I could barely breathe as the enormity of this revelation hit me. Though she hadn’t said so, the implication was inescapable: my application to the School of Law was rejected at the request of the MacAllisters.
I felt sick inside. By applying for a protection order, I had accused a MacAllister scion of assault and rape—false accusations in their eyes, no doubt. If I were admitted to the School of Law, MacAllister funding would simply disappear.
There was no recourse. Law school applications were subjective as well as objective. An applicant could be rejected for any reason, and what reason could be more persuasive than the loss of millions of dollars? All it had taken was a quick phone call from a senior MacAllister to a member of the admissions committee. My application was doomed before I’d even submitted it. Ben had found his perfect revenge; he knew how much this rejection would hurt me.
My advisor waited as these thoughts coursed through me. She knew I wasn’t stupid—that I knew what the MacAllisters had done. But she didn’t know why they did it.
“There’s nothing I can do?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “The committee’s hands are tied. Our School of Law is no longer an option for you. But with your qualifications, I’m sure some other university . . .”
I shook my head as tears threatened. “It’s too late for this year. I’ve gone past the application deadlines. And I had my heart set on this law school. The Larson family has a long history at the U of O,” I continued. “We love this university. But love isn’t enough, is it? Money trumps love every time.”
I rose, anxious to leave before my tears fell. I barely heard my advisor’s murmured words of sympathy as I left her office, because my Uncle Johnny’s words echoed in my brain: “When a bad guy wins, everyone loses.” And I had just lost my dream.
Chapter 8
G raduation was five weeks away. I was determined to obtain my bachelor’s degree, and Ben could not prevent that, at least. I pulled myself together and focused on completing senior projects and preparing for final exams.
I told Trey what the MacAllisters had done. He was furious, but I asked him not to tell anyone in our family. Not yet. I was sure nothing could be done about it, and I hadn’t the time or energy to think about it now. I shoved it to the back of my mind during the day and hid my tears from Trey at night.
I graduated with honors (magna cum laude) on June 18th with a B.A. in Philosophy. My entire family came to see me graduate—even Quinn, which surprised me. Ben sat a few rows behind me in the honors group, certainly less than two hundred feet away, but I wasn’t about to protest. I watched him walk across the stage, self-confident and smiling, and I shivered.
Quinn was mobbed by countless fans as we left Matthew Knight Arena. He became one of the NFL’s most popular quarterbacks when he led the Vikings to a Super Bowl win in February. At six-five, he was easy to spot in the middle of the adoring crowd, signing autographs and posing for pictures with his arms around beautiful girls. Quinn absolutely loved being a star.
Leaving Quinn to his glory, we crowded into Trey’s apartment for a celebration party on the balcony. With Uncle Johnny at the grill and plenty of cooks in the kitchen, I sat with Granddad Quinn and tried to enjoy the day as we sipped lemonade and talked. Inevitably, he brought up the subject I’d been dreading. Only Trey knew of my law school rejection.
“We’re all proud of you,” Granddad said. “Now you’ll go on to shine in law school. I’ll bet you’re looking forward to it.”
“I was, Granddad. But things have changed. I’m not starting law school this fall.”
It was like a bomb had dropped, sending shock waves across the balcony and through the open patio doors into the apartment. Heads turned in unison as everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at me. Then voices rose in a single question: “What?”
“I’m not going to law school,” I repeated. “My application was rejected.”
Momentary silence was followed by a barrage of questions: “Why? When? Who decided? Could it be a mistake?” On and on. I was at a complete loss, not knowing how to respond.
Trey came to my rescue. “Leave her alone,” he said. “This is a celebration party, not an inquisition. This law school problem will wait until Elise is ready to deal with it, but not today. Come on. Let’s eat.”
No one said much as we ate. Even Elias and James quit their usual fooling around. Quinn showed up halfway through the meal, filled a heaping plate and dug in, finishing his first round before he noticed the tension.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “This is more like a funeral than a party. Did someone die before I got here? Great food, Trey, but could I swap this lemonade for some beer?”
“It’s in the fridge. Help yourself.”
Quinn returned with beer and another full plate. “Seriously, what’s going on? This family is never quiet. So out with it. Tell me why you’re all so glum.”
“Back off, brother,” Trey warned. “You can issue orders to your team, but not your family.”
“I asked a simple question, Trey. It wasn’t an order. But hell, if you want to keep some secret from me and sit around like mourners at a funeral, go ahead. This town is rocking with parties and I’m ready to celebrate, so if you’ll excuse me . . .” He started to get up.
“Quinn,” I said. “Please don’t go. You’re right. Something has happened. My law school application was rejected.”
He sat back down. “No shit?”
“No.”
“But why? You’re so damn smart, it can’t be your grades.”
“No,” I replied. “My qualifications are excellent. It was something else.”
“And this whole family knows except me? Is that how it is?”
“No one knows except Trey.”
“Trey, huh? Well, of course. I’m sure your roommate knows every little secret thing about you.”
