Q SENT ME - Banned by Amazon

Q SENT ME

 

By L. Matt L’Hommedieu

This is the autobiography of Matt L'Hommedieu, a former Navy SEAL, Air Force PJ, Smokejumper, and Captain Paramedic.

The State of Washington would have you believe that Matt if an off the chain Navy SEAL that is out to kill everyone in his path.  He's been accused of abusing his wife, chasing his wife and children around with weapons, recruiting a jail inmate to blow up his attorney's office, threatening a district court judge, and camping outside of a sheriff's officers home, posing as a Comcast driver to murder the officer and his family.  

Matt is also being investigated for the murder of his neighbor, Rick Pauly, who Skamania County Sheriff Dave Brown found to have committed suicide on July 8, 2020.  

As you weave through this autobiography, you will start to get an idea that there may be two sides to the story.  Instead of being the murdering, off the chain Navy SEAL, as the State of Washington has depicted Matt as being, perhaps Matt is a danger to the establishment.  

You'll see letters, emails, and some pretty crazy stuff Matt wrote.  However, ask yourself, what would you say and do in order to remain alive?  

This is the rebuttal to the State and Federal Government's position.  

Enjoy the autobiography of the first military member to become both a SEAL and a ParaRescueman, not to mention being a Smokejumper and a Captain at a fire department.  

Chapters

Prologue:  A Night with God

Chapter 1: FBI - Growing up in the Yakama Nation

Chapter 2: Moving to the Motherland - Burns

Chapter 3: BUD/S and the Navy

Chapter 4: Smokejumping and ParaRescue

Chapter 5: Through the Ranks - Tualatin Valley Fire and Rescue

Chapter 6: The USO Fund - Policy Wonks

Chapter 7: Thrown a Bone

Chapter 8: The Hunt is on

Chapter 9:  Reconciliation(s)

Chapter 10:  Sergeant Torres

Chapter 11:  The Slow Walk

Chapter 12:  E Howard Hunt: The Original Jason Bourne

Chapter 13:  The Sixth Sense

Chapter 14:  An Ominous Sign

Chapter 15:  Another False Start

Chapter 16:  Losing the Battle of Wits to Judge Zimmerman

Chapter 17:  From Bad to Worse

Chapter 18:  The Rat Fink: John Terry

Chapter 19:  The Never-ending Divorce

Chapter 20:  New Year’s Present: The Trap

Chapter 21:  Love Letters to Congress

Chapter 22:  Too Close to Home

Chapter 23:  The Mark of the Beast

Chapter 24:  Bloodlines

Chapter 25:  Spring Cleaning 2020

Chapter 26:  The Accidental Witness

Chapter 27:  Q and Austin Steinbart

Chapter 28:  Match.com

Chapter 29:  The Hunt

Chapter 30:  The Sting

 

 

PROLOGUE 

A night with God

 

June 4, 2015, was a perfect summer day for cranking up my KX 450F Kawasaki dirt bike for some throttle therapy.  In the warmth of the sun and breeze in my face, I set off for the Gifford Pinchot National Forest just north of the Columbia River in southern Washington. Finding D.B. Cooper’s parachute was my goal.  I knew the money was gone, but finding the chute would be akin to finding the Holy Grail.

DB Cooper was the guy who, in 1971, hijacked a Boeing 727 between Portland, Oregon, and Seattle, Washington. After extorting $200,000 in ransom money from the FBI, he parachuted to an uncertain fate somewhere in the Columbia River. He hasn’t been found.  I was going to meet my buddy to recon the area where I’d calculated his final resting place, which was a few miles from where I lived on the Washougal River in Washington State.

I’d developed a theory that Cooper was a frogman, and it was an inside job.  The pilots were in on it, and they signaled him to jump when flight Northwest Orient Flight 305 crossed the Columbia River, only to get blown off course during the high winds November 24, 1971.  Ironically, the same day, eight years earlier, Lee Harvey Oswald was shot and killed by Jack Ruby.   

            I’d packed a day pack with extra equipment with extra food like I’d been taught by my father throughout my life growing up in the woods, which was reinforced during my time in the military.  Unfortunately,  June 4 was a day I’d never prepared for. 

            As I turned the 90-degree corner heading north into the National Forest, I looked over my shoulder to see if I was still being followed.  I’d picked up a tail a week earlier, but didn’t think much of it.  I thought perhaps it was a PI my wife hired to follow me, thinking she would get some dirt on me while we were going through a nasty divorce.  

Turning to look behind me, I noticed two vehicles.  If they were part of the group that had me under surveillance, they wouldn’t be able to keep up with me on my bike. I had grown up on dirt bikes and motorcycles and was confident of my ability to outrun them. 

            I put my head down, got on the throttle, and didn’t look back. Nearing the top speed of my bike at 85 mph on the straighter part of the road, I was handling the curves well. It was early summer, and the road was littered with potholes from the previous winter’s toll. Whoever was on my tail would have a hell of a time keeping up with me because the potholes would rip their suspension apart at this speed. 

After six miles of riding like a bat out of hell, I started up a straight stretch of road slowing down to check my 6. If they were right behind, I knew they were going all out to get me. I slowed for a minute, looking back a few times only to see the same dark SUV coming around the turn and gaining fast. Now I was concerned. This wasn’t someone out on a country drive.  And this wasn’t the jackass they sent to follow me the week earlier.  He was a tool and easily spotted.  This was someone that had skills and malice in their heart.  I was sure they wanted me dead.   Did I know too much, were they after me because of the secrets I learned in the special forces?  Were the websites I’d been digging around on raising alarms?  These were the things that were going through my mind.   

I felt confident that I could give them a run for their money and lose them given the area I was in. I started formulating a plan as to what direction I would take when I got to a part of the road called Three Corner Rock. This was a place just east of the Pacific Crest trail where the road forked and went multiple directions. I was in the lower canyons in the forest and climbing out of the bottom of the canyon. Two miles into the curvy section of road, I saw a corner coming up that turned right. A bank on the right of me went up, and on the left, it dropped off. It didn’t appear to be a sharp corner, but it was blocked by the bank on my right. 

            Leaning into the turn, starting with a slight bend, it increased in angle to over 90 degrees, and I had too much speed. I’d laid my bike down before, so this wasn’t a big concern, it was the cliff on my left I was worried about.  I’d hoped to be able to bleed off enough speed while sliding to keep from going over the cliff. I laid the bike over on its side, staying on the saddle.  I always ride with full protective gear, including a helmet, a chest plate, boots, back brace, riding pants and coat, and gloves. As I skidded across the dirt and gravel, I felt like I was riding in slow motion but felt okay, as I’d been there before. Then the bike hit a rut, the tires grabbed the high side of the rut and catapulted me over like a gymnast flying over a pommel horse. I was ejected off the saddle, shooting me toward the cliff on my left side.  I saw a tree as I was flying through the air and grabbed the tree that was about five inches around with both hands as I flew by, snapping the tree off like a twig.  At the same time, my shoulders dislocated, and I heard my right arm snap. I was flying through the air face up, and all I could think about was my training, keep your feet and knees together. 

            I hit the ground with force more powerful than anything I’d ever experienced.    My left leg caught the corner of a boulder first and shattered my tibia and fibula and crashed my left side into the boulder.  I would find out later most of the ribs on my left side were broken, I had a broke my scapula, and punctured my lung.  

            And of course, the first thing I did was stand up, signaling to myself that I am all right. I took my boot off to see how bad it was. Big mistake.  Agony pierced my whole body. My lower leg shattered.  I got up and tried to walk, only to have my leg crumble beneath me. I fell facedown in the water in the creek at the bottom of the canyon. The pain was beyond excruciating, but the cold water was something that I had become accustomed to during years growing up in the Northwest.  The rivers and lakes were frigid, and we were always in the water.  The cold was a respite from the pain.  And I knew that this was bad and I was going to die.  I accepted it.  

Previous times, I’d fought it, but this time I accepted it.  I’d been there before, and we call it meeting “the Wizard.”  Today they call it shallow water blackout and this time.  Unlike the times before where I had fought it, but this time I was ready for it.  I was at peace and accepting the fact I was going to die today.  

 First, your peripheral vision starts to go, then your vision gets narrower, then narrower until you are gone.  I was ready now...to go home, on to my next adventure.    

            As I went out, I was being pulled up into the sky, facing down at the earth.  I wanted to know if my bike had stayed on the road, or if it had gone over the cliff with me.  I saw the fantail left in the gravel and dirt where the bike had skidded, but I couldn’t see the motorcycle through the leaves in the trees.  I tried to swim, but I was like an astronaut in space (I imagine that is what it is like).  I was swimming, but not moving.  I tried to swim to the side to see if I could find my bike.  No luck.  Then I started stroking harder and harder.  

I didn’t feel any pain but noticed a light shining behind me, reflecting my shadow on the ground.  I’d heard that there were bright lights in heaven, and this wasn’t as bright as I thought it would be, so I thought I must be going to the wrong place.  I started swimming harder and harder to get back down to my body.  It was peaceful as I was ascending; I felt no pain.  But I was worried that the lights weren’t bright enough to be in heaven like other people described it.  So I didn’t want to be taking the wrong turn at Albuquerque.   

            I was still looking for my bike, and I started swimming as hard as I could.  No luck, I didn’t see the motorcycle.   I knew if it had gone over the cliff, then nobody would ever find me.

Suddenly, I was smashed back into my body, and I was lying face down on a huge boulder.  It went from peace to pain, an insurmountable pain.  I thought,  Well, I am either alive, or I’m in Hell. I’d been through some pretty tight spots in my life and been struck pretty hard, but nothing like this. I hit the motherhood of pain. I had slipped back into the creek, and the frigid temperature made my muscles lock up. The pain was overwhelming. But I had to get out of the water. The sun would be setting soon, and if I wasn’t found, the guys following me would have accomplished their goal – I would be a dead man. I didn’t know how I ended up getting from the water to lying face down on the rock.  Was it the guys that were chasing me?  Did they just think I was dead and left me there?  Did they check on me?  This made no sense?  Why was I still alive? 

I climbed out of the creek to find a little perch on the side of the cliff.  There was a bolder patch to my left and a cliff on my right.  I didn’t see a way out.  My leg was like rubber, and every inch of my body hurt.  I needed to take a break and gather my thoughts…or so I thought.   

            Dad had taught me to be prepared, but I wasn’t prepared for this. My backpack had some food, water, shoes for the hike I had planned, and a pack of Camel Turkish Royals, and tools to start a fire. I was always prepared for the unexpected, but this kind of unanticipated event was one that none of my education, experience, or training had prepared me for.  I had put on a watch, something I never wear.  But today I felt it was important to wear a watch because being in the mountains and the time of day is crucial, as you don’t want to be stuck in the woods late at night in this area. It gets very cold.  And that was what I was facing.   

            Perched on the rock, I did an inventory of my backpack. It was around 4 pm, and I was soaked to the bone. It was going to be a long night. A fire would help stave off the growing coldness. Reaching out as far as I could, I grabbed some sticks lying nearby. I broke them into small pieces, got the fire ready to light, and then realized I had nothing of size to keep the fire going. This would be the longest night of my life, and I knew it was going to be the last night of my life.  I planned for it.   

             My entire life literally flashed like a movie, replaying the good, the bad, and the ugly.  I saw both the joy and pain of my life rush before me.  The largest pain I felt was the time I missed and would miss with my daughters.  They had been through so much, going through the nastiest divorce one could ever imagine.  They didn’t deserve this, and they didn’t deserve a fuck-up like their dad.  Where did I go wrong?  Only if I could have been better.  I just didn’t know-how.  I wasn’t good enough.  I’d given them all the love I could, and I was still a failure.  And that is my worst failure, to fail my children.  I asked God to forgive me.  

            Over the next 23 hours, God and I had some long conversations. I’ve always had a strong faith in God and acknowledged His hand in my life. I prayed, thanking Him for the good run I had had over, my 46 years on this earth. I felt grateful for the life He had given me, and the experiences He had allowed me to experience. But God kept putting it back on me. He kept telling me, You need to get back there. You need to tell them…. 

            “What? Tell them what? Tell them what” I kept asking over and over, what do you want me to tell them? To whom? 

            No answer. Was I imagining things? 

            Get back there.   There it was again; not an audible voice; I’d heard people refer to it as God putting it on me.  This was what he was doing.  He kept putting it on me.  Get back there, you need to tell them…

            As the sun started to set behind the mountains, the cold crept over me again, but I didn’t realize just how cold I would get.  I’d jumped into the Bearing Sea in December, and that was cold; however, I had never gotten as cold as I got that night. Over the course of the night, I cupped a cigarette in my hands for the warmth it provided, inhaled the heated smoke, and blew it over my chilled hands. I had no idea where my gloves had gone. I knew my time was limited and all I could hear in the bottom of that ravine I laid in was the rush of water and planes flying by overhead on their way to the Portland Airport.  It was fortuitous.  I surmised this was precisely how DB Cooper went out, and I was going to suffer the same fate he did...looking for him.  I had to laugh at myself and the irony of the situation.

            I tried to stay focused on the positive and set a goal for myself for some reason.  I was going to make it 24 hours and then end my pain and suffering.  I thought of the most beautiful girl I’d met just a short time earlier, Natasha.  Wow.  She was way out of my league, but it was fun to recall the times we had together, short that they were.  

            I’d thought of all the places I had traveled to and the great people I got to meet and work with.  I’d been lucky and lived a great life and was thankful for that.  As the night went on, I got colder and colder.  I knew my leg was hopeless, even if I survived the event.  The compartment syndrome turned my leg into a rock.  The blood and swelling were causing more and more pain and each time I moved, it shot needles throughout my body.   Other than the repeated words of God, Get back there...you need to tell them… it was the worst night of my life.  My curiosity kept getting the best of me.

            Of course, I started to challenge God.  What the fuck do you want me to tell them?  There’s no fucking way I am going to GET BACK THERE and tell them anything.  

            So, at his direction, coupled with my goal of making it 24 hours, I made it through the night, going as long as I could between cigarettes to keep me warm. 

            The morning sun was fleeting. I was on a south-facing slope of this ravine so the path of the sun would only hit me for mere moments throughout the day. It was like a tease. I felt tormented in my final resting place. My goal to live was born from desperation but guided by God. If His will was for me to live then He would see me through somehow…and the resources I had at hand. 

             And those resources had been depleted throughout the night.  I had eaten the sandwich that I had made before I left.  I had some nuts and bars in the pack as well, but in all actuality, I didn’t feel like eating. I was trying to ration the water that I had, but it too was running thin.  Creek water that was about 25 feet away might as well have been on the moon.  There was no way that I could get to it.  I hurt too much.  I was in too much pain and couldn’t move. They say intense pain can drive you insane. I had to keep my mind on other things.  God kept talking to me.  Get back there —  he kept putting it on me.  He was guiding me, giving me strength to keep on through the agonizing pain; it seemed like every inch of me was throbbing, screaming for relief. Frustration filled me up. How in the hell am I supposed to get out of this situation? The clock was ticking...GOD! 

            Then he said, I need you to give me everything you have.  I need you to work harder than you ever have worked in your life.  I don’t want 110 percent, I want EVERYTHING YOU HAVE.  So, I pulled out my shoes and stripped the laces, and took my iPhone cord from my pack. I stretched out as far as I could and found two sticks long enough to brace my broken leg making a splint wrapping the iPhone cord and the laces, tying them as tight as I could, while pain shot through me from every direction.   God was guiding me now. I felt hope.  I was doing as he commanded. 

            It took most of the energy I had to splint my leg.  My mouth was as dry as it had ever been.  It reminded me of going through BUD/s, when the instructors told us to go get a mouth full of ocean water and sprint back a mile with a mouth full of seawater...an impossible task that leaves you with swollen cottonmouth.  I needed something to quench my thirst.   As I was moving about, the mints I had fell below me about 5 feet.  It was about 30 feet to the top of the cliff.  I couldn’t make it up there without a respite from my dry mouth, so I needed the mints.  If I got to the top of the cliff, I would need them, as the sun was shining on the road, and I planned to light my bike on fire to signal that I was on the road and needed help.  The smoke would get someone’s attention.  But I needed the mints to quench my thirst.  Dropping the mints 5 feet just added another 25 percent to my ordeal.  But I needed to get them.  

             I took a deep breath and scurried down to get them. My body revolted with exquisite pain like darts shooting all through me. But I got them! Exhausted now and sweating unbelievably, I grabbed the mints and popped one into my mouth — a hollow victory. Now the climb up the cliff would be 35 feet more.  I struggled as hard as I could, looking to see which way would be easiest as I jostled my body back and forth, only to end up on the exact same perch I had been sitting on before. 

            I actually started laughing.  See, I told you so, GOD!  I can’t do it.  I’ve given you everything I have and all I could do is make it back to this stupid fucking perch.  I showed you.  Now, it’s my turn.  You're going to see how I do it.  I tried it your way and now it’s in my hands. 

            I had a small glass pipe in my backpack and retrieved it.  I was going to break it and slice my jugular vein and end it all.  I had one cigarette left and was getting things in order for when they found me.  I was looking for something to write on and get a pen out of my pack.  It was my turn, and I was going to end it on my terms.  I had less than an hour left and was going to enjoy my last cigarette.  I was in peace with where I was going.  

            All of a sudden, I heard a voice call out, “Are you okay down there?” 

            I tried to speak but nothing came out.  My lung was collapsed so nothing came out.  

            A guy scrambled down the cliff and found my broken body. We had a short conversation and he said he had to leave for a minute to get to a place where he could get cell phone access to call 911. He encouraged me to hang in there, he would be right back. He squeezed my hand. I fell back to the hard ground and heaved a sigh of relief. 

            I looked at my watch, and it was 3:22 p.m.  My goal was to last until 4:00 p.m. and I was going to end my life.  He found me in the nick of time, 38 minutes prior to me ending my life.  

            The couple that found me were Anson and Angela Service.  I’ve always liked puzzles and word games.  Their name equates to:

                        An Angel Service Son....A

                        Nobody’s perfect...A, God said as he laughed.

 

Later, God would reveal what I was supposed to Get back and tell them….…

 

Chapter 1

 

FBI - Growing up in the Yakama Nation

 

            Our family was a “Brady Bunch” family. My mother was divorced when I was about a year old. She met my “dad” at the rodeo in Glenwood, Washington when I was little over a year old and they were married 6 weeks later in August of 1970. It must have been a whirlwind romance. 

            My dad, the only one I knew, is Dave L’Hommedieu from Rahway, New Jersey and my mom grew up in White Salmon, Washington. It was an odd couple, but it worked for our family. I had a step-brother, Greg, and two biological siblings, Will and Janice. Janice was the highlight of our life, having Down’s Syndrome, and is perfect! I guess I win the sibling of the year award through no fault of my own.    

            I never understood how my dad went from Rahway, New Jersey, and ended up in Glenwood, a continent away, where he was the District Ranger for the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Going from what we called the concrete jungle to the middle of the woods.    

His job was setting up timber sales for the BIA and getting the logs out to the local saw-mills. Glenwood sits on the base of Mt. Adams, a towering peak 18 miles north of Glenwood in the Cascade Mountain Range. It was a beautiful setting with a view of the south-facing slope of the mountain. As a kid, the mountain looked like a watch-tower, with a granite face that was never covered by the snow, so it looked like there were windows across the south-facing slope with people looking down on us. I’m not sure if my friends were kidding, but they said we were always being watched by the spirits from the mountain. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

            Dad’s parents would come to visit us once or twice a year. They were Richard and Hazel L’Hommedieu. And Richard was...well, a DICK. Hazel was as cold as the snow on the peaks of Mt. Adams and it was obvious to me as a little kid that Greg was the favorite son. He was adopted by dad during his previous marriage.  

            A father getting custody of a young child in those days was unheard of, but dad had virtually unlimited resources from Dick and Hazel, who in 1932, spent $12,000 on their wedding during the great depression. I think $12,000 today is a lot to spend on a wedding, so I can’t calculate what it was back then...other than to say it was a lot of money. Dad’s uncle, Paige L’Hommedieu, was the VP of overseas operations for Johnson and Johnson corporation and Dick was a drug rep for one of the pharmaceutical companies, if I recall, it was Baxter. They both traveled the globe. 

            When dad was getting a divorce from his first wife, he hired a PI to set up cameras in his wife’s home where he captured her having sex and carrying on a “torrid affair” while they were going through the divorce. Fifty years later, he was still giving me advice about how to go about getting a divorce from my wife, which I am currently going through. I tried to explain to him Washington is a no-fault divorce state, meaning my wife could be screwing the entire Seattle Seahawks team and it didn’t matter...but old people tend to get stuck in their ways and dad was giving me, I guess what he would consider, fatherly advice.

Dad was eventually able to get full custody of Greg by using the PI and the surveillance techniques that were unknown to the general public back in the 60s. Every time the door to her house would open, the video would kick on and start recording, both audio and video. His attorney presented that to the judge and dad immediately won custody of Greg, case closed! 

            My real father was William Hearn, Sr. I spent very little time with him between the time I was born until we moved away in 1977. I was told by my mom that he was an alcoholic and abusive, so I didn’t have much use for him and had a generally bad impression of who he was. No kid likes to hear that his mom had to struggle due to abuse. He later remarried and had 3 children from his other marriage.  

            Life on the “Rez” was normal to me. We grew up with the Indians and we were the “odd ones out”. I never felt like I was odd, nor did I know what prejudice was. We all just grew up together. One of my best friends growing up was our neighbor, Yogi. It was kind of funny because they called me bear, evidently because one of our family members that I was named after, Lawrence or Larry, called me Larr Bear. What a stupid name!   

            The general public today would cringe at the things we used to do. We grew up in the woods playing cowboys and Indians. I liked to be the Indian and always hated John Wayne for some reason. I surmise it was because the Indians were persecuted so harshly by the white men. It was just the feeling that I got that the Duke wasn’t all that, not necessarily from anything my friends said. Perhaps it was the rebel streak in me that liked the defiance of “order and discipline” that was perpetrated on the Indians since the white man came to the colonies. So, my Indian friends and I became “blood brothers” by slicing our hands with our buck knife and shaking hands. I assume all “blood brother” ceremonies have been suspended until further notice due to the coronavirus today. Only if I knew what nasty and disgusting diseases the Indians could have brought to me by becoming blood brothers with them. I would never do that today for fear of catching something from the natives (I hope you can feel the sarcasm ooze).  

The winters in Glenwood were cold, but as kids we were used to it. Dad had to go out and shovel the sidewalks which typically got at least 3 feet of snow on them when it dumped during the wintertime. During the summers it got plenty hot. We enjoyed the seasons. We built forts in the woods during the summers, stole the neighbor's horses and would ride them, and had mini-bikes that we would ride all over the compound. To us kids, it was paradise on earth

We would get “bussed” (reminiscent of Kamala Harris “bussing” to school, the biggest political gaff in modern US politics)  to school which was only about a mile away from the Ranger Station where we lived. I remember trying to impress my girlfriend at the time, Jenny Lorenz, by trying to beat the bus home from school, sprinting through the fields. The bus driver would see me running through the field and we would invariably end up in a tie. He must have had too much pride to let a 6-year-old beat him.  

During the weekends in the summer dad would back up our brown station wagon with the 454 with the suicide seats in the back and we would go to the Washougal River, a drive about an hour and a half away. It seemed like forever. Dad never broke the speed limit. But the highlight of the trip was going on the curves when we were dropping into the canyon of the Washougal, and dad would take the corners without slowing down and screech the radial tires. We thought we were riding with Starsky and Hutch going through the curves.

The property on the Washougal was Heaven on Earth. We would run around barefoot, pick berries, and play with the other kids that were the children of my parent's best friends. They had three girls, who were the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen. We would ride the minibikes and go-carts on the roads up to the salmon hatchery about a mile away. In the early spring and late fall, you could walk across the backs of the salmon to get to the other side of the river. They were stacked in the river like cordwood. It was an amazing feat to see. 

Dad was one of the best shots I’d ever seen growing up. He’d take a 22 pistol and shoot the salmon and we would go fetch them out of the river and they’d be on the barbecue before their heart stopped beating. The smell of the barbecues and eggs, bacon, and pancakes being grilled on an open fire is a smell that brings back fond memories.  

We would be relegated to not eating because we would cramp up if we got in the water, so we couldn’t eat an hour before going swimming so we would pick huckleberries and blackberries and eat them all the time. As I said, it was Heaven on Earth.

When I was about 3 years old, I “met the Wizard”. Dad used tie us up to a tree because I was a pretty free spirit and that was a way that they could keep track of the youngest two, myself and Meghan. One day I “escaped” the bondage and wanted to do what the big kids were doing. They would go over to the other side of the river and climb this rock and jump into the pool. It seemed like great fun to me, so I wanted to do it.

Much of the time we spent on the river, the folks were working with their friends, Kaye and Matt building a home. I’m not sure if there was more drinking going on than building, but it took them 6 years to build the home if that tells you anything. Not wanting to get my ass whooped if I got caught, I waited till the coast was clear and the big kids were up on the deck about 30 yards from the river. I saw my opening and broke free and went for it.

I made my way down to the gravel bar where there was a rock outcropping. It wasn’t too far to the other side of the river to get to the jump-off rock, so I walked to the edge of the rock and started walking across the river. The only problem was, there was a steep drop when I took the first step and I couldn’t swim. I was trying to stay afloat, flailing my arms and legs, and I heard screaming and yelling. That’s when everything started to go dark. The next thing I remember was looking up at the most beautiful face I’d ever seen, Laura, who pulled me from the abyss. I was surrounded by everyone. 

As I was going through this ordeal, God said You can’t walk on water, knucklehead.

When we got back to Glenwood, the following day I was put on my first of many performance improvement plans and swimming lessons started immediately at the pool in White Salmon.  

We were all enrolled in cub scouts growing up and dad was teaching us how to be little soldiers. Our prized possessions were our buck knives and BB guns. And like all little kids (I assume) we’d have BB gunfights. No wonder they made the Christmas Story. I think they were watching us growing up and knew “you’ll put your eye out”. Between that and the rock fights, it's amazing that we lived through our formative years.

Dad wasn’t abusive at all. He was a disciplinarian. He wore an old belt that he would use as a threat more than for punishing us to keep us in line. And like any kid, you didn’t want to get your ass whooped by pops.  

One day toward the end of summer I was out practicing the fire-building skills that I learned in the scouts. It was windy so I was tucked under a slash pile (a buildup of leftover logging debris) and started gathering the little sticks like I had been taught, starting with some paper, moss, then tiny sticks, then larger and larger. I followed the instructions to a T. I knew it was going to be challenging due to the high winds, so I was tucked under the slash pile well. I started the fire and got it going well. I was so proud of it I went over to grab my buddy Yogi to show him my fire-building prowess. His house was about 300 years from where I built my fire. 

I knocked on the door to ask if Yogi could come out and play. It told his mother that I had just built a fire and wanted to show Yogi. She looked up and saw the smoke rising and told me that I had better get my ass back to my house immediately. When I got into the house, the phone was ringing and my mom answered it. She looked out the window and saw what I had just done. The Forest Ranger’s kid just started a fire on the reservation. That went over like a fart in church. She sternly told me to “get your ass to your room and wait until your father gets home”.  

I watched the brush engines roll by looking to see if my dad was in one of them, but couldn’t see if he was. Eventually, it seemed like a year had passed until he got home. I knew I was going to catch a beating, and sure enough, dad got upstairs and pulled his belt out of his pants and paddled my ass. I think I deserved that one.  

Dad didn’t do it out of anger, it was his way of disciplining me. I can’t even recall getting an ass whooping by him after that. So, I must not have been beaten too badly. As I said, the wait was punishment enough. 

Christmas time at the L’Hommedieu house was more than incredible. Dad would get a check every year right before Christmas. I didn’t understand money at the time, but I recall it being around $25,000 from “Uncle Sam”. I thought that was odd, as Uncle Paige was daddy Warbucks in the L’Hommedieu household. He worked for J & J and dad was supposed to go to work for “the Company”. As grandad told it, dad was disowned from the family because he didn’t go to work for “the Company”.  

Now, things started to add up as to why dad was disowned and left New Jersey, going from the concrete jungle, hanging out with people like the Pinchot's, Kennedys, Johnsons, and O’Douglases, to name a few. He wasn’t welcomed in that circle. However, he was the best woodsman anyone had seen, and I was grateful that he was teaching me the craft he learned.

During the time dad was disowned, he was going to college at the University of Montana to get his degree in forestry. When he graduated, Uncle Paige gave him a call and asked what he wanted for graduation. When I was told the story, I was thinking, like a 56 Chevy Bel Air (that is around the time he graduated). But dad was a simple man. He didn’t acquire “things” or treasures. He got something, that to this day, I think it is more meaningful, he asked Uncle Paige to get a handmade knife from Bo Randall out of his shop just north of Fort Meade in Florida. The waiting list for the knives was almost a decade, but that wasn’t much of an obstacle for Uncle Paige. He had a knife for my dad made and to him by graduation. It has his name and a design scrimshawed on the knife with a deer horn handle. It is a piece of artwork. Regardless of what dad leaves us in his Will, my brothers and I are going to fight to the death to see who gets the knife...will be damned!

This goes right along with another Randall knife that he has that’s encased in acrylic. It’s a small knife about 1.5” long encased in an acrylic case the size of a hockey puck which has an inscription on the inside of it that says that it was the first knife in space made by Bo Randall and is from NASA. It’s pretty cool.

For Christmas that year, I begged my dad for a telescope. I guess I was enamored by the fact that I’d met an astronaut, G. Gordon Liddy, who brought him the knife. I thought it was pretty cool to meet an astronaut and after a year of begging, I even got a telescope that year for Christmas which we ordered out of the SEARS catalog, the Amazon of the day. 

I guess dad must have felt a little guilty due to the time he’d have to spend away from home during the summers. He would always be gone during the summertime fighting wild-land fires, so we didn’t get to see him much during the summer. And after the fire seasons he and mom would take off for a much-needed vacation and respite from dealing with us kids. They’d leave us kids with a babysitter or our grandmother, Nonie, and enjoy their time away from home. After having two kids, I can see the need to get away from home and relax from the chaos of having us, 4 kids. I’m sure we were a handful. So the Christmases at the L’Hommedieu household were the biggest show around.  

In early 1977, I was over playing with Yogi. All of a sudden, I saw these two dogs that had a stick inserted in their anus, sticking them together. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I can’t recall all the particulars of what happened, but it was shocking enough that dad packed us up and we immediately moved to a small town in eastern Oregon, Burns. That was some particularly scary voodoo shit that was going on. I’d seen some things when I was little that just didn’t add up, and this was the last straw for pops, so we packed up and left, to arrive in Burns July 4, 1977, where we would start our new lives. The unfortunate thing, I had to leave the love of my life, Jenny Lorenz. 

At least, for a time when I was growing up, I thought of myself as FBI, or Full Blooded Indian. To this day, I think the Indians got fucked! What a travesty that we took something so beautiful and destroyed it. It saddens me because the Indian culture is so rich and beautiful. Years later, I would send a letter to all 535 members of the US Congress asking for an investigation (with concrete evidence of corruption). The only person that responded to my request was Deb Haaland, a member of the Laguna Pueblo tribe. How odd is that?

  

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Moving to the Motherland - Chopping Wood

 

            We rolled into Hines, Oregon July 4, 1977, and pulled into the Burns Ranger District Forest Service compound where Bill Rhines was waiting for dad.  Half of us kids were packed into the Ford station wagon, and the other half was riding with dad in the 24-foot U-Haul that we rented to move from Glenwood.  

            Bill was the nicest many you would ever meet.  He immediately greeted us, kids, first.  Dad had met Bill back in the mid-60s when he started working there right out of college as a young timber-cruiser from UM.  They appeared to pick up right where they left off over a decade earlier.  Bill handed us, kids, some candy as a welcoming gift, and told us about the best fireworks show around.  He got us excited to see the show that evening.  

            I can’t recall how the transaction went, but we already had a house waiting for us to move into.  Dad must have purchased it before our arrival, or Bill had it arranged for us.  We were on an acre lot in Hines, which is a “suburb” of Burns if you can call it that.  The two towns consisted of a little over 5,000 people.  The town was bustling full of commerce and activity.  Like dad’s position at the BIA, he was setting up timber sales to get the lumber out of the forest and into the Edward Hines Lumber mill, the largest under-cover Ponderosa pine mill in the world.  That was our town’s claim to fame.

Within a week, dad purchased a load of logs from a gyppo logger, and they pulled up to our lot, dropped the tines on the log-truck, and dropped a whole load of logs right on to our property.  It was time for us boys to learn what work was.  Like Glenwood, Burns got so cold in the winter, we would make the coldest spot in the nation a few times a month in the wintertime, yet in the summer, it was hotter than the hubs of hell.  But it was a “dry heat” because we were in the high desert at an elevation of 4,200 Ft.  It’s consistently colder on the West side of the Cascades due to all the moisture in the air.  In the high desert, you can go outside in the sun when its 32 degrees, and it’s relatively comfortable as long as you are in the sun.  But when the arctic winds come down from the North, that’s when it gets biting cold.  

I was eight, Greg was ten, and Will was twelve when we got to Hines, and our job was to get to work getting ready for the arctic winter that was coming, and winter was coming.  Dad broke out the chainsaw and started cutting the logs into 15-inch rounds, and it was our job as kids to split it.  Greg and Will were twice my size, but I tried like hell to keep up with them, with no luck.  And like I found out later in life, it pays to be a winner and work hard, everything’s a competition.

One day dad pulled me aside and gave me the coaching I needed.  He “let me in on a little secret.”  He said, “If you want to keep up with your brothers, you have to be more accurate than them.  You have to hit the same place every time, and it doesn’t matter how hard you hit it, it matters how accurate you are, and you will beat them every time.”  So, I did as dad coached me, hitting the same spot every time.  I was working on accuracy rather than power.  After a couple of years of this, I was most likely the best wood chopper in Harney County, (for a 10-year-old) FWIW.  

The house had a furnace that used fuel oil, and dad was incensed about having to pay for the fuel oil that was left in the 250-gallon barrel in the back of the house when he purchased the house.  We were right in the middle of the oil embargo of the 70s, and dad wasn’t going to give the Saudis a plugged nickel.  He hired a local contractor to build a hearth and install a Ben Franklin pot-belly stove.  If a building inspector today saw what we used back then, he would shit a meat-ax.  The stove would get glowing red when we would fill it full of lodgepole, and it would get so hot it would drive us out of the 1400 square-foot house.  When he sold the house in ‘92, the oil tank had the same oil in it he bought in 1977.  He wasn’t about to give the Saudi’s a damn thing.  I’m sure the poor guy that bought the house was ecstatic about having 15-year-old oil in the tank.  Wonder what that did to the furnace when he kicked it on?

The first year we split ten cords of wood.  During our breaks from chopping wood, we would practice throwing tomahawks and knives.  Dad would set up a round and paint a bulls-eye on it, and we would practice our throwing hawks and knives.  Dad was a process guy and taught us to do the same thing in the same manner, time, and time again until we perfected the art.  I always wondered why he never became a professional bowler; He was that good at using repetition until perfection.  He had pictures of him in the paper and trophies from bowling.  He nearly had a perfect score a couple of times, which was pretty good back in those days.  He would take us kids bowling too, but would hardly ever bowl; he’d just sit there and watch.

We joined the Steens Mountain Men when we got to Hines.  These were a rag-tag bunch of characters with names like Badger, Crow Killer, Water Moccasin, Trapper, Grizz, Bridger, Rattlesnake, Chief, Kitty, Touche’, and dad and mom’s moniker were my favorite, Bigfoot and Little-foot.  Actually, mine was the best because I came by it from birth, Bear.  And I was the biggest Chicago Bears fan because of it.  Dad and Greg liked the Dallas Cowboys; I assume it was because that is where Dick and Hazel, dad’s parents lived.  The moved to Hide-Away-Lake in the early 60s and fell in Love with Tom Landry.

  They lived in a gated community on a golf course, and from time to time, we’d go and visit them.   They had a little paddle boat that you pedaled around the pond on the golf course.  Dick was a dick, so going down to Hide-Away was more like torture.  I was to bee seen and not heard and always felt like I was walking on eggshells while I was down there.  I’m fairly certain they never spoke more than a dozen words to Janice their entire life.  They didn’t approve of my mom at all, either.   After all, she had a daughter that had Down’s Syndrome, and this type of blight on the L’Hommedieu family name was unacceptable.

In Hines, we lived next to some really nice families, the George’s and the Hammonds.  Gary was a psychologist, and Dorothy was the soccer mom of the day.  Their sport wasn’t soccer, though, it was motorcycle racing.  Both the George boys were accomplished riders and competed on the MX circuits.  They traveled all over the nation to bike races and amassed a bunch of trophies throughout their riding careers.  

Dad upgraded our minibikes to motocross bikes, and we would go riding with them once in a while, but for them, it was more like babysitting than anything else.  They could ride circles around us because they’d been riding competitively for years, so we were nothing more than an anchor to slow them down.  

Our other neighbors were twins, Mark and Matt.  They were either in junior high when we moved there or in high school.  They were big baseball players and were good at it.  If I recall correctly, they went on to play college baseball.  

In fact, when we moved to Burns, athletics was a big deal, and Burns would be at the top of the heap in the Greater Oregon League in most of the sports.  They had great coaches and even better athletes.  And Mark and Matt were great athletes.  It was fun to watch them rifle the ball down the street.  We lived on a hill so they would launch it to each other, and it seemed like they never missed.   

That’s why I got interested in baseball, so, dad bought a baseball hitting pole.  Essentially, it was a rubber band attached to a rod that had a baseball on a stick that you wound up and let the ball spin around the pole, and you would hit it.  I must have worn the damned thing out, not to mention, wearing dad out from having to play ball with me.  Greg wasn’t too interested in baseball; he was more into wrestling and football.  Mom and dad made sure that we were always busy, probably to save their sanity.  We were on the go all of the time, whether it was sports, hunting, riding, fishing, or exploring, we never had an idle minute in the L’Hommedieu household.     

Will was never into sports and a couple of years after being in Burns, Will started to get in trouble.  Our other neighbors owned a well-drilling company called Western Water Wells and Will liked to hang out with them.  What I didn’t know at the time was that WWW was a cover for these guys to sell drugs.  I forgot their names, but there were two guys and a girl that lived there, and she was HOT!  I think they were selling marijuana and coke, and  Will started down the path of smoking pot, which eventually turned to coke in the 80s.  He was shipped out by dad, pronto, to go live with our biological father, who I never saw after we moved to Hines.   Dad used Will as an example as to what happened if you did drugs.  At the same time, Nancy Reagan was getting on the airwaves breaking eggs and showing what happened to your head if you did drugs.  It was the genesis of the “War on Drugs,” and we didn’t want to end up like Will.

In between sports, hunting, fishing, and riding our bikes we were going to black powder shoots all over the Northwest.  We had a blast.  Dad had always been into guns and was the best shot I’d ever seen.  He had an old Springfield Armory O3A3 .30-06 rifle that he got when he got out of the Army.  It was a tack-driving son of a bitch back in the day.  It had four lands and grooves to increase accuracy and he made a custom stock for it out of maple.  It was a work of art.  Dad also taught us how to reload our own shell for our shotguns and long-rifles.   

We would go out with dad and practice shooting with our black powder rifles.  Dad had a .50 caliber and mom had a .45 and they shared them with Greg and me.  When we went out shooting, dad would coach us and be our spotter.  He didn’t even need a spotting scope to tell us we were 12 inches, high, or to the right or left.  I never understood how he could do it with the coke bottle glasses he had, I guess it was his gift.   

We went to a big shoot over near Bend, Oregon, a few years after we joined the SMM.  That’s when I learned that life just wasn’t fair, and these guys were not playing by the rules.  They had a competition where they placed a bottle cap into the rounds.  Everyone had to place a buck in the hat, and the first one to hit the bottle cap won the prize pool.  There must have been 20 bucks in the hat.  I was the 5th or 6th one to go, and I had my knife, my weapon of choice.  You could use either a tomahawk or a knife, but my weapon of choice was always the knife.   There were two other guys that had knives, and the rest of them used hawks.   When I went, I hit the bottle-cap the first throw.  Then, dad, “Coach,” went up and inspected it.  “Nope, it’s no good, he didn’t split the cap in half.”  I was like, WTF?  DAD!  There’s 20 bucks in the hat and it was MINE!  I just got fucked — that ain’t fair.

The other fourteen went and the last guy to go hit the bottle cap and nearly split it in two.  It was only held together by about ⅛ inch and he got the whole prize.  So, the game started over again.  There was no need to remove the bottle cap, as it was still intact and indented int he round.  It was my turn again and I threw my knife and it hit exactly where the guy had just hit with his hawk, barely nicking the bottle cap on the bottom end.  Again, dad went up and inspected it, and it didn’t split the bottle cap in two.  “But the last guy didn’t split it either, and I hit the same spot he did and he got the $20,” I protested to dad under my breath.  Then they started saying stuff that I didn’t understand, like ringer, sharp, etc.  There was more of a grumble than a cheer; I’d expected a different reaction.    

Ironically, that’s when dad heard mom calling us to come to eat dinner.  I never heard it, but I had to leave and forfeit my $2 to these mugs.  And I’d collected tons of cans around the camp earning my $2.  I might have pissed a couple of them off by pouring out their beer to get the cans though, so we were even, at least in my mind.  

When the beer started flowing during the shoots, the testosterone started flowing, and there were challenges among the men.  We were in wrestling at the time, so it was fun to watch pops in the wrestling matches.  They played a game called King Man Out.  Dad was either appointed or chosen to go first.  They would send a man into the ring to challenge the King Man Out, and dad was the King.  They wrested until the loser cried, uncle.  And dad would whittle his way through his opponents like we were chopping wood, throwing them around like rag dolls. Being 6’3” and all of 220 pounds, he would use his skills to dispatch opponent after opponent.  He’d done this at a few of the shoots, and during this one particular shoot on the West side near Oak Ridge, he was mowing through his competitors with ease.  Then came Hahm, a guy that was younger than dad, about the same size, but built like a fire-plug.  He was the younger version of my dad and the last one that I saw that would be any semblance of competition for dad.  I guess he was waiting in the wings for a shot at the title.  Dad took a swig of beer, and the game was on.  I was afraid he was going to get crushed by the newer model of himself.  I knew that dad was tired from the previous battles, and from my time playing the same game during wrestling practice, I knew that he was going to meet his demise at the hands of Hahm.  

They entered the pit, and within seconds, dad had grabbed a hold of Hahm and threw him to the ground, landing on top of him with all of his weight, knocking the wind out of him.  I hadn’t ever seen anyone get blasted like that and my jaw hit the floor.  It was his exclamation point!  Don’t fuck with Bigfoot!  That was the last time dad wrestled.  He attributed his “retirement” from the ring due to having a bad back.  It was pretty impressive to me as a youngster.  What was odd, was that Touche’ pulled him aside and it looked like dad was getting a lecture.  I was like, WTF, he’s getting a lecture for kicking Hahm’s ass?  It didn’t make any sense.  

I can’t recall the timing of the incident, nor where this fit in my life events, but sometime around the late 70s or early 80s, there was a shoot out in the Steens Mountains.  One of the kids in the club with me invited me over to his house to spend the night.  He was one of the kids that had all the cool toys.  He lived with his dad, who was going through a divorce.  I don’t recall ever meeting his wife, but years later, I understood why.  This guy was a pedophile and took advantage of the situation and molested me.  Evidently, that has a pretty big impact on your formative years, from what I learned years later in counseling.  I could go into detail, but that’s not necessary, suffice it to say, it went on too long.  And one thing about being molested, it stunts your mental growth and causes you to lose your memories of the events due to the trauma.   After that, I developed into an obstinate smart-ass, the kind of kid that wanted attention, whether it was good or bad.  But I sure felt like the oddest kid in the world with a dirty little secret that I never shared with anyone until decades later.  

One of the things I recall about it was that this guy couldn’t wait to get home to do the deed.  We were 60 miles from town, and this fucker was going about 90 miles an hour to get back home to do the deed.  Looking back on it, it’s pretty disgusting; I thought he was cool because he disregarded the speed limit, the exact opposite of what my dad did.  My dad was a “square” and would never break the speed limit.  That’s the logic of a little kid.

I don’t recall when the molestation stopped, but I remember going to Bend and getting a new outfit.  I wanted to get rid of the guilt, shame, and disgust from being molested, so I put on my new school clothes, a blue satin jacket with red sleeves, new pants, and a new shirt.  I had new clothes, and I wanted to feel new and clean again and wash away the feelings that were building up inside of me. 

 I’d never been to church before, so  I walked to the Faith Baptist Church about a mile and a half from our house to attend the sermon and exercise these demons and ask God to make me new again.  

I only recall knowing a couple of the people at the church and one of my teachers from school was there and we had a pleasant conversation before the sermon,  I think she could tell I was a fish out of water, someplace that was utterly foreign to me, and she gave me the comfort to stay through the sermon.  I felt like running the Hell out of there because I thought everyone could see through my armor.

The only thing I recall about the sermon, other than Mrs. Reed, was the very end.  I didn’t know it at the time, but at the end of every church sermon, they summon parishioners forward to accept Jesus Christ as their savior.  The music started playing, and the pastor was asking for people to come forward.

  The pastor was talking, asking for people to come forward and he started to greet the people that were coming forward.  All of a sudden I hear Larry!  I looked up at the ceiling where it came from.  All I saw was a vent.  I looked up at the pastor, and he was bending down, holding the hand of a little girl that came forward.  He didn’t have the mic in his hand!  I was like, WTF?  This pastor doesn’t even know my name.  I thought back to what I had heard about eight years earlier, as clear as a bell.  You can’t walk on water, knucklehead.  And now, Larry.  I’ve always hated that name, BTW.  We’ll get into that later.  

From that moment, I have always believed in God.  Unfortunately, he didn’t take away the guilt, shame, and disgust I was feeling.  But I’ve always known he was there.         

I guess this was around the same time going to school at the Hines Elementary School, where I had a crush on a girl that was a year ahead of me in school.  She was so gorgeous, I had to get her attention, and the best way I could go about doing that was having a rock fight with the boys after school.  I threw a rock at one of them and hit this girl right in the ear.  She wore a hearing aid, and it hit the hearing aid, which at the time was an apparatus about the size of a silver dollar, knocking it out of her ear and smashing it to pieces.  I’m sure that impressed the Hell out of her.  

The principal got involved, along with my parents and her dad.  Her father was the corporate pilot for the Edward Hines Lumber Company.  And an even bigger bonus, her dad was a former Navy SEAL, so I didn’t have much to worry about!  Holy FUCK!  I didn’t know much about the SEALs, other than what my dad told me.  They were the Devils with Green Faces in Vietnam, instilling fear using tactics that the Indians used during the civil war.  They performed unspeakable acts upon their adversaries as a psychological warfare tool signifying their fate was not their own; it was owned by the Devils with Green faces.  

 Darryl was about 5’8” tall and built like a fireplug.  I truly thought that was going to be the end of my life.  He didn’t speak a word and let the disciplinary process work itself out.  His presence at the meeting was enough to instill a fear upon me as they had done in Nam.   

A couple of years later, when I got into junior high, dad signed us up for boxing at the local high school in a smokers boxing club.  When I got to the high school, we were directed where to go, which was the wrestling room on the second floor of the gym.  When I got to the work-out room, I found the coach was none other than Darryl, the father of the girl I was trying to impress by nailing her with a rock.  I nearly had a heart attack at the age of twelve.  I thought I was being led to the slaughter.  Thanks dad!

Darryl was a great coach, but boxing and wrestling weren’t for me.  I couldn’t understand why you would want to repeatedly get your brains beat in.  A few years later, when I was wrestling as a freshman in high school, I got slammed to the mat, causing a pretty good concussion, so my days of boxing and wrestling ended my freshman year.  Getting your head jarred to the point where you see stars just wasn’t for me.    

In junior high, my focus shifted to baseball and football.  I tried my hand at basketball but was horrible at it.  I played basketball mainly to keep in shape for baseball and football.  

We’d play catch with the neighbor kids in our yard all the time.  And dad would warn us not to throw the ball toward Dr. George’s house.  I didn’t pay any heed to his warnings, and one day we were playing, and like a magnet, I threw the ball right through the only window on the side of the neighbor’s house facing the yard.  Not only did it smash the window, but it busted one of the trophies that Ron won while riding motocross.  He was more than a little pissed.  And due to my obstinance, I wasn’t going to let these guys push me around, and we got into a scuffle of sorts.  Ron ended up choking me out, and that’s the second time I met the Wizard.  Like when I was three, trying to walk across water, my peripheral vision started to narrow and things turned black.  When I began to come around from being choked out, I was pounding my head against the concrete floor, cutting the shit out of my head, causing blood to rush down my face.  I looked like I’d just been through the fight of my life when in actuality, my injuries were self-inflicted.  You should have seen the look on their faces when I stood up.  They were both ghost-white, looking at me like, WTF just happened?  I’m pretty sure they’d never seen that before, but to me, this was just growing up, it happened to me before, so it was not that big of a deal to me.  I kept on playing baseball, trying to improve my accuracy so this would never happen again, and it worked.  I got much better and ended up doing most of the pitching for the little league and legion ball teams I played on.  

