Brave victim in Stanford University sex assault case reads harrowing account of her ordeal directly to her attacker in court
Champion swimmer Brock Turner jailed for just six months after vile sex attack on unconscious woman behind dumpster
AMERICAN student Brock Turner was caught sexually assaulting an unconscious, half-naked woman behind a skip on his university campus.
A freshman at California’s Stanford University, the champion swimmer was arrested while his unconscious victim was rushed to hospital. She came round three hours later with no memory of the attack.
A jury found Turner guilty of three counts of sexual assault, and prosecutors demanded a sentence of six years in prison.
But last week he was given just SIX MONTHS in county jail, plus three years’ probation.
The sentence, which cannot be increased on appeal under California law, sparked outrage.
An online petition to remove presiding judge Aaron Persky – an elected official – has more than 500,000 signatures.
Two letters were presented to Persky – one from the victim and a bizarre response from Turner’s father that further inflamed public anger.
Dan Turner claimed a long sentence would be “a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action” in his son’s “20 years of life”.
He also complained that his son “will never be his happy-go-lucky self” again.
At last week’s hearing, the victim addressed Brock Turner directly, speaking powerfully about the severe impact that night has had on her life.
Here, we publish extracts of her moving and graphic statement.
Victim's letter
YOUR honour, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly.
You don’t know me but you’ve been inside me — and that’s why we’re here today. On January 17, 2015, it was a quiet Saturday night at home.
I planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and read, while (my sister) went to a party with friends.
Then I decided it was my only night with her, I had nothing better to do, so why not? There’s a dumb party ten minutes from my house.
I would go, dance like a fool and embarrass my younger sister.
I made silly faces, let my guard down and drank liquor too fast.
The next thing I remember, I was on a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on my hands and elbow.
A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I remained calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person.
When I was finally allowed to use the restroom, I pulled down the hospital pants they had given me, went to pull down my underwear — and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling.
Everything inside me was silenced. I still don’t have words for that feeling.
To keep breathing, I thought maybe the policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.
My brain was talking my gut into not collapsing. Because my gut was saying: “Help me. Help me.”
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I was asked to sign papers that said “Rape victim” and I thought: “Something has really happened.” My clothes were confiscated.
I had multiple swabs inserted into my vagina and anus, needles for shots, pills, had a Nikon (camera) pointed right into my spread legs.
I had long, pointed beaks inside me and had my vagina smeared with cold, blue paint to check for abrasions. After a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there and decided: “I don’t want my body any more.”
I was terrified of it. I didn’t know what had been in it, if it had been contaminated, who had touched it. I wanted to take off my body like a jacket and leave it at the hospital.
All I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger and should get re-tested for HIV because the results don’t always show up immediately.
But for now, I should go home and get back to my normal life. Imagine stepping back into the world with only that information.
My sister picked me up, face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. That day, for hours in silence, my younger sister held me.
I was not ready to tell my boyfriend or parents that actually, I may have been raped behind a dumpster, but I don’t know by who or when or how.
So I pretended the whole thing wasn’t real. I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep. I didn’t interact with anyone. After work, I’d drive to a secluded place to scream.
One day I was at work, scrolling through the news on my phone — and came across an article.
I learned for the first time how I was found unconscious, with my hair dishevelled, long necklace wrapped around my neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off over my shoulders and pulled up above my waist, that I was butt-naked all the way down to my boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by someone I did not recognise.
This was how I learned what happened to me.
I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep. I didn’t interact with anyone. After work, I’d drive to a secluded place to scream.
I kept reading. In the next paragraph, I read something that I will never forgive. I read that, according to him, I liked it. I liked it.
Again, I do not have words for these feelings. And then, at the bottom of the article, after I learned the graphic details of my own sexual assault, the article listed his swimming times.
“She was found breathing, unresponsive, with her underwear 6in away from her bare stomach, curled in a foetal position. By the way, he’s really good at swimming.”
Throw in my mile time if that’s what we’re doing. I think the end is where you list your extracurriculars to cancel out all the sickening things that happened.
