Laurence Pagnoni
350 Bradford St., Unit 9
Provincetown, MA 02657
Tuesday, December 10, 2024
The Honorable Judge William G. Young
United States District Court Judge
District of Massachusetts
John Joseph Moakley U.S. Courthouse
1 Courthouse Way, Suite 2300
Boston, Massachusetts 02210
Re: U.S.—v—Laurence Pagnoni
Dear Judge Young:
I write this letter with profound remorse, fully aware of the gravity of my actions and the harm they have caused. I am not here to offer excuses or to minimize the consequences of my behavior. I understand that my offense is not, and can never be, considered victimless. The very nature of my actions, the exploitation they are tied to, and the harm that ripples out from them is devastating. I must reckon with the fact that my behavior contributed to a cycle of suffering and violation—real people, real victims. I carry that weight every day, and I will for the rest of my life.
I come before this Honorable Court to take full responsibility, provide context for the decisions that led me to this moment, and demonstrate my commitment to rehabilitation, accountability, and making meaningful amends. I know I have failed my family, my community, and society, but most of all, I know that my actions have perpetuated harm to individuals whose pain I can never undo. For that, I am deeply and unreservedly sorry.
As I reflect on my life and my choices, I feel compelled to share the journey that has brought me here. It is a journey marked by decades of service and advocacy, but also by a profound personal failure—one that I own entirely. In this letter, I hope to convey:
- My full acknowledgment of the harm caused to victims and society;
- The influences and circumstances that led to my unacceptable behavior;
- The lessons I have learned through introspection, therapy, and accountability;
- My unwavering commitment to ensuring this never happens again; and
- The concrete steps I am taking to repair the harm done and become a better person.
The road to this moment has been filled with painful realizations. This offense has forced me to confront aspects of myself that I failed to recognize and to seek help where I once believed I did not need it. I do not take this process lightly. I approach it with the gravity it demands, understanding that true accountability means acknowledging the harm I have contributed to and taking every action possible to ensure I never cause such harm again.
This letter, which I have prepared with the support of my husband, Wei, is not about seeking leniency. This is about honesty and transparency. I know that accountability requires more than words—it requires action, humility, and a sustained commitment to change. I hope to share how I have begun this process and why I am determined to use this experience to rebuild trust, serve others, and ensure that I never repeat these mistakes.
Thank you, Your Honor, for the opportunity to express my remorse and for considering the totality of my circumstances. I am prepared to face the consequences of my actions with humility and resolve, while dedicating myself to being part of the solution to this cycle of harm.
Personal History and Background:
I was born in 1960 in Philadelphia, the youngest of five children in a working-class Italian-American family. My father, Gilbert “Gil” Pagnoni, was a Teamster organizer who worked hard for others, often in difficult circumstances. My mother, Christina Pagnoni (née Marino), was the steady, loving presence at the heart of our family. Together, they instilled in me a commitment to hard work, accountability, and supporting others—values that would guide much of my life.
My family was deeply rooted in our community. We were Catholics, and though my parents practiced their faith with liberal values, I was educated in Jesuit institutions that shaped my understanding of service and reflection. The Jesuit tradition became an anchor for me, though it took me years to understand just how deeply it would sustain me.
By the time I was 13, I began to realize something about myself that I could not yet name. It happened abruptly when a stranger made a cruel comment about my sexuality, and I found myself feeling both targeted and exposed. From that moment through my early twenties, I carried the weight of a secret. I describe those years as filled with terror and liberation—terror at the shame and confusion I felt, and liberation as I began to understand who I was.
Looking back, I know I was luckier than many. My family, though unable to fully grasp what I was experiencing at the time, offered unwavering love and stability. I was also fortunate to have the Jesuit community. Although Catholicism as an institution often carries conservative values, my Jesuit education taught me to question, reflect, and serve others. These lessons planted the seeds for my later work in advocacy and social justice. More than that, they gave me the courage to accept myself, even in an era when being gay was isolating and dangerous. I came out to myself at 24, and at 25, I shared the truth with my parents. They received it with compassion and love. Their acceptance was a gift I have never taken for granted.
