Rating: PG-13, may change to R
Summary: Rochelle stumbles to Elliot's doorway around three in the morning. That moment changes everyone at the precinct forever. A young thirteen year old girl begins a new life and Elliot is there to monitor her every step of the way. Is there a love in the shadows, can Rochelle really become a new person?
Written by Druscilla Ryan Mortenson, copyright Druscilla Ryan Mortenson 2004
Rochelle's FileChapter One: Melting Pot
The serene quiet of the night was broken when there came a knock at Elliot's door around three in the morning. "Kathy, stay in bed." He said, getting up and putting his feet on the floor. "I'll get it." Too late he realized what he had just said. It was more from habit than anything else. The double bed was empty. Elliot stood up, shaking his head.
He navigated his way downstairs and looked through the peephole. A young girl, probably thirteen—brunette, five foot three, holding a grocery sack and wearing a threadbare coat over fishnet stockings and go-go boots?
Elliot sighed and opened the door. "Can I help you?" he asked, praying to God this wasn't another one of someone's ill conceived jokes. The last one hadn't been a very big hit.
"I hope so." The girl said, her voice extremely confident and mater of fact, if a little shaky. "You're a cop, you're supposed to help people, right?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I got your address from the precinct. You're Detective Elliot Stabler. I'm Rochelle Cavier. I'm thirteen, I'm a runaway, I was working as a hooker, and I have a case for you. A couple actually. Possibly. Maybe."
Elliot blinked and slowly nodded. "All . . . All right. Come in." He gestured at a chair in the kitchen and sat down on the counter, looking at her. She looked so trusting with big green eyes that just stared at him without the faintest flicker of fear. "First off, you said you got my address from the precinct?" Rochelle Cavier nodded. "They don't give out information like that."
Rochelle nodded again. "I know. I'm a very skilled liar and thief." She bit her lip, for the first time showing an emotion Elliot could identify: guilt. "Look, I knew that if I just went in that I might be, you know, pushed aside or laughed at. See, you worked on a case for a friend of mine a few months back and she said you're a really nice guy and all, so I decided I might as well try it. I've got nothing to lose. They'd probably treat me better on the street than they do out there."
Elliot took 'out there' to mean in a prostitute's life. "All right." He nodded. "I'm going to forget that you stole my address, for now. What is it—" He yawned. ". . . that you want me to help you with?"
Rochelle took a deep breath. "I was gang-raped when I was twelve by my dad, older brother, and some of their friends. Tonight I got gang-raped by my pimp and his friends."
Mary, mother of God, what have I gotten myself into?
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"I don't understand why you didn't just bring her down here or call me or call . . . anyone, Elliot—"
"What was I supposed to do, Olivia?" Elliot snapped, his voice low, leaning across his desk so he was closer to hers. "It was three in the morning. Excuse my judgment for being a little impaired."
"You're a cop. You're not supposed to have impaired judgment." Olivia mumbled. "There's Miss Cavier, right now."
Elliot turned in time
to see a freshly showered Rochelle enter the room, wearing a
camouflage miniskirt and a black sweatshirt. Her bag had been
replaced by a book—Elliot assumed—had come from her bag. "Don't
you look pretty?" he mused, standing up. "Rochelle, this is my
partner—"
"Olivia Benson." Rochelle stuck out her hand,
which Olivia shook. "Katie told me."
"Shall we?" Olivia asked, gesturing toward the rooms used for questioning.
Rochelle swallowed nervously. "Yeah. Sure."
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Olivia was sitting opposite Rochelle at the table, whereas Elliot was sitting adjacent to her. "It's hot." Rochelle observed.
Olivia smiled. "You could take off that sweatshirt." She tapped the aforementioned item of clothing with her pen.
Rochelle shook her head quickly and lowered her eyes. "Th-That's fine. I mean, I'm cool. Never mind."
Olivia and Elliot exchanged a brief glance. "Rochelle," Elliot began, "is there a reason you won't take off your sweatshirt?"
"I always wear long sleeves." Rochelle whispered. "Always."
"Because . . ."
Rochelle looked up, blinking back tears. She hated showing weakness. "I cut myself, all right?"
"I think we need to call Huang." Olivia said.
