Between the drive up Ridge Point Road, the hour and a half we spent looking for Isabelle, and the half-hour trip back into town, Laura and I had been gone for over two and a half hours. All we had to show for our effort was a smashed cell phone, a scrap of Milo’s cashmere sweater, Isabelle’s coat, and a bloody bat. And then there were all the pictures I’d taken — of tread marks from the Beluti boots, and tire tracks from what we assumed to be Milo’s Subaru. There was little else we could photograph in the dark.
We’d not yet found Isabelle, Milo, or the car, though from what we’d seen, their route seemed clear — they’d driven from the Outlook to the fire road, where they’d turned left and then driven two miles north before turning the vehicle around. Then they pulled off the road and parked on the west shoulder. All of this was backed up by the tire tracks.
Where the vehicle went after the apparent altercation — well, that was not exactly clear, but it had obviously left the area since it was now nowhere in sight. It had most certainly gone back to Ridge Point Road. And all indications pointed to its having headed back into town. There had been no signs of any car having gone further up the mountain, nor onto any of the other fire roads, as we’d already ascertained. The narrow, unpaved segment of Ridge Point Road beyond the Outlook had a damp dirt road which would have revealed fresh tire tracks, boot treads, or drag marks had anyone gone up that way. But it did not. The only conclusion to be drawn: the Subaru had gone back to town. The remaining question: Who had been in the Subaru? Isabelle, Milo, or both of them?
In all of our investigating on the mountain, we’d not passed even one car or person on foot. Only two scenarios seemed possible: either Milo and Isabelle came back down the hill together in his car, or Isabelle was still up there, and Milo had returned to town without her. My hope was that we were looking at Scenario 1, but even that could have ended badly, or, God forbid, was still in progress. Either way, we had a decision to make: whether to head directly to the police station to fill out a missing person’s report, or to first call Isabelle’s companions to find out what they knew. It was unclear whether the details and the evidence we had in hand would convince the police they should begin looking immediately for Isabelle (or Milo, for that matter), or if we would be read the script no parent wants to hear: “Any adult has a legal right to go missing or leave voluntarily, therefore we cannot pursue a manhunt until 48 hours have passed.” Straight out of Law and Order, folks. But there was that bloody bat. Surely that would count for something.
What if Milo turned up without Izzy and feigned ignorance as to her whereabouts? Then what?
So many what ifs. My head was spinning.
And so we made the decision to head back to my house and pursue the route of calling people first, starting with Milo’s mother, then the other kids who’d been at the Outlook. Before getting out of the car, I dialed Olga. She was a lawyer I used from time to time, and her number happened to be in my contact list. She answered immediately and seemed extremely upset. There was a lot of commotion in the background — it didn’t sound good. My stomach started doing flip-flops.
Olga was at County General. According to her, Milo had been attacked by strangers on Ridge Point Road on the way home from the Outlook. They had jackknifed their truck across the road, then one of them commandeered Milo’s car and took him back up the hill, then down one of those fire roads, with their truck picking up the rear. They then stopped on the side of the fire road and rummaged through Milo’s car, stealing what few valuables he had in there and on his person, including his designer boots. Then, they beat him with a baseball bat and left him for dead. Eventually, poor Milo came to and drove himself back into town. He went straight to the ER. “I know, quite a story,” Olga said. She sighed.
Miraculously, the thieves hadn’t taken his car, she added — probably because they knew it had built-in location tracking. I asked Olga if she’d seen Izzy at the hospital, too, and had she been hurt? Olga was thoroughly puzzled by my line of questioning: “Izzy at the hospital? Whatever for?” When I explained that Izzy rode to the Outlook with Milo and was now missing, Olga suggested we call the other kids in the group. Surely she’d come back with one of them. Then, Olga signed off abruptly — “Sorry, I have to go. They’re taking Milo in for surgery.”
All we got from the call with Olga — confusion and more to worry about. Isabelle was still missing.
What a story Milo had concocted for his mother — a tale that didn’t jibe whatsoever with the evidence we had in hand. If what he described really went down, how was it that Izzy’s phone ended up smashed at the Outlook, and by a Berluti boot? How very convenient for Milo — those carjackers stealing his boots, the ones that might have tied him to whatever had happened to Isabelle. Then, there was that detail of Isabelle’s coat, the one found on the side of the road near the bloodied bat. Most importantly, where the hell was Isabelle?! Milo had promised to bring her home, safe and sound, by no later than 10:00 p.m. It was now well past midnight.
Needless to say, we decided not to bother Olga’s pretty little head with these inconsistencies and unanswered questions. Either she was ignorant about what had actually happened, including the fact that Isabelle and Milo had been on a quasi-date, or she was readying her son for what was to come: a potential kidnapping and rape charge or something far worse. Something I cannot bring myself to say out loud.
This I knew: Olga was incredibly smart, and a fierce mother. She was well-connected, a pillar of the community, and one of the top donors to the police benevolent fund. And she was wealthy beyond belief. Old money wealthy. Appearances were incredibly important to Olga — this is where Milo’s designer togs, the expensive arts education, and, as we would soon find out, the litany of expensive lawyers came in. Apparently, Milo had had “girl troubles” many times in his past, including with a former teacher who did not reciprocate his affections.
