“WHY FORCE A RAPE OR INCEST VICTIM TO CARRY A PREGNANCY TO TERM?”
Abbott’s response and the line up of grinning, clapping GOP monkeys standing behind him set me off like a tea-kettle blowing steam.
Abbott replied, they aren’t really doing that because “a person” still has six weeks and because rape is a crime and he will make certain to “eliminate all rapists from the streets of Texas.”
Lord, help me, I need a Heimlich maneuver.
Anyone?
Republican Greg Abbott spun away from the reporter's question. Abbott could not even call a "person” a "woman" before he pivoted to eliminating every criminal rapist. Seriously? His magic logic is there will not be any rape-related pregnancies because he will catch all rapists. If one or two happens to slip by, by golly, all you good God-fearing, Christian women will have all of six weeks. After being raped, that is practically a lifetime, to deal with that trauma and have a mandated-by-law two-appointments required abortion.
Most women have a 28-day cycle. That is already four weeks into the timing the law dictates. According to the new law, that leaves a woman with only two weeks left to schedule two appointments with her doctor. Having to make two successive appointments is not medically necessary. Instead, it is another anti-abortion obstacle law Texas uses to control women’s bodies. Many women have irregular cycles that are several days longer than 28. This means the legal clock may have already reached or exceeded the six-week count from the last day of her last period.(7)
How do you explain to others why something is so darkly wrong when they believe they are so brightly righteous?
I don’t know, but I have a story, some facts, and thoughts to help shed some light.
The Story
A long while ago, I was taking lunch in my car in the parking lot on the school campus where I worked in Houston, Texas. I saw a young man looking around as if he weren’t quite sure where he needed to be. In retrospect, I should say he was lurking. I’d just parked after getting a fast, junk food meal. I still had my seat belt on and the car was running. I refocused on grabbing my burger. Seconds, maybe a minute later, he rapped on my window. I thought he was a student needing help as I rolled the window down with a friendly smile. The punk came through with a .38 Special and jammed that into my neck.
I’d never been mugged at gunpoint before, but I’m not the sort to panic. Instead, everything slows down and comes in sharp focus. My first reaction was annoyance. I was annoyed at having my lunch interrupted and kicking myself for “falling” for this because I’d mistaken suspicious lurking behavior for a lost, looking around. Damn it. Annoyed.
Next, I noticed this kid was nervous. His hands and whole body were trembling and shaking. Was I his first victim? He was more amped-up than I was. I realized he might “accidentally” shoot me through the neck.
He demanded money. I studied his face in what felt like slow motion. “Okay man, okay, I’ve got some.” Slowly, deliberately I handed over what I had in my wallet.
Still shaking, he said, “Is that it? Don’t you have a cell phone or pager?”
Still studying his physical attributes, I memorized every detail, “No man, that’s it. That’s all I have:” 5’9”, 145-150 lbs, short Jheri curls, light-skinned, maybe multi-racial, big brown eyes evenly spaced, full lips, a little teenaged fluff on his upper lip, he didn’t need to shave regularly, baby-faced, even nose, square-jawed, slender neck, clothes, color, about 18-19 years old. Thin, lanky, groomed cleanly, not high or on drugs. He was a handsome young man. Overall, like about any other young male student on campus.
Disappointed and frustrated, he reiterated his demand. I met his eyes, “Take it easy. Nope, sorry to disappoint. You have taken everything I have. Hey man, I won’t be able to pay my rent. I mean, look at this car—it doesn’t even have electric windows. So, no. I don’t have a cellular phone or pager.”
Our eyes locked deeply for just a few seconds.
Transaction complete.
Waving the pistol, he pointed excitedly, demanding I drive away from him and towards the exit that segued onto the highway feeder. I agreed, “Take it easy, man, yeah, okay, you’re the boss, I’ll do that.”
Still pointing the gun, he waved me off in the direction he wanted me to drive. Then he moved towards the front of my car.
