Chapter One
“You know the
prophet Mohammad married his wife when she was six years old, and they consummated
when she was nine.” The guy in my backseat was a real gold mine. Not only was I
going to receive a boatload of money for bringing his sorry butt in, but I got
the pleasure of listening to him justify his crimes for the whole trip in.
“Do I look like a
Muslim to you?” I asked. “Take my word for it, I’m not; so anything Mohammad
may or may not have
done has no bearing on what you did, sicko.”
“I’m just
sayin’,” he continued, “not every society has the same standards. In the US in Appalachia,
it was not uncommon for girls in their early teens to be taken as brides.”“You didn’t marry anyone,” I pointed out.
“I might have,”
he said, “if society would allow it.”
“So you’re
blaming society for what you did?”
“Well, yeah,
think about it. From the time that we’re old enough to understand that girls
are different from boys, we’re conditioned to find young girls to be sexually attractive.
We’re told that it’s okay to think the little girl in the next desk is pretty.
Then by the time we’re sexually mature enough to appreciate them, we’re told
that it’s wrong to find them attractive now. How does any of that make sense?”
“It makes sense
because when the time comes that you are sexually mature enough to appreciate
them, the ones you were finding pretty at the time are also sexually mature
enough. Back then not only were you sexually immature, but so were they. And so
are the ones who are that age now.”
“That’s not
true,” he said. “Girls mature faster than boys.”
“Not that much
faster,” I said. “You’re thirty-seven. She said she was — what — eleven?”
“Jerry Lee Lewis
was in his twenties when he married his thirteen-year-old cousin.”
“Once again, you
didn’t marry anyone, and Jerry Lee Lewis was kicked out of England when they
learned of it.”
“But nobody from
his hometown thought anything of it.”
“Right, that’s
true. Nobody in Louisiana in the ‘50s thought anything of it. Unfortunately for
you, this isn’t Louisiana and it’s not 1957.” He was quiet for a minute, so I
thought the conversation was over. It wasn’t.
“I almost made
it to Louisiana.”
“You made it to Georgia,”
I said, “and now you’re going back to Pennsylvania to face charges. Besides, it
wouldn’t matter if you had made it to Louisiana. I’d still have found you, and
you’d still be in my backseat headed for justice.”
“Justice? How is
it justice? She was willing.”
“She was an
undercover cop.”
“But I didn’t
know that. It’s not like I jumped her from the bushes. We had been talking
online. We had a relationship. She told me she wanted to.”
“She told you
she was eleven. That means you thought she was eleven, and an eleven-year-old
cannot give legal consent.”
“Mohammad had
consensual sex with Aisha when she was nine.”
“Is that the
only example you can give?”
“The first
recorded age of consent statute was twelve years old in England.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t know.
Around 800 years ago.”
“So even 800
years ago they thought eleven was too young.”
“In Colonial
Virginia, families often married off their nine-year-olds.”
“To other nine-year-olds,”
I said, having no idea whether that was true.
“I’m just saying
it’s arbitrary. When I was eighteen it would have been just as illegal for me
to have sex with my sixteen-year-old girlfriend. But if some guy knocked her up
at seventeen and if she had a daughter, that girl would be eighteen today, and
I could legally have sex with her — no problem.”
“Yes, because
eighteen is sexually mature and over the age of consent.”
“It’s
arbitrary.”
“It’s not
strictly arbitrary. It’s based on societal norms and psychiatric studies.”
“That doesn’t
mean it’s not arbitrary. There are statistical exceptions in all studies. Some
girls aren’t sexually mature until they are in their twenties, but nobody calls
Hugh Hefner a pedophile do they?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Some people do.”
“But society
doesn’t.”
“Maybe they
should,” I said.
“You realize you
just contradicted yourself?”
“No, I didn’t.”
I wasn’t really so sure.
“Yes, you did. A
minute ago you said there would be nothing wrong with me having sex with an
eighteen-year-old because she’d be sexually mature. Now you’re saying Hef
should be considered a pedophile for having sex with eighteen-year-old girls if
they aren’t as mature as the average eighteen-year-old.”
