June 26, 2025 • 60 mins
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This Pride Month special explores the disturbing pattern of LGBTQ+ activists' deaths being systematically misclassified as suicides despite evidence of hate crimes. We examine how visibility became a death sentence for those who dared to live openly when society demanded silence.
• Scott Johnson's death at Sydney's Bluefish Point in 1988 was immediately ruled suicide despite no evidence of depression
• His brother Steve spent 34 years fighting for justice, uncovering at least 80 similar suspicious deaths of gay men in Sydney
• Harvey Milk's 1978 assassination revealed how the justice system failed to acknowledge anti-gay motivation
• Marsha P Johnson's body was found in the Hudson River with evidence suggesting murder, not suicide
• Police departments consistently used "lifestyle" terminology to blame victims and avoid investigating hate crimes
• Contemporary activists still face targeted violence, from Marielle Franco in Brazil to state-sponsored persecution in Chechnya
• Modern technology and advocacy have improved responses, but trans women of color remain disproportionately vulnerable
• Speaking the names of those who were silenced becomes an act of resistance and protection for future generations
If you or someone you know is experiencing anti-LGBTQ+ harassment or violence, contact organizations like The Trevor Project or local LGBTQ+ centers for support and resources.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Sandi McKenna (00:00):
December 10th 1988.
Dawn breaks over the jaggedcliffs of Sydney's North Head.
A jogger moves along thecoastal path, the salt air sharp
in his lungs, until somethingdown below stops him cold.
At the bottom of Bluefish Point.
Waves are washing over whatlooks like a body.
(00:20):
The police arrive, they take afew photos, ask a few questions
and within hours they've madetheir decision Suicide.
Welcome to our special PrideMonth episode.
Today we're diving intosomething that will make your
blood boil and your heart breakin equal measure.
We're talking about activists,people who dared to live openly,
(00:42):
to fight for equality, to bevisible when visibility could
get you killed.
And we're talking about whathappened when someone decided
their voices needed to besilenced.
From a cliptop in Australia tothe halls of San Francisco City
Hall, from the Hudson River tothe streets of Brazil.
There's a pattern here that lawenforcement spent decades
(01:06):
refusing to see.
These weren't random crimes,these weren't accidents and they
definitely weren't suicides.
So stay with us, because overthe next hour we are going to
walk you through the stories ofthose whose lives and deaths
demand to be heard.
And here's the part that willhaunt you how many more cases
(01:27):
like these are still sitting infiling cabinets, misclassified
and ignored, waiting for someoneto finally ask the right
questions.
Let's find out.
I'm Sandy McKenna and, alongwith Abraham Ulrich, welcome to
this special Pride Month episodeof Sinners and Secrets Audio
(01:58):
Jungle Audio.
(02:22):
Jungle Audio.
Abraham Aurich (02:24):
Jungle.
Scott Johnson, just 27, liestwisted on the rocks beneath
Bluefish Point.
The officers take one look Gayman known meeting spot.
They call it suicide, caseclosed.
But here's what they neverasked Was Scott depressed?
Was he struggling?
The answer, by all accounts, isno.
(02:45):
He was thriving, working on hisPhD in mathematics, in love
with his partner Michael, makingplans, building a future.
But what Scott was was visible,openly, gay, out and proud.
And in 1988, sydney, that kindof courage could cost him his
life.
What police dismissed as anisolated suicide was part of
(03:06):
something much bigger and muchdarker.
Between 1976 and 2000, at least80 men died under suspicious
circumstances around Sydney 80.
Yes, let that sink in.
They called the locations GayBeats, bluefish Point, marks
Park, bondi Beach, places wheremen went to find connection,
(03:27):
privacy, maybe even love.
But they were being turned intohunting grounds.
Packs of teenage boys, sometimesas young as 14, would roam
these cliffs looking for targets.
They called it poofer bashing.
To them it wasn't a hate crime,it was a pastime.
The playbook was always thesame them.
It wasn't a hate crime, it wasa pastime.
The playbook was always thesame Corner a man.
Rob him, beat him, throw himoff a cliff if they felt like it
(03:49):
.
And when the body was found,simple Gay man, known meeting
place must have jumped out ofshame.
The perfect crime, because thecops were already writing the
ending.
The more visible you were, themore danger you were in.
If you were loud, proud or anactivist, you were easier to
find.
And the Sydney police?
They had a saying when thesecases came in One less to worry
(04:13):
about.
That's not an urban legend,it's a direct quote.
And this wasn't just Sydney, itwas the Castro District in San
Francisco, the piers of New YorkCity, small town, big cities.
The formula stayed the sameFind a victim, silence them.
Let society's shame do the rest.
Who was going to fight forpeople the world had already
(04:34):
written off?
But silence didn't win, atleast not forever, because
someone always fights back.
And who did?
Scott Johnson's family, that'swho.
Harvey Milk's friends, marsha PJohnson's community, people who
refused to believe that lovewas a reason to die or that
pride was a crime.
(04:54):
But we're getting ahead ofourselves here.
Let's go back to that Decembermorning in 1988 and talk about
what really happened to ScottJohnson and why it took 34 years
to call it what it was murder.
Sandi McKenna (05:07):
Let me tell you about Scott Johnson Not the
victim, the person Becausethat's where this story really
starts and what makes whathappened to him so damn
infuriating.
He was 27,.
Brilliant, fearless.
Scott had moved from Californiato Sydney to pursue his PhD in
(05:28):
mathematics at the AustralianNational University.
This was 1988.
Being openly gay wasn't justbrave, it was revolutionary.
And Scott, he wasn't hidingfrom anyone.
Tall, sandy-haired, with thisinfectious laugh that his
friends still talk about, helived in Lane Cove with his
(05:49):
boyfriend, michael Noon, and, byall accounts, they were happy,
really, really happy.
He was doing groundbreakingwork in math, had a tight-knit
circle of friends and he wasplanning a bright, wide-open
future.
He wasn't depressed, he wasn'tstruggling with his identity and
he was planning a bright,wide-open future.
He wasn't depressed, he wasn'tstruggling with his identity and
he wasn't suicidal.
(06:09):
Remember that it becomes veryimportant later.
December 10, 1988.
Saturday morning, scott tellsMichael he's going for a walk,
something he often did.
He loved the coastal trails,the cliffside views.
He headed toward North Head,specifically Bluefish Point.
(06:29):
Hours pass, scott doesn'treturn.
Michael starts calling around.
Friends haven't seen him byevening.
He's frantic.
He calls the police.
The next morning, that jogger wementioned earlier finds Scott's
body on the rocks belowBluefish Point.
He's been in the water,battered by the waves, but it's
(06:51):
obvious he fell from asignificant height.
Here's what the police did theytook photos.
They noted that his clotheswere found neatly folded at the
top of the cliff.
Noted that his clothes werefound neatly folded at the top
of the cliff.
They asked Michael a fewroutine questions and within 24
hours they had made up theirminds Suicide.
(07:12):
No canvassing of witnesses, noforensic testing of the clothing
, no exploration into whetherthose clothes were folded by
Scott or by someone else.
No mention of the fact thatBluefish Point was a well-known
gay meeting spot and the site ofrepeated anti-gay attacks.
(07:33):
Case closed, filed away.
But 8,000 miles away inCalifornia, scott's older
brother, steve Johnson, startedgetting calls that didn't make
sense.
They spoke often.
Scott sounded upbeat, excited.
Even Just days earlier he'dcalled Steve about his research
and about coming home forChristmas.
Steve started asking questionsand the more he asked, the less
(07:57):
the official story made sense.
First, the location.
Bluefish Point wasn't just ascenic overlook.
It was part of what localscalled the gay beat Secluded
areas where men met forconnection, privacy and intimacy
, but also places where gay menwere targeted, attacked, killed.
Second, the clothes Policeclaimed Scott folded them neatly
(08:19):
before jumping.
But his friends said he wasmeticulous.
He'd never leave his thingsexposed like that, especially
with rain in the forecast.
Third, the injuries.
Scott had defensive wounds onhis hands, on his arms, wounds
that didn't match a simple fall.
But when Steve tried to getanswers he hit a wall.
(08:41):
The New South Wales policeweren't interested.
They had their ruling and theywere sticking to it.
So Steve did what any lovingbrother would do when the system
failed.
He became the detective thepolice refused to be.
He flew back and forth foryears, hired private
investigators, interviewedwitnesses the police never had
(09:03):
contacted.
Investigators, interviewedwitnesses the police never had
contacted.
He studied tides, weather andtopography.
He dug into the growing patternof gay hate crimes that Sydney
police had quietly buried andwhat he uncovered was horrifying
.
Between 1976 and 2000, steveuncovered at least 80 suspicious
(09:23):
deaths of gay men, each ruledsuicide, drowning or accidental.
Most were barely aninvestigation, some with no
investigation at all.
In 2005, steve pushed for asecond inquest.
Deputy State Coroner JacquelineMillage reviewed the evidence
for months.
She ruled the suicide findingwas wrong.
(09:45):
Scott's death was caused byviolence, but she couldn't
determine if it was murder ormanslaughter.
It was progress, but it wasn'tjustice.
In 2012, steve pushed for athird inquest.
This time, coroner MichaelBarnes went further.
He found that Scott had diedfrom a gay hate attack and
(10:07):
criticized the original policeinvestigation as deeply flawed.
Still no charges, no arrests,no accountability.
But in 2017, everything shifted.
The New South Wales governmentoffered a $1 million reward for
information leading to gay hatecrime convictions and suddenly
(10:30):
people started talking.
One of them was Scott White, ateenager in 1988, a man with a
history of violence against gaymen, a man who had been in the
area of Bluefish Point the dayScott died.
A man who had been in the areaof Bluefish Point the day Scott
died.
Under questioning, scott Whiteadmitted he'd crossed paths with
Scott Johnson that day, thatthere was an altercation and
(10:53):
finally, that he attacked himbecause he was gay.
On May 2, 2022, 33 years, 4months and 22 days after Scott
Johnson's death, scott White wasconvicted of his murder.
During sentencing, justiceHelen Wilson said what Scott's
(11:14):
family had waited decades tohear the victim did nothing
wrong.
The victim was targeted andkilled because he was gay.
But what makes this story notjust heartbreaking but hopeful
is this Scott Johnson's caseunlocked dozens of others.
Steve's relentless pursuit oftruth forced the government to
(11:37):
confront what they had spentyears denying.
Today, a special police unitreviews gay hate crime.
Cold cases from that eraFamilies once told their sons or
brothers took their own livesare finally getting real
investigations.
Steve Johnson spent 34 yearsfighting for his brother.
(11:58):
He mortgaged his home, depletedhis savings, devoted every
spare moment to seeking justice,and when asked why he never
gave up, he said something thatstill gives me chills.
Scott was my little brother.
He deserved better than whatthey gave him.
They all deserved better, andthat's what this story is really
(12:20):
about, not just one death oreven one family's fight.
It's about a system that failedan entire community, about how
prejudice and indifference canbe just as deadly as a weapon,
but it's also about the power oflove, of persistence and of
refusing to let injustice standjust because it's easier.
Scott Johnson died because hewas gay and visible at the time
(12:44):
when visibility could cost youeverything.
But his story lived becauseSteve refused to let him be
erased, and that refusal to lethim vanish that's what changed
everything.
Abraham Aurich (12:57):
November 27, 1978, monday morning, harvey
Milk walks the halls of SanFrancisco City Hall with a
spring in his step.
Just a week earlier, californiavoters rejected Proposition 6,
a ballot measure that would havebanned gay teachers from
teaching public schools.
Harvey had campaignedtirelessly against it and the
victory it felt like a turningpoint.
(13:19):
He had no idea he had less thantwo hours to live.
Let's go back, because HarveyMilk's story isn't just about
how he died.
It was about who he was and whyhis life mattered.
Harvey was 48, a former WallStreet analyst, turned camera
shop owner, who found his truecalling in politics.
He wasn't just out out.
(13:47):
He was loudly out, defiantly,joyfully, unapologetically gay
at a time when that coulddestroy your career, your family
, your life.
