Episode 4: Rape

Hi listeners. Episode 4 describes a child sexual assault. It's rough. Heed this warning if you think it might be too much for you. And be sure, I am fine now, really. 

The episode is not all made up of only the description of the rape. There are indeed many lighter moments as well.

Un abrazo fuerte.

Transcript

Crack Tales 
Episode 4

0:00
Gospel call and blues music.

William
Hey everybody. I’m William Borden and you’re listening to episode 4 of Crack Tales.

It’s my story and the story of some people I love about my formative years and my ten-year addiction to crack cocaine. 

If you are just starting out with Crack Tales, I recommend that you listen to the trailer and to the previous episodes as there is a story to follow. 

A quick warning. This podcast contains adult language and is adult in theme, including frank discussions of sex and sexual violence, suicide and drug use. This episode in particular has a description of a sexual assault. If you find yourself triggered by any of these topics, please, honor that and consider carefully whether you should continue. 

William singing
Because passing through the eye of a needle isn’t as easy as it sounds, for those like me.

William
 In episode 3 we left my family and I, and our friends and neighbors in shock after the sudden and unexpected death of my father. The year following is hazy with few clear memories until, my mother decided to move us from suburban Des Moines into the heart of Seattle on Capitol Hill. 

I cannot imagine the grief my mother felt. My parents had been happily married and thriving in their relationship. They loved each other and they trusted each other. She was 36 years old with four children. I think about that fact alone, a partnership managing four children and then one half of the team disappears. I don’t know how she did it, but she did.

My father died on July 24, 1971 and that next summer we began house-hunting on Capitol Hill a neighborhood full of old Victorian homes and located within walking distance of downtown Seattle. The streets were tree-lined and regal and it was magical for me. My mom was in a way seeking escape from an environment that was just rich with the bittersweet memory of my father and the impossible longing she still had for a life she that had imagined curating prior to my father’s death. Capitol Hill offered a new environment, a new community and a new lifestyle that was far from what we had known in our little Des Moines suburb. 

My mother’s love affair with the neighborhood had started with our first visit to Capitol Hill United Methodist Church. The Sunday before my father died, our entire family attended the service and then we had a family picnic in Volunteer Park. I didn’t know that Sunday was the last Sunday I’d have with my father nor that Volunteer Park would within one year become my backyard, essentially, and provide so many adventures in so many ways and so much learning.

Capitol Hill United Methodist was housed in the glorious 1906, Gothic Revival masterpiece really, of arches, domes, a bell tower and cloisters leading to two different sanctuary doors. The church was designed by a mail-order architect, seriously, from Uniontown, Pennsylvania. The church sits on the corner of 16th Avenue East and East John streets in the heart of Capitol Hill and on my weekly Sunday visits there, sitting in a pew on the sloped sanctuary floor, I would most often be found staring up at an impossibly large, gorgeous stained-glass dome. I’d be singing along with the entire congregation, the words to Cat Stevens’ “Morning Has Broken like the first morning.” It was the seventies. 

This description, from the 1993 nomination form for the church to be designated as a historical site, only hints at the source of my wonder and distraction during those church services. Here’s the form:

The primary character-defining feature of the Capitol Hill United Methodist Church is a series of beautifully-executed and relatively intact stained-glass windows. The pieces all share a color scheme of warm golds, rich purple and paler shades of blue and green. Burgundy red and splashes of crimson further enliven the overhead dome. 

It was amazing. 

4:43
Capitol Hill United Methodist Church fit my parents’ evolving consciousness and goals – a radical, social justice-oriented melting pot, really, including queers and the mentally ill. Michael, an intense gay and Jewish rights activist was the church’s piano player and organist and he also played for and attended the Metropolitan Community Church, a queer religious organization that held its services on Sunday afternoons in our church sanctuary. There was also Kathy and her female partner – Kathy was still married and living with her husband and children but her female partner along with them. These two women were also activists of the 70’s and Kathy can be seen on the cover of Gary Atkins’ book, Gay Seattle: Stories of Exile & Belonging. I recommend it. A larger version of the photo inside shows Kathy marching in a victory parade in celebration of the defeat of Initiative 13. Kathy’s holding a sign that says, “Everyone’s gotta be free!”  It was the 70’s! Initiative 13 was a movement to remove very early, compared to many other cities, pre-established protections of queer people’s housing and employment rights. Go Seattle!

