Crash Into Me

by Liz Seccuro

  “How dare you come here to a private citizen’s home, thinking we don’t know our rights? Turn that camera off! Does it really give you a ‘story,’ following a rape victim home? With her child in the car? Have some grace and class and get off my property.” The bunch backed away with some contrition, but not before trying to get a shot. I slammed the door. Then I calmly walked back into the kitchen where Ava was still hiding, and crawled in with her.

  “Hey, Ava! It’s your turn to hide. Do you think you and Daddy can hide from me? I’ll count to one hundred!” She scampered off in her tiny sweater and jeans, looking for her dad.

  Mike knew to keep Ava distracted and allow me some space. I stayed curled up under the table, sobbing, for over an hour. I felt violated, preyed upon. And that was only the first of many such encounters. That sort of violation is the very reason so many rape victims avoid going public. The last thing victims need is to lose their sense of safety in their own homes, after their personal and bodily safety has been so seriously compromised. For me, the strain caused flashbacks, and fresh panic attacks.

  At this point Mike decided he needed to take some time off from work, to be with me and to help fend off the constant intrusion of the media. He tried to explain the gravity of the situation to his bosses at Bank of America—after all, it was front-page news. But they said they couldn’t spare him, a vice president of investment banking, given his heavy workload. After multiple meetings with various departments at the office, it was agreed that Mike could take a week off to help me acclimate, assuming he worked from home and took all conference calls related to his deals. On day three of his “leave,” Mike’s cell phone was buzzing nonstop. It was obvious that if he wanted to stay on good terms with Bank of America he needed to get back to the office. The corporate behemoth wasn’t much concerned with his or his family’s well-being. In the end, when the pressure of the case became too great, Mike took a less demanding job in the private banking sector so that he could spend more time with Ava and me.

  As coverage of my case became even more widespread, our strict “no comment” policy became harder to maintain. It certainly wasn’t protecting us from the uglier side of the media. The producer of one tabloid television show called after my several refusals to be interviewed, saying, “You might as well be cooperative, because we’re running the story either way.” I again declined, but she was true to her word. That night, accompanied by photos of me they had somehow dug up, they ran the headline teaser “Did Rough Sex and an AA Apology Land This Man in Prison?” It was disrespectful, diminishing, and sickening.

  I had decided before Beebe’s arrest that sharing my story could do some good, and I began to believe that again. With good reason, Claude Worrell had cautioned me about the risks of going public, but he understood the need to clear the air and start a constructive dialogue. The media already knew my identity. I would be careful not to say anything too controversial. I simply wanted to expound upon the facts that were already out there and clarify any misinformation or incorrect assumptions. Besides, Worrell had been preparing me for the possibility that we might not get a conviction. With no DNA, no police reports, and no witnesses yet coming forward, it could be very difficult to prove Beebe’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. I wanted to share my story so that even if Beebe was acquitted, people would understand that he was not “innocent.” I wanted to raise awareness of the difficulties of so many rape victims in attaining justice. I wanted to give hope to other survivors. Maybe this was a good opportunity after all. “Remember,” Worrell told me, “in a rape case, it is never, ever the alleged rapist on trial, whether in the courtroom or in the media. The victim is on trial. Always.”

  In March 2006, I agreed to my first on-camera interview, for the Charlottesville NBC affiliate. The interview took place in a hotel room in Washington, D.C. In the room were just me, one sound tech, and the reporter. The gentle, soft-spoken reporter asked me questions about that night, the rape itself, the university’s response, the letter, what I thought of the arrest, and the forthcoming case. Honestly, I don’t recall one bit of what I said. I was so scared I could barely keep my voice modulated, and as kind as the reporter was, I hated every minute of it. Before we wrapped, the reporter asked me if I would be interested in talking to the folks at Dateline NBC and handed me the card of a producer. I accepted the card and said I’d think about it.

