The Murder of Emma Caldwell : Sex Workers, Misogyny and Police

 

 

In​ the darkness, high above the glare of the streetlights, Emma Caldwell gazed out over Cumberland Street. It was a Monday evening in May 2005 and the young woman’s photograph had been projected onto a block of flats near where she was last seen in Glasgow, on the edge of the Gorbals, not far from the Clyde. She had been murdered just seven weeks before. Appealing for witnesses in this way was an innovation, the detective leading the inquiry told reporters. If it was, it would not be repeated. The decision of Strathclyde Police to beam a 70-foot image of a recently murdered woman across five floors of a condemned building seemed crass even then.
 
In recent weeks, the same photograph has appeared in every British newspaper after a man finally stood trial, almost nineteen years later, for Caldwell’s death. Yet the bringing of this long-delayed prosecution was not the result of advances in DNA technology, or testament to dogged detective work. Instead, the trial exposed a shameful failure of Scotland’s justice system, as the country’s most senior police officers and prosecutors became complicit in concealing a killer.
 
The photograph was the family’s last picture of Caldwell, snapped in the countryside and found on an undeveloped film after her death. It looks like it was taken on a cold, bright spring day: there are leaves on the trees and she is wearing a winter jacket with a fur-trimmed hood. She is half-smiling, looking off to the left. Emma’s mother, Margaret Caldwell, thinks her husband, Willie, took the picture. Her daughter was, she says, determined to get off heroin, an addiction which began after her older sister died of cancer and which forced her onto ‘the drag’, the red-light streets just west of the city centre. She would get clean and then return to her parents’ house in Erskine, just twenty minutes down the M8.
 
Margaret and Willie Caldwell were there that night on Cumberland Street. ‘No one asked us to go, the police didn’t know,’ she remembers. ‘We had driven up to Glasgow so many nights after Emma disappeared, just driving around, looking for her, asking if anyone had seen her. We parked in a side street near the flats and waited in the car until Emma’s picture appeared. It was a damp night and we just sat and looked at Emma through the windscreen. Then she disappeared and it all went dark.’
 
A young woman, thin, blonde, dressed in black, can be seen on grainy CCTV footage leaving a hostel on the Southside of Glasgow at 10.56 p.m. on 4 April 2005. Caldwell was also caught on camera walking into the city centre and her phone was last traced to a street that crosses the Clyde. The discovery of her naked body, five weeks later, by a man walking his dog in forestry land forty miles south of the city prompted one of Scotland’s biggest and most expensive murder investigations. Strathclyde Police – which was merged with the other regional forces into a single national service in 2013 – had come under sustained criticism after a series of unsolved murders of sex workers, and the inquiry into Caldwell’s death was promised every possible resource.
 
The police took statements from many of the women working on the streets around Glasgow Green, just east of the city centre, and among the deserted night-time office blocks of Anderston, on its western edge. One man in particular recurred often in these statements, slowly driving around the streets looking at the women, talking to them, paying for sex, demanding more than he paid for. He was short but powerfully built, and his lack of personal hygiene was so extreme that some of the women believed it must be a power thing. A few knew him as Peter, others as Craig or John. One woman had him in her phone as Blue Van Man. Shown ranks of photographs by detectives, however, the women all pointed to the same man. His name was Iain Packer.
 
He knew Emma, they told the police. He’d had sex with her regularly, at least once by force, according to a woman who had comforted her afterwards. In one statement made in June 2005, weeks after Caldwell’s body was found, one of her friends told detectives Packer had been obsessed: ‘Once he started going with Emma, I can’t remember him going with anyone else. Even when Emma was not out, he would drive around looking for her. I thought he was stalking her. He would not leave her alone, constantly following her, pestering her.’ In March 2006, the same woman was interviewed again: ‘I really had bad vibes from him. It was Emma, Emma, Emma, no one else interested him.’
 
By the summer, detectives were looking at Packer, a 32-year-old neon-sign maintenance man, with increasing suspicion. His former colleagues, friends and partners had been interviewed, his vehicles traced. On 21 June, he was picked up kerb-crawling and interviewed by detectives for the first time. He said he might have seen Caldwell at one of her usual spots in Cadogan Street but had never spoken to her. An officer noted that he became ‘increasingly agitated and uncomfortable’ when asked about her. He was interviewed several times in the following months, changing his story every time. Meanwhile, other witnesses described his compulsive use of sex workers, which had cost him, as he later admitted to the police, £30,000 and two marriages; his enthusiasm for rough, outdoor sex; his habit of picking women up in the city centre and driving them far into the countryside to have sex; his tendency to lose control and fly into violent rages; and the way he enjoyed throttling women, and had threatened at least one with a knife.
 
He eventually admitted that he had known Caldwell, and during his sixth police interview, almost two years after the murder, in March 2007, he offered to take detectives to the woods where he used to go with her and the other women he picked up. He directed the officers out of the city and south down the M74, off at Junction 11 and along a succession of small country roads, before telling them to take a hard right onto a farm road potholed with broken red asphalt. After a quarter of a mile, they stopped at a turning point, with a battered cattle grid on one side and a silver gate on the other. ‘This is it,’ Packer told the detectives. They were at Limefield Woods, not far from Biggar, where Caldwell’s body had been found. He told them he had taken her there six times, although he would later change that story too. On their return to Cathcart police station, the detectives, certain that Packer was on the verge of confessing, asked for guidance from senior officers, but were told to let him go and not to speak to him again. He left soon after. It was Tuesday, 13 March 2007.
 
Five months later, in August, officers involved in the case were called to a meeting at Baird Street police station. ‘It’s all in here,’ Detective Superintendent John Cuddihy said, smacking the fat file on the desk in front of him. ‘The evidence is all in here.’ Months of covert inquiries had targeted a Turkish café on Bridge Street and identified four men as Caldwell’s killers. These were supposed to be Scotland’s first murder convictions based on surveillance evidence. A long and elaborate investigation, costing £4 million, had involved undercover officers from foreign forces, electronic surveillance of the café, and the translation and transcription of countless hours of allegedly incriminating conversations. Cuddihy, one of the detectives who had led the surveillance operation (codenamed Operation Guard, which ran in tandem with Grail, the public-facing murder inquiry), summarised the investigation for the assembled officers and detailed the evidence against the suspects. He seems to have realised the room was not with him, however, and, his voice rising, insisted that the Turkish men were guilty.
 
Caldwell’s phone records showed that the final call to her mobile, made at 11.20 p.m. on the night she disappeared, was a 76-second call from a Turkish man. Police interest in the man grew when they found out he had returned to Turkey soon afterwards. The call had been made near the Turkish café on Bridge Street, not far from the last spot where Caldwell’s phone had pinged. The café was, according to some of the women the police had interviewed, a drinking and gambling den. Some claimed they had been raped there, and after Caldwell’s DNA was found there too, in a drop of blood on a quilt, the detectives’ focus on the café became relentless.
 
At the end of May 2006, transcripts of conversations covertly recorded in the café suddenly began to deliver new evidence. ‘They brought her here.’ ‘They killed the girl.’ They killed her like an animal.’ ‘Halil did it.’ The men were recorded apparently confessing to killing Caldwell and removing her body wrapped in a carpet: ‘They lifted her with the rug cover.’ ‘Who doesn’t have cable? Did you take it?’ The transcripts seemed conclusive, but after the men were arrested translators commissioned by their lawyers found no talk of murder and bodies, rugs and cables. Kerem Öktem, an academic who was asked to listen to four hundred hours of tapes during a police review of the inquiry, said ‘It was not possible to make any conclusive statement about their involvement in the murder. It was simply not possible.’ Experts would later suggest the men had talked about being questioned at the police station, which had resulted in some of the seemingly damning quotes; others were phrases used in a game called okey. Aksoy Ozer, a Grampian Police officer who had been drafted in to help translate the tapes, despite having no training with the equipment or qualification in translation, later said he had been put under ‘immense pressure’ and told to suppress some things he had heard. He also admitted that his Turkish was limited. Ozer left the force in 2010 claiming he had been made a scapegoat. The tapes had been the only real evidence. There were no witnesses and, despite a painstaking search of the café after the men were arrested, there was no forensic evidence. After spending eighty days in custody, they were freed. The café owner, Huseyin Cobanoglu, was sentenced to ten years for rape and sexual assault in 2009.
 