Employment had been protected by the city since 1973 and housing protection was added in 1975. These are political moves that make me very proud of my hometown. Sponsored by a group called Save Our Moral Ethics, signatures were gathered and the initiative process was completed. The rights of human beings for housing and employment were put to a citizen vote. However, not before my dear mother agreed to be the poster child, literally, in efforts to defeat Initiative 13. Within days, her photograph could be seen all over Seattle beneath the quote, “But I’m not gay!” This sentiment highlighted that employers or landlords could fire someone or deny them housing, simply because they thought they were queer. They didn’t need any proof. The greatest part about that poster however for me and all my friends was that the photograph shows my mother, as if she’s just out in public walking down the street, albeit she is looking directly at the camera. Nonetheless, there’s a bus passing behind her and on that bus is a sign, an advertisement. There are only two letters of text visible on the bus sign though, “b “ and “i.” Now can you imagine it? Huge white on black text at the top of the poster, “But I’m not gay!” and right below, the only other text visible, in the same text style and colors, black and white, it says “Bi.”  I don’t know how many times I repeated, “But I’m not gay, I’m bi! I’m bi. I’m bi!” My poor mother.

7:42
Capitol Hill brought my family around to a whole new existence. We were exposed to racial and ethnic diversity as a normal course of the day, observed those with mental health challenges navigating their lives right along with us in what was everybody’s neighborhood, and we had visible queer and hippie culture around every corner. Although it wasn’t normal to see same-sex couples walking hand-in-hand or engaging in public displays of affection in those days, the presence of queer life and queer people was evident. Even at 11 years old, subconsciously at least, I relaxed just a little.

Some of the more noteworthy establishments whose names clearly indicate the freedom-seeking nature of that neighborhood during those times, one, a hippy-run ice cream parlor called Cause Celebre which had the best orange-infused dark chocolate ice cream, my hands down favorite for years, Swiss Orange Chip. There was Bloch’s sandwich shop, Carolyn’s Cakes, the Rainbow Grocery and Matzoh Momma, but the clear winner of the prize for hippie-esque establishments, and this is real, was Mother Morgan’s Gumbo Factory and Live-In Restaurant Honey. Let me say that again: Mother Morgan’s Gumbo Factory and Live-In Restaurant Honey. Need I say more? 

Music

9:14

This episode is going to be little bit different in that there will be no interviews with third parties. The event I am going to share with you in this episode is an event that I experienced alone and experienced much of the aftermath alone as well. It was me who lived a life and made decisions and had an awareness and a lack of awareness all in the shadow of this event.

Money-making opportunities for those younger than 16 and not eligible for a work permit were few and far between. What was available, for boys and sometimes girls, was exclusively in the newspaper delivery sector. Paper routes. My first was with the Capitol Hill Times, a small weekly neighborhood paper that were common in Seattle at that time. It was free for the recipients. Um, I have to confess now that there were several Wednesdays when I just dumped that stack of papers in our garbage can in the alley behind our house. It seems kind of amazing to me now but it seemed ok. A few people did complain though and I remember thinking, “It’s free!” Such was my work ethic at the time, I guess. 

Anyway, I soon moved up to a slightly more lucrative Seattle Times paper route. I was lucky enough to get the route that covered six blocks near my house. Flat streets, 17th and 18th Avenue East from Roy to Harrison. Although I totally dreaded getting up every Sunday morning really fucking early to deliver that day’s paper, the rest of the week, Monday through Saturday, was afternoon deliveries and it was a breeze. So close to my home. It usually took me about 45 minutes to complete the entire route, a little longer if I had to collect any subscription dues.

