by Maren Foster
So they still don’t know it’s me. His punishment would be to live at home and go to work? Unbelievable! Someone would have to take care of him, at home! His punishment would be my living hell. He would expect me to wait on him hand and foot! I won’t do it. I won’t let that happen.
“That’s great!” I lied. “What about the woman? Would he have to compensate her?”
“Criminal trials usually don’t result in financial compensation for victims, and the no contest plea means that it would be really difficult for her to sue him for damages in civil court because he isn’t exactly admitting guilt.”
Of course. He’ll never admit he’s guilty. “Oh, that’s good,” I lied. “She?”
“Yeah, we don’t know anything more at this point, just that she had a rape kit done in 2012 right after she says it happened and it was a match to Nate. Which, as I said, doesn’t prove that she was raped, just that they had sex.”
“Got it. Thanks for the update. It looks like it might work out for Nate.” Not if I can help it!
“I knew you’d be happy. This whole ordeal is finally going to be over.”
No really, it’s just begun. “How’s he doing? I wasn’t able to get up there again.”
“He’s doing okay. I think he’s finally learned his lesson. He’s ready to move on.”
I shook my head. He will never learn. “Gotta run. Thanks again.” I hung up.
How is this possible? How can he get off with living at home, in his mansion, after what he did to me? What kind of justice is that? How in God’s name? I paced around the kitchen.
I picked up the phone and called the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office in Chicago. Maybe Simon is lying. Maybe it’s not as far along as he makes it sound. Maybe there’s still a chance he’ll go to trial or get a harsher sentence.
A woman answered the phone.
“I need to speak to Detective Wilshire.”
“What is your name?”
“Wyn Laurent.”
“Hold on, Ma’am.”
I waited in silence.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. He is not available. Can I take a message?”
“I really need to talk to someone about my case. The district attorney. I need to speak to the district attorney.”
“Ma’am, there are a number of district attorneys in the office. I would need a name, and I doubt they are available. It’s best if I take a message.”
“Never mind.” I hung up.
Looks like my sorority sister was right all those years ago. If I’d left things up to the system and put my faith in the men in charge I would have been let down long ago. I’d had my doubts over the years. Wondered whether taking things into my own hands was wrong. Had I tried to play God? I’d questioned whether I should have had more faith in the system, but it was becoming clearer than ever that Elisa was right. This is just further proof that the system protects the powerful, not those who need protecting. I’m going to have to finish this thing off myself if I want to make sure he pays for what he did. He may be in custody now, but that’s no guarantee of anything. There’s no money, and no guarantee that he’ll spend any real time in prison. All he has left is his business and his reputation. Fuck the plea deal! If they won’t deliver justice then I will. I have no choice. House arrest doesn’t fit his crime. He must pay. Life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe. If they won’t hold him accountable, I will.
I created a new post on Facebook and embedded the video of the blonde woman being raped by Nate. I added, “When I was just nineteen and still a virgin, planning to wait until my wedding day, I was introduced to Nathan P. Ellis at a frat party in college. We danced and I told him that I was a virgin and was waiting for marriage. He plied me with alcohol, forced me into a bedroom, and tied me up against my will. I said no and fought against him, but instead of listening, he forced himself on me, so aggressively and violently that the next morning I needed stitches inside my vagina. He raped me until he was satisfied and then held me hostage overnight. When he woke up he threatened me. He told me that he had videotaped the whole thing and that if I told anyone about what he’d done he would dub the video with porn audio and post it online under my full name. He said he’d make sure that no one would ever hire me and I would be ruined. Everyone I talked to said that even with a rape kit, he could just deny that it wasn’t consensual, and so even if I pressed charges, he would just lie and there was a good chance that his word would be taken over mine (a couple of my friends had had that exact experience). DNA evidence recently linked him to my rape but after finally getting caught, the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office has agreed to let him serve out his sentence at home in his Greenwich mansion, where he will be waited on hand and foot. The prosecutor didn’t even contact me as they negotiated his punishment. There is no justice for rape victims! #metoo #exposed @NateTheGr8”
I reread it once. Should I talk to that lawyer first? He said to contact him if I found the video. But he’ll probably just advise me not to put it online. He doesn’t understand how Nate operates and what he’s capable of. I thought about it for a minute. What are the odds that the State’s Attorney’s Office will take the video and use it against Nate if I give it to them first? On the other hand, what harm could posting it online do to a case against Nate? It’s not really even my video. But will they be able to tell? I reread the post again. It doesn’t ever even say that it’s the video of Nate raping me. It just tells the truth about what he did to me. I need to destroy his reputation the way that his legal team would destroy mine if this thing went to trial. I need to control his public image before he does, before his legal team has a chance to paint him as a successful entrepreneur and doting husband who can do no wrong. I have to control the narrative before he does. His reputation is my only shot at justice if the prosecutor is going to let him off so easily.
