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Legal View with Ashleigh Banfield

Stanford Victim's Message to her Attacker. Aired 12-12:30p ET

Aired June 06, 2016 - 12:00   ET

THIS IS A RUSH TRANSCRIPT. THIS COPY MAY NOT BE IN ITS FINAL FORM AND MAY BE UPDATED.

[12:00:15] ASHLEIGH BANFIELD, CNN ANCHOR: Hello, everyone. I'm Ashleigh Banfield. And welcome to LEGAL VIEW.

I'm going to begin our program today with a gut-wrenching story that has gone viral. A story that we will spend most of this special and highly unusual hour sharing with you. It is a rape victim's letter to her attacker. And I will warn you now that this is graphic, this is difficult to hear. It is lengthy, but stick with us because it is riveting and it is important.

The case involves a former Stanford University swimmer named Brock Turner, 20 years old. He was sentenced on Thursday to just six months in the county jail and three years' probation for three counts of sexual assault.

On January 18, 2015, right after midnight, two Stanford grad students were biking across campus and spotted a freshman thrusting himself on an unconscious, half naked woman behind a dumpster at a party. The cyclists are truly heroes in this story. They tackle Brock Turner until the police arrived.

In March this year, a jury in California found Brock Turner guilty. He had faced a maximum of 14 years in the state penitentiary. But last week the judge, Aaron Persky, chose a lesser sentence, in part because he feared anything longer would have a severe impact on Turner.

But what about the impact the crime has had on the victim? We are hearing from her now. Her impact statement just released over the weekend. And we will be reading most of it to you this hour. We've had to take out parts that are just too graphic for television and we've had to cut some of it for time as well.

So, with that in mind, here is part one where it all begins. She writes, "your honor, if it is all right 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. My dad made some dinner and I sat at the table with my younger sister who was visiting for the weekend. I was working full-time and it was approaching my bedtime. I had planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and read while she went to a party with her friends. And then I decided it was my only night with her, so I had nothing better to do. Why not? There's a dumb party minutes from my house. I would go, dance weird like a fool and embarrass my younger sister. My sister teased me for wearing a beige cardigan to a frat party, like

a librarian. I called myself big mama because I knew I'd be the oldest one there. I made silly faces. I let my guard down. Drank too much liquor fast, not factoring in my tolerance had significantly lowered since college.

The next thing I remember, I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on the backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and that I was in an administration office on campus. I was very calm and wondering where my sister was. A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I still remained calm, assured that he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at this party.

When I was finally allowed to use the restroom, I pulled down my hospital pants that they'd given me and I went to pull down my underwear and I felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of my hands touching at my skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The thin piece of fabric, the only thing between my vagina and anything else was missing and everything inside me was silenced.

I still don't have words for that feeling. In order to keep breathing, I thought maybe the policeman used scissors to cut them off for evidence. And then I felt pine needles scratching the back of my neck and I started pulling them out of my hair. I thought maybe the pine needles had fallen from a tree onto my head. My brain was talking my gut into not collapsing because my gut was saying, help me. Help me.

I shuffled from room to room with a blanket wrapped around me, pine needles trailing behind me. I left a little pile in every room I sat in.

I was asked to sign papers that said, 'rap, victim,' and I thought, something has really happened. My clothes were confiscated and I stood naked while the nurses held a ruler to various abrasions on my body and photographed them. The three of us worked to comb the pine needles out of my hair and six hands to fill one paper bag.

To calm me down, they said it's just flora and fauna. Flora and fauna. I had multiple swabs inserted into my vagina and anus, needles for shots, pills. I had a Nikon pointed right into my spread legs. I had long, pointed beaks (ph) inside of me. I had my vagina smeared with cold, blue paint to check for abrasions.

[12:05:21] And after a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there examining my body beneath the stream of water and I decided, I don't want my body anymore. 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 with everything else.

On that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for HIV because 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. They gave me huge hugs and then I walked out of the hospital into the parking lot wearing the new sweatshirt and sweat pants they provided me as they had only allowed me to keep my necklace and my shoes. My sister picked me up, face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. Instinctively and immediately,

I wanted to take away her pain. She did not know that beneath my sweats, I had scratches and bandages on my skin. That my vagina was sore and that had become a strange, dark color from all of the prodding. My underwear was missing and I felt too empty to continue to speak. That I was also afraid. That I also was devastated.

That day we drove home and for hours my sister held me. I was not ready to tell my boyfriend or my parents that I actually may have been raped behind a dumpster, but that I don't know who or when or how. If I told them, I would see the fear on their faces, and mine would multiply tenfold. So, instead, I pretended this whole thing wasn't real. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. I didn't interact with anyone. After work, I would drive to a secluded place and scream. For one week after the incident, I didn't get any calls or updates about that night or what had happened to me. The only symbol that proved that it hadn't just been a bad dream was the sweatshirt from the hospital in my drawer.