The year prior to entering high school, Burns placed second in the state tournament in football.  During my freshman year in baseball, we took second too.  We had great coaches and Burns was the powerhouse of the Greater Oregon League, class 2A schools.  We had great athletes that knew what hard work was.  Most of us had summer jobs bucking bails or working in the woods.  That was pretty much all there was in Burns. 

During my freshman year in HS, we got a new football coach, Tom Dowd.  He was a former Marine that talked about his time in Vietnam, where he was at Hamburger Hill.  I didn’t know much about Nam but did know that Hamburger Hill was Hell on earth.  Our history teacher, Harold Reed was a chopper pilot in Nam.  He was also a great history teacher and told us about Hamburger Hill,  making a lasting impression on us kids about the feats our soldiers accomplished against impossible odds.

  Education wasn’t my forte.  I was more into sports, exploring, having fun, and chasing girls.  To say I didn’t apply myself in school is an understatement, which is something I regret to this day.  

My freshmen year when football season started, Coach would be yelling and screaming, like a drill sergeant (I would assume that was how one would act).  We had the two fastest runners in the state of Oregon on our team and should have been a shoo-in for the state title.  Instead, we won one game each year in high school.  Our coach was teaching us exactly how to lose each game.  As a defender, football is about controlling space, not people and on defense he taught us to engage with the blocker, hitting face-mask to face-mask.  The offensive player would use that to his advantage and just turn us, and our defense would get gaffed, time and again.  Coach would scream at us every single second of the game.  It was ridiculous.  The best part of the experience was our loss.  Evidently the score reflected how hard we worked during the game, so we got to enjoy doing 100-yard bear-crawls for every point we lost by.  Needless to say, we were the best bear crawlers in the Greater Oregon League, I am sure of that.  If they had a state championship in bear-crawling we would have won in a landslide.   

In my sophomore year, our baseball coach moved to Salem, and our team went downhill from there.  However, I had some pretty good stats throughout the years.  My junior year, I did reasonably well and won the MVP.  I couldn’t wait for my senior year.  I’d gotten some interest from some colleges, and one day I got a letter from the Toronto Blue Jays.  I almost shit.

I guess there were some scouts when we played a double-header in Nyssa, Oregon.  I hit four home runs during the doubleheader.  I think I could have done better, but he fuckers quit pitching to me, so I had to sit there and watch the ball go by each at-bat after the first four plate appearances.  I remember that the pitcher wasn’t paying attention and saw the catcher standing there with his hand out.  The pitcher was just lobbing the ball into the catcher, not paying attention.  After two pitches, I saw his pattern and he was throwing it just off of the plate and was hittable.  It was almost like playing softball, he was so aloof, so I took a swing at one of the pitches and missed.  

All I heard was my dad’s deep voice in utter disgust….BEEEAAAARRR!  I knew I’d fucked up.  The coach started screaming, “What the Hell are you doing out there, they’re giving US a free base?”  I wanted to hit another homer!   As fate would happen, after that, I went into a slump for 20 plate appearances in a row.  I couldn’t hit water if I fell out of a boat.  It’s pretty hard to top four home-runs, but at least I got a letter from the Bluejays to show for it.

In my senior year of football, we’d pretty much had it with our football coaches, as they had no idea how to coach.  It was the same losing formula, time and again.  We should have done much better with the athletes we had.  It was the final game of FB season, and I think we were all tired of the losing formula we’d been taught for the past four years.  We were facing Madras, who was slated to be the first seed in the state tournament and they were an odds on favorite to crush us.  None of us spoke a word, and it wasn’t preplanned, but I knew the day we walked out onto the field, we were going to win the game.  For some reason, I was sure of it.  Every single one of us just played.  We threw the coaching system out the window and played like we knew how to play and disregarded the bad coaching that plagued us and limited our success.  Madras didn’t stand a chance, and we beat them by three or four touchdowns.  Years later, I ran into a guy that went to Madras and played the exact opposite position as me.  I was outside linebacker and tight end, and he was too.  He was two classes behind me going through BUD/s, so we had a good laugh about it.  It’s hard to get a perspective as to how you are doing in a sport, so I asked him what he thought about my play and he was up-front and said that he hated going up against me because I knocked the Hell out of him.  I remember him being a worthy adversary too.  I’m not sure if he ever made it to the teams, though.  

As I said, I wasn’t much of a scholar, but I landed a gig as the teacher’s aid for the athletic director, Page Dulaney.  He was the basketball coach and ran the school.  If the principal thought he ran the school, he was sorely mistaken.  Everyone did what Page said.  He would give me the keys to his pickup and send me on errands, and during my junior year, he sent me to he hardware store to get something, so I made a copy of his keys to get into the school.  To this day, I don’t know what possessed me to do it.  I wasn’t a bad kid; I just enjoyed a little mischief.  Throughout my junior and senior years, we used the school as our playground, and by the time our senior year rolled around, I think there were three or four sets of keys made.  

We’d steal candy from the school lunchroom and money from the till form the game receipts, but the most significant coup of all was stealing the tests from the teachers so we wouldn’t have to study, all we had to do was memorize the answers on the tests.  It was pretty simple.  Almost every weekend, we would be in the school being hoodlums.  We’d even bring in skateboards and roam the halls as we’d seen in the movies.  I never knew how ironic it would be, but we would have to recon the place and place lookouts for cops or anyone driving by.  This was a skill that would come in handy years later when I was in the military, and this was something that I intuitively learned.  

When spring rolled around, I was gearing up for baseball.  I didn’t play basketball that year in order to focus at the task at hand, getting either a full-ride scholarship or playing for the Bluejays.  But idle hands are the work of the devil.  One night, I went out with my buddy, Rick, and we had a few Schlitz Malt Liquor Bulls while driving around in his canary yellow Datsun B-210 station wagon, and we got pulled over.  We took off like a bat out of Hell, but the police outflanked me, and I was caught by the cops, but Rick got away.  I was expecting a MIP, sure as Hell, which would derail my hopes of playing baseball.  However, they called my dad and asked him if he wanted to come down and get me from the station.  He didn’t want to come down and get me and asked them to bring me home, which they did.   Dad didn’t even say much about it other than I was pretty stupid.  

Greg and I both drank as much, if not more, than the rest of the kids in high school.  However, we never got a MIP.  The police were handing them out like candy to all our friends, but we never got one.  I guess we were either really lucky or really good at evasion.  And I’d just escaped getting a MIP when I was caught red-handed drinking.  Whew, that was close.

When school started Monday, I got called into the principal’s office, and he asked me if I’d been drinking over the weekend, and I told him no.  He pressed me again, and I retorted that I’d been hauled down to the station by the cops, and if I was drinking, they surely would have given me a MIP, so my example of getting let off by the cops was a perfect alibi. 

My brother and I had run-ins with the principal throughout our years in HS.  We’d both been called on the carpet for fighting.  The principal hauled him in when Greg was a sophomore for fighting and the principal was going to drop the hammer on him.  My sister was in special education classes with a dozen other kids.  She was the only one that had Down’s Syndrome in the special needs class and one day she came out of class bawling, and Janice can bawl, loudly.  Everyone in the school heard her yelling echoing throughout the halls.  Greg and I ran over to see what was going on and she said, Ed Smith called me a retard.  Ed was the toughest kid in high school.  I guess that didn’t bother Greg too much because he went to the locker where Ed was and grabbed him with his meat hooks (Greg has the biggest and strongest hands you will ever see) and started pounding the Hell out of him, got him on the ground and started slamming his head with the locker door.  When Ed knew he was outgunned, he curled up in a ball to signal he was relenting, so Greg gave him one last kick on the way back to class for good measure.  Ed was no longer the toughest kid in high school; it was a sophomore named Greg L’Hommedieu.

This scenario would play itself out a couple of years later when a kid transferred into our school.  He thought it would be fun to pick on Janice, so I ended that in short order and was called into the principal’s office.  He started threatening me with the Wrath of God, so I asked him one question, “Do you know what my dad would do if he knows that I let a kid do that to my sister?”  He just looked down at his desk, shook his head, and told me to go back to class.  “There are better ways to handle that, you know…” he said as I walked out the door.

Once again, I thought I had the upper hand on the principal because I would obviously have been given a MIP if I was drinking.  Then the fucker dropped a bomb on me.  “Well, I spoke to your dad, and he said that you were out drinking, and the cops had to bring you home because you were so drunk!”  He said it with a shit-eating grin, as he had finally gotten one over on the L’Hommedieu boys.  

You pencil neck fucking geek.  WTF, my old-man betrayed me!  WTF is going on here, I thought to myself.  

“And you’ll be suspended for baseball season,” he tells me, with that same shit-eating grin.  I could have choked the life out of him but was still reeling from the betrayal of my father.  He dismissed me in a shattered heap with my plans derailed.

I tried everything I could over the course of the next couple of months to scam the system.  I tried to join the basketball team, so it would count as a suspension during that sport (that’s what the rules said, as I finally studied something in high school, so I thought I could circumnavigate the suspension).  Obviously, I had never heard of the “legislative intent” of the rule-making authority.  So I was trying to use the letter of the law rather than the intent of the law.  I would learn this 15 years later in my travails during a legal suit filed against me by my neighbor. 

I even went so far as trying to get my mom to move to the adjacent town where they had a state winning baseball team, but that was also derailed by my dad.  It was the ultimate betrayal.

In June of 2016, just after my 18th birthday, my days of being a hoodlum came back to roost.  The local police had been on the trail of the Burns Burglars, and they had their sites on me.  I took an alternator for my car from the auto shop and was pulled over by Barney Fife, the local Burns PD, who had his gun trained on me.  He was looking for the alternator and the culprit that took it.  He asked to look in my trunk, so I opened it for him and let him inspect the trunk, knowing the alternator wasn’t in the trunk.  He holstered his pistol, not finding the evidence on this felonious madman.  As I was getting back into my car to take off, he looked in and saw the metal bracket form the alternator sticking out of my gym bag.  Out comes his pistol again, “Freeze, you’re under arrest.”  

There were about a dozen of us kids that were roaming the halls of the school and stealing stuff.  I am not sure what all was stolen; our gang probably took about $150 worth of stuff during our crime spree.  I’m not sure if the other kids stole anything, but it was sure a big deal to the Burns PD.  The local prosecutor told me I had to roll over on someone, or he was going to go hard on me.  I asked all the people that participated in the “break-ins,” and the only guy that would step up was my buddy, Rick.  He had a full-ride scholarship to BYU and had the most to lose out of all of us.

He took the charge with me.  Over the course of the summer, we both worked fighting wild-land fires and had to pay our attorney most of what we earned that summer.  

In spite of my crime spree, my dad tried to steer me in the right direction.  He called up my former boxing coach, Darryl, who told me about the SEAL program and said that it might just be a good fit for me, so I joined the Navy on the delayed entry program, scheduled to go in September 16, 1987.  I asked him if I thought I could make it and he said, “There's no doubt you can make it, you just have to have the will to make it.”  I had to check my shit.  This is a Navy SEAL, and he has belief in me.  I won’t let him down.  I can’t let him down.  I guess I’d never had anyone be so confident with their belief in me.

The next day I called the recruiter and signed up for the delayed entry program in the United States Navy with the goal of becoming a Navy SEAL.  During the recruitment process, they do a proctological exam of your life, and I had to disclose my criminal background to the recruiter, which could have resulted in my disqualification, but they took me anyway.  Ironically, a little over a year later, when I went to BUD/s, I found out that my capers paled in comparison to the guys I was going through training with.  One guy was running drugs on a fishing trawler out of Maine, and another guy was ripping off the yachts in the harbors in So. Cal. , just a couple of examples.  And I thought my alternator theft and skimming the till from the basketball games was the crimes of the century.  I guess it’s all perspective.  

After a summer of firefighting, I was shipped to the Great Lakes Naval Training Facility near Chicago, IL.  When I was in boot camp, I got a letter from my attorney saying that the charges were dropped due to my decision to join the US Navy.

So, I was literally the guy that had the choice, go in the military, or go to jail.

I didn’t know a thing about the law back then, but I did know that my dad was drinking buddies with some dude that worked in the courthouse.  He just happened to be the DA. 

    

 

 

 

Chapter 3 - BUD/s and the Navy

 

            Before entering the Navy on the delayed entry program, I fought wild-land fire for the Bureau of Land Management.  The station was in French Glen, Oregon south of Burns 60 Miles at the base of the Steens Mountains.  I’d picked up a pearl white Honda VFR 700 after graduating high school with the money I had saved up from working on the ranches and my summer job firefighting.  If it took me more than 30 minutes to get to Frenchglen to go to work, then I’d wasted too much time.  I’d gotten fairly decent at riding over the years, but not nearly as good as Ron and Rick George.  They graduated from dirt-bikes to crotch rockets and spent their time on the raceways at Laguna Seca doing “some scratching” as they called, dragging their knees as they’d go around corners.  

The Steens is one of the most beautiful places in the world.  It's a mountain that gently rises up from the desert floor to nearly 10,000 feet and you can drive to the top of the mountain.  When you look over the East side, it drops down to the Alvord Desert where they have done world record speed runs on the desert floor.  On the North and west side, there are huge gorges, the Little Blitzen, Big Indian, and Kiger and are a sight to behold.  Our black powder shoots were held at a place called whorehouse meadows — the name was later changed to be politically correct — naughty girl meadows.  But the fuckers never changed the name from the Steens, the guy that drove the Paiute Indians off the mountain during the imprisonment of the entire Indian population to their respective “reservations” to something more politically correct to commemorate the loss of the Indian culture.  At least they changed the name of one mountain back to the original name, Denali.  

The gateway to the Steens from the bottom was through land owned by the ranchers.  If you didn’t get permission from the ranch owners, you weren’t able to access some of the most beautiful, remote areas in Oregon.  The ranchers had grazing rights to the public land on the mountain, and in 2000 Clinton passed legislation, which was an agreement with the ranchers to give access to the mountain to the general public in exchange for land and grazing rights.  This agreement, like the ones with the Indians generations before, wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.  When new people in the “administration” of the Malheur Wildlife refuge decided that the ranchers weren’t able to use their land as agreed upon, the Feds came in and started fucking with them.  The Hammonds were imprisoned for terrorism for doing what they had been doing for generations, burning off the land to restore nutrients to the soil so they could grow grass for their cattle.  

When the Bundy’s showed up to the refuge, all hell broke loose and the feds ended up murdering Lloyd Finicum in an ambush because the Feds had to put down the insurrection the same way they did to the Indians over 100 year prior to this latest insurrection.  And when they couldn’t imprison the Bundy’s, they went for round two in Nevada and tried them again, using the same dirty tactics they use in the court system all the time, by withholding evidence.  The just-us system worked fine for the feds, but for the American citizen, not so much.  

 

My training for BUD/s started in the Steens Mountains prior to going into the Navy.  The elevation was perfect for training, as Fish Lake was at 7,000 feet.  Running and swimming in the high mountains enriched my body with red blood cells and my o2 carrying capacity was pretty good as a result of training at high altitude. 

When I got to the Great Lakes NTC, I was ready to go to work with the goal of becoming a SEAL, backed by someone that had confidence in me, Darryl the former SEAL.  I wasn’t going to let him down, he believed in me.  

Boot camp was a cinch, as our football coach, Tom Dowd, made sure of that.  His yelling and screaming was harsher than any of the drill instructors in the Navy.  I had to do a physical and psych eval during boot camp before getting a billet for BUD/s.  The physical eval wasn’t a problem and evidently, I was psychotic enough to become a SEAL, so I was recommended for the program, with one caveat; I had to pass muster with the SEAL recruiter at the NTC.  His only demand was that I stay in good physical condition and get a 90 percent or greater score on my exams in Hospital Corpsman School.  

Ninety Percent!  Holy shit, I’d never gotten better than a 2.3 average in high school and now he wanted me to get A’s.  It was time for me to buckle down and study my ass off, which I did.  I think I graduated with a 95 percent average through rote memorization.  The tests in the Navy aren’t hard, but I didn’t have much margin for error if I wanted to make it to BUD/s, so I put the time in studying.  I was there during the winter months and found out what cold is.  While Burns got cold in the winter, the wind blowing off Lake Michigan redefined my definition of cold.  As a final test, the recruiter wanted me to do the Klondike run, a 5K run during the dead of winter.  I beat him and did pretty well, so I guess he figured I was ready.  And I thought I was ready too.  That was a mistaken line of thinking. 

When I graduated from Corps School I flew home to Burns for a week long vacation.  There aren’t any airports near Burns, so I flew into Boise where Darryl awaited me in the corporate plane and picked me up and flew me back to Burns.  Darryl isn’t much of a talker, so I am sure I talked his ear off and peppered him with 1,000 questions.  He took them in stride and reminded me that I was doing everything right and the most important thing was to stay healthy in order to make it through.  He warned me about the perils of “rolling back," which happened if you got injured or failed one of the tests in BUD/s, you would get rolled back to the previous phase.  There are three phases in BUD/s consisting of 9 weeks, 8 weeks and 9 weeks, for the first, second, and third phases, respectively.  If you made it halfway through one of the phases and got injured or didn’t pass a physical or academic test, you were either dis-enrolled from the program, or you had to start at the beginning of the phase with your new class.

I  am not sure what the statistics are, but people that get rolled back have a graduation rate much lower than people that don’t get rolled. 

When I showed up to Coronado I was immediately scheduled for a physical and enrolled in what is called pre-training.  In essence, you are working out getting ready for the next class to start.  Class 153 started in two weeks.  I was told by the other recruits to tell the doctor during my exam that I’d been running 5 miles a day and swimming my ass off every day.  I wasn’t, but I did as recommended so I could start training right away.  They had classes every 6 weeks and I didn’t want to get stuck in pre-training for two months.  That would have been spinning my wheels.  

I passed the physical and was given the go-ahead to start in Class 153.  There were 107 of us in the class.  We were immediately scheduled for a psychological evaluation with a psychologist that was doing her thesis on what type of person makes it through BUD/s.  She was the most amazing looking woman I had ever seen, and she was a doctor to boot.  Every SEAL instructor in the compound was after her.  

One of the first days of training we did a drill called drown proofing.  It’s a drill where they tie your hands and legs are tied together and you have to float face down for 5 minutes, then bob off of the bottom of the 12-foot pool, ascending and descending while you inhale at the top and exhale while you are descending.  The next thing is the dolphin swim down and back, a total of 100 yards.  Once you complete that you have to retrieve a mask off the bottom of the pool with your teeth and hold it up to show the instructors.  Of course, by this time you are exhausted and you are trying to show them the mask and they are having a cup of coffee, not paying attention to you while you try and hold it up to show them.  Eventually, they see you and tell you to get out of the pool.  The biggest caveat, if your feet or hands came untied, the whole drill starts over for everyone in the pool.  There were about fifteen students going at a time for the drill.  Once you were done, you moved to the other side of the pool and sat on the bleachers, separating the ones that were done from those yet to go.

The third iteration of this drill, all the students were sitting on the side of the pool.  The whistle blew signifying to the students to get in the pool for the drill to start.  One kid sat there and was shaking his head, talking to himself under his breath.  I could hear him saying, “No way man, no way!”  He kept chanting it, shaking his head.  The instructors started out, “Hey, you classmates are waiting for you, Dorothy.  Any time now.”  This went on for a minute or two, it seemed like an eternity.   Then the instructors got louder and louder to the point they were screaming “Get in the fucking pool.” 

It was met with the same chant, “No way man, no way, I can’t do it!”  

“So you quit, then?”

The same chant, he was scared.  

Then we hear one of the instructors yell, “Instructor Richards!”  His moniker had been passed down from one class to the other, it was the Anti-Christ.  If you look up the word intimidation, there’s a picture of him in the dictionary, I’m sure of it.  This guy was about 5’8” and built like a tank. I’m sure they made the scene in Gladiator where he is coming out of the tunnel to slay his opponents in short order.  It was like calling up a warrior for battle.  But we were not entertained.  Fear is the first thing that comes to mind.

He strolled over to the student, leaned over, and talked in a soft voice.  “So, you know you have to get in the pool, right?”

“Yea.”  

“Your classmates are waiting, and the clock hasn’t started, you know that, right?”  

“Yea”.

“So get in the pool and let’s get this over with.”

“No way man.” 

“So you’re gonna ring out then, right?”

“No way man, I can’t do it.”

This colloquy was repeated again with the same result. 

All of a sudden, Instructor Richards grabbed him and threw him halfway across the pool.  The kid (we were all kids back then) started panicking, kicking his feet as fast as he could to keep his head above water, which is the last thing you want to do.  His eyes were as big around as softballs, he was terrified and needed a lifeline.  When he got near the edge of the pool where there is a one-foot ledge five feet below the waterline, which then slopes downward at a 45-degree slope to the bottom of the pool, he tried to stand on the ledge, lost his footing and swallowed a bunch of water.  Instructor Richards was leaning down trying to get the kid to calm down and while losing his balance and swallowing half the pool, he spits it out in instructor Richards’s face.  

Instructor Richards jumped in the pool, boots and all, and gator rolled this kid to the bottom of the pool, nearly drowning him.  When the kid stopped fighting, he was pulled to the surface and instructor Richards brought him over to the edge of the pool on the one-foot ledge and launched him out of the pool, throwing him up on the concrete deck from inside the pool, that’s how strong this guy was.  

The instructors blew the whistle multiple times, signifying to everyone to get out of the pool.  All the instructors started screaming, making the screaming of Tom Dowd look like a sermon in church.  “Do you think this is a fucking game?  What the fuck do you people think is going on out here?  Do you think this is fucking joke?  Is this summer camp?”  They all erupted in unison, yelling at all of us students.

My first thought, They’re going to kill us all; I sure wish I was on the other side with the other guys that already completed the drill.  It’s only going to get worse from here.  And it did.  

   We never saw that kid again, he rang out that day.  That was day one of BUD/s class 153.  

My appointment with the psychologist was on Sunday.  I was 18, didn’t have a day planner and was out riding my bike on Sunday, exploring San Diego.  I missed my appointment with the psychologist that day along with eight other students.  At least I was in good company.  One of my buddies named Matt was an accomplice with me out riding, and he missed his appointment too.

We were all lined up outside of the proctors office waiting for our ass chewing.  A proctor is a SEAL assigned as a babysitter for your class, basically facilitating any needs the class has, whether it be equipment or a medical issue.  They are the point of contact between the students and the instructor cadre.   My buddy, Matt, was the first one to go and I was the last in line.  When he came out from his ass chewing, he nodded his head and said, “Everything’s cool, it’ll be all right”.  

When I was called in, I announced myself, “Seaman L’Hommedieu reporting as ordered”.  Instructor Clark gets out of his seat and gets nose to nose with me and asks me if I think this is a fucking joke.  

“No instructor Clark”.  

He punches me in the stomach and then starts beating the shit out of me. I was thinking, this is not “all right”.  I wasn’t sure how to react.  I’d heard what the SEALs could do, and I wasn’t sure if I should fight back or not.  He just kept pounding on me.  After kicking the shit out of me for a minute or so, he tells me to get up, which I did, standing at attention, bloodied from the foray.

Then he makes me a guarantee, “You’ll be the last motherfucker that makes it through BUD/s and I am going to personally guarantee that you never make it through and you will never see a Trident.  Now get back with your class.”

I return to the grinder where all 103 (we lost 4 the first week) students are standing at attention waiting for me, and waiting for the punishment that was going to be meted out by the instructors due to the eight of us missing the appointments.  Instructor Clark comes out and lets all 103 students know “You can thank “Seaman L’Hommedieu” for what is going to befall you over the course of the next several hours.”  I’m not sure if that was due to me being the youngest in the class, or what.  But what I did know, I had 103 classmates that wanted to kill me that afternoon.  Over the next 3 hours, we enjoyed getting sand in every crevice of our bodies and were MASHED (Make a Sailor Hurt).  And these instructors had their craft perfected, they knew how to make you hurt.   The good thing, I only had 25 weeks to go.

The fourth week of BUD/s is notoriously known as “Hell Week.”  It is a week-long exercise in futility where the students are pushed to their limits.  The first three weeks are general conditioning along with team-building exercises.  You are assigned to a seven-person boat crew where there are competitions every day that require you to work as a team.  The week before Hell Week, we were doing a drill called Rock Portage, which is landing on the rocks with your inflatable boat.  It’s a dangerous exercise that requires attention to detail.  You can’t get caught between the boat and the rocks, or your fate will be sealed.  Many students have suffered catastrophic injuries during these drills, not to mention, the boats take a beating.  Invariably, many of the boats get holes in them and get ripped to shreds.  And it is the student’s collective job to keep the boats in serviceable condition.  

When the boats got ripped to shreds it was our job to get with Instructor Clark to get the equipment we needed to repair the boats. We had just enough boats for all 75 students, but one of the floors of the one of the boats was ripped to shreds and that boat crew had to use it for Hell Week.  They tried everything they could to repair the boat, but shoe-goo and riggers tape was no fix for the boat.  It was basically a pile of shit.  I felt sorry for the boat crew that had to use that during Hell Week.

Sunday night was Break-out.  All the instructors have weapons with blanks, stun grenades, and smoke bombs, and at the assigned hour, they infiltrate the barracks where we are sleeping and start throwing stun grenades and smoke bombs into the barracks.   Then the fun starts.  There is chaos everywhere and it is the class leaders job to sort through the chaos and keep the students organized by boat crew.  It is an exercise in futility and invariably the students are “all fucked up.”  They capture students and hide them, so each time there is a muster, accounting for everyone, the count is always off and the class gets punished for it.

After a couple of hours of this chaos, the instructors grow tired of our lack of organization so we have to go sit in the “truth serum” in order to get our minds right.  The truth serum is the Pacific Ocean, which was about 55 degrees in March.  We had to line up and lock arms and go stand in the surf zone, letting the waves crash over our heads and knocking the hell out of us.  They told us we were going to sit in the truth serum until someone quit.  The instructors brought out the bell, which you ring to signify that you are quitting, along with a table with coffee and doughnuts on it.  They’d sit there eating doughnuts and drinking coffee letting us know all we needed to do was ring the bell and we would get rewarded with coffee and doughnuts.  It was a tempting sight.  “Just quit, come on out and have coffee and doughnuts.  You don’t need this shit,” they were saying.     

After about an hour of this, one of the students finally breaks ranks to go “ring the bell."  Thank God.  Finally, someone quit and we were going to get out of the freezing water.  By that time we were all shivering like a dog shitting peach seeds.  I’d been cold before, but this was a whole new level of cold.   The student rang the bell and we all lined up and sang “Happy Trails” to him, sending him on his way.

The kid was standing there looking forlorn when the instructors said, “Ok, everyone line up.”  As we were all lined up, the doctor walked up and down the line to make sure everyone was still shivering to ascertain if any of us had hypothermia.  None of us did, we were all shivering.  The second stage of hypothermia is when the body shuts down and you are no longer able to shiver. 

When the doc was done, one of the instructors said, “Ok, everyone lock arms and get back in.”   The guy next to me hold out his hand, pointing to the instructor, saying, “But you said when someone quit….”  I didn’t hear the rest of what he said over the groan of the other 74 of us, but I recognized this drill, I’d been through it before with Tom Dowd.  It was never over until it was over.

Ironically, we went through this same drill a total of 12 times.  As it so happens, 75 minus 12 is 63.  And 7 people per boat crew using 9 boats equals 63.  We had exactly nine serviceable boats, and two that were sketchy that would have never made it through Hell Week.  I think they had that planned.  The lesson I took away from that; it’s a lot easier to know how to get somewhere when you know your final destination.  

BUD/s was a great accomplishment for me.  I’d given the Navy everything I had physically, 110 percent each and every moment I was in BUD/s.  I’d taken Darryl’s advice and took care of my body, treating it like a machine.  When the other guys would go out to Tijuana, or cavorting around San Diego, I would keep my focus on the final destination, making it through BUD/s.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t the honor man of our class.  Instead, it was given to a pig farmer from Iowa, Roy Miller.  I don’t know where I stacked up in the final tally, but I know I’d given it my all.  Perhaps my biggest detriment in getting the honor man was the fact that I didn’t apply myself as much as I should have during the written exams.  There were thirteen of us that made it from start to finish in class 153.  We had some other classmates that rolled into our class, graduating 24 in total.  I think each of us look back at it with fond memories and a great sense of accomplishment.  There are around 5,000 SEALs in the community since JFK formed them in 1962.  And I am sure that there is a plaque somewhere that says class 153 was the hardest class ever.

I’d gone into the Navy September 16, 1987, and graduated BUD/s September 16, 1988.  It’s a date that I won’t forget.

My time at Seal Team One was pretty uneventful, other than working with some of the best people on the planet.  We had what I would call the grandfather of ballistics and shooting in our team and his protege, Boats, as we called him was one of the best shooters in the world.  We were literally trained killers.  Like dad, I’d picked up a pretty good ability to shoot.  It took a lot of work, but Boats worked with me relentlessly to shake some of the bad habits I’d picked up  when I was younger.  I could work my way around any weapons system in the military and operate it with pretty good precision.

We didn’t have the weapons systems of today.  We mainly carried an M-14 as our squad rifle.  Boats would set out metal targets for us and have us mil them out to find out how to set windage and elevation.  This was before range-finders.  We’d milled out the farthest target at 760 yards.  Each of us in the platoon was able to hit the target 3 out of 10 times with our open sight rifles.  With the M24 sniper rifle, we could tell you which eye to put out at 600 yards.  Boats was a shooting freak, and as the LPO of our platoon, he ensured his safety by training us to be the best.  And I am quite sure we were one of the best shooting platoons, at least on the West coast teams.  

My Commanding Officer at Team One was a giant among men, Tim Holden.  The second in command was William McRaven and Ryan Zinke was a Lieutenant in our ops division. I was fortunate to have some of the best leaders in the entire military at the helm when I was there.  

Before you get your trident, you have to go through a probationary period for 6 months.  After probation, you are awarded your trident, which is a pretty big deal.  I’d never seen a ceremony, so I was excited to get my trident after I’d completed the tasks I needed to in order to finish probation.

I can’t recall whether it was Holden or McRaven that was there the day I got my trident, it’s pretty much a blur.  What I do remember was that they pinned it on me and didn’t put the backs on the spikes that went through the shirt.  And like I’d seen in the movies, each of the other members of the team pounded it into my chest.  It doesn’t feel too good.  

What happened next, I wasn’t prepared for, and would alter my view of the teams immensely.  I was taped head-to-toe with riggers tape, taken to the dunk tank and essentially waterboarded.  At the end of the ordeal, I had axle grease shoved up my ass and a carrot shoved up my ass.  

Something that I’d worked so hard for over the course of the past year and a half was just shattered in the blink of an eye.  Everything I’d worked to become, the personification of power and control; to ensure that nothing like what happened to me between the ages of eight and ten would ever happen to me again.  That went out of the window, and the day that should have been a celebratory occasion was marred by getting, essentially, raped.  

When it came for the next guys to get their trident, I ensured I was the ringleader of the circus.  I wouldn’t allow the axle grease bullshit.  Instead, I would be the guy holding my team-mates down, basically waterboarding them, keeping them about an inch below the water level so I could look into their eyes.  I could literally watch the light in their eyes go out as I robbed their soul.  What I recognize now, I was doing the exact same thing to these guys, only this was a different form of torture.  And it made me feel powerful, having complete control over someone like that.  As I look back on it, this was the same feeling the molester had while molesting me, that feeling of control and power.  

A year later, I found myself in a similar situation.  We were on the island of Kodiak and I had met this girl that was in the coast guard.  She was the most beautiful red-head you’d ever seen.  In fact, I ran into a guy that was on the base back then 25 years after this event, and unprovoked, he mentioned this red-headed gal that he saw on the base that was beautiful.  We had a laugh about that.  

The problem, she had a boyfriend, or an ex-boyfriend.  We were hanging out in her dorm after hours, which is against the rules.  Her boyfriend, or whatever his status was, knocked on the door and she told him to go away.  Then the MP’s showed up and escorted us out of the dorm.  They went out the front door and the other guy followed me out the back, chirping at me.  Then he asked me “what would you do if you were me”.  

“If I were you, I’d be kicking my ass right now,” I said to him.

He started swinging at me with futility.  I was blocking his shots quite easily and then did a leg sweep and got him on the ground, wrapping him up pretty tightly in a move I’d learned.  I kept telling him to calm down and let it go.  Then he spit in my face, the ultimate sign of disrespect.  I became enraged and lost control.  I started beating on him, pounding him into the ground.  My anger was at an 11 on a scale of 1 to 10; and it had never gotten that high before.  The only thing that stopped me from beating this guy to death was the lights of the police cars reflecting off of the ice on the trees.   When I saw them approaching, not wanting to get caught, I took off to our barracks.  

Unfortunately, it didn’t take the base police but 2 seconds to figure out who the culprit was.  I ran into his girlfriend later and her only comment to me was “you didn’t have to beat him that badly, did you?”  She was obviously disgusted with what I had done.   

My Lieutenant put me on restriction to quarters, other than going to the chow hall.  I was essentially in jail unless we were on an operation.  

Commander Holden showed up and didn’t say a thing about it.  I knew that I was going to go to Captain’s Mast, where he would discipline me for my transgressions, but he acted as if he knew nothing about it.  We had what I thought was a great relationship.  In fact during training I was almost killed and he was right there to witness it.  I think he had some remorse for me after what I had gone  through.

At the end of our cold weather training we had an FTX, or field training exercise where we went to play war games on the Island of Adak, Alaska, the end of the Aleutian Island chain, the nearest point to Russia from the US.   We were scheduled to drop parachute into the ocean with our Zodiac boats rigged for the occasion.  The winds were on the edge of what they were supposed to be, we weren’t supposed to jump if they were in excess of 20 knots and they were 22 knots.  It was close enough for us and we agreed to go.  Tim asked us for our thoughts, and we agreed that we would go ahead.  He was a good leader and asked for input, and if he was going to put us in harm's way, he wanted our input.  We didn’t want to let him down so we agreed to jump.  

When we hit the water, the winds took our chutes and dragged us half way across the Bearing Sea.  One thing that is shameful to a frogman is for us to lose a parachute, so cutting away our chute is taboo.  I was trying to hold on for dear life and not cut away, to the point where I almost drowned.  It was like a washing machine, the ocean was as choppy as you’d ever witnessed on the Deadliest Catch, the TV program on Discover where they crews are fishing for crab.  The seas were probably 20 feet.  Finally, I said fuck-it and cut away my chute.  We only saved two chutes that day out of sixteen.  Needless to say, we all celebrated when we got to our boats for the 20 mile boat ride to the Island of Kodiak.  

I started to think that Tim was just bad luck!  

A month later, it came time for me to get tried and sentenced at Captains Mast.  I was somewhat relieved that Tim would be the one to hear my case.  I thought I was in good favor with him and he would understand, or at least show me some measure of mercy.  But the best laid plans…

Instead of going in front of Tim, I had to go in front of our new XO, Commander McRaven.  I didn’t know him that well, and I doubt there are many in the military that do.  He is the personification of stoicism.  I reported to his office like I had a couple of years before in front of Instructor Clark.

He read through the charges and went through the initial formalities of Captains Mast, then turned and talked about the optics of my actions and how it wasn’t just wrong, how it put us in the spotlight, detracted from our mission, and made a poor reflection on not only Team 1, but the leadership in “our team” to include Commander Holden.  I hadn’t thought about it that way, I was thinking of myself, because the world revolved around me.  At the end of this impressive ass chewing, he left me with, “And dammit, you’re better than that, you're a hospital corpsman, and I expected better FROM YOU”.  He was disappointed in me, I could feel it.  He wasn’t mad or angry, and he did expect better from me.   And that is what I tried to give him from that point forward.  

The power I felt in what I described above, must be akin to the most powerful drug known to man.  Having complete control of someone in that manner is an addictive feeling.  I look back at the people that I hurt and am saddened by what I have done.  I see their faces and it crushes my soul.  Dammit, I have to be better than that……

John 21:11 So Simon Peter climbed back into the boat and dragged the net ashore.  It was full of large fish, 153, but even with so many the net was not torn.

BUD/S Class 153, we were fishers’ of men. 

 

 

    

  

   

 

Chapter 4 - Smokejumping and ParaRescue

 

            The Burns Hilanders hired a new coach the year after I got out of high school.  They only had 27 kids join the football team for varsity and JV.  The coach was the coach that we should have had in high school.  They made it to the quarterfinals in the state tournament that year, eventually losing to the team that won the tournament.

            The following year, they made the playoffs as the first seed.  I was going home on vacation and thought it would be fun to jump into the stadium.  Darryl was flying the plane and since the door was going to be off the plane, he had to have a chute.  We got a bailout chute for him, but it had to be repacked by a rigger and stamped with his certificate.  Dad and I stopped by the airport in Redmond, Oregon where the US Forest Service had a smokejumper base.  Most of the smokejumpers had their riggers license, so we stopped by and asked him if he would be willing to pack the chute and put his seal of approval on it so we’d be in compliance.  He had no idea who we were, but when we told him our tale of woe, he was more than happy to accommodate us.  He packed the chute for us and we dropped him some cash because he had to work through his lunch hour to get it done.  It took him less than 20 minutes to pack the chute.  He earned $50 bucks for working through his lunch hour.

Dad worked his ass off my junior year getting lights installed on the field because the other teams we played in the GOL all had lights on their field, so they would come scout us on Saturdays when we played our games.  They had a big advantage over us.  Dad got the electrician from the Eddie Hines mill and sold raffle tickets for rifles that were donated for the cause by B and B sporting goods.  They were pillars of the community and the only game in town as far as sporting goods and hunting equipment.  They must have made a fortune because there were so many of us in the area that hunted.  He also sold bricks donated from the local Ace Hardware store, which got everyone’s name engraved on it to build the concession stand.  Dad and his friend Merlin won the Man of the Year for their efforts.  

The jump went off without a hitch and I jumped in the game ball for the kickoff and the Hilanders moved on to the next round of the playoffs after dispatching their opponent with ease. 

I was pretty fed up with the Navy at the end of my four years and enrolled in Clackamas Community College.  My brother Greg had just finished up at Lane Community College, where he had won Mr. Collegiate Oregon in bodybuilding.  He was a monster!  We used to fight, or should I say, Greg used to beat the hell out of me, when we were growing up, and one night we were out on the town and our testosterone was flowing.  We ended up getting into another scuffle.  It was getting down to the point where we were going to go to blows, and all of a sudden, we each looked at each other and the donnybrook stopped.  We both recognized the damage that we were going to do to each other and must have decided at the last second that the risk just wasn’t going to be worth the reward.  Everyone was looking on, expecting to see the fight of the century, which never happened.  Logic got the better of both of us and we went and drank the night away.  I think from then on, we both had a healthy respect for each other.  I know that he was one of the last people on earth I wanted to tangle with.  There’s always someone tougher just around the corner. 

 I enrolled in school at Clackamas Community College the fall of ‘91 and got an apartment with a guy named Mike that was my age.  We were over 21, so our apartment was the “dorm room,” so to speak of the college.  We had some of the best parties around.  We had a blast until the cops showed up.  We were both invited to leave after we’d been enrolled in school for 6 months.  I was trying out for the baseball team and never made it to the opening day after someone left a bat on the ground when I was shagging balls.  I’d jumped up to catch a ball that was over my head and landed right on the bat, breaking my ankle.  

January of ‘92, I applied to be a Smokejumper at the airbase in Redmond.  You had to get your application in by the end of January, so I’d hoped/planned on getting a summer job.  I’d spent my GI money from the Navy, which was only $475 per month, which barely covered my rent.

I moved to Bend, Oregon with Greg and we got an apartment together.  Greg was working in the woods after college and he’d seen his paycheck dwindle each year while having to work harder for each dollar he earned.  He’d made $31,000 two years prior, $29,000, and $27,000.  He has vision and saw the diminishing returns for his effort.  He started working for Les Schwab, an independent tire chain throughout the Northwest, started by Les in the ‘50s.  The chain grew to over 200 stores and Greg was hired at the store on Franklin, Avenue making $8.50 per hour.  It was a significant cut in pay for him.  

I’d picked up a job at the local Golds gym while going to school.  I was scrambling to find a good job because it was approaching summer and I hadn’t heard back from the Forest Service about the Smokejumping job.  I was pretty pissed that I hadn’t heard back from them, and it was too late to apply for other firefighting jobs during the summer.

The end of May, my phone rings.  “Hello, this is Mike Fitzpatrick, are you the guy that stopped by the loft a couple of years ago to get a chute packed?”.

“Yes.”

“Well, we screwed up on your application and failed to give you Veterans Preference points, and we’d like to offer you a job, if you are still interested.”  

“Well, yea, I sure am.”

“Well, I hope you are in shape because we start on Monday.”  The call came in on Thursday.  I told him that I was ready, and he told me to be there at 0700 Monday morning, so I started Smokejumping for the Forest Service on June 1, 1992.  

Training to be a smokejumper was old hat for me.  I’d been done over 100 static line jumps while in the Navy and a couple of hundred free-fall jumps.  The Smokejumpers were the grandfathers of jumping, with more experience than most military units and the rough terrain jumping was some of the toughest you will ever find.  The Smokejumpers were the elite in the civilian world.  The female jumpers were nothing short of incredible.  One of the gals in our class was about 110 pounds soaking wet.  Tara defied the laws of nature.  She was as strong as an ox, like the other female jumpers, and could pack-out with the best of them.  I was amazed at how these gals could carry almost twice their weight and keep up with the guys.  

The guys that I jumped with were every bit as hard as the guys I worked with while in the Teams, or even harder.  One of my good friends was half Persian and half Japanese and was just as strong as any guy I’d been stationed with in the Navy.  He’d strap a cargo box to himself, which weighed about 75 pounds and do pull-ups.  Another guy, Phil was able to do one-arm pull-ups from a dead hang on the bar.  I was impressed with their physical ability. 

We did our “rookie” training on the East side of the Cascades in a small town called Winthrop, Washington, which was next to Twisp, Washington.  Ironically, Twisp was where my brother Greg was born before he was adopted by my dad.  Like  Steens Mountain, Winthrop is one of the prettiest places you will ever see.  The town looks like an old west town from the late 1800s, with hitching posts for the horses even.  But instead of horses, the roads are lined with BMW’s, Mercedes, and the occasional Maserati or Ferrari, that take the trip through the Olympic Peninsula from Seattle.  It’s a windy road through the mountains that is perfectly suited for a weekend trip from Seattle in the sports cars.  

Before I started jumping, I was down in San Diego during spring break and I met my first wife, Patty.  She and I hit it off immediately, love at first sight.  She was in San Diego with her friend, Angela, and they were scouting for a place to live.  The wanted to live the California lifestyle, and they’d flown in from a small town of Connecticut, Westbrook.  Before I learned that I was going to be a smokejumper, we’d made arrangements for her to fly out and visit me in Oregon.  I wanted to show her what Bend was like, instead, she came with me to Winthrop, with the approval of the command staff at the Smokejumper base.  We were staying in a bed and breakfast, and she’d hang out and explore Winthrop while I was going through training.  We had a blast, it was pretty much a fairy tale, other than having to work all day.  It was the perfect setting.   After about 10 days she had to go back to Connecticut, and we stayed in touch.  She was bright, articulate, and came from a great family.  Her mom and dad, along with her brothers are great people.  They’re the type that would give you the shirt off of their back and welcome you in their home anytime, and they eventually welcomed me into their home.   

When I started jumping, I made $8.46 per hour, .04 cents less than my brother was making at Les Schwab.  The bonus was, we got time-and-a-half for working overtime, and 1992 was a banner year for the smokejumpers.  We were flying all over the Northwest jumping fires. 

While I was jumping, Greg was working his way up the ranks in Les Schwab.  Dad taught us to work hard while growing up and the manager at Greg’s store on Franklin Avenue saw the potential Greg had.  He was immediately moved to what is called the 3rd man in the store, within 6 months of working there, meaning, he was trusted to somewhat run the store.  He was just a step below management.  Greg later shared with me that his boss pulled him into the office one day and asked what he saw himself doing in the company, and Greg said he’d planned on working hard for Les and was going to give it everything he had.  The manager liked his answer and pulled out his w-2 from the previous year.  He’d made $250,000 the year before as the Zone Manager of the stores in central Oregon.  He oversaw about 15 stores in the region.  Greg couldn’t believe that a guy changing tires was making a quarter of a million each year changing tires.  From that day forward, Greg gave Schwab everything he had.  He’s now the VP of Operations for Les Schwab.   

Smokejumping is dirty work.  The smokejumpers take great pride in what they do while on the fire-line.  We took pride in being the hardest workers in the Forest Service.  We were essentially invited to come to another Ranger District to fight their fires.  Our goal was to prevent the fires from turning into what is called a “complex fire," meaning that if they got big or complex, they would bring in an overhead team to try and put out the fire.  If we could prevent a complex fire, we were well worth the money.  But, on the downside, the fire crews that worked in the district where we were invited would lose money, as they wouldn’t get to go on the fires.  We had to be on our best behavior so we’d be invited back to their turf.   

If we got a rekindle, we were threatened with firing.  I never saw anyone get fired, but that was always in the back of your mind.  A rekindle is where the fire isn’t put out all the way, and it starts up again, causing another response to the same fire, doubling the cost of suppression.   Let’s just say, you never wanted your name on that list.  In order to prevent a rekindle, we would use our Pulaski's, a tool that had an ax on one end, and a hoe n the other to dig a line around the fire.  Once we got the fire encircled with the line, we would use the hoe end and “potato patch” then entire area, churning up the soil like a rototiller, mixing the dirt with the pine/fir needles and sticks to put them out and ensure there were no remaining embers.   

Once we completed that job, we would “cold trail” the entire area.  That’s when you got every crevice in your body filled with dirt.  This made rolling on the beach in the sand look like a picnic.  You covered from head-to-toe with fine soot from the fire as you crawled through it on your hands and knees and felt every square inch of the area that you’d just potato patched to ensure there wasn’t a single ember that would cause a rekindle.  

When it came to de-mobing, or exiting the district we were in, we would pack out, taking all the stuff we’d jumped in with.  The gear we used weighed about 80 pounds, and our day packs, or personal packs, weighed anywhere from 10-20 pounds.  When we jumped bigger fires, they would throw us chainsaws with gas.  And when someone got hung up in the trees, they’d throw us tree climbing gear so we could retrieve our parachutes.  You didn’t want to be the one that got hung up in the tress, as you’d be the one packing out the climbing gear, and that would add at least 20 pounds to your pack-out.  The packs we used weighed more than any of the packs I carried in the military.  It was damn hard work, but rewarding.  And like the teams, it was all a competition to see who could work the hardest.  

I prided myself in being one of the hardest workers in the unit.  But there were a few guys that were made to be Smokejumpers.  I’d try and outwork them, but it was nearly impossible.  We’d just keep going and going until someone finally asked for a break.   It felt good to put in a hard days work with these guys.  

Patty and I had a long-distance relationship while I was working.  We’d spend hours on the phone chatting until one of us would fall asleep.  The weather didn’t cooperate with us during the winter of 1992 and the spring of 1993.  In ‘92 the crews were jumping fires on the Mt. Hood National Forest in May. 

Patty and I ended up getting married on September 16, 1992, on the Washougal River, where I’d grown up.  She worked as a surgical assistant in the Operating Rooms and was just starting her career.  This was something that was prevalent on the East coast but didn’t appear to be that well recognized on the West coast.  She was one of the hardest workers around, and she expected the same from me.  She wasn’t able to land a job in her career field while we were living in Bend, so she picked up work in the service industry, as that was what she did while paying her way through school.  She worked as a waitress in a place called Marty’s seafood in Westbrook and she and her friend worked the floor of the restaurant like a well-choreographed ballet.  She would be disappointed if she didn’t make $300 per night working.  She and her friend would split the tips.  We talked about it over the phone for hours, and I had this idea of where she worked built up in my head.  When I saw the place a year later, I was shocked.  It was basically a fast-food seafood restaurant with paper cups and all.  She and her friend would serve at least 300 people a night.  She’d be exhausted after her shifts and crash as soon as she came in the door.  I was amazed at how efficient she and her friend worked.   And that is what she expected from me. 

Patty wasn’t about to let me smokejump in the summers and draw unemployment in the winters and be a ski bum.  She told me that I needed to get a damn job.  I was like WTF?  I have a job and work hard.  What she meant was that I needed to get off my ass and look to the future and get a career.  

