My decision to sue was not impulsive and did not come easily. I knew that no matter how blameless I was, I risked looking greedy. Did something bad happen to you? Make some money! It’s the American way! Also, the civil law system can be just as byzantine and arbitrary as the criminal one. There are no guarantees of fairness there, either. But it was starting to seem that it was the only chance of getting Polanski’s voice muted. The suit was my way of saying, “Roman, shut up.”
Don’t get me wrong: the money was a factor as well. It was not just a way to punish Polanski; it was also a way of compensating me. I had two children (and would soon have one more), and neither Dave nor I made a great deal of money. I had no resources to sue magazines and newspapers when they printed lies about me, often lies that came from Polanski’s autobiography. It seemed like they would never stop coming after me. And it seemed that everyone, including Roman, had profited from my assault—everyone except me. When tabloids offered me money for interviews in the past (the National Enquirer offered fifteen thousand dollars in 1977), I’d turned them down. This didn’t make me noble; in fact, it might have made me naïve. But it was my version of integrity. Nobody else seemed to have the same scruples.
More important, when coming to this decision, I’d had a lot of dark years. Who knows if I would ever have been successful, but my ability to pursue the career I wanted was quashed before I had a chance to find out. There were long periods when the very effort of not dwelling on what had happened to me, of trying to ignore everything that was said about me in newspapers and on television, made me find some pretty stupid ways to numb myself. I take responsibility for my weaknesses and my bad decisions, but I also believe that my opportunities were reduced, and my life compromised, as a result of Polanski’s rape of the thirteen-year-old me.
In most cases, this lawsuit would have been impossible—the statute of limitations for filing a civil suit in California would have run out years ago. But even though more than a decade had passed, I could still sue. Why? Two reasons. First, in California, the clock is not ticking until the child victim of a sexual assault case turns eighteen. Second, the statute of limitations isn’t applicable during the period a defendant is out of the state. So because Polanski had left the country in February 1978 and stayed out, it was as if I were bringing this lawsuit in 1978, not 1989.
Polanski’s lawyers had a job to do: they had to prove that whatever emotional distress I had in my life was not the fault of Polanski. So they would bring up the crazy Nana, the drug-addled friends, even the fact that I smoked marijuana with my sister when I was sixteen. And there was the suggestion that I had been molested as a child, which was what motivated me to accuse Polanski later on. Polanski’s new lawyer, David Finkle, mentioned that I’d been asked by the district attorney whether I’d had sex with Bob, my mother’s boyfriend—and wondered why I had been asked that question. “Try insensitivity,” Larry shot back.
For the lawsuit I was deposed for days, as were members of my family. It was embarrassing to admit I had lied to the grand jury initially about both my sexual and drug experiences. I had said I had slept with someone twice before, when in fact it was once, and I had also lied about taking a Quaalude before meeting Polanski. I said I had when I hadn’t. Why?
When Polanski was trying to persuade me to take the pill, I’d wanted him to think that when I said no I was speaking from experience—kind of “been there, done that, don’t need to do it again.” But once I’d lied to him, I felt I had to maintain that lie for the grand jury. As I said in this deposition: “I was afraid he would call me a liar, and people would further have no belief that what I was saying was true.”
It was upsetting to hear the way my sister, Kim, thought my life had changed since Polanski. She described me as an introvert, a person who only went out when she had to and rarely socialized outside the home. Was she exaggerating? She certainly didn’t think so.
And here’s the thing. Maybe some of Polanski’s lawyers’ insinuations were valid. Who knows? They attacked my character, and their suggestion seemed to be that Polanski’s raping me fit seamlessly into my already messy life. So really, what was the big deal? But that’s sort of like arguing, “Your Honor, having her legs run over by a Mack truck doesn’t change anything; she already had a limp.”
The lawsuit dragged on over the next few years. (The press didn’t find out about it until years later, because Larry had rather cleverly filed the suit under the title “Jane Doe v. R. Rpolanski.” Making a typo meant that the case was indexed under the defendant’s last name, which began with an R. So anyone looking for a case with the name Polanski wouldn’t find it. (Remember, this was pre-Google.) During that time, I continued to have people show up at my house, photographing me and my family, trying to convince me it would be “good for me” to tell my story.
Two in particular stand out. First, there were the women I called the Weird Book Ladies. One day, two women showed up at my house saying they were looking for my mother; they had some gifts for her. I assumed they were real estate clients. With my baby Alex on my hip, I walked them into her house so we could put the packages they had on her table. Once back outside, they admitted they were really looking for me. I felt so stupid, so violated, like I’d walked a burglar right into our home. They had written a book called Perfect Victim: The True Story of “The Girl in the Box”—about a girl who’d been kept in a coffin as a sex slave for seven years. And—good news—for their next project they wanted to write my story. The idea that they associated my story with this other one was disturbing enough; even worse was the letter they wrote me a few weeks later, offering to pay one hundred thousand dollars if I cooperated. And if I didn’t? “Eventually someone will do the story anyway, and once again, Sam will be left with nothing.” The veiled threats weren’t lost on me, and I refused to have anything to do with them. But even after I told them to talk to my lawyer, they continued to send presents—a crystal lighthouse, some potpourri—even some Mickey Mouse toys for the kids. (All of which I gave away. It was sad; we needed money and my children would have enjoyed those presents, but it just felt wrong.) All I can say is this: When a person’s opening conversational salvo is “We don’t mean to frighten you” (as theirs was), prepare to be really, really frightened. I know I was.