BIG mistake. Our eyes stayed locked. I wagered: he would miss if he shot at me. A short-nosed .38 is not an accurate weapon. They’re perfect belly-busters but not so great at even a short distance for a nervous guy on the run. He saw the look in my eyes change, and the corner of my mouth curl into a cruel smile because his eyes flew open like a deer in the headlights for just a moment. He read my next move. “That’s right. Punk, I’m going to run over your damn ass.” He bolted like a jackrabbit. Although he did have an empty stretch of the parking lot to cross, he was too fast and leaped over a seven-foot wooden fence that bordered the parking lot in seconds like a gazelle escaping a lion’s blitz.
I parked my car, walked into the office, and called the police. As I was talking to the cop, another robbery call came in. The officer wanted me to ride along to another incident that occurred just across the highway intersection. They said they’d caught the kid. “Wow, okay, that’s great, let’s go.” This all happened in short order, maybe 15-20 minutes.
We arrived at the bustling corner gas station where they had some young kid shackled in the back of another cruiser and a hysterical white woman bawling her eyes out. The woman claimed this kid was the one who had robbed her as she was pumping gas. They asked me to identify if this guy was the same one who had just robbed me. I sat in the front, passenger-side of the cruiser. Cuffed and caged in the back seat of the car, I met fear-filled eyes wildly rolling around like a bubblegum machine of another and different guy. “No, he isn’t the one who robbed me.” The young man they had in custody burst with gratitude, “Thank you! Thank you very much! Now tell that, to that crazy woman!”
The officer and I got out of the car. The officer pressed me, “Are you sure he isn't the one who robbed you?”
The hysterical woman approached us sobbing, "Tell them, tell them, that’s him!”
“No, I got a good look at him. I’m 100% certain he is not the same guy that just robbed me. No doubt, I'm positive—no mistake. Alright?” The lady freaked out, “Whattda mean, it isn’t him? Are you calling me a liar?” “No ma’am, I am not calling you a liar. I didn’t see who robbed you. I saw who robbed me. The kid in the back of that cruiser is not the same one who robbed me. I am absolutely certain of that.”
As the officer took me back to work, I wondered out loud, “You know, I think the gal over there will identify any young black man wearing a Levi’s jacket as her culprit right now.” The officer agreed. To this day, I still think that’s what was happening.
That evening, I returned home, tried to center myself, and wrote down everything I remembered. Having some artistic abilities, I sketched a composite of the young man that robbed me. I was pleased with the way it turned out and gave it to the police. They used it.
Later, that sketch was evidence but, I’m skipping ahead a bit here.
The school immediately hired a security guard after my incident. An older man who I spoke with regarding a description of the robber. I gave him one of the copies I had of the police sketch. We talked about it all, and that yeah, the punk probably lived in the apartments on the other side of the parking lot fence line.
The rent-a-cop bragged to me about how the little jerk wouldn’t get past him. He lifted his pant leg, proudly displaying a pistol in an ankle holster to me. Mr. Security Guard boasted he was ready and would get that kid—if he dared lurk about our parking lot again.
I never took another lunch sitting in my car while working there. I didn’t want to be caught off-guard like that again.
The following week, just as I was returning from lunch, I heard a commotion in the front office. Suddenly, I heard nothing short of an animalistic howling, a screaming I will forever remember. Like police siren loud but unlike any sound of torment or horror I’d ever heard before. I think it’s what’s called a blood-curdling scream.
The woman I knew as the “tall blonde who works upstairs,” “you know, the one who wears her hair pulled up into a bun, usually wears a long navy cardigan over a white blouse with a floral print, just below knee-length skirt? A teacher, I think. Maybe for the paralegal or stenography classes?” “I dunno, a nice lady.” We had shared friendly greetings on an occasional elevator ride. I didn’t know her name.