Having finished school that Friday I was really looking forward to the weekend and just needed to get my paper route done and then I was free for the day. I pushed the yellow cart down to the end of my block and threw my first rubber banded bundle onto the porch at 621 17th Avenue East. I’d seen this throwing of the papers in movies, of course, and there was some, I don’t know, there was some odd sense of being a part of the world at large with the simple act of throwing a newspaper onto a porch. I don’t know. At the next corner, East Mercer Street, was a block that had a lot of apartment buildings which meant carrying multiple rolled papers into the buildings or the courtyards such as the Park Manor Townhomes. They were mid-block between Mercer and Republican and they had this incredible emerald green lawn and a beautiful courtyard. Even at 13, I fantasized living there. I just loved the orderliness of the whole place. 

Anyway, on this day I parked my paper cart as I always did at the building at the corner of 17th and Mercer, which was a 1950’s motel-like 8-unit apartment building. They were common on Capitol Hill in those days. There were quite a few of them.  For some reason, I’ve always like that style - and motels. 

Sometime before my father died, I can remember going on a hunting trip with him. I was excited to go with him on the trip although I wasn’t particularly excited about hunting. My father was a hunting enthusiast. In any case we were pheasant hunting or duck hunting or something and I can remember getting up before dawn. It was pretty exciting, just he and I. We made our way over to Moses Lake I think and the most exciting part of the hunting trip because, let me tell you, trudging through the bush when it’s cold in the fall in eastern Washington near a lake, it…that was not fun for me. But we stayed in a motel and the motel was I’m sure from the 50’s. Even at that young age, I was enchanted. The motel was pink! Pink exterior and interior. I was in heaven. Hated the hunting, loved that motel.

13:21
1701 East Mercer sitting just a little less than two blocks from my house would become, in the near future, the site of something more sinister and complex and challenging, but that is for another episode.

In the building there were just 6 subscribers on the two floors. Just minutes were needed to hop one flight up, drop the 3 second-floor papers, hop down the far staircase and drop the last 2 on my way back to my cart. The last paper however required a few extra minutes each day. Mr. Anderson, ancient in my eyes, but we had a friendly and daily interaction because he wanted the paper delivered but did not want to subscribe and did not want to pay monthly dues. He wanted to pay the daily rate as if he were buying it out of a machine. So, Mr. Anderson, everyday gave me 15 cents in coins. Monday through Saturday without fail and 75 cents on Sundays. It was a bit odd, but I didn’t care. That Friday I pocketed the dime and nickel and returned to my cart. 

“Hey man, how are you doing?” A man was standing on the sidewalk in front of me. “Hey can you help me man? I have to change a tire on my car and my jack is too heavy to move by myself.”

“A car jack?” I said. “Car jacks are light.” I remember thinking if he couldn’t move a jack then he must be weak.

“No, no, no, it’s a hydraulic jack. It’s in my house and I have to get it to the street.”

Alright, that made more sense. “I’m sorry, I have to finish my paper route.” I pointed to the parked paper cart. 

“Hey, it won’t take long man. Please!” I couldn’t decide which was right, to be a good citizen and help or to be responsible about my paper route. 

“Listen man, I’ll pay you $5.00.”

Decision made.  Having just collected 15 cents from my cash customer and knowing that was the only money I had, at all, $5.00 seemed like a huge sum. I nestled my paper cart behind a bush and turned to walk with him. We crossed 17th and headed up Mercer Street along the side of the Berneva Apartments, which was a great old building. It extended 40 yards from 17th to the property line behind it, which met the back yard of another house, the only one on that side of the street, 1615 East Mercer Street. It was pretty small by Capitol Hill standards. It was tucked away on a side street rather than on one of the avenues. 

The guy motioned me to follow him into the yard and we walked to the right side of the house along a path that led to the back yard. As we came around the corner into the back yard I remember him kind of hop-skipping up the three steps onto the back porch and into the back door, which was open. I followed him in and he crossed the kitchen, pausing at the bottom of the stairs he turned and said, “It’s up there,” and went up the stairs. I had at that moment just a millisecond of doubt. I’m not downplaying the insignificance of it – it was a vapor of hesitation and it dissipated right as it arrived. Seriously, it just passed through me on that first stair and then I let it go and I was not worried. I hopped up the stairs and was only thinking about that money.

