Chapter 6: The Court of Public Opinion

After watching the video, I slumped in my chair, my vision going black.

I put my head in my hands, the room spinning. Every notification, every ping from my phone felt like another nail in the coffin. I barely registered Jasper pawing at my knee, whining softly.

‘Single mom, three-year-old daughter, molestation…’

I read the words over and over. Each one burned into my brain, erasing everything I thought I knew about myself, my life, my community.

‘Shop owner, covering up everything, cops shirking responsibility…’

The old narratives were all here—corrupt cops, sleazy shopkeepers, powerless victims. The internet had found its villain.

‘No case filed…’

No case meant no justice, the world decided. Truth didn’t matter—only outrage.

A single mom, with nowhere to turn, was forced to report under her real name online, hoping people would help her and the authorities would intervene and give her justice.

The story hit all the right buttons. I watched the shares tick up, the outrage swell. Strangers called for protests, for boycotts. Someone started a GoFundMe for her legal fees.

Once this video was posted, it instantly went viral, racking up over a hundred million views.

It was on the morning shows by breakfast. My phone buzzed nonstop. Friends texted, confused and worried. The bakery across the street taped over my sign.

People online were furious, sharing the video everywhere.

My Yelp and Google reviews tanked. Somebody started a Change.org petition to shut me down. I saw my face Photoshopped onto a mugshot meme in a local Facebook group. People who’d never met me left one-star rants. Someone doctored a photo of me in handcuffs, spreading it around Facebook groups.

They joined in denouncing me, the so-called scumbag shop owner who preyed on a three-year-old girl.

I was public enemy number one. There was no trial, no second chance—just a tidal wave of hate.

Angry users dug up my personal information and flooded the internet with endless insults.

They found my old high school photos, posted my address, harassed my employees. My phone number showed up on message boards, and prank calls came every hour.

“You deserve a horrible death!”

“Go rot in prison, sicko!”

“You monster, a creep that stalks at night.”

“Lock him up and throw away the key.”

“How could you not even spare a three-year-old girl, you scum!”

It never stopped. The words crawled into my skull, echoing even in sleep.

In just a few days, I received hundreds of thousands of abusive messages.

I shut off my phone, but they found me on Facebook, Instagram, email, even LinkedIn. Strangers threatened me, my family, my business.

The entrance to my shop was covered with funeral wreaths, and people threw dog poop at it.

Every morning, I had to clean up trash and filth just to unlock the door. I called the city, but they just shrugged, said there was nothing they could do.

My parents’ and wife’s information was leaked, and they were harassed and insulted.

My dad’s phone rang off the hook. My parents stopped answering the door, afraid it’d be another stranger with a camera or worse. My mom, already frail, started crying every time she heard the word "internet."

I was surrounded by swarms of reporters.

Local news vans parked outside, antennas up, cameras trained on my door. I wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, but they still shouted my name. A kid on a bike threw an egg at my windshield.

They pounded on my car windows, cameras pointed at my bewildered face.

I locked the doors, hands white-knuckled on the wheel. Jasper whimpered from the passenger seat. The flashbulbs hurt my eyes.

“This shop owner molested a three-year-old girl.”

The words were everywhere—on TV, the radio, even in grocery store checkout lines. People pointed at me, mothers pulled their children away.

The media bombarded me with questions:

Reporters cornered me outside my own house, shouting over each other.

“Can you explain the accusation of molesting a three-year-old girl in the basement?”

“Did you delete key security footage to cover up the crime? Is that true?”

“You have kids too—how could you do something like this?”

“Aren’t you afraid of karma for hurting a child like this?”

They asked the same questions, over and over, hoping I’d crack. I tried to answer, but my words were twisted or edited out entirely.

…

The endless accusations and abuse nearly drove me insane.

I barely slept. I barely ate. My hands shook when I tried to make a sandwich. I started jumping at every sound—every knock, every phone ring.

Molesting a three-year-old girl—such a crime would make anyone a pariah, condemned by all, never able to clear their name.

It didn’t matter that I was innocent. In the court of public opinion, I was already guilty.

I published the police investigation results, which included proof that in May, during the time the mother claimed I molested her daughter—

Derek helped me upload the official report—PDFs, time-stamped receipts, everything. I pinned them to every comment thread, emailed them to journalists. Nobody cared.

I wasn’t even in town.

I’d gone to visit my father-in-law in Kentucky for his birthday—pictures, receipts, even gas station selfies. My location data proved it.

The police also checked my travel and spending records, confirming I had no opportunity to commit the crime because I was away.

They checked every camera, every credit card swipe. Their report was thorough, airtight. But the hate just shifted. Truth was irrelevant now.