by L. D. Davis
“How many of you were there?” I demanded, stepping into the alley with them. “How many of you violated me?”
“Answer her,” Kyle growled, slamming him into the wall again.
“It wasn’t a violation if she was into it,” he said, inviting another punch from Kyle.
It was like a kick to the face. A small part of me always worried that it wasn’t rape, that it was something I did willingly. I’ve remembered things wrong before, who was to say that I didn’t want it?
Then I remembered the bruises on my thighs, the finger marks on my neck, and the bite marks on my breasts. I wasn’t wrong.
“Who are you?” I asked. “Who are the rest of them?”
“Man, I’m going to call the fucking cops,” the man said, struggling with Kyle. “Lock your crazy ass up.”
“Go ahead,” Kyle said, releasing him. “Call the police. Then Mayson will tell them that you are one of her rapists. Then maybe, just maybe they will believe her and get a warrant for your DNA. Then, maybe it will be a match. You look like you would enjoy prison. Tell her what she wants to know.”
He spit blood on the sidewalk and glared at Kyle for a moment before looking to me.
“I’m not giving you my name,” he said, though it sounded rather garbled coming from his bloodied mouth. “I didn’t fucking rape you, you fucking cow.”
This time, I was the one that punched him. Twice.
“Fuck!” I shouted, shaking my hand as the idiot slumped to the ground.
“Time to go,” Kyle said, putting an arm around my waist.
He guided me out of the alley and we hurried down the street, away from one of the men who once broke my whole world.
I walked without being able to see my steps because I was in some kind of shock. I wasn’t even crying, even though there was a basketball size knot in my throat.
After about a block, Kyle hailed another cab and quickly ushered me inside. He gave the driver Grant’s address. I opened my mouth to tell him to take me home, but that was home. Soon, there would be no apartment to go to.
When we walked through the door, Grant wandered out of his office with a smile on his face. He always smiled whenever I came through the door, partly in relief that I came back, but mostly in happiness. However, his smile quickly went away when he saw our grim faces.
I didn’t trust myself to speak by then. How I had managed to hold back the tears so far, I didn’t know. I didn’t want to be a blubbering idiot again. For once, I wanted to at least have the appearance of being strong.
While I iced my throbbing hand, Kyle told Grant what had happened. Grant’s body grew more and more rigid with fury with each passing moment.
“What happened to her hand?” Grant demanded, looking at me from across the kitchen peninsula. He looked ready to explode if Kyle told him that guy had hurt me.
“Oh,” Kyle said. Then, despite the heavy weight of distress and anger between the three of us, he smiled just a little bit. “Manny Pacquiao here punched him twice. She knocked his ass out.”
Grant came to me and gingerly lifted my hand for inspection. I winced as he gently probed at it.
“I don’t think anything is broken,” he murmured. “But we should go get it checked out tomorrow just to be sure.”
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it softly. His hands touched me all over, searching for more injuries.
“Are you hurt anywhere else? He didn’t touch you, did he?”
I shook my head as Kyle said, “I wouldn’t have allowed that to happen.”
Without looking back at Kyle, Grant nodded like he understood. He wrapped both arms around me, even though I knew it hurt his injured arm for him to do so. He held me close and tight, and I could feel the anxious beats of his heart against me.
“Do we have his name?” he asked when he finally released me.
“No, but between the two of us and our resources, we can probably have a name relatively quickly.”
“That will be a good start,” Grant replied, nodding thoughtfully. “We can press the police into checking him out. They’ll have to get a warrant to get a DNA sample, though. That can be tricky, but if we get him, we might be able to get the rest of them over time. Surely he knows their names, who they are.”
“No warrant necessary,” Kyle said triumphantly as he pulled his coat off. He held up his right arm, showing us the traces of blood on his sleeve. “It’s probably on my coat, too. It’s just harder to see.”
With a trembling, quiet voice, I burst their little private detective bubble.
“He could have given you a vial of his blood, chock-full of DNA and it wouldn’t matter.”
They both looked at me, wearing matching pinched faces.
“His DNA isn’t in the system,” I continued. “Even if it was, it will be his word against mine. Since I was high at the time and can’t even remember how many there were or what they looked like, I will lose that battle.”
“But there’s other evidence,” Grant argued. “Your rape kit—”
“In the state of New Jersey, the precincts are only required to retain evidence for five years. They decided on that rule long after my kit was done. It’s been eleven years, almost twelve.”
“They might still have it,” Kyle said, though I could see the doubt on his face.
I shook my head slowly. “It’s gone,” I whispered as my hold on my emotions began to slip. “It’s gone. It’s like it never happened.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
I knew without having to check, that my evidence was long gone. However, to appease Grant and Kyle, I took a flight to North Carolina the following night to confirm my suspicions. I could have called, but I wanted them to see my face, to see that I was a person and not just another faceless case.
The detective that got the bad luck to assist me the morning after my arrival left me alone for over a half hour in a small interview room while he retrieved, and most likely reviewed, my case file. When he returned, he sat down across from me in a crappy metal folding chair that protested under his weight.
