by Chessy Prout
I didn’t appreciate at the time how lucky I was that Cinny had overheard Dad’s anguish on the airplane and stepped up to help. Most victims of cyberbullying have no clue where to turn when online haters destroy their lives and reputations. Eric cut through red tape that most victims of cyberbullying wouldn’t know exists—much less know how to navigate.
I had people at the highest levels fighting for me and the majority of the sites eventually vanished. But in those weeks after the trial, I felt so unsafe, like no one could protect me. Not my parents, not the police, not the courts. No one.
When I returned to start my junior year at CSN, I struggled with how to resume my place at school. I felt like I was in limbo in my classes, my church, my community. I wondered how many people knew about the trial. And if they knew, did they support me?
My best friend Arielle told my friends not to talk about the trial unless I brought it up first. I tried to keep up a faux-normal demeanor during the day. But without warning, pitch black would suddenly seize me. Triggers were everywhere, from people who looked like Owen to stories on the Internet about sexual assault.
Dad attempted to buoy my spirits. He put together a pink scrapbook with messages of support I’d received, the psalms we read together in the morning before trial, and other inspirational quotes: “I never knew a real hero until my daughter became one.”
In mid-September, Dad shared a letter with me that appeared in the Hartford Courant. A man named Charlie Pillsbury, a 1965 graduate of St. Paul’s, was thanking me for helping to expose the school’s culture of male hierarchy and domination: “St. Paul’s has always had its dark Lord of the Flies side.”
Finally. A St. Paul’s graduate willing to stand publicly by my side and call out the school. And a man in his late sixties! Cracks were starting to appear in the wall of silence that had surrounded me since my assault.
A few weeks later Mr. Pillsbury wrote an opinion piece for the Courant titled, “The Courage to Confront My Boarding School Burden.” He explained in more detail why my case hit him so hard: one night during his freshman year at St. Paul’s, two schoolmates entered his dorm room. While one boy pinned him to the bed, the other sexually abused him.
“You can’t believe it’s actually happening to you, and then you can’t admit that it did, even to yourself. I didn’t tell anyone,” Mr. Pillsbury wrote. “It took my reading about this young woman’s remarkable moral courage and strength to report her assault at St. Paul’s to break the seal for me.”
I couldn’t believe he was crediting me, a sixteen-year-old high school junior. Maybe all the pain I’d endured wasn’t pointless after all. Mr. Pillsbury said he’d paid a high emotional price for his world-class education, and it angered him that students were still paying that price. He demanded that St. Paul’s confront the school’s culture of male entitlement and the power dynamic that undergirds sexual abuse.
“St. Paul’s must do better by its students,” he wrote.
My heart hurt for Mr. Pillsbury. I couldn’t imagine keeping my sexual assault a secret from my family and friends for half a century. I think I would have crumbled under the immensity—succumbing to bad coping mechanisms, reckless attempts to reclaim my sexuality, and who knows what else.
Mr. Pillsbury’s article got me thinking: If he was able to come forward after reading about an anonymous sixteen-year-old girl, what would happen if I put a name and face to my story? Could I help more people? Would the good outweigh the bad? Maybe, just maybe, I could find the strength to do even more.
I heard rumblings that Owen’s lawyers were trying to protest the felony computer charge, saying it was overreaching. He’d plotted online for months to “pork” me, put my name in all capital letters on two separate score lists, and lured me with emails and Facebook messages to a locked mechanical room to “slay” me. Wasn’t it obvious?
I generally shunned media coverage of my case because it instantly took me back to the dark room and the cold concrete floor. I never wanted to hear or see or think about Owen Labrie ever again. I refused to say his name. He wasn’t a person to me. He was an it, a thing. And hopefully it would rot in jail.
But before I could dead-bolt him out of my brain, I needed to write a victim impact statement for his sentencing scheduled at the end of October. I had attempted this torturous task a year ago before he backed away from a plea deal that would have kept him off the sex offender registry.