Harvey ran for San Franciscosupervisor three times before
finally winning in 1977,becoming the first openly gay
elected official in California.
He didn't win by playing itsafe.
He won by being exactly who hewas.
His campaign slogan Harvey Milkvs the Machine.
(14:09):
And it fit.
He was up against the old guard, the insiders, the ones who
thought San Francisco shouldnever change.
But Harvey was to change and hewas winning.
Not everybody was happy.
Dan White was everything.
Harvey wasn't 32 years old, aformer police officer and
firefighter, a devout Catholic,a believer in traditional values
(14:31):
, he was elected to the board ofsupervisors the same year as
Harvey, representing aconservative district that was
growing uneasy with SanFrancisco's shift towards
progressivism.
Where Harvey was inclusive andexpressive, white was rigid and
resentful.
Where Harvey fought for themarginalized, white defended law
and order.
They clashed often and theirmutual dislike was no secret.
(14:55):
In October 1978, white abruptlyresigned from the board, citing
financial pressures.
The salary of $19,600 a yearwasn't enough to support his
family.
But almost immediately he hassecond thoughts.
He lobbied Mayor George Mosconeto reappoint him.
At first Moscone seemedinclined to do it, but Harvey
(15:17):
Milk and other progressivesupervisors pushed back.
They urged Moscone to appointsomeone aligned with the city's
future.
They urged Moscow to appointsomeone aligned with the city's
future, not its past.
On November 26, the day beforethe murderers, moscow called
White, told him he wouldn't bereappointed.
He was choosing a more liberalreplacement instead.
Dan White was furious.
(15:38):
The next morning, on November 27, white put on his best suit.
Then he did something.
No one noticed, but should have.
He strapped on his servicerevolver, a .38 caliber Smith
Weston.
He arrived at City Hall around10 am.
But instead of walking throughthe front doors and passing
through the metal detectors, heclimbed through a basement
(15:58):
window.
He knew how to bypass security.
Of course he had worked there.
He went straight to MayorMoscon's office.
Moscon, expecting aconversation, let him
in.
The first shot hit Moscon inthe shoulder, the second into
his chest.
The mayor collapsed.
Then White walked over to whereMoscon laid, wounded but still
(16:20):
alive, and fired two more shotsat point-blank range into his
head.
But White wasn't finished, notyet at least.
He reloaded his gun, crossedthe building to Harvey Mills'
office and asked to speak withhim privately.
Harvey, unaware of what hadjust happened, said yes.
They stepped into a small sideroom.
(16:40):
Moments later Harvey was dead,shot five times, two of them
fired execution style into hishead, after he'd already fallen.
By 11.30 am both men weregone.
Dan White calmly walked out ofCity Hall, drove to the nearest
police station and turnedhimself in to a former colleague
(17:00):
.
His precise words were simple Ishot the mayor and Harvey.
The city erupted.
Thousands gathered in theCastro District, harvey's
neighborhood.
Candlelight vigils stretchedfor blocks.
People wept in the streets.
This wasn't just the murder oftwo politicians.
This was an assault oneverything the city's
progressive movement stood for.
(17:21):
But if the public expectedjustice, they were in for a
heartbreak.
Dan White's trial began in May1979.
His legal team, led by DouglasSchmidt, mounted a controversial
strategy the diminishedcapacity defense.
Now let's be clear.
The infamous Twinkie defensedidn't claim junk food caused
(17:42):
the murderers.
What the defense argued wasthat White's junk food binge,
candy bars, coca-cola was asymptom of deep depression, that
his mental state was impairedby his inability to form intent.
Psychiatrists smart and blindtestify that White's shift from
health food to sugar and snackswas proof of emotional collapse.
(18:03):
But here's the problem thiswasn't a spontaneous act.
White brought a loaded gun.
He avoided security.
He reloaded after killing themayor, then executed
Milk.
The prosecution argued forfirst-degree murder.
They pointed to all the signsof premeditation.
But they made a criticalmistake.
They barely mentioned HarveyMilk's sexuality.
(18:25):
They never framed it as a hatecrime.
Maybe they thought it wasobvious.
Maybe they didn't want to stirthings up further.
Maybe they underestimated thecost of silence.
Whatever the reason, it was amiscalculation that would haunt
San Francisco for decades.
On May 21, 1979, the judgedelivered their verdict
(18:46):
Voluntary manslaughter, notfirst-degree murder, not
second-degree murder.
The man who executed twoelected officials would be
eligible for parole in just fiveyears.
That night the Castro districtexploded.
What began as a peaceful vigilbecame the White Nights Riot.
Protesters stormed City HallWindows were shattered, police
(19:11):
cars burned.
Over 140 people were injured,dozens were arrested.
The gay community had reachedits breaking point.
Dan White had served five yearsin one month.
He was released in 1984.
Less than two years later hetook his own life carbon
monoxide poison in agarage.
But the question never reallyleft.
(19:32):
Was this political rage apersonal vendetta?
Or was Harvey's identity, thefact that he was proudly
publicly gay, the reason whyWhite killed him?
Here's what we know.
Dan White made homophobiccomments throughout his time in
office.
He opposed every piece of gayrights legislation and after the
(19:53):
murderers, he told the policeHarvey was trying to turn San
Francisco into a playground forhomosexuals.
A direct quote here's what wedon't know and may never know.
Was that hatred the reasonHarvey Milk died, or just one
more layer in a tragedy shapedby rage, repression and
fear?
(20:13):
What we do know is this HarveyMilk's assassination lit a fire
under the LGBTQ plus rightsmovement that even his life
hadn't sparked yet.
The death became a rallying cry.
His story became legend, andhis message that visibility
matters, that pride is powerful,echoed beyond San Francisco.
(20:35):
Harvey once said If a bulletshould enter my brain, let that
bullet destroy every closed doorIn death.
He got his wish, and thatbullet didn't just tear through
one man.
It tore open a nationalconversation.
But it also revealed somethingdarker how easily justice can
(20:55):
fail when the victim is seen asother.
How easily a hate crime can bereframed as something easier to
swallow.
Dan White didn't just killHarvey Milk.
He tried to kill the ideaHarvey represented that LGBTQ
plus people deserve not justtolerance, but acceptance,
(21:16):
respect and power.
And while the idea was wounded,that day, harvey's legacy
proved stronger than the bulletthat tried to stop it.
Sandi McKenna (21:25):
Before we talk about how Marsha P Johnson died,
we need to talk about how shelived boldly, defiantly and with
a fire that still burns decadeslater.
June 28, 1969.
The Stonewall Inn is undersiege, but this time the fight
isn't coming from the outside,it's erupting from within.
(21:49):
Decades of police raids,harassment and brutality have
pushed the LGBTQ plus communityto its breaking point.
And right there in the thick ofit, throwing bottles and
leading chance, is a 24-year-oldblack transgender woman named
Marsha P Johnson.
The P, she said with a slysmile, stood for pay it no mind.
(22:15):
Marshall was born MalcolmMichaels Jr in 1945 in Elizabeth
, new Jersey.
She knew from an early age thatshe was different, but in the
1950s and 60s there weren'twords for what she felt and
there definitely wasn'tacceptance.
At 17, she made her way toGreenwich Village with just $15
(22:39):
and a bag of clothes.
She took the name Marsha andlived her truth loudly and
unapologetically.
Marsha was impossible to miss.
She stood over six feet talland wore elaborate wigs, bright
makeup and outfits that blendedcostume, protest and art.
Feathers, flowers, bangles,rhinestones.
(23:01):
Every look told a story andevery story was unmistakably
Marcia.
But she wasn't just a performer, she was a protector.
She was a protector, arevolutionary who understood
that for people like her,survival and resistance were the
same thing.
After Stonewall, marshaco-founded STAR Street
(23:26):
Transvestite ActionRevolutionaries with her best
friend, sylvia Rivera.
Star wasn't just anorganization, it was a lifeline.
Their Star House gave shelterto homeless LGBTQ plus youth,
especially trans women of color,with nowhere else to go.
(23:47):
And let's be clear, this wasdangerous work.
In the 1970s and 80s, beingopenly trans, especially if you
were black and poor, was nearlya death sentence.
Marcia lived with that threatevery single day, but she never
stopped showing up, neverstopped opening her door, never
(24:09):
stopped fighting.
By 1992, marcia was 46 years oldand still fighting.
She'd been hospitalized formental health episodes, what
doctors called mania.
But that summer friends saidshe was doing well, she was
excited about pride, she hadplans, projects, purpose.
Then came July 6, 1992.
(24:32):
A Monday morning her body wasfound floating in the Hudson
River near the ChristopherStreet Pier.
The pier back then was a havenfor LGBTQ plus youth, especially
kids who'd been kicked out oftheir homes.
It was also a place where transwomen met clients because for
many sex work was the only wayto survive.
(24:54):
But the pier was dangerousViolence, assaults, drownings.
It was the kind of place wheresomeone could vanish and no one
would ask too many questions.
When Marsh's body was found, theNYPD moved fast, too fast.
They ruled it suicide.
No real investigation, nowitness interviews, no
(25:18):
consideration of the fact thatMarcia wasn't suicidal.
Here's what the police didn'task.
Marcia had been at a Prideevent the night before she was
last seen leaving around 1 amwith someone no one recognized.
She had future plans.
She was excited about what wasto come next.
(25:39):
Here's what else they didn'task.
There was blunt force trauma toher head, a wound that
suggested she'd been struck orthrown.
But here's what says it allabout how the NYPD valued
Marsha's life.
They didn't perform an autopsy.
For weeks Her body sat in themorgue decomposing while someone
(26:03):
decided whether her death wasworth investigating.
And when they finally didperform an autopsy, there was no
water in her lungs.
Think about that If she hadjumped or fallen into the river
and drowned, there would have nowater in her lungs.
Think about that If she hadjumped or fallen into the river
and drowned, there would havebeen water in her lungs.
The absence of water suggestedshe was already dead when she
entered the water, but theruling stood Suicide.
(26:28):
For 20 years, marsha's friendsand community demanded answers.
They were ignored, dismissed,told to move on.
Then, in 2012, somethingshifted.
Filmmaker David France releasedthe Death and Life of Marsha P
Johnson, a documentary thatpulled the curtain back on her
(26:49):
case.
It featured interviews withMarsha's friends, activists,
experts and exposed just howflawed the original
investigation had been.
And it revealed somethingchilling.
In the two weeks before herdeath, marsha had told friends
she was being harassed.
She said she was scared thatsomeone was following her.
(27:11):
The documentary and the pressureit created finally forced the
NYPD to reopen her case.
Detective Ryan Cronin wasassigned to reinvestigate.
But by then the trail was cold.
Witnesses had died, evidencewas gone, memories had faded.
What Detective Cronin diduncover was damning.
(27:33):
Witnesses who saw Marcia withsomeone that night were never
interviewed.
Friends who said she wasn'tsuicidal were dismissed without
statements and Marcia's purseNever found.
She'd been seen carrying moneyfrom a recent gig In the world.
Marcia lived in robbery.
Homicides were tragically common, but rarely taken seriously.
(27:56):
As of today, marsha P Johnson'sdeath remains officially
unsolved.
The case has been reclassifiedas a homicide investigation, but
there have been no arrests, nocharges, no justice.
What Marsha's story reallyshows us is this Society saw her
(28:17):
as disposable and in many waysstill does.
She was a pioneer, arevolutionary, a mother to a
movement, and yet when she died,she was just another dead trans
woman.
In the eyes of the NYPD, theintersection of racism and
transphobia creates a perfectstorm of indifference.
(28:38):
Black trans women are murderedat disproportionate rates.
Their deaths are rarelyinvestigated with urgency or
respect.
Marsha's case wasn't an outlier.
It was part of a pattern.
Today that's starting to change.
Marsha is finally being honored.
Monuments are going up,scholarships are being funded
(28:59):
and her work her real workcontinues through grassroots
organizations supporting LGBTQplus youth.