Then in 1990 a guy from the tabloid television news show A Current Affair parked his van across the street from my house for three days with a video camera shooting out of a tinted window toward my house. He refused to leave. He had three huge flower arrangements delivered, one each for Mom, Kim, and me. He also tried to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He’d pay me five thousand dollars to talk, and if I didn’t, he’d just do the story without me. It took us two days to notice the camera, and during that time my children, friends, and family had all been filmed. I was trapped in my own house, sitting on the floor, because he had a camera pointed at us and I didn’t want to be photographed. This lasted for several days, until Larry got hold of the right person at the show and gave him a lesson on the legal meaning of extortion.
This kind of attention was more than just a nuisance. I lived with my husband, mom, and little kids on this remote island, and it had been so easy to find me; and because I wasn’t naturally on guard, I’d let these unpleasant, slightly menacing strangers into my home. It made me feel so stupid and vulnerable. How could I protect my family from this kind of thing? I couldn’t.
The most revealing incident from those years occurred when Larry went to Paris to depose Polanski himself. It was a fairly routine proceeding that took place in a lawyer’s office. There was a court reporter Larry had brought from the United States, Polanski’s lawyer David Finkle, and Polanski himself. After two hours there was a break for lunch. Larry went to eat by himself in a café close to the office, not noticing until later that Polanski and his lawyer were at a nearby table.
In order to leave the restaurant, Larry had to pass by Polanski’s table. This was, needless to say, a bit uncomfortable. As he
was going by, Polanski motioned for him to stop: “Larry, Larry, come over.” Then Polanski said to him, matter-of-factly, “If you had seen her naked, she was so beautiful, you would have wanted to fuck her, too.”
Polanski never denied saying that. But he was livid with Larry for relating the incident to Roger Gunson over a casual lunch. Gunson reported the incident in a signed statement to the DA’s office. Ironically, Polanski should have been very grateful to Larry. It was Larry who convinced the court to protect my rights and keep me from testifying, making it possible for him to get the plea bargain. Without that, Polanski probably would have served at least a few years in jail.
The lawsuit began in 1988 and was settled five years later for a six-figure sum. Polanski, however, avoided paying it for years, finally forcing us to file a notice of default, which had the unfortunate side effect of putting the dollar amount in the public record. The other terms of our settlement, most of which have remained confidential, include that Roman was forbidden from ever discussing the events of that night, or ever speaking about my family or me. I agreed not to commercially exploit the story and to assist if I could in his efforts to resolve his legal issues with the United States.
I was grateful for the money when it eventually showed up. But it is hardly a sum that would compensate for helping Polanski get back into the country if I thought it were the wrong thing to do.
CHAPTER 15
For me, the 1990s were mostly about raising children. I had my third son, Matt, in 1993. I worked for a successful real estate developer on the island, and my husband, Dave, became, quite literally, a cowboy: He was the operations manager for the developer’s three-hundred-plus acres of various vacation and rental properties, which included a cattle ranch. I found great joy in living in a small town, where you know your neighbors and their kids and everybody looks out for each other; it was different from living on the mainland. The kids could go down to the park to play or down to the river to fish and you didn’t have to worry whether they were safe. Jes didn’t even have to wear shoes to school for the first year or two we were there. Alex was free to walk to school and go to the park and beach with his pack of buddies in complete safety. Matty was in the ocean learning to spearfish when he was seven. Doors unlocked, windows open, fresh air, afternoons at the beach fishing and barbecuing. Nice. We were a haven for dogs (five or six at a time, usually; my mother has six mastiffs) and people; it would be very strange not to have friends, or the kids of friends, living with us. I even remember Hurricane Iniki in 1992, which flattened the entire island—no phone, TV, or power for three months—as a pretty happy time. It’s not as bad as you think, being disconnected from the grid when you are connected to other creatures in so many other profound ways. When the electricity comes back, you’re a little shocked to realize you didn’t miss much.
There was one great sadness during that time, however. In 1995, my father died. Jack Gailey and I hadn’t seen each other and rarely had spoken in years. He had another family; I lived in Hawaii and hadn’t been back to York for a long, long time. He’d been in declining health, and when I heard he’d taken a bad turn, I got on a plane to see him. I didn’t make it in time. The last thing I’d said to him on the phone was “I love you, Daddy. I’m coming to see you.” The next time I saw him, he was in a ceramic urn at his funeral.
The wake was in Dad’s home. Everyone was lovely and welcoming. Dave needed something to do so he found all the tools and worked to clean up the large yard where the services would be held. I had some time alone, so I wandered in and out of those familiar and formidable rooms I’d grown up in. I loved that house. It was still a little spooky, but at the same time I felt like it knew I was back. That house to me was somehow like a living thing, a childhood friend. It welcomed me, too.
