No, she won't forget about it or get over it

She was barely 20, a third-year college student, paying for that education by working 7 p.m. to 3 a.m. at a 7-Eleven.

After the cop pulled her over on her way home that early morning, he asked her to step out of the car. She wondered if he wanted to inspect a broken tail light. Instead, he instructed her to step inside his cruiser.

She was concerned, but compliant.

He drove her to the edge of town, parked, and started trying to kiss her and tear off her clothes, putting his hands on her, forcing her hands on him.

She didn’t know the man, but she’d seen him before. He came to the convenience store regularly for the free coffee and soft drinks offered uniformed officers — partly to say “thank you for your service,” partly to keep a steady stream of law enforcement circulating through the doors open 24 hours a day.

She tried to fight off his advances, but he was so much stronger ...

Thankfully, the police radio interrupted the assault, calling the cop back to work. He drove back to her car and left her, without a word.

It took a few days before she worked up the nerve to go downtown and file a complaint with police. She provided specifics, including the codes she’d heard on the radio and details about the inside of the cruiser. She kept the clothes he’d torn.

She didn’t think the police chief believed her at first. He wanted to know why she was out so late, how well did she know the officer, did she fight, did she scream. He didn’t ask her if she knew about the other young woman the same cop had allegedly attacked a few months earlier. She found out about that later.

In the end, the chief asked what she wanted him to do.

She said she wanted the cop gone. She didn’t want to see him again.

A day later, the chief gave her a call. The officer had left town. Problem solved.

Except the problem was not solved. More than 35 years later, she still trembles visibly when she sees police lights in the rear-view mirror. She still wonders if she were somehow responsible for the assault — a flirty smile in the store maybe? Should she have fought harder, screaming and kicking and biting?

Worse: Did he leave that job for another police department where another college student wasn’t so lucky as her?

Why didn’t she tell the police chief, “I want him arrested and prosecuted so he can never do this again.” Why didn’t she go back to authorities later — days, months, years later even — and force them to hold this man accountable?

Was she afraid? Somehow ashamed? She wasn’t sure.

All of those memories came flooding back to her last week with the Supreme Court justice hearings. She listened to Christine Blasey Ford testify she’d been assaulted by Brett Kavanaugh when they were teenagers, more than 35 years ago.

She became angry when skeptics cried “liar” because Ford had waited so long to tell that story.

She doesn’t pretend to know who’s lying. She’s even open to the idea that Kavanaugh and Ford might both be telling the truth as they remember it.

She understands we can debate something like that.

But here’s what civil, caring, morally grounded people cannot debate: the idea that a sexual assault victim has to tell her story publicly in a certain amount of time or it didn’t happen or it doesn’t matter anymore.

There is no timeline to “just get over it.”

We don’t know if Christine Blasey Ford waited so long to talk because she didn’t want the public attention she’s receiving now, or because she just now felt the stakes were too high to stay quiet anymore or because ... a million other reasons. And it doesn’t matter. Ford gets to decide. Not the public. Not her family or her friends. Not the United States Senate.

If you want to debate that point, feel free to call the woman who was assaulted by the cop more than 35 years ago. My wife’s name is Rhonda.

Before you call, be aware: She is no longer afraid, or ashamed that she was attacked. She is just angry that anybody thinks she should be over it by now.

David Stevens is editor for Clovis Media Inc. Contact him at: [email protected]

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