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                                                                                LAW, Page 77

In Judgment of Iron Mike


Mike Tyson's dark past is on trial, and so is the popular
suspicion of women who charge famous men with rape

By RICHARD CORLISS -- Reported by Sophfronia Scott Gregory/
Indianapolis


    He looks straitjacketed in a dark suit. He seems caged in
his chair in an Indianapolis courtroom as a demure 18-year-old
from Rhode Island, a contestant in the Miss Black America
Pageant last July, testifies that he raped her. But in his
natural habitat, the boxing ring, Mike Tyson is a creature in
implacable forward motion. He just keeps coming, and you go
down. He cuts you like a buzz saw, crushes you like a tree
falling on a sleepy squirrel.

    In a way, this Tyson, the Tyson of legend, is on trial
here, as much for his behavior on the job as on the town. The
heavyweight champ in title or spirit, Tyson is an imposing
villain, for he seems beyond evil or humanity -- soul-free. Look
for the black heart beneath the black stare, and find the
creepiest thing: nothing. Punishment without guilt. After a 1986
TKO of Jesse Ferguson, Tyson said matter-of-factly, "I tried to
punch him and drive the bone of his nose back into his brain."
Nice analysis, Professor Death.

    Purged of moral compunctions, Tyson is what scholars of
the blood sport call a pure fighter. This is atavistic manhood,
stripped of all weapons but fists, guile and will. A
man-beast-machine: hunter, warrior, conqueror, terminator. Even
lover. The other guy in the ring is Tyson's partner -- a heavy
date -- as well as an opponent; Iron Mike must find the man's
rhythms, whims, indulgences, weak spots. A fight with Tyson at
his physical and emotional peak is like a brisk courtship that
ends in slaughter.

    The question now facing 12 Indianapolis jurors is this:
What is a real Tyson courtship like? For a living -- oh, and a
lavish one -- Tyson hurts people. What does he do for fun?
According to tabloid tabulations, he has been cited as a
pincher, threatener and "serial buttocks fondler" of women. His
ex-wife, actress Robin Givens, accused him of brutality. His
former friend, New York State Athletic Commission chairman Jose
Torres, said Tyson boasted of all-night sexual marathons with
two dozen prostitutes. The popular take on Tyson is that he sees
women as nothing more than trophies, punching bags, meat; that
for him, romance is boxing with the gloves off.

    Give Tyson a break for a second and hope he can make the
distinction between life and sport, between what he is and what
he does -- what he has been trained, molded, programmed to
achieve since he was a 13-year-old reform-school rehab project
for fight manager Cus D'Amato. Tyson can't be convicted for the
role he plays or the work he chooses. And in the half of his
life devoted to boxing, he has attracted mentors, sportswriters
and, yes, Givens with evidence of softness, hints of heart: the
odd fluty pitch of his voice, the stabs at elaborate rhetoric,
even his love for pigeons -- a fancy he shared with another
damaged boxing hero, the Marlon Brando coulda-been contender in
On the Waterfront. It was Tyson's mention of the pigeons that
briefly beguiled Miss Rhode Island, she testified last week.

    When the tiny, very pretty freshman from Providence
College took the stand, Tyson finally had to cede his
searchlight-spotlight to a co-star. At that moment the sense of
the procedure finally shifted from a test of a celebrity's
mettle, or the dilemma of Tyson the legend vs. Tyson the man,
to a familiarly tragic story of men's dangerous urges and
women's rightful fears.

    In a voice even more childlike than Tyson's, but with a
rarely wavering poise, the accuser told of the boxer's
invitation to "go around and see Indianapolis"; of his abrupt
change of mood in his hotel room, from chatting to rutting; of
feeling "excruciating pain" as he "jammed" his fingers into her.
"He was laughing, like it was a game." She said he performed
oral sex on her, and then "I was trying to get him to move so
I could get away. He just said, `So we'll have a baby,' and he
jammed himself in." Later, she testified, he withdrew and
ejaculated. "I told you I wouldn't come inside you," she quoted
Tyson as saying. "Don't you love me now?"

    Any rape trial lacking conclusive physical evidence can be
reduced by the jury to a case of "he said, she said." Since the
presumption of innocence clings to the defendant and the burden
of proof to the state, it's tough to get a conviction. But
Tyson's accuser is no Patricia Bowman fraying under
cross-examination; she effectively deflated the defense's
suggestion that because she removed her panty shield in the
hotel bathroom, she was a ready and willing sexual participant.
Nor has defense attorney Vincent Fuller, with his brusque
questioning, proved himself the equal of Roy Black, William
Kennedy Smith's barrister. Finally, Tyson is not expected to
make many converts on the witness stand. If convicted on all
counts, he could face 63 years of prison workouts.

    The trial promises more perplexities. The defense may
argue that Tyson was unable to inflict the deep vaginal injuries
that the prosecution claims because of the "modest proportions"
of his penis. By trial's end, all the contentious testimony may
be reduced to a new twist on age-old gender imperatives.
Either: a star thinks he can take anything he wants. Or: inside
every good girl beats a groupie's concupiscent heart.

    The latter prejudice must animate the Tyson fans who cheer
the fighter each day and have paid $100 for scalped tickets to
the trial. Or perhaps they already forgive this Baryshnikov of
boxing's classical choreography if he did practice his art on
a reluctant opponent. Innocent or guilty, though, Tyson is more
to be pitied than feared -- not because he may lose his freedom
and his livelihood, but because he seems an exemplar of all
those sad studs who are prisoners of manhood.