shaking so badly, I could barely hold the pen. He gently walked me through each question, holding a finger down on the line like an elementary-school teacher.
On the first item, I wrote âpurse.â Next to that it read, âModel,â which my concussed brain failed to compute. I looked helplessly at Officer Moon.
âBrand,â Moon translated.
I nodded and wrote âGucci.â
New item: Wallet. Model: Gucci.
Officer Green peered over my shoulder. âYouâre a Gucci girl, eh?â
âYes, they were gifts,â I said. âUp until tonight, my life was very good.â
He chuckled and handed me his own cell phone. âI got your bank on the line. You just have to tell âem your social and they can cancel the card.â
I thought it was so nice of him to call them for me. I hate customer-service trees almost as much as I hate getting mugged. I thanked him and gave the info to the representative.
Then I was introduced to two detectives who asked all the same questions the police had. The detectives were perfectly nice and professional, but the process of being asked the same questions several times, to someone who isnât used to it like me, inadvertently communicated skepticism. As a result, I felt I wasnât coming off as believable, so I became very concerned with accuracy.
For instance, when they asked me how many times I was hit, I had to clarify: âWell, I was kicked once for sure, and I think the rest were with his fistsâ¦â
âYes, you were punched,â the detective interrupted. I didnât know how he was so sure of that, but he continued. âHow many times?â
âMultiple times,â I answered, sounding like a nervous witness on the stand.
âCan you give me a number?â
âBetween five and eight times? No more than ten.â
Looking back, I have no idea why I was so intent on making sure that I didnât overstate things. It was like I wanted to be fair to my attacker.
It was the least I could do if I was going to get him in trouble.
The detective finished his notes and added, âOh, and one more thing. Donât cancel those credit cards for a couple days. Theyâre usually where we get the best leads.â
I looked at Officer Green, like, dude? He avoided my gaze.
Finally the EMTs arrived. I was helped into the back of an ambulance where a paramedic took inventory of my injuries.
âAbrasions on legs, arms, foot, laceration on chin, contusions on neck and face. And you got choked, kickedââhe glanced at meââpunched.â
âHe kicked me once, I think, and then punched? Iâm not really sure, it was hard to tell.â
He glanced up at me. âYeah, punched.â
Why does everyone keep saying that?
Then he spoke with less certainty. âAnd, um, were you ⦠did the guy try anything, you know, umâ¦?â He made a face.
âYou mean, was I sexually assaulted?â
He nodded, looking embarrassed.
I didnât realize EMTs were so delicate. âNo, nothing untoward.â
He laughed in relief. âGood, because thatâs a whole ânother kit. â
Despite my judging him just a little bit for not being able to say the word ârapeâ in a professional capacity, we became buds. He told me I should walk with a dog for protection. I told him I had one, but he could only kill you with cuteness. He said he had two Rhodesian ridgebacks, and I impressed him with my Westminster-nerd knowledge of the breed.
âSo can you just clean me up, and I can go home?â I asked.
âYou got clocked. Head trauma means you should really go to the hospital.â
I was more scared of going to the ER than of having a concussion. In seven years living here, I had carefully and intentionally avoided needing emergency care. I always imagined a New York City emergency room on a Saturday night would be a horror show of gunshot victims, cyclists