pleasant experience. For her, a trip to HUH usually meant a victim was so badly injured that their first meeting had to take place in a hospital room.
McGee flashed his badge at the receptionist, who directed them to the seventh floor. Kerry Hughes was waiting for them there. The older African-American woman reminded Anna of a fireplug: short, solid, and ready for emergencies. Kerry was a SANE nurse—a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner—whose specialty was collecting medical and forensic evidence of sex crimes by examining the victim. She was bright, knowledgeable, and tireless. Kerry was the only SANE nurse in D.C., which meant she examined every rape survivor who came in for a sex kit. Anyone less dedicated would have quit years ago.
Kerry greeted them warmly and pulled them into an empty room where she handed McGee a small white box containing Tierra Guerrero’s sex kit. The kit included combings from the victim’s pubic hair, scrapings from underneath her fingernails, and long Q-tips that had been used to swab her orifices. A sex kit usually included the victim’s clothes, but there were none in this case because the victim had been naked when the attack began. McGee would send the box to D.C.’s new DNA lab for analysis.
Kerry handed Anna the SANE papers that contained her findings. Anna automatically turned to the third page and glanced at the gingerbread figurine, on which Kerry had marked X’s to indicate areas of injury. The figure had X’s on her face, neck, chest, arms, back, and buttocks.
“There were also some of the worst internal injuries I’ve ever seen,” Kerry said softly.
Given the nurse’s experience, that was saying a lot. Anna turned to the next page, which had a diagram of female genitalia. Kerry pointed to the marks she’d made on it.
“Vaginal tearing at two o’clock, five o’clock, and ten o’clock. Significant tearing to the perineum. And multiple lacerations to the anus. But the internal tearing was the most concerning. Her rectum was ruptured. The surgeons had to go in and sew her up. She could have died.”
Anna clenched her jaw and examined the photos Kerry handed her.
“Is she okay to talk to us?” Anna asked.
“You can try,” Kerry said. “She doesn’t speak much English.”
Kerry led them down the hall to a small private room. Anna knocked on the doorframe. The young woman in the bed looked over. Anna maintained a neutral expression, but cringed inwardly. The woman’s lip was split, and there was a gash across her forehead. Anna also knew the injuries that lay under her hospital gown. Tierra Guerrero was probably quite pretty before her face was beaten. She had long, dark hair and light hazel eyes. Now she looked frightened and exhausted.
“May I come in?” Anna asked.
The woman tilted her head.
“Permiso para entrar?” Anna tried. She’d retained enough high school Spanish to make a few moments of polite conversation.
The woman’s face relaxed and she nodded. Anna sat in a chair by her head, McGee by her feet.
“Me llamo Anna Curtis. Soy abogada para los Estados Unidos. Quiero ayudarla.” This was the Spanish phrase she knew best: My name is Anna Curtis. I’m a lawyer for the United States. I want to help you.
The woman nodded. Anna explained in halting Spanish the self-evident point that her Spanish was not very good—but that an officer who spoke it was coming soon.
“Gracias,” Tierra reached out her hand on the bed and Anna held it. Tierra leaned her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes. Anna sat holding her hand in silence for the next ten minutes.
When Officer Enrique Melendez came in, Anna introduced him and gently started the interview. She asked the officer to explain that they were investigating the crimes that took place in the Monroe Street brothel the night before. Tierra nodded, then said something in rapid Spanish to the officer.
He turned to Anna. “She’s worried about being deported.”
Anna nodded; this was a
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