It remains difficult to understand why the detectives set Packer aside to focus entirely on the Turkish men. They weren’t rookies. Ruaraidh Nicolson, later deputy chief constable of Police Scotland, was in charge of Strathclyde CID when Willie Johnston, a detective superintendent, was put in charge of the murder inquiry. Johnston was trusted by Caldwell’s family and kept in touch when he retired from the force and took a consultancy job in the Middle East. His texts and calls from Abu Dhabi ended abruptly, however, after the suspicions about Packer became public. John Mitchell, a detective chief superintendent, took over the investigation when Johnston left. He also became head of CID at Strathclyde Police and, after retiring, the director of investigations for the Police Investigations and Review Commissioner. Two more senior detectives, Cuddihy and Colin Field, took charge of the surveillance operation against the Turkish men. The exciting trappings of that investigation, the covert taping and Turkish-speaking undercover officers, seem to have blinded these men to the more mundane truth. ‘They thought they were in an episode of The Wire. Their heads were turned,’ one former colleague said. The endless suspicion around Packer must have given them pause: they spent months vainly attempting to link him to the Turkish men. Yet after the case against those men collapsed, they did not go back to reinvestigate Packer. They did nothing at all.
 
Back​ in the days when papers had newsrooms and desks had telephones, my first editor told me never to let one ring. ‘You just never know,’ she would say. When my phone at the Sunday Mail rang at half-past six on Wednesday, 25 March 2015, I was tempted to ignore it. Off-stone was three days away, and if it was important my mobile would be ringing. Well-trained, I picked up anyway. ‘Jim, it’s Gerry Gallacher,’ the caller said. ‘I might have the biggest crime story for ten years.’ My heart sank: if a reporter knows anything, it is that big stories never arrive so easily. Gallacher was a retired police detective, an experienced investigator and a trusted contact. We had kept in touch after the Mail serialised his memoirs a few years before. He had been reinvestigating the inquiry into Caldwell’s murder for a potential book and had some documents to show me. He had scoured the paperwork from the original investigation, methodically marking it up with pink and yellow Post-it notes and handwritten annotations, but the signposting was hardly necessary – Packer’s name was all over the lever arch files. Every mention trailed suspicion: the accounts from women who didn’t like him, the recollections of colleagues who didn’t trust him, his own interviews with detectives as his story twisted and turned. Finally, there was his journey with the detectives to the woods where Caldwell was killed, only for him to be let go within hours and remain free for years. It seemed preposterous to me then, almost unbelievable. It still does.
 
I rang to arrange to meet Gallacher at Limefield Woods, but was told I would never find it on my own. Instead, we met in a service station car park before twisting our way through the South Lanarkshire countryside. Finally, we turned onto a farm track that led into a pine forest. We stopped where the track was blocked by a silver gate and sat in silence for a moment. Almost nine years later, the jury at Packer’s trial made the same journey in a minibus escorted by ten police motorbikes. The trial judge, Lord Beckett, lawyers, court staff and Packer, now 51, wearing a mask and walking with a stick, were there too. They went off the track and into the woods to the stream where Caldwell was found. I had been almost persuaded of Packer’s guilt by the police files, but the length and intricacy of the journey to this remote spot was, for me at least, conclusive.
 
In 2015, I had been editing the Sunday Mail for six years and, after returning from South Lanarkshire, I asked deputy editor Brendan McGinty for his help. Normally, editors pass tip-offs to reporters, but accusing a man of murder – a man who hadn’t been arrested, never mind charged – and the police of concealing his crime was the kind of story that, if it goes badly, gets journalists the sack. If anyone was to be in the firing line, we agreed, it should be us. The next few days were frenetic. We wrote thousands of words based on the police files, interviewed Gallacher at length, and traced Packer to his parents’ home in Baillieston. We spoke to women who had known him. Some were terrified of him. Some were furious. One was sick when shown his photograph. Finally, I invited Caldwell’s mother to our office, to tell her what we were about to report. She had never heard of Packer and seemed at first bewildered and then dismayed as I summarised the evidence against him.
 
We gave Police Scotland the chance to comment or offer guidance off the record. There was no substantive response. Late on Saturday afternoon, with the pages being checked and the deadline looming, the paper’s duty lawyer was unimpressed with our intention to identify Packer. We were, she said, not just suggesting he was a suspect but calling him the killer. If he sued for defamation, how could we prove it? If the police didn’t have the evidence to charge him, never mind convict him, how did we? Why not run the story but remove his name and picture? These were hard, inconvenient questions, but I was, by then, certain of the story. Anonymising Packer would reduce the clarity and impact of the reporting and it seemed important that this first account was as clear and impactful as it could be. We ran it on Sunday, 5 April 2015, which was, coincidentally, the tenth anniversary of Caldwell’s disappearance, clearing the front page of the Mail and eight pages inside. The headline was ‘The Forgotten Suspect’ and there was a six-column photograph snatched in the street of a scowling Packer, wearing a black hoodie and with an unlit cigarette clamped in his mouth.
 
Then we waited. Perhaps the police had good reason for not pursuing Packer? Perhaps he was abroad when Caldwell died? Or in prison? Perhaps we had missed the obvious proof of his innocence in the files? Surely he wouldn’t have been allowed to remain free for so long if the evidence against him was so damning? Early on the Tuesday, Police Scotland launched an urgent investigation, but not into Caldwell’s murder. They wanted to find our sources.
 
Not only was the inquiry mounted by the force’s Counter Corruption Unit (CCU) an appalling misjudgment, it would later be ruled unlawful. The detectives involved ignored warnings from their own colleagues that the law had changed and they now needed judicial approval before seizing data in an attempt to identify journalists’ sources. Four officers, two serving, two retired, including Gallacher, had their phone and email records secretly examined. This was discovered during a routine inspection by a watchdog, the Interception of Communications Commissioner, and in 2016 an Investigatory Powers Tribunal (IPT) ruled that the collection of the officers’ data breached the Human Rights Act and the European Convention on Human Rights. Six years later, another IPT hearing in Edinburgh heard that the CCU had also obtained my number and, despite dropping plans to seize my call data after being told it would be unlawful, had breached the ECHR in my case too. The three-judge panel ruled that ‘the information about individuals was recovered with a view, it is now admitted, to discovering Mr Wilson’s sources, therefore it represents an interference with his Article 10 rights as a journalist ... There is a real risk that conduct of that sort will have a chilling effect on his ability to obtain and disseminate information in the public interest.’
 
By the time of that hearing, the second investigation into the murder of Emma Caldwell was in its seventh year. While the hunt for our sources was launched within days, the murder inquiry was not reopened until seven weeks after the story was published, and then only after the direct intervention of Frank Mulholland, the lord advocate, Scotland’s most senior prosecutor. Caldwell’s mother was disappointed when told the new inquiry might take two years. It was very complicated, they told her. It was going to take time to have all the conversations from the Turkish café retranslated and retranscribed. Well, it would, but why was that necessary? It is difficult not to believe that the delays in bringing Packer to trial were caused by the deep reluctance of senior officers in Police Scotland and the Crown Office and Procurator Fiscal Service to explain in court why they had not put him in the dock ten years earlier.
 
Journalists were reluctant to say anything further, fearful of jeopardising a future trial by influencing the jury. They might have been less concerned if they had known Packer would not stand trial for another nine years. Eventually, the patience of BBC Scotland journalists snapped and, resisting pressure from police and prosecutors, they broadcast an interview with Packer in February 2019. He had approached them in an attempt to clear his name, but at his trial, a former partner said he was as ‘white as a sheet’ after filming and looked like he had been ‘found out’. Mulholland’s successor as lord advocate, James Wolffe, seemed to have done little to advance the case. He agreed to meet Emma’s mother – ‘A condescending man,’ she remembers. ‘He never looked at me once’ – but not much more. His successor, Dorothy Bain, arriving in 2021, quickly met Margaret Caldwell and Aamer Anwar, her lawyer, and Packer was finally arrested in February 2022.
 
Many of the women who gave statements about Packer nearly twenty years ago are themselves now dead, lost to addiction, violence or illness. There are still some who remember Caldwell fondly, while insisting she was too polite, too well-spoken, for the life she was living. Her mother did not understand the depth of her daughter’s addiction or the reality of her life. ‘After she died, a police officer asked if we had known Emma had frequented the city centre and I said, well, I know she goes to this shop and that one, but that wasn’t what he meant at all, not at all.’ She and her husband would visit Emma twice a week in the hostel, bringing her food and seeking reassurance that this was only temporary, that she would, one day, come home. ‘Willie and I were so naive,’ she says now. ‘We didn’t realise Emma was taking drugs for such a long time and when she finally told us, we didn’t have a clue what to do. I remember we took her to the hospital the night she told us to ask for help but the doctor just looked at us as if we were daft. We went home and talked and talked, cried and cried. I remember thinking we had got through to her and went to bed that night happy, thinking we had got her back. Looking back, I think that was the night we lost her.’
 