16:30
At the top it opened up into one room. There were windows on two sides and a closet to my left. The man pointed to the closet and said, “The jack is in that closet.” I stepped toward the closet and actually took one step in. Without even enough time to notice that there was no jack in the closet, he grabbed my hair really hard, jerked my head back and put the point of a knife poked into my neck. His tone changed. He was calm but no longer nice. 

“Close your eyes and do not open them for anything.”

I don’t remember if I answered, but I did comply and I never wavered. I recalled really clearly that at some point in a school assembly or perhaps it was just a talk with my mom or one of her concerned friends, I don’t know, having been told exactly what to do in this kind of a situation. Complicity gained you the best chance of survival. Do what they say. I imagined running for a second but my body wouldn’t move and I just followed what I’d been taught. I kept my eyes shut tight and I waited for his next instruction.

He let go of my hair but kept the knife in my neck and he reached around to the front of my pants where Mr. Anderson’s dime and nickel were and took them out of my pocket and put them in his own. I remember thinking, “That is so weird. He took the 15 cents.” He then slipped my watch off of my left wrist. It was a basic Timex but I loved that thing. He looked at it and he said, “This is a Timex,” and shoved it in my pocket.

Music

In 2013 I commissioned an artist from here in northern Spain to create a portrait of me as a paper doll. That was his specialty. I provided him various photographs but instructed him to make my muscles bulge and to make my hands and feet slightly oversized – kind of my idea of manliness, I guess. Anyway, the finished piece also has several attachable accouterments, like the paper clothes and accessories you get with a paper doll set. These items were chosen by me for the piece and I described them to him. They include mini versions of my favorite magazine Cook’s Illustrated and my dear friend’s first published book. Both of these can be attached to my paper doll hands, pretty cool. There’s a baseball cap with the letters UW and the words Tio William, written on it, uh, my nieces and nephews call me UW for Uncle William. Another attachable item in the piece is a rendition of the shirt I was wearing on May 31, 1974 when I went to help move the car jack. I had saved up my money to buy that shirt. It was $17 plus tax and I had ventured all the way down to 2nd and Pike in downtown Seattle to Leroy, a store for very hip men. The Seattle Times in an article reporting the closing of Leroy Menswear in 2018 stated, “Leroy Menswear has long been known as a purveyor of flashy, upscale men’s clothing, often catering to famous clientele.” Well, I was not famous but dammit, I wanted to be upscale and I didn’t mind a bit of flash. You can ask the neighborhood boys who all sported uniforms because they went to Catholic School but they would see me returning to the neighborhood from Madrona my public elementary school wearing things like brown high-waisted corduroys with a blouse really. It was the 70’s, remember. It was made for boys, but it was in cream and yellow and it had like a 7-inch elastic waistband. It hugged my waist it was all set off by my blue suede, white soled shoes we called Marshmallows. They were popular at the time. The boys would laugh and I’d feel vulnerable and any glory I felt in celebration of these hip rags was washed away by smirking, pointing and raucous laughter. 

20:50
The shirt that I saved months for was burgundy knit and had contrasting shoulder and elbow patches in this kind of smoky blue suede along with a yoke of the same material. Set against the dark blue yoke was a brass zipper complete with a dangling rectangle pendant that allowed me to raise and lower the zipper depending on how conservative or emulative of John Travolta I wanted to be on any given day. The 2013 paper doll portrait which hangs in my bedroom today, has as one of my favorite options for the doll’s outerwear, the very shirt I was wearing as I stood knife in the right side of my neck. 

After pocketing the coins and returning the watch he jerked me back from the closet by my hair and I half fell, blindly moving toward the center of the room. 

“Get on your knees.” 

I complied. I didn’t cry. I just kept thinking, do what he says, do what he says.

