The Girl Who Cried Rape by Sensual Writer
A false charge becomes true , “Remember the tale of the boy who cried ‘wolf’? This time, nobody will believe you.”
“Dr. Carlson, you must do something for me!”
The Social Sciences professor stared coldly at the girl seated across his desk. He shook his head. “Miss Taylor, I’ve been trying to do something for you all semester long, but you haven’t been responding. You’ve cut classes and when you have shown up you’ve been inattentive. When I’ve called on you to participate you’ve looked – well – annoyed that I bothered you. Your homework has been shoddy. From what I hear, the only activity you seem to have excelled in is gymnastics. It’s good to develop your physical skills, but you’re here in college primarily to improve your mind. I’ve warned you repeatedly, Miss Taylor, and now it’s too late. You’ve failed the class and that’s that.”
“If you fail me I can’t graduate!”
“I did not fail you, you failed yourself. You can stay another semester and put some effort into it.”
The girl started to protest some more, but the professor raised a dismissive hand. “Your failing grade stands, Miss Taylor. Good night.” He didn’t even say, “I’m sorry,” because he wasn’t. Dr. Carlson had little patience with students who tried to slide through his class with minimal effort. That’s not what he was there for and it wasn’t what they were there for.
Marsha rose and her imploring look was quickly replaced with one of disgust. “You’re a dried-up little jerk pretending to be a man. I bet you haven’t gotten it up in years!” She strode out, slamming the office door behind her.
Carlson was thunderstruck. No student had ever talked to him like that before. Despite his recognition that the insult had been rendered by an immature, lazy girl and therefore should not be taken seriously, he felt hurt and angry. This was largely due to the fact that her arrow had struck its mark. He had not gotten it up in years – at least not with a companion. His wife had left him ten years ago, when he was 38, and the shock of her earlier professed love turned to contempt prevented him from entrusting himself to another woman.
Nevertheless, he was not totally the stereotype of the wimpy, bookish professor. He kept his spare body in good shape by jogging every morning and playing handball three times a week. He also took an aikido martial arts class every Friday evening.
And he was not impervious to the attractions of the female sex. Every weekday he faced classes made up in part of attractive young women, many of them dressed – or nearly undressed – in clothes designed to show off their long legs and full young breasts. He had heard that some of the male faculty members enjoyed affairs – or at least one-night stands – with some of their students, who either had crushes on them or were hoping to improve their grades by putting out.
Carlson had not availed himself of these opportunities, one possible reason being that the opportunities had not come his way. His imperious manner was repellant to students and faculty alike.
After Marsha Taylor flounced out of his office, he wondered what he would have done if the girl had offered herself to him in exchange for a passing grade. She was certainly attractive, with long dark hair, brilliant white teeth, and a very good figure. Carlson fantasized briefly on what it would be like to use his power over her scholastic records to enjoy her luscious body.
Then he shrugged, drove home in his van, fixed dinner, read for a while, and went to bed.
At 1:10 a.m. the police came to his apartment and arrested him for the abduction and rape of Marsha Taylor. He spent the rest of the night in a jail cell, after refusing to answer questions put to him by his interrogators. Later he was able to obtain the services of a criminal attorney, Robert Wallace.
“I don’t understand how she was able to completely fabricate such a story and have me thrown in jail as a result. Don’t I have any rights?”
“You’re here because Marsha Taylor told a credible story. She said you accosted her in the college parking lot after she had left your office, forced her into your van, tied her up, drove to a secluded part of Riverton Park, and raped her repeatedly.”
“These are total lies! How did she say I forced her to get into my van?”
“She said you threatened her with a gun.”
“A gun? That’s ridiculous! I have never owned a gun!”
“And she said that after you raped her, you threatened to kill her if she went to the police. Then you let her out of the van and drove away. She also said that when she was in your office you offered to give her a passing grade if she would go to bed with you, and she refused.”
“More lies! Don’t the police have to prove all this?”
“The District Attorney will have to prove it if he decides to prosecute. I must tell you that there is evidence to support her testimony. She has bruises on her neck and arms, and cord marks on her wrists and ankles. Also some scarring in her vagina and her rectum.”
“Her rectum?”
“Yes. She says that after you raped her vaginally, you sodomized her.”
“It sounds like you believe her.”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m here to defend you, regardless of whether you tell me you did it or you didn’t do it.”
“Well, I didn’t do it. So what happens next?”
What happened next was a series of predictable events as the justice system shifted into gear. Carlson appeared before a judge, entered a plea of not guilty, and was freed on a bail of $100,000, for which he had to pay $10,000 to a bondsman. He was suspended from his teaching position at the college, pending the outcome of the case. He was shunned by his neighbors and his colleagues, who assumed that if he was charged with this revolting crime, he was guilty and it was just a matter of time before he would go to prison, and good riddance.
Then came an event that was not predictable. Carlson met with his attorney for one of their endless strategy sessions and Wallace had incredible news, prefaced by an uncharacteristic grin.
“Well, it turns out you didn’t rape the Taylor girl after all.”
“Of course I didn’t – but how do know?”
“The police became suspicious after there were inconsistencies each time she told her story. First of all, they thought it unlikely that a college professor, with no criminal record, would be packing a gun, so they bore down on her about that. She backed down and said no, it was a knife. A knife? Well, then it became a letter opener. Then she began contradicting herself about what you said to her and did to her in the van. Among other things, she claimed that you raped her on one of the rear seats of your van.”
“There are no rear seats in my van!” Carlson interrupted excitedly.
“Exactly. Also, they were surprised that her parents, who live in Chicago, didn’t come to support their daughter after she was supposedly assaulted. So they sent a detective to interview them. They turned out to be quite elderly, considering the girl’s age, and rather testy. About fifteen minutes into the interview they stated that Marsha had been a problem since she was a child, that she was a congenital liar, and had accused two boys of molesting her on the high school grounds. It turned out that the boys had airtight alibis and when she was confronted with this she admitted having concocted the story because the boys had made rude remarks about her. She was suspended from school for a month.