Victim to Victor

Rachel Timmons strode into the courtroom with confidence. She felt like all eyes were drawn to her as she proceeded to the table for the prosecution. 

She suspected some of those eyeballs were glued to her tailored Saint Laurent double-breasted lamé-striped wool-blend jacket. “Maybe even to my double-breasted body filling it out,” she allowed herself to indulge in a small lack of humility. Others were probably paying closer attention to her pin-striped wool-blend trousers, also by Saint Laurent. The thought “I hope they’re not staring at my butt,” flitted across her mind, for good reason.

There were probably women watching that took in the Jimmy Choo’s, Love 100 suede pumps. She liked the Saint Laurent suede leather ankle boots, but she loved her Jimmy Choos. The men probably didn’t have a clue about Jimmy Choo. And she thought only foot fetishists among the males would be looking at her feet.

“I wonder if anyone has noticed my ClairChase Sarita iPad briefcase?” Rachel wondered. “Maybe not, since I had it custom dyed to match the suit.”

When she got to the prosecution table, Rachel pulled out her legal pad and Mont Blanc pen before she sat down, next to Karin Newbury, her client. She noticed Karin’s nervous eyes, so she reached over and laid a comforting hand on her arm. “Relax, Karin. Trust me, I know how hard this is.” 

The tension around Karin’s cobalt eyes, and the throbbing forearm beneath Rachel’s hand, didn’t let up. Rachel turned away from Karin to look to her left, in the same direction as Karin’s nervous glare.

There he sat, the scumbag who brutally raped her client. “Allegedly raped,” she told herself, in lawyer-speak, as she reflected back on her journey from pre-med, through law school, to the present.

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It was a cool, autumn evening in Baltimore. Rachel felt really good about her anatomy exam. It was time to celebrate. Dump her books off in her dorm room, grab a few friends, and head out to PJ’s for drinks and dancing. Well, maybe that was using the term ‘dancing’ a little loosely. Thursday was “DJ PJ’s,” and even though the speakers were bad and the sound scratchy, nobody cared after a few cheap drinks and pricey burgers.

BAM! Somebody slammed into her back, knocking her off her feet. Her books flew out of her arms, landing poorly in the grass quad. Rachel herself landed just as poorly, arms and legs akimbo. She felt a knee in her back as she tried to get up, and a pair of sweaty hands sliding up under her skirt and ripping her panties off at the same time.

When she tried to scream someone stuffed a smelly rag in her mouth and pushed her face down into the grass and the mud. “This can’t be happening to me,” she thought, before thoughts became nightmares and nightmares became reality that led to horrible, fragmented memories.

Fast forward. The defense attorney, a man with a pockmarked face and dirty fingernails, told her the cold, hard facts. She had taken five showers before seeing anyone. A rape kit hadn’t been useful. She didn’t see her attackers. She couldn’t even tell him what they had been wearing.

Rachel understood, but she didn’t understand, at the same time. Why was the burden so heavy for her, the victim? Why were these animals allowed to get away with rape? Maybe they were even getting away with murder, in some cases. And why didn’t Richard, her fianceé, support her more?

Fast forward. She switched from pre-med to law school. She wasn’t about to stay at Johns Hopkins, or even in Maryland. The University of Pennsylvania offered a great law school, but Rachel thought it wasn’t far enough away. “Is anywhere far enough away? I don’t think so. But separation would be nice, at least for now.”

She moved to Illinois, to attend the University of Chicago, where 92% of the graduates passed the bar and 80% landed good jobs. She surrounded herself with new friends, all female. She studied hard, tried never to go anywhere alone, and graduated at the top of her class. She came close to acing her bar exam.

Fast forward. Exhausting work, billing lots of overtime, for Morgan & Morgan in New York. Work, save, avoid being alone, avoid men, wash, rinse, repeat.

Fast forward. Rachel met Carlina, another sexual assault defense attorney, they became fast friends and established their own law firm. Goldstein and Timmons. Like Rachel, Carlina had her own story. Tired of being victims, they had decided to fight back, and fight back hard. They couldn’t convict every slimy rapist they fought against. They couldn’t defend the honor of every single client they took on, usually accusing of “asking for it,” though none had. But they could win some cases, more and more as their experience and reputation grew.