Though we only learned of these previous incidents months after Isabelle’s having gone missing, we’d already decided, on the day of her assault, that we wouldn’t be swapping any information with Olga. We knew her information to be bogus, and anything we shared with her might give Milo a leg up in wriggling out of a conviction.
This also meant we wouldn’t be filing a missing person’s report at our local precinct. Olga was a little too cozy with that crew, and rumors had been flying around for years that she and the police chief were doing the nasty. Fortunately, Ridge Point Outlook was in another county. Halfway up Ridge Point Road was a fat white line on the blacktop and a cheerful sign on the right shoulder that read “Welcome to Franklin County,” as if this were a popular tourist route. Popular for local teenagers and young adults, maybe, but not folks vacationing in wine country. The fire road where we’d discovered the crime scene — it was on the Franklin County side of that line. That was something to be thankful for.
And so it was decided, between Laura and me, that we’d be heading to Franklin County to file that missing person’s report — that is, îf Isabelle didn’t turn up. And it was in Franklin County that we’d present the evidence we’d found and where we’d go once we’d found Isabelle and she decided to file a police report. Ditto for any medical care she might need. Franklin County was going to be our one-stop shop. The men in the brotherhood we were fighting had far too many connections to law enforcement in our neck of the woods, and to the judicial system, as well. We simply couldn’t risk anything being compromised. What happened in Franklin County was going to stay in Franklin County.
As we sat in the car, parked in front of my house, I made one more call. This time to Isabelle’s friend, Sam. All he could tell us was that they’d heard nothing from Izzy. Or from Milo, for that matter. Neither had turned up at Arturo’s for dinner. Everyone assumed they’d gotten sidetracked by… well, you know. Sam was embarrassed to say much more, and so we let the friends imagine what they would. It was too early in the game for us to share information, namely that Isabelle was missing and that Milo was badly injured and in the hospital. Rumors would fly, and what good would that do?
Into the house we headed. Oddly, the porch door was ajar — not noticeably — but just enough so that the act of putting my key in the lock caused it to swing open unexpectedly. The interior door, though closed, was also unlocked. This is certainly not how we’d left things. And John was still out of town, so this wasn’t his doing, not that he’d ever left the house unlocked. We entered the living room cautiously, not knowing what to expect.
Then we saw Isabelle. There she was on the living room couch, curled up in the fetal position, still wearing her clothes and boots, which were filthy, ripped, and scuffed. Her hair was damp and matted against her forehead, which had at least a dozen scratches and was smeared with blood — now dried. Isabelle had one hand tucked under her cheek, as if gently holding her face; the other rested on her right hip, oddly clenched for someone who looked to be in a deep sleep.
The poor girl looked as if she’d walked through fire, made it to the other side, and then simply collapsed. She was out cold. She didn’t stir, even as we stood over her whispering.
“Jesus Christ,” Laura whispered a little too loudly. “What the hell happened to her?”
“I don’t even want to think about that. At least she’s breathing,” I said, relieved to see the rise and fall of her chest. Isabelle’s face was remarkably peaceful, despite whatever it was she’d been through. “How did she make it home?” I wondered out loud, shaking my head in disbelief. Clearly she’d not been shot or stabbed, or beaten with a baseball bat, but something horrendous had happened. After what we found on the mountain, none of this came as a surprise. The surprise was that somehow she’d made her way home, without one of our cars or riding with friends, and she had no serious injuries, at least none that we could see. Milo, on the other hand, was in critical condition in the hospital. What was going on here? We really needed to find out.
“How long do you suppose she’s been here?” Laura asked, no longer whispering. “I don’t know,” I replied, moving closer, but being careful not to wake her. I hoped she would continue sleeping while I continued assessing the situation. She had dried blood on the knuckles of her right hand, blood spatter on her forehead, and a thick, dark smear on the side of her neck — likely more blood. Then there was blood that had seeped through in the crotch of her jeans. Oh my god — I could only imagine what had caused that. I felt sick.
I was tempted to take pictures of all of this, but somehow that felt like a violation. Isabelle had clearly been violated enough for one night.
Laura went to the dining room and tucked the evidence bags in the corner behind the table. We didn’t want Isabelle to see them — at least not right away. The baseball bat, especially, might be very triggering. Laura came back into the living room and knelt over Isabelle, instinctively reaching out to comfort her as she had done since she was an infant, but she stopped short at the thought of how she might react. We needed to avoid anything that might startle her or cause panic, and touch was an obvious trigger. Who knew what state Isabelle was in beneath this cloak of unconsciousness?
“Should we let her sleep?” Laura asked. “No,” I replied emphatically. “Unfortunately, we’re going to need to wake her up so we can find out what happened. And to see if she needs medical attention, especially for her spine. I’m feeling we should get her to a hospital as quickly as possible.” Laura nodded in agreement, then gently rested her hand on Isabelle’s shoulder. “Isabelle. Sweetheart. Can you wake up?”
