What was done to me was a crime.

I wanted it handled as a crime, by the people whose job that is, in the same building where it would have been handled for any woman who walked in off the street.

The fund was another matter, and the fund would come.

But first, the crime, on the record, like anyone else’s.

I have thought a great deal about why that order mattered so much to me, and it comes down to this.

The easy version of this story — the version a lesser part of me wanted — was the one where my father simply crushed him, where a phone call from a powerful man ended a smaller one, where I was avenged by the sheer weight of who my family happened to be.