It is raining and the gate at work gets stuck. I’m furious and now I have to deal with this. The pouring rain is at least hiding my tears that keep running down my face. An event is loading in and I could give a shit less about someone’s party, so I go home early.
What does any insane girl do when no one will listen to her?
The next day I call the LA coroner. Why is the coroner working on a drug test anyway? Last time I checked, I had a heartbeat. That’s even what the doctor at the hospital said after he cleared me for transport after the rape. The coroner is a really nice guy. He says he has to make some phone calls and will get back to me. He does. The LAPD tells him only the detectives should be dealing with me. He doesn’t agree with not calling me back. He does tell me he is not authorized to tell me the details of what he found. Only the detective is authorized to do that. I understand.
“This was by no means a re-test,” the coroner tells me. “This test was requested March 7th. The results were turned back into the LAPD crime lab on March 26th”. I met with Detective M about getting a new detective and him ordering the “re-test” on March 20th. He probably already had the results and then sat on them for three weeks. Guess who is back again. Yup, shock.
How many times can the human body go into shock before something major happens? Can I get stuck in a constant state of this like someone smacking the back of your head if you make an ugly face?
“He said they didn’t find any drugs except Claritin in my system,” I say. “I’ve told everyone I smoked weed. The THC should be in there.”
“What?!? I only tested what I was asked to look for. If you feel that these detectives are not being honest with you or doing their job correctly, you have every right to pursue this and get help. Get someone to listen to you. The squeaky wheel gets the grease.”
Was he not asked to look for THC? Shock finally starts dissipating into a willingness to fight. I haven’t felt that in a long time. A friend tells me I can get a sample tested on my own at a lab. I call my doctor. Who else can I call and say I’m fighting with the LAPD, can you recommend any labs?
“We don’t handle that” says the office manager.
She can’t get off the phone fast enough with me. I understand, but I need her to give me as much info as I can get.
“I’m not in the medical field” I tell her. “There has to be someplace.”
“Labcorp,” she replies.
My friend A, who has recently come back in my life, calls and gets the info for me. It’s a process I just can’t deal with right now.
“Its $65 to do a urine test for weed, $385 to check blood. But here’s the thing, if you don’t smoke all the time and maintain a certain level, it wont read. It’s the same thing for any other drug. If you don’t do it all the time to a certain level, it won’t show up.”
This is why they couldn’t find the THC or the date rape drugs. They didn’t turn the volume all the way up on the stereo. It’s not that it’s not there, they just aren’t looking hard enough to find it. That’s how it works. We won’t really look, but we will be quick to tell you that you weren’t drugged. Why? You can’t be bothered to collect all the evidence properly?
[Email from the detective.]
Usually you would need to present me with a court order, however in this case I will take it under consideration. For chain of custody reasons we would need the information on the lab that would be picking it up. Our Criminalists have the procedure, we are an investigative unit not criminalists. We must follow approved scientific protocols for this as [it] is evidence.
“Yeah, you can have an outside lab test for it and they will probably find it, but it’s not admissible in court. If it’s not thru the LAPD, it won’t be allowed in,” my friend M tells me over lunch.
“So even if I find it, the only thing its good for is to prove the LAPD levels of looking for date rape drugs aren’t high enough?”
“Yup,” she says, taking another sip off of her homemade juice.
I can fall into this pit of never ending money spending to prove what I already know and have it go nowhere or I can scream bloody murder until they find it themselves. M has been a steadfast friend thru all of this. She can only comment on the penis size of the detectives involved, but her phone calls have gotten thru to enough people to keep the case open. It’s more than what I could have done on my own, even if her style is somewhat more “the government is out to screw us” than mine. I love her fiery attitude and it has done a lot to keep this case open. She will find out more info on the people involved in my case and get me as high up the ladder as she can. She also can’t allow this rapist to walk knowing what she knows.
It’s less than two months after the rape. April 16th. I’m asleep in bed. It’s around 2 in the morning. I hear Ed and his on again/off again girlfriend come in the front door of the building. We hadn’t talked since the rape. I told him we couldn’t talk because of the investigation. I was mad at him for a lot of things and I was debating on letting him back into my life. Was it a series of bad judgment calls on his part? Could he have really helped the rapist get me back to the apartment building with no idea of what was going on?
