THE DRUGGING & RAPE OF SUSAN HUNTER - CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 14

It’s hard watching my friends get emotional when we talk about the rape, or suicide attempt, or this journal. I hate watching them tear up or hear it on the phone. I think I’m still numb from all of this, and it has been just over three months since the whole nightmare started. I think its less emotion on my part and more on the planning side. What to do next and what to mentally prepare my self for. Will they ultimately shut down my case? Will it ever be reopened if they do? Are people calling the city, and mayor, and cops to get these powers that be to help me? Will I ever get Naylor on the stand? If so, will my testimony and the evidence be strong enough to get a guilty judgment? Will I be strong enough?

I like to think I am, and will be. I have to be. I can’t allow him to drug and rape any other women. It isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about getting a predator off the street.

It was a holiday weekend. I spent it hanging out with friends and at the beach. It was wonderful. On Monday the 28^th at 2:40 in the morning, I heard knocking on my door. Ed knocking on my door. He was tapping it with a key. Yes, I know it was him. He has a nervous habit of clearing his throat. Once, twice, three times he tried to get my attention. I froze. I know what I wanted to do was shoot him in the head with a German Luger, but this is reality and not a dream. He finally walks away from my door. I am apprehensive about falling asleep. The sinking feeling in my gut again.

The next morning my friend and neighbor N sends me a text. He has some bad news for me. I ask him what’s wrong with my car. I just already know. The front passenger window was bashed out, and the contents of my glove box are spread all over the seat. I don’t even bat an eye. I already knew to expect some form of retribution. I’m sure to most people it would be an obvious smash and grab. I originally didn’t think anything was grabbed, but my phone charger was missing. More interestingly, the word bitch had been written in the back dust of my car. Then most of it wiped back off. The last time I checked, smash and grabbers are usually doing this for financial reasons. They don’t leave an emotional form of communication so that you can better understand their feelings in all of this. Are you really that stupid to leave the last part of bitch written in the dust of my car? I guess you are.  

Ed also contacted N at 2:40 in the morning. Knocking on his door and sending him a text message so I could be informed of what he had discovered. Really? Yup, really. Here’s the part I don’t understand. If I thought someone was being crazy, and spreading lies about being raped, and got a temporary restraining order against me to which the judge looked me squarely in the face and said “absolutely no contact, do you understand?” to which I nod my head, and I saw the window of said persons car bashed out, do you know what I would do? Nothing. I would keep on walking. In fact, I would probably cross the street around it to have nothing to do with it. And I wouldn’t go knocking on their door about it. Especially after the “no contact what so ever” part. The contents of the glove box that were touched are safely stored for finger printing. I like hard evidence. It’s the best kind.

I had to walk into the Hollywood police station to file another incident report. I’m kinda tired of all of these incidents. I’m scared to go in there, but I know I have one thing on my side. It’s a holiday. There won’t be a detective within a ten mile radius of the place. Its safe to walk into the lions den because all the lions are sunbathing on the beach. The report is filed. They will look into it. Tomorrow I will go to work and borrow a shop vac and clean up all the glass. The window will be replaced by a mobile auto glass guy and I will go on with my life. I never cried for it.

The same day I fix the window, I have a follow up appointment with my usual doctor. The one I called about trying to find a lab. She is at a large hospital housed in Beverly Hills. I had already sent her a copy of my journal so she might have a better understanding of why I was fighting the LAPD and why I tried to kill myself. I sign in as patient line 13. No, I don’t have any feelings of wanting to kill myself. Yes, I am making healthy decisions. I am waiting on victims fund to get my therapy.

I just realized, I havent filled you in on the changes with victims fund. Poop. I’m a terrible journal writer. Remind me to tell you about that in a little bit.

Sooo…. At the doctors. We then started discussing rape kits and how the huge hospital that currently houses my most excelent physician doesn’t do rape kits either. WTF? Really? Are there any hospitals that do? I’m not saying I don’t appreciate the rape center. My experience with them has only gotten better from the angry journal dumping off at the little window experience. And obviously the initial visit there made me feel like I was finally in a place that cared and understood what I was going thru. She is curious how this works. I explain to her it’s a bunch of little rooms sectioned off from each other, but can access the exam room. They have a shower, and free food, and couches to lay down on since sitting is usually very hard. Its kinda dim and quiet. Oh yeah, and warm blankets. Its exactly what a rape victim needs. She will talk to the upper people at the hospital that she knows and look into getting a rape center put in the hospital. Not that I want any funding taken away from the place I went to. They are wonderful. I just don’t understand why there arent more places for vicitms to go to. The 45 minute ride in the back of the squad car was horrible. I can’t imagine some one having to ride from downtown all the way out there. Dear God. No.