But maybe the most importanttribute is this People who are
finally asking the rightquestions about her death.
They're demanding answers.
They're refusing to let herstory stay buried.
Portia P Johnson spent her lifefighting for a world where
(29:23):
people like her black, trans,poor, loud, beautiful could live
safely, openly and with dignity.
She didn't live to see thatworld realized, and if her death
tells us anything, it's thatshe may have died because that
world didn't yet exist.
30 years later, we're stillasking the question Marsha might
(29:45):
have asked when will Blacktrans lives matter enough to get
justice?
When will the system thatfailed her be forced to face
that failure.
The answer is we're stillwaiting.
Abraham Aurich (30:00):
March 14th 2018, rio de Janeiro, brazil.
Just after 9 pm, Mariel Francoleaves a panel of Black women in
politics Still glowing from theenergy in the room.
She climbs into the backseat ofher car with her press advisor,
anderson Gomes.
Her driver pulls away from thecultural center and makes it
exactly four blocks.
(30:20):
Another car pulls up alongsidethem at a traffic light and,
without warning, gunfireThirteen shots, nine of which
hit their mark.
Mario Franco and Anderson Gomesdied immediately.
Mario Franco and Anderson Gomesdied immediately.
The driver somehow survives.
Let me tell you who MarioFranco was.
Her life explains why her deathsent shockwaves around the
(30:42):
world.
Mario Franco was everything theBrazilian establishment feared
Black, a woman, openly bisexualand unwilling to stay quiet.
She grew up in Meir, one ofRio's largest favelas, where
police brutality was a dailyreality for her.
She grew up watching friendsand neighbors disappear into a
(31:03):
system that treated poor blacklives as disposable.
But Marielle didn't justsurvive.
She rose above her origins.
She went on to earn hermaster's degree in public
administration, became a humanrights activist and won a seat
on the Rio City Council.
Her platform PoliceAccountability, women's Rights,
lgbtq Plus Rights and the End ofthe Military Occupation in
(31:27):
Rio's Favelas.
Marielle wasn't just talking.
She was investigating,documenting, naming names.
Days before her murder, shepublicly criticized a violent
police operation going on in herneighborhood by calling out a
battalion known for itsbrutality.
Needless to say, marielleFranco made powerful people
nervous, and her murder itwasn't random.
(31:50):
It was a message, a politicalhit carried out with military
precision, the kind of operationthat doesn't happen without
permission.
Seven years later, we have someanswers.
In 2023, brazilian federalpolice arrested five men in
connection with the crime,including two former police
officers believed to have pulledthe trigger, but the mastermind
(32:12):
, the people who ordered the hit, they're still free.
Mario's case shows us somethingchilling when LGBTQ plus
activists also challenge statepower, the danger multiplies.
This isn't just about personalbias.
This is institutional violencedesigned to silence dissent, and
if you want to see what thatlooks like completely
(32:33):
unrestrained, look no furtherthan Chechnya.
In 2017, reports began emergingfrom this Russian republic,
reports that should have shockedthe world.
Men were being rounded up,detained, tortured and, in some
cases, killed because they weresuspected of being gay.
This was systematic,coordinated and brutal.
(32:54):
Chechen's officials trackedpeople using their social media,
dating apps and informants.
These men were arrested,detained in secret facilities,
literal concentration camps.
Once there, they were beaten,electrocuted and even tortured.
Some were released, othersvanished, never to be seen again
, even tortured.
(33:15):
Some were released, othersvanished, never to be seen again
.
Chechen's leader, razam Khodorovdenied the whole thing.
He said, quote if such peopleexisted in Chechnya, law
enforcement wouldn't need toworry about them.
Their own families would sendthem to a place of no return.
End quote Translation we don'thave to kill them.
Their own families would do itfor us.
This wasn't mob violence.
It was state-sponsored genociderun by government officials,
(33:38):
shielded by Moscow's silence andlargely ignored by the rest of
the world.
International investigatorsdocumented the crimes, but
prosecuted almost none.
The men responsible still holdpower.
Then there's Mexico.
The numbers alone arestaggering.
Between 2013 and 2020, more than400 trans people were murdered.
(34:00):
Most of these murders followeda pattern Extreme violence,
sexual assault, mutilation.
These weren't crimes of passion.
They were warnings meant tosilence entire communities.
And, as always, the morevisible you are, the more at
risk you become.
Trans women who speak out,organize or refuse to hide
(34:21):
become deliberate targets, likeAlessa Flores, a trans rights
activist murdered in 2020.
She had reported death threatsto the police, begged for
protection.
The police ignored her.
Then she was killed.
Or Paola Buenarrostro sheorganized Mexico's first trans
pride march.
Weeks later, she was shot andleft in the street.
(34:43):
Message received.
The pattern is undeniable.
Whether it's Rios or Grozny,mexico City or Sydney, the
message is the same Visibilitybecame dangerous, speaking out
is dangerous, challenging poweris even more dangerous and the
response Tragically consistentas well.
These deaths don't get fullinvestigation, these voices
(35:07):
don't get preserved.
But what connects them all, themen of Chechnya, the transhuman
of Mexico, is this they knewsilence was deadly and still
they spoke up.
They could have stayed quiet,could have disappeared, but they
didn't, because they understoodwhat their killers feared that
love, justice and truth, whenspoken out loud, are more
(35:27):
powerful than violence and hate.
It's 2025 and we're stillburying the same victims, still
having the same conversation,still fighting the same battles.
The progress is real, but it'sfragile and it's paid for in
blood.
Every pride flag, everymarriage equality law and every
anti-discrimination ordinanceexists because someone risked
(35:49):
their everything to make ithappen, and for too many, that
risk wasn't theoretical, it wasfatal.
Sandi McKenna (35:57):
It shows up in police reports across continents
, across decades Two quiet wordsthat have buried more truth
than they've ever uncoveredProbable suicide.
Let me read you some of theheadlines Gay man found dead at
cliff base.
Police rule suicide.
Transgender woman found inriver Apparent suicide.
(36:20):
Lgbtq plus activist dies undersuspicious circumstances Suicide
suspected.
Do you hear the pattern?
Because the families of thesevictims did and they started
asking a very simple questionwhy is suicide always the first
assumption when LGBTQ pluspeople die under mysterious
(36:41):
circumstances?
Let's go back to the cases we'vecovered.
Scott Johnson, found at thebottom of the cliff, gay man
remote area.
No obvious struggle and closethe file within hours Suicide.
Never mind that Scott had nohistory of depression, never
mind that he had plans for thefuture, never mind that the
(37:01):
location was a well-knownhotspot for anti-gay attacks.
The narrative was tooconvenient to question.
Marsha P Johnson, foundfloating in the Hudson River in
1992.
No thorough investigation, nointerviews with friends who
insisted she wasn't suicidal, noconsideration of the blunt
force trauma to her head.
(37:22):
Here's what these cases had incommon the victims were LGBTQ+,
the circumstances weresuspicious and the authorities
chose the explanation thatrequired the least work, the
fewest resources, the smallestamount of caring.
When a straight, white, wealthyperson dies mysteriously, there
is an investigation, witnessesare interviewed, forensics
(37:45):
analyzed, leads pursued.
When an LGBTQ plus person,especially someone poor, trans
or a person of color, dies thesame way, the assumption changes
.
The thinking goes like thisWell, these people live
difficult lives.
They face discrimination,rejection, mental health
challenges.
Of course they'd be suicidal.
(38:07):
It's victim blaming dressed upas compassion and it kills.
But in case after case,families refused to accept the
easy explanation.
These families saw whatinvestigators didn't or wouldn't
acknowledge that assumingsuicide was often a way of
avoiding the harder, messierwork of investigating a hate
(38:28):
crime.
And slowly, painfully, the truthbegan to emerge.
Not because the system worked,but because people outside the
system refused to let it fail.
Cold case units formed decadeslater started finding evidence
that had been ignored ordismissed.
Community organizers forcedcases to be reopened.
(38:50):
Documentaries brought publicattention to deaths that had
been filed away and forgotten.
In Scott Johnson's case, apublic reward finally pushed
witnesses to come forward,people who'd seen gangs in the
area that night information thatcould have been gathered in
1988 if anyone cared enough tolook.
Marsha P Johnson's case wasreopened only after public
(39:14):
outrage and documentary pressureforced the NYPD's hand.
Even then, it took years forthem to reclassify her death as
a homicide.
These cases could have beensolved decades earlier if they'd
been treated with the same caregiven to other victims.
The evidence existed, thewitnesses were there, the
forensics were possible.
(39:36):
What was missing was the beliefthat these lives mattered enough
to investigate fully.
And that belief, or lack of it,comes from somewhere.
It comes from a society thatstill in many ways sees LGBTQ
plus people as other, as tragicby default, as someone
responsible for the violencethey face, as living lives that
(39:57):
naturally end in tragedy.
And that bias doesn't justaffect the individual cases, it
blinds the entire system.
When each death is treated asan isolated incident, when every
suspicious death is quietlystamped suicide, authorities
miss the bigger picture.
They miss the organized gangstargeting gay men, the serial
(40:19):
killers hunting trans women, thecoordinated threats aimed at
LGBTQ plus activists.
It's only when activists andfamilies demand a broader look
that the patterns emergeClusters of suicides at gay
meeting spots, transgender womenfound dead under similar
conditions, the same suspectsappearing again and again across
(40:41):
supposedly unconnected cases.
Today, things are slowlyshifting.
Some police departments nowhave LGBTQ plus liaison units.
Some jurisdictions have updatedhate crime protocols.
Some cold case units arereviewing historical LGBTQ plus
deaths.
But this change didn't comefrom the inside.
(41:03):
It came because families andcommunities refused to accept
probable suicide as the finalword.
They fought, they organized,they demanded better.
Every reopened case, everyoverturned suicide ruling, every
long overdue conviction, eachone is a victory, not just for
(41:24):
justice but for the principlethat all lives deserve to matter
equally under the law.
But each one also representssomething else a system failure,
a life that might have beensaved, answers that should have
been found long ago.
And now we have to askourselves how many more cases
(41:45):
are out there still filed awayas probable suicide, waiting for
someone to care enough to lookagain?
How many families are stillfighting for answers they should
have gotten decades ago?
And how many have we alreadylost Because no one asked the
right questions when it stillmattered?
Abraham Aurich (42:06):
There's a word that appears again and again in
police reports, newspaperarticles and official statements
about LGBTQ plus victims overthe last 50 years.
It's subtle, easy to miss, butonce you see it, you can't unsee
it.
The word is lifestyle.
The victim's lifestyle may havecontributed to their death.
(42:28):
Police are investigatingwhether the victim's lifestyle
played a role.
Given the victim's lifestyle,suicide cannot be ruled out.
That single word carried theweight of an entire society's
prejudice.
It didn't describe an identity.
It implied a choice, a riskyone, a dangerous one, one that
(42:49):
made violence seem not onlypredictable but almost deserved.
This wasn't an oversight.
It was editorial strategy, away of reinforcing the idea that
LGBTQ plus people were tragic,unsafe or other.
And it worked Because, overtime, lgbtq plus victims weren't
treated as fully human.
(43:10):
They became cautionary tales,not people, not lives worth
protecting, not stories worthjustice.
But here's what that narrativeerased so many of these victims
weren't just living, they wereleading.
Harvey Milk wasn't just a gayman, he was reshaping
California's politics.
Marsha P Johnson wasn't justsurviving, she was saving lives.
(43:34):
Mario Franco she wasn't justbisexual, she was dismantling
corruption, fighting policeviolence in Brazil.
These weren't random acts ofviolence, these were strategic
silences.
People in power gotuncomfortable.
And when these changemakerswere killed, the word lifestyle
gave everyone else permission tolook away.
(43:55):
The legacy of that silence.
It can be overstated.
Imagine being LGBTQ plus in the1970s, 80s or 90s and knowing
that if something happened toyou, society would shrug and say
well, what did they expect?
So people hid, they stayedquiet.
They didn't report violence,they didn't seek help, they
lived.
