Crash Into Me_ A Survivor's Search for Justice - Liz Seccuro [23]
If on Friday my biggest fear had been that the rapist would come to find me, by Saturday night my desire to confront him had become an obsession. My friends and I ordered pizza and sat in the hallway of my dorm. Girls were running in and out of the bathrooms, readying themselves for the night’s rush parties. I wished to God those girls wouldn’t go out at all.
I got up to go to the bathroom and Meg came with me—she hadn’t left my side since her arrival. We were washing our hands in unison, chatting away, when one of the girls came in, harried. Someone was in my room, she said. A friend? I bolted out of the restroom, Meg in tow, to see William Beebe and one of his buddies leaving my room. We locked eyes. Then they sprinted away down the hall, leaving me screaming after him. I noticed his jacket in his hands as he ran. As their footsteps retreated, I almost passed out with fear. How dare he come here without notice? How dare he come here at all? Then, I saw it.
In thick black marker, on my door, was scrawled in huge, loopy handwriting: “It is in your best interest to call me at 804.xxx.xxxx. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll call me. Sincerely, William Beebe.”
“Meg, get my camera. Get it now. Get a camera, someone get a camera.”
A photo wouldn’t protect me, but I felt I needed evidence. We took a snapshot of the door and his macabre note. What did he mean by that? Did he hope I would not report him? Had word gotten back to Phi Kappa Psi that I was telling people what had happened? My friends agreed that this was threatening. Now we were all scared. Our fear turned to indignation and anger as we decided, aided by some liquid courage and the egging on of others, to go to Phi Kappa Psi that night and strike back. I don’t know what we were thinking. I felt powerless, and we were all frightened, and we went to throw rocks through the glass panes of Phi Kappa Psi’s back door. We found the largest rocks we could throw and lobbed them at the house. They crashed through windows, glass shattering everywhere. No one came to stop us, so we kept doing it. No one noticed. I had come to fight back, to make him scared like I was. But even with all these allies, I had only proved myself powerless. Years later, watching the film Forrest Gump, I was reminded of that day. There is a scene where the character of Jenny, who had long been molested by her father, visits her childhood home and throws rock after rock, before crumpling to the ground, exhausted. Forrest, the idiot savant, sums it up: “Sometimes, there just aren’t enough rocks.”
I went home, still feeling vulnerable. In fact, Meg and I slept that night with a dresser shoved against the door and a chair under the handle, terrified that Beebe could come back. We slept fitfully, and when we awoke in the morning, Meg insisted I couldn’t live like this. I had to take it a step further and report it properly. My resident adviser, Stacey, was coming home that day from a weekend away. I would start by telling her.
Stacey was a fourth-year English major, who prided herself on her 4.0 GPA. She also took her job as RA very seriously. She was sassy, smart, and ruled with an iron hand. If anyone on the hall was caught drinking, smoking, or causing a disturbance, she’d be at their door in a heartbeat.
When Meg and I knocked on her door and said we had a confidential matter to discuss, Stacey was all business. I told her the whole story, even the incident with the rocks. Stacey acted as though she had heard this story before. She told me to wait in my room, that she had some phone calls to make.
That was it?
We went back to my room. We waited. A while later, Stacey knocked softly. She had phoned Dean Angela Davis to tell her the news. Would I speak with her? Of