The Iago Option: the Pelicot Trial, and the Next Right Thing for a Disgraced Defendant

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This morning, a French court sentenced Dominique Pelicot to 20 years in prison. The man who drugged and raped his wife – and invited dozens of other men to join in raping her – is 72 and in poor health. He will likely spend the rest of his life behind bars.

Like millions, I celebrate the courage of Gisele Pelicot, who insisted on a public trial of the husband who betrayed her and the men who abused her. “Let shame change sides,” Madame Pelicot famously said at the outset of proceedings. Her bravery and dignity are immense, and worthy of praise. Perhaps this trial, and the media coverage surrounding it, will lead to real change.

I do not write to defend Monsieur Pelicot. (I know, I had some of you worried there. Defending the indefensible is a reflex and a compulsion.) Rather, I was struck by his final statement before sentencing.

“I would like to start by hailing the courage of my ex-wife" Gisele Pelicot, her ex-husband Dominique Pelicot said in his final statement to the court ahead of the verdict later in the week.

"I regret what I did, making (my family) suffer... I ask them for forgiveness," he said, asking the family to "accept my apologies".

He added that "I have been called many things" but "I rather intend to be forgotten," saying he felt an "inner shame".

"I can tell my whole family that I love them," he said.

The online reaction to Pelicot’s statement was fury. “Total manipulation,” “Playing for sympathy,” “Anything to garner a bit of respect.” Very few people believed the chief defendant was sincere.

I don’t know if he was sincere or not. But as someone who has often behaved very badly (though not quite at this scale), I am deeply interested in the question of what a defendant should say after admitting guilt. This is as much a question of etiquette as it is of ethics.

No matter what one has done – no matter how dreadful – there is still a “next right thing.” Perhaps one has killed many people and received a death sentence. Even in one’s last moments, one should endeavor not to complain, but instead to thank one’s jailers – go “gladly to the gallows” as C.S. Lewis suggested. Even on death row, one has choices and sovereignty over conduct and demeanor.

When one has done something truly awful, the first rule should be to not make it even worse. On Twitter, the sense is that Pelicot’s tribute to his wife’s courage did make it worse, as did his protestations of love. Even his “I rather intend to be forgotten” was dismissed as manipulative self-pity. One can imagine that if Pelicot had continued to protest his innocence. that wouldn’t have gone over well either. If he had raged like an animal, and cursed his former wife, that too would have served as confirmation of his monstrousness.

If I were counseling Dominque Pelicot, I’d offer him the cold comfort that nothing he could say would go over well. The comfort lies in surrendering the temptation to imagine that if one could somehow compose the right sentences, one could ameliorate the harm one has done. If there is no possibility of redemption, and anything you say or don’t say will be taken as proof of your depravity, then you are liberated to be authentic. On the other hand, even if a self-indulgent rambling can’t make things worse, it still centers your own words. Indeed, the more eloquent you are in your self-deprecation, the more the mob will assume they are being played.

It is best to not do very bad things. But when one has done a very bad thing, there must still be a next right thing. One can be polite to one’s jailers, cooperative with the lawyers, and give truthful responses to interrogatories. One can ask the same question each moment: what is the thing I can do now that will, at the least, not make things worse? Perhaps the most important thing one can do is decide that it is no longer your job to try to change other people’s feelings about you. Many of us imagine that even at our lowest, we still retain the power to shape people’s view of us. The fatal temptation of both criminal defendants and writers is that they imagine that other people’s dislike is partly a function of our failure to adequately explain!

The next right thing is often to concede that other people’s animosity is grounded not in their ignorance but in their understanding. It is not that they don’t know you, it is that they know you all too well. And even if they do not see the good you have done, why not let them continue to labor under a misperception? If believing that you are a one-dimensional cartoon sociopath makes it easier for them to bear what has happened, perhaps the kindest and most polite thing to do is allow them to continue in that misperception. We cannot set the record straight without exacerbating harm.

Shakespeare gave us many villains, but one stands alone: Iago. The antagonist of Othello, Iago is a schemer and a murderer unlike any other. Shakespeare normally humanizes his bad guys. (Think of Edmund in King Lear, who plots and murders but is clearly motivated by the anguish of his own illegitimacy. The “Now, gods, stand up for bastards” speech is one of my favorite monologues – and more importantly, a contextualizing one.) Iago, however, gets no context. He is just a cold-blooded thug. When he is finally caught, Iago shrugs, and tells his captors: "Demand me nothing; what you know, you know. From this time forth I never will speak word.”

Iago keeps that promise until his execution. We see his silence – even unto torture -- as evidence of his irredeemable evil. Perhaps, though, his refusal to speak again is also a calculated decision that never speaking again is the politest and most civilized choice still available. If pleas for forgiveness and mealy-mouthed tributes to an accuser’s courage only cause harm, perhaps the next right thing is to say, as calmly as one can, “What you know, you know. From this time forth I never will speak word.” They already think you are beyond redemption. They already think you are inhuman. To the extent that attempting to complexify and humanize your conduct makes it more rather than less difficult for those whom you betrayed, the Iago strategy is less one of defiance than it is one of kindness.

What about Iago’s “Demand me nothing?” What if an accuser says they do want to hear a confession? Perhaps without knowing it, they are asking for something you cannot give. Perhaps they hope the same thing you do: that there is something unexpected you can say that will somehow relieve the hurt and soothe the anguish. Perhaps they want a closure that you already know your words cannot provide. “Demand me nothing” becomes a strange and final act of generosity, an acknowledgement that you know full well you have no words, true or not, that can give your victims what they want and deserve. Your silence, even if it further enrages in the short term, may prove the kindest course in the long run.

Manners aren’t only for boardrooms or ballrooms. They are for courtrooms and for cells. A gentleman uses his manners to make other people feel comfortable. When he has proved to the world that he is the furthest thing from a gentleman, and instead of comfort he has brought only dismay and misery and loss, he still has his manners. There is still a next right thing. And perhaps, that next right thing is a dignified, penitential, silence.

That is the tactic I would have recommended —and still recommend — to Monsieur Pelicot.