Have you ever met a monster?

Someone so scary they alerted
the reptilian part of your brain?

One morning, I was going to my job
as a criminal justice reporter in Denver.

I stepped into a crowded elevator,

faced front,

and got the sense that someone
behind me was watching me.

So I glanced over my shoulder

to see this man staring at me
in a very calculating way

with cold shark eyes.

So I stared back,

and my look said "rude person,"

and he didn't drop his eyes.

So I ended that contest
and turned back around,

alarm bells sounding in my head.

I instantly decided I didn't want him
to know which floor was mine.

So at the next stop,
just before the doors came together,

I darted out at the last minute.

I flew up the stairs
and ran into the newsroom,

my heart pounding.

The fear of monsters is instinctive.

In Denver, in 2005,

reports of a serial rapist
had residents so frightened,

some were carrying baseball bats.

Police released a name, Brent Brents,

and the media scrambled to find out 
whatever we could on this guy.

A reporter at the rival newspaper got
Brents' sister in Arkansas on the phone,

and she said,

"He deserves whatever he gets,"

before hanging up.

One sentence, but we'd been scooped.

"Get thee on a plane
to Arkansas," editors said.

"Find his family
and get them to talk to you."

So I did.

His mother described Brents
as willful, intelligent.

He'd grown up hunting and fishing;

ran track, wrestled, boxed.

He had a learning disorder

and became frustrated,
then angry, in school.

He started smoking pot
at age 10 and drinking,

and that's when he began
beating his mother.

At 13, he flipped a switch
on a railroad track

and was sent to juvenile detention,

where he was in and out
until the age of 18

when he was convicted
of raping two children.

He served 16 years in prison
and was released without supervision.

His sister remarked that Brent
had a lot of anger toward their father,

who had died the year before.

So I turned to the mom and said,

"I'm sorry to ask,

but this is a standard question
when someone sexually abuses others:

was Brent ever abused as a child?"

There was a long pause,

and then, looking down, she said,

"Brent makes up all kinds of lies."

Police caught him
a few days after Valentine's Day.

At the start of that weekend,

a detective had told him on the phone,

"Turn yourself in, you little punk."

Brents essentially replied,
"Come find me."

That weekend, he raped five victims,
including two children,

and nearly beat a young woman to death.

The DNA from those cases
was processed within hours,

and the manhunt that followed

ended in a dramatic car chase
into the mountains,

where police captured him at gunpoint.

This kind of story
causes a media feeding frenzy.

Reporters flocked 
to the jail, but I didn't.

I didn't think it would do any good.

Instead, I sent him a letter
on plain stationery, handwritten,

two sentences:

"Dear Brent,

I went to Arkansas, where I met
with your mom and sister.

If you were to ask them,

they would say I treated them
with dignity and respect,

and I would do the same for you."

I then gave him the phone
number to the newsroom

and told him to call collect anytime.

Because I figured
he'd be getting a lot of hate mail,

on the back of the envelope, I wrote,

"Please don't be afraid to open this."

At the end of that week,

police issued a statement
about another confirmed victim of Brents.

And since they'll protect the identity
of a victim of sexual assault,

they'll only release the cross streets
that are close to where it happened.

"Get thee to those cross streets,
you and a photographer," editors said.

"Find this anonymous victim,
and get her to talk to you."

Right.

So off we went to those cross streets,

and we found a sea of rental units,

like giant Legos.

We knocked on doors
for hours, with no luck.

It was close to getting dark
when we saw a woman out walking her dog.

Dog walkers are always great
for information,

and sure enough,

she said the handyman had told her
about a woman who'd been attacked.

She gave us the handyman's door number,

and he gave us the victim's door number.

I knocked on the door,
and a man answered,

and I could see this tiny,
dark-haired woman hiding behind the door.

And I identified myself,
and she came out and said,

"You scared me."

Her name is Margaret,

and she told me her story.

Her attack had happened
nearly three weeks earlier,

and she still had the yellow outlines
of bruises on her neck.

Brents had rushed her at her front door -

she was coming home from running errands.

She fought him,

and he beat and choked her

and then raped her.

Margaret pointed to her couch,

which had a big chunk
cut out of the upholstery.

The police had taken it for evidence

because that was where
the rape had happened.

And when you can't afford a new couch

and you can't afford
to break your lease and move -

and Margaret couldn't -

then you're forced to live
with reminders of your worst nightmare.

The police had told her

the DNA from her case
would take about two months to process.