And then I felt his penis on my lips. He pushed it against my mouth and forced it past my lips. It’s so odd to think about this now because I of course have had a lifetime of sexual experiences, but that day in that room on the second floor of that house, I’d had not one experience with sex of any kind. A hard penis? What? In my mouth? What? He moved it in and out slowly and said nothing. I don’t know that I thought anything, only that I had to keep going despite not even knowing what was happening. As I recall the experience now it was at this point that I began to watch myself from above. Me on my knees in front of this man.

After a time, he pulled his penis out of my mouth and yanked me by my hair to a standing position. I fell to one side but was righted by a tighter grip on my hair.

“Take off your clothes.” 

I didn’t reply fast enough, just trying to compute the words, words I’d never imagined hearing, from a stranger, in that tone.

“Take off your clothes! The pants, everything.”

I slipped off one shoe and then the other. 

“Hurry up! The socks too.” I bent over and I was thinking at the time how odd it was that we can manage so many things with our eyes closed. My fingers knew where the top of each sock was.

I was shy and very slowly fingered the button of my Levi’s. I hated my body and I hated being naked in front of anyone. 

“Take them off!” I did.

“The underwear now.” I pulled at the elastic band until they fell to my ankles.

“The shirt!” This was even more intense because I was not muscular like so many of my counterparts. I felt pudgy and feminine. I was extremely afraid of anyone seeing my soft arms and rounded stomach and my love handles. He grabbed at me yanking the shirt up from the collar trying to pull it off over my head. It got stuck and for just one second, I felt just a flash of relief. “Pull down that fucking zipper.” I did and he removed the shirt. Still holding me by the hair, he pushed me to the ground and before I knew it, I was lying face down on the ground. I still had my eyes closed, complying completely.

“Do you know what I am going to do to you?” 

I imagined him cutting me or killing me. 

“Huh, do you know? Do you know what I’m going to do to you?”

Perhaps to avoid the words that would leave me dead I searched for other possibilities. I imagined something sexually motivated but did not have the words. I said, “Make love to me?” 

Just…sorry. Just thinking of that boy trying to find those words, yeah, whoo, still, it breaks my heart. Alright, um, I was, I want to be clear. I wasn’t imagining anything romantic or loving. I knew I was in danger and that he was, you know, acting out very bad criminal behavior. But, my knowledge of sex was nil. I didn’t have an understanding of it and you know all of its facets at that point. I didn’t know anything about rape. I had heard about making babies though, and knew a little about people being in love. 

“Make love to me?” That’s how I answered him.

Music

25:41
He lay on top of me. I could feel his erection and he poked it at my anus, just a little. “Does that hurt?” he asked. 

It didn’t hurt because he wasn’t actually doing anything. He wasn’t pressing hard. Somehow though, I had the wherewithal to answer affirmatively. I guess it makes sense that I would say that even though it wasn’t true just in my overriding effort to stop the whole thing but that moment proved fortuitous. He rolled me over and again my eyes completely closed the entire time, he moved on top of me until he had an orgasm. I had no idea what was going on or what had happened.

I heard the rustle of his clothes and did not open my eyes even a crack, afraid that he was watching closely. He came right next to my ear and whispered, “Keep your eyes closed. Do not open them. Do not move one muscle until you hear the door downstairs slam. Don’t tell anyone about this. I know where you live. If you tell anyone I will come to your house and I will kill you and your family.”

I heard him going down the stairs and I waited and waited and there was no sound of the door. I stopped my breathing and listened. I could hear birds outside, a car passing by. Finally, I opened one eye and then the other and was immediately hit with a rush of adrenaline and tears. I was afraid. I realized I was still in danger if I was up in that room. I was gasping for air and crying and pulling on my pants and then I looked and I saw his semen all over my stomach and chest and I didn’t know what it was. I took my shirt and wiped myself clean and then pulled the shirt on, semen visible in streaks all over the maroon knit.

Realizing I needed to get out of there and onto the street, I just grabbed my shoes and socks and tumbled down the stairs past the empty kitchen and dining room, devoid of any furniture, a point I’d failed to notice as we entered. The house was vacant.