I don’t know who stood up faster: Trey, Johnny, CJ or my dad. Four furious Larson males confronted Quinn, who never backed down from a challenge. He stood up, bristling with self-righteous anger and more than ready to defend himself. But when he looked at me and saw tears in my eyes, he subsided.
“I’m sorry, Elise,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me a damn thing. But if you ever need my help, just call me.” He came around the table, pulled me to my feet and gave me a big Quinn-style hug as he whispered, “I mean it, cousin. Call me.” He left without a word to anyone else.
That was my graduation party—a tense, miserable affair. I knew I was hurting my family by keeping secrets from them. Uncle Johnny, Trey and my parents knew about the rape, but only Trey knew how the MacAllisters had destroyed my dream of starting law school that fall.
I didn’t know what to do. My parents wanted me to go home to Boise, which made sense. I could find a job and apply to law schools the following spring. I’d also be far away from Ben. But Trey was staying in Eugene to continue working on his dissertation, and (to be honest) I didn’t want to leave him. I’d grown very close to my cousin. Too close. Another good reason to leave.
Later that evening, after everyone left for their respective hotels, Trey and I settled into our favorite chairs on the balcony to watch the sun go down. The campus was still rocking with graduation parties; we heard blaring music, shouts and drunken laughter. Quinn was surely in the middle of it all, carousing with his adoring fans.
I looked at Trey. “I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“About Ben. The MacAllisters. Law school. The whole mess. I’m the victim, yet I’m the one who’s being punished. It would be easy to move home to Boise, to run away like the coward I am.”
“You’re no coward.”
“Johnny said so.”
“Not exactly. He said, ‘Elise was no coward.’ Neither are you.”
“You really believe that?”
“I do.”
“If that’s true, what should I do?”
/> He turned to me. “Fight, Elise. Fight like my mother did. Fight for justice. Don’t let the MacAllisters win. Show them how strong you are. Show them that Elise Quinn Larson never gives up.”
“But how? Where do I start?”
“Start by doing what you should’ve done in December. Go to the police and file a report. Ask them to press charges against Ben for assault and rape.”
“If I do this, can I keep living with you?”
“Of course. You’ll be dealing with local authorities, so you’ll need to be in Eugene.”
“What about Kelly? I’m sure she thought this arrangement was only temporary until I graduated. Won’t she resent my staying here longer? You’re probably tired of having to go to her apartment for some privacy. I should move out and get my own apartment.”
He reached over and touched my lips. “Hush. Kelly won’t mind. She’s accepted a biophysics internship at a company in San Diego this summer, so she won’t be around anyway.”
I scarcely heard him as I felt his finger on my lips, followed by an urge to open my mouth and suck it inside. The surge of sexual desire stunned me. I’d felt no desire since the rape and wondered if Ben’s assault had somehow destroyed my sensual nature. Obviously, I was wrong about that. My libido—always strong before the rape—had gone into sleep mode for a while but was fully awake and wanting . . . what? With my cousin?
His hand fell as I turned to look at him. We’d communicated without words many times before, and now it was happening again. The desire in his eyes mirrored my own.
I took a deep breath. “Trey . . .”
“What do you want from me, Elise? Tell me what you want.”
“I want the one thing I can’t have. We can’t have.”
“Which is?”
“I want you to love me.”
“I do love you.”
“As a cousin?”
“Of course. But also the way a man loves a woman.”
I shook my head. “But you can’t. We can’t.”
“Why not?”
The reasons were once so clear to me, but now they were all mixed up in the stew of my need. Our family, society, unlawful marriage, defective children . . . did any of it really matter?
Of course it matters, I told myself. It matters a great deal. What on earth are you thinking?
I got up and walked to the balcony railing, looking down at a street party in full swing. I knew if Trey approached me . . . if he touched me . . . I would give in to my need and let him love me. Scarcely daring to breathe, I stood there until his chair scraped slightly and the patio door closed behind him. Then I waited, watching the couples below me as they danced and drank and groped each other. I waited until I was certain Trey had gone to bed. Without me.
I called my parents early the next morning and told them of my decision to stay in Eugene and pursue charges against Ben for assault and rape. I asked them to say nothing to the rest of the family yet. I especially didn’t want Uncle Johnny to take charge at this point, nor did I want Quinn to get involved. I could just see the headlines: “Minnesota Vikings Quarterback Assaults Former Oregon Ducks Linebacker Amidst Rape Accusations.” I did not need that kind of interference.
Uncle Johnny treated our whole family to breakfast at Excelsior Inn, his favorite restaurant in Eugene, where his friends had hosted a surprise wedding reception when he married his Elise. Our breakfast was pleasant despite Quinn’s obvious hangover and everyone’s curiosity about my future. My dad had made it clear that I was not to be questioned.
After the meal, there were hugs and kisses all around before a limousine took everyone to the airport for a quick flight to Ontario via a private jet (limo and jet courtesy of Granddad Quinn). Trey and I walked back to the apartment in complete silence, lost in our own private thoughts.