  Back in Connecticut, I was juggling my duties as a mother, wife, and businesswoman with cooperating with the investigation and trying to stanch the flow of media curiosity. In addition, Mike and I had decided to start a nonprofit philanthropic fund for rape survivors and their families. We had already heard from many supporters, and we wanted to turn some of the attention I was getting toward doing good for other survivors. We called it S.T.A.R.S.—Sisters Together Assisting Rape Survivors. It gave survivors resources to use in the event of a sexual assault and granted funding to qualified organizations dealing with issues of sexual assault, domestic violence, and incest. We were proud to have it up and running quickly, so that media outlets could start featuring it. S.T.A.R.S. thrives to this day, thanks to the generous donations of so many.

  One day, I pulled out the business card of the producer from Dateline, John Block. I called, he picked up, and I bonded with him immediately. His voice was calm, his humor easy, and his understanding of the case’s gravity quite apparent. He was the first journalist to tell me, “I’m so sorry for what has happened to you.” John asked for an “exclusive,” which basically means you do not tell your story to a competing show or network. Shows on NBC and MSNBC—specifically Dateline, Today, and The Abrams Report—would have the same piece and cross-market it. I agreed. A few weeks later, a crew came out to our home for the interview. Edie Magnus, then an NBC correspondent, was my interviewer. I adored her. She was warm and funny and a mom herself. It was an almost joyful atmosphere the first day of the shoot—we ordered out for food, Ava got to play with some of the equipment, and I just relaxed and conversed with John and Edie about what we’d be covering. Meanwhile, a large crew of audio and video people was draping the windows, moving furniture around, and setting up chairs.

  Edie’s questions weren’t easy. What did I think of William Beebe? Did I forgive him? Did I give him credit for coming forward? What was the rape like? How was I able to begin a normal sex life afterward? What was life like before the letter arrived? How would I face it if he were acquitted? It was the first of several interviews.

  Ava began to recognize the crew. They interviewed my father, my best friend, people who lived on my dorm hall, Chief Longo. They came along to my office. They tracked down other rape victims from the university, witnesses, friends of William Beebe, and even tried to get an interview with Beebe himself. (As expected, he did not cooperate.) I had just one rule: not one shot of Ava could ever be used. By agreeing to the interviews I had opened up my whole life, but I was a mother first, and had to protect her and her anonymity.

  An air date in May 2006 was decided upon. The day before the piece was scheduled to air, they asked if I would have a brief conversation, live, with Katie Couric on the Today show. Frankly, Katie scared me. A fellow Virginia alum, she had been a Tri-Delta and a Lawn resident—an honor bestowed on only fifty-four UVA students a year, who are chosen to live in the university’s original dorm rooms—and I knew she was a big proponent of her alma mater. Still, after some hesitation, I agreed, and the next morning, I found myself in the Today show green room, awaiting my segment. John and Edie came down to watch the interview, and seeing familiar faces calmed me immediately. During the commercial break in the top half hour, I was hustled out and miked up, and over walked Katie Couric. She shook my hand warmly and managed to put me at ease. A producer ran up and gave the backward count.

  Katie did a brief preview of my story, with bits and pieces from the Dateline segment, before welcoming me to the show. She was the biggest surprise I could have imagined. The interview lasted about eight minutes, which is an eon in morn
ing television, but I got through it without stumbling. After they yelled “Cut,” Katie leaned forward, gave me a hug, and started chatting with me about our alma mater and the case. Our rapport was easy and warm, and I sheepishly told her how much I had dreaded talking to her, and how wrong I had been. On the way out to the street, Mike and I ran into Al Roker, who remarked what a powerful piece it was. “I have daughters, you know. So, thank you. Really.”

  That was a good day.