Isabelle woke suddenly, her eyes opening wide as she searched the room, assessing the situation as if trying to remember where she was. Then, just as suddenly, it all came back to her. She was home. It was just Laura and her mother. Her face relaxed.
Isabelle was anxious to tell us her story. She needed to put the responsibility of it into someone else’s hands. It had become too heavy for her to carry alone. And she was afraid she’d forget details.
Isabelle looked first at Laura, then at me. Her face expressed confusion. “Where were you?” she asked. “Why weren’t you here?”
“Sweetheart,” I said, sitting on the footstool next to the couch, then taking her hand in mine, “We’ve been looking for you all evening. We are so relieved to find you here. How did you get home?” I could see the concern on my face was overwhelming her, that I needed to dial it down, to model the calm we were all needing. Tough times lay ahead and getting stoked up wasn’t going to help.
“I dropped Milo off at the emergency room, then walked home from the hospital,” Isabelle offered, her voice uncharacteristically hoarse, as if she’d been yelling. “I’m sorry I didn’t text or call. I couldn’t find my phone.”
“Your phone — we found that. It was up at the Outlook, ground into the gravel. I think you’ll be looking at getting a new iPhone 18 Pro Max this week,” I laughed. Hell, she could get anything else her heart desired. I was just so relieved to have her back.
“I’d left my phone in Milo’s car, but he took it, I’m pretty sure. My guess is that he dropped it out of the car at the Outlook so I couldn’t call for help.” She cautiously swung her legs around, then sat up, wincing.
Laura looked absolutely distressed. She picked up the thread of our inquiry: “Isabelle — what happened, sweetheart?”
Isabelle looked down at her hands and at the blood on her knuckles. She flexed her fingers, testing them, then stretched out her legs one at a time, looking at her jeans and her scuffed-up cowboy boots, assessing what had gone down. You could almost read the whole story in her series of expressions. It was as if she were reliving a scene — something that wasn’t happening beyond my living room. She was in another place altogether, witnessing something horrible — something unspeakably bad.
Isabelle’s worried expression moved to devastation. She quit looking at her imaginary scene, then turned her eyes to meet mine.
“Milo raped me,” she said. Then she bowed her head and cast her eyes downward as she proceeded to tell her story. “It was on one of those fire roads — a place no one ever goes.” She closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath, then continued. “First he threatened me with a knife and ordered me out of the car. I had to undo my seatbelt, and that’s when I saw it — the baseball bat. It was right there in the footwell behind his seat. At first I freaked out. What had he been planning to do with that? Then I thought, ‘fuck that!’ I leaned over and grabbed it with my left hand while pretending to fiddle with my seat belt. It was so dark, Milo didn’t see me take it.”
We waited patiently for her to continue, not wanting to interrupt her stream of thought, not wanting to rush her. These were important details.
“After I got out of my seat, he grabbed my right wrist and dragged me to the front of the car. Then he raped me on the hood. Afterward, he went to the woods to take a piss, but not before threatening to kill me if I tried to run. There he was, whizzing into the woods, his pants down around his ankles. I knew he would trip if he tried to run. This was my chance, but if I tried to run away, I figured he could hit me with the car or chase me into the woods. Those choices felt like a death trap. I knew what I had to do. I had to incapacitate him. That was the only way I was going to save myself.”
“The whole time he was pissing, he was shouting weird, hateful things. As if scaring me would somehow keep me from running. So I snuck up behind him, then brought the bat down hard — first on his left shoulder, then on his right forearm. I’m positive I broke both, as there were terrible cracking noises both times. Then he grabbing his arm and started moaning.”
Needless to say, Louise and I were in shock listening to all of this, but we encouraged Isabelle to continue.
“Then he wouldn’t shut up — he just went on and on about how I was going to pay for this. That he had a lot of friends and they were all going to come after me. What an idiot! So I shoved him as hard as I could, and he fell flat on his ass. He couldn’t break his fall because of his right arm — it was fucking busted! There he was on the ground, unable to get up, or so it seemed. But it was really dark, and I couldn’t see him very well. So, I walked back to the car and turned on the headlights. Seeing him there kicking around on the ground and then having to listen to more of his bullshit — all of it made me so mad. And he was smiling, like some crazy person. So I kept hitting him, and I hit him until he shut up.”
Isabelle was snarling at this point. “Then finally I started in on his balls. The source of all the trouble. All I could think of was that if those were damaged, maybe he’d think twice before trying this again. Hurting women might no longer give him much pleasure.”
“Alright,” I said, as calmly as I could. “I think we’ve heard enough. This is what we imagined might have happened, or should I say, this is what we hoped had happened — that you had gotten the upper hand. When we were up there looking for you and came across the spot you were assaulted, we weren’t sure if the blood on that bat was yours or his. My gut told me it was his. You are amazing to have turned this around.”
Laura had been sitting on her hands through all of this, and now it was her turn to speak. “How did Milo get to the hospital in his condition? And how did you get back to town? Where is Milo’s car?” Laura peppered Isabelle with questions. Isabelle described forcing Milo into the passenger side of the car by brandishing the knife — his knife. She then drove him down the hill to the ER, where she deposited him at the ambulance entrance, left his keys on the driver’s seat, then walked home.
