AUTHOR: LUCIA EALES [ INSTAGRAM ]
PUBLISHED: 22ND JUNE 2020
This piece documents the practical stages, in my experience, of reporting a rape to the police. I have tried to include some funny moments, but there were many times when I felt very low, and many more where I felt nothing but empty. The assault occurred in London, meaning my case was handled by the Metropolitan Police, which is comparatively well-resourced in relation to the rest of the country. Obviously, my experience is entirely unique and will vary from the experiences of other individuals, but hopefully this piece is still of value.
I had been interested in the criminal justice system for a long time. I’d done lots of research and would shortly be starting a new job in the field. I’d also applied to study Criminology at university in order to further my understanding and hopefully, eventually, make a difference. I’d never considered that I’d be standing, close friend by my side, in front of a lovely volunteer in my local police station telling her that I would like to report a sexual assault, please, if that was possible, if I was in the right place. Yes. Rape, I guess. Last night. I’ll wait for a female officer to become available, please, if that’s okay. When a female officer appeared about an hour later, she was accompanied by a young male officer, who seemed inappropriately excited. Apparently, he was there to learn, as he’d never “done a rape” before. Fine, I guess. An informal interview followed, where I explained exactly what had happened the night before, whilst the female officer took notes to inform the more formal interview that was to come, and the male officer tried not to look bored – “doing a rape” didn’t seem to be as exciting as he’d initially hoped. The interview was interspersed with various trips to the bathroom. I would venture off, followed by the enthusiastic male officer (who chirped up again at the opportunity to don some gloves and deal with a stranger’s wee). He would wait outside while I did my business, and then go in after me to pick up my pee pot and label it. This, on one occasion, led to a range of profanities as he accidentally deposited my wee down the sink and all over the floor. I was later lucky enough to be subjected to the male officer’s first try at conducting a cheek swab, which took many attempts and became rather tedious.
I was then told I could attend a Haven clinic for a forensic medical examination. There are 3 centres in London and various other centres across the country which operate under different names. I was left in the ‘capable’ hands of the male officer while we awaited my lift to the clinic, as my friend and the female officer had to go. I should make it clear that I spent many occasions throughout this process alone with men, despite my requests for female officers and staff every time I was asked if I had a preference. At no point did I feel unsafe, but this may be unsettling for others, and I got the impression that many of these men simply had no idea how to engage with me – it did not seem as though they were following any kind of training or guidance.
With my lift seemingly non-existent, we headed to Nando’s for some dinner. I hadn’t brought any money or cards with me, but the officer asked what I wanted and ordered for me. The cashier told him he had enough points on his magic card for one of the meals to be free. Looking back on it, I suspect she may have just done this out of kindness towards the both of us, but either way, it meant I could enjoy my meal guilt-free. We took our food back to the interview room and I was left alone for the first time all day while he got us some napkins. I cried into my chips out of exhaustion and fear and loneliness, feeling like nobody else could possibly understand what I was going through. My advice for this stage is to bring food with if you wish to report a serious crime to the police. I returned home 16 hours after I had arrived at the police station and a sandwich, or even a chocolate bar, would’ve made a world of difference. The male officer’s shift finished and still nobody had picked me up, so I was placed in a small room where the staff behind the desk kept an eye on me. My phone died and nobody had a charger, so I sat and stared at the wall, listening to the radio of the officer who was on night duty. I tried to sleep by resting my head on the desk, but I experienced what would become a common theme of those months - crying every time nobody could see my face. There was an increasing concern about who this sad girl was as the shifts changed and fewer people had any idea why I was there. Someone called the station and asked to talk to me, with the aim of convincing me not to go to the clinic that night, seemingly because she wanted to go to bed (I later learned that she would be the one driving me home at 5am, which helped me understand why she was being so pushy). I stood my ground and eventually, at about 1am, and after a few angry calls from a man who was very concerned about why I had been made to wait so long (and who also lent me his phone charger!), two men arrived to drive me to the clinic. The back seats were covered in plastic to conserve any evidence whilst the driver of the car spent most of the journey furiously explaining that there had been a “monumental cock up,” that he was “just as angry” as I was, and that someone would be receiving a “right bollocking” for the miscommunication about the lift. His anger definitely stemmed from him having to stay up late to drive me himself. That night was very much defined by me delaying other people’s bedtimes. I arrived at the clinic and was greeted by the lady who called the station earlier. She briefly explained what would happen, but her emphasis was placed on completing the examination as quickly as possible. Once in the examination room, I was welcomed by the loveliest pair of nurses who had been on shift for 24 hours and were definitely the only people who had the right to complain about their bedtimes. They talked me through some questions, which could have been uncomfortable if not for their relaxed and friendly manner. Then came the physical exam, most of which I can’t remember, firstly because I was exhausted and secondly because it was relatively traumatic. It involved donning a horrible disposable gown, which was, admittedly, the source of many giggles in my slightly hysterical state. During this examination, internal swabs were taken, along with photos of injuries. I spent most of it with my eyes closed, again through a mix of exhaustion and pretending that none of it was really happening. The collection of physical evidence is an inherently dehumanising experience and made me feel as though my body was nothing but a vessel containing evidence of a horrible thing, especially in my weakened state. The next morning, I was bombarded by texts from officers and arranged an interview the next day at a different police station. Importantly, a crime is investigated by the detectives that serve the area in which it took place. Having reported the crime at a station just minutes from my house, the location of the crime meant that I had to travel to a police station which was a train and two tubes away from where I lived, costing significant money and time. Once I arrived at the police station, I was greeted by a locked door and the onset of heavy rain. I called those I was supposed to meeting and, when the lines rang out, I started crying (again), suddenly aware of how scared I was. About half an hour after our agreed meeting time, I received a call from one of them, who gave a less than satisfactory apology and let me into the building. They took me to a ‘comfort suite’, which is an area intended to be calm, and is for the use of victims of certain violent crimes. I was taken to a room with a sofa and a chair and a lot of mounted cameras, all of which were pointing at me. The officers explained that I would be giving a recorded interview which could be used as the main bulk of my evidence. This would significantly reduce the amount of time I’d spend answering questions in court, if it came to that. An officer in a different room wrote a transcript of the interview as it happened, and the cameras recorded my answers.
