Raping of Kevin B.
Shortly before Christmas, 2002, my “I-wish-she-was-now-an-ex-wife” wife,
Jennifer, and I decided that the coldness of New England and the horrific
situation of unemployment and poverty that pervades the Northeast was simply too
much for us to take. So, just before Christmas Eve, 2002, she and I sold the
majority of our possessions to a used furnishings dealer, kissed our families
goodbye, and boarded a Greyhound bus bound for Disney … and Hell… Had I known
then what awaited me, I never would have left the relative security of chaos
that Jennifer and I “enjoyed” (existed in) during our year of marriage in
Weymouth, Massachusetts. We lived in “Gaslight Village” .. Anyone who’s seen the
film, “Gaslight” should know that I was in for a trip. It is difficult still,
six months later, to select the right words to convey what I endured and how I
felt and feel about it; quite simply, I was raped, literally and metaphorically,
by the criminal justice system of Florida and by one of the system’s “guests”.
Upon arrival in Kissimmee, Florida (the city that Disney built which it reigns
over), we proceeded to do what we had done best over the last few months: drink
alcohol and take addictive, but prescribed drugs. Looking back, I guess that
this use killed the pain. After four daze, er days, there, I was arrested. It
was December 29, 2002. The police came to our hotel room following documented
calls to management regarding prostitution and drug activity within the
cheap-ass motel. Upon arrival, the cops threw US out. Now, I will admit that we
were drunk, but we weren’t breaking the law. There is no law against being
intoxicated in a private hotel room. However, Jennifer, rather than keep her act
together, began mouthing off at the cops. As I attempted to quiet her (I should
have known not to do this; on several occasions in our relationship, Jennifer
physically abused me…) she got violent, and threatened the police. Their
response was to throw suitcases at ME. The more I tried to surrender, the
angrier the police officer became.
I was arrested … for allegedly battering a law enforcement officer (in Florida,
this is called “Battery on a LEO … hmmm… I am a Sagittarius … known for our
non-violence…). I was set up, and I was helpless. For eight (seven, according to
the “official police record”…. Hmm) I was stuck inside the Osceola County
Jailhouse, as I was scheduled to appear in court on an “on-demand” basis. What
this meant is that I was not free to live my life until “they” decided when I
would appear in court. My initial appearance was one-sided; it was via
closed-circuit television, without an attorney, to a judge. I was not treated
any differently than any other prisoner; the point is that the entire chaotic
process was unfair.
I pled “Not Guilty” to the charges and, based upon “police statements”,
continued to be detained. After several long days, my brother in Boston, to whom
I am completely grateful, sent $2000 in bail to Jennifer, and she posted “bond”.
I ‘bonded out’ of jail, and returned to yet another fleabag motel with my
alcoholic wife. We awaited my trial, and hoped to return to Massachusetts, for
we knew then that we could not live in a “police state”, amid the poverty of the
city that Disney built.
After several court appearances, it was clear that I was getting nowhere fast.
The judge didn’t seem to hear me, the state of Florida’s witnesses never
appeared, and I began to realize that the ugly truth was that the State simply
wanted to keep the bond money and have me get “out of town before sundown”. What
was this, I thought? The “wild wild West?” I was shocked at the flagrant
disregard for Constitutional Rights to speedy trials and adequate
representation; still, that is not why I write this story today.
On April 18, 2003, my wife and I were reduced to nothing. Still unable to find
work, save a few illegal positions at crusty motels in Kissimmee working for
motel owners who don’t respect labor law, we found ourselves at the mercy of a
“Christian” pastor in a “Christian” family shelter on the grounds of a former
college in Kissimmee. Our alcohol and drug habits were now “in our faces”, as we
had no money to purchase the prescription tranquilizers that we needed to face
the day. I had suffered a series of seizures, and the director of the shelter,
supposedly a “Pastor”, felt that I was faking my symptoms. In retrospect, I am
guessing he was angry with me for the undue attention that was befalling the
shelter, as he and his wife were embezzling funds from the poverty-stricken
families that were so dependent upon his “benevolence”.
It was approximately 10pm, and I dialed 911 for help: I had suffered my third
gran mal seizure in two days.
On the way back to my room from the common pay phone, I encountered the angry
“Pastor”. I don’t know what came over me, but I suppose that his evil, combined
with the fact that it was Easter weekend, and my shock at his hypocrisy,
overcame me. I slapped his face with an open hand, and stated that he was
unworthy to preach the Word of God.
What happened in the next few hours remains blurry. I attempted to run off of
the campus, and was physically assaulted by the Security Director of the
shelter, a young bull-like thug. As I lay on the ground, the ambulance drivers
bickered with the Sheriff’s officers to determine whether I would go to a
hospital or jail. I went to jail. Two days later, I found myself in “Futures”,
the drug rehabilitation program offered by Osceola County Jail. It was the first
drug program I ever encountered that insisted I go ON drugs, and continue to
take my myriad of prescribed controlled substances. On Easter Sunday (I think),
while in my jail cell, it happened.
It happened during “lights out”, and it hurt badly. It feels almost dream-like
to me. My cellmate, Shane, pushed me down onto the cot that I had to sleep on (I
didn’t get my own bunk), and ripped down my orange jump-suit, and forced his
penis into my anus. My screams didn’t awaken the guards to come to the cell. I
lay there, face to face, under Shane, bloodied nose, crying and angry. The next
lights out time, it happened again.
After the second time I was raped, I knew that I couldn’t live like this, at the
mercy of the sexual attacks of this predator. I requested a transfer to
Protective Custody, and awaited “lights out” with a quiet rage. Shane came at
me, as I expected, and with all of my might, and all of my “WiLL”, I punched him
in the face. All six foot plus of him tumbled across the ratty cell. The other
cellmate, a meek little thug who apparently was afraid of his own shadow as well
as Shane’s physical being, said nothing.
The guards came some twenty minutes later, after Shane was reduced to a whiny
child by being hit back for a change. No longer was Kevin Burke going to put up
with abuse; I’d endured it all of my life.
I was taken to Solitary Confinement, and had several more seizures, despite the
fact that I did, indeed, take medication. I then was transferred to Protective
Custody, where I met a couple of other inmates who had faced Shane (and Shame)
and his (and Its) rapes. I lived life in a bubble; confined for twenty-three of
I left Osceola County Jail thirty-two days later, several centuries older in my
soul. My innocence was lost. I eventually returned to Boston, leaving my
now-pregnant wife Jennifer behind, and started a new life. I am blessed to have
found a recovery program for my addiction, loving friends, and a caring
therapist. I’m trying – hard – to deal with all of the emotional fallout. Some
days, it feels as though my life is a nuclear wasteland, like I am a newcomer to
a strange, foreign planet. Some nights, I almost feel as though the rapes are
The issues that confront me - staying away from alcohol and drugs, the confusion
about my sexual orientation, the truth that I may never see my own child and
that he or she may be raised by an abusive woman – they sometimes overwhelm me.
I found “Stop Prisoner Rape” on the Internet – and SPR has been a great source
of healing for me.
If you’re thinking, “Well, there ought to be a law …”, then you’re thinking what
I am thinking, too. Yeah, there ought to be a law….
It took a while to understand
The beauty of just letting go
Cuz it would take an Acrobat
And I already tried all that
I’m gonna let him FLY >>>>> FLY >>>>>> OHHHH OHHHH IM GONNA LET HIM FLY
October 22, 2003 7:34am. Thanks WiLL, Phil, Bob and Paul, Peter, and JameS…