He was relatively young for being a detective; at most he was in his mid-twenties. Eleven years ago, he would have still been in high school. His youth and inexperience rubbed me the wrong way, but when he looked up at me as if I was suspect for some crime, my hackles rose to their full height.
“Miss Grayne, thank you for waiting,” he said, needlessly straightening his tie. “Your file was in the basement under a pile of dust, as you can imagine after eleven plus years. I am sorry to report that your rape kit was indeed eliminated several years ago.”
He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know, and I think I even understood why it was destroyed. The young detective, however, seemed eager to confirm that as well.
“The kits aren’t always destroyed after an indeterminable amount of time, but in your case, we didn’t have any leads. Not even one suspect. You couldn’t even give us any descriptions of the alleged rapists since you were under the influence of opiates and ketamine.”
I blinked. “Ketamine? There were traces of ketamine in my system?”
He looked at me without expression for a long moment. “Ketamine is often cut into heroin, as you probably know since you were involved with…” he looked down at my file as if he couldn’t remember the name on his tongue. “Randy Walsh, a known drug dealer who used ketamine to dilute the heroin he sold on the streets.”
As far as I knew, Randy had never lived in North Carolina, which meant that the officer had also taken the time to retrieve my arrest history.
“I know ketamine is often cut into heroin,” I snapped at him, ignoring his comment about Randy. “But how do you know someone didn’t slip it in a drink instead?”
He shrugged. “We don’t know. Nor do we know whether or not you took it deliberately.”
“I didn’t take it deliberately. Why would I do that?”
He shrugged again. “Why would anyone shoot poison into their veins? Besides,
how can you remember whether or not you did it deliberately? Your memory of that day is extremely hazy and uncertain.”
I let out a small humorless laugh.
“So, basically, what you are saying, Officer…”
“Detective Caine,” he said, sitting up straight in his chair and trying to look important.
“So, what you’re saying…Officer Caine, is that you don’t believe that I was raped because I was on drugs.”
He didn’t like that I didn’t address him by his correct title, judging by the small line that appeared on his brow. He wasn’t experienced enough to keep his Cop Face on at all times.
He forced his expression back into neutrality. “I did not say that, Miss Grayne. Though, I do wonder how you were able to discern any definitive truths from that day, considering the drugs that were in your system that caused so much confusion.”
“I woke up naked covered in semen and urine,” I hissed.
“Your accused rapists could argue that you like to get kinky when you’re high,” Caine deadpanned. “We’ve seen stranger things in consenting relationships.”
“The doctors documented the bruises and other injuries consistent with rape!”
He nodded once. “There is that,” he conceded. “But without DNA evidence, and considering your state at that time, your case would have been very difficult, if not impossible to prove, even if it were true. Again, even your bruises and other injuries could have been consistent with sex games. It is for these reasons, in addition to the fact that we had to make room for other cases, that your kit was discarded.”
I got to my feet, so infuriated that I was only a breath away from jumping over the table to attack the officer. I had heard of police treating some rape victims like liars and criminals, but I hadn’t experienced it myself. The officers that spoke to me after the rape had been firm, but kind.
“Let’s stop the bullshit, Little Man Caine,” I said sharply. “You don’t believe me because I was a junkie and because of my record. You are probably one of those assholes that thinks a girl asks for it and gets what she deserves. For the record, I met one of my rapists two nights ago. Of course, he denied raping me, because he seems to think I asked for it, too, but I know in my heart of hearts what happened to me. I didn’t make it up and I didn’t hallucinate it.”
I slapped a yellow Post-It on the table with the creepy guy’s name, Emilio Salvador. Grant and Kyle got the guy’s name in less than an hour.
“That’s his name. Do your job and look into it.”
Caine stood up and leaned forward with his hands on the table until he was almost nose to nose with me.
“You do not tell me what to do, Miss Grayne. You especially do not tell me how to do my job. You are walking a fine line.”
“Fuck the line. You think because you have a gun and a badge that you intimidate me? Maybe, just maybe when your balls finally drop you can try it again.”
I turned away from him and started for the door, but I stopped just before stepping out of the room.
“By the way, you should start informing your victims before you destroy their evidence.”
“We did inform you,” he snapped. “Three years ago, a letter was sent to and received at 435 Hillside Drive, an address in New Jersey.”
I halted with one foot out the door. Looking over my shoulder with wide eyes, I said, “That’s not my address. I haven’t lived there since I was sixteen years old.”
He shrugged. “It was the address on your license, the only address we had for you.”
I didn’t know what to think. My mother usually gave me all my mail. She never opened it or snooped through it, as far as I knew. Why would that one piece of mail not get into my hands? It made my doubt for the police department deepen.
“We aren’t finished here, Miss Grayne,” he said, barely containing his anger.
“We were finished when I walked through the door,” I snarled, and walked out.