Despite the internal struggles of those years, I worked hard, as my parents expected. I attended St. Joseph’s Prep, a Jesuit high school in North Philadelphia, the poorest neighborhood in the city, where I absorbed lessons in personal responsibility and intellectual curiosity. It’s important to point out this was a culture shock for me because I grew up on the Mainline of Philadelphia in a solidly white, middle-class neighborhood and now I was attending school in the poorest neighborhood with Black and brown kids. The choice of St. Joseph’s Prep was not accidental; my father wanted me to understand different people from different background. Those experiences, along with my family’s values, built the foundation for the life I would pursue. I learned early that life was not always fair or easy, but it was important to face it honestly and do the best you could with what you had.
Early Adulthood and Career:
By my early twenties, I had begun to reconcile my identity and channel my energy into education and service. My parents were proud that I would be the first in our family to attend post-secondary education. I attended the Jesuit University of Philadelphia, St. Joseph’s University, an environment not dissimilar to Boston College, where I initially declared no major but found myself drawn to theology and political science. These fields felt natural to me. I was searching for meaning, justice, and ways to make sense of the world. Theology gave me tools to reflect on my own identity and to understand the compassion that faith could offer. Political science taught me how systems work—how people organize, advocate, and fight for change.
After graduation, I was recruited to be the first lay person to teach theology at a private boys’ school in Wilmington, Delaware. In that position, I was also the director of community service, where the juniors spent a whole year in non-profit volunteer work. My first real exposure to the world of non-profits came through this community service program, which granted me the opportunity to meet the management guru, Peter Drucker. Subsequently, I became a Peter Drucker fellow in New York City.
After serving as the director of community service for four years, a prominent Catholic Bishop, Walter Sullivan, read about my work and reached out to ask me to consider heading up the largest homeless service ministry in Richmond, Virginia, Freedom House, where I worked for five years. Freedom Houses’ mission was to serve the hardest to reach homeless men and women, those who lived on the street. Many of the programs I established there exist to this day, including a mobile mental health clinic, a chronic care shelter for the homeless, and multiple single-room occupancy hotels. It was a pivotal time for me. I learned how organizations could serve vulnerable communities, address systemic failures, and build coalitions. This work gave me a sense of purpose. It showed me what was possible when people refused to look away from problems, even the hardest ones.
In the late 1980s, I moved to New York City. These were the years when the AIDS epidemic was ravaging the gay community. It was a time of fear and urgency, and I felt compelled to act. I became the director of Harlem United, an organization that provided housing and healthcare to those affected by HIV and AIDS. The work was relentless. Every week, I attended ACT UP meetings, fighting alongside activists who were both determined and grieving. The crisis shaped everything about that time. People were dying, and systems were failing them. Yet, even in the darkest moments, I saw resilience, love, and hope.
During these years, I also began to deepen my professional skills. I pursued a Master’s in Public Administration at NYU’s Wagner School of Public Service. I wanted to combine the advocacy work I cared about with the tools to lead organizations effectively. The degree gave me a new perspective, and soon after, I was invited to become an adjunct professor in NYU’s School of Continuing Education. Teaching was another way to give back. I shared what I had learned in the nonprofit sector, helping others prepare for their own careers in service.
While these experiences were rewarding, the academic world, with its competitiveness and politics, was not always a comfortable fit for me. I later joined the Institute of Ethical Leadership at Rutgers Business School, where I spent eight years. My role allowed me to bring together my professional experience and my passion for ethical service. Along the way, I took pains to ensure my pursuits were balanced. In 2000, I received my ordination from the Shalem Institute for Spiritual Formation, Washington Theological Consortium, allowing me to grow myself while expanding the ways I could serve others. I learned how to juggle responsibilities, prioritize commitments, and step back when I needed to.
Throughout my early career, I built a life rooted in service, reflection, and advocacy. The choices I made then were shaped by the values I carried from childhood and the lessons I learned as a young man navigating his identity. Those years in New York City, particularly during the height of the AIDS epidemic, were transformative in ways I can still feel. The crisis was everywhere—urgent and inescapable—and so much of my work was about holding space for others: listening, showing up, and helping wherever I could.
During that time, I kept a Rolodex on my desk, filled with names and numbers of friends, colleagues, and advocates. It became more than just an address book; it became a totem of grief. I would meet someone one week—someone kind, talented, and full of life—and by the next, I would learn they were gone. With painful regularity, I had to pull their cards out, but I could never throw them away. I kept every name, every card, holding onto the memory of who they were and what had been lost. Those little pieces of paper weighed more than they should have, as if keeping them was my small, quiet way of honoring people the world was too quick to forget.
