Crash Into Me

by Liz Seccuro

  Meg arrived late that day. She burst into my room and found me still in a ball under my covers. We embraced and she told me it would all be okay. We cried together. I asked her not to tell her mom, who would tell my parents, and I did not want them to know. I needed to process it on my own. I could do it myself, I thought. Stacey, my resident adviser, was not around that weekend, so Meg said she would stay with me for the weekend and take care of me.

  If on Friday my biggest fear had been that the rapist would come to find me, by Saturday night my desire to confront him had become an obsession. My friends and I ordered pizza and sat in the hallway of my dorm. Girls were running in and out of the bathrooms, readying themselves for the night’s rush parties. I wished to God those girls wouldn’t go out at all.

  I got up to go to the bathroom and Meg came with me—she hadn’t left my side since her arrival. We were washing our hands in unison, chatting away, when one of the girls came in, harried. Someone was in my room, she said. A friend? I bolted out of the restroom, Meg in tow, to see William Beebe and one of his buddies leaving my room. We locked eyes. Then they sprinted away down the hall, leaving me screaming after him. I noticed his jacket in his hands as he ran. As their footsteps retreated, I almost passed out with fear. How dare he come here without notice? How dare he come here at all? Then, I saw it.

  In thick black marker, on my door, was scrawled in huge, loopy handwriting: “It is in your best interest to call me at 804.xxx.xxxx. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll call me. Sincerely, William Beebe.”

  “Meg, get my camera. Get it now. Get a camera, someone get a camera.”

  A photo wouldn’t protect me, but I felt I needed evidence. We took a snapshot of the door and his macabre note. What did he mean by that? Did he hope I would not report him? Had word gotten back to Phi Kappa Psi that I was telling people what had happened? My friends agreed that this was threatening. Now we were all scared. Our fear turned to indignation and anger as we decided, aided by some liquid courage and the egging on of others, to go to Phi Kappa Psi that night and strike back. I don’t know what we were thinking. I felt powerless, and we were all frightened, and we went to throw rocks through the glass panes of Phi Kappa Psi’s back door. We found the largest rocks we could throw and lobbed them at the house. They crashed through windows, glass shattering everywhere. No one came to stop us, so we kept doing it. No one noticed. I had come to fight back, to make him scared like I was. But even with all these allies, I had only proved myself powerless. Years later, watching the film Forrest Gump, I was reminded of that day. There is a scene where the character of Jenny, who had long been molested by her father, visits her childhood home and throws rock after rock, before crumpling to the ground, exhausted. Forrest, the idiot savant, sums it up: “Sometimes, there just aren’t enough rocks.”

  I went home, still feeling vulnerable. In fact, Meg and I slept that night with a dresser shoved against the door and a chair under the handle, terrified that Beebe could come back. We slept fitfully, and when we awoke in the morning, Meg insisted I couldn’t live like this. I had to take it a step further and report it properly. My resident adviser, Stacey, was coming home that day from a weekend away. I would start by telling her.

  Stacey was a fourth-year English major, who prided herself on her 4.0 GPA. She also took her job as RA very seriously. She was sassy, smart, and ruled with an iron hand. If anyone on the hall was caught drinking, smoking, or causing a disturbance, she’d be at their door in a heartbeat.

  When Meg and I knocked on her door and said we had a confidential matter to discuss, Stacey was all business. I told her the whole story, even the incident with the rocks. Stacey acted as though she had heard this story before. She told me to wait in my room, that she had some phone calls to make.

  That was it?

  We went back to my room. We waited. A while later, Stacey knocked softly. She had phoned Dean Angela Davis to tell her the news. Would I speak with her? Of course. I was beginning to feel like someone was listening to me.

  Dean Davis phoned me immediately after Stacey left and agreed to meet with me in the office of the dean of students, Robert Canevari, on Monday afternoon. Finally, someone who could help. Meg and I went about our day with a sense of relief.