Fortunately, Isabelle hadn’t run into anyone as she made her way across town — it was the middle of night, but still. If she had seen any of the neighbors, the blood, her torn clothing, her disheveled appearance, and that huge knife on her hip — all of this would have given them a start. They would likely have called emergency services.
As Isabelle explained, it was Milo’s problem to get help from the hospital staff. and then to explain his injuries to them. Before she took off, Isabelle had reminded Milo that she had physical proof he’d raped her — injuries and his DNA, so perhaps he should think twice before trying to pin an assault on her.
“How badly are you injured, sweetheart?” I asked gingerly.
“I don’t know. Everything hurts, really hurts, including my back. And I’m bleeding, though I’m not sure where the blood is coming from.” She looked at me, and for the first time I saw something flicker behind her eyes: Worry, dread. “I need to go to the hospital, and I need to have a rape exam. And I…” she hesitated, “probably need stitching up. He was pretty violent.” Her voice cracked: “Mom, I need help.” Tears were welling in her eyes.
“Okay,” I said softly, though I wanted to scream. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re taking you to the hospital right away — though we’re going to Franklin County so you don’t have any unwanted encounters with Milo or any of his friends or family. We want to make sure you’re treated fairly, and that your exam results remain confidential. Milo’s family has a few too many friends at County General.”
I continued: “From what we saw on the mountain, your assault took place over the Franklin County line. Milo had you in Franklin County, both at the Outlook and on that fire road. I’m guessing he didn’t realize that.”
It had taken Isabelle a good half an hour to give us all the details of her evening, including the harrowing speech Milo gave her prior to the rape — something about how much he hated her and her artwork, and how all the men in town wanted to rape her and he was glad to be the first.
She had spoken in a flat, factual tone, occasionally pausing to correct herself or to add a detail she’d missed. She’d told us about the sunset with her friends and how normal that had been, how she’d felt relaxed and was enjoying herself for the first time in months. She had let her guard down. Then there was the drive to the restaurant — a drive Milo had obviously never intended to make. He’d set that up cleverly, created a ruse by giving his friend Sam the wink and nudge, nudge — letting him imagine they were going off to have sex. Instead, Milo had turned down that fire road and had sex with her without her consent.
Isabelle gave us every detail about the car and about Milo’s manhandling her with the brace, how that had made it impossible to fight back or to twist away. Isabelle hadn’t any choice but to give in and wait for the assault to be over.
Then she told us about his knife, which she now had in her possession. There it was, still attached to her belt. She talked about the baseball bat and where she’d thrown it after she was done. She’d already given us all the details about hitting Milo. Fifteen times she hit him with the bat to match the fifteen times he had violated her. That seemed fair, don’t you think, she had asked. As Isabelle finished giving her account, Laura and I fell silent. What does a person say after hearing something like this? How is a mother supposed to react? What would an advice columnist suggest? I was at a loss for words. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing. I was afraid of not saying what Isabelle needed to hear.
“Let’s get out here. We need to get you to the hospital immediately,” Laura blurted out. “Leave your soiled clothes on, though. The nurses will be better equipped to remove them properly to preserve the evidence. You’ll be glad they were in charge if and when you decide to press charges. It’s infinitely more difficult for the defense to be dismissive of evidence collected by a sexual assault nurse examiner,” Laura explained. “I know,” Izzy said. “That’s why I didn’t change or take a shower even though all of this is so disgusting.” She gestured to the dried cum all over her jeans. I hate him. I just want him off of me.”
Laura wiped her eyes, and both of us stood up. “You grab the evidence bags,” I said to her. “Then let’s take my car. It’s a bit roomier in the back.” “Sound OK, Isabelle?” I asked. She nodded.
Isabelle stood up slowly. She was sore all over. Then she looked at me, searching for answers. “Mom, did you really go up there looking for me?” “Yes,” I said. “Of course we did.”
I so wanted to wrap my arms around my daughter and hold her, but I couldn’t. Her whole person was a crime scene.
It was a quiet drive to the ER in Annadel. All of us were exhausted emotionally, and frankly needed a break from all the upset and drama. We were also at a loss for words. Is there a word or phrase that encompasses everything we were feeling? The disgust, relief, happiness, worry, frustration, and fury? Help me here. We were processing a lot, so we said nothing.
Things were going to be fine. Not easy, not happy, at least for a while, but fine. I felt it in my gut. We were going to get through this, as long as we stuck together, and as long as we took all this anger and directed it toward those responsible. We couldn’t shove the anger down. That was a recipe for depression.
As we pulled into the Emergency Room parking, Laura suggested we err on the side of caution and get a wheelchair. Isabelle and I sat patiently in the car while Laura made a beeline for security. She handed the guard her driver’s license in exchange for a chair, then came back to the car. In her absence, I’d started to fill Isabelle in on what lay ahead: “Here’s the rundown — and you need only to tell me right out of the gate if something needs to be done differently than I’m recommending.” Isabelle nodded. “I’m going to check you in, quietly and discreetly, and will mention you’ve experienced a sexual assault and that we’d like to wait somewhere private if you can’t be seen immediately. It’s on you, after that, to convey your wishes about doing a rape kit, whether to press charges, etc. You’re a grown-ass woman, and that means they won’t let me speak for you.” Isabelle looked exhausted. I was worried. “Do you feel up to doing this, sweetheart? If not, we can wait for your advocate.”
