by Liz Seccuro
I buried myself in my work once again. There was a profound happiness in my renewed productivity, and in doing good work for my clients. I resumed therapy. It was a different “normal,” but it was my normal nonetheless. Mike was considering asking for his old job back. Ava was joyous and had begun kindergarten around Labor Day. Life was good.
One day in mid-September 2007, I was sitting in my office when the phone rang. I answered in my usual lilt, “Hello, Dolce Parties!” I heard a click and a hollow sound. I almost hung up—yet another telemarketer. But I paused. And a tinny, canned, prerecorded voice informed me that my “offender would be released from the Charlottesville-Albemarle jail on September 14.” I slammed the phone down in a panic. Certainly, this couldn’t be true. Some error in the automated victim notification system. He had just gone to prison! I began dialing furiously: my husband, Chief Longo, Claude Worrell, Jeffrey Lenert in probation. Lenert was the one who picked up. Yes, it was true. I asked how that could possibly be, but he said he did not know. It was simply “computed” that way.
Worrell called me back. He hadn’t heard the news, but promised to get more information. Chief Longo called next—he hadn’t heard anything, either. No one at corrections could confirm why or when. Finally, Worrell called again. There had been a “computer error.” William Beebe’s data had not been entered into the system properly. He had not been classified as a violent offender, and thus was still sitting in the regional jail, not one of the maximum security facilities we had expected. Due to this lack of classification, his lack of a prior criminal record, his good behavior, and the fact that the regional jail was at 150 percent capacity, Beebe was being released. Just like that, a two-year recommendation for a felony sentence had boiled down to five months and change.
But there was nothing we could do now. Beebe had served his sentence, regardless of the administrative issues surrounding his release. He was released on September 14, just as the automated call had warned. News crews showed photographs of a long-haired, goateed man who looked nothing like the defendant in the courtroom over five months ago. As Beebe regained his freedom, I again lost a sense of mine. This didn’t feel like justice, but this was the result of our system—a good system, if flawed. I saw no reason to continue to fight this. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life mired in thoughts of William Beebe. At this point, only I could make this feel right, and I wanted something good to come of it. I focused on how I could make a difference for other survivors.
And with that resolve, my life began anew.
EPILOGUE Hope, Joy, and the Continuing Fight
What does it sound like when your planet crashes wide open? For me, it was the skittery, papery pffft of an envelope sliding across my lap as I sat in the passenger seat of my car in my driveway. It was a letter. It was Thursday, September 5, 2005, when my past came skidding into my present, and at that precise moment, I realized that my day-to-day existence would change. I knew instinctively, with certainty, what that envelope contained, and yet I opened it. I was curious. Curious to know why, who, what, when? And although my life did change, at the end of the day I still don’t think I have the answers. What happened to me that night in 1984 is ultimately unknowable, no matter how many people raise their right hands and swear to tell the Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth. But I have come to believe that living with that—the unknowable— is the brave part.
What I am able to know, I am able to forgive. To a large extent, I think my case got so much attention not because of concern about rape, or campus crime—there are, unfortunately, so many crimes like it—but because of the issue of forgiveness. Commentators seemed to think that because Beebe had apologized, I should have forgiven, and given up. There’s a Chinese proverb that says, “Without forgiveness, you may as well dig two graves—one for the person who has harmed you and one for yourself.” I agree with this. Holding anger in your heart will only make your life one of unhappiness, and forgiveness is a gift you give yourself every single day. I have forgiven my rapist, and it has let me live. But forgiveness does not begin to change what happened or to erase the memory of trauma, nor should it replace our country’s justice system. We should forgive, but we shouldn’t give up. We shouldn’t stop fighting for justice when a crime has been committed, or fighting to prevent such crimes in the first place.
Campus sexual assaults continue, at my alma mater and elsewhere, though universities often try to keep such things quiet, to protect their endowment and the reputation of the university. Rape statistics have little place in the glossy brochures distributed to potential students and alumni donors. These institutions are more willing to cite a student for underage alcohol use than for the felony of rape. The University of Virginia has updated its sexual assault policy since I was a student. Shamim Sisson, a dean at UVA at the time it adopted the new policy, was quoted in the Hook as saying that serving on the Sexual Assault Board was “a great learning experience.” But her comments made those of us who were trying to foster change at the university wonder exactly what lessons she had learned. She described the “real” problem as girls drinking so much at parties that they’re not in control, and said that alcohol education was the key to ending sexual violence. Unfortunately, this is a way of blaming victims, and putting the burden on women to prevent such crimes. There was no suggestion that heavy-drinking, potentially violent male students should receive interventions.
