by Chessy Prout
We united in fear and fury over the justice system and the St. Paul’s community. It was hard to decide who or what was worse: the perpetrators or the people and institutions that protected them.
Allie reached out again once she returned to school, distraught that Hopper seemed to disregard instructions to stay away from her and that students at St. Paul’s were rallying around him. I shook my head as I read her message.
Allie: he seems more popular than ever and I just can’t understand why they want to associate with him?
In late February, Dad got a call from one of his inside sources at St. Paul’s. Owen had emailed current and former students trying to raise money for his defense, and his letter was spreading quickly across campus. Someone read Dad the email over the phone: Owen claimed he was “falsely accused” and was seeking $90,000 to keep fighting for his “innocence.” He had just fired another lawyer and backed away from a second plea offer.
Dad worked his network and got his hands on a copy of the letter and forwarded it to Catherine and Detective Curtin. Not only was it offensive that Owen was trying to manipulate sympathy for himself, but it also appeared to violate the judge’s order for Owen not to have contact with the St. Paul’s community.
Nothing could have prepared us for what happened next. Joshua Abram, the father of my friend Harry—the one who’d hugged me and promised support—forwarded Owen’s request to parents and alumni. Dad was conveniently left off the list, but his source emailed it along.
Mr. Abram asked for the St. Paul’s community to join him in donating money to hire J. W. Carney Jr., a high-powered criminal attorney who had recently represented Boston mobster Whitey Bulger and convicted terrorist Tarek Mehanna.
Dear fellow SPS parent,
. . . I feel that this star SPS student---recognized by the faculty with the school’s character award---deserves a robust and competent defense. . . . Cristina and I have already pledged $10,000 towards the $100,000 that is required to secure the very well regarded and experienced Boston lawyer, Jay Carney, that Owen would like to engage. . . . In speaking with fellow SPS families over the past 48 hours we already have commitments for about half of the required amount. . . . We hope that you will join the many other SPS families who feel that while the facts of this case can only be decided by a judge and jury, we can be united in the bedrock principle that Owen has the right to his day in court with a proper defense. . . .
Best,
Joshua
Ballistic. Mom, Dad, and I went ballistic behind the glass doors of our family office, curses flying out of our mouths like sharp knives. This was so outrageous, an unfathomable betrayal, the ultimate symbol of rape culture.
“Where are these people’s moral compasses?” I yelled. “How can they live with themselves, supporting this psychopath who RAPED ME!!!”
Jeez. I had finally said it. That was the first time I had uttered the word out loud.
“He raped me,” I whimpered as I collapsed into my parents’ arms and onto the couch.
I knew I had lost most of my friends, but now I felt like the entire St. Paul’s community was turning against me. And this was being spearheaded by my friend Harry Abram’s dad! It made no sense—especially after we’d just gotten news that Owen’s DNA was found in my underwear.
Mom and Dad fired off emails and texts to the police, the prosecutor’s office, and school officials.
While sitting in church on Sunday morning, Mom wrote an email to Mr. Hirschfeld. She and Dad had been pressing him for months to rescind the Rector’s Award and the diploma that Owen had received last year.
Mike,
. . . It is time to set the record straight. . . . In the absence of doing that thus far, you have let Owen Labrie wrap himself in the cloak of St. Paul’s school’s honors, and allow other people -- Mr. Abram and the coterie of parents defending a way of life that threatens their seedy world . . . to ignore what is known: that Owen Labrie was not deserving of the school’s highest awards and distinctions. . . . While you did not protect Chessy from circumstances in which the heinous acts Owen committed on May 30th, she deserves at the very least not to be abandoned by her now former community, but reached out to, and lifted up through this process, none of which has happened in any tangible way. . . .
Sincerely,
Susan
The next day Mr. Hirschfeld responded as usual: opaquely unsatisfying.
Dear Susan and Alex,
Yes, it’s time. We are working hard here with many to think through about how we can best show our support of Chessy and your family.
Sincerely,
Mike
Oh yeah? By doing what?
I never wanted to see or hear from Harry ever again, and I thought he wouldn’t have the audacity to reach out. I was wrong.
Harry: Chess
Me: What. What do you have to say that hasn’t already been said by your father?
Harry: Chessy i dont know what my dad has or hasnt said but i dont have anything to do with it. If you want to turn your back on a friend who loves you and has had your back through all of this, go ahead. I wont stop you.
Me: Are you telling me you haven’t seen your parent’s letter? I can send you a copy if you would like.
Harry: Of course i have chessy but explain to me how im responsible for what they say
Me: Your father, mother and brother have hired the fourth lawyer for the man who raped me. I cannot communicate with you any more.
Harry: Hello and goodbye mr prout.
That last line whipped me into a frenzy. He assumed Dad was writing him? Did he not think a girl could stand up for herself or be serious, God forbid?
“Look at this shit,” I said to Mom and Dad as I handed them my phone.
“Enough is enough. I’m calling Harry now,” I said. “Then he’ll know who he’s really dealing with.”
Mom and Dad made me write down a few bullet points, because they knew anything I said could end up in court. And they insisted on staying in the room in case things got heated. Mom and Dad perched on the couch in the office while I stood with my back to them in the corner by the cabinets.
