Paragraph 11 reads: "Kristin convinced her counselor to refer her to a psychiatrist, who has put her on Prozac, the controversial antidepressant. Presumably because the initial dosage was not right, Kristin has become suicidal."

"The next few weeks are harrowing for me. I am out of town a good deal and out of the family loop. I am aware of an acquaintance's son who severely mutilated himself while on Prozac. I have read and seen other news accounts of the drug's dangerous side effects, including the tendency, according to one article, 'to make up one's own realities from hallucinations and fantasies.'

_________________________________________________________________________
AFTER THE FALL
CAST OUT OF HIS FAMILY AFTER ACCUSATIONS OF SEX ABUSE, A FATHER SEARCHES FOR THE TRUTH
Chicago Tribune
February 27, 1994
Author: Ralph Vance.
Estimated printed pages: 7

THANKSGIVING 1990

As our family trudges happily through the forest preserve, sniffing the crisp air and rustling the leaves underfoot, my daughter, Kristin, a 20-year-old college junior, slips her hand in mine. She walks along the path holding hands with her dad as though she were 5 or 6 again. I remember what a doll she was at that age: how she'd run ahead along the trail, her natural curls bouncing on her neck, then come running back and pull me by the hand to where she'd squat down low and show me a chipmunk

Later that weekend I stoke the fireplace and our little nuclear family-Joanne and I, fortysomethingmom and dad, and Kristin and Troy, our college freshman son-sit around and read, sometimes aloud. When the kids were young, we often spent cold evenings like this. Kristin still wants to sit next to me, and she puts her head on my shoulder. It is a very satisfying feeling, my almost-grownup daughter there, smart, a strong personality, an accomplished musician. Indeed, both children are bright and articulate, doing well at a good liberal arts college. Even though their mother and I are having a rough go at our relationship, the kids are all right. They're secure, confident and feel warm in our love. Can anything be wrong with this picture
CHRISTMAS 1990

Kristin announces during Christmas break that she has changed her college major from English to "gender studies." She is toting around a book titled "Intercourse," by Andrea Dworkin. I've always considered myself a card-carrying feminist, but I know that Dworkin is a radical-fringe lesbian feminist and that the relentless message of "Intercourse" is that any heterosexual intimacy is innately violative of the woman, essentially a euphemism for rape. I sense trouble.

Joanne has been a feminist for more than 20 years, and we've always been a feminist household. So Kristin has grown up that way, comes by it honestly, and approaches life as any young feminist would. But this is the first indication I've seen of her embracing the radical fringe. College-age kids are like that, and her professor is probably encouraging it in her new gender studies course, but it's still troubling to me.

Later, a photocopied article about sexual violence appears on the dining room table, which is our family bulletin board. The writer makes some very good if exaggerated points and several times refers pointedly to how "Western culture" not only condones but encourages violence against women.

At dinner, I mention the article.

"I like a lot of what it said," I begin, "but look, compared to other world cultures-Mediterranean, African, Asian-Western culture is a shining light in its respect for women's rights."

"How can you defend the pigs who perpetrate violence against women?" Kristin exclaims.

"I'm not defending anyone who-" I reply.

"You're trying to defend a culture that rapes one out of every four women?" Joanne shouts.

"Individual men rape individual women," I say evenly. "Cultures don't rape women."

Kristin seethes.

"A patriarchal, capitalist culture is at the core of rape," she says. "This writer is simply revealing men's abuse and their lies. But you just don't get it, do you?"

The air is hot with female wrath, and Troy and I listen open-mouthed at the ferocious response. You would have thought I had just announced myself as an apologist for rape.The evening's donnybrook adds acid to my deteriorating relationship with my wife, but, even more worrisome, it all but cuts me off from the affections of my daughter. The two of us have had stormy times during her adolescence, but that was because we are so similar in personality: both sharp, argumentative, headstrong and passionate. We had come through that period of conflict with our senses of humor intact and with an enduring love for each other.

But now, almost every time I open my mouth, Kristin simply glares at me. I realize that in less than a month I've changed in the eyes of my daughter from the warm, huggable, storybook dad to a middle-aged male pig.

I'm really quite appalled at the hostility of the reaction. Playing the devil's advocate has always been a necessary and respected part of argumentation in our home. But apparently not in this discussion. Later that evening, I tell Joanne that I don't deserve to be thrown onto her Jesse Helms junkpile just because I want some honesty out of the rhetoric. But Joanne isn't speaking to me.

