Rapes

My time as a reporter in the suburbs of Newark was distinguished by drinking beer and shooting pool with other young reporters on Friday afternoons, a tumultuous relationship with a woman as crazy, or crazier than I, and the slow and sad penetration of the idea that the human condition had terrible flaws.

That particular summer was intensely hot and humid, nothing new to the region, and we worked in antiquated offices with no air conditioning, and equipment which would have been turned down by the Salvation Army. Still I was learning my craft and the romance of reporting held sway despite environment, weather, bitter, underpaid and over-the-hill editors, and holding down two jobs at once.

The call came in early. A guy had walked into the East Orange Police Headquarters and announced that he was a rapist, admitted to the crimes, and wanted to give himself up. I drove over and walked right up to where he was sitting, without handcuffs or any other restraint, watching the action in the squad room. I asked a detective if I could speak to him and he shrugged and went on to other things. That was my first clue but, being green, I didn’t recognize it as such. No one seemed to care about this dude and I couldn’t figure out why.

I walked over to the young, black man, identified myself and started to ask him banal questions before getting to his reputed confession. He was pensive, looked emotionally beaten, but calm, and said, “I just can’t live with it anymore. I’ve done some bad things, and I just can’t live with me anymore.”

I asked him about the rape, or rapes perhaps, and he nodded. “I don’t know what happens to me. I approach a woman and if she doesn’t take a shine to me, I rape her.” He looked dazed, stunned, oddly enough, puzzled by what he had done .“I don’t want no more of it. It’s happened too many times. Seems like I can’t help myself.” All I could think of was, “How many times?” so I asked him that question directly and his reply staggered me. “Thirty-three times, I’ve raped thirty-three women over the past year. Thirty-three women. I gotta’ be locked up.”

I was absolutely speechless at the revelation. Here was a serial rapist who had forcibly attacked nearly three dozen women! He had confessed to the cops and now a reporter and he seemed perfectly aware of what he was saying. Remember this was before the “Miranda” decision. I nodded to him as if this were just another story, excused myself and went to a phone.

I checked my notes for facts, spelling, detective’s name, all the usual elements of a story and nervously dialed the city desk in Newark. I got hold of an editor and told him of the case. He couldn’t believe it at first but I convinced him as to its veracity and he started taking notes. It was front page stuff and he was eating it up until I got to the man’s name, a very American sounding name and he suddenly stopped asking questions. The pause grew until I asked, “What’s the matter?” He asked me a question by way of answer, “Is this guy Black, and were the women Black?”

I replied, “yes,” and I heard a sigh escape him. “Shit, why didn’t you tell me up front? What a waste of time. You got a lot to learn, kid,” and he hung up. The story was a non-starter.

I walked out of the building, into still another humid, North Jersey night, and wondered where it had gone wrong.

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