In she came, like an explosion, bursting into the library-silence of the office space: running, howling, crying, babbling, bloodied, bleeding, cut, face swollen, hair frazzled and everywhere knocked loose from her normally coiffed manner, bruised, clothes torn, ripped, hysterically trying to find the words to tell what had JUST happened to her. In total disarray, her hands moved all over her body, desperately trying to cover her nearly naked self as she grasped for clothing, pulling, trying for some impossible to achieve form of modesty. The sounds varied from a guttural growl of pain and would crescendo into the nearly hypersonic range. She was a pitiful pile of human damage.
God almighty. She was the one hurt, but it knocked the air out of me too.
Of course, she didn’t need to say what had happened to her. That was obvious as warts on a toad and so much uglier. Someone called the police. The ambulance came quickly and whisked her away. The poor lady was still howling but then was afraid to be taken away from her car. All un-uniformed males had to stay away from her because any helper would cause her more distress. The police told her they needed her car and they’d take good care of it.
I saw this lady only once more many months later, but again, I’m skipping ahead a bit.
After things calmed down, I marched out to see Mr. Security Guard. Mr. Security Guard was standing, shaken, with his shoulders slumped when he confessed to me he’d seen the kid approach the woman in her car. Mr. Security Guard excused it because the lady let him into her car. Mr. Security Guard figured they knew each other.
Some weeks later, Mr. Security Guard told me a slightly different story. He had seen the kid and knew it was probably the same person based upon our discussion. I’d given him a copy of the sketch (they posted on the office walls).
The security guard told me he was “actually afraid to approach because the boy had a gun. His conscience was bothering him.” I scruffed his shirt and stiff-armed him into the glass door. Then I gritted out: “you bleeping-bleep, saw this and didn’t stop it?” “and”—bang into the glass door “you”—bang, “tell me?”—bang. The guard explained, “I mean, they drove away. I needed the job. Please don’t say anything.”
“You had a gun, man!”
I pushed him aside, spatting, “Tell that to the lady! You bleeping disgust me. No bleeping way.”
I entered the building leaving Mr. Security Guard in a slumped pile of cowardice.
Yeah, I don’t doubt he felt bad. I know he did, but this isn’t about what he felt.
Mr. Security Guard was gone the next day. Never saw the man again.
Months later, I got a call from the police, “We need you to come down and see if you can pick out the guy who robbed you from a lineup. We think we’ve caught him.”
The young man had robbed several other people by the time I went into the precinct. I asked if there were any other rape victims? Compared to what I knew the blonde lady had suffered, my incident was a walk in the park. They told me, “No, not as far as they knew.”
The whole lineup bit of things works pretty much like you see on T.V.—except the defendant’s attorney is in the room with you, at least she was during my experience. The detective introduced me to her, and she immediately began a chilly, accusatory glaring and watching me like a hawk. I just gave her a slight, polite “nice to meet you” smile and nod. Some of these silver-tongued defendant’s devils want to be your best friend. Not this lady—head-to-toe adversarial and dressed to kill in power red.
From my right, a group of young men marched single file into the blinding white-hot lights of the lineup room. The room the detective, the lady lawyer, and I were in was small and darkly dimmed. It’d be romantic mood lighting under different circumstances.
I got a jolt of adrenaline as they were marching into the room.
“There, there…that’s him. I don’t even need to see any…” I was done. Mission accomplished.
“Shh! Please wait until they’ve all lined up,” the detective said.
“But, I don’t need…”
“Please! Wait!”
“Yeah, okay.”
In my mind, I was elated and done already, but I waited as the defendant’s attorney bristled like a porcupine. Her lipstick red lips pursed into a big SWAK as she examined me from nearly below her brow ridge, eyes made black by the darkness of the room.
I was already gone, my ears tuned out every bit of the spiel the detective was giving me to an underwater mumbling mute. Not that it took all that long because it didn’t. It was brief. More like a racehorse waiting to feel the resistance of the gate give and knowing it can run.
I think it went something like this “Do you recognize any of these men as the one who robbed you on such and such date at such and such place?”