Chapter 9
T rey took me to the Eugene Police Department that afternoon, probably thinking I’d change my mind if we put it off another day. Trey’s presence calmed me somewhat as we waited for an officer to take me to an interview room.
Officer J. Jensen was a tall, thin, mostly bald man in his fifties. He seemed professional as he gathered basic details: my name, age, Social Security number and contact information; the assailant’s name, age, contact information and physical description; and the date, time and place of the alleged incident.
Then the hard part began: the details about the rape itself. Describing the intimate details of Ben’s assault was difficult, but I did the best I could. I also told him about the rape kit exam, Ben’s confrontation with Trey in the hallway the next day, the word “BITCH!” on my bathroom mirror, and the restraining order.
Officer Jensen left me for about ten minutes and returned with Detective G. Switzer, a stocky older man with short gray hair and an assertive manner. He asked about my year-long intimate relationship with Ben, including the nature of alleged prior assaults (the so-called ‘rough sex’). He asked why I had not reported these incidents. He asked why I waited six months to report the alleged rape. I told him I’d been fearful of retaliation if formal charges were made—that I’d trusted the restraining order would be enough to keep me safe. He asked if I had accused any other man of rape. His questions made me feel defensive, like I was the one being accused of something.
When he was finished with me, Detective Switzer questioned Trey as to my physical and emotional condition on the night of the alleged rape. Trey answered honestly and in detail, describing that night and the ensuing weeks and months of my daytime fears and nighttime terrors. Trey admitted that I’d declined mental health counseling. He also admitted we were currently living together but denied an intimate relationship.
When the questions were finally over, Detective Switzer said he would conduct an investigation into my allegations, including a review of the forensic evidence (rape kit exam) and an interview with the alleged assailant.
“Will you arrest him first?” I asked. “Before you question him?”
“No. I need more facts before I can complete an affidavit and an application for an arrest warrant. The Lane County District Attorney’s Office will review the warrant application and may also want to interview you to determine if probable cause exists to justify an arrest.”
“I assumed Ben would be arrested based on what I’ve told you.”
“Ms. Larson, you’ve given me one side of this story. I need some evidence, and I need to hear his side. That’s how the process works. I’ll move as quickly as I can, but this could take several days. I’m sure the restraining order will keep you safe in the meantime.”
Three days later, I was summoned to the Lane County District Attorney’s Office for an interview regarding Detective Switzer’s application for an arrest warrant pursuant to his investigation. I was ushered into the spacious office of District Attorney Anne Richards, who indicated a chair in front of an expansive desk that held nothing but a computer.
A slim, attractive brunette with shoulder-length hair and perfect teeth behind an artificial smile, Ms. Richards wasted no time on small talk. “Ms. Larson,” she began, “I’m sure you know what this is about.”
I nodded.
“Detective Switzer has completed his investigation into your complaint against Bennett William MacAllister III, in which you allege he assaulted and raped you in your apartment on the evening of last December 14th. Detective Switzer has submitted an affidavit outlining the evidence found in his investigation, along with an application for an arrest warrant for my review. I reviewed the documents this morning and must decide whether probable cause exists to arrest Mr. MacAllister, and whether the evidence is sufficient to prove his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. This decision is a responsibility I do not take lightly, which is why you are here today.”
I nodded again as she summoned an assistant, who prepared to take my statements after placing me under oath.
“I must tell you,” the DA continued, “that rape cases are difficult to prosecute and even harder to win, and acquaintance
rape is the hardest of all. My office does not have the time or resources to take on cases we have little chance of winning, so I am meticulous in deciding whether to file charges and what charges to file. If I decide to file charges in this case, a judge will determine whether probable cause exists to arrest Mr. MacAllister and bring him to trial. Are you with me so far?”
“Yes.”
“All right. You were thoroughly questioned by Officer Jensen and Detective Switzer, and I don’t wish to be repetitive. However, I do need clarification on certain matters. You were in an intimate relationship with Mr. MacAllister for how long?”
“One year.”
“During that year, how often did you have consensual sex?”
“Approximately four times a week.”
“So about two hundred times during that year?”
“Yes.”
“Was it pleasurable for you?”
“For the most part, except when he got too rough.”
“What do you mean by too rough?”
“Bites, slaps, spankings—usually when he was angry for some reason and wanted to punish me. But he always apologized afterwards and promised not to do it again. And I always hoped he’d keep his promise.”
“Is that why you didn’t report these incidents?”
“Yes.”
“How was the incident on December 14th different from the prior ones?”
“The severity of it. He was very angry because I was late getting home. I was afraid he’d hurt me if he had sex with me, so I told him ‘no’ several times, but he wouldn’t stop. He forced me and it hurt so much . . .”
“All right, Ms. Larson. I’ve read your account of the incident. But my question is this: Why did you not report the assault to the police that night? Why did you wait six whole months to come forward?”
“I was afraid of what Ben would do to me. Not just physically, but in other ways. His family is wealthy and influential, with a whole team of lawyers working for them. Ben threatened to ruin my reputation. He said no one would believe me, and I would lose everything.”
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