A Girl's Life Online (22 page)

T
he defendant—the man who had opened the door wearing those god-awful white shoes, groped me on the sofa, and been arrested by the police in Dallas—was Frank. I still remembered Mark—sweet, caring, intelligent, funny, and I still missed him. But this man Frank was determined to make me miserable, to create months, even years of conflict just so he wouldn't have to admit or take responsibility for what he had done. During the week before Thanksgiving in 1997 he sent out his private detectives to question my teachers, my neighbors, and my biological father. They pestered Karen with questions about me when her brother was literally days from death. Was my mother neglectful? Had I been beaten? I wasn't worried that they might find something scandalous about me or my family. I wasn't a Lolita. And the worst thing they could find out was that we don't go to church on Sundays and sometimes we mix our recycling in with our trash.

But I knew they would soon show up at St. Paul's. My refuge was going to be invaded, and much of the power I had gained in going away—power over who knew what about me—was lost. Night after night I lay awake, filled with worry, and when I finally did fall asleep, it wouldn't last. I'd wake up at two, or three, or four with my heart pounding and my mind racing. On those nights I'd take a book, a pillow, and a blanket into the bathroom and settle on the floor under the sink and wait for dawn.

During the day, every time I walked into my room I feared that I would find a private detective sitting there. I began to feel like I was falling apart. I had to tell someone about my anxiety. My mother had called the rector of the school and explained that I had something serious to discuss. I met with him shortly after. I know he was surprised by what I told him, because I had seemed like such a happy student. But he didn't judge me negatively; rather, he seemed to care about my safety. He said that the campus was private. Anyone who came without permission would be asked to leave.

The only other person I felt I had to tell was Penn. She was my roommate, and if they were going to bother anyone it would be her. So one afternoon when we were alone in our room I decided to tell her. I sat on my bed and cleared my throat. She looked up from the desk where she was studying and put down her pen.

“I've got something serious to talk to you about,” I began.

“Katie, what are you so nervous about?”

“It's really serious, Penn. After you hear this you might decide you don't want to be my friend. Other people have done that.”

“Katie, you're scaring me. What is it?”

“All right. But you have to let me tell you the whole thing, without interrupting me. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Well, you know America Online, and the whole chat room thing? Two years ago I met this guy on there. His name was Mark. He was extremely nice, Penn, like nobody I had ever met. Anyway, we talked back and forth for six months.”

“So?”

“Well, he said he was twenty-three. And I agreed to meet him in Texas at a swim meet. It was a big secret. I didn't tell anybody. But when I got to his room he was a lot older than twenty-three, and he started grabbing me. Then my mother came pounding on the door, and the police came, and everybody found out. They're pressing charges and it's become a really big deal. Nobody here knows about it, except you.”

I searched her face for a reaction. She didn't seem shocked or disappointed in me. Instead, she seemed worried. “It's terrible what happened to you,” she said. “Are you all right now?”

“I'm okay,” I told her, which was almost true. “But the thing is, there's going to be a trial and he might send some investigators up here to try to dig up dirt about me and my family. They could come to see you. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. If they come, I won't talk to them, and I won't let them bother me.”

We braced ourselves for the worst from Frank. I imagined he would send a team of trench-coat-wearing detectives after us, that they would dig through our trash and interrogate our friends and dorm mates. But nothing like this happened. Finally, at Christmastime, my mother called with some news. “What would you think,” she asked, “about Frank pleading guilty?”

She explained that Frank's attorneys were in New Haven and that the government had presented them a plea agreement. Frank would serve twelve to twenty-one months in prison in exchange for admitting to a variety of federal charges. It was not much time, considering that the charges he faced carried sentences of up to twenty years. But the prosecutors were not absolutely certain they would get a conviction, partly because the laws were so new and partly because Frank had been able to pass one of his polygraph tests (although two more said he was lying). If Frank took their offer, at least he would be punished in some way.

My parents hoped he would take the offer because they wanted to spare me the trauma of having to testify in front of a jury. “I don't want you to have to sit through a trial and relive it over and over,” said my mother.

I didn't care about that, but I also didn't want to see this drag on and on. I knew that if we won the first time around, there would surely be an appeal. This thing could dominate my life for years. If Frank pleaded guilty it would mean that he would have to admit to the crimes. It meant that my version of the truth would be upheld. That was more important to me than anything. Maybe then I would be able to resume some kind of normal life.