The night the news came out, I sat my parents down and told them I had been assaulted. But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me because I could no longer stand up.
The night after it happened, he said he didn’t know my name, said he wouldn’t be able to identify my face in a line-up, didn’t mention any dialogue between us. No words.
He admitted wanting to hook up with someone. Sometimes I think if I hadn’t gone, this never would’ve happened. But then I realised it would have happened — to somebody else.
I thought: “There’s no way this is going to trial. There were witnesses, there was dirt in my body, he ran but was caught. He’s going to settle, formally apologise and we will both move on.”
Instead, he hired a powerful attorney, expert witnesses, private investigators who were going to try and find details about my personal life to use against me, find loopholes in my story to invalidate me and my sister, to show that this sexual assault was a misunderstanding.
That he was going to go to any length to convince the world he had simply been confused.
I was at the trial, answering questions like: “How old are you? What do you weigh? What did you eat that day? Well, what did you have for dinner? Who made dinner? Did you drink with dinner? No, not even water? Who dropped you off at this party? At what time? But where exactly? What were you wearing? Why were you going to this party? When did you urinate? Where did you urinate? Do you remember any more from that night? No? OK, well, we’ll let Brock fill it in.”
I want to remind you, the night after it happened, he said he never planned to take me back to his dorm.
He said he didn’t know why we were behind a dumpster.
He got up to leave because he wasn’t feeling well, when he was suddenly chased and attacked. Then he learned I could not remember.
So one year later, Brock had a strange new story, with kissing and dancing and hand-holding and lovingly tumbling on to the ground.
And most importantly in this new story, there was suddenly consent.
One year after the incident, he remembered: “Oh yeah, by the way, she actually said yes to everything.”
He said he had asked if he could finger me and I said yes. Most guys don’t ask: “Can I finger you?”
Usually there’s a natural progression of things, unfolding consensually, not a Q&A. But apparently I granted full permission.
All I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger and should get re-tested for HIV.
According to him, the only reason we were on the ground was because I fell down.
Note: If a girl falls down, help her get back up. If she is too drunk to walk and falls down, do not mount her, hump her, take off her underwear and insert your hand inside her vagina.
If a girl falls down, help her up.
Next in the story, two Swedes on bicycles approached and you ran.
When they tackled you, why didn’t you say, “Stop! Everything’s OK, go ask her, she’s right over there, she’ll tell you”?
You had just asked for my consent, right? I was awake, right?
When the policeman arrived and interviewed the evil Swede who tackled you, he was crying so hard he couldn’t speak because of what he’d seen.
In the end, your unsupported statements and your attorney’s twisted logic fooled no one. The truth won. The truth spoke for itself.
You are guilty. Twelve jurors convicted you guilty of three felony counts beyond reasonable doubt.
That’s 12 votes per count, 36 yeses confirming guilt.
I thought: “Finally, it is over. Finally, he will own up, truly apologise.”
Then I read your statement. If you are hoping one of my organs will implode from anger and I will die, I’m almost there.
Somehow, you still don’t get it. Somehow, you still sound confused.
This is not a story of another drunk college hook-up with poor decision-making. Assault is not an accident.
Somehow, you still don’t get it. Somehow, you still sound confused.
You said: “I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin a life.”
A life — one life — yours. You forgot about mine.
I want to show people one night of drinking can ruin TWO lives. You and me. You are the cause, I am the effect.
You have dragged me through this hell with you. You knocked down both our towers. I collapsed the same time you did.
If you think I was spared, came out unscathed, that today I ride off into the sunset while you suffer the greatest blow, you are mistaken.
I can’t sleep alone at night without a light on because I have nightmares of being touched where I cannot wake up.
I did this thing where I waited until the sun came up and I felt safe enough to sleep. For three months, I went to bed at 6am.
I want to say thank you. To everyone. Most importantly, thank you to the two men who saved me, who I have yet to meet.
I sleep with two bicycles that I drew taped above my bed to remind myself there are heroes in this story. And finally, to girls everywhere, I am with you.
Read the full statement here:
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