The vicitms fund. They found my application. They will process it and let me know the satus in six to twelve months. Yup, you read right. Six to twelve months. But they give me an ID number so I can start attaching it to any bills that come thru from hospitals and such. The hospitals know the routine and how long they will have to wait. And do you know why they, and myself, have to wait so long? Because of lazy and selfish jerks that think the world owes them a living. Simply put.

Victims fund is paid out from all the fines that felons have to pay when they get sentenced in court. That’s where a bunch of the money goes. Since most vicitms will have to wait years to be able to civily sue a criminal for the financial damages of a crime comitted against them, vicitms fund was created for vicitms to have access to money for councesling and such now instead of later. It’s a sort of social safety net. A little boy watches his mother be murdered, and he doesn’t have to wait for them to track down the bastard that did it before he can get psychological help. But here is the problem. There are people that know about victims fund and clog up the system because they see it as free money and they want some. Being rear ended in a car accident does not make you a victim. Applying for victims fund because of a rear ending just makes you a lazy jerk. Hows about you go get a job like the rest of us and stop trying to rational to yourself how you are a victim. Your not. The rape, or murder, or violent robbery victim is a victim. Your just a lazy asshole. Stop submitting applications if you know you are not really a victim. You are screwing real victims in this country. Also, the detective in my case will be involved to help determine my eligibiltiy.Yeah, I’m screwed. I’m not about to start therapy knowing I might have a mound of bills to be responsible for when Det. T sinks even my vicitms fund.       

                      

Today is May 30^th. I am working at the other location the studio has. I stopped off at 7-11 on my way in to get some coffee and fruit for breakfast. My change was $13.13. That makes me smile. Thirteen has become very symbolic for me. I like that this is some way that the universe is telling me my case won’t just be shut down, that the universe has my back. That it can’t just be about me and my single case. It has to be about more than just me. I think about a kid having to pick out the person that raped them in a line up. Then the guy makes a deal and walks away. Maybe he will serve time, maybe not. He should serve thirteen years for rape. Not just because it’s a kid involved, but because a rapist is involved. 

I’m at work when my phone rings. It’s a blocked number. That’s all I ever feel like I get anymore. I never pick up blocked numbers. Honestly, I am scared it’s Naylor. He has my number now from the pre text phone call. It’s a voice mail from a woman. Det. P is my new detective and investigator into my rape incident. I call her back. We talk. She wants to know that the DA will see me anytime next week that is good for me. They are running a new toxicology test. They should have the results in a week. The DA wants to know if I am willing to do a juried trail. The likely hood of which will also be based on the interview they will do with me. Bring it on. Yeah, I am terrified. The first thing I do is call my advocate and friend A to make sure someone will come with me. I really am more scared of getting hauled off and locked up in a county mental ward for speaking up against the two detectives than I realistically should be, but I had no idea what the outcome was going to be from publishing this journal. I think this means I am now a case, but I forgot to ask.    

I finally have Naylors last name. The detective said it. She really said it. They know who he is. I'm not crazy. I keep repeating it in my head all day. Yeah, I goggled it, but then I realized I probably have every SCU detective in LA working on my case. I wonder what they are finding out about him. I can’t be the only woman he has done this to. I know in my heart I’m not. I know your last name now. It won’t be long.   

I hang up the phone and start crying and shaking. I’m in shock. Good shock for once. The rest of the day is a roller coaster ride of emotion. I’m happy and ecstatic, and scared it could all get taken away, and in awe that this really happened. It really fucking happened. Enough people called that it did something. You called and put pressure on them and it fucking did something. Oh thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You stopped my case from being closed, and it did something. One of the guys I work with asks my why I am so upset. I know it looks like I got bad news, but it’s not, it’s good news. I break down and tell him everything. He goes into shock, and tells me he is an oversized Kleenex if I ever need a shoulder to cry on. I am genuinely amazed at the level of love and support I have gotten. To my near and dear friends who set up a protective circle and a blog of my journal. To my mom who sent me a vintage looking wonder woman tin poster for my birthday. To my family. To my crew. All of you readers who cried with me when things got bad. Who called and helped save my case. You have been apart of all of this from day one. Like the world was one big tissue for me to cry on. Oh thank God for you. It really finally fucking happened. I have a new detective and a fair chance at a real investigation. Oh thank God for you.    