So people hid, they stayedquiet.
They didn't report violence,they didn't seek help.
(44:16):
They lived smaller, safer lives, not because they wanted to,
but because being seen felt likea death sentence.
And the cruel irony Most of thepeople we lost were the ones
trying to change that.
Marsha P Johnson was out thereevery day feeding that.
(44:36):
Marsha P Johnson was out thereevery day feeding, sheltering
and fighting for LGBTQ plusyouth, but when she died she was
dismissed.
Just another tragic trans womanHarvey Milk.
He proved gay leaders could beeffective, respected and
visionary, but his assassinationwas framed as well the cost of
his controversial lifestyle.
This framing had a purpose.
It kept society from having toexamine its role in LGBTQ plus
(45:01):
violence.
If these deaths were just partof that lifestyle, then we
didn't have to question the law,the system, media and ourselves
.
It was victim blaming justdressed up in formal language.
But language shapes reality andeventually LGBTQ plus voices
began reshaping the narrative.
(45:21):
Lifestyle became identity,choice became orientation and
tragedy became what it often wasa hate crime.
Today's activists understandwhat their predecessors only
dreamed of that visibility,while dangerous, is also
powerful.
That speaking out while riskyis also how you change the world
(45:44):
.
And that silence, it, mayprotect you for a while, but it
will never set you free.
We haven't broken the silencecompletely.
Trans women of color are stillbeing murdered, queer people
around the world still facestate violence and the media
still gets it wrong Too often inmy opinion.
But the framing has shifted,and that shift matters.
(46:08):
We no longer accept lifestyleas an excuse for neglect.
We demand names, investigation,accountability.
The voices that were silenceddidn't die in vain.
They forced the world to listen, even in death, and their
legacy it lives, not just in thecases we solve, but in the
culture we're still fighting tochange.
(46:29):
One conversation at a time.
One truth at a time.
One conversation at a time.
Sandi McKenna (46:35):
One truth at a time, one name at a time,
february 2025.
Somewhere in America, atransgender woman checks the
news before heading out to work.
Another headline, another law,another murder in her community.
She sighs, she smooths herblouse and walks out the door
(46:56):
anyway, because that's whatsurvival looks like now.
This is what it means to beLGBTQ in 2025.
The landscape has changed, butthe danger hasn't disappeared.
It's just evolved.
Let me give you some numbersthat haunt the headlines, if
(47:16):
they even make the headlines atall.
In 2024, at least 36 transgenderpeople were murdered in the US.
That's that we know of the truenumber, almost certainly higher
, because many deaths aremisreported, deadnamed or erased
before they're ever countedGlobally.
It's even more alarming beforethey're ever counted Globally.
(47:40):
It's even more alarming In 2023, the Trans Murder Monitoring
Project documented over 320murders of transgender and
gender-diverse people.
That's more than one deathevery day, and the pattern is
painfully familiar 96% of thosevictims were transgender women,
80% were people of color.
When racism, sexism andtransphobia collide, the result
(48:02):
isn't just inequality.
It's fatal.
But violence isn't onlyphysical.
In 2024 alone, over 500anti-LGBTQ plus bills were
introduced to the US statelegislatures, bills targeting
access to health care, education, bathrooms, even the right to
simply exist in public.
(48:23):
This isn't accidental, it's notisolated.
It's a coordinated campaign.
Families are fleeing stateswhere their children can't
access medical care, transpeople are retreating into
hiding and LGBTQ plus youthsuicide rates are spiking.
But 2025 feels differentbecause the response is faster,
(48:43):
louder, more unified.
Take Nex Benedict, a16-year-old non-binary student
in Oklahoma.
In February 2024, nex wasbeaten at school and days later
died.
The police rushed a call it asuicide, but this time the
system didn't bury the story.
The police rushed to call it asuicide, but this time the
system didn't bury the story.
The community refused to let it.
Within hours, lgbtq plusadvocates were demanding answers
(49:06):
, investigative journalists wereon the case and the public was
paying attention.
Groups like the Human RightsCampaign, glaad and the National
Center for Transgender Equalitynow operate rapid response
teams.
They monitor investigations,train families to deal with the
media and keep names like Nexusfrom being forgotten.
Digital activism has become aforce of its own.
(49:28):
Podcasts like the Dark and theEmbedded prove that persistence
can solve cold cases.
Documentarians no longer waitfor justice.
They dig it up themselves.
When the death and life ofMarsha P Johnson dropped on
Netflix, it did more than justtell a story.
It shamed the NYPD intoreopening her case.
That's what happens when mediais wielded by people who care.
(49:52):
Technology cuts both ways.
Dating apps now include safetytools, but they also expose
users to hate.
Social media connects isolatedqueer youth, but it also becomes
a bullhorn for threats.
Still, data is improving.
The FBI's hate crime reportsnow break down anti-LGBTQ plus
violence.
Local grassroots trackers fillin the gaps when law enforcement
(50:18):
drops the ball.
Legally, we've come a long waysince Harvey Milk's murder.
The Matthew Shepard and JamesByrd Jr Hate Crimes Prevention
Act expanded federal protectionsto cover LGBTQ plus victims.
Hate crime laws now exist inmost US jurisdictions, but laws
don't enforce themselves.
Prosecutors still have to presscharges, juries still have to
(50:39):
believe the victims mattered,and police they still have to
investigate with care.
And the threats keep coming.
Online harassment campaigns,doxing, coordinated messaging,
politicians exploitingtransphobia to win elections.
The tactics change, but thegoal stays the same Make LGBTQ
(51:00):
plus people afraid, make theminvisible, make them quiet.
So where are we now?
We live in a time of progressand backlash side by side.
Same-sex marriage is law, buttransgender teenagers are being
denied basic medical care.
Drag performers have TV shows,but not legal protection to
perform in public.
(51:21):
What's keeping people aliveisn't policy, it's people.
Organizations like the TrevorProject answer crisis calls 24-7
.
Local LGBTQ plus centers offertherapy, housing, help, legal
aid or just a room where you canexhale.
Online, queer kids inconservative towns are finding
friends they've never met.
That's new, that's powerful,and visibility that once felt
(51:45):
like a death sentence has becomeits own form of protection.
It's harder to disappearsomeone whose name trends on
Twitter.
The fight continues because itmust.
Because tonight a transgenderwoman walks home keys in hand,
hoping she gets there.
Because somewhere, a gayteenager wonders if it's safe to
be honest.
Because somewhere an LGBTQ plusactivist is hitting post
(52:10):
knowing it might put a target ontheir back.
The names we've spoken tonightScott Johnson, marsha P Johnson,
harvey Milk, marielle Francothey matter because they remind
us every LGBTQ plus life hasvalue.
Every unexplained deathdeserves a second look.
Every voice silenced leaves usall a little weaker.
The fight isn't over.
(52:31):
It won't be over Not until noone has to choose between love
and life, between authenticityand safety, between being
visible and being alive.
Abraham Aurich (52:44):
Say a name that was meant to be forgotten, any
name, and listen to what happens.
You feel it.
The way the air shifts, the waysilence becomes electric,
because somewhere someone wascounting on that name never
being spoken again.
This is why memory terrifiesthose in power, not just because
(53:04):
it represents facts, butbecause it preserves truth.
And truth, once spoken, demandsa response.
When we remember Harvey Milk,we're not just honoring a
murdered politician.
We're confronting a world wherea man could be gunned down for
being openly gay and his killercould serve just five years.
(53:25):
When we speak Marsha PJohnson's name, we're not just
recalling a pioneer.
We are calling out 30 years ofsilence, 30 years of refusal to
ask the hard questions about howand why she died.
Memory excavates Every time werevisit a story that was buried,
we reveal the system that triedto erase it.
(53:46):
Every cold case reopened is anadmission that justice failed
the first time.
Every overturned suicide rulingis proof that bias wore a badge
.
And that's exactly why thesestories were meant to disappear,
because they revealeduncomfortable truth about who
the system protects and who itdiscards.
(54:07):
But memory, it spreads.
When one person starts askingquestions, others join in.
When one family refuses toaccept silence.
Other families find theircourage.
When one journalistinvestigates a cold case, others
follow and suddenly those casesdon't seem so cold anymore.
Telling these stories doesn'tjust honor the dead, it arms the
(54:30):
living.
It gives language to experience, validation, to suspicion and
proof that your instincts aboutinjustice are real.
Because when we refuse to letpeople be erased, we make
erasure impossible.
When a documentary forces apolice department to reopen a
case, when a podcast unearthsnew witnesses, when families
(54:53):
finally get the investigationtheir loved ones deserve, that's
memory weaponized.
Every visual that reads thenames of the lost is a
dedication of defiance.
Every chant, every mural, everycandlelight march across
streets once stained by violence.
It's memory made visible.
And it's not just about thenames we know.
(55:14):
It's about the ones we neverlearned, the ones buried in case
files marked no further action,the ones erased so thoroughly
we can't even mourn them.
For every Scott Johnson whosecase made headlines, how many
never did.
For every Mario Franco whobecame a symbol, how many
activists vanished without atrace?
(55:35):
This is why memory matters,because it creates space and
those stories will never recover.
Every name we speak makes roomfor the names we can't.
And maybe most importantly,memory shapes the future.
When young, lgbtq plus peoplehear these stories.
They understand they're part ofa lineage.
They learned that their rightto exist, to love, to speak, was
(55:59):
earned through unimaginableloss.
They learned that their livesmattered because someone else's
life mattered first.
And they learned something else, too that the fight isn't over.
The forces that killed HarveyMilk, that erased Marsha P
Johnson, that silenced MarioFranco those forces still exist,
but now so do we.
(56:20):
Every story we tell creates arecord that can't be undone.
Every episode, every name,every investigation builds an
archive of truth, one that wouldoutlast the people who tried to
bury it.
This is the power of memory asresistance.
It turns victims into witnesses, it turns silence into
testimony.
(56:41):
It turns endings intobeginnings.
The people we've spoken abouttonight, they're not gone.
They are here in these words,in these demands, in this
ongoing fight for justice.
Memory is a weapon and, in theright hands, it proves that love
outlives hate, that truthendures beyond lies and that
(57:01):
some voices once heard can neverbe truly silenced.
Sandi McKenna (57:08):
I'm not a politician, I'm not a doctor.
I'm a wife, I'm a mother, I'm agrandparent, I'm a friend.
I'm a human being.
And that's exactly why Idecided to talk about this,
because when any person in ourcommunity faces harm for just
being who they are, it affectsall of us our neighbors, our
families, our schools.
(57:29):
You don't have to understandsomeone's entire story to want
them to be safe.
You don't have to agree oneverything to believe that every
person deserves to come home totheir family each night.
I was raised to protect peoplewho can't protect themselves, to
stand up for the vulnerable.
That's not politics.
That's just being human.
We're losing neighbors toviolence and fear, and when good
(57:51):
people stay quiet, the loudestvoices aren't always the kindest
ones.
So I decided to speak upbecause I believe most of us,
deep down, want the same thingCommunities where everyone can
belong, where our differencesdon't divide us, but where our
shared humanity brings ustogether.
Everybody deserves to havetheir children safe, their
friends safe, their parents safe.
(58:12):
We all deserve a peace of mind,and that's why it's so
important.
Abraham Aurich (58:18):
Before you close this tab, before the world
rushes back in, I would like youto remember something.
Tomorrow morning, someone willsit in their car outside their
parents' house wondering if it'ssafe to come out.
Someone will cross a darkparking lot after a night out
scanning every shadow.
Someone will choose whether tospeak up at school, at work, at
(58:40):
home, knowing it could cost themeverything.
But what you do, what youchoose to do with what you've
heard tonight, may be the reasonthey make it home.
We told you about the ones welost, but we haven't told you
enough about the ones whosurvived the teenager who didn't
take their own life becausesomeone at the Trevor Project
(59:00):
picked up the phone.
The trans woman who escaped adeath sentence because Rambo
Railroad got her out.
The victim who saw theirattacker convicted because
someone demanded the case bereopened.
