Hoping to find peace for old ghosts

Miranda Meza’s biggest fear about going to the police was that the man she says molested her would lie.

If he said he never touched her, how could she prove he did? But he’d made that part easy. He admitted to police that he had.

Now they were both here, in the courthouse. She watched her grandfather across the lobby. He was nearly 80 years old, his hair white and sparse. He wore an oxygen tank strapped across his skinny chest.

It had taken more than 16 years to get to this point. Meza, 27, thought things would go quickly now.

Like many other states in recent years, Colorado has taken steps to extend the statute of limitations to give victims more time to report childhood sexual abuse -- a movement spurred by the clergy scandals.

It’s too soon to tell whether those changes will produce a surge in successful prosecution of such cases. But one thing is clear, say activists on behalf of those who have been abused as children: It has given hope to those who often suffered in silence, and it has empowered some to speak publicly.

Hope doesn’t always translate into happy endings, though.

Child sexual assault cases, particularly those involving relatives, are inherently difficult, prosecutors say. The passage of time can make them even more so -- the accused can be elderly, and family loyalties divided.

No matter who wins or loses in court, they risk alienation from their relatives. “Sisters or brothers may choose sides. Mothers and fathers choose sides,” said Diane Moyer, legal director for the National Sexual Violence Resource Center.

Meza grew up next door to her grandparents in this northern Colorado town, where most people make their living at the meat-packing plant. Ed Boston, who worked for the state highway department, was the fun grandpa, the one who gave her money for soda and let her watch scary movies.

When he was baby-sitting her and her siblings, he told the others to go outside and play, she said. She was 7 years old. He made her sit on the couch and began to touch her, she remembers, telling her: “Every grandfather loves his granddaughter like this.”

The abuse continued until 1992, Meza said. She remembered he told her she mustn’t tell or the other kids would be jealous that she was his favorite. The shame she came to feel ensured her silence. If she told, who would believe her?

For the next decade, she held the secret. She grew up and left home, running a modeling school in Texas.

Finally, in 2003, she told her parents. They were devastated. Her father went with her to confront his father. He admitted to them what had happened, they said.

For a long time, she said, the memory of her grandfather’s admission was enough. But by 2007, she was engaged to be married and starting to wonder: How could she start a new life unless she settled the past?

Doing the legal math

Last June, she called the Greeley Police Department to report her story. She might be years too late to see justice, but she had to try.

Although Colorado in 2006 eliminated the statute of limitations in such cases, the law primarily applies to future cases. In old cases, a prosecutor must calculate the dates of abuse against laws applicable at the time.

At the Weld County district attorney’s office, Chief Deputy Dist. Atty. Christian Schulte did the math: When the abuse ended in 1992, Meza had 10 years to report -- until 2002. Just before that deadline, the law changed to give victims until their 28th birthday. She was 26.

They could file the case. But could they prove it? Meza and her father told police that Boston had admitted it to them.

According to police reports, when a detective interviewed him, Boston admitted to having had sexual contact with his granddaughter, but he said he hadn’t done so as often or gone as far as Meza said. And he blamed her. “She was always coming on to me,” he said, according to the reports.

He declined to comment for this article.

Prosecutors charged Boston with incest and sexual assault on a child by a person in a position of trust.

When the news hit, the community reaction was mixed. Some people seemed squeamish about going after a man who was now old and frail.

“How much longer can he live?” one person suggested on the website of the local newspaper, the Greeley Tribune. “I would let it go and let him be judged when he meets his maker!”

Meza said she’d thought a lot about forgiveness, and had prayed many times not to hate Boston. “I forgave him. But just because you forgive someone doesn’t mean they get away scot-free.”

Her father, Allen, heard that his father was asking forgiveness from relatives -- and they were granting it. Yet there had never been an apology for his granddaughter. “He’s asking everyone else to forgive him,” her father said, infuriated. “He has not made a single phone call to her.”

A curveball

On Feb. 8, Meza and her grandfather and their relatives showed up at the courthouse.

Meza saw the great-aunt who once fussed over her when she was in the hospital and the family friend who used to give her cookies.

She counted a dozen relatives and family friends -- all there for Boston.

She had four supporters: her mother, father, sister and husband.

Inside the courtroom -- before a plea had been entered by Boston -- his lawyer, Todd Taylor, challenged the proceedings on the grounds that the case was too old to be tried.

The judge, Julie Hoskins, ordered a hearing.

At the proceeding in March, Taylor pointed to what he said was a discrepancy in the 2002 law: Although it applied to crimes dating back to 1984, the bill passed by the Legislature said it only applied to crimes committed after it was enacted.

The lawyers fell into a rapid-fire exchange about subsections and effective dates. “It’s not clear in the statute,” the judge finally said. “I need to look into it further.”

Meza’s father’s shoulders slumped, but in the lobby, he tried to reassure his family. “We just have to have trust in the D.A.,” he said.

They returned to the courthouse one week later, on a day the odors from the meat-packing plant hung in the air. Meza was exhausted. She’d been up until 3 a.m., worried about what the judge would decide.

Hoskins got quickly to the point.

“I’ve read this section more than any other statute in private practice or on the bench,” she said.

On one hand, the law said Boston could be tried. On the other, it said he couldn’t.

“I think this is something the Court of Appeals does need to address,” Hoskins said.

But for now, she said, she had no choice but to favor the defendant.

She would have to dismiss the charges.

Meza had lost.

She stood and walked stony-faced from the room, through the lobby and into a private room.

When her grandparents were gone, Meza emerged.

She stood in the middle of the empty lobby and wondered, dully, about a system that seemed to protect only him.

The district attorney would appeal the case, but how long would that take?

Boston would turn 80 soon.

She told herself she did the right thing.

She said it aloud.

“Even if there’s no conviction, I got it out there,” Meza said, then started down the long, steep stairs.

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deedee.correll@latimes.com