I gritted my teeth as I dialed. The coward wouldn’t pick up—he let it go straight to voicemail.
My message was clear: that was not my father. I was capable of writing those words, of feeling betrayed by Harry and his whole family. Harry texted back. Was he too scared to hear a human voice? Would that make me too real?
Harry: You want to know what my first thought when i heard that message was? Not ‘fuck’ or ‘damn shes mad,’ it was ‘wow, its good to hear her voice. No matter the situation bc you were my friend and i love you. And i miss you. I understand your side of the story chess, I completely understand why youre upset at me but im not going to compromise my morals by just presuming hes guilty because you say so. I dont have the facts and i cant make that judgement, im neither god judge nor jury. Im your friend and the son of someone who believes that everyone has the right to a fair trial. I cant say i disagree with him, because when its your family’s 6 digit lawyer vs a public defender, the courtroom is no longer an even ground for facts to be presented . . . For you to penalize me for this is your choice and if thats what you want to do fine, but i wont apologize for my belief in the right to a fair trial, nor for parents vocalization of their similar views. I love you chessy, stay strong.
That was some seriously ignorant ass-backward mumbo jumbo. Our “6 digit lawyer”? You would’ve thought that someone would do his research before writing with such certainty. I had to set him straight for the last time.
Me: Harry, you are so far off base, I don’t even know where to begin. Our lawyer is called the district attorney. But i’m glad that your father got an Al Qaida and murder defender to defend this man, who, through all of this, has shown that he is on those criminal’s caliber. There is so much everyone is ignorant to, and it makes me sad that you are part of that group. I am asking respectfully, please do not communicate with me, be
cause I have nothing left to say to you.
Harry sounded like a scorned little boy who hadn’t gotten what he wanted. I was sorry if my friendship wasn’t good enough for him. This was not the Harry who I’d met freshman year. St. Paul’s had done to him what it did to most of the boys: turned them into aggressive, possessive jerks who never had to take accountability for their actions.
It soon became clear that there was no more negotiating with Owen. This case was going to trial. Catherine had warned us that the time between setting the trial date and the actual trial date was the period of hell. That’s where we were living. We had anticipated a spring trial, but the almighty Carney was too busy and asked for a delay. The judge granted the request and scheduled the trial for mid-August, timed precisely for the first day of my junior year. Perfect. Owen would ruin every year of high school so far.
Mom and Dad constantly huddled in the office, speaking in hushed voices so that Christianna couldn’t hear. I wanted to know everything and nothing at the same time.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Allie and the backlash she was facing at St. Paul’s. She reached out in April to let me know that Hopper had been arrested by the police. Finally, a bit of justice. But then she confessed that his arrest had only made matters worse at St. Paul’s.
Allie: the general consensus amongst the students right now is that I have lied about the whole thing . . . so a lot of people are very angry at me . . . But the only good thing that has come out of this is that he will no longer be on campus.
Me: I’m so glad that he is finally getting what he deserves. I hope that will serve as a reminder to people about how serious this stuff actually is . . .
The news of Hopper’s arrest broke a few weeks later in the Concord Monitor. As usual, the attacker was described in glowing terms: “a reported honors student and active member of the rowing team.”
I read the story while sitting in French class and scrolled to the bottom for the comments section. It infuriated me the way that the perpetrators were always portrayed as perfect, personable boys. And then the commenters consistently bashed the girls. I thought it was time to give readers some real facts. So I posted my own anonymous comment.
*update: Ronald “Hopper” Hillegass is not a beloved member of the St. Paul’s community; he was noted as a “strange, possessive” student by underclass and upperclass girls, and is rumoured to have suffered head wounds causing erratic violent behavior.
As soon as I clicked submit, my full name and Facebook photo appeared.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I muttered under my breath.
I hadn’t realized that my log-in for the Concord Monitor was connected to Facebook. I took a screenshot of my mistake before scrambling to delete it from the website.
Then I warned Allie about the online haters.
Me: I hope this brings some sort of “public justice” to you, although at the beginning of the press stuff, the comments don’t usually go our way. I hope the supposed “intellectually adept” student body is respectful towards you . . .
Allie: Hi Chessy! Thank you for your message. Things have been very difficult on campus—a lot of people are angry about the two articles and keep talking about how our two cases aren’t at all related and are not a reflection of the culture here, but instead are apparently a result of us being “attention seeking.” It makes me sick to my stomach that people can be so ignorant and say such hurtful things . . .
We had fallen into a pit of vipers. Getting second-degree burns from her boyfriend made Allie attention seeking? Reality check: Hopper would eventually reach a plea deal under which he was found guilty of a single violation of simple assault.
Allie wasn’t attention seeking. And the last thing I ever wanted was attention. Every single day, I desperately wished to return to the fifteen-year-old I had been on May 29, 2014. How could these people be so cruel?
THIRTEEN
Spring 2015
I pulled my covers tightly around my body each night, protecting myself from the pain and betrayal nipping at the edge of my cool white sheets. I had trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Why should I bother leaving my room when I didn’t know who I could trust anymore?