Music

Again, from above I see this boy clutching his converse high tops and white tube socks all a jumble in his hands as he runs down his block, tears blurring away all those grand houses that were not strangers to him but rather more like friends. That street, each of its residences promising adventures with its own nooks and crannies and sliding parlor doors and front and back stairs and stained-glass windows and porches. I loved sitting on our porch which was small compared to some but it had a short wall on one side whose wide, flat top was perfect for sitting. I’d spent so many hours there, with friends, with my sisters, with our dog Gunner.

28:56
As I ran barefoot into our yard, my sister Kelly was sitting on the porch stairs. I was crying and running and she obviously knew something bad had happened. She recently recalled the doom she felt in the pit of her stomach, the magic of our new life on Capitol Hill interrupted by something. She just didn’t know what it was.

I ran in through the open front door, up the main staircase and then up the rickety attic staircase that led to my bedroom. I don’t have clear memories but my mother had heard me come in, heard my whimpering and had followed me upstairs. My next memory is sitting on her bed, my mom asking me to tell her what had happened. 

I imagine this is hindsight from the perspective of an adult knowing now what it must be like to have a suffering child, but I seem to remember the dual nature of her response. She was full of love when she grabbed me and hugged me, held me, let me cry, but she was also trembling, her own fear of being consumed by something too big for her, and for which she was the only one to whom I could turn. When I experience memories of this event now, I grieve for that little boy, but I also grieve for my mother. An impossible life circumstance that she, again, somehow survived. She asked me, I don’t know why, perhaps a concern for STDs, “Did he cum in your mouth?” I told her yes, which was not the case, but I understood the word come as enter, like “come into my house.”

The next challenge came when she told me that we needed to call the police. I screamed that we could not do that or he would get us. I begged her and felt wild panic at the thought. I don’t know how long it took but she finally talked me into it and I agreed that she could call the police. 

I have some memories of a meeting of sorts in our living room but I don’t know if it was that day or another. I imagine it would have been reported and responded to that same day. There was at least one police officer and maybe two. I have a faint memory of one of the officers being a woman but that might just be me trying to make it a better memory. The hours and days following are really hazy. 

The next thing that I am sure of I know because it is documented in my police statement. It’s clear in the statement that I either was fed vocabulary, because I didn’t know many of those words or maybe they just wrote the statement after I said it using the words they wanted. I don’t know.

Here is the actual statement.

Seattle Police Department. Form 9.26. Case number 74-28922. Date 6-4-74. Time: 0845 hours. Place: Public Safety Building. Statement of: William D. Borden age: 13 years.

The above is my true name and I reside at 736 – 17th Avenue E. I am a Seattle Times paper boy. On 5-31-74 at about 3:30 I was in the 500 block of 17th Avenue East delivering my route when I was approached by a M-18 5’7” or 5’8” and he weighed about 125 pounds. He was muscular without being fat or stocky. He came up to me and asked me if I would help him change a tire on his car. I told him I had to do my route and he offered me five dollars to help him and I agreed. We walked to the vacant house at 1615 East Mercer. At this time, he told me that his jack was hidden inside this house. We entered the house through the rear door and went upstairs. He went upstairs first and I waited downstairs. He asked me to come up and help him which I did. He told me the jack was in a closet and I stepped over to the closet. He grabbed me by the hair. I had my eyes kinda shut and was not looking at him. He placed an object, I think was a knife, to my throat and told me to be quiet and cooperate and I would not get hurt. He then checked all my pockets and removed fifteen cents. He also took off my watch and made a comment that it was a Timex and that I could keep it. He said, “Do you know what I am going to do?” I said, “I do not know.” I repeated this several times. He kept asking me if I knew what he was going to do. He said he would give me three guesses. Finally, I said, “You are going to rape me,” and he said that is a good guess.

He instructed me to remove my clothing and told me to get on my knees. He rubbed his penis against my mouth. He then put his penis in my mouth. Then he attempted to have anal intercourse with me but did not penetrate my body. Then he just lay on top of me when I was lying on my back and moved his body until he had a sexual climax. He got up, put his pants on and left, telling me not to move until I heard the door close. I did not hear the door close but after a few minutes I got up and got dressed and went home. I was afraid he might be following me as he said he knew where I lived and would get me if I would call the police. I went home and talked the incident over with my mother and she called the police.

