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By Root 233 0

and tried to open it, but it was locked. I explained how Beebe had written the threatening note on the door in black marker. They thought perhaps current scientific testing could reveal the words that had been written even after all these years. I showed them the communal bathroom where I had showered, the hallway where I saw Beebe running with his friend after leaving the note and taking his jacket. I pointed out the names of friends who lived in each room and was amazed at my own power of recall. They took copious notes, jotting down every name and room number. They asked me if I could find these people on the alumni Web site and I said that I could.

Continuing our drive around campus, I pointed out the buildings that housed Dean Canevari’s office, Dean Todd’s office, the various libraries, dining halls, and bookstores. We drove to Chancellor Lane to see my sorority house, where Beebe had delivered the pizzas. The flood of memories was bittersweet, as this was a place I had loved.

Finally, we began our drive to the downtown Mall and the police department, a nondescript building at the very end. We walked into a large conference room, furnished with a large wooden table and a few file cabinets. I sat in a chair as they brought in soft drinks, notepads, and audio equipment. They asked if I was comfortable and if I was ready to tell what had happened to me that night in October 1984.

It had been twenty years since I had spoken about this night in such detail, from beginning to end. Telling it now, especially being back in Charlottesville, was the oddest sensation.

I asked for a piece of paper as I drew a layout of Phi Kappa Psi—the common rooms, the foosball table, the kitchen, the staircase, the second-floor room, the bar. I drew a rough diagram of the room in which I had been raped, mapping out the doorway, the bed, the loft, the sofa, the windows, the closet, the dresser. I drew myself as a stick figure on the bed and on the sofa where I had awoken.

In order to describe Beebe and some of the other brothers, I stood up and asked Detective Godfrey to stand in order to describe height and weight. I took off my high-heeled boots to demonstrate my own height. I could hear the clock on the wall ticking softly.

As we got to the minutes before the attack, I stood to pantomime the chair where Beebe held me down around my waist, the doorway where I was lifted by another brother into Beebe’s arms, and the padlocked door where I screamed and pounded for my friend Hud.

And then we came to the part where I had to describe the rape itself. I stumbled frequently, but their questions were calm and direct.

“Where was he touching you?”

“Did he penetrate you with his hands?”

“Did he penetrate you in other ways?”

“Yes,” I paused. Did I have to say it?

As if reading my mind, Rudman said, “Liz, I know this is difficult, but you have to tell us where he penetrated you.”

“He forced his penis and his hands into my vagina.” I started to cry. “I tried to fight him off, but he was so heavy and he was hurting me.”

I looked up and saw a tear rolling down Detective Godfrey’s face.

“Did you report this to anyone?”

They knew the answers, but they had to go on the record. I described my visit to the hospital, my talks with my resident adviser, and subsequent meetings at the dean’s office and with the university police.

My whole statement took over two hours. The story I had kept buried came pouring forth, the details fresh. People were listening to me, hearing me, and I would never be silent again.

“I think we have enough here,” said Rudman, clicking off the tape.

I got up to stretch and put my boots back on. Godfrey asked, “Do you have the letter with you?”

Digging in my purse, I offered the letter. He asked to keep it, and made me a photocopy before tucking the original into a file folder. Then, they asked me to sit down again.

Leaning forward, Detective Rudman asked, “Would you like to press charges against William Nottingham Beebe for your rape in October of 1984?”

With that question, a new journey would begin for me. The emotions