COLUMN ONE : Outrage May Revive Rape Case : Five men took advantage of a drunken woman who thought they were her friends. The district attorney agreed to misdemeanor pleas and fines of $750.

There are men in this world who would enjoy having sex with a drunken woman passed out at their feet like some sodden rag doll, and at least five of them were acquaintances--and even friends--of Krista Absalon.

They all had been carousing that Friday night at the Casablanca, a popular hangout in this isolated town near the Canadian border. Partying often went on past the bar’s closing time, with the doors locked and the liquor free.

It had been a lousy week, and Absalon meant a binge to be a wonder drug for her troubles. Her boss had not given her the raise she wanted. Worse yet, she and her ex were arguing again about custody rights to their two little ones.

The hospital lab technician began the evening with an empty stomach and then went on to fill it with beers and a double shot of rum and a whiskey sour. After hours, the amiable, young manager--Mario Pistolesi--allowed her free belts of alcoholic concoctions known as Kamikazes and Alabama Slammers.

It was Pistolesi, a friend, who later found Absalon reeling in and out of consciousness in the ladies room, with her jeans around her ankles. She kissed him, he recalls. He helped her to one of the bar’s padded booths, where he and the others then took turns with her as they snacked on beer and sandwiches.

Nearly three years have since passed, but the attack on an incapacitated woman has kept this town at the center of a moral cyclone, not so much for the crime--awful as it was--but for the punishment, which last June was plea-bargained against the victim’s wishes to a misdemeanor and $750 fines. “That’s it?” Absalon cried out in court. “Are you serious? Oh, my God.”

In Gouverneur, there was little matching outcry; prevailing attitudes are like a wagging finger that suggests a woman who drinks too much forfeits the right to say no. But the case has carried across the Adirondacks and come to represent nationally so much of what goes awry in acquaintance-rape cases: a preoccupation with judging the victim’s conduct instead of the perpetrator’s.

“Rape isn’t like robbery; rapists somehow get protected by our prejudices, with the idea being that the victim deserved it,” said Alice Vachss, a former New York City prosecutor and author of a recent book about sex crimes. “In this case, Krista was drunk. So she wasn’t a nice enough victim.”

Absalon has been tenacious, however. Now 26, she has vented her anger and pain everywhere she could, making appearances, writing, phoning. And today, a judge in Canton, N.Y., will hear some very unusual arguments in a very unusual motion by the state attorney general. He has asked that the misdemeanor pleas be thrown out and that the original charges of felony rape be reinstated.

There may yet be a trial in which a jury hears the evidence against the five men Krista Absalon once thought of as friends. “All I’ve ever wanted was my fair day in court,” she said last week. “Regular, everyday people--a jury--ought to hear what these men did to me.”

*

About 4,300 people live in Gouverneur, and most jobs are in the surrounding dairy farms and the zinc and the talc mines. The town has been best-known as the birthplace of Edward G. Noble, the inventor of Lifesavers. A car-sized replica of “the candy with a hole” welcomes the traffic into downtown.

While Gouverneur may be an oasis amid expanses of white pine and hemlock, there are not many nightspots except for the restaurants and bars owned by the Pistolesi family. The Casablanca sold good steaks and homemade pasta. Its bar was long and serpentine and the crowd was friendly.

Krista Absalon’s assailants are now known locally as the “Casablanca 5.” But if there is a common run of compassion in town, it is neither for the victim nor the “5” but the genial Italian immigrant who owns the bar, Tony Pistolesi. The case has cost his establishment its liquor license.

Gouverneur’s mayor, Donna Scozzafava, is typical of most when she said, “Everyone knows everyone else here, and there are some sympathies on both sides. But everyone feels for Mario Pistolesi’s father (Tony). He’s worked so many years in the restaurant trade and now he has been made to suffer.”

The elder Pistolesi assesses the crime in terms of lost business and, echoing general sentiments, indeed presents himself as a pitiable figure. “I was home sleeping and I’m the only one been hurt by all this,” he said. “To this day, I wouldn’t know how (the assault) started or how it ended.”