Instead of going back to school in the fall of ‘92, I went to Portland, Oregon to talk with some guys that I spent time with while in Albuquerque, New Mexico at Kirtland Air Force Base.  When I was in the Navy, they would send the hospital corpsman to either 18 Delta, an Army medical course, or to the medical training at the ParaRescue school at Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque, NM.  Like BUD/s, PJ training is tough.  They sent 6 of us Corpsman from Coronado out to Kirtland to do the medical phase of PJ training.  We were all SEALs, while the PJ’s were still trainees like we were when in BUD/s.  Training with those guys was a blast.  

These guys were humble, silent professionals and to say they were great at their job was an understatement.  The instructors were incredible, like the BUD/s instructors, and took great pride in raising their pups to be full-fledged PJ’s.  The SEALs would never admit it, but these are the guys the SEALs would call when they got in a pinch.  Their combat medical training was awesome.  The career field was made up of entirely enlisted folks with no officers.  They took pride in that, but it ended up working to their detriment, as when you have a bunch of enlisted guys, you have no representation at the top.  And a Lieutenant still outranks a Command Master-chief.  They were well respected in the Air Force, but like any career field, if someone is jealous of what you are doing, or what you have, they use their power to take it away.    

In December of ‘92, I got a waiver to be released from inactive duty from the Navy and joined the PJ unit in Portland.  And like I said, I never applied myself in the academic side of things, so I was an E-4 when I got out of the Navy and kept that rank when I went into ParaRescue.  Unfortunately, I had to do the pipeline in ParaRescue all over again, which took about 2 years to complete.  I was able to do it as a reservist, taking the summers off to smokejump.

The snow was still flying in May of ‘93 and when I went back to the Redmond Air Base in June, there was nothing to do, other than project work.  We would do controlled burns and general clean-up work around the ranger district.  Eventually, that fall, the fires started touching off and we were able to get on some pretty big project fires doing rehab work after the fires, shoring up the slopes with downed logs to prevent mudslides from flowing into the streams when the rains eventually came during winter.  

When we got laid off that fall, Patty and I went to San Diego to live, something that she and her friend Angel always wanted to do.  We were only down there for about 6 months and I got my billet to start training and Patty went back to Connecticut to stay with her folks while I was on active duty in the pipeline.  I was all over the place during this time, going to Fairchild Air Force Base in Washington, Homestead in Florida, Fort Bragg, having to go through Army free-fall.  The only thing I didn’t have to retake was the dive training.  I guess they accepted the fact that I knew how to dive.  

After another year of jumping, ‘94, which was a better season than ‘93, I had to go on active duty again for a year to complete the entire school at Kirtland that the pups I’d trained with years earlier, went through.  

The ground phase, as they call it in PJ training is a yearlong.  In December of ‘94 Patty and I packed up our stuff and took off to Kirtland AFB so I could go through the last portion of the PJ pipeline.  The training was exactly one year long and I was slated to graduate at the end of December of 1995.  I’d gone through the first 9 months of land warfare, which was difficult, but my time as a SEAL and Smokejumper gave me the tools to make it through.

I started Paramedic training and the phone rang one day and it was pops.  He had some bad news.  He said that he just got back from the doctor and he had an aggressive form of cancer and the doc said that he only had a few weeks to live.  Talk about a buzz-kill.  It hit me like a ton of bricks. 

Dad and mom had scheduled a trip to Mexico for a couple of weeks and they were going to return and work out the next month or so that he had to live.  He said he felt OK, and it was just a lump under his arm that was a little uncomfortable.    

I went to the command staff and told them the news.  They started to make arrangements for me to fly back up to Portland to be with dad.  I waited for them to get back from their vacation and called to let them know I was going to be on my way up to see them.  “God Dammit BEAR, you are NOT going to come up here and be with me.  I taught you to follow through with your commitments and you are going to stay there and finish what you started.  That’s what I’ve taught you all these years!”  He said to me.  This wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order.  And when the old man gave orders like that, I followed them.  “You’re gonna thank me for this one day,” he said.  “You’re just too young to understand it right now.  And you’d better listen to your old man.” 

Mom got on the phone and gave me the bad news.  The small lump that was under his armpit was now the size of a softball.   She said that she got in touch with some folks that had an experimental drug that may be able to slow the growth of the tumor.  I guess having a cousin that was connected to Johnson and Johnson, Uncle Paige’s son, didn’t hurt either.  He was able to get into the study.  

My whole perspective on the PJ program and getting my paramedic changed.  I was pretty laissez faire about training up to that point, to tell the truth, I’d been through so much, I just wanted to be done with training, I’d been doing it my whole adult life up to this point.  So, I took my paramedic studies seriously.  The prize at the end of the tunnel for me was getting my Paramedic Certificate.  And like the training in Corps School in the Navy, you only got one shot at it, so I had to pass.  I studied like crazy for the final exam and practical’s and took the test.  I can’t recall, how long it took them to grade the test, I think it was a month before you got the results.  If you got a small envelope, you were fucked and if you got a big envelope, you passed.  I felt good about my performance during the exams.

Dad was surviving his bout with cancer and the experimental drug was working for him.  He and mom were able to come down to Albuquerque for my graduation, dad with all his hair falling out.  When he showed up, I was shocked at how much the chemo had taken out of him.  But at least he was still alive and able to see me make it through the graduation.  

After graduation, I went back up to Portland and started and active duty stint to complete my probation as a PJ, like I had to when I first got to SEAL Team One.  You had to complete all the requirements of the probation to become a full-fledged PJ.  

Half the guys in the PJ section were municipal firefighters, and that was the career field we were shooting for, to be honest.  When I got back to Portland, I’d gotten hired on full time at the Portland Air Base as an ART, or Air Reserve Technician.  This was a GS-9 wage job.  It meant that you were both a civilian and a reservist.  As a civilian, my job was to support the reservists that would come in and drill during the weekends and their mandatory two-week periods throughout the year.  There were 50 of us reservists and ten ART’s that supported the 304th ParaRescue Unit.   

As a PJ, you made pretty good money, and as an ART, you did well.  In fact, the ART’s made much more than the firefighters, but having a schedule where you worked 10 days on and 20 days off each month was something that you just can’t pass up.  I learned in the military that your time off is precious, and having 20 days off in the Northwest is like being on vacation.  

My career as an ART was the shortest in history.  When I got hired, there hadn’t been any hiring going on in the local fire departments for almost a decade.  When everyone got back from the Vietnam war, many of them picked up jobs as either firefighters or police officers.  In 1996, many of these guys were retirement age, and they started retiring, so all the local municipalities were starting to hire.  I tested for 3 departments, Portland, Camas, and Tualatin Valley Fire and Rescue.  

Like the SEALs, there is a lot of testosterone, dick-measuring, if you want to get down to brass tacks.  We were always horsing around, hazing people.  My favorite thing to do was to jump out of the helo’s and rodeo ride someone for a while when we exited the planes.  UFC was pretty big back then and we would watch the UFC battles on the big screen in the PJ section.    

After one of the fights, one of the guys from the Hill, the PJ equivalent of SEAL Team Six, wanted to see what I was made of.  He started pushing me around, trying to get position on me.  I immediately had flashbacks of when my dad slammed Hahm to the ground.  I needed to send a message, or I would be marked.  This guy was built like a fireplug.  I did exactly as my dad did 15 years earlier, lifting this guy as high as I could in the air and landing on him with all my weight and grinding his face into the carpet.  I guess the guys didn’t expect to see that.  After that, I imagine, I gained a little respect from the guys.  But like in the SEALs, the PJ’s had some guys that you would never want to meet in the back alley.  One guy, Tony, has to be all of 6’4” and a mountain of a man.  He ended up breaking bones when we tried to tie him up when he was getting married.  Then another guy, Doug, who was about my size came in and put him in a hold and subdued him.  It was the damndest thing I had ever seen, other than when Shawn Sheehy, a guy that weighed 165 pounds beat the hell out of 15 of his platoon mates in Subic Bay in the PI when they tried to tape him up and hang him from a davit for a birthday present. 

In the spring of ‘96, I’d come in from a jump and I heard commotion in the back of the section.  I asked our section leader, Don what was going on and he said that one of the guys was getting taped up in the back of the section because he was getting his reward, like Tony, for getting married.  Don was a professional and didn’t have time for the grab-ass that was going on in the PJ section.  

When I came around the corner, the guys were walking to the front of the section laughing about the hazing they had just done, so I wanted to go check and see their handy work.  When I turned the corner, I saw my team-mate taped from head-to-toe with a lock around his cock and balls and a carrot shoved up his ass.  NOT HERE TOO -  Was the first thing that came to my mind.  I felt like I had just been stabbed in the stomach, trying to hold back my puke.  I remember shaking as I removed the carrot and undid the combination lock around his junk.  The combination was written on his stomach so his wife could undo the lock when she showed up to the section.  That was the last thing I wanted her to see.  

That had a lasting impression on me, and like the harassment in the SEALs, that took the wind out of my sails about being a PJ, sad to say.  

Less than three months into my career as an ART, I was hired by Tualatin Valley Fire and Rescue.  The hiring was bitter-sweet, as Patty didn’t come back to Portland to be with me and stayed back in Albuquerque.  She’d landed a great job as a surgical technician for one of the most well respected oral surgeons in the nation.  She’d chosen her career over mine, and I can’t blame her at all.  We ended up getting an amicable divorce.  I think it might have cost us $350 at the most.  

To this day, I still have fond feelings for her.  I think we were just two ships passing in the night, not making the right connection at the right time.  When I was in Fort Bragg going through jump school, she was staying with her folks in Westbrook and I would go and stay with them during the weekends.  We’d also stop in Virginia and spend time with her Aunt, Uncle, Cousins, and Grandmother.  We are friends to this day and we relish the time we were able to spend with each other.  They are a wonderful family and I was fortunate to be a part of it.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5 - Through the Ranks - Tualatin Valley Fire and Rescue

 

            Right before getting hired at TVF&R, I got together with a lady I met four years earlier when I was going to Clackamas Community College.  She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen in my life, up to that point.  I asked her out on a date and things went incredibly well and we started dating.  

         I just finished up the divorce and was somewhat — reckless.  I guess I didn’t recognize it at the time, but the events at the PJ section rattled my cage more than I thought.  It was something that I had to shake off and the lady I’d reconnected with was a breath of fresh air.  She was smart, successful, driven, and articulate.  If I’d made a counterpart for myself, she would have been the mold.  She had the heart of a lion.  I’d been around some great women that were driven, like the ones I’d Smokejumped with, but this one was different.  She was amazing and we got along well and we never had a cross word to say to each other.  She was just what the doctor ordered and I could see myself spending the rest of my life with her.  The only problem, I felt broken, to a degree.  I thought she was way out of my league and I wasn’t good enough for her.  

         We were serious when I went into the recruit academy at TVF&R, at least I was.  Over the course of the next year we had a whirlwind romance that was driven with a passion I had never felt before.  

         The recruit academy was three months long and it was another three months of training for me.  I was getting tired of the training programs, but I sucked it up and put forth a pretty good effort.  I was lucky that I was in the class with two other guys that were PJ’s.  There were 16 of us in the class and at the time, TVF&R was of the mindset that everyone they hired was going to be great firefighters and they were going to do everything they could to make sure that everyone made it through training.  

         That was something that was foreign to Mark, Don, and me.  Not everyone is meant to be a PJ, SEAL, or firefighter.  But in the mid-90s, the HR department was of the mindset that they were to coddle their employees and make sure they had everything they needed to make it through training.   This was a totally foreign concept to the three of us.  We were used to weeding through the wheat and chaff.  In fact, Don and I met in 1988 when he was going through PJ school at Kirtland and I was going through the medical training there.   

         We tried to instill a work ethic on the other recruits, showing them how to operate in a professional manner.  When the hard work started, we would be the ones digging in the dirt, so to speak.  We worked hard over the next few months and made it through unscathed.  We had 9 months to go until we were off probation.  When you are on probation, they can fire you for cause whenever they want to as long as it is documented as to why they are letting you go.  Once you get off probation, you are protected by the full force of the local, the International Association of Firefighters Local 1660.  

         When I was nearing the end of probation, the lady that I had been dating told me that she didn’t want to see me anymore.  Fuck!  That crushed me and my world, which was being held together by her, had just come crashing down.  I don’t mean to make excuses, but my mind was still reeling from the events in the PJ section a year earlier.  

While I was going through probation, I was doing drill time at the section and it conjured up those old feelings whenever I would go out to the section.  And the section boss, the new one, had an ax to grind against the firefighters.  I can only assume he thought we had too much autonomy and weren’t “war ready” because us reservists that had jobs at the fire department weren’t taking the PJ section seriously.  Most of us used it to build camaraderie and to get away from the house and do fun shit, like grabbing every chute in the section, hopping on the helo’s, and jumping our brains out for a couple of days.  At least, that was my idea of fun.  The section leader didn’t take too kindly to our cavalier attitude. 

I was still land E-4 at and when I asked to get promoted, as I had time in grade and met all the requirements to promote, I was denied the promotion.  He was probably right, but it still stuck in my craw.  I’d had 10 years in the service at that time, and I was a little resentful.  It probably showed. 

When it came time for the weekend drills, he had made them mandatory for everyone to attend.  And if you didn’t attend, you had to have a note from God as to why you weren’t there.  This policy didn’t work for us firefighters for two main reasons.  The first, the likelihood that our drill weekend landed on our shift was 66 percent.  We worked a rotation schedule of 24 hours on and 48 hours off.  We would most likely have to take a day off in order to attend a drill, and we were only given 5 days off to by TVF&R to drill.  Secondly, most the guys had families to feed, and you made about four times as much working an overtime shift as you would drilling.  To me, it was a math problem and the policy was ridiculous.  I couldn’t wait until they ousted the guy, to be honest.  He’s not a bad guy, I think he had different priorities, and it reminded me about why I got out of the Navy, the inflexibility and rigidity of the military structure didn’t make sense to me.  Working for the fire department was more suited, as they actually let you think for yourself, and if you had an idea as to how to build a better mousetrap, they would listen.

After breaking up with the love of my life, I was reeling a bit and wasn’t taking my job at TVF&R as serious as I should have, but I wanted to promote through the ranks, so I signed up for a promotional exam to become a driver.  There were 22 of us that took the test.  When it came to my turn to take the test, I did miserably.  I finished dead last out of 22.

They’d thrown out the driving portion of the test because the vehicle they used, which had a 10-speed road-ranger transmission.  I was the second person to go, and did OK during the driving portion, and I knew the other people taking the test were not as good at driving as I was.  I had an advantage due to being around these rigs while on the farms and working for the BLM.  That portion got thrown out.

When it came to the pumping portion of the test, we had a 1983 Pierce Arrow as our pumping apparatus.  And if you know anything about testing, panic sets in, and people just start jamming shit around, and sometimes it gets broken.  I’d studied pretty hard for the test and like in the military, you practiced your emergency procedures time and time again.  This is what I did with the pumping portion of the test.

If there was a malfunction or the Power-Take-Off unit didn’t engage, you would have to go and reset the transmission by placing it in neutral, then reverse, then take it out of gear, re-engage the PTO and put it in gear.  

I was one of the last ones to go in our group.  The event was timed, and you had to do a change-over from pumping from tank water to the fire hydrant.  They started the clock and I put the pump in gear, and sure enough, after getting the shit pounded out of it by 16 other guys, the PTO didn’t engage.  I got back in and went through the emergency drill and finished completed the evolution.  

When I got my scores, I was incensed.  The evaluators from the training division wrote that I was trying to pump the fucking rig in reverse.  The funny thing was, none of the evaluators were engineers.  The training division was made up of people that came from other departments that weren’t trained as highly as our firefighters and TVF&R was a destination fire department.  I was on the wrong end of a flawed process.  

To add insult to injury, I appealed the evaluation, like a pissed off SEAL.  When I appealed, I told them that the questions on the test were wrong and that I got screwed because my strongest point, the driving portion got thrown out.  I didn’t even mention that I got screwed by the evaluators that saw me put the engine in reverse when I was doing the immediate action drill.  During the hearing, the chief of the training division was arguing the side of the training division and I was arguing my side of the story.  I felt my argument was right and he was on the opposite end.

This was the worst performance I’d ever had in a “competition”.  I was ashamed of myself.  And to compound it, I made another huge gaff, by asking them to take my time in service as a wild-land firefighter so I could get promoted before the other people on the list, as they didn’t have the time in grade.  I made a complete ass of myself within the first year and a half with the department.   How the fuck was I going to right that ship.

One thing that I had going for me was my background.  I was fortunate enough to get assigned to the Technical Rescue Team, which had a heavy squad that would respond throughout the district when there was a need to extricate someone from a vehicle.  We drilled incessantly on extrication and got pretty good at it.  Everyone had their positions and knew exactly what to do as soon as we rolled up to the scene.  

My lieutenant was Bob Armstrong, an exact replica of Charles Bronson.  He was one of the guys that got hired around the Vietnam war era.  He must have been born with Lieutenant bars on his shoulders.  Our fire chief would constantly approach him and encourage him to take the test to promote to chief, but Bob was an “L.T.” through and through and one of the most respected leaders in the department.  And the other folks at the TRT were the cream of the crop, so I was able to learn from the best fire-ground leaders, which gave me an advantage later on. 

I was going through the struggles from life’s events at the time, as mentioned before, my life was shattered after the loss of the love of my life, and the early symptoms of PTSD, which I didn’t realize were taking root on my psyche, cuz that mental stuff would never affect me, I was too strong, or so I thought.  Bob would cover for me and prop me up when I needed it. 

One day, we were going out to the administration building and we walked and there was a gal sitting at the front desk.  My jaw hit the floor, she was so beautiful.  Bob, Chris, and I couldn’t believe our eyes.  She was a model, right out of a magazine.  I was on a path of destruction, and didn’t give a shit if I got rejected, as it would affirm in my mind that I was a failure, so I asked her out.  To my complete shock, she said yes.  She would eventually become my second wife.  

Bob didn’t show up to work one day, and we got the horrible news that his daughter Kaci had been killed in a car accident on Farmington Road in the adjacent fire district.  And if you wanted to see what the model of an incredible girl, Kaci was it.  Bob had just bought her an old BMW, early 70s version, with the slanted front grill.  It fit Kaci perfectly.  She was into art and a straight A student at Valley Catholic School on Farmington Road in our district.  On her way to school, she missed a stop sign and was T-boned by another vehicle.  She died instantly.  I can’t imagine what Bob was going through.  He organized the funeral and everything that it involved and was back to work about a week and a half later. 

When he came back to work, I was extremely worried about him and his mental well-being and encouraged him to take time off, but that wasn’t Bob.  He d, “What the fuck do you want me to do, sit at home and think about it all day?”  We were all family at the fire station, and we lived together ⅓ of our lives.  He needed our support, and we gave it to him.  

Chris was our driver, and one of the most competent individuals around.  He knew what the tension settings on the head bolts on the engine block was, that’s how much he knew about fire apparatus.  And if you forgot where a piece of equipment was on the apparatus that we would use once every other year, he would know exactly where it was.  We worked well together and were pretty darn good at ripping apart cars.  

In the middle of the night, we get a call to go to Farmington Road to “assist police.”  I don’t recall the particulars of the report on the Mobile Data Terminal (computer), but it involved an accident.  When we rolled up to Farmington Road and 173rd, there was a 16-year-old kid in a BMW that had flipped his car multiple times, going like a bat out of hell and we had to extricate him out of the vehicle so the coroner could take his body.  

We pulled the top of the car off, and the kids face was torn up pretty good.  As we peeled the roof off, I saw a look in Bob’s face that I will never forget, it was the 1000-yard stare.  He was gone!  I took him over to the squad and sat him down and told him that Chris and I would handle it from there.  

As Bob was sitting there, I felt the pain exude from his body, right through mine as if I was being shot with 1000 arrows.  The pain was almost unbearable.  I am not sure if he felt the same pain as me, but it was crippling.  We never spoke a word on the way back to the station, nor did we ever speak of it again.  Bob retired, understandable a couple of years later.  

This same exact scenario played out six years later, when we were called to clean up the scene of an accident on McDonald Road in Tigard, Oregon.  McDonald two lane road through a residential area that has a speed limit of 35 mph.  There are residences on one side and commercial buildings dotted along the road.  A grandmother was bring her two year old granddaughter back to her parents’ home, and when she saw her mother on the other side of the street, she did a swim move, escaping from Grandma to run to her mother, and was hit by a car doing at least 35.  

I dug in and got to work, scrubbing the brain matter and blood off of the pavement, and it just wasn’t coming off.  I had to have it perfect!  I had to remove every speck of it.  My firefighter came over and grabbed me by the arm, grabbed the bristle broom from me, the same way I had done to Bob years earlier.  I am quite sure he saw the same look in my eyes that I saw in Bob’s.  He knew that my daughter was the same age as mine, and Dave, my firefighter, said, “I’ll take it from here” and walked me over and sat me down on the steps of the engine.  I never asked him if he felt the same thing I felt those years before.  And it was something that I rarely talked about, except on hunting trips with my buddy Kelly, who was on the call.  Those are the skeletons in our closet that we try and keep closed.   

About a year after my colossal failure on the engineers exam year, they were testing for Lieutenant.  And like the engineer’s test, about 25 people signed up to take the test.  It consisted of 5 different phases, a written, tactical, employee personnel problem, teaching a drill, and a community event.  

I had to redeem myself, so I pulled out our Standard Operating Guidelines and memorized the entire book, about 500 pages.  I practiced my tactics to command a fire, and read everything I could about handling employees.  In addition, I sat with my brother, Greg to get a perspective.  By this time, he had been promoted several times for Schwab and was the Zone Manager for the greater Seattle region.  He gave me Les Schwab’s book Pride in Performance; Keep it Going and told me to read it first and then come meet with him, which I did.  By this time, he was flying on the corporate jet from meeting to meeting.  I was grateful he took the time to coach me up.

I was first to go on the tactical, which was the hardest portion of the test and the one that would separate all of us.  The written, everyone was going to do well, and the other portions were not going to have a big spread, so I made this my bread and butter, learning from the best lieutenants and captains we had in the department.  I nailed it pretty good and ended up being second out of 18 of us that passed and was promoted as soon as I had the time in grade.  The guy that took first was my good friend, Aaron, who I went through the recruit academy with.  He beat me by .1 percent of a point.  He got a bonus because he had a fire science degree.  And like I said, I never took school that seriously, so I never got a degree.  He’d remind me that he beat me often, and I would just retort, “Ok, college boy.”  We’d always have a good laugh about it and I’d remind him that I never got my veterans preference points.  It didn’t matter because they promoted 7 or 8 of us right away once the list was established. 

When it came time to do my promotional interview, the chief that was in training had promoted to assistant chief.  After I went through the interview, I saw him in the back of the parking lot of our administration building and he congratulated me on doing well on the exam.    We hadn’t talked about the engineer’s test since the day I made an ass out of myself in the appeal.  I apologized to him about the way I acted during the hearing and acknowledged that I was a complete ass.  I told him about the evaluators, and how they didn’t recognize that I was going through the exact emergency action drill that was required to get the job done.  He smiled and said, you should have appealed it on those grounds, you would have won the appeal.  Live and learn, I guess.  I think I made an ally out of him for recognizing the errors of my ways. 

A year and a half after taking the L.T. exam, I took the Captains exam and did OK on it.  When it came my turn to do the interview, they asked a litany of questions about the fire department and what we were doing, current events, and where I saw myself in progressing the TVFR brand.  Essentially, they asked what every interviewer asks, why are you here, what can you do for us, and why should we pick you over someone else.  

They opened the interview up by asking, if you had anything to do over again in life, what would it be?   I shared with them my story of going through BUD/s and told them that I had performed at the highest level, giving it my all.  I told them that I was the third fastest runner in my class, the second fastest swim pair, and second at the obstacle course.  On average, I was at the top of the class and didn’t win the honor-man award.  The reason (I surmised) was because I didn’t hit the books and study my ass off because it wasn’t important to me at the time.  So I learned a valuable lesson, and in this career field, you are going to get someone that hits the books, studies the constantly changing threats we have against us in the form of more dangerous fires, unknown risks of chemicals we are constantly being exposed to, and the constantly changing governmental regulatory environment.  I guaranteed them that I was going to take the lesson that I learned when I was 18 going through BUD/s and apply it to the fire service due to the fact that every person’s life I come into contact with depends on it.   Evidently, they liked my answers and I was promoted to Captain. 

Another chink in my armor came when my oldest daughter was 8 years old.  We were returning from a training drill when we got a call at the Burger King less than ½ mile from our station.  We were right on top of the call, arriving within minutes of the call.  The call came in as a choking child. 

My driver, Scott and firefighter Lydia were both Paramedics.  Scott has been a paramedic in Hawaii, since the time Christ was a corporal, and Lydia was a very competent detail-oriented medic.  We had the right crew on the right scene at the right time.  Everything was in place to save this kid’s life.  The equipment came flying out of the kits and we had an IV started and had him intubated within a couple of minutes of arrival.  We loaded him on the gurney and headed for the hospital, which was less than 10 minutes away.  Lydia and I jumped in the ambulance with the paramedic on the ambulance and we shot to the hospital.  On the way, I was compressing the ambu bag and it was hard to squeeze.  I’d never felt anything like that before, but we kept going, and the kid kept crashing.  His heart sped up, then slowed down, signifying that he was going downhill.  

When we got to the hospital, probably within 10 or so minutes of the call being originated, we handed him over to the ER docs.  They brought out their equipment and started working on him and they were unable to save his life.  I felt horrible, as I was thinking that we did everything right and the call went well, from an operational standpoint.  We’d gone by the book and it didn’t work out.  I thought of Paige, my daughter that was the same age and my heart sank to the bottom of my chest.  What could I have done better?

During the quarterly continuing education class that we had to attend, they were going over critical calls.  One thing they training division did that set me back was bringing in the ER nurses and docs.  They would bring in pictures of every critical call that would come into the ER.  And they were gross.  For instance, one call we were on where a guy was trapped underneath the trailer of a semi-truck trailer that held a piece of heavy equipment, got smashed underneath it and it damn near tore his leg off and ripped his scrotum sack, with his testicle hanging out.  Those were the type of photos that they would show us.  And I’d been on some of the calls that they captured the photos from.  I’d seen enough gore in my days, and my nerves were getting a little raw.  

I stepped out into the hallway, and my good friend Kelly, another Captain was out in the hallway by the drinking fountain, milling around.  I asked him “What are you doing?”

“I’ve seen enough of that shit, he said.  I’ve been doing this long enough that I don’t need to see that gory shit anymore, I see enough of it during our calls.”  

We were both on the exact same page, so we were just escaping the horror show, leaving the other 60 or so people in the class to watch the horror movies.  Then our new assistant chief walks up to us and asks us what we were doing, and Kelly said, taking a break from that.  He proceeded to tell us that we were Captains and needed to set a good example and ordered us to go back in and watch the horror movie that was playing out on the big screen.  I never did like horror movies.  

Then it came time to discuss my critical call.  They went over the chart, of course, they black out the names as to who was on the call, but it takes everyone about 2 seconds to figure out who was on the call, because it was a critical call and it has the location of the call and the entire report written by us.  

They went over the entire call and I got to relive it again.  It was a complete surprise to me that they were going over my call where the eight-year-old died.  At the end of the review, they ask everyone what we could have done better.  Someone said that I should have known that the tube was plugged up with a piece of hamburger, and I should have pushed the tube farther into the lungs, as the tube was stuck in between the carina (the palace where the left and right lobes of the lungs separate) and tube.  They recommended I shove the tube in father, pushing the hamburger into one slide of the lung and then pulling it back up and inflating the cuff to ventilate the kid.  

Everyone was in agreement and said that is what they would and I should have known to do that.  I had 60 other paramedics armchair quarterbacking a call that I had been on where I was responsible for the death of the kid because I was too dumb to know any better.  I hadn’t seen that in any of the paramedic books, but I guess I “should have known better.”  These are the types of things that stick with me.  I hated being responsible for another person’s death because I wasn’t good enough, so the chinks in the armor started to wear it thin.  

May 10th, 2010, those chinks final broke through the armor plate and my back gave out.  I’d been running 100 miles an hour for 23 years, and going at that rate for that long on redline, my mental break-downs combined with the physical pounding my body had taken over the years, and the machine, running on redline for so long threw a valve right through the engine block.  I had to go into the shop to get fixed. 

And this is where my story begins.

    

Chapter 6 - The USO Fund - Policy Wonks

 

Luckily, I can use the age-old pattern of behavior of the CIA.  They refer to it as “plausible deniability.”  This is a principle that is coined off of another term CIA uses that is piggybacked off of another term they use to discredit their adversary, the term “conspiracy theory”.  And the purveyor of such theories is the proverbial “conspiracy theorist”.  I fit the bill.  So CIA needs little more than a chink in the armor of the “conspiracy theorist” to discredit the person.  This is pattern behavior perfected over years of PSYOPS, or psychological warfare against an adversary.

It’s been years since I was studying the USO Fund.  With my back jacked up, my head in a fog, and reeling from a divorce action that wasn’t going anywhere, I needed something to do with my mind to take it off of the pain and loneliness I was feeling.  Not to mention, suffering from repeated flashbacks and trying to cure myself with the magical potions given to me by the VA psychiatrist and psychologists.  I’d been through almost every medication they had in their quiver and then some.  And one thing a policy wonk wants to do is follow the rules.  I came by this honestly, as my dad always followed the rules.  There was no grey area in the L’Hommedieu household; it was black and white, either right or wrong.  And as a kid it felt better to do the wrong thing.  That’s human nature, we test the boundaries and determine our limits.  

To occupy my time, I wanted to learn why the price of oil spiked to nearly $150 per barrel.  I had taken $10,000 and shorted oil through a triple leveraged ETF.  I can’t recall the ticker symbol, but it was trading at nearly $1.00 per share and the price of oil was $145.  I knew that there was no way the economy or the price of oil could be sustained at that level.  It was impossible.  I was paying $4.00 per gallon of gas, and my wife was driving 2200 miles per month with a jeep that got 14 miles to the gallon.  The math was pretty simple.  That was $628 per month in gas alone, not to include the money I was spending going to work at 120 miles round trip ten times a month.  My Toyota Tacoma got 18/mpg, and I was spending another $275 per month just going to work.  That was $900 in fuel alone.  I kept trying to get my wife to curtail her driving but to no avail.  It was as if she was subverting me at every turn.  

I shorted the market at nearly the perfect time with my $10K.  The price of oil started to tank.  But it just so happened that the triple leveraged fund closed right when the price of oil hit $150 per barrel, wiping out my $10k investment.  I was like WTF?  I should have been rich.  The price crashed to $30 per barrel, equating to $120 per share.  I had 10k shares.  Someone made $1.2 million, but it sure the fuck wasn’t me.  I didn’t read the fine print on the ETF prospectus.  It said they could close the fund whenever they wanted, and they did.

It was around September of 2014 when I needed to put my head in a different place, so I started studying the oil markets to see what happened a decade earlier and why the price of oil spiked from $25 per barrel to $150 per.  If you recall, we were paying $1.00 per gallon for gas in 2000 only to have it spike to over $4.00 per gallon a few years later.  It was market manipulation at its finest, and I wanted to learn how, why, and who was behind it.  

The first place I started was with the USO Fund, which opened their doors in 2006.  It is now the largest oil ETF in the world run by Nicholas Gerber.  One thing that I’ve learned about the markets is to look at the people.  Who are the ones behind it?

When I dug into Gerber’s background, I found that he was holding himself out as a hedge fund manager trying to make a name for himself on Wall-Street.  That’s a pretty exclusive club.  Keep in mind that most of this is going off of memory and this is not intended to be a legal brief as to the exact “legal” particulars of the ETF industry and a recitation of the exact facts.  This is from a faded memory over five years ago.  

When I started digging into Gerber, I found that he was doing some pretty shady real estate deals in California.  Some of the transactions appeared to be run out of cut-outs to avoid taxes.  Also, his hedge fund Ameristock Corporation was not gaining any traction, so it looked like he was running scam after scam. 

All of a sudden, he got an “angel investor” in the form of Steven A. Cohen.  Holy shit, this is the guy that just got indicted for money laundering.  Cohen and his cohorts with SAC Capital management got nabbed for the largest insider trading scam in American history.  It looked like a marriage made in heaven, two crooks getting together, Nicholas Gerber and Steven Cohen.  And Cohen was the most prominent policy wonk on Wall-Street.  

Another thing that I was trained to look for was odd human behavior.  Cohen fit the bill to a T.  When the indictment came down, he threw a party at his ten-bedroom mansion in NY two days after the indictment.  He later palmed it off as a party for his daughter.  It struck me odd at the time he was just indicted and threw a party.  Why would someone do that?

I’d been combing through the SEC files of the USO Fund, looking at the financials and the companies associated with the fund.  It was perfect legalese.  It was written in such a manner that nobody could understand what the fuck they were saying in the prospectus and the filings.  But one thing was certain; there were a lot of companies associated with the USO Fund.  Another thing that was clear from the prospectus and the filings, the documents clearly state that Gerber had conflicts of interest with every company that he was a partner in that was associated with the USO Fund.

Another thing we were taught in the teams, if it does feel right, then something is wrong.  Go with your gut; your life may depend on it. 

After digging through and trying to understand thousands of pages on the prospectus, I started copying the associated companies with the USO Fund.  I would highlight them and then put them in a Google search.  I would pull up the company website and click on the links associated with the company, and the links would be dead.  They were fake web-sites.  The normal “about us” link would be dead, along with the other links on the site.  That was odd.  I would find that a supposed company that was linked to the largest oil ETF fund in the world was next to a Chinese take-out and a laundry-mat.  It made no sense, and I started to get suspicious.  

A friend of mine in the intel community let me know as early as 2000 told me how closely the government was monitoring us, which was confirmed by Edward Snowden when he dropped the Prism program about a year earlier.  He was a contractor that was monitoring certain websites that were visited by people in the IRS.  If someone clicked on certain pages on the IRS website, they would log and monitor who it was.  This obviously wasn’t being used for altruistic government purposes, it was a program using a cut-out to target specific people looking for ways to skirt the laws.  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that someone working for a non-government entity gathering intel on people under the guise of the federal government is doing some pretty nefarious shit, i.e., targeting people like Cohen.  

So these dead-links now had me in a panic, literally.  I had a billionaire that was working with a crook, and they were associated with money laundering, and I knew that these web-sites had the capability of being monitored.  And if I were a crook, I would want to know who was digging into my shit.  One of the things I noticed in the prospectus that gave me pause for concern were the “authorized dealers” in the USO Fund.  To find out who these “authorized dealers” were, you had to ask a company for it.  WOW.  Now that’s crooked.  That’s what we call a gate-keeper in the intel community.  Just like the websites, if someone called the company that wrote the prospectus to get the list of authorized dealers, that would raise a red flag...if these guys were crooked.

Another company was registered in Boston, Mass, in a high-rise.  If I recall, it was on the 18th floor of the building.  So, I called the building and asked the operator a question that didn’t point directly to what I was looking for.  The person was inquisitive, asking what I was asking for.  After a couple of minutes on the phone, I got the feeling I was being pumped for information, and then I asked straight out if the company was there and had an office on the 18th floor.  He said there was no such company.  I knew I was in deep shit by the way the conversation went.  

To protect myself I immediately sent the “gatekeeper” a request for them to send me the information on all their “authorized dealers.”  It was a red-flag to them, and I knew it.  They weren’t prepared for what I had done.  It was a frontal assault and I was gunning straight for them, and fuck them if they were monitoring me.   

Immediately after I sent in the request, I started posting stuff on my Facebook page stating, in essence, if anything happens to me, look into this crooked fucker, Nicholas Gerber.  In addition, I started outlining the evidence I had been gathering over the course of the previous months to make it clear to them that I was onto their game.  And this game was being played at the highest levels with some wealthy people.  

Some of the things I was pointing to were the shill game being played in the oil industry.  One thing I learned while at the fire department was to shuttle water to fires in rural areas.  My fire station was in a wealthy area in an unincorporated area south of Portland, Oregon.  These people had some huge homes, which required a high flow rate of water in case they caught fire and there were no hydrants around the homes.  In essence, if one of these homes caught fire, they were going to the ground, no matter what.  It’s a math problem.  But my goal was not only to meet the water flow rate required to meet the NFPA, or National Fire Protection Association minimum flow rate; my goal was to exceed it as a water officer delivering water to the fires.  It was something I took pride in and thought I did a pretty good job.  Only to be subverted at times from some overzealous fire commanders who would blow the entire wad in a couple of minutes.  They obviously didn’t understand this was nothing more than a dog and pony show, and if I could deliver them 300 gallons per minute, that exceeded the NFPA standard, and we would sit around the house fire, squirt water, and roast marshmallows.  

Applying that same water-flow formula to the oil tankers used the same principle, only on a much bigger scale.  It’s still a math problem.  When I was digging into the numbers, I realized that through the USO Fund, Gerber controlled about 22 days of US oil consumption.  He also was only allowed to carry 3,000 contracts of oil on the NYSE, as any single trader was only allowed to carry 3,000 contracts so he couldn’t manipulate the market.  But Gerber was able to carry 100,000 contracts of oil in violation of the Commodities Futures Trading Commission rules.  He was carrying over 33 times what would normally be allotted.  So, of course, I filed a FOIA request with the CFTC asking why, not only to find out the information but to mark the event in case I got scrubbed out by these crooks.

In order to supply the US with 16 million barrels of oil, it would take roughly 600 tankers to supply the United States with oil.  I built in a pretty good fudge factor between 10 and 15 percent to give myself some margin for error.  The US uses about 25 percent of the world's oil (yes, we are that big of pigs).  Extrapolating that on a global scale equates to needing 2,400 oil tankers to supply the globe.  There were 10,102 oil tankers in the fleet at the time of my calculations in 2015 with a capacity of 4.4 billion barrels of oil.  One thing I did learn from the CFTC and the DOT (the DOT oversees the global tanker fleet) FOIA requests, nobody in the US tracks the global tanker fleet and what their capacity is.  Essentially, there is no gas gauge on the global tanker fleet.  

What many people don’t know is that back in the turn of the 20th century when oil was being refined into kerosine, the byproduct was gasoline.  Gas was a hazardous material, and so they just dumped it in the rivers, lakes, and streams to dispose of it because they had no use for it.  Eventually, they converted the locomotives from steam to internal combustion engines, and you have the Rockefeller dynasty that lasts to this day.

The same thing is happening with the global tanker fleet and the airline industry.  They are not minimizing the use of oil; they are maximizing it.  Fourteen oil tankers emit the same amount of pollution as all 750 million cars on the road today.   Luckily, we are banning the straws in the US to combat this.  SMH.

The next logical place to look into these crooks is what bank they are using.  Insert Brown Brothers Harriman into the mix.  This is the Nazi bank that has ties to the Bush family and the Nazi war machine.  Prescot Bush was able to get them off of the Blacklist of banks so they could enjoy their ill-gotten gains from the Holocaust.  Now I have two crooks banking with the Nazi war machine I am up against...perfect.

When I read the indictment of Stephen Cohen, my jaw hit the floor.  Supposedly, he had been under investigation by the Attorney General of the Southern District of New York, Preet Bharara, the “Sheriff of Wall Street” for seven years.  Preet had just handed down the largest financial punishment in the history of mankind, fining Cohen $1.8 billion.  It was the fastest settlement in the history of the Department of Justice in a case like this.  

Not only was Preet the Sheriff of Wall Street, but he was also the purveyor of punishment.  He had just put Ross Ulbricht away for life plus eternity for running the Silk Road, a drug-dealing empire that used bitcoin to launder money and exchange drugs.  Preet is the proverbial bad-ass in the Just-us department.  He was educated at Yale with President Obama.  They must have been part of the choom gang together.  Preet is someone you would never trifle with.  He is one of the brightest, most articulate human beings you would ever meet unless you met his younger brother Vinnie.  

I met Vinnie in San Francisco about 15 years prior.  He was hanging out with Marc Lore, his business partner.  They were buying sports cards to make a market for trading sports card trading.  Their idea was to create a stock market for trading cards, which they theorized would increase or decrease in value depending on how the player performed on their respective field of play.  Money didn’t appear to be an obstacle for Lore and Vinnie.  They were paying a 20 percent premium on the cards so I sold as many cards as I had that they were willing to pay for.  I even did some arbitrage, picking up cards from people at the card shows and sending them Vinnie and Marc, getting the premium on the cards. 

I was probably the second largest collector of Kobe Bryant cards in the Nation.  I had almost every rookie card of Kobe’s except the ultra-rare ones that were entirely out of my price range.  I also picked up a bunch of Vince Carter cards, which I made the most profit off of while doing my arbitrage trading with Lore and Vinnie.  Price didn’t appear to be any object for them. 

Their stock market for cards was called thepit.com.  Eventually, the stock market was started.  When I looked at their trading platform and found that the “vig” or the spread between the bid and the ask was about 10 percent, it was ridiculous.  In addition to having the spread, they also wanted to profit from holding the cards, similar to gold holdings.  People could pay thepit.com to store their cards in a safe location, while at the same time increasing the volume at the exchange based on any popular player at the time.  In essence, just like gold and silver today, nobody knew how many cards thepit.com had in their “vault.”  

They only had to put up a picture of the card feigning as if they had the card of the player stored in their “vault.”  It was never about card collecting or volume on thepit.com; it was the entire market they were looking to create.  They were attempting to create an exchange with thepit.com and sell the exchange to an unwitting investor.  This is exactly like the exchange on the NYSE for an individual stock.  

Just as the exchange was rolled out, Vinnie and Marc realized (or they knew from the very beginning) their exchange was worthless, and they would never get the volume they needed from thepit.com for it to be a viable product.  So, like any good salesman, they needed to lay the exchange off to an unwitting investor and recoup their investment.  

They sold their exchange to a privately held company, as no publicly traded company would purchase this dog for the price they were asking.  Nobody would buy a product with diminishing returns, and thepit.com was not only worthless, but it was also hemorrhaging money, and the value of the company was less than zero.  The sports trading card market was falling like a stone.  I was of the impression (in the late 90s and early 00s) that drug dealers were using these sports trading cards to launder money.  It was pretty easy to pick up cards and exchange them on eBay or at card shows for cash.  And when cards were trading for $2500-$10000 apiece, it was an easy money laundering scheme.  Keep in mind, this was at the infancy of the internet and the end of the dot.com boom and bust.  

Vinnie and Marc sold thepit.com to Topps trading cards, which was an independently owned family business that had been in the family for over half a century.  At the same time, Topps was being sold to a hedge fund manager for roughly $200 million in a transaction that was hidden by the hedge fund with legitimate purchases of blue-chip stocks.  The haul for Vinnie and Marc was nearly $6 million in 2001.

With their haul from thepit.com of $6 million, minus their initial investment, Vinnie and Marc parlayed that into $500 million a few years later.  The dot.com bubble had reached its summit in early 2000, and the trough was in late 2002.  People were on to the dot.com scam.  Essentially, people were just buying a domain name on the internet, going public, then cashing out.  It was a money-printing machine for the policy wonks.  Vinnie and Marc had learned the ins and outs of the market and how much value there was to a single market for a product.

Undeterred by the dot.com boom and bust, Vinnie and Marc bought the domain name diapers.com, and they parlayed that into a sale to Jeff Bezos of Amazon for $500 million.  This is one of the greatest “investment” stories of all time.  

After reading the indictment of Steven Cohen, when my jaw hit the floor, I noted there was no mention of Stephen A Cohen, Anguilla, or SAC Anguilla.

An eerily similar example of human behavior happened in 1989 when the US invaded Panama to capture Noriega.  The invasion of Panama and the capturing of Noriega was nothing more than a ploy.  Noriega nationalized the banks, essentially stealing all the ill-gotten gains from crooked money launderers.  

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what transpired with the capture of Noriega, against every rule of war, and in contravention to the Geneva convention.  There was no war declared; it was a money grab.  Noriega knew who the principals were that were running the money-laundering scheme because he was in on it.  It was the money laundering bank of the drug cartels.  And we found out through the reporting of Gary Webb of the San Jose Mercury News who the biggest drug dealers in the world are....the US Central Intelligence Agency.

What Noriega didn’t bank on was the lack of response from the global community and NATO due to his plight.  It is against every rule, law, and principle for a Head of State to be overthrown by essentially “extraordinary rendition.” 

Extraordinary rendition, also called irregular rendition or forced rendition, is the government-sponsored abduction and extrajudicial transfer of a person from one country to another with the purpose of circumventing the former country's laws on interrogation, detention, and torture.  This is what the US did to Manuel Noriega.  

            So, when you have the CIA meeting with bankers, lawyers, drug dealers, money launderers, and a head of state, what else could be going on?  A drug deal with money laundering is the ONLY conclusion that one can reach.

            This is directly on point with the indictment of Steven Cohen.  He threw a party after he was indicted.  Obviously, he was happy for some reason.  And that reason was, IMHO, due to the fact that he “outsmarted” the “Sheriff of Wall Street” and his money laundering scheme wasn’t caught by the AG of the Southern District of New York.  And he wasn’t charged with a criminal indictment and only had to pay a civil fine of $1.8 billion, which was about 10 percent of his wealth.  He would make that up within a year's time with no problem.  

            Anguilla has the laxest banking regulations in the world.  They haven’t come up to the global standards, signing on to the anti-money laundering rules.  The national web-site of Anguilla touts how lax their trust regulations are.  They advertised that the trust regulations were “up to the imagination of the trustee.”  

            Now, we have the Nazi Bank of Brown Brothers Harriman, a guy that admits that he is conflicted in every aspect of his business relationships within the USO Funds, a gaggle of attorneys, the largest money launderer in the history of America, and what appeared to be a crooked AG in the SDNY, in Preet Bharara.  It looks to me as a recipe for disaster, because I was looking into all this shit.  Holy FUCK!

            In response, I needed to protect myself, so again, I updated my Facebook page with the picture of the “Sheriff of Wall Street” and said, if anything happens to me...look into this fucker.  And this was all prior to the time I was falsely arrested by a dirty cop, Rick Torres February 11, 2015.   To say I was a little nervous and under a little pressure would be an understatement (circa August-September of 2016).

At the same time, General Flynn had just been fired by President Obama as the DIA.  Obviously, I knew that I was being watched like a hawk now, and this had risen to the level of the POTUS.  And if Preet was dirty, Obama knew it, and he was in on the scam.  And I surmised that General Flynn was let go because he either objected to or would not be a party to Obama executing me.  

You can imagine my shock when Tim Holden, my former commanding officer at SEAL Team One, was killed in a “bike accident.”  This is a trademark of CIA, they make everything look like an “accident.”  They even train for it by jocking up their assassins in pads and a helmet to center-punch a vehicle to eliminate someone.  It’s their regular playbook they practice at The Farm. 

And if you know anything about Supreme Court Justice, Antonin Scalia, he was trying to rattle the cage similar to the way I was.  At the time this was going on Scalia was trying to bring light to the fact he was under surveillance.  And if I was under surveillance, like I was, I would reach out to the baddest motherfucker I could find.  And one of the baddest people I know is Tim Holden.  He was a giant among men and respected throughout the SEAL community.  You will not find a single person that worked for Tim that has an ill word to say about him.  

It was no surprise to me that Scalia was led to his ultimate demise months after the death of Tim Holden.  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Justice Scalia reached out to Tim to rally the troops to protect him.  I surmise that Tim started doing this and was caught by Obama and Preet using the mass surveillance program that they tried to use to overthrow President Trump.  

Triangulation is a term used in intelligence gathering.  It is a process used to eliminate all other possibilities to establish a certain degree of certainty of a piece of intelligence.  In any theory, when you cannot verify the exact facts of your intelligence, you can reasonably infer to a high degree of certainty that your theory is correct by using the triangulation.

My theory on the money-laundering scheme came to roost over five years after posting the “warning” to people that, “the Sheriff of Wall Street” was trying to kill me. 

The price of oil was nearly $65 at the beginning of 2020.  At the time, the USO Fund was carrying about 124,000 contracts of oil on the NYSE.  A $1 price move in the price of oil equates to $1000 per contract, and when the price of oil plunged to $15 per barrel recently, the private Nazi Bank of Brown Brothers and Harriman laid off their liability to a publicly traded company, the Bank of New York Mellon at the end of Q1 of 2020.  That equated to a $6.2 billion loss.  Of course, like any good CIA cut-out, the private Nazi Bank wasn’t going to take the loss.  Instead, like the sale of thepit.com, a private entity was not going to take the loss (Topps).  Instead, it is spread out among the unwitting general public.  The state pension funds will pick up the tab, and the Nazi Bank is off the hook for the $6.2 billion loss.  And nobody is the wiser.