JANUARY 1991

Kristin and I drive back to her school together mainly in silence. She has her headphones on almost the whole way, listening to tapes of Sinead O'Connor, the angry, skinheaded Irish singer.

"I love Sinead's strength and openness," Kristin says as she punches the tape into the car stereo system. "I love how she tweaks the white male establishment."

I know I'm in for some oratory now, but I hold my peace. She next plays the song "Sally" from a tape by Sade.

"The concept of prostitutes as the real heroines of our society, because they do the dirty work, is compelling," she says.

Out of the corner of my eye, I look at her beautiful profile, now creased with a frown of anxiety as she listens to the lyrics. Some time earlier my wife had reluctantly revealed to me something that happened to Kristin during her recent study-abroad semester in Mexico. She had developed a relationship with a young man in her exchange group that had turned disastrous. During one of their evenings together, he held her down and forced sex on her. It was an apparent textbook case of date rape.the subject matter-or whether the whole thing has contributed to her new hostility.

After a while, she drives, and I relax and hark back to my college days of civil rights and antiwar marches. Like me, Kristin is just a kid of her times. At school she has joined South Africa protest groups, saying how much satisfaction she derives from bugging "the suits," as she calls college officials. And yet she also appears to be a grownup woman, driving fearlessly on snow-covered roads, past semis in the unplowed left lane, with no need for emotional input from her dad. She is a seesaw of maturity and immaturity, a battleground of emotions. And now, stone quiet.

As we say our perfunctory goodbyes at her residence hall, I wonder how long the growing-up process will require the two of us to be alienated from each other. Little do I know that this will prove to be the last time I will see my daughter face to face.

MARCH 1991

My marriage, which blew a gasket at Christmas, threw a rod in January and limped through February, now rattles to a halt. The wheels have come off. Joanne, who is working toward her graduate psychology degree, is studying for comprehensive exams in April and says the tension in the air makes it impossible for her to concentrate. She asks me to move out. I agree. We have fought to a draw and are clearly heading in opposite directions. In addition to everything else, our arguments over the new orthodoxies of feminism, catalyzed by Kristin's newfound dogmas, have further alienated us.

I take a small flat a few miles away in the city. My job will take me out of town much of the spring, and the move means I will not be around on the occasional weekends when the kids return from school. I immediately write long letters and phone them about the breakup. They don't have much response-they have seen it coming-and yet I sense a quiet shock in their voices. Joanne and I intentionally waited until they were both in college to make this break, but good Lord, this sort of blow is never

"We'll see each other during spring break," I tell them. And to Kristin, "I'll take you our to dinner on your birthday." "It's a date," she says. "At least I'll get to see you-even if it's not at home. I've got something I need your advice on."

But a few weeks later, just before spring break, Kristin calls to say she cannot see me and we cannot go out for dinner.

"Why?" I ask.

"I can't tell you," she says. "I just can't see you right now."

It is all so mysterious that I call Joanne to see what she knows.

"I have an idea, but I can't talk to you about it," she says.

"Does this have to do with the date rape?" I ask.

"It may," Joanne says.

A week later I get a call from my wife's therapist.

"You are not to see your daughter," she tells me. "This is at her request."

I already know that," I respond.

Then she drops a bombshell.

"I am authorizing Kristin's hospitalization because of suicidal tendencies."

"Suicidal-what do you mean, she's suicidal?" I gasp.

"Right now your daughter's a threat to her own life. I have had to exercise direct intervention."

I scramble to discover what is going on. I finally pull out of Joanne that Kristin has begun seeing a college counselor months ago to cope with the aftereffects of the date rape and also because of a debilitating premenstrual syndrome that has brought on a general feeling of depression. Kristin convinced her counselor to refer her to a psychiatrist, who has put her on Prozac, the controversial antidepressant. Presumably because the initial dosage was not right, Kristin has become suicidal.

The next few weeks are harrowing for me. I am out of town a good deal and out of the family loop. I am aware of an acquaintance's son who severely mutilated himself while on Prozac. I have read and seen other news accounts of the drug's dangerous side effects, including the tendency, according to one article, "to make up one's own realities from hallucinations and fantasies."

Joanne herself is reluctant to talk to me, but I do get more details from her. Kristin has begun, with the aid of a therapist, to recall from the deep recesses of memory an experience of being sexually abused as a child. She spent time in day care with my sister back then, and she is now recalling memories of being molested by her Uncle Jack. According to her newfound memory, he inserted tools such as screwdrivers and wrenches into her vagina.