For quite some time, Krista Absalon was herself in the dark. Two of the men had given her a ride home that morning. She recalls feeling wet and sore, but attributed that to her menstrual cycle. She said she had no hint of what had gone on until 13 days later. A friend had heard talk. The men were boasting.

To make sense of it, Absalon rummaged through her memory but much of that night was only a deep pool of emptiness. “I thought it was impossible, no way, these guys were my friends,” she said. “I knew them from school and from the Casablanca on Friday nights. The idea of it made me an emotional wreck.”

So she phoned the one she felt closest to, Mario Pistolesi. “What the hell went on?” she asked him. “People are saying all sorts of rotten things.”

He answered her sternly, she recalled. “Listen Krista,” he said. “If you can’t remember, then nothing happened.”

*

Krista Absalon, however articulate, is not an assertive woman. She was not inclined to report anything, but a friend--a state trooper--had heard the stories, too. He urged her to file a complaint at the state trooper barracks.

Investigators first questioned bartender Greg Streeter, now 29. He confirmed that an attack had occurred, though he initially denied taking part in it himself. “I thought the girl was passed out,” he said.

His statement was crucial. It allowed police to squeeze confessions from three of the other four. One was Mark Hartle, now 27. He also comes from one of Gouverneur’s leading families, working in his dad’s construction business. His signed statement largely coincides with those of the others. It reads:

“At about 2:30 a.m., Mario Pistolesi was told by someone that there was a woman passed out in the girl’s bathroom. Mario went in and brought her out and helped her to a booth where she layed down. At the bar at the time was myself, Mario, Greg Streeter, Mike Curcio and David Cummings. Everybody else had left the bar and gone home.

“All five of us went to the back and proceeded to remove Krista’s clothes. I decided to have intercourse with her and I went first. I only had intercourse with her for about 1 1/2 minutes . . . I decided not to continue. After I was done, Mike Curcio was next. . . . He was followed by Greg Streeter, and then both Mario and David Cummings took turns. . . .

“When we were done, we all helped dress her. She was awake now and she had regained consciousness several times while we were having intercourse with her. We all went back to the bar and finished our beer and sandwiches. . . .

“I want to add a few things. . . . We would stay a few seconds when somebody was (assaulting) her and then go into the bar to drink some more. I also remember that Greg asked for a beer while he was (assaulting) Krista. I think Mario is the one that carried the beer back to him. . . .

“I am glad that I am finally able to talk about this as I have felt very guilty about doing this to Krista. I would not want anybody to do this to my sister.”

*

It would be months before the police made arrests. All the while, Absalon ached with self-loathing. “I was a nut case, a psycho, running scared, dealing with all kinds of emotions. I blamed myself for a long time. I still blame myself. It was stupid being in that bar and getting that drunk.”

She missed a lot of work. She drank heavily. “I had so many questions: Who did what and why? I felt betrayed in such a strange way. I would sit in the corner of the bedroom and cry all the time. My kids would ask what’s wrong, and I’d say that somebody hurt me, and they’d tell me to hurt them back.”

The crime had been reported in the local newspapers without using Absalon’s name, but many people certainly knew that she was the victim. She could sense the staring and hear the whispers. “Krista jokes” were circulating.

One whisper was that the Pistolesis wanted to buy her silence. In an effort to verify that, investigators arranged for Absalon to phone Mario as they recorded the call. He denied the offer, but their taped exchange reveals two friends struggling over one’s bad faith.

Krista: Why did you guys do that?

Mario: Why do we all do it? I don’t know. I’m sorry.

Krista: You’re sorry?

Mario: I should have used my, even, oh, I don’t know . . . I don’t know what you can say anymore. Seems like every time I turn around, I open my mouth, somebody be sticking their foot in my mouth. What can I say? I miss seeing you at the restaurant.

Krista: Why?

Mario: Nobody to drink with.

*

By the time rape charges were filed--five months after the assault--Absalon had sought help at a rape treatment center 25 miles away in Canton, the county seat and a college town. Counselors there were used to rapes where people blamed the victim.