My focus snapped: “Yes. Second from the left, fifth from the right.”
Finger-pointing into the glass, “That’s him!”
His attorney was standing at my right hand, let out some hot, humid spearmint breath. Not quite a sigh, but something close to that. Maybe it was a huff?
In stereo, with a purring detective at my left and a “whatcha talkin’ ‘bout Willis” lawyer to my right; I stepped back so we could all see each other.
“Yes, I’m 100%, absolutely sure, no doubt. That is the kid that robbed me.”
The lawyer tried a trick of sorts. The detective knitted his brow. It was lucky I couldn’t keep my mouth shut and instantly blurted out, “that’s him.” The guy wore a red wristband. They all wore wristbands on their right wrists—except his was red—while everyone else wore an orange one. The lawyer accused me, saying I selected him because he was wearing the only red wristband. I interrupted her, feeling kind of smug, “as you know, I identified him immediately and in profile. I could not see the entire right side of his body until they turned to face us. Detective, can you replay the recording of the session?”
The lawyer replied, “That’s not necessary.”
The detective stuck his thumb into his waistband just above and behind his belt, rhythmically tapped his fingers a few times like he was pushing away from a satisfying meal, looked quizzically at her, “Counselor, are we done here?”
She gave a quick if looks could kill eye-lock with me then slightly softened and agreed we were finished, brushed by us with a “Thanks.” She was out the door and was gone.
I wonder if that was some last-minute trick his lawyer used to get him off scot-free? Why else would the punk be the only one with a red rubber band? No way in hell police would make that kind of sloppy, amateur mistake. But a wily lawyer might slip him a red band with instructions to put it on just after they’ve checked everyone in the lineup, just seconds before they go into the room. I just bet that’s an effective defense. It’s small and easily concealed. I think on that day, not being able to keep my trap shut may have foiled her crafty get out of jail plans.
The detective took my composite sketch out, “Ever thought about doing witness police sketches? You nailed this. It’s him.”
“Not really, but the idea certainly appeals to me,”
The police caught the punk on his 18th birthday, out joy-riding around in a stolen car. He went to jail on that day. That was the first day of twenty years for him.
I did have the pleasure of seeing that lawyer again. Close to a year passed when I received a summons for the trial. I was glad to be there. I think they were trying both robberies (he robbed the lady too, forced her to take him to her ATM) and the blonde lady's rape at the same time. The prosecutor briefed me just before going into the courtroom. The prosecutor told me their defense was that the kid had a tough life; he had ADHD, was dyslexic, came from a broken family of mixed race, his mother white, his father black.
Again, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, “Whadda crock of bleep. I hope no one buys that garbage. My younger brother has ADHD and is dyslexic. The school years were difficult for my brother, especially reading, writing, and math, but he worked hard, got a good job, and is a good citizen. I have friends from divorced families of mixed heritage who somehow managed to finish school, get jobs, and are not criminals or rapists. That’s a load of B.S.”
“Okay” said the prosecutor. “We’re good to go here.”
At trial, the defense lawyer asked if I’d met and discussed matters with the prosecutor before taking the stand. “Yes, briefly, we did, just today.” “Thank you, Mr. Justus. That will be all.” She never did say anything about the red versus orange wristbands.
Then the prosecutor showed the sketch as evidence. It’s odd, but I don’t recall a jury. Maybe there was one and I’ve forgotten? The kid was still a 17-year-old juvenile when he robbed me, then a week later, robbed and raped that woman. Maybe that had something to do with it?
The prosecutor asked me to point to the man I identified as my robber. I did. Then the prosecutor revealed, “Did we talk about your testimony today before you took the stand?”
“Yes sir, we did.”
“What was said?”
“You told me to tell the truth.”
“Anything about the defense and defendant?”
“Yes. You told me about their defense.”
“And, what was said—exactly?”
“Exactly?" (I usually curb cursing in polite company)
“Yes, exactly.”