The second page of the statement contains this last paragraph:

On 6-4-74 at 0830 hours, Detective G. Greenbaum showed me a group of nine pictures and I positively identified one as the man who sexually assaulted me on 5-31-74. I was informed that the man’s name is Gail ----- ------. 

At the bottom of the form there is a line with my thirteen year old signature, Bill Borden.

35:10
Because I had indeed found the man who raped me amongst those pictures the detective had laid out for me, an arrest was made within days. It turns out Gail ----- ------ was a serial child rapist. In July a trial commenced at which I was the prosecution’s main witness. I sat in front of a room full of adult strangers and recounted every detail of what had happened. My mom and sisters were there, Julie Shield, also, for some reason, and other family friends. My oldest sister Gail and my mother also testified. I have very little memory of the actual trial, except when Julie and I were reprimanded by the prosecutor for laughing quietly together in our seats. He explained that it would not look good to the jury. The other thing that I remember is that my shirt, the maroon knit with smokey blue suede, had been cut into pieces and was displayed as evidence during the trial.

Mr. ----- did not testify but several of his family members did, including his pregnant girlfriend. One of the main points of contention they all testified to was that he always wore glasses and I had not mentioned any glasses in my report. 

I don’t remember how long the trial lasted, I think it was a few days, but at the end of it he was found guilty, and for me, that part was over and I began a long period, decades long really, of avoiding any thoughts or feelings about it as best I could. I remember in the years that followed several times telling people when they would ask that I was just fine. Really, I was just fine. My mom arranged for therapy with the partner of a family friend. Eve was one of the coolest people I knew, a lesbian and was from the Midwest, Minneapolis, I think. She had her own modern apartment on north Capitol Hill and I always kind of imagined her as a kind of Mary Tyler Moore, a That Girl independent woman breezing around town the wind blowing her long coffee colored hair every which way. Her partner Cheryl, a psychiatrist who by the way was also mentioned in Gary Atkins’ book because she was fired from a mental health agency for being queer. She attempted therapy with me for, I don’t know how long, not very long. I wasn’t really interested. Eve on the other hand kind of took me under her wing and would frequently take me out for dim sum in Seattle’s International District. It was magical for me. Only now as an adult do I recognize what a huge and important gift that was. She too was queer and she wanted to hang out with me! I didn’t know about myself at the time but birds of a feather are comforting on some level whether we recognize them as ours or not. If only in a small way, Eve bolstered my declining self-esteem at least temporarily with those dim sum outings.

So, Gail ----- ------ was sent to prison. That’s what I knew. After the trial, we learned that between May 31 and the July date of my trial, he had committed another crime and had been caught and jailed. We were not allowed this information of course during the trial and nor was the jury. He was eventually convicted of both crimes.

Flash forward 21 years. 1995, during a period when I was temporarily not using crack. This happened a lot during my 10 years of addiction. I would have long periods where I didn’t use. I was in a writers’ group with my dear friend Stephanie, may she rest in peace, and my Total Experience Gospel Choir comrade, John. We would meet weekly and share with one another what we’d written, giving each other feedback. During my time in that group, I decided I wanted to write about the rape and thought how interesting it would be to see what I had said in the trial. Anyway, in January of 1995, I went to the King County Courthouse Records Department and asked them how I could see the transcript of the trial. They pointed to a microfiche machine on a shelf by the window and I returned to the attendant’s window and gave her the number. She told me that cases that old were still in their paper form and were in a warehouse and it would take a week or so to get the file delivered. 

