I Had to Say Something (25 page)

“Yeah, sure, whatever you guys want,” I replied quickly.

Sensing my frustration, the young woman closed the door behind her and left me alone again.

A few moments later, the same young woman stuck her head inside the office again. “Not to worry, Mike, you're not going to Colorado Springs.” I was still too rattled to respond, but I was relieved that I wouldn't be going.

In came Paula, looking very professional as always. “You can go now, Mike,” she said. “Thanks for coming by. We'll call you if we need you.”

I was exhausted and confused, unsure of what their next step would be.

Paula added, “We are going down to Colorado Springs to see if we can talk with Reverend Haggard.”

“Good luck,” I told her. I gathered my things, and on the way out the door, I told her again how sorry I was for going to Peter.

“I know, Mike, thank you.”

So, back home I went. I figured I should put a change of clothes and some lunch inside my backpack so that the next time they called I'd at least be cleaner and better fed.

Eating a small salad for dinner, I thought long and hard about what had happened. I just spent an entire day at Channel 9, and there still might not be a story. Right on the table was my portfolio of evidence. The whole thing was driving me nuts.

And yet, at the same time, I was calm. I was concerned, of course, but in the quiet of my home, I felt that I was at peace with the world.

I was enjoying a very relaxing evening, one of only a handful in months, when my phone rang just a few minutes before ten o'clock.

“You're on in two minutes,” Paula said. “Sorry I couldn't give you more notice. I'll talk to you later.”

I hung up, but still held the phone nervously in my hand as I thought about what was about to play out. That morning, I was just a guy named Paul. That night, the whole world would know that I was Mike Jones, an escort, a sex worker, a call boy. Not only was Paula going to use my real name, but I knew she would name Ted Haggard. I knew that she would tell the world who we were and that we were homosexuals. She'd already been scooped by Peter Boyles on “Paul's” account of the facts, but she wasn't about to let someone else beat her to the bigger story of the real identities of the parties involved.

I took a seat on the couch and turned on Channel 9. There was co-anchor Bob Kendrick with a big breaking news banner running across the screen. It looked like the news had already been running a few minutes. I thought about trying to call my father, but it was too late. What would I tell him?

A picture of Ted Haggard was in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, right next to a picture of me. Right underneath my profile was my name for all the world to see. Monica Lewinsky came to mind.

My “accusations” were presented first, showing a clip of an interview I did in my apartment about two months earlier. Man, I looked terrible!

Next, they showed a clip that was presumably fresh from Colorado Springs, showing Ted talking to a reporter. He stood there plain as day, denying he ever knew “a Mike Jones” and dismissing everything I said as “election-year politics.”
A moment later, Ted asked the reporter, “Now what did you say his name was again?” He also said he was steady and faithful to his wife and that he had never had gay sex.

I can't begin to tell you how hard it was for me to see all these lies coming from Ted, an alleged man of God, someone who tells millions of people to be honest.

Ted continued talking and denying everything. There he stood, with embarrassing questions being thrown at him like lightning bolts. He handled it all pretty smoothly, but I knew him too well. I could see in his eyes, as they darted from side to side, how uncomfortable he was. I recognized that storm behind his smile. I'd recognize it anywhere, even in the dark. Perhaps the smooth surface was about to crack.

I found it difficult to watch. The story ended by saying that New Life Church was conducting its own investigation into the matter. I clicked off the TV, not wanting to know what else went wrong in the world that day.

Right after the story aired, Paula called me. “There, it's out,” she said. I thanked her quickly before she could cut off the connection.

All of a sudden, I froze. Then I started crying. And as quickly as someone could snap their fingers, I felt completely lost and empty again.

I went to the balcony and stepped into the chilly evening air. Looking west, I have a view of downtown Denver and the Rocky Mountains. But I might as well have been looking at four padded walls.

I felt like the whole world had just imploded and no one had noticed. No one was calling. The universe was still.

I felt defeated. The game had barely begun, and already I had been deemed a loser. I wanted to disappear. As I had done so many times before, I knelt in front of my couch and put my
elbows on the cushion and cried. And then I prayed. It was the only thing I could do.

It finally hit me that the word “prostitute,” which they used repeatedly in the story, was what was really getting me upset. It's one thing to be called a call boy or an escort, but prostitute sounded much worse to me. I felt the world was seeing me as dirty.

My phone rang and broke the silence. “It's Greg from the Peter Boyles show. Can you come to the studio tomorrow morning and be on the show again?”

I scratched my head, wondering if this would be the first of many interviews to come or the last. “Sure, Greg, whatever you want.”

“By the way, there may be some reporters waiting for you when you get here.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said. Greg added that I should park out back and try to get there early.

I hung up, still in tears and half asleep, and dragged myself to bed.
What was happening?
I wondered. Everything was totally out of my hands, and I had no idea in whose hands it was now.

 

Better early than late, my parents taught me.

I arrived at the studio around 6:30 a.m. There was Peter, waiting to personally unlock the door and let me in.

“How are you?” he asked. He may not have been sure if I was Paul or Mike.

I said I was fine, but I wasn't. To be honest, I wasn't sure what I was feeling, even after sleeping for close to six hours. Peter showed me the studio, then took me to the control room and introduced me to Greg.