Those victories happen becausepeople like you refuse to look
away.
Everyone we talked about heretonight.
They're gone.
They can't vote, they can'tspeak up, they can't protect
(59:24):
anyone anymore.
But you can.
You are their voice now, theirvote, their second chance at
justice.
I am Abraham Alrick and, alongwith Sandy McKenna, we want to
thank you for joining us on thisepisode of Sinners and Secrets.
If you liked this episode,consider subscribing, liking and
sharing, and leave a commentand tell us what you think about
(59:46):
the episode.
Until next time, keepquestioning, keep seeking, and
may your journey be as rich andenlightening as the stories you
encounter.
December 10th 1988.
Dawn breaks over the jaggedcliffs of Sydney's North Head.
A jogger moves along thecoastal path, the salt air sharp
in his lungs, until somethingdown below stops him cold.
At the bottom of Bluefish Point.
Waves are washing over whatlooks like a body.
(00:20):
The police arrive, they take afew photos, ask a few questions
and within hours they've madetheir decision Suicide.
Welcome to our special PrideMonth episode.
Today we're diving intosomething that will make your
blood boil and your heart breakin equal measure.
We're talking about activists,people who dared to live openly,
(00:42):
to fight for equality, to bevisible when visibility could
get you killed.
And we're talking about whathappened when someone decided
their voices needed to besilenced.
From a cliptop in Australia tothe halls of San Francisco City
Hall, from the Hudson River tothe streets of Brazil.
There's a pattern here that lawenforcement spent decades
(01:06):
refusing to see.
These weren't random crimes,these weren't accidents and they
definitely weren't suicides.
So stay with us, because overthe next hour we are going to
walk you through the stories ofthose whose lives and deaths
demand to be heard.
And here's the part that willhaunt you how many more cases
(01:27):
like these are still sitting infiling cabinets, misclassified
and ignored, waiting for someoneto finally ask the right
questions.
Let's find out.
I'm Sandy McKenna and, alongwith Abraham Ulrich, welcome to
this special Pride Month episodeof Sinners and Secrets Audio
(01:58):
Jungle Audio.
(02:22):
Jungle Audio.
Abraham Aurich (02:24):
Jungle.
Scott Johnson, just 27, liestwisted on the rocks beneath
Bluefish Point.
The officers take one look Gayman known meeting spot.
They call it suicide, caseclosed.
But here's what they neverasked Was Scott depressed?
Was he struggling?
The answer, by all accounts, isno.
(02:45):
He was thriving, working on hisPhD in mathematics, in love
with his partner Michael, makingplans, building a future.
But what Scott was was visible,openly, gay, out and proud.
And in 1988, sydney, that kindof courage could cost him his
life.
What police dismissed as anisolated suicide was part of
(03:06):
something much bigger and muchdarker.
Between 1976 and 2000, at least80 men died under suspicious
circumstances around Sydney 80.
Yes, let that sink in.
They called the locations GayBeats, bluefish Point, marks
Park, bondi Beach, places wheremen went to find connection,
(03:27):
privacy, maybe even love.
But they were being turned intohunting grounds.
Packs of teenage boys, sometimesas young as 14, would roam
these cliffs looking for targets.
They called it poofer bashing.
To them it wasn't a hate crime,it was a pastime.
The playbook was always thesame them.
It wasn't a hate crime, it wasa pastime.
The playbook was always thesame Corner a man.
Rob him, beat him, throw himoff a cliff if they felt like it
(03:49):
.
And when the body was found,simple Gay man, known meeting
place must have jumped out ofshame.
The perfect crime, because thecops were already writing the
ending.
The more visible you were, themore danger you were in.
If you were loud, proud or anactivist, you were easier to
find.
And the Sydney police?
They had a saying when thesecases came in One less to worry
(04:13):
about.
That's not an urban legend,it's a direct quote.
And this wasn't just Sydney, itwas the Castro District in San
Francisco, the piers of New YorkCity, small town, big cities.
The formula stayed the sameFind a victim, silence them.
Let society's shame do the rest.
Who was going to fight forpeople the world had already
(04:34):
written off?
But silence didn't win, atleast not forever, because
someone always fights back.
And who did?
Scott Johnson's family, that'swho.
Harvey Milk's friends, marsha PJohnson's community, people who
refused to believe that lovewas a reason to die or that
pride was a crime.
(04:54):
But we're getting ahead ofourselves here.
Let's go back to that Decembermorning in 1988 and talk about
what really happened to ScottJohnson and why it took 34 years
to call it what it was murder.
Sandi McKenna (05:07):
Let me tell you about Scott Johnson Not the
victim, the person Becausethat's where this story really
starts and what makes whathappened to him so damn
infuriating.
He was 27,.
Brilliant, fearless.
Scott had moved from Californiato Sydney to pursue his PhD in
(05:28):
mathematics at the AustralianNational University.
This was 1988.
Being openly gay wasn't justbrave, it was revolutionary.
And Scott, he wasn't hidingfrom anyone.
Tall, sandy-haired, with thisinfectious laugh that his
friends still talk about, helived in Lane Cove with his
(05:49):
boyfriend, michael Noon, and, byall accounts, they were happy,
really, really happy.
He was doing groundbreakingwork in math, had a tight-knit
circle of friends and he wasplanning a bright, wide-open
future.
He wasn't depressed, he wasn'tstruggling with his identity and
he was planning a bright,wide-open future.
He wasn't depressed, he wasn'tstruggling with his identity and
he wasn't suicidal.
(06:09):
Remember that it becomes veryimportant later.
December 10, 1988.
Saturday morning, scott tellsMichael he's going for a walk,
something he often did.
He loved the coastal trails,the cliffside views.
He headed toward North Head,specifically Bluefish Point.
(06:29):
Hours pass, scott doesn'treturn.
Michael starts calling around.
Friends haven't seen him byevening.
He's frantic.
He calls the police.
The next morning, that jogger wementioned earlier finds Scott's
body on the rocks belowBluefish Point.
He's been in the water,battered by the waves, but it's
(06:51):
obvious he fell from asignificant height.
Here's what the police did theytook photos.
They noted that his clotheswere found neatly folded at the
top of the cliff.
Noted that his clothes werefound neatly folded at the top
of the cliff.
They asked Michael a fewroutine questions and within 24
hours they had made up theirminds Suicide.
(07:12):
No canvassing of witnesses, noforensic testing of the clothing
, no exploration into whetherthose clothes were folded by
Scott or by someone else.
No mention of the fact thatBluefish Point was a well-known
gay meeting spot and the site ofrepeated anti-gay attacks.
(07:33):
Case closed, filed away.
But 8,000 miles away inCalifornia, scott's older
brother, steve Johnson, startedgetting calls that didn't make
sense.
They spoke often.
Scott sounded upbeat, excited.
Even Just days earlier he'dcalled Steve about his research
and about coming home forChristmas.
Steve started asking questionsand the more he asked, the less
(07:57):
the official story made sense.
First, the location.
Bluefish Point wasn't just ascenic overlook.
It was part of what localscalled the gay beat Secluded
areas where men met forconnection, privacy and intimacy
, but also places where gay menwere targeted, attacked, killed.
Second, the clothes Policeclaimed Scott folded them neatly
(08:19):
before jumping.
But his friends said he wasmeticulous.
He'd never leave his thingsexposed like that, especially
with rain in the forecast.
Third, the injuries.
Scott had defensive wounds onhis hands, on his arms, wounds
that didn't match a simple fall.
But when Steve tried to getanswers he hit a wall.
(08:41):
The New South Wales policeweren't interested.
They had their ruling and theywere sticking to it.
So Steve did what any lovingbrother would do when the system
failed.
He became the detective thepolice refused to be.
He flew back and forth foryears, hired private
investigators, interviewedwitnesses the police never had
(09:03):
contacted.
Investigators, interviewedwitnesses the police never had
contacted.
He studied tides, weather andtopography.
He dug into the growing patternof gay hate crimes that Sydney
police had quietly buried andwhat he uncovered was horrifying
.
Between 1976 and 2000, steveuncovered at least 80 suspicious
(09:23):
deaths of gay men, each ruledsuicide, drowning or accidental.
Most were barely aninvestigation, some with no
investigation at all.
In 2005, steve pushed for asecond inquest.
Deputy State Coroner JacquelineMillage reviewed the evidence
for months.
She ruled the suicide findingwas wrong.
(09:45):
Scott's death was caused byviolence, but she couldn't
determine if it was murder ormanslaughter.
It was progress, but it wasn'tjustice.
In 2012, steve pushed for athird inquest.
This time, coroner MichaelBarnes went further.
He found that Scott had diedfrom a gay hate attack and
(10:07):
criticized the original policeinvestigation as deeply flawed.
Still no charges, no arrests,no accountability.
But in 2017, everything shifted.
The New South Wales governmentoffered a $1 million reward for
information leading to gay hatecrime convictions and suddenly
(10:30):
people started talking.
One of them was Scott White, ateenager in 1988, a man with a
history of violence against gaymen, a man who had been in the
area of Bluefish Point the dayScott died.
A man who had been in the areaof Bluefish Point the day Scott
died.
Under questioning, scott Whiteadmitted he'd crossed paths with
Scott Johnson that day, thatthere was an altercation and
(10:53):
finally, that he attacked himbecause he was gay.
On May 2, 2022, 33 years, 4months and 22 days after Scott
Johnson's death, scott White wasconvicted of his murder.
During sentencing, justiceHelen Wilson said what Scott's
(11:14):
family had waited decades tohear the victim did nothing
wrong.
The victim was targeted andkilled because he was gay.
But what makes this story notjust heartbreaking but hopeful
is this Scott Johnson's caseunlocked dozens of others.
Steve's relentless pursuit oftruth forced the government to
(11:37):
confront what they had spentyears denying.
Today, a special police unitreviews gay hate crime.
Cold cases from that eraFamilies once told their sons or
brothers took their own livesare finally getting real
investigations.
Steve Johnson spent 34 yearsfighting for his brother.
(11:58):
He mortgaged his home, depletedhis savings, devoted every
spare moment to seeking justice,and when asked why he never
gave up, he said something thatstill gives me chills.
Scott was my little brother.
He deserved better than whatthey gave him.
They all deserved better, andthat's what this story is really
(12:20):
about, not just one death oreven one family's fight.
It's about a system that failedan entire community, about how
prejudice and indifference canbe just as deadly as a weapon,
but it's also about the power oflove, of persistence and of
refusing to let injustice standjust because it's easier.
Scott Johnson died because hewas gay and visible at the time
(12:44):
when visibility could cost youeverything.
But his story lived becauseSteve refused to let him be
erased, and that refusal to lethim vanish that's what changed
everything.
Abraham Aurich (12:57):
November 27, 1978, monday morning, harvey
Milk walks the halls of SanFrancisco City Hall with a
spring in his step.
Just a week earlier, californiavoters rejected Proposition 6,
a ballot measure that would havebanned gay teachers from
teaching public schools.
Harvey had campaignedtirelessly against it and the
victory it felt like a turningpoint.
(13:19):
He had no idea he had less thantwo hours to live.
Let's go back, because HarveyMilk's story isn't just about
how he died.
It was about who he was and whyhis life mattered.
Harvey was 48, a former WallStreet analyst, turned camera
shop owner, who found his truecalling in politics.
He wasn't just out out.
(13:47):
He was loudly out, defiantly,joyfully, unapologetically gay
at a time when that coulddestroy your career, your family
, your life.
Harvey ran for San Franciscosupervisor three times before
finally winning in 1977,becoming the first openly gay
elected official in California.
He didn't win by playing itsafe.
He won by being exactly who hewas.
His campaign slogan Harvey Milkvs the Machine.
(14:09):
And it fit.
He was up against the old guard, the insiders, the ones who
thought San Francisco shouldnever change.
But Harvey was to change and hewas winning.
Not everybody was happy.
Dan White was everything.
