Gothamist is proud to announce the publication of our first long-form non-fiction feature: Confessions of a "Rape Cop" Juror, by Patrick Kirkland, who was one of the jurors. Patrick gives an unflinching insider's account of the trial of two NYPD officers charged with raping a young woman in her East Village apartment. The rape acquittals in this case sparked widespread outrage—many New Yorkers felt the defendants should have been convicted of more than just official misconduct. However, the jury, which listened to weeks of testimony, felt differently, and after reading this piece, you may understand why.
The feature is available via direct PDF download ($1.99), via Kindle platform ($1.99) or via iBooks platform ($1.99). It is about 13,000 words long, which is about 20 pages printed in single-space magazine style, or about 60 pages double spaced.
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Some early reviews from other websites:
"Intensely interesting" - The Atlantic
"Surprising... brave" - New York Magazine
"A fascinating read" - The Awl
"A very powerful read" - Mediabistro
Below, we are sharing two excerpts from Confessions of a "Rape Cop" Juror. Here, a few days after the verdict, Patrick meets one of the defendants for dinner:
The former cop sprang from his chair and rushed toward me, and before I could step back, the stocky arms of the ex-boxer were curled around my shoulders. To my left, I saw a crowd of faces; to my right, a place setting. One knife, one fork, and one dull spoon wrapped in a white cloth napkin— not much help if he started strangling me. The arms tightened, and then the high-pitched, soft-spoken voice I recognized from the witness stand whispered, “Thank you.”
My chest sank with a long exhale, and a whirlwind of high-powered suits and smiles rose from their glasses of Cabernet. They floated toward me with outstretched hands and watery eyes, the aroma of freshly baked focaccia robiolas mixing with their cologne. One floor below, diners in this Murray Hill Italian restaurant chattered away ignorant of the strange encounter at the top of the back staircase. The man hugging me was supposed to be the monster I had spent seven weeks analyzing and seven days judging. This was Kenneth Moreno, Rape Cop.
How the hell did I get here?
And here's what happened during the jury's first day of deliberations:
We start out respectfully, each juror getting two minutes to say their piece.
“They didn’t prove it,” the Foreman starts. “Listen,” she says as she looks each of us in the eye, “I’ve been around a long time. I listened to every word they said, and they didn’t prove it to me.” Her shoulders lift back and her palms turn out.
Two looks across the table. He searches her for an official vote. “So... that’s a not guilty?” he asks.
“Yeah,” the Foreman says.
Chuckles break out. I feel one thing: relief.
Two votes not guilty as well, and the lump moves from my neck to my chest. Juror Three: not guilty. Four: guilty. We go on around the room, each juror having a say. I vote not guilty. Nine says guilty. Ten: not. Juror Eleven votes guilty. Juror Twelve: not guilty. Then the first vote is over.
For the first time in two months, we know where each of us stands. Three of us vote guilty, nine vote not guilty. Kenneth Moreno is now three votes away from an acquittal, and we are the only ones who know it.
“Okay,” I sigh. “Let’s talk.”
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We understand this is a controversial topic, and we welcome comments on the feature below. We are also soliciting longer form responses for a post that will run at the end of the week—you can email them to features@gothamist.com with the subject beginning "Response". Additionally, Patrick will answer questions about his experience in a post here on Gothamist early next week. If you'd like to ask him a question, send it to features@gothamist.com with the subject beginning "Question".