Frank signed the plea agreement on his forty-third birthday, December 29, 1997. I wondered what it felt like for him to finally take responsibility for what had happened in that hotel room in Texas. But I wasn't especially happy that day. The court couldn't change what had happened to me and restore all my destroyed relationships. It was the dead of winter and I saw nothing but mountains of dirty snow on the ground everywhere in New Hampshire. It was getting dark early every day and I still just wanted to sleep.

Maybe I would feel differently when he entered his plea in person, at the courthouse, and I would be there to watch him. Dates for this event were set and changed three or four times. As I waited, I celebrated my sixteenth birthday at school with pizza and a cake.

I couldn't understand why people make a big deal about turning sixteen. If you accept what the media says, and what half the adult world seems to think, adolescence is supposed to be the sweetest slice of life. Maybe it is for some people, but Frank had made sure it wasn't for me. I could only hope that the future would bring less confusion, less pain, less heartache.

Frank's guilty plea was set for March 13, 1998, during my spring break from school. That morning I woke up and went running. Frost covered the ground and clouds blocked the light from the rising sun. I ran and ran and ran, and as I turned for home I thought about what was ahead of me that day. I understood that Frank was ready to admit that he had committed crimes, as defined by the law. But that didn't feel like enough. I wanted him to feel real guilt, real remorse, real responsibility. But as I ran for home, I wondered whether Frank had the capacity to feel empathy for another human being. He would never feel bad about what he had done to me and other people my age.

I had thought that all along I would be perfectly happy with him just pleading guilty. But now that the time was here, I realized that I wanted more, something that was practically impossible. I began to pick up speed, running faster. I wanted Frank to understand the magnitude of his actions, that his crimes were truly wrong not just because of the law.

Out of breath, I reached my house and went inside to shower and change. I tried out my whole wardrobe that morning—suits, dresses, pants, skirts—you name it, I had it on. Nothing pleased me and I became disgusted with everything in my closet. I couldn't understand why I had bought half the things that filled it. Finally I decided on a simple black skirt, white shirt, and black blazer. I brushed my hair and headed out to the car with David.

As we pulled out of the driveway, I was a little disappointed that my mother wasn't there with me. She was in Florida on business. I knew she wanted to be there, but she was giving a major presentation, which she couldn't reschedule. While I admire how hard she works for our family, I thought this was an important day, and I wish she could have been there.

I didn't say much in the car. I stayed busy, tuning the radio. For once David didn't complain about it. We both knew that this would be the first time since Texas that I would see Frank. I don't know if my brain was playing tricks on me, or if I had genuinely forgotten what he looked like, but I couldn't remember his face. I was a little afraid to be in the same room with him, even if it was a public courtroom.

We were early and stopped for hot chocolate near the courthouse. When it came time to leave and walk up the steps to the court, I became nervous. At the door I put my bag down on the conveyor belt that carried it through an X-ray machine. I made the alarm on the metal detector scream and had to be checked by a guard with a handheld wand.

No one from the FBI or the prosecutor's office seemed to be around, so I walked up to the door and slowly opened it. As I looked in, the first person I saw was Frank. He was wearing a double-breasted suit and he was speaking with his attorneys. I didn't recognize him, but I knew it was him. There was something different about him, and I realized it was his glasses. He had worn contacts in Texas.

I stood in the doorway for just a few seconds, but it was long enough for them to notice me. I couldn't see any familiar faces from our side, so I stepped back into the hall.

“He is in there,” I told David. It was all real now, more real than it had ever been. In a moment the elevator door opened and the prosecution team walked out. I would be allowed to enter the courtroom with them, which I did. I sat with David behind their table. I looked at the defense and I saw Frank standing next to his lawyer. The lawyer was rubbing Frank's back, just like Frank had rubbed my back to guide me into the bathroom of his hotel room.

In front of me, Attorney Garrity-Rokous poured a glass of water. He winked at me as if things would be all right. I felt like they were going to be, and I felt satisfied that my ordeal was finally beginning to be over. I wanted closure more than anything else, and I hoped that this day would begin that stage.

There were two knocks on the door and everyone rose. When we sat down again, I looked over at the defense side and saw the only person who occupied a seat was a reporter. This may sound crazy, but I felt sorry for Frank. He had no one there to support him. Maybe he's suicidal, I thought. If I faced prison with no family or friends I would be suicidal. That thought made me feel something I had not expected to feel—guilt.

Frank's lawyer told the judge that he wished to change his plea to guilty. The judge followed up with questions. Once again Frank was very quiet. I felt upset when he answered no to the judge's question about whether he had a criminal history. He hadn't been charged with any other crimes, but he had certainly committed some. I wanted to get up and protest, Why can't we count these?