I am devastated and sickened trying to imagine it; in fact, I can't imagine my brother-in-law hurting my little girl in that way. But Joanne's view is different. As part of her course work, she has counseled several women who claim they were molested in childhood by men they knew or were related to.

"I'm coming to the conclusion that all women have been victimized growing up," she says. "In fact, I'm looking into the abyss of my own past." That means, she adds, trying to pull up memories of her own father's abuse of her.

"I have no difficulties imagining what Jack did to Kristin," she concludes.

"Come on. This is nuts!" I protest. But Joanne isn't entertaining any other view.

JUNE 1991

I have written and called Joanne, trying to establish some sort of reconciliation. I want to start over from scratch, try to rediscover the chemistry we had, find what it was that we fell in love with. She does not respond.

Kristin dropped out of school when she was hospitalized. Now she is out of the hospital and living in an apartment on her own. She is also into individual and group therapy and drugs and psychiatrist's checkups at a tab of $200 a week. Troy is back from college, and I learn that he is also in therapy. In fact, everybody but me is in therapy.

When she finally writes me, Joanne says: "I'm painfully becoming a more whole and independent person, but it won't make me better able to unite with you. I don't understand why you are the only one not seeing a therapist. How can you do the healing and stretching you need to do without help?"

In a later letter, Joanne writes: "Kristin is really having a terrible time, really emotionally disabled. She's so skinny you might not recognize her. She's not the person I used to know. She has terrible memories during the day, terrible nightmares at night. I'm enclosing an article on incest to give you some idea of what she's going through."

I stare at the word incest sitting calmly there on the page

By this time, no member of my family, not even Troy, will talk with me. Fridays, Joanne leaves the front porch door unlocked so I can pick up my mail. I sneak up to the front door hoping that no neighbor will spot me and ask where I've been. Sometimes Forepaws the cat is on the porch and greets me. Nobody else does.

On one of these visits I discover with terrible clarity why I have been the family pariah for these months. Looking in my former study for books, I spot a letter Joanne has written me but has never sent. Most of it is no surprise: she does not want any relationship with me. She resents me personally and generically-as a man. I am an instrument of her oppression, having controlled her life and selfhood, and responsible during our marriage for her sense of "co-dependence." But then she says something that shocks me out of my mind
"Now I know that you were betraying me during those years, betraying me with our own daughter. Our family life was a lie for all those years. I trusted you absolutely with Kristin and with all women and girls. I will never trust you again. I would never have believed this of you if I didn't see the evidence in Kristin."

There are no specifics, but the meaning is quite clear: I am being accused of the sexual abuse of my own daughter. I read those sentences over and over, but their meaning doesn't change. It is a horrible moment. A wave of panic and nausea breaks over me, a sense that I don't know-and have never known-who I am. Is it possible that some monster residing in me-part of a multiple personality, an evil alter ego-crept out of my bed and defiled my own daughter?

Joanne goes on to say that Kristin has had "body memories" of my hand coming under the covers and turning her over, and then . . . apparently the memory goes blank. She is now in "recovered-memory therapy" to bring back the evil things that victimized her.

When I come back to my senses, I know that I am not a multiple personality. I am conscious of my behavior. I know the difference between right and wrong, and I know I have not touched any woman-let alone any young girl-in an unwanted way. I know I have never touched Kristin in an inappropriate or sexual way, only in a loving, fatherly way. Could she have translated reading stories to her in bed as a tot or some fatherly tickling and horseplay into something sexual? I agonize over the thought of

I don't know where to turn. The issue of incest, I know, by its nature taints the accused whether there is a shred of evidence for it or not. You cannot tell just anyone that your daughter has accused you of sexual abuse. For many people, such an accusation is as good as an indictment. And the current psychological mood and jargon hold that any person who proclaims his innocence is simply "in denial."

For two weeks I tell no one. Finally I go to my own family. My oldest sister is a liberal minister and a feminist, and she knows Kristin. Her response calms me down. "At 21," she says, "Kristin is going through the most confusing and chaotic time in a young woman's life." Sis and I talk at length about some of her own Electra impulses and guilt feelings about our dad when she was Kristin's age.

A bit reassured, I also talk with Peter, the marriage counselor Joanne and I saw before we split up.

"Child sexual abuse is absolutely the trendiest accusation that the so-called recovering culture comes up with these days," he says.

He also encourages me to stop trying to make sense of this whole thing. "But," he says, "you should confront your family before it self-destructs."

I call Joanne's therapist to see whether I can sit down and talk with her. I want to tell her what I've discovered and ask her to set up a meeting with all of us.