On 28 February, at the High Court in Glasgow, a jury found Iain Packer guilty of murdering Emma Caldwell. He was also found guilty of 32 other charges against 22 women, including 11 rapes and multiple sexual assaults, most of them committed after the murder. He was sentenced to a minimum of 36 years, the second longest sentence ever handed down in Scotland. The verdict answered some questions of guilt, but many more remain, for Police Scotland and for the Crown Office. The trial heard no compelling evidence that had not been available within months of Caldwell’s death. For example, one key witness was Dr Stefan Uitdehaag, from the Netherlands Forensic Institute, who told the jury that soil found in Packer’s van was very likely to have come from the woods where Emma’s body was found. The soil sample was collected in 2005; Dr Uitdehaag was asked to analyse it in 2022. On 7 March, eight days after the verdicts, the Scottish government announced a judge-led public inquiry; the lord advocate confirmed that a criminal investigation into the first police investigation is also planned.
 
Margaret Caldwell sat in court for much of the evidence and was there to hear the verdict. She is scathing about those responsible for delaying justice so long, for allowing Packer to attack and abuse so many more women. She believes only an outside police force and independent prosecutors can properly scrutinise the decisions made in the first inquiry into her daughter’s murder and throughout the years since. ‘At so many points, the police and the lawyers could have done the right thing but instead did the opposite. They will all have something to say now, blaming each other, but the time for them to say something was all those years ago. Let them say it to a judge.’

Shameful. Jim Wilson on the Investigation into the Death of Emma Caldwell. By Jim Wilson.  London Review of Books, March 21, 2024. 

The mum of Emma Caldwell has slammed her daughter's killer Iain Packer after he was jailed for life.

Margaret, 76, fought for justice for 19 years while Packer, who was interviewed several times by cops, remained a free man.

 Recently, the 51-year-old serial rapist was caged for a minimum of 36 years last month after being found guilty of murdering the 27-year-old in 2005 and rapes and multiple sexual assaults against a total of 22 women.

Speaking on Good Morning Britain, the Daily Record reported Margaret said: "My family and I have been in so many dark places while this man walked the streets. It took far too long for justice to be served.

"The day after the trial I woke up and felt strange. I can't explain it and I thought throughout the day that maybe it was a relief but it wasn't. It was more that I felt at peace that this man has been put behind bars.

"Now he is absolutely irrelevant to any of us. He matters nothing to us anymore. He got his justice and he is where he is."

Margaret was joined on the show by her lawyer, Aamer Anwar.

Emma, who was a former stable worker turned to drugs and sex work after her older sister, Karen, died of cancer.

She continued to say: "Emma was lucky, she had a voice.

"She had her family and we kept in contact with Emma throughout this whole time.

"We knew that heroin was a killer and we knew that Emma was a heroin addict but we didn't have any knowledge that Emma worked on the streets, we were completely naive, we had no idea how she got her money.

"We rang each other every day and had a very close relationship. I saw her twice a week and she was near to going into rehabilitation."

Yesterday the Scottish Government confirmed an independent public inquiry into the police handling of the case would take place.

Margaret added: "There were many good police officers. David McLaren and Graham Mackie were excellent and they came forward for the second investigation when others thought the case was left in a dusty corner and they brought it back into the light of day.

"They were fighting on our side."

Speaking on the show, Mr Anwar said: "I think there are a whole series of allegations and reasons for a public enquiry but I think it is also important that the Lord Advocate has to order a criminal investigation finally after 19 years.

"Some of the most senior police officers in this country have fingerprints in this case and they have never answered questions.

"Police officers betrayed justice, they betrayed 22 women and many others who didn't come forward, and there has to be a criminal investigation into their conduct.

 "They knew [Iain Packer] was a killer and a serial rapist and we were told by Scotland's most senior prosecutor that, as a senior law officer in 2008, she said that this is the man to go after and she told the police to do it and then the case just disappeared.

"Those officers brought shame on their uniform. They should be held to account, there should be change and if those officers are found to have engaged in criminality then they should face prison."

He added: "It has been described as probably the worst scandal in Scottish legal history. He has been described as one of the worst sex offenders in the UK.

"No women should ever feel because of her status, her vulnerability, her actions, her job - that they need to accept sexual violence."

 Emma Caldwell's mum has slammed her killer Iain Packer. By Ben Waddell. Glasgow Times, March 12, 2024.

An independent judge-led public inquiry will be held into how police handled the investigation into Emma Caldwell’s murder, the Scottish government has announced. The announcement came as Scotland’s most senior law officer said she believed there was sufficient evidence in 2008 to prosecute Caldwell’s killer, who was convicted only last week.

Caldwell’s mother, Margaret, has campaigned tirelessly for nearly two decades to bring her daughter’s murderer to justice. She listened from the public gallery as Scotland’s justice secretary, Angela Constance, told MSPs on Thursday afternoon: “There can be no doubt of the serious failings that brought a grieving family to fight for justice.”

The inquiry is expected to examine the sustained police failings that emerged during the trial of killer and serial rapist Iain Packer.

Packer was jailed last week for 36 years for the 2005 murder of Caldwell, as well as multiple other cases of sexual violence against 22 other women.

 Caldwell was living in a hostel in Glasgow when she disappeared in April 2005, aged 27. Her mother told the trial that her daughter had started taking heroin to numb her grief after the death of her sister and was funding her drug habit through sex work. Caldwell’s naked body was found five weeks after she went missing, in Limefield Woods near Biggar, South Lanarkshire.

An emotional Constance told the Holyrood chamber: “Given … the gravity of this case, the length of time that it took for justice to be served for so many women and the horrific extent of the sexual violence suffered by the victims and survivors, the case for holding a public inquiry is overwhelming”.

An hour before the statement, Caldwell’s family concluded a meeting with the lord advocate, Dorothy Bain, who worked on the case as crown counsel in 2008.

Bain told the family that after taking the view that there was no murder case against the four Turkish men who the original police investigation had focused on, she and the solicitor general directed investigators to look at Packer, whose name appeared in police papers.

Speaking after the meeting, the Caldwell family’s solicitor, Aamer Anwar, said: “The lord advocate confirmed that multiple women came forward who would have added to the evidence of rapes and attacks. There is no doubt on the basis of evidence available in 2008, had the police listened to the Crown Office, Packer may well have been serving a life sentence”.

Packer, who lodged an appeal against his conviction yesterday, is known to have carried out at least 19 other rapes and sexual assaults after he killed Caldwell.

Police Scotland has apologised for how the original inquiry was handled by Strathclyde police, which was amalgamated into the national force in 2013.

Police Scotland’s chief constable, Jo Farrell, reiterated the apology when she met Caldwell’s family on Wednesday, adding that she supported their calls for a public inquiry and pledged the force would “fully participate”.

“It is important that Emma’s family and the public get answers to the many questions they have,” Farrell said.

Independent inquiry into 2005 murder of Emma Caldwell announced.  By Libby Brooks. The Guardian, March 7, 2024. 

The killer of Emma Caldwell is to appeal against his conviction and the length of his sentence.

Iain Packer was given a life sentence and ordered to serve a minimum of 36 years in prison.

He was found guilty last week of 33 charges against a total of 22 women, including Emma's murder and 11 rapes.

The Scottish Courts and Tribunals Service have confirmed to BBC Scotland that Packer has now indicated a "intimation of intention to appeal".

The death of Ms Caldwell in April 2005 was one of Scotland's longest running unsolved murders.

The news of Packer's appeal came as Emma's mother Margaret Caldwell met Scotland's chief constable as the family continued their campaign for a public inquiry into the police investigation into her death.

Officers initially arrested four Turkish men in connection with the murder but they were released a year later when the case against them collapsed.

Emma's family believe that a "toxic culture of misogyny and corruption" within what was then Strathclyde Police meant that women and girls who came forward to speak up against Packer at the time were ignored and he was dismissed as a suspect.

They say this allowed Packer to continue raping other women after murdering Emma.

 Chief Constable Jo Farrell apologised to Mrs Caldwell and her family for the policing failures, and backed their call for a full inquiry.

She said: "It is important that Emma's family and the public get answers to the many questions they have.

"I therefore support the family's calls for a public inquiry. I absolutely commit that Police Scotland will fully participate in any further proceedings.

"We have reflected and learned from the initial investigation and subsequent re-investigation.

"Significant changes have been made to improve organisational culture and response, particularly in respect of investigative structures, victim care and processes to these types of crimes."

Margaret Caldwell met First Minister Humza Yousaf to discuss the case on Tuesday and will meet Scotland's top law officer, Lord Advocate Dorothy Bain, on Thursday.