That experience marked me in ways I can’t always articulate. The work mattered, but the losses stayed with me. I believed, and still believe, that showing up for people—especially when they are suffering—is the most important thing we can do. Those years shaped me profoundly, leaving me with both the need to serve and the recognition that life is fragile and precious.
Family and Personal Life:
My family has always been the center of my life. In 2009, I met Wei, the man who would become my husband. Wei was a student at the Parsons School of Design at the time, and what drew me to him first was his mind—sharp, thoughtful, and endlessly curious. We connected quickly, and as our relationship grew, so did my admiration for the person he is. Wei has a quiet strength, the kind that grounds a family. Over time, we built a life together, one that I will always cherish.
In 2012, Wei and I were married. A few years later, we began the arduous process of adopting our two sons, Carlos and Jose. Through the next 18 months, we submitted to all the requisite testing, certification, and investigation, but it was worth it. They were 12 and 13 when they came into our lives, and both had faced difficulties that no child should have to endure. Their early experiences left scars—emotional and developmental—that made the transition to a stable home a slow and intentional process. Adoption is not a single moment; it’s a series of small, careful steps forward.
Jose, in particular, has required a lot of attention and care. He struggles with dyslexia, severe attention deficit disorder, and other intellectual disabilities that make everyday tasks more challenging for him. Despite being 24 years old today, developmentally, he is closer to 12 or 13.I became his primary caregiver, working closely with teachers and specialists to ensure he had the tools he needed to succeed. There were independent education plans, meetings with administrators, and countless hours spent helping him build confidence in himself and his abilities. Wei and I approached these challenges as a team, though my role often involved the day-to-day work of advocacy and support.
Carlos, who also grapples with attention deficit disorder, also had a different set of challenges, including Oppositional Defiant Disorder. Like many teenagers, he tested boundaries, sometimes in ways that led to trouble. There was one particular incident where he was arrested for breaking into a car to steal the fast food on the back seat. I made the difficult decision not to bail him out that night. It was a painful choice, but I believed it was the right one. I wanted Carlos to understand that actions have consequences and that we are responsible for the choices we make. The next morning, I was there to pick him up, and I made sure he knew that while I expected him to take accountability, I would always love and support him.
Being a parent has taught me more about patience, responsibility, and humility than anything else in my life. It is hard, humbling work, but it has also been my greatest joy. I have watched both of my sons grow in ways that inspire me. Jose has made progress that once seemed impossible, and Carlos has found steadier ground. I am proud of the family we have built, even through our struggles.
In all of this, Wei has been my partner and my strength. He works full-time, and while that has meant I often take the lead in tending to our sons’ needs, it has also shown me the importance of collaboration and trust. Parenting, like any meaningful commitment, requires shared effort. Wei and I have faced challenges that tested us, but we have always faced them together.
Today, as I reflect on my family, I feel deep gratitude. I have been fortunate to love and be loved in ways I never thought possible when I was younger. My greatest fear, as I sit here now, is the impact my actions will have on Wei and our sons. They did not choose this, but they must live with it. I cannot change that. What I can do is continue to take responsibility for my actions, remain a source of love and stability for my family, and do everything I can to repair the harm I have caused.
The Offense and Accountability:
I take full responsibility for my actions. What I did was wrong, and I understand the harm it has caused—not just to my family, but to society, to victims, and to myself. My behavior reflected a failure to address parts of my life I had allowed to spiral out of control, and I deeply regret that it took this crisis for me to see what needed to change.
Over time, I developed an unhealthy reliance on pornography. What started as an escape—something I told myself was harmless—became something much darker. Slowly, my use increased and the dissociative feeling that accompanied these episodes of pornography use caused me to abandon my better judgment. I allowed it to distort my judgment and my sense of reality. Worse still, distorted my sense of self. When I was viewing pornography, I became someone else and the fleeting control I felt over my life led to decisions that I regret.
At my lowest point, I sought out material Telegram chatrooms. When I first became acquainted with this platform, I didn’t know its reputation for being a cesspool of contraband. But, I was searching for amateur, adult, gay porn and knew I could find it here. It was never my intention to seek illicit materials and yet, when I was in spaces in which these materials were exchanged, neither did I run. I now recognize the significance of what I was engaging with and what that behavior represents. In the moment, I convinced myself it was anonymous and inconsequential. I told myself that I wasn’t hurting anyone. I was wrong.