It’s pretty easy to depict what is going on.  The ETF industry was approximately $450 billion when Gerber started the money laundering scheme.  The ETF industry has grown to $5.5 trillion over the past 15 years due to the fact that they are a SRO or “Self-Regulated Organization.”  In other words, they are the foxes guarding the hen-house.  They submit their documents to the SEC knowing that these SRO’s will never come under scrutiny.  And they swear that everything they are doing is above board; because they admitted to their conflicts of interest in their prospectus and the American citizenry is too stupid to understand what is going on.  Or, in the case of the USO Fund, they write the prospectus at a level that nobody can understand.  

Now we have the ETF lining up at the fed window getting cash from bonds the Federal Reserve sells to the same unwitting retirement funds.  In order to combat this and hide what is going on, the US Congress just passed bills equating to nearly $5 trillion to offset the losses in the ETF industry.  Now, a prominent economist says that to offset these losses, the Federal Reserve is going to have to print another $5 trillion just to stabilize the market.  

The vig for the Federal Reserve appears to be 3 percent.   So, the Fed just made $150 billion and stands to make another $150 billion if the second tranche goes through.  And the next in line to get their money for selling the bonds to unwitting state retirement funds are the commercial banks like JPM Chase and Goldman Sachs.  Not bad for a few months' work.  Who are the bankers that own the Fed?  I want in! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7 - THROWN A BONE

 

While I was investigating the Preet the Cheat saga, my buddy Warren asked me to go fishing.  We went out in his boat on the Columbia River in the spring of 2014.  I was talking about the USO Fund and connecting the dots with him and hadn’t gotten quite as far as I outlined in the previous chapter, but headway was being made into the investigation into Cohen and Gerber.  I knew they were dirty but hadn’t connected all the dots to Preet yet.

The news of the day was the missing plane, MH370.  We were discussing the missing plane and Warren asked me how I would go about doing an investigation.  I described the way that we would do a dive search, starting with what is known and then work outward from there.  You start out with what is possible and eliminate the impossible.  The limiting factor being the fuel in the aircraft and the furthest distance it could travel and eliminate where it could not be.  It’s simple enough.

Warren said, “This is the greatest hijacking in the history of hijackings”.  

“Whoa, you're forgetting DB Cooper” I retorted.  

Warren knew the name but didn’t know the particulars of the case, so I described what happened with my nascent understanding of the hijacking.  In a nutshell, I described how this guy named Dan Cooper took a plane from Portland, Oregon to Seattle, and on the way, he showed the stewardess a bomb that was in a briefcase and said he wanted $200,000 and a parachute or he was going to blow up the plane.  “And this happened right in our back-yard,” I told him.  The plane actually flew right over Portland Oregon on the way to Reno, Nevada where it was going to refuel and head down to Mexico City.  “And that’s the greatest hijacking mystery of all time” I told him.

 All of a sudden, a light went on in my head.  If it were me, that’s exactly where I would have jumped.  I can’t recall if I told Warren that at the time, but it hit me like a brick.  I’d jumped all over the Northwest as a Smokejumper and there’s no way in Hell I’d jump out of a plane in the middle of the night with a low cloud cover into the trees.  

It harkened me back to a time when I was in the parachute loft in Redmond, Oregon and our loft foreman, Tony came in with a shit eating grin on his face chuckling.  “Boy, you military boys have more balls than brains'' he said.  

“What’d we do this time Tone?” 

“I just got a call from the guys in Fort Lewis and they want us to teach them to jump into the trees in the middle of the night”.  We both had a good laugh about that one.  

What people don’t realize is the danger that is involved in jumping into the trees, let along jumping into the trees at night in November with wind and rain and a low cloud cover.  It’d be darker than the inside of a cow, pure suicide.  Nobody would do it.  And DB Cooper supposedly had penny loafers on and a suit and tie and he supposedly jumped into the trees on the West side of the Cascade Mountain Range.  And this was before Mount St. Helens erupted in 1980.  The hijacking took place November 24, 1971, 8 years to the day after Lee Harvey Oswald was killed by Jack Ruby.  

            The hazards of jumping into the trees are numerous.  As a smokejumper, we used a full Kevlar suit with padding all around, a motorcycle helmet with a steel face-mask, and heavy boots and gloves.  This wasn’t the way DB Cooper was dressed!  He was dressed for a business meeting with brief-case in tow.  And a brief-case isn’t going to hold anything that would resemble jumping into the trees.  Even in a good day, some of the best jumpers I know have broken legs, got impaled by branches in the trees, got hung up in trees and hanged themselves or got caught up in the shroud lines while trying to do a let-down, or basically repelling out of the tree using ½ inch tubular nylon webbing that we carried in a pouch on our leg.  When we jumped on the “west side” as we referred to the West side of the Cascades, we had to change our let-down line from 180 feet to 220 feet.  It was a lot bulkier and weighed a lot.  And when you have to pack out after a jump, you’re carrying a minimum of 80 pounds of equipment out, so ounces matter.

And Dan Cooper wasn’t on a suicide mission.  Dan Cooper was me.  Only a generation before me.  This was a meticulously planned caper.

When I got home from fishing, I started investigating the DB Cooper case at the same time I was looking into the USO Fund.  Gerber could wait, DB Cooper's parachute was within my grasp and it was worth a minimum of $1 million, possibly even more.  And I could find it.  I pulled out the map and the flightpath.  The flight path the plane took from Seattle to Portland is called vector 23.  It is the veritable highway in the sky that planes take in order to keep them from crashing into each other.  And vector 23 took the plane right over the West side of the Portland airport. 

Where vector 23 crossed the Columbia was a shit drop zone (DZ).  The river was narrow, the I-5 Bridge was on the flightpath, and it was right in the middle of a fairly densely populated area.  However, if you took vector 23 and extended the leg another 2 minutes, you would cross the Columbia near Camas, Washington, east of the normal route on vector 23.  Government Island was right in the middle of the river and the south side of the river was mainly low-lying undeveloped marsh land where the Sandy River flows into the Columbia.  There was no infrastructure there and there were no people.  It was the perfect DZ.  It’s exactly where I would have chosen.  Even if you somehow landed in the deciduous trees on Government Island, it would be much easier to shimmy down the 60-foot trees than in the 220 foot tall Douglas Fir trees near Arial, Washington where the main search took place for Cooper for 9 years.  

After the explosion of Mount St. Helen’s, people realized how big the trees were.  The salvage logging that took place pulled out trees that were 6-8 foot in diameter, and they were all of 220 feet tall old growth Douglas Fir.  These were the money makers for the Birkenfeld’s, a local timber hauler in Stevenson, Washington.  They made millions salvage logging the remnants of the St. Helens eruption.   

The investigation revealed that the bills found on Teena Bar by Brian Ingram in February of 1980, just prior to the eruption of Mount St. Helens had no growth or spores on them.  This made sense to me.  If DB Cooper was a frogman he would have put the bills in a dry bag prior to jumping.  Obviously, he couldn’t put the bills in a dry bag that he brought on the plane with him in a brief-case.  He’d have to pre-stage the dry bag.  He knew his route and he had practiced this time and again, like we did in preparing for an operation.  And if it were me, I would have been wearing a 3-2-1 suit (a wetsuit that was 3 mm on the torso and tapered down to 1 mm on the legs) underneath my suit and when it came time to do the caper, I’d strip off and jock up with my parachute and jump out.  Simple enough.  

But something had to have gone horribly wrong during the jump.  But what?  The only thing I could think of was his exit from the plane.  He knew a lot about the Boeing 727 airplane, as he’d used them before.  The CIA and the frogmen that were in Laos during the Vietnam war were using Air America as their transportation for running drugs out of the Golden Triangle during Nam.  And Air America was nothing more than a CIA cut-out.  The CIA has been in the drug business for...as long as there has been a drug running.  They were the largest purveyors of LSD in the 60s and 70s, and it grew from there.  Even JFK got into using LSD with his paramour, Mary Meyers.  

The 727s the CIA used had slicks down the ramp, not stairs.  They would just slide their bundles of drugs and whatever supplies they needed to deliver down the ramp.  However, NW Orient flight 305s 727 had stairs.  My theory fit like a glove.  Cooper wanted the plane to take off from Seattle with the stairs down, but the pilot and control at the airline said it wasn’t safe, so Cooper relented and let them take off without the stairs down, as he knew they could be opened in flight.  When he tried to open them in flight, he had difficulty getting the stairs down, so had to call to the cabin to have them decrease altitude so he could open the stairs.  This didn’t make sense, but it fit with my theory at the time.  

I pictured myself planning and going through the operation.  Cooper tore apart the parachutes and cut the shroud lines of one of the chutes to tie something to him.  That is something that someone that had experience doing, an experienced parachute rigger or skydiver.  He was able to pack his own chute and felt comfortable tearing it apart.  Then there was the “pressure bump” around Arial, Washington, which was the search area where every police agency in the world diverged immediately after the hijacking.  The pilots stated they felt the “pressure bump” when the doors opened and he jumped out.  That’s exactly what I would have done.  I would have opened the door and pulled the rip-cord of the parachute, which would have sucked the chute out, harness and all at 170 knots.  It would have sucked all the air right out of the back of the plane and caused the ears of the pilots pop, like they described when they were interviewed by the FBI.  

This was a perfect diversion.  And it was backed up by the account of the pilots and crew.  I tried to verify this by using the data from the black box and the transcripts of the cockpit recording...but they weren’t in evidence.  The black box was missing and there were no official transcripts of the cockpit voice recorders.  Not only that, the 8 Raleigh cigarette butts were gone.  They were lost sometime during the 40 plus year investigation.  That’s plausible.  But how likely is it that the most acclaimed law enforcement agency (the FBI) in the world lost the most significant pieces of evidence in the highest profile hijacking ever? Undeterred, I pressed on with my theory, investigation be damned.  

There was one huge problem I noticed with the lone skyjacker theory.  How would you know when to exit?  Cooper told the pilot to go 170 knots, which made sense.  It was too fast for a helo and too slow for the jets that would be scrambled to follow him that had a stall speed of 300 knots.  But there was no way to determine using the formula of distance, rate and time to indicate where you would exit the aircraft.  There was no way of knowing what the wind direction was, so your exit point would be a SWAG, or silly wild ass guess.   And you wouldn't go to this much trouble on a guess.  He had to be told when to exit, so the pilot must have been in on it.

The pressure pump at Ariel fit my theory to a T.  The pressure pump, or when the door was opened, was exactly 6 minutes flight time from the Columbia River.  And every jump I have ever done in the military has a 6-minute warning.  Usually, a light comes on in the aircraft configured for jumping and the jump-master screams “six minutes” and everyone repeats it so we all know we're on the final leg of the jump run.  Reverse engineering this caper was fitting my theory to a T.  

With an exit point of 10,000 feet, Cooper would have been under canopy for about 10 minutes.  The wind direction was blowing 14-18 knots at the Portland Airport to the northeast.  Plugging in the “circle search” method, my calculations included the Washougal River.  I lived 14 miles up the Washougal River.  Was this fate?  Did DB Cooper actually try to land in the Columbia and when he exited, he got blown NE to the Washougal River drainage right by my house?  This was not only plausible, it was backed up by the investigation. 

My theory was confirmed when I read Ralph Himmelsbach’s book NORJAK, the code-name given to the DB Cooper investigation.  Himmelsbach, a renowned FBI agent investigating the case confirmed my theory in black and white.  It was in his book and my theory was making sense.  In Himmelsbach’s book he states that the first place he would look is in the Washougal River drainage.  This was the verification I needed to triple-check my work.  

My theory, Cooper landed in the trees along the banks of the Washougal and got hung up.  Over the course of years, the soil eroded and the tree he landed in eventually fell due to the erosion and the high winds and the dry bag floated downriver, got washed up on Teena Bar and the rest of the bills were gone.  Now, not only did I have the chute, my theory would take me directly to the body of DB Cooper.  And I was going to find him and solve the greatest hijacking in history...or so I thought.  

I couldn’t just let the USO Fund investigation sit idle.  If I had stirred up a hornets nest, surely, I would be hunted by these folks.  Billionaires have enough money to make you disappear.  And I had just made the link to Preet.  I’d followed the Ross Ulbricht case and something didn’t seem right, so I started investigating the background of Preet.  What I found fit my theory even better that Preet was dirty.  

Even the name of the site, “The Silk Road” fit my theory.  Bharara grew up on the border of Pakistan and India and his family was essentially exiled because there was a turf war between the Muslim population and the Sikh’s (going off memory).  His family was essentially exiled from the country where he lived and he migrated to America where he was welcomed with open arms and given a free ride to the Ivy League schools.  He was part of the “New World Order” and the secret society within Yale, Skull and Bones.     

Preet was partnered with Ross Ulbricht and when he happened onto the USO money laundering scheme, he no longer needed Ulbricht, so he put him away for life plus eternity.  The case against Ulbricht was riddled with so much malfeasance, it could not have been anything else.  The investigating officers that testified against Ulbricht were laundering money while they were prosecuting Ulbricht.  After they testified against Ross, they were both given prison sentence for money laundering and the jury was never allowed to hear this.  The case was dirty from front to back.  I smelled a rat.  

By this time, I knew the sites I was hitting, if being tracked could put me in real danger.  If I was right, I could expose a billionaire, Steven Cohen, and his crooked cohort Nick Gerber, along with the “Sheriff of Wall Street," Preet.  

But I was on the greatest hunt for the most elusive hijacker in history, and if I found him, this would bring attention to my plight and I could parlay that into some attention to expose the USO money laundering scheme.  I was that confident I was going to find DB Cooper’s chute.  

The best thing I could think of to cover the greatest amount of area was to get a drone so I could fly over and record the areas where I thought he could be.  And the side drainages on the Washougal River are steeper than a cow’s face.  It was the perfect scenario for finding my man.  So I went to Beaverton, Oregon to the drone shop to pick up the newest drone made by DJI called the Inspire.  It is an incredible feat of technology. 

That’s when I picked them up.  I thought I saw someone following me.  My first thought, it can’t be.  I picked up the drone and when I left the drone shop, I took a circuitous route through Beaverton, my old stomping grounds where I was stationed as a firefighter.  I didn’t want to lose my tail, I wanted to confirm I was being followed.  There was only one person in the car, so I wasn’t alarmed.  There are only a handful of people that I wouldn’t want to meet in a back alley, two of them are my brothers, a couple of guys I was stationed with in the teams, including Shawn Shehee, RIP brother, my BUD/s classmate Kevin, and Mark Schultz, a former olympic gold medal wrestler.  (Of course, the fighters of today are heads and tails above what I was trained for, but this wasn’t a concern.)  If this guy was going to kill me, he’d have to shoot me in the face, or there would be one hell of a scene.  

I took my circular route, and of course, like a dog, this guy followed me.  I was under surveillance.  Just fucking great.  He followed me for a while and then dropped off.  It was odd, and I was still thinking that my mind was playing tricks on me.  Could this be the DB Cooper thing?  Or was it Preet?  The surveillance seemed so shoddy and overt I couldn’t quite put two and two together.   I wasn’t too worried, other than I knew the game was on, and I needed to protect myself.  And, I wanted to eliminate my possibilities as to who it was and focus on the target that was after me.  My theory about who may have been following me was either my wife, who had me under surveillance for some ridiculous reason, or it was Preet.  With the shoddy tail, I figured it was someone my wife hired to follow me.  But I needed to eliminate all other possibilities.    

When I got back to the house, I set up the drone and downloaded the program.  I asked my brother, Will, to be my wingman and learn how to use the drone.  I’d used them before and they were simple to use.  On the maiden voyage of the Inspire Will fired it up and flew it directly into the house, ruining a $4000 drone.  The flight lasted less than 2 seconds.  Undeterred, I went back and tried to buy another one.  Two is one, and one is none.  I figured while I was fixing the drone I could use the other one but they were out of the Inspire, so I bought a lower model version that wasn’t as capable as the Inspire.  I wasn’t too concerned about the crashed drone but was a little shaken about his lack of attention to detail.  I was used to things going wrong, it happened all the time in the career fields I chose.  Things never worked out as planned and you have to plan for the unexpected.

In order to eliminate the possibility it was Preet the Cheat, May 28th, 2015, I sent an email to the FBI laying out my theory that DB Cooper was a frogman and that I had more information about it and asked them to contact me if they wanted to know more.  It was a sort of cryptic message that would entice them to look into it.  And when they contacted me I could broach my theory about the USO Fund money laundering scheme, dropping the turd in the pocket of the FBI and I’d have all my bases covered.

I was flying solo on this deal most of the time because my brother and Warren were working full time.  However, my itch needed scratching, so I asked Warren to meet me in a drainage on the Washougal River.  Our plan was for him to come from the bottom of the drainage and I would come in from the top of the drainage and we would meet in the middle to scout out the area we would be surveying with the drone.  I didn’t take the drone with me on the trip up to the headwaters of this drainage, but I packed some extra for the ordeal, just in case.  If you get caught up in the mountains in early spring (June 4) it can get a little nasty if you have to spend the night.

I packed my regular day pack with some extras and left the house.  And that is where we started this story, taking off from my house in Stevenson, only to be followed by a dark SUV and a pick-up truck.  The game was on.  And I had just struck out and was at the bottom of the 9th inning with one strike left down by 4 runs.  The Red Socks had better odds of winning the World Series, down 3 games to 0 facing the Yankees in 2004.  And this was just the beginning. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8 – The Hunt is on.

In 2011, things in our household started to become hectic.  I believe it was October and Shelane said that she didn’t feel safe and needed something for protection.  I didn’t understand why, as she already had a Glock 9 mm pistol.  I had a hunting rifle and a Browning High Power 9 mm that wasn’t operational, so I thought the best thing to do was get a Remington Model 870 pump-action shotgun.  We used these in the Teams and it’s the best home defense gun around. 

When we got home, I showed her how to load and operate the shotgun, placing a slug every third round.  I was concerned about her ability to handle firearms, due to the fact that she checked her 9 mm to see if there was a round in the chamber by placing it to the ground and pulling the trigger.  I wasn’t OK with that, so showed her how to check the weapons.  She was never one to take advice on how to do things and I wanted to make sure that she could handle them around the girls.  By this time, we’d been living on the Washougal River for over 13 years, so I thought it was odd that all of a sudden, she thought she needed something more for protection.

In her previous marriage, she told me that her husband, David Judah, would beat and torture her, and at times play Russian Roulette with her, holding a gun to her head and pulling the trigger while telling her that he would kill her if she ever left.  

Up to this point in our marriage, none of the stuff that she told me was adding up.  She was abusive and combative toward me, and when we would get into fights, she would start beating on me, which was a first for me.  I’d never been in an abusive relationship before, so I thought that she must have been the primary aggressor in her abusive relationship with her ex-husband like she was in our relationship.

When she left her ex-husband, she fled the home while he was at work, loading up her stuff.  She had her dad and her brother at her house in Oregon City and they were helping her load her stuff when he suddenly showed up and went ballistic on her.  This resulted in her getting a restraining order, alleging that he beat her regularly, and citing all the abuse that had taken place during their marriage. 

Shortly after getting away from him, she got a job at Tualatin Valley Fire and Rescue where we met. While we were dating, she was going through a divorce with him and when she went to court, the judge gave her ex-husband everything, including the little dog, Cas, a toy-fox-terrier, which was a gift to her from his sister.  I found that odd, as he sounded like a real piece of work.  She even had police reports where he was caught beating the hell out of her on a main road in Clackamas, Oregon, where she was attempting to escape his clutches and he threw her in the back of the pickup truck while people were watching.  He was never prosecuted for beating her up, which I thought was odd.

About a year and a half after we started dating, she got pregnant and we got married in 1998.

We moved into a garage with a two-bedroom apartment above it that I built on the Washougal River.  This was a piece of property that my dad gave me in 1996 and I started building on it when I got hired at TVFR.  

The first part of the marriage was very rocky.  Shelane was physically and emotionally abusive.  After she had Paige, she had severe PTSD and postpartum depression.  When we argued, she would get agitated and suddenly start shaking and then all of a sudden, she would be catatonic.  Her eyes would be open, but nobody was home.  There was something seriously wrong, so we went to a psychiatrist and she was diagnosed with psychomotor seizures.  I recall the psychiatrist telling Shelane that she thought that I may have bipolar depression.  I thought that was the oddest thing, as I wasn’t her patient, had been caring for Shelane and Paige, while balancing a work schedule of 24 on and 48 off, and it was very concerning to have a wife that would all of a sudden be catatonic.  This went on for months and I burned through all the leave that I had taking care of her and Paige.

After about a year, I was going to take Paige to see my folks in Stevenson, about ½ hour away, and Shelane was adamant that I wasn’t going to take her and she didn’t want to go.  However, I didn’t listen and loaded up a diaper bag with formula and grabbed Paige and was headed out the door when Shelane attacked me.  She was screaming and swinging wildly, not caring what she hit, whether it was me or Paige.  

After a few moments of deflecting blows, while holding Paige away from being struck by her wild blows, I ended up backhanding her to knock her off of me and she fell to the ground.  I immediately went into the bathroom and dialed 911.  

I had already hired a divorce attorney prior to this, and called her to get the ball rolling faster.  When the police showed up, they asked if I hit Shelane, and I lied to them and said that I hadn’t hit her, so I was arrested for the incident and charged with DV/Harassment.  The arresting officer was Mark Mercer (he might come up later).

The divorce attorney that I had was going to act as my defense attorney, but I immediately recognized that she wasn’t the right person for the job.  She was a new attorney, and my entire career was hanging in the balance, so I hired the best defense attorney in the area, David McDonald.  

He interviewed my wife and she stated everything as it happened, however, she said that she called 911.  She wasn’t the one that called 911, I was.  And when I was on the phone with the 911 operator, she ended up getting on the line and was screaming as if she was being attacked that very second, and I was locked in the bathroom with Paige.  When she did this, I immediately knew that she had been through this routine before, and it made me question her entire story about David Judah being the abusive one in the relationship.

After my defense attorney interviewed Shelane, he called my ex-wife, who was married to the oral surgeon that she started working for when we were together in Albuquerque, NM when I was going through ParaRescue training and asked her about our relationship and whether it was abusive.  She obviously told him that it wasn’t abusive at all, and let him know that the reason we split up was because of the affair she had with the oral surgeon.  He asked if she would be willing to testify at a trial on my behalf, and she agreed to do it and flew out to testify at the trial.

David didn’t go through any delays and the trial was scheduled quickly.  When the day came for trial, he had Shelane’s statement and my ex-wife as the main witness for trial.  He handed the prosecuting attorney the copy of the interview report that and said that we were ready to go to trial and the prosecutor immediately dismissed the case and that was the end of it.  However, Shelane would use this “arrest” as a bludgeoning tool to take me to task many times in the future, telling people that I had been arrested for domestic violence before. 

Instead of getting a divorce, I tried to make things work out…for our daughter.  This is the worst mistake I ever made!  I actually left her shortly after this and was intent on leaving her and I hooked up with a person that I’d met while at the fire department.  Then, something happened that I will never forget, my dad told me to go back with her.  He was yelling at me with distain that he’d used in my formative years in order to get me to comply. It was almost like an order rather than a suggestion, so I capitulated and went back to her. 

A couple years later I applied for a permit to build a second house on the property on the Washougal River.  However, my neighbor, Dennis Lane, who was an attorney in Vancouver, Washington protested it and we ended up going through a lawsuit for over a decade, from 2002 through 2012.

We won the lawsuit and were allowed to build, as he was protesting the septic system saying it violated a restrictive covenant from 1938.  However, the health department approved the new style of aerobic treatment unit we installed and since it was up to code, there was no violation of the covenant.  It had outlived its usefulness, i.e., technological advances deemed the restriction in the covenant obsolete.

What I had in mind was to build the biggest house that I could on the property for resale value.  In addition, I deemed that I was building my own prison, as Shelane was the oppressive.  She made me quit my gym membership, and if I did not get home immediately after work, I would be grilled and berated by her.  In addition, every friend that I had, along with my family, were all pieces of shit…according to her.  This is the classic narcissistic type of abuse.

The house we planned to build was 5800 square feet.  It was going to be our compound with a mother-in-law quarters, the 1000 sq. ft. garage with the living space above it and the new house.  

I’d reached out to the contractor that I had sign on the note to build the first house and asked him if he would help me build the new house, which he agreed to do.  When I told him the budget for the house, almost $400,000, he said that he would build it and I was excited to have him build the house, as he was one of the best builders in Skamania County.  We inked the contract, but ran headlong into the lawsuit that was filed by neighbor, Dennis Lane.

Dave Prosser, the builder was a shirt-tail relative of Dennis Lane, the lawyer that sued me, and he told me that Dennis was going to sue me if I tried to build and that I would have to deal with that.  When I asked him what they were going to sue me over, he said, “I don’t know, they’re lawyers, they’ll figure something out.”

Right after inking the contract, Dennis left a note on my door letting me know that he was interested in buying the property.  My dad had just gone through a lawsuit with The Friends of the Gorge, a preservation community that wants to preserve the Columbia River Gorge Scenic area.  Dad had 10 acres in the Gorge that he wanted to be able to build on, but he was sued by The Friends and went through a lawsuit that cost him over $40,000 in order to defend against so that he could build on the 10 acres.  

The Columbia River Gorge Scenic Act was passed in 1986.  This was a boondoggle for the Weyerhaeuser.  It placed over 300,000 acres in a “preservation” area along the Columbia River.  Ironically, about two years ago, there were multiple fires in the Columbia River Gorge, burning up a lot of the timber in the Gorge, making it look like an eyesore.  In my opinion, it was nothing more than a ploy by Weyerhaeuser to eliminate the competition so that their timber was the only timber being harvested.  

My dad worked for the US Forest Service as a timber cruiser, and the sustained yield on the Gifford Pinchot National Forest is about two million board feet of lumber per year.  However, the pressure by Weyerhaeuser has essentially shut down all timber sales on the National Forest’s in the United States.  

Timber sales on National Forests has become an extinct species due to the pressure placed on the Forest Service via organizations like the ELF (Earth Liberation Front).  This is essentially the bought and paid for protesters, coupled with groups like Friends of the Gorge, that have eliminated the competition for Weyerhaeuser.  The ELF protesters would commit terrorist acts in the mid-to-late 80’s, burning up log trucks and camping out on logging sites, chaining themselves or camping in old growth fir trees to stop any logging on Forest Service timber sales.  We see the modern version of this playbook being carried out today by people like Soros funding BLM and Antifa.  This is a playbook that has been in place for generations, and the Nazi’s used this playbook to start WW II.  It’s the same animal cloaked in a different skin.

As it stands now, it would take almost a generation to restart any timber sales on public lands.  There are no more timber cruisers in the US Forest Service, they’ve become as rare as the “spotted owl”.  Since the lumber mills, mainly owned by Weyerhaeuser (or one of their cut-outs) can’t take old growth fir anymore, they are essentially the only game in town.  And when a fire burns through these forests that are not maintained, they become the eyesore that the Columbia River Gorge is now, with a bunch of burned out snags with no underbrush.  The ideology that this is somehow “conservation” belies the fact that we have been creating a manmade disaster by putting out fires for generations now, and providing the fuel for the huge complex fires that are only going to get bigger as time passes.  These policy wonks have surely gotten their grip around every segment of our society. 

Dennis Lane tried to portray himself as a crusader for the environment when we were going through the lawsuit.  He even quoted Al Gore’s new book, An Inconvenient Truth, and his agenda while going through the lawsuit.  Meanwhile, he had a deck with pressure treated lumber that he’d expanded by over 300 percent that overhangs the Washougal River.  Additionally, he has gutters that have piping that takes the drainage right into the Washougal River.  The main portion of the restrictive covenant that he was attempting to enforce against me was the fact that the drainage from my septic system was going to discharge 25 feet from a drainage ditch on the property.

The covenant said that no drainage will discharge within 50 feet of the banks of the Washougal River.  He was violating the very covenant that he was attempting to enforce against me.  The “Unclean Hands” Doctrine comes into play, as he is violating the very covenant he was attempting to enforce by having the drainage from his gutters flow directly into the river and he has asphalt shingles on his roof that are made out of crude oil.  

About a year into the lawsuit, I was having difficulty with Shelane, as her abuse was perpetual.  She did not want me to take Paige to see my folks and made it readily apparent that she didn’t want my folks to see her.  It was an ingenious ploy, as she said she didn’t mind my dad, she hated my mother.  This created division between my folks, in and of itself.  In addition, it created a wedge between me and my parents.

I couldn’t figure out why she was so opposed to me taking Paige to see them, so one day I confided in her that I was abused as a child.  Shelane was acting and had the tell-tale signs of someone that was abused when she was a child.  

About a week later we got into an argument (planned by her) and she told me that my thinking was all fucked up because I was molested.  This was a blow to my ego and the trust I placed in her by revealing the sexual abuse that had been perpetrated on me when I was younger.  I confided in her that I was abused and that I would never allow that to happen to our daughter.  She used this against me and was telling me how fucked up my thinking was. 

I told her that the abuse had nothing to do with the way that I was acting and protested the way she was using that against me and that she had better check herself, to which she responded that I could not tell her what to say.  Then she started screaming “molested, molested, molested” as she was standing over me as I was lying on the bed.  I felt trapped…she wouldn’t stop and wasn’t going to stop.

I jumped up and got in her face and started yelling at her and she went and locked herself in the bathroom.  I punched a hole in the door and got nose-to-nose and started screaming at her at the top of my lungs, letting her know what it felt like to have someone hovering over her screaming at her.  This is obviously domestic violence!  I regret doing this and recognize that it was the exact wrong thing to do, but I didn’t have the tools in my toolbox to be able to deal with her years of perpetual abuse.

That was the last time anything physical happened between us.  It was almost as if someone issued her a stand-down order to stop her from acting that way with me.  She obviously saw that I was moments away from losing my cool. 

Unfortunately, I had to eventually repair the door, but before I got a chance to repair the door, she took a picture of it.  About 8 years later, she used this picture in a divorce that she filed.

In 2002, we were pregnant again with our second child, Jessi.  This was around the time of the big blow-out that we had.  Shelane told me that she was nervous about having Jessi because she didn’t want to go through what she went through with Paige, having postpartum depression and PTSD.  She told me that her husband, David Judah, tied her up one day when they were at his parents’ home on the Lewis River in Washington where they had some acreage.  He tied her to a post in the barn and brought in her favorite calf and slit its throat and let it bleed out all over the floor and onto her.  

When her water broke when she had Paige, she smelled the blood and it reminded her of sitting in the pool of blood from her favorite calf, watching it die and smelling the blood.  This triggered her PTSD and caused her to have the psychomotor seizures, PTSD, and depression and she feared that this would happen again.  

It took all I had to remain calm as she told me this story, as I am sure there were tears in my eyes, thinking that this psychopath Judas (Judah is his name) would do this to his own wife. 

I couldn’t understand why this psychopath was still on the street after he had done this to her, not to mention he was witnessed beating the hell out of her on a main road in Clackamas by other witnesses.  Nothing made sense!  However, her symptoms were real, and she had one hell of a time after she had Paige and we surely didn’t want to go through that again.  I tried to comfort her and let her know that we could use some Vics vapor rub when she had Jessi so that she wouldn’t smell that smell.  That is something we often used at the fire department when we would go on a call where there was a dead body, or other noxious smell. The Vics doesn’t cure the smell, it only masks it, and I wondered silently as to whether this would be putting a rose on a turd, so to speak.  But it was the only tool I could think of to help her out.

We had Jessi in August of 2002 and Shelane breast fed her for about a month and then went on Paxil for the postpartum depression.  Luckily, she didn’t go through any bouts of having psychomotor seizures like she had after we had Paige.

After finishing the lawsuit, or so I thought, and being given the green-light from my attorney to build.  We’d won summary judgement and the restrictions were lifted to build the house so I started on the house when Jessi was about a year old.  It took me almost two years to build the house and we moved in on her third birthday.

Just before we moved in, on a rainy night coming back from the grocery store, Shelane tripped heading up the stairs into the mother-in-law unit.  The first step of the stairwell was about 9” versus the standard step of 7 1/2”.  She short-stepped the step and pile drove her shin into the second step on the stairwell.  She was in severe agony, and I was concerned that she’d shattered her tibia.  We watched it overnight and there was a huge bruise that showed up, but the bone wasn’t broken.  Ironically, a picture of her bruised leg showed up years later in the divorce hearing and she attributed the bruise to me being abusive.

Another photo she submitted was of Jessi when she was about two years old.  We woke up one morning and Jessi had a fat lip.  I was concerned about this, as we had brown recluse spiders around our home and if she’d been bitten by a recluse, there would be necrotic tissue, more swelling, and she we would have to take her to the hospital to get it debrided.  I took an ink pen and outlined the bruise area so that I could monitor the swelling, and if it increased, we’d head into the hospital asap.  Luckily, the swelling started to recede and we didn’t have to take her in.  It was nothing more than a fat lip from her falling in her crib.  Of course, Shelane took a photo of this too, which was around the same time that she bruised her leg on the stairwell, and she submitted these photos that were taken in 2004 in the 2012 divorce hearing requesting full custody.  It was almost as if she was planning this the whole time.  Not to mention that when she filed for divorce in 2012, she said that I chased her and Jessi up the stairs with a shotgun…the one that I’d purchased for her safety in October of 2011.

After injuring my back in May of 2010, I had severe PTSD from being held down and unable to breath as I was coming out of surgery.  I couldn’t see anything and I felt a hand across my chest holding me down.  My only thought was that I was being held down again, like I was when I was at SEAL Team One when I got my trident.  

During the initiation when I received my trident, the custom was to tape you from head-to-toe with riggers tape, put axle grease up your ass, shove a carrot up your ass, and hold you down in the dunk-tank about an inch below the water level.  This is the big boys version of enhanced interrogation techniques, and I this flashed through my mind as I was being held down in the hospital bed.

I grabbed the nurse by the throat intent on killing her, i.e., removing the threat.  I couldn’t breathe.  The next thing I recall was being wheeled down the hallway in the hospital watching the florescent lights flash by as I am strapped to the bed with restraints and I was taken to my recovery room.

That night, I recall calling Shelane, paranoid.  The only thing I could think of was a time when I was in Thailand and one of my teammates went through a similar episode where he was paranoid that, “The Germans are coming”.  Obviously, he was drugged with something that caused him to lose his mind, and I was the corpsman in the platoon assigned to watch over him and record all of his hallucinations.  He was so paranoid that he was placing our t-shirts in the door sills to keep us from getting gassed.  

I remember telling Shelane that what he went through was real, and the Germans were coming to get me.  Wow, what a trip.  The following day, I was released and sent home. 

I woke up the next morning and went downstairs to a ringing phone and answered it.  It was Tess from TVFR inquiring as to how my surgery went.  When I smelled the clothes from the hospital, I broke down, having my first panic attack.  It felt like I was drowning…again.  I started crying uncontrollably, in sheer panic.  Tess knew something was horribly wrong and told me to hang in there and she was going to get someone in touch with me right away.

She had Tim Dietz, a former Captain at TVFR, who had retired and become a counselor call me on the phone.  It was good to have a familiar voice and someone that I could trust on the phone.  Over the course of the next hour or so, he gave me instructions, starting with going to my bedroom and lying down.  Then, he had me describe what I saw above me, which were the canned lights, and then we ended up having an hour-long conversation about how the light looked and my theory of electricity and how it got to the light.

At the time, I had no idea WTF he was doing, and what my knowledge of the theory of electricity had to do with anything that I was going through.  It’s clear that he was taking my focus on my immediate plight and getting me to switch off my primitive brain so that I could think logically and get me out of the fight or flight mode that I was in.  We made an appointment for the next day.

Over the next couple of months, I would meet regularly with Tim and try and suffer through the sleepless nights, as I was afraid of the nightmares that were sure to come.  One night, I was in bed with Shelane and I was being held down again, in the battle for my life, and I woke up as I was swinging at Shelane, almost striking her.  This happened another time when Paige came up to the room and I was asleep and she tried to wake me and I ended up hitting her in the leg before I woke up.  To this day, I can’t stop thinking of what she thought of this and I replay this over and over again in my head.  

As I was going through treatment with Tim, I told him about the sexual abuse, trying to gloss over it and move on to the real topic at hand, the abuse that I had been subjected to by Shelane over the course of years and not knowing how to deal with her.  By this time, she had broken me down to a shell of the person that I was.  I felt like the worthless person she described me as, i.e., a cheater, a dirty rotten scoundrel, with a bunch of derelict friends (who were all firefighters) and a screwed up family.  

Tim wouldn’t allow me to just gloss over the sexual abuse.  He immediately stopped me and had me recount what transpired when I was younger, about the age of 11 I assume.  I described the events to him, and he thought that it would be prudent to go through a treatment called EMDR, or Eye Movement, Desensitization and Reprocessing.  During this treatment, you hold some vibrating paddles in your hand and you talk about whatever comes to your mind about the abuse.  The goal is to desensitize you to the events so that you are able to reprocess the memories and make sense of them.  However, as I was going through the EMDR, it brought up more memories of my past and more abuse that I’d forgotten about.  It was as if it was adding fuel to the fire.  Not only that, I got bad feelings associated with it, as if I was only scratching the surface, and if we dug any deeper, I felt as if there was something much bigger below the surface.

After a couple of times of EMDR, not sleeping, and having constant back pain, I knew I had to do something.  When I’d gotten home from the hospital from surgery, I had slipped on the concrete floor in our basement that was wet and fell straight on my back.  I knew immediately that whatever surgery had done to take away the pain, it had increase immensely after the fall.  Not wanting to alarm Shelane or the girls, who witnessed the fall, I immediately sprang up and tried to pretend nothing was wrong…but something was horribly wrong. I found out two years later during the second back surgery, my disc exploded and lodged a BB sized fragment in my disc into the foramen where my nerve went through and it pinched the nerve.

When I got home from EMDR treatment with Tim, I was feeling horrible — scared and confused.  I wasn’t getting any sleep and was petrified of going to sleep, having to fight demons all night.  I asked Shelane to come and sit with me so that I could get some rest, but she declined.  

That night, I took all the oxycontin that I had…intent on ending it right there.  Somehow, I survived the ordeal and woke up the next morning.   

I felt like a failure, I couldn’t even commit suicide right.  I felt as if I had failed Tim, as he’d been working with me and I wasn’t getting any better, only getting worse.  I couldn’t face him again, I was too ashamed of myself and didn’t want to put any guilt on him.  He’d lost a young child at the age of about two, and my problems seemed like a mole hill compared to what he’d gone through years earlier when he lost his child and I didn’t want to burden him with my BS, so I stopped seeing him and found another counselor.

I went to see another counselor for about a year and a half until she started to weed her clients down, as she was getting ready to retire.  It was early December of 2011 and she said that she wouldn’t be able to see me until after the New Year and that she was getting ready to retire.  I panicked, as she was essentially my crutch, and even though the appointments were painful, I felt as if I was at least maintaining my sanity.

After Christmas, I called Tim back and let him know what I was going through and that I was having panic attacks, and needed some help because my counselor was out of town.  He recognized that I was in an acute state and he arranged for me to attend an inpatient group counseling seminar that he and other psychologists had formed for Police Officers and Firefighters with PTSD.  It was a week-long session near San Francisco, California in the first week in January of 2012.

Shelane wasn’t supportive at all and didn’t want me to go.  I could never figure that out!

I went to the session and was gone for a week and we put a lot of work in.  When I left, I was feeling much better…until I got home and the abuse started right back up again.  

By this time, Shelane was taking the girls over to stay with her parents five days a week, supposedly to be “homeschooled” by her parents and her brother that lived with them.  Like I said, I suspected that Shelane had been abused when she was younger, and this never sat well with me.  For about the past year, she was taking them over to stay with her folks and I never got to see their interaction with the girls.

Additionally, when I went to the group counseling session, I met one of the smartest people I had ever been around, Stephanie Cress, who is a psychologist that worked with me down in SF.  When I shared my story about Shelane’s abusive behavior she told me “I can’t tell you to get a divorce, it’s against my code of ethics, but when you get home, you need to get a good attorney”.  In addition, she recommended that I get a book called Emotional Blackmail.  

As soon as I got home, I picked up the book, and it was essentially the training manual that Shelane was using to abuse me.  It spells out how someone with a narcissistic personality uses fear, obligation, and guilt to abuse and control another person, and that is exactly what Shelane had been doing to me over the course of the past 14 years.

I was in tears reading the book, as I felt duped!  I wasn’t the one that was crazy, she was an abuser, and it spelled it exactly in the book that I was reading.  

When Shelane came home after dropping the girls off at her parents’ house, I attempted to reason with her, letting her know that we needed to end our relationship and that we could amicably work out a parenting plan and share equal time.  I would take the girls on the days that she was taking them over to her parents home, and she could have them the other times.  

No amount of logic and reasoning was going to sway her, and she continued with her tirades and argumentative behavior.  She was pushing my buttons again, and I could feel myself getting choked out again. Not only that, I’d gone through EMDR again while I was in SF and more things were surfacing particularly after reading the book, so I went and checked into the VA Hospital in Portland, Oregon and spent about 10 days there.

I’d made an appointment with a doctor that was a former SEAL, Kevin Walters.  About eight years prior to me going to SEAL Team One, Kevin was stationed there.  He ended up getting out of the Teams and got his PHD in internal medicine, so I made an appointment to see him so that he could help me out with my back issue and mental issues, which were both attributed to a worker’s compensation claim and the military.  

Workers Comp was screwing me around and evidently wanted nothing to do with the mental claim, and wanted to get rid of me as fast as they could.  They didn’t approve my request for help, they just ignored it completely.

I saw Kevin a couple of times, and even took Shelane to meet with him once.  The first time I met Kevin, he was in one of the workers comp. mills, and he spent over an hour with me, actually listening to what I was telling him.  Prior to this, it seemed that nobody gave a shit about treating me as a whole patient, but he did.  At the end of our session, he asked me if I minded if he said a prayer with me, which I readily accepted.  It was one of the greatest feelings in the world.

We made an appointment for the following month and I met Kevin with Shelane.  I told her that I thought he was great, and that he was religious.  Of course, her take on him was that he wasn’t at all good, even though she is supposedly a Christian.  Kevin has a glow about him and a great personality, so I didn’t understand why she thought that he was something other than what he held himself out to be.  At the end of our session, he told me that while the medications help, he thought that my true healing would be through the help of God. 

Kevin ended up getting downsized and moved to another clinic after our second meeting, so I had to find another attending physician.  It’s almost as if someone had it in for me, as once I found someone that I thought could immensely help me, he was moved.  Additionally, I was enrolled in a Managed Care Organization that was separate and apart from the Keizer program that he moved to so he couldn’t be my attending physician.

I’d met Kevin for church a couple of times after that in Wilsonville, Oregon, but as things would have it, Shelane wasn’t done with me.

While I was at the VA Hospital in Portland, Tim and one of the other people from the program in SF showed up to visit me.  While they were with me, they wanted to make sure that I had a plan moving forward, i.e., always looking to the future to ensure that you have a future.  They got in touch with Shelane and told her to take all the weapons out of the house so that I didn’t have access to them to prevent me from using them to commit suicide when I got home.  Shelane took my hunting rifle, the shotgun, and my pistol over to Warren’s house.  

By this time, I’d spent over $250,000 in attorney’s fees and costs due to the lawsuit with Dennis Lane and we were unable to sell our houses in 2006 at the height of the market due to a Lis Pendens Dennis Lane placed on the home preventing me from selling it.  We had to let the mother-in-law unit go into foreclosure, and Warren ended up purchasing it after it was foreclosed on.   Warren and I became very good friends over the course of the two years that he was there.

The previous November, my dad purchased a hunting trip in Montana for us to go hunting for elk.  It was a guided hunt that my brother, dad, and I were going to go on, so he asked me to get all the paperwork and permits done prior to the fiasco I’d gone through with the medical treatment in SF and at the VA.

I think it was March 6, 2012, a Tuesday, when I got a call from Warren at about 9:30 p.m.  He told me that  as he was headed into work (he worked graveyard shift at the railroad) about two miles downriver from the house there were a bunch of police officers pulled over on the side of the road and they were looking over the bank with their flashlights.  He said that they appeared to be looking for someone, and that I might want to get the guns from his house, and he told me where they were.  However, at the time I was stoned out of my mind, trying to escape the abuse of Shelane, so I didn’t give a shit.  It was pissing down rain, and if there was someone that was going to trek over two miles along the riverbank to our house and kill me, then they could have at it, so I didn’t go over to his house and get the guns.

The following day, I receive a call from my dad and he is asking me if I’ve got all my hunting stuff ready for the hunt that we are supposed to go on in November.  Not only was it unusual for my dad to call (the reason I answered) the topic of the conversation actually got me excited about hunting.  I’d always had the dream of making a 1000 yard shot on a bull-elk, and dad’s conversation got me motivated, so I went over to Warren’s house, trying to remember where he said the guns were.  The only thing that I could remember was that he said the rifle was under the bed in the spare bedroom, and that was the one that I wanted to get, so I went across the driveway that separates our homes and got it.  This wasn’t unusual, as I often went over to play and take care of his dog while he was working at the railroad.  However, I didn’t want to go digging through his bedroom trying to find the shotgun or the pistol…I figured I’d get it later.

Dad called me about one that day, and Shelane was getting ready to take the girls over to stay with her folks.  I had retrieved the rifle from Warren’s house and was passing her as she was coming down the stairwell with Jessi.  Paige was still in the bedroom, lagging behind them.  

My gun is in a case, as I’d taken it moose hunting in Alaska, and you needed a hard gun case to transport it via commercial air.  And like every time I received a weapons, as a SEAL, you automatically check the condition of the weapons, i.e., check to see whether it’s loaded and has one in the chamber.  I put it on the bed and went through the check and then put it in the closet behind some clothes like it was before.  I hadn’t done any weapons training with the girls yet and didn’t want to keep it obscured so they wouldn’t play with it. 

Shelane got home later that evening after dropping the girls off at her parents’ house and we didn’t have much interaction, which wasn’t uncommon.  Mainly, it was like earlier in the day when we passed on the stairwell, having hallway sex, i.e., a fuck-you look as we passed each other.   

I would get stoned at night so that she couldn’t argue with me, and pretty much check out.  We’d occasionally watch movies together and sometimes go out to eat.  I can’t recall if we did this during the five-day period when the girls were gone.

On Sunday, I received a call from my mom, and she was asking me if I could go and help her move my oldest brother from Portland to Bingen, Washington, where my biological father lived.  I had not had any contact with my biological father since I was about 23 when I stopped by and introduced him to my first wife before we got married.  The time before that, I must have been about 8 years old, in 1977.  I would rarely visit him, as my mom had separated from him when I was a year old, and she told me that he was an abusive drunk.  I didn’t have much use for him, as that was the only image that I had in my mind about him, and I was told that he was a dead-beat dad and didn’t pay child support.

My mom said that she would meet me at about 0800 in the morning and that we would go get my brother and his truck and drive it to Bingen, Washington.  I thought this was odd, but agreed to help her and my brother out.  She explained that he had a DUI and couldn’t drive the truck.  The timing of all this is odd, as that has never stopped him before, and it never has as of late (as recent as this year he was driving my Xterra without a blow and go, as he is required to have due to multiple DUI’s).

Shelane brought the girls home on Sunday evening about midnight and went directly to the bedroom where they all slept together.  This was par for the course with her.  They would usually stay up until wee hours of the morning playing video-games and get up about 1-3 p.m.  This was another big part of why I needed to get a divorce from her, so I could attempt to bring structure in my girls’ lives.  

When my mother arrived at the house the following morning, I knew the girls would be asleep, so I invited her into the house.  She was not allowed in the house by Shelane, otherwise, but I figured what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.  

I showed my mom some photos of a poker tournament that I’d won on Easter Sunday the year prior.  I also showed her the gold and silver that I’d been collecting over the course of the past couple of years, i.e.,  951 ounces of silver and 5.85 ounces of gold.  I also wanted to show her the silver bracelet that I’d won in the poker tournament, but when I reached in the high cabinet that it was in, only the case was there, and there was no bracelet.  That figured, Shelane was on her way out since we’d been talking about divorce, so I figured she’d just started taking stuff out of the house.

We went and picked up my brother, and on the way into town, I saw that I’d received a phone call on my cell, so I checked my messages when I got into town.  There was no cell service up the Washougal River where we lived in the canyon and it took about ½ hour to get into town to be able to have cell service. 

We moved my brother to my biological father’s house and left.  I didn’t see him or have any interaction with him and just dropped Will off and left to return to Stevenson. 

When we got to Stevenson, mom had some visitors regarding her alpaca business and we chatted for about an hour and I returned home a little after noon that Monday.  The bedroom door to the girls room was closed, so I figured they were still asleep, so I went in and laid down and took a nap for a couple of hours, waiting for them to start stirring about, which never came. 

