On a bitter, gray Michigan morning in January, Judge Rosemarie Aquilina stood in her office, zipped up her robes over a pair of jeans and cowboy boots, and stepped through the door into Courtroom 5.
Cameras crowded into the snug, carpeted space. News had gotten out that dozens of young women, many of them gymnasts, would be speaking at the sentencing of Larry Nassar, a doctor who’d pleaded guilty to seven counts of first-degree criminal sexual conduct. Aquilina, her tousled beehive hairsprayed into obedience, validated one survivor after another: “You are strong”; “you are brave.” “There were so many,” she says now. “You could feel the empowerment. You could feel the rage.” It was hard to look away as the women shared how Nassar violated them in his basement at the age of six, or on the exam table in front of their parents, or at their hotel during the Olympics. Staring him down, they explained to all those who had never listened how this man, like a dirty bomb, had nearly ruined their lives. Yet they decided to rise up. For seven days, 156 survivors spoke, the world reeled, and the case broke history.
What was easy to miss is how it took a chain of extraordinary women to make the world pay attention to this moment and to sexual violence—and to create change so all survivors can get justice.
It’s hard to say when Lawrence Gerard Nassar committed his first crime—women are still reporting their abuse. But what brought him to Aquilina’s courtroom began the afternoon of August 25, 2016, in Rachael Denhollander’s Louisville, Kentucky, kitchen. The 31-year-old mom had given her kids—ages one, two, and four—an audiobook to distract them while she made a phone call. They were too young to understand what she was about to say, but she still didn’t want them to hear. Standing at the sink, she dialed the Michigan State University (MSU) police department and said she wanted to file a delayed report of sexual assault.
In person Denhollander, a deeply thoughtful Reformed Baptist, is soft-spoken with a light laugh that belies her exacting gaze and determination. “My vagina is dinner conversation for other people,” she says with irony about what has been an excruciating journey. Raised in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and homeschooled with her two siblings, she started gymnastics for fun. She’d just turned 15 when she told her mom, Camille Moxon, she was having back pain. After overhearing parents at the gym talk about Nassar, the team physician for USA Gymnastics (USAG) who also treated athletes at MSU, Moxon made an appointment. “We walk in and there are poster-size pictures of the ’96 gold-medal team in Atlanta, and the girls have signed them,” she says. “I was dumbfounded.” Denhollander liked him right away.
Over the next several visits, Nassar complimented her long hair and her jeans with the smiley-face patches, chatting with Moxon as she sat in the room. But from the very first exam, out of Moxon’s view and often under a towel, Nassar used two ungloved fingers to penetrate her daughter vaginally and, later, anally, sometimes for up to half an hour. On Denhollander’s fifth visit, Nassar turned her on her side, away from her mother, and groped her breasts. When she saw he had an erection, she realized she was being sexually assaulted. After that, she lied and said her back no longer bothered her.
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More than a year later Moxon noticed her teenager stiffening up anytime a man got near her and asked what was wrong. When Denhollander told her what happened, “I was so angry at him and so angry at myself for not protecting my daughter,” says Moxon, “I am still upset.”
Denhollander was 16 by then. “We had the discussion: Do we take this to the police?” she says. “But I knew the reality of how sexual assault survivors are treated, and I knew my voice alone was never going to be enough. Larry was surrounded by very powerful institutions.” Denhollander testified that a year later she did tell someone. She’d gotten a job at a gym, and the coach was about to send one of the young gymnasts to Nassar. Denhollander described how she’d told the coach that the doctor had abused her (“I was quite explicit,” she told Glamour), yet the coach still referred the child. Denhollander was crushed, she said in court: “I couldn’t protect that little girl.”
But she never stopped thinking about her. She got her law degree, and in August 2016 saw an Indianapolis Star exposé of sex abuse among USAG coaches. Denhollander had always suspected there might be others like her, but she didn’t know how to find them; the press might help, and she thought they would want to know about Nassar. After contacting the reporters, she discovered the statute of limitations to file a criminal report had been extended. That’s when she called the police.
