He was first arrested in 1972 after a series of sexual assaults in the L.A. area, and he earned the nickname the “Pillowcase Rapist” for allegedly putting a pillowcase over his victims’ heads during the assaults.
He was deemed a “mentally disordered sex offender” and sent to Atascadero State Hospital, and upon his release in 1979 he went on to rape another 15 women in the San Francisco Bay area.
He was arrested again, released again eight years later, and you guessed it, he tried to rape two more women.
Now he’s about to be free to make his rapey dreams come true again because Santa Clara Superior Court Judge Gilbert Brown is seemingly insane and ruled that Hubbart is no longer a threat and should be cleared to move into a house in the L.A. suburb of Lake Los Angeles.
I’m no legal scholar, but the judicial system has failed so spectacularly here that vigilante justice is warranted, and I can’t help but think about a story my grandpa told me from when he was growing up in rural Virginia in the 1930s.
One of his neighbors supposedly raped a friend’s sister, but the guy wasn’t charged because he was a good buddy of the county’s judge. In order to set things right a bunch of the locals got together and pulled the old flaming porch trick on him.
And by that I mean they set his porch on fire and when he ran outside, they beat him half to death with baseball bats.
Maybe it’s me, but the Depression Era South just seems like a magical place.