“Yeah?” I replied, looking back over my shoulder.
“For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing, confessing. It took some serious balls. Believe me, most men in your situation wouldn’t have gone through with it. I see far too many cases of sexual assault where the victim is the one who ends up paying the price in court. The trial traumatizes them more than the rape itself already did.”
A lump formed in my chest as he spoke, and I only managed to bob my head in response.
“I know this is going to be rough for you,” he continued, “and I don’t say this very often, but in the end, with treatment, I’m hopeful you’ll learn enough about yourself so you won’t do anything like this, ever again. Eventually, you might be able to have a normal life.”
A normal life. Standing there in his office, having just learned my immediate fate, I couldn’t begin to picture what that would look like. I couldn’t imagine finding a decent job, falling in love, getting married, or having children, as I’d always hoped I would. What woman would want a man who had admitted to rape? What community would accept me when they found out about my past? My blood pressure began to rise as I found myself suddenly picturing angry fathers screaming at me to stay away from their daughters, and I had to close my eyes. How had I ended up here? What was it inside me that had allowed me to do this terrible thing to my best friend? Why hadn’t I listened to her—why wasn’t I able to stop myself when she tried to push me off of her? What was wrong with me? My pulse sped up even more, almost as though it was attempting to answer these questions, and the possibility struck me that my issues with anxiety weren’t as “situational” as I’d previously believed. Perhaps when I was lying on top of Amber, my brain had been chemically hijacked by swirling hormones and sputtering synapses, and, just like a hundred times before, I’d been desperate enough to do anything—even the unthinkable—to find relief. That doesn’t excuse what you did, I scolded myself. Even if anxiety played a part in enabling my behavior that night, there has to be something else, something more in the way I think—in my subconscious—that permitted me to cross that line.
“Thank you,” I said to Peter, even though I wasn’t sure I believed that my life would ever be normal again. I was too confused, too screwed up, to even think it possible. And yet, after I made my way back down to the street, I knew the only thing I could do in order to get through this moment—and maybe the rest of my life—was to focus on what I’d finally been able to give to Amber, instead of everything I’d taken away.
? ? ?
On a Tuesday morning in mid-December, a week after my meeting with Peter, he and I walked into the courthouse and headed to the room where my guilty plea would be officially accepted and my sentence would be handed down.
I was terrified—anxiety raged through me like an angry river, practically drowning out the voice in my head that told me I was doing the right thing. I wondered if I could still change my mind. If I could tell Peter right now that Amber had kidnapped and shot me as a way to get me to confess to a crime I didn’t commit. It was so tempting to travel down that road—one where my life wouldn’t end up demolished.
But then I thought about what would happen to her, how I would be ruining her life more than I already had. I’d made my decision; I was going to be held accountable for what I did.
I took a deep breath and followed my lawyer into the courtroom, where my mom sat on one of the wooden benches. I thought she’d be alone—my dad had told her that he wouldn’t be there: “I’m not going to sit there and watch my son throw his life away over a stupid girl,” he’d said—and was surprised to see Mason sitting next to her. He and I hadn’t spoken since the night we fought, the same night Amber had taken me to the cabin, and I certainly hadn’t expected to see him today. When I walked past them, he locked his eyes on mine and gave me a brief, tight-lipped nod. I imagined he’d only come to see that I actually went through with taking responsibility for what I’d done, but part of me hoped his presence meant more than that. Part of me hoped that, after all of this was over, we might find a way to be friends.
“I love you, honey,” my mom said, wringing her hands in her lap. Her blond hair showed at least an inch of dark roots, and the skin under her eyes was smudged blue. She’d been working as much as she could, and had called in a favor from a friend who owned a diner in Ferndale, to get me a job as a dishwasher, at least until I could find something better. It was humiliating to think that, after being a paramedic, I’d be doing such a menial job, but I tried to swallow my pride and see it as only temporary, like everything else in my life right now. I needed a paycheck, and for the time being, scrubbing pots and pans would be how I earned one. I didn’t have much of a choice.
Peter led me to a rectangular table and had me sit down with him, facing where the judge would be. To our right was the prosecuting attorney, and as I glanced over my shoulder, I saw Amber and her parents sitting behind him. Tom’s gaze flickered to mine, and there was so much disgust in his eyes, I had to look away. It struck me that I wasn’t just losing a friend—I was losing Tom and Helen, too. They’d been parents to me as much as my own parents were. I was losing three people I’d long considered part of my family.
The bailiff announced the judge as she entered, and we all stood up until she took her seat and banged her gavel. She was a heavyset, stern-looking woman with a black bun worn at the base of her neck. Blood rushed around inside my head, past my ears, making a roaring sound that made me worry I might pass out.
“Take a breath,” Peter whispered, apparently having noticed me sway on my feet.
I nodded, just as the judge looked down at the file in front of her, and then looked back at Peter. “I understand that there has been a plea bargain reached in this case?” she said, glancing over to the prosecuting attorney as well.
“Yes, Your Honor,” the attorney said. “Mr. Hicks has agreed to plead guilty to rape in the third degree, and in lieu of jail time, he will register as a sexual offender and spend two years in an outpatient treatment program, as well as pay a ten-thousand-dollar fine.”
“Is that correct, Mr. Thompson?” the judge asked Peter.
“It is,” Peter said, standing back up.