Mr Yousaf has previously indicated that he would be open to a public inquiry being held, with the Scottish government due to make a statement in the Holyrood chamber on Thursday afternoon.

Packer will not be released pending his appeal, which will take place at a later date.

 

Emma Caldwell killer Iain Packer to appeal against conviction.   BBC News, March 6, 2024. 

A man has been found guilty of the 2005 murder of Emma Caldwell after a trial that raised significant questions about the police investigation of the killing and the key suspect over almost 20 years, as well as attitudes to reports of violence against sex workers.

Iain Packer, 51, was sentenced to at least 36 years in prison for Caldwell’s murder and was found guilty of 32 other charges against a total of 22 women that amounted to a horrifying course of unchecked physical and sexual violence over two decades. The offences included 11 rapes and multiple sexual assaults.
 
Sentencing Packer to the second-longest term in Scottish legal history, the judge, Lord Beckett, said the killer was responsible for an “extreme campaign of sexual violence”, preying on the vulnerable and causing “extreme and enduring suffering for so many women and their families”.

Immediately after the verdicts, the Police Scotland assistant chief constable Bex Smith, who is the executive lead for major crime and public protection, apologised directly to Caldwell, her family and “many other victims”, saying they were all “let down by policing in 2005”.

Caldwell was living in a hostel in Glasgow when she disappeared in April 2005, aged 27. Her naked body was found five weeks later in Limefield Woods near Biggar, South Lanarkshire.

Her mother told the trial that Caldwell had started taking heroin to numb her grief over the death of her older sister. She had been making money through sex work at the time of her death. The court heard from a friend of Caldwell’s that Packer had become “obsessed” with her, following her and attempting to scare away her other clients.

Although a rape allegation was first made against Packer in 1990, the prosecutor advocate depute, Richard Goddard KC, told the jury that at that time police were “dismissive” of reports made by sex workers. He said it was a “tragedy” that sex workers felt forced to accept sexual assault as “part and parcel of their job”.

Another witness said Packer chose girls who were “young, vulnerable and on drugs”. Many of the women who gave witness statements were sex workers at the time and some have since died.

Packer – who denied all charges apart from one of a prior indecent assault against Caldwell, for which he admitted he was “ashamed” – gave evidence at the trial over three days, insisting he had not killed Caldwell and that the other women accusing him were either mistaken or liars.

He admitted taking sex workers to the woods where Caldwell’s body was found – but not to the same spot where she was found. Asked where he was on the night Caldwell disappeared, Packer told the court he could have been at work or walking his dogs.

The court had heard earlier from an expert that soil found in his van was a 97% match for earth at the spot where Caldwell was dumped.

Information about the police investigation that came to light during the trial raised significant questions about why it took so long to bring Packer to justice. He gave six statements to police between 2005 and 2007, but was not interviewed under caution as a suspect.

A decade later, concerns about the unsolved case were such that in 2015 the lord advocate ordered Police Scotland to re-investigate not only who killed Caldwell, but flaws in the original inquiry.

The original police investigation was focused on four Turkish men, who were charged with Caldwell’s murder in August 2007, but that case collapsed and the men were released.
 
Smith made it plain that Strathclyde police, the force that first investigated Caldwell’s murder before Scottish forces were merged into one force in 2013, had failed Packer’s victims.

“A significant number of women and girls who showed remarkable courage to speak up at that time also did not get the justice and support they needed and deserved from Strathclyde police,” she said.

“It is clear that further investigations should have been carried out into Emma’s murder following the initial inquiry in 2005. The lack of investigation until 2015 caused unnecessary distress to her family and all those women who had come forward to report sexual violence.”

Caldwell’s mother, Margaret, who has campaigned tenaciously for justice for her daughter, said she felt “betrayed” by the original police investigation and angry that it had taken so long for Packer to be brought to justice.

Her solicitor, Aamer Anwar, called for an inquiry into police failings, saying: “A toxic culture of misogyny and corruption meant the police failed so many women and girls who came forward to speak up against Packer.

“Instead of receiving justice and compassion, they were humiliated, dismissed and in some instances arrested, whilst the police gifted freedom to an evil predator to rape and rape again.”
 
Police face scrutiny after man found guilty of 2005 Emma Caldwell murder. By Libby Brooks.The Guardian, February 28, 2024. 

Porn Work and Late Capitalism

 

“Every porn scene is a record of people at work,” begins Heather Berg’s Porn Work: Sex, Labor, and Late Capitalism, a deeply researched book examining the nuances of labor within the adult industry. This declaration echoes the familiar rallying cry that “sex work is work,” but Berg immediately complicates it. “Sometimes it is also something else,” she adds. “Again and again, porn workers told me that they left straight (non-sex-work) jobs for porn because they ‘hated working,’” she explains. It was an escape from the nine-to-five grind. Then again, many porn workers also told her that it was “a job,” “a gig,” one with all the potentials for monotony, as well as exploitation, that come with any job or gig.

 
In her interviews with 81 performers, managers, and crew members across genres—from mainstream to amateur, and in gay, straight, queer, and feminist productions—she found reports of enjoyment and hatred, “pleasure and tedium.” These tensions are familiar to work in general, because the adult industry “is not exceptional,” argues Berg.
 
That said, porn is exceptional for being steeped in societal shame and taboo. It bucks the convention that sex should be “private and free,” as Berg puts it. Porn also appears to fail to conform to dated office-job cliches of staid cubicle farms and sober TPS reports. But, in fact, Berg shows how the experiences of porn workers are revealing of a broader “moment in late capitalism.” Workers of all sorts are “called to ‘do what you love.’” Authenticity “is a work requirement and one that can serve to extract more from workers, for less.” The many tensions in porn work fundamentally reflect the “deep contradictions at the core of (late) capitalism,” she argues. Workers flee the constraints of traditional jobs only to “find precarity on the other side.” People seek pleasure in work, which both makes it more “livable but also gets us to do more of it.”
 
Porn workers have long faced the realities that are now considered indicative of a new economy in which “intimate life is increasingly brought to the market; individual workers, rather than employers or the state, assume the economic and health risks of doing business; and a hypermobile gig economy is eclipsing more stable ways of working.” Having lived for decades in this “new” reality, porn workers have “found ways to hack and reshape its conditions for as long,” she writes. This includes everything from mutual aid for out-of-work performers to whisper networks of insider information around everything from unscrupulous talent agents to the potential side-effects of herbs used for erectile dysfunction. Berg also points to organizing efforts, like the recent formation of the BIPOC Adult Industry Collective, which seeks to address industry racism.
 
Berg has a sober view of the limitations of “hacking” and “reshaping” within capitalism. These efforts are “not always transformative—sometimes intervening means ascending hierarchies rather than dismantling them,” she writes. Many of these “strategies chip away at the status quo, even as they sometimes also maintain it.” Berg argues for the importance of acknowledging sex work as work, and improving the conditions of that work as a “politics for the meantime,” while also crucially and radically imagining a post-work reality. The epilogue of the book is titled, simply: “Fuck Jobs.” The phrase was taken from an interview with performer Conner Habib who said, “I don’t like the idea of jobs. The most obscene thing is ‘working for a living.’”
 
Jezebel spoke with Berg by phone about the nexus of labor and pleasure, and what porn reveals about the future of work.
 
JEZEBEL: You write of an interesting tension between the need to recognize sex work as work and many of your interviewees expressing that they chose porn because they “hated working.” Can you explain that seeming contradiction?
 
Heather Berg: This tension can’t really be resolved. What became really important for me in the book was to frame the reality that porn work not only is work but also feels like work, often in its tediums and hierarchies and forms of exploitation. In all of that, it is a job like other jobs.
It’s also true that it is absolutely a way to refuse other, and worse, straight jobs. That is a tension that can’t and shouldn’t be resolved. It became really important for me to frame that tension not as a miscalculation on workers’ parts, but instead as struggle. It’s this thing that so many workers in sex industries and outside of them are grasping at—the hope of doing something that feels more autonomous, that feels more pleasurable. There are these moments in porn where that delivers and other moments where it feels very much like the kind of retail, food service, and office work that people leave behind.
 
J : Your book is full of these tensions. One of them is the subject of authenticity, which can be both an extractive demand and a sustaining part of porn work. Can you explain what you found there?
 
HB : On the one hand, as various labor scholars have been writing for the last twenty years or so, we’re in this moment in which more and more workers are expected to do their jobs not because they need money but because they love them, because they feel like a vocation. For you and I, in journalism and academia, we have a much longer history of that, and there are all sorts of workers for whom that’s not new, that’s not a product of neoliberalism. But that’s always been the case for various forms of service work, domestic labor, teaching, and certainly for unpaid care work in the home. Those expectations around the affect that you bring to work are being democratized where all workers are expected to perform authenticity.
 