Now here she was, about to do battle with Romeo Johnson. Rachel felt like he was her arch-nemesis. He had defended half a dozen rapists (alleged rapists) against her in the past. And their score stood at 3-3, all even up. “Today you’re mine,” Rachel thought. “I’m winning this one.”

The trial began as they always do, with the judge’s entrance, all rising, reading of the charges, opening statements. When they took a recess for lunch, Rachel headed for the water cooler in the hall, while Karin went into the ladies' room.

“Hello again, counselor.” Romeo’s oily voice behind her. “Ready for another whuppin'? I bet you like getting whipped.” As soon as his fingers touched her bottom, Rachel whipped around and backed away.

“How dare you!” she panted. Romeo smiled.

“You’re breathing pretty hard, missy. I think you liked it.” He bent to refill his water bottle from the cooler. Rachel thought about burying her Jimmy Choo’s in the bottom of his . . .

“OK,” Karin said, stepping out of the restroom. “I think I’m ready for some lunch. How about you?” She was looking at Rachel. She hadn’t recognized the attorney for the defense, bent over as he was.

“Lunch sounds great,” Rachel replied, rushing over to Karin. “I know this great deli right around the corner. I will probably be crowded, but they have quick service.”

It was an open and shut case. Rachel found neighbors with video camera doorbells that recorded. Two recordings showed the defendant, flagrante delicto, clearly having his way with an unwilling participant, her client. Karin had trouble watching the video. She wasn’t the only one, so the judge interrupted, and asked for it to be shown in her chambers. Then she required it to be shown privately to the jurors. Rachel complimented Karin on her courage, her willingness to testify, and her Coach clutch.

That night, after she delivered Karin safely to a women’s shelter, she headed for home herself. Just as she reached the bottom step leading up to her brownstone she heard that detestable, oily voice again.

“Well, you certainly whipped my ass in court today, bitch.” Romeo. “Now I’m going to whip yours, and I’m going to whip it good.”

Suddenly it came flooding back to her. That voice. She heard that voice years ago, in the quad, when she was studying pre-med. She whipped around, just as Romeo’s arm swung at her rear end. “You!” she snarled, while reaching into her briefcase. She kicked her Jimmy Choo’s right between Romeo’s legs. As she doubled over she brought her pepper spray.

Romeo was doubled over, holding himself and grunting. She probably didn’t need to spray him. “What the hell?” she thought, bending down to spray up, directly into his face. He brought one hand up to his stinging eyes, keeping the other between his legs, and he bawled like a baby.

“Looks like I whipped your ass again, asshole. And I’m gonna whip it one more time, when I take you to court.” True to her word, she took him to court. He was struck from the bar, went to prison for a very long time, and became somebody else’s playtoy.

The newspapers had a good time telling her story. “Luscious Lady Lawyer Lays Licentious Letch Low” was one of her favorite headlines. Goldstein & Timmons needed to add three new lawyers to handle their increasing caseload. Another rape victim followed Rachel’s lead, becoming a lawyer to put more bad guys away for good. Deborah Baker wrote a best-selling biography of Rachel’s life, Recovering from Rape. HBO paid for the rights to make it a mini-series, Victim to Victor. They won four Emmy awards for the series. Rachel, seeing how well the firm was doing, left the courtroom to go on a speaking tour. She inspired more women to come forward and talk about their abusers. Two men even joined those finally castigating their attackers.

Maybe the best part, according to Rachel, is her husband, Larry. Seeing the courage of all her clients, Rachel decided to try trust again. Larry helped build that trust, treating her like a lady, not like used goods. It took him four dates to move in for a goodnight kiss. They didn’t even do any heavy petting until they were married, two years after their first date. And sex waited another year. But Larry? He waited, patiently. He accepted her, appreciated her strength, and loved her unconditionally. 

The night they made love for the first time, on their one year anniversary, she cried afterward. “No, Larry, you didn’t hurt me. I’m crying for all the unfortunate women who suffer through the ordeal of rape. Some of them never recover, some never find joy in life again, some can never trust or love after what they’ve gone through.”

“Maybe you should practice law again,” Larry suggested. “I don’t understand why men would treat women that way, but I know how much it hurt you. And you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.” She kissed him, tenderly, and smiled.

“No, I think I’ll start a woman’s shelter instead. And Larry?”

“Yes?”

“Some of them are happy tears. For those women who found courage, and stood up to the animals who hurt them.”