Andrea Munford, a detective sergeant with the MSU police department, met with Denhollander just four days after their first phone call. “She came prepared,” says Munford, 44, a mother of six with decades of experience in victim-centered, offender-focused trauma investigations.
Denhollander brought medical records, the names of potential expert witnesses, contact info for the coach she’d disclosed to. Still, while she found Munford compassionate, she walked out of her office in terror. “I definitely didn’t trust Andrea at that point,” Denhollander says. “I didn’t know if she had the skill and drive to investigate what was a very legally and medically complex case. There was a very real chance I would come forward, and it would be my voice against his.”
Within a day Munford brought Nassar in for questioning. She asked basic but pointed questions; he replied with medical jargon, avoiding any direct answers. “As the interview went on, he started stuttering profusely. He was sweating,” says Munford. “And when he couldn’t explain why he would have an erection during a medical treatment of a 16-year-old girl? There’s no reason someone couldn’t answer that unless they were doing something for sexual gratification.”
Meanwhile, another woman who’d just filed a civil suit against Nassar agreed to talk anonymously to the IndyStar—she would soon identify herself as Olympic gymnast Jamie Dantzscher. The paper published the story on September 12, 2016. There were two voices now.
Then the phones started ringing. “I was surprised there were so many,” says Munford, “and that he’d been doing this for so long without ever getting caught. It was heartbreaking. The other word that comes to mind is fury.”
Despite the number of victims—six quickly grew to 60, then 125—Munford faced an obstacle: Nassar claimed what he did was medical care, an argument that could be plausible to a jury because it was similar to a type of therapy used for pelvic pain. Building a medical case would take time. “Then I got a call from Kyle Stephens,” says Munford. “She wasn’t a patient; she was a friend of the Nassar family. The conversation was very triggering for her, but she was also very determined.” Nassar had started to abuse her at age six in his basement. They could bring charges in this case right away.
Less than a month after her first meeting with Denhollander, Munford and her team searched Nassar’s house. While going through the clutter, one detective noticed Nassar’s trash was still outside; garbage pickup just happened to be late that day. “Throw it on the truck!” Munford called. Inside: hard drives loaded with 37,000 images and videos of child pornography. Subjects as young as infants. Girl after girl being raped. “When I found out,” says Denhollander, “I just stood there and cried.”
In Detroit, Angela Povilaitis, then assistant attorney general, was following the local stories about Nassar. Prosecutors often decline to pursue charges for sexual assaults, especially those reported after years have passed. But Povilaitis, 43, a mother of two from a one-stoplight town, was a specialist in these cases and a particularly passionate one at that. So when the MSU police department reached out to see whether the AG’s office might take the case, Povilaitis and her team made the hour-and-a-half drive to East Lansing to meet. When she realized Munford used the same victim-centered, offender-focused trauma investigation approach she practiced, “it was an amazing moment,” says Povilaitis. “I absolutely believe that something led us to work together.”
The two women quickly handed off the child pornography case to federal authorities, who could impose stiffer penalties. Munford and Povilaitis would push forward locally on child sexual abuse charges. In mid-October they flew to Chicago to have lunch with Stephens, at her suggestion in a café in Restoration Hardware. After their meal they wandered showrooms, settling in comfy sectional couches as Stephens told her story. Less than a month later, plainclothesmen arrested Nassar at a local tire store, and Munford took him into custody.
Next Povilaitis and Munford spent time carefully preparing nine survivors to testify and face cross-examination: Stephens, Denhollander, Madeleine Jones, Bailey Lorencen, Annie Labrie, Madison Bonofiglio, Kaylee Lorincz, Jessica Thomashow, and another victim who still hasn’t gone public. All the women were anonymous at the time except Denhollander. “From the start,” says Povilaitis, “Rachael was willing to be the public face so that others did not have to.” But the women themselves still hadn’t met; they had to be kept separated to avoid any suspicion that they had conspired together. “Being in complete isolation was really hard,” says Denhollander. “I knew how tough it would be for these girls to testify because it was terrifying for me. I ached so much for them, and I couldn’t even know their names.”
