by Chessy Prout
Laura arranged for us to meet in Washington, DC, during a family visit to Lucy at Georgetown. She brought along an attorney she had worked with, Steve Kelly, who had spent his life fighting for victim rights after his eldest sister, a young mother of two, was brutally raped and murdered when Steve was fourteen.
Mom gave me some articles about their careers to peruse on the plane. I was overwhelmed; they seemed like such impressive people, who had endured way more than I had. Why would they want to help me?
My hands began sweating, an annoying family trait, as I walked into the hotel room. I spotted Laura, a petite brunette, and Steve, a boyish-looking lawyer in a suit. I stuck out my hand but Laura asked me for a hug. We both started to cry. This was the first time I had met another survivor in person. My family always tried their best to be supportive, but they didn’t know what it was like to be a victim of sexual assault, particularly acquaintance assault, and to live each day battling guilt and shame.
I could see by the look in Laura’s eyes that she understood me and the messy aura surrounding me. Finally, I was not alone. Laura had trouble getting out words, so Steve took up the mantle.
“Chessy, we’re so incredibly impressed by your strength and your willingness to come forward,” Steve said.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for all that you do. I’m so grateful that you might be able to help.”
I let Mom and Dad discuss details while I took Christianna to the Georgetown Waterfront Park, where we galloped along the Potomac River and then admired cherry blossom trees near the Lincoln Memorial. It reminded me of how we used to dance on the carpet of pink petals at Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden in Tokyo. After being failed by so many adults at St. Paul’s, it was uplifting to see Laura and Steve willing to fight for me and my family and this cause. It was an introduction to a new world. And it inspired me.
I was sitting in Mr. Rochette’s classroom at CSN, surrounded by giggling, gabbing freshmen. I had missed the required freshman health class while I was at St. Paul’s and had no choice but to take it as a sophomore. The course was intense, focusing on drunk driving and sports medicine. But it barely scratched the surface on issues that kids really needed to talk about, such as consent and healthy relationships.
Some days I felt like my education was going to shit. I was pissed that I couldn’t take Japanese or music anymore. It sucked changing courses and schedules halfway through the year. I felt like I was being punished for being a victim. And I was going full angsty teenager about it.
The assignment that day in health class was to write a letter to our graduating selves. I rolled my eyes and looked around at the fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds. They laughed so easily, so carefree. I wished they could appreciate their innocence. I put my head on the desk. Eventually I picked up a pen and started writing a mix of questions and advice for my graduating self.
Dear Me,
. . . No matter how much you might feel the world would be better without you, you are wrong. I hope I never have to feel that way again. I also hope to be a size 2 and under 135 pounds but living is a gift in itself. . . . Did I have to go to trial? Was I as sturdy as I hoped to be? Well if I made it here to read this today, I must have done/followed something right . . . Make a difference. Be sure of yourself, be kind and compassionate and patient with others, but also let others see and respect you for who you really are. . . . Is my momma a published author yet? Am I a published author yet? . . . Have I burst out of my bubble yet?
Love,
Chessy of 2015
I folded the letter with two creases and slid it into an envelope with CSN’s circular blue logo on the upper left-hand corner. I put my name and phone number in the front and got chills down my spine when I wrote Class of ’17.
I wanted to return to Cat Island in the summer, but Mom and Dad encouraged me to enroll in a language immersion program in France. They worried Cat Island might be too intense.
I had studied French in middle school and picked it up again when I returned to CSN. It seemed easier than starting over with a new language. But I didn’t anticipate how gross it would feel to speak it. It transported me right back to the assault: using Google Translate to understand Owen’s stupid messages and to help with the dumb notes I wrote back.
Chessy, French is a language, for God’s sake, I scolded myself. He can’t take away something as universal as a language.
I decided to reclaim something that had once been mine. I signed up for a monthlong excursion. I’d get home two weeks before the trial.
Mom and Dad planned a visit to New York City so we could spend time with our extended family before I left. Mom was most excited about taking us to the French bistro where she’d met Dad for their first date. We sat at a cozy table upstairs on an indoor balcony and devoured endless baskets of crusty bread. I had a bad habit of ignoring my gluten allergy.
Mom and I spent a few hours touring Barnard College and Columbia University. I didn’t have much interest in Columbia after reading all the stories about Emma Sulkowicz dragging her mattress around to protest the university’s failure to expel the student she reported had raped her. The news was saturated with scary accounts of sexual assault on colleges and institutions that turned their backs on victims like St. Paul’s did to me.
I really liked the idea of an all-girls school such as Barnard, but I needed to make sure that the empowerment they promised was a reality and not just a selling point in their brochure. I’d had enough broken promises at St. Paul’s.
“Are you certain you won’t consider Georgetown?” Dad asked. “Lucy loves it and I had a great time there.”
“No way in hell,” I said. “Sorry. But I followed you guys once, and look where that left me. I’m going to make my own way.”
I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. I was about to apologize when I looked up and saw Dad smile with a twinge of sadness behind his eyes. He understood.
Uncle Ron was in New York City and wanted to do a reading for me before I left for France. I was nervous. What would he say? Would it make me feel better or worse?
