The news that Timothy Busfield has been released from jail pending his trial for the alleged sexual abuse of two minors is less a shock to the system and more a scheduled maintenance update for the crumbling, termite-infested infrastructure of the American entertainment industry. We are told to be shocked. We are told to be appalled. But after decades of watching the same celluloid gods fall from their pedestals only to be caught by the safety net of expensive legal counsel and institutional amnesia, the only appropriate response is a long, weary sigh. Busfield, an Emmy-winning fixture of the television landscape, a man whose face has been beamed into living rooms for forty years in dramas that pretended to have a moral center, now finds himself at the center of a different kind of production—one that involves the dark, stygian reality of what happens when the cameras stop rolling.

The allegations are, in the clinical language of the court, horrific. Two boys. A television set. A director and producer wielding the kind of absolute, petty authority that only a mid-tier Hollywood professional can truly appreciate. Herein lies the fundamental rot that the public refuses to acknowledge: the 'set' is not a workplace; it is a fiefdom. In the name of 'art' or 'creative vision,' we have spent a century granting grown men the power to behave like emperors over anyone beneath them on the call sheet. When that power is directed toward children, we act as though it is an anomaly, a glitch in the system, rather than the logical conclusion of a culture that worships 'prestige' above all else. Busfield, the man who brought us the sensitive angst of 'Thirtysomething' and the high-minded political idealism of 'The West Wing,' is now just another data point in the long, nauseating history of predators hiding behind a SAG-AFTRA membership card.

The release from jail is a particularly exquisite piece of theater. It is that classic American moment where the weight of a resume and the depth of a pocketbook meet the supposedly blind eyes of justice. The Left will predictably wring its hands, weeping about the tragedy of lost icons while simultaneously wondering if they should separate the art from the artist—as if a television show about yuppie existentialism is worth the price of a child’s innocence. Meanwhile, the Right will descend with the grace of a pack of rabid hyenas, using the case as a cudgel to beat the entire 'liberal elite' over the head, conveniently forgetting their own long list of degenerate mascots and the fact that their 'law and order' fetish usually ends where their donors' interests begin. Both sides will perform their roles with the mindless efficiency of a background actor, while the actual victims are relegated to the status of plot devices in a larger cultural war they never asked to join.

There is something profoundly depressing about the way we process these stories. We treat them like season finales. We wait for the 'verdict' as if it will provide closure or some grand insight into the human condition. It won't. If he is convicted, it will be called a victory for the system, ignoring the decades he spent operating within it unchallenged. If he is acquitted, it will be called a failure of the system, ignoring the fact that the system was designed by and for the people it is now supposedly trying to contain. In reality, the system is working perfectly. It provides a steady stream of outrage to keep the masses occupied while the actual mechanisms of power—the studios, the talent agencies, the producers who look the other way—continue to churn out the same vacuous garbage for us to consume.

To look at Busfield’s career now is to see a map of our own gullibility. We mistook the characters for the man; we mistook the Emmy on the mantle for a certificate of character. We are a species of suckers, forever charmed by a familiar face and a well-delivered line. The fact that the alleged abuse took place on a set he was directing and producing is the final, bitter irony. It wasn't just his workspace; it was his kingdom. And in Hollywood, the king is never wrong until the check bounces or the handcuffs click. But even then, as we see with his release, the handcuffs have a way of coming off quite easily for those who know the right people. It is a cynical cycle for a cynical age, and the only truly surprising thing is that anyone is still surprised.