It’s a hard fact. One likes to think that if you go to one of the best universities in the country, filled with nice people from nice families, you will be safe and protected. But crimes do happen, and many universities are interested first and foremost in protecting themselves. When a college or university tells you, as they did me, “We are reviewing our policies,” it sometimes means, “Please do sit down, be quiet, and eventually go away.” When they say they’ve updated the policy, it means, “Look here—we’re doing just enough to make you sit down, be quiet, and eventually go away.” Question authority.
However, rape is not simply a university issue. Nor is it just a women’s issue. Rape occurs every day, everywhere. It’s a human rights issue and we all have a responsibility to take care of our friends, family, and children. To help them if it has happened. To listen and not judge. To assist in the healing. To open a dialogue and not shy away from the word “rape.” We owe that to survivors.
In September 2008 I gave birth to my second child, a child I had been told not to hope for, because of my age and my history and all the stress my body had been through. Ava got a baby brother: Leonardo Michael Seccuro, born on a Sunday afternoon to the soundtrack of Bruce Springsteen’s “Promised Land,” with a full head of blond hair, perfect tiny hands, and gorgeous blue eyes. Several months later, in the summer of 2009, my newly expanded family left our beloved Greenwich and settled in Alexandria, Virginia. Here, I am closer to those who work for victims’ rights on Capitol Hill. My own work as an advocate has just begun.
Shortly after Beebe’s release, I found myself back in the Hamptons. While driving through Amagansett, I had the worst panic attack of my life. I made Mike pull over and rolled in the grass like a madwoman, gulping for air. An hour later, I wandered into the aptly named Equilibrium surf shop. I had surfed before, but had never had proper lessons. They gave me the name of a surfing instructor, and I called. We met the next morning for paddling practice at a lake and bonded immediately; I told him right off the bat that I was a survivor of sexual assault. I began to train with him regularly. He made me laugh and took no excuses from me on those cold early mornings. The horrible panic attack that day in the car would become my salvation. Soon, I graduated from the lake back to the ocean. Board slung under my newly muscled arm, wet suit stripped halfway down, I became a warrior. There is a moment when the ocean first rises up behind you and you can feel no past, no future, just the gorgeous reality of the present as you are lifted up, find your balance, and ride the wave. There is no better feeling.
Acknowledgments
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sp; To my wonderful agent, Kate Lee of ICM: You took a chance that people would want to know my story and you shepherded me with such humor and sheer intelligence. To my Los Angeles agent, Josie Freedman of ICM, your e-mails make me smile and I love our visits. You are the real deal.
To my amazing editors at Bloomsbury, Kathy Belden and Rachel Mannheimer: You were so patient with me and waited so long for this work while Leo was arriving into the world. Thank you for your talent, encouragement, and shaping of my very emotional words into a meaningful work.
To Lindsay: This is for you, because of you. Sending you the most love and true meaning of honor.
To S. Daniel Carter and Jonathan Kassa at the nonprofit Security on Campus, Inc.: Thank you for opening my eyes and beginning my education. You were my first mentors on this journey. You make schools safer for children and help parents to rest easy. I know we have much work to do. And I’m proud to do it with you.
To Connie and the late Howard Clery: I think of Jeanne every day. Know that I respect your quest and that her death was not in vain. Thank you for sharing your pain with the world so that others may learn.
To Scott and Tori, founders of RAINN, and the warriors who run the best organization—Kate, Rachel, Elizabeth: I thank you for being there and showing this nation the best in advocacy and care. You make every bit of difference for countless survivors.
To Dan and Gil Harrington: Meeting you has been terrible, under the circumstances, but a great gift as you fight your fight. You and your family, including the beloved, late Morgan, teach me lessons in grace and humility each day. 2-4-1.
To Susan Russell: Thank you for crusading and for letting me into the life of your family and into your struggle. You and Katherine have shown such grace in the face of such adversity.
