In years-old sexual abuse cases, a fight for justice

GREELEY, COLO. -- 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.