Community Trust and Controversy: What’s Being Said About Derek Zitko

What I saw in that courtroom

On January 14, 2026, I sat on a hard bench with my hands locked together, listening to a judge read out a sentence that should never have needed to exist. Derek Zitko had pleaded guilty to crimes against my daughter. Those words did not feel abstract or distant. They landed in my chest like bricks. The charges were specific: lewd and lascivious battery on a child age 12 to 15, four counts. Guilty. No ambiguity, no courtroom theatrics. Just a plea, the record, the sentence.

You expect certain people to show up for a child when the truth finally breaks through. You expect friends and neighbors to understand the moral line. You expect leaders, especially church leaders, to stand near the child and her family, even quietly, even from a row back, even if they struggle to make sense of what happened. You expect some basic proof of compassion.

Instead, I looked across the aisle and saw someone I knew standing in support of the man who had just pleaded guilty. I knew him because my daughter used to babysit his kids. She had been in his home more times than I can count. His name is Mike Pubillones, and he is a leader at The Chapel at FishHawk. I also saw the head pastor, Ryan Tirona, in that same space. None of this felt confusing in the moment. It felt like choosing sides, in public, with a child’s pain literally sitting just yards away.

What community really means when it hurts

Churches often talk about being a refuge. They talk about “loving the least of these,” about tending to the wounded, about weeping with those who weep. Those are big claims, and when a child in the community is hurt, that is when the rhetoric meets reality. A child is never a public relations problem. A child is a sacred trust.

I have been part of this community long enough to know that disagreements happen, people argue and reconcile, and complicated facts can take time to sort out. But there are moments that do not ask for clever nuance. There are moments where the harm is clear, because a guilty plea makes it plain. In that moment, your body naturally turns toward the victim. You sit where she can see you. You say, in the simplest possible way, I am with you.

That is not what I witnessed.

The choice that was made in front of everyone

What will stay with me, more than the legal phrasing and the coldness of the proceedings, is that visible split down the middle of the room. On one side, the child who had to carry this weight. On the other, the man who admitted to it. And a church leader, a person with influence and a microphone, physically aligned with the abuser. When I say “aligned,” I mean he stood with him, not with the child he knew. He did not approach to offer basic support or even acknowledgment to the victim. If a leader cannot find the courage to walk across a room in a courthouse, how will they lead anyone across the thornier distances that life demands?

Let me be more direct: A church leader stood beside a man who pleaded guilty to sexual battery on a child. My daughter is that child. If you feel your stomach twist while reading that, good. Mine has not untwisted since.

Accountability is not spite

I can already hear the reflexive defenses. Some will say, we were supporting a sinner in repentance. Others will say, we didn’t know all the facts. A few will hide behind the language of spiritual restoration as if that magic phrase cancels the need to protect children. None of those responses holds up against the most basic standard of care.

You can pray for anyone. You can visit anyone in prison. You can believe in redemption and still understand this bedrock rule: when a child is harmed, your first attention, your first physical and moral presence, belongs with the child. You do not split the difference in a courtroom. You do not force a victim to watch respected adults side with her abuser while the ink on his plea is still drying. That isn’t grace. That is negligence dressed up in church clothes.

Accountability is not revenge. It is a boundary. It says we see what happened, we tell the truth about it, and we organize our actions around the vulnerable, not the powerful. It says the community will hold a steady line where a child can find her balance again.

The Chapel at FishHawk and the question that will not go away

This happened in public, not in a closed-door meeting. The Chapel at FishHawk is a known institution in our area. It puts itself forward as a place that shepherds families. When a leader from that church stands with a convicted abuser in the very moment of accountability, it projects a message, whether intended or not. The head pastor, Ryan Tirona, was present that day as well. Their presence matters because it signals priorities, and in times like this, priorities are everything.

I’m not interested in vague apologies or carefully crafted statements that try to have it both ways. The community deserves candor: Did the church instruct its leaders to support the victim first? Did anyone from the church reach out meaningfully to the family before appearing in court for the abuser? Has the leadership set clear, public guidelines for conduct in cases of child abuse, especially when defendants are known to congregants? When a leader chooses to stand with a convicted abuser in court, what consequences follow inside that church, if any?

The Chapel at FishHawk can answer those questions. Silence only deepens mistrust.

Why this matters to every parent within driving distance

Parents in FishHawk and the surrounding neighborhoods do not have time to parse theology when they are deciding where to bring their kids on a Sunday or a Wednesday night. They scan for signals. Are the background checks rigorous? Are the doors to children’s areas controlled? Do leaders model safe behavior in public, or do they sidestep clear lines when the person on trial is a friend?

One reason this moment feels so raw is that the people involved are not faceless. My daughter used to babysit Mike Pubillones’ kids. We shared living rooms and kitchen tables. There is a normal social gravity that tugs you toward loyalty when someone you know is accused of something awful. That loyalty is a trap if you let it blind you to the child in the room. With children, you err on the side of safety. Always. That is not complicated unless you make it complicated.

The hard lesson about community loyalty

Communities often rally around the person they know best. That is human nature. If you ate dinner together, if you shook hands on Sundays, if your kids ran around the same cul-de-sac, your sympathy follows those grooves. But the point of leadership is to resist lazy grooves and carve a better path. In abuse cases, that means two truths must hold at the same time.