  The following evening, Mike, my mother-in-law, and I gathered to watch Dateline. I was glad it was late enough that Ava was already in bed. We sat and patiently watched Ann Curry lead in with the story and then it began. We were transfixed. They had pieced together a fascinating story, which unfolded like a mystery. I had the sense I would have really enjoyed it if it had been someone else’s story. But it was my own, and it felt totally bizarre watching it on national television. Of course, though I had worked closely with John, Edie, and the crew, I had little power over how the final piece came out. Beebe had been dubbed the “12-Step rapist,” though to me, the AA angle was irrelevant. Someone who apologizes for committing rape in step 9 of an AA program, making amends, still committed that rape. Still, I understood on some level that the 12-Step angle made for good television, and I couldn’t control how Beebe was portrayed. I certainly couldn’t control how audiences would react. Mike went to the MSNBC Web site, where there was a voting mechanism set up and the question: “Did Liz Seccuro do the right thing by calling the police?” At the end of the day, 81 percent voted yes.

  I read a lot of comments—and later, blog posts and e-mails—offering support and comfort. I heard from hundreds of survivors of sexual assault, both male and female, whose stories often overwhelmed me with grief. I heard from women of all ages, men with daughters, people who belonged to AA and felt Beebe had misused step 9. I also got messages from childhood friends, my high school teachers, and former classmates from UVA. It was wonderful to reconnect, and their words touched me deeply.

  But not all the responses were positive. Some were thoughtless, others unbelievably cruel. There were those who wrote in to say, “I wouldn’t want to be her friend,” or “No one deserves to be raped BUT why was she at that party?” There were others who accused me of just wanting attention. Christians who thought I should burn in hell for not turning the other cheek suggested that I should have been home reading my Bible and not off at some “sin-infested” fraternity party and that the Lord wanted for me to be raped to teach me a lesson about the “consequences of evil liquor.” I was called a “liberal,” a “neo-Con Bushie,” a WASP, a Jew, a Republican, a Democrat, a bitch, a slut, and a whore.

  Some thought that since I had a marriage and a job now, I should be “thankful.” Some thought I was getting justice because I was blonde. Some suggested I should be raped again and more than one threatened to track me down and kill me in graphic ways.

  Although some of the responses left me terrified, there was no turning back now. I tried to focus on the positive responses, and told myself that I was making things easier for all the other survivors. My next stop on the press tour was The Abrams Report, the show hosted by MSNBC’s chief legal correspondent, Dan Abrams. Dan was exactly my age, and a graduate of Duke University. His program was a favorite of those following the big stories of criminal justice, and during this time rape allegations at Duke University were very much in the news. I loved his “Rebuttal” segment, which aired the day after my interview. He swiped back at viewers who had written in with the same kind of e-mails that I had been getting, and he said things I wished I could say.

  There followed interviews with various newspapers, People magazine, and with Paula Zahn on CNN. I was getting slightly more comfortable with the exposure, but some of the responses only became more frightening.

  One morning, I went to the mailbox to find a plain white envelope, addressed to me with a local postmark. Inside was a crudely photocopied photograph of a man holding his erect penis. Letters cut from a magazine spelled out “I hope I’m better than he was.” His face was not pictured. We called the Greenwich police, who handled the mail with tweezers and bagged it in an evidence sleeve. They promised to send it to the crime lab, but we never heard another word about it. Truth is, mail is handled by many people and fingerprints are nearly impossible to lift. A week later, I received a photograph of a birthday cake with garish pink and green flowers. Instead of “Happy Birthday,” the cake had the inscription “I’m Sorry I Raped You” in childish frosting script. There was only more to come.

  The preliminary hearing was looming, where I would have to testify against Beebe and face him for the first time. The media attention multiplied in spades.

  CHAPTER 8 The Preliminary Hearing

  and Direct Examination

  As the investigation continued, we were told that March 24, 2006, was the date for the preliminary hearing. At one of these sessions testimony is given by witnesses, cross-examination is done by the defense team, and a judge decides whether there is enough evidence against the arrested party for him or her to go to trial. Essentially, it was the big dance, the day they would decide if Beebe’s charges would stick.

  I was the only person called to testify. Technically my role in the hearing was as a witness; my evidence would determine whether the state had a case. Claude Worrell prepared me as well as he could via telephone and e-mail. He was my lifeline, and I felt very close to him over time. He had an easy and gentle way with me, without sugar-coating the reality of what was to come. Rounding out my support group was my victim advocate, Cherri Murphy, who tended to the emotional realities of what would happen in court. I placed my trust in both of them completely.