I loathed acknowledging—in public—how the crime had changed me, the things I tried to hide each day. The ways I anxiously picked the skin off my fingers until they bled. How I bruised my legs when I punched myself to stop the panic attacks. I still dissociated, feeling evicted from my own body. Nausea greeted me each morning. Showering scared me. I hated being alone and having to touch my naked body.
If anything, the trial gave me new wounds to nurse. Learning how Owen and the Slayers had plotted against me for months made me paranoid that others were doing the same. But as raw as I felt, the trial was a necessary part of my healing process. There was no alternative to justice.
Lucy wrote her own impact statement while she was at Georgetown, and Uncle Bernie read it at the hearing. I was proud of Lucy for showing vulnerability and standing up with me against Owen. I was thankful that she decided to call out the nefarious culture at St. Paul’s rather than deny it like everyone else seemed to do.
“It was not the easy way out for anybody in my family,” Lucy wrote. “My sister knew coming forward would not be a popular choice. In fact, it would have been easier to have the public perception that she had lost it to a senior boy. At St. Paul’s where scoring is constantly talked about, she would have seemed older and had a cool story to tell. Instead, she did the hard thing; she told the truth.”
The collateral damage was enormous. Everyone in our family paid the price. Dad lost his job. Christianna had to move countries and schools again. Mom lost friends. Lucy lost the remains of the community she thought she had at St. Paul’s. Rape is a crime that affects more than just the victims; it hurts everyone who loves them.
I decided to videotape my statement. I had a life and a new school year to worry about. I couldn’t bear breathing the same air as Owen in that wretched courtroom for one second longer. But I still wanted the judge to hear my voice, to see my face, to look into my swollen eyes.
My parents rented video equipment and we set it up in my headmaster’s conference room at CSN. I spoke from my reservoir of pain: “What he did to me made me feel like I didn’t belong on this planet and that I would be better off dead.”
I sniffled through tears for twenty-three minutes and stressed that my pursuit of justice was not just for myself: “It came to my attention only after I was assaulted and taken advantage of and violated by this young man to realize that and to be told that he’s done this to so many other young women. And I am so, so frightful that he’s going to do this again.”
My friend Lilly texted before the sentencing and asked if she should attend with Catie. I was annoyed with her and Catie after seeing some of the people who’d bullied and ostracized me appear recently in their Snapchat stories. Lilly and I were always really honest with each other, so I decided to vent.
Me: I mean like it sucks (for me at least) to have to see you and sally together, and harry and catie all over eachother, even though they have made my life and others’ hell.
Lilly: I see what you mean
Are you upset with us?
Me: I get you guys are moving on and stuff but it still hurts. I also don’t want you guys to be manipulated by them.
I knew I was being a bit sensitive and paranoid, but I had lost the ability to trust people. I had been stabbed in the back too many times.
Lilly tried to ease my mind.
Lilly: Let us help you get through it chess
Me: Thank you lilly. I’m sorry for being confusing and calling you out on minor things
Lilly: Of course I love you so much chess
Please never fo
rget that
Shortly before the sentencing hearing, Catherine submitted a memo to the judge and attached a new trove of vile Facebook messages between Owen and Malcolm Salovaara. They were meant to show Owen’s callous attitude toward young women and sexual intimacy, and his complete disregard for the age of consent. Dad stayed up all night revising his statement to include Owen’s grotesque words.
In one message Malcolm aptly described Owen’s seduction techniques in all caps as “THE LEBREAZY SLEAZY METHOD.”
Owen: feign intimacy
then stab them in the back
THROW EM IN THE DUMPSTER
i lie in bed with them
and pretend like i’m in love
After egging Owen on to “break the slaying records,” Malcolm turned his attention to me and Lucy in March 2014—two months before my assault.
Malcolm: You slayin both Prouts in one night?
Owen: that’s the plan now that i’m in to schools imma do absolutely whatever
When a girl turned down Owen’s advances in late April, he complained to Malcolm.
