We're Going to Need More Wine - Gabrielle Union Page 0,36

evil I had done.” Dad took it personally, so this wasn’t about justice for me. It was a personal affront to him. It happened to me, but it was an affront to him.

To this day, my dad has the article from the newspaper about my rape in his wallet. Twenty-four years. He has never explained to me why he carries it around, but I know it’s a reminder that someone dared to fuck with him. “How dare you even think you could do this to me?”

Because of that article, everybody knew. They didn’t print my name, but there were very few black people my age in Pleasanton. And just in case, for the people who didn’t know, Lisa Goodwin went to a party and to get sympathy for herself, told my story but made it about how it affected her.

I had to testify in front of a grand jury, but I didn’t have to see him. The most traumatizing part was going into the courthouse and seeing other criminals. I could see them coming off the transport van in shackles. Coming face-to-face with criminals, being in the courthouse with rapists and murderers and child molesters, was, for somebody in the throes of post-traumatic stress, all too much. I got into the elevator and in two seconds, I literally sprinted back out. Wrong combination of people. I heard my mom apologize because I guess she probably thought it looked rude.

He took a plea deal of thirty-three years. So we never had to go to a trial. I hope he’s still in jail. I haven’t looked to see if he’s out. I do know he is aware of who I’ve become. My father said they mentioned it in one of the parole proceedings. My dad goes to those, too.

I have seen enough episodes of Oz that I really believe in prison justice. I believe there are certain things that prisoners do very well. And their handling of rapists is one of them. So . . . I feel pretty solid about that. Whatever he’s endured brings me joy. I hope it happens every day of his life. A few times a day. I’m perfectly okay with that.

People always ask, “Do you wish you’d had better aim?” I mean, obviously you pull the trigger of a gun to stop, maim, or kill. That was my goal in that split second. But I don’t think I’m a killer. I don’t think I could live with killing anyone, even in self-defense. I think I would be even more tortured by that.

The other question I get asked is “What were you wearing?” I got raped at work and people still want to know what role I played in what happened to me.

I HAD ALREADY TRANSFERRED FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA AND was supposed to start UCLA in August. But I couldn’t do the grand jury and be in Los Angeles, so I deferred and did a semester of my sophomore year at a junior college in Fremont. During that time, I opted to sue Payless for not providing a safe environment.

Timing became the most important thing in my life. I timed everything I did to try to reduce the space for something else to happen to me. If I could limit the time I was in, say, a restaurant, then that would narrow the likelihood of me being murdered if the restaurant was held up in a hostage situation. That’s how my brain began to function.

There were times when I was studying in the library, and I lost track of time and let it get dark out. Then I had to get from the library to my car. I’d run to my car, jump in, slam the door, and slump into the seat in a heap of tears. I’d shake, my arm numb as if I were having a heart attack—and I had to sit and wait. My car at the time was a stick shift and I couldn’t stop my foot from shaking to put my car in gear, so I had to just sit. But sitting meant a carjacking was possible.

I moved from the fear of one random act of violence to another, because I’d seen the devil up close. Once you’ve been the victim of a violent crime and you have seen evil in action, you know the devil lives and breathes in people all day, every day.

The first therapist I saw was a bust. I saw him about two weeks after I