Watts v Brown — Part One

In August 2000, I was 22 years old, an English Literature major with a Music minor, a working singer, and planning to go to law school. This visual memoir follows what I remember happened next and the year that followed.

Visual note: Reconstructed scenes are based on my recollection and created with generative AI. They are illustrative, not photographs or independent evidence. When actual photographs, documents, court records, or sworn testimony appear, they are identified. This case is ongoing. Disputed events reflect my account unless otherwise identified.

Donna did not leave it there. After hearing me sing in her kitchen, she called with a specific plan: test my voice in front of a live audience at Hard Rock Live.

That call made the opportunity feel real. As soon as I got off the phone with Donna, I called my mom.

My mom’s reaction reinforced what I already believed: this was a legitimate professional opportunity. The next step was simple — prepare.

Carrie helped me learn the songs, but she was not the friend who came with me. On August 27, Tiffany went with me to Hard Rock Live.

Backstage, Tiffany and I met Dave Holmes and tried to take a picture with him. That was when a man neither of us knew inserted himself into the photo.

At that point, Dargan Watts was only the stranger who had stepped into our picture. A little later, while I was waiting for the elevator to go upstairs, he approached me again.

I left him at the stairs and went upstairs because I believed I was about to perform. I took my place in the audience and waited for the cue Donna had arranged.

The cue never came. After the event, I got photographs because I had learned to document things people might later question — and then Tiffany and I still had the after-party.

We went home, changed, and headed downtown to Tabu. I thought the failed performance was the story of the day. It wasn’t.

At Tabu, Dargan appeared again. I turned away, but he used Tiffany to get my attention and said he wanted to talk to me about work.

I did not like him, but I listened because the subject he kept putting in front of me was exactly what mattered to me then: paid work after graduation.

While he was cashing out, he told me to distribute his drinks in the VIP area. I put them down, went back to Tiffany, and resumed our conversation.

He still could not get into the VIP area. When he got my attention again from outside the ropes, he said he was leaving and wanted to give me his business card.

At his car, the conversation kept circling back to work. I wrote “Skye” and my number on what he said was his last business card — and he kept the card.

I went back upstairs to Tiffany, and we left. As far as I knew, that was the end of Dargan Watts. Then, during the following week, my phone rang.

He invited me to what I understood was a business dinner about singing work. We scheduled it for Friday, September 1, 2000.

On the drive, we talked about UCF and my future. Then he made what he described as a quick business stop at a place I did not recognize.

I needed physical help getting up the steps. Once we were inside, I still believed I was waiting for him to finish something so we could go to the business dinner.

Inside, he offered me wine, then said he needed to take care of business in his office. I followed him only as far as the doorway.

The “office” was a bedroom dominated by the enormous carved bed he had already told me about on the phone. I stayed in the doorway and objected.

I told him the situation was inappropriate and unprofessional and explained why I was uncomfortable. He kept insisting that I could trust him. Eventually, I stopped arguing about where I would wait.

I sat on the side of the bed because I believed I was still waiting for him to finish whatever business he claimed he needed to handle before dinner.

My account is that he raped me there. The next part of the story is not about reconstructing the assault visually; it is about what I remember immediately afterward.

Afterward, I was still on the bed and could not get myself up. When I saw him shutting down the computer, I began wailing and told him I was stuck.

I had to rely on him for physical assistance to get out of the room, through the house, and down the steps. Once I got home, I wanted distance between me and everything that had just happened.

I locked the doors, turned off the lights, closed the windows, and stayed inside with my dog. I was furious and still intended to go to the police — but first I wanted to clean myself.

I took a quick shower. Only afterward, when I looked up what to do after a rape, did I see the warning not to shower. I believed I had destroyed the physical evidence I would need.

That belief changed everything. I spent the night trying to understand what I should do, while the idea that I had ruined my chance to prove anything kept taking over.

The next morning, the Birchmore Group number appeared on my caller ID. I did not answer, and he did not leave a message.

I tried to figure out who Dargan Watts and Birchmore Group actually were, especially whether there was anyone above him I could report him to. I found no obvious hierarchy that gave me an answer.

On Sunday, he called again. After a voicemail that I remember as implying I was expected to work for him, I eventually answered and told him never to call me again or I would call the police.

Even after that confrontation, I still wanted to report him. But I believed I had destroyed the evidence, and I became terrified that a report would turn into his word against mine.

So I told no one, and my life began coming apart in ways the people around me could not see. School, singing, sleep, and simply leaving the house all became harder.

I kept trying to finish college, but I failed two major English Literature classes at the very end. My family came to graduation anyway, and I let everyone believe I had graduated because explaining the truth felt impossible.

By fall 2001, keeping everything inside had become impossible too. I finally entered inpatient treatment and began writing down what had happened. That is where Part One ends.