I found myself sitting at my father’s desk. I felt I’d been a favorite of my father’s as a child, but I also felt I was a disappointment: no college education, wild drug past, pregnant at eighteen, married at nineteen. As I sat at the desk, I was startled by something: an eight-by-ten photo of me on his shelf. He hadn’t forgotten me. I was still loved. Why hadn’t we spoken more over the years? What happened after Polanski that made me feel, more and more, that I wasn’t his little girl?
· · ·
My easygoing life on Kauai helped me continue my life of “look away,” albeit more productively and happily than I did in my twenties. It was easy to turn away from the past, even when Roman Polanski, through his attorneys, would intermittently try to work out a deal with the DA so he could return to this country. Far from California, tucked away in paradise, my friends and neighbors in Kauai couldn’t care less about Roman Polanski or his films or what happened to me. Sometimes the stories of his efforts to return were just rumors; sometimes they were true:
By Steve James
Thursday, October 2, 1997
LOS ANGELES (Reuters): Hollywood was abuzz Tuesday over reports that fugitive director Roman Polanski might return from Europe to face sentencing in the teenage sex scandal that scuttled his US film career and sent him into a 20 year exile.
Several local TV stations reported the Polish-born maker of such classic films as “Rosemary’s Baby” and “Chinatown” was ready to come back to Los Angeles to be punished for having sex with a 13-year-old girl.
They said Polanski, now 64, had reached an agreement with the Los Angeles district attorney’s office that if he returns from France he would not serve time in jail.
The district attorney’s office denied any deals had been made.
Court records cited by the local reports showed Polanski’s lawyer Douglas Dalton had met twice in the last year with Deputy District Attorney Roger Gunson and Los Angeles Superior Court Judge Larry Fidler.
A source in the prosecutor’s office acknowledged there had been sporadic contact during the years with Polanski’s lawyer over the director’s attempt to work out a way he could return to the United States.
But officially, the district attorney’s office said its position had not changed in the last 20 years.
“Mr. Polanski must surrender,” said a spokeswoman. “We have not agreed to any sentence.”
This particular negotiation may have actually worked, if it weren’t for one snafu. The judge involved, Larry Paul Fidler (who also presided over the Phil Spector murder trial ten years later), reportedly insisted the Polanski proceedings be televised. A court spokesman later called this supposed demand “a complete fabrication.”
I don’t know which story is true, but I do know the deal fell through.
· · ·
The media had an insatiable appetite for Polanski stories, and every time there was a rumor of a possible return, it would be covered—and I would be dragged along into it. Though I had no power to influence what was a legal matter, it didn’t matter to the writers and editors whose main focus was on word counts and sensationalism. In the rush toward a fat paycheck, I didn’t always come out so well. The Vanity Fair story published in April 1997 is a good example. Vanity Fair dines out on celebrity and crime, so this subject was, of course, irresistible.
Author Jill Robinson, who grew up in Hollywood and whose father, Dore Schary, once ran MGM, published an article in Vanity Fair under the slug “The Exile” and titled “Polanski’s Inferno.” She had, shall we say, a whimsical approach to facts. Beginning with a phone interview with Polanski where he noted that he lived through a time where “we were doing everything,” the article goes on to say that the Sharon Tate murders had so damaged Polanski that some sort of incident seemed almost inevitable. Describing Polanski as the kind of man who “seduced the magic out of you,” Robinson then insinuates that I would only talk to her if I were paid off with a trip to Disneyland (in fact she wanted to meet face-to-face, and thought I should fly to Los Angeles on my own dime to do just that). She then said I was prickly because her story wasn’t just about me (oh yes, the person who had been retaining a lawyer to keep herself out of the media), and I was bitter about
the rape and its aftermath because I hadn’t succeeded in Hollywood. “She reminds me of the Unsinkable Molly Brown, still longing, in her way, to be ‘Up where the people are.’ ” I thought at the time: Perhaps she was confusing me with herself.
I wrote to the magazine, enumerating some of the fabrications—that my mother did not sleep with Polanski, I did not have a “love bite” on my neck when Polanski met me, Polanski did not choose my clothes while I stood there in panties and bra—and of course, the fact that I was not exchanging trips to Disneyland for access. The Molly Brown allusion is the most baffling. If I, like Molly Brown, were a relentless social climber, I must have been the worst social climber in history, leaving Los Angeles to live quietly and happily and anonymously on a remote island.
I was not the only one to take exception to this piece. Polanski weighed in—objecting, among other things, to being called an “exile” from the United States when in fact he is and always was a French citizen. And Anjelica Huston’s note rather hilariously and succinctly sums up how much the author had gone off the rails. “I would like to set the record straight. At no point have I ever described Roman Polanski as a freak, nor have I ever seen him in the nude.”
Vanity Fair issued a snotty non-apology: “We apologize for any possible misunderstanding, but have no reason to believe that one did occur.”
The Girl: A Life in the Shadow of Roman Polanski Page 15