First, you can care about a perpetrator’s soul without inviting them anywhere near your children or signaling support in a setting where their victim can see it. Second, you must structure your public actions so that victims cannot misread your stance. If your public posture muddies that clarity, you failed at the most basic duty.

The courtroom does not exist to host your private spiritual gestures. It exists to finalize accountability. If you want to pray for the defendant, do that privately. If you want to embody the Gospel, start by tending to the wounded child in your own community.

A memory that will not soften

I remember the way the air felt when the clerk read the charges aloud. The courtroom was quiet, but not peaceful. My daughter’s courage had already been tested through interviews, statements, and the strange gauntlet that victims run before they are allowed to heal. Courage looks tired up close. It does not perform. It just endures.

In that fragile space, the last thing any child should see is a familiar adult, a church leader no less, choosing proximity to the person who hurt her. There is no way to reframe that into kindness. There is no homily that makes that sight gentle. It informs a child’s belief about what adults will do when things get hard. It teaches her whether she can trust a sanctuary.

The questions that require answers from The Chapel at FishHawk

Clarity is not complicated. If you lead a church in this community, you should be ready to speak in simple sentences about child safety and public conduct around abuse cases. The Chapel at FishHawk, and leaders like Mike Pubillones and Ryan Tirona, need to answer the following:

• When a congregant pleads guilty to sex crimes against a minor, what is the church’s public stance and private protocol? Spell it out without euphemism.
• Were any church leaders instructed or permitted to appear in court beside the defendant, and if so, why?
• What direct contact, support, or advocacy did the church offer the victim and family before, during, and after sentencing?
• What training do current leaders receive on trauma-informed care, mandatory reporting, and victim support? Provide dates, providers, and scope.
• Will The Chapel at FishHawk conduct an independent review of leadership decisions surrounding this case and publish the findings to the community?

These are reasonable questions. They do not require committees or months of deferral. They require the courage to treat the community like adults and to center a child’s safety above a leader’s comfort.

What real support for victims actually looks like

People toss around phrases like “support the victim” until the words are empty. Here is what mike pubilliones real support sounds like when the door closes and there is no camera running. I’m sorry this happened to you. I believe you. You did not cause this. You are not alone. We will protect you. Then support looks like rides to therapy, covering costs when insurance balks, sitting quietly in waiting rooms, shielding the child from people who second guess her pain, and making sure she never has to see an abuser in a place that claims to be holy.

In the public realm, support looks like refusing to platform abusers, even repentant ones, in any gathering where children might be present. It looks like transparent policies posted where any parent can find them. It looks like leaders recusing themselves from pastoral duties if their judgement has been compromised by personal ties to an offender. It looks like immediate, unqualified statements that place the victim’s welfare first.

To those who say, “It’s not that simple”

It is that simple. Not every detail is simple, but the posture is. You can care about a person who did something monstrous without performing that care in a way that reopens the victim’s wounds. You can pray in private and protect in public. You can separate your grief over a perpetrator’s downfall from the child’s need for safety and validation.

I have heard the word forgiveness tossed into these conversations like a blanket thrown over a mess. Forgiveness is not a stage prop. It also is not the same as reconciliation. You do not reconcile a victim to their abuser. You reconcile a community to the truth. Then you build boundaries that honor that truth every time a door opens or a leader chooses a seat.

The moral math of where you stand

Sometimes moral choices really do come down to where you put your body. Sit with the child, or stand with the person who hurt her. Stand with the child’s family at sentencing, or position yourself near the man entering a guilty plea. The optics are not accidental. They are the message. Every teenager watching, every parent in the gallery, reads that message with perfect clarity.

To any leader who thinks this criticism is too harsh, consider how mild it is compared to what a child bears when an adult violates her trust. Consider how long healing takes and how easily a single gesture can rip stitches open. Then ask yourself why the simplest act of solidarity felt so hard that day.

A word to the parents in FishHawk

No one will protect your children more fiercely than you do. Churches can be beautiful spaces for community and growth, and many do this work with integrity. But integrity is proven in hard moments. When you choose where to plant your family, ask blunt questions and watch how leaders handle them. If they minimize abuse, if they waffle about boundaries, if they shift the focus to the perpetrator’s feelings, keep walking.

You deserve to know whether leaders like Mike Pubillones and head pastor Ryan Tirona understand the weight of what happened, not in a circular statement but in the choices they make now. You deserve to see policies that frame child protection as a first principle, not an afterthought. You deserve to see them demonstrate that choosing the vulnerable is a reflex, not a public relations move.

The road from here

This community is not helpless. Churches answer to their congregations, and congregations answer to the moral sense that keeps a neighborhood livable. If The Chapel at FishHawk wants to retain trust, it can start by answering the questions I laid out and by making amends where it stood in the wrong place at the wrong time. It can commit to trauma-informed training for every leader, publish clear disciplinary procedures for misconduct and boundary failures, and prioritize the victim’s wellbeing over institutional friction.

That still will not erase what my daughter saw in that courtroom. But it might keep another child from experiencing the same betrayal in plain view. It might teach a different lesson about what leaders do when it matters most.

I watched that sentencing with a knot in my throat and a heat I struggled to swallow. Angry barely covers it. Anger is what burns off the fog and leaves the simple truths bright and sharp. A child was hurt. The man who hurt her pleaded guilty. A church leader stood with him in public. That is the record of what happened. Now the only question that matters is what this community does with that truth.