Brock Turner, a Stanford University student was accused of raping a female in January of last year. He went to trial ad was found guilty. The presiding judge, Aaron Persky, handed down his sentence ... six months. Just six months, and many are saying it is likely he will serve only half of that.
During the trial, the victim was allowed to read an impact statement. It is a very long statement, but it is a powerful statement. It is heartfelt. It is gut-wrenching. It is very raw. It is very important reading. It is a statement about the impact everything has had on her; it will impact you, as a reader, as well.
I am printing the letter in its entirety. Part one of the letter is below, and part two will be in my next post (Part 2 of 3), which is also posted today.
Your honor,
If it is all right, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly.
You don’t know me, but you've been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.
On January 17th, 2015, it was a quiet Saturday night at home. My dad made some dinner and I
sat at the table with my younger sister who was visiting for the weekend. I was working full time
and it was approaching my bed time. I planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and
read, while she went to a party with her friends. Then, I decided it was my only night with her, I
had nothing better to do, so why not, there’s a dumb party ten minutes from my house, I would
go, dance weird like a fool, and embarrass my younger sister. On the way there, I joked that
undergrad guys would have braces. My sister teased me for wearing a beige cardigan to a frat
party like a librarian. I called myself “big mama”, because I knew I’d be the oldest one there. I
made silly faces, let my guard down, and drank liquor too fast not factoring in that my tolerance
had significantly lowered since college.
The next thing I remember I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on the
backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and was in an admin office on
campus. I was very calm and wondering where my sister was. A deputy explained I had been
assaulted. I still remained calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at
this party. When I was finally allowed to use the restroom, I pulled down the hospital pants they
had given me, went to pull down my underwear, and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of
my hands touching my skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The
thin piece of fabric, the only thing between my vagina and anything else, was missing and
everything inside me was silenced. I still don't have words for that feeling. In order to keep
breathing, I thought maybe the policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.
Then, I felt pine needles scratching the back of my neck and started pulling them out my hair. I
thought maybe, the pine needles had fallen from a tree onto my head. My brain was talking my
gut into not collapsing. Because my gut was saying, help me, help me.
I shuffled from room to room with a blanket wrapped around me, pine needles trailing behind
me, I left a little pile in every room I sat in. I was asked to sign papers that said “Rape Victim”
and I thought something has really happened. My clothes were confiscated and I stood naked
while the nurses held a ruler to various abrasions on my body and photographed them. The three
of us worked to comb the pine needles out of my hair, six hands to fill one paper bag. To calm
me down, they said it’s just the flora and fauna, flora and fauna. I had multiple swabs inserted
into my vagina and anus, needles for shots, pills, had a nikon pointed right into my spread legs. I
had long, pointed beaks inside me and had my vagina smeared with cold, blue paint to check for
abrasions.
After a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there examining my body beneath the
stream of water and decided, I don’t want my body anymore. I was terrified of it, I didn't know
what had been in it, if it had been contaminated, who had touched it. I wanted to take off my
body like a jacket and leave it at the hospital with everything else.
On that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially
penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for HIV because results don’t always show
up immediately. But for now, I should go home and get back to my normal life. Imagine stepping
back into the world with only that information. They gave me huge hugs, and then I walked out
of the hospital into the parking lot wearing the new sweatshirt and sweatpants they provided me,
as they had only allowed me to keep my necklace and shoes.
My sister picked me up, face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. Instinctively and
immediately, I wanted to take away her pain. I smiled at her, I told her to look at me, I’m right
here, I’m okay, everything’s okay, I’m right here. My hair is washed and clean, they gave me the
strangest shampoo, calm down, and look at me. Look at these funny new sweatpants and
sweatshirt, I look like a P.E. teacher, let’s go home, let’s eat something. She did not know that
beneath my sweats, I had scratches and bandages on my skin, my vagina was sore and had
become a strange, dark color from all the prodding, my underwear was missing, and I felt too
empty to continue to speak. That I was also afraid, that I was also devastated. That day we drove
home and for hours my sister held me.
My boyfriend did not know what happened, but called that day and said, “I was really worried
about you last night, you scared me, did you make it home okay?” I was horrified. That’s when I
learned I had called him that night in my blackout, left an incomprehensible voicemail, that we
had also spoken on the phone, but I was slurring so heavily he was scared for me, that he
repeatedly told me to go find my sister. Again, he asked me, “What happened last night? Did you
make it home okay?” I said yes, and hung up to cry.