Mom and Dad always had my back, but I felt isolated from them, too.
I’d never explained to them about what had happened inside the mechanical room that night, the images that infiltrated my nightmares and haunted my days. The reasons why I sometimes recoiled from their touch and why no amount of showering ever made me feel clean. I didn’t feel like I could ask them for help. All I had was Dr. Sloane, and we had resumed our usual schedule of seeing each other once a week. I felt so alone.
Whenever Detective Curtin had questions for me in the middle of the day, Dad would drive down to my school and get permission for me to leave class. I’d sit in the car answering questions about my underwear while he paced the parking lot and plotted softball exercises.
Dad was now an assistant coach for the CSN girls’ softball team. He had planned to return to Invesco at the end of his unpaid leave, but the company fired him instead. I was so self-absorbed I didn’t realize it for months until I overheard Mom and Dad arguing over Invesco’s attempts to withhold years of earnings. How could Invesco do that? It seemed like Dad was being punished for taking time to be with his family. I felt sick thinking about how much everyone had lost because of me.
Dad insisted his unemployment was a good thing. I couldn’t digest how this was anything but terrible—and all my fault. Dad told me that there was nowhere he would rather be than with me on the grassy outfield of CSN’s softball diamond. To be honest, I didn’t want him anywhere else.
The girls on the softball team loved Dad. He had such an upbeat and encouraging approach that his suggestions never sounded like criticisms.
“You’re doing awesome,” he told Tia during batting practice. “Why don’t you put your elbow up a little higher and you’ll get so much more power?”
I felt like I had traveled back in time to my utopia in Hiroo, where Dad used to coach our T-ball league and Mom showed up with cucumber rolls and inarizushi in bulk to make sure no one went hungry. Sometimes I could forget about the assault for entire afternoons. Other days I pictured my attacker’s head on the ball as I smashed it with the bat.
During our drive home together, Dad let me swear freely, so I’d vent about everything from the assholes raising money for Owen to the ignorant kids at school who made jokes about rape.
Mom was more offended by my potty mouth and worried when I raged. She was the one I turned to for comfort. She helped me get through each day, rolling me out of bed, making my lunches, and gently pushing me out the front door. She tried her best to take my mind off the case by inviting guest after guest to stay with us in Naples.
Sure, it was a great distraction, but it was exhausting being “on” all the time. And how much was there to talk about with the adults, especially Mom’s friends? They were great people, but every question felt so loaded. How’s school? How are your friends? If I answered them honestly, I’d have to scrape their jaws off the floor.
“Everything’s great,” I’d say in a high-pitched voice, cocking my head to one side.
Some people can fake it until they make it. I couldn’t do that anymore. Pretending everything was fine made it worse, and no one knew that more than sweet Christianna. Ever since I’d come back to Naples, she wouldn’t let me out of her sight. Mom and Dad gave her a Disney version of what was going on: a boy hurt Chessy, and now she was home.
Christianna was always the first one to notice when I disappeared into my walk-in closet in the farthest corner of the house. That was my hiding spot when my muscles lit on fire and blinding white energy froze my veins. I’d squeeze my arms around my legs to keep my body from blowing apart. I’d try to make the panic stop by punching my legs or hitting my head with wooden hangers, the floor, whatever I could find. I needed to move the pain outside my body.
I was mid-punch when Christia
nna flung open the closet door after hearing my sobs from the other side of the wall.
“I’m sorry, I love you,” she said as she wrapped her arms around me.
I couldn’t respond.
“You’re going to be okay, Che Che,” she whispered, using one of our nicknames. She was my Nan. I was her Che Che. But when I was in that closet, I was nothing.
“I’m okay. I just need some space.” I gagged and rolled into a ball on my knees. She lingered by the door, afraid to leave me alone.
“Please!! Go!!” I screamed. I instantly regretted it as she ran away. My poor little sister, one more person hurt by Owen Labrie.
I tried my best to keep it together when Lucy came home for spring break with four of her friends from Georgetown. They seemed genuinely nice, and I was happy for Lucy. But seeing her move ahead with her life reminded me of how stuck I felt, how my world kept shrinking.
We never could just talk about what happened that night, so small issues smoldered—like my anger over her dirty laundry piling up in my room—until everything exploded and we found ourselves standing in a burning field of regret and shame.
I felt like I had betrayed Lucy. Making my own decision was the worst thing I’d ever done. How could I make it up to her?
“I’m so sorry, Lucy,” I pleaded. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Lucy said. “Stop apologizing.”
Lucy was getting angrier by the second and that just made me apologize even more. I couldn’t stop the vicious sorry cycle, so Lucy stormed off.
With the trial fast approaching, Mom and Dad searched for people to help guide us through the process. Detective Curtin suggested reaching out to a woman named Laura Dunn, a lawyer who’d recently spoken at a conference at the University of New Hampshire School of Law. Laura was a pastor’s daughter who reported that she was sexually assaulted in 2004 by two students at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. She later filed a Title IX complaint against the college for mishandling her case and had recently started an organization, SurvJustice, to provide legal help to survivors of campus sexual violence.
