Acclaimed author Alice Sebold was traumatized by a violent rape at age 18 and then again 40 years later when she learned that an innocent man went to prison for it.

January 12, 2022

Some years back, in an earlier version of this blog, I had a practice of honoring writers whose works carried me through long holiday weekends of extended confinement. I called it “The Stuck Inside Literary Award.”

Among the great writers I cited were Graham Greene for The Power and the Glory, J.R.R. Tolkien for The Lord of the Rings, Patrick O’Brian for Master and Commander (and 21 other titles in his Aubrey-Maturin Series), Taylor Caldwell for Dear and Glorious Physician, Fr. Michael Gaitley for The Second Greatest Story Ever Told, Tom Clancy for The Hunt for Red October (and 22 other titles in his Jack Ryan Series), and Alice Sebold for The Lovely Bones.

These books and writers took me out of prison for journeys into history, adventure, espionage, mythology, Sacred Scripture, and, in that last on my list, a journey into a traumatized writer’s soul. I cannot fathom today what exactly brought me to read The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold. A New York Times Book Review described it as the story of a 14-year-old girl, a victim of rape and murder, who narrates the tale from Heaven while pondering the fate of her family, her friends, and her killer.

I was in equal measure horrified and hopeful. I suppose that was partly out of empathy. I was living in prison with someone who had been such a victim. For 15 years I prayed and hoped to restore for my friend some of the humanity, safety, trust, and well being that had been taken from him. He did not die, but sometimes he wished he had. His soul had nonetheless been nearly slain and I was his last hope to restore that too. But it was ultimately this review by Ron Charles in the Christian Science Monitor that caused me to take up The Lovely Bones:

“Don’t start The Lovely Bones unless you can finish it. The book begins with more horror than you can imagine, but closes with more beauty than you could hope for ... Alice Sebold has done something miraculous here.”

I was skeptical, but at the time I was also seeking a breakthrough for my friend. How could any writer take such a story and turn it into something redemptive? I had friends whose life experiences included sexual trauma and some of them also read The Lovely Bones on my recommendation. One described it as “mesmerizing.” Katherine Bouton at the New York Times Book Review wrote that Alice Sebold treated an “almost unthinkable subject with a kind of mysterious grace.” One friend told me that she found healing and peace in it.

So I brought it back from the prison library one day and read it, stunned and mesmerized, over one long weekend in 2017. I could not put it down. Then I wrote this brief review of it in a 2017 post:

“During the seemingly endless Independence Day week in July, we were all trapped in an eight-man cell and locked in with no outside at all for several days. And they were very hot days. Suffice it to say, it was an ordeal.

“But it was made far less so by a riveting book that took me far beyond my own woes. The book is The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold. I have since suggested this novel to some who could not read it — at least, not yet. I have never before come across an author who can take a topic as spiritually brutal as the loss of a child and turn it into an awe-inspiring tale of redemption.

“It’s a tough story about the rape and murder of a 14-year-old girl who narrates the account from Heaven. It is not easy to read — at least, not in its beginning, and it was made more difficult still by my knowledge that the author is herself a survivor of rape as a young adult.

“From the sheer depths of such pain and loss, Alice Sebold has crafted an astonishing novel that finds light in the darkest of places. I don’t want to say more. The recipient of my ‘These Stone Walls annual Stuck Inside Literary Award’ is Alice Sebold for The Lovely Bones. I bow in humble awe of both her burden and her gift.”

Alice Sebold’s “Lucky” Memoir

But now I must say more, for Alice Sebold’s story has taken turns even darker still. After reading The Lovely Bones, I ordered a copy of Sebold’s acclaimed memoir, Lucky (Little, Brown & Company, 1999). I had already known, from the jacket of her novel about her trauma at age 18. I wanted to understand the writer who could create that fictitious tormented teenage girl in The Lovely Bones and place her in a state of redemption while leading her readers there as well.

“Lucky” did not spare me at all. The first dozen pages were a courageous but horrific account of the brutality suffered by Sebold in real life during one night on an innocent walk in a Syracuse, New York park. I shook with rage as I forced myself to read what she had endured and somehow survived. She chose “Lucky” as her title for the memoir because that was what police said to her as she recounted the crime. She was “lucky” because a previous rape victim had been murdered.