I went downstairs to make something to eat, and something wasn’t right…it just didn’t feel right.  I looked in the cabinet and the gold and silver was gone along with the pictures.  As I walked through the house, obviously recognizing that Shelane and the girls were gone, I also noticed that the most important things were gone, i.e., all the photographs and valuables.  As I learned in the fire department, most people only want their photos and valuables, and if their house burns down, they could care less, as the insurance company builds them a new house.  This was the case, she took everything that had any value, such as the sports cards, gold, silver, and pictures. 

She was gone for over a month, and tried to do everything humanly possible to reach her, via text, cell, calling her parents, eventually the FBI, local Sheriff’s departments in Washington and Oregon, but to no avail.  At one point, I checked a message that was left on her voicemail inbox by a local Skamania County Sheriff and he told her that she couldn’t just take off like that, and that, “If there is some type of abuse you need to file for divorce”.   

During the time she was gone, I was actually looking forward to getting on with my life without her.  I started cleaning up the house, which had been essentially neglected for years, and moving ahead.  When I was cleaning up the house, I found a pair of panties of my eldest daughter and they had stains on them that looked like semen, so I took them into a lab to get tested.  The test came back negative for semen and I was grateful, at least for that bit of news. 

On April 11, 2012, the day before my birthday, I returned home to a car sitting in my driveway and was actually glad to see it there.  I’d contacted an attorney already and was getting ready to pull the trigger and file a for divorce, and this was obviously going to bring this to and end…or so I thought. 

The guy handed me the paperwork and said that I had 10 minutes to get anything that I need gathered together and get out of the house.  He was actually pretty cool and gave me about 25 minutes to get my stuff, as I was still dealing with the lawsuit with Dennis Lane and had to make sure that I got all the paperwork I needed to fight him.  The process server also told me that I couldn’t take any guns out of the house either.  At the time, I didn’t think much of it, I was more aligned with the thinking that I was glad to be getting a divorce and getting this thing settled.

After getting my things together, I went about five miles down the road and pulled over to read what was in the paperwork, as it seemed odd to me that I had to get out of the house.

The essence of the divorce paperwork stated that I was abusive person, physically and emotionally toward Shelane, that I was sexually inappropriate with the girls and that I would walk in on them when they were bathing and showering, and that I had chased her and Jessi up the stairs the previous Wednesday with a shotgun (the day I got the rifle from Warren’s house after being primed by both Warren and my dad). Additionally, she stated that she brought the girls home that Sunday because she knew that I would be angry and abusive toward her if she didn’t bring them home after spending five days at her parents’ house.  She stated that as soon as she heard the door shut that Monday morning when I left to go help my drunk brother drive his truck to Bingen, she immediately grabbed the girls and some clothes and fled the house in fear for her life, as I was going to kill her with a shotgun.

There was also the reference to my previous “arrest” and that I attempted suicide (doesn’t mention that it was two years prior) and just went to San Francisco and the VA Hospital for mental health treatment.    I never told Shelane about my suicide attempt, as I didn’t trust her, but she found out in 2012 when I went into the VA.

She asked the court to restrict my visits to supervised visits only having visits over the phone with the girls.  

I recognized that the attorney that I hired wasn’t going to put forth the effort needed to combat this onslaught, so I had to hire a different attorney, Mike Roe, from Vancouver, Washington. 

We essentially pulled apart every accusation that she made in her complaint, starting from the standpoint that she fled the home in a great rush.  I left at 0800 and called my voicemail at 0830.  She was still on the house phone at 10:43 that morning for about 22 minutes, which isn’t fleeing in a great rush.  Moreover, she had my medical records from the VA, my pay stubs and bank records, and PERS retirement account information, and every other document you would need to properly file for a divorce.  In her haste to get out of the home, she miraculously was able to garner up each of these records to place them in the temporary parenting plan and was asking to remain in the house, and have me pay per over $9,000 per month in spousal maintenance and child support.  

In addition, the “shotgun” that I chased her up the stairs with was till at Warren’s house, so she changed her affidavit and said that she doesn’t know the difference between a shotgun and a hunting rifle, in spite of my showing her how to load it with buckshot and a slug every third round.  She said that, “Jessi calls it a long-gun” in her rebuttal.

The attorney she hired showed up to the hearing over two months later when we eventually got a hearing, and withdrew from the case.  He told my attorney, Mike, that he could no longer trust his client. I obviously took that to mean that he knew the entire story was bullshit, and we essentially proved it.  It was clear to me that he did not work on the response from Shelane, he just cut and pasted what she had written and put it on the form he has for his law firm.  

The statutory amount of child support was approximately $2650.  Judge Brian Altman told her that he was awarding her $3000 per month total and that she needed to get a job.  

Immediately after the hearing, like a moron, I met up with her and we had sex and decided we’d “work things out”.  Meanwhile, she had already gone and met with anther attorney, Lisa Martin, from Portland, Oregon, and they set up the long con.  

The first attempt at the divorce was just a trial run…there’s much more to come.  And it only gets better…or worse from here, depending on your perspective.

Was I set up to go get the guns from the house?  If so, by whom?  Was Shelane in on it?  Was Warren in on it?  Was my dad in on it?  Did my mom set me up to absent me from the house the day the girls fled?

That’s crazy!    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 9 – Reconciliation(s)

It was around June 28, 2012, that Shelane and I “reconciled”.  For the first few months it was OK, but it soon reverted back to our normal insidious abusive relationship where I was the proverbial POS, I would never be able to find anyone that would put up with me, and all of my friends were not up to par for Shelane.  My family…well, my mom was still equally as bad as me.  However, my dad (step-father) was still OK, according to Shelane, and he could visit the girls any time he wanted…which would obviously be never, as that would create a divide between my parents.  It was one of her dirty-tricks.  

Shelane was still having her bouts of “headaches," which were withdrawals from when she would run out of opiates, and I eventually talked her into trying to figure out what was causing the headaches, i.e., whether it was the opiates, or if she had something physically wrong with her due to scoliosis.

At the end of 2012, I finally had a fusion to repair my back and Dr. O’Neill at St. Vincent hospital did the fusion.  I’d previously went to a Dr. Rosenbaum, who was one of the top surgeons in Oregon who did worker’s compensation claims.  However, he is the least worker friendly doctor in the state.  He does have a great reputation as a surgeon, so I recommended Shelane go to either one of them to get fixed…whatever that looked like. 

She originally went to Dr. Rosenbaum and he found that she had a slipped disc in her cervical spine which was most likely the source, or at least the starting point, of her pain.  He recommended that she have surgery to repair her neck.  When she asked him about having steroid injections, a procedure that they commonly use on worker’s comp patients, he said that they are only a band-aid for temporary relief and don’t work to repair the underlying condition.  That seems odd, as that is what he prescribed to worker’s comp patients regularly.  It’s their “protocol”.  I found that quite amusing, that he openly admitted to her that they don’t work and he basically did not recommend them to a patient that was on private insurance.

I don’t think that she ever went to see Dr. O’Neill, who is literally a brain surgeon who does spinal repair to fill in the time between brain surgeries.  But, instead of using one of these surgeons, Shelane opted to seek out a different doctor and found Dr. Srinivasan at the Swedish hospital near Seattle, Washington.  She did a “minimally invasive” spinal surgery to correct slipped discs.  

She set up the appointment and it was supposed to be an in and out surgery, where she would check in, get the surgery, spend the night and be released the following day. 

We loaded up the girls and booked a hotel room to stay the night prior to the surgery, and the morning of the surgery, I hooked up with a guy for breakfast in the morning that I was stationed with at Seal Team One, who I hadn’t seen in over 20 years.  This did nothing but piss Shelane off, and we were right back to square one.

I took her to surgery at noon and dropped her off at the hospital and stayed with the girls for a night without her.  This was the only night that I ever spent alone with the girls, and they were 15 and 11 years old.  In fact, I had only been able to take them for a milk shake or into town about five times the entire time they were growing up.  This was so frustrating for me!  

The following day I went to pick up Shelane and she was in extreme pain.  Evidently, they were giving her morphine for the pain, but she’d still been taking Dilaudid, so the morphine was like the average person taking aspirin.  She said that she woke up either during or immediately after surgery clamoring for pain medications and heard the nurses saying how frustrated they were and that they didn’t know she was on Dilaudid.  

They were quick to discharge her from the hospital, prescribing a bunch of oxycontin, which did nothing but add frustration to Shelane.  She had a migraine headache and they discharged her anyway and we had a four-hour ride back to Washougal.  On the way back, Shelane couldn’t keep any of the pills down and would constantly vomit them up immediately after taking them.  We were all exhausted and worried about her.

When we got home, I helped her to the front door and as soon as we got to the door, she had a stroke and collapsed.  Since we were so far from the hospital, about 45 minutes, there was no sense to call 911, my best bet was to take her immediately to the hospital, rather than wait another 30 minutes to have the fire department and ambulance respond.  

She was somewhat conscious on the way into the hospital, but she was losing strength on the left side of her body.  I knew this wasn’t good!  When I got to the ER, they immediately put her on a gurney and she passed out.

I called her parents to let them know what was going on and so they could help take care of the girls while I waited to see what was going on with Shelane.  We got to the hospital about 3 p.m. that day, and about 1 a.m. Dr. Shanno came and met me in one of the waiting rooms with the bad news.  He said that she had a complete blockage of the main artery that leads to the brain, the vertebral artery, and he didn’t know if he could get it out.  He then said that if he did get it out, he suspected that she would be paralyzed on the left side of her body for the rest of her life.  He also said that if he did nothing, she would surely die, and if he tried, the options looked ominous, as explained.  I asked him to try everything possible to help her.

It was astonishing to me that it took them almost 11 hours to find a complete blockage in the main artery to her brain.  Later, I would be pulled aside by one of the surgeons, and he showed me where Dr. Srinivasan nicked the vertebral artery and in laymen’s terms said that this was medical malpractice.

Over the course of the next week we were in the ICU and I was a wreck.  I was also having frustrations with Ron, Shelane’s father, taking the girls to his house every night and them bringing them into the hospital to be with Shelane while she recovered.  Shelane was adamant that this happen, even in her state.  Odd, right?  

She was eventually discharged to one of the main floors at SW Washington Medical Center, and the entire existence on the floor was more than miserable.  She was in constant severe pain with a headache, and they would not give her any pain medications, so I became the focal point for her ire.  Essentially, I wasn’t doing enough, in spite of going by the nursing station twice an hour begging them to help her with the pain.  The girls sat there and watched this whole thing unfold, minute-by-minute.

After about a week, Jessi was in such bad shape, she had an impacted bowel. I guess the Stewart method of relieving the impacted bowel is to dig it out with a spoon!  When I was told this, I was taken aback, and nearly vomited.  It basically solidified my position that this family has no sense of boundaries, and this was highly inappropriate.  I was also told that this wasn’t the first time this had happened with Jessi.  

This was a tell-tale sign of molestation and abuse, but at this juncture, I wasn’t positive, although I had my suspicions.  It was heart wrenching!

In the middle of June, Shelane was discharged and we started the recovery process and she miraculously made a near full recovery, in spite of having her artery clogged for over 11 hours.  She had some double-vision and trouble seeing out of one of her eyes for a while, but that soon recovered.  She was put on blood thinners, which I assume she is taking to this day.

Over the course of the next few months, from May through the end of August, I was biding my time with Shelane, as she wasn’t about to change her abusive M.O.   As soon as she was able to drive at night (taking the girls over to her parents’ home five days a week like years prior) I made the decision to leave her, and planned on leaving September 1, 2013.  

By this time, Shelane had done one positive thing in my life over the summer and talked me into meeting with my biological father, Bill Hearn.  Over the summer, when things would become unbearable at home, I would take a trip up to Bingen and visit my biological father.  He had a son and two daughters from his second marriage and I got to spend time with my step-sisters.  However, his son was in the mid-west, so I didn’t get to spend any time with him.

I knew that my dad was devoutly religious.  When we went out to eat, he would say a prayer for us before each meal.  We’d talk a bit about God, but our main conversation surrounded his garbage business.  He’d owned garbage franchises in both Klickitat and Skamania County, and the garbage company was his life, and had been for the past 50 plus years. 

He knew that I’d gone through a lawsuit with my neighbor because he sat on one of the boards in Skamania County that my dad was on.  I think it was the resource advisory committee.  They got to know each other and in spite of being married to the same woman, they got along pretty well.  I knew that my step-dad had respect for my biological father, but I knew that my mom would blow a gasket if she found out I was spending time with him, so I didn’t share anything about that with her.

My dad was having difficulty with one of the big garbage companies, Republic Services, infringing on his territory in Klickitat County and I believe that he had visions of me helping him out from a legal standpoint, as I had become quite adept at jail-house lawyering after going through the lawsuit with Dennis Lane for 10-plus years.

Throughout the litigation with the Lane’s, I’d figured out what most jail house lawyers already know…my lawyer fucked me!  Early in the lawsuit, my own attorney moved for a change of venue to move it from Clark County to Skamania County.  There were two issues, the first was a variance issue, which was nothing more than code issue that is based on a mathematical problem and local codes.  The requirement was to have my house placed back from the Washougal River 100 feet.  However, you are entitled to a variance if the lots are non-conforming, which mine was since the subdivision was put in when there were no building restrictions in the county.  The formula for placement of the home was based on the adjacent properties within 300 feet, and my house, which had a deck that was placed on it by my dad in 1974, was 50 feet from the river and Dennis Lane’s house had a deck that hung over the river.  Effectively the average distance was 25 feet, so the variance was automatically granted, from a mathematical and code standpoint.  Yet, Lane was appealing the granting of the variance, along with the restrictive covenant issue.

As soon as my attorney moved the lawsuit to Skamania County, Lane dropped the variance issue and the only remaining issue was the restrictive covenant.  However, had it been left in Clark County, the case would have been automatically dismissed because it was, by law, the wrong venue for the lawsuit.  In basic terms, my lawyer moved it to Skamania County to ensure that the restrictive covenant issue survived.  Had he left it in Clark County, the Lanes would have been on the hook for all of my attorney fees, since the variance issue was based on a mathematical model and automatically granted, using the Lanes property as the sole reason for granting the variance.

We “won” the lawsuit shortly after it was initially filed on what is called “summary judgement” which means it is decided on the merits based on affidavits.  However years later, this was overturned by the Court of Appeals, Division II in Washington, and we essentially had to prove that our septic system was not going to pollute the Washougal River by calling expert witnesses.  So, we called the Skamania County health sanitarian and it went to trial, and eventually cost me $250,000.  

What I learned from this ordeal, the winners are decided prior to anyone stepping into court.  The judges make sure of that.

In 2007, after the trial and before the Lane’s appealed the case a second time, Dennis Lane called my attorney, who by this time was an associate at Groen, Stephens, and Klinge, and offered him a job.  When I asked the associate, Sam Rodabough, how much the job offer was for, he would not tell me.  Originally, he said it was a very good job offer, and I was told this under the guise that he did such a great job at trial, he got a call directly from Dennis Lane congratulating him on doing a good job.  Then he said Dennis offered him a job, and when I asked Sam about the particulars, he immediately recognized he opened a can of worms and clammed up. 

I called the original attorney I hired, John Groen, the same attorney my dad used in the lawsuit against the Friends of the Gorge, and asked him to file a WSBA complaint against Dennis Lane for bribing Sam, and he declined to do so.  I fired them the next day and represented myself for the next five years and made Dennis Lane look like a jackass amongst his fellow attorneys because I essentially told the truth, followed the letter of the law, and bad-mouthed him at the same time for his conduct in front of his colleagues.  

I filed a CR 13(e)After-arising counterclaim and had it nailed down four-square in the court, however, due to the corruption in the court system, the judges let him off the hook.  The ruling by the COA II agreed with me that it was an After-arising counterclaim, however, there is not a single mention of the word bribery in their opinion, and the sole reason they dismissed it is due to the fact that Groen and Company didn’t file a counterclaim immediately after the Lis Pendens was filed by Lane.  They did not mention the Tortious Interference nor did they mention my argument that Groen and Company were working in the best interest of Lane and not me, their client.  Had they been advocating for me, they surely would have filed a WSBA complaint.  Of course, spitting in their eye would come back to haunt me later.  And filing a WSBA complaint is like complaining to the mob about mobsters behavior — or a different analogy, complaining about the crooked CIA to the crooked FBI.

My dad shared with me quite a bit about the garbage industry, notable that it is one of the most corrupt money-laundering organizations in the US.  After all, how much does it cost to dispose of a trainload of hazardous material stork feathers or unicorn horns? 

There is no reconciling the math on the garbage dumping process, as one of the landfills calculates the dump fees by the yard and the other one takes it by the pound.  These are mathematically irreconcilable and wrought with fraud.

Dad told me about a meeting he had with Joe.  I forget his last name, but at the time, he told me that Joe worked for Republic Services and was the former “Sanitarian” for the state of Washington.  I venture it wouldn’t be hard to figure out his last name, which I forgot, but that is irrelevant at this point.  What is relevant is that Joe offered my dad $2 billion for his garbage companies.  Yes, that is billion with a (B).  The yearly income for his operation is about $1 million annually, and the most he can net for the company is 3.75 percent.  In other words, the most he can profit from his franchise is $37,500.

At the time, I was figuring that he was going to charge a levy for all the trains that bisect his franchised area, which consist of 1.5 trainloads of garbage per day from Seattle.  The dump fees that Republic Services, who owns the Roosevelt landfill, charges a fee of $13.75 for out of county garbage, while charging $3.75 a yard for in county garbage, which would account for about $60 million in annual income if the entire vig were charged across the board.  This would be nearly impossible to hide under the 3.75 percent cap on net profit for garbage companies and hardly enough to justify $2 billion.

During the time that I was hanging out with my dad, he was also going through a divorce, and was having a heck of a time with his wife, as she sounded a little crazy…like Shelane.  So, I pointed my dad to Mike Roe and told him to get Mike on it.  I warned him that Mike was expensive, slow, methodical, but known to get good results.

At the time, Mike was slow-walking my divorce, not taking any action on it, but figured he was just busy because he was a good lawyer.  He jumped on my dad’s case and had it settled within a few months.  However, in the midst of this, he allowed my divorce to expire, not taking any action on it from September of 2013 through the dismissal in January of 2014.

After being away from the girls for over four months, after Christmas of 2013, I came back to Shelane to try and work things out again because Mike wouldn’t take any action in the case.  I saw through phone records that Shelane was in touch with Lisa Martin, the attorney she contacted around the time she learned that her first attorney was withdrawing before the custody hearing.  

However, my attorney, Mike, just slow-walked the case and allowed it to get dismissed in January in spite of my continuous pleas to have him file a parenting plan.  

I learned later that Shelane had befriended Lisa Martin, and at one point during one of the “reconciliation” periods, Shelane confided in me that she met Lisa Martin out on the town and she was with an “associate," but she would never disclose who the “associate” was.   Odd that we were being truthful with each other but she wouldn’t share these tad-bits of information with me.

We tried working things out from January through March of 2014, and again, it was the same old hat.  I packed up my 1995 Nissan pathfinder with all my clothes and other documents that I needed.  Over about 13 hours, Shelane watched ever single piece of paper that I loaded into the Pathfinder, and every article of clothing.  She was being her typical self, trying to make me mad so that I would react, but I kept smoking more weed.  You obviously can’t argue with someone that is stoned out of their mind, so I remained stoned all day as I packed.

I finally got done about midnight and was ready to leave.  I’d placed my cell on the nightstand to charge and when I went to get it, it was gone.  Of course, I knew this was another of her ploys and she was attempting to cause a fight. 

I asked the girls to help me find it as I called it from the house phone.  I eventually heard it vibrating in a bonus room we had above the garage that was packed full of things that were never used.  I wanted to have this as a game room, but Shelane subverted it by putting every piece of junk she could find in the house in the room and the 600 square foot room was eventually overrun with junk.  However, my phone was there…obviously thrown in the room intentionally to hide it from me.   

I was paying Shelane child and spousal maintenance of $3000 per month as the court originally ordered the prior year, but Shelane said that she never got the checks, in spite of them being cashed, so I stopped the auto pay from my account and would send her cashier’s checks each month and take a photo of the checks, which were on my phone.  Of course, when we “reconciled” she made me show her every text message and every email and photo that I ever sent while I was away, which I did…because it was really going to work this time!  I’m a fool!  The crux of her wanting the phone was to destroy the evidence that I had been paying her.  

As I was ascending the stairs to go get the phone, I could hear Shelane screaming into the phone as if I was murdering her right then and there, a replay of what she’d done a number of times before.  I immediately went into the master bedroom, closed the door, and placed the dresser in front of the door so she could not get access to me. 

I got on the phone and told the operator what I had just done and that I barricaded myself in the room, had no weapons, and that she was standing right outside the door of our 5800 sq. ft. house and I would feel more comfortable if she were somewhere else in the house.  I knew from my years in the fire service that the mobile data terminals in the squad cars were updated with additional information as people responded, so it was my hope that they got this to responding deputies so they wouldn’t come into the house with their guns drawn, starting to shoot.

I heard them come into the house, removed the dresser and laid down prone on the floor of the bedroom awaiting them to come in, which they did.  

Over the course of the next ½ hour or so, Shelane made the argument that I’d been torturing her and the girls all day (her verbiage) and it eventually changed to the fact that I’d been smoking marijuana and that I had marijuana.  After stating this to the officers numerous times, one of the officers eventually got tired of hearing it and said, “Ma'am, weed is legal here in Washington State”.  They’d just passed a law to make it legal a few months prior in Washington.  It was clear that she was trying to get ANYTHING in the record to restrict my rights to see the girls, which drug use is one.

The deputies eventually left after telling us that if they had to return that one of us was going to jail.  I left the following morning without getting my phone, which she ended up giving to Lisa Martin, who went through them and told Shelane that I was a psychopath, evidently because every other word I texted to Warren (my only remaining friend) was of the four-letter variety.

I left the area to go stay with another guy I was stationed with in the Teams.  He lived in Truckee, California.  I was down there for a short period of time when I learned that my biological dad had a “heart attack”.  I’d learned that he’d been spending a lot of time with Mike Roe and I even mentioned to Mike that dad was offered $2 billion for his garbage company and asked Mike if he would help my dad get the documents that would allow him to charge the vig on the trains hauling garbage through his franchised area.  

Instead of helping my dad get that worked out, he helped him rearrange his will and then he was dead a couple months after he was offered $2 billion for his garbage company.   Odd, right?  

I wish my mental condition would have allowed me to spend more time with him, I was just too taxed due to Shelane’s continued abuse, Mike’s lack of attention to the case, continued PTSD, and missing the girls.  It was as if I was caught in a set of Chinese handcuffs.

While with dad in the hospital, in spite of having a normal sinus rhythm the whole time, they said that his kidneys were shutting down due to his diabetes and the complications from the heart surgery.  This made no sense, just watching him decline day after day…unless you account for the fact that they murdered him and his “heart attack” was a pre-planned event.  

But that’s just crazy!

After my dad’s funeral at the end of April, I went back to the house on the Washougal for a couple of months to spend time with the girls and “reconcile” again.  This lasted about 2 months, and at the end of June, I left again and fled in the same fashion as before, and went to Mike Roes office and filed for a divorce.  This was our second attempt at a divorce.

I went back to Truckee, Ca. to stay with my former teammate again, awaiting Mike to file for temporary orders so I could see the girls, which never came.  In fact when he filed for the divorce, he did not put any restrictions or orders in place and Shelane sold every piece of community property that we had in a garage sale for $1,800.  But Lisa Martin told he to keep the receipts!  We had a concrete polisher that was nearly brand new worth $4,000.   There was realistically between $15,000-20,000 worth of community property, but since Mike didn’t put any restrictions on it, she was able to sell it.

From July 1 through November 1 of 2014, there was nothing done in the case, and once again, like a yo-yo, I went back to Shelane.  I hadn’t sent her any money this time, as I’d given her about $10,000 between June and July, a couple months earlier and I figured that the temporary orders would be entered any minute and I was going to wait…until I couldn’t stand being away from the girls any longer, so I returned to the same abusive relationship with Shelane from November of 2014 through February 11, 2015. 

During this reconciliation, Shelane wanted me to turn over all the money that I had to her, which I did, in addition to signing a contract with her stating that I was abusive, had abandoned the girls, and I was a general malcontent.  I knew that I was represented by an attorney, and she was also, so any contract that we mutually had on the side was null and void.  She wanted me to craft and sign it, but I wouldn’t craft it, so she got in touch with Lisa Martin and they worked out the wording on what the contract should state.  Of course, Lisa Martin knew this was null and void also, but I hadn’t figured out this was the long-con yet.

I was staying with my folks in Stevenson at the time, and Shelane picked up a part-time job with the City of Vancouver, which I was grateful for, in case things went south again.  At least she was gainfully employed.

However, one of her caveats was that I could not spend time with the girls or be with them while she was at work so she could “learn to trust you (me)”.  This wasn’t making any sense, but I was going on faith, and she tickled that faith in God portion enough to take the bait. 

We would meet up on Wednesday nights and sometimes on the weekend and go out to dinner.  On Wednesday nights, we would go to church and I would stay at the apartment.  I hadn’t transferred all the money over to Shelane’s account, but a large portion of it.  I was holding back some, as I didn’t know if we were going to have to pay taxes, so I moved about $12,000 into a savings account.

Meanwhile, she was getting the lion’s share of my disability income from November through February 11^th.  I’d spent the night at the apartment in Vancouver and woke up the next morning to go to a Dr’s appointment at the VA in Vancouver.  That morning, while showering, I found a notebook on the floor of the bathroom and it was one that I recognized belonged to Jessi.  I opened it and read it and it was as if it were written for Hustler magazine.  It was graphically described pornography…from my 12-year-old daughter.

I took it in and read it to Shelane and asked her WTF?  I told her that we would discuss it when I got home from the VA, as my biggest fears were true, my daughters were being molested over at their grandparents home by their uncle and grandfather…and perhaps their grandmother.  I had no idea, but knew this was bad.

When I got back to the apartment, it got even worse, Shelane told me that she talked to the girls and found out they were “addicted to porn”.   The only place they could have been watching porn was at her parents’ home in Gresham, as we didn’t have high speed internet on the Washougal River.  As Shelane told me this, it was almost as if she was proud of it because she said, “The girls became interested in porn because you made us go on the trip to Las Vegas and they saw the billboards of the scantily clad women on them and became interested in it.”  I was beside myself, literally sick to my stomach and on the verge of a panic attack.

Shelane kept trying to start another argument with me argument with me about a conversation I had with my brother Will, but I wasn’t at all concerned about that, as it was a private conversation I had with my brother and had nothing to do with the matter at hand.  My main concern was the well-being of our daughters and the fact that there was the high likelihood they were being molested while over at her parents home. 

About a week earlier, I was stoned, trying to remain calm and ward off the verbal assaults by Shelane when I told her that I was Jesus Christ, to which she retorted that I was basically nuts.  I told her that God was telling me this.

It just so happens that the conversation I had with my brother, Will, stemmed from the same signs that I got from God when we were out fishing on the bank of the Columbia River.  In fact, I got a message from God a couple of days prior stating letting me know the same thing…that I was Jesus Christ.  Of course, I became concerned that I was going completely nuts, so I called Dr. Kevin Walters and relayed this “download” I was being given from God, that I was Jesus Christ.  And like a true clinician, he told me to meet with my counselors and get my mind right. 

And this was what Shelane was attempting to get me to reveal to her as we were going through this argument.  Now, whether this was divine intervention, whether true or not, I knew from a legal standpoint, regardless of what transpired, I could possibly use this to my advantage.  After all, it was a message from God. 

I tried to keep Shelane at bay by smoking some weed to calm down.  This wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but it became my crutch to avoid the onslaught that I knew was coming.  

I went into the girls’ bedroom and closed the door so that I could talk with them privately, and Shelane came in opening the door in spite of me having my foot holding it closed, and I could tell that she was going to break the door, so I let her open it.  

She told me this wasn’t the time or place to talk about this and grabbed me by the arm, pulled me into her bedroom and slammed me against the wall.  I felt trapped and my heart started beating out of my chest and I felt a panic attack coming on…again.  I needed to calm down, so I slowly reached for the doorknob and left the apartment and went and sat in the parking lot for about five or ten minutes until I could calm my breathing down.

I returned to the apartment and when Shelane opened the door, she asked what I was doing, and I said that I wanted to talk with the girls and tried to walk past her to go to their room when she shoved me against the wall, and I lost my balance and struck the door, which kept me from falling to the floor, as pain shot down my back and leg.

I fully expected the blows to start coming any second, like they had many other times years prior, but none came.  I put my head down and put my forearm to her chest and pushed her back on the bed, landing on top of her.  As I landed on top of her, the girls were coming out of their bedroom and watched this unfold. 

As I was on top of Shelane, I whispered in her ear, “Don't you ever fucking touch me again”.  As this was happening, Jessi grabbed a metal bar that Shelane uses to keep the doors closed and struck me a couple of times with the bar and then she immediately picked up the phone and dialed 911.  I knew the police would arrive shortly, and after the second blow from Jessi, Shelane slid off the bed, curling up in between the bed and the door of the mirrored closet.  

As I got up, I told her that she has been abusing these girls for 16 years, it’s been long enough and it stops now, and I left the apartment and waited in my Xterra until I saw the law enforcement officers pull into the parking lot.  

A couple of months later, I learned that while I was at my Dr’s appointment at the VA, Shelane had called her parents’, just like she had done when she was supposedly running for her life after I chased her up the stairs with a shotgun.

I sure would like to have heard that conversation.

L’Hommedieu literally means “The Man God” in French

 

 

Chapter 10 – Sergeant Torres

I was trying to keep calm from the panic attack that I was having when Deputies Schmidt, Wade, and Sergeant Torres showed up to the apartment complex.  As they pulled in and stopped, they were about 50 yards from my vehicle, so I started walking toward them with my arms out to my side to show that I was not a threat to them.  As I approached Deputy Schmidt I made the remark with the voice of Al Pacino from Scarface that, “I must be the bad guy”.

Deputy Wade immediately ascended to the third-floor apartment where the girls were and Deputy Wade and Sergeant Torres interviewed me.  I informed them that I was having a panic attack and that I had PTSD, which Torres asked me “What from?”

I told him that I was a SEAL, which evidently didn’t sit well with him.  

While Deputy Schmidt was peppering me with questions about what transpired in the apartment, Sergeant Torres was peppering me with questions about my time in the military.  I could tell that he was put off with my remarks and had disdain for me right away.

I relayed the information written above to Deputy Schmidt, including my suspicion that my daughters were being molested while they spent five days a week over at Shelane’s parents’ home, and that I’d found a pornographic journal written by Jessi that morning and that I’d learned that morning they’d become addicted to porn.  

I knew that the law enforcement officers, like paramedics, are mandatory reporters of suspected child abuse, which molestation falls directly within that ambit, and they would have to write this in their report and report this to the proper authorities for a thorough investigation, which I envisioned would be conducted by the DSHS in the State of Washington along with the Gresham Police Department and quite possibly the Clackamas County Sheriff and the Oregon DSHS, as Shelane’s parents lived in Clackamas County, Oregon.

As I was ending the interview with Deputy Schmidt, heart still racing and concerned for my daughters, Sergeant Torres left and ascended to the third-floor apartment.  My guess is that he was in the apartment no longer than two minutes.  The entire time he was gone was less than five minutes and most likely closer to three minutes.

When he returned to the parking lot where we were, he asked to see my arms and I held them out and he grabbed one arm while Deputy Schmidt grabbed the other and they placed me under arrest.  I immediately though “This is a set-up!” 

Deputy Schmidt put me in the back of his Patrol vehicle, and SUV, and my heart was pounding out of my chest.  I had chest pain over Christmas and had a prescription for nitroglycerine in my Xterra, so I asked Deputy Schmidt to get them for me.  Torres asked where they were and I told them where they were in my vehicle and they asked whether they could search my vehicle, which I declined to have them do, which Torres did anyway.  Torres returned with the nitro and handed it to Schmidt, but he would not allow me to take them.  Then, he said one of the oddest things, which was that he couldn’t allow me to have them in case they were cyanide pills.   I’ve been on hundreds of calls with police officers and have never heard that stated a single time.   Odd, right?

Since he wouldn’t allow me to have the nitro, I asked him to call 911 and get the fire department to respond, knowing that they would at least give me nitro.  He declined to call 911 until I posed a question to him, such as “do you really mean that you are not going to call EMS for a person that has a prescription for nitro and is complaining of chest pain?”   He thought better of his decision and summoned the fire department and ambulance.

When they arrived, Schmidt took off the handcuffs and admonished me not to run “or else”.  He stood there the entire time watching them perform and EKG on me, then they recommended they give me nitro and transport me to the hospital, which Schmidt declined to allow them to do and he signed a patient refusal on my behalf.  It was clear to me that these fuckers weren’t going to follow any rules.

Ironically about a year and a half later, I was reviewing the transcript of Schmidt, and my attorney actually caught him in a pickle.  He said that while I was being checked out by the medics, he had a discussion with Sergeant Torres and Deputy Wade, and that they came to the collective conclusion that I was the instigator of the domestic violence and he had probable cause to arrest me due to this collective conversation that took place while I was being checked by EMS.

However, this belies the fact that Deputy Wade never descended from the third-floor apartment the entire time that I was at the scene that day.  David McDonald actually had a couple of good questions, in spite of a shitty interview, which delved into the probable cause.  He asked who made the decision to arrest me, which he stated correctly that Torres did.  But when asked about what Torres told him about “probable cause” he made up the story that they had a collective meeting of the minds, which gave him the probable cause to arrest and transport me to jail.

At one point during the time I was sitting in the back of the Patrol vehicle, Torres was talking around the vehicle, obviously incensed for some reason, and he yelled out “your full of shit”.  His demeanor that day did not comport with someone that wasn’t emotionally invested in the call at all.  

At the time, my read on it was that he was screwing Shelane, and that she told him about my previous jobs, i.e., being a SEAL, PJ, Smokejumper, and Captain/PM with the fire department.  Taken as a whole, someone with that resume sounds like they are full of shit…as there has only been one person in the world with those qualifications.  However, my read has changed after I garnered more evidence.

A few months after my arrest, Torres arrested a gal named Jessica Farias.  According to Torres, she broke out of his handcuffs and grabbed his service weapon and fired it into the police vehicle he was driving.  If you believe this, I have an oceanfront bridge that I’ll sell you in Arizona.  She was eventually committed to a mental institution, where she remains to this day. 

Deputy Schmidt took me to jail, then was told by the nurse at the jail to take me to the hospital, which he begrudgingly did.  On his way back from the hospital, he received a call from one of his buddies on his personal cell, and they talked about throwing back a couple of Crown and Cokes (if I recall correctly) after work.  He was sure to make reference that he was taking a shit-bag, faker up to the hospital and I was holding him up from throwing back a drink or two.  

I wonder what the policy at CCSO is about talking on a personal cell while operating an emergency vehicle…not to mention it’s against the law in the state of Washington. 

Over a year and a half later, I found out that there is no mention of the molestation, the addiction to porn, or the pornographic journal that I found that morning written by Jessi, my 12-year-old daughter.

Less than four months later, about one year after my biological father died, I was run off a cliff while riding my motorcycle in Skamania County.    

          

 

    

 

 

       

 

 

 

     

   

 

   

  

 

            

            

 

 Chapter 11 – The Slow Walk

After I was arrested on February 11, 2015, I attempted to arrange meetings between Mike Roe and David McDonald, my divorce and defense attorneys.  However, Mike became an obstructionist.  I couldn’t understand why he never had the time to meet us.  He’d take my calls and discuss the same things over and over again, but would never meet and lay out a strategy.

He did, however, set up a deposition for Shelane on June 5, 2015.  The previous day, I was run off a cliff by the psychopath, Torres (I assume).  I read the transcript over a year later, and ironically missing from the deposition is any questions regarding finances.  It was as if this wasn’t important at all.  

By this time, Shelane received about $30,000 between November of 2014 and February 11^th, 2015, and the day I was arrested, she transferred $9,000 from my checking account directly into her account.  Yet, this didn’t come up in the deposition.  Remarkably, Shelane filed for welfare at the beginning of March of 2015, stating that I had abandoned her.  It was becoming clearer, as I got more evidence that I was being setup. Fortunately, you folks are a lot smarter than me and have already figured out this ruse.

Mike was at the hospital the day I was life flighted, June 4.  I don’t recall much, other than him letting the doctors know that I had a seriously hard time with my previous surgeries.  That is pretty much all I recall and I was out for the next serval days, waking up as I was being wheeled into the operating room.  I think it must have been a Monday, as they were waiting for the main surgeon in SW Washington to return from a vacation.  When I woke up, I asked him if he was able to save my leg, to which he didn’t respond, only looking at what I assume was the anesthesiologist with a whimsical look, as if to state without saying a word, WTF is he doing awake in my OR?  I was out the next minute.

I was in fear that they were going to murder me any second while I was recovering from my injuries.  It was abundantly clear that someone wanted me dead, and I thought it was the federal government.  I didn’t have any concerns about Torres being a killer, he was an annoyance, and the arrest and DV charge was a joke to me. 

What I didn’t quite grasp at the time was the initial felony charge of DV Harassment.  I knew that it was a felony, so I hired David McDonald like I’d done back in 1999, expecting to get the same result.  He even had evidence of Shelane admitting to beating the hell out of me.  The initial felony charge was dismissed by the Superior Court judge and I was recharged within the 14-day window in District Court.  And like my previous foray into the law, I didn’t understand that David McDonald accepted service on my behalf.  Clearly, the very first thing someone or something does when they file a lawsuit is to serve the other person so they have “notice”.   To this day, I have never had proper “notice” and David McDonald, who ended up being an agent for the Cabal that attempted to murder me, accepted service on my behalf.  

Not only that, I paid a $3,000 bond, which I never received back after they immediately dropped the charges.  This is obviously another part of the scam, I surmise, to divvy up the bail bonds between the judges and bail bondsmen.  Had I known that Clark County played the bait and switch with the initial indictment, I would have asked for dismissal, as I hired David to represent me in the felony charge, not the misdemeanor charge.   There is nothing on my record, and 30 days in jail is nothing, compared to making the county look like a bunch of jackasses for bringing a fraudulent charge against me, particularly when they didn’t even report the suspected child abuse.  This should tell you how deeply involved these folks were on this long con.  All of them, the judges, cops, and attorneys were all in on it, and they saw a disabled veteran that had a pension as a liability that needed to be moved to the asset column.  It’s bean-counting at its finest.  And my pension, along with what Shelane would garner after I was successfully “Epsteined” was about $2.5-3 million.   That’s incentive to do this right!

It couldn’t be any clearer that they were going to lay this off once I was murdered, and a company like JG Wentworth was going to pay about $2 million for the income stream, while laying this off and paying the grunts like Torres his $200,000 bonus for scrubbing me out.   But, I haven’t gotten that far yet and I’m getting ahead of the story.

When I was in the hospital, I must have been approached about three or four times by the Public Information Officer at the hospital to do an interview with the press about my survival in the woods for 24 hours after being run off of the cliff.  I am normally vehemently opposed to the press and did not want to do an interview at all, but do to my plight, I wanted to get it out that I was looking for DB Cooper’s parachute, with my main goal of having it go viral so they wouldn’t murder me while I was going through the surgeries and recovering.  I eventually agreed to the interview, and I believe I was still in the Intensive Care Unit when they came to interview me.  

What I do recall about the interview was that I was extremely doped up.  I asked the guy (don’t remember his name) what questions he was going to ask me so that I could form a mental strategy about what to say when he asked me questions, and he basically stated that we were going to do this off the cuff and everything would be ok.   In other words, they are going to put into it what they want it to look like, i.e., here’s this crazy psycho that thinks he’s on the trail of DB Cooper.  I don’t recall every seeing the interview, and shudder to think about it, as all I recall is trying to make the plea that if you see something that looks odd, like a motorcycle lying on a dirt road next to a cliff for hours, you might want to peek over the cliff and see if someone is there.

I also wanted to convey how grateful I was to both Angela and Anson Service for saving my life.  I can never thank them enough for being in the right place at the right time.  Not to mention the fact that I was 38 minutes from committing suicide.  It almost seems like divine province, particularly due to the fact that Angela and Anson Service equates to An Angel Service Son, and that I would meet a friend that was framed by these same psychopaths out of zip-code 98666 and the cell phone they garnered the voicemail off of to frame him was logged into evidence at the Vancouver Police Department 38 minutes prior to the “crime” being committed.  John Garrett Smith, who I refer to as John the Baptist, is still in prison to this day for an attempted murder charge that was levied because of the voicemail that was garnered off of the phone.  Not to mention an expert analysis done on the voice mail has determined that it was spliced Q times…ahem, I mean 17 times.  BTW, this voicemail was from his trial in 2014…before Q came on the scene.  Odd coincidence?

The main point I am trying to make is the fact that the interview was orchestrated to make me look like a buffoon.  When I was somewhat recovered from my injuries, I attempted to get into contact with the people conducting the interview or someone from the media to see if they wanted to do a follow-up interview and there was nobody interested in the story.

While in the hospital, it seemed to me like they weren’t giving me any pain medication.  I figured that this was by design, as Dr. Kahn had to perform multiple surgeries on me, and if my blood-pressure fell, he wouldn’t be able to perform the next surgery, so I put up with the pain for an inordinate amount of time.  Minutes seemed like hours and hours seemed like days.

I’d broken most of the ribs on my left side and punctured my left lung and knew through experience that when you insert a chest-tube into someone, it has the potential to raise people from the dead.  It’s one of the most painful experiences that someone can go through.

A nurse came to the floor one day to check on my and the pump they had connected to the chest-tube evidently wasn’t working fast enough for the nurse, so she lowered the container that catches the blood.  I immediately felt the blood exiting from my lung and it was one of the most painful experiences that I’d gone through up to that point.  I grabbed the tubing and pinched it off and tried to convey to her as calmly as I could that she needed to undo whatever it was that she’d just done.  She looked at me as if I were speaking Russian to her, with a confused look on her face.  I repeated myself again, as calmly as I could and she eventually moved the container back, however, I still felt the blood moving out of my lung causing severe pain.  

My only thought; “you guys are just fucking with me now, torturing me.”

Later on that evening, or the following evening, the my ability to tolerate the pain was waning.  I’d put up with everything and soldiered up for about a week or so, and the lack of their ability to help me with my pain coupled with the fact that I deemed they were just torturing me, I’d had enough and summoned the nurse and asked for more pain medication, which she declined to give me due to “Dr’s Orders”.  “Dr. Kahn hasn’t ordered an increase in your pain medication so we can’t give you any until he gets here tomorrow.”  That wasn’t going to work for me, so I asked who I needed to talk to, and again, I got a blank stare as if my “Russian” was as equally as bad as the previous skirmish I had with the other nurse.  I pointed to the chart on the wall that depicts pain levels, and that it states on the chart that it’s their goal to provide pain relief if needed.  She huffed out of the room as if I were putting her out again!

After a long wait, I ended up grabbing the phone and dialing 911 requesting to be discharged to the VA hospital in Portland.   I was trying to discern if my 911 call was being received by the dispatcher inside the hospital, or if it was going to the local 911 center, CRESA.  I eventually determined that it was going to an internal operator and they weren’t going to send the police to assist me and they were going to continue to torture me.  The nurse returned to the room a short while later, and I attempted to cajole her into giving me her cell phone so that I could call 911 to get the hell out of the hospital.  By this time, I was sure they were torturing me.

I again asked who I needed to contact to get more pain medication and she said that the only person authorized to give it was the on duty surgeon, so I asked to have him dispatched to my room, which she eventually did.

The Colonel showed up.  He was a little shorter than me with the flat-top haircut and built like a fireplug.   By this time, I was steaming mad and had gotten out of my bed when he came in and got nose to nose with him, as if I was going to kick his ass…I had no shot.  I still had a cage around my leg with pins sticking out of it, and I wasn’t as nearly as intimidating as I thought I was.  I was just hot.  As the nurse was standing there, I was barking orders for him to either get me a cell phone or give me hers so that I could call someone to get me the hell out of SW Washington and report this abuse to the local police…surely they would help me!  I hadn’t figure out yet that these were the same people that were trying to kill me.

He basically told me that he wasn’t going to entertain anything I was saying until I calmed down and left the room.  After about 10 or 15 minutes of agony, I eventually rang the nurse again and asked him to return, which he did.  I apologized and asked him to increase my pain meds and get the chest tube out of my body.  It was connected to a ball that would pump pain meds into me, and every ½ hour it was pure hell.  It felt as if it was set up right next to my broken scapula, and every ½ hour when it went off, it sent my pain level to a 15 on a scale of 1 to 10.  I begged him to remove it, and he reluctantly agreed.

He said that if he removed it, I needed to use a spirometer every ½ hour to make sure my lung doesn’t collapse or he would have to insert a new chest-tube and it would be more painful than the last one.  I agreed to his demands and followed his direction and he removed the chest-tube.

I’d known that I had a pretty good lung capacity from the time I spent in the Teams, but evidently, mine is about 4500 liters compared to the average person that has a capacity of 2500, so they had to order a 4500-liter spirometer.  Luckily, I kept my lung inflated and every ½ hour, like clockwork, I used it. 

My brother, Will, was equally subversive.  At the time, I had 10 mg oxycontin prescribed for my back and I would take them as needed for back pain prior to getting run off of a cliff.  Will is a long-term drug user, so he decided that the pills I was getting from the VA were his, and he would not give them to me while I was in the ICU.  Instead, he stopped by the local weed shop and got some of the smokeless marijuana, which does almost nothing to cure acute pain.  It was as if the whole world was out to get me and subvert me.  

Of course, the marijuana vape smells like marijuana vape, and the nurses could tell that I was vaping, trying to control the pain.  I felt like a criminal, trying to self-medicate just so that I could function.  I was left in a constant state of fear, thinking that I was going to be murdered any second, while at the same time, attempting to get sleep so that I could recover.  This was a juxtaposed position that I was attempting to balance throughout the entirety of my stay at SW Washington.

Another thing that made me equally suspicious of my location was the fact that due to my injuries, I should have been flown to a Level I trauma facility, and both of those are in Oregon, one being Emanuel Hospital and the other being Oregon Health Sciences University in Portland, Oregon.  I had no idea why they flew me to a Level II trauma facility, other than reaching the conclusion that they intended to murder me while I was in the hospital.

I’d already seen Chris Kyle and Chad Littlefield executed.  Additionally, there was the suspicious deaths Jeffrey Reynolds and Mark Kennedy on the Maersk Alabama, who supposedly died of a heroin overdose.  In August of 2014, as I was looking into the USO Fund and Preet Bharara’s money-laundering operation, my former Commanding Officer at SEAL Team One was ran over while riding his bicycle in Washington DC.  There were also a couple of suicides and two other SEALs that I knew that were being hunted like animals, so my paranoia was through the roof.   

And if you know anything about special operations and MK-Ultra, you know that some of the Spec Ops folks go through some pretty fucked up things growing up…and I was proof of that.  This is something that our government doesn’t want disseminated amongst the general public.  While some have gotten the luxury of getting shock therapy to erase their minds, along with child sexual abuse, I was fortunate enough of just having had to go through CSA and was able to somehow be spared from the shock treatment. 

One also doesn’t have to be too much of a genius to figure out that the SEALs were being exterminated, starting with Kyle and Littlefield.  I think it is much more likely than not there was a bounty on us, and someone was getting paid handsomely for the elimination of a SEAL.  People like Rob O’Neill don’t just come out and scream from the top of the mountains that he was the guy that shot Bin Laden, while arguing with another guy that he was not the one, and someone else did it.  There’s a reason why he came out and wrote a book about it, and I assume that was the same reason that I was attempting to scream from the mountain tops that I was looking for DB Cooper…self-preservation.  After all, there was extortion 17.  It was too coincidental for a bunch of SEALs being picked off and committing suicide when there weren’t any reports of anyone in the PJ community suffering the same fate.  My spidy senses were off the charts, particularly given I was in the wrong hospital.  Not to mention the bullshit story about Kennedy and Reynold “overdosing” on the Maersk Alabama…the same ship as Captain Phillips.  This is the assassins creed, a game played at a much higher level.  They weaponize fentanyl by vaporizing it, and that is how they died.  This is an old tried and true method used by the GRU.  It was most likely done by the Soviets as a favor to the US.  And just FYI, there is no war between the US and Soviet Union, it’s all the largest scale of professional wrestling known to man. Each of the leaders of these countries are chosen to meet the ends of the Rothschild banking clan, and they profit by making money, literally, printing money.  There is absolutely no excuse for any of the 206 countries under the Central Banking scheme to quit making money.  They don’t give a shit whether it’s a communist, socialist, fascist, or capitalist or any other -ist system, as long as that system is PRINTING MONEY.  When you get 3 percent of every dollar, (or other currency) what’s the incentive to stop printing if you are a Rothschild?  And when you are a Rothschild, you own people like the Rockefeller's, who own the Council on Foreign Relations and the US Congress.  And what is Congress doing right now?  The national debt has increased almost 33 percent in 5 years!  However, I digress with my paranoia and “conspiracy theories.”    