“Yes, Mom, I’m ready, but I am going to want to speak to the advocate soon to review the details and discuss my options. I’ll be fine on the sexual assault exam, but I’m going to want to talk with a therapist about what to do if I’m pregnant.” At the thought of this, Isabelle looked cross and sad. A day ago, pregnancy was the last thing on her mind. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment as she exhaled. “I’m about two weeks out from my period — not good.” I thought to encourage her to go through with the emergency contraception, but bit my tongue instead. It was none of my business what she decided to do. My job was simple: to support Isabelle in whatever way she needed. And wanted.
Isabelle carefully got out of the car, grabbing Laura’s arm for support. She was visibly wracked with pain, and expressed concern about contaminating any of the evidence on her clothes and body. I ran ahead to emergency reception to present her insurance card and to make a request for a private room. The orderly on duty did not hesitate to take Isabelle straight to the back, away from prying eyes.
Once we were settled and staff took Isabelle’s vitals, she made a request: “Mom, I’m positive the advocate will want to see all of your evidence and the photos you mentioned. Could you or Laura find out how to send her copies of your photos? I can’t do any of this since I don’t have a phone.” Isabelle sounded irritated. And pissed. That spoiled narcissist, Milo, causing so much trouble for all of us. She continued: “And could you hand off the evidence you found to the triage nurse — including my smashed phone? She’ll likely be the one interfacing with the advocate and the police, don’t you think?”
“OK, sweetheart. We’ll take care of that right away,” Laura said as she headed off to the car. “And I should also let you know,” I explained after Laura left the room, “ that I talked to Milo’s mother.” Isabelle looked shocked to hear this. “I was desperate to figure out where you were, so I called her to see what she knew. She seemed completely in the dark — about you, at least. She was, in fact, at the hospital when I called her, and Milo was heading into surgery. And he’d told her a story about having been carjacked and robbed, and then beaten with a baseball bat. He also claimed you’d gone down the hill with your friends, in a separate car.” Isabelle laughed.
“Alrighty. So, he-who-shall-not-be-named is really hurt. Can I get permission to not be sad about this?” I nodded “yes,” and laughed. She continued: “And all he can think about is how to cover things up so he doesn’t have to explain to everyone in town that a girl beat the shit out of him. Now that cheers me up,” she said, grinning slyly and giving me a high five. “Thanks, Mom. Best news I’ve heard all day.” The nurse who’d just stepped into the room seemed surprised by Isabelle’s sudden mood shift, from sullen to celebratory. It was time for Isabelle to go into the exam room, she explained, and I was to remain in the waiting area, as were any of her other visitors. That was probably for the best — for me, and decidedly for Isabelle. Before she headed out in her wheelchair, she signaled for me to come close. “Mom, you’ve got to quit calling me ‘Isabelle.’ Please!”
And so it was. Isabelle was now “Izzy.” The gentle sound of her given name no longer fit this woman of steel — who, like a sword, had been forged in white-hot flames.
The triage nurse gently knocked on the door, then entered the exam room to interview Izzy. She made a polite, businesslike introduction, then pulled over her point-of-care cart to start the interview. Kathleen was a fit and stylish millennial, sporting fuchsia FIGS scrubs, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She had the kind of face that had seen everything and wasn’t impressed by any of it. Kathleen made clear she was in charge of this conversation, and that she wasn’t interested in any drama or hogwash — her word for bullshit, I believe. To most, her attitude might have come across as harsh or even hostile, but Izzy was happy for it. She wanted a strong woman in charge.
“How can I help you?” Nurse Kathleen queried.
“I need a sexual assault forensic exam,” Izzy replied flatly. “I was raped approximately five hours ago.”
“Alright, then let’s get started.” Nurse Kathleen’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her eyes. She abruptly pushed her cart to the side and said, “Hang tight. Since you seem ready to get down to the hard stuff, I’m going to have you taken to the forensic exam room now rather than later.”
“Can I ditch this wheelchair, please?” Izzy asked sarcastically. “Of course,” Nurse Kathleen replied, chuckling. These two were soon going to be fast friends. Off they walked to the exam room.
And it was there Izzy got the royal treatment. Within minutes, she was surrounded by a crew of all-female med techs and nurses and was informed that Dr. Stafford, also a woman, would be in shortly to go over everything that needed doing. In the meantime, Nurse Jamila would be helping her out of her clothes, and Nurse Aiko, who was a sexual assault nurse examiner, would be administering the rape kit and taking photos. “Are you OK with all of this?” Nurse Kathleen asked. “Yes, I think so,” Izzy replied.
Izzy looked around the room at all the faces — some gentle, some strong, and then there was one woman, Aisha — whose face seemed fixed in an intense expression that flashed with fury. Izzy asked Aisha directly if she would stay with her during the exam. Aisha beamed. Of course she would.
