Arrested Development

The prosecutors in Broomfield let Nelson and me sweat out the charges against us until damn near the last minute. We didn't find out we were in the clear and would not be charged until late Wednesday, the night before our first scheduled court appearance on July 1 -- and just hours before the district attorney for the 17th Judicial District sent a press release to media outlets around the country announcing that no charges would be filed.

"David's fears were reasonable and real," my attorney, Norm Mueller, had written the prosecutor assigned to the case of my complainant, "Mr. C." "Westword essentially was on alert, with the front desk ready to call 911 if Mr. C. was seen. David's parents had received multiple warnings that Mr. C. might be dangerous. Since David's mother had taken certain actions on her own initiative that David believed might enrage Mr. C., he understandably became very concerned not only about his own safety, but that of his parents. We have confirmed through independent witnesses David's sincere fear and the precautions he took, such as not sleeping at home."

Now another round of media coverage has begun, and my computer's reservoir of pain is refilling.

It happened to me, too, they all say. It happened to me, too. When I was twelve. When I was seven. When I was five. It was my coach, my babysitter, my father, my priest. Two of the e-mails are particularly haunting. One is from a fourteen-year-old girl who was raped two years ago on a family cruise, when she was twelve. A steward on the cruise liner did it: He got her alone, she says, by telling her that he knew a special place where she could watch the dolphins play. And then a man from Louisiana writes me about how four years ago he tracked down his Pee Wee football coach, who did it to him twenty years ago, when he was ten. The former coach is old now, and fat, and he found him working as a clerk at a grocery store in their mutual home town. He walked up, asked the coach if he remembered him, and when the coach said no, he beat the old, fat man within an inch of his life, screaming his name into the molester's bloody face.

I've received more than 2,000 of these e-mails, many of them from people disclosing their secret for the first time, reaching out to me as some sort of touchstone. If I wanted to start a cult, now would be a good time. But I don't want to be a celebrity victim, and I don't know how to help these people. I'm a journalist who wrote the toughest story of my life, a story that explains my life. And now I'm getting on with that life and moving to a new story.

But, yes, it happened to me, too.