One day in early July, as I ran a final lap through Green Haven Correctional Facility’s yard, I saw a man with his arms in the air. “They’re squirting baby oil up at the Manhattan court!” he shouted while making squeezing gestures with his hands. This is how I learned that Sean “Diddy” Combs had been acquitted of the most serious charges in his federal RICO trial for racketeering conspiracy, sex trafficking and transportation to engage in prostitution.
The hip-hop music mogul famously stockpiled baby oil for days-long, drug-fueled sessions where he would watch — and sometimes film — his then-girlfriend Casandra “Cassie” Ventura having sex with male escorts he’d hired. Separately, an ex-girlfriend, only known to the public as “Jane,” participated in these so-called “freak-offs” or “hotel nights.”
Prosecutors argued that the 55-year-old father of seven used domestic violence, financial abuse, threats and drugs to coerce Jane and Ventura — a singer 17 years younger than him, and who was signed to his Bad Boy record label — into hundreds of these encounters. The racketeering conspiracy charge stemmed from what prosecutors described as an inner circle of associates and employees who facilitated and covered up his alleged crimes.
At the end of the eight-week trial, Combs was convicted of two counts of transportation to engage in prostitution but acquitted of racketeering and sex trafficking. His defense team has argued for a 14-month prison sentence, citing his personal growth and recovery from drug addiction.
But on Tuesday, prosecutors asked for a minimum of 11 years in a pre-sentence submission, according to CBS News. For Ventura, it’s a safety issue: “My worries that Sean Combs or his associates will come after me and my family [are] my reality,” the mother of three reportedly wrote in a letter accompanying the submission. “I have in fact moved my family out of the New York area and am keeping as private and quiet as I possibly can because I am so scared that if he walks free, his first actions will be swift retribution towards me and others who spoke up about his abuse at trial.”
For ‘80s babies like myself, the man formerly known as “Puffy” or “Puff Daddy” was an icon. He taught us how to dress and dance, and he influenced our musical tastes. Now, through his trial, he’s teaching us about sexual violence, a lesson many of us miss. Since I started reading up on the laws Combs was accused of breaking, I’ve been thinking about how commercial sex, coercion and exploitation have shown up in my own life — and why I never told anyone about it.
Commercial sex is roughly defined as performing sexual acts in exchange for food, money, housing and other things of value. When you add in threats of violence, financial control, lies and other harms, it becomes a form of sex trafficking.
I know firsthand how this goes. At age 12, my caregiver — a role model and a religious leader — proposed to show me how to masturbate “properly.” I thought his intention was to teach me how to be a man. But after a while, I realized that things had taken a turn. As a child, I was powerless to stop the abuse.
I lived with a group of other young men, and I learned that they were also subjected to such treatment. I began to take notice of the stark contrasts between those who participated and those who didn’t. The boys who complied had better access to basic necessities, like food, spending money and clothing. Because we were under 18, what happened to us met the legal definition of sex trafficking.
At age 14, I made the choice to refuse his advances. My options were to report the crime or resort to crime to support myself.
I did not report. With my pain, anger, low self-esteem and mistrust in tow, I entered the criminal lifestyle.
As a criminal, I could be independent and feel safe. There was an abhorrence of pedophilia embedded in New York City street culture that I could rally behind.
Besides, reporting the abuse just didn’t make sense to me. I could not trust the people I had loved, so why would I trust the police and child services? I had neither heard nor seen anything good about them. And I wondered who would believe me anyway. After all, I participated, just like Cassie and “Jane,” who told the court, “I felt obligated to perform because my partner was paying my rent,” according to The Hollywood Reporter.
For years, other survivors accused my caregiver of abuse — mostly through grumbling and face-to-face call-outs. But their disclosures were dismissed as rumors. This man was able to use his good social standing, community influence and cult-like following to insulate himself from scrutiny. He also hid behind the trope of “the good Black man being taken down.” But what he relied on most was survivors’ shame. This shame quieted a storm of voices, leaving the outcry of individuals in the breeze.
It’s also important for me to note that speaking up doesn’t guarantee results. Ventura and Jane both testified in detail about Combs beating them, feeding them large quantities of drugs, and threatening to leak the recordings of their “freak-offs” to the public. Prosecutors presented visual evidence to back up their claims of violence, and Combs’ team conceded to it. And yet the verdict suggested that these women had not been coerced. The jury seemed to buy into the defense’s argument that the case was only a matter of “love, jealousy, infidelity and money,” as PBS News quoted one of his attorneys as saying early in the trial.
Perhaps the prosecution should have called an expert witness to explain why victims seem to willingly participate in sexual abuse. They should have quoted the anti-sexual violence organization RAINN, which points out that people who are high or “manipulated into saying yes” cannot give consent. They should have added that saying yes once doesn’t mean that will always be the case.
Another major lesson I hope people learn from this trial is that commercial sex isn’t just prostitution by force — think poor women with violent pimps at truck stops or immigrant women being trafficked in shipping containers. I can tell you from experience that a lot of survivors aren’t sobbing in the dark corner of a room, chained to a bed or fed drugs until they are in a stupor.
Most of us are ordinary exploitable people — naive children, loving partners and ambitious employees. We are groomed to put our trust in someone who violates it over and over again. Then we’re left facing shame, powerlessness and skepticism. After all, who is going to believe you once you’ve had your first “hotel night”?
Joseph Wilson is a father, self-taught composer, librettist, singer, songwriter, pianist, art curator, writer and co-founder of the Sing Sing Family Collective. He is currently incarcerated at Green Haven Correctional Facility in Stormville, New York.