And so the long process began. To get things started, all of the women exited the room, minus Jamila and Aisha; then the two of them laid out, on a stainless steel table, an assortment of paper evidence bags, scissors, tweezers, and forceps, swabs, combs, a microvacuum, and various containers labeled with Izzy’s name. Jamila then laid paper changing sheets on the floor next to Izzy’s gurney, and then under her outstretched legs. Her first task would be removing Izzy’s cowboy boots.
Izzy was relieved to be ridding herself of all of this clothing. She wanted every bit of Milo’s scent off her body. She wanted every visual that triggered memories of the struggle and terror to be stripped from her person — the scuffed boots, the dirty, cum-stained jeans, her ripped shirt, and the brace, which was covered in dings and scratches and blood. She wondered out loud what she would wear after everything had been removed — and also when she left the hospital and then had to walk up the steps into her mother’s house. Jamila assured her they had everything she would need — a hospital gown for during her examinations and testing, then a proper set of clothes, shoes, and outerwear for leaving the hospital. A social worker and advocate would be arriving soon with all of that. Nurse Kathleen had already phoned ahead and given the advocate Izzy’s sizes. No worries, Aisha said, as the advocate always anticipated variations in body shapes and would bring multiple sets of clothes in case some items didn’t fit properly.
Everyone wanted Izzy to feel comfortable and cared for. And yes, she would be able to shower and shampoo at the hospital once the forensic exam was done. She also needed to be prepared for additional medical procedures, including a pelvic exam, testing for STDs, and possible stitches. Izzy would also be fitted for a new TLSO brace.
I sat in the waiting room with my phone in my hand, staring at the screen without seeing it. My brain was moving far too fast. Evidence. Documentation. Police reports. Rape kits. Chain of custody on the evidence. Witness statements. Medical records. Legal options. It was fucking overwhelming. Add to that the fact that we’d not slept for over 24 hours. All of this was going to take weeks, maybe months. Unbelievable. And it was because of one spoiled, narcissistic young man, whose sociopathic behavior was enabled by his shit-for-parents and condoned by high-ranking members of our community. Who did they think they were? Did they really believe they were above us in all things? That we were just on this earth to do their bidding? And how was it they were always in the position of getting to have the final say?
I was feeling pure, incandescent, unrelenting rage. I would not be able to deal with anything else until it had been reduced to a simmer. That meant eating a proper meal, then getting some sleep.
Laura returned from the car with all the evidence we had gleaned from the crime scene, then she and Nurse Kathleen talked quietly, Laura taking notes on her phone. She handed the bags over, thanked Kathleen, then scanned the waiting room looking for me. “Over here,” I said, waving my hand high in the air. Laura came over and plopped down, exhausted, in the chair next to mine.
“I called a victim advocate. She’s on her way. Her name is Monica Reyes. She works with the Franklin County DA’s office, but she’s independent. She’ll help Izzy understand her options, and anything said between the two of them will be confidential, as she is bound by HIPAA privacy rules. Sound OK?” After delivering this news, Laura literally collapsed into herself, head hanging, barely able to stay awake. She had delivered the goods to the nurse, and now it was time to sleep, even if that had to be done in an upright position. We’d already had a very long night, and were looking at having to stay in the hospital for many more hours. There had to be a way to rest and to eat. And there was. We would take turns napping in the car and going to the hospital cafeteria, while one of us stayed in the ER waiting area keeping watch. Fortunately, I always kept a pillow and blanket in the car. For the beach, of course.
Izzy was kept busy in the forensic exam room, and then in surgery for a grand total of six hours. When finally she was released, she was wearing a pair of purple sweatpants and a plain gray sweatshirt over a long-sleeved white T-shirt. In her arms was an LL Bean barn coat from the 90s. A woman in her thirties was pushing the wheelchair. She had dark hair and sharp eyes, and the attire of a social worker — khaki slacks, a black turtleneck, and a brown suede blazer.
“Ms. Finch?” the woman said, extending her hand. “I’m Monica Reyes. I’m the victim advocate from the County DA’s office.” I shook her hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course.” She glanced at Izzy. “Your daughter’s had quite a harrowing night, but the exam is complete, and the rape kit was retrieved by the sheriff. It has been sealed and logged in, and will remain secured in the evidence locker at the local precinct. We have made a note of your concerns about the perpetrator’s personal connections to Edenburg’s police department, and our sheriff has already sent out a memo to his staff that no information is to be shared with them at this time. The hospital has thoroughly documented Izzy’s injuries, both in photographs and in a write-up with a diagram by the forensic nurse. The trauma doctor on staff provided Izzy with several medical treatments, namely a vaginal lavage and other perineal care, then stitches to her perineum and posterior fourchette.” Looking at Izzy, she added, “Izzy has given me permission to share this information with you.”
I felt my stomach turn. “How bad are they — the injuries?” “They are very painful and fairly severe, but should heal completely,” Monica said. “The doctor prescribed some antibiotics and pain medication, and Izzy will need follow-up care in a week with her primary care physician.” Monica continued, “Izzy and I will be staying in touch to consider options for moving forward. This could go on for some time, and I have been permanently assigned to her case. I’ll be Izzy’s main point of contact for all of her support services — she has given me permission to do that. I’m talking legal, psychological, housing, and social services, and in the event she is pregnant, I will assist her in getting proper care.” Izzy piped in, as she could see I was confused on this last point. “Mom, I opted not to take emergency contraception. If I’m pregnant, I intend to have the child.” I was shocked and unsure of what to say. I had to stop myself from shaking my head or blurting out something stupid.
