"I've had the misfortune of being raped twice, once in the park and again in the media." 
 

These haunting words, spoken by a woman known only as Jane Doe, struck me to the core. A gay, Black 27-year-old woman, Jane Doe was brutally raped in Prospect Park in April 1994. What followed was equally devastating. Within days, New York Daily News reporter Mike McAlary published an article calling her assault a hoax. Despite police evidence and eyewitness accounts, he wrote two more articles accusing Jane Doe of fabricating the entire event. He never spoke to her, never visited the crime scene, and ignored lab and hospital reports. His words didn't just undermine Jane Doe's truth; they set a dangerous precedent. 
 

After being discredited publicly, Jane Doe walked into famed First Amendment attorney Martin Garbus's office seeking not money, but simply an apology. She never got one. Her lawsuit was dismissed in 1997. Emotionally destroyed, Jane Doe faded from public view. But truth doesn't vanish. Facts don't disappear. 
 

In 2013, Garbus watched Lucky Guy on Broadway. The play, written by Nora Ephron, portrayed McAlary as a lovable rogue, a crusading journalist with a heart of gold. As the audience applauded, Garbus sat frozen. What the play celebrated as gritty journalism, he knew to be a grave injustice. Where was Jane Doe's story?

Garbus published a searing op-ed in The New York Times asking the same question: Who will tell Jane Doe's story?
 

Years later, that question became my call to action. With Garbus's guidance and insight from Michael Osgood, former Deputy Chief of the NYPD's Special Victims Division, I began work on Unlucky Gal: The Story of Jane Doe at the start of the pandemic. It's not just a play, it's a response, a reckoning, a way to right a wrong through the power of theatre. 
 

In a remarkable turn, nearly 24 years later, Deputy Chief Osgood heard a radio broadcast about Jane Doe and Lucky Guy. He remembered the case and reopened it. Digging through more than one thousand cartons of evidence, Osgood located her original jogging shorts, which still contained DNA evidence. Within weeks, Jane Doe's rapist was identified: a serial offender already serving life. For the first time, Jane Doe received official, scientific, undeniable confirmation that she had told the truth all along. 
 

Finally, after 23 years, John Miller, the NYPD official who originally cast doubt on her credibility, apologized. But how does one measure the cost of a twenty-three year silence? Unlucky Gal exists because Jane Doe's voice matters. Because truth matters. Because art can confront injustice where systems fail. It brings together four brave individuals who dared to fight back against a culture that disbelieved and discarded survivors. 
 

Three decades have passed. But it's not too late to say her name, tell her story, and say: "we see you now."  Unlucky Gal is not just a recounting of what happened, it is a demand that we do better. 
 

We owe Jane Doe that much.

And so much more.