“I’m not with the police,” Larry said. His voice was low and calm. “I’m a lawyer, and I’ve represented several other women like you in civil cases against their attackers. It’s my specialty.”
“You told him?” I said, shooting an embittered look at both of my parents. I hated the idea that they’d discussed what Tyler had done to me behind my back, with a stranger, no less. I hated that Larry was looking at me now, picturing me with my dress pulled up around my hips, Tyler on top of me, holding me down.
“Just hear him out,” my dad said, pleading. “You don’t have to say anything. Just listen.”
“Fine,” I said, perching on one of the barstools under the counter.
“Don’t be rude, Amber,” my mother said. “Come sit down with us.”
“That’s okay,” Larry said. He stayed standing, but leaned against the back of the couch, slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks, and crossed one ankle over the other. I could see his pale skin above the blue and yellow striped socks he wore. I found myself thinking that his professional abilities had better be more polished than his fashion acumen. He looked at me for a moment, and then began to speak. “Your parents told me what happened to you in July. And that you decided not to report it to the police. Considering the circumstances, I can’t say I blame you.”
I raised a single eyebrow, my attention momentarily piqued by his affirmation of what I believed to be true.
“Unfortunately, our justice system, as it currently stands, regularly fails rape victims. There’s rarely enough valid evidentiary proof in these types of situations to warrant an arrest, let alone a conviction.”
“And that’s my fault, right, because I didn’t go straight to the hospital and have a rape kit done?” I said, feeling my defenses shoot back up.
“Amber . . .” my mom began, but Larry held up a hand to stop her.
“That’s not what I meant,” Larry said. “I was simply stating that in the majority of cases—and the majority are acquaintance rape—it’s almost impossible to get an attacker to serve time for his crime. It’s an ugly truth, but it’s the way things are.” He pushed up his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t other ways to bring attention to the kind of man he is.”
“What other ways?” I asked, warily.
“You could file a civil suit, which only requires that we bring forth a preponderance of evidence that he raped you, instead of having to prove that he did beyond a reasonable doubt, which we’d have to at a criminal trial. You’d still have to testify as to what happened, but whether we win a legal judgment for damages against him or not, a suit of this sort would at least get his name out there, linked to being a rapist. People will know what he’s done, and other women will be informed that he has the potential to hurt them. He might not go to jail, but some sort of justice could still be served.”
Hearing this last sentence, I couldn’t help it—I let out a sharp laugh. “So you want me to put myself out there and be dragged through the court of public opinion?” I shook my head. “No way. I’ve read about other women who’ve done just that. And what ends up happening is every boyfriend they’ve ever had, their entire sexual past, is put on trial instead of their attacker’s. He’s the ‘good guy’ who made a stupid mistake, and she’s the whore who spread her legs and then regretted it.”
I watched my parents both flinch as I spoke, and felt a little bad for being so blunt, but if they were bothered by my words now, I could only imagine how they’d feel when Tyler’s lawyer searched out and cross-examined the string of men that I’d led into dark alleys over the last few months. I pictured these men sitting on the witness stand, describing how I’d pushed them up against the wall and reached into their pants. How I’d never even asked their names. I imagined describing for a jury the way I stood in front of the mirror in my bathroom when I came home after a night at the bars, staring at my reflection, hissing to it the same words I had when I was younger: You’re disgusting, you’re filthy, you’re fat. Except now I added: And you’re a slut.
“Are you worried about what Daniel will think?” my mom asked, and my lungs seized, realizing that if I followed through with my plan, if I managed to find a way to get Tyler to confess, Daniel would it read in the papers and know what had happened to me. He’d know the real reason I ended our engagement. I pictured him thinking back to our first date, when I’d brazenly pulled him inside my apartment and onto my bed, and I had no doubt he’d conclude that he should have known back then what kind of girl I really was; that a good woman, the kind of woman a man wants to marry, doesn’t spread her legs on the first date. I imagined he’d be grateful that he got away from me when he did.
“Daniel doesn’t have anything to do with this,” I lied. “I haven’t heard from him in months.” I didn’t say that I still checked my phone several times a day, hoping that he would reach out. I didn’t say that every time I lured a man into an alley, I felt like Daniel was there watching me, repulsed and sick with regret for ever having touched me.
“And Daniel is . . . ?” Larry asked, looking back and forth between me and my mom.
“Amber’s fiancé,” my dad said.
“Ex-fiancé,” I corrected.
“You were engaged at the time of the attack?” Larry inquired.
I nodded.
“Would he be willing to testify on your behalf?” Larry asked.
“No,” I said, at the same time both of my parents said, “Yes.” I stood up from the barstool. “Look, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more to discuss. Nobody’s going to be testifying about anything. I don’t want to do this.”
“Honey, please,” my mom said. “You have to do something.”
“No,” I said, “I don’t.” I looked at Larry. “Sorry to waste your time.” Not waiting for him to reply, I strode out of the kitchen, down the hall, and up to my room. My parents had no idea what I’d been up to; they had no clue that I planned to get Tyler to admit what he’d done and save me the pain—not to mention the expense—of bringing a suit against him. There was no way I could tell them; they’d just try to stop me. They wanted to believe that there was some other avenue I could take to expose him, but I knew that his confession was the only way to avoid the pitfalls of a system hell-bent on blaming women for the sins of men—the only way I wouldn’t be victimized all over again. I’d been making myself suffer, caught in a cycle of pain I couldn’t escape. I had to believe that getting Tyler to confess would finally put all the guilt and shame I carried where it actually belonged—onto him. He needed to suffer, now, and if the justice system couldn’t make that happen, I would.
Tyler