These people are just picking on him because he's autistic, she says. They're ignorant and prejudiced against her boy, who looks like every other 13-year-old out there but doesn't act like one.  He'll do things like ask you your name 50 times but, Carrie insists, he does not go into people's houses, he doesn't steal food, he doesn't expose himself, and anyone who says so is just out to get him.

This discussion goes over Colton's head. He doesn't seem to know he's being talked about, and he frequently interrupts while his mother defends him.  He might be quiet for a while, but then he'll fart — and smile sideways with mock shyness at his mother while waiting for her to remind him to say, "Excuse me." Which she has to do every time.

Darren's sign was up for less than 24 hours, but it attracted statewide media attention and widespread condemnation. The Nephi police chief went to the house to order the sign taken down; Darren initially protested on private property and free speech grounds, but decided not to press the issue.

Carrie and Colton featured prominently in news stories during the next few days. Sensitivity training for the community was mentioned by some, while others talked about the Galbraiths as "white trash" and "bass-ackwards rednecks." Because the Galbraiths work long hours as truck drivers, it took several days for their side of the story to emerge, the gist of which was this: They weren't calling Colton a retard. His mother was the problem.

The Galbraith home is popular in the neighborhood. Darren's three kids span a wide age range, and they have a shaded yard, a friendly dog and a trampoline, so of course Colton wanders by, drawn by the other kids. And there's usually some trouble — shoving or throwing things — and Colton gets sent home. That's happened a thousand times, Darren said, and they still have to guard against Colton's snooping ways.

If any hint of this reaches Colton’s mother, neighbor Kallie said, you'd better be ready for a butt-chewin' from hell.

So they have no peace. No one would listen to them — not the police, not the school, not family services. They just had to keep watching out for Colton, for their kids, for their stuff, and somehow do it so that they didn't set off Colton's mother.

There's a lot of, "Well, they started it," in this tale, and a federal investigation couldn't figure out who was actually to blame. Both sides freely admit to giving as well as they get. A few incidents stand out.

In one, Carrie and her brood were in their truck in front of the Galbraith home, with the neighbors shouting at each other.  Brad got out of the vehicle and approached Darren. Darren walked forward, put his shoulder down and bumped Brad, and said, "You'd best get back in your damn truck." Brad did. (A wise move, as Darren is a burly outdoorsman probably half Brad’s age, and Brad recently had a lung operation that leaves him short of breath when he talks loudly.)

The second followed that pattern. Carrie, et al, were in their truck driving by, and they either pulled over and started yelling at the Galbraiths ("You leave our kid alone!") or the Galbraiths came charging to the street ("Keep your fucking retarded kid at home!"). It depends on who's telling the story. Part of the story Carrie told police was that Kallie threatened to get a gun, which Kallie denies. Nevertheless, that night marked the only official action in this whole mess — disorderly conduct citations issued to both parties.

The last incident, which took place after the citations but before the court hearing, is murkier. Police knocked on Darren's door one night after he was already in bed and said he'd been accused of spitting on either Brad or Colton's sister. (Again, it depends on who's telling the story.)

That was too much for Darren. He made the offending sign that night, and as the rain of insults followed, the only concession he made was that he probably shouldn't have used the word "retard."  But he found comfort in the storm. With media types coming around and a court date right around the corner, Carrie kept watch outside, and Colton wasn't causing mischief. Local and state officials were reviewing Colton's care. Darren was dead sure that when he and his neighbors marched down to the court hearing everyone would see he'd been right all along.

The Nephi municipal court meets in a room in Juab County courthouse, and it's not hard to fill. It's about the size of a two-car garage, and the public area consists of three hard wooden benches and a few mismatched chairs shoehorned into the back of the room. On the day of the hearing, people from both sides of this neighborhood melee crowded into separate rows and sat in an uneasy quiet, waiting for the judge to appear and the crossfire of testimony to start.

But courtroom drama isn't Nephi's style. A city attorney in khakis and a blazer took Darren and Kallie out of the courtroom and walked them to the farthest end of the hallway for a lengthy conversation. When he was done with them, he had the same hallway talk with Carrie and Brad.  And so it was settled. No testimony, no exhibits, no letters read into the record, no cross-examinations, no ruling from the bench on the merits of one side's argument over the other.

What the court offered was a deal:   Each side pays $300, which they'll get back if they manage to have no contact each other for a year. Both the judge and the attorney reiterated that "no contact" means "no contact" — no words, no gestures, no dirty looks. Instead of vindication, the court offered the equivalent of being told to sit in opposite corners and keep still until dinner, or else.

Because some people — well, you've just got to keep an eye on them.

Alan Choate, a 2003 graduate of the LNF program, writes about politics in Utah. He doesn't mind if you rub his bald head — but please ask first.