  A few days prior to the hearing, I got a call from Worrell. His cousin had died and he needed to travel to the funeral. It would occur on the date of the hearing. He said that I had a choice—either we could continue the case until Worrell, the Court, and I were all available, which could take months, or I could have his colleague Dave Chapman sit with me and argue for the Commonwealth. At first I felt completely defeated. I had never met Chapman and I couldn’t imagine going through the hearing without Worrell by my side. What if Chapman wasn’t prepared? How could he be? Worrell and I had logged almost daily phone calls and e-mails over the course of months, and Dave had his own caseload. But the idea of waiting was just as untenable. We had psyched ourselves up for so long that postponing was completely out of the question.

  “Let’s go ahead. Let’s do it with Dave,” I said.

  “Okay then,” said Worrell. “I will make certain Dave is briefed.”

  Mike and I traveled to Charlottesville two days before the hearing. We had arranged for his mother to stay with Ava, to keep her routine as intact as possible. When it was time to go, I hugged her about eighty times. I had packed framed photos of her in my suitcase, and I left her with my well-worn pashmina shawl, which comforted her because it carried my scent. Armed with bottles of water and about ten magazines, I tried to distract myself through the flight. I was cheered knowing that several of my sorority sisters were driving into Charlottesville from all around Virginia to support me.

  Chapman and Worrell had both insisted to me that the preliminary hearing was really just a formality, but I was no fool. I knew that testifying and being cross-examined for the first time would be gut-wrenching. Also, since I had been a minor at the time the crime was committed, the hearing was being held in juvenile and domestic relations court, a tiny building where I would have to sit only eight feet from the defendant. I had been expecting to get a lot of preparation for my testimony, but Chapman explained that credible, well-spoken witnesses generally aren’t prepped—lawyers don’t want the testimony to seem rehearsed. He simply wanted me to come by midmorning the day before to listen to the statement I had made to Detectives Rudman and Godfrey on December 10 and refresh my memory. Mike decided to ride over there with me. He had never really heard the full story. I warned him that it might not be easy to hear.


  A staffer led us to an empty office, popped an audio CD into a computer, and left us in private to listen to the recording. As my full account of the rape played, Mike looked forlorn, suddenly smaller in his clothes. Alone in that office, we just sat and listened.

  The next day, at about five thirty A.M., I awoke in earnest after a mostly sleepless night. Mike snored peacefully beside me. The day was dawning cloudy and rainy as I made my way to our kitchenette to brew some coffee. On second thought, I decided to go over to the hotel lobby in the main building and grab some coffee there, so I could get a newspaper. On third thought, I slipped on running clothes and grabbed a bottle of water, thinking a run around the bucolic Grounds would help me feel relaxed and strong. I tied on my running shoes and grabbed my iPod on my way down the stairs and out the door. The smell of the oncoming Virginia spring is something I will never forget about that day. It was intense, green, and just gorgeous, despite the clouds. A smile crept across my face. Ambling across the street, I decided that I’d like a coffee before my run after all, and when I approached the front desk, I stopped dead in my tracks because there, on the front page of the paper was his face. I picked up first the Daily Progress and then the Richmond Times Dispatch, both of which blared headlines about the day’s hearing. That face was the same. The clerks looked at me with knowing eyes and one wished me luck. I skipped the run and headed back up to our suite, juggling coffee, water, and papers.

  Mike was still sleeping, but I flipped on the television. “Today, William Nottingham Beebe and his accuser, Liz Seccuro, will meet for the first time in court as a judge will hear evidence in the rape case against Beebe at a preliminary hearing. Seccuro is expected to testify today. If the evidence is found to be sufficient, the case will go to a grand jury for indictment.”

  Pan to Beebe’s mug shot, photos of his arraignment, and him in his striped jumpsuit. He looked just like the man who raped me. He was the man who raped me. My mouth was like a desert, my head pounded, and my ears were hot. I could not feel my hands and feet. They were dead and cold.