One day I was at work scrolling through the news on my phone and I came across an article. In it I read and learned for the first time about how I was found unconscious with my hair disheveled, 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 recognize. This is how I learned what happened to me, sitting at my desk reading the news at work. I learned what happened to me the same time everyone else in the world learned what happened to me.

That's when the pine needles in my hair made sense. They didn't fall from a tree. He had taken off my underwear. His fingers had been inside of me. I don't even know this person. I still don't know this person. When I read about me like this, I said, this can't be me. I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I do not have words for these feelings.

At the bottom of the article, after I learned the details about the graphic details of my own sexual assault, the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing unresponsive with her underwear six inches away from her bear stomach, curled in a fetal position. By the way, he's really good at swimming.

The night the news came out, I sat my parents down and I told them that I had been assaulted, to not look at the news because it's upsetting. Just to know that I'm OK, I'm right here and I'm OK. But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me, because I could no longer stand up. I was not OK.

The night after it happened, he said he did not know my name. He said he wouldn't be able to identify my face in a line-up. He didn't mention any dialogue between us. No words, only dancing and kissing. When the detective asked if he had planned on taking me back to his dorm, he said no. When the detective asked how we ended up behind the dumpster, he said he didn't know. He admitted to kissing other girls at that party, one of whom was my own sister, who pushed him away. He admitted to wanting to hook up with someone.

[12:10:29] I was the wounded antelope of the herd, completely alone and vulnerable, physically unable to fend for myself and he chose me. Sometimes I think if I hadn't gone then this never would have happened. But then I realized, it would have happened, just to somebody else.

The night after it happened, he said he thought I liked it because I rubbed his back. A back rub. He never mentioned me voicing consent. He never mentioned us speaking. A back rub."

I'm going to pause here for a minute, but you should know that the victim was not the only person speaking out in court as Brock Turner faced justice. The young offender's father also implored the judge to go easy. In part, he wrote, because Brock does not enjoy snacks the way he used to. You're going to hear that statement and much more from the victim when this special edition of LEGAL VIEW continues.

(COMMERCIAL BREAK)

[12:15:19] BANFIELD: If you're just joining us, I am reading a letter from a rape victim who was assaulted by a former Stanford University swimmer. Her words to the judge who decided her attacker's light sentence so powerful but also very graphic, very disturbing and you should not have your children in the room.

After she described the brutal rape, she describes her thought process. Quote, "I thought, there is no way this is going to trial. There were witnesses. There was dirt in my body. He ran, but he was caught. He's going to settle, formally apologize, and we will both move on. Instead, I was told 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 in order to show that this sexual assault was, in fact, a misunderstanding. That he was going to go to any lengths to convince the world he had simply been confused.

I was not only told that I was assaulted, I was told that because I could not remember, technically, I could not prove it was unwanted. I had to fight for an entire year to make it clear that there was something wrong with the situation, by my memory loss would be used against me. His attorney constantly reminded the jury the only one we can believe is Brock because she doesn't remember.

That helplessness was traumatizing. I was pummeled with narrow pointed questions that dissected my personal life, my love life, past life, family life, (INAUDIBLE) questions accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy, who didn't even take the time to ask me for my name, who had me naked in a handful of minutes after seeing me. She's practically an alcoholic, she probably wanted to hook up. He's an athlete, right? They were both drunk, whatever. The hospital said she remembers this after the fact. Why take it into account? Brock has a lot at stake, so he's having a really hard time right now.

And then it came time for him to testify. He said he didn't know why we were behind the dumpster. He got up to leave because he wasn't feeling well when he was suddenly chased and attacked. And then he learned I could not remember. So one year later, as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story. There was suddenly consent. He said he had asked if I wanted to dance. Apparently I said yes. He'd asked if I wanted to go to his dorm. I said yes. Then he'd 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. He's in the clear.

He didn't claim to hear me speak one full sentence that night. Future reference, if you are confused about whether a girl can consent, see if she can speak an entire sentence. If she can't do that, then no, don't touch her. According to him, the only reason we were on the ground is because I fell. Note, if a girl falls, help her get back up. If she's too drunk to even walk and falls, do not mount he, hump her, take off her underwear.

Next in the story, two people approached you. You ran because you said you felt scared. I argue that you were scared because you'd be caught, not because you were scared of two terrifying Swedish grad students. When the policemen arrived the interviewed the evil Swede who tackled you, he was crying so hard he could not speak because of what he had seen.