There are victims of my actions—real people whose suffering cannot and should not be ignored.
That truth is something I carry with me now. I understand that my behavior contributed to a cycle of harm, and I cannot change that. What I can do, and what I have committed myself to, is facing the consequences of my actions and doing the work to ensure this never happens again.
In the days following the raid in May 2023, I sought professional help. I contacted NE Forensics Associates to begin understanding the root causes of my behavior. I sought therapy—both individual and group sessions—and committed myself to confronting the patterns that led me here. I needed to understand how I allowed myself to become so disconnected, so unrecognizable to the person I know I can be.
Through this process, I have learned that my reliance on pornography was a form of disassociation. It was a way of numbing myself to stress, anxiety, and difficult emotions I wasn’t addressing. I see now how dangerous that became—how it led me down a path where my actions no longer aligned with my values. Therapy has helped me confront these truths, no matter how uncomfortable they are. I have begun rebuilding healthier habits, identifying triggers, and putting safeguards in place to ensure I remain accountable.
I do not offer any of this as an excuse. There can be no excuse for what I did. My actions were mine alone, and I will live with the consequences. What matters to me now is how I move forward: by taking accountability, by continuing to work on myself, and by making amends however I can. I understand that words are not enough. Accountability requires action—consistent, sustained effort to address harm and to build trust again.
The shame I feel is deep, but I know that shame alone is not productive. What I need to do, and what I am doing, is channeling that into change. I owe it to my family, to society, and to the victims of my behavior to ensure this will never happen again. That work is ongoing, and I am committed to it.
Reflections:
I have spent many long hours reflecting on how I ended up here—on the decisions I made, the harm I caused, and the parts of myself I neglected for far too long. It’s hard to confront the worst parts of yourself, but I know I have to. There is no moving forward without first understanding where I went wrong.
What I’ve come to realize is that my actions were not just a betrayal of the trust others placed in me but also a betrayal of my own values. I built my life on service—on showing up for others, especially when times were hard. And yet, in my own life, I failed to show up for myself. I ignored warning signs. I convinced myself that I was in control when I wasn’t. I let unhealthy habits take root, and I failed to examine what was driving them.
I now understand that my reliance on pornography was not simply a bad habit—it was a form of avoidance. I used it to disconnect from stress, uncertainty, and emotions I wasn’t willing to face. At first, it felt harmless, but it became something much darker. It eroded my judgment and led me to make decisions that were completely out of step with the person I want to be. I let it spiral because I wasn’t being honest with myself about the impact it was having.
This process has taught me that real change does not come from shame alone. Shame, if left unchecked, can paralyze you. What I’ve learned is that shame must be paired with action—consistent, meaningful work to make things right. That is what I am committed to doing. Since the day this all began, I have sought help. Therapy has helped me begin to understand the root causes of my behavior, and it has given me tools to address them. I am working to build healthier habits, to stay grounded, and to remain accountable.
I think often of the values I was raised with: responsibility, humility, and service to others. Those values shaped my life, and I know I strayed from them. But they are still within me, and they are what I’m holding onto as I move forward. I want to use what I’ve learned through this process—about myself, about accountability, and about the impact of my actions—to help others. I don’t yet know what form that will take, but I know that service will be a part of it. I owe it to the victims of my actions, to my family, and to myself to make sure this experience leads to something better.
I also think of my sons—of Carlos and Jose—and what I hope to teach them through this. I want them to see that mistakes, even terrible ones, do not have to define you. What matters is what you do after. I want them to see me taking responsibility, doing the work to change, and finding ways to make amends. I want to show them that accountability is not just a word—it’s something you live, day by day.
This process has been humbling, but it has also given me clarity. I know who I want to be: a better husband, a better father, and a better member of my community. I cannot undo what I did, but I can choose what I do next. I can choose to take responsibility. I can choose to do the work.
And I can choose to make sure that this never happens again.
Summary:
Your Honor, I ask for mercy in sentencing, though I also understand that I must face the consequences of my actions. I am committed to making things right and doing everything I can to reconcile with society and those affected by my actions.
Thank you for taking the time to read this letter.
Respectfully submitted,
Laurence A. Pagnoni
C: (212) 932-2466
