD. But when I went back for the second appointment, she never showed up. I didn’t see her until 10 minutes before the hour was over and she apologized profusely as she found me still sitting bleary-eyed in the waiting room. It was okay. In a way, I was relieved she forgot about me. I really didn’t want to go to therapy and even though I know I probably should have, I never went back. I took care of my puppy, worked on the finals for my incomplete classes and worked as a lifeguard just as I had in the summers before.
When it was time to go back to New York to meet with the District Attorney, I had had a couple of weeks of peacefulness. Life seemed a bit back to normal and surprisingly, I wasn’t nervous at all as mom and I made the four-hour drive to Manhattan. We arrived back at the suite and had an early morning appointment to meet the DA downtown. In the morning, we were greeted with a lady from NYU who was there to take us to the court house and would be with us through the rest of the ordeal. I didn’t know who she was, but she was someone with a plan of sorts, and for the first time, it felt like mom and I weren’t alone. But in no time, I would learn that I was very, very wrong. I wasn’t alone, but no one was there for me.
The DA was a nice-looking woman, but stern and put together tightly. She was cold in a way that suggested years of practice, the kind of disposition a woman has to put on to be taken seriously. We all met in a long conference room, along with ADA John and the officers who had all taken my stories at different times in the hospital. Once again, I had to tell the whole story, in my words, every grisly detail I could possibly remember. Although there were tears, this time I could get through it all without having to take any full-on sobbing breaks. That’s when all the fun started.
She asked me to tell her about myself. Just basically start at the beginning as though I was telling my life story. Where I was from, what my parents did, about my brother, how I did in school. When I got to that part, she began asking about my role in school much more closely. I told her the subjects I liked and didn’t like, whatever I could think of, but she interrupted me and got to the point. She asked if I’d ever gotten in trouble at school, if I’d been suspended or had detention. I told her about my one detention for being late to art class with the other students who had come from the Gifted and Talented Literature class, which was on the other side of the school. She listened intently and asked for more, but I had nothing more to give. I was a good kid in school.
Was I really, though? She asked if I drank or experimented with drugs in high school, which I said yes but only weed. She asked if I tried experimenting with other stuff in college. Yes, some stuff. Like what? Shrooms, coke. And when did I lose my virginity? Sixteen. That’s kind of young, huh? Did you know the guy? Of course, he was my boyfriend. How many sexual partners have you had? I’ve heard you get around. You have one-night stands? I hear from some guy that you like it rough. Is that why you went there?
The questions kept coming, and so did the tears. I tried to answer, but I could barely speak. I was falling apart. Has anyone ever called you a slut? Do you consider yourself a party girl? You walked into that hotel voluntarily, didn’t you? Why didn’t you try to escape? I did… he got me… Yeah? Well there was a towel boy that came in, wasn’t there? Why didn’t you ask him for help? I was too scared that he wouldn’t h-h-help me… that h-he’d hurt me… So you put yourself in that situation, didn’t you? Why should I think you’re not just mad at him and trying to get him in trouble? I didn’t know him before… So you just went somewhere with a stranger? My roommate’s f-f-friend… So you just went to a hotel with a guy that you’d just met? I d-didn’t th-think… That was it, I couldn’t take anymore, I was full on sobbing. All that was going through my head was how stupid I was, how it was all my fault. Not only was I reliving my assault, but I was living a new trauma right there in that cold conference room, while everyone just watched.
My mom couldn’t take any more either and begged for the DA to stop; couldn’t she see what she was doing to me? The DA spat at her, “If she can’t get through my questions, how will she ever get through the defense’s cross-examination?” My mom implored that if she had any daughters, she would have more sympathy. The DA froze and looked up at my mom, “I do have daughters and I don’t know what you’ve taught yours, but mine would never put themselves in a situation like that.” She paused and announced to the room, “I don’t even know why the detectives brought me this case,” even the detectives looked shocked, “It’ll never make it in court.” I can’t tell you what my mom said to her afterward because I had run out of the room shaking and crying before this exchange. Already broken, the people who were supposed to be on my side had left me shattered into even smaller pieces than the ones I had already began trying to put back together. I was Humpty Dumpty, and this time I couldn’t be put back together again.