At five minutes before the hour, Greg took me into the studio and had me take a seat at a very cluttered desk with lots of wires and switches and levers. He explained how the talk buttons and headphones worked and pointed out a monitor in front of me that would show the names and questions of the callers.

At seven o'clock on the dot, the show started.
What names were they going to call me today?
I wondered.

Just like at Channel 9, Peter also asked me to confirm that I had had sex with Ted Haggard. A little more chitchat, and it was open season on Mike Jones.

I really don't remember all the comments that people made, and to be honest, I was trying to block them out of my mind. Most of the callers were not in my camp, to be sure, but they weren't in Ted Haggard's camp either. There were a few callers that had good things to say about me, and I thanked them. One caller pointed out that I had not yet proven my case, and that was true.

All in all, I felt I was handling the callers quite well. When I spoke, Peter looked me squarely in the eye the whole time. You can imagine, however, that it got tiring to be called a liar, a manipulator, and a media whore—and those weren't even the rude comments.

Finally, I'd been called a liar one too many times. I blurted out, “I will take a polygraph test if that will make these people happy.” Little did I know that in broadcast land, things can happen quicker than you can write a retraction. Without missing a beat, Peter asked, on the air, if there were any polygraphers out there who could give me a test. Right on the air, a test was scheduled. Talk about reality programming. I felt like I was being set up.

Before I left the studio, another talk show dragged me into
their discussion. The callers were about the same as Peter's. They were either for me or against me, and it usually depended on how religious they were. Once that show was over, I gathered my things and left the building through the back door.

On my way home, I called Paula to see if she'd gotten any feedback on the story that aired. There was nothing she could tell me, but I could tell from her voice that something was up.

New Life Church had issued the following press release earlier that morning:

Associate Pastor Rob Brendle added, “This is clearly a political stunt. Ted is the farthest thing from a homosexual as you can get. Trust me.”

By midmorning, James Dobson of Focus on the Family, also in Colorado Springs, had issued a statement:

Yet shortly after noon, the New Life Church press conference to support Ted had been cancelled.

 

When I arrived home, I put my things down and dialed my voice mail number. I was dumbfounded to hear that my mailbox was full. I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and started playing all my messages. Each caller was from a different area code, and they all wanted to talk to me.

To say I was amazed would be an understatement. Reporters, editors, and photographers from all around the world called me. I grabbed a bottle of water and sat down for what I thought would be a couple of hours of returning phone calls and doing interviews. Yet every time I hung up with one person, five more messages would be waiting for me. It was a madhouse, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying it.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock on my apartment door. I froze. All I could think of was what Paula said about getting a lawyer because I had engaged in illegal activity. What if it was someone who'd heard me on the radio and wanted to harm me? I got scared, so I stopped returning calls and sat silently for awhile. Soon, the knocking stopped, but I was still scared. I later learned from the cleaning lady that a couple of local reporters had snuck into the building.

I spent the next five hours returning phone calls. It was exciting, in a way. I was talking to people all over the world, and this time none of them were calling me a whore or a prostitute.

I had no food in my refrigerator, and I hadn't eaten all day. I really didn't want to leave my apartment for fear of getting ambushed, but how was I going to eat? I stopped answering the phone, grabbed a coat and my wallet, and slipped out the back door of my apartment building. As I walked from the alley to the grocery store, I could see the press out front waiting
for me to appear. It was both exciting and strange. Fortunately, I did not get ambushed while I was picking up skim milk and whole-grain bread.

 

I returned home again through the back door. One of the messages waiting for me was from Greg to tell me that they had someone lined up who could give me a polygraph test at three that afternoon.

Before long, it was 2:30 p.m., and I was still talking on the phone. My responses to all who called were starting to sound the same—so much so that I thought I might as well make one recording and send it to whoever's interested.

I really did not want to take the polygraph test, but I had painted myself into a corner. I let the phone ring, hopped into the shower, got dressed, and buzzed out the door. On my way out, I was stopped by Dee, the lady who cleans our building.

“Mike, you are quite the celebrity,” she told me. “Those reporters asked me what I thought of you, and I said that you were very nice guy who always treats me with respect and brings me Snickers.”

I thanked her and ran off to my appointment. I have to tell you that I could talk with some of the most powerful media people in the world, but when someone like Dee tells me that she thinks I'm a nice guy, it means the world to me. That made my day, truly.

 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones,” said the middle-aged man who greeted me. He told me his name was John and that he would be giving me the polygraph test.

A little on the heavy side, John was very cordial and easy to talk to. Then it hit me: I know nothing about this man. What if he's an evangelical and I've just walked into a trap?

He sat me down and started explaining how the test would measure my blood pressure, pulse rate, and other bodily functions. “Above all,” he told me, “relax.”

Yet just as he was getting his machine set up, his cell phone rang. It was for me. I thought it odd that someone, most likely a reporter, would call me on
his
cell phone. I had turned mine off so I could focus on the test.

“We've got some breaking news from Colorado Springs,” said the Channel 9 staffer. “We need you to come to the studio so we can get a response.”

“I'll be there right away,” I told the woman. In a flash, I told John I had to leave and apologized profusely for walking out.

Driving there, I was puzzled. What could be so important that I had to drop everything and race back to Channel 9? Did Ted spill his guts? Did they fire him? My stomach was suddenly all in knots. This was not what I wanted, I swear.