I’m not driven to tears often. I see myself as staunch and stoic. Last night, however, I found my face bathed in that salty fluid as I listened to myself assure a victim of a crime that justice would now be done.

“They know about him now,” I said. “They’ll do something.”

It is an interview I taped on 9/28/1992. I listened as life occasionally interrupted the conversation I had with Judy. My sons came in and out of my room, and my beloved dogs barked. Judy choked back tears as she told me her story—a horrific one in my eyes. An eleven-year-old girl fearing for her life as she was sexually assaulted; her young brother hunkering down with her in what they called their fort in the attic telling tales of assault, too. Her mother, addicted to prescription drugs by the offending doctor, proclaiming to the doctor that he would have to help them now. He didn’t.

I had not yet developed a more professional journalistic approach, so I was amateurish. But I dug to get the details and am ashamed and proud of myself for doing so. It was a beginning for me. What I hadn’t put together yet was that the case had already ended.

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