Crash Into Me_ A Survivor's Search for Justice - Liz Seccuro [26]
Oh. Okay. I accepted what he said.
“So, who do we talk to?” I pressed.
“Well, certainly, given the seriousness of your allegations, I’m going to speak to the young man in question,” he said.
“Okay, and then what?”
“Have you been seen by a doctor?” he asked.
“The hospital ER wouldn’t see me, but I went to Student Health this morning.”
“And what did they say?”
“They didn’t say anything. They examined me. As you can tell, I’ve been roughed up.”
He squinted. “You do seem to have a bit of a bruise there.”
“I took pictures of all of the bruises. I know we’ll need some evidence, right?”
“Well, how far do you want to take this?” he asked.
“That’s why I’m here. To figure out my options.”
“Well, once I have a chance to interview the young man, you’ll have a variety of remedies. You can speak with Peer Sexual Health Educators, the university police, the chaplain—anything we can do to help you out. You might even choose to charge him via the Judiciary System.”
“Isn’t that run by students?” The student-run Judiciary felt a little like just more rock throwing. I wanted this to go to the proper authorities for criminal action.
“Well, there are a lot of options with Judiciary, but many of them are disciplinary and I think you’ll find the experience gratifying.”
I wasn’t so sure.
“Can you write down his name again? And are you absolutely sure he’s not your boyfriend? Things didn’t just get a little out of hand?”
I could not believe this guy. I chose not to answer. Instead, I asked, “What else should I do? Should we call the university police?”
“Here’s the way we like to do it here. First of all, like I said, the Charlottesville police don’t have jurisdiction over that house. But we do have our own university police, so we’re going to handle it internally. We like to take care of our own,” he repeated.
I’ll never forget that. We like to take care of our own; we like to handle things internally. What could I say to that? “I’ll talk to Beebe, and then you’ll want to call Dean Sybil Todd and she can help you report it to the university police,” he said, handing me a piece of paper with those phone numbers. At least it was a step up from the student Judiciary process.
Canevari leaned back, very cowboy-like and said, “I’ll talk to the young man and we’ll see where we go from there.” It was clear this meeting was over.
“Wait. Do you need my phone number?” I asked.
“I am sure I can find it, or Dean Davis will have it.”
At that moment I realized that he had not taken any notes in our meeting. Not one. I stood up to leave, then paused.
“Dean Canevari? I’d like to tell my parents myself. So, my one request is that they not be notified. They were opposed to me coming to college so far from home in the first place and this will just kill them.”
He nodded his head. Then he walked me to the door, shook my hand, and bid me good day.
I walked back home in a daze. I still hoped that Dean Canevari would see the gravity of the situation, that he would help take care of this and have William Beebe arrested.
I called Dean Canevari’s office frequently for the next week or so, each time getting a secretary and no return call. Complicating matters, my parents were expected to arrive in Charlottesville in less than two weeks for Parents’ Weekend. I didn’t know how I would face them. I wanted to tell them, but didn’t want to make them worry. And I didn’t know how to hide my obvious distress, which only grew with each passing day and unreturned phone call. In those weeks, instead of dressing up for classes, I began to wear jeans and sweaters, even though it was the height of the Virginia fall fashion parade. I cared less about my appearance. Instead of studying outside at the Amphitheatre, a popular gathering spot for those soaking up the last sun of the season and scoping out the opposite sex, I banished myself to the Cave, a smoke-filled bohemian enclave for philosophy students who listened to the Cure.
Dean Canevari finally called me back on the Thursday before Parents’ Weekend