The next week I returned ready to, well, somewhat ready to read my 13-year-old words. I had a little bit of trepidation about it, but there was no transcript. Trial transcripts were only transcribed if there was a need, and well, there hadn’t been one in this case. There were however pages and pages making up the like two-inch thick file and I opened it and began reading. It was the case report describing the incident. I began to read. I noticed right away that my name had been changed in the file and I assumed, “Oh, that’s great. They protect my identity.” I read on and noticed that they had changed the address too, which seemed odd, but I also thought, “Oh, it’s to not give any identifying details of where this happened.” Then, further down the page the incident was laid out and told of the perpetrator asking for help to move some typewriters. I couldn’t figure out why they would change this detail, changing it from a car jack to typewriters, and then it hit me. This was not the file of my case. This was a file for another 13-year-old boy, named correctly in the file and all the details were also correct. I pictured this boy agreeing to help the same guy who had engaged me and I was just overcome with empathy. It didn’t take me long to get the significance of this. I easily had empathy for that other kid. It happened spontaneously, but I had never had that same empathy for myself.

Other details came to light as well. Remember it was 21 years after the incident. Gail ----- -----was still in jail. I dug a little deeper and learned that he had been released just seven years after the two crimes he had been convicted of in 1974. The record then showed that in 1981, Mr. ----- was involved in a car accident. The other driver, while talking with Mr. West noticed a woman in the passenger side of the car. She was waving her bound hands and had a gag over her mouth. He was subsequently jailed again. 

The final chapter for me, well, the truth is I am still managing the aftermath of this incident even now at 61, but it doesn’t plague me the way that it did. I’ve done lots of therapy. The final chapter came in 2006. That is 4 years after I had gotten clean from crack and just as I was about to start the Masters in Social Work program at the University of Washington. 

42:00
My niece Kelaina, just 24 at the time, was at my sister Kelly’s house when there was a knock on the door. Kelaina has my back, ok? This was just a few short years after I had gotten clean and there was much mess left behind. There were creditors. Well, my lil niece answered the door and a man handed her his business card and said, “I’m looking for William Borden. Is he here?” My niece said, “Who? There’s no one here by that name.” She told that him she did not know a William Borden. Now that’s a homeboy if ever there was one.

Kelaina told me about the incident and gave me the card. It was a private detective. I was of course curious and I thought, “I’m gonna call him.” He told me that the prosecutor’s office wanted to talk with me regarding Gail ----- ------. Huh? We are now 31 years after the fact. Gail ----- ------ was still incarcerated at the MacNeil Island Special Commitment Center, a treatment program for sex offenders who have completed their sentences but are still deemed a danger to society. They are, technically speaking, civilly committed, in the same manner as those with mental health challenges who prove dangerous to themselves or others. Gail ----- ------, in 2006, was challenging his civil commitment and a trial was needed to decide the matter. 

I learned that the prosecution had contacted several victims but that I and one other were the only ones available for testimony. One victim was serving life in prison and could not be released for the trial. One had committed suicide. One refused to be involved. There was me and one other woman who would be flown up from her inpatient drug treatment program in California. Hearing about these other victims, I realized that I had survived something many had not. I had received my Bachelor of Arts in Social Work the year before and I was on my way to getting my MSW. I would soon be equipped to work with victims. I no longer was one. 

Mr. -----’s appeal was denied and he remained incarcerated. Although I saw him in the courtroom that day, I was 6’3” and 220 pounds and he was shackled and appeared crumpled and tiny to me. I looked straight at him for much of my testimony but he never looked up. He was led out of the courtroom still in shackles and I chatted with the social workers from MacNeil.

Credits

Thank you so much for listening. Crack Tales is written and produced by me, William Borden, but would not exist without my interviewees. Also, I’d like to thank the team who transcribed all of the interviews. Music for Crack Tales has been generously provided by my dear friend Cornell White. We’ve been friends since the seventh grade. Cornell’ music can be found on Soundcloud. CornellWhiteMusic, all one word. “Eye of the Needle” is a Brandi Carlile song. Definitely check her out. We want to ask you a couple favors. If you will, will you please go to Apple Podcasts and leave us a star rating and comment on the podcast. The more activity we get there with ratings and comments the more people listen. Secondly, if you could share the podcast or comments about the podcast on your own social media, it would be incredibly helpful. The more people talk, the more people share, the more people listen, and that’s what we want. The website is www.cracktales.com, that’s c-r-a-c-k-t-a-l-e-s.com

End.