Crash Into Me_ A Survivor's Search for Justice - Liz Seccuro [8]
I begged him to help me. I broke my toe kicking on his door and I realized I was in trouble. I was not passed out during most of your attack upon me.
I don’t really understand your initial letter to me now. I thought you knew you had raped me and were trying to atone for it. I see now that your version is completely different. I remember every detail I possibly can, given the effects of whatever was in that drink given me.
I didn’t walk home. I went to the ER. What exactly are you then atoning for? I don’t have a cousin named Bob Malafronte, I can assure you of that. “We” did not wake up in the morning. I awoke wrapped naked in a bloody sheet while you were on your way out the door. As I recall, you were off to sell drugs, which I saw you take out of the top drawer of your dresser.
I do not understand any of this. I thought after all this time, you realized you had raped me and were apologizing. I trusted that your apology came from a good and honest place and I see this is not the case.
I send, and stumble back downstairs, to wrap myself in the comfort of the family gathering.
I wait three agonizing days for his reply, and, when I get it, it is only full of more half-truths. I have allowed the correspondence to go this far in order to finally make sense of the crime, and now I feel utterly dejected as I read his words. Is he talking about the same crime?
Dear Liz,
From what you write, I simply do not know what more I can tell you … I am sincere in my recollection, though it may not be the whole truth of what happened to you that night.
He writes that he was drunk, of course, but he doesn’t think so drunk as to not remember. He assures me that he was not selling drugs—he could only afford small amounts for his own use. He is confused that Bob Malafronte is not my cousin. I was from Yonkers, Bob was from nearby Bronxville.
Also he is a natural blonde, as I recall also you are.
That phrase, “natural blonde,” sets my eyes on fire.
He says he is “alarmed” by what I said happened to me, but that he believes what I said.
My lady friend in CA has asked that I ask God in prayer to reveal any facts as yet consciously unknown to me.
What I did to you, I did upon Matt’s bed. Only the street light afforded any vision.
This is torture. But I can’t let this e-mail be the last word. I want to let him know how much is clear to me all these years later. I know it is not helping anybody, especially not my family. Shamefully, I haven’t discussed with my husband the ongoing correspondence since we returned from the Hamptons, and he hasn’t asked. Can’t he tell something is wrong? He definitely looks at me with concern. Since he hasn’t told me to stop, I rationalize I can keep going, get more information. But he can’t tell me to stop something he does not even know is happening.
Dear Mr. Beebe:
To answer your questions …
1) I had never seen or used drugs before in my life, so perhaps the drugs you had on you that morning were just for personal use. I am recalling something you said.
2) I did know of a Brooke Malafronte from home. Bob is not my cousin. As I was sober, I don’t know how this translated. Brooke was a friend of a friend.
3) Jim Long was a dorm mate of mine, who was rushing your house. He asked me to be his date and I did not want to go. He desperately wanted to belong. He was sweet and funny and from Nashville. The other brothers upstairs took him away from me when I wanted to go home. I was lost and alone, waiting for him. These brothers then pretty much delivered me to you. He never pledged the house.
4) I could show anyone the room I was raped in. It is the room you describe. On the bed you described as Matt’s. I was moved to the sofa afterwards and wrapped in a sheet, where I awoke, bruised and bloody. I don’t know how much you weigh, but I was about 5'6" and 115 lbs. at the time, which explains my injuries.
5) I have no opinion about Hudson Millard. I remember he couldn’t save me or help me and I tried desperately to