Harvey wasn't 32 years old, aformer police officer and
firefighter, a devout Catholic,a believer in traditional values
(14:31):
, he was elected to the board ofsupervisors the same year as
Harvey, representing aconservative district that was
growing uneasy with SanFrancisco's shift towards
progressivism.
Where Harvey was inclusive andexpressive, white was rigid and
resentful.
Where Harvey fought for themarginalized, white defended law
and order.
They clashed often and theirmutual dislike was no secret.
(14:55):
In October 1978, white abruptlyresigned from the board, citing
financial pressures.
The salary of $19,600 a yearwasn't enough to support his
family.
But almost immediately he hassecond thoughts.
He lobbied Mayor George Mosconeto reappoint him.
At first Moscone seemedinclined to do it, but Harvey
(15:17):
Milk and other progressivesupervisors pushed back.
They urged Moscone to appointsomeone aligned with the city's
future.
They urged Moscow to appointsomeone aligned with the city's
future, not its past.
On November 26, the day beforethe murderers, moscow called
White, told him he wouldn't bereappointed.
He was choosing a more liberalreplacement instead.
Dan White was furious.
(15:38):
The next morning, on November 27, white put on his best suit.
Then he did something.
No one noticed, but should have.
He strapped on his servicerevolver, a .38 caliber Smith
Weston.
He arrived at City Hall around10 am.
But instead of walking throughthe front doors and passing
through the metal detectors, heclimbed through a basement
(15:58):
window.
He knew how to bypass security.
Of course he had worked there.
He went straight to MayorMoscon's office.
Moscon, expecting aconversation, let him
in.
The first shot hit Moscon inthe shoulder, the second into
his chest.
The mayor collapsed.
Then White walked over to whereMoscon laid, wounded but still
(16:20):
alive, and fired two more shotsat point-blank range into his
head.
But White wasn't finished, notyet at least.
He reloaded his gun, crossedthe building to Harvey Mills'
office and asked to speak withhim privately.
Harvey, unaware of what hadjust happened, said yes.
They stepped into a small sideroom.
(16:40):
Moments later Harvey was dead,shot five times, two of them
fired execution style into hishead, after he'd already fallen.
By 11.30 am both men weregone.
Dan White calmly walked out ofCity Hall, drove to the nearest
police station and turnedhimself in to a former colleague
(17:00):
.
His precise words were simple Ishot the mayor and Harvey.
The city erupted.
Thousands gathered in theCastro District, harvey's
neighborhood.
Candlelight vigils stretchedfor blocks.
People wept in the streets.
This wasn't just the murder oftwo politicians.
This was an assault oneverything the city's
progressive movement stood for.
(17:21):
But if the public expectedjustice, they were in for a
heartbreak.
Dan White's trial began in May1979.
His legal team, led by DouglasSchmidt, mounted a controversial
strategy the diminishedcapacity defense.
Now let's be clear.
The infamous Twinkie defensedidn't claim junk food caused
(17:42):
the murderers.
What the defense argued wasthat White's junk food binge,
candy bars, coca-cola was asymptom of deep depression, that
his mental state was impairedby his inability to form intent.
Psychiatrists smart and blindtestify that White's shift from
health food to sugar and snackswas proof of emotional collapse.
(18:03):
But here's the problem thiswasn't a spontaneous act.
White brought a loaded gun.
He avoided security.
He reloaded after killing themayor, then executed
Milk.
The prosecution argued forfirst-degree murder.
They pointed to all the signsof premeditation.
But they made a criticalmistake.
They barely mentioned HarveyMilk's sexuality.
(18:25):
They never framed it as a hatecrime.
Maybe they thought it wasobvious.
Maybe they didn't want to stirthings up further.
Maybe they underestimated thecost of silence.
Whatever the reason, it was amiscalculation that would haunt
San Francisco for decades.
On May 21, 1979, the judgedelivered their verdict
(18:46):
Voluntary manslaughter, notfirst-degree murder, not
second-degree murder.
The man who executed twoelected officials would be
eligible for parole in just fiveyears.
That night the Castro districtexploded.
What began as a peaceful vigilbecame the White Nights Riot.
Protesters stormed City HallWindows were shattered, police
(19:11):
cars burned.
Over 140 people were injured,dozens were arrested.
The gay community had reachedits breaking point.
Dan White had served five yearsin one month.
He was released in 1984.
Less than two years later hetook his own life carbon
monoxide poison in agarage.
But the question never reallyleft.
(19:32):
Was this political rage apersonal vendetta?
Or was Harvey's identity, thefact that he was proudly
publicly gay, the reason whyWhite killed him?
Here's what we know.
Dan White made homophobiccomments throughout his time in
office.
He opposed every piece of gayrights legislation and after the
(19:53):
murderers, he told the policeHarvey was trying to turn San
Francisco into a playground forhomosexuals.
A direct quote here's what wedon't know and may never know.
Was that hatred the reasonHarvey Milk died, or just one
more layer in a tragedy shapedby rage, repression and
fear?
(20:13):
What we do know is this HarveyMilk's assassination lit a fire
under the LGBTQ plus rightsmovement that even his life
hadn't sparked yet.
The death became a rallying cry.
His story became legend, andhis message that visibility
matters, that pride is powerful,echoed beyond San Francisco.
(20:35):
Harvey once said If a bulletshould enter my brain, let that
bullet destroy every closed doorIn death.
He got his wish, and thatbullet didn't just tear through
one man.
It tore open a nationalconversation.
But it also revealed somethingdarker how easily justice can
(20:55):
fail when the victim is seen asother.
How easily a hate crime can bereframed as something easier to
swallow.
Dan White didn't just killHarvey Milk.
He tried to kill the ideaHarvey represented that LGBTQ
plus people deserve not justtolerance, but acceptance,
(21:16):
respect and power.
And while the idea was wounded,that day, harvey's legacy
proved stronger than the bulletthat tried to stop it.
Sandi McKenna (21:25):
Before we talk about how Marsha P Johnson died,
we need to talk about how shelived boldly, defiantly and with
a fire that still burns decadeslater.
June 28, 1969.
The Stonewall Inn is undersiege, but this time the fight
isn't coming from the outside,it's erupting from within.
(21:49):
Decades of police raids,harassment and brutality have
pushed the LGBTQ plus communityto its breaking point.
And right there in the thick ofit, throwing bottles and
leading chance, is a 24-year-oldblack transgender woman named
Marsha P Johnson.
The P, she said with a slysmile, stood for pay it no mind.
(22:15):
Marshall was born MalcolmMichaels Jr in 1945 in Elizabeth
, new Jersey.
She knew from an early age thatshe was different, but in the
1950s and 60s there weren'twords for what she felt and
there definitely wasn'tacceptance.
At 17, she made her way toGreenwich Village with just $15
(22:39):
and a bag of clothes.
She took the name Marsha andlived her truth loudly and
unapologetically.
Marsha was impossible to miss.
She stood over six feet talland wore elaborate wigs, bright
makeup and outfits that blendedcostume, protest and art.
Feathers, flowers, bangles,rhinestones.
(23:01):
Every look told a story andevery story was unmistakably
Marcia.
But she wasn't just a performer, she was a protector.
She was a protector, arevolutionary who understood
that for people like her,survival and resistance were the
same thing.
After Stonewall, marshaco-founded STAR Street
(23:26):
Transvestite ActionRevolutionaries with her best
friend, sylvia Rivera.
Star wasn't just anorganization, it was a lifeline.
Their Star House gave shelterto homeless LGBTQ plus youth,
especially trans women of color,with nowhere else to go.
(23:47):
And let's be clear, this wasdangerous work.
In the 1970s and 80s, beingopenly trans, especially if you
were black and poor, was nearlya death sentence.
Marcia lived with that threatevery single day, but she never
stopped showing up, neverstopped opening her door, never
(24:09):
stopped fighting.
By 1992, marcia was 46 years oldand still fighting.
She'd been hospitalized formental health episodes, what
doctors called mania.
But that summer friends saidshe was doing well, she was
excited about pride, she hadplans, projects, purpose.
Then came July 6, 1992.
(24:32):
A Monday morning her body wasfound floating in the Hudson
River near the ChristopherStreet Pier.
The pier back then was a havenfor LGBTQ plus youth, especially
kids who'd been kicked out oftheir homes.
It was also a place where transwomen met clients because for
many sex work was the only wayto survive.
(24:54):
But the pier was dangerousViolence, assaults, drownings.
It was the kind of place wheresomeone could vanish and no one
would ask too many questions.
When Marsh's body was found, theNYPD moved fast, too fast.
They ruled it suicide.
No real investigation, nowitness interviews, no
(25:18):
consideration of the fact thatMarcia wasn't suicidal.
Here's what the police didn'task.
Marcia had been at a Prideevent the night before she was
last seen leaving around 1 amwith someone no one recognized.
She had future plans.
She was excited about what wasto come next.
(25:39):
Here's what else they didn'task.
There was blunt force trauma toher head, a wound that
suggested she'd been struck orthrown.
But here's what says it allabout how the NYPD valued
Marsha's life.
They didn't perform an autopsy.
For weeks Her body sat in themorgue decomposing while someone
(26:03):
decided whether her death wasworth investigating.
And when they finally didperform an autopsy, there was no
water in her lungs.
Think about that If she hadjumped or fallen into the river
and drowned, there would have nowater in her lungs.
Think about that If she hadjumped or fallen into the river
and drowned, there would havebeen water in her lungs.
The absence of water suggestedshe was already dead when she
entered the water, but theruling stood Suicide.
(26:28):
For 20 years, marsha's friendsand community demanded answers.
They were ignored, dismissed,told to move on.
Then, in 2012, somethingshifted.
Filmmaker David France releasedthe Death and Life of Marsha P
Johnson, a documentary thatpulled the curtain back on her
(26:49):
case.
It featured interviews withMarsha's friends, activists,
experts and exposed just howflawed the original
investigation had been.
And it revealed somethingchilling.
In the two weeks before herdeath, marsha had told friends
she was being harassed.
She said she was scared thatsomeone was following her.
(27:11):
The documentary and the pressureit created finally forced the
NYPD to reopen her case.
Detective Ryan Cronin wasassigned to reinvestigate.
But by then the trail was cold.
Witnesses had died, evidencewas gone, memories had faded.
What Detective Cronin diduncover was damning.
(27:33):
Witnesses who saw Marcia withsomeone that night were never
interviewed.
Friends who said she wasn'tsuicidal were dismissed without
statements and Marcia's purseNever found.
She'd been seen carrying moneyfrom a recent gig In the world.
Marcia lived in robbery.
Homicides were tragically common, but rarely taken seriously.
(27:56):
As of today, marsha P Johnson'sdeath remains officially
unsolved.
The case has been reclassifiedas a homicide investigation, but
there have been no arrests, nocharges, no justice.
What Marsha's story reallyshows us is this Society saw her
(28:17):
as disposable and in many waysstill does.
She was a pioneer, arevolutionary, a mother to a
movement, and yet when she died,she was just another dead trans
woman.
In the eyes of the NYPD, theintersection of racism and
transphobia creates a perfectstorm of indifference.
(28:38):
Black trans women are murderedat disproportionate rates.
Their deaths are rarelyinvestigated with urgency or
respect.
Marsha's case wasn't an outlier.
It was part of a pattern.
Today that's starting to change.
Marsha is finally being honored.
Monuments are going up,scholarships are being funded
(28:59):
and her work her real workcontinues through grassroots
organizations supporting LGBTQplus youth.
But maybe the most importanttribute is this People who are
finally asking the rightquestions about her death.
They're demanding answers.
They're refusing to let herstory stay buried.
Portia P Johnson spent her lifefighting for a world where
(29:23):
people like her black, trans,poor, loud, beautiful could live
safely, openly and with dignity.
She didn't live to see thatworld realized, and if her death
tells us anything, it's thatshe may have died because that
world didn't yet exist.
30 years later, we're stillasking the question Marsha might
(29:45):
have asked when will Blacktrans lives matter enough to get
justice?
When will the system thatfailed her be forced to face
that failure.
The answer is we're stillwaiting.