"I can't do that," she said. "As long as your wife is my client, I can't confer with you. And she'll have to agree to any joint session."

All I'm left with is frustration, which Joanne and the therapist don't want to hear.

SEPTEMBER 1991

I write Joanne a long letter. "If this family is to make it past the summer, we have to deal with this right now," I conclude. After two weeks, having heard nothing, I phone her.

"My therapist and I don't think it's a good idea for you and me to have a session right now," she says.

"What do you mean it's not a good idea?" I say. "This is not just about you and me. It's about our children and whether they'll have a future relationship with me."

"I believe Kristin, and you won't have a relationship with her," Joanne replies. "Anyway, it would just turn into a `No, I didn't-Yes, you did' session."

"So you actually believe that I'm the kind of monster who could molest his own daughter?"

"I don't believe you're a monster," she says. "I believe you're simply a man who has done terrible things that your consciousness can't even face-so you're denying them and burying them deep in your subconscious."

And that's that: a guilty verdict. I'm in denial, she declares, and adds a decisive no to any meeting to try to dispel this family demon. I slam the phone down into the receiver in frustration and beat on the phone booth's walls with my fists. In the car, I pound the steering wheel. I curse Joanne, I curse God and I especially curse the guild of psychotherapists. I feel like ramming my car into something; but instead I drive to a pub for an early start on an age-old kind of therapy.

After a few hours, I realize soddenly that I've been drinking with a vengeance. Back behind the wheel, I take out my rage on my car's accelerator, tires and suspension system, screeching around entrance ramps and plowing down the expressway and darkened streets with hate in my blurry eyes. It's a wonder I get home without killing myself or someone else.

A week later, I call Troy to see if he would like to spend a weekend with me, ride bikes, go to a ballgame, whatever.

"No," he says, and adds enigmatically: "You know, children forgive their parents far too easily. I'm not going to fall into the forgiveness trap." And he rings off. (I do not realize it then, but I find out later that his lines come directly from "The Courage To Heal," the Bible of the incest-recovery movement.)

My son, my buddy, has now also turned against me. I feel like he's kicking me when I'm down. The hurt and anger are so sharp and so mixed together that I sob to myself in my empty apartment.

OCTOBER 1991

I get several phone calls in which, as soon as I answer, somebody hangs up. Then, while I'm out of town on business, I get a message on my phone tape from Kristin.

"Dad," she says nervously, "I want to tell you that you sexually abused me when I was a little girl. I want you to know that I will never forgive you, and you'll never see your grandchildren. I hope that you get help, because you're a very sick man."

The voice is so breathless, thin and nervous-sounding, so unlike Kristin's voice that it seems like a kidnap message, like someone is making her say it.

I cannot call her back because she has an unlisted number. I keep the message on my tape for more than a week. Every phrase becomes almost a litany. I finally erase it. It's breaking my heart.

NOVEMBER 1991

I move out of Chicago. I've been considering this move for years, for professional rather than personal reasons. Even so, I call Peter and ask him if he thinks I'm running away from it all.

"No," he says, "you've made every effort to face your family and to get to the bottom of this. I think they are avoiding you."

So I leave town-with a bulging backpack of mixed emotions.

For the next year I am completely shut out by my family. But I begin to hear about other people who are in the same boat. A friend gives me an article from Playboy entitled "Cry Incest," in which the author, Debbie Nathan, who attended a retreat for "survivors of abuse," exposes ideological "therapists" who manufacture memories of abuse for young women. In the article I also learn about the False Memory Syndrome Foundation, a group started in Philadelphia by parents who have been accused of abuse by their adult children, almost always daughters.

I send for and receive the foundation's packet of information. The similarity of my own story to the many stories I read there is uncanny. One thing is true of all the accusers: only after they are exposed to psychotherapy do they recall the incestuous abuse. And only after leaving their therapists are some able to reunite with their parents and realize that their abuse was fabricated.

I hear other accounts. A friend's sister goes into severe depression after the breakup of her marriage and encounters a psychiatrist who, after prescribing Prozac, also urges her to dredge up memories of abuse from her childhood. In session after session the psychiatrist presses the abuse angle-even thought it never happened. Finally, in exasperation, the woman seeks another therapist.

I watch network TV magazine programs exposing therapists who are coaching their clients into memories of ritual abuse. A public radio program explores the "repressed memory" controversy and interviews Elizabeth Loftus, a memory research expert. Loftus tells of sending an undercover detective to see a therapist she is investigating on behalf of some accused parents. The detective describes the most generic emotional complaints- depression, sleeplessness, fear of the unknown-and within two sessions the therapist tells him he's a victim of incest.

