Date Rape New York (2 page)

Shivering had become shaking. She pulled a long white terrycloth robe off the back of the bathroom door, revealing a full-length mirror that reflected her naked back in the mirror over the basin. She froze, shocked.

Black-and-blue marks dotted her shoulder blades and each vertebra from neck to buttocks. Blue smudges covered her elbows and hips too, she saw as she twisted to look. She lowered herself to the broad tile rim of the bathtub. She winced. Sitting hurt. She reached between her legs. Her fingers came away wet, sticky, and faintly bloody.

Sex? She reeled with disbelief, almost falling backward. “Where was I? Who was I with?” she said aloud. The more she tried to remember, the more she couldn’t. Her breath came in harsh, frightened gasps.

Vaguely, she heard a quick tap on her room door and the sound of an inserted key-card. “Grazia!” someone called. A few moments later the bathroom door swung open and Sophia, the lovely, vivacious, and friendly Italian maid who always cleaned her room, stood staring at her. Her large, dark eyes were wide with alarm.

“Dio!” she gasped and crossed herself.

Grazia held out her bruised arms. “Look!” she whispered in Italian, the shared language they spoke with each other. “And I had sex. But I don’t remember who he was! I don’t even remember having sex.”

Sophia gently drew the bathrobe around Grazia’s shaking body and helped her back to bed.  “Do you remember where you went last night?”

“No!”

“Do you remember who were you with?”

“I don’t remember anything!” Grazia was struggling to make sense of this, but her brain wasn’t working. “I threw up. What is wrong with me!”

“Did you go to a bar?” Sophia was wringing her hands in distress. “This is New York! If you went to a bar, it would be easy for some man to put a drug in your drink. He could have brought you here and had sex with you. I should have known this might happen,” she said, her normally sweet face growing hard. “I should have warned you.”

Sophia went into the bathroom and returned with Grazia’s makeup remover and tissues. “I’m calling hotel security. Mr. Johnson will call the police. This happened to a friend of mine, so I know what to do. But before I call Mr. Johnson, I’m going to clean you up. You need to look respectable, or the police will treat you like a
puttana
.”

Chapter 2

Grazia drifted up from a dark place filled with shadows. “Francisco!” she screamed but her nightmare voice made no sound.

“Miss Conti, wake up.”

Grazia’s body jerked, waking her. She looked up to find a pair of bright blue eyes peering at her from under a thatch of white hair. Her aching eyes drifted downward to a bushy white moustache, blue shirt, and gray jacket open over a broad chest. A brass nametag sat on the breast pocket, but her tired eyes couldn’t make out the words. 

He pulled over a chair and sat down. “I’m Stanley Johnson, chief of Hotel Fiorella security, Miss Conti. Call me Stanley. I understand you suffered a personal incident. Can you tell me about it?” The deep voice was gentle, kindly, and invited confidences.

Grazia’s eyes were following the bobbing white moustache. She made a huge effort and gingerly pulled herself up to a sitting position. If she moved quickly, the dizziness returned with a vengeance. “I don’t know what happened. I woke up like this.” She held out one arm to show the bruises. “On my back, too.”

Stanley winced. “Did you fall? With the snow we’re getting, sidewalks are slippery.”

Grazia closed her eyes. She couldn’t concentrate and she was terribly sleepy. Far away, she heard Sophia saying “naked” and “sex” and “can’t remember.”

“Miss Conti, you’re sure about the sex?” Stanley’s voice was loud in her ears.

“I’m sure,” she whispered.  The effort to reply cleared her head, but now knives stabbed her temples.

“You normally leave your room like this?” Stanley motioned toward the disarray.

“Never. Ask Sophia. She cleans every day.” How could she explain her obsession with tidiness when she felt so confused?

“Drop those towels!” Stanley barked.

Grazia’s sleepy eyes flew open. Sophia was standing at the bathroom door holding an armload of used towels.  “But Miss Conti threw up on this towel, sir!”

“Drop it, I said! And stay out of the bathroom!” Stanley’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t I see you working the fourth floor yesterday? Where’s your cart? And why so early? It’s barely eight o’clock. Housekeepers start at nine.”

