A Cruel Irony
By: William, Dollar Bill
Tags: Eric Schneiderman, Prison, New York State, Criminal Justice, Memoir

A Cruel Irony

Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!

Photo by Sora Shimazaki from Pexels

I’m no saint. Ex-convicts rarely are. The best society can hope for is that we don’t “do it again.” But compared to a man named Eric Schneiderman, I’m confident that our Maker would judge him much more harshly than He would me. And exactly why does that matter? Because Eric Schneiderman is a piece of shit who prosecuted me for a crime considerably less egregious than his.

For non-New York State residents — or just New Yorkers who don’t keep up with the news — Eric Schneiderman was our State Attorney General— and the lawyer under whose watch I was prosecuted for conspiracy and promotion of prostitution.

My actual crime with respect to the seven-person conspiracy under which I was indicted, consisted of my taking photos of the madam’s girls, designing their website, and instructing the phone girls on how to add new photos and schedules to that blog.

You could hardly call me a pimp for being a webmaster and photographer for a couple of whorehouses, given that the only payment I accepted from the boss was free sessions with my photo subjects. The law said that I had to “profit” from the sale of sex. Does getting paid in blow jobs count as “profiting?” Hard to say.

In the end, I pleaded guilty to save tens of thousands of dollars in lawyer fees once the State offered that I didn’t have to serve any state time for my crime once I’d been sentenced to a year on the federal level. (Yes, it was a tag-team/gang bang type of affair.)

Whether it was fair and just for the State to take me to task for photographing hookers and designing a website is besides the point. Let me tell you about the big cahuna DA, who is the subject of this rant!

Scheiderman was a man-about-town with the ladies. No, he wasn’t like Eliot Sptizer, disgraced Governor of New York, in that hookers weren’t his thing. His toxicity far eclipsed Eliot’s or mine.

In a New Yorker Magazine feature, Ronan Farrow revealed the social life of the man who would prosecute me. Eric had been accused by no fewer than four girlfriends of smacking them around sometimes during sex — and sometimes during intercourse of the verbal variety. Or to put it more descriptively — and in the street vernacular — Schneiderman was alleged to be in the habit of “smacking his ho’s around.”

And this was the fucking asshole who thought the taxpayer should spend well into six figures prosecuting me and an operation which coerced nobody into anything. In fact, every participant in that organization was a willing and eager member.

Specifically, Farrow wrote that one woman claimed Schneiderman smacked her so hard during an argument that she bled from her ear and went to the doctor to be checked out.

Another, an Indian woman, swore that he called her his “brown slave” during sex. A third said he’d asked her to fill her Adderal prescription so he could have half!

And finally, a fourth reported that he would drink over a bottle of wine on party nights! Not that drinking wine is a crime, mind you. But wine and drugs? That could be a pattern.

Faced with these accusations, Schneiderman’s incredibly weak response was that he did dabble in “role play.” How’s this for role play, mother fucker? You’re making me out to be a pimp when in truth, I’m a photographer and webmaster!

The idea that a State Attorney General who smacks his ho’s around — calls one his slave while he’s stroking her down — and asks another to provide him with prescription drugs, has the temerity to judge me for taking photos of hookers and designing a website, and oh yes, purchasing the website domain on behalf of a madam who didn’t know how to do that, is a cruel irony worth writing about. Especially when it happens to you.

I am now out of prison, off probation, and like everybody else, more or less sequestered due to the pandemic. I tell people exactly what I did to suffer 7 years of prosecution, prison, and probation time. I’m not proud of what did. But I’m not ashamed either — especially the part about helping girls make a living in their chosen profession by providing effective, targeted and intelligent advertising services.

And what about Eric? What’s he up to now that the world knows exactly what kind of piece of crap he is? Get this. He’s a “meditation teacher!” A fucking meditation teacher!

Hey Eric! Meditate on this you fucking hypocrite. I’d like to smack you around! How’s this? Meet me in Unit 5 South, MCC federal prison. Or 8 South in the Tombs. Or EMTC on Rikers Island. We’ll “talk.”