The Day Innocence Died

 

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel”
~ Maya Angelou ~

He showed up at my house at one of the most vulnerable moments in my life.  I had seen police in my home before as a child, neighbors used to call them to intervene when the sounds of my dad beating my mom would disturb the relative peace of our little corner of our apartment complex in Astoria Queens.  I learned early from those experiences that the police could be verbally abusive to victims of domestic violence with impunity, especially if those victims were black, female and foreign.  For these reasons it didn’t even occur to me to call the cops when at 18 I became the victim of a brutal sexual assault, but he showed up anyway, someone else in my house had called 911 when they saw the state I was in, clothes and underwear torn open, both eyes swelling shut and bruises and scratches from head to toe.  Thirty something years later it still boggles my mind the mistreatment I suffered at this man’s hands.  He was a master at the use of cruel, demeaning, misogynist and racist language, consequently when I review the events of that day I feel more violated by him than by the man who had hurt me physically because at a minimum I should have been able to trust the police.

I was lying in my little sister’s bed, from that position I could not avoid my reflection in the two big mirrors on her dresser on the far wall, I literally watched as inflammation set in and changed my faced into something unrecognizable, more like raw meat than a human face.  Needless to say I felt panicky, lost and overwhelmed.  I found out later I was screaming uncontrollably when I thought I was crying softly, I can’t imagine how scary that must have been for my family.  My little sister tried to help me by pouring a splash of white rum in a glass, she gave it to me and I gulped it down tasting alcohol for the first time in my life, it burned as it went down and the room started to spin, but the surprise of that wore off quickly as I started to panic again, of all things I was worried about what my mom would think, at that time we did not have a good relationship, in fact I was under the distinct impression that she disapproved of me entirely, in large part because I look like my father who had terrorized her mentally and physically for many years before she finally left him.  It was strange, I was still afraid of something that had already happened; scrambled memories of the attack from that morning were swimming through my head making me feel crazy, I feared being haunted by those memories for the rest of my life.  I was more aware of the nightmare scenario playing out in my head than what was going on around me.  I wished that I were dead.  At some point my mom was in the room with me telling me that this had happened to me because I wasn’t a good Christian, I was hurt but not surprised, she was interrupted by the police officer hovering at the bedroom door.  He seemed huge, oversized next to all the dainty little fixtures in the room.  He spoke to my mom briefly, barely glancing at me and then he directed her to leave and close the door because I was 18 years old, an adult.

I feel like I never caught his name but more likely I blocked it from my mind at some point.  He was white, middle aged with a small beer belly and thick black hair that fell over his brow.  He paced around the bed for a few minutes before he spoke.  Finally he asked me over his shoulder if I wanted to get arrested.

I tried to talk but I started crying instead.

“Look… Ms. Hewitt… I’m not here to take a report; I’m here to talk you out of filing a report.  As I was saying, a woman your age…, from Jamaica… it wouldn’t surprise anybody if I found contraband in this house, maybe in this closet or this dresser.  And then I would have to arrest you.”

By this he had squeezed himself into a decorative white wicker chair and daintily crossed his leg.  I was flabbergasted, my mind grappled with the threats he was making.  When I could finally speak I asked him why he was doing this to me.    He sighed heavily as he settled into the chair, as if he was annoyed or disgusted.

“Sir… what contraband are you talking about, I don’t drink or smoke… what are you trying to do to me?”

“Ms. Hewitt, don’t get smart with me, you are drunk, I can smell the alcohol on your breath and you were screaming when I came in, nobody’s gonna believe your story…”

“Sir, look at the state of me… I’m black and blue all over, my eyes are swollen… my sister gave me some rum to try to calm me down, I was screaming because I saw how my face was swelling up.  Look at me, isn’t this proof that something happened to me?”

He finally turned and looked at me properly.

“Ok, I’ll be honest with you… yes you were obviously assaulted, that’s enough to get the guy arrested but he’s only going to spend one night in jail and then he’s going to come back here and kill you and your family.. Is that what you want?”

I felt like I was in a bad dream, my whole body hurt, my cheeks and jaw felt stiff and it was hard to talk due to a deep gash on my bottom lip.  My reflection in the mirror across from me was horrifying, red bruises on my face were turning purple and green.

“Why are you doing this to me? Do you know the guy who did this to me?  I don’t understand why you’re treating me like this; I was raped and beaten sir.”

He was up on feet again, pacing the tight space around the bed, sighing heavily in utter annoyance, both thumbs in his big cop belt on his waist.

“Ms. Hewitt, there is no proof that anyone forced themself on you, what they’re going to say is that you had sex with him and then you regretted it and made up this ridiculous story.  Women do it every day.”

“What about my clothes and underwear that he ripped up?  What about my injuries? There’s no way I could have done this to myself!”

He bent down and opened the brown paper bag I was pointing to, he rifled through and pulled out the torn underwear and scrutinized it carefully before putting it back in the bag.  My jaw dropped, I was mortified to see him handling them, even smelling them.  I wanted to disappear.  He stood up again and the expression on his face seemed to change, he looked almost sympathetic which turned out to be a ploy.

“Look, ok… say I believe your story… I’m still not going to do anything about it because if you’re really a victim then you would want to avoid this going to trial.  Have you been keeping up with that rape case in the news, how that woman’s underwear has been passed around to all the lawyers and jurors?  Now if you’re really an innocent victim like you say you are… why would you want that to happen, huh?  An innocent person would want to stay as far away from that as possible.  Think about how embarrassing that would be for you and your mom.  They would put you on trial, not him.  You’re Jamaican… nobody is going to believe you.  I just don’t want you to get hurt.  I’m trying to help you here.”

“I don’t understand this sir… shouldn’t you be taking pictures of my injuries… this is so confusing… and what does my being Jamaican have to do with this?”

He was sitting down again, making a steeple out of his fingertips and peering at me over them, he was back to being annoyed and impatient.  In the silence the ticking of his oversized silver watch was as loud as a drumbeat.

“Look, I suggest you not mess with me Ms. Hewitt… You’re Jamaican, you’re over 18 and you are drunk.  I don’t believe your story and it is within my power to have your house searched and have you arrested.  Now look… it’s obvious you’ve been through something, if I were you I would get myself cleaned up and relax and stop all of this.  Trust me, a search of this house WILL turn up something…”

I was sobbing hopelessly by then.  I felt small, invisible, dirty, guilty, unworthy of justice and full of hate for this man.  I wasn’t sure if he could really have me falsely arrested but I didn’t want to find out and clearly he was through with me and I truly was at a loss as to why.  It occurred to me that I hadn’t even told him the name of my attacker so my theory that they knew each other made no sense.  The smell of my sister’s perfume wafted up to me from her sheets, reminding me of where I was, like someone snapping their fingers in my face.

“Sir… just so I understand you correctly… you’re refusing to arrest the man who did this to me but you’re threatening to arrest me?”

He got up and sauntered to the door, turned around to inform me that he would be back tomorrow to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid.  I was just lying there, forcing my heavy, huge tongue to stay still and not form anymore words so this criminal in cop’s clothes, Orlando’s finest, would just leave me alone and get out.  I looked at him briefly and quickly turned my head to stare straight ahead at my awful reflection.  It occurred to me, in my tortured thoughts, that I had just been brutally attacked for the second time that day.