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George left the room about fifteen minutes after he went in, shaking his head. He was almost smiling. "She's a very intelligent young woman." He said slowly. "I've never met a rape victim with psychological logic like hers. How far did you get with her story?" he asked.
Elliot shook his head. "I learned the basics. Who, when, where, that sort of thing. We called you as soon as we found out about her wrists."
George nodded. "Those should be fine. They'll just need to be sterilized and wrapped. They weren't very deep." He paused for a moment. "Pay attention to women's roles in hers stories. It sheds some light on why she trusted you—a man—after her attacks."
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"So her friend Crystal ratted her out for fifty bucks and a line of coke. Her mother called her bitch and slut for years and finally turned her out of the house. I don't understand what you're getting at." Elliot said impatiently.
"The women never hid their true colors." George said. "Rochelle knew exactly what the women were like. They never concealed anything. The men, on the other hand, were sneaky. They hid who they were, unleashing their true colors just when Rochelle was becoming closer to them." He sighed. "It's simple psychological logic, but it's off-base. What happens when she meets a woman who lies?"
The precinct suddenly grew very cold.
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I lay in bed. My cat Ginger is cuddled up with me. There is a window right by my bed and I can see the moon. It's full tonight. Beautiful. Suddenly, I smell Jack Daniels and cigarettes. I close my eyes, praying he'll go away. My room is suddenly very cold, despite it being June and us having no air conditioning.
"Don't play stupid with me, slut." Randy says. "Dad wants you downstairs. Now."
I reach for the pajama pants sitting on my dresser, trying not to cry. "Don't put those on, slut. They'll just end up coming off anyway."
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"Hey, Rochelle." Olivia said, coming in the room. "You want to come with me?" Olivia had a fist aid kit in her hands. Rochelle obediently followed her into the bathroom.
"Some people call me Rox or Chelle." Rochelle said, following Olivia. "You can if you want."
Olivia smiled. "What do you want me to call you?"
Rochelle thought for a moment. "Roxie. It makes me think of dancer, you know, like Chicago?"
Olivia laughed and set down the first aid kit on the sink as they entered the bathroom. "We're just going to sterilize your wrist." Olivia said, opening a bottle of peroxide. "What did you cut yourself with?" Rochelle hesitated. "I'm not going to judge you. It's just that if someone else had access to it, we might need to get your blood tested."
Rochelle shook her head. "I used a razor blade. It was new when I bought it and I kept it under the sole of my shoe. I doubt anyone had access to it." The peroxide bubbled as Olivia applied it to the six or seven cuts, two of which were extremely recent.
"It's not normal." Olivia said slowly. "But it's a normal occurrence. Realizing you need to stop is the first step."
Rochelle hesitated as Olivia began to wrap her wrist. "Was it a normal occurrence with you?"
Olivia finished wrapping Rochelle's wrist. "Once." She pulled the sleeve of her jacket up, and pointed out a silver scar about a centimeter long. Rochelle never would have noticed it otherwise. "When my mother die." She snapped the first aid kit shut. "Just between us girls, right?"
Rochelle smiled. "Right."
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"What do you right in there?" Elliot asked, tapping Rochelle's journal.
She looked up at him. "Poems. I'm not very good, but it helps to write it out sometimes, you know?" She smiled. "Would you like to read one?"
Elliot smiled. "Sure. Why don't you pick one out for me?"
Rochelle flipped through the book expertly, knowing exactly which one she wanted Elliot to read. She had written it just a few days before. She handed him the book.
The pages were blue, with faeries and moons up the side. Not too mature, Elliot observed. He was glad. Rochelle was too young to grow up yet.
It's not easy to be the one
For I'm the only one
I can remember before this place
I can remember after
There's nothing for me in this corner of dark
There's nothing for anyone here
It's all just a bundle of people
They call in the MELTING POT
Everyone gets dumped inside and tossed around
And they all look the same
I don't want that
I want to be more than just your or me
I want to remember what it's like to be.
"It's beautiful." Elliot said softly. "And true." So true.
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What do you think? Please R&R. The poem belongs to me and is entitled 'Melting Pot'. The characters and likenesses of the 16th precinct do not belong to me, they belong to Dick Wolf. I am only using them for sick, cheap thrills.
In Chapter Two: Bad Dream, Rochelle does police work that Elliot doesn't condone, exchanges words with Elliot, and gets self-defense lessons.