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I have long intended to write a book entitled “Pedophiles in Power.” So, back to Round 3 of the Roman Polanski story, as Roman rides the Holocaust trail into glamorous Hollywood for its coveted Oscar.

Picture it folks. See all of filmdom’s “beautiful people,” the glitterati, as they sashay into the Academy Awards. Resplendent will they be in their cut-n-pasted faces, partly-there gowns, dazzling jewels, shiny tuxedos and bottled tans.

Once known as an egocentric, cut-throat, brutal profession, now, because of little Roman, they’ll all stand tall, shoulder to shoulder, united as one, together at last – their finest hour. The camera gives us a far shot of Roman’s cast of comrades, compassionate, reflective, rising in a wave of forgiveness, showing pity and compassion they clap for him, cheer him on, show him – their love.

After the stirring clip from Roman’s film “The Pianist,” the Academy camera will come in for close ups as his fellow artistes sigh, shaking their saddened heads left, then right, they are stirred, moved, touched. Their collective gaze conveys profound sincerity. Here and there, one notes a tear-filled eye.

“Ahh, there but for the grace of God …” “Ah, good Roman, it is time. Come home Roman, come home – back to us, your loyal and sensitive friends. Let him return, let the wandering Roman come home.”

Let’s recap. In 1977, filmmaker Roman Polanski, an infamous Hollywood pedophile, got caught. He was stunned at his arrest, shocked, outraged. After all, he’d done nothing more than drug, rape, sodomize and almost kill a 7th-grade girl he’d tricked into a hot tub. Based on his sadistic sexual history, there was nothing new in that.

It was just a little “romp in the hay,” someone wrote to me. “She consented.” “It was her mother’s fault.” “He’s so old.” “Hasn’t he suffered enough?” And, “She forgives him.”

Samantha, the 13-year-old who was attacked by the doped-up Polanski, was then hounded for years by a disbelieving and vicious “entertainment” press. Now married and the mother of three sons, Mrs. Geimer told Larry King Live and the Los Angeles Times that she wanted Roman to come home.

After all, an Oscar is waiting for him. “Inside Edition” reported in 1997 that “Polanski and his Hollywood pals are probably heartened by Geimer’s remarks … His fugitive status has made headaches for studios doing business with him.”

Well, that’s tough. So Hollywood coos, Come home Roman. We’ll give you an Academy Award for your long–suffering exile. Great flick, “The Pianist.” Deep. Penetrating. Sensitive. Suffering. Such genius. A pioneer. And so forth.

In 1948, before Alfred Kinsey strategized with his American Law Institute cohorts to gut our sex-law penalties, half the states in this great nation offered the death penalty for the plain old rape of an adult. By 1977, having been convicted of a ruthless child rape-sodomy-drugged-near-murder, Mr. Polanski might spend some 90-odd days in rehab, then probation. That could work.

When the pitiless judge told Polanski he’d serve 50 years – figuring he’d get parole certainly – Roman fled to France where he continued his avid career as a lionized pedophile filmmaker.

Now, as the Roman steps up to claim his Oscar, please picture this.

According to his friendly biographer, Thomas Kiernan, “Before getting out his cameras, Polanski broke open a bottle of champagne … The youngster hesitated, telling him that the last time she had drunk champagne it had made her violently ill. She was asthmatic, she said that the bubbly had brought on an asthma attack.”

Polanski reassures the 13-year-old child, saying French champagne “could never hurt you.” She takes a glass to please him. She is waiting to see Jack Nicholson. Soon “she felt her lungs beginning to constrict.” Polanski says “jump in hot tub … It make you feel better.”

“I really don’t feel good,” she said. “I knew I shouldn’t’ve had champagne … She complained again about her dizziness and shortness of breath … He gave her a tablet and told her to take it, assuring her that it would counter the effects of the champagne.”

According to the police report, “dutifully, the girl swallowed the tablet … Polanski had also neglected to tell her that the tablet was not an antiasthma pill … but a high-potency [illegal] Quaalude from his own pocket … The girl was in a deep champagne-Quaalude daze … slipping into unconsciousness.”

“She was shivering and ashen and weeping … I’m sick,” she mumbled drunkenly. I want to go home … my father … gasping for breath in shrill, raspy heaves. Mucus spilled from her nostrils.”

Polanski was suddenly concerned. The child had lost control of her bladder. “It would be unspeakable for him to be involved in the death of a naked American teenager … He realized [she] was in the throes of a potentially fatal seizure”.

She was feverish. Polanski “wondered whether he should call an ambulance or the police. He decided to wait, more out of his own drug-induced panic than considered judgment.”

Shortly thereafter, the skillfully manipulative Polanski brutally cursed as he painfully sodomized and then raped the sick and half unconscious girl. “With her breathing still impaired by the effects of the Quaalude and champagne, she immediately gagged and retched. She tried to scream but couldn’t produce a sound.”

I have redacted the most evil of Polanski’s atrocities.

In his Feb. 24 television interview, a neutral and distant Larry King asked Mrs. Grimer, “All you did was say, ‘no.’ You didn’t struggle?”

Despite Samantha Grimer’s reasonable desire to forget her brutal battering and to avoid additional years of scornful media harassment, most Americans are loath to send the message that our legal system provides special child-assault privileges for the media’s pedophile elite. Even artsy French ones.

Hollywood has an opportunity to show some honor by candidly rejecting the artistic “product” of a ruthless and evil creator. For, should they reward Polanski in any manner, they will prove, without question, that he has always been one of them.

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