I hadn’t seen Uncle Ron since I was six, when he came over to our house in Tokyo for dinner and gave me and Lucy an iPod Nano to share, our first piece of technology. I remembered him being larger than life: big with a huge grin and a loud bellowing laugh, always dressed in black from head to toe.
He hadn’t changed a bit when he walked into the Grand Hyatt Hotel. We chatted downstairs with Dad before Uncle Ron took me up to his room for the reading. I had barely spent any time with this man, but I felt safe with him. He knew more about my struggles at St. Paul’s than many of my blood relatives. I didn’t think Uncle Ron could help necessarily; I just wanted something to hope for—a reason to care about my future.
Stale cigarette smoke wafted over me as I followed him into a dimly lit room. We sat down in chairs facing each other, and Uncle Ron placed a deck of cards on the wood table between us.
“Oh, we’re not going to use these. That’s not what I do.” He chuckled, and pushed the cards to the side.
Then he pulled out a pack of Marlboros. “Do you want one?” he asked as he lit a cigarette.
“No, thank you,” I said as I folded my hands on the table.
“Good girl. But I won’t tell your dad if you want to smoke.”
“That’s okay,” I laughed. “I don’t smoke.”
Uncle Ron and I talked for an hour about everything from health issues to job prospects. He saw me doing writing or acting in the future and said I could use my story to change the world. I would be more than a victim or a survivor.
“Look for a bigger meaning, Chessy. Push out of your frequency,” Uncle Ron said. “You’re going to change millions of lives.”
Millions of lives? No way. Besides, I had no idea how to make a difference. But I took his words as a sign to keep fighting for justice.
When we met up with Dad in the lobby, Uncle Ron repeated an offer he had made during the reading: “Alex, I know people
who can make certain people disappear. Just let me know and I’ll make the call.”
“Okay, we’ll keep that in mind.” Dad chuckled. “But for now, we’re putting our faith in the court system.”
Dad and I couldn’t stop giggling as we walked arm in arm uptown toward Grandma Prout’s apartment. Mom was going to get such a kick out of that.
FOURTEEN
August 2015
I returned from France with a few new pounds of Nutella weight but I felt lighter in my heart. C’était très magnifique to be by myself in a foreign country and learn the language. I was able to study, to accept, to be unsure at times, and to keep trying again and again. My confidence soared.
I hoped it was the boost I needed to get me through the trial. But then Mom knocked on my bedroom door. She sat down on my white comforter and fidgeted nervously with her diamond engagement ring.
“Chessy, I’m not sure how to say this, but a private investigator visited Christianna’s third-grade teacher and he came back to visit Arielle’s house today.”
Nerves sliced my stomach. This couldn’t be good.
“Why? What did he say?”
Mom hesitated.
“He asked some pretty terrible questions,” Mom said without looking up. “Like, are you promiscuous? Do you lie a lot? Are you a drama queen?”
The investigator told Arielle’s father that he was an ex-police officer from New England and was working on an out-of-state criminal case. Arielle’s father took his card and also snapped a photo of his blue pickup truck before telling the sketchy bald dude with a hoop earring to get lost.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I groaned.
“No, sweetie, I’m not,” Mom sighed.
I mashed my face in the pillows and tried to suffocate the thought.
Naples had been my last remaining haven. Now Owen was injecting his toxic venom where we lived to poison what community remained for us. His message was clear: you’re not safe anywhere.
I saw these as dirty tactics meant to intimidate me days before the trial. This intrusion violated me over and over again. Every time I walked past a window, I worried somebody was watching me, hidden behind a bush with a giant zoom lens.
I was afraid to leave the house, but Mom had scheduled a meeting at CSN to tell my teachers and volleyball coach that I would be missing the start of school. I shuffled into a conference room with Mom and Dad and peered out at the circle of adults facing me. We had talked about this moment, about how I would explain that I had to return to Concord for a trial because I was the victim of a crime. But I kept my lips sealed. Dad sat quietly by my side as Mom filled the awkward void. Her words pierced me like icicles.
“Chessy was sexually assaulted last year by a senior boy at St. Paul’s. It was part of a horrific school tradition known as the Senior Salute,” Mom said. “And now she is testifying against her attacker in a trial in New Hampshire.”
I’d never agreed to share that I was a victim of a sex crime. I was desperate to keep those two worlds separate. But the words flew out of Mom’s mouth faster than I could process: the assault, the bullying, the rejected plea offers, the fund-raising for Owen’s defense, the private investigator.
Mom had sucked all the air out of the room; everyone sat in stunned silence. Two of my female teachers teared up. Mr. Phimister, an English teacher who I’d never met before, couldn’t even look at me. Oh my God, these men aren’t going to understand anything This is the end of me here and now I’ll be ostracized just like I was at St. Paul’s.
I glared at Mom and cut her off before she could do any more damage.
“I don’t want this to change anything for me in the classroom. I don’t want any special treatment,” I said, trying to remain calm and collected. “The reason we asked for this meeting is so I can get all my homework for the next couple of weeks.”
I refused to speak to Mom until we got near the car.
