I had a hard day at work yesterday.

It wasn’t hard because of the usual overthinking and annoyances. Not because I had to call somebody I didn’t want to, and somehow ferreted that unmade phone call into the part of my brain that thinks about friendliness and being accepted rather than the part that knows I have a job to do. Not because any half-sprouted idea of mine, just beginning to show promise, withered and died in the light of day. That shit happens all the time.

It wasn’t part of the usual battle of expectations between a writer and his subject (though there was some of that too). The things we write will offend people, and that’s nothing to apologize for.

Still, I had to make an apology, because I fucked up. I got some facts wrong, big stupid glaring ones too, for no good reason. I wasn’t out chasing the story right before deadline and typing like mad into a netbook on my belt. I simply didn’t fact-check like I should have. I was lazy.

Part of it was the way I wrote the story, coming only belatedly to anything like a satisfying angle or human trajectory. It started with too wide a subject, and for much of the time I spent reporting, I was looking for quotes and attributes to fit into a narrative like pieces in a puzzle.

That never works.

As a result, I was left with a story that looked almost like somebody else had written it. I knew it was good, but it could have been great. It would forever sit at the middle of the pile: not a failure, but not a trophy either.

Until yesterday. Then I was embarrassed, because I didn’t do my job, which is to tell the truth.

To the public: I won’t apologize if you don’t like the facts, or if I present what’s important to me in a way that conflicts with what’s important to you. Writers are given liberties to make the facts relevant on a whole new level, to try and extract some means for empathy. We may flail around trying to do that, and it’s a pursuit that will necessarily inflict some collateral regret.

But if I say something that’s flat-out wrong, out of simple neglect—and especially if it’s a close, personal thing—I will say I’m sorry. And that’s a damn hard thing to do.

Over the past month I’ve been following the story of Charles Harper, who went before Broward Judge John Bowman as a young foster kid who was forbidden by the court from seeing his mother. Evidently Bowman thought Harper was a special case, because he sent him off to Eckert Camp for six months and then brought him to live in his own home.

Fast forward to last December, and an 18-year-old Harper is arrested for stalking Bowman — by standing outside his house and calling him on the phone. He ended up on house arrest for a few weeks and was then put in jail, all without charges filed or determination of probable cause.

While on house arrest, Harper contacted me and offered to tell his side of the story, which involved serious allegations of sexual abuse and child pornography by Bowman when Harper was in his care. Harper filed a police report and the Plantation police tell me the case is still under investigation.

Meanwhile, Harper pleaded guilty to stalking under the threat of expanded charges based on “past incidents”–which were not detailed or discussed in the courtroom hearing–should he continue to inquire about the possibility of being released before the trial.

As part of the plea deal, Harper apologized to Bowman on the record and is serving a year of probation. He also has to attend a six-month “batterer’s intervention course” because of the stalking charges, which allege no physical contact or verbal threats between him and the judge.

The Sun-Sentinel has been utterly silent on the issue. Bowman is up for reelection in 2014.

Sorry for the silence on the blog and Twitter since Colorado—I still need to put up a post on the humongous copper mine all the way back in Utah. But I’ve been busy getting myself hired. Now I’ll be writing 50,000 words a year of long-form narrative journalism, pitching any topic I choose, not to mention pay and benefits and a desk, and possibly free coffee. Yep, I’m a Staff Writer.

The job happens to be in the polar opposite of Portland, Oregon. That’s right: South Florida. Not only am I at the exact opposite corner of the mainland United States, but the culture and society are so harshly different that I feel like I’ve wandered into a different, possibly third-world, country.

First of all, if Portland is urban-planning heaven, this is the deepest layer of hell. Private enterprise and greedy speculation drives virtually every development decision down here, which explains why I won’t be paying any state income tax. And why it can cost nearly $500 to get Florida license plates, or “tags.” The car culture is the most dominant I’ve ever seen: it makes parts of Los Angeles look like a New Urbanist utopia. People drive, end of story, even if they’re just going to the bank across the street. And forget about riding a bike unless you are a teenager or a homeless person.

Part of the reason we drive our air-conditioned cars everywhere here is that the heat is nearly unbearable. For the summer months (like right now), the daily high hovers around 97 degrees with 80 percent humidity. Around midnight it cools off to 85. The only time you’re comfortable outside at this time of year is when you’re caught in a raging thunderstorm. You know that part of Scarface where there’s a montage of the Miami streets radiating slimy heat while a menacing synth pulses in the background? That’s how you feel here every time you walk out the door.

The display of ostentatious wealth is incredible. Mega-yachts and Mercedes-Benzes cruise by dilapidated trailer parks on a routine basis. And because the neighborhoods and cities grew up around highway transportation, there’s no apparent logical gradation of wealth—gated luxury is separated by pockets of what the locals mysteriously call “the pits.” And everybody—like me—is from somewhere else. Many—also like me—are from New Jersey.

Turn on the radio, and you’ll immediately hear ads for scamming doctors and seething personal-injury lawyers. Sit in any Starbucks long enough, and you’ll hear someone being recruited to a fly-by-night “marketing agency.” Drive by your average strip mall and you’ll see “Oriental Massage” and “Pain Management Center” lit up side-by-side in fluorescent lights. Oh yeah, that’s another thing: Broward county is the world’s capital for shadowy Oxycodone dispensaries, much to the ire of sheriffs around the country.

I’ve heard the place described as hell—hot, crowded and scary. Also, full of people who did evil things in a past life. But for that reason and so many others, as far as a reporting career goes, it’s paradise.

The writers at the New Times have been consistently turning out some fantastic reporting. Last week there was Michael J. Mooney’s narrative of the suspicious deaths of two beautiful young girls in a trust-fund playboy’s beachfront apartment. Lisa Rab takes on a drunk-driving polo mogul, and bemoans the sorry state of our daily competitors. I first got interested in the New Times syndicate—and working in South Florida—when I read this incredible story from the Miami paper about a lawless, off-the-grid outlaw community in the C-9 basin and the renegade cop who fights to shut it down. Overall, I’m honored and humbled to be able to work alongside these people, and can’t wait to see what I find.