After days on end of surgery after surgery, it finally came time for Dr. Kahn to repair my broken arm and reattach the ligament.  He asked me if I was ready to do it, and I’d had enough and needed a break, so he allowed me a day of rest before he tackled the arm repair.  While I was doing a little R and R, I was able to make the arrangements to be transferred to a nursing home in Bend, Oregon, and right after the arm surgery, I was discharged to the nursing home and my mom loaded me up in her SUV and took me over to Bend.  Even though she has a comfy Caddy, it was one of the roughest rides of my life.  I felt every single rock in the road.

I figured that I could get the doctor at the nursing home to prescribe enough meds to quell the pain.  I was actually looking forward to it.  However, as a back-up plan, I gave Will $400 to buy some weed just in case.  I figured if they wouldn’t give me the pain meds, I could at least smoke, rather than vape.  Smoking weed at least takes some of the edge off, while vaping is a little less potent. 

I arrived in Bend about the last week of June of 2015.   Like Washington, Oregon had just passed a law legalizing marijuana, which became effective on July 1, 2015.  

I was discharged in a wheelchair and got set up in a very nice room in the nursing home, and just like in Washington, I ran head-long into the “Dr’s Orders fiasco” and I couldn’t get a doctor to increase my pain meds.  So, I reverted to plan B and would wheel my butt out to the patio and smoke, then return to my room and try and relax and catch up on some much-needed sleep and start my road to recovery.

The day shift nurses would basically laugh at me, not really caring that I smoked.  In fact, one of them would come and rub icy hot on my to quell the smell and make sure that others wouldn’t know about it.  This dance went on for about a week, until I heard the Gestapo nurse at the nurses station complaining about my marijuana use.  She was incensed that I had the hubris to smoke weed against the nursing home rules.  She chided me for it, and I heard her go out into the hall and call the local Bend PD.  At first I was like, really?  Thinking, she’s really calling the PD about me smoking weed?  It’s legal in about two days, WTF?

However, I had enough sense to somewhat put it together that these psychopaths were really after me, and that if I was caught breaking the law, i.e., smoking weed when it was against the letter of the law, I would be violating the conditions of my release on the DV/Harassment misdemeanor, and I would be thrown in jail until they were done messing with me.

I’d just purchased $400 in weed and now had to flush it.  And, if you’ve ever gotten weed from a dispensary, the one thing they make sure of is following the regulations to make sure that it is child proof.  That’s the last thing any store or manufacturer wants is for a kid to get into it and ruin the fun of getting baked.  And, if you’ve ever seen someone in a wheelchair with a broken arm, two dislocated shoulders, arm in a sling, and a leg in a huge cage around their leg trying to open weed packages that were sealed by managers of Ft. Knox, it is the proverbial monkey fucking the football.  

I must have fallen about 3 times out of my wheelchair trying to get to the different stashes I’d placed around the room.  As we are taught in the Teams, one is none, and two is one, and I surely didn’t want them to find my stash and confiscate it without a backup, so I hid them all over the room and in the flower pot outside. 

Just as the cops were rolling up, I’d flushed the last of the evidence, it was gone, all $400 of it, minus the bit I’d smoked up to that point.  However, at least I wasn’t going to jail!  There were three police officers that showed up to the nursing home that evening, I repeat THREE!  

By the time they showed up, I was literally exhausted from the workout, my pain was through the roof from falling three times, and my leg was starting to bleed where the rods and pins were sticking into my leg.  It was the proverbial shit-show.

The Sergeant started in on me.  Have you been smoking weed?  No answer.  Then he asked me if I have any weed.  “No."  

“I heard you were smoking weed, do you have a medical marijuana license?” 

“Why would I need a medical marijuana license, weed is legal in Washington where I am from”.  

“Well, you are in Oregon.”

“I know that, why would I need a medical marijuana license?”

Then we went on this circular dance for about five minutes, where he would ask me if I had a MJ license, and I would retort with the same pat question.  Finally, I’d had enough of his game, and showed him my leg and the blood dripping from it and unless he was there to help me with my medical condition, I’d surely appreciate it if he would leave, and on the way out, get the nurse so that she could help me with my medical condition.  Our stalemate turned into a pyrrhic victor of sorts, for a short time. 

The following day, one of the nurses said that I had an appointment back in Vancouver to see Dr. Kahn and that I needed to get to the appointment.  When my mom came to pick me up, they loaded me up in her SUV with all my stuff, and discharged me, putting on my paperwork that I was discharged from the facility AMA, or Against Medical Advice, and I was not welcome e in any of their facilities across the state, to include facilities in Portland and Vancouver. 

I spent a day or two at my folks house in Stevenson until I was able to find a facility that would accept me and it was in Camas, Washington, where I spent the next month and a half recovering from my injuries, being discharged in mid-August, about two and a half months after I was run off of the cliff.

Of course, I sent a nice email to the mayor of Bend, Oregon, Bill Clinton, regarding the conduct of his police Gestapo that was sent to ensure that the public was safe from my criminal transgressions.  

When I returned to Vancouver, fortunately, I was able to see my regular physician at the VA, Dr. Oh, who I’d been with since 2013, and he prescribed a boatload of medication so that I didn’t have to suffer the entirety of the time I was in the nursing home.

While I was there, it was amazing to see the inner workings of the nursing homes.  For instance, the NH that I was in was the same one that my step-dad was in after one of his surgeries. I remember going there to visit him, and this was one of the last nursing homes that I would go to, as it was a complete shit-hole when my dad was there. 

However, due to a bill passed through government under the guise of helping veterans, these NH’s were given millions of dollars to upgrade their facilities with the promise that they would accept veterans that needed NH care.  

I had three different insurance policies, Medicare (primary), the VA (secondary), and the plan from TVFR (tertiary).  The one that was with TVFR covered Shelane and the girls, and I didn’t receive any benefits from it. 

Due to my injuries, I was allotted a certain amount of time through Medicare.  And while I was in the NH, I recognized that they were taking advantage of older people, such as the vets.  They would admit the into the facility, put them on an opiate, and then put them on the mental incapacity train and steal all their belongings while they went through the court process, then kill em.  Now, I say that loosely, but when I went to see Anson Service one day and told him about it, it was almost as if this was an open secret!  I was like, OMG, this is really happening, it’s like the movie, “I care A lot," and that movie is just like the movie Training Day with Denzel Washington.  These aren’t movies, they are training films for cops (Training Day) and estate attorneys (I Care A Lot).  And, it just so happens that Dennis Lane was an estate attorney, go figure.

Additionally, when my time on Medicare ran out, and I was supposed to move to my secondary coverage, i.e., the VA, it was time for me to be discharged from the NH, as the amount the VA pays was substantially less than what Medicare was paying.  It’s all a freaking scam!

To add insult to injury, I started getting calls from Mike Roe, my Vancouver attorney in early July of 2015.  He said that I needed to pay Shelane child support of $3000 per month and go to the bank and get a cashier’s check.  I was all doped up, and thinking he had my best interest in mind, so I did as he said.  There was no court order in place, but the right thing to do is provide for my daughters, so I had my mom come and pick me up and take me to Wells Fargo to get a cashier’s check.  And of course, I tried to go through the drive-through to get one for $3,000 but it was over their limit, so I had to go inside.  During my exit from the vehicle, I fell on the ground, of course, and racked the hell out of myself, but got it.

About ½ way to Mike’s Office, he calls again and says that I need two checks to make up for last month to, so exactly like the same circus show that just transpired at a different Wells Fargo, I was declined the ability to get it through the drive through, in spite of pleading that I’d just fallen getting out of the car less than 10 minutes prior, and was denied and told to come inside.  So, I fell again, just like before on my way to get the second check.  Not only was I paying her $3000 per month in support, I was also paying over $1600 per month for the medical plan. 

To make matters worse, I never got to see the girls. They never came to see me once.  In fact, I haven’t seen the for years, the last time I saw Jessi was in 2017, and Paige was in the summer of 2016 and they were “supervised” visits to ensure they didn’t convey to me what was happening to them.  In fact, during our visits, they would barely speak a word to me, as their lives were threatened by these psychopaths.  If either of them flubbed up, they would murder the other, and/or murder their mother.  

  In September of 2015, Mike was still being the roadblock, keeping us all from meeting, i.e., a meeting of the minds for my defense and divorce between myself, Mike, and David McDonald.  He became the perfect roadblock, and I was just funneling him money to give to Shelane while she was drawing welfare from the state of Washington.

I knew that I had to get my wits about me, so I stopped taking opiates all together.  By this time, I was taking three 30 mg tablets of morphine augmented by oxycontin.  I was still in a lot of pain, but the opiates put me in a fog and I couldn’t think, so I stopped cold-turkey.  That was worse than going through hell-week at BUD/S…twice, back-to-back.  And just like Shelane, when she ran out of opiates, I got sick to my stomach and had a head-ache that would kill a horse.  My suspicions about her addiction were confirmed, her head-aches were from opiate withdrawals.

In October, I set up a meeting with Mike to discuss the divorce, and how to get out from underneath it.  I wanted it settled ASAP.  However, Mike and the Cabal had different ideas.  I went to his office and had him call Lisa Martin to see what it would take to settle the divorce issue.  He called her, but there was no answer.

About an hour into the meeting we were working on the affidavit for the parenting plan, the response to the temporary parenting plan that Lisa Martin sent over.  The affidavit from Shelane stated that I had abandoned her and the kids, failed to provide for her financially, and that I was a dead-beat dad, to the point that she had to file for welfare.  The laws in Washington State that you have to list all your assets, in particular the ones that you’ve sold within the past couple of years (I think 36 months).  Obviously, Shelane didn’t include in her application for welfare that she was directed by Martin to sell all the community property a year earlier, and that she’d received about $45,000 between November 1, 2014, and July of 2015 when she filed the affidavit.  It was fraudulent in its entirety and a clear-cut case of welfare fraud.

While I was with Mike, my pain was through the roof, and I was becoming impatient.  He then showed me a picture of a naked woman on his iPhone.  The girls face on the picture was obscured with her reddish-blonde hair, but her body looked exactly like the body of the woman that I’d been with over the past 14 years.  I even commented, “That looks like Shelane.”  He played it off like it was some gal he met in Vegas, and we returned our focus to the task at hand, the affidavit for custody. 

Mike took advantage of my condition and eventually wore me down to the point that I had to leave his office.

I recalled one of the times that Shelane and I got back together, and the photo wasn’t sitting right with me.  During one of my returns after our separation, Shelane had changed her hair color to reddish blonde.  This was just too much of a coincidence for me, so I called Mike and told him to give me the paperwork that Lisa had sent him and that he was fired. 

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, I did not get a response from Mike and Lisa Martin wouldn’t send me the temporary orders.  I showed up to the hearing on November 11, 2015, not knowing what to expect, but I did know there was a Local Rule #5 which allowed for in person testimony, so I planned on making that argument in front of Judge Altman, the same judge that awarded Shelane $3,000 per month and told her that she needed to get a job.  I figured at least he was in my corner and had already seen the bullshit that she’d pulled back in 2012 trying to get custody.

At the hearing, Mike showed up a few minutes prior and handed me the paperwork she’d filed along with a motion to withdraw as my counsel.

I was in severe pain from having my leg broken again just a few days prior to the hearing.  I wasn’t on any opiates, but the pain was pretty much intolerable.  Judge Altman allowed Mike to withdraw and he immediately left after the approval.  Then Lisa Martin presented her argument that I was an abusive SOB and that Shelane wanted supervised visits because I was a horrible person and didn’t deserve to see the girls.  

After her presentation, Judge Altman asked my position, to which I asked to testify under LR #5. DENIED!  Then he asked me if I wanted a continuance, or if I wanted to proceed, which I told him all I wanted to do was see my daughters.  He immediately approved the orders, awarding Shelane over $6,100 in spousal maintenance, child support, and healthcare benefits.  This was a complete shift from what he’d done just a couple of years earlier and I was completely taken aback by his decision, as she was awarded sole custody based on fraud.

Over the next couple of months, I sent hundreds of emails to Lisa Martin asking for the cell phone with the photos of the checks on it, for the receipts from the sale of the community property, the welfare applications, etc., etc.   After months of getting bits and pieces of responses, I had enough information to nail her down four-square to committing welfare fraud.  

I filed an Emergency Motion for custody, listing all the emails as evidence of the fraud, requesting that I have sole custody of the girls, and reversing the order that he’d entered just a few months prior.  

He told the Clerk of the Court to shred the Emergency Order, which is a felony under RCW 40.16.020, the destruction of the public record.  He told the Clerk to call me and have me file a CR 60 Motion instead, which requires me to serve Lisa Martin, so I cut and pasted the motion that I’d filed, changed the header from Emergency Motion to a CR 60 Motion and filed it.  

I went to Lisa Martin’s office to serve it personally, which of course, is a violation, but I didn’t care, she would have had to make the argument that it was improper service, while on the other hand, having to defend herself from committing welfare fraud with Shelane, another felony. 

When I showed up to her office with my cane and broken leg, I sat down in a chair her office and she immediately started screaming at me “what the fuck are you doing here?”

I responded, letting her know that I was serving her the motion, and she told me to get the fuck out and screamed to her assistant to call the police, and threw a chair at me, smashing my hand in between the chair I was sitting in, and the one that she just launched at me.  I told her assistant not to worry about calling 911, as I dialed them immediately on my cell.

After she got away from me and left the office to go down in the lobby of the high-rise she is in, I went and sat in the hallway and waited for the Portland PD to show up.  And, as you would guess, in spite of me explaining it like listed above, I was arrested and taken to jail and booked into the Portland jail (circa March 2016).

I told David about what transpired, and he said we needed to dispose of the trespass case immediately or it would affect the outcome of my other case.  I didn’t understand this at all, I wanted a trial for the trespass, as I wanted her on the stand testifying under oath to the illegal activity that she’d been pulling.  

David immediately got the charges dismissed after I agreed to donate $250 to a charity for disabled veterans.  What I didn’t realize at the time, he worked the deal to keep her off the stand to protect her.  It felt odd the way the whole thing worked out.

He told me that I needed to get an attorney to represent me in the divorce action, which I did.  I hired the attorney that he recommended, which was an associate for the judge in District Court in Skamania County, Judge Ron Reynier. 

I told Julie Cline, the attorney assigned to my case what Judge Altman relayed to me through the Clerk of the Court, and that we needed to immediately file a CR 60 Motion for custody based on the fraud.  She immediately started dragging her feet, telling me directly that she was not going to do that, without offering me a reason as to why she wouldn’t file it like Just Altman recommended.

This charade went on for about a month and I fired her and went pro se again until David agreed to take over the divorce case.  He knew about divorce cases, as his “wife” (I don’t know if they are officially married) is a retired divorce attorney that worked in Vancouver, Washington and she was, according to David, advising him on the case.

David appeared to start sorting through the divorce case to straighten up the paperwork.  What I didn’t realize was that he was doing a CYA for the whole gambit, while at the same time charging me a few hundred dollars an hour to clean up the mess.

Shelane hired a new attorney in Vancouver, and she immediately filed a contempt of court because I could no longer afford to pay the $1600 in health care benefits, as she would be completely covered under the VA benefits while we were still married, and it looked to me as if it was going to be a long drawn out slog.  The plan that I got through the firefighters union expired in July of 2016, and Shelane never bothered to fill out the paperwork to get the girls enrolled in the plan.  She filed a motion for contempt, and David was an eager beaver to show up to court in an attempt to get me charged with contempt for something that she had the responsibility of doing, i.e., filling out the paperwork and submitting it to the union office. 

Around this same time, David made an appointment for me to go see a counselor in Portland.  I had no idea why he wanted me to go see a counselor, particularly since he hadn’t interviewed Shelane for the DV/Harassment misdemeanor charge where I was facing 30 days in jail, nor had he interviewed Rick Torres.

In November of 2015, while I was recovering, I’d found a lawsuit that the family of a 17-year-old kid was murdered by Torres (literally) and he was let off the hook by the crooked 9^th Circuit Court of Appeals.  I forwarded the case to David on November 24, 2015, and all of a sudden, after 6 months of delays and not interviewing any witnesses in the case that were pertinent to my defense, he is having me attend a psychological appointment with a counselor of his choosing.  Wow, this made no sense to me at all!  Why would we be adding evidence into both a criminal trial and divorce trial that could potentially be damaging to me, while we had Shelane and her counsel nailed dead-to-rites with welfare fraud?  I was confused.

In another act of divine intervention, in July, I decided to stop by the courthouse and David was there arguing the contempt motion.  I was shocked, as I was never notified of the hearing.  He was just as shocked to see me there as I was to see him there.  I don’t recall what happened during the hearing, I am sure that I got fined for contempt, as I was the proverbial bad guy in this whole fiasco.

Another thing that David did to make me look bad in front of the court was skipping a court hearing while I was in the intensive care unit after being run off the cliff by these psychopaths, and the judge issued a bench warrant for my arrest while I was in the ICU.  Talk about adding insult to injury.  Lisa Martin was sure to bring that up several months prior during one of the hearings, pointing out what a dead-beat I was. 

In April of that year (2016), I was hooked up with a teacher from the White Salmon School District.  She taught grade-school in the area and it was her first year in the system.  Her name is Mrs. Phillips.  The irony of the whole thing is that she knew my step-dad prior to us meeting.

In spite of the whirlwind that was my life, she was by my side, watching this whole train-wreck unfold.  We were dating for a couple of months, and then suddenly in July, I went absolutely bat-shit crazy!  The timing was odd, and my mental capacity was functioning, but at a very low level.  I was having essentially what one would call a “God complex," or seriously religious experiences and thoughts.  Anything that I thought was true…because it was divine!  This was completely unlike what I’d experienced about a year and a half earlier right before I was arrested. I believed anything I thought was literal truth, ordained by God. 

By this time, I was completely paranoid.  I wouldn’t touch anything that was not organic.  The only thing that I kept the same was smoking the same marijuana that I’d been smoking for the past couple of years.  I would go to the legal shops and buy a month’s worth at a time.  

I recall around this time (which is a very hazy time for me) that I just purchased some weed and smoked it one night.  The following day, instead of being tarry and supple, it was dry with crystals on it.  It was odd to me that it dried out that fast, but to not smoke it would be a wasted, not to mention, it would verify my paranoia and I didn’t want to be “that guy.”  I felt as if I was being squeezed into a funnel, or in a certain direction.  

I’d been attending group counseling at the VA for PTSD, and on July 11^th, 2016 we had a counseling session.  There were two psychologists that were leading the group, and I was the vet that sat in the back with a hat covering most of my face the whole time and tried to take everything in, while exercising my right to remain silent…for the most part. 

Dr. Clark pulled me aside after the session, as he could see that I was out of sorts and struggling.  He let me know that my regular counselor was out of town, but he was going to be in Vancouver the following day and wanted to know if I wanted to come by and have a chat with him about what was going on, which I agreed to.

I always sat in the back of the class, and thought that the VA was my “safe space”.  What I didn’t recognize about Dr. Clark until that day was that he was huge.  He was built like a good friend of mine that I went through BUD/S with.  He didn’t look big from a distance, as he was very proportional, but he was built like a lot of Team guys, proportionally big.  Another thing that didn’t sit well with me was that he was amped up when he was talking with me, almost like he was going on an op, or a call like I had done hundreds of times at the fire department.  Something was amiss about his behavior. 

We set the meeting for 11:00 a.m. the following morning.

Throughout the night, I replayed our visit over and over again in my head and something was completely wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

When I woke up that morning, I decided that I was going to skip the appointment, but I didn’t call into the VA to let them know that I wasn’t going to attend.

Shortly after 11:00 a.m., I got a call on my cell from a phone number that I didn’t recognize.  I couldn’t let it pass, like I normally would, and allow it to go to voicemail so that I could screen the call and answered the phone.  

The voice on the other end of the line was a guy with a Hispanic accent.  He was informing me that the VA had made a mistake and that due to my mental condition, i.e., PTSD, they VA was going to assign my estranged wife as my fiduciary and wire all of my VA finds into her account and she would be acting as my fiduciary.  

When I answered the call, he seemed surprised that I answered, and I peppered him with questions, namely what the VA policy was when it came to giving the funds to my wife when we were going through a divorce.  He had no answer for this, and I pressed him with other question, like why it took them so long and when this policy should have been implemented, to which he had no answer.   In effect, he seemed like someone that didn’t know shit about the policy and procedures, and secondly, his thick Hispanic accent appeared to me to be someone that should be working as a janitor at the VA rather than someone implementing policy decisions regarding finances for a disabled veteran.

Later, I learned that this call was never logged into the VA system, and every call the VA makes is logged into the system.  However, due to his lack of knowledge, and the way he acted by being so surprised that I answered, I was glad that I didn’t attend the counseling session, as I felt as if I was going to be executed on the way into the appointment, or “Epsteined” somehow, and they were going to attribute it to me going bonkers due to the fact that the VA had just turned over my finances to my estranged wife.

Shortly after 1:00 p.m. that day, I got a text from my friend, Warren, asking me if I’d heard the news, to which I responded, “What news”.  He told me that they’d just “closed” the DB Cooper case!

My suspicions were verified, they were intent on killing me that day, and the confirm-verify portion of the message was the FBI was “closing” me out.

The first publication that I could find announcing the closure of the case was at the Seattle Times, originally published on July 12, 2016 at 9:36 a.m.  And in case you don’t look at the numbers, I’ll clarify them for you.  1+2+2+1 = 6 at 9 followed by 36 or 666.  These satan worshipers sure like their 6’s. Like zip code 98.666, or Shelane [Judah]s birthday which is the 26^th day of 66, or 2.666, or her social security number that has the numbers 413102115 equaling 666.  Don’t worry, there’s moar.      

BTW, Epstein didn’t kill himself!

Chapter 12 – E. Howard Hunt: The Original Jason Bourne

July of 2016 was an extremely confusing time for me.  Looking back on it, it couldn’t be any clearer that the weed that I’d been smoking was tainted with something, as I was going through a manic phase much like a meth addict.  As I said, one day the weed I was smoking was tarry and pliable and the next day after opening the container once, it was hard and had crystals.

Anything I thought, in my mind, was valid truth and I made my decisions based on this belief that my thoughts were verifiable truth ordained by God.  I kept a journal of my thoughts, including my thoughts on the testing and cure for cancer.  My thoughts were going to change the world.  I believed that all one needed to do to cure cancer was match their genetic code to the amount of chemicals that a human body was exposed to, and a simple test could be performed by garnering a sample from someone’s heel, where all the heavy metals and chemicals migrate to and are eventually sloughed off.  I thought that all a scientist needed to do was build a mathematical model, matching it with the individuals human genome (genes) and they could come up with either a cure…or an expected expiration date for the individual.  The sample could be taken and analyzed with a mass spectrometer. 

Ironically, a short while later, my wife stated in her affidavit in the divorce filings that I’d purchased a mass spectrometer and that was one of our community assets.  Odd, right?

At the time, I did not know who Howard Hunt was, and I’d always thought that his partner in crime while with the Nixon administration, G. Gordon Liddy, was an astronaut.  Why?  Because he told me so when I met him in Glenwood, Washington as a kid.  What was I doing meeting with G. Gordon Liddy, the astronaut who brought my dad a relic, the first “knife in space” that was in an acrylic hockey-puck sized container with a knife encased in it that was made by Bo Randall, the same person that was sanctioned by my dad’s uncle Page to make a hand-made knife for a graduation present when dad graduated from The University of Montana.

While I’ve tried to keep this in chronological order, I am jumping forward here to give you an idea as to the information that I’ve garnered doing my research into this morass.  I started studying both G. Gordon Liddy and E. Howard Hunt a couple of years after July of 2016 when I had more time on my hands, and this is what I’ve learned about them.  I hope that it is not lost on the reader, the “titles”.  G. Gordon, E. Howard, and L. Matt L’Hommedieu.  There are other instances where I have seen this pattern, and perhaps this is a topic that would be better left to a clinical psychologist, but for brevity, I see a mathematical model here that is based on human pattern behavior, a change from accepting ones first Christian given name, changing it to the middle name.  By all appearance, from my experience, people that do this are trying to run from who they were to someone they hope to be, i.e., someone more tolerable to one’s self identification.  For me, I wanted to run from who I was, the 11-year-old kid that was molested by a predator that took advantage of me, and I vowed to never have this happen to me again, hence, becoming a Navy SEAL; only to have this humiliation reinforced and amplified the day I got my trident and was taped from head-to-toe and had a carrot shoved up my ass.  This was the epitome of humiliation, self-degradation, and a loss of the power and control that I’d attempted to establish by becoming a SEAL.

It was as if “someone," i.e., the system, was sending me the clear and distinct message that there would always be the invisible hand that retained this power and control over me.  It was the ultimate mind fuck!  I can’t help but surmise that this was the case with G. Gordon Liddy and E. Howard Hunt, among others unnamed.  Particularly since I have learned as of late that the sexual abuse and ritualistic indoctrinations have happened to many others in the SEAL community, so I am left with the mathematical possibility that this is part of a much larger program than the government wants to acknowledge.  

Perhaps it was for this reason that I’ve always felt a little odd, like I was different from others.  Or, perhaps it has been my lifelong connection with God.  After all, he spoke my name, as clear as day the first time I went to the Baptist Church in Burns when I was 11, trying to run from the molestation and abuse.  It was for this reason that I believed that I was either special, different, or just odd…or a mixture of all of them.

Growing up in Glenwood, I would have vivid dreams of flying like a bird.  The closest thing I got to replicating this was in the early 70s in grade school during recess time.  We had a green parachute that had all the lines cut off of it and during recess our class would gather around the chute and stretch it taught and place a kid in the middle of it and then bounce the kid up and down like on a trampoline.  I hate to date myself, but to my knowledge, trampolines hadn’t been invented yet.  When I was in the middle of the chute, when I was thrown up in the air, higher was better.  It felt like I was flying, like in my dreams…the best feeling in the world.  I couldn’t get enough of this.

One day, one of the kids got too close to the edge and was bounced off the parachute and broke his arm, and that was the end of our fun with the parachute.  Years later, one has to ask, where did that parachute come from?  

As I said, I was looking into the DB Cooper hijacking, and one of the things that piqued my interest was the response by President Nixon.  This was the biggest news in the history of the United States, a hijacker that got away with $200,000 and jumped into the middle of the Cascade Mountains and got away with this caper.  However, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this story was bullshit, as no sane person would jump into the Cascades without being dressed with the same gear a smokejumper wore.  And smokejumpers had been around since the 40s, and DB Cooper wasn’t the crazed thrill-seeker that was portrayed in the news media.  

During the hijacking, from Portland to Seattle, and then back to the Columbia River, Cooper smoked 8 cigarette’s and had a couple of drinks.  He was described as calm, cool, and collected.  Cooper had been in these types of situations before and he was the proverbial “James Bond” character.  As an aside, the 8 Raleigh tipped cigarette butts have since been lost by the FBI.  Clue #1.

When I looked into Nixon’s schedule the days leading up to the hijacking and the day of the hijacking, I would highlight the name of the individual and do a background check on them.  The first name that popped up the day of the hijacking was Najeeb Halaby.  

Halaby was the former director of the FAA, assigned by JFK.  He was also a test pilot, ace fighter pilot trainer, and had a history of jumping.  At the time of the hijacking, he was the President and CEO of Pan Am Airlines, and it just so happens that during the Dawson Field hijackings on September 6^th-9^th, 1970, one of Pan Am Airlines planes was hijacked.  It was Flight 93.  

In response to the Dawson Field hijackings, a little over a year prior to the DB Cooper hijacking, President Nixon signed an Executive Memorandum placing sky marshals on US commercial airliners.  He signed the Executive Memo on September 11, 1970.  See a pattern here?  9.11 and flight 93.  Odd, right?

I thought that maybe I was onto something regarding this hijacking thing, and as I put in my email to the FBI on May 28^th, 2015, it was an inside job, and a guy that was the former director of the FAA was meeting with the POTUS three hours prior to the DB Cooper hijacking.

Halaby was also the biggest proponent of the Boeing 2707 Supersonic Jet program at Boeing.  This was nothing more than a boondoggle for Boeing, as McNamara and his buddies at the DoD had already tried to build a SSJ for a military aircraft and found it to be ineffective and unfeasible.  However, after JFK was assassinated, one of the first Executive Orders signed by LBJ was an EO granting Boeing $1 billion to develop a civilian SSJ to compete with the Concord, which was under development in France.  Boeing was required to put of 5 percent of the project costs and the government was on the hook for another 95 percent.  This, of course, is nothing more than an accounting trick.  Look no further than Anthony Fauci funding the lab in Wuhan and saying none of the money was used by the Chinese for gain of function research…he promises.   

In the early 2000s, the tie left behind by DB Cooper was tested and it contained a fragment of pure titanium, which was very rare at the time, and mainly used in the aerospace industry and by the builders of the SSJ.  Evidently, the wing strut had to be beefed up with the lightest and strongest material known at the time and their best option was to use pure titanium.

Another oddity was the fact that the DB Cooper sketch was updated around the time of the Watergate break-in.  And during my research, along with learning that G. Gordon Liddy was not an astronaut and part of the “plumbers” outfit that broke into the Watergate Hotel, I learned that E. Howard Hunt was one of his co-conspirators.  

While Liddy was an FBI Agent, and a patent attorney under his father,  and a prosecutor in NY, E. Howard Hunt was a CIA Agent.  And in Liddy’s book, he points to Hunt as being a psychopathic killer who murdered 22 people, Liddy admits to having psychopathic tendencies.  For instance, in his book Will, he admits to holding a zippo lighter to his skin with the flame burning while he is interviewing a female for a job, stressing to her the importance of loyalty.  This reminds me of the character, Mr. Joshua, in the Lethal Weapon movie with Mel Gibson.  This is most likely a portrayal of Liddy and his antics, as he was known to do this on occasion.

On October 8^th, 1971, Nixon was meeting with Dudley Swim.  According to the official record, they were meeting about education.  This seems odd, as Dudley Swim was the President of Northern Airlines at the time.  In addition, around this time, Nixon met with Attorney General John Mitchell.  After the meeting, Mitchell hopped on a plane and flew to Florence, Oregon (population: 1,200 people) which is a town near the mouth of the Columbia River under the guise that he was going to be giving a presentation to attorneys at the Oregon State Bar Association. 

 Almost ten years later, Brian Ingram would find $5,800 in bills from the DB Cooper hijacking on the bank of the Columbia River.  

Coincidentally, I referenced the jump spot, or LZ, in my letter to the FBI in May of 2015.  I figured that the release point for the jump was Government Island in the middle of the Columbia River, given the flightpath of Vector 23 (the highway in the sky that planes follow when headed north and south from Seattle to Portland) goes over Government Island if the plane extends along Vector 23 about a minute longer when headed south.  However, the FBI never contacted me to ascertain my knowledge or theory of the hijacking.  Evidently, they didn’t want to know…or they just figured they’d kill me and close the case.

Another tell is the fact that the Portland Air Traffic Control Tower lost track of NW Orient Flight 305 about 10 miles north of the Columbia River and did not pick it up again until it reached Salem, Oregon forty miles south of the Columbia.  Imagine, if you will, the NW being inundated by Japanese bombers and all of a sudden when they reached this area the radar went blank.  Someone’s head would be on a chopping block if this were to happen.  Luckily, this was just a hijacked aircraft they lost track of for about 15 minutes, during the critical juncture that a Special Operations operator would have chosen as the LZ after hijacking a plane demanding $200,000. 

Another glaring anomaly was the fact that there was $250,000 pre-staged prior to the hijacking…just in case there ever was a hijacking in Seattle, Washington.  All the numbers of the bills were recorded (either before or after the demand for the money, we’ll never know the truth of this issue) and released to the Oregonian Newspaper years later.  The Oregonian offered a reward for anyone that could bring the one of the bills that had the serial numbers on them.  Years later, when Brian Ingram found the bills on the bank of the Columbia at Teena Bar, downriver from Vancouver, Washington, The Oregonian reneged on the reward and he never received it. 

Around the same time Najeeb Halaby was meeting with President Nixon, G. Gordon Liddy was meeting with Attorney General John Mitchell.  I don’t think this is just a coincidence, as they were the plotters of the hijacking.

Remarkably, Nixon met with Halaby three hours prior to the hijacking, but Nixon never calls him back (there is no record of it in the log book) to ask his advice about a hijacking that just occurred.  One would think that Nixon would reach out to all the resources he had available to get to the bottom of it since he had implemented safeguards that were implemented in airports around the US on a trial bases after the Dawson Field hijacking.  These safety measures implemented on a trial basis were implemented systemwide, across the United States and any airport around the globe that wanted their commercial aircraft to fly into the United States.  However, he never reached out to Halaby after the hijacking.

Another coincidence, the metal detector that was used en masse was patented in Australia in 1968.  Again, I don’t believe that this it is happenstance that G. Gordon Liddy worked for his father that is a patent attorney.  After all, a metal detector to detect weapons is virtually useless…unless there it is MANDATED.  Again, we are seeing that word bandied about with the current vaccine, the government MANDATING something “for your safety.”  And after the DB Cooper hijacking it was MANDATED that everyone be screened, via an ID check and a metal detector wand prior to boarding aircraft.  Of course, years after 1971, there was little use of these wands, and they were thrown in the drawer, only used to waive someone down that looked terribly fishy.  However, each airport was required to have one.

On March 1, 1972, Najeeb Halaby quit as the President and CEO of Pan Am.  He sold 25 Boeing jets to King Hussein of Jordan, then started a business that was a one-stop shopping center for any airport that needed to upgrade their policies and procedures in order to be able to fly their aircraft into the United States.  

In Halaby’s book, Crosswinds: Memoirs of an Airman, a drab book that is more technical than anything else, mentions the hijackings in the Middle East, but he doesn’t mention that he was meeting with the POTUS the very day the biggest unsolved mystery in airline hijackings in the history of the world took place.  He doesn’t mention the DB Cooper hijacking at all in his book, which is odd for the former director of the FAA.  Needless to say, sometimes the absence of evidence is evidence itself.  That is the case with Halaby.

In addition to selling 25 Boeing jets to King Hussein, in 1978, Lisa Halaby, Najeeb, married King Hussein of Jordan and they had children together.  Recently, I read an article that the King of Jordan, the son of King Hussein from his first marriage, recently put Queen Noor’s son (Lisa Halaby) essentially on lockdown, or house arrest.  I find the timing of this odd, as I have been trying to get this story out in the public domain for years, and it appears that I have been throttled down by the Google search engine and most views on my blog, vector23.org are from overseas.

Years earlier, the CIA tried to, and successfully put their hooks into King Hussein when he was a young man.  At the age of 25, he was welcomed to the United States and the Clowns in America sent Robert Maheu to introduce King Hussein to a honey pot.  He introduced him to a Hollywood actress named Susan Cabot, and they had a son together.  When King Hussein found out about it, he started sending her payments each month to keep her quiet (at the direction of the CIA, I presume).  This was the start of years of blackmail used against King Hussein by the Clowns.  

King Hussein found out that Susan Cabot was a Jewish actress, and being  a 14^th generation descendant of Muhammed, he was committing apostasy according to his Muslim faith.  You can look up the penalty for apostasy; the punishment is up to and including death.  At this point, the CIA had their hooks into King Hussein, and many of the hijackers from the PLO that conducted the Dawson Field hijackings were from Jordan.  One doesn’t have to have too much imagination that the hijackers were trained and financed by the Clowns (aka the CIA).

Another stroke of miraculous timing, the President of Egypt, Gamal Abdel Nasser, suddenly died of a heart attack at the age of 52 on September 28, 1970.  It was about this time that the biggest spy in Middle East history was being controlled by Mossad and the Clowns, Ashraf Marwan.  Right after the death of President Nasser, Marwan became a close aide to Anwar Sadat and was basically given the keys to the kingdom by Sadat, which he passed on to Mossad, hence, the CIA. 

During my research, I ended up posting about Najeeb Halaby on a site called Drop Zone, and was quickly ridiculed by everyone on the site for my theory.  It appears that DB Cooper portion of the website is nothing more than a disinformation campaign with controlled opposition (those wanting to conceal the truth).  However, one researcher, who I will call by the name Nick, (because that’s his name, and I’ll leave it to him to confirm/verify his level of exposure in this matter) brought me forward some information about another person that he suspected was involved in the hijacking.  The person he identified as DB Cooper was James Klansnic.  He was a Boeing engineer that engineered the hydraulic system for the rear stairwell on the Boeing 727, the aircraft that DB Cooper jumped out of.  One could look at the sketch of DB Cooper and discern that it may be Klansnic, which is Nick’s theory, but I still hold to the fact that it is E. Howard Hunt, particularly since the sketch of DB Cooper was updated after the Watergate break-in.  However, this could be both a sign from Hunt, i.e., disinformation, or it could be what it is on its face, an attempt to divert anyone looking at Hunt as a suspect.  Either way, it’s a 50/50 proposition as to whether DB Cooper was Hunt, or James Klansnic.  There can be an argument made either way, and Nick has additional information that points to Klansnic that is very detailed.

There is no question in my mind that the flight crew was in on the hijacking.  The passengers could also have been playing a part in the ruse.  Is it just a coincidence that there were 36 passengers on the plane?  Get it, 3 sixes, 666?  Again, these satan worshipers surely like their symbolism.  And, if I were planning it, I would want to make sure that I had control of every portion of the hijacking, including the witnesses.  While they may not have all known the plan, I would ensure that I was able to control each and every passenger that was on the plane with extortive information.

Unfortunately, we can’t test the cigarette butts to determine whether DB Cooper was Klansnic or Hunt. I’ve sent letters to the FBI asking them for the tie, letting them know that through Nick, he has arranged through CeCe Moore, a DNA expert that works with LE agencies to solve cold cases, would be willing to use modern DNA testing to see if she could identify any DNA on the tie, however, the FBI will not respond to my requests for the tie.  They did, in the early 2000s, turn it over to a private entity to test for chemicals and the titanium was found on the tie.  I think they learned their lesson, and they won’t allow anyone to have access to the tie in order to definitively solve this caper.  

Ed Nixon, the president’s brother lived in Seattle at the time, which I also find very convenient.  Two other people that are close to this caper are John Dean (Nixon’s former attorney) and Jon Huntsman, Sr.  

Huntsman was supposed to meet with Dudley Swim on February 1, 1972, and exchange $100,000.  According to Huntsman, the billionaire Mormon philanthropist that started a chemical business supplying the McDonalds Styrofoam containers for the burgers, among other things, he was being paid a bribe by Swim so that Nixon would appoint him as the US Ambassador to Australia.  This seems odd, as the notes from Nixon’s calendar say they met to discuss education, and Swim was the CEO for Northern Airlines.  These are three different things, so at least one of them has to be wrong.  The meeting was not about education, it was either about an ambassadorship bribe, or it was about the airline industry.  My money is on the airline industry, and Nixon met with Dudley Swim in order to recruit him to assist in the hijacking(s).  Perhaps there were supposed to be more, there was at least on that was conducted shortly after DB Cooper’s and that hijacker was caught almost immediately.  This may have been a diversion with someone that was “sheep dipped” like Lee Harvey Oswald. 

What is amazing about the meeting between Swim and Huntsman is that it never occurred and Nixon never got paid the $100,000 because Swim died of a “heart attack” the day before he was supposed to meet with Huntsman.  I may be a little skeptical about the raison d’être of the meeting, but the way my conspiratorial mind works, Huntsman was supposed to pay Swim the bribe in order for him to keep his mouth shut about Nixon recruiting him and his airline to be part of the hijacking, and when Nixon either scaled down the operation, or chose not to use Swim’s airline, or Swim outright refused to take part in it, Nixon had to pay him off or he would go public.  Instead of paying Swim off, he was scrubbed out, and his death was made to look like a heart attack and they used the CIA’s shellfish toxin gun that was revealed years later during the Church Committee hearings when Senator Church held up the gun that shot a poisonous shard of ice (that was shellfish toxin) into a victim, causing symptoms that mimic a heart attack.  In those same hearings, CIA director Helms stated that they never used the gun and didn’t even have a range to test it on, however, when the CIA released the classified documents, “The Family Jewels”, there was a chart that had the exact specs on the gun, stating it had a maximum effective range of 358 feet, and what it would do to both dogs and humans. Weird, right, the Director of the CIA feeding the American people a line of bullshit? 

So, to clarify, through my research, what I have been able to discern, the DB Cooper was an inside job planned and orchestrated by E. Howard Hunt, G. Gordon Liddy, President Nixon, Ed Nixon, Najeeb Halaby, Attorney General John Mitchell, and James Klansnic, to mention a few.

Now, remember my dad bought property on the Washougal River in 1972?  In addition to buying property, he also bought a brand-new Ford Country Squire station wagon that was fully loaded, with AC and the works.  At the time, this was an expenditure of the equivalent of about $45,000.  I recall, his folks were incensed that he did these purchases.  Now, there are bits and pieces of this story that I’ve attempted to fill in the blanks with based on the memory of a young child.  But these are the bits and pieces that make sense to me.  Another data point is that my dad used to get a check every year around Christmas.  He said that it was from “Uncle Sam”.  And, if I recall correctly it was about $25,000.  At the time, his salary as the manager of timber sales on the Yakama Indian Reservation was approximately $12,000.  

It just so happens that the amount that E. Howard Hunt was wanting to get for the members of his crew that were jailed and needed bailing out after the Watergate break-in was $36,000 per year, or $3,000 per month.  And from memory, my dad, who was meeting with G. Gordon Liddy, was getting checks from “Uncle Sam” that took his pay to $37,000 annually.  That is one hell of a coincidence.

Not to mention the fact that my dad was disowned by his mother and father for a time because he didn’t want to go to work for “The Company," which I thought was Johnson and Johnson, where his Uncle Paige was in executive leadership.  I was told that he was the VP of Overseas Operations at J and J.  In addition, I was told that his dad was a drug representative for one of the big drug companies, and if I recall correctly, it was Baxter.  One thing is certain though, my dad’s father, Richard L’Hommedieu, was a dick!  

From studying the DB Cooper case, and looking into E. Howard Hunt, it appeared that he was concerned for his guys.  Another thing that was apparent, Hunt was highly educated and well read.  He was a byproduct of Brown University and had a high IQ.  By my count, I see that he has written 62 novels.  I have a copy of all of the ones that I could find under his name and his various nom de plume.  I haven’t read them all, but from the books that I have read, he is extremely detailed, draws off of the real-world experience as an operator, and plugs these into his characters detailing their operation prowess and attention to detail.

What is striking, when looking into the Watergate break-ins, is the fact that they went back to the same hotel on three separate occasions.  This is the equivalent of operational malpractice.  One would never do this.  In addition, there are gadgets that operators use for their trade and craft, such as specific door stops, but the door that was the eventual straw that broke the camel’s back that got them caught by the security guard was held open with duct tape.  

Additionally, almost everyone that was caught had what Hunt refers to in his books in detail is “pocket litter”.  During Watergate, the burglars had pocket litter leading directly back to Hunt, i.e., one had a hotel room key where he was observing from, the other had his phone number in an address book, and another had another piece of material that led back to Hunt.  It’s ludicrous to think that he was that careless with the planning of this operation.  

There are steps that each operator goes through prior to the operation to ensure they have the equipment and are properly sanitized.  However, none of these procedures were done prior to Watergate.  The ONLY conclusion that one can reach after studying the Watergate break-ins is that Hunt wanted to get caught.  They had to go back on three separate occasions, and most likely tipped off the DC police on their way there to ensure they were captured.  Why?  We have to look at the bigger agenda.

Hunt was an award-winning writer in his spare time, but also worked for Averill Harriman before his time at the OSS, and then CIA.  His main operational area - China. This signifies that the bankers, i.e., the “federal reserve” banking system had their eye on China as early as the 1940s when Hunt was working for Averill Harriman.  The progeny of Harriman’s business prowess is one of the largest private banks in the US, the Bank of Brown Brothers, Harriman.  This just so happens to be the bank that was operating with the USO Fund in their money-laundering operation with Preet Bharara and Steven Cohen through the Island of Anguilla.  Of course, I say this money-laundering operation tongue and cheek, as the rules for trust in the Island of Anguilla are up to the imagination of the trustee, and these trustees, bankers, lawyers, attorneys and hedge fund managers have some pretty active imaginations, such as calling their stock in the USO Fund ETF “units” versus “shares” to avoid being prosecuted for watering down “stock”, which is illegal.  It surely isn’t illegal to water down “units”; that’s an entirely different animal for these “Self-Regulated Organization," otherwise our distinct Congress would be all over this and make this practice illegal, like it is with watering down stock.   Instead, our brothers at BBH watered down “units” and keeps printing/issuing more “units”.   And like I pointed out earlier, once the bottom of the oil market fell out for a short period of time, BBH laid off their losses to the publicly traded Bank of NY Mellon.  Ingenious move and timing! 

Suffice it to say, Hunt knows where all the bodies are buried, and he wasn’t about to get double-crossed by anyone, particularly since he was in the employ of Averill Harriman and carrying the water for the Federal Reserve to start putting footprints on the ground in China.  And who was the biggest advocate for moving into China?  RMN!  

Nixon was playing the shill game with Vietnam and China at the same time.  He had his finger on the pulse of the MSM, and knew down to the minute how much coverage he was getting as opposed to what was being covered by the networks regarding Vietnam.  His diversion was to have his daughter Julie Nixon marry David Eisenhower’s at the White House with the networks covering it to take away coverage time for the Vietnam war.  Additionally, Nixon was also beating the China drum as a diversion.  He was a master propagandist.

After Watergate, while incarcerated, Hunt wrote a book.  I thought this was a great move on his part, as it solidified his position on all things Watergate and beyond.  In addition to writing a book, he sued Liberty Lobby for libel due to them fingering him in the JFK assassination, and they said that he was in Dallas at the time of the JFK assassination disguised as one of the “tramps," the infamous photograph you see today of the bums from the railroad being led away by police.  

To me, this was Hunt waving a flag, making sure that he was the center of attention so that he wouldn’t be scrubbed out.  I used this tactic when I was run of the cliff by these psychopaths.  Hunt held the keys to his innocence, and guilt, and how much guilt was associated to him, if it were ever to come out that he was part of “The Big Event," as he would call it on his death bed.  

During Hunt’s deathbed confession, he outed the perpetrators of the JFK assassination, naming LBJ, David Phillips, David Morales, Antonio Veciana, Frank Sturgis, William Harvey, Cord Meyer and the “French Gunman on the Grassy Knoll”.  

Now, if you were going to “The Big Event," i.e. the super-bowl, you’d choose the best quarterback of all time, i.e., Tom Brady.  If it was the NBA Championship, you’d choose Michael Jordan, and if it were the biggest Super Bowl of all time, i.e., the biggest event in history, or the operation code named “The Big Event," and you had an unlimited budget, you’d choose THE BEST SHOT IN THE WORLD.  Not Kobe, not Shaq, not Montana, you’d choose the best!  

Now, I’ve spent some time around shooters, and I was a pretty good shot in my day, but if I had to choose the best, from my perspective, I’d choose one of two Dave’s, one of them was from my platoon at SEAL Team One named Dave, and the other was my dad, Dave with a French last name of L’Hommedieu.  And the gun that I would have chosen back in the day was a Springfield Armory O3A3 .30-06 with a hand-made maple stock, a gun that was stolen from my dad in 1995 when he suddenly came down with an aggressive form of Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma cancer when I was attending ParaRescue training at Kirtland AFB in NM.  I surmise this gun is hanging on the wall at the lair of Skull and Bones right next to the skull of Geronimo.  There were 13 guns stolen in total, and all were retrieved by the local Sheriff’s Department except the O3A3.

Dad was initially given a death sentence, but was miraculously enrolled in a study where they gave him an experimental drug that saved his life.  Unfortunately, the dosage of Vincristine was so high, it damaged the nerve cells in his extremities and he has been dealing with neuropathy ever since. I don’t think that it was a coincidence that he came down with this cancer at this particular time, given that his lymph nodes swelled up to the size of a grapefruit in the span of a couple of weeks when he was on vacation.

And if I were Howard Hunt, I would have ensured that I had a kill switch in place to protect my family. Coincidently, there was a call placed to an Argentinian in Montevideo, Uruguay two days before JFK was shot. The Argentinian, Dandol Dianzi called the Cuban Embassy letting them know that he had something of “great importance to the nation”.  The call was intercepted via a wiretap, and the local CIA post dispatched someone to the hotel where Dianzi was staying, and there is no follow-up report regarding the CIA’s visit with Dianzi.  It should go without saying that Argentina was the landing pad for the Nazi’s after WW II.

This cable was routed to the CIA posts in South America and to the White House, landing on the desk of the heir apparent to the throne, Lyndon B. Johnson.  There is no mention of this cable in the Warren Commission report.