  The following morning, my bruising and swelling had only become more apparent. My cheekbone had an obvious bruise, my lip was swollen, and the black-and-blue finger marks on my arms became more pronounced. Breathing was still a challenge, as my ribcage felt constricted. On top of that, I was still intermittently bleeding vaginally. My appointment with the deans was that afternoon, but Meg insisted that I couldn’t just wait until then. I needed to see someone at Student Health.

  We pushed through the front door and I signed the register, handing over my student identification card. The receptionist asked why I was there. The waiting room was crowded with other students. I whispered that I had been raped. Her mouth made a silent O shape and she swiveled on her chair, shuffling some papers. She had me fill out a health history and evaluation, and said someone would be with me soon.

  Sure enough, they called my name within minutes, and I was led to an examination room. Meg came with me and held one of my hands as I changed into a gown. I was shivering. The nurse practitioner’s name was Marge. She had a red bouffant and a soft Virginia accent. She was kind, but told me Meg would have to leave the room for the examination. She explained what she would be doing, all the while asking questions about that night. Had I showered? Douched? Urinated? Eaten? Brushed my teeth? At this point, of course I had done most of those things. I found myself wishing that I had come here first, instead of the hospital, but I had had no way of knowing that they would send me away. She had me slide down to the bottom of the examination table and put my feet in the stirrups. I had never had a gynecological exam before. I had never had the need, as I was not sexually active. The nurse told me it would be uncomfortable, and told me to breathe deeply. I stared ahead, focusing on my white gym socks. She didn’t do a rape kit as we know it today, but I remember her using words like “tears” and “lacerations” as she shined a pen light at my genitals and swabbed the area with a stinging antiseptic. An assistant nurse held my hand. Marge said I had definitely been penetrated.

  I stared at the ceiling wondering when it would be over, but knowing this would be crucial evidence if William Beebe was going to be held accountable. A tear rolled down my cheek, and I prayed.

  Nurse Marge took my blood pressure and temperature and examined my bruises. I was asked to flex my extremities, bend over and touch my toes, read an eye chart. She asked me if I had reported the incident. I told her I’d been to the emergency room and bailed out. She didn’t look surprised. I also said I was going to see the deans that day. “Good,” she said. “They’ll take care of this.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “Me, too,” I said.

  She sent me on my way with contact information for the Peer Sexual Health Educators, a student-run group. “In case you have herpes, you’ll need them,” she said. Oh my God. She calmly explained that about 20 percent of the university population had herpes at this point—but this brought on a whole new wave of fear. What if I was pregnant? Jesus Christ, I hadn’t even thought of that. I asked her if I could be pregnant as a result. She said to wait four weeks and if I had not begun menstruating by then, to come back and they would run a pregnancy test. Crash.

  Meg and I had a quick, somber lunch on the Corner and she headed back to the dorm, where Jonathan was waiting to take her to the train station. She needed to get back to school and I needed to let her go. She had been so strong for me, but I needed to stand on my own now. We said our tearful good-byes and I promised to call her to make sure she got home safely and to report back the results of my meeting. I watched her walk in the sun, black hair swinging in the light as she got farther away from me.

  Alone, I made my way at the appointed time to see Deans Davis and Canevari at his office. I walked in, shook
hands all around, and sat in a chair across from his massive desk. Dean Davis sat off to the side.

  Dean Bob Canevari was a handsome, powerfully built man with a mane of salt-and-pepper hair. He dressed conservatively, but in a dapper way. He was an old-school administrator with a great deal of power, and, whether or not true, it was rumored that he still resented the university’s being made coeducational. It was well known that he hosted Friday night cocktail parties for male students only. (His own very smart daughter went on to become a professor at the university.)

  “So, Dean Davis tells me you’ve had a problem,” Dean Canevari said. “How can I help you?”

  I rolled through my whole story again, in full detail. It was exhausting to tell it again.