To Cherri Murphy, my victim advocate: What would I have done without you—your easy laugh, your calming and empowering voice, your words of common sense, blessing, and wisdom, your willingness to give so easily of yourself when I needed a shoulder? I am proud to call you “friend.”
To Claude Worrell: Your grace, intelligence, perseverance, and humor got me through eighteen months of trying times. You are such an asset to the people of Charlottesville and I hope they realize what they have in you. You worked endlessly with me and explained the convoluted system to us tirelessly. Please thank Kathryn and your children for us as well. You are like family to us. What you have done is change the face of what it means to be a rape victim. And you did it without fanfare in what became a media event. You also understood my need to speak out and be a voice for others. You are a true gentleman and I know you’ll continue to fight this fight for me and for others.
To Detective Nicholas Rudman: You are like a brother to me. Never have I witnessed such amazing police work, such complete and utter dedication to finding the answers and finding justice for us. I really don’t have the proper words to express my gratitude to you. You are a credit to the Charlottesville Police Department, the citizens of Charlottesville, and, of course, your family. I also wish to thank Sergeant Rick Hudson and Detectives Scott Godfrey and Bob Sclafani for their diligence and sense of honor.
To Chief Tim Longo: Simply put, you are my hero. Your legacy will be one of strength tempered with good sense, a steel will and a charming way. You took my call that December day and were the first to understand the gravity of what had taken place. You validated me and never once backed down. During the darkest days of this case, you picked up the phone and made the time to encourage me to stay with it. I wish you every good thing in life, as you are the embodiment of what an officer and a gentleman should be in this nation.
To Marnie Goodfriend, my fellow survivor and, of course, good friend: Thank you for being there always.
To my sorority sisters, friends, and fellow survivors: Bret, Shannon, Kris B., Sharan, Sally, Tiffany, Kris D., Shari, Donna, Kris K., Christianne, Lisa D., Trish, Anne, Pam K., Pam W., Tabatha and John, Lisa and Drew, Lee and Elee, Les and Kathryn, Courteney, Nathalie, Lisa G., Erin, Mario, Michele, Tamara and Andrew, Patty, Jules, Anne, Annie H., Kristin, Claire, and, of course, Big Al: Your support, both physical and electronic, was so meaningful. It’s as if twenty years have not passed. You are all so wonderful and I am blessed to call you sisters and brothers.
To Peter, my therapist: Thank you for our years working together and for putting me back together. You are a miracle worker.
To Tony Caramanico: Thanks for getting me back on the board and getting my head straight. You had more to do with my healing than you will ever know.
To my wonderful in-laws, Pat and Steve Mead: Thanks for being such a great help and support during this time. You’ve made this transition for your grandchildren so easy. Know how much you are loved and respected.
To Mom and Dad: This is for you—it sets right how you were wronged. Know how much I love you. Know that you did everything you could. Know that it finally worked out.
To Mike: It was never up to you to fix what was broken. The sacrifices you made for our family showed how much you cared without your saying a word. The love you give to me and our children speaks volumes and I am lucky to have found you.
To my little ones: May you grow up in a safer world, one that Mama can help make so for you. You are everything good and beautiful and innocent and I want you to know that I love you both like the moon, the stars, and the sun.
And to all the survivors who’ve written: You know who you are. I kept your names on a list while I wrote this. I am so sorry that the list is so very long. But you will be fine. Better than fine. You will find peace.
A Note on the Author
Liz Seccuro is an event planner and victims’ rights activist. She lives in Alexandria, Virginia, with her family. This is her first book. Follow her on Twitter @CrashIntoMeBook.
Some of the names in this book have been changed to protect the privacy of persons involved. Conversations have been re-created to the best of the author’s recollection. Court testimony has been copied directly from court documents. Some minor spelling and punctuation changes have been allowed for clarity and consistency.
Copyright © 2011 by Elizabeth Seccuro
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Bloomsbury USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Seccuro, Liz.
Crash into me : a survivor’s search for justice / Liz Seccuro.— 1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-59691-585-5 (hardcover)
1. Seccuro, Liz. 2. Rape victims— United States— Biography. 3. Rape— United States— Case studies. I. Title.
HV6561.S43 2011
364.15’32092—dc22
[B]
2010020864
First published by Bloomsbury USA in 2011
This e-book edition published in 2011
E-book ISBN: 978-1-60819-311-0
www.bloomsburyusa.com