They gave her no hope of solving her case.

And then she saw a story
about Brents being wanted

and recognized his mug shot
as her attacker.

One of the last things she said to me
that night really struck me.

She said, "I hate him.

Yet I still feel sorry for him.

An animal - poor creature."

A week later, Brents called me.

One of the first things he said to me was
"I'm not going to give you anything."

I love it when people call me and say,

"I'm not going to talk to you."

Okay.

He then said,

"I have one question for you,

and anything further
depends on your answer."

And he said, "People say
they hate me, that I'm a monster.

Do you think so?"

And without thinking,
I said, "No, I don't.

You've done monstrous things,

but I don't consider you a monster."

And that's how we started
a correspondence.

In one letter, Brents wrote,

"Don't trip - I've actually stood
two feet away from you in an elevator."

And rolling my eyes,

I pulled out a piece of paper
to fire back a response of

"Don't BS me. We had a deal
to always tell the truth."

And I realized that had been him
behind me on the elevator that morning.

The man whose very presence

had caused me to run to the newsroom
like a frightened rabbit.

It turned out that Brents
had followed my work.

A few months before
he was released from prison,

I had co-authored a three-part series

into how the military mishandles cases
of sexual assault and domestic violence,

and that had resonated with him.

Not because he was a perpetrator,

but because the angry man-child within him
considered himself a victim.

This is a picture of Brent in first grade.

His father had been raping him
for three years by then.

A few weeks after this next picture
was taken, when Brent was 12,

his father beat him so badly

that he suffered
what medical records described

as "a left orbital blowout fracture."

His left eye socket was broken.

Records and interviews with family members

indicate that his father
was a violent, sadistic man.

The two children from his second marriage

were both removed from the home
because of his abuse.

And Brent and his brother
were both returned,

although it's not clear why.

Brent's father told him

that he himself had been beaten
and sexually abused as a child

by his father, Brent's grandfather.

And so the pattern repeated:

pain, degradation, shame.

Brent Brents did to others
what had been done to him as a child.

And while he was still a child,
like many victims he blamed himself.

He once wrote,

"I don't remember much
of when I was real young

except fear and shame
and lack of courage."

Brents told me that after
that detective said to him,

"Turn yourself in, you little punk,"

that he, Brents,
had worked himself into a rage.

Then he'd gone and committed
his final horrific crime spree.

And I'm not saying

that these factors are an excuse
for the violence Brents committed.

He made choices.

He absolutely deserves
to spend the rest of his life in prison.

But knowing what happened to him

does help explain why someone like Brents
could commit such violence

with such a lack of empathy -

that his brain was predisposed to it

and the abuse inflicted
on him was his model.

It's human nature

to want to distance yourself
from someone like him,

label him as a "monster,"
dismiss him as evil.

We don't want to have
anything in common with such a monster

because then it could mean that we too
are capable of monstrous things.

But putting a rapist in the category
of "monster" may make us feel safer today,

but it's more dangerous for tomorrow

because then we won't believe
that the "monster" can be a neighbor,

a co-worker, a trusted friend.

And that enables them
to hide in plain sight.

The dominant theme of how to prevent
sexual assault today

is cloaked in helpful advice like

"Don't walk alone, don't drink too much,
don't put yourself at risk."

And the message, primarily to women,

is "Don't get raped."

How about we turn our focus
to a different population instead and say

"Don't rape."

And then why don't we take it
one step further

and ask ourselves

what are we doing wrong as a culture
that we continue to produce rapists?

Because whether it's the ex-convict
who attacks strangers,

the college boy who rapes his girlfriend,

or the celebrity who drugs
and assaults his victims -

they all choose to exert anger, power,
and control over someone else.

And with that choice,
they are all the same.

And they all leave pain in their wake.

I've interviewed more than 50 survivors
of campus sexual assault

in the past two years alone.

And the details I learn
about their perpetrators

paint a picture of so many young men
being deliberately predatory.

They isolate their intended victim,

they ply them with drugs and alcohol,

they lock doors,

they ignore tears,
they ignore pleas to stop,

they ignore the fact their victim
is limp with fear or is unconscious.

10 years ago, Brent Brents
was sentenced to 1,509 years.

Today, all over this country, we're seeing
new generations of serial rapists.

Why is this still happening?

Why do we continue to reinforce
the message to our boys and young men

that their worth is linked
to their ability to dominate?

What if we prized compassion
more than power?

When they're little, we tell our kids,

"Play nicely in the sandbox."