According to Ed, he had told me I wasn’t capable of standing up when all three of us were back at the building and that Naylor was the one who had to unlock my door. Naylor said he had to pee and went into my place to use my toilet. Ed tried to tell him to use his place because I was saying I didn’t want to sleep with him, that I just wanted to pass out and then I would say I do want to have sex with him.
That seemed odd to me. If a friend was hooking up with someone, I wouldn’t tell the person they were going to have sex with to use my bathroom. Ed said I got up and went into my place. He says he asked me if I was sure. I laughed and slammed the door. He said I had flipped flopped about wanting to sleep with Naylor the whole night. None of this sits right with me. I don’t flip flop. I do or I don’t.
Ed was supposed to have my back. He should have told Naylor he wasn’t allowed back at the first sign of doubt that Ed had. He didn’t. He says he egged us on about making out. Two beers and a shot is not going to put me into a blackout. I had never acted like this before. Ed was either more concerned about getting back to his place or knew more about what was going on than he led on.
Naylor didn’t have a job that I was aware of. If he had access to date rape drugs, I’m going to guess he has access to other drugs too.
It’s been decided for me. Ed is out of my life. A weight is lifted off of me. He texted me the next day. I responded that I was angry, angry with him for inviting Naylor back, angry with the text messages I had to wake up to after the rape, angry that he and his girlfriend thought they had a right to do this outside my door when what I need is comfort and support and healing. I can’t say anything about the pre-text phone call. Ed doesn’t know I know about it and that he wasn’t telling me or probably the detectives the whole truth.
A texting fight ensued and the friendship was ended. I thought. A few days later a barrage of text messages started up. One hour on the 23rd and one hour on the 24th. 40 text messages in total he sent me. They were horrible. I call the police.
“Come to the Hollywood police station and we will get a restraining order put in place.”
I was so exhausted when I called that I told them a guy who used to be a friend that helped the guy who raped me to get me home won’t stop texting me. I sound crazy. I know I do. How do I explain all of this to anyone in a timely and calm manner and have them understand? The dispatcher was horrified. I get dressed and walk to the Hollywood police station. It’s only a few blocks away. The uniformed officer behind the desks hears my sobbing story. I’m finally starting to calm down. He comes back out with the report paperwork and says he is trying to get a special restraining order for trying to persuade or intimidate a witness. He could be in jail today. Then the SCU detective at there station calls me into the back room. I should have seen it coming. My advocate tells me anytime I have to go to a station to call her first. It’s early and I’m there for a restraining order. I didn’t think to call her first. She probably isn’t awake yet.
“They didn’t find any drugs in your system. You weren’t drugged, you weren’t raped, and you’re mistaken.”
Hi shock, how have you been? It’s been what, a week? Yes, much too long. I’m sobbing again. He is so mean when he says it.
“I’m not lying”, I tell him.
“I never said the word ‘lie’. I said you were mistaken. You have sex with this guy and now you want us to go after him?”
“These are all lies.”
I’m getting hysterical at the thought of another man telling me I’m wrong again and not believing me. I’m slamming my fists into the desk.
“The first time was consensual, the second time wasn’t!”
“You need to calm down. You’re yelling and being hysterical.”
Of course I am. The name of the cop I used to date is posted on some paperwork on the wall. He has been promoted to detective. He is probably in this office somewhere hearing me be hysterical. If he is, he does nothing to help me.
“The test is wrong, it didn’t find the THC so it can’t be trusted,” I informed him through tears.
“Well, I’m not a scientist, but the test says there are no drugs in your system.”
“Then you’re not a scientist and you can’t just believe what parts of the test you want to. The test is wrong, there should be THC there too.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter about the drug test anyway, you gave us a bogus number for the rapist. It’s a cold case. There is nothing we can do to find hi,” he tells me angrily.
“These are all lies. You can find him, you just don’t want to.”
I’m somewhere between anger and hysterical.
“What if the tables were turned? What if he drank to a blackout and tried to say you raped him?”
“Well, if you were the cops looking into it then I wouldn’t be worried because I would know I would get away with it,” I replied. “What I should be doing is buying drugs and murdering or robbing people because I would get away with it. I guess working a real job is pointless.”
I storm out. They trashed my report.
Original Fiction from a Sitcom Mind > The Halls of Shambala > The Non-Fiction Archives: 2012-2014 >