I am at the post office. A woman left her phone on the counter, and the guy in line behind her called out to her and handed it off. It was nice to see some one watching out for some one else based on the same rational of fear. The common felt shock of losing your phone. The shock of realizing you’re at home, and you don't have your phone. You have no idea where it is, and you become frantic wondering if someone is looking thru it. That’s the kind of shock you feel when you have been drugged and rapped. Where did I leave my body at and who went thru it? To know we all have that fear, but you have not experienced what I did. I only hope my journal helps you to feel that shock. To understand what rape victims face. That feeling of being so vulnerable.    

The most information regarding rape and laws only seems to come from the lawyers websites. And I don't mean the DA. I mean from defense attorneys. If you were wearing a mask, then you can't possibly be identified right, so I'm sure we can get you out of the charges. Are you fucking kidding me? They want to bring back the, ‘well if she didn't fight back then obviously it's not rape’ clause. Yeah, because a woman is so shocked she is being raped and goes into freeze mode after being overpowered, they used to consider this as evidence that it wasn't a rape because she wasn’t fighting back. How so many men are falsely charged by these crazed and vindictive women. You mean the 90% that are telling the truth and had their lives over ruled by shock and fear and humiliation. At least I know where you will rot you TV whoring, bad hair wearing, pompous asshole, who makes rape victims cry and tries to help rapists. Yes, he is allowed due process. I don’t think suggesting they wear a mask to make the lawyers job easier is exactly professional courtesy.      

Which brings me back to 13. I know it’s a voting year. How’s about when those annoying people call during the middle of dinner, or having a beer, and ask who your voting for, you ask them what the person they are calling on behalf of, plans to do about mandatory sentencing for rapist and how it should be no less than thirteen years.  Call all the people on those mailers you’re getting and tell them you want rape to be a class one felony in all states with no less than 13 year sentence. You get 25 years for robbing a postal employee, but only eight in the state of California for beating someone to an inch of their life and raping them? I'm not sure how long the sentence is, but do you know why people don't cut the parking violation boots off of cars? They used to, and then it became a felony and people stopped real quick. So you will protect city property, but not the bodies of women, and children, and men? How about making rape a less attractive idea because of a longer sentence. So ask them when they call you relentlessly. See if that doesn’t shut them up and make them go away, and help victims like me in the process, so you can get back to drinking beer or eating dinner with a faint smile on your face knowing you did something good for the world. And thank you for it.   

My feelings toward my own body have definitely changed since the rape. I used to be comfortable in my own skin. Now I have tendencies of hating it. I feel gross and fat. All over. I know this is in my head, but this is the part about sharing no matter what. I know I have a broken processor and this all stems directly from the rape. I constantly compare my body to other women’s. I have no idea what my own body really looks like anymore. I know I can’t hate myself or the skin that I am in. I know I am my own best friend and have to be supportive of myself, but it’s not easy. It’s just the way I feel and I’m letting you in for all of it. I don’t know what will change that distorted perspective of myself. Yeah, therapy. I just constantly remind myself to let it go and be happy with myself and my body. I am not here for anyone else. I am only really on this planet for me. I have to love myself above all and not judge the body I am in so harshly because of what I went thru.

I think this is all I have to really share for now. It’s a lot and most importantly, I have so much more after today than what I did yesterday. I have a window that is actually there. I have an unbelievable amount of support and love (I know I have had that since before yesterday, it’s just good to really feel it and know that I am not alone. That part is finally getting thru to the processor). I have a detective that isn’t trying to talk me out of pressing charges (that part still hasn’t sunk into the processor yet). I have a toxicology re test being done as I write this, and as you read. The results I should have in a week. I have a tentative appointment with the DA. I have all of you reading this and helping me. There go the tears again. It’s hard to type with blurry vision, but I think it’s my processor starting to come back online. That I am starting to feel things again. Besides shame and humiliation. More like pride and happiness.