“Why did you have to say ‘sexual assault’?” I lashed out. “You’re being overly dramatic! Why would you tell them? You knew I didn’t want to tell them!”
Mom began to cry.
“Chessy, why are you saying this? Why are you being so rude?” Dad demanded.
“I thought you wanted me to tell them.” Mom wept. “They should know the hell you’re going through. And don’t talk to me like that, young lady!”
We drove home in silence and I stormed upstairs. I tried to fall asleep to the afternoon rain pelting the terra-cotta roof. Mom knocked on the door a little while later.
“Chess, honey, I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I thought we agreed we’d tell them what happened, and you weren’t saying anything, so I wanted to help you out. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I couldn’t stay mad at Mom for long. She was the protective netting underneath me, ready to catch me at all times. She never blamed me for what happened; never questioned why I went on the Senior Salute or why I didn’t fight back. She was always checking my emotional thermometer—sometimes a little too often—to make sure that I was okay.
In that meeting at CSN, Mom had finally found a group of adults who were willing to listen to her, who looked her in the eyes and acknowledged that we had been wronged by St. Paul’s.
Mom had so few people to count on these days. She zealously tried to protect my privacy, so most of her close friends and extended family didn’t know about the assault. Even her own mother didn’t have the full story. All we had was each other. We had to stay united. I stood up and hugged Mom.
“I just don’t want my teachers to treat me differently,” I said as I burrowed my head into the crook of her neck. “But I know I’m not going to be able to catch up on my work so easily, and I’ll need some help. So thank you for talking to them. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
Waves of nausea rolled over me as we drove the seventy miles from Logan Airport in Boston to Concord, New Hampshire. We arrived a few days before the trial so I could do some prep work with the prosecution team. Mom and Dad stayed in the waiting room while I met with Catherine and Joe, the attorneys working on my case.
I told them about the private investigator invading my community in Naples and how threatening that felt.
“This isn’t going to be easy, Chessy,” Catherine said. “And it’s important to tell us up front if there’s something out there that we need to know about. That way we can do damage control.”
They wanted all my dirty laundry? No problem. I ticked off my personal scandals matter-of-factly: drinking with the rector’s son at St. Paul’s. Trying weed with a few boarding-school friends during a break in New York City. Sipping leftover wine when cleaning up after Mom and Dad’s dinner parties.
“And when I was in the fifth grade at Sacred Heart, a group of us used the library computers to chat with strangers,” I said emphatically. “I was writing lines from the movie Zoolander and we got in trouble.”
If I was brutally honest, maybe they’d find a reason not to move forward with the trial. But when I finished my list and glanced over at Catherine, she hardly looked startled.
Catherine was a no-nonsense kind of woman, always wearing her hair neatly pulled back and a string of pearls around her neck. She had worked as a dental hygienist before starting law school at age twenty-nine and had two kids by the time she landed her first job as a lawyer. Catherine seemed unflappable, not the least bit worried about facing off against a big-shot Boston attorney.
“Carney was Whitey Bulger’s lawyer, but Whitey Bulger is now in prison, so how did that go for him?” Catherine said of Carney’s infamous mobster client.
I liked her tenacity. I jotted down her tips for testifying in my spiral notebook.
Take my time . . . can take a break . . . Correct him (Carney).
At the bottom of the page I wrote in all caps:
TRUTH.
Then Catherine pressed a small figurine of a knight in shining armor into the palm of my hand.
“Chessy, it can get very diff
icult on the stand. I want you to have this knight in shining armor to hold when you’re up there,” she said. “I give this to all victims who testify. It’s something to protect you and to hold when you’re feeling stressed.”
“Thank you,” I said, and carefully placed the silver figurine in my pocket.
Catherine wanted to show me what the courtroom looked like and where I would sit for my testimony, so I followed her across the street to the Merrimack County Superior Courthouse, a drab yellowish-gray brick building.
When we exited the elevator on the second floor, we were quickly moved to the side because a man in shackles was being led away by a guard. I’d never seen a real prisoner before. Was that how Owen would leave the courthouse?
A bailiff let us into Courtroom 1. It was empty, with natural light streaming through the windows, casting a warm glow on the wood benches. It almost seemed peaceful. Catherine told me she usually lets victims sit in the witness stand before testifying. I eased into the maroon chair, grasped the cool metal microphone with one hand, and squeezed the knight in my pocket with the other.
You can do this, Chessy. It’s time for the truth to come out.
My parents rented a beige two-story colonial home on the outskirts of Concord in a wooded area that abutted St. Paul’s. It was large enough to accommodate me, Lucy, Mom, Dad, Grandma Prout, and Uncle Tom, Dad’s older brother, who had served as a history teacher and a Jesuit chaplain at Saint Ignatius Loyola School in New York City. Still, this was only a fraction of the entourage of extended family and friends who’d attend the trial.
The house had a charming wood porch, but it was a bachelor’s pad at best and devoid of basics like curtains. Mom launched into fix-it mode and took blankets off the beds and tacked them over the windows so we could have privacy. We were worried about people finding us, especially after the Associated Press wrote a story about the upcoming trial, propelling the case into the national spotlight.