Stephens went first. Povilaitis had tried to keep her testimony closed to the press, but that morning a lowercourt judge (the case hadn’t been assigned to Aquilina yet) granted Nassar’s request to let reporters in as long as they shielded Stephens’ identity. “Larry was just trying to mess with her head,” says Denhollander, “but she did awesome!” When Denhollander’s day came to take the stand, she told Povilaitis to let the cameras in. “I hated the idea of an open courtroom,” she says, “but it was very important to make it as clear as possible to Larry Nassar that he was not in control anymore—and that we were coming out swinging.”
Meanwhile, Munford kept interviewing survivors. The picture that emerged was damning: Like Denhollander, these girls had told someone about the abuse. In 1997 Larissa Boyce reported Nassar to MSU’s women’s gymnastics coach Kathie Klages (who is now facing trial on criminal charges of lying to investigators), according to testimony. In 2000 Tiffany Thomas Lopez notified MSU personnel, only to be blown off, according to her lawsuit. In 2004 Brianne Randall filed a police report in nearby Meridian Township that went nowhere. In 2014 Amanda Thomashow filed a Title IX complaint, but no wrongdoing was found. In 2015 three-time Olympic gold medalist Aly Raisman told an investigator working for USAG that Nassar had abused her. (USAG president Steve Penny invoked the Fifth when questioned at a U.S. Senate hearing and has resigned.) “A lot of people, including myself, have been speaking out for years and years and years, and people just weren’t listening,” says Raisman, 23. “After I spoke up, Larry Nassar continued to abuse gymnasts because USAG didn’t handle it correctly. That’s unacceptable.”
Povilaitis knew what she was up against. “More than 2,000 people voted for Nassar for school board knowing he was under investigation; prestigious members of the gymnastics community volunteered to be character witnesses for him,” she says. “This was not a slam dunk in the least.”
When Aquilina was assigned to the case in the spring of 2017, she was concerned about conducting a fair trial for both sides. To get an impartial jury, she planned for a pool of 800. She also issued two gag orders, the first for attorneys and the second for anyone who might be a victim or witness. “The girls were not happy with me!” Aquilina says with a laugh now. Denhollander sued to get the second gag order lifted (a federal judge ruled in her favor and it was modified). Then, to everyone’s surprise, days before jury selection was to start, Nassar indicated he’d accept a plea deal.
Pivoting from trial preparation, Povilaitis worked out an agreement that offered a minimum sentence of 25 to 40 years for seven counts of criminal sexual conduct. Then she added one thing to the deal: a stipulation that all survivors—including the 125 who’d already filed criminal reports and those who were still coming forward—and their loved ones, could deliver impact statements: She wanted to make sure that, after being silenced for so long, the women would finally be heard. Michigan law allows victims to give information to the sentencing court, but, says Jennifer Long, founder of AEquitas, a nonprofit that trains prosecutors to fight sexual violence, “it’s fortunate there was a stipulation explicitly allowing all of these victims to talk and essentially prevent Nassar from lodging any valid objection.” Aquilina didn’t hesitate when she saw the agreement. In her 14 years on the bench, she has made it a cornerstone of her judicial philosophy to let victims, defendants, and their friends and families speak. The Nassar case would be no different.
The night before the sentencing, the survivors finally met one another for the first time, in a local community center with pizza and cupcakes. First to arrive was Donna Markham. Her daughter Chelsey had been abused by Nassar at age 12. After that, the little girl with a stunning smile turned into a teen with severe depression, spiraled into drug abuse, and took her own life at age 23. Another survivor arrived and comforted Markham. (“We just melded,” she says.) The place filled up with hugs and tears. “The biggest thing for me,” says Denhollander, “was the sobering reality of walking into this huge room full of sexual assault survivors who did not have to be there.”
But there was a sense of hope too: A few weeks earlier Nassar had been sentenced to 60 years in federal court on child pornography charges. And advocates working with the team had painted worry stones with words like strength and brave for the survivors to carry into court the next day. Denhollander chose a stone that said “truth.” Larissa Boyce snatched two, one for each hand. “We were just so happy to see we weren’t alone,” she says.