“They needed extra help on this floor, sir,” Sophia answered.

Stanley turned back to Grazia. “Miss Conti, last night were you wearing any of these clothes I see on the floor?”

Grazia made herself focus on the clutter. “The red silk blouse and the jeans, I think.”

Stanley addressed Sophia. “Get me three big paper bags from the supply closet. Paper, not plastic, understand? And I want a clean glass jar with a lid from the kitchen.” He got to his feet. “I’ll open the door for you, Sophia. I can do it without messing up any fingerprints.”

Stanley resumed his seat by Grazia’s bed. His tone softened. “Miss Conti, the fact that you feel sick, you don’t remember anything about last night, and you had sex—this all tells me that you went somewhere and you either drank too much alcohol or somebody put an amnesiac drug in your drink. Then a man brought you here and took advantage of you.”

“I only drink one glass of wine.” Grazia closed her eyes. This wasn’t happening.

“Then you were drugged. Possibly Rohypnol. We had trouble with that drug in some local bars a few years ago. Have you ever heard of “roofies,” “rope,” or “roaches”?

Grazia shook her head, bewildered.

“Men use Rohypnol to drug women so they won’t remember being raped,” Stanley explained. “Alcohol alone will cause memory loss if you drink enough.”

Grazia forced herself to concentrate. “I told you. One glass of wine.”

“One glass of wine with Rohypnol in it and your memory is gone, and so is your resistance. It’s called drug-facilitated sexual assault. You need to report it.”

“Drug what?”

“Drug-facilitated sexual assault, Miss Conti. DFSA. Date rape.” Stanley’s quiet, deep voice remained patient. “Nonconsensual sex. After you were drugged, you weren’t operating at full mental capacity. You couldn’t give your legal consent to have sex. That makes it rape. You need to report it to the police.”

Sophia was back with the paper bags. Dazed, Grazia watched Stanley use his pen to lift her jeans and red silk shirt. He dropped them into a bag. “I’m writing the time and date and signing my name on the bag,” he said. “The same with the towels. If the police decide this is drug-facilitated, they will send these to the medical examiner to get the perpetrator’s DNA. Your vomit on the towel will contain the drug.” He set the bags by the door and pulled the chair closer to her bed. He spoke quietly and earnestly.

“I was a cop for thirty years, Miss Conti. Now that I’ve retired into private security, my job is to protect the patrons and reputation of the Hotel Fiorella. We’re situated near the East Village, which is a nightlife area. I can’t have our guests being sexually assaulted when they go out for a drink. Let me notify the police.”

“No police.” Naples police could be as corrupt as its criminals.

“Consider other women, Miss Conti. Men who drug women for sex do it again and again. Why? Because their victims don’t report the assault. Help the police apprehend this perpetrator, Miss. Then he can’t drug and rape other women.”

“No police. Go away. I need to sleep.” She had no energy to think about other women. She wanted this waking nightmare to go away. Sleep would do that.

Stanley leaned forward earnestly. “Two years ago, before I retired, my partner and I arrested a few bartenders taking money to drug women’s drinks. After that, the drug-facilitated reports in our precinct dropped to nearly none. File a report, Miss. The NYPD will nip this date-rape drugging in the bud.”

“What could I tell the police?” she said, desperately. “I had sex and I don’t remember anything! Not where I went, not who I was with, not what I did—nothing!” She put her hands over her face and groaned.

“You might remember something—anything small might help a detective open an investigation. Rape is the most underreported violent crime in America. Only about one in six women reports an attack. Fight back, Miss Conti. Protect other women from this man.” He sat back in frustration and looked at Sophia.

Sophia shook her shoulder. “Wake up, Grazia! You need to see a doctor right away
.
What if this man gave you a disease?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What if you are pregnant?”

Horror struck. Grazia was wide-awake now. “Pregnant?”

“Go to the emergency room and let a doctor check you over,” urged Stanley, seeing they had her attention. “Beth Israel Hospital is near here. They have special nurses and counselors who help women who have been raped.”