Just days earlier, I had spent an all-nighter in my cell with my friend and roommate as he articulated through sobs, for the first time in his life, the horror inflicted on him as a 12-13 year-old child brought to America from Thailand against his will. The degrading humiliation of violent sexual assault occurred as many as 40 times before he escaped to a life of homeless despair at age 14.

Because I wrote about that story, his abuser was finally brought to justice in 2018, but one could hardly call it “justice.” After a plea of “no contest” to forty felony counts of rape, that man was sentenced to zero time in prison and eighteen years probation. Then he returned to his lakeside Oregon home. Let that sink in.

I shook with rage then too. Though my friend was not murdered, his mother was. It happened on the Island of Guam when she learned of what he suffered and resolved to expose the perpetrator. You have read this story. I wrote it myself in “Human Trafficking: Thailand to America and a Cold Case in Guam.”

Ms. Sebold was a freshman at Syracuse University when her brutal attack took place. Perhaps the most chilling scene in Lucky came six months later when she spotted her rapist walking happily along a downtown Syracuse street. They made eye-contact, and he smiled as he walked toward her. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he said. As I read, I found myself willing her to run and scream. There was a police officer nearby, but Alice was silently frozen in time and space before fleeing. Of this scene, she wrote:

“I knew him but I could not make myself speak. I needed all my energy to focus on believing that I was not under his control again. . . He had no fear. It had been nearly six months... since I lay under him in a tunnel on a bed of broken glass. He was laughing because he had gotten away with it, because he had raped before me, and because he would rape again. My devastation was a pleasure for him.”

Lucky, p. 103

She turned a corner as she quickly walked away, then she looked over her shoulder to see him nonchalantly chatting with the police officer. She was to have a seminar that afternoon with the famous author, Tobias Wolff. She fled toward the school to tell him that she could not attend. When she explained that she was going to the police, he wisely advised her to “Remember everything!” Recounting this, she wrote that she had read Wolff’s own story in This Boy’s Life, and learned from it. I read it too, and learned the same lesson Alice learned . . .

“ That memory could save, that it had power, that it was often the only recourse of the powerless, the oppressed, or the brutalized.”

Lucky, p. 106

I was stricken by this. After over 27 years as a wrongly convicted prisoner, I felt a strange solidarity with Alice as I read of her ordeal. I was willing her to not shrink from that awful night, not to suppress its pain, but rather to imprint upon her memory every detail. As our readers know, another famous writer once impressed the same upon me as she wrote in “The Trials of Father MacRae” (Dorothy Rabinowitz, The Wall Street Journal, May 13, 2013):

“MacRae has no difficulty imagining any possibility, fitting for a man with encyclopedic command of the process that brought him to this pass: every detail, every date, every hard fact. Still, after two decades this prisoner of the State remains, against all probability, staunch in spirit, strong in the faith that the wheels of justice turn, however slowly.”

When Justice Itself Is Raped

The year was 1981. After talking with Tobias Wolff, Alice went immediately to the campus library where she laid out in writing and a sketch every detail of what she experienced and saw on the street that day. University and City of Syracuse Police arrived. There was a quick dispute about jurisdiction, then Syracuse police headed to the location of the sighting to effect an arrest. “We’re gonna get this puke,” vowed one of the officers.

In her memoir, Lucky, Alice Sebold gave the suspect — soon to be a defendant — a pseudonym, Gregory Madison. His real name was Anthony Broadwater, an African American man. He was 21 then and is 62 today. Charged with rape, robbery and assault after eyewitness identification by Sebold, Broadwater entered a plea of not guilty and maintained his innocence throughout the hasty two-day trial but was convicted by a judge. He had waived his right to a jury trial. Beyond the eyewitness identification, the only other evidence against him was a hair sample taken from the crime scene. After conviction, he was sentenced to 25 years in prison.

By the time the case went to trial, Sebold was 19 and Broadwater was 22. As he was led off to prison, Alice was finally paroled from her own prison. She was finally free of the post-traumatic reaction when approached by any young black man. She could finally walk the streets of Syracuse without constantly checking over her shoulder. Anthony Broadwater spent the next 16 years in the notorious New York State Prison system serving brutal time in Attica and Sing Sing. A convicted sex offender, it was now his turn to look over his shoulder, every moment fearing the harsh reprisals that often come to those in prison deemed guilty of such crimes. It was now Anthony’s turn to be traumatized.

There was just one problem: Anthony Broadwater was entirely innocent of this crime, or any crime. He had no connection at all with the vicious rape of Alice Sebold. As a young african American man, a population grossly over-represented in America’s prisons, Broadwater lacked the resources to successfully fight a wrongful conviction. His only asset was his own inner integrity. He was denied parole five times because he would not admit guilt.

Decades after the horrible crime that now had two victims, forensic science formally rejected the legitimacy of hair analysis as evidence of guilt. The only other evidence was Alice Sebold’s eyewitness identification, but a big red flag was ignored by police. After the chilling scene of spotting the man she believed to be her rapist from twenty feet away on the street that day, Alice later picked the wrong man out of a police lineup from just ten feet away. The police, believing that they had their suspect, simply ignored the lineup snafu.

The scene on the street, recounted from Sebold’s memoir cited above, turned out to be a grave misunderstanding that required a parallax view — a view of the same scene from another angle. It turned out that Mr. Broadwater was not looking at or calling out to Alice Sebold, but rather was looking past her calling to the young police officer standing about twelve feet behind her. He was the officer she saw him chatting with as she fled down a side street in terror. When this case was revisited forty years later, the officer, long since retired, verified that he knew Mr. Broadwater and recalled that conversation with him.

The unjust tragedy to befall Anthony Broadwater was not only sixteen years of unjust imprisonment, but rather the twenty-two years that followed. He lived those years in another kind of prison, victimized yet again by having his name and identifying information on the draconian public sex offender registry. This prevented him from ever securing meaningful employment, public acceptance, or even secure housing. He was turned away from every job he applied for, and worked only odd jobs and hauling debris. Desperate, he registered for vocational classes in HVAC but was barred from campus. Mr Broadwater recounted those years:

“It’s hard to have that stigma on your back. Hard and shameful. You don’t want to be introduced to anybody. To this day, I can count on two hands how many people have invited me into their house.”

Anthony Broadwater went to prison in 1981 and was exonerated at the end of November 2021. The story was first reported in The Post Standard at Syracuse.com by staff reporter Douglass Dowty. His moving article, “Behind the ‘Lucky’ exoneration: 2 lives filled with pain and a man’s 40-year fight for justice” swept the country in the weeks before Christmas.

My Own Parallax View

What am I to make of this story? As a wrongfully convicted man who has served over 27 years in prison for a crime that never took place, I am torn in my empathy for both victims of this tragedy. I am horrified by what happened to Anthony Broadwater, but we are losing our humanity if we are not at least equally horrified by what happened to Alice Sebold.

None of this was her fault and I do not see what she could have done differently. It is not up to a traumatized 18-year-old to solve and investigate crime. This egregious failure of the justice system is not her’s to grieve. But grieve she does. Putting the now discredited junk science of hair analysis before the jury was not her fault. The wrongful eyewitness identification was not her fault. In cases that have resulted in irrefutable DNA exoneration, some 70-percent involved convictions based upon faulty eyewitness identification. This was — or should have been — well known to police in 1981. In “U.S. v. Wade,” a 1967 case, Supreme Court Justice William Brennan wrote:

“The vagaries of eyewitness identification are well known; the annals of criminal law are rife with instances of mistaken identification.”

A part of my own grief over this story is that Alice Sebold has been victimized once by the unknown rapist who so devastated her life; once by the false notion over 40 years that she has been safe from this evil attacker only to learn that he could have been lurking in the near distance for all that time; and finally a third victimization from living with the knowledge that her testimony so grievously harmed an innocent man because all investigation ended when she pointed in her trauma at the wrong guy.

I have also been where Anthony Broadwater has been. I am, in fact, there right now. I know from his grueling experience that the same fate would befall me if I ever left prison without being exonerated. At age 69, I too would be forced onto a lifelong public registry of shame. As such, I would never be allowed to serve, or even identify, as a priest. My bishop and the wider Church would exercise their one-size-fits-all solution, and simply discard me forty years after my own claimed offenses which never actually happened at all. Even when prison is over, it is never truly over. This is why our “ABOUT” page proclaims:

“There is no crueler tyranny than that which is perpetrated under the shield of law and in the name of justice.”

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Urgent note to readers: Next at Beyond These Stone Walls we will unveil a bombshell revelation that could deeply impact Father Gordon MacRae and the remainder of his life and priesthood.

You may also like to visit these relevant posts at Beyond These Stone Walls:

Wrongful Convictions: The Other Police Misconduct

Walking Tall: The Justice Behind the Eighth Commandment

NEW: Documents in the Father Gordon MacRae Case