Nigger Rape

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Nigger Rape
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Charise Thompson, then 23, was abducted, beaten, tortured and raped by a Mexican gang as she drove home in Texas - now she is bravely speaking out about her ordeal to combat the 'stigma' of sex attacks
CHANGING a flat tyre at the side of the road as her little boy slept in the car, Charise Thompson was abducted by thugs who tortured, beat and gang-raped her in an act of unimaginable brutality - even drilling into her ankles in an attempt to hang her upside down 'like an animal'.
Left for dead in a ditch, the brave mum fought to survive, crawling two-and-a-half miles to get back to four-year-old James.
Finally, after desperately crawling on her elbows for hours, dragging her broken legs and with devastating internal injuries, she found help. Mercifully her son was discovered unhurt and still sleeping in the back of the car in Texas.
Incredibly, Charise, then 23, survived after being pumped with 31 units of blood.
Now, nearly 40 years on, she has bravely waived her anonymity to speak exclusively about her ordeal for the first time to The Sun Online in a bid to tackle the "stigma" surrounding sex attacks.
She says she had to undergo emergency operations, spent four months in hospital and needed a hysterectomy following the sadistic gang-rape in November 1981.
In a heartbreaking twist, her son spent years quietly believing his own dad - her ex-husband - was to blame after he found a Polaroid snap of his mum's battered and bloodied face in her jewellery box.
James, now 42, was later told about the real culprits. However, 38 years on, the sex beasts who nearly killed Charise have yet to be tracked down and brought to justice.
"They beat and tortured me with their fists, their boots and a tyre iron, tied me to the bumper of the truck and dragged me, then ran over me with the truck," Charise, now 61, recalls.
"They tried to drill holes in my ankles and had a gambrel [a rod or hook used to suspend animal carcasses] they were apparently going to hang me on, like a slaughtered animal, but they couldn't get the drill all the way through either ankle.
"They stabbed me with a knife, repeatedly raped me and used the tire iron, telling me that they were the last thing I would ever see.
"I was left torn open, my insides were partly exposed, and I had multiple stab wounds."
Charise, now married to husband, Chris, 73, had been driving back home with James after spending the Thanksgiving holiday with her mum when she stopped to change a tyre.
But standing on the side of Highway 59, between Freer and Laredo in Texas, she was suddenly surrounded by the gang of six, bundled into a truck and driven away from the scene.
"We drove quite a way, I was being hit and shoved down on the back floor," she tells us.
"All I could think about was my son. When I got out to change the flat tyre, he was sound asleep in the back seat and I was terrified that he was being left alone on the side of the highway."

Looking back, Charise is grateful to have been taken away from the scene - it meant her little boy didn't witness her being brutally beaten, assaulted and left for dead.
"After the last time I was hit in the head with the tire iron, I was perfectly still and tried to not even breathe," recalls the mum, who has since moved to Wyoming.
"I didn't understand much Spanish but heard one of them say 'ella esta muerta', or 'she's dead'. They picked me up and threw me into a drainage ditch, like trash.
"I laid there a long time after I heard the truck drive away, in fear they might return. Then I knew I had to get help to my son because I feared they'd go back to my car."
With no idea where she was, Charise began crawling across the ground. She came across what looked like a dirt path - and despite her injuries, desperately tried to follow it.
"I'd crawl a little and then, sure I couldn't go on, I'd close my eyes and pray for death to come.
"But then I'd see my son's face and have to get back up and crawl some more," she says.
Hours later, the courageous mum found what she'd been looking for.

"The first person I came across was a ranch hand at a small outbuilding," she tells us.
"He didn't have a phone and had to go up to the main house to call for help. The ranch owner and his wife came down to where I was and waited with me until the police and ambulance got there."
When she arrived at hospital, bleeding heavily with 14 broken bones and more than half of her teeth knocked out, Charise says doctors told police that she likely wouldn't make it.
She has 'very little memory' of her first few weeks in hospital, as she received more than 30 units of blood and underwent emergency procedures on her face and to repair her devastating internal injuries.
But as medics worked to save her, there was one bit of positive news - James was safe.
"When the police got to my car, it was still locked and my son was asleep in the back seat," Charise says.
"Once I knew he was safe, I knew relief I'd never known before.
"I had really good friends that took him in and took really good care of him."
The mum spent more than four months in hospital before being transferred to a physical rehabilitation centre and, eventually, treated with outpatient therapy.
"I ended up having to have a complete hysterectomy due to complications with the reconstructive surgery, and female organs that could not work properly," she says.
"The police called it a 'sadistic gang-rape'.