But I did pipe up about one medical issue: “How is Izzy’s back?” Monica smiled and said, “It looks great on the imaging. No additional damage whatsoever. In fact, it appears to be healing beautifully.” Well, there’s some karma.
“And just so you know,” Monica added, “all that forensic evidence which we collected from Izzy this morning, as well as all that you brought in, has been bagged, sealed, and logged. It will be stored according to state protocol at the local precinct and ready for us to use in court should Izzy decide to press charges. Even if she doesn’t press charges right away, or ever, the evidence remains sealed for the statutory period.” “Which is how long?” I asked. “In this state, it’s twenty years for sexual assault cases,” Monica replied. “She’s got twenty years to decide, and believe it or not, that is sometimes how long it takes before a victim is strong enough to navigate what is inevitably a protracted court battle.”
Alright, twenty years. Izzy would be forty-four before that evidence would be destroyed. That was good. I could see from the look on Izzy’s face that she was not yet decided on whether to press charges. “What are her other options other than criminal charges?” I asked Monica. She directed her answer at Izzy: “Do you want to talk about this now, or wait until you’ve had some rest?” “Now,” Izzy replied decidedly, her voice steady. “I want to know now,” she added more gently.
Monica nodded and gestured to a small consultation room off the waiting area. “Let’s sit down.”
The hospital’s consultation room was windowless, with industrial carpet, fluorescent lights, and a single box of tissues that looked like it had been sitting there for several decades. I hated to think how the tissues might hold up if someone actually needed one. Would they disintegrate? These were the types of thoughts floating around my stress-rattled brain.
Monica sat across from us and pulled out a folder. “Okay. Here’s what you need to know — these are the options, and none are mutually exclusive. First and foremost, you can pursue criminal charges through the DA’s office, which could, if the evidence is strong, result in a fairly lengthy prison term for the perpetrator. Or you can pursue a civil case for damages. These typically have a better chance of succeeding. I would also highly recommend, regardless of which route you take, filing for a restraining order. Keeping him away is important, and were he to violate that order, his violation would lend credence to your case — that he is a threatening person who thinks he doesn’t have to abide by the law. You could do all of these things, or none of them, or some other combination.”
“What happens if I press criminal charges?” Izzy asked.
“The DA would review the evidence and decide whether it is strong enough to stand up in court. If so, she would then file charges and have Milo arrested, and then the case would go to trial. In this situation, you would almost certainly have to testify, and that means the defense would get to have a go at you — they’d get to cross-examine you. This sort of thing can be brutal — you need to know that up front. And the whole process can be a drawn-out one and stressful. And… there is no guarantee of a conviction.”
“What’s the conviction rate for rape cases in this county?” I asked. Monica sighed, then pursed her lips. It was clear she hated having to say this: “Approximately eighteen percent. I know this sounds horrible, but believe me when I say this is exceptional. Nationally, there is a 1% chance a rape case will result in a felony conviction or incarceration.” “One percent,” she emphasized.
Eighteen percent here in Franklin County. OK, better than anywhere else, but wow. Those were horrible odds.
Izzy laughed — a short, bitter laugh. “So there’s an eighty-two percent chance he walks.” “Well, not exactly.” Monica stopped. There was more she wanted to say, but clearly couldn’t. “Yes. Statistically, that’s accurate,” she replied, “though the DA can explain the situation in more detail — the variations that can occur on a final judgment.” What exactly were those “variations,” I wondered. Sex offender registry? An indefinite restraining order? Some lesser charge? A slap on the wrist? Fuck. Milo had kidnapped Izzy. Then he raped her. And he threatened to kill her. How could he walk away from all of that? I really needed to understand this.
“Alright. How do we go about getting a restraining order at least?” I was resigned to do the one thing that actually seemed possible.
“They’re relatively easy to get. You just walk into the civil courthouse and ask for a Request for Civil Harassment Restraining Order. The filing fee is $450, but that is waived if the petition alleges violence, sexual assault, and the like. You need to know up front that these restraining orders are easy to violate. And law enforcement often doesn’t take violations seriously, especially in Fremont County, unless there’s physical harm involved with the violation. I think Izzy has had enough physical harm for the time being, or should I say for the rest of her life? We need to take measures beyond just the restraining order. Izzy and I will discuss what those are this week.”
Monica continued: “There is a bit more you need to think about. The restraining order must be filed in the county in which the offense took place — so for Izzy, that means Franklin County. The order will be valid in all other counties, including Fremont. But if the perpetrator violates the order, you must report the violation to the precinct in which it occurred. Does this make sense?”
“Yep. Got it. The restraining order is just a piece of paper,” Izzy replied sarcastically. Monica nodded her head in agreement, though she was unable to say anything further per the limitations of her position with the DA’s office.
“What about a civil case?” I asked.
