A few weeks ago, I wrote about how I was supposed to appear as a witness for a court case, and how that case had been moved to April, and how a good majority of my day had been wasted because the understaffed DA's office couldn't find the time to let my friend, the other witness, and I know that the trial had been rescheduled.

I thought that would have been the end of that, at least for a few months. Despite calls to our Victim Advocate, who I'll refer to here as “Theodore,” we hadn't heard back from anyone, and for at least two weeks, the entire thing could be summed up as, “out of sight, out of mind.” Worst case scenario would have placed my friend and I back at the courthouse in April, which would have given us plenty of time to prepare for whatever would be coming our way.

And then a week ago, I received a summons in the mail. This one was different from the court notification I had received for our first trial date: Instead appeared a capitalized “GREETINGS” followed by instructions on place and time, concluded with the phrase, “HEREOF FAIL NOT, AS YOU WILL ANSWER YOUR DEFAULT UNDER THE PAINS AND PENALTIES OF LAW.” Okay, for one thing, chill, but for another, “By virtue of this writ, the above-named person [me] was summoned as within directed by mailing an attested copy of same to the last and usual abode set forth in the above address?" What year is it? 1692?

In any case, this summons is serious business, and has me appearing in court on February 22, 2016. Not, you know, one week prior, which would have been fine, since I was on vacation from my student teaching, but the day I'm supposed to take on my class entirely on my own. Cool, great timing. Love it. At this point, I'm kind of furious, because nobody is answering my calls, and I have no information other than to just show up—and if I hadn't been to court before (for the same case, nonetheless), I would be totally lost as to which room to even check-in with. In the end, I made the decision to call the DA's office directly, since Theodore isn't calling back.

When I call, I'm referred to a different Victim Advocate. We'll call her “Brittney.” Instead of Brittney, I'm greeted by another answering machine. I leave a message, wait 15 minutes. My anxiety is off the charts at this point—I can't afford to miss another day of student teaching because some drunk clown decided to flash his penis out of a window in an entirely glass building. I'm freaking out because I have court summons and I have to go, and if I don't, there could be a warrant put out for me, but I'm not looking to miss out on state-mandated pre-license teaching hours. The 15 minutes are up so I call again, explain my situation to the secretary (who I'm assuming isn't the same one from before), and I guess I sounded hysterical enough that she left a note on Brittney's desk telling her to call me back.

It's strange, the combined feeling of being anxious and furious. I've felt it a number of times in my life, and it's never especially pleasant. In any case, about an hour later, Brittney finally calls me while I'm at a late lunch/early dinner with my friends, and I in a pretty high-pitched and upset tone of voice tell her that I cannot afford to show up to this trial, I don't like the way I've been treated by the office as a victim, and I don't like that nobody has thought that maybe, just maybe, I deserve at least some information about what's happening and maybe we could reschedule the trial. She says, “If it gets pushed back again, we might be able to reschedule it in your favor. See you Monday. Have a good weekend.” Nothing else.

The weekend finds me in a state of panic so bad that I'm having serious, adverse physical reactions, and if you have an anxiety disorder, you're probably familiar with them: upset stomach, hives, tinnitus, the feeling like something is literally trying to kill you by sitting on your chest. It's awful and no amount of my prescription medication can make it go away. To distract myself, I try finishing a lesson plan for Thoreau; I get through planning, but can't manage to make the worry go away long enough to finish making questions and handouts for my students. On Sunday night, I've worried myself so much that I pass out at a little before 8:00 p.m., wake up for a few minutes just before 8:30 p.m., and fall back to sleep.

I wake up the day of the trial at 6:00 a.m., same as I would if I were going to student teaching. There's a pleasant distraction in habit, I think, and besides, getting up early is not inherently bad for you. I wouldn't be leaving the school before the nearest dining hall even opened, either, so I make the decision to get myself hyped, and to get some work done, and to finally leave my dorm (and meet my friend) at the East Campus Commons. It's then when cramps decide to make their presence literally felt, and I know immediately that even if I had been able to go into teaching, the day would be miserable. Like a lot of people with PMDD, cramps can be debilitating. But, given the way Brittney dismissed my concerns over the phone Thursday, I know that there's no way I can get out of this awful trial by claiming period pain (real or fictionalized).

A banana offers some comfort, but not much. The drive into the city is familiar and reminds me of some better memories: Falling and destroying one of my favorite pairs of heels while running to catch a train that was running late anyway; seeing a med-flight take off in a baseball field; and the billboard proclaiming, amid a clutter of various prescription pills (some I recognized, others I didn't), “I WANT TO GROW UP TO BE A DRUG ADDICT....SAID NO ONE, EVER,” just outside of the high school entrance. These things are all better pictures of the city than the hell that is going through the courthouse without even being allowed a cell phone for something to waste your time while you wait.

