brings out the pThere’s something about a “he said, she said” trial that rojections in us all. I was working the copy desk on the world and nation page the night a brief item came across the AP wire: Police had found the body of Nicole Simpson, O.J. Simpson’s ex-wife, and they wanted to speak to O.J.

“This sure sounds like the cops think he did it,” I said. (I know how cops think.) “We should probably keep a space open for this on the front page.”

The managing editor, who was only recented promoted from sports editor, was shocked. “You don’t understand,” he said, pooh-poohing it. “This is O.J. Simpson, he won the Heisman trophy. He’s just a hell of a nice guy. No way he had anything to do with this.”

I bit my tongue. (We all know how that turned out.)

Maybe a year later, I was working on a story where an F.B.I. agent was a source. He told me about an NFL player involved in another case, and he made this comment: “I’ve dealt with a lot of pro athletes, and as a group, they’re completely amoral.” He went on to say athletes of that caliber started getting special treatment at a young age, completely insulated from the consequences of their actions. He said they pretty much thought they could do whatever they wanted, “and they pretty much can.” He was matter-of-fact, more bemused than anything else.

I never forgot that. And now we have Kobe Bryant.

Today I spoke to a young woman I know. She blurted out a story. She was a college freshman, 1000 miles from home, and she started dating an upper-class black guy who was a big man on campus. “Everyone liked him, everyone said what a nice guy he was,” she said. “I loved walking around with him. Everyone treated me like I was special because I was with him.”

A small-town girl, she was reluctant to proceed to a sexual relationship and he respected that - until the night of the frat party where she was apparently drugged and raped. She woke up wearing nothing but a bra; he was wearing a T-shirt and boxers. “Oh, you’re up,” he commented. She got dressed and went home.

He avoided her on campus; so did his buddies who were previously so friendly. Within a month, he’d transferred to another school.

“I talked to my friends,” she said. “Some of them believed me; some of them didn’t. They said he was such a nice guy, I must have done something.”

***
It sounded so familiar. Years ago, a reporter (another small-town girl) I worked with confided a similar story: Her attacker was a basketball star at a school that was regularly in the Sweet 16. (This was complicated by the fact that she used to date him a few years before.) She doesn’t know if she was drugged, but she said after one of her drinks, she didn’t remember a thing.

I don’t think all sexual encounters at college are rape. I think young girls have to grow up; they can’t go to parties and get shit-faced - it’s just plain stupid. But that doesn’t excuse the guys who take advantage of them. And under no circumstances can you excuse someone who drugs someone for sexual purposes.

Now, throw in the race card, and you have a very interesting situation.

Black men, lusting after the white women - it’s the stuff of your classic Aryan nightmare. But when it’s a black celebrity involved, there’s a subtle racism that works in their favor: The reluctance to look like a racist. (With O.J., many people bent over backwards, much too far.)

When I came home from work tonight, I curled up on the couch with the Daily News and read about the charges against Kobe. I spoke on the phone to my best friend, who happens to be black. “Do you think he did it?” I said.

She snorted. “What do you think?”

We discussed the DNA test. “The tests are back, they must have a match,” I said. “The D.A. was waiting for results before he brought charges.”

Now I know for sure, because tonight Kobe had a self-serving press conference in which he confessed to (you guessed it) adultery. Frankly, he looked guilty as sin.

I don’t know Kobe, but I know his ilk. I know the high school he attended, and the type of kids it so often produces - the rich, spoiled rotten kind. (Think 90210.) Despite what people in the rest of the country think, Kobe Bryant is not a Philadelphian. He’s a Main Liner, a child of a bastion of wealth and privilege.

Add to that the protective veneer of the NBA, and you have the potential for an amoral monster. I’m not saying he is a monster, mind you - I’m saying the ingredients are there.

How very odd, that he only admits adultery now that the DNA is back.

I know so many tales of rape. Friends pulled off street corners, assaulted in tents during a music festival, ex-husbands who felt entitled to claim what was once theirs. And then, the more subtle, coercive situations - “I was miles from anywhere, I had no car, I was afraid, I didn’t think I could say no.” If there’s even a hint of responsibility, women in these situations take it and batter themselves. “I should have known.”

Men don’t seem to understand this. They don’t realize that’s why women always walk other women to their cars, why they say, “Call me to let me know you got home.” They don’t know what it’s like, to be on constant alert against such a personal form of assault.

And there’s the guy code. A woman could tell a man, “Your friend Fred broke Mary’s jaw and beat her unconscious.” It wouldn’t be unusual for a guy to shrug and say mildly, “I don’t know, he seems like a nice guy. Never did nothing to me.”

Try to remember that. Because this young girl will be shredded by Kobe Bryant’s spin machine.

You know what I thought while I watched that press conference tonight? “That’s the same look Kobe uses when he’s working the refs.” Just a thought.