That’s more intense sometimes in sex industries because the weight is so far in the direction of disproving anti-sex worker ideas that people only do sexual labor because they desperately need the money, and also disproving the idea that the sex that happens on-set or for in-person work with a client is devoid of any kind of human connection. One response to that, particularly among feminists and queer pornographers, has been to really highlight the authenticity at work in their scenes and also to demand that performance of performers. It’s a PR strategy, but it’s also a labor market strategy, because performing authenticity makes it harder to ask about pay, it makes it harder to say you need to go home at the end of the day. That can create really significant burdens for workers. In the parts of the industry in which authenticity is most prized and also most celebrated by folks on the outside, pay tends to be lowest. That’s a classic dynamic—anyone who has worked for nonprofits or independent bookstores knows what that feels like.
 
On the other hand, authenticity sometimes matters to workers, which is why so many of us come to these industries in the first place. For autonomy and also for a sense that you can bring some part of yourself to the job, that the job doesn’t feel alienating in the classic sense. I want to take that seriously too. These glimpses of connection between costars and pleasure on the job, they’re not just disciplining, they don’t just get more work out of people but they can also be a foundation for organizing and community building. On the individual level these moments of pleasure can make the workday less bad for people and that matters. It’s both a thing that gets them to work more and something that lets us leave a little bit less of ourselves at work.
 
J : In the book, you hit at the idea that for viewers the demand for authenticity might arise from a discomfort with sex work, with commercialized sex. And that this wish might arise from a place of shame.
 

HB : Absolutely. Anti-porn feminists have engineered that shame and consumers absorb it in all sorts of ways, the idea that having sex for money is bad and that paying people to have sex for money is maybe even worse. Management’s response to that is to offer up to consumers products that make them feel ethically safe. There’s this unholy collaboration between anti-porn feminists and managers, who agree that money is a bad reason to have sex and who together coordinate, without ever talking to each other, to in some ways compel workers to pretend to work for some other reason.
 
On fan chat boards you can see all sorts of discussion around people who are “dead in the eyes” or don’t seem to be into it, or who at conventions don’t seem to really like their fans. That’s primarily mainstream fans who are demanding a ton of unpaid labor from performers, either chatting with them on OnlyFans or Twitter. On the other hand, you have self-identified queer and feminist consumers who seek out this content, which in some ways does have better working conditions, but in others is much like buying fair trade coffee. It’s more for the consumer’s ego maintenance than anything.
 
J : Similarly, how does pleasure play into work in the porn context?
 
HB : Often the narrative on the part of labor scholarship is that anytime we feel pleasure at work—whether it’s the Google slide or Casual Fridays, these kinds of cheap gestures toward worker pleasure—it’s only a transparent effort to try to get people to work more. Sometimes that’s true. Anyone who has been in a workplace like that knows how thin it can feel. At the same time, again, I don’t view any of these processes as only top-down, as only management figuring out better ways to exploit workers and workers passively accepting that.
 
The counter to that, which exists not in contradiction but alongside it, is that pleasure can make not just work but also life more livable. That matters for people. That certainly can get folks to work more for less, but there is something about life under late-capitalism that is profoundly pleasureless and un-erotic, and that expects workers to grind themselves into dust. In that context there can be something really resistive about claiming pleasure in your work day.

 
J : You write about the blurred line in porn, increasingly, between life and work.
 
HB : Another tension, and the book is full of them, is that folks often come to porn work with the promise of more money and fewer hours, a job that pays in five or six hours what they used to make in a week. That’s really crucial for folks dealing with disability or chronic illness, who have caretaking responsibilities, who are artists who need time to pursue other things, and also, I always want to add, just for people who want to work less who don’t necessarily have some lofty reason but want more time for the rest of their life. Sometimes porn delivers that, but it does so, like a lot of creative work and gig work, at the cost of any boundary between your job and your life. That offers some real benefits to people insofar as much of the work can be done at home. As people have found during the pandemic, there’s some pleasure in that for some people. All of that’s true and at the same time it can be really hard never to be able to clock out. Workers talked about how they navigated these demands where, unless you have really strict boundaries around your time, you’re never really on vacation.
 
You’re always uploading content to your OnlyFans or updating your subscription site or quoting fans on social media. People have a lot of smart hacks around that, you can automate a lot, but it can feel difficult to have any sense of separation. But that’s not unique to porn, that’s something all sorts of freelancers identify. I’m not framing that only as something that takes more from people, there are real benefits. It’s not just a neoliberal managerial perspective to say that no one wants to go into an office—that’s actually true for people and I don’t think we should pretend it’s not.
 
J : What are some of the issues with looking toward the state for support and protection?
 
HB : The primary consideration here is that employment law is set up to force a choice upon workers in a really artificial way born out of a very brutal compromise between industrial labor organizers and capital during the New Deal era. It forced this choice between autonomy and some semblance of protection. That is the origin of the distinction between independent contractors and employees and the longstanding rule that it’s only people designated as employees who are nominally protected at work. In order to get access to that protection, whether it’s around anti-discrimination law or occupational health or protections from wage theft or access to social security, you have to give up control over your labor, which is why some people have always refused that.
 
At the same time, it’s also true that even for people designated as employees, those protections are slimmer and slimmer by the day and they’ve been so eroded under neoliberalism. Even at their height, they were only designed to benefit the white male industrial worker, so they always left out domestic workers, migrant workers, racialized workers, gendered workers, and sex workers and other folks in the informal economy. You give up a lot in name in not working under a boss, but as mainstream workers have learned over the course of the pandemic, plenty of formal employers can put you at risk with no liability, can lower your pay with no responsibilities to you. The risks of relying entirely on state protection are two fold. One, that it forces this choice and, two, the crumbs you’re given on the other side are so paltry.

 
J : What is it about porn work itself that adds an additional challenging dimension to reliance on the state?
 
HB :  Porn workers, like other sex workers, have had this longstanding antagonistic relationship to the state because the state regards sex workers primarily as unruly bodies to be controlled rather than workers who need workplace protection. There’s this tricky dynamic where workers often ally with management to resist state interference in ways that would look very strange to a labor organizer outside sex industries. The reality is many workers make this calculation that they would rather have no state intervention than state intervention that treats them solely as vectors of disease.
 
You can see that in the state’s incredibly single-minded focus on STI transmission over and above all of workers’ mundane health concerns—but also concerns around discrimination and wage theft—that, if you ask workers, they’re much more concerned with. Legislators are just obsessed with the idea of rampant HIV transmission on porn sets, for example. Workers are right that the state’s interventions there will be violent ones rather than pro-worker ones. On the other hand, it does create this dynamic that looks like libertarianism from the outside, but I don’t think is, in which you have workers with no ability to appeal to state response when their legal rights are violated.
 
So much state policy regarding porn work has actively made conditions worse. One example of that is FOSTA-SESTA, which have not only materially made it harder for workers to work, but also harder to work independently without giving some of their pay to management, whether platforms or individuals. It’s also made it harder to organize.
 
J : Absent state assistance, you write about collective and individual struggles in porn work. What approaches have been most effective?
 
HB : For a time, porn workers had really tight networks of mutual care and community and had figured out ways to take care of each other when the state and employers had failed to do so. That looks like information sharing, daily acts of mutual aid, teaching each other how to do the work in ways that are less extractive, whether that be tips for performing in ways that protect your body or letting people know how to get out of work with a bad agent.
 
Now, with the overwhelming transition to digital, some of the in-person network has dispersed, but much of that has moved online. In the early days of the pandemic, so many people were figuring out how to make ends meet and sites like OnlyFans were oversaturated. Even then, porn workers were sharing information with either sex workers who had primarily done in-person work before or folks who were newly out of work in their straight jobs and trying to make some money on digital sex work hustles. Seasoned sex workers were sharing information on how to do it safely, how to make money. It was such generosity, even amidst the labor market compression and scarcity, in ways I don’t think you would find in many jobs.
 
J : Recently, we’ve seen the resurgence of an anti-porn movement targeting tube sites. What do you make of this in the “porn work” context?
 
HB : Part of the problem is that anti-porn campaigners, even those who say they’re trying to protect workers, don’t talk to them. They have not just inaccurate but also outdated ideas about how any of this works. If anti-porn campaigners had been paying attention fifteen years ago when workers were starting to organize against tube sites, there might have been some possibility of making themselves useful, if what they actually wanted to do was make it harder for tube sites to steal content and allow fans to consume sex workers’ labor without paying them. But we’re not there and, of course, that’s never been their genuine aim.
 