I was not ready to tell my boyfriend or parents that actually, I may have been raped behind a
dumpster, but I don’t know by who or when or how. If I told them, I would see the fear on their
faces, and mine would multiply by tenfold, so instead I pretended the whole thing wasn't real.
I tried to push it out of my mind, but it was so heavy I didn't talk, I didn't eat, I didn't sleep, I
didn't interact with anyone. After work, I would drive to a secluded place to scream. I didn't talk,
I didn't eat, I didn't sleep, I didn't interact with anyone, and I became isolated from the ones I
loved most. For one week after the incident, I didn't get any calls or updates about that night or
what happened to me. The only symbol that proved that it hadn't just been a bad dream, was the
sweatshirt from the hospital in my drawer.
One day, I was at work, scrolling through the news on my phone, and came across an article. In
it, I read and learned for the first time about how I was found unconscious, with my hair
disheveled, long necklace wrapped around my neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off
over my shoulders and pulled up above my waist, that I was butt naked all the way down to my
boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by someone I did not
recognize. This was how I learned what happened to me, sitting at my desk reading the news at
work. I learned what happened to me the same time everyone else in the world learned what
happened to me. That’s when the pine needles in my hair made sense, they didn't fall from a tree.
He had taken off my underwear, his fingers had been inside of me. I don’t even know this
person. I still don’t know this person. When I read about me like this, I said, this can’t be me. This can’t be me. I could not digest or accept any of this information. I could not imagine my
family having to read about this online. I kept reading. In the next paragraph, I read something
that I will never forgive; I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I do not have
words for these feelings.
At the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own sexual assault,
the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing, unresponsive with her underwear
six inches away from her bare stomach curled in fetal position. By the way, he’s really good at
swimming. Throw in my mile time if that’s what we’re doing. I’m good at cooking, put that in
there, I think the end is where you list your extra-curriculars to cancel out all the sickening things
that've happened.
The night the news came out I sat my parents down and told them that I had been assaulted, to
not look at the news because it’s upsetting, just know that I’m okay, I’m right here, and I’m okay.
But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me because I could no longer stand up. I
was not okay.
The night after it happened, he said he didn't know my name, said he wouldn't be able to
identify my face in a lineup, didn't mention any dialogue between us, no words, only dancing
and kissing. Dancing is a cute term; was it snapping fingers and twirling dancing, or just bodies
grinding up against each other in a crowded room? I wonder if kissing was just faces sloppily
pressed up against each other? When the detective asked if he had planned on taking me back to
his dorm, he said no. When the detective asked how we ended up behind the dumpster, he said he
didn't know. He admitted to kissing other girls at that party, one of whom was my own sister
who pushed him away. He admitted to wanting to hook up with someone. I was the wounded
antelope of the herd, completely alone and vulnerable, physically unable to fend for myself, and
he chose me. Sometimes I think, if I hadn't gone, then this never would've happened. But then I
realized, it would have happened, just to somebody else. You were about to enter four years of
access to drunk girls and parties, and if this is the foot you started off on, then it is right you did
not continue.
The night after it happened, he said he thought I liked it because I rubbed his back. A back rub.
Never mentioned me voicing consent, never mentioned us speaking, a back rub.
One more time, in public news, I learned that my ass and vagina were completely exposed
outside, my breasts had been groped, fingers had been jabbed inside me along with pine needles
and debris, my bare skin and head had been rubbing against the ground behind a dumpster,
while an erect freshman was humping my half naked, unconscious body. But I don’t remember,
so how do I prove I didn’t like it.
I thought there’s no way this is going to trial; there were witnesses, there was dirt in my body, he
ran but was caught. He’s going to settle, formally apologize, and we will both move on. Instead, I
was told he hired a powerful attorney, expert witnesses, private investigators who were going to
try and find details about my personal life to use against me, find loopholes in my story to
invalidate me and my sister, in order to show that this sexual assault was in fact a misunderstanding. That he was going to go to any length to convince the world he had simply
been confused.