I repeated what I’d said when we first met with all the disgust and rage feeling I could emote in that environment. That’s it. My bit was over.
Then the blonde lady, the rape victim, testified. Oh my God. Mind you—it is nearly a FULL YEAR LATER. The blonde lady's entire world was destroyed and utterly crushed. Everything and everyone was suspect except the corner she kept her back in. It had cost her job, relationships, family, friends, and marriage. Everything.
I sat there silently, feeling shredded with flashbacks of the bright, cheerful, smiling, confident, modestly dressed, perfectly coiffed woman from the elevator. I hung my head feeling her pain and deep shame—knowing full well she certainly had no reason to feel shame.
Then her husband took the stand. They had separated. Let me tell you: no man wants a room full of others to see him break down like that. “I can’t even touch her anymore he sobbed. Grief-stricken, red-faced, snot and tissues accumulating, this guy bawled like a baby till they offered him a composure break. He took it with rolling, stuttering apologies. I’ve never seen a man cry like that before or since.
The trial, especially the husbands testimony impacted me greatly.
I witnessed the blonde lady’s life in the aftermath of rape. The little bit I saw crushed me.
The trial ended, and the judge sentenced the young man to 20 years. I hope he served every damn one of them and that they were miserable years for him. Those years were going to be wretched for the blonde lady and her family.
The Facts
Enter the great state of Texas and their noble fight to ban abortion without exception after six weeks.
Some facts, yes, I know Republicans don’t want facts and truth confusing you.
Less than 1% of rapes lead to a felony conviction as reported by the Department of Justice and stated in a Washington Post article. The number is around 0.7%. So, even if you catch ALL those criminal rapists, you are not going to incarcerate them.(1)
In regards to your superhero catching of rapists? Not happening. The same article tells us, “Just 5.7 percent of incidents end in arrest, 0.7 percent result in a felony conviction and 0.6 percent result in incarceration.” (1)
Governor Abbott, you’re not only not catching these guys, but if you do, you’re not incarcerating them.
Another pesky fact, “The Justice Department puts the percentage of rapes and sexual assaults reported at between 20% and 40%, as the number fluctuates each year.”(2) Think about that! Eighty percent of rape goes unreported. This law Governor Abbott’s has signed will make sure that number stays high and women die because they won’t stop getting abortions.
Texas is particularly notorious for the backlog of unprocessed rape kits. So much so, it is hard to quantify with certainty. The most recent number I found was over 6,000 unprocessed rape kits.(6)
Instead, they’ll take a nighttime drive alone or, with a trusted friend doing something somewhere that may endanger their lives because you want to control their bodies.
Abbott, you can’t “eliminate” or incarcerated what you can’t catch. Yeah, yeah, I know that’s not your bleeping fault. Anyone who stops a woman from being able to access safe abortion is raping her again. Rape is an act of power and control. That’s what your law does and why you are a rapist. That is your fault.
Getting an abortion is a traumatic experience best left in the hands of the woman, her doctor, and her God. It’s no place for the state or nosy neighbor bounty hunters. All of that rapes her again.
Right now Greg Abbott and Republicans are forcing thousands of women to carry a rapist or incest baby to term, “The national rape-related pregnancy rate is 5.0% per rape among victims of reproductive age (aged 12 to 45); among adult women an estimated 32,101 pregnancies result from rape each year.”(3)
Greg Abbott, while we’re on the topic of “eliminating” all rapists from the mean streets, explain why Texas leads as most rapey state in 2019?(4) Look, I know Trump was in charge, and he too has two-to-three dozen women who say he raped them. I know you are a big MAGA supporter; is that why? Is it because you like being a rapist? Most governors and citizens would be embarrassed to admit winning the county blue ribbon for rape.
Even in 2020 you failed to protect women from the crime of rape as Texas was still ranking 15th for most rape.(5)
It is also time for corporate donors to review and stop funding Governor Abbott, the GOP, and the powerful lobbyists who made Texas SB8 the rule of law for everyone in the state.(8) Many of these deep-pocket donors boast about being champions of women’s rights.