Also, if you really did think they were dangerous, you just abandoned a half-naked girl to run and save yourself. No matter which way you frame it, it doesn't make sense. Your attorney has repeatedly pointed out, well, we don't exactly know when she became unconscious. Two guys on bikes noticed that I wasn't moving in the dark and had to tackle you. How did you not notice while you were on top of me? You said you would have stopped and gotten help. You said that, but I want you to explain how you would have helped me, step by step, walk me through this.

I want to know if those evil Swedes had not found me, how the night would have played out. I'm asking you. Would you have pulled my underwear back over my boots, untangled the necklace wrapped around my neck, closed my legs, covered me, tucked my bra back into my dress? Would you have helped me pick the needles from my hair, asked if the abrasions on my neck and on my bottom hurt? Would you then go find a friend and say, will you help me get her somewhere warm and soft? That's what you'll never have a good answer for.

[12:20:00] To sit under oath and inform all of us that, yes, I wanted it, yes, I permitted it, that you are the true victim attacked by guys for reasons unknown to you is sick, is demented, is selfish, is stupid. My family had to see pictures of my head strapped to a gurney full of pine needles, of my body in the dirt, with my eyes closed, dress hiked up, limbs limp in the dark. The point is, this is everything my family and I endured during this trial. This is everything I had to sit through silently, taking it, while he shaped the evening. It is enough to be suffering. It is another thing to have someone

ruthlessly working to diminish the gravity and validity of this suffering. But in the end, his unsupported statements and his 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. Thirty-six yeses confirming guilt. That's 100 percent unanimous guilt.

And I thought it's finally over. Finally, he will own up to what he did. Truly apologize. We will both move on and get better. And then I read your statement."

I'm going to take a moment now for another pause. But I do want you to stay. Still to come, the attacker's father speaking on behalf of his son about, quote, "a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action." Plus more from Brock Turner's victim when we come back.

(COMMERCIAL BREAK)

[12:26:13] BANFIELD: For our viewers just joining us, these are the words of a rape victim pleading to a judge deciding the sentence for her attacker. Brock Turner, 20-year-old former Stanford University swimmer, was that attacker. And in her letter, she reads Turner's own statements and then gives her responses to them. And again, I have to warn you that these words are deeply disturbing, very graphic. Not appropriate for children.

"You said being drunk, I just couldn't make the best decisions and neither could she. Having too much to drink was an amateur mistake that I admit to, but it is not criminal. We were both drunk. The difference is that I did not take off your pants and underwear, touch you inappropriately and run away. That's the difference.

You said I stupidly thought it was OK for me to do what everyone around me was doing, which was drinking. I was wrong. Again, you were not wrong for drinking. Everyone around you was not sexual assaulting me.

You said you were in the process of establishing a program for high school and college students in which you speak about your experience to, quote, 'speak out against college campus drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity with goes along with that.' Speak out against campus drinking culture? That's what we're speaking out against? You think that's what I spent the past year fighting for, not awareness about campus sexual assault or rape or learning to recognize consent?

Lastly, you said I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin a life. Ruin a life? One life? Yours? You forgot about mine. Let me rephrase for you. I want to show people that 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, dipped me back into that night again and again. You knocked down both our towers. I collapsed at the same time you did. Your damage was concrete, stripped of titles, degrees, enrollment. Mine damage was internal, unseen. I carry it with me. You took away my worth, my privacy, my energy, my time, my safety, my

intimacy, my confidence, my own voice until today. While you worry about your shattered reputation, I refrigerated spoons every night so when I woke up and my eyes were puffy from crying, I would hold to spoons to my eyes to lessen the swelling so that I could see. I showed up an hour late for work every morning, excused myself to cry in the stairwells. The pain became so bad that I had to tell my boss that I was leaving.

I cannot sleep alone at night without having a light on, like a five- year-old, because I have nightmares where being touched, I cannot wake up. For three months, I went to bed at 6:00 in the morning. It is embarrassing how feeble I feel, how timidly I move through life, always guarded, ready to defend myself, ready to be angry.

Every new article came out, I lived with the paranoia that my entire hometown would find out and know me as the girl who got assaulted. I want to say this. All the crying, the hurting you have posed on me, I can take it. But when I see my younger sister hurting, when she's unable to keep up in school, when she's deprived of joy, when she is not sleeping, when she is crying so hard on the phone that she's barely breathing, telling me over and over how sorry she is for leaving me alone that night, sorry, sorry, sorry. When she feels more guilt than you, then I do not forgive you.

[12:30:09] Now to address the sentencing. My life has been on hold for over a year.