“This case was too painful for some people to believe,” said Jennifer Baird, who runs the center. “The Pistolesis are a nice family. That goes against the stereotype.”

Absalon herself was born in Gouverneur to working-class parents. Her mother and two sisters have stood by her from the start. “Women are still suppressed here,” said one sister, Clover Forsythe. “In the North Country, we’re just starting to realize there’s such a thing as sexual harassment.”

Over the months, Absalon began to feel better about herself. She liked the word the counselors used: empowerment. She picked a lawyer from the phone book and filed a civil suit against the five men and Tony Pistolesi for $4 million.

Empowering as that may have felt, there was an unwanted repercussion. The Watertown Daily Times, so scrupulous about not publishing the name of a rape victim, went ahead and identified her as the plaintiff in the lawsuit. Gone forever was even the pretense of a victim’s anonymity.

“I went out to get annihilated, and I drank and I took some pills and I would’ve succeeded in killing myself if I hadn’t vomited it up,” she said.

*

A year after the arrests, Absalon was so frustrated with the justice system that her mind seemed to be on fire. She had no idea of what was happening. Dist. Atty. Richard Manning did not answer her calls. He had never spoken with her.

Elected in 1991, Manning had problems of his own. His assistant who handled sex crime cases had recently quit, complaining he had slandered her. A former secretary had sued him for sexual harassment, claiming he engaged in “outbursts of obscenities” and favored profanity in describing women.

Absalon did not get word of what was going on until last May. Newspapers reported that a plea was in the works, reducing the charges to misdemeanor sexual misconduct. That crime--defined similarly to rape as “sexual intercourse with a female without her consent”--was punishable by no more than a year in jail.

Entering such a plea would require some doing. Legally, Manning could not bargain a Class B violent felony down to a Class A misdemeanor. He would have to drop the first charge and file the misdemeanor charge with a village or town judge.

In rural New York, town judges are elected to handle minor violations. They commonly have no background in the law. In this instance, the case was scheduled for June 5 before Town Judge Wallace Sibley, a fertilizer salesman.

With that date set, something of a gasp rippled across the county. Women’s groups in Canton were outraged. The idea of it--a misdemeanor! There was talk the “5” might get off with only a few months behind bars or even probation.

On the Saturday morning of the trial, 100 protesters--mostly out-of-towners--lined the sidewalks outside the Gouverneur fire station, which sits beneath the town court. Children held signs marked in crayon: Don’t Hurt Girls.

Judge Sibley was ushered into the building with a police escort. Two of the defendants took seats right in front of the Absalon family. “You get the hell out from in front of us,” shouted Krista’s mother.

The judge warned against further disruptions. He expected order. If the victim wanted, she could present an “impact statement” before sentencing. Absalon had written one but was too upset to read it. Her sister Clover took over:

“I feel as if I have fought a losing battle for the last 19 months of my life. First, I had to deal with the fact that I was raped by five men--or should I say five animals--that I thought were my friends. Then came the media that slandered me with my name, my family, and then to top it off, I was raped again by the law system. . . .

“How come justice can’t be served? What in God’s name did I do wrong? They raped me when I could not consent. I was passed out and they raped me. They are pigs. They will walk free to do that again. . . .

“Ask them if they have had to go to a counselor every week for the last 19 months. Ask them if they have a hard time getting out of bed to go to their jobs. Ask them if they have to explain to their 4- and 5-year-old children why their mother is crying for no apparent reason. . . .

“I guess this statement is my last shot of hope, my last cry for the justice system that everyone is supposed to live by to finally do what is right and discipline these so-called men with something besides a slap on their hands. Sincerely, Krista Absalon.”

*

Most everyone considered the sentences--fines of $750 for each of the five and $90 more in court costs--to be startling in one way or another, including Judge Sibley. His caseload usually dealt with barroom scraps and speeding tickets. He had never meted out this big a penalty, he announced gravely.

Someone among the spectators answered that by shouting, “That’s it? No jail? No probation?” Even prosecutor Manning took exception. “I feel that there should have at least been a maximum fine ($1,000) and at least a year of conditional discharge, if not probation,” he told the court.

