Originally published: December 23rd, 2008
Last night, the winter solstice, I found out just how long one night could be.
I’m behind on my packing and couldn’t sleep. Just before 2am my phone rang, I saw who was calling and thought that my friend was just calling because she had a few drinks and wanted to chat.
Instead, the she was hysterical and I could barely hear what she was whispering through her sobs.
“I think I’ve been raped.”
I got a cab to her house in the neighborhood that was my home for over 10 years.
Perhaps I’ve watched too many episodes of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, because I ran around looking for her clothes (couldn’t find them), got her to put on socks (I had pulled heavy winter clothes out of my one packed suitcase because I knew the ER would be cold), and drove her to the hospital, arriving only a smidge over a half hour from when she called me.
We were ushered in immediately. A police officer arrived shortly and quietly questioned her. His supervisor questioned her briefly as well and then the Sex Crimes detective was called.
My friend, like so many victims of rape, cried and blamed herself. It was clear in her body language what had happened. She was afraid of the man. She thought she had been drugged. He had bragged that he was so “in” with the ATL-PD that he could never get a DUI.
He had been her attorney for her divorce three years ago, and his service to her was ended only a few weeks ago. At that time he began flirting with her, but she thought it was harmless. He had also been a psychologist before he went into law and he knew all of her secrets and her vulnerabilities.
The Sex Crimes Detective could not have been better. He was calm and compassionate and finally persuaded her to submit to the exam and rape kit by signing a paper that was a “Waiver of Prosecution.” This document allows the police to gather evidence, know who the perpetrator was and compare that evidence to others. It allows the victim, who is often petrified at the time of the assault to prosecute at a later date within the statute of limitations.
We drove from Piedmont Hospital to the CVS just as the pink of sunrise was peeking out. I shrieked curses when the pharmacist told me that her “day after” prescription was not covered by her insurance. He was so sympathetic. Fortunately it is not expensive, but the idea that after one is raped, the insurance company adds insult to injury. At least we were not in Wasilla, Alaska during Mayor Palin’s reign.
“Will I ever be OK again?” she asked me.
“Yes, but not today or tomorrow.” As if I am the expert. I just watch too much TV.
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