The information and anecdotes bolster me. The repressed- memory phenomenon, now nationwide in scope, is maddening, and I shake my fist at the gods. Yet the most astounding revelation in this whole sordid drama is yet to come, and it will come from where it all started: my own family.

OCTOBER 1992

In almost a year I have had only two phone conversations with my wife, both about money. That's it. We are still married, though pursuing divorce, and we've been quite civil despite everything. I am going to be in Chicago, and I risk asking her if we can get together for dinner. Surprisingly, Joanne agrees to it.

We agree to meet at our old favorite Italian restaurant, a tiny, quiet place with a good selection of pastas and wines. I'm there a little early, and I'm nervous; but I'm also eager to see Joanne because I want to hear about the kids. When she shows up, we formally shake hands. But that seems very wooden, and her vulnerable appearance inspires me to give her a hug.

Joanne looks awful. Her face is pinched and anxious.

"I am just now getting out of a depression that has lasted at least six months," she says after a little while.

The story spills out.

"Just after you moved," she says, "Kristin told me she wanted nothing more to do with me. She would not say why. She refused to let me contact her. A few months later, in February I think, Troy moved out. He also wouldn't say why, and he won't talk to me either. After I couldn't take it anymore, I finally persuaded Kristin to agree to a session. We'd each have our therapists present, and we'd sit down and talk.

"It was a nightmare. One long tirade by Kristin. She accused me of abusing her along with you. She said you had raped her while I looked on and encouraged you. She said I had raped her with snakes. She said I threatened to slice into her baby brother, Troy, with a huge knife and that I had dismembered her cat with a knife, among other acts smacking of satanic rituals. She went on and on, one thing after another, for an hour.

"I couldn't say anything to her. She was totally convinced that it had all happened. When it was over I stumbled out of there, shaking and sobbing. The first thing my therapist said to me was, 'I guess now you know what your husband felt like."'rt her, and yet I'm astonished that I'm hearing this for the first time now, six months after it happened.

"Why didn't you tell me any of this?" I ask.

"I couldn't communicate with anyone," she says. "For six months I was so depressed that I didn't talk to anyone. Prozac was the only thing that made it possible for me to go to work."

Then she turns abruptly to me, staring into my eyes. "Tell me for sure that you didn't abuse her," she says. "You didn't, did you?"

I wearily shake my head as I look back at her. Her eyes are brimming with tears.

"I'm sorry I ever believed her," she says finally. "I'm just still so confused. How could this happen?"

The next day I run into Bob, an old friend of the family. He looks at me oddly, and I think I know why.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asks.

Over a beer at a favorite bar, he leans forward and says, "I saw Troy last summer . . . at a jazz club, and this is bizarre, but. . . ."

He goes on to say that Troy blurted out to him that Joanne and I had abused him and Kristin and that they would never speak to us again. That hits me. Troy has progressed from a sympathizer to a believer. I nod and tell Bob the whole story. He is incredulous, and we talk long and hard about what has happened. He and his wife have known Joanne and me for 25 years. They have known Kristin and Troy since they were infants.

"It's not true, Bob," I say, and I realize I have been saying it for over a year now. "None of it's true."

In the end he can only wonder, taking my word for things because I'm his friend, hanging his head in heartfelt sadness over this toxin that has ripped a family apart.

FEBRUARY 1994

It is now 2 1/2 years since I learned that my daughter was accusing me of sexual abuse. Nationally, the cover has been torn off the repressed-memory racket in American psychotherapy. I have read and collected dozens of articles on the controversy.

An article in the New York Times by Carol Tavris is entitled "Beware the Incest-Survivor Machine," and it rips into the Bibles and rhetoric of the incest recovery movement. Another by Wendy Kaminer in The Atlantic Monthly is called "Feminism's Identity Crisis" and contains the statement "It is heresy, in general, to question the testimony of self-proclaimed victims of date rape or harassment, as it is heresy in a 12-step group to question claims of abuse. All claims of suffering are sacred andpresumed to be absolutely true."

"The U.S. appears to be witnessing its third great wave of hysteria," writes Dr. Richard Gardner, a clinical professor of psychiatry at Columbia University, in The Wall Street Journal, citing the Salem witch trials and the McCarthy hearings in the 1950s. "Our current hysteria, which began in the early 1980s, is by far the worst with regard to the number of lives that have been destroyed and the families that have disintegrated."