In this moment, tube sites are so ubiquitous and sex workers are so crafty, they have spent years cultivating strategies that make tube sites work for them. Now, the primary effect of anti-porn intervention into tube sites specifically is to shut down all of those hacks that workers have already devised. That’s one issue, the other is the implications this has for legal precedent. Historically, struggles over free sexual speech have often focused on studios and traditional managers, but as more and more sex workers have access to class mobility within the industry through producing their own content, then those assaults on sexual speech have a direct impact not on some big studio head, but on sex workers’ own ability to make a living.
 
J : What lessons can be drawn from porn workers’ navigation of these tricky tensions around work, life, authenticity, and pleasure?
 
HB : First, porn workers and sex workers more broadly have already been living in the conditions that are just now hitting other kinds of workers in straight industries. The kinds of trends that labor scholars and activists are observing in other fields as a recent crisis have been par for the course for sex workers since the inception of the work. That is, again, these blurred lines around life and work, and this total lack of state support for worker safety. It’s also blurred boundaries around class—we don’t have one tidy community of workers and another of management that can be easily organized against. Also, this double bind where we want work that feels pleasurable, but then that pleasure can be used against us.
 
All of these conditions—especially these recent concerns that civilians are just figuring out, like, “Oh, it’s a problem for Uber drivers that the state doesn’t see them as workers”—sex workers have been figuring how to survive in spite of that forever. Straight workers can learn so much from those strategies.
 
In terms of what that looks like around surviving state violence and neglect, porn workers’ strategies around mutual aid, information sharing, and subtle ways of intervening in their conditions that don’t rely on the protection or permission of the state are so inspiring. My two cents are that other gig workers would be served in not asking for recognition and permission, and taking what they want in less direct ways. In terms of navigating the blurry boundaries between life and work, it’s less that porn workers have figured out some secret, because it’s something folks talk about struggling with all the time, and more that they just remind us that life isn’t better when you have that clear boundary, necessarily. So many people leave jobs that they did clock into, that weren’t at home, that had nothing to do with their own desires, and those jobs were awful too. The main lesson is that work sucks and nobody wants to have a boss.
 
This economy is set up to punish people who try to escape that. You can’t have total autonomy and also security under capitalism. That’s not a porn problem that’s a capitalism problem. Porn workers reveal the impossibility of that and are also really smart about how to survive in the meantime.
 
'Pleasure and Tedium': What Porn Reveals About the Future of Work. By Tracy Clark-Flory.  Jezebel, June 10, 2021.

Porn Work, Gig Economy, and the Politics of New Labor. Heather Berg writes about sex, work, and social struggle. She is the author of Porn Work: Sex, Labor, and Late Capitalism and assistant professor of women, gender, and sexuality studies at Washington University in St. Louis.

Labor Solidarity Project, April 16, 2021. 

Every porn scene is a record of people at work. But on-camera labor is only the beginning of the story. Heather Berg’s new book, Porn Work, takes readers behind the scenes to explore what porn performers think of their work and how they intervene to hack it. Blending extensive fieldwork with feminist and anti-work theorizing, Porn Work details entrepreneurial labor on the boundaries between pleasure and tedium. Rejecting any notion that sex work is an aberration from straight work, it reveals porn workers' creative strategies as prophetic of a working landscape in crisis. In the end, it looks at what porn has to tell us about what's wrong with work, and what it might look like to build something better.
 Porn Work : Sex, Labor and Late Capitalism . Connor Habib, Cassandra Troyan, moses moon, Heather Berg,  moderator is Kathi Weeks

Red May TV , May 16, 2021. 

Hey, everyone, Jessie here! As a sex worker and founder and managing editor of Peepshow Media (a multimedia online magazine featuring news and stories from the sex industry), one of the most common questions I see around the discussion of porn is: How can I consume porn ethically?
If you have been paying attention to what has been happening in the porn industry — even a little bit — you have probably noticed that being a porn performer isn’t without its complications.
 
While there are a handful of high-profile porn stars who seem to live a life of excitement and luxury, most performers are making more moderate incomes, and many are struggling just to make it in an industry that has become oversaturated by the rise of independent content creation platforms like OnlyFans. Furthermore, the pandemic has pushed in-person sex workers — like escorts and strippers — as well as nonprofessionals, to online sex work.
 
In addition to the oversaturation of the porn market, there have been many public allegations of on-set assault that have pushed performers to call for a #metoo moment within the industry, not to mention a global pandemic that has halted porn production and made it unsafe for performers to collaborate.
 
And if that wasn’t bad enough, banking discrimination has meant that many porn performers have had trouble accessing their money and in many cases, have had their accounts shut down. And none of this even takes into account the considerable social stigma that porn performers regularly face, including anti-pornography feminism that espouses the inherent harm of all forms of sex work, including pornography.
 
And yet, porn performers provide a valuable service that I would venture to guess most of the readers of this article have at some time indulged in. A thoughtful consumer who wants to make sure not to contribute to any of these harms probably asks themselves a seemingly simple question: How the hell do I ethically consume porn? To dive into this, I turned to three experts: Dr. Heather Berg and porn performers Lotus Lain and Lena Paul.

Berg, assistant professor at Washington University in St. Louis and author of the book Porn Work: Sex, Labor, and Late Capitalism, points out that when the question is aimed at the performers themselves, it creates a lot of unpaid work for performers (thus being antithetical to the aim). She says, “There is a way that the hope to consume ethically ends up requiring a lot more labor of performers to convince consumers that they are doing the right thing.”

 
Lain, an adult performer and activist within the adult industry says that it is complicated, in part, because ethics are subjective: “My feelings are, everyone has a different set of ethics.”
 
What’s more, consumption — in porn or any other industry — is complicated. “I wish that there was one convenient answer to this question,” says porn star Paul. “It is such a simple question, but the more we unpack it, the more complicated it becomes.
 
While there is no simple answer to this question, here are a few things to consider when you think about consuming porn more ethically in the future:
 
Unfortunately, porn is not ethical just because it is branded so or looks like it was ethically produced.
 
In her interviews of porn performers for her book, Berg says that they quite often expressed their frustration with working for production companies that were branded ethical. “Performers had a lot of critiques of feminist and queer porn,” she says. “It often requires extra and unpaid work to communicate ethics to consumers.”
 
This often includes pre- or post-interviews wherein performers express their pleasure in the scene or demands other signaling that is ultimately not for the benefit of the performers. The purpose is to make consumers feel better about their consumption. “The companies want aesthetic and postproduction add-ons to convey to the customers that it is ethically safe.”
 
Lain points out that scenes with the sort of signaling that make the consumers feel good because they either are soft-core or make an aesthetic show of consent and ethics don’t necessarily feel that way to the performers themselves. She says that even though the scene may feel good to watch, “the actors could have been underpaid, the location could have been dangerous, etc.”
 
In looking for studio porn, both Lain and Paul suggest that consuming your favorite star’s performances alone won’t give you insight into how they feel. After all, they are performers.
 
Instead, customers can do their research by following performers online and paying attention to how they talk about their work experiences. Lain suggests, “Twitter is the best way of finding out how performers feel about working for particular companies.” She asserts that looking at what people who are not currently a company’s favorite say will give you a more accurate picture. “Find out what former favorites feel about the company when they are no longer favorites,” she says.
 
Paul says that if your concern as a consumer is mitigating suffering of individual performers and you want to make sure that the performers are not being mistreated, following them and being positively engaged are also good ways to know. She says, “The biggest way to have ethical consumption is to have a degree of interaction online, be it with a studio model or independent content creator." It is important to remember, however, that contacting and interacting with your favorite performers on their work social media accounts requires labor on their part and you should be compensating them for their time — even when your interactions are not sexual in nature.
 
Another advantage of following your favorite performers on social media is that they will show you where they prefer to sell their content. Some platforms take larger cuts than others, and Berg suggests that everyone ought to be “paying attention to platforms’ own rate structures and following your favorite performers to the platforms they prefer.” Or, in other words, Berg says, “Subscribe to platforms that give performers higher cuts.”
 
Paul agrees that trying to pay the models you follow as directly as possible is best for performers. She reminds us, “As performers, we receive no royalties from studio porn.” She adds, “The odds of your money going to a model if you buy porn directly from them are orders of magnitude higher.”
 
Lain echoes Paul’s sentiments: “Obviously the most ethical way is to buy it from the performers.” She is quick to add, “Pay them if you want to see certain things. Don’t hassle them on their Instagram comments.” Many performers are more than happy to create custom content when they are being paid for it. They do not, however, appreciate being told what to do on social media by folks who aren’t paying them.
 