Abraham Aurich (30:00):
March 14th 2018, rio de Janeiro, brazil.
Just after 9 pm, Mariel Francoleaves a panel of Black women in
politics Still glowing from theenergy in the room.
She climbs into the backseat ofher car with her press advisor,
anderson Gomes.
Her driver pulls away from thecultural center and makes it
exactly four blocks.
(30:20):
Another car pulls up alongsidethem at a traffic light and,
without warning, gunfireThirteen shots, nine of which
hit their mark.
Mario Franco and Anderson Gomesdied immediately.
Mario Franco and Anderson Gomesdied immediately.
The driver somehow survives.
Let me tell you who MarioFranco was.
Her life explains why her deathsent shockwaves around the
(30:42):
world.
Mario Franco was everything theBrazilian establishment feared
Black, a woman, openly bisexualand unwilling to stay quiet.
She grew up in Meir, one ofRio's largest favelas, where
police brutality was a dailyreality for her.
She grew up watching friendsand neighbors disappear into a
(31:03):
system that treated poor blacklives as disposable.
But Marielle didn't justsurvive.
She rose above her origins.
She went on to earn hermaster's degree in public
administration, became a humanrights activist and won a seat
on the Rio City Council.
Her platform PoliceAccountability, women's Rights,
lgbtq Plus Rights and the End ofthe Military Occupation in
(31:27):
Rio's Favelas.
Marielle wasn't just talking.
She was investigating,documenting, naming names.
Days before her murder, shepublicly criticized a violent
police operation going on in herneighborhood by calling out a
battalion known for itsbrutality.
Needless to say, marielleFranco made powerful people
nervous, and her murder itwasn't random.
(31:50):
It was a message, a politicalhit carried out with military
precision, the kind of operationthat doesn't happen without
permission.
Seven years later, we have someanswers.
In 2023, brazilian federalpolice arrested five men in
connection with the crime,including two former police
officers believed to have pulledthe trigger, but the mastermind
(32:12):
, the people who ordered the hit, they're still free.
Mario's case shows us somethingchilling when LGBTQ plus
activists also challenge statepower, the danger multiplies.
This isn't just about personalbias.
This is institutional violencedesigned to silence dissent, and
if you want to see what thatlooks like completely
(32:33):
unrestrained, look no furtherthan Chechnya.
In 2017, reports began emergingfrom this Russian republic,
reports that should have shockedthe world.
Men were being rounded up,detained, tortured and, in some
cases, killed because they weresuspected of being gay.
This was systematic,coordinated and brutal.
(32:54):
Chechen's officials trackedpeople using their social media,
dating apps and informants.
These men were arrested,detained in secret facilities,
literal concentration camps.
Once there, they were beaten,electrocuted and even tortured.
Some were released, othersvanished, never to be seen again
, even tortured.
(33:15):
Some were released, othersvanished, never to be seen again
.
Chechen's leader, razam Khodorovdenied the whole thing.
He said, quote if such peopleexisted in Chechnya, law
enforcement wouldn't need toworry about them.
Their own families would sendthem to a place of no return.
End quote Translation we don'thave to kill them.
Their own families would do itfor us.
This wasn't mob violence.
It was state-sponsored genociderun by government officials,
(33:38):
shielded by Moscow's silence andlargely ignored by the rest of
the world.
International investigatorsdocumented the crimes, but
prosecuted almost none.
The men responsible still holdpower.
Then there's Mexico.
The numbers alone arestaggering.
Between 2013 and 2020, more than400 trans people were murdered.
(34:00):
Most of these murders followeda pattern Extreme violence,
sexual assault, mutilation.
These weren't crimes of passion.
They were warnings meant tosilence entire communities.
And, as always, the morevisible you are, the more at
risk you become.
Trans women who speak out,organize or refuse to hide
(34:21):
become deliberate targets, likeAlessa Flores, a trans rights
activist murdered in 2020.
She had reported death threatsto the police, begged for
protection.
The police ignored her.
Then she was killed.
Or Paola Buenarrostro sheorganized Mexico's first trans
pride march.
Weeks later, she was shot andleft in the street.
(34:43):
Message received.
The pattern is undeniable.
Whether it's Rios or Grozny,mexico City or Sydney, the
message is the same Visibilitybecame dangerous, speaking out
is dangerous, challenging poweris even more dangerous and the
response Tragically consistentas well.
These deaths don't get fullinvestigation, these voices
(35:07):
don't get preserved.
But what connects them all, themen of Chechnya, the transhuman
of Mexico, is this they knewsilence was deadly and still
they spoke up.
They could have stayed quiet,could have disappeared, but they
didn't, because they understoodwhat their killers feared that
love, justice and truth, whenspoken out loud, are more
(35:27):
powerful than violence and hate.
It's 2025 and we're stillburying the same victims, still
having the same conversation,still fighting the same battles.
The progress is real, but it'sfragile and it's paid for in
blood.
Every pride flag, everymarriage equality law and every
anti-discrimination ordinanceexists because someone risked
(35:49):
their everything to make ithappen, and for too many, that
risk wasn't theoretical, it wasfatal.
Sandi McKenna (35:57):
It shows up in police reports across continents
, across decades Two quiet wordsthat have buried more truth
than they've ever uncoveredProbable suicide.
Let me read you some of theheadlines Gay man found dead at
cliff base.
Police rule suicide.
Transgender woman found inriver Apparent suicide.
(36:20):
Lgbtq plus activist dies undersuspicious circumstances Suicide
suspected.
Do you hear the pattern?
Because the families of thesevictims did and they started
asking a very simple questionwhy is suicide always the first
assumption when LGBTQ pluspeople die under mysterious
(36:41):
circumstances?
Let's go back to the cases we'vecovered.
Scott Johnson, found at thebottom of the cliff, gay man
remote area.
No obvious struggle and closethe file within hours Suicide.
Never mind that Scott had nohistory of depression, never
mind that he had plans for thefuture, never mind that the
(37:01):
location was a well-knownhotspot for anti-gay attacks.
The narrative was tooconvenient to question.
Marsha P Johnson, foundfloating in the Hudson River in
1992.
No thorough investigation, nointerviews with friends who
insisted she wasn't suicidal, noconsideration of the blunt
force trauma to her head.
(37:22):
Here's what these cases had incommon the victims were LGBTQ+,
the circumstances weresuspicious and the authorities
chose the explanation thatrequired the least work, the
fewest resources, the smallestamount of caring.
When a straight, white, wealthyperson dies mysteriously, there
is an investigation, witnessesare interviewed, forensics
(37:45):
analyzed, leads pursued.
When an LGBTQ plus person,especially someone poor, trans
or a person of color, dies thesame way, the assumption changes
.
The thinking goes like thisWell, these people live
difficult lives.
They face discrimination,rejection, mental health
challenges.
Of course they'd be suicidal.
(38:07):
It's victim blaming dressed upas compassion and it kills.
But in case after case,families refused to accept the
easy explanation.
These families saw whatinvestigators didn't or wouldn't
acknowledge that assumingsuicide was often a way of
avoiding the harder, messierwork of investigating a hate
(38:28):
crime.
And slowly, painfully, the truthbegan to emerge.
Not because the system worked,but because people outside the
system refused to let it fail.
Cold case units formed decadeslater started finding evidence
that had been ignored ordismissed.
Community organizers forcedcases to be reopened.
(38:50):
Documentaries brought publicattention to deaths that had
been filed away and forgotten.
In Scott Johnson's case, apublic reward finally pushed
witnesses to come forward,people who'd seen gangs in the
area that night information thatcould have been gathered in
1988 if anyone cared enough tolook.
Marsha P Johnson's case wasreopened only after public
(39:14):
outrage and documentary pressureforced the NYPD's hand.
Even then, it took years forthem to reclassify her death as
a homicide.
These cases could have beensolved decades earlier if they'd
been treated with the same caregiven to other victims.
The evidence existed, thewitnesses were there, the
forensics were possible.
(39:36):
What was missing was the beliefthat these lives mattered enough
to investigate fully.
And that belief, or lack of it,comes from somewhere.
It comes from a society thatstill in many ways sees LGBTQ
plus people as other, as tragicby default, as someone
responsible for the violencethey face, as living lives that
(39:57):
naturally end in tragedy.
And that bias doesn't justaffect the individual cases, it
blinds the entire system.
When each death is treated asan isolated incident, when every
suspicious death is quietlystamped suicide, authorities
miss the bigger picture.
They miss the organized gangstargeting gay men, the serial
(40:19):
killers hunting trans women, thecoordinated threats aimed at
LGBTQ plus activists.
It's only when activists andfamilies demand a broader look
that the patterns emergeClusters of suicides at gay
meeting spots, transgender womenfound dead under similar
conditions, the same suspectsappearing again and again across
(40:41):
supposedly unconnected cases.
Today, things are slowlyshifting.
Some police departments nowhave LGBTQ plus liaison units.
Some jurisdictions have updatedhate crime protocols.
Some cold case units arereviewing historical LGBTQ plus
deaths.
But this change didn't comefrom the inside.
(41:03):
It came because families andcommunities refused to accept
probable suicide as the finalword.
They fought, they organized,they demanded better.
Every reopened case, everyoverturned suicide ruling, every
long overdue conviction, eachone is a victory, not just for
(41:24):
justice but for the principlethat all lives deserve to matter
equally under the law.
But each one also representssomething else a system failure,
a life that might have beensaved, answers that should have
been found long ago.
And now we have to askourselves how many more cases
(41:45):
are out there still filed awayas probable suicide, waiting for
someone to care enough to lookagain?
How many families are stillfighting for answers they should
have gotten decades ago?
And how many have we alreadylost Because no one asked the
right questions when it stillmattered?
Abraham Aurich (42:06):
There's a word that appears again and again in
police reports, newspaperarticles and official statements
about LGBTQ plus victims overthe last 50 years.
It's subtle, easy to miss, butonce you see it, you can't unsee
it.
The word is lifestyle.
The victim's lifestyle may havecontributed to their death.
(42:28):
Police are investigatingwhether the victim's lifestyle
played a role.
Given the victim's lifestyle,suicide cannot be ruled out.
That single word carried theweight of an entire society's
prejudice.
It didn't describe an identity.
It implied a choice, a riskyone, a dangerous one, one that
(42:49):
made violence seem not onlypredictable but almost deserved.
This wasn't an oversight.
It was editorial strategy, away of reinforcing the idea that
LGBTQ plus people were tragic,unsafe or other.
And it worked Because, overtime, lgbtq plus victims weren't
treated as fully human.
(43:10):
They became cautionary tales,not people, not lives worth
protecting, not stories worthjustice.
But here's what that narrativeerased so many of these victims
weren't just living, they wereleading.
Harvey Milk wasn't just a gayman, he was reshaping
California's politics.
Marsha P Johnson wasn't justsurviving, she was saving lives.
(43:34):
Mario Franco she wasn't justbisexual, she was dismantling
corruption, fighting policeviolence in Brazil.
These weren't random acts ofviolence, these were strategic
silences.
People in power gotuncomfortable.
And when these changemakerswere killed, the word lifestyle
gave everyone else permission tolook away.
(43:55):
The legacy of that silence.
It can be overstated.
Imagine being LGBTQ plus in the1970s, 80s or 90s and knowing
that if something happened toyou, society would shrug and say
well, what did they expect?
So people hid, they stayedquiet.
They didn't report violence,they didn't seek help, they
lived.
So people hid, they stayedquiet.
They didn't report violence,they didn't seek help.
(44:16):
They lived smaller, safer lives, not because they wanted to,
but because being seen felt likea death sentence.
And the cruel irony Most of thepeople we lost were the ones
trying to change that.
Marsha P Johnson was out thereevery day feeding that.
(44:36):
Marsha P Johnson was out thereevery day feeding, sheltering
and fighting for LGBTQ plusyouth, but when she died she was
dismissed.
Just another tragic trans womanHarvey Milk.
He proved gay leaders could beeffective, respected and
visionary, but his assassinationwas framed as well the cost of
his controversial lifestyle.