In a Time story (Nov. 29, 1993), Richard Ofshe of the University of California at Berkeley says, "Recovered-memory therapy will come to be recognized as the quackery of the 20th Century." Other articles and comments fill my files as the months pass. But the comfort and vindication I derive from these experts is hollow and short-lived. My children probably will not read a word of these pieces.

I continue to rage, sometimes quietly, sometimes to friends about the damage that has been done.

I have contacted Kristin's college and, after some questions, have found out the name of the person who would have been her counselor there when she first experienced depression. And I have gotten the name of Kristin's therapist in Chicago out of Joanne. But which one is responsible, and to what degree, for the false memories? Some of my friends have urged me to bring a lawsuit against these charlatans, and I am considering it. But will a lawsuit, I ask myself, bring my children back?

Meanwhile, Joanne and I have gotten a divorce-but are on the friendliest terms we've been on for more than three years. We have a deep hurt and a sense of injustice in common, and we've had several long talks about our children and our lives in the past year. Joanne tells me that she has spent weekends looking at slides of the children when they were small. "Looking for the truth, I suppose," she says.

I have sent letters to both Kristin and Troy-to the only addresses Joanne has for them-begging for some kind of reconciliation. And I've sent gifts on their birthdays. There have been no replies to the letters, and the gifts have come back to me with no acknowledgment and no return addresses.

About nine months ago, Joanne wrote the children telling them to remove their belongings from the house, that she didn't want to see or hear from them until they were ready to talk about healing. While she was gone on vacation, they came and took all the personal stuff they wanted and removed all of the family photo albums and childhood memorabilia. Both have moved without leaving forwarding addresses, and both have unlisted phone numbers. They have cut off all contact. They are unreachable.lse-memory articles and personal narratives that I have on file, but she tells me she doesn't want to read them or hear about them. I tell her that I have contacted the False Memory Syndrome Foundation for assistance and am considering a lawsuit against

Regarding my children, I now have only a sense of loss. I realize that Kristin and Troy have the pain of losing their parents just as profoundly as Joanne and I have the pain of losing our children.

My rage is all toward the practice of "repressed-memory therapy." I recognize that my children have been victimized by their so-called "mental health care providers," a group with not only an agenda but, like pastors and priests,the power to inflict pain on impressionable people. Some of them have clearly seized upon and exploited Kristin's depression and vulnerability for their own agenda and financial gain. I believe that Kristin and Troy have been hurt just as surely by these "health careprofessionals" as they would have been by recruitment into some radical and irrational cult. They have been led into some Waco or Jonestown of the mind.

In my dreams these days, or sometimes just riding in the car, with no warning, I get glimpses of Kristin as a little girl again. She's learning to read and she gets up close to my face with her sweet round cheeks and strawberry-blond curls and painstakingly mispronounces a new word. Or I see her triumphant and terrified face on her first solo bike trip around the block, me running behind, my hand at the ready, giggling. How she'd put her hand in mine and lean her head on my shoulder, all trusting; and how she'd proudly tell her little friends, "That's my big daddy."

Remembering it, I laugh and cry all at once. My heart aches for that little girl . . . and for the woman she has become.

God, I want my children back. I miss them terribly
Caption:
GRAPHICS (color): Illustration by Matt Mahurin.
Caption:
GRAPHICS 2
Memo: This story has been entered on the data base in 2 parts. This is part 2.
Edition: FINAL EDITION
Section: SUNDAY MAGAZINE
Page: 14
Index Terms: FAMILY; SEX; ABUSE; PARENT; BEHAVIOR
Copyright 1994 Chicago Tribune
Record Number: CTR9402270213

OpenURL Article Bookmark (right click, and copy the link location):
AFTER THE FALLCAST OUT OF HIS FAMILY AFTER ACCUSATIONS OF SEX ABUSE, A FATHER SEARCHES FOR THE TRUTH

GRAPHICS 2
Memo: This story has been entered on the data base in 2 parts. This is part 1.
Edition: FINAL EDITION
Section: SUNDAY MAGAZINE
Page: 14
Index Terms: FAMILY; SEX; ABUSE; PARENT; BEHAVIOR
Copyright 1994 Chicago Tribune
Record Number: CTR9402270214

OpenURL Article Bookmark (right click, and copy the link location):
AFTER THE FALLCAST OUT OF HIS FAMILY AFTER ACCUSATIONS OF SEX ABUSE, A FATHER SEARCHES FOR THE TRUTH