Crash Into Me_ A Survivor's Search for Justice - Liz Seccuro [41]
Mike came into the kitchen and I could only point my finger toward the front door with fright in my eyes. Ava and I crawled underneath the kitchen table. I pretended it was a game and put my finger to my lips with an exaggerated “Shhhhhh …” She giggled and became a happy co-conspirator as we huddled together in our secret spot, pretending to hide from Daddy. I didn’t want to face the cameras; more important, I didn’t want anyone taking pictures of Ava. My first responsibility was to protect her.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I finally heard the door open and a bit of a scuffle with Mike’s loud voice echoing off the walls. He did not sound happy. Leaning out from under my table, I could spy a little throng of lights, cameras, and people. Mike was explaining that I would not be speaking to them, when I whispered to Ava that I would go “find” Daddy. At the door, Mike looked surprised, but I let loose on the little group.
“How dare you come here to a private citizen’s home, thinking we don’t know our rights? Turn that camera off! Does it really give you a ‘story,’ following a rape victim home? With her child in the car? Have some grace and class and get off my property.” The bunch backed away with some contrition, but not before trying to get a shot. I slammed the door. Then I calmly walked back into the kitchen where Ava was still hiding, and crawled in with her.
“Hey, Ava! It’s your turn to hide. Do you think you and Daddy can hide from me? I’ll count to one hundred!” She scampered off in her tiny sweater and jeans, looking for her dad.
Mike knew to keep Ava distracted and allow me some space. I stayed curled up under the table, sobbing, for over an hour. I felt violated, preyed upon. And that was only the first of many such encounters. That sort of violation is the very reason so many rape victims avoid going public. The last thing victims need is to lose their sense of safety in their own homes, after their personal and bodily safety has been so seriously compromised. For me, the strain caused flashbacks, and fresh panic attacks.
At this point Mike decided he needed to take some time off from work, to be with me and to help fend off the constant intrusion of the media. He tried to explain the gravity of the situation to his bosses at Bank of America—after all, it was front-page news. But they said they couldn’t spare him, a vice president of investment banking, given his heavy workload. After multiple meetings with various departments at the office, it was agreed that Mike could take a week off to help me acclimate, assuming he worked from home and took all conference calls related to his deals. On day three of his “leave,” Mike’s cell phone was buzzing nonstop. It was obvious that if he wanted to stay on good terms with Bank of America he needed to get back to the office. The corporate behemoth wasn’t much concerned with his or his family’s well-being. In the end, when the pressure of the case became too great, Mike took a less demanding job in the private banking sector so that he could spend more time with Ava and me.
As coverage of my case became even more widespread, our strict “no comment” policy became harder to maintain. It certainly wasn’t protecting us from the uglier side of the media. The producer of one tabloid television show called after my several refusals to be interviewed, saying, “You might as well be cooperative, because we’re running the story either way.” I again declined, but she was true to her word. That night, accompanied by photos of me they had somehow dug up, they ran the headline teaser “Did Rough Sex and an AA Apology Land This Man in Prison?” It was disrespectful, diminishing, and sickening.
I had decided before Beebe’s arrest that sharing my story could do some good, and I began to believe that again. With good reason, Claude Worrell had cautioned me about the risks of going public, but he understood the need to clear the air