Grazia clung to Sophia’s hand. “Will you come with me?” she whispered. 

Stanley nodded his approval. “Sophia, get Miss Conti to fill that jar with urine and make her put the jar in her handbag with her own hands.” He picked up the paper bags. “I’ll drive my car around to the hotel entrance. In this snowstorm, you’ll never find a taxi.”

Chapter 3

The entrance to Beth Israel Medical Center Emergency Room was up a heavily salted ramp on Seventeenth Street just off First Avenue. A big-bellied security guard directed them to a reception window where a cheerful young man sat behind thick glass.

“Drugged and raped,” Sophia said into the microphone. “Last night. She can’t remember anything.”

“Insurance and major credit card, please.”

Grazia’s body seemed to have floated upwards. She was looking down at Sophia, who was talking into the microphone. Grazia could remember Sophia helping her get dressed and stagger to the hotel elevator. The doorman had virtually carried her to Stanley’s waiting car. Below her, the reception clerk’s metallic voice was fading in and out. “It’s foreign insurance. She will have to put everything on her credit card and contact her insurer to reimburse her.”

Grazia felt Sophia take her arm and pull her towards some glass doors. Unfortunately, her legs weren’t obeying. She lurched and stumbled. The doors parted and closed behind her. A dark wall in front of her turned into blue-uniformed policemen with nightsticks and holstered guns. Frightened, she tried to retreat, but a pen appeared between her fingers. She watched them scribble her name. Now came a hallway of white curtains. A heavy, strong voice penetrated the fog.

“You’re not with us, are you, honey? From your eyes, you’re drugged to the gills. Let’s get you up on this exam table. Hang on to your friend. Are you dizzy?”

Grazia was observing the curtained room slowly revolving around her.

“Is this your urine?” the voice demanded.

Grazia focused on the nurse, a heavy black woman wearing blue hospital scrubs, with short-cropped hair, gold stud earrings, a relaxed voice, and an easy smile. She had perched her big hip on the exam table.

“I’m Janine. Sexual assault nurse examiner. SANE. You urinated into this jar this morning, Grazia?”

“Yes.” This Grazia definitely remembered. Sophia had braced her on the toilet while the bathroom swung around her and warm urine flooded her hand and the jar.

“You put the jar in your handbag yourself?”

“Yes.”

“I’m making out what we call a chain-of-custody receipt. It says this is your urine, you carried it here, and you gave it to me personally. Sign here. It goes in your hospital record as evidence if the lab finds a drug in it.” The nurse placed a clipboard in Grazia’s hands and slid a pen between her fingers.

Grazia struggled to retrieve her dignity. “I’m a lawyer. I know about evidence.”

“Your friend tells me you woke up this morning in your hotel room and don’t remember anything about last night. How do you know you had sex?”

The word ‘sex’ jolted her into alertness. “I wasn’t wearing pajamas. I sat down on the side of the bathtub. Then I knew.” 

“Sore?”

“Sticky and bloody.” That detail brought a wave of nausea. She closed her eyes. “I’m going to be sick.”

A plastic bowl appeared between her hands. She vomited. The bowl was replaced by a clean one. Grazia dropped her head onto Sophia’s shoulder. Through a haze, she felt Sophia ease off her coat and lift the back of her shirt.

“Any other bruises than these on your back, Grazia?” asked the nurse.

“Arms,” she sighed, lifting them for inspection.

“Last night, were you were drinking alcohol? Wine? Mixed drinks?”

“I only drink one glass of white wine. Or else I get sick.”

“Honey, it sounds like either you drank more than your one-glass limit or somebody drugged your drink. If that person then had sex with you, that makes it rape facilitated by drugs.” 

Stanley had said as much, but Grazia hadn’t wanted to believe it. She put her hands over her face. “This isn’t true. It didn’t happen. Not to me.”

“It happens all the time,” said Janine, gently putting a hand on her shoulder. “You aren’t alone.”

“How can I tell my mother?” Grazia whispered. “My friends? What will I do?”

