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“None. The message was very abrupt, and when I called, her phone had been disconnected.”
“Do you know of anything odd that happened before she left, or anything that had been bothering her?”
Constantine paused before answering. “Why did you say you’re calling again? Has something happened to her?”
“We hope not. We’re trying to locate her.”
“Why?” His voice was guarded.
Arnett made a slashing motion against his neck, and she nodded. “I can’t reveal that at the moment, other than to say it’s urgent we find her.”
“You can’t reveal that.” Computer keys clacked in the background. “I’m sorry, but I only have your word that you are who you say you are. If you want information about Jennifer, you’re going to have to—”
Jo’s stomach sank, and she hurried to interrupt. “Mr. Constantine?”
“I’m sorry, Detective, a client just came in, and I have to go. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” He hung up.
Jo glanced back up at Arnett. “Well. My Spidey senses are now radioactive.”
“Too bad we have zero idea how to find her,” Coyne said. “And only a few hours before she comes after Arnett.”
CHAPTERFIFTY-FIVE
I’ve heard two justifications for why some crimes, like rape, have a statute of limitations while others, like murder, do not. The first is that evidence degrades over time, and it isn’t ‘fair’ to put someone on trial years after a crime. If that’s true, why does it apply only to some crimes and not others? The fact is, DNA doesn’t degrade when stored correctly, and it doesn’t lie—but the DNA collected in my case is considered irrelevant simply because an arbitrary amount of time has passed.
The answer I get to that objection is the second justification: that murder is an ‘irreversible’ crime, and other crimes are not.
The first time someone said that to me, I literally couldn’t breathe. My chest tightened and my throat seized up, and I almost blacked out before I was able to draw oxygen again.
Reversible.
If someone crashes into your car, it can be repaired. If someone steals your wallet in the subway, they can return it, or make restitution for the money they stole. That’s reversible.
The night Cooper Ossokov raped me, I called myself a cab, rode home, and went directly to the room my parents kept for me in their house. I sat on my bed alone, not moving, for how long I don’t know. I’ve had people ask me since, including in my deposition, why I didn’t go directly to the police or the hospital. It’s not normal behavior, they claim, to just grab a cab and head home. That’s the behavior of someone who just had consensual sex, they say. It supports Ossokov’s claim. Even members of the DA’s office said it—including Sandra Ashville, as a justification for why my case should be put to the side in favor of something more ‘winnable.’
The answer is simple—I was in shock. My brain had shifted into a self-protective mode, and despite being a normally intelligent, self-contained person, I wasn’t able to process anything in that moment. My behavior was on autopilot, latching on to familiar patterns I’d engaged in a thousand times before as my psyche attempted to flee and find safety. To get away, so I could pretend it never happened.
I’ve found out in the years since that this reaction is very normal for women who’ve been sexually assaulted. But I didn’t know it then. At the time I was in such deep shock, I didn’t even know I was crying until my mother came into the room. And thank God she did, because I was about to shower, another psychological defense rape victims often reach for in an effort to feel ‘clean’ again. And it’s only after we shower so often and so long and scrub ourselves so raw that our skin starts to bleed that we finally understand we’ll never, ever feel ‘clean’ again.
After going to the hospital and the police, and after the two weeks my mother insisted I take off of work, I tried to go back to my normal life. Bad things happen to everyone, right? You stand back up and you move on with your life, and I wasn’t interested in being avictim. Yet, every night the attack replayed itself in my nightmares. Even during the day, when I saw someone that looked a little like him or I couldn’t see around a corner in the T station or a man stared at me a moment too long, the images would flash through my mind and I’d struggle to breathe and I’d have to get away, as far and as fast as possible. And then just the thought of returning tothatplace would set off a crippling fear response, too.
My work became a nightmare—there’s always one or two on every flight who’ve had too much to drink or are just assholes who stare at you like you’re their own personal ice cream cone and who ‘accidentally’ brush against your hand when you pass them their pretzels. I started needing to carry Xanax for panic attacks to even force myself on my flights. I became a flight attendant because I loved seeing the world, but the idea of sightseeing alone on my layovers now terrified me. And the evenings out with my fellow flight attendants in whatever city we’d flown to that day? The thought of strange men in strange clubs on strange streets sent me into cold sweats and bouts of vomiting. I stayed in my ‘safe’ hotel room with the door locked, latched, and a chair under the knob.
And despite having had normal relationships before the attack, the thought of letting a man ever touch methat wayagain made me crawl into a fetal position and cry.
Then, almost three months after the attack, I realized I was pregnant.
Every bout of morning sickness, every pair of pants that no longer fit, every time my breasts hurt when I put on my bra was like he was reaching out and attacking me again. I couldn’t get away—he was with me, inside my very biology, and he always would be.
If I had the baby, I’d have had to stop flying by, at best, week thirty-six—if my body held up to the stresses of air travel on pregnancy. And I’d only been a flight attendant for a few years—my vacation time and other benefits were limited. I wouldn’t be able to support myself, let alone a baby.
So I had an abortion.
Even the exam confirming I was pregnant triggered a panic attack. I couldn’t face the prospect of having a male doctor do it, but even with a woman gynecologist I lay there, legs up in the stirrups, sobbing quietly to myself, praying for it to be over. I was terrified of how I’d react during the abortion itself, and luckily—I thought—they fully sedated me so I didn’t have to be conscious for it. But not remembering the procedure was worse; afterward I was swamped with new nightmares where Ossokov came into the operating room and raped me repeatedly again.
Through it all, I spent countless hours wishing Ossokov had killed me rather than leaving me trapped in eternal hell.
Of course I tried therapy. And it helped. With the aid of a PTSD specialist I was eventually able to get through my shifts without the panic attacks. I was able to run my errands, and even go out—to locations I checked out in advance—with colleagues. I even managed to go on a few dates with nice men. The nightmares and fear reactions never died out completely, and it was always easier to stay in with a good book than go out into the world. But I got to a place where I could manage my day-to-day existence without constant panic attacks.