“Well, there’s a lower burden of proof for those. And you can win those with a preponderance of the evidence instead of the beyond-a-reasonable-doubt standard that’s required in criminal cases. You could potentially win damages, even if the criminal case has failed. But the process is typically very expensive, and can take years to reach a conclusion.”
Izzy sat quietly for a long moment. Then she asked, “What happens to the rape kit if I don’t press charges right away?” Monica’s response: “It will stay sealed and logged. You have the statutory period of 20 years to decide on whether to move forward. In the meantime, you can gather more evidence, meet with other victims, talk to a lawyer — your options may change over time. The kit doesn’t expire, and as I said, it is kept in police custody for twenty years.” Monica looked at Izzy and Louise, searching for a read on how they were handling all of this news, most of it discouraging.
“And I would say this, even though it’s a terrible thought — men like Milo cannot help themselves. They invariably repeat the behavior. If there were another case that came up, that might be the time to revive your own case. If you’re looking to join forces with another victim, you’ve got to find ways to publicize what has happened to you. They, or someone close to them, need to have heard about your case.” Monica’s demeanor had suddenly turned dark — these were difficult issues. Her directive, by law, was to protect the victim, but the look on her face told me there was another issue disrupting her peace of mind. Monica was already considering Milo’s next victim — the next woman who might end up experiencing his wrath, as Izzy had done. Or perhaps something worse. Troubling thoughts indeed.
There was one more thing that could help bring Milo down — shushing out his previous victims, if, in fact, there had been others. That would have to be done soon, however, before Milo or his parents could threaten, hurt, or bribe other women to discourage them from coming forward. That meant Izzy would need to make a statement to the police soon, and then tie all the physical evidence, photos, and medical reports to the case. She would be required to provide information about where everything had happened, provide a list of witnesses, and detail everything that led up to the assault. All of this would then be sent to the district attorney, who would in turn decide whether to press charges. If her office found there was enough evidence, they would open an investigation. At this point, much of this information could be shared with the public, either by law enforcement, the district attorney’s office, or by both as a united front. At that same press conference, they could make a public safety appeal asking for additional tips, witnesses, or information related to the suspect or the timeline of the events. At this point, previous victims often step forward—unless the perpetrator has caught wind of his potential arrest and reached out to them first.
In short, Monica was recommending they get their ducks in a row immediately. It was important they not hesitate in making a statement to the police. Waiting meant the perpetrator had time to tighten up his alibi, pull together witnesses to back his story, erase his digital trail, and ditch his car, which may contain more evidence.
Monica noted that so far, Izzy had done all the right things. As had Louise and Laura.
Thank God, all of this had happened in Franklin County.
“So I don’t have to decide tonight?” Izzy asked again.
“No. You absolutely do not have to decide tonight,” Monica reiterated.
Izzy looked at me and then at Monica. “I want to wait. I need to think about all of this and to consider how the pieces fall together. And then I want to talk to a lawyer, someone who can look at everything, do the math, and tell me what my chance of success looks like in terms of Milo going to jail. And for the time being, no restraining order, please. I’d like to see how all of this plays out. If Milo gets slapped with a restraining order, the cat’s out of the bag. He’ll know I’m likely filing charges against him.”
Izzy wondered how all of this would go down. Would Milo still turn up for the masterclass? Would he continue socializing with our same friends? What was he going to tell people about his injuries? This could get interesting, and Izzy had a feeling he was going to paint himself into a corner. Literally. Izzy really wanted to see this happen.
“All right, then,” Monica said. “In the meantime, I’m here to help you navigate the system. You can call me anytime, day or night. If I’m swimming laps, you may have to wait a half hour for a return call, but otherwise, I pick the phone up immediately when my clients call.”
Monica handed Izzy her business card, which she slipped into the pocket of her new, used jacket. “One other thing,” Monica said, “The hospital is required to report all of this to law enforcement. That means you will be contacted by a detective within the next few days. It’s best for you to cooperate and to let him or her take a statement. This can be done over the phone. If you don’t want to talk to them, that is your right. You also have the right to have a lawyer present, but making a statement makes it easier to establish exactly when the assault took place. This will be important.”
“Alright,” Izzy said, resigned. Not much had been decided today, but she was getting ok with that. “I appreciate knowing all of these details. I need to have a good think.”
Monica stood up. It was time for all of us to head home. It had been a long night and a long morning. Before heading out the door, Monica reiterated what she’d said earlier: “I mean it. Call me anytime. Day or night.”
Izzy and I remained in the room and sat in silence for what seemed an hour. We were processing an incredible amount of information.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “But soon enough I will be. I just need to know where all of this is headed so I can start piledriving that fucker into the ground — be it by putting him in jail, destroying his reputation, or by cleaning out his trust fund. I want him to think twice before ever laying a finger on another woman.”
We got in the car. Laura was sleeping like a log in the back seat.
Oblivious, Izzy cranked her favorite Christina Aguilera tune. This woke Laura, of course, who sat bolt upright and buckled her seatbelt. “I’m guessing everything went well with the advocate?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. Izzy gave her a loud “Shh!”
Then she cranked up the volume.