Plea No Bargain

by Britni Wary

This short chapter of my life began a year ago. I was sexually assaulted by a classmate with whom I was casually acquainted. For those unfamiliar with the system, this would seem to be the worst part of the ordeal: the actual act of the assault. For the few women who decide to report it, this is just the beginning.

When a sexual assault is reported, victims are told to go to the hospital for a physical examination first. In Philadelphia, these cases are referred to Jefferson University Hospital. While the staff there was as helpful and sensitive as possible, the four-plus hours I spent in the emergency room were some of the longest hours of my life. I was surprised when a hospital social worker told me that when an assault victim comes in for a physical examination the hospital is required by law to call the police. It is the choice of the victim whether they actually speak to the police, but uniformed officers are required to attempt to at least get a name of the assailant. I was lucky enough to have my mother and best friend by my side for the day, but I couldn’t help thinking about all the people who have to go alone. It suddenly made sense why so many rapes go unreported. The long, lonely hours being questioned in waiting rooms and the same questions asked over again could make even the strongest person give up. All have just been through the most physically and emotionally exhausting experience of their lives. All are suddenly aware that they are embarking down a long, even more exhausting road. All do so in the hope that all their pain and hard work will pay off someday.

That someday, for most, is at least a year. Before a victim gets the chance to confront his or her attacker, there are months of investigation and preliminary hearings. While I waited for my time to come, I thought about the day authorities would find him guilty. Yet, my day with a jury never came. Instead, I was offered a guilty plea, and after weighing all the options I decided to take it. I could avoid even more months in court and maybe end up with nothing, or I could take the plea and get the admittance of guilt. What could be better than him standing up in court and admitting everything he did? How much more retribution could I ask for? That's what I thought, anyway.

I'd waited a year for that day. A year filled with investigations, interviews and meetings that completely displaced me from the life I was still adjusting to as a freshman in college. That was the day that would make up for it all: I was going to get my turn. Justice would be served. What I found was not justice but a half-assed attempt at appeasing my family and me, all the while making sure not to make the man who raped me seem like a bad person. The judge and lawyers blamed the incident on drinking. If he had not been drinking it never would have happened. I know a lot of people who drink -- some to excess almost every night of the week. None of them, however, would ever have it in them to commit such a horrible crime. That's what it was, a crime. It wasn't a "bad decision." It wasn't a drunken mistake. Raping someone is a crime, plain and simple. It would seem that it should be plain and simple, wouldn't it? Someone commits a crime against you. You follow all the necessary courses of action. You do everything the police, detectives and lawyers tell you to do. When all is said and done justice should be served. This is not the case for most sexual assaults, and I, like most, had to find this out the hard way. If I knew then what I know now I would have never accepted the guilty plea offered to me. It was as useful and meaningful to me as cough syrup is to a headache.

If I could offer one suggestion to those brave enough and strong enough to get through the long and grueling process, it would be to make sure you know exactly what you're getting into. In America, we are familiar with "innocent until proven guilty." Yet we find that even those who admit guilt are all too often treated like innocent people who simply had a lapse in judgment. The guilty individual is more or less praised for admitting his or her guilt, and therefore treated with kid gloves in the sentencing process. In reality, the guilty plea saves the defendant from a harsher conviction (in this case a felony was lowered to misdemeanor). Did he admit what he did? Sure, if you call "I made a mistake, I shouldn't have drank so much that night" an admission of the worst of crimes. For some reason, call me crazy, but "oops!" was not quite the "justice" I was looking for.

Britni Wary is a Drexel student co-oping at City Paper. If you would like to respond to this Slant or have one of your own (850 words), contact Howard Altman, City Paper interim editor, 123 Chestnut St., third floor, Phila., PA 19106 or e-mail altman@citypaper.net.

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