  “Okay, so what you’re saying is that this young man forced you to have sex against your will. Did you say no?”

  “Of course I did,” I said.

  I was sitting across from this man with my bruised face and a split lip.

  “Was he a boyfriend or a suitor?” he asked.

  “No, he was a stranger. I’ve never met him before in my life. I am, er—I was a virgin.”

  “Well, you know these parties can get out of control,” he said.

  “Yes, it was out of control. They fed me a green drink and a stranger dragged me into his room. I was raped. But what do I do now? How can you help me?” Dean Canevari leaned forward. “Are you sure you didn’t have sex with this young man and now you regret it? These things happen. It’s okay to admit that.” He smiled over his desk.

  “No!” He wasn’t listening to me. “I am telling you I was raped. He had drugs in his top dresser drawer!”

  “Drugs?” he asked. “What kind of drugs?” Drugs, apparently, constituted a “real” problem, one worthy of his attention.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never done drugs.” I said.

  “Then how do you know they were drugs?”

  “Because I watch television. I’m not stupid.”

  At this point, Dean Davis had to excuse herself. She had other business to attend to. She placed her hand on mine as she crossed the room to the door. I was left on my own with Canevari.

  “Could you tell me where this happened, where the drugs were?”

  “Yes, the drugs were in his top dresser drawer, but that’s not why I’m here. I was raped, and I know there were lots of people who saw it happen.”

  “People saw it?” He looked concerned now.

  “Yes … I was in and out of consciousness, but I know there were other people in the room, watching it happen.”

  He frowned. This was trouble. He sat quietly for a moment, considering me.

  “How do you know his name?” he asked finally. I felt like he was trying to catch me at something, or trip me up.

  “I looked through his mail the next morning. He left a threatening message on my dorm door yesterday,” I said.

  “Well, these are very serious allegations you’re leveling. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. I took pictures of the door. What are you going to do?”

  I had been attacked, raped, bloodied, bruised. I was dumbfounded at the calm manner in which he was conducting this meeting, seemingly without much concern. I felt the same hopelessness and frustration I had experienced at the ER that first morning. Instinctively, I got up out of the chair to leave.

  “No, sit back down. Please, Miss Schimpf, sit back down,” he said.

  “Call me Liz,” I said coolly. I realized I had some power in this situation after all. It was important that I stay and accomplish what I had come here to do. I tried to be direct, to get down to business.

  “Has the fraternity been locked down? Are there witnesses being questioned since you got word of this? Have the police been called?” I asked.

  He leaned back in his chair, then forward, then steepled his fingers and said to me, “Well, we like to handle these things internally and take care of our own. If it’s a university problem, then there’s a university solution. And besides, that house is not in Charlottesville police jurisdiction, so we wouldn’t call the Charlottesville police, of course.”

  Oh. Okay. I accepted what he said.

  “So, who do we talk to?” I pressed.

  “Well, certainly, given the seriousness of your allegations, I’m going to speak to the young man in question,” he said.

  “Okay, and then what?”

  “Have you been seen by a doctor?” he asked.

  “The hospital ER wouldn’t see me, but I went to Student Health this morning.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “They didn’t say anything. They examined me. As you can tell, I’ve been roughed up.”

  He squinted. “You do seem to have a bit of a bruise there.”

  “I took pictures of all of the bruises. I know we’ll need some evidence, right?”

  “Well, how far do you want to take this?” he asked.

  “That’s why I’m here. To figure out my options.”

  “Well, once I have a chance to interview the young man, you’ll have a variety of remedies. You can speak with Peer Sexual Health Educators, the university police, the chaplain—anything we can do to help you out. You might even choose to charge him via the Judiciary System.”

  “Isn’t that run by students?” The student-run Judiciary felt a little like just more rock throwing. I wanted this to go to the proper authorities for criminal action.

  “Well, there are a lot of options with Judiciary, but many of them are disciplinary and I think you’ll find the experience gratifying.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  “Can you write down his name again? And are you absolutely sure he’s not your boyfriend? Things didn’t just get a little out of hand?”

