It was March 4, 1966. I was a young, twenty-two year old recently divorced mother of a four year old. I worked in Atlanta, Ga at a moving company. We had an office inside a large warehouse that was full of furniture being readied to be moved. We had approximately twelve workers employed there. None were there at ten to nine on March 4, 1966. I had a boss who wasn't there at ten to nine on March 4, 1966. I was there alone, and, not being busy, was reading "In Cold Blood" by Truman Capote. It was the worst possible book I could have been reading at the moment. It was a true story and the two killers in the book had just locked a couple of family members in the bathroom before they killed them.
At ten to nine on March 4, a young black man walked into my office and asked if my boss was there. For some reason, I became a little afraid of him and told him he wasn't, but should be in any minute. He wanted to know where the workers were and I told him the same thing. I wasn't afraid because he was black. I worked with all black men. I was raised in the South, but I wasn't prejudiced. I was afraid because he seemed a little jumpy. He left after I told him the workers weren't there and I thought I would go lock the outside door after I heard him leave. Before I could move, the door to my office was thrust open loudly and there the young black man stood with a gun pointing straight at me.
"Where is the money? I want all the money," he said.
I slowly stood up, the gun pointing at me. I stood there locked in time and became a scared little girl on the ceiling who was looking down at this poor panicked woman who didn't know what to say or do.
"There is no money," I said. And for the first time, I thought I might be dead at any moment. My life was over as surely as that gun pointed at me while this angry and jumpy young man held me hostage.
Quickly, he came to where I was standing and thrust me into the bathroom next to my desk. There was a full-length mirror across from me and I kept looking into it, my hands across my stomach, and I kept saying to myself, "He can't kill me, I've got a four year old daughter."
I could hear him going through desk drawers and file cabinets and wondered how much longer I would have to live. The Cutters in the book didn't survive, how was I? My head was exploding and all I could see was pitiful little girl who was about to not exist anymore.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he came and got me out of the bathroom. He put the gun at my head and walked me from the office out into the warehouse. There was a crated up sofa out there and he forced me to lay down on it all the while holding the gun at my head. I hought that's where he was going to shoot me. It never occurred rape to me until he went to lay an old shirt over my face and I turned my head sideways. I saw his pants were unzipped and I said to myself, "My G-d, he's going to rape me." That scared me, but what scared me most was a steely cold gun burning a hole in my head. He gently took my shoes off - I will never forget - he acted like a caring shoe salesman who wanted me to get just what I wanted from his store. Then he ripped off my pants and lay down on top of me. I can honestly say I didn't feel being raped. I couldn't because there was a gun burning a hole in my head and that's all I felt.
After a while he got up and told me not to move, not to dare move. And I didn't. I heard the outside warehouse door close and that's when the phone rang. I was frightened he was going to come back and kill me and I was almost too paralyzed to move. But the phone kept ringing, and he didn't come back, so I finally got up and ran to answer the phone. When I got up, I felt sperm run down my leg, but I still didn't really know if I had been raped, because I only felt the gun. It was later at the hospital, after the doctor examined me that they found sperm in my vagina and confirmed that I had, indeed, been raped. I still never felt it. For that, I am grateful.
The person on the phone was my boss's wife - which is why she kept ringing it so long. I told her what happened and she said she would call the police, but I called them too because I couldn't stand to be alone in that warehouse and talking on the phone to someone was almost like someone was there.
It seemed the police came in no time and then the warehouse workers came and one I was close to tried to come over to me and the police wouldn't let him. It would have been okay with me. Like I said, I am not a prejudiced person.
After a while the police took me to Grady hospital, whrere they used to take all rape victims and I was examined and then they took me to the police station to look at mug shots. The police later went to an informant who told them it was one of two men and two days later they called me in to look at more mug shots. I found my rapist on the fourth photo, the police got their sawed off shotguns and left the station. They picked up their informant and drove around Atlanta looking for the rapist. They found him at a red light, the informant jumped out the back seat, the police arrested David Walker and my rapist was caught. I was called in to do a line-up and had to get up close to him through what looked like a chain link fence. There was no glass separating us and I could smell him, a smell I still smell today, even when I least expect it.
There was no trial as he accepted a plea bargain. I think in all he served fourteen years. In 1966 in Georgia. a black man could get the death penaty for raping a white woman. I was glad he didn't. My family was mad he would be sitting around Reidsville State Prison playing cards while he ruined my life. Only he didn't. Oh, I have PTSD and all kinds of things scared me for a long time that never scared me before. I became afraid of strangers and dark places and warehouses and offices and all kinds of other things, but perhaps I was never much of an adventurous person to begin with.
And I lost most of my friends and half my family as I was now consdered dirty since I had been touched by a black man. But I guess I didn't lose much, if those people had that kind of attitude. To me, the most important thing was there was no four year old child at my house without a mother. I had my life and, as scarey as it then was, I could drive to Atlanta another day when I got brave enough to do it. I could maybe go on dates and maybe get married again.
And, mostly I think I am over everything until I do things like write this diary and throw my hands up in front of my face when typing that he burst into the room with a gun. But I had no bruises, so I guess to Reprentative Akin it wasn't a legitimate rape. Tell that to my psyche. And if it wasn't legitimate, I wonder what kind of rape it was. Thanks for reading. rachel
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