the woman spoke directly to my daughter. “My name is Amy Warner. You can call me Amy. Rebecca and I work together sometimes. You must be Sarah.” Then she turned her attention to me. “And you must be Randi.” The woman was wearing navy blue from head to toe, a business pantsuit. A little white blouse peeked out at the top, just enough to break up the monotony of darkness—but her pale face and light blonde hair pulled into a severe bun made her dark clothes seem somehow appropriate for this somber occasion. Her soft, light voice didn’t quite match the way she looked. “Please have a seat,” she said, gesturing toward the chairs nearest us that circled a long table.
When she asked if any of us wanted anything to drink, I wanted to scream at her to get to the point—but then I realized that easing in might be better for Sarah. When Amy sat down, she seemed to switch gears and once more began talking directly to my daughter. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Sarah, I have this video camera over here. If it’s okay with you and your mom, I would like to record our conversation today. If not, I’ll just take notes.”
Sarah asked, “Who will see it?”
“As few people as possible, actually. We’ll mainly use it for court or for the police. Usually, when something like this happens, they have a trial. If we tape your testimony as evidence, sometimes the judge won’t make you testify in person unless you want to.” Although her main focus was on Sarah, she kept glancing at me as well. “Both ways have their advantages, but I personally think it’s better when you don’t have to testify, because the defendant’s lawyer can be pretty brutal sometimes.”
“Brutal?” I asked. “Brutal how?”
“They try to twist around what happened. Some lawyers try to pin the blame on the victim.”
“No. That can’t happen.”
“That’s why I’d like to videotape today’s interview. I’d like to avoid that scenario if possible.”
But that wasn’t my choice. “It’s up to Sarah.”
The three of us looked at her, allowing her to decide, until she finally nodded her head. “It’s okay.”
Then, quickly, Amy set up the recorder before sitting down with a sheet of paper. At the same time, she handed me several forms to fill out, and while I completed the paperwork, she asked Sarah to tell her story.
I was grateful I had something to keep me busy…because hearing her story again made me break down in tears.
When all was said and done—camera off, paperwork collected, Sarah silent again—Amy said, “Children rarely lie about this sort of thing. If a child says she’s been sexually abused and then relates the story in graphic detail like Sarah has, we believe the abuse occurred. There is no doubt.”
I myself hadn’t doubted it. It hadn’t occurred to me to not believe my child—and that was probably why she’d slowly withdrawn: the truth was too horrifying for words, too gruesome to speak. Again, I was grateful that I’d taken Sarah to see a psychologist, because she already seemed to be recovering just by being able to talk about it.
“I’ll be speaking with the Police Department later today and then I’ll be in touch. You can come to any court proceedings you wish, but I’m going to do my best to ensure you don’t have to come to court if you don’t want to. Child Protection will represent your interests.”
“As long as Sarah is protected. I don’t want her hurt anymore.”
But how could I keep her safe when I’d obviously already failed?
* * *
Late that night, I was prepping to close at work when none other than Justin walked through the door. But I was exhausted by then, more mentally than physically, and I wasn’t in the mood for anything else emotional, so I simply said hi.
“What the hell was that voicemail all about?”
Or so I’d thought. This man could bring out my inner beast.
“Christ, Justin, seriously? How many times do I have to call you and ask you to call me back? What was it about that one that got your attention?”
“Your message sounded like you thought I was avoiding you. So here I am. Why did you think I was dodging you?”
“You think your pet bitch might have something to do with it?”
“My pet bitch?”
“Yeah. Chelsea.”
“What the hell are you doing calling her?”
“You tell me. She answered your phone.”
“What? When?”
“More than once.”
“Doesn’t make sense. We haven’t hung out in a few days.”