The hypocrisy is enough to make me need another Heimlich maneuver.
AT&T stands out in particular with headquarters and large operations in San Antonio, Dallas and the Atlanta, Georgia area. Georgia’s conservative legislation will likely pass a copycat law. Is AT&T actually afraid to stop giving these rapists generous donations? If so, why?
American and Texas citizens, the GOP has gone way too far. If you’re not tea-kettle steaming angry then you are like Governor Abbott and the lineup of clapping monkeys standing behind him, there’s something wrong with you. Rape is an act of power and control. That’s what your anti-abortion vigilante law is. It’s made worse because of the Gestapo informant bounties—you’ve declared open-season hunting against all women seeking an abortion and all rape victims. There isn’t a hell deep enough to lay you and the Texas GOP's darkly evil act.
Greg Abbott's law forces THAT blonde lady to make two legally mandated doctor's appointments within six weeks. A year later, she could hardly breathe or move. How do you justify forcing her to carry her rapist's baby to term?
Warnings to any bandwagon state: a hornets nest has been kicked.
Some say men have no place in this argument. I get it and agree to a point. Now, more than ever is the time for every man to stand up for women’s healthcare and privacy rights.
Every one of us needs to reach out a hand to that lovely, tall, blonde lady on the elevator. Let’s make sure she makes it to the floor she wants to go to. She gets to decide, for her own reasons, in her own time what, when, and how her body is or is not used.
END
REFERENCES:
1: Van Dam, Andrew. “Less than 1% of rapes lead to felony convictions. At least 89% of victims face emotional and physical consequences”. Washington Post. October 6, 2018. https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/2018/10/06/less-than-percent-rapes-lead-felony-convictions-least-percent-victims-face-emotional-physical-consequences/
2: Anderson, Liza. “Why are we so bad at prosecuting sexual assault?” Dallas News. September 15, 2019. https://www.dallasnews.com/opinion/commentary/2019/09/15/why-are-we-so-bad-at-prosecuting-sexual-assault/
3: Holmes, M M et al. “Rape-related pregnancy: estimates and descriptive characteristics from a national sample of women.” American journal of obstetrics and gynecology vol. 175,2 (1996): 320-4; discussion 324-5. doi:10.1016/s0002-9378(96)70141-2. https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/8765248/
4: “Total number of forcible rape cases reported in the United States in 2019, by state.” Statista.com. September 2020. https://www.statista.com/statistics/232524/forcible-rape-cases-in-the-us-by-state/
5: SBG San Antonio. “Texas ranked No. 15 most dangerous state for rape and sexual assault.” February 25, 2020. https://news4sanantonio.com/news/local/texas-ranked-no-15-most-dangerous-state-for-rape-and-sexual-assault
6: “End the backlog: Texas: Unprocessed Rapekits.” EndTheBacklog.org. https://www.endthebacklog.org/texas
7: Treisman, Rachel. “Fact Check: Texas Gov. Greg Abbott's Misleading Remarks On The State's Abortion Law.” KLCC.org NPR. September 8, 2020. https://www.klcc.org/post/fact-check-texas-gov-greg-abbotts-misleading-remarks-states-abortion-law
8: Legum, Judd et. al. “These corporations bankrolled the sponsors of Texas' abortion ban.” Popular.info September 8, 2021. https://popular.info/p/these-corporations-bankrolled-the
RESOURCES:
Morgan, Rachel E. et al. “U.S. Department of Justice. Criminal Victimization, 2016: Revised.” October 2018. https://bjs.ojp.gov/content/pub/pdf/cv16re.pdf
Nowrasteh, Alex. “Criminal Conviction Rates in Texas in 2016.” Cato Institute. April 23, 2018. https://www.cato.org/blog/criminal-conviction-rates-texas-2016
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