I hit share, and watched as the post immediately began to garner ‘likes’, ‘hearts’, ‘angry faces’, and outraged comments.
I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine. When I got back to the screen I had 35 reactions and 15 comments. Come on! Go viral!
An hour later I had more than 2000 reactions and 400 comments. This is the only way. He has to be exposed for who he really is!
I got a message from a Facebook group dedicated to women’s equality and fighting sexual assault, asking for permission to repost my post to their membership.
“Please and thank you!” I replied.
That did it. As I made dinner I watched the reactions climb past 3,000. There were nearly 500 comments, all from complete strangers. I read a few:
“I am so sorry this happened to you. You are so strong. We believe you. #metoo”
“Don’t stop until you get the justice you deserve. Sharing to spread the word about Nathan Ellis @NateTheGr8 #metoo”
“Stay strong and keep fighting! You deserve more!”
“I believe you!”
As I read through them my eyes filled with tears. Maybe there is hope. Maybe this will work!
Then I saw the first negative comment: “Rot in Hell, Bitch!”
And then the second: “You will pay for your lies!” I will pay, for what he did to me?
An email notification popped up on my phone. The subject read “All sluts should die!” I swiped right to delete. How did they already get my email address? It’s not on Facebook. I double-checked the info and settings on my account.
I read a few more notes of support. I am the victim. He is the monster.
Another email notification popped up; “Why’d you wait so long? LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE!” Swipe, delete.
I rolled over in bed the next morning and checked Facebook: over 15,000 likes and 6,207 comments. There were also about twenty private messages. I opened one from a podcast host asking for an interview. I wrote back and agreed.
On Monday morning, as I was indulging in a cup of my favorit
e tea, my phone rang. It was a local number I didn’t recognize. My heart beat a little faster. What if someone is calling to harass me? What if they are calling because they don’t believe me? How would they even have my number?
I swiped right to answer.
“Wynafreda Ellis?” a woman asked.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Tina Sherman, from ABC 7 New Haven. We saw your post on social media about your husband and we’d like to have you in to the station tomorrow for an exclusive interview. You’ll be featured on our investigative journalism program at night, but we’ll film it earlier in the day.”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
She gave a few instructions on when and where to go and then hung up.
I called Asher Morgan.
“What about media? Can I give an interview?” I asked.
“I would advise against that,” he said. “Anything you say in public related to the case could be used by the defense in court, but if you haven’t been served a gag order, so legally you can do whatever you believe to be prudent.”
“Got it.” So, if I don’t talk to the media now and the State’s Attorney declines to press charges down the road then I’ve wasted my only chance to expose Nate, because a lack luster plea deal that doesn’t result in an admission of guilt or jail time doesn’t exactly make for exciting day-time television and will only further diminish my credibility, but if I do talk to the media, then Nate’s lawyers will already have my side of the story.
I didn’t tell him about the video evidence, but thanked him and hung up.
An hour later I stood in my walk-in closet, agonizing over what to wear to the interview. I knew how important it would be to look reliable, trustworthy, and believable, not too self-confident, stuffy, or pretentious, and definitely not too attractive, and of course not sexy. I pulled at least five combinations out and went back and forth between a black sweater with a high neck, a merlot-colored crew neck, and a bright blue button up cashmere sweater. Don’t they say that red makes people angry? If I wear black will people think I’m depressed? Does wearing a lot of black imply you’re trying to hide something? Who knew that the thing that was never a simple task for a woman, picking out the perfect outfit, would be so much more difficult when defending a rape accusation?
I fell onto the bed, exasperated. I think I need help! Professional help. Is there even such a thing when it comes to preparing for a talk show interview? There must be. There are professional consultants for everything today. I stared at the options in front of me. No matter what I wear, some people will love me and some people will hate me. I did a Google search and found a few publicity consultants in New York City specializing in preparing the average person for television. I made a few calls and hired the only one who was available with such short notice.