Additionally, years later when Hunt’s personnel record was released by the CIA, his time as the Chief of Station in Montevideo was [redacted].  Another odd coincidence.  And if I were Hunt, the novelist with an extensive imagination and a prowess for placing kill switches, I would have demanded that LBJ be linked to the plot in some fashion.  The same day as the call to Dianzi, LBJ flew into Johnson City, Texas and gave Melvin and Nita Winters two Belgian made guns.  Again, this is not mentioned in the WC report.  It is antithetical to believe that the FBI didn’t look into LBJ, the second in command to the throne after JFK was assassinated.  The first people that they would have looked into were Jackie and LBJ.  Instead, it all turned to Lee Harvey Oswald, the “patsy” who was sheep dipped by the CIA for years. 

As far as the “French Gunman on the Grassy Knoll," my grandparents moved to Hide Away Lake in Texas in 1962 from New Jersey, 85 miles from Dallas.  This would have been a great place to run the operation out of, not to mention the moniker that was assigned to the neighborhood.

My dad would have been 24 years old at the time, and as I said, his birth certificate, given to him by my grandmother when she passed away said,“Charlie Brown” on it.  Why would she hold onto his original birth certificate all this time, and why the comic book character moniker?  Not to mention that my neighbor was nicknamed Yogi and I was Bear, and Dan Cooper was also another comic book character of an ace fighter pilot like Najeeb Halaby.  

And if Howard Hunt approached my dad and said, “Hey, we’re going to shoot the president, you in?” what is the right response to this?  I’m not sure that it happened this way, but if it did, this was the Hobson’s choice of all time. 

Another plausible scenario was that he didn’t know the target until the last minute.  And if you know anything about operational planning, there would have been a mock lay-out of the area where there was a practice range that was controlled.  That practice range could have been on a ranch, one owned by Melvin and Nita Winters in Johnson City.  If you recall, the cars pulling into the railroad parking lot just before the assassination all had mud on them.  This could have been the last run prior to the assassination.

Not to mention, the phone call made about 25 minutes prior to the assassination to a British Newspaper.  This wasn’t investigated at any length by the FBI, but if it were my son, and I was a long time CIA operator like Paige or Richard L’Hommedieu, I surely would have made the call as a warning, like Howard Hunt did to Dianzi two days before, as a kill switch, leading back to who made the phone call.  And since it was reported, or leaked to the press that the call was made, surely someone in a position of power made the phone call to the British Newspaper, otherwise, it would have been buried.  I surmise that at 24, or 25 at the time of the assassination, my dad was like LHO, worth more dead than alive, so it would surmise that the call was made out of the executive office at “The Company," Johnson and Johnson, that is…by Paige L’Hommedieu.  

Immediately after the assassination, my dad was moved out to Glenwood, Washington, on the Yakama Indian Reservation, again, a great plan.  This is sovereign territory, and much different from the concrete jungles of Rahway, NJ where my dad grew up.   There are tribal police on “The Rez” and there would have been at least a short hurdle for the FBI to jump if they wanted to chase my dad down.  Not to mention, the family tales that my dad didn’t want to go to work for “The Company”.

In 1964, two guys went to Hollywood trying to sell a script about a mystic creature called “Bigfoot”. These two guys were Bob Gimlin and Roger Patterson.  Three years later, they captured the infamous motion picture of “Bigfoot” near the Kern River in California.  It just so happens that my dad was hunting partners with Gimlin and Patterson and they lived a few miles from each other on the Yakima Reservation.

As I was being chased around, circa, 2015-2016, I was digging through some old boxes of my dad’s.  My entire juvenile life was spent with my mother taking photos, as if for historical preservation.  Every Christmas, they brought out the 8 mm camera and videotaped it.  Additionally, my mom had a camera in her hand the entire time we were growing up.  I essentially became camera shy, and avoid cameras at all costs. 

One day, I came across a photo in an envelope.  It was not mailed, it was sent through the black powder club that we were a part of when I was a young kid. The photo is dated 6-14-1979 and was sent by someone that was in our black powder club that went by the moniker, Kitty.  On the outside of the envelope it says, “Do Not Open," “Dave L’Hommedieu ONLY”. The picture is taken from a telephoto lens and it was taken in Ft. Lancaster, Canada.  My dad was never in Ft. Lancaster when I was growing up, to my knowledge.  

On the back of the photo, it says, “To Gretchen L’Hommedieu, for your album.  Big Foot as seen in the wilds of Canada, From Kitty”.  Also written on the front of the envelope it says, “TO BE OPENED BY DAVE (BIG FOOT) L’HOMMEDIEU ONLY.  Please turn this in to who ever can test it to be an authentic and untouched photo of Big Foot, taken by Kitty in Fort Frasier, Canada.”

Obviously this wasn’t sent via US Mail, as there was the HT Lingual program in place and every piece of mail that our family has ever sent or received was intercepted by the Clowns.  I can’t wait to hear what I sounded like when all of this is released and all my phone calls from COINTELPRO are released.  

Needless to say, these jackasses, or one of their cut-outs, constantly monitors every keystroke that I put into a computer, and they have been monitoring me and my family our entire lives.  Not to mention that there is a dirt airstrip that is about 500 yards from my parents home in Stevenson where I was staying from approximately 2015-2020, and a plane was constantly flying over our house.

Finally, I went on one of the plane tracker websites and found out that this plane was owned by cloudcaptech.com out of Hood River, Oregon.  This is a division of Collins Aerospace.  Is it just a coincidence that there is a plane taking off from an airport 500 yards from the home that I was staying equipped with military intelligence technology in order to conduct HUMINT and SIGNIT, or human surveillance and signal surveillance?   Shocking…not!

I believe that Howard Hunt’s lawsuit against Liberty Lobby was a ruse to keep him in the news and reveal certain facts, if they were going to go after him, that would be revealed in the lawsuit.  It was his way of road-blocking them from coming after them.  Additionally, his deathbed confession was also a shot fired across the bow of the Clowns (and their handlers, i.e., the Rockefeller's) was done to preserve his family so that his children wouldn’t be murdered by these psychopaths as a warning to anyone else that their entire seed would be wiped from the earth if they spoke, and that they were always under the watchful eye of the Clowns.  His confession would have led the bread crumbs right to where the needed to be in case anything happened.  Perhaps my dad was the kill switch for his children, we’ll probably never know.  

And, of course, I have sent photos of the envelope and the photo of “Bigfoot” to the FBI, CIA, Director of National Intelligence, the POTUS, and many others in my love letters to them.  We’ll get to the love letters later. 

Is it just a coincidence that any records of my dad’s involvement with these guys was burned up in the fire at the Military Records Center in St. Louis on July 12, 1973, right before the Church Committee; all army records during this time and Air Force records through the letter H (for Halaby).  It’s an open secret that the Rockefeller Commission and Church Committee were nothing more than a cover-up for the CIA’s dirty deeds since its inception in 1947.  So, one has to wonder why Nelson Rockefeller dipped his toes so deeply into the CIA’s pool in 1975.  They all had something to hide.  And what were they trying to hide? 

My money is on E. Howard Hunt! 

From my study, it appears that there are two warring factions within the CIA, and while they aren’t necessarily against each other, they aren’t necessarily for each other.  They play their dirty tricks, all the while preying on the American citizenry, laughing all the way to their satanic worshiping lairs, like Skull and Bones at Yale, or Bohemian Grove.  Perhaps these geographic symbols are clues, i.e., the “Eastern Aristocracy” as Howard Hunt calls it, and the Hollywood pedophiles, for lack of a better term.  Nixon was not part of the Eastern Establishment, he was more of the Hollywood ilk, coming out of Whittier College, staffing his cabinet from folks from USC that were used to playing their dirty tricks, which they called “Rat Fucking”.   Not to mention the link to Kissinger, the war mongering freak.  His Jewish alliance wreaks of Hollywood pedophilia. 

From outward appearance, today, you still have the Eastern Aristocracy, i.e., the Illuminati Old Guard that are the war mongers, sex traffickers, and drug dealers, and the Jewish Synagogue of Satan that are part of Hollywood, trafficking and sacrificing children, while at the same time controlling organ and adrenochrome harvesting. 

And then there’s Bill Gates…he just wants it all via his jab. 

       

 

  

  

 

 

  

Chapter 13 – The Sixth Sense

The following is part of a report I sent to Raymond Duda and other LE Agencies in the Northwest regarding what had transpired and the corruption that I was experiencing at the hands of this Cabal.  It was sent on July 1, 2020.  A few months after this report, Raymond Duda was transferred to Washington, DC to be an assistant to the FBI Director, Chris Wray.  The report was 19 pages and covers some of what is enclosed herein and reads, in part:

I’d been going through a lot up to that point.  My biological father, Bill Hearn, had just died of a heart attack on April 8, 2014, and my step-dad, Dave L’Hommedieu suffered a pulmonary embolism and had been given a 1 percent chance of surviving.  Now that I look back at my father’s death, I realize that it was most likely a medically induced murder, rather than a complete heart block, which he was diagnosed with when he entered the hospital.  I never noticed his heart rhythm to have indicia of a complete heart block.  I’d been trained as a paramedic to monitor heart arrhythmias, and did not notice him having an arrhythmia.  Instead, they attributed his death to his kidneys shutting down and complications from diabetes.  He was most likely murdered, poisoned by something Mike Roe gave him while they were having lunch. 

 

Furthermore, it is almost too uncanny that my step dad had a massive embolism within a month.   As I stated, the LE officers were most likely monitoring everything I was doing on the computer through Prism, therefore, they knew that my dad told me about the $2 billion offer for his garbage company, the money laundering that was going on through the garbage companies, and the fact that I was starting to dig too deeply into things that would expose government corruption at the highest levels, including US Attorney, Preet Bharara’s money laundering scheme.

 

It can’t all be a coincidence that my wife almost died May 30th of 2013, my dad died of a heart attack in April of 2014, and my step dad had an embolism in May of 2014 and I was run off of a cliff in June of 2015.  Or, this is just these are the craziest coincidences of all time. 

 

            Up to this point, I haven’t mentioned the Pulmonary Embolism that my step-dad had about a month after my biological father was murdered, he was given a 1 percent chance to live.  First, my dad dies (April 2014) my wife has her vertebral artery nicked during surgery and almost dies (May 2013), and my step-dad has a pulmonary embolism, (May 2014) all within a span of a year?  Couple this with the fact that the FBI transferred Duda to Washington DC to be an Assistant Director of the FBI shortly after I sent this letter.  These are an amazing set of coincidences.  It sure looked like Grim Reaper was hovering at my doorstep.

The letter continues:

I was so paranoid that I sent an email to the FBI regarding a conspiracy that I believe was taking place with President Obama and Preet Bharara.  The “Conspiracy Law” document outlines what I believed to be going on at the time.  When I went to report the attempted murder of me by Rick Torres on December 22nd, 2019, I referenced this document as evidence of the possibility that I had unwittingly been drugged.

 

My mother thought I was going crazy and arranged with Joni Phillips for me to go to San Diego to a mental health facility.  I am not sure if she is related to David A. Phillips, but it appears that may be the case.  Joni knew my father previously before meeting me, and we started dating in April of 2016.  I can only surmise that she is a relative of David Phillips, who E. Howard Hunt fingered in the JFK assassination.  

 

While I was “drugged," I had a remarkable vision, one that placed a sniper on the second floor of the building adjacent to the Texas Schoolbook depository.  The vision was that of a sniper in the window of the adjacent building one window away from the corner of the building.  In addition, I felt there was someone on the grassy knoll.  

 

I knew immediately that the person on the Grassy Knoll was my father, Dave L’Hommedieu.  At the time, I did not know who E. Howard Hunt was.  However, when I started studying the assassination of JFK over a year later, the pieces fell in place.  Hunt confessed to all the people that were part of the plot to assassinate JFK, including the “French Gunman on the Grassy Knoll.”  This was my father. 

In addition, I recall G. Gordon Liddy telling me he was an astronaut.  I guess it’s much better than telling me he was a plumber.  We were so young that my brother Greg called him “Libby” with a B due to the fact he could not pronounce his D’s yet.  In addition, I recall getting a telescope to look at the moon because that is where my astronaut friend, Liddy, had been.  

 

At the end of July of 2016, I was very concerned that the feds were going to kill me, and I wasn’t concerned about a crooked Clark County Sheriff’s Sergeant, Torres, was attempting to murder me, I was concerned about the feds.  I sent Torres a LinkedIn message inquiring about the Wilkinson v. Torres case.  This was basically a challenge to him that he was going to face an abundance of questioning about the case at the upcoming trial on August 10th, 2016.

 

In response, Sheriff Atkins allowed Torres to resign on August 4, 2016.  In the resignation email, Torres makes sure to put in the document that he was resigning after the date of my trial, or August 12th, 2016.  This was his alibis that documented that he was prepared to face the questioning about the case.  He also mentioned in his resignation that he did not want this information made known to the CCSO Employees until he got a chance to address the “rumors” surrounding his abrupt resignation.

 

Sheriff Atkins and his employees were in touch with Judge Zimmerman, who was going to hear my case August 10th.  He arranged with Judge Zimmerman for me to be evaluated under RCW 10.77 and arranged for the withdrawal of my counsel so that he could put Jeffrey Barrar in place of McDonald so that he could completely control my case and get  background information on me and give it to this cabal. 

 

            When I had the vision, there were two people inside the Dal-Tex building next to the Texas School Book Depository.   One sniper and a spotter.  And as mentioned, I felt that my dad, Dave L’Hommedieu was no the Grassy Knoll.  It was an earth-shattering moment for me, as all of a sudden, the things that transpired in my life started to make a little more sense.  

            When you are growing up in a household that is full of secrets, deception, and lies, as a kid you don’t understand what is going on.  It’s not like you are placed in a messed-up situation and you are shocked, you have no reference point as a child, and the things that happen to you are “just a normal part of life”.  However, if you took a child from a healthy family relationship and put them in this environment, they would be shocked.  It was like placing a frog in water and the boiling it.   

            As stated in the letter, I did not know who E. Howard Hunt was, and I always believed that G. Gordon Liddy was an astronaut.  My brother, Greg, called G. Gordon, Mr. Libby because we were so young that he could not pronounce his D’s and pronounced it with a B instead. 

            And, because I had met my hero, and astronaut, I begged my folks for a telescope for Christmas so that I could see where my new friend landed on the moon, and my parents ordered a telescope from the Sears catalog, which I got for Christmas.  Couple this with the fact that my dad got the Bo Randall knife that was encased in acrylic with the inscription “The First Knife in Space”, the Bigfoot film, the parachute we played with as kids at Glenwood grade school, Joni Phillips knowing my dad prior to us meeting, the stolen Springfield O3A3, his cancer diagnosis in 1995, and sudden Pulmonary Embolism; so, from a mathematical standpoint, what else could this be?  While I cannot confirm and verify each item listed, if most of them are true, from a circumstantial evidence standpoint it sure stacks up in my mind that this is the truth.  The only question that remains from a legal standpoint is; is it more likely than not, much more likely than not, or beyond a reasonable doubt?

            Additionally, my divorce attorney, Mike Roe moved his office into the same building as the FBI Field Office in Vancouver, Washington around 2015 when he was representing me. 

            The behavior of the FBI Agents in Portland, Oregon is also suspect, as they essentially kicked me out before I could delve any deeper into what I was reporting to them.  They hold the answers to these questions, i.e., is Joni Phillips related to David Phillips?  Was my dad part of the MK Ultra program?  Was I?  Did they reopen the DB Cooper investigation when I provided them this information, and if not, why?  Was I part of the MK Ultra Program?

            On the 25^th Anniversary of graduating BUD/S, I went back to Coronado and hooked up with an old girlfriend that I had when I was there when I was 19 years old.  We dated for a short while, and we got together on Facebook.  

            She worked for as a pharmaceutical researcher in psychiatric medicine.  In addition, when we got together, she was working for the DoD at one of the installations in San Diego, and I am not quite sure what her job was.  She was a hi IQ individual, the type that is recruited by the Clowns, and her background leads me to believe that she is heavily involved with the Clowns.  When we got together, I could tell that she had PTSD, but she never shared with me what it was from. 

            After we dated, she dated other Team guys.  Now, I am not sure if this was by design, as another gal I met later in 2020 had a similar background as Christy, and she was friends with numerous Team guys on Facebook and that is how I met her.  Many of the Team guys the gal I met in 2020 was friends with appeared to be part of “the program," as many of them were subjected the sexual abuse and trauma when they were growing up.  So were these gals “honey-pots” sent into my life again by the Clowns in order to keep a lid on this…or to get me to commit suicide?    

            Christy was controlling and abusive, similar to the way Shelane was, trying to use fear, obligation, and guilt to get me to comply.  It was as if I was brought right back into another abusive relationship…probably by design and orchestrated by the Clowns.  We got in an argument over the phone…well she did, and was telling me how fucked up I was, and she blurted out that she’d seen the psychological report from my file and I was a narcissist.  This was the initial psychological report that I did when I was in boot camp at the age of 18.  I surmise she saw the results of my MMPI and it depicted me as a narcissistic psychopath.  THIS REPORT IS NOT IN MY MILITARY RECORDS!  So, if it is not in my military records, how did she get access to it, and why was she referencing it when she was yelling at me?   

            Of course, I filed a bunch of FOIA requests with the CIA, DoD, VA, and DOJ asking for this report, and like all the questions I have been posing to the Alphabet Agencies, all have gone unanswered.  Not to mention that none of the agencies would meet with me.  I even volunteered to have one of their psychologists from their Ivy League Schools do an evaluation of me.  That offer still stands to this day….however, with the caveat that they review the psychological report that was done on my by a Psychologist in the state of Washington and answer questions about that evaluation, i.e., why there is no mention of the Wilkinson v. Torres case in the evaluation (more on this later).

            To me, it’s very clear that there is another realm.  I just don’t know how it’s accessed.  Was my “hallucination” placing snipers in the window of the Dal-Tex building and my dad on the Grassy Knoll based in reality?  Only the federal government and my dad have the answer to these questions.  I haven’t spoken to my dad in years, after we had some difference of opinion.  When I went to visit him the last time, the Bend PD were called and they escorted me out of his nursing home.  

            He’d always said that he would never go into a nursing home, and they would have to wheel him out of his house in Stevenson in a body bag.  However, when all of this started to explode, i.e., me investigating DB Cooper, and digging into Howard Hunt and G. Gordon Liddy, dad moved into a nursing home in mid-2016, right before they “closed” the DB Cooper case. 

            When I went to visit him in the nursing home, before I was kicked out, he was scared, well, not scared, petrified.  I’d never seen him act this way before in my entire life.  I surmise that he knew that I’d figured most of this out, and that my biological father was killed because of what he’d done and I was coming for retribution.  At least that is the “gut-feeling” that I got when I was kicked out by the PD.  There was no restraining order against me keeping me from visiting him, and I was never told that I couldn’t.  However, I’d made my mom aware that dad shot JFK, and her reaction to me saying this was guttural, with her contempt and disgust for me. 

            About a month later, she got a restraining order to get me kicked out of her house, and during the hearing, I told the judge that all of this was happening because my dad shot JFK, and that she should be the one kicked out of the house.  Obviously, he didn’t side with me and I was kicked out.

            Perhaps the Clowns fucked up and gave me a drug that allowed me to have this vivid vision and gave me the ability to put all of this together.  Wouldn’t that be irony!  

            As I was researching this, one of the books I read was “A Terrible Mistake”.  It was about the LSD experiments conducted during MK Ultra and the “murder” of Frank Olson, when they unwittingly drugged him and he jumped out of a window of a skyscraper to his death.  

            During this time, I had an inkling that I was being drugged and I was operating at about 50 percent capacity.   As I stated, everything that I believed and though was a “fact”.  A couple of days after they attempted to set me up to be killed on July 12, 2016, I believed that if I had faith in God…enough faith, I would be teleported to LaCamas Lake in my dad’s Cadillac, so I got in it with the intention of being transported just like the move Back to the Future, so I put the Caddy in gear, and stomped on the gas.  Well, instead of being transported, I had put it in reverse, and it spun around and I hit a shed and the Caddy ended up getting high centered on a rock.  So, perhaps Frank Olson believed like I did, and that he believed he was an angel that could fly, and that ended his life.   

            Another tad-bit of information in the book is about the remote viewing program.  One of their remote viewers was placed in a room and a person was given an object and told to go out to someplace in San Francisco.  The remote viewer, who’d had a track record of accuracy identifying Russian military equipment and compounds, was able to describe and draw the pattern that he saw, and identified the person to be near moving water that was not flowing.  The person had gone to a central area in SF that had a water feature in the town square with bricks in a nearly identical pattern that surrounded the water feature that the remote viewer drew.  His ability to see was uncanny.  And, of course, he died shortly thereafter under mysterious circumstances.

            During the Church Committee hearings, the Clowns said that they’d stopped the RV program.  I call bullshit on that!  

            When I was ran off the cliff in 2015, I was given Ketamine, Fentanyl, and morphine before they hauled me up the cliff with the rope system.  During my “trip” I saw visions of being in a bed with a glass top.  The bed was blue, and all of a sudden, everything around my eyes was like a spider-web type of pattern with a blue background.  I was in this bed, and my body was being jolted by these pulses that weren’t painful.  I had been bounding across a field and went over a cliff, like I was in a zero gravity type of environment and shattered my lower leg, and these impulses appeared to be putting me back together.  It just seemed odd, and it was a real “trip.”

            However, about a year later, when I was going to San Diego, I heard about Uber and downloaded the app on my phone.  The initial screen, when it was opening, was the exact patter that I’d seen a year earlier while I was medicated.  Additionally, my studies have revealed that there are med-beds that are supposed to heal people without intervention.  These are part of the “Great Reset” under NESARA and GESARA.  They have pictures of the NESARA med beds on the internet, and this was the exact bed that I was in while I was being jolted by these shockwaves to repair my broken leg.   I still wonder, how can this be?

            So, from standing in the middle of the lawn in Stevenson, baked out of my mind on some unknown drug, I saw two people in the Dal-Tex building on November 22, 1963, set up to shoot JFK, and I felt my dad on the Grassy Knoll.

            After researching this, I find out there was a “French Gunman on the Grassy Knoll” after connecting the dots with G. Gordon Liddy back to E. Howard Hunt and the DB Cooper hijacking, which were all inside jobs orchestrated to advance the central bankers, like Averill Harriman.

            The Skamania County Sheriff’s Office was called to my house during my attempt to transport through the portal when I crashed my dad’s Caddy, lodging it on the rock.  When I was transported to the hospital in SW Washington, I was operating at about 50 percent of my mental capacity.  By this time, I’d realized that my ideas that my beliefs were absolute fact was not true, and the only things that are possible are the things that are possible.  In my “altered state” I knew that they were attempting to get their hooks into me, and I told the folks in the ER that I was fine and was going to head back home, as I knew they were going to lock me away and throw away the key in a mental institution. 

            The staff at the hospital were not going to willingly allow me to self-discharge and started rounding up their posse, i.e., the security guards at the hospital.  They’d taken my wallet and wouldn’t return it, so I knew they weren’t about to let me leave, but I figured they knew they were going to have a fight on their hands if they tried to strap me down to a gurney, and I needed to avoid that at all costs, as that would have done nothing for me other than to verify to me their true intentions, to gain custody of me.

            When I saw their staff getting jocked up with their gloves on to restrain me, I quickly exited the hospital and fled the hospital and went a couple of blocks away.  The VPD were summoned and an officer responded to my location and started questioning me.  Of course, I knew the protocol, and he had to have probable cause in order to detain me and he didn’t.  He asked me the requisite questions, like my DOB, day, date, who the POTUS was, my address, etc., etc., and I was able to answer all of his questions appropriately.  Miraculously, he went back to the hospital and retrieved my wallet and phone for me so that I could summon a ride back to Stevenson.   I can’t recall the particulars, but I was able to make it back there. 

            I can’t recall the sequence of events, but the Skamania County Sheriff, Dave Brown responded to the house on two different occasions.  I believe the car wreck was the second time he responded to the house. 

            Regardless of the sequence of events, the first time he was summoned to the house was when I threw my phone on the deck shattering it.  I believe that either Joni or my mother called 911 for this event.  I was acting, making it look like I was nuts, when in fact, my phone had already stopped working due to getting wet somehow, and it was non-operational.  I was trying to convey to Joni and Gretchen (my mom) that they were out to kill me, and neither of them were having it.  Their only goal was to get me committed to a mental institution at the direction of the Clowns, hence, the quick call to 911.

            I didn’t know that 911 had been called, but saw the Sheriff’s vehicle coming up the drive.  My gut told me that something wasn’t right.  They’d just set me up to be executed on July 12^th, and this was within a week of this happening.  I knew there would be another attempt on my life, and I figured that this was their second shot at it, so when I saw the Sheriff’s vehicle pull into the drive, I knew that I was in deep shit and didn’t want to give them an excuse to shoot me.  After all, if they did, it would be two against one, i.e., Joni and Gretchen, and they would obviously be backing up the LE position that I was nuts and deserved to be shot due to me acting irrationally.

            I stripped down to my shorts and went outside the front door of the house, which isn’t visible from the driveway, it is blocked by the garage.  The Sheriff, Dave Brown was there within about two or three minutes of me throwing the phone down, so I knew that he was nearby when he responded.  I figured that he lived in the neighborhood by where the airstrip that was 500 yards from the house because I’d seen him exit that area multiple times after I left the house.  Ironic timing, him leaving the area where there was a hangar as I was leaving.  It’s almost as if they were set up there, monitoring my every move, both physically and electronically.

            As Sheriff Brown was coming around the garage, I was on my hands and knees, almost in the prone position, looking eye-to-eye with him, as he was about 10 yards from me.  I was head-on looking at him and as he rounded the garage, he was drawing his pistol.  

            I’d envisioned him having a throw-down weapon he would use as his cover for shooting me, so I’d made my target as small as possible, only giving him the opportunity to shoot me in the face.  If he was going to kill me, I wanted him to have to look me in the eye to do it.  In that split-second, I believe we both realized that this should be left to a different time, as he had no “probable cause” to be drawing his weapon when he was rounding the garage, as I was not a threat to him.

            I went down the mental infirm road with him, letting him know that I was having difficulty and attending the VA for counseling and we were looking at getting me a place to go to assist me with my PTSD, as Joni and Gretchen were working with some Team guys to get me committed to a mental institution in San Diego and that I needed help.  

            I tried to pass this off as I didn’t want to outright say at that moment that my Sheriff was there to kill me.  I didn’t want to think that he was involved in this morass, but as things would have it, he was part of the Cabal the whole time and he was sent to murder me that day.        

            At this point, I am asking the FBI to PROVE ME WRONG on any of this.  

            Did I mention that my grandfather was part of Freemasonry, a Shriner?  My dad was proud to have the Shriner emblem on his Caddy.  Not to mention one of the possessions that he coveted and wanted brought to him immediately were his grandfather clocks.  One was his and the other was his fathers, made entirely out of wood in the late 1800s.  Oh, and one of our forefathers, Ezra L’Hommedieu was also a Freemason and worked with George Washington and Sam Adams.  He penned one of the first Indian Treaties when Sam Adams became POTUS placing the Mohawk Indians on a reservation.  Not to mention that Earle L’Hommedieu, who must be a relative to Paige and Richard L’Hommedieu, was part of the OSS.

            The L’Hommedieu name can be traced back to Francios L’Hommedieu who was part of King Louis XIII and XIV’s court in the early 1600s.  He was the right-hand man of Cardinal Richelieu, who was the defacto leader of Europe at the time and had the most extensive spy ring in Europe.

            During his reign, King James commissioned the King James version of the Bible that we all use today (or an assimilated version thereof), which was printed in 1611.

 

   

  

 

Chapter 14 – An Ominous Sign

            I was coming out of an appointment at the VA one day and there was a guy sitting on the picnic table near the entrance wearing a SEAL Team One cap.  Of course, I couldn’t walk by without having a chat, so introduced myself to him, and found out his name is Brad.  Within about a minute, you can ascertain if someone is  legitimately a Team Guy, or if he is full of shit by the exchange you have.  It’s a quick dance on each other’s part to establish bona fides, then the stories flow from there.  Brad, unlike many others that fly the “Team Guy” flag is legit.  He was in the teams in the 70’s right after the Vietnam War. 

            Joni and Gretchen were supposedly doing everything they could to help me out, and they knew that I’d made friends with Brad, so they invited Brad over to talk with me, as I was going bat-shit crazy…or I was being set-up.  I was trusting and accepting of Brad’s counsel, as he was legitimately a Team guy and I figured I could trust him. 

            Throughout our conversations, I’d learned that his son was wrapped up in some pretty shady shit, part of a local biker gang, and that was troubling him and caused him to be estranged from his son, along with the fact that Brad suffers from PTSD and he was estranged from the rest of his family also.  It appeared that we were traveling down the same road. 

            When Brad came over, we sat outside on the deck and he was sure to move his phone to the other side of the house, as like me, he knows that, “They are listening”.   We discussed the fact that his son was in the biker gang, and he was hoping to turn that around and get him out of that situation.  And I shared my concerns with him about going through what I was going through, and he was somewhat sympathetic.   

            I told him that in my mind, I’d just averted death at least three times up to this point, and was thankful to be alive.  I needed some time to get my wits about me, and Joni and Gretchen were working on getting me committed to a mental institution.  I knew that if I went voluntarily and checked into a mental institution, I could leave any minute as long as I kept my wits about me.  They were making arrangements for me to fly down to San Diego and get checked into one of the shrink facilities down there.  Brad seemed to agree that it would be the best course, at least to get my feet placed firmly underneath me. 

            Gretchen made a flight reservation for me to fly down to San Diego to go to the mental facility.  What she failed to tell me was that she and Joni would be accompanying me on the flight down to San Diego.    

            That night, I had a dream/vision and the number 343 kept flashing through my head and there was an ominous sign that I was receiving from God.  It was as if he was warning me that something was horribly wrong.  

            When we woke up that morning, Joni and I went to go get some coffee.  I asked her to Baptize me that morning in the Columbia River by the Bridge of the Gods, but she wasn’t down with that, so I essentially just went down and jumped in the river by myself. 

            On the way back up to the house, Joni told me that she and Gretchen were flying down to San Diego with me.  I immediately thought, oh, hell no, I’m not taking a baby into battle with me.  I’d just escaped death at least two times in the past 10 days, and three times, if you count their attempt to murder me the year prior.  These people were for real.   

            I wasn’t sure where I was going, but knew that I needed to get the hell out of town, so I took off, with the intent on going to Bend.  During this time, I was regularly under surveillance and being followed, overtly. After all, what better way to make someone look crazy than to really have someone following them, and deny it was happening.  This is the Hegelian dialectic and plausible deniability all wrapped up in one.  

            A couple of days prior, I was headed back from town, and recognized a Subaru that was following me, so instead of speeding and running from the tail that was on me, I did the exact opposite and was crawling along in my 71 Cuda.  I came to a stop sign at a T intersection and stopped without turning on my blinker, waiting for the Sooby to catch up to me, as the driver was trying to stay back, as they are taught, so as not to give away they are following you.  It was hard for him to stay back from me, since I was going 15 mph in a 25 mph zone.  When I came to the intersection, I stopped and waited for him to get right behind me and then turned on my blinker and turned left.  Of course, he followed.  I ascended the hill, again, keeping my speed at 15 instead of 25 and he remained on my ass the whole time.  He was caught, dead-to-rights following me.  

            As we came to the first house on the street, he recognized that he’d been had, and he pulled up on the side of me and veered to a mailbox on the side of the street and checked the mailbox.  As he stopped, I pulled over to the side of the road and watched him.  He then backed into the driveway of this house, that I’d known to be vacant, as I’d passed by it every time I left the house.  

            Like a cop, he decided he needed to challenge me.  There was a passenger in the vehicle also, and after he parked, he got out of the Sooby and started walking straight toward me asking me what my problem was.  His buddy was sitting in the passenger seat, not getting out of the car to go inside the house.  

            This guy was all yoked up with tats, and his attitude was vitriolic.  I answered him, telling him that I drove past this house every day and didn’t recognize either him or the car, and we are a community neighborhood and look out for each other.  I introduced myself,  “My name is Matt, (which I am sure he already knew) what’s yours?”  

            He responded, “Scott.” 

            We both knew the gig was up at that point, so I took off and headed up to the house and he didn’t follow me.  I never saw that vehicle or the tatted-up asshole again, nor did I ever see that Subaru parked at that house again.  I could be wrong, but I doubt it.  Again, yet another question for the feds.  

            I was paranoid about being followed, so when I took off that day to head to Bend, Or the number 343 kept sticking with me.  It was the same number of police officers and firefighters that were killed after George Bush rammed the planes into the WTC.

            As I went over Mt. Hood, I saw a couple of cars that I suspected were following me.  I didn’t let anyone know where I was going, but I knew that I needed to get out of the area, God was telling me something was wrong.  

            I was supposed to be on a flight that day headed to San Diego, and this 3:43 was about the time the plane would be headed south on the way to San Diego.  

            As I was headed over Mt. Hood, I kept my speed at 55 mph, and even though that was the speed limit, cars started stacking up behind me, but the two cars that I suspected that were my tails remained behind me the same distance, about 300 yards behind me, and other cars were passing us on the straight stretches on the road.

            When I got over Mt. Hood, the road started straightening out and it was nearing the desert.  Before I hit the desert portion, and still in the timber area, I slowed down even more to 50 miles per hour and the car that was tailing me had no choice but to get closer to me.  The cars were passing regularly at this point, and honking because I was going so slow as they passed.  When my tail eventually had no choice but to catch up to me, it eventually darted off on one of the Forest Service roads and pulled over and the next car, which was a small SUV picked up as the lead tail. 

            At this point, it opened up into desert, and the road was straight for miles, so I opened up the Escalade, putting the pedal to the metal and was going as fast as she’d go so that I could lose the tail.  

            About 30 miles down the road is the Warm Springs Indian Reservation, and the road descends down into the canyon where the Deschutes River flows through.  There is a casino at the bottom of the hill, and when I got near the bottom of the hill near the casino, the cars were completely stopped.  I was like, WTF?  Why are we stopped?

            After about 5 or 10 minutes, as the cars that I believed were tailing me caught up, but were several cars behind, the traffic started flowing again.  When I neared the casino, I saw one of the Tribal Police cars there directing traffic, and as I was approaching, he stopped traffic and was letting the cars headed westbound continue west, and also letting traffic turn onto the road heading south.  I’d never seen this happen before and I’d traveled from Bend to Portland through the Warm Springs Indian Reservation about 100 times.  There was no need for a traffic cop at that intersection.  It was clear to me that my tail had radioed ahead and got them to stop traffic so they could catch up to me, as they didn’t know where I was going. 

            As soon as I passed the intersection, I pulled into the casino, and there were about 30 Harley Davidson bikes there and they were pulling out of the casino headed east, the same direction I was headed, so I tucked in behind them and headed east up the hill and out of the canyon.  They got on it, and we were again going about 100 mph and I was losing the tail again, I am sure.  When we got to Madras, the bikers pulled into a gas station.  I couldn’t help but wonder if Brad somehow arranged for those bikers to be there…the timing of this was so odd.

            I pressed on, speeding as much as possible, while keeping an eye out for cops and went through Madras and Redmond.   It was approaching 3:30 when I went through Redmond, and I was expecting something horrific to happen in just a few minutes.   

            At 3:43 p.m., I slammed on my breaks and pulled over to the side of the five-lane road, expecting to see a big flash of light in the sky from the airplane being blown up.  As I looked up, I saw a green Adopt a Highway sign.  It said WORD OF VICTORY CHURCH.

            I went into Bend to see my dad at the nursing home, and that was when I was escorted out of there by the Bend PD.

            I went and checked into a hotel in Bend to stay the night and got a bight to eat and was plotting my next move.  I knew that there were both spiritual forces at play, and the realization that the Cabal was still intent on killing me.  

            As I was trying to figure out my next steps, spidy senses were telling me there was something horribly wrong, but I didn’t know what.  I figured that they were going to find me because I’d used my ID to check into the hotel and I could be easily located.  At about 10 p.m., I decided to play a card, one that would bring attention to my plight, regardless of what anyone thought.  

            I wrote a note that basically said that I am peaceful and don’t mean anyone any harm, I am unarmed, and if you want me, I will willingly go, and there is no reason to kill me.  I took the note down to the receptionist, and as I was standing at the counter, I saw a guy of Middle Eastern descent come into the lobby.  I immediately looked down at his feet to discern what type of shoes he was wearing…you can always tell their intentions by their shoes. If they are hard soled, they aren’t a threat, but if they are soft soled, gum shoes, then they are obviously a threat.  Of course, he had gum shoe soles!  And a Middle Eastern man in the middle of Bend is pretty odd, in and of itself (not being prejudice, just stating facts).  And when the odds don’t add up, they aren’t in your favor.

            I gave the gal the note and was sure that I said it loud enough for him to hear, “At about 4 a.m. this morning, there are going to be a few guys that come here looking for me, and they are going to have bad intentions.  Please make sure that they get this note when they arrive.”  I asked her to make a copy of the note and for some tape so that I could pin it on my door.

            The guy that had walked in to the lobby walked behind me and was standing at the candy machine, as if he was getting something out of it, watching me the whole time.   When I left the lobby, walking back to my hotel room through the parking lot, I noticed a full-sized ford pick-up with a canopy on it with no windows.  It was a beautiful maroon truck.  As the pick-up passed me, I noticed two yoked up pipe-hitters in the pick-up…the kind of guys I’d been stationed with while I was in Spec Ops.  They started me down as they passed.

            As they went by, I noticed that there was no tailgate, and there was a man-door that led into the canopy.  Again, there were no windows.  It was the oddest looking configuration for anything but a vehicle that would be used to render someone.  I surmised that I was going to be taken down somehow, and imagined that there was a gurney in the back of the pickup for them to strap me down to.  

            In my haste to get the hell out of Stevenson, I’d taken Gretchen’s Escalade, which she wanted back, so Joni called me and told me that she was bringing Xterra over and she’d swap it out with me if I needed to take off. 

            When she showed up the following day to the hotel room, we ate lunch and then went out to sit by the pool.  It wasn’t busy, I believe it was the middle of the week.  We were sitting around chatting and a guy came to sun bathe at the pool and sat down within ear-shot of us.  I wasn’t about to let this one go by, as I always want to be aware of my surrounding, and I wanted to know who the hell this guy was.  He was a good looking man, about 60 years old, as fit as a fiddle, and something didn’t feel right, so I approached him and started a conversation with him. 

            As we were talking, he shared with us that he was a Boeing employee, ironically enough.  Of course, this was right up Joni’s alley because, like James Klansnic, her father was an engineer at Boeing also.  We had a wonderful conversation and the guy was very nice.  However, I surmise he was a part of Skunk Works, which was moved from the CIA’s Special Activities Division to Boeing to keep it out of the watchful eye of the general public with their pesky little FOIA requests. 

            Another odd thing about Joni, she would go on long hikes with a guy that was about 25 years her senior up Dog Mountain when she was teaching.  I surmise that this was her “sponsor” with the Clowns in America that helped her cut her teeth when she got involved with them.   

            Joni and I quickly drifted apart after July of 2016.  After we drifted apart, she sent me a picture where she was at a restaurant on a deck.  The text said that she had just ran into a couple of team guys.  What are the odds of that?

            David A. Phillips was born in 1922, eighteen years prior to my dad.  I don’t know the familial relationship between Joni’s dad and David Phillips, but there is that possibility.  Like I said, Joni somehow knew my dad prior to us meeting and her father passed away around the same time that we got together.  She was eight years my senior, so I will continue to wonder if there is the connection between David Phillips, her dad, and my dad.  Again, from a standpoint of which is more likely than not, what is the truth of this matter.  Only the feds, my dad, and Joni know the answer to this question.

            It sure is odd, the Boeing connection.  And, if you know the fingerprints of the Clowns, they recruit highly educated people, and Joni’s dad was steeped in Boeing engineering, which makes me think he was part of Skunk Works, like Klansnic.      

 

Chapter 15 -  Another False Start

            I’d agreed to capitulate to the demands of Gretchen and Joni and go to the mental facility in San Diego.  By this time, my mother got in touch with William McRaven, the same McRaven that was my XO at SEAL Team One, and the same McRaven that led the raid on the compound at Abbottabad, Afghanistan to take out Osama Bin Laden.  They made connections with him through my cousin John who worked under him at the University of Texas.  John is married to my cousin Charlotte, who is obviously my dad’s niece.  Her father, was also an engineer, oddly enough.    

            I got a call from McRaven shortly before my jaunt over to Bend, and he told me that I was on the right path heading down to the mental health facility for treatment in San Diego.  I figured if I can’t trust McRaven, then who could I trust, so agreed to go down there, sans Joni and Gretchen in tow.

            Again, the exact particulars and sequence of events is somewhat fuzzy to me, and I am trying to be as accurate as possible, given that I was being drugged at the time.  I’ve tried to keep an accurate record of what transpired throughout this morass by reporting in detail the events as they happened to the proper authorities, however, they have taken no action on my reports, obviously under the guise that I am nothing but a crazy disabled vet lunatic with a mental condition.  So be it.

            They’d made arrangements for me to fly down to San Diego, but I wanted to be absolutely sure that I was safe.  The day that I was supposed to go, something disrupted this “plan”.  I didn’t want to go on a plane that had foreknowledge of my travels.  It would still be too easy for them to plant a bomb on the aircraft and blow me up.

            I was talking with Brad again, and he was telling me that there was another veteran out there that was having similar issues as to what I was experiencing.  In fact, he supposedly had schizophrenia, or a split personality.  However, one thing that Brad told me was that he was devoutly religious and that he talked to God on a regular basis.  Of course, this sounds ludicrous to most, but if he was talking to God, I wondered if he had a channel to him and if he could relay a message to or from God.  

            Brad got me in touch with him, and he was, as expected, calm, cool, and collected.  I told him my plight and asked him if he had his channel to God and asked him what to do, as I was going to run for my life from the Cabal.  When speaking to him, he said that was the worst thing that I could do and that I needed to hit them head-on.  This made perfect sense to me, as a moving target, while it may be hard for a singular bullet to strike the target, multiple bullets are eventually going to reach the target and it is going to be overcome with an overwhelming force.   

            I’d gotten it in my head that I was right about the USO money-laundering operation, and that both Preet Bharara and President Obama were involved, so I was trying to formulate a plan to strike at the center of the target.  However, I needed to avoid having them hit me first, so I made a break for it, a diversion and left the house in a hurry to see if I could get a reaction, i.e., if they were going to follow me again like they had when I went over to Bend.  If they performed the same routine, this would confirm and verify it 100 percent in my mind, as if it wasn’t already.  I needed to be cautions and 100 percent accurate.

            As I crossed the Bridge of the Gods from Washington to Oregon, I saw the lights of a police vehicle behind me.  My first thought was that they were after someone else, but as I pulled over after paying the bridge toll, the undercover vehicle pulled in right behind me with their lights flashing.  The guy that got out of the vehicle was dressed in civilian clothes and had a badge hanging around his neck.  I didn’t recognize him at all, but I did not know all the officers in town.  This was suspect, but my goal was to continue the diversion, while cooperating fully with this jackass so that I wouldn’t be hauled in.

            After a few minutes of questioning, I saw Gretchen pull in behind me with Joni in the SUV and they parked right behind the patrol vehicle.

            This jackass went through the routine that I’d been a part of numerous times as a Captain at the fire department.  I was trying to get him to tell my why he pulled me over, and his response was the standard, “There are some people that are concerned for your well-being and think that you may need some help.”  

            I pointed to Gretchen’s SUV and said, “You mean those people?”  Then, I portrayed them as the “crazies” in order to divert attention off of me. 

            This guy was in a pickle, as I was in Oregon, and he was supposedly from Skamania County Sheriff’s Office, so he had a jurisdictional problem.   However, I didn’t want to do anything to give even the hint that there was anything wrong with me, so I capitulated to his every demand.  He asked me about my medications, which was a personal issue for me, of course.  Then he asked me if I would be willing to talk to a psychologist or psychiatrist, and I agreed to this, I don’t know why, other than I didn’t want to give him an excuse to detain me.

            He called the Oregon State Police, and asked them to respond.  I can’t recall if they ever made it to the scene, but I was eventually put in touch with a psychologist, and they asked me the standard questions, like I had been asked by the VPD officer about two weeks earlier, and I gave the same patented response, that I was OK, knew day, date, time, place and who the POTUS was, and relayed to them that I did not want to harm anyone or harm myself, etc.   

            After about 45 minutes, he finally ran out of options and had to let me go.  BTW, everything about that stop was totally illegal, once he found out that I wasn’t suicidal, as falsely reported by Gretchen and Joni, the original reason that he stopped me.

            Once he let me go, I took off like a bat-out-of-hell and headed toward sacred ground, the Wildhorse Indian Casino in Pendleton, Oregon on the Umatilla Indian Reservation.  On my way to the casino, I was able to determine that they were not following me, and I had ½ a mind to go to the US Attorney’s office in the SDNY where Preet the cheat was working, but knew that I needed more ammo than just a story.  I needed concrete evidence, or I would be picked off immediately, particularly since I’d just been stopped on the way out of town.

            I spent a short while at the casino, and after a few hours on the road there, and spending some time at the casino, I returned to Stevenson and agreed with Joni and Gretchen that I would head down to San Diego to the mental health facility.  

            I can’t remember the sequence of events, but it was around this time that I sent the LinkedIn message to Rick Torres asking him about the Wilkinson v. Torres case.  And given how paranoid I was, I surmise I sent him the message before my jaunt over to Pendleton. 

            At the end of July, I think around the 28^th, I made a reservation to fly into San Diego and got on the plane headed down the same day.  Of course, the last second reservation would keep them from arranging to blow up the plane.

            Before I headed down to San Diego, I noticed that my phone and wallet was missing.  The phone that I got from Walmart was to replace the iPhone that had gotten wet and stopped working, the same iPhone that I threw on the ground, which resulted in Sheriff Brown responding to the house attempting to murder me.

            My missing wallet and new phone were eerily reminiscent of when Shelane took my iPhone several years earlier, and it frustrated the hell out of me that I didn’t have my wallet.  When I got to San Diego, I immediately went to the Verizon store and got a replacement iPhone.

            When I got the iPhone, I downloaded the Uber app and used it for the first time, and like I said, was shocked that it had the same spider webbed screen and colors that I’d seen the year before when I was doped up with Ketamine, Fentanyl, and morphine.  

            There were two wings in the mental facility, one for veterans and the other wing for the other crazies.  I wasn’t put in the same wing as the veterans and this caused a great deal of angst for me.

            The mental facility appeared to be more of a research lab than anything else.  Everything they issued me was labeled and weighed, and every meal, they recorded what you ate off of your tray, and what you left. This made me extremely paranoid.  Additionally, the showers had a push button like in jail and spit out a controlled amount of water.  

            I was still having issues with back pain, and one of the psychiatrists that was treating me was trained in middle eastern philosophy and he used singing bowls to help treat me.  When I asked him about his education and training, he was more evasive than forthright.  

            There was an excellent psychologist that was teaching classes on Alcoholic and Narcotics Anonymous.  I recall that he was one of the best instructors that I have ever come across.

            What was shocking to me was that out of the 13 people that I was on the ward with, I was the dumbest one of them!  I am not kidding, all of them were genius level people.  There was one kid that was a rocket scientist, literally, and the others were high IQ type of people.  There was something amiss about the whole thing.  

            There was also a Native American gal that I would consider the equivalent of a medicine man (woman).  I could tell that she was very intuitive.  One of the patients would sit down with the NY Times crossword and finish it in about 10 minutes.  

            One day, I was talking with the Native American gal and she reached out to hold my hand so that we could say a prayer, like you do during AA, and one of the psychologists admonished us immediately and warned us that there was to be no touching.  This threw me for a loop, and raised my ire.  Everything was just off about this place and I knew that I needed to get the hell out of there pronto.

            I think I spent the weekend there, and there was one or two of the patients that were there before. They said that they would often times screen the patients and farm them out to different area clinics, but the intake process could take a week or two.

            After being there a few days, the staff got orders for all of the patients to be transferred out of the facility except three of us.  All the patients thought this was odd, particularly the ones that had been there before.  This raised my spidy senses again.  Then, all of a sudden, two orderlies were bringing in rails that were bolted to the beds.  They had two sets of rails, and there were three of us that were going to remain in the facility, one guy, and another gal.  And the gal could hardly move, as she was going through DT’s, coming off of alcohol, and she was having a tough time making it out of bed, so I knew immediately the rails were not for her bed, so mathematically, there could only be two other beds, mine and the other guy.  Now, I’m no genius, but I knew that there was no way to strap someone to one of these beds, as this was one of those “suicide proof” facilities where there was nothing to attach a rope or sheet to, the beds were flat boxes with a mattress on them.  And, if I wanted to strap someone down to a bed, I would surely need bed rails bolted to the sides of the in order to be able to do this, and these rails were just the right tool.  

