Survivor Stories

I never thought that I could be victimized while behind bars, but after my ordeal being sexually assaulted by a transport agent I learned differently and soon found myself advocating for victimized men and women. In May 2001, I was picked up by a Colorado-based private prisoner transport company. I found out later that one of the agents transporting me was released for assaulting a male inmate while on the job. The second agent seemed to be in training. I could tell the junior agent was doing all he could to get along with the power hungry senior, who stood 6’4″ or 6’5″, 350 pounds. Immediately the senior agent began making sexual comments. Many of his comments were made when his partner slept. When we stopped for gas he’d get pretty vulgar talking about women getting gas and his “bitch ex-wife,” as he’d put it. “Why don’t you come up here and get on my lap and ride me?,” he said to me. “Tell me bedtime stories and make sure they are X-rated.”

I was shocked at how graphic he was getting, and bold. He didn’t stop much to allow all of us in the van to use the restroom — he didn’t want to feed us either. He did this as a form of control. When we picked up a woman at the county jail, he started in on both of us, as he and done earlier with me, saying the same lines to her that I had just heard. By the time we were in the California desert heading toward Vegas, his words got violent. “I should just take you both out in the desert, rape and shoot you!” He’d call us “sluts” and “whores” and this whole time we were all in leg shackles, belly chains and boxed cuffs and were never able to rest and unshackle the whole trip. The closer we got to Arizona, the more the senior agent was telling us he was going to take us into Mexico over an international border and have sex with us in a motel and that there was nothing the U.S. could do — it was out of their jurisdiction. I remember how suddenly she and I were both afraid he was crazy enough to force us to have sex and possibly take us over the border. He’d heard us whispering. We both decided to report his behavior.

We ended up turning around to pick up a federal prisoner in Arizona, who was going to Oregon. The new prisoner and the senior agent didn’t hit it off because the inmate stood up to his verbal, emotional and mental abuse. The agent told him he’d yank him out of the van and beat him while chained. He started reading the inmate’s file saying, “Boy, you’re in trouble for assault — who will they believe, you or me?”

After three and a half days in the van, I was exhausted. The senior agent would deliberately pull into roadside parks and pull away, laughing, making us all think we were going to get a restroom break. My kidneys had already shut down. I was dehydrated. He told us we couldn’t drink much because he wasn’t stopping.

Exhausted, I fell asleep. I woke up when I heard him say, “Restroom break.” I noticed the clock on the radio said 5 am; it was dark outside. The drivers pulled up and took the men to the restroom and left me in the van. The senior agent returned. I thought everything was fine until he followed me into the restroom and unshackled my belly chains, leaving my right cuff on and my left off and the leg shackles on. He hovered over me. I’m 5 feet and he’s 6’5” and much bigger than I am — very intimidating. He told me I was going to have sex with him. Then he said that I was going to give him oral sex. I called him a pig, but was soon forced on to the cold, clammy restroom floor after he forced me to remove my bra and shirt, leaving it to hang off my right arm.

I was wearing a long black skirt and cowboy boots. I was told to place my feet on the bathroom door so nobody could come in. He stood over me, stepping on my right hand, straddling my body, which was leaning against the door. I continued to call him a pig. His fingers went for the Velcro on his gun belt. The gun was a small black pistol. I realized he was serious. He told me, “If you cry out I’ll shoot you and say you tried to escape. Who are they going to believe, me or you?” His fingers went for his zipper, which was hard to find as his belly was large and hung over his black uniform pants. I closed my eyes. Thoughts of my childhood raced before my eyes. I remembered my alcoholic stepfather molesting me as a child, cutting my jump rope in half after dragging me out of the shower by my long brown chestnut hair and tying me to the bed and molesting me.

I opened my eyes as he ejaculated on my left breast. I went numb. I was also full of rage. “Clean yourself up.” He brought tissue but I got up and frantically began scrubbing his scent off of me. I scrubbed so hard I was rubbing my breast raw.

He decided that we would stay at the roadside park south of Pueblo, Colorado, for about one and a half hours. He acted as if nothing happened. The other agent questioned me as to why I was so quiet. I told the other inmates he assaulted me.

Once at the main office of the company, I reported him. I was told that whatever I said would be told to the agent. And, unfortunately, I still had to ride with him.

For my safety, I figured I’d tell as much as I could but wouldn’t report the sexual assault until I got to Steamboat Springs, Colorado, for fear they’d try to cover it up and that the agent would do something to me for reporting the sexual assault. We got back in the van and headed to Steamboat. The agent who assaulted me was mad and angry, telling the other agent that he should blow my head off and rape me. But we suddenly developed problems with the van and returned to the main office. Everybody was put into another van but me.  I stayed in the burning hot van until the Director came and asked about the agent’s behavior. The junior agent came to the van’s driver’s side and told the Director “He needs to be stopped. He’s out of line!” I was eventually put in another van and was transported alone. I got to the prison at Steamboat and was in shock. All I wanted to do was shower.

The story hit all the papers. Women were coming up to

By midnight I was taken into the female cell, which housed two women. With carpet and wooden bunk beds, it resembled a hostel more than jail cell. One woman was concerned about me because I kept taking a shower. I finally told her what had happened. She saw the blood blisters on my belly, how dehydrated I was, that my lips were cracked and swollen, and she started forcing me to drink water. I was swollen. I couldn’t use the restroom until late the next day. She told me I had to report them, and not to be afraid. I cried and cried, and suddenly the head of a Domestic Violence organization came to see me. She sent a counselor to see me and I was diagnosed with chronic delayed post-traumatic stress, amnesia, and anxiety. Detectives came to see me. I had to repeat my story over and over and relive the assault. I fought myself to keep going. Thank God for the friendly inmate and the nurse at the county jail. I drew strength from them. I wrote hundreds of letters and finally my cry was heard by the Denver ACLU. They turned my case over to the ACLU Prison Project’s attorneys and the lawsuit was filed in April 2002.

The story hit all the papers. Women were coming up to me, telling me how they were glad I was standing up to my predator. Some were angry I would file against someone and try to ruin his life, but those few were victims themselves and were doing as any victimized person would do: condone his behavior and try to save him. But all in all I began to draw more strength from women in prison with me. I started telling my story. While in the county jail, I wrote for the local and told my story. I found that many felt my pain. They urged me to fight not only for myself, but for others. I got letters from people in Colorado, more of them positive than negative.

I ended up being sent to a minimum security facility in Pueblo. Women recognized my name as the woman who was assaulted by the extradition agent. I became the inmate rep sitting in on disciplinary hearings to ensure inmates’ due process rights were not violated.

I have come to a settlement agreement with the transport company, and I intend to use some of the funds to create a non-profit to stop the victimization of men and women. My life is not the same. I value it more today and I’ve become a fighter for those who are incarcerated. Why? Because if I had not gone through what I had, I would not have become an activist. Anyone can be assaulted. I was a concert promoter. I’m educated. Sexual assault has nothing to do with sex — it is about power and control. This violence doesn’t play favorites regarding education or color, and the only way to stop it is by breaking the silence and speaking up.

If I can touch but one life with my story it will have been well worth it.

– Robin, Colorado