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“But look at me.” She gestures to her jean shorts and pretty, yellow peasant top.
“You look cute.”
I know where this is going.
“Dressed like this? Everyone’s going to blame me.”
“So if you called the police this morning because someone broke into your new BMW, would you feel like you were to blame because you had a nice car?”
That turns her startled eyes to mine. “No. I guess not.”
“Exactly.” Natalie looks like all the victims so far: young, brunette, pretty. “Because it’s a crime to take someone’s property.”
Natalie looks like me at eighteen.
“And above all, Natalie, your body is your property and yours alone. No one has the right to it because it’s pretty, dressed cute, or even drunk. If a businessman drinks with his colleagues, wears a nice suit, and then gets robbed, do others blame him for dressing like that? Like he has money?”
“No.”
“Damn, right. You have the right to dress however you like. That doesn’t give anyone a reason to touch or hurt you.”
My blood is boiling.
It happens every damn time I respond to one of these calls or hear people blame the victim.
Like there’s some outfit that keeps women safe.
Bullshit. If there were, we’d all be wearing it.
The tragic thing is when I take these calls and hear the victim blame themselves.
“You sound mad, Sergeant.”
I sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you, Natalie.”
I inhale, taking my rage down a notch to only “I’m gonna kill the fucker who did this” instead of “all fuckers” level.
“Natalie, it’s my job to be mad for you until you get mad for yourself.” I barely touch her trembling hand. There may be evidence on it. “Because mad gets you justice, blame won’t.”
“I remember some guys at the bar. One was in a striped shirt, talking to my cousin. Another one had a parrot on his T-shirt. He was older…”
Now… we’re talking.
I listen while anger starts dripping through Natalie’s veins, firing up whatever memory she has.
I jot down notes on my steno pad, as many details as possible, without re-traumatizing Natalie.
When we’re done, I pull the patrol car back into the resort parking lot. Jameson is standing there with Natalie’s parents. The crowd gathered got their attention. After we park, they open the door and pull Natalie into a hug so fast it softens my angry heart.
But then I see it.
Some guy standing in the crowd has his phone aimed at Natalie.
I don’t remember getting to him so fast, but I do. Grabbing his wrist, I twist it behind his back and slam him against the trunk of a pine tree.
“Show me right now,” I snarl, “how you’re gonna delete those pictures.”
“What?” He’s stunned by my swift attack.
