Last week I wrote a scathing satirical column focusing on the collected accusations against Brett Kavanaugh. To say I got emails would be an understatement in the extreme. Critics did everything from question my Christian beliefs to express hope our two daughters would be raped so I would feel more sympathy for sexual assault victims.
Here’s the thing: Kavanaugh’s accusers probably did suffer sexual assault during their lives. My belief, however, is that Kavanaugh wasn’t the perpetrator. I believe they’re accusing the wrong man … and they’re doing it on purpose.
I’ve been informed, with the greatest possible profanity, of how horrible it is when women aren’t believed when claiming assault. They ask, “How would I feel as a woman if I weren’t believed when I said I was sexually assaulted?” My response is this: “How would you feel, as a man, if you weren’t believed when you denied it?”
To understand my hostility toward Kavanaugh’s accusers in this issue, let me relate a story.
Back in the mid-80s, my cousin “Bob” was working as an engineer in the Silicon Valley, and living in a sprawling apartment complex. One evening around 6 p.m. (in winter, so it was dark), he left his apartment and walked across the complex to buy a soda from a vending machine. Suddenly he was approached by a woman flanked by two police officers. The woman pointed at Bob and said, “That’s him!” Next thing he knew, Bob was handcuffed, taken to the police station, strip searched (including body cavities), and jailed.
My uncle and aunt were awakened around 2 a.m. by Bob, informing them of his situation and asking them to engage a lawyer on his behalf. His accused crime? He allegedly exposed himself and performed an extremely personal act on this woman’s back porch, right at her glass door.
Fast forward three months. Tens of thousands of dollars in legal fees later, the case went to court. It took three days – three days! – to present all the “evidence” the woman had up her sleeve. My cousin denied everything. Then the jury retired to deliberate, and our family was tied in knots for hours and hours until finally, at last, they came back as a hung jury. The judge declared a mistrial, and the case was dropped.
After it was over and my cousin was free, my uncle – a strong and noble man – broke down and cried for 20 minutes, right there in the court room.
As it came out later, the woman who accused my cousin of sexual misconduct was having an affair. She was nearly caught when her husband came home early, and just in time managed to shove her lover out the glass door onto the patio, where he fled. Then she raised a ruckus, shrieking her victimhood to her understandably distraught husband. He called the cops and they searched the apartment complex. She literally fingered a perfect stranger, accusing him of a vile act.
My cousin came within a whisker’s breath of being convicted as a sexual pervert, required by law to register as a sex offender wherever he went. How would that have impacted him for the rest of his life? How would it have impacted his career, his relationships, his finances, his entire future?
He was never convicted – but the allegations and court case impacted him nonetheless. It was costly not just in money, although it wiped out his own savings as well as that of his parents. It also cast aspersions on his good name, it made coworkers sidle away and eye him warily, and later it took a special and wonderful woman to understand his side and share her life with him.
When I look at Kavanaugh, I see my cousin. I see a good man facing down unprovable allegations from decades before. I see rabid frothing-at-the-mouth feminists clawing him into the ground to fulfill their agenda. In the insane rally among the leftists to defend women’s feelings, they’re forgetting – dismissing – entirely scorning – the feelings of unjustly accused men and their families.
They're also forgetting something else: The presumption of innocence that is the bedrock of our legal system.
I have a husband. I have a father. I have brothers. I have uncles. I have cousins. I have nephews. I have friends. Every single one of these fine upstanding men stands a chance of being accused by a random woman of sexual assault in a “He said/she said” situation … and their only recourse is the courts, a judicial system already stacked against them solely on the basis of their Y chromosome, thanks to the feminists.
Don’t tell me women can’t lie. They can, and they do. I've heard plenty of women lie. If you're an honest woman, you have too.
Critics are wrong when they accuse me of not being sympathetic to women who have been sexually assaulted. On the contrary, I have the deepest sympathy for women who are truly victims.
But I have the deepest contempt for women who level unverified (and unverifiable) charges and accusations against innocent men. “Rape is a devastating crime,” wrote Michelle Malkin in a brilliant column. “So is lying about it.”
I’m not particularly concerned whether or not Kavanaugh gets on the Supreme Court. That’s not my focus. My concern is the loathsome ammunition used against him, the lowest possible weaponry imaginable. It’s devastatingly effective and it never goes away.
It’s almost as if the more honorable a man is, the worse the accusations must be to get rid of him. It’s clear this immoral and destructive tool will be used again and again for political gain. As a result, real assault victims will suffer from the inevitable backlash.
Advocates for assault victims point out how the raw emotions can still come flooding back, even decades later. They’re right. As I wrote this column and remembered what happened to my cousin, the raw choking emotions did indeed come flooding back, a bitter and vile loathing for the woman who accused him.
You can never forget an assault – and that includes a false one.