BY JENN SHREVE | I hope the man who raped me never runs for public office. Then I would be forced to face the decision I made when it happened -- to cry on the shoulder of my best friend instead of filing a police report and putting my entire life on trial. To take a warm bath and scrub away the evidence instead of submitting my body, full of unwelcome fluids and pain, to an emergency room medical exam. To explore the ramifications of my experience through writing and therapy instead of turning myself into another case for an overworked social worker.
I did what 84 percent of women do when raped, according to a 1992 National Victim Center and Crime Victims Research and Treatment Center report: To preserve my own sense of sanity and privacy, and to protect myself from the pitying stares of co-workers, friends and family, I turned loose a rapist onto the streets.
I prefer to keep the details of what happened private. But you've heard my story before. We went on a date. He walked me home and asked to use my phone to call a cab. The only phone call made that night was after he left, when I called my closest friend, said I'd been raped and asked if he could please come over right away. I did not call the police. Instead I waited for my friend to arrive. After he did, I scrubbed away all the evidence as he sat outside my bathroom door.
It was a selfish choice, I'll admit that. But it's one I never thought about taking back until the day Juanita Broaddrick came forward. Her story forced me to examine my silence again. And after I did, I understood why I believed her.
N E X T_ P A G E: Did this really happen? And would I be able to convince a jury it did?
WHY I DIDN'T REPORT MY RAPE -- AND I BELIEVE JUANITA BROADDRICK | PAGE 1, 2
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The decision not to report a rape is easier to make than you'd think. In the seconds, minutes and hours you have to collect yourself after the rapist has left the room, the alley or wherever you happen to be, you ask yourself a couple of questions: Did what I think just happened really happen? And then: If it came down to it, would I be able to convince a judge and jury that this happened? You see yourself dressed up like a Puritan and crying the hell out of your waterproof mascara on the witness stand, relating the gory details to a crowd of strangers, with a leering familiar face among them. Friends and acquaintances would whisper and bring casseroles.
The man who did this to me was a professional acquaintance. If I took my story to the police there would be career implications I was not willing to face. There were no cuts, scrapes or bruises to prove any kind of struggle, because I knew from previous experience that fighting would only make things worse. It would be my word that I repeatedly pleaded with him to stop against his version, which undoubtedly would imply mutual consent. And in a he said-she said, there's always room for reasonable doubt.
The reasons women don't report rape and other acts of violence are no secret. They're summarized in a 1995 Justice Department Special Report on Violence Against Women, which notes that among the factors are "the private nature of the event, the perceived stigma associated with one's victimization, and the belief that no purpose will be served in reporting it."
This is all true, but what statistics can never explain is why, in my post-rape hysteria, I found myself laughing nonsensically. Or why my mind kept returning to a scene out of Camus' "L'Etranger" as told to Jerry Springer: the protagonist on trial for a crime he can't explain, before a jury of howling cretins. I ordered pizza and craved ice cream. I wanted sex, though I could barely admit that one, even to myself.
Later, in between bouts of hysteria, several things became clear to me. If I reported it, intimate details of my life would be revealed to complete strangers. If I failed to convince a jury that I wasn't lying, or hadn't simply "asked for it" (assuming my case even got that far), I'd be forced to live in shame, and possibly fear, for a very long time. (In fact, the man continued to harass me by phone for months -- everything from could he have another chance to don't tell a soul to stuttered apologies, though he couldn't bring himself to say exactly what he'd done -- until I called a mutual friend and asked him to ask his friend to stop harassing me. It stopped, thank God.)
According to a report issued by the Senate Judiciary Committee in May 1993, "Over half of all rape prosecutions are either dismissed before trial or result in an acquittal. Almost one quarter of convicted rapists never go to prison; another quarter receive sentences in local jails where the average sentence is 11 months."
Of course, after being raped, no woman sits around ticking off statistics in her mind. She doesn't need to, because she's heard them so many times before that she realizes within seconds that although what happened was indeed very real, proving it is another matter entirely. Regardless of whether a police report eventually lands a rapist in jail, the victim of the crime is forced to confront -- on top of the emotional wallop of being raped -- a legal ordeal that could take months, even years, to resolve.
The other option is far easier: Jump in the shower and scrub away the evidence. Make sure you're not pregnant. Wait six months to take an HIV test. Call your best friend and cry and break glasses and curse until dawn. You feel guilty, sure. He may do it again, and you'll be partly to blame. But God help you if you're going to let him ruin your whole life. This way, you at least get to move on privately -- and quickly.
This is why I believe Juanita Broaddrick. Because for all of these reasons, I understand why a woman could keep silent after being raped.
SALON | March 10, 1999