This framing had a purpose.
It kept society from having toexamine its role in LGBTQ plus
(45:01):
violence.
If these deaths were just partof that lifestyle, then we
didn't have to question the law,the system, media and ourselves
.
It was victim blaming justdressed up in formal language.
But language shapes reality andeventually LGBTQ plus voices
began reshaping the narrative.
(45:21):
Lifestyle became identity,choice became orientation and
tragedy became what it often wasa hate crime.
Today's activists understandwhat their predecessors only
dreamed of that visibility,while dangerous, is also
powerful.
That speaking out while riskyis also how you change the world
(45:44):
.
And that silence, it, mayprotect you for a while, but it
will never set you free.
We haven't broken the silencecompletely.
Trans women of color are stillbeing murdered, queer people
around the world still facestate violence and the media
still gets it wrong Too often inmy opinion.
But the framing has shifted,and that shift matters.
(46:08):
We no longer accept lifestyleas an excuse for neglect.
We demand names, investigation,accountability.
The voices that were silenceddidn't die in vain.
They forced the world to listen, even in death, and their
legacy it lives, not just in thecases we solve, but in the
culture we're still fighting tochange.
(46:29):
One conversation at a time.
One truth at a time.
One conversation at a time.
Sandi McKenna (46:35):
One truth at a time, one name at a time,
february 2025.
Somewhere in America, atransgender woman checks the
news before heading out to work.
Another headline, another law,another murder in her community.
She sighs, she smooths herblouse and walks out the door
(46:56):
anyway, because that's whatsurvival looks like now.
This is what it means to beLGBTQ in 2025.
The landscape has changed, butthe danger hasn't disappeared.
It's just evolved.
Let me give you some numbersthat haunt the headlines, if
(47:16):
they even make the headlines atall.
In 2024, at least 36 transgenderpeople were murdered in the US.
That's that we know of the truenumber, almost certainly higher
, because many deaths aremisreported, deadnamed or erased
before they're ever countedGlobally.
It's even more alarming beforethey're ever counted Globally.
(47:40):
It's even more alarming In 2023, the Trans Murder Monitoring
Project documented over 320murders of transgender and
gender-diverse people.
That's more than one deathevery day, and the pattern is
painfully familiar 96% of thosevictims were transgender women,
80% were people of color.
When racism, sexism andtransphobia collide, the result
(48:02):
isn't just inequality.
It's fatal.
But violence isn't onlyphysical.
In 2024 alone, over 500anti-LGBTQ plus bills were
introduced to the US statelegislatures, bills targeting
access to health care, education, bathrooms, even the right to
simply exist in public.
(48:23):
This isn't accidental, it's notisolated.
It's a coordinated campaign.
Families are fleeing stateswhere their children can't
access medical care, transpeople are retreating into
hiding and LGBTQ plus youthsuicide rates are spiking.
But 2025 feels differentbecause the response is faster,
(48:43):
louder, more unified.
Take Nex Benedict, a16-year-old non-binary student
in Oklahoma.
In February 2024, nex wasbeaten at school and days later
died.
The police rushed a call it asuicide, but this time the
system didn't bury the story.
The police rushed to call it asuicide, but this time the
system didn't bury the story.
The community refused to let it.
Within hours, lgbtq plusadvocates were demanding answers
(49:06):
, investigative journalists wereon the case and the public was
paying attention.
Groups like the Human RightsCampaign, glaad and the National
Center for Transgender Equalitynow operate rapid response
teams.
They monitor investigations,train families to deal with the
media and keep names like Nexusfrom being forgotten.
Digital activism has become aforce of its own.
(49:28):
Podcasts like the Dark and theEmbedded prove that persistence
can solve cold cases.
Documentarians no longer waitfor justice.
They dig it up themselves.
When the death and life ofMarsha P Johnson dropped on
Netflix, it did more than justtell a story.
It shamed the NYPD intoreopening her case.
That's what happens when mediais wielded by people who care.
(49:52):
Technology cuts both ways.
Dating apps now include safetytools, but they also expose
users to hate.
Social media connects isolatedqueer youth, but it also becomes
a bullhorn for threats.
Still, data is improving.
The FBI's hate crime reportsnow break down anti-LGBTQ plus
violence.
Local grassroots trackers fillin the gaps when law enforcement
(50:18):
drops the ball.
Legally, we've come a long waysince Harvey Milk's murder.
The Matthew Shepard and JamesByrd Jr Hate Crimes Prevention
Act expanded federal protectionsto cover LGBTQ plus victims.
Hate crime laws now exist inmost US jurisdictions, but laws
don't enforce themselves.
Prosecutors still have to presscharges, juries still have to
(50:39):
believe the victims mattered,and police they still have to
investigate with care.
And the threats keep coming.
Online harassment campaigns,doxing, coordinated messaging,
politicians exploitingtransphobia to win elections.
The tactics change, but thegoal stays the same Make LGBTQ
(51:00):
plus people afraid, make theminvisible, make them quiet.
So where are we now?
We live in a time of progressand backlash side by side.
Same-sex marriage is law, buttransgender teenagers are being
denied basic medical care.
Drag performers have TV shows,but not legal protection to
perform in public.
(51:21):
What's keeping people aliveisn't policy, it's people.
Organizations like the TrevorProject answer crisis calls 24-7
.
Local LGBTQ plus centers offertherapy, housing, help, legal
aid or just a room where you canexhale.
Online, queer kids inconservative towns are finding
friends they've never met.
That's new, that's powerful,and visibility that once felt
(51:45):
like a death sentence has becomeits own form of protection.
It's harder to disappearsomeone whose name trends on
Twitter.
The fight continues because itmust.
Because tonight a transgenderwoman walks home keys in hand,
hoping she gets there.
Because somewhere, a gayteenager wonders if it's safe to
be honest.
Because somewhere an LGBTQ plusactivist is hitting post
(52:10):
knowing it might put a target ontheir back.
The names we've spoken tonightScott Johnson, marsha P Johnson,
harvey Milk, marielle Francothey matter because they remind
us every LGBTQ plus life hasvalue.
Every unexplained deathdeserves a second look.
Every voice silenced leaves usall a little weaker.
The fight isn't over.
(52:31):
It won't be over Not until noone has to choose between love
and life, between authenticityand safety, between being
visible and being alive.
Abraham Aurich (52:44):
Say a name that was meant to be forgotten, any
name, and listen to what happens.
You feel it.
The way the air shifts, the waysilence becomes electric,
because somewhere someone wascounting on that name never
being spoken again.
This is why memory terrifiesthose in power, not just because
(53:04):
it represents facts, butbecause it preserves truth.
And truth, once spoken, demandsa response.
When we remember Harvey Milk,we're not just honoring a
murdered politician.
We're confronting a world wherea man could be gunned down for
being openly gay and his killercould serve just five years.
(53:25):
When we speak Marsha PJohnson's name, we're not just
recalling a pioneer.
We are calling out 30 years ofsilence, 30 years of refusal to
ask the hard questions about howand why she died.
Memory excavates Every time werevisit a story that was buried,
we reveal the system that triedto erase it.
(53:46):
Every cold case reopened is anadmission that justice failed
the first time.
Every overturned suicide rulingis proof that bias wore a badge
.
And that's exactly why thesestories were meant to disappear,
because they revealeduncomfortable truth about who
the system protects and who itdiscards.
(54:07):
But memory, it spreads.
When one person starts askingquestions, others join in.
When one family refuses toaccept silence.
Other families find theircourage.
When one journalistinvestigates a cold case, others
follow and suddenly those casesdon't seem so cold anymore.
Telling these stories doesn'tjust honor the dead, it arms the
(54:30):
living.
It gives language to experience, validation, to suspicion and
proof that your instincts aboutinjustice are real.
Because when we refuse to letpeople be erased, we make
erasure impossible.
When a documentary forces apolice department to reopen a
case, when a podcast unearthsnew witnesses, when families
(54:53):
finally get the investigationtheir loved ones deserve, that's
memory weaponized.
Every visual that reads thenames of the lost is a
dedication of defiance.
Every chant, every mural, everycandlelight march across
streets once stained by violence.
It's memory made visible.
And it's not just about thenames we know.
(55:14):
It's about the ones we neverlearned, the ones buried in case
files marked no further action,the ones erased so thoroughly
we can't even mourn them.
For every Scott Johnson whosecase made headlines, how many
never did.
For every Mario Franco whobecame a symbol, how many
activists vanished without atrace?
(55:35):
This is why memory matters,because it creates space and
those stories will never recover.
Every name we speak makes roomfor the names we can't.
And maybe most importantly,memory shapes the future.
When young, lgbtq plus peoplehear these stories.
They understand they're part ofa lineage.
They learned that their rightto exist, to love, to speak, was
(55:59):
earned through unimaginableloss.
They learned that their livesmattered because someone else's
life mattered first.
And they learned something else, too that the fight isn't over.
The forces that killed HarveyMilk, that erased Marsha P
Johnson, that silenced MarioFranco those forces still exist,
but now so do we.
(56:20):
Every story we tell creates arecord that can't be undone.
Every episode, every name,every investigation builds an
archive of truth, one that wouldoutlast the people who tried to
bury it.
This is the power of memory asresistance.
It turns victims into witnesses, it turns silence into
testimony.
(56:41):
It turns endings intobeginnings.
The people we've spoken abouttonight, they're not gone.
They are here in these words,in these demands, in this
ongoing fight for justice.
Memory is a weapon and, in theright hands, it proves that love
outlives hate, that truthendures beyond lies and that
(57:01):
some voices once heard can neverbe truly silenced.
Sandi McKenna (57:08):
I'm not a politician, I'm not a doctor.
I'm a wife, I'm a mother, I'm agrandparent, I'm a friend.
I'm a human being.
And that's exactly why Idecided to talk about this,
because when any person in ourcommunity faces harm for just
being who they are, it affectsall of us our neighbors, our
families, our schools.
(57:29):
You don't have to understandsomeone's entire story to want
them to be safe.
You don't have to agree oneverything to believe that every
person deserves to come home totheir family each night.
I was raised to protect peoplewho can't protect themselves, to
stand up for the vulnerable.
That's not politics.
That's just being human.
We're losing neighbors toviolence and fear, and when good
(57:51):
people stay quiet, the loudestvoices aren't always the kindest
ones.
So I decided to speak upbecause I believe most of us,
deep down, want the same thingCommunities where everyone can
belong, where our differencesdon't divide us, but where our
shared humanity brings ustogether.
Everybody deserves to havetheir children safe, their
friends safe, their parents safe.
(58:12):
We all deserve a peace of mind,and that's why it's so
important.
Abraham Aurich (58:18):
Before you close this tab, before the world
rushes back in, I would like youto remember something.
Tomorrow morning, someone willsit in their car outside their
parents' house wondering if it'ssafe to come out.
Someone will cross a darkparking lot after a night out
scanning every shadow.
Someone will choose whether tospeak up at school, at work, at
(58:40):
home, knowing it could cost themeverything.
But what you do, what youchoose to do with what you've
heard tonight, may be the reasonthey make it home.
We told you about the ones welost, but we haven't told you
enough about the ones whosurvived the teenager who didn't
take their own life becausesomeone at the Trevor Project
(59:00):
picked up the phone.
The trans woman who escaped adeath sentence because Rambo
Railroad got her out.
The victim who saw theirattacker convicted because
someone demanded the case bereopened.
Those victories happen becausepeople like you refuse to look
away.
Everyone we talked about heretonight.
They're gone.
They can't vote, they can'tspeak up, they can't protect
(59:24):
anyone anymore.
But you can.
You are their voice now, theirvote, their second chance at
justice.
I am Abraham Alrick and, alongwith Sandy McKenna, we want to
thank you for joining us on thisepisode of Sinners and Secrets.
If you liked this episode,consider subscribing, liking and
sharing, and leave a commentand tell us what you think about
(59:46):
the episode.
Until next time, keepquestioning, keep seeking, and
may your journey be as rich andenlightening as the stories you
encounter.
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