“Miss Stilwell, have you ever taken drugs?”
“No.”
“Have you ever consumed alcohol?”
“A sip of my dad’s wine.” I didn’t feel like forming complete sentences for him. He wasn’t worth my time. He was just going to tell me what I already knew, make a case file for it, and then put the file where no one would ever touch it. That’s what they did with all sexual assault cases. I’ve seen the Lifetime movies; I know the truth.
“Do you have any recollection of that night, Miss Stilwell?”
“No.”
“So it is possible that you consumed drugs and/or alcohol on the night of your rape?”
“I don’t do drugs! Couldn’t you run tests if you wanted to know that anyway?” I shouted at the fat cop. He was unphased by my obvious impatience with his interrogation.
“Yes ma’am. Your urine test was positive for GHB , a date rape drug which was most likely slipped into your drink at the party,” he stated matter-of-factly, “It can cause comas and the inability to remember what happened while drugged, among other things.”
I was drugged?