They get older, and we say,

"Don't get in fights in the playground.

Take a breath, count to 10, walk away."

Then they get older still,

and we teach them about the biological
aspects of sex: health and reproduction.

What if we were to evolve
those conversations with our youth

and teach them how feeling shame,

how feeling powerless, feeling angry -

all of which cover up hurt and rejection -

could cause them to want
to dominate someone else?

And that they can learn
to recognize triggers and not act on them?

At least start that conversation.

And then speak up
if you witness predatory behavior -

and you'll know it when you see it.

Don't make excuses for it,
don't look away, don't cover it up.

And because sexual assault
happens on a continuum,

starting with verbal harassment
and escalating to a physical attack,

speak up if you hear or read a joke
about sexual assault or victimization.

It's not funny; it's not sexy.

It's dangerous.

If someone confides in you
that they've been sexually assaulted,

believe them.

False reports are so rare,
so yes, believe them.

Listen to them without judgment.

Help them find resources

and then support
whatever they decide to do.

For victims, Brents told me

that group counseling for sexual offenders
in prison does not work.

For an inmate even to be seen
going to sex offender group

puts their safety at risk.

And once there, they don't want
to be seen as vulnerable.

It's difficult to change
when you're living in fear.

And if we really do want
to help them try to change,

why not offer more
of the respect and compassion

that can be felt with
one-on-one focused attention?

Something a damaged person
desperately needs.

Instead of building more prisons
and focusing on punishing perpetrators,

why don't we try to prevent them?

Brents has often said,

by the time he was nine,
his brain was broken.

What if someone had intervened
in his life early on?

A neighbor, a teacher.

How could no one have noticed
that boy who went to school with bruises,

smelling like urine

because he had wet the bed
the night before

rather than creep
down the hall to the bathroom

and risk waking his father?

If you help an abused child,

you could be preventing a lifetime of pain
for more than one person.

So many people today
live in what I call "garage houses,"

where the garage is the dominant feature.

They drive up to their garage at night,

the door goes up, the car goes in,
the door goes down,

and they stay inside
until they leave the next day.

They can't tell you the name
of the family down the street.

They won't interact,
and they sure won't intervene.

What if we dared to care
without hesitation, without condition?

It's a harsh truth,

but our society cares more
about sexual assault victims

if they are the right kind of victim.

Remember how police told Margaret

the DNA from her case
would sit on a shelf for two months?

When Brents attacked victims
in a high-income neighborhood,

that DNA was processed within hours.

Lady Justice might be blind,
but she can sure have a champagne taste.

I stayed in touch with Margaret

as her case wound its way
through the court system.

In July of 2005, Brents
pleaded guilty to her attack.

Like many survivors who struggle
with post-traumatic stress disorder,

Margaret was terrified
of leaving the house.

She had nightmares, flashbacks.

She couldn't hold down a job.

Her marriage fell apart.

The day before the hearing,

Margaret asked me to deliver
a message to Brents for her,

and I agreed.

And this was her message:

"Tell him ...

I forgive him."

It's stunning, isn't it?

How could she forgive this man
who wounded her so?

Who nearly took everything from her?

And she said,

"I'm not thinking of the man
who tried to kill me.

I'm thinking of the little boy
who had the same thing happen to him."

And she said, "Hating is not hard.

But if I go on hating him,
I will never get over it."

And she added,

"If it was me, I would want someone
to try to help me or listen to me

and not just look at me
like I was an animal or a monster."

She inspires me.

If Margaret can forgive Brent Brents,
we can forgive anybody.

This case had a profound
effect on my life.

It taught me that we are all connected

and that turning our backs on others
is really abandoning ourselves.

It made me realize I didn't like
the reporter I had become.

It was actually Brents
who pointed out to me

that he and I had something in common:

we were both driven.

I quit that job shortly after
his case ended,

and I will never again work in a newsroom,

because the desperate
competition for ratings

is unhealthy for me in many ways.

And I no longer knock
on a survivor's door unless I'm invited.

I started that correspondence with Brents

because as a journalist who has spent
a lifetime covering sexual assault,

I wanted an answer to the question "Why?"

He began as a bug under a microscope,
and that's what I told him.

Brent Brents became a lesson
in humanity and compassion.

Even so-called "monsters"
have things they're afraid of.

Brents wrote me about his.

He said,

"My biggest fear is that I will die

without ever having done anything good."

And that's why I tell this story.

Thank you for listening.

(Applause)