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Welcome to Hell
On Defending a Rapist
By D.P. O'Keefe
Sitting in a courtroom holding cell, I stopped a beating from happening. I didn't so much stop it from happening, as I threatened a group of men by telling them I'd defend a person who was about to be beaten.
I never have been so scared, nor will I ever be again.
The mob: a group of five or six Hispanic men who didn't understand me or my very Jesuit high school perfected English. The victim: a retarded man of 27 who'd been accused of statutory rape.
It was a messy situation. Not only was I putting myself in the position of being outnumbered, I was defending someone who was low on the criminal food chain: a rapist--making me just as lowly. Still, I could tell by the man's facial features and his handling of himself against the taunting that he was clearly retarded. And I couldn't let the most innocent of potentially guilty men be beaten for several reasons--not the least of which was that he hadn't even been found guilty yet.
The "mob" had one member who could speak English well--the man who had been in court with the retarded man that day. He told the group, in Spanish, of what he'd been accused. The rest of them grumbled, then started taunting the retarded man in broken English. I saw what was going to happen. The men surrounded him and started pushing him.
I said to the one who spoke English, "Leave him alone, he's retarded."
"So?" he said.
"So he doesn't know what the f-- he's doing," I snapped back.
"You a friend of his? You a rapiss?"
"No, but I'm not going to let you beat him up."
Now his buddies' attention was drawn to me and I began to wonder if I'd made a life-threatening blunder. I began to imagine myself and a retarded man against a half-dozen angry, and effectively deaf, opponents. There was no way I was talking my way out of this one.
I stood up and I was reminded that on top of all these problems, I'd hurt my back recently--so I was at a distinct disadvantage. But there was no advantage in letting this be known.
"You rapiss too?" one asked again.
"Friend," one mocked.
"You touch him, you're going to have to fight me too," I said to the one who spoke English.
He imitated me in Spanish to his friends.
Now, to my credit, I'm 6'-1" and 225--so I'm larger than your average Puerto Rican male--and this, thank God, I had going for me. For I could see them weighing the benefits of beating a man, but also weighing the idea of getting a little beaten in the process.
The standoff worked. The English speaking one grumbled something in Spanish and they broke up. There was verbal abuse still, but that I could handle. I knew what I was. I wasn't a "rapiss," but I also wasn't a coward who fought in packs.
As for the retarded man, he really didn't understand what had just transpired--so I didn't get so much as a nod of thanks. The sheriffs called him off a few minutes later anyway, so it was all probably for naught.
And to this day I don't know for sure how right I was in defending a rapist. I've told this story to a few people and I've received mixed feedback. But I did what I thought was right--and I suppose that's what counts.
D.P. O'Keefe is a humorist incarcerated in a Connecticut maximum security correctional facility.
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