After the interview, which took about two hours, I was driven to the location of the crime in order to identify exactly where it had happened, so that an arrest could be made. In another instance where I was left alone with a man, the driver decided that a (very much one-way) discussion about sexual crimes that have occurred in the area was appropriate. I had absolutely no interest in any of his anecdotes and was very unsettled afterwards. The presence of a woman, or evidence of some training, would probably have greatly improved the situation. When I identified the property, he insisted that I’d got the house wrong and that they would be making the arrest at the property they “knew” was right. He didn’t care to make a note of the house I’d identified, and to nobody’s surprise I got a text from him that evening saying they’d attempted an arrest but had indeed gone to the wrong address. I sent him a Google maps picture of the actual address and, miraculously, a few hours later, an arrest occurred. The man was interviewed that night and then released under investigation. This means that an individual has not been charged with a crime, but has an investigation pending against them – this investigation either leads to a charge or a closing of the case. It enables the police to take longer to investigate crimes than if the suspect had been charged and then released on bail and has become more common with the increasing backlog of cases. Over the next few weeks, I received various additional requests, including for screenshots from my phone, permission to access my medical record, details of my school counsellor and clarifications to parts of my evidence. I also received calls from various independent support services. Access to many of these services is exceptionally limited, with stringent eligibility requirements meaning that the opportunity for support is relatively limited. However, anyone whose reporting of a sexual crime may lead to a court case is given access to an ISVA – Independent Sexual Violence Advocate – who are very helpful in explaining the legal processes and providing support. Unfortunately, an appointment with my ISVA meant taking the whole afternoon off work, which was not practical at the time, and so I was only able to access this support on one occasion. Three months after the crime was reported, the police officer in charge of my case informed me that it had been referred to the Crown Prosecution Service. The CPS review evidence that is given to them by the police, using that evidence to decide whether they will charge a suspect. The police use their discretion in terms of which cases are reported to the CPS, as many do not meet the evidence threshold, so it was an extremely positive step to have my case even reach the CPS. A few weeks later, I received a text from the police officer asking if he could meet me. My Googling had told me that, with sexual crimes, victims have to be told in person if there is not going to be a charge brought against their attacker. Despite thinking I’d prepared myself; I was absolutely broken when I read conclusively that my case would not be taken any further. The hope of justice had been the only thing that got me out of bed some mornings and suddenly all that hope had been taken away from me. I questioned every decision I had made throughout the process and thought that it was my fault for not being a better witness. Had my rapist been charged, I have no doubt that going to court and being questioned would have been the most traumatic part of the experience. Although I know a jury probably wouldn’t have convicted him, I firmly believe that decision should have been made by them, and not by someone in an office who had never met me. I would later read this Guardian article, which explains that the CPS were violating their codes at the time. Typically, the CPS prosecute a case if they believe that there is more than a 50% chance of a conviction (when the suspect pleads or is found guilty). However, it appears that they were using the target of 60% for rape cases, which may have led to a significant decrease in the number of cases being taken to court, due to their fear of failed convictions. I was hit with a whole new wave of anger, but I know that the individuals involved in my case did everything they could. Since then, I have found relative peace. Looking back, I feel pride in my bravery at that time – I navigated a very scary process mostly by myself and somehow kept working 50-hour weeks and maintaining a social life. Those few months were the hardest of my life, but I have found myself in the unique position where I can share my experiences with others, and encourage them to seek justice, if that is what they desire. I am hesitant to recommend reporting a sexual crime – it was traumatic and exhausting and rarely leads to conviction. However, it helped me to shift the responsibility for justice from myself to the state – I know that I did all I could to achieve justice, and it is the state that could not bring this to fruition, not me. I would say that being patient and kind to myself and treating myself with the love and compassion I would a friend in the same position was invaluable to my recovery, and I’d encourage others going through a similar process to do the same.
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