Janine took her hands. “Grazia, every day things happen to us—painful things, happy things. They are our life. Something bad happened to you last night. I’m going to help you recover physically. A crisis counselor is coming to help you handle this psychologically and emotionally. You’re going to get better and go on with your life. It won’t be easy, but lots of women have done it. So can you. You hear me?”

Grazia nodded.

“Now try to concentrate because I need a decision. To find out if you were drugged, we need blood and urine samples before your body flushes out the drug. If you choose, I will open a rape kit. That is a big envelope where we put the test results. If you decide to ask the police to find the man who did this, you can authorize us to give the police the rape kit.”

“I should do this?” Everything was moving too fast. 

“The crisis counselor will help you understand your choices. She’ll be here right away.” Janine stepped through the curtain.

Sophia squeezed Grazia’s hand. “I’m so sorry this happened. If only I had known.”

“Known what?” Grazia attention momentarily sharpened. “What are you talking about?”

Janine’s powerful voice outside the curtain eclipsed Sophia’s reply. “Detective Cargill! Welcome back. You’re taking out your own stitches again, I see. You missed one.”

A quiet male voice with an accent that Grazia had once been told was from Brooklyn, answered. “What’s the situation with this Conti case? The dispatcher said the hotel chambermaid found the victim naked with multiple bruises, probable sex, and supposedly no memory of how that happened. Is this drug-facilitated?”

“Talk to the patient. The victim advocate is coming to explain the rape kit.”

“Not Cindy, I hope. She’ll start with her therapy stuff, and I’ll never get the facts.”

“That’s her job. Now step aside, Cargill, we’re up to our eyeballs with snowstorm casualties, if you haven’t noticed, and we’re short-staffed on Sundays.”

Cargill’s voice continued. “The victim’s from Italy, the dispatcher said. This isn’t another foreign bimbo claiming rape to get bought off, is it? Does she even speak English?”

Men’s voices weren’t built for privacy, Grazia thought, with a surge of anger. The men at her law firm often held loud hallway conversations and revealed information that Grazia later used to one-up them. Men were so stupid.

“She can’t remember what happened so how can she be after money?” Janine’s voice was cold.

The male voice grew placating. “I’m making sure this is drug-facilitated, Janine. I thought we shut it down in my precinct. What do you know about this victim?”

“Ask the security officer from the Hotel Fiorella. He brought her here. Him and the hotel maid.”

Stanley’s voice came then, warm and friendly. “Cargill! I heard you were back so I called the station instead of Special Victims Division. I told the dispatcher this is up your alley so you should have a crack at it.”

“Re-silver my tarnished reputation, you mean? Prevent me from getting forcibly retired before I get full pension?”

“Stay out of fights, and that won’t happen, buddy. Say, why don’t you let Janine take out that stitch in your lip? You look like Frankenstein.”

“What do you know about this Grazia Conti?”

“Model guest. Been with us ten days. Leaves on Friday. Lawyer from Naples.”

“Rich enough to spend ten days in a high-end hotel.”

“Her law firm is covering the hotel bill.”

“You think it’s drug-facilitated?”

“Sounds like it. I bagged her towels and the clothes she was wearing so the toxicologist could get a jump on the evidence, in case you investigate.”

The curtains parted, and a thin man of medium height with dark hair sprinkled with gray appeared at the foot of the exam table. Stanley was behind him. A red scar crossed the man’s upper lip, puckered by one stitch. He was wearing dark trousers and a black down jacket, unzipped. Under it was a green V-neck sweater over a purple turtleneck. The color combination increased Grazia’s nausea.

He held up his badge. “Detective Russell Cargill, NYPD. Your hotel is in my precinct.” He explored the pockets of his parka until he located a tattered business card. He held it out. A yellowing bruise covered the back of his hand, Grazia noted. When she didn’t reach for the soiled card, he placed it on the exam table. “You are Mrs. Grazia Conti?” He located a small notebook in his jacket pocket along with a cheap pen sporting teeth marks.

“
Miss
.” Grazia made a big effort and pulled herself together.

“
Miss
Conti. What do you do in Naples, Miss Conti?”

