AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The thought of being surrounded by strangers brings back the morbid sense of helplessness from last night.
Not to mention the humiliation. That’s what last night was about—humiliatingme.
He had sought to humble me with physical force; he exerted himself over me in a sadistic, violent act. Now he gets to say he fucked Delphine Adams, Northam’s up and coming district attorney superstar, on the dirty ground of some alleyway. His criminal pals will probably fist bump him.
I’ll lie.
Make up some story about a mugging on the subway. I fought back and the guy ran off. The cameras happened to miss it. Nobody has to know the truth, the real ugly details.
District attorney is as good as gone if the truth gets out.
The universe must hate me, because my phone rings in my hand. It’s Brenda again. I’ve avoided answering all morning, but if I don’t answer at all, she’ll grow suspicious. A strangled sigh leaves me as I give in and press the green telephone button on my screen.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t alive!” she says the second I answer. “You’re never even a minute late, but you didn’t even show up. What do you want to do about the witness for the Frausto case? You were supposed to meet with her today.”
“Oh. I mean, I’ll… I’ll get in touch with her and reschedule.”
“And you keep receiving calls from this one guy who says he’s a past associate of yours—he sounds kind of sketchy so I’ve just been hanging up on him.”
I make an uninterested humming noise.
Salvatore.
“Is everything okay? You sound out of it.”
“Just the flu. I’ll be fine in a few days…”
“Delphine Adams staying home for ‘just the flu’?” Brenda teases. “That doesn’t sound like the sharp prosecutor I know.”
“Maybe you don’t know me,” I snap before I can bite my tongue. “And, Liang, stop calling me. I’ve taken a sick day, which means common courtesy would be to give me some space. I don’t need you blowing up my phone. Make due without me for once.”
I can practicallyseeBrenda’s face fall. “Oh, um, okay… sorry, Ms. Adams. I’ll handle everything at the office. Hope you feel better.”
I hang up before the guilt eats me any further. Now I’m lashing out at Brenda when she means well. Sure she can be a little pestering and nosy, but I’m practically her mentor. She looks up to me and deserves better.
My face falls into my hands as a headache throbs to life. I’m such a disoriented, sloppy mess. Everything feels so suddenly outside of my control, like it’s happening to me, not me in controlmakingit happen. My absolute worst nightmare.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve prosecuted dozens of rape cases. I’ve met and spoke with many victims over the years, some women just like me—career women who had their whole lives upended after one terrible encounter with a piece of shit like the one who attacked me last night.
I should want to bring him to justice. Every second he’s on the streets is another second he’s able to assault an unsuspecting woman.
It’s what I do. I put criminals away. I make the bad guys pay. Shouldn’t I want mine to suffer behind bars?
But the grim truth is that sex crimes rarely end in a conviction. Of the thousands of women raped in Northam every year, fewer than a third are reported to the police. A quarter of those lead to an arrest. Cut that number in half again for the ones that make it to trial. By that point, most victims are so spent and exhausted, they just want the ordeal to be over with.
The worst part is seeing the hope drain from the women’s faces every time one of those bastards get off scot-free.
I can’t handle a trial. They’re traumatic and invasive for the average woman. For me and my public image, it would be hell on earth. The attack politicized during the election season. My entire sexual history put on front street. The deep dive into every other aspect of my personal life. The headlines in the newspaper. The nasty public opinion and inevitable blame game.
My past relationship with Salvatore would be dug up. Dad’s legacy would be tarnished. The career I’ve worked my entire life for would go up in smoke.
This is my fault. The situation is way too humiliating to bring to light. It’s bad enough I’ll never forget. I don’t need the entire city to know what’s happened.
I need to collect myself, handle this matter-of-factly. Make the situation into a list of to-do things and block out all the rest.
That’s how you get over these things. I’ll need to move to a new apartment, and arrange a private, daily car service to and from work. I’ll need to get tested for STDs and pregnancy. Come up with a full-proof story about my absence over the coming days. It’s a lot, but the more I think about it, it’s what I need—practical distractions.
Tangible things to do to keep myself busy.
