What Bill Cosby Really Means To Me

This seems to be my season for issuing retractions and clarifications—though I bring this on myself. On Monday, in discussing Bill Cosby’s conviction and its reinforcement of slow, deliberative justice, I wrote: “let’s define a moral panic as a situation where the response to a perceived offense significantly outweighs any real or perceived harm caused by that offense…” A trusted friend informs me this looks like I’ve dismissively called rape a “perceived offense.”

Nothing could be further from my intent. One needn’t study the psychology of sexual violence to see how this crime stunts individuals, upends families, and disrupts the fabric of society. One need only sit with anyone, man or woman, who has suffered this injustice, to know how disastrous it is. And given both how widespread this crime is, and how frequently it goes unreported, I guarantee you know someone who has suffered this grievous offense.

My fear, rather, is this: consider the magnitude of accusations against Bill Cosby. Sixty women have voiced their accusations, which occured over about fifty years. Considering the time frame, and the nature of the accusation, many more probably haven’t come forward, or didn’t live to see this moment. Now ruminate on how much prosecutorial might it required to convict Cosby of just one assault. Two trials, millions of dollars, months of laying out evidence.

Now imagine this becomes the new “set point” of prosecutorial procedure. If some poor black kid, accused on specious grounds, finds himself facing the might of a justice system newly energized by the #MeToo movement. Moral outrage runs high, and this kid finds himself with only a short-staffed and badly underfunded public defender to protect him. How, if we’re honest, will this turn out?

I don’t use a black kid in my hypothetical example flippantly. Back during America’s “lynching era,” from roughly 1865 to 1955, the leading accusation used to justify lynching black men was rape of white women. And it was almost always false; Ida B. Wells called it “the old threadbare lie” over 125 years ago. As I noted Monday, America’s most famous lynching victim, Emmett Till, was murdered for an accusation we now know was false.

False rape accusations are rare. Exactly how rare is subject to debate, since even authentic rapes go unreported more often than not; we can only achieve useful numbers through mathematical regression and some informed guesswork. But a metastudy published in 2010 anchored the number slightly below six percent. Surely we’ll all agree that’s rare, but not vanishingly rare.

However, I’d suggest the rarity of false accusations underscores the importance of deliberative justice, rather than moral outrage, in addressing sexual violence. Among black men lynched behind rape accusations during Jim Crow years, the incidence of false accusation probably approached 100%. These women, probably egged on by husbands, fathers, and other kinfolk, could make spiteful accusations, confident that their words would never be challenged by evidence.

(If I’m being completely honest, I must recognize this swings both ways. Women who realize their wardrobe, comportment, and sexual history will be entered into evidence, may frequently hesitate to bring even legitimate, fully defensible accusations to the police. This is a high price to pay, and as a society, we must redress this. We must rededicate ourselves to bringing justice to women everywhere.)

I have skin in this game, because I’ve been accused of sexual harassment before, too. At a prior job, a young woman—almost a girl, really—lodged a complaint that I was “looming over” her in a sexually menacing manner. I seldom talk about this, because the accusation blew over in two shifts, when it transpired that she’d felt I was too damn tall while working beside her. And if she felt threatened by that, someone else probably legitimately hurt her previously.

Yet this underscores why I consider moral panic a risk. This accusation happened before #MeToo, which probably explains why I got to state my case. In a world where accusations equal conviction, I would’ve lost my livelihood and probably never gotten another. Instead, we tested evidence, heard both sides, and reached a conclusion. Even she acknowledged she’d overreacted, and apologized; I was plenty satisfied to extend her forgiveness.

Bill Cosby’s conviction remains exceptional because it’s rare, and will likely remain so. Accusations against Steven Seagal, Aaron Carter, Russell Simmons, and most famously Roman Polanski, have not resulted in trials, much less convictions, despite frequently overwhelming evidence. Yet cases like this set standards for larger society. And we must make sure that Cosby’s jury trial becomes the foundation for measured responses going forward.