“That’s not what
I said.”
“Yes it is,” he
insisted. “Now you’re just trying to justify it and avoid the cognitive
dissonance. Why? Because you know it’s all arbitrary.”
“Well,” I said,
“arbitrary or not, it was illegal and you knew it was illegal.”
“You never heard
of civil disobedience?”
“So you’re
saying it’s a civil rights issue?”
“I am who I am.
I prefer what I prefer. I can’t help it. Nature or nurture, it’s what I am. So
I try to find ladies …”
“Girls,” I
corrected him.
“Girls,” he
agreed.
“Children,” I
interjected.
“Females,” he
hissed, “whose tastes line up with mine. In another place and time, nobody
would have thought twice about it. The taboo is cultural, not natural. I did
nothing wrong.”
“You broke the
law.”
“So did Gandhi.
So did Rosa Parks.”
“So you are
saying it’s about civil rights?”
“Of course it’s
about civil rights.”
“Then why don’t
you join NAMBLA?”
“Those guys are
creepy. Don’t associate me with them.”
“How are you
different?”
“I’m not a fag.
They like boys. I like girls.”
“You argue that
you’re being discriminated against; so do they. You’re arguing that in
different cultures what you like is accepted; so do they. You’re arguing that
it can be consensual; so do they.”
He leaned
forward, and I could feel his hot breath on my neck. “But I’m not a fag.”
“Why are we
having this discussion anyway?” I asked. “What do you hope to accomplish here?
You don’t have to convince me that you’re innocent of any wrongdoing. And
you’ll never convince a judge or a jury. The only ones you have to convince are
yourself and your god.”
“I don’t like
anyone thinking I did something wrong,” he said. “We’ve got a long night of
driving ahead of us. I just wanted you to understand my position.”
“I’m not
convinced,” I said. “Lots of people have sat in that seat and tried to make me
see things their way. None has ever succeeded.”
“Have any ever
come close?”
I considered the
question. “Yeah,” I said finally. “A guy named Eric almost had me sold once.”
“What made his
pitch so special?”
“Just his
sincerity,” I said.
“Well, what did
he say exactly?”
Chapter Two
When I first met
Eric Dadjov he was thin and his eyes, set back in his skull, were rimmed in
dark rings. His hair was overgrown and unkempt. His pants were dirty and his
hands shook. If I hadn’t known why he was being taken into custody, I might
have assumed it was drug related. As it was, he had simply missed a court date
on a charge of vandalism.
I walked up on
the porch and knocked on the door. Eric said, “Hello,” when he saw me with none
of the usual suspicion that normally greeted my presence.
“Eric Dadjov?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I’ll need you
to come with me. You missed your court date, and I’ve been contracted to make
sure you appear before the judge this afternoon.” I turned so that he could see
the weapon I had holstered on my hip.
“Are you going
to handcuff me?”
“Should I?”
“You may as
well. That way my humiliation will be just about complete.”
We drove in
relative silence for the first several blocks. It was not until we had left his
neighborhood that he began loosening up. “I know you probably don’t care, but I
didn’t skip court because I was trying to run.”
“That’s pretty
obvious,” I said. “I assume you were just too embarrassed to go in. That
happens a lot.”
“It just bothers
me that I am going to have to make restitutions to that asshole.”
“You smashed his
car window, right?”
“Yup.”
“Then why
shouldn’t you have to make restitutions?”
“Because I have
no legal recourse to demand the restitutions he owes me.”
“Sure you do. I
mean if he destroyed something of yours …”
“He destroyed
everything of mine.” Eric said as tears filled his sunken eyes. “He destroyed
my life. He broke my future, so I broke his windshield. I shouldn’t have to pay
for that.”
“This is
beginning to sound like a domestic …”
“That’s exactly
what it is. Let me ask you something, if somebody stole your wife, wouldn’t you
feel justified in smashing his car window?”
“I’d probably
feel justified in smashing his knees, but the law …”
“Of course the
law; I understand that. But if I’m justified in smashing his window, shouldn’t
he just man up and pay for it?”
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