A wave of dizziness unmoored Grazia. Her tongue felt thick. She had to concentrate hard to answer. “I am a contract negotiations lawyer. I work for Francisco Pamplona Law Offices. We have a branch in Milan. Our clients are large construction firms.” The effort to speak lucidly was exhausting. Her fingertips tingled. She drew a breath. “I am not claiming I was. . .was. . .attacked so I can get money. That is insulting.”

“Miss Conti, my job is to find the perpetrator of what may be a criminal assault, and I don’t care to waste time on false accusations. You’re in the lawyer business; you know people lie.”

“That is business. This is life.”

“Life is my business, and let me assure you that I hear more lies than truth. Two years ago, my precinct ran a war against drug-facilitated sexual assault. My partner and I helped make it a priority and we saw it through to the end. I thought we had won. So I was unpleasantly surprised to be assigned your case. You’re visiting New York for pleasure? Business?”

Grazia waited for her brain to stop tumbling. “Vacation. I work hard in Naples, Detective. That’s why my firm is paying my hotel bill.”

Cargill flushed. He glanced at his pad. “You speak good English.”

“I went to an American high school in Naples. I have a BA from Cornell University and a law degree from a Naples university.”

“How old are you, Miss Conti?”

“Is that relevant?” Grazia’s foggy brain switched to legal autopilot, trained by years facing hostile lawyers over negotiating tables. This aggressive policeman was like them—cold-hearted and indifferent.

The detective gave a faint smile. “Not really.”

“Thirty-five.” She relented more out of confusion than a desire to be helpful.

Detective Cargill looked at Sophia. “You are?” he asked.

“Housekeeper at the Hotel Fiorella.” 

“Housekeepers have names?”

“Sophia Arlotti,” Stanley answered for her. “She cleans Miss Conti’s room. She found her in this condition.”

The curtain opened, and a tall blond woman with short curly hair and a clipboard under one arm surveyed the scene. She was wearing a purple fleece jacket and jeans tucked into tall black rubber boots. “Detective Cargill! I heard you were fired.”

“Suspended.”

“Did you really get thirty stitches in that fight?”

“Twenty.”

The blond woman inserted herself between Cargill and Grazia. “Thanks for coming, Detective. But my client hasn’t decided to open a rape kit, and she hasn’t requested police assistance yet.”

“I’m responding to a call from Mr. Johnson here, who is chief security officer at the Hotel Fiorella.”

“I applaud your rapid response. It’s still not your turn.”

Stanley placed the paper bags on the table. “Sophia, time we get back to work. I’m out on a limb, taking you off hotel premises. Cargill, these are bathroom towels and clothes Miss Conti says she was wearing last night. Janine logged in the morning urine. I told housekeeping to leave her room as is until you decide whether to send over the medical examiner’s crew.”

“Nice work, Stanley.”

“Find this guy, Cargill. I can’t have this happening in my hotel.”

The detective scribbled in his notebook and ripped out the page. He held it out to the blonde woman. “This will serve as the chain-of-custody receipt. Tell Janine to put it in the rape kit if the victim opens one. ”

Stanley continued. “I checked over Miss Conti’s room for used sexual devices, condoms, pill bottles, cups, cans. Nothing. The guy kicked around some shopping bags containing new clothes.” 

Sophia gave Grazia a quick hug. “Call me in housekeeping when you are back.” She followed Stanley between the curtains.

The blonde parked a hip on the end of the exam table. “I’m Cindy Reynolds from the Crisis Counseling Center.” She held out her hand, and Grazia noted her firm, efficient clasp. “I am your advocate. My services are free. I’ll stay with you today and explain the hospital procedures and your options. Do you understand?”

Grazia nodded. 

“You’re from Italy, I heard. Do you speak English?”

Grazia repeated her educational history. The achievement sapped her dwindling energy.

“That’s a relief. A lot of drug-facilitated clients come in here and don’t speak a word of English. Everything gets held up until we find a translator.” Cindy settled herself more comfortably. “First thing you need to know is that you can say no whenever you want—to the hospital procedures, to the questions. Taking charge of your body is your first step to recovery.”