THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, February 11, 1996 TAG: 9602110046
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: ELIZABETH SIMPSON
LENGTH: Medium: 66 lines
As victims go, they don't get any more innocent than 7-year-old Megan Kanka.
The girl lived in a quiet New Jersey neighborhood where all seemed warm and wonderful and right with the world.
But one day in 1994, a friendly neighbor allegedly asked her whether she wanted to see his new puppy. She agreed. That neighbor, Jesse Timmendequas, turned out to be a twice-convicted sex offender.
He's being tried later this month for the rape and murder of Megan.
Overnight, the neighborhood that mothers and fathers at one moment deemed safe was revealed as otherwise, and in the most horrific of ways.
People across the country now know Megan's name. Not so much because of her story but because the resulting outrage led to the controversial ``Megan's law.''
The law, still being challenged in New Jersey, informs a community when a sex offender moves into its neighborhood. It has been passed in dozens of states in one form or another.
Virginia is the latest state to consider a Megan's law.
Such legislation pits children's safety against civil rights, the passion of parents against rational discourse on what good the law does.
The journalist in me sees the pitfalls. The law tramples on the rights of people who have already paid their debt to society. It flies in the face of people's attempt to start over again, to mend their broken lives. It denies freedom and privacy.
States that have passed these laws have already seen the unfortunate consequences. One convict's home was torched. Another convict was run from one town to the next. Others live in fear of confronting neighborhood vigilantes.
The law also creates a false sense of security, leading people to think sex offenders are strangers, when in fact they're most often people we know and trust.
One other problem. There's absolutely no evidence that the law has reduced sex-offense cases.
All of that makes sense to the part of me that operates with logic, that focuses on numbers and studies and hard evidence.
But the part of me that reacts with passion and fear, the mother in me, begs our lawmakers to pass this bill.
That part of me thinks about my own children, about my own neighborhood, about my own vulnerabilities. That part of me thinks about communities where people no longer know one another, about a society where mothers and fathers cannot guard their children every moment.
That part of me wants to know - demands to know - when a sex offender is in our midst. Particularly in light of this country's poor track record in rehabilitating such offenders.
My desire to keep my children safe is not rooted in fairness, nor in reason. It doesn't see measures like this as illusory. My desire to protect, in fact, brings out the vigilante in me. I want to protect my own children even if it infringes on the rights of others.
I see this law as just one small step, one more measure that could save a child. I need no conclusive evidence, only a fleeting possibility on the side of safety.
For in the clutter of studies and evidence and reasoned opinion against this law, I can only hear the words of Megan's mother:
``I knew nothing of him,'' she said. ``If I had been aware of his record, my daughter would be alive.'' by CNB