Owen: fucking hate forbidden fruit
Malcolm: Why’d she deny bro?
Owen: dunno
Malcolm: Other girls tell her too
Owen: probably
fuckin hate girls so much
Malcolm: bro
Owen: another dumb cum-bucket struck from my nut sucking, suck it slut, slut fucking bucket list.
Owen described the last line as “poetry,” apparently quoting the comedian Bo Burnham.
Malcolm: this is amazing
On April 29, 2014—one month before my attack—Owen and Malcolm talked about girls as young as twelve and fifteen and made references to junior boarding school.
Malcolm: HER PREPUBESCENT BUM
Owen: LOVE IT
Malcolm: MCCARTHY AND I ARE GONNA BE BAILIN YOU OUT OF JAIL
We’d learned Patrick McCarthy was another member of Slayers Anonymous. He’d been one of Lucy’s friends, someone who’d stayed in an apartment our family had rented in Tokyo. According to Catherine, Owen and his buddies had relished their traditions, including passing around stolen keys, a papier-mâché slaying mask, and templates for Senior Salute invites.
It was beyond hideous. Owen was actually joking about stabbing girls in the back and throwing them in dumpsters. He was laughing about murder! I wished all this information had made it into the trial. I still couldn’t believe that Owen had pulled the wool over the jury’s eyes and gotten off so easy. He deserved to be put away forever if he wasn’t going to get help or acknowledge what he’d done.
Uncle John, Dad’s eldest brother, stayed with Christianna and me while Mom and Dad traveled to Concord for the sentencing. I came home from school early because I feared having a panic attack in front of my classmates.
Uncle John sat on the living room couch with his iPad and plugged in his earbuds.
“Your parents told me not to let you watch this today,” he said protectively. “So I’ll watch it and give you highlights, okay?”
I rolled my eyes and observed Uncle John’s reactions: cringing at the victim impact statements, laughing at Owen’s stupidity, nodding in agreement with Judge Smukler. Lilly texted some updates from the courtroom as she sat with Dylan and Catie.
Eventually I found the strength to watch Judge Smukler on YouTube when my parents came back from the sentencing.
“This was not consensual. You did not take the time to get to know the victim to know whether what you were doing was something that she wanted or didn’t want,” Judge Smukler said, his arms folded across his chest. “It may have been a consensual date in the sense that the victim went with you willingly, that’s clear. I’m not saying that she didn’t, but she never—I don’t think you can infer that she consented to the sexual penetration.”
Judge Smukler believed me. He understood what had happened in that mechanical room. To hear those words, that a man of the law knew that Owen was a lying rapist, helped restore some of my faith in the justice system. But unfortunately, Judge Smukler could not punish Owen for the more serious crimes.
This outcome devastated me. Everyone tried to explain that juries often compromise by “splitting the baby.” They convict defendants of some crimes, like a misdemeanor, and not more serious felony charges that could put them behind bars for years. But if the jury didn’t believe Owen’s underlying defense—that he didn’t have sex with me—then how could they believe anything else he said? If it was clear enough to the judge, why didn’t the jury have the guts to uphold the law? It seemed like the system was rigged.
“So you did and are denying till you die,” Judge Smukler told Owen. “And in some ways, I mean you’ve been successful, and in some ways you’re a very good liar.”
Then he sentenced Owen to a year in jail and several years of probation. He would have to register as a sex offender, but he’d get to remain free on bail while his lawyers appealed the verdict. I’d waited thirteen months for a trial, and two months for the sentencing, and now, who knew how many more years I’d have to wait for the appeals process to play out? When I started this journey, I never envisioned the case dragging on through my college career. At every junction, the rights of the perpetrators trumped the rights of victims. When would this nightmare ever end?
On the morning of Owen’s sentencing, Mr. Hirschfeld read a prayer in chapel at St. Paul’s. The prayer was submitted by a girl named Mac—a known supporter of Owen’s who I’d snapped at in the lobby of the courthouse during the trial.
