Because Timmy’s already lost too deep in his own storm.
87
I CAN’T DO IT AGAIN
Ultimately, I decide that I want to drop the charges against Timmy.
I think about it over and over again, and I can’t bring myself to be victimized through another court process. Given the way the detective behaved when he interviewed me, I can only imagine how traumatic this situation would be—the shit that Timmy’s defense team would likely make up about me, even though of course unlike my rapist he wouldn’t be able to afford the most expensive defense lawyer in the country.
From experience, I know that defense lawyers have tactics which include ripping an innocent victim’s testimony and credibility to shreds. And if there’s any alcohol involved? Forget about it. There’s just no point.
I call the prosecutor’s office at the number given, and she just never gets back to me. So I sit and I wait and I toil.
While I wait for a response I never receive, a wave of conflicting emotions floods over me. Relief, regret, anger, and confusion all twist together in a tangled knot in my chest. Dropping the charges feels like the right thing, but also like surrender. Like I’m letting Timmy, and maybe even the system, off the hook.
I end up going into the prosecutor’s office in person, so they won’t have the opportunity to continue ignoring me. They make me wait in a lobby covered with cameras, and I squirm uncomfortably, feeling scrutinized. Someone eventually comes out to see me—an advocate—and she sits with me and speaks in hushed tones about what I’m trying to do.
She explains that someone will be out shortly with the form that will officially record my request to drop the charges.
The woman is nice and asks some standard questions about domestic violence and how safe I feel. I answer without giving too much information, definitely not letting on that Timmy and I are still together.
But I do take the time to explain that I want to drop charges because I can’t bring myself to go through the court system again as the victim of a violent crime. She’s empathetic, and seems unsurprised to hear that part of the reason for my hesitation is the unprofessional, accusatory way I was interviewed by the detective.
When I explain that if the person investigating the case was so judgmental in his questioning, how could I possibly expect the judge and jury to treat me with any fairness—let alone the defense counsel?.
I know people in her role are meant to remain neutral, helping victims to navigate the system while also supporting the institution they work for, but she seems oddly detached by what I have to say. As in, I don’t feel judged, but she doesn’t seem at all shocked by my feedback. The advocate listens kindly, her nods almost too familiar, as if she’s heard this story from dozens of other women.
In this moment, I see the process for what it is. I’m not being paranoid. This is how it is for victims, and I stand strong in my resolve not to put myself through that ever again.
“He’ll be out with the form soon,” she reiterates. “We’ll get it taken care of.”
And then a large, intimidating man with a stack of papers steps in, like a hunter cornering prey. The subtle threat in his bodylanguage makes me feel trapped. My throat tightens when I realize what he’s trying to do.
“Are you trying to serve me?” My voice squeaks with outrage, blood pounding in my temples. My body starts that same familiar buzz signaling flight or fight.
“Yes,” he says calmly. “If you’ll just step into this room…” He gestures at the door behind him.
It’s a moment that sharpens everything—reminding me of how broken the system is, how victims are not just expected to survive trauma, but to fight through it again in court.
“No, absolutely not!” I snap at the man, standing my ground. “I don’t feel comfortable.”
When he sighs in frustration, it’s clear how little my comfort means in this equation—to them, I’m just a tool to add to their stats, a case file they can check off as a successful prosecution.
After more back and forth, I snap. “I will leave the fuckingcountryif I have to, but I willnotbe going to court!”
My words punctuate the fact that I’m not playing around, and the energy in the room shifts.
With a sigh, he finally hands me the form I came for—confirmation that the charges against Timmy are dropped on my end, at least. But the threat lingers—the prosecutor could still pursue the case whether I want them to or not. It’s the state’s case, not mine, and as such, it’s their call. One thing is clear, though—I would prove to be a very hostile witness, and they know it.
During my rape trial back in New Zealand, I felt very strongly that I wanted to stop the rapist from hurting another woman ever again. By having him locked up for what he did. But instead, I was dragged through a humiliating, soul-destroying process, and then he got off scot-free, with what? One night in jail? There’s no way I could go through that again, knowing it likely wouldn’t help anyone, anyway. Bad guys get off either way, based on my experience.
And, since my trial, I’ve realized that it’s not actually my responsibility to stop a man from harming a woman. It’s a broad societal issueand a victim can’t be expected to take responsibility and feel the burden for his actions. So I don’t feel great about refusing to go through the process, but I refuse to let myself feel guilty.
The way Timmy explains the attack away as a one-off incident plays a part as well. “I was protecting you. I really was angry at what that person has been doing to you, tormenting you in your nice new apartment. And I needed to calm myself down, so I took a handful of trazodone after I’d been drinking, and I thought it would make me fall asleep straight away. But instead, it made me insanely angry and full of homicidal rage, and I took it out on you, the person who is most important to me. The person I love and most want to protect. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
“That was a really dumb and dangerous thing for you to do, Timmy,” I’d said, on one of the many times we’d discussed it. “And you didn’t mention it to me before you did it. Please promise me you’ll never do that again.”
“Oh, believe me. I promise with my whole heart. I love you so much, and the fact that you’re agreeing to speak and meet with me again is far more than I deserve.”