I was not only told that I was assaulted, I was told that because I couldn’t remember, I
technically could not prove it was unwanted. And that distorted me, damaged me, almost broke
me. It is the saddest type of confusion to be told I was assaulted and nearly raped, blatantly out in
the open, but we don’t know if it counts as assault yet. I had to fight for an entire year to make it
clear that there was something wrong with this situation.
When I was told to be prepared in case we didn't win, I said, I can’t prepare for that. He was
guilty the minute I woke up. No one can talk me out of the hurt he caused me. Worst of all, I
was warned, because he now knows you don’t remember, he is going to get to write the script.
He can say whatever he wants and no one can contest it. I had no power, I had no voice, I was
defenseless. My memory loss would be used against me. My testimony was weak, was
incomplete, and I was made to believe that perhaps, I am not enough to win this. That’s so
damaging. His attorney constantly reminded the jury, the only one we can believe is Brock,
because she doesn't remember. That helplessness was traumatizing.
Instead of taking time to heal, I was taking time to recall the night in excruciating detail, in order
to prepare for the attorney’s questions that would be invasive, aggressive, and designed to steer
me off course, to contradict myself, my sister, phrased in ways to manipulate my answers.
Instead of his attorney saying, Did you notice any abrasions? He said, You didn't notice any
abrasions, right? This was a game of strategy, as if I could be tricked out of my own worth. The
sexual assault had been so clear, but instead, here I was at the trial, answering question like:
How old are you? How much do you weigh? What did you eat that day? Well what did you have
for dinner? Who made dinner? Did you drink with dinner? No, not even water? When did you
drink? How much did you drink? What container did you drink out of? Who gave you the drink?
How much do you usually drink? Who dropped you off at this party? At what time? But where
exactly? What were you wearing? Why were you going to this party? What’ d you do when you
got there? Are you sure you did that? But what time did you do that? What does this text mean?
Who were you texting? When did you urinate? Where did you urinate? With whom did you
urinate outside? Was your phone on silent when your sister called? Do you remember silencing
it? Really because on page 53 I’d like to point out that you said it was set to ring. Did you drink
in college? You said you were a party animal? How many times did you black out? Did you party
at frats? Are you serious with your boyfriend? Are you sexually active with him? When did you
start dating? Would you ever cheat? Do you have a history of cheating? What do you mean when
you said you wanted to reward him? Do you remember what time you woke up? Were you
wearing your cardigan? What color was your cardigan? Do you remember any more from that
night? No? Okay, we’ll let Brock fill it in.
I was pummeled with narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life,
past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for
this guy who didn't even take the time to ask me for my name, who had me naked a handful of
minutes after seeing me. After a physical assault, I was assaulted with questions designed to
attack me, to say see, her facts don’t line up, she’s out of her mind, she’s practically an alcoholic, she probably wanted to hook up, he’s like an athlete right, they were both drunk, whatever, the
hospital stuff she remembers is after the fact, why take it into account, Brock has a lot at stake so
he’s having a really hard time right now.
And then it came time for him to testify. This is where I became revictimized. I want to remind
you, the night after it happened he said he never planned to take me back to his dorm. He said he
didn't know why we were behind a dumpster. He got up to leave because he wasn't feeling well
when he was suddenly chased and attacked. Then he learned I could not remember.
So one year later, as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story, almost
sounded like a poorly written young adult novel with kissing and dancing and hand holding and
lovingly tumbling onto the ground, and most importantly in this new story, there was suddenly
consent. One year after the incident, he remembered, oh yeah, by the way she actually said yes,
to everything, so.
He said he had asked if I wanted to dance. Apparently I said yes. He’d asked if I wanted to go to
his dorm, I said yes. Then he asked if he could finger me and I said yes. Most guys don’t ask,
Can I finger you? Usually there’s a natural progression of things, unfolding consensually, not a Q
and A. But apparently I granted full permission. He's in the clear.
Even in this story, there’s barely any dialogue; I only said a total of three words before he had me
half naked on the ground. I have never been penetrated after three words. He didn't claim to hear
me speak one full sentence that night, so in the news when it says we “met”, I’m not sure I would
go so far as to say that. Future reference, if you are confused about whether a girl can consent,
see if she can speak an entire sentence. You couldn't even do that. Just one coherent string of
words. If she can't do that, then no. Don’t touch her, just no. Not maybe, just no. Where was the
confusion? This is common sense, human decency.