At the sentencing, Stephens, shedding her anonymity, was the first to speak; Denhollander, five months pregnant, was the last. In between, over seven days, more than 150 survivors gave their statements. Raisman had planned to watch from New York City, feeling it was too traumatic for her to come. “Then I saw Kyle Stephens say: ‘Little girls grow into strong women that return to destroy your world,’” says the Olympian, “and in that moment it became clear to me that I wasn’t alone. And I knew I had to be there.” The next day she flew to Lansing.
Raisman still feels enraged when she thinks of all the young women in that packed room. “It’s just devastating that we all trusted him because he was the United States Olympic doctor and we thought he really cared for us,” she says. “And it’s devastating that so many people let us down.”
During the proceedings Aquilina asked Nassar whether he wanted to withdraw his plea deal. When he declined, silenced at last, she sentenced him to 40 to 175 years. “There were so many feelings in that courtroom,” says Aquilina. “I felt the anger and the angst. But I could also see girls hugging and helping each other, suddenly a family.”
Nassar is still appealing, but in all likelihood he’s lost his freedom, his dignity, his family (his wife has divorced him). And the ripple effects of the women’s courage that day have turned into a tidal wave. In Eaton County, where Judge Janice Cunningham sentenced Nassar to another 40 to 125 years, 64 more survivors spoke out. The presidents of MSU, the U.S. Olympic Committee, and USAG have all been forced out. The U.S. House and Senate are conducting inquiries into all three institutions. The Department of Justice is reportedly investigating the FBI for its lethargic response. And MSU has agreed to a $500 million settlement for the survivors.
The Sister Army has pushed for legislation including some 40 bills in Michigan and a new federal law that expands the statute of limitations to report sexual abuse to 10 years from when a survivor identifies it (formerly, the clock started when the abuse occurred), and requires athletic organizations to develop clear procedures to prevent, report, and respond to sexual assault. The survivors helped other women come forward and face their abuse too: Following the case, the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network saw a 46 percent increase in calls to its National Sexual Assault Hotline.
Privately many of the “sisters” are still in pain; deep trauma doesn’t just disappear. Larissa Boyce, now 38, and Amanda Thomashow, 29, struggle with having been called liars for so long. “It’s years of convincing yourself that you were wrong,” says Thomashow. “You feel dirty, like you were the one who turned this completely platonic event into something sexualized.” National champion Jessica Howard, 34, is still reeling from “the volcano of buried emotions that erupted” after coming forward that nearly caused her to take her own life. “My treatment is ongoing,” she says. Raisman, who has competed under unimaginable pressure, has suffered after speaking publicly about this issue: “It takes everything out of me—I’m exhausted, and it takes weeks to recover,” she says. “But we need answers in order to change. The first reported abuse was in 1997. A lot of people knew about it and did nothing. We still need a full investigation to find out why.” As Amy Klepal, 24, puts it: “If one adult, just one, had acted, this horrific tragedy would never have happened.”
To that end, Raisman is partnering with Darkness to Light to teach the public how to recognize the signs of sexual abuse. Grace French, 23, has started Army of Survivors (60 women are on board so far) to provide resources, advocacy, and education about how to spot and report abuse. Thomashow now works at the Michigan Domestic and Sexual Violence Prevention and Treatment Board as a campus response coordinator. Povilaitis and Munford have taken full-time positions to train police and prosecutors to use their winning approach. Denhollander, a full-time activist, named her fourth child Elora Renee Joy, after Munford’s middle name Renee. The detective was somewhat overwhelmed by the gesture. “But after the trauma all these girls have been through and here comes this baby?” she says. “What better sign of hope!”
In other words, the Sister Army is marching forward. “We will not be quiet anymore,” says Melissa Hudecz, 33. “We have found our voices.” Aquilina can only marvel: “I don’t think anybody could have anticipated all of this, but it’s really a tribute to the courage of these brave girls, to their sharing the horrific things that happened to them with the world, to their saying: ‘No more, we’re speaking out. We’ve grown up. We matter. We’re a force.’”
Liz Brody is an investigative reporter in New York City. If you or a loved one has been a victim of sexual assault, get confidential counseling and information on how to report it from RAINN at 800-656-4673.
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