            I knew that I needed to get the hell out of there ASAP, so I asked them to give me the paperwork I had given them prior to checking in, and when they gave it to me, I showed them that I had a court date for the 2nd of August, and that I needed to get back up to Vancouver to attend the mandatory court hearing, or I would have a warrant issued for my arrest.  I essentially cut in line purposefully so that I would be discharged prior to the other patients, as they were sitting there awaiting the paperwork for to be moved to the facility they were being transferred to.

            I flew back to Portland, and when I got home, my mom had miraculously found my wallet and phone that I had left on the night stand prior to me leaving for San Diego.  I am not sure if Joni took my phone and inserted either an app on it to track me, or why it came up missing and suddenly returned.  However, my mom couldn’t tell me where it was found.  Odd, right? 

            I feel as if I dodged a bullet down in San Diego, and returned to Portland.  And as mentioned earlier, upon my return, in preparation for the upcoming hearing that was re-scheduled for the 8^th of August, as I re-arranged the hearing due to being in the mental facility, Torres ended up submitting his resignation on August 4, and the DPA filed a motion to extend the trial on August 5 due to my wife being on a “pre-planned” vacation.  It sure looks like they needed to move fast in order to postpone the trial.  And, as I stated, the information I got via public records request paint a nefarious picture of Clark County Sheriff Atkins working with Judge Zimmerman to postpone the trial.  I wonder how many face-to-face meetings and phone calls were made regarding this issue. 

            Perhaps the NSA has some of these phone calls buried in their servers in the mountain in Colorado where every phone call, text message, email, FB chat, Skype vids, and keystroke from every individual on the planet is stored.

            My mom was a member of Eastern Star.  When I was a kid, she said that it was a network parents that had Down’s Syndrome kids.  I wonder if she’s figured it out that this is a satan worshiping occult yet.     

Chapter 16 – Losing the Battle of Wits to Judge Zimmerman

            In every criminal complaint filed by any State, or the Department of Justice against a defendant, they are required to turn over all exculpatory evidence, otherwise, it is a violation of a defendants 14^th Amendment rights under the Due Process Clause of the Amendment.  

            The landmark case is Brady v. Maryland (1963).  Exculpatory evidence is evidence favorable to the defendant in a criminal trial that exonerates or tends to exonerate the defendant of guilt.  It is the opposite of inculpatory evidence, which tends to present guilt.

            November 24, 2015, I sent an email to my defense attorney, David McDonald with an article which I cut and pasted to the email which was headlined, Wilkinson v. Torres (2010).  The article described how the crooked 9^th Circuit Court of Appeals had overturned a Summary Judgement motion filed by Officer Rick Torres, Officer Keys, and the City of Vancouver.  

            Summary Judgement is a judgement entered by a court for one party against another party summarily, i.e., without a full trial.  Summary judgments may be issued on the merits of an entire case, or on discrete issues tin that case.  

            The Prosecuting Attorney, who has the ultimate authority to prosecute a crime in the jurisdiction is responsible for turning over the defendant.  From the date of my arrest, February 11, 2015, through November 14, 2015, the prosecutor did not turn over any evidence regarding the Wilkinson v. Torres case to my attorney.  In fact, he never has to this date.  I brought the case to my attorney and he ignored it completely in this misdemeanor case where I was facing 30 days in jail, if convicted, due to my offender score. 

            Over the course of the next 7 months, David McDonald would apply for a waiver of speedy trial at each hearing.  I believe there were eight applications for me (as the defendant) to appeal to the court to “knowingly” waive my right to have a trial.  I had no idea until approximately July of 2016, when David made an appointment for me to go see a psychologist that he wanted me to see, that David was working with this Cabal to attempt to murder me.   In other words, I did not have scienter (informed knowledge) that I was waiving my right to a speedy trial at the direction of my attorney who was working with the enemy.  He was not working in my best interest, which is a violation of the Rules of Professional Conduct for an attorney, not to mention a violation of my Due Process rights under the 14^th Amendment.

            Torres was working for the Vancouver Police Department when he murdered 17-year-old Jason Wilkinson on Mother’s Day, May 8, 2005, (odd date…to be Mother’s Day, almost as if he were sending a message).   It was also issued on the 23^rd day of the month (look up 23 and its relation to the occult and satan worshipers, Jim Carey made a movie about it). 

            In Summary Judgment, each side makes their case regarding the facts of the case, and the judge determines if there is a need for a trial.  In this case, Rick Torres claimed that he feared that his fellow officer was underneath the tires of a minivan that was about to run over him.  There were two officers that were capable of being witnesses in the case, Officer Key from VPD, and Deputy Schanaker from Clark County Sheriff’s Office.  Neither Key nor Schanaker were witnesses in the case, as Schanaker was moving his vehicle and conveniently turned around when Torres started shooting.  Officer Key stated that he did not see what happened because he was underneath the tires of the vehicle when Torres started firing, and he was essentially traumatized and running for his life, or so the story goes.  In essence, there were only two witnesses that testified to seeing the entire incident, and that was Officer Torres and a civilian eyewitness, Anthony Davis, a 21-year-old kid.  Both Davis and Torres issued affidavits as to what transpired that day, and this is what Federal District Court Judge Benjamin Settle found.

 Taking the facts in the light most favorable to the plaintiffs, there is no question that Torres acted with the unconstitutional purpose to harm, terrorize and in fact, kill Wilkinson.  After Key walked to the front of the minivan and the minivan began to back away from the telephone pole, Key and Torres looked at each other, seemingly acknowledged each other; then Torres walked to the passenger side of the minivan and effectively executed Wilkinson by shooting him eleven times at close range.  Torres shot Wilkinson when the minivan was traveling at a slow speed in the exact opposite direction from where Key stood.  Even after Wilkinson dropped his hands from the steering wheel and slumped in the driver’s seat mortally wounded, Torres continued to fire into Wilkinson as the minivan coasted in reverse.  Wilkinson v. Torres C08-5281-BHS (2009).

 

Based on this version of the events, which is supported by admissible evidence, a reasonable fact-finder could conceivably conclude that Officer Torres intended to harm, terrorize or kill Jason Wilkinson and therefore acted beyond the scope of a legitimate law enforcement objective.  

 

            McDonald hadn’t interviewed Torres from February 11, 2015, through the date of the pretrial hearing, August 8, 2016, over a year and a half later in a misdemeanor case where I was facing 30 days in jail.  He also didn’t interview my wife, Shelane, to ascertain where the pornographic journal went, about the welfare fraud that I essentially proved in March of 2016, and Judge Altman feloniously shredded the Emergency Motion for Custody.  This does not even take into account that Shelane is a multi-decade opiate user.  

            I sent McDonald the case from the 9^th Circuit Court of Appeals, but I did not have the ruling by Judge Settle, which is enclosed in part herein.   This was something that David should have taken care of, but he didn’t because he was working with this Cabal to assist them in murdering me.  

            Another disclosure under exculpatory evidence is the truthfulness of an officer if he testifies under oath.  If an officer lies under oath, then he is automatically placed on the Brady list as an untrustworthy officer, i.e., a lying, dirty cop, and this stays with the officer the entire time he is on the force, which usually results in the firing of the officer.

            Torres pumped 11 rounds into Jason Wilkinson from approximately eight feet away.  He was standing at the passenger side window of the minivan, tapping on the window with his service weapon and had to back away from the window in order to pump the 11 rounds into Wilkinson, which resulted in him being approximately eight feet from him.

            Judge Settle opines, “Torres seems to contradict himself as to why he shot a second volley of bullets. At one point, he describes the situation as follows: 

I thought what happened was I fired four rounds, and he kept going, and he was – and then, I fired…made a quick assessment, and he had stopped and I fired…I fired two more.  That’s what I think happened.”

 

            Later in the same interview, Officer Torres describes the situation as follows:

 

I remember it was kind of like, you know, I’m shooting…I was shooting like this and I came down and he was still looking at me like nothing happened.  And so, then I went back up and I think I fired two more rounds.

 

            Judge Settle seems to be judiciously favorable to Torres by opining that Torres “seemed” to contradict himself.  In addition, after I received most of the documents from the internal affairs investigation into the murder, I found that Torres had completely contradicted himself during the interview, i.e., he lied.  In the first portion of the interview, Torres stated he didn’t hear a thing, then later in the interview, there was a break in the interview, and questioning resumed about why Torres believed he had probable cause to shoot Jason Wilkinson.

            He changed his story from not hearing a thing to hearing Officer Key screaming and yelling as he was getting chewed up under the tires as the minivan was backing up.  This is a complete contradiction, and one of his statements if false.  

            Furthermore, Torres states he believed he fired 4 rounds, followed by two rounds, when the evidence depicts that he fired eight rounds followed by another three rounds.  

            Given that Torres cannot remember how many rounds he fired, or that he was intentionally lying about firing six rounds, Torres is not a credible witness.  Therefore, the version of events as depicted by the only other person that was an eyewitness to the murder, Anthony Davis, is the ONLY version of events that is based in fact.  Therefore, Officer Torres account should have, and was dismissed in its entirety and Judge Settle correctly ruled that Torres “executed” Jason Wilkinson.  

            However, the crooked 9^th Circuit Court of Appeals deemed that Torres had “qualified immunity” and Jason Wilkinson got what he deserved because he was fleeing from Torres and perpetrated a low-speed chase through the city of Vancouver until Torres rammed him into a telephone pole, got out of his vehicle and executed him on Mother’s Day.  

            Torres quit the VPD in January of 2006 and was hired by Clark County Sheriff’s Office in 2013, about a year and a half prior to arresting me.  Ironically, there is nothing in his personnel file about the lawsuit, or his murdering Jason Wilkinson.  One would think that this might have been something that he was questioned about when he did his lie detector test when he was hired, but the Clark County Sheriff’s Office has determined that Torres’ hiring records are protected information and they don’t have to provide the results of the lie detector tests, nor do they have to provide the questions he was asked.

            Prosecutor Tony Golik did not think that it was important to disclose this under Brady v. Maryland, nor was it important to follow his own Clark Count Brady Protocol.  He has never answered my emails asking if he deems this exculpatory evidence.  

            In essence, when I arrived at the pretrial hearing on August 8, 2016, the witnesses that were going to testify against me were a cop that had murdered a 17-year-old kid and an opiate addict.  I was looking at the odds, and figured that by reading the Wilkinson v. Torres (2010) decision to the jury, and making the argument that my wife was an opiate addict, my children were being molested by their uncle and grandfather, and I found a pornographic journal and found out my children were addicted to porn the morning that I was arrested, my odds of acquittal were extremely high…if I was able to survive to August 10^th. 

            I wasn’t worried about Torres at all.  At the time, I figured that the feds were out to murder me and that they would send someone competent to murder me, and by my estimation and read on Torres, he was anything but.  He was nothing more than a hot-headed former Jarhead that thought his shit didn’t stink.  I was on the lookout for someone like the guys I was stationed with while I was at the Teams, or in ParaRescue, or at the very least, a Smokejumper.  Give me an honorable death!

            I’d given Obama and his henchmen way too much credit, thinking they’d send a professional to murder me.  I guess I should have known how incompetent they are, after all, they’re working for the government…well, actually the Rothschilds and Rockefeller's.  And the guy they sent to murder me was actually this dip-shit Jarhead.  Perhaps, I’m just giving myself too much credit, IDK.  Maybe I am the one that was too stupid to recognize this, and this was their way of throwing me off, sending a complete idiot to kill me.  I’d never suspect that, for sure.That’s some advanced 5D chess.  Particularly since I called Obama in July of 2016, trying to get in touch with him about Preet the cheat running his money laundering operation.  Instead of taking my call, he had the operator hang up on me.  I thought it was a pertinent issue of “National Security," not to mention, they had my calls logged, and subsequently sent out two agents from the US Secret Service to interview me about what I’d been posting online.  Which I told them that I loved what Obama was trying to do for the “environment” and that I didn’t want to harm anyone.  Perhaps he took my email to him about Sasha and Malia wrong, as I was trying to impart upon him how drastic my situation was due to the fact that my daughters were being molested.  I might never know the answer to these issues.

            Prior to going to the hearing, I’d printed off the Wilkinson v. Torres lawsuit with the intent on having Judge Zimmerman reading it into the record.  At the last second, I’d printed off some of the things that I’d been posting on the internet about gene trading, another theory that I had.  This was purely a diversionary tactic, with the true intention of using these pages to cover the Wilkinson v. Torres decision from David McDonald (my own attorney).  I didn’t want him to see it and somehow subvert my plan of having Zimmerman read the decision into the record.  However, what I did not count on was that everything I was doing was being monitored by the NSA, and they formulated a plan on my hour plus drive into the court.  I thought I could overcome their magic tricks and get the decision “judicially recognized” by the court.  

            Judicial Recognition is the courts acceptance of verifiable information that is publicly available, such as the court decision in Wilkinson v. Torres.  If the court did not recognize it, it was grounds for an appeal, and would automatically get it entered into the record.

            As I said, I believed that I was being drugged at the time, and it was most likely a combination of drugs, one of them being methamphetamine.  I’d never taken any drugs in my life other than marijuana and alcohol, and when I was about 12, I took a pill that was given to me by a classmate that made me extremely depressed.  

            I’d broken out around my eyes, and after I took a shower, I scraped these bumps off of my face, and it looked pretty bad.  I needed a cover-story for it, so on the way out of the house, when I got into the car, I’d screamed as loud as I possibly could, damaging my voice box to give me a raspy voice.  My cover-story was that I’d breathed in some chemicals and got it on my face and it damaged my voice box, therefore, I was asking Judge Zimmerman to read the decision into the court record.  It was going to be the ultimate coup de grace, a real FU to the court and Judge Zimmerman.

            When I got to court, I was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.  My head was on a swivel and I was literally looking for them to murder me somehow.  Then the snowball started running downhill and never stopped.  They were aware of my plan and a step ahead of me.

            I’d ran it through my head, and there were three options that I would take in case things went south…well, four.  My first option, which I’d used before, was that my dad shot JFK.  Of course, they already heard this one and Judge Altman shut me down on that, so my second option was to blurt out that Preet Bharara, the US Attorney for the Southern District of New York was crooked and laundering money, but that sounded equally as bad, so I chose the third option, the federal government wanted to kill me for my genes.  Yes, genes, not jeans.  This was my back-up plan if things headed south, along with the fact that Torres was a killer, as outlined in the 9^th Circuit decision.

            Things started out and quickly went south, as Judge Zimmerman was asking me about my face and voice, which I attributed to breathing in chemicals and asked him to read the decision into the record.  I realized later, it was his goal to get me talking, which he successfully did, and I should have written out what I was going to say, rather than try and deal the biggest death-blow in the history of a courtroom. 

            I’d asked him if he’d read what I brought into court that day, and when I attempted to hand him the papers, he directed me to hand them to the court Clerk.  Oh, yeah, procedures, I forgot that.  I handed her the papers and she handed them to Judge Zimmerman.  Procedurally, they were entered into the record, check!  Good.

            He started reading the part about the gene trading program, which was being conducted by Bill Gates and DARPA.  It was a gene research program run through the DoD and the VA called the Million Veteran Program, or MVP (Most Valuable Person).  This program was trying to find the perfect human genome, which could be used to help cure diseases of all mankind.  In 2013, I’d foolishly donated my blood to this program, not knowing that the entire program would be used to find the perfect human genome and it was sent to auction to the highest bidder, i.e., Bill Gates.  So, I surmised that Gates had my genes, and no longer needed me because he had my daughters under his control.  I hadn’t seen them, except at supervised visits, and they were being held away from me for a purpose, and my argument to a jury would have been just that.

            Furthermore, this was backed up by statistics and fact.  I contracted Herpes Simplex II when I was 19 in the Teams, and my body cleared itself of the virus and I no longer was positive for it.  Furthermore, my brother Will, contracted viral meningitis when we were very young and almost died from it, only to recover.  Years later, he contracted Hepatitis C, and his body miraculously rid itself of the virus.  Statistically, I had a viable legal theory, which really had nothing to do with the trial that was upcoming in two days.  

            Judge Zimmerman kept reading from the Facebook posts, and then he turned to David McDonald and said that he was going to allow him to withdraw.  At that point, I asked him to read the rest of it in the court, i.e., the opinion, which he declined to do, and then said that he felt that I was mentally incompetent to represent myself.  I asked him if I could read the rest of it into the record, which he declined to allow me to do, nor would he read the rest of it into the record.   

            When I asked him to take Judicial Notice of “that case," pointing to the decision he had in his hand, he feigned as if he didn’t hear me, and turned to my new counsel, shutting me down.  I’d been hoodwinked, outwitted, and now I had another roadblock in my way, a new attorney, which I was sure was equally as corrupt as David McDonald.  

            At the end of the hearing, Judge Zimmerman feigned as if he did not know what to do with the documents that I’d just handed the court Clerk and handed me back the documents, which I stated that I wanted to use at the trial on the 10^th.  Of course, he knew these were entered into the record, and by removing them from the record purposefully, as he knew that the 9^th Circuit opinion was enclosed in the papers I handed him were underneath the ones he read aloud in court.  This was a felony under RCW 40.16.020 for the destruction of the public record.  

            Then, the Prosecuting Attorney, Lacey Blair had her go at it, and said that my rights to a speedy trial were not a factor, and that she’d filed a motion to extend trial due to Shelane being on a preplanned vacation, and I would not be prejudiced at all because we were still within the timeframe of the speedy trial waiver, which McDonald had orchestrated time and again at the behest of the prosecutor’s office.  Disaster for Clark County was averted, and I had new counsel to contend with, Katie Kauffman.

            When I got home, I immediately looked up Katie Kauffman to see how much trouble I was in with my new adversary (court appointed attorney), and it was the worst possible scenario.  

            Judge Zimmerman just pounded the first Death Knell into my coffin.  

Chapter 17 – From Bad to Worse

            Dennis Lane was the attorney that sued me for over a decade, from 2002 through 2012.  While he was suing me, his law firm was English, Lane, Marshall, Barrar, Vanderwood and Stahnke.  

            In 2007, we’d gone through Summary Judgement and won and I built my house on the Washougal River, but as the house was being completed, the Washington State Court of Appeals, Division II overturned the Summary Judgement ruling and remanded it to a trial on the merits to determine if my septic system that was approved would pollute the Washougal River or the drainage ditch that bisected the property.  Of course, the county wouldn’t approve it if it was going to pollute, but we had to go to trial anyway, and won at trial.  

            We placed our homes on the market to sell them and Lane filed a Lis Pendens which essentially blocked any sale of the property during the height of the market before the foreclosure crisis hit in 2007 and 2008.  The $250,000 in attorney’s fees and costs put us in a precarious situation and stretched our finances, as I was working as a fire Captain at TVFR.  

            After we won at trial, Lane called my attorney, Sam Rodabough and offered him a job.  This, of course, was illegal and amounted to a Tortious Interference claim.  I asked my attorney to file a Bar complaint with the Washington State Bar and he would not file it because he was actually working on behalf of the Lanes.  It was nothing more than a money grab, and I recognized this too late into the litigation. 

            Attorneys prey on cases like this, much like a divorce, each side wanting their pound of flesh, and my attorney knew that I’d never quit anything in my life and knew that I would take it all the way to the end…and beyond. 

            When the firm that was representing me, Groen, Stephens, and Klinge would not file the Bar complaint, I fired them.  

            As an aside, one of the Washington State Supreme Court Justices is Debra Stephens, and I can’t help but wonder if she is related to Richard Stephens, one of the partners at Groen, Stephens, and Klinge.  

            After the bribery issue, I went pro se, representing myself in the action and attempted to file a CR 13(e)After-Arising counterclaim for the Tortious Interference claim and the wrongful filing of the Lis Pendens which would have allowed me to get attorney’s fees paid for by Lane. 

            Lane had to have a “substantial justification” for filing the Lis Pendens or he would be liable for attorney’s fees.  However, “substantial justification” is not defined by law, which essentially leaves it up to the judge to levy the fees, so I wanted to make sure the term was defined, so I lobbied the Washington State Congress to define the term without changing the statute under the guise that it was the legislative intent for the statute to punish people that used a Lis Pendens improperly, which Lane was.  He was using it to punish me because I would not sell the property to him for the tax assessed value.  I knew that Judge Reynolds would have an out and wanted to close that door and require the term to be defined, but the legislature passed it on to the WSBA for a recommendation.  Of course, Lane interceded and my proposed clarification of the statute was dropped. 

            I interjected, in the middle of the appeal and filed the CR 13(e)After-Arising Counterclaim, but the COA II did not accept my claim.  In their opinion in Lane v. L’Hommedieu 265 P.3d 156 (2011) they ruled that I was correct in my interpretation of the rule, however, the claim should have been filed in 2007 when Lane filed the Lis Pendens.  There was no mention of the Tortious Interference (bribery) in their ruling, and there was no mention of my claim that my attorney was working on behalf of the Lanes.  They essentially ruled that you two litigants need to get out of the sandbox and can’t play anymore.

            After the ruling, I filed a new claim for Tortious Interference, but Judge Altman (the newly elected Skamania County Superior Court Judge) ruled that it was beyond the Statute of Limitations.  He said it was “black letter law," which I now interpret to be nothing more than witchcraft, as these black robed witches use the 86 different Civil Rules to deny legitimate claims and pick the winner before anyone steps into the courtroom, like in this case and the Wilkinson v. Torres case. 

            It didn’t sit well with Lane, as he and his attorneys at Miller, Nash, LLP in Vancouver were made to look like buffoons by a pro se litigant.

            When I got home from the hearing on August 8^th, 2016, I wanted to know who Katie Kauffman was.  It just so happens that she worked for the law firm, Vancouver Defenders, owned by none other than Jeffrey Barrar, Dennis Lanes former law partner. 

            One of the practice areas of English, Lane, Marshall, Barrar, Vanderwood, and Stahnke was being the public defender for indigent and mentally ill clients.  There are no public defenders in Clark County, Washington, it’s all done through contracts, and their law firm was the biggest firm that represented indigent and mentally ill clients in the count.

            Sometime later, as I was going through the litigation with Lane, Barrar formed Vancouver Defenders and inked a million-dollar contract to be the main public defender in Clark County.  In addition, he was contracted to be the attorney that assigns public defenders to indigent and mentally ill clients.  In plain terms, he assigned himself to represent me (using Katie Kauffman as his cut-out).  

            When I found out Kauffman was working for Jeffrey Barrar, I knew immediately this was a set-up and Barrar was going to get his pound of flesh for what I did to his former partner.  At the time, I did not know they also had a side corporation called BLEMS, LLC, which stands for Barrar, Lane, English, Marshall, Stahnke, and I guess it didn’t sound cool to insert the V for Vanderwood, but he was also a partner in the corporation.  By this time, in 2016, Vanderwood and Stahnke were both Clark County Superior Court judges. 

            A couple of years prior to this, Dennis Lane was in San Francisco and was walking across the street and someone ran over him.  It was a hit-and-run, and the person that tried to kill Lane was never caught.  Ironically, this didn’t make the newspaper, having an attorney with Lane’s stature in Clark County of 40 years in the business and a “prominent figure” in the community.  I can only guess, given their attempts on my life if this was their attempt to punish him for bringing attention to their RICO Organization in Clark County by filing a petty lawsuit against me.

            When I found out that Barrar was defending me (I hadn’t figured out yet that he was the one that assigned attorneys to represent the indigent and mentally ill) I called him on the phone and asked him to withdraw from the case because of the conflict of interest.  He told me that I could not make that decision because Judge Zimmerman ordered the psychiatric evaluation and my mental capacity was such that I couldn’t make that determination, and he was the sole arbiter as to whether there was a conflict.  I cited the above bribery and lawsuit by Lane and asked for all records he had regarding financial ties with Lane, and he said that he was not going to provide that.  I knew that Lane had a charitable trust and asked Barrar to provide any documentation showing any donations he made to the trust, and all the bank records of their law firm from the time they were partners so that I could ascertain if there was a conflict, which he refused to provide.  I told him that I was going to file a RICO claim against him for their collective corruption, which didn’t faze him at all.  At the end of the conversation, he said that I was just repeating this circular argument and he had nothing more to say.  Then he said, “Isn’t it ironic that your freedom is now in my hands?”

            I was already panicked due to what transpired in court, and knew they were going to try and kill me, and that Barrar was just a stop-gap measure to meet those ends so I sent an email to Katie Kauffman laying out my fears and trying to create a conflict so they would withdraw from the case. 

Katie,

Are you and David mandatory reporters?

Report this now and text me when it has been done.

503.313.0920

If you don't do this today, I will bring every resource I have to bear to render each of you.  I will rip your fucking soul out of your body and will instill a fear unto like the world has never seen.  I HAVE DONE IT BEFORE AND WILL DO IT AGAIN.  TRUST ME.

IF YOU DON'T THINK I HAVE THE FUCKING POWER, TRY ME!

I have been reporting the abuse of my children to every agency in the state of Washington.  Please hear me.

My father in-law has been molesting my children since a very young age.  He has a belief of mutually shared sacrifice.  It is a religious ideology based on the belief that one can be a deity on earth.  Ron Stewart believes in this doctrine.  It is a doctrine based on control through fear.

When my wife was first married. Ron controlled her through fear.  He has been molesting Shelane since birth and was unwilling to share her with her husband at the time.  His name is David JUDAH.  

Ron sold the story to his daughter that he has the ultimate power in the universe.  He controlled her through this fear of losing her protector.  In fact, while Shelane was married, Ron slaughtered her favorite animal in front of her while he had her tied down to reveal the depths of his depravity as to how far he would go in order to instill fear into Shelane.  He told her that David Judah, who she dearly loved would be next if she did not comply.  David Judah was her only protector from this evil sick man.  

Shelane did not want anything to befall David, so she ended the relationship as directed by her father.  His idea was that the merging of his blood line with the “pure” blood-line of David JUDAH (religious ideology) would be his key to controlling an entire religious doctrine.  Shelane and David divorced in 1996.  

Shelane and I were married in April 1996.  Shelane was pregnant with our first child.  This is what had been planned by her father.  He informed her that it was a road of fate that her family was on and pointed to the fact that he had brought these men into her life and she was the vehicle for this perfect blood line.  He pointed to the name Judah, and then to my name of L’Hommedieu which means the “Man of God”.  Shelane and I found true love.  It took time, but we eventually the barriers had been broken down and we were actually in love.  

Ron was kept abreast of every movement of Shelane’s life, and the turmoil we were subjected to.  He uses this as a tool of manipulation.  The divorce from her first husband ended in a restraining order based on allegations of abuse by David and she sold the story of him covering up as a good person and stated “he can be charming when he wants to”.  The exact same phrases and allegations are being levied against me during this divorce.  This is the Ron Stewart playbook.

I worked a schedule of 24 hours on and 48 hours off at the fire department. 

I found out later that my kids were staying in hotel rooms all across the Portland/Gresham area very near Ron Stewarts home.  It was not Shelane that was staying in the hotel rooms with my daughters, it was Ron Stewart.  He watches children’s movies with them and then indoctrinates them into his ideology.  This took place in 2009 through 2010 until I was injured.

In 2011, when my daughter was 13 years old and entering puberty, my wife started taking both of my daughters over to her parents house 4 nights a week for “homeschooling”.  She would then come home and get high in prescription medications and remain in a vegetative state the entire time.  

In 2012 I asked her to work out a parenting plan, yet she refused to do so, under the direction of Ron Stewart.  They concocted the same story as they used with David Judah.  She left the home for a month with all of my prescription medications and went and stayed in a hotel room near her parents.  

The allegations she made were shocking to me.  She had hit every possible scenario painting me as the devil.  She put innuendo’s in there that I was a pedophile and walked in on the girls at all times when they were bathing, dressing, etc.  It was not me that did this, it was Ron Stewart that did this while my children were staying in his home 4 days a week.

I HAVE NEVER BEEN INVITED TO THEIR HOME TO SEE THE INTERACTION N BETWEEN THIS SICK TWISTED PERSON AND MY CHILDREN.  

I have never been allowed to take my children to the store to have ice cream.  NEVER.  I have been alone in the vehicle with my daughters on three different occasions their entire life.  I haven’t spoken to my girls on the phone in over 4 years and have had no visitation time with them since Shelane filed for divorce on April 11, 2012, the day before my birthday.   

The allegations in the restraining order were that I chased Jessi and Shelane up the stairs with a shotgun.  The problem with that story, the shotgun was locked up in my neighbors safe in his home and I had no access to it. 

Who leaves a home for over a month and then returns with an allegation of someone chasing them around with a shotgun.  This was nothing more than a cover story directed by Ron Stewart.  David Judah was equally surprised at the allegations levied against him.

When Paige was 13, she started having a purulent drainage in her panties.  Shelane had taken her to the doctor for this and passed it off as hormonal.  She did not tell me that Paige was having the discharge due to being sexually active with her father…….of course.

Ron slaughtered Shelane’s favorite animal in front of her and made her watch this destruction.  She sat there and smelled the blood from the slaughtered animal.  She later told me that when she had Paige, all the memories of the slaughter came back to life, as it was the same smell of blood when she had Paige as it was when Ron Slaughtered the animal in front of her.

Fast forward to a couple of years ago.  Ron had a favorite dog that was 105 years old in dog years.  My children would go over to their house and come home to my house smelling like a dead dog.  This happened regardless of whether they showered.  The smell was putrid.  

Shelane recognized that this was getting out of hand, as I would not allow them to go over there do to this unsanitary condition.  Shelane took cookie in to be put to sleep.

Within a month, Ron slaughtered the dog that Shelane had taken over their as a puppy 8 years prior in front of my children to exercise his power and authority over my girls.

He later used Shelane’s miraculous recovery from a stroke to let my girls, 12 and 15 at the time that he had personally saved Shelane’s life and it was his power and his power alone that saved her without having any neurological deficits.

On June 4, 2015, I died in a motorcycle accident.  Ron used this as another confirmation of the “power” he wielded.  He notified my girls that he was the savior and he was even gracious enough to save a wretch like me (his contrition of grace with my children).

Shortly thereafter, my dad Dave L’Hommedieu suffered a massive pulmonary embolism.  He as given very little chance to survive.  Ron took credit for this too.

He also attempted to murder me by poisoning my weed.  

Thanks for your attention in this matter.

Matt

 

            I was having a panic attach when I sent the email to her, and it was my attempt to get them to look into the sexual abuse of my daughters, while at the same time creating a conflict.

This email was sent to David McDonald, Katie Kauffman, and forwarded to a person named Ken at the Washington Department of Social and Health Services.  Clearly, it was my attempt to get the state of Washington to look into the suspected child abuse of my daughters at the hand of Ron Stewart. 

            I sent her and David some follow-up emails;

Is it legal for me to be walking around the City of Vancouver with a loaded shotgun strapped on my back?  I don't want to get in trouble. 

It is my second amendment right, isn't it?

Anyway, see you soon

LMK so I don't violate any laws.

            Another email sent to her and David:

In case you haven't yet, read my other e-mails.

 

I will bring my shotgun and a 2 x 12 down this afternoon so that I can give you a full account of what the government had me do to people.  I want to make sure you get a clear picture of what I have been telling you about.

 

We used to have bets to see how much water it took to rip a person's soul out.  I played that good cop bad cop to my advantage.  They couldn't believe someone so nice to them for so long was ripping their soul out of their body without batting an eye.  That is what your government taught me.

 

This one SOB held out so long and it pissed me off so bad, I had them get the garden hose.  Man, he pissed me off.

 

I digress, though.   Please have a glass of water for me on hand.  I think we can get the full effect with that.

 

See you this afternoon.

            And another:

Have you reported the sexual abuse of my children?

            When I sent these emails, I was still fishing for information, as I hadn’t gotten any responses or follow-up to my concerns about the abuse of my children, and much of what I wrote was my theory of the case.  What I had not found out at the time was the fact that most of what I’d written was based on something I learned later as the “Child of God” occult.  Shelane’s parents were part of this occult and she was the perfect victim to be sexually trafficked, and she was (more on that later).

            The crux of my emails was two-fold, to create a conflict of interest, while at the same time, making sure that the abuse of my daughters was investigated, the pornographic journal that I found written by my then 12-year-old daughter was found, and they interviewed Ron Steward so that he would be a witness at my trial.  None of these things happened.

            Additionally, I was still reeling from being drugged and having a panic attack. 

            When I called Jeffrey Barrar to ascertain if I’d sufficiently made the conflict of interest, he said that I’d just committed a felony by sending the emails.  I didn’t know at the time, but he called the Vancouver Police and they locked down his building due to my “threats” and Barrar turned over the email that I’d sent Katie Kauffman as the “threat”.  I’m positive that he did not mention that he’d threatened my freedom the day prior.  I’ve since filed extensive reports with the Prosecutor’s Office and the VPD about their actions, but like my reporting of sexual abuse, none of these things have been investigated.

            I knew that I was in danger and needed to get out of town, immediately, and I’d been telling Gretchen and Joni that they were going to render me and murder me, but they weren’t listening.

            August 12^th, 2016, I left Stevenson hitchhiking and left behind my wallet to make it look like I’d been rendered.  I hitchhiked to Pendleton, Oregon to camp out at the Wildhorse Casino on sovereign territory like my dad did when he went to the Yakama reservation.  I’d done the same thing when I went to California, staying at a Harrah’s Casino that was on a reservation until I caught a flight back up to Portland to attend the hearing.  

            I was camping out on the lawn at the casino for a couple of days and I was approached by the casino security and they told me that I needed to check into the campground, so I checked in on August 15^th.  During the days, I would play poker, one of my past-times.  I’m not a great poker player, but I play well enough not to lose money.

            On the morning of the 17^th of August, some brand new Dodge quad cab pickups start rolling in with Torres Contracting, Inc. written on the side of the trucks.  It was a contract Hispanic wild-land firefighting crew.  When I saw Torres, obviously, I was concerned.  

            I didn’t have my cell phone on and I let my battery die to ensure that they couldn’t track me.  I guess that my leaving stirred up quite a ruckus on Facebook, as there were posts of me missing.  After looking back on it, this gave them every opportunity to kill me and make mental illness of a veteran a central topic for the news media, as they were intent on profiting from my death, and Shelane would have been the champion for mental illness and disabled veterans and she would have received the bounty on my head, worth about $2.5-3 million.  It was a win-win for the Cabal.

            At about 4:00 p.m. more of the Torres Contracting trucks started to roll in, and I looked up and saw Rick Torres in a wild-land firefighting outfit and knew that I was in deep shit.  They’d set up their tents surrounding my camp area.  One of the campers gave me a tarp and I made a lean-two to put my sleeping bag and ground pad on with my get-out bag.  

            The campground was a little longer than a football field and there were three of us tent camping in the campground.  The entire east 50 plus yards were open for Torres and Co. to set up their tents, but they set up all their tents completely encircling my camp area, with Torres “command tent” about 25 feet away from my area.  Additionally, they’d parked one of their pickups less than 20 feet from my area.  I was surrounded!

            I was trying to figure out what to do and I didn’t want to raise the alarm and break down my camp, so I gathered up my clothes and toiletries and went to the locker-room by the pool area in the RV Park adjacent to the tent camping area.  I took a blanket also to make it look like I was doing laundry and threw it in the washing machine and went to the locker room to shave and make it look like I hadn’t noticed I knew they were on to me.

            The locker-room had a few showers in it and there was a door on the opposite end of the locker room that went to the pool, so I went and looked in the pool to see if there was anyone that looked threatening.  There wasn’t, only a few kids in the pool and a fat white guy sitting at a table talking to two Chinese children about 8 years old.  I found that a little odd, but didn’t see it as a threat.

            I went back into the locker room to the sink area.  There were three toilet stalls to my back and a couple of sinks, so I backed into the corner and left the door to the outside ajar so that I could see anyone coming in to the locker room.  As I was shaving, a gal comes by and says, “We need to keep these doors shut”. It was 103 degrees that day, so I thought that was odd.

            Then, one of the Chinese kids comes into the locker room and is standing at the entrance to the sink area where I was, the corridor between the bathroom stalls and sinks that was about 48 inches wide, and he starts pulling down his pants as he’s approaching me.  I tell him sternly that he needs to go into the shower and point to the shower, but he doesn’t heed what I am saying and continues to pull his shorts down farther.  I immediately thought this is a set-up.  I grab my backpack and throw my toiletries in it and walk past the kid, almost knocking him over as I quickly exit the locker-room.

            When I came out, I noticed that there was a motorhome and a pickup with a 5^th wheel that pulled in during the short time I was in the locker-room.  I didn’t see who was in the motorhome, but noticed that there was only one person, the driver, in the pickup with the 5^th wheel.  He looked up at me and then bent over and was fishing for something in the middle of the pickup, possibly reaching for a gun, I don’t know, but I walked directly towards him, in case he was a threat, and as he sits up, I just held up my hand and said “Hi, how you doing”, and then walked around his pickup and went directly to the security office inside the casino about 200 yards from the campground and reported to them what had just happened with the kid in the locker-room.

            I turned on my phone and started to charge it so that I could come up on Facebook and post what just happened and noticed that there were multiple posts about me missing, and I posted a cryptic message about hanging out with the Torres Contracting Crew, and they’d just sent a kid to approach me in the locker-room, and these people are sick.

            A few minutes after posting this, I got a call.  On the other end of he line was a voice that I hadn’t heard in 20 years.  “Hey, dirtbag.”  I knew immediately it was a good friend of mine from my time in BUD/S, Kevin.  He supposedly owns a business with his wife that sets up meeting all around the world. 

            He told me that he’d just booked a room in the hotel for me, and to go and wait in the hotel and that he had gotten in touch with another Team guy to come and extract me from the situation that I was in.  I think we had two phone calls during this time, and I’d also gotten in touch with a guy that lived in Boise, Idaho that I used to smokejump with and he said that he would come and get me if I needed him to.

            When I spoke to Kevin again, he said for me to go wait in the hotel room for the Team guy to show up, and I told him there was no way in hell that I was leaving the floor of the casino where there were cameras, and that my friend from Boise was also coming. 

            The Team guy was cancelled, and my friend, Omid from Boise came and got me.  On the way back to Stevenson, a three hour drive, he told me that at the time, Shelane was at my mom’s house.

            I found out a short while later through her court filings that while she was at the house that day, she went down to the barn on the property and took an inventory of everything that I had and listed it in court documents.  In addition, after meeting with my mom, she also put that I had purchased the mass spectrometer.           

            Prior to this, I’d known that Shelane was texting Gretchen, and when I asked Gretchen to show me the texts, she would not show them to me.  I find this odd.  It was almost as if Gretchen was working against me.

            Omid dropped me off in Stevenson and returned that night/morning to Boise.  Thank you for the ride, Omid, you saved my life!  

            Shelane wasn’t at the house when I got there, thank God, or I would have been in violation of the restraining order and would have most likely been arrested for it.

            On the 25^th of August, I filed a lawsuit against Clark County, and like I’d done with Lisa Martin before, I served them personally.  However, it Judge Altman was in contact with the officials at Clark County, and even though they did not respond in a timely manner, they worked out a dismissal of the complaint for me failing to file the requisite Notice of Claim form and wait the allotted 60 days until I filed suit.  I didn’t care about the procedural matters, I just wanted to get it on the record that something horribly wrong was going on.  I hadn’t made the connection yet that Torres was the dipshit that they sent to murder me, so my focus was still on the federal government and I deemed the lawsuit and charges in Clark County as a nuisance, rather than a legitimate threat. 

            In addition, I filed a police report, sending it to the Clark County Sheriff, Chuck Atkins, detailing the events as outlined above.  In addition, I’d found Judge Zimmerman’s email address, so I was sending him emails regularly also.  My goal was to mark the events as they transpired and make a record of it while I figured out where the threat was coming from.

            In early November, I believe around the 2^nd, I was served a Summons by Clark County for a felony charge for threatening Katie Kauffman and Vancouver Defenders.  The arraignment date was the 29^th of November 2016.  Additionally, I’d learned that Vancouver Defenders withdrew as counsel for me, and Kauffman went in front of Judge Zimmerman telling him that I’d threatened them.  I later received the videotape of the hearing and found out that when Kauffman was giving him the reason for the withdraw, he referred to me as “The Lockdown Guy” in reference to Jeffrey Barrar calling VPD after I sent the email to Kauffman and they locked down the law office awaiting my arrival, which never happened, of course. 

            Barrar appointed his former employee who had received a contract as a public defender for indigent and mentally ill clients.  His name is John Terry.  

            I needed to get out of town in order to gather my thoughts and get away from the chaos, and as I was headed back to the Wildhorse Casino to play in their annual poker tournament, which I’d won years earlier on Easter Sunday (they have one spring and one fall tournament) I received a call from Terry, and he was wanting to schedule the psychological evaluation, which I’d told him I wanted to plead the 5^th and exercise my right to remain silent, and to get on with scheduling the trial.  I also told Terry that all of our communications would be via email, and for him to send me emails if he wanted to get in touch with me, as I immediately found that he was Barrar’s former employee and that he would also be working against my best interests.

            At the same time, an old friend from our days in Glenwood miraculously reached out to me to let me know they were dealing with the corruption in Clark County and that I should get in touch with her because she had information that could be helpful to me.  Her boyfriend had a lawsuit they were filing against Clark County because they had wrongfully arrested him for trying to help out a defendant being wrongfully charged by Clark County.  

            I later learned that they charged John Garrett Smith with attempting to murder his wife, and Guy, my friend Traci’s boyfriend, was arrested by the Vancouver Police Department for essentially calling them out for framing “Garrett” as he goes by.  

            Garret is literally a genius and an engineer who had patented technology for clean coal plants, in addition to patents for power plants to recycle cow manure, turning it into clean energy.  This technology is HUGE, and Garrett’s business and patents were worth about $150 million, according to what Guy testified to at his attempted murder trial.

            Later, as I was getting framed by these Clowns, I found out that in Garrett’s case, his cellular phone that they garnered a voicemail off of in order to convict him of attempted murder was logged into evidence 38 minutes prior to the crime, and as stated, was spliced 17 times.  And like my cases, Garrett has tried everything humanly possible to reopen his case and insert these factual issues, and like me, he has been procedurally barred at each instance.  These witches use their witch-crafted court rules to completely abrogate the United States Constitution.  If ANYONE from a jury heard that the phone was logged into evidence and an expert witness testified that the voicemail recording had been spliced 17 times, there would be no way they could get a conviction.

            Additionally, in another case in Clark County where they charged one of their own officers, Clark County hid a videotape from the defendant, Ray Spences, who was accused of molesting his children.  The videotape would have exonerated him, and he spent 20 years in jail before he was finally released when the tape came to light.  In addition, the lawyer arguing the case for Clark County stated ON THE RECORD that it was OK for police officers to manufacture evidence as long as they thought that someone was guilty, and this was not a violation of a defendant’s constitutional rights.  That is the system that we, as citizens are up against.

            I did not attend the court ordered mental health exam, and Terry and Judge Zimmerman scheduled a hearing for November 14^th, my daughter’s birthday.  Remember, my wife filed for divorce the day before my birthday.  They like to use dates to imprint this abuse upon you so that it stays in your mind in perpetuity.

            During the hearing, Judge Zimmerman ordered me to go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200.  Before the hearing, I’d found out the day prior from Terry that Judge Zimmerman was going to throw me in the slammer, so I turned over all the evidence I had to Traci, a gal that I hadn’t seen since I was eight years old.  I trusted her implicitly after meeting with her.  In addition, I’d signed over power of attorney to her so that she could access everything she needed to assist me.  She did the same thing in my case as she did in Garrett’s and acted as a disability advocate.  Garrett was diagnosed with high-functioning autism, while I was diagnosed with PTSD, so essentially the court could not deny me the ability to have a disability advocate, that would have run counter to the American’s with Disabilities Act (a federal issue), not to mention that I am a disabled veteran.  Clark County surely didn’t want any attention brought to this matter, and worked with the local newspaper to keep everything involving Matt L’Hommedieu out of the press.

            I was thrown in the slammer and put in a POD with about 30 other inmates at the Clark County Jail.  As I was in the slammer, Traci was able to get an attorney, Jennie Clark, from Portland to represent me in the felony charge.  Jennie was licensed to practice in Washington, but she was not well versed with the local rules.  And those local court rules are, there are no rules, only rules that benefit the Clark County Prosecutors and crooked judges.

            As an aside, Judge Lewis and his wife (the judge that presided over Garrett’s case) appear to have multiple different corporations in the state of Washington under Robert A. and Robert B. Lewis.  Suffice it to say, Judge Lewis is corrupt and they stole Garrett’s company from him and reaped the rewards.

            I tried to get in touch with John Terry for over a week while I was in jail, but he wouldn’t return my calls.  On the 23^rd of November, I was called out of the POD to meet with him, and we went to a room for a brief period of time and he explained that I could not exercise my 5^th Amendment right and needed to capitulate to Judge Zimmerman’s demands and to the interview with the state psychologist who was waiting to do the evaluation.

            We went to the room and she introduced herself as Dr. Rice from Western States Hospital.  She was wearing a name-tag with the name Gribble on it.  Of course, she would later go on to find me paranoid and delusional (more on that later).

            We went through the typical medical history, childhood and military background, and the silly memory tests, which I passed.  After getting my background and doing the tests for over an hour, she appeared to be wrapping up her portion of the evaluation.  John Terry interjects and says, “Tell her your theory about JFK”.  I knew that he was not asking this to help me out, so I referenced the House Select Committee on Assassinations, and they deemed that the Warren Commission Report was not accurate and that it was most likely a conspiracy.  

            Evidently this wasn’t good enough to Terry, so he interjected again and asked me to tell her about my theory about Rick Torres.  By this time, I’d found out that Torres resigned on August 3^rd, the prosecutor filed a fraudulent affidavit to extend the trial to give him another shot at murdering me, so I told her what is essentially outlined herein.  

            In addition, I spoke about the law firm of English, Lane, Marshall, Barrar, Vanderwood, and Stahnke and told her that this was nothing but a RICO organization.  I also spoke about the welfare fraud that my wife and her attorney conducted and that my own attorneys were working against me.

            She found that I was paranoid and delusional, thinking that Torres was out to kill me, and that the guys from BLEMS, LLC. were out to get me.  She opined that I needed to be sent to Western States Hospital for restorative treatment.  I assume that meant that I needed a frontal lobotomy (joke), or medicated to the hilt with powerful drugs to make me lose my mind.

            At the time I was going through this, my friend Traci had a blog called Garrett’s voice that she was using to try and draw attention to his plight, and at the same time, my case came up, and she started posting about my case on the blog too, and what was transpiring.  

            One thing that Dr. Rice pointed out in her report is that I did not understand the difference between the divorce action and the criminal action and they were entirely two different things, and that due to me intertwining the two, I was unable to understand the charges against me.  Of course, she does not reference the fact that I successfully argued a case of first impression in the state of Washington to the Division II COA, and the Supreme Court failed to take up the issue under a CR 13(e)After-Arising Counterclaim, and that I was correct on my theory of the law, as the COA II pointed out.

            I knew full well that the evidence that was used in the criminal trial and the divorce trial were intertwined, and that was my intention, to point out that my children were being trafficked and this whole fraud was being perpetrated in order to hide this fact, not to mention my dad’s involvement with the CIA. 

            Sometimes smart fuckers seem like crazy fuckers to dumb fuckers.  Dr. Rice is a dumb fucker.

            I was ordered to go see the jailhouse shrink, who was an army nurse practitioner in the reserves.  I tried to keep clam, cool, and collected when I was meeting with him and give him the essential facts, while trying to keep the story small.  After a couple of visits with him, I went in to have a session with him and he had Traci’s blog up, Garrett’s voice.  He said, in essence, he doesn’t know if any of this is true, but he wanted no part of it.  

            Previous to this visit, he put me on Venlafaxine, which I’d been on before for PTSD, however, during this visit, he told me that he was going to order Abilify.  He told me that it would have to be approved by the powers that be at the jail because it wasn’t a generic drug and was still under patent and cost about $800.  In my mind, it looked like he was biding me time because he recognized what was going on, and that by throwing this wrench into their system, they would either have to deny or approve his recommendation, and this would add more steps for them to take to mess with me.

            I believe that I was on the Venlafaxine for two days and it was stopped while I awaited approval for the Abilify.

            November 29^th, I was taken from my POD to the arraignment in Superior Court in front of Judge Scott Collier.  Jennie Clark was with me, and if I recall correctly, she waived reading of the indictment.  

            Jeffrey Barrar (no longer my attorney) was there, and he told Judge Collier that I was going through a mental evaluation at the District Court level and that it would be prudent for me to undergo one at the Superior Court level. 

            Jennie Clark told him that she could communