Despite having polished off three (Serb-sized) glasses of wine at dinner, my husband insisted on accompanying me to the police station where I would complete my statement against Mr. Creep.

I think the Serb was expecting a gritty building that overflowed with drug dealers, hookers and Detective Sipowicz doppelgangers. In reality, it looked more like a library. Unimpressed, the Serb settled into a club chair to read pamphlets covering such hot topics as littering and reducing the cost of home heating.

Two burly, football-player-looking detectives interviewed me for over an hour. I wasn’t told much about the incident, except that it had been thwarted by quick-thinking lifeguards (#yayteenagers).

We went over my statement from the pool, which I realized was erring on the side of hyperbole (i.e. THIS MAN IS OBVIOUSLY A PEDOPHILE AND SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED NEAR CHILDREN!!!!!) but I reminded them that I was trying to persuade the pool manager at the time, not prosecute a pedophile.

Afterwards, one of the detectives walked me back to the lobby, where my husband was passed out dozing in a chair. The Serb stood up, approached the detective and shook his hand.

“I just want to thank you for everything you do,” my husband said. “And I hope you get this guy and—” The Serb leaned towards the detective. I expected a platitude along the lines of “put him away for good” or similar.

“I hope you beat the shit outta him.”

The detective’s eyes widened and I wondered briefly if I’d need bail money. Then he burst out laughing. “Unfortunately, we can’t do that, sir, but it doesn’t mean we don’t want to.”

It took six months for the case to go to trial. Six months of nightmares featuring Mr. Creep’s vile face leering at children. Six months of Google searches looking for his name. Six months of contemplating if I could blitz his neighbourhood with “This Man is a Pedophile” posters without getting caught.

During the 90-minute drive to the courthouse I was on the verge of tears and nausea. I was met by the prosecutor—she was the Doogie Howser of D.A.s and didn’t look old enough to babysit, let alone battle pedophiles—who did a wonderful job putting me at ease and walking me through the process.

She encouraged me to answer honestly and not worry if I couldn’t remember something. I was also warned that Mr. Creepy would be in the room, and it would be a small room, likely with some friends or family, but she would also do her best to block him from my view so as not to distract me from the questioning.

The detectives who took my statement were also there and they mentioned that Mr. Creep would look different without his pompadour toupee (he’d obviously realized it made him memorable), and that witnesses had given varying estimates as to his age (I suspected he was in his early 40s).

I was asked to wait in the courthouse coffee shop until I was called to the stand. I didn’t open my book or laptop. I simply stared at nothing, willing myself not to puke when faced with the monster that had been haunting my dreams.

Finally, it was my turn. The detective brought me to the room and again cautioned me that it would be cramped and Mr. Creep was there with his supporters. I entered a space no bigger than my garage (note: I have a single-car garage). I stepped up to the witness box—it really was just like TV, only more cramped and more real—and swore to tell the truth on a bible. I sat down and focused solely on the prosecutor, convinced that I would start bawling if I saw Mr. Creep.

The prosecutor calmly and efficiently walked me through the events of six months prior. I read my statement aloud. She thanked me for my time and sat down as the defence attorney prepared to cross-examine me.

And that’s when I saw him.

He was sitting on a bench with family members surrounding him. He did not look like Chris Isaak at all. He looked like a balding, pathetic Steve Buscemi in a twenty-dollar suit. Was this the same man? Could this frail, little old man be the same monster I’d lived with for half a year?

The defence attorney was at a podium that did not block my view of Mr. Creep. My heart was beating in my throat as I tried to focus on the attorney’s questions.

Was I an expert in identifying sexual deviance? What made me so sure his client was allegedly looking at children? How could I state that a stranger was “obviously a pedophile?” Where was I positioned in relation to his client? What colour was the pool flotation device that his client allegedly had in his possession? Was I not distracted by the waves or my own child? Did I wear contact lenses? Was my prescription current?

I might have loathed the attorney more than I did Mr. Creep. “How can you defend people like this?” I wanted to scream. Instead I answered his questions with a shaky voice, trying desperately not to cry, furious that he was making me doubt myself.

Near the end I managed to say that in certain cases a parent’s intuition is more accurate than any psychology degree (“so suck it” was my subtext), but I still felt that I had failed. I left the stand in tatters. The detective walked me out and assured me that I’d done my job perfectly and not to worry about having compromised the case. Then he filled me in on some details he couldn’t share prior to my testimony.

Mr. Creep was in his mid-60s and lived at home with his parents. Police had confiscated his computer, which was filled with child pornography. He was currently on probation, prohibited from owning a computer or going near children, and they were watching him closely. With or without the ridiculous hair, Mr. Creep was a monster.

Sitting in my car, I finally let myself have a good, long cry. I drove home and hugged my babies a little tighter. I tried to put the case out of my mind, but obviously I could not.

A month later I received a call from the detective. There would be no trial (did I mention this was only a pre-trial and I’d been expecting to repeat the entire mess?!?). Mr. Creep had been caught in a Wal-mart parking lot downloading child pornography onto his new computer. He was immediately arrested and given a sentence of 18 months without parole. His name was entered in a database of registered sex offenders. It was over.

But as we all know, especially this week, it’s never really over.

 

**The ha ha will resume next Monday—mama’s having a hard time with the news this week**