A gorgeous middle aged woman, who looked much younger than her resume suggested, arrived after noon. I invited her in and offered her refreshments. She declined and began to pepper me with questions: What was my background? Where had I gone to college? Why was I appearing on television? If she was shocked by the last answer she didn’t let on. I figured she’d probably heard crazier stories given her line of work.
She ran through a list of seemingly obvious recommendations: speak slowly, chin up, shoulders back, imagine gossiping over coffee with a girlfriend, be polite, and whatever happens do not let your emotions get the better of you. She told me to memorize the definitions of Stockholm Syndrome and trauma bonding and led me through a few role playing exercises, where she bombarded me with difficult questions about my background, motives, and intentions. Then we moved on to my wardrobe.
She quickly vetoed a few options and then selected a few that she thought were appropriate. We talked make-up, hair, and she gave me a feel for what would happen when I arrived on set. She encouraged me to rehearse my answers to questions that the hosts were most likely to ask.
When she was finally gone I texted Adam; “you home?”
His reply came a minute later; “Yes.”
I walked next door and let myself in. Adam was in his office.
I pulled my Facebook post up and handed him the phone. I watched as he read the full post and his expression shifted.
“Do you think he’s seen this?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything from him or his lawyer since I posted it, but I’d be surprised if they don’t know by now.”
“Yeah.”
“I got invited to appear on a local news show. They want to interview me because of that post.”
“Are you gonna do it?”
“Yeah, I don’t know if I will ever get any justice,” I said. “In court or otherwise. But if there’s no justice, and no alimony, then there’s only one thing left, and that’s his reputation.”
“What are you gonna say?”
“I’m going to tell the truth about Nate.” And hold nothing back, because I might only have one shot.
He pulled me toward him and held me close. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for believing me and supporting me.”
The Touch
Tuesday, April 3, 2018
Old Greenwich
I arrived at the studio just before noon. A young woman showed me back to a room lined with hair dresser booths.
“I’m fine, actually, I think,” I said.
“Just sit,” she demanded and then disappeared.
Another woman dressed entirely in black appeared.
“Do I need more make-up?” I asked.
“Oh, honey, guests are on their own,” she said. She flicked the switch on a bright light. “I’ll take a quick look though.”
She examined my face under the light.
“Not terrible,” she said. “I’ve seen a lot worse.”
“Thanks.”
“Your eyes are a little understated but leave them alone now. Trust me. You’ll probably just need to reapply powder and a little lip gloss before you’re called up.”
“When do you think that will be?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t think the host is here yet. It might be a while.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
I pulled Vi’s diary out of my purse.
May 29, 1989
Evanston, Illinois. I went to the health clinic for students today. They seemed surprised that I am pregnant and asked me to wait for a while until I could be seen by a special nurse who could do some tests. The nurse was nice enough and did the tests pretty quickly. She said everything looked fine and she told me that it’s a girl. I asked her about an abortion but she said that it’s too late. She said that no one would do an abortion for me now since I am more than 27 weeks pregnant. I guess I have no choice now. I will have to have the baby. She gave me some papers that have information about adoption. I guess I’ll read them tonight.
July 12, 1989
Evanston, Illinois. I’m huge! They say I have another month of this and I really can’t believe it! I can only sleep on my side now and everything is getting more difficult and uncomfortable. I met a woman named Adrienne, who is a junior and lives down the hall from me. She is married and lives with her husband. She offered to help me with some things when I need it. She brought me a few groceries the other day. She is very sweet. Today she told me that she is also pregnant, although she’s not as far along as me. Maybe our kids can be friends. I think we will be great friends!
At least an hour had passed before a young woman appeared. “Follow me!” she said.
I grabbed my lipstick, applied it quickly in the mirror, and turned to follow her down the hall. She showed me to a set with two chairs and a black backdrop.
“Sit here,” she said, pointing.
I waited and watched the shuffling of the camera crew and the whispers of the staff just out of view.
The female anchor walked in, commanding attention. She sat in the chair next to me and leaned forward to shake my hand. I
was surprised by how different she looked in person than on t.v. The layers of make-up caked on to hide the fine lines around her eyes reminded me of the painted-one-too-many-times window frames in our historic Cape Cod.
“How are you doing?” she said.
“Fine, thanks.” I looked wide-eyed at the cameras. Here we go! Soon everyone will know what a monster he is! This is going to work!
“Just remember to smile and relax,” she said and I sat up a little straighter.
Another command signified that the cameras were rolling.