XPost: alt.activism.children.molesters, alt.law-enforcement, alt   
   politics.homosexuality   
   XPost: talk.politics.guns   
   From: gay.pedophile.cops.now@splcenter.org   
      
   On 09 Jan 2022, Molly Bolt  posted some   
   news:dcdb8b64-ab93-46fb-9467-06e81a8892aan@googlegroups.com:   
      
   > Cut his dick off and superglue it in his asshole.   
      
   He had cinched cuffs around hundreds of wrists as a D.C. police officer,   
   but now Brett Parson’s own hands were being placed behind his back.   
      
   “So I’ll let you know guys, right now, that until I talk to an attorney, I   
   won’t talk to anybody,” Parson said.   
      
   The police in Boca Raton, Fla., guided him toward their cruiser as their   
   body cameras recorded the encounter.   
      
   “I think I know exactly what it’s about. It’s a brand-new warrant, right?”   
   Parson guessed. “Brand-new? Issued probably this morning?”   
      
   “Yep,” answered one officer. They were outside the condo where Parson’s   
   parents lived. He’d been staying with them to help his father recover from   
   a surgery.   
      
   On this February morning, he’d taken the trash out, not knowing detectives   
   were waiting for him outside. They asked for the keys to his father’s red   
   convertible. They asked him to turn over his phone.   
      
   Parson, 53, instructed them not to search anything without a warrant.   
      
   “I know what it is you’re looking for,” he said.   
      
   Around 12:30 a.m. the night before, Parson had been pulled over by   
   officers from Coconut Creek, who’d seen him driving the red convertible   
   near a quiet office park 20 minutes away. Police reported they watched as   
   the convertible followed a gray sedan into a parking lot. Both cars made a   
   U-turn and returned to the road. The gray sedan then pulled into a fenced-   
   off area with an empty field and a Comcast tower. The gate, which should   
   have been locked, was open. What were these drivers doing there in the   
   middle of the night? The officers stopped both cars.   
      
   Parson told them they were mistaken. He wasn’t following the gray sedan.   
   He was just lost and looking for Interstate 95.   
      
   “I’m a cop from D.C.,” he said. In reality, he had been retired and only a   
   reserve officer for two years.   
      
   They let him drive away. Then they went to talk to the driver of the gray   
   sedan.   
      
   The window rolled down to reveal a thin White boy. He said he had pulled   
   over to text a friend. The officer told the boy he didn’t believe him. In   
   his report, he described what the teenager — who turned out to be 16 – did   
   next.   
      
   “He dropped his head, took a deep breath, and stated he met the guy who   
   was following behind him online and they were meeting to ‘hook up.’ ”   
      
   The teenager began to tell the officers the story he would repeat at least   
   three times that night, including at the sexual assault treatment center   
   where he was taken after his parents were called.   
      
   He’d met Parson on Growlr, a dating app for gay men that requires users to   
   be 18. He’d lied about his birthday to use the app, claiming he was 18. He   
   said he and Parson exchanged oral sex in the parking lot of a day care.   
      
   He said he knew Parson used to be a police officer.   
      
   What he didn’t know was that Parson was not just any police officer. The   
   man who had just driven away was known nationally and internationally as a   
   pioneer of gay rights in policing.   
      
   In the nation’s capital, Parson built an award-winning liaison unit that   
   investigated hate crimes, befriended advocates and marched in Pride   
   parades, slowly revolutionizing the relationship between the police and   
   the city’s LGBTQ community. People saw him everywhere: dance clubs and   
   book clubs, hospital bedsides and funeral homes, early-morning court   
   hearings and late-night domestic disputes.   
      
   The city’s 2019 guide to Pride called Parson a “living legend.” The   
   Department of Justice, the State Department, Amnesty International, the   
   Southern Poverty Law Center and other police departments relied on his   
   expertise.   
      
   Now, he was going to jail. The warrant for his arrest listed two counts of   
   unlawful sexual activity. If convicted, he could face a prison sentence   
   and a lifetime as a registered sex offender. Under Florida law, claiming   
   to be misled about the age of a victim cannot be used as a legal defense.   
      
   Parson’s arrest stunned the legions of people who admired him, leaving   
   them with questions about what exactly happened in Florida and whether it   
   represented some sort of mistake or a serious betrayal.   
      
   Months later, they are still without answers. The case, which depends   
   largely on the involvement of a 16-year-old identified only by his   
   initials, is moving slowly. It will be months, and possibly years, before   
   a judge or jury determines Parson’s fate.   
      
   While the former lieutenant waits for his future to be decided, those who   
   put their trust in him for so long are revisiting his past. This story is   
   based on public records and interviews with more than three dozen people   
   whose lives and work Parson influenced during his 26-year career. They are   
   grappling with the person they thought they knew — and the power he   
   wielded for so long.   
      
   Parson, who has pleaded not guilty to the charges, did not respond to   
   repeated interview requests.   
      
   On the morning of his Feb. 12 arrest, Parson frequently reminded the   
   officers taking him into custody that he, too, was a cop. He commented on   
   their equipment, mentioned he was scheduled to teach at the FBI National   
   Academy, mused about what his approach to this kind of warrant would be   
   and joked about his own history of stuffing large men into cramped back   
   seats.   
      
   “With all due — we know who you are, sir,” an officer informed him. “Your   
   credentials don’t matter. … It’s nothing to do with how this is being   
   handled.”   
      
   “I understand,” Parson said. He thanked them for being caring.   
      
   They confiscated his loaded Glock 26, explained to his parents what was   
   happening and slammed the cruiser door.   
      
   “F---,” Parson said, “It’s weird being on this side.”   
      
   Ending ‘fairy shaking’   
   Parson’s reputation as a gay hero began with a scandal. In the late 1990s,   
   while Parson was building a career in narcotics investigations, another   
   D.C. officer was stationing himself outside a gay club in Southeast   
   Washington. He was watching for men leaving the club who were wearing   
   wedding rings or getting into cars with baby seats. He wrote down their   
   license plates, found their contact information and called them. Pay   
   $10,000, he said, or he’d expose them to their wives and employers.   
      
   The scheme was known as “fairy shaking.”   
      
   It eventually led to an FBI investigation, a nearly two-year prison   
   sentence for the officer and the resignation of the chief of police.   
      
   To those in the LGBTQ community, the extortion was just the latest example   
   of mistreatment by a police force with a decades-long history of targeting   
   vulnerable queer people.   
      
   “There was an overall mistrust,” remembers Peter Newsham, who later became   
   police chief. “There was a feeling that they couldn’t call the police and   
   ensure that the police officer who came to the door was going to treat   
   them with dignity.”   
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
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    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)