In terms of paying for your porn, Berg also points out that if you have seen a performer's work that you really like on one of the big tube sites, tipping them encourages them to continue to create what you like. She says, “If you are pirating, most performers have a Cash App. You can find that and pay them directly for content you’ve already seen.”
 
One last thing to remember is that not all of your porn budget needs to be spent on visual prerecorded videos. In Lain’s words: “There are many different ways to be titillated.” She suggests considering interacting with your favorite performers on pay sites like NiteFlirt and SextPanther, where you can chat, text, send pics, and create custom fantasies.
 
If you have reasons that make it impossible to pay for your porn, there are other ways you can be conscious about supporting the performers you admire. On Pornhub, for example, you can make sure you are only giving your traffic to verified users (they will have a blue check by their name) so that they get kickbacks for your view. If you enjoy webcam performances, you can positively contribute to the room by engaging the performer in conversations that help to keep the spirits up in the room and encouraging others to tip and help the model reach her goals. And you can also help to promote the work of your favorite models on social media by retweeting and sharing their promo tweets if and when applicable.
 
Not All Porn Is Ethical — Here's What You Should Know. By Jessie Sage. Buzzfeed, March 21, 2021.

“Every porn scene is a record of people at work.” So begins Porn Work: Sex, Labor, and Late Capitalism, a new book by the Washington University feminist studies scholar Heather Berg. It’s an arresting statement, at once self-evident yet also likely to confound many readers. How many people who do not make porn have thought much about the labor conditions of those who do?
 
Apparently, not many scholars. Porn scholarship, Berg writes, focuses overwhelmingly on “issues of representation and consumption,” on porn as a text rather than as a workplace. “Labor scholarship, on the other hand, has strenuously avoided critical engagement with porn and other sex work,” she continues. Thus, Berg has written a book that seeks to unite these two disparate scholarly fields. The result is a breathtaking work of scholarship — the product of 81 interviews Berg conducted with performers, managers, and crew members, the interviewees ranging in age from 21 to 70 — that challenges preconceived notions and tidy assumptions on every page.
 
Intended less as a traditional ethnography and more as an effort to “bring interviewees’ expertise to bear on porn, sex, and work,” Porn Work builds on deep theoretical engagement and nearly a decade of fieldwork. Porn as work, Berg ultimately argues, exemplifies the deep contradictions of late capitalism but also models a work landscape unlike most others. Contrary to the traditional Marxist understandings of class position, for instance, porn workers often move between various positions within the industry, from performer to director to producer and back again, often doing so rapidly and sometimes simultaneously. Porn workers have also been navigating precarious workplaces for longer than laborers in many other industries and job sectors, and thus they have long grown adept at thwarting management and exercising power in the workplace in ways that are usually ignored by outsiders committed to imagining porn workers as powerless and pitiable.
 
“Everybody gets used in one way or another,” Dominic Ace, a veteran porn publicist, tells Berg in one interview. “Whether you’re a secretary, a janitor, whatever. The difference here is it’s sex.” Perhaps Berg’s most important intervention is that she takes that last sentence seriously. In many ways, porn work is unexceptional, and that’s because porn work — like all work — is exploitative and often sucks. But the presence of sex “brings both particular vulnerabilities and resources — intensified state violence and stigma on the one hand and the potential for pleasureful refusal on the other.” Taking pleasure seriously makes it impossible to treat porn as just a job. “I get to have and give pleasure every day for my job,” the performer-activist Conner Habib explains to Berg. “Is that not in some ways a great potential to sidestep ‘I get to give and experience misery’?”
 

 
It’s striking that so many people’s perceptions of porn are a decade or two out of date; in fact, as Berg claims, “[t]he porn industry as it has been traditionally understood does not exist.” While many outsiders imagine a conventional media landscape with powerful producers and established studios and a small number of recognizable “stars,” the 2008 financial crisis, combined with the proliferation of piracy and widespread access to cheap production technology, has resulted in a “glutted labor market but one that is also open to a range of workers’ creative interventions.” For many porn workers, the 2010s meant less stability, scarcer profits, a more diffuse performer community, and greater competition for fewer gigs. However, it also meant the advent of direct-to-consumer and “interactive” content — often filmed from home and advertised for free via social media — which has disrupted managers’ power and eased entry into porn for more workers from more diverse backgrounds.
 
Berg begins by describing the “shop floor” for porn performers who work under a director and a producer. The porn workday starts with workers negotiating the terms of their labor — the details and boundaries of what they will do. (“No interviewees reported being forced to perform scenes they had initially refused,” Berg notes. It’s expensive when performers walk off set, and “with so many willing workers, there is little reason to cajole unwilling ones.”) Next comes STI test authentication, paperwork, hair and makeup, and other body preparations (for instances, douches, enemas, other medicines). Then, generally, waiting. Long days and delays are common on porn sets — a source of anxiety or anger for some performers who just want to go home, but also sometimes an opportunity for community-building and side-hustling.
 
“It need not reinforce the conservative idea of a neat distinction between porn sex and ‘real’ sex to acknowledge that most sex on set is labor intensive in ways off-set sex generally is not,” Berg writes. Performers need to convincingly manufacture sexual chemistry with a scene partner even if they’re not attracted to them; they need to avoid reaching orgasm or ejaculation too soon; they need to pause often for difficult still shots. And they need to learn how to position their bodies to reduce discomfort, chafing, and repetitive stress injuries. All of this is work, and all of it takes skill.
 
There is also the invisible labor that happens off-camera and off-set, which often destroys any boundary between work and life. Porn workers (like other gig workers) need to constantly market themselves, which nowadays means cultivating a consistent social media presence — a time-consuming proposition, and, when it involves interactions with fans, one that requires heavy emotional labor. Porn workers often spend hundreds of dollars a month and countless hours maintaining their appearances — labor that falls more heavily on “workers who fall outside the white, cis-feminine norm.” Many now engage in “satellite work,” such as erotic dance, webcamming, and escort work, which can provide vital income but is sometimes seen as lower on the “whorearchy” of sex work. Some porn workers also take on “straight work,” meaning work outside of the sex work sector, though their visibility often renders them vulnerable to harassment or firing from which they enjoy no legal protection.
 
The varying rates porn workers are paid are highly secretive, but performers are often aware of disparities in compensation. White, cisgender, and thin performers generally have an easier time finding work on high-budget studio productions that pay well; the few performers of color or trans performers who do get cast in such features often encounter lower pay and demeaning fetishization. Some non-Black performers refuse to do “interracial” scenes, or even charger higher rates for them. (Some agents, meanwhile, told Berg that “they disallow ‘interracial’ work in order to maintain what they see is a valuable fan market of racist consumers.”) Women (cis and trans) who perform in penile-vaginal or penile-anal intercourse scenes make an average of $800 to $1,000, while cis men make $300 to $600 for the same scenes (though they make $800 to $1,200 for gay scenes). Blow jobs and solo masturbation pay less. Performers in so-called “feminist” productions (supposedly produced in an equitable manner, though this is much contested) generally make flat fees, usually $200 to $600 per scene. Some lower-end director-producers told Berg they don’t need to pay male performers at all, as amateur men would jump at the chance to have free sex with a “porn star.” Of course, this sort of arrangement undercuts the labor market for those who depend on the industry for their incomes and other means of security. “Sex work tourism can be a kind of scabbing,” Berg concludes.
 
The sex itself is, predictably, the part of porn work on which most critics and scholars focus their attention. Berg does likewise, though in an innovative way, devoting an entire chapter to parsing porn workers’ feelings about “pleasure [a]s a working condition.” Sometimes porn workers find sex on set to be physically uncomfortable; others find porn sex not too rough but rather too tame, perhaps because directors want to “appeal to an imagined feminist audience.” Some porn workers withhold full effort from a scene or seek to maintain an emotional detachment from the work, but many do not — either because a lackluster performance could affect their ability to get future work or because they find genuine pleasure and authentic fulfilment in the work. Invocations of “pleasure” and “authenticity” can be a means of managerial manipulation, a way for bosses to coerce workers into doing free or informal labor. But the porn workers Berg spoke to demand that their authenticity and pleasure be taken seriously. “In sex work as elsewhere,” Berg explains, pleasure can make “work feel less like work. And authenticity claims can be a means of refusing anti-sex-worker stigma.”
 