  I could not believe this guy. I chose not to answer. Instead, I asked, “What else should I do? Should we call the university police?”

  “Here’s the way we like to do it here. First of all, like I said, the Charlottesville police don’t have jurisdiction over that house. But we do have our own university police, so we’re going to handle it internally. We like to take care of our own,” he repeated.

  I’ll never forget that. We like to take care of our own; we like to handle things internally. What could I say to that? “I’ll talk to Beebe, and then you’ll want to call Dean Sybil Todd and she can help you report it to the university police,” he said, handing me a piece of paper with those phone numbers. At least it was a step up from the student Judiciary process.

  Canevari leaned back, very cowboy-like and said, “I’ll talk to the young man and we’ll see where we go from there.” It was clear this meeting was over.

  “Wait. Do you need my phone number?” I asked.

  “I am sure I can find it, or Dean Davis will have it.”

  At that moment I realized that he had not taken any notes in our meeting. Not one. I stood up to leave, then paused.

  “Dean Canevari? I’d like to tell my parents myself. So, my one request is that they not be notified. They were opposed to me coming to college so far from home in the first place and this will just kill them.”

  He nodded his head. Then he walked me to the door, shook my hand, and bid me good day.

  I walked back home in a daze. I still hoped that Dean Canevari would see the gravity of the situation, that he would help take care of this and have William Beebe arrested.

  I called Dean Canevari’s office frequently for the next week or so, each time getting a secretary and no return call. Complicating matters, my parents were expected to arrive in Charlottesville in less than two weeks for Parents’ Weekend. I didn’t know how I would face them. I wanted to tell them, but didn’t want to make them worry. And I didn’t know how to hide my obvious distress, which only grew with each passing day and unreturned phone call. In those weeks, instead of dressing up for classes, I began to wear jeans and sweaters, even though it was the height of the Virginia fall fashion parade. I cared less about my appearance. Instea
d of studying outside at the Amphitheatre, a popular gathering spot for those soaking up the last sun of the season and scoping out the opposite sex, I banished myself to the Cave, a smoke-filled bohemian enclave for philosophy students who listened to the Cure.

  Dean Canevari finally called me back on the Thursday before Parents’ Weekend and asked me to come over to his office to meet with him and Associate Dean of Students Sybil Todd. I hadn’t called her—I had been waiting to hear about Dean Canevari’s interview with William Beebe. Dean Todd was a warm, round, southern woman, with an accent like Paula Deen and fluffy blonde hair. She wore polished suits and perfect Ferragamo low-heeled pumps. She hugged me warmly at this first meeting, and I latched on to her immediately. Dean Canevari, on the other hand, eyed me with a steely gaze. He had something to tell me.

  “I spoke with the young man. He said the sex was consensual. He did not deny that he was intoxicated, but he believed it was what you wanted.”

  I was devastated. “It was not consensual. He raped me. I don’t know how I can be any clearer.” I started to cry. “What else can I do? I am not giving up on this. You have to help me.”

  He gestured to Dean Todd. “If it makes you feel any better, you can go with Dean Todd and she’ll take your statement. She can take you to the university police if you so choose.” Dean Todd looked at me with sadness.

  Statement? Had I not made a statement to Canevari? To Dean Davis? To Student Health? Why had they not interviewed any witnesses? Questioned all the brothers in the fraternity house that night? Of course Beebe would deny it, but why would the investigation stop there? Fine, I thought, I’ll make a statement. Another statement.

  “Besides,” said Canevari, “this kid is no longer a threat to you. He’s left the university.”

  What?

  “But I thought he denied it. And we haven’t even told the university police yet. Was he expelled because this violated the Honor Code?”

  “No, he didn’t violate the Honor Code—that is only for lying, cheating, and stealing. He had been having some academic problems. He left of his own volition.”