Manning himself could sense the heat. He would soon be under attack and he chose to face his critics with bluster. A plea-bargain was struck because “there was no corpus delecti, no proof that a crime had been committed,” he explained. He called reporters “pandering, pustulant press idiots” and claimed that Absalon’s lawsuit proved “she has dollar signs in her eyes.”

Ten days later, the prosecutor oddly apologized for his outbursts, if not his entire handling of the case. He offered regrets “to the victim of this heinous crime” for any misconstrued statements about her “harrowing ordeal.” He said he should have demanded that the “5” get a year in jail.

This solace was late. The sentencing had been a new low point for Absalon. Her mood was desperate. “A lot of people were sending flowers to my house,” she recalled. “It was like someone had died and, when I thought about it, I said, yeah, a part of me has died. And the price on it was $750.”

*

The Absalons were unwilling to let things settle over the slow drift of time. They had support in this from a vanguard in Canton. Angry calls were made to the right people around the state. A month later, Gov. Mario M. Cuomo asked for a review of the case from a special investigations commission.

At the time, there were some charges of back room deals, but that has not been proved. Dick Sterling, news editor of the weekly Gouverneur Tribune-Press and himself a town judge, believes the plea was just a matter of too many people taking the assault of a woman too lightly.

“(Judge) Sibley was duped by the big shot attorneys for the defendants and Mr. Manning,” Sterling said. “They presented everything to him beforehand, and I think Sibley honestly felt he was giving out a stiff sentence.”

The gross mismatch of crime and punishment inevitably brought national exposure. Last summer, the NBC news magazine “Now” did a segment. The defendants have otherwise been publicly silent, but the TV crew was able to persuade one, Michael Curcio, to appear on camera.

He proved an impenitent spokesman. “The truth is it was a gangbang,” Curcio said. “Gangbangs have been going on since the turn of the century.”

In Gouverneur, this TV program finally flushed out some additional sympathy for Absalon. By then, however, most people also wanted the case simply to be over. It was time for the town to go back to being the birthplace of Lifesavers.

That desire has been thwarted by the state’s intervention. Cuomo’s commission recommended that a special prosecutor be appointed. Atty. Gen. G. Oliver Koppell was named and he made this assessment: The town judge had no jurisdiction and the guilty pleas can be legally rescinded.

In place of those pleas, the state will today ask to reinstate the first-degree rape charges. The crime carries prison terms of up to 25 years. Prosecutors believe the defendants’ confessions are sufficient evidence.

Defense lawyers, for their part, intend to argue that all this violates their clients’ right not to be tried twice for the same crime--or double jeopardy. They say Cuomo and Koppell are posturing for votes.

“It’s political grandstanding and they haven’t a chance in hell to pull it off,” said lawyer Gary Miles, who represents Hartle. “Even if a district attorney screwed up, you can’t just waltz into court later and say that justice hasn’t been done. It violates every concept of due process.”

There are several possible outcomes, and some of them leave Krista Absalon very apprehensive. The guilty pleas could be thrown out without any new charges ever being sustained. There is that gamble.

In any event, she is bracing herself for her own day on the witness stand, either in a criminal case or the civil suit. “They’re going to put me through a long, dirty hell,” she said. “I’m no nun and I’ve never lived like one.”

There are plenty of people in Gouverneur ready to throw mud her way. Tim Markwick, the bass player in a rock band, said he has already taken one attorney on a tour of the bars that have banned Absalon for misbehavior. “I’ve seen her passed out so many times, you wouldn’t believe it,” he said.

Carlton Yedinak, bartender at the Fore by Four, is a spout for stories about how liquor turns Absalon into a vamp. “I’ve seen her in action, and it’s quite an act to see,” he said. “With a little to drink, she gets pretty free with herself.”

He is yet another here who sees what took place in the Casablanca through the peculiar refraction that focuses blame on the victim: “No one will tell you that what happened to her was right, but c’mon, a girl that drunk, what did she expect?”