When my friend and I get to the courthouse, however, there are some familiar faces, as apparently a house party consisting of 41 BSU students had been busted, and all of them had to appear in court for their arraignment hearing. At least, [Name Redacted] and I say to each other, we're in good company. Word of advice: if you have to go to court wearing a suit, wear something other than Nike's—there are very few people who can pull that look off, and almost all of them have access to various red carpet events across the globe. Since there are so many people who had to go to court because of that party bust, it takes even longer to get into the courthouse than the last time. Our friendly older gentleman, who told us to go to the DA's office before, isn't present. This is a Monday, and Monday feels a lot like hell.

We get to the DA's office and are told, by the same secretary as last time, to head to Courtroom 9. No other information is given to us, and we're confused, out of our depths. It's further than we got last time, but it's not something we necessarily have any familiarity with, and we were under the impression that someone (maybe Theodore, maybe Brittney, maybe literally anybody) would give us a rundown. We're told, rather rudely, by the bailiff to “Take a seat,” and guided into a row next to a well-dressed suburban white kid.

What kind of cosmic justice is there in the world when that young man turns out to be the same one we're supposed to be testifying against? In what kind of world is it that your first interaction with someone since they chased your friend down a hall and then came to threaten you with lawyers is when you're told to climb over laps and into a seat, and you have to deftly maneuver yourself past him with minimum physical contact? His elbow bumped my friend's shoulder; he apologized. I don't think he recognized us—he might have been extremely drunk when he showed off his genitals—blackout drunk, even, which is probably the worst kind of drunk you can be.

In any case, my friend and I are trying to make light of our entire situation: If we have to miss tests and labs and teaching in order to be here, we might as well joke about it. It's the laugh that consoles, the kind of giggling that makes the bailiff look at us like an old Father might any children goofing off in a church pew, the kind of tension breaking that is meant to soothe the anxiety that's eating away at you from your stomach up through your chest. My friend jokes, after having her shoulder bumped, “What if he turns out to be your future husband?” I notice that one of the ADAs is one of my former Tinder matches, and I don't know whether to be horrified or proud.

We almost die, of course, when the defendant stands up because we were hoping that maybe we were mistaken—the event happened over a year ago at this point, and that's long enough for anyone to forget a face when confronted first with their privates—but we weren't. As the judge calls “Recess,” my friend and I make our way back down to the DA's office for some answers. What the hell is happening? Why were they talking about us like we weren't in the room? What are we supposed to do? Where's my witness fee?

The secretary looks surprised when I say that nobody has talked to us. “Oh, I'll call someone down.” It's Brittney who eventually shows up, Brittney who needs to talk to us separately, but can't find a room so talks to us in the hall. “Theodore doesn't work here anymore,” she says, like I should have known this. She's talking to me first, maybe because I'm the one who's made the biggest stink about having to show up to the courthouse again.

“Why didn't anyone tell us?”

“We're a little understaffed. You have to understand. Did you want the trial dismissed?” At this point I don't really think it's my decision, since they've already decided to take it to court. I tell her to ask [Name Redacted]. “You said on the phone that April would be better for you, if there needs to be any other dates in court?”

“Yeah, but I had forgotten about my friend and May would be better—what is going on? Why hasn't anyone given us any information?”

“Don't worry about it. We'll come get you, or you can wait upstairs?”

“I'm really not happy with the way you've been handling this.”

“Great, I'll talk to [Name Redacted] now.”

Their conversation lasts about five seconds, and then the door is opened and I'm given the option to go back upstairs. My friend and I are, at this point, furious, because we still don't know what's happening, and apparently the ADA who was supposed to be in charge of our case isn't even in the building, and Theodore hasn't been answering our calls because he just wasn't there, and we've wasted yet another day. Eventually, finally, we're told we can go sit in on the trial if we want to.