But despite Charise getting "clear views" of all her attackers and even the licence plate of the truck, which she says was from Mexico, only one suspect was ever tracked down.
"I heard that one was arrested a few months after the attack, but because of a clerical error he was released on an own recognisance [no-cost bail] and never seen again," she claims.
"I heard that there were other victims of this gang in Mexico but no other survivors."
In the weeks after returning home, Charise lived in fear, seeing the thugs' faces in every crowd.
Soon after, she moved away from the area, taking with her a single picture of her injuries - the only one she has of the aftermath of the attack, which was taken by authorities.
She kept the Polaroid image in the bottom of her jewellery box - where unbeknown to her, it was discovered by James years later as he looked for something in her bedroom.
"He never said a word to me, but spent all those years thinking that is was his birth father that had done that," says the mum, who waited till her son was an adult to tell him about the attack.
"I can't imagine what that must have been like for him."
After moving to another part of Texas, Charise started attending the Crisis Center - which helps people who have suffered sexual violence - and realised she didn't have to be a victim.
Instead, she discovered, she could become a survivor.
"It wasn't long before I knew I had done just that," she says.
"You don't forget, but you do learn to move on."
The mum volunteered for the centre, then, after moving to Wyoming, began working as a victim advocate with the protection service Safehouse, helping other rape and violence victims.