On this day, let us remember those who may have fallen into darkness. Let us recognize their pain, and let us remember the strength of each individual heart. Let us, with these hearts full and swinging, gift unto those weary ones, that light which we can see so far above us. Let us help them home. Let justice reign.
Justice my ass.
While we waited for the verdict, I read letters from supporters as Catherine, the prosecutor (below), Aunt Blair, Uncle Bernie, and Mom gathered around the table. Encouraging words from strangers and small acts of kindness, like this Lokai bracelet from my friend Mandi, helped give me strength during the trial.
I wanted to resume a normal life, but days later, Internet trolls posted hate sites. They included my name, address, and pictures stolen from my social media accounts, including this photo of me and Lucy taken in Japan (above).
When we got home to Naples, Christianna gave me one of her signature koala hugs.
SEVENTEEN
New Normal
I had counted on volleyball being my major stress release after the trial, spiking the ball with teammates that I’d been playing with since middle school. But after missing the first two weeks of practices and games, I sat on the bench for the rest of the season.
I needed another outlet, so I threw myself into singing for our annual Christmas show. My friend Elsa and I convinced our theater director to let us arrange and perform “Winter Song” by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson.
We wore burgundy-colored dresses and perched on two tall stools in the center of the stage with a pianist and a violinist behind us. The bright lights turned the audience into a sea of blackness. Sitting up there in my long dress, hair pulled to the side, I felt beautiful. Singing a beautiful song, in a beautiful place, I didn’t care what people thought of me. I wasn’t an anonymous “victim” or “accuser” onstage. I sang as if I would never have the chance to again.
The lights went down at the end of the performance, and Elsa and I squeezed hands before carrying our stools off the stage. She understood.
The day after Christmas, my family flew up north to visit Grandma Prusaczyk and Aunt Blair. Aunt Blair had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and Grandma’s health had deteriorated after a long battle with Parkinson’s.
We visited Grandma at a hospital and talked for a bit, catching her up on our lives. The last time I’d seen her, she was still able to boss Mom around, but now she was confusing Mom with her roommate
in college and was asking for Grandpa, who had died eight years earlier.
“Chessy was in a show last month and she sang this beautiful song,” Mom said as she wiped tears off her face.
Lucy and Mom prodded me to give Grandma a rendition. So there, under the hospital’s harsh lights, I softly sang.
We all cried. We tucked Grandma into her bed before we left, Lucy and I knowing that this might be the last time we’d see her. How do you say good-bye forever?
Mom made another trip in mid-January when Grandma was transferred to hospice. I didn’t like thinking about all this sickness. I tried to bury myself in studying for the SATs that weekend. I’d always been a good test taker but my grades had slipped after the trial. There was so much work to catch up on, and I was in over my head.
I walked out of the SATs bleary-eyed, my brain drained.
I pulled my silver VW bug into the garage, flung off my flip-flops, and walked barefoot across the slippery white floor. I saw Dad sequestered behind the glass doors in our family office with the phone to his ear and his forehead pressed against his palm. Something was wrong.
I found Christianna upstairs, cleaning her room.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Why is Dad in the office? Is Grandma okay?”
“I don’t know,” Christianna said. “He was talking about Uncle Ron.”
I bounded down the stairs and knocked on the door, heart racing.
Dad lifted his head and waved me in. He was fighting back tears, his eyes rimmed red.
“Sweetie, Uncle Ron died,” Dad said.
I sat down on the small couch next to Dad and hugged him. I wasn’t used to seeing him cry. He was always the rock in our family. But this was too much. Uncle Ron was one of his best friends.
Christianna snuck in from the hallway and curled up with us on the couch. Dad had more calls to make, so Christianna and I moved to the living room and lit the fireplace. I stared at the dancing orange flames and thought about everything Uncle Ron had told me. About looking for a bigger meaning, pushing out of my frequency, changing lives.
