Five wrestlers who worked with Mr. Jordan in the late 1980s and early 1990s came forward last summer to say that the congressman knew of Dr. Richard H. Strauss’s abuse, which included ogling athletes while they showered and fondling their genitals under the guise of medical treatment. One wrestler, Dunyasha Yetts, said that Mr. Jordan on one occasion confronted the doctor with the team’s head coach about being too “hands on” with the students, and on a second occasion disregarded a comment that he had made about the doctor’s inappropriate behavior. That second episode was corroborated by two other wrestlers who witnessed it.

[Read the Ohio State University investigation report.]

But while Mr. Jordan’s legion of partisan enemies derisively adopt the new nickname “Gym,” his impassioned self-defense — a vehement and outright denial that he knew of any hint of misconduct — has stuck with the people who matter most: his voters.

His conservative constituents, by dint of the gerrymandered contours of his district, were all but predestined to support him. Ohio’s Fourth Congressional District is 90 percent white and shaped roughly like a duck, with its bill on the western exurbs of Cleveland, a foot on the outskirts of Columbus and its head nudging Toledo, not close enough to absorb any urban voters. But in the rural western towns of the district, admiration for Mr. Jordan takes on a profound intensity, built on a foundation of personal experiences with him and an unshakable belief in his integrity.

Over breakfast at the Rock’n Robin, a 1950s-style diner outfitted with a jukebox, checkered floors and a plaque commemorating the 249-episode run of “The Andy Griffith Show” — a nod to the town’s self-described identity as a neo-Mayberry — voters regardless of political affiliation offered their defenses of their congressman.