Porn Work thrives on such ambiguities and contradictions. Many of Berg’s interviewees discussed porn as a means of real self-expression even as they critiqued the obsession outsiders have with whether porn is “authentic” or not. One performer pushed back on the notion that porn is “work” because the term connotes suffering, but in the same interview acknowledged that there was plenty of suffering in porn. It’s difficult, Berg admits, to discuss the authentic pleasure some workers find in porn while also recognizing that, for most workers, porn is “a way to make do and get by.” Porn is work, then, but it’s not merely work. Ultimately, Berg concludes, porn workers’ “refusal to resolve this tension is instructive.” Taking pleasure seriously is vital to recognizing the ways that workers struggle, win autonomy, and “take something from porn performance that exceeds what racial capitalism intends.”
 
As our rapidly warming, pandemic-ravaged society descends ever deeper into precarity and despair, many critics, scholars, activists, and artists are in the midst of a major reevaluation the ethics of work itself, and Porn Work must be understood as part of this broader trend. Berg credits many sex worker theorists for creating new ways of thinking about pleasureful subversions of capitalism; femi babylon, for instance, has urged thinkers to “move beyond ‘sex work is work’” to “‘sex work is (anti)work.’” Outside of this context, journalist Sarah Jaffe has just published a deeply reported manifesto titled Work Won’t Love You Back, while fellow reporter Anne Helen Petersen titled the epilogue her recent book about burnout “Burn It Down.” Historians like Louis Hyman have excavated the origins of the workplace as gig-ified hellscape, and anthropologists like the late David Graeber have decried the resulting rise in “bullshit jobs.” The legal scholar Daniel Markovits has recently argued that even elite white-collar workers are increasingly miserable.

 
Berg’s argument that porn work is different is persuasive, but such an argument can also be overstated. Work sucks, and workers across sectors and across borders are increasingly recognizing the need for radical change. Solidarity depends on such widespread and mutual recognition. In this context, perhaps Berg’s most significant contribution to the discourse is to highlight the creative ways that porn workers have found to resist work.
 
 
Porn workers engage in struggles for control and respect in myriad ways, which Berg details with laudable attention and care. She writes that she began her research looking for traditional forms of worker organizing, like union drives or lobbying efforts, and, though she found plenty of that, her interviewees ultimately convinced her that these do not represent their strongest means of resistance.
 
The Screen Actors Guild excluded porn workers in 1974, a policy that has remained unchanged and has been followed by pretty much all of the mainstream labor movement. And though there have been some attempts at traditional union organizing, workers told Berg that the more impactful advocacy efforts were “nontraditional forms of organizing,” such as peer education and building support systems. These have been vital as new porn workers learn to negotiate terms and deal with untrustworthy managers. (“It was not uncommon for non-sex-worker interviewees to suggest that sex workers are not terribly bright,” Berg writes, “only to later describe a situation in which sex workers had outsmarted them.”) Mutual aid networks allow porn workers to assist each other in securing housing and transitioning into straight jobs. Shortly before Porn Work went to press, for instance, organizers founded the BIPOC Adult Industry Collective, which engages in a range of mutual aid work — from skill shares and virtual workshops to transferring money directly to porn workers in need.
 
Porn workers’ struggles for autonomy and respect take place in other areas, as well. For instance, many resist one-dimensional stereotypes with irreverent social media presences. The “best thing about twitter,” Vex Ashley tweeted in 2018, is that “in 1999 you could keep the dream alive your favourite porn girls were perma-horny, passive, and amenable, but now it’s unavoidable public record that we’re all basically acerbic, snarky communists who do not stand for bullshit.”
 
The rise of social media, as well as the affordability of audiovisual recording equipment, has also allowed many performers (especially those with large fan followings) to produce their own scenes. This can enable them to circumvent industry racism or niche casting, often employing other workers in the process. Many more use technology like OnlyFans to work on their own, which has rendered the entire industry less dependent on large production companies. This democratized access to the means of production has not, however, created a world with no bosses. Personalized services still frequently require a middleman; some webcam platforms take massive cuts of performers’ profits, and (as in the world of straight work) they rely on “algorithmic management.”
 
State surveillance can further limit the emancipatory potential of DIY and direct-to-consumer porn. In 2018, Congress passed the Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act (SESTA) and Allow States and Victims to Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act (FOSTA) legislative package, which was pitched as a way to create legal consequences for websites that facilitate sex trafficking. The law’s sponsors had framed it as protecting sex workers, but sex workers themselves were shut out of the drafting process, their insights and objections ignored. As a result, SESTA/FOSTA have made sex workers less safe, shuttering websites through which they could screen potential clients, forcing many onto the streets, and rendering them more vulnerable to the possible violence of clients, pimps, the police, and — ironically and tragically — traffickers.
 
In the world of porn, workers’ distance from fans insulated them to some extent from the negative impacts of SESTA/FOSTA, but the laws’ “deliberately broad definition of trafficking” led numerous sites to shut out sex workers, including video conferencing and payment processing technology. “Google Drive erased performers’ video files without warning,” Berg recounts, “in some cases destroying workers’ only scene files.” As with sex work more broadly, this has led many porn workers back to conventional porn managers.
 
In the months leading up to the passage of SESTA/FOSTA, sex workers began to organize against the legislation, and in the aftermath of its passage many began providing education for workers rendered vulnerable by the laws and media training for workers to try to shift the dominant media narrative. More broadly, porn workers have long had to engage in anti-stigma activism (especially because the major producers that once spearheaded free-speech lawsuits now “have a fraction of the power and wealth they once did”). Many porn workers are forced to fight against discriminatory landlords, stigmatizing or disrespectful medical care, and even exclusion from basic banking privileges.
 
The porn workers Berg interviewed “overwhelmingly” distrusted the state to remedy these vulnerabilities, in large part because their primary interactions with the state come in the form of surveillance. Porn workers want occupational health protections, but policy-makers tend to focus monomaniacally on two areas where workers largely just want autonomy: HIV prevention protocols and mandatory condom laws. In California, many legislators fought for a ballot initiative that would have allowed private citizens to sue “producers” who violate the law by failing to use condoms during filming; according to porn workers, this would have left many performer-producers vulnerable to harassment and even given stalkers access to their personal information. In the face of such unresponsive regulators, what porn workers want, Berg argues, “is freedom from both state and employer control.”
 
This desire for freedom can be confused with run-of-the-mill libertarianism (a philosophy commonly attributed to the porn industry), but to Berg’s credit she refuses to flatten the complexity of porn workers’ critique. Their opposition is not so much to state intervention as to invasive or carceral state intervention. It is no contradiction for vulnerable workers to simultaneously reject state surveillance yet also decry state neglect. Once again, porn workers’ critique has relevance far beyond porn, or sex work more broadly. In so many sectors of work, we are well past the point at which the liberal state — or liberalism itself — could save us. Only an insistence on a radical redistribution of wealth, power, and control could allow workers to liberate themselves from bleak and broken work. And only continuous struggle will result in this radical break.
 
 

 
What might this look like? One possibility can be found in the title Berg chose for her epilogue: “Fuck Jobs.”
 
While liberals may promote reforms that would classify porn workers as “employees” and thus eligible for certain wage and health protections, Berg argues that this would “represent a backward-looking attempt to bring a few more workers into a broken category (and one that, again, some workers do not want).” Porn work does not track easily on the law’s artificial boundary between private life and public work, and, in any case, “there is no going back — the conditions that created limited security for a privileged subset of mostly white, male workers in the mid-twentieth century are gone.”
 
Instead of fighting for a less miserable system of work, Berg and many of her interviewees adopt a resolutely anti-work perspective. There is something genuinely disruptive about getting paid to exchange pleasure, Berg writes. “It is an exchange that beckons a postwork utopia in which guaranteed annual incomes replace the compulsion to work and pleasure seeking takes the place of drudgery.”
 
Berg’s three-page-long epilogue does not comprehensively lay out what precisely this utopia might look like, or how exactly we might get to it, but this was not her project. Rather, canny readers can glean from her work “vital clues about surviving this moment of profound capitalist crisis,” she writes. Excluded from legal protections and the larger labor movement, porn workers have had to be creative, to establish their own education and support systems, to buy their own means of production and employ their friends, to take pleasure seriously. Berg’s interviewees may have found traditional union organizing to be less helpful than other means of mutual aid and resistance, yet readers should not conclude from this that they should disregard unions; indeed, the future of the planet may well depend on passage of legislation like the PRO Act and the revitalization of the labor movement. Nonetheless, labor organizers and political activists should take heed of porn workers’ creativity and success in disrupting the paradigm of work as misery or monotony.
 
Porn work necessarily “reimagines porn, and work,” Berg concludes. And then, quoting performer-activist Conner Habib: “Okay, fuck jobs.”
 
Sex Work as (Anti)Work: On Heather Berg’s “Porn Work” By Scott W. Stern. Los Angeles Review of Books, June 7, 2021.