"It was in helping others to make that transition from victim to survivor that I found the very best help for me and my true healing," she tells us.
Today, she is determined to bring the subject of sex attacks "out of the darkness" and to "remove the stigma from women", who she says may be made to feel guilty for what happened to them.
"When I was in the ambulance, I remember the police officer that rode in there with me ask me, 'What I had done to make them so mad'? Like it was my fault," she says.
"I overheard a doctor tell another police officer at the hospital that I probably wouldn't make it and the police officer said, 'It's just as well ... who would want her now'? Like it lessened the person that I was."
But despite having survived her ordeal, Charise is still suffering from its effects on her health - including painful bones, and problems with both her thyroid and intestines.
She also contracted Hepatitis C from her blood transfusions, leaving her with liver damage.
However, she tells us, there is "life after rape".
"There's happy, fulfilling, beautiful life," she says.
"But that you have to tell someone - a parent, police, counsellor, friend. You have to talk about it and bring it out into the open before you can start to deal with what happened to you and to heal."
She adds: "I am on morphine for the constant pain, but this life is amazing and worth every bit we have to go through to keep it."
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In October 1985, I attended a pop concert against my parents' wishes. By the end of the night I had been gang raped in circumstances similar to those alleged by the 17-year-old girl accusing several men, including Premiership footballers, of raping her at the Grosvenor House hotel. The men who raped me weren't celebrities and they weren't even rich. In reality they were nobodies. But to me, a 14-year-old girl, only 4ft 11in tall, with very limited experience of the world, they were glamour personified.
The men, who were about six years older than me, were in a pop band, playing village halls and occasional support slots to bigger bands. They talked about a world I knew nothing of, a glamorous world of recording studios and record contracts. Their faces pouted out of photo- graphs in the local paper. They were local celebrities. They were a gang with catchphrases I didn't understand, mostly referring to sex acts, and little hand signals that my best friend and I emulated and giggled over in the playground at lunchtime.
That night, I watched them on the stage high above me and when they smiled at me, pointed me out and waved, I felt grown-up and glamorous, and important. I had been seeing one of them, Liam, for three weeks and had met Phil and Simon once or twice. Liam asked me to arrange to stay out the night of the concert. He suggested I lie to my parents and say I was at a girlfriend's house, so we could "spend the whole night together". I would have done anything he asked because I had fallen in love with this man who spoke of grown-up things, who said, "I can't believe you're only 14, you look so much older" - though the photos I gaze at now tell me that I didn't. He also told me that he couldn't believe I was a virgin when I first met him. Couldn't believe his luck, more like.
So I arranged my alibi and went to the concert. I wasn't plied with champagne but with cheap vodka. I didn't drink much of it and certainly wasn't drunk. I was never a teenage drinker. After the concert, the men were on a high, enjoying the attention of their groupies. I waited while they circulated for half an hour and then they came over to me. Liam asked if I had made the arrangement to stay out. I said yes and he shuffled me out of the door quickly, followed by the others.
Liam asked if I would like to stay at Simon's house where we would "all be together" or go back to the fourth member of the band's bedsit. (He was also a model and actor and was having a party.) I didn't understand the hidden meaning. I thought he wanted us to spend the night alone together at Simon's, so this was what I chose. This is what, he later told me, he took as my consent. Asking me where I wanted to stay was taken as consent to group sex.
The year before, our county had been terrorised by a rapist known as the Fox. Malcolm Fairley broke into houses during the night and raped women at gunpoint in front of their husbands. My father, desperate to protect his family, would stay up all night after barricading the windows. He was determined no rapist would get near us.
I felt safe, with my father watching over me. That was what I thought rape was, a man climbing through your window in the night. I never thought it would happen at a local music festival, the first I had ever attended, after days of begging and pleading with my parents. I didn't think Liam would spend three weeks getting to know me, before passing me on to his friends.
I was taken to a small modern house. There was a black leather sofa, black ash veneer furniture and Athena pictures of semi-naked women. It was a 1980s bachelor pad, I suppose, though I had never been in one before. I still had a Pierrot duvet cover. The men said they were tired and that we should go to bed. I followed them up the stairs, led by Liam. When we reached the room I looked around, confused. I asked Liam where we would sleep. He said, "We'll all squeeze in together."
As the other men got into bed I asked Liam if we could sleep downstairs, but Phil was growing impatient and told us to hurry up because he wanted to sleep, and Liam jumped at his command, hurrying me along. I left my shirt and underwear on and got into bed next to the man I had trusted, feeling embarrassed, knowing that I wouldn't sleep a wink.
The light went out and Liam started touching me. I whispered, no, said it wasn't right with his friends there, and asked again to go downstairs. But he wasn't even listening. He had sex with me. I won't say this was rape, though it was statutory rape because of my age, but I was uncomfortable and uncooperative, hating every second of it. I thought that if I just let him do it, it would be over and I would be able to wait out the long hours until it was safe to go home without arousing my parents' suspicions. But then the light was on and Phil said, "Can we join in?" And Liam said, "Be my guest." None of them asked me.
I won't torture the reader or myself with the details of what they did to me. Suffice to say, I was the victim of a "ramming" - one of their catchphrases. I was raped by Simon and Phil in turn, each with the "assistance" of the other. To this day I can still feel the chill metal of Phil's nipple-rings pressing against my flesh as I was torn apart in every sense. I often wake from nightmares where I am having the breath squashed out of me, a huge weight pushing down on me and the smell of his aftershave in my nose.
In Nicholas Meikle's words, like the 17-year-old girl, I "stayed for breakfast", though I didn't eat a thing. I watched them stuff their mouths with fried egg sandwiches and waited for them to drive me home. I couldn't call my parents or go home early, or they would know I had lied and, like many teenagers, I was scared. So I waited and they drove me home. I ran a hot bath and began a ritual that would last for years, scrubbing my flesh in an attempt to get clean. Friends frequently joke about how obsessive-compulsive I am when it comes to cleaning but the truth of this obsession lies in that night.
I have lived with the shame and consequences of their actions for the past 18 years. The emotional repercussions have been enormous. Soon after the attack I attempted suicide but I never told a soul my secret. The men, however, bragged about the "three's up" as they put it. It wasn't seen as rape, though. It was seen as me being a slag, a willing participant in group sex even though I was a child with no experience of men like them, and almost no experience of sex. I have suffered from clinical depression, panic attacks, nightmares and many symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder ever since.
The physical consequences of that night scarred me, too, and the physical damage I sustained during the attack has had serious health implications for me ever since.
I have dealt with my disgusting secret without therapy or help of any kind, other than the endless support of my husband and family. But now, everywhere I turn, I am faced with the story of a teenage girl who says she was gang raped by a group of men who had wooed her with their celebrity. It is in every paper, on the radio and the television. It isn't hearing about it through the media that causes my anger, but rather the comments and opinions of others who question what she was doing drinking in those sorts of bar, pursuing those sorts of men, going back to hotel rooms with strangers, and in their judgment of her behaviour, I feel judged - though they know nothing of what happened to me.
Teenage girls will always be impressed by older men, particularly those who promise a world of glamour and glitz that is far away from their experience. For some girls it might be a premiership footballer but for others it will just be the lad in her class who everyone fancies, or the singer in a local rock band.
I applaud the 17-year-old's ability to tell her parents and go to the police. Much of my anger is at myself for my inability to do these things. At the age of 14, I could only see that it was my fault. I lied to my parents, I agreed to go to the house, I didn't know how to stop the men raping me and so how could I face my family with that amount of shame? I didn't report the rape until many years later, and even then I decided in the end that I couldn't go through with it. I had moved away and wanted to forget it had ever happened.
At a book signing, in my hometown, 16 years on, Liam turned up. I had him ejected. Some months later, Phil turned up at a friend's party just a few minutes from my home. He said hello as if we were old friends. Furious, I confronted him with the truth.
"The thing is Emilia," he said, "we really liked you. We thought of you as one of the gang."
But I was never part of their gang. Their gang was about subjecting schoolgirls to humiliating, degrading sexual acts. What these footballers are accused of is nothing new. The frightening part is that this has always happened. It happens in small towns and cities up and down the country, on council estates and in middle-class suburbs. It happens to nice girls and girls who get drunk, in bars and clubs, and it will go on happening until this issue is tackled head on.
I don't think Phil or Simon believed at the time that they were committing rape. They viewed this type of sex as "normal". Liam later told me he thought I was participating. "You never said anything," he said. When confronted with the victim's perspective they are forced to consider their actions in an entirely different light. I asked Phil to imagine his 14-year-old daughter subjected to an identical situation to mine. Would this be rape? I wanted him to consider me as a person, a child rather than a piece of me
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