My mother’s car was in the driveway when I arrived the following morning. I had never stopped by uninvited, not even once in all the years that I had been living outside of her house. We didn’t have that kind of relationship; we didn’t drop in on each other for a cup of tea or because we were in the neighborhood. A few times I’d run into her and Taylor at the mall or at the grocery store, but it was always awkward, not at all a pleasant surprise.
I rang the doorbell instead of using the key that she had given me eight years ago—once she realized that I wasn’t going to rob her blind and sell whatever I stole for drugs.
A few moments later, I heard the soft sound of her body against the door as she peeked through the peephole. The lock disengaged and the door opened.
My mother appeared to be stunned as her wide eyes took me in. “Mayson.”
“Mom,” I said stiffly, in a greeting.
Her face smoothed over into stone. “Come in.”
I went inside and stood awkwardly by the door as I looked around. “Where’s Taylor?”
“Taylor is at school. Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you a cup of hot tea.”
I had forgotten that my sister started going to public school in the fall.
“Lucky Taylor,” I muttered, following my mom into the kitchen. “She gets to be with kids her own age.”
Mom glanced at me before averting her eyes and concentrating on the great task of hot tea-making. It had been so quick, but I almost thought I saw remorse in her eyes, but that wasn’t possible.
“What brings you here today?” she asked, turning around to look in a cabinet.
“I found out yesterday that I missed an important letter a few years ago because it was ‘accidentally’ sent here instead of to my P.O. Box. I know it’s been a few years, but do you think you may have put it aside somewhere and then forgot?”
I saw her back stiffen, but her voice remained calm and normal.
“I don’t think so. Where was the letter from?”
“Umm…” I hesitated. I didn’t want her to know what happened to me because I wouldn’t be able to stand the uncaring coldness I would get from her. Most likely, she would think the letter was regarding was some fine I didn’t pay from my junkie days. “It was from the police, or maybe the D.A. in North Carolina.”
She didn’t respond. She went on fixing damn tea as if she hadn’t heard me at all, but I knew she had to have heard me. She was just ignoring me.
My nerves were already rubbed thin and raw after my encounter with Emilio Salvador, and then my dealings with dumbass Officer Caine.
“Either you fucking saw it or you didn’t, Jasmine,” I said stormily.
She whirled around so fast that some hair came out of the neat bun at the back of her head. “I saw it!” she shouted.
Stupefied, I stared at her wild, tear-filled eyes. Her face was angry and anguished, and her chest heaved as if she had just run a mile to get there. I waited for the stoniness to return to her features, but I was further stunned when it did not. Instead, her face began to crumple in slow motion.
“How dare they send you a letter to tell you that your rape no longer mattered?” she said scathingly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I exclaimed. “How could you keep that from me?”
Fat tears rolled out of her eyes and down her cheeks.
“The letter came while we were down the shore. By the time we got back and I came across it, it was too late. I thought if you knew, it would only hurt you. You’d been through so much already, Mayson.”
“It would have hurt me, but I had the right to know!” I shouted at her. “And since when did you care about what hurts me?”
“I’ve always cared,” she said vehemently.
“Bullshit! You haven’t cared about me since I was a child—if you even cared about me then.”
“Of course I cared about you! You’re my daughter.”
“The only thing you cared about was making me into some fucking prodigy princess! The damn pageants, the piano lessons, and the dancing
. You denied me the childhood I should have had to try to make up for the shit you wanted and didn’t have! I didn’t want to be a princess, Mom! I didn’t want to be a concert pianist or to be a part of some ballet company!”
“I just wanted you to have better opportunities than I did!” she shouted back.
“You should have wanted me to be happy!” I choked out my next words, as I began to cry. “Instead, you made me dance until my fucking toes bled!”
She stared at me for a few seconds before her face crumpled again. She covered it with her hands as she sobbed loudly.
“And you give Natalie ballet shoes? How did you expect me to react?” I demanded of her.
She dropped her hands after a minute and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
There was grief in her words when she spoke. “I didn’t mean to do that to you. I didn’t even know you were bleeding. You didn’t utter a peep, not one complaint. I didn’t know until later that night when you were asleep and I went into your room to get your dirty clothes. I tripped over your ballet slippers and picked them up. I was going to hang them up on your door, but when I got close to the hallway light, I saw the blood.” She put a hand over her heart and shook her head, making more hairs fall loose. “I felt so terrible. I threw those damn slippers away. I let you go over to Emmy’s that weekend, to give you a break and give your feet time to heal. I wanted to talk to you about it, I tried to.”
I shook my head. “I don’t remember you trying to talk to me about it.”
“I did, I swear to you I did, but even back then, you were so damn stubborn. You ignored me, put on your new ballet shoes and went back to your regular routine.”
“I was twelve, Mom! You should have tried harder! I thought you just didn’t care.”
“I’ve always cared, Mayson.”
I shook my head again as more tears rushed from my eyes. “You can barely stand to look at me.”
She looked at me with bewilderment. “What are you talking about? It’s you who can barely stand to look at me!”