This is a truly amazing story and an admirable work of journalism. It is a rather lengthy five-part series, but it is well worth the read. What follows is a link to the portal for the series, as well as excerpts from each of the five parts complete with links to them.
Beyond Rape - A Survivor's JourneyTelling the story I tried to forgetI was running late. Again.
Dammit.
I was speeding down Euclid Avenue, headed east out of downtown for a 5 p.m. interview at Case Western Reserve University. It was 5:10.
Rush hour had begun, the daily exodus of workers leaving the city for the suburbs, hurrying through the "bad" areas. You could almost hear the steady beat of car locks clicking at East 55th Street, the percussive soundtrack to Cleveland's racial divide.
I slalomed from the left lane to the right lane and back, scolding myself in my usual manner.
"Why do you always do this?" I muttered. "Why, why, why?"
One search ends, another beginsThey caught the rapist on July 10, 1984, at 5 p.m. on the Case Western Reserve University campus.
Larry Donovan, a University Circle police investigator, was on undercover surveillance in the quad for just 38 minutes when a man fitting the description I gave police strolled past Eldred Hall.
To Donovan's amazement, DAVE returned to the scene of the crime the very next day, at the same time, wearing the same clothes -- shiny black tank top, dark shirt, dark trousers. They found the gold cross on a chain -- the one that had dangled over my face as he raped me -- in his pocket, along with a screwdriver, a pack of Kools and a copy of Black Cherry, a porn magazine. His zipper was down.
University Circle police turned him over to the Cleveland police, and that night we got the call: They had arrested a suspect. His name was David Francis. He was 27 years old. Could I come in to view a lineup?
The privileged and the cursedDavid Francis planned to return to Cleveland. After serving time for raping me, he intended to live in a house on East 82nd Street owned by Lula Mae Foster.
That's what he told prison officials, anyway. In one parole application, he called Foster his aunt. In another, she was his grandmother.
Foster still lives on East 82nd, in the Hough neighborhood, one of Cleveland's most distressed. In the summer of 2007, I went to see her.
It takes 10 minutes to drive to Hough from Shaker Heights, where I live. But not many people make that trip. It leads across the border of what former presidential candidate John Edwards called the Two Americas: on one side, a leafy, prosperous suburb; on the other, a city that the U.S. Census Bureau designated the poorest big city in America in both 2004 and 2006.
Partners in crime, allies in courageDavid Francis was not always David Francis. He changed his identity with nearly every arrest.
When he was arrested for receiving stolen property, he was Dalin Allen.
When he was arrested for aggravated burglary, robbery and carrying a concealed weapon, he was Daniel Allen.
When he was arrested for breaking and entering, he was Tony Wayne.
Talking to the dead, taking back my lifeDavid Francis ended his time on Earth as he lived it: in prison.
He was laid to rest in a cemetery that overlooks Pickaway Correctional Institution, on a bare hill with a view of the razor wire that curls like a giant Slinky around the prison.
I went there to visit him on Jan. 16, 2008.
The day was clear but cold. The razor wire glinted in the sun and the grass crunched under our feet as Mohammad Yakuba, the prison investigator, led me up the hill.