According to him, the only reason we were on the ground was because I fell down. Note; if a
girl falls help her get back up. If she is too drunk to even walk and falls, do not mount her, hump
her, take off her underwear, and insert your hand inside her vagina. If a girl falls help her up. If
she is wearing a cardigan over her dress don't take it off so that you can touch her breasts. Maybe
she is cold, maybe that's why she wore the cardigan. If her bare ass and legs are rubbing the
pinecones and needles, while the weight of you pushes into her, get off her.
Next in the story, two people approached you. You ran because you said you felt scared. I argue
that you were scared because you’d be caught, not because you were scared of two terrifying
Swedish grad students. The idea that you thought you were being attacked out of the blue was
ludicrous. That it had nothing to do with you being on top my unconscious body. You were
caught red handed, with no explanation. When they tackled you why didn't say, “Stop!
Everything’s okay, go ask her, she’s right over there, she’ll tell you.” I mean you had just asked
for my consent, right? I was awake, right? When the policeman arrived and interviewed the evil
Swede who tackled you, he was crying so hard he couldn't speak because of what he’d seen.
Also, if you really did think they were dangerous, you just abandoned a half-naked girl to run
and save yourself. No matter which way you frame it, it doesn't make sense.
Your attorney has repeatedly pointed out, well we don’t know exactly when she became
unconscious. And you’re right, maybe I was still fluttering my eyes and wasn't completely limp
yet, fine. His guilt did not depend on him knowing the exact second that I became unconscious,
that is never what this was about. I was slurring, too drunk to consent way before I was on the
ground. I should have never been touched in the first place. Brock stated, “At no time did I see
that she was not responding. If at any time I thought she was not responding, I would have
stopped immediately.” Here’s the thing; if your plan was to stop only when I was literally
unresponsive, then you still do not understand. You didn't even stop when I was unconscious
anyway! Someone else stopped you. Two guys on bikes noticed I wasn't moving in the dark and
had to tackle you. How did you not notice while on top of me?
You said, you would have stopped and gotten help. You say that, but I want you to explain how
you would’ve helped me, step by step, walk me through this. I want to know, if those evil
Swedes had not found me, how the night would have played out. I am asking you; Would you
have pulled my underwear back on over my boots? Untangled the necklace wrapped around my
neck? Closed my legs, covered me? Tucked my bra back into my dress? Would you have helped
me pick the needles from my hair? Asked if the abrasions on my neck and bottom hurt? Would
you then go find a friend and say, Will you help me get her somewhere warm and soft? I don’t
sleep when I think about the way it could have gone if the Swedes had never come. What would
have happened to me? That’s what you’ll never have a good answer for, that’s what you can’t
explain even after a year.
To sit under oath and inform all of us, that yes I wanted it, yes I permitted it, and that you are the
true victim attacked by guys for reasons unknown to you is sick, is demented, is selfish, is stupid.
It shows that you were willing to go to any length, to discredit me, invalidate me, and explain
why it was okay to hurt me. You tried unyieldingly to save yourself, your reputation, at my
expense.
My family had to see pictures of my head strapped to a gurney full of pine needles, of my body
in the dirt with my eyes closed, dress hiked up, limbs limp in the dark. And then even after that,
my family had to listen to your attorney say, the pictures were after the fact, we can dismiss
them. To say, yes her nurse confirmed there was redness and abrasions inside her, but that’s what
happens when you finger someone, and he’s already admitted to that. To listen to him use my
own sister against me. To listen him attempt to paint of a picture of me, the seductive party
animal, as if somehow that would make it so that I had this coming for me. To listen to him say I
sounded drunk on the phone because I’m silly and that’s my goofy way of speaking. To point out
that in the voicemail, I said I would reward my boyfriend and we all know what I was thinking. I
assure you my rewards program is non-transferable, especially to any nameless man that
approaches me.
The point is, this is everything my family and I endured during the trial. This is everything I had
to sit through silently, taking it, while he shaped the evening. It is enough to be suffering. It is
another thing to have someone ruthlessly working to diminish the gravity and validity of this
suffering. But in the end, his unsupported statements and his attorney’s twisted logic fooled no
one. The truth won, the truth spoke for itself.
Part two
The second half of the victim's letter
Terry