For the most part, it's watching other people being told dates that they're going to have to come back to court, being advised to pay attention to their lawyers, et cetera. Which is all well and good for them, but there's the anxiety growing in my gut again, asking, what are you going to do when you get up there? What are you going to say? Should you take your glasses off? Finally, our defendant is called. First, a witness—who refuses to testify because he'd be damning himself, given that he mooned the entirety of the building moments before (or perhaps after; eyewitness statements are, unfortunately, notoriously unreliable). I can't really blame him, since nobody wants to provide self-incriminating evidence against their friends. But then—the judge says, “Since there are no female witnesses in present—” and my friend and I look at each other, then at the judge, and we're about to raise a scene because um, excuse you! We've wasted too much time of our lives to be ignored! We're here! We checked in! Twice! We're starting to talk when he says that the case is dismissed, and another Victim Advocate—“Jeanette”—runs over to do immediate damage control and, more importantly, get us the hell out of the courtroom.

We want answers and Jeanette is like, Brittney should have explained some things, if you wait right here, I'll get the ADA. She leaves, likely through a back entrance so she doesn't have to deal with us—apparently I can look really aggressive, and a lot of people think I'm taller than I actually am—and we're stuck fuming. Really? Really? I don't know who was angrier, my friend or myself, but we're both furious and I take off my glasses because that's when I decide I really don't want to see the world, and also, my cheekbones look a lot sharper and my jawline a lot firmer when I'm not wearing them. I want people to know I'm angry, especially the ADA who's supposed to talk to us.

Of course, we can't have cell phones in the courthouse (which has been a rule since late December), and there aren't any clocks around (not that I, being without my glasses, would have been able to read them), so it's hard to say exactly how much time passes until the ADA I recognize—former Tinder match we'll call “Alvin,” to continue the Chipmunks theme throughout this piece—comes out, looking confused. Maybe he thought we'd have left, maybe he just didn't know what we look like since, you know, nobody's bothered to introduce us.

I step forward, offer my hand in a jutting motion. “You're the ADA, right? My name's Jill Boger, and I've got a few questions for you.”

His voice shakes, but straightens quickly enough. Apparently we weren't considered the right kind of witnesses because we wouldn't have been able to provide an ID of the defendant outside of the courtroom: This was a failure on the criminal investigation's part to get us to sit down for a line-up. Alvin seems reasonably affronted on our behalves that nobody had told us anything, and we chat in the stairwell for a little while. There's not much to be done for this, he says, and I hold a stack of legal documents while he looks for a business card in his jacket. He doesn't have one.

“Well, like, we got this phone call from his private investigator telling us not to show up to court if we get subpoenaed,” my friend says, and this gets Alvin's attention.

“That's witness intimidation. Not to frighten you or anything, but it happens a lot.” We follow him to his office, and he comes back out with two business cards and a blue Powerade (it's endearing to know that the district court gets its beverages from Coca-Cola, one of those few brands I have unending loyalty to. It would have been devastating to see a Pepsi product at that moment). “If you can find the number, email it to me....”

I'm looking for the phone records, now, just to see if I can find the number, but I'm not sure if I want to pursue this, because it kind of seems like it might not be entirely worth it in the end. Once we got back to school, my friend and I began a hunt to find out what went wrong with the investigation, starting with Title IX. Whether or not I have the energy to talk to the police to find out more about the case, to get some kind of closure, depends on whether or not I'm willing to deal with the anxiety that's come with over a year and a half of involvement in a lewd and gross exposure incident. It's not even necessarily that I wanted anything bad to happen or for there to be a conviction—I said multiple times to multiple people that I didn't want to press charges.

But let's think about it: it's really easy not to be heard, especially when you're under the impression that you're going to be. You want to have faith in the criminal justice system, in the police or whoever carries out an investigation, and when you see that they've dropped the ball so magnificently in a case of such minor consequence, you wonder—what about the bigger cases? What about the cases where it isn't just some drunk dude hanging his junk out a window where anyone—including minors—can see it? What about significant sexual assault cases, or ongoing sexual abuse? I can't say that I'm surprised that a judge decided that money was more important than Kesha's safety because I've seen some real inefficiency and unwillingness in a court system to do any real work on a victim's behalf. I'm lucky that the case I was involved in was tied up so neatly, with relatively little collateral besides my missed work time, but what about people whose lives have been potentially ruined because of the problems in U.S. courts across the country?

None of this has changed any of my behavior towards reporting things, strangely enough (though I wasn't the one who filed the initial complaint against the defendant): I was at a bar recently and narc'd on a guy who was sharing his beer with some 18-year-old girls wearing big “X”s on their hands. It's just something I'll keep doing. And girls—I don't care if he's sharing his drink with you, he looks like he's about 30, and the drunker you get, the more vulnerable you are. If you're going to drink, drink with people who actually care about you.

I have jury duty in May, and I wonder if I'll be dismissed—I don't think they'll want someone who doesn't trust a prosecution to do its job to help victims.