I won't speak to you in sophisticated language. I'm not a sophisticated 
man.

In a nutshell, that is why I am writing to you from a prison cell. I'm not 
a writer, and I'm not a criminal, but they put me in prison, and then they 
wrote eloquently about my crimes, crimes which I did not commit. I know, 
you have heard this a million times before. I don't expect these words to 
be more convincing, but I am innocent.

Innocent, but not persuasive, and so here I am. When the daughter of a 
famous writer, herself perhaps famous someday, goes before the jury and 
tells them that you raped her, you lose. It is not the truth. I did not 
rape her. But all I have to defend myself is my ninth-grade education and 
simple words, and what she has is a Harvard degree and words that make 
people laugh, make people cry, make people like her.

I did like her. She was pretty, in the bar, and I talked to her, and I 
walked her outside and we waited for cabs and we left, and I never saw her 
again, until the police showed up at my door and dragged me into court, 
and I didn't remember who she was until a couple of days into the trial, 
after my lawyer had instructed me not to speak my ignorance.

I don't know why she did it, but my guess it had something to do with the 
baby. She got pregnant. She was pregnant in court. Maybe she thought that 
it was less embarrassing to be raped than the real story. I don't know 
what the real story was. I don't have much of an imagination, never have; 
no one in my family does. Writers have that. I'm not a writer.

I sat through the six-day trial. I was honestly surprised the jury 
convicted me. I knew I was innocent. I can't imagine I looked guilty. I 
guess the problem was, she didn't look like a liar, and I didn't know how 
to call her one, and my lawyer wouldn't have let me anyway. I didn't 
incriminate myself. How could I? I wasn't guilty. But I guess when someone 
with her last name talks, people listen. Everyone knows what her father 
was responsible for, even me.

And so here I am. Seven years, they said. They called me names in the 
courtroom, her family, her friends, even a few media. I shook my head at 
them. I didn't know what to say. They already knew what they thought of 
me. There was nothing I could do but take it. 

Prison is not as bad as people say. I don't deserve to be here, but there 
are not the gangs I was expecting. Mostly people stick to themselves. I 
have plenty of time to learn to write and learn to read, and the food is 
not so bad. The only problem is that prison is exceptionally boring. Every 
now and then we get to do some work, making license plates or whatever, 
but mostly time is unscheduled. We sit around our cells. There isn't a lot 
to do in a prison cell. It doesn't come with television. 

I didn't do it. I barely knew her. I left the bar with her, but we left in 
separate cabs, and I never planned to see her again. And yet, here I am, 
five months later, in prison. 

I don't wish her ill. I'm sure she had her reasons. I'm sure it makes 
sense to her, and I hope she figures it out. I'm not angry, not really; 
that's the life that's been assigned to me, and it's really not so bad in 
here. A lot of things you have to worry about, like rent and paying bills, 
are taken care of. It's like being in the Army, except much less 
stressful: you have a routine, and you do the routine, and ultimately it 
is not the terrible place many people think. It's all right after all, and 
besides, what am I going to do about it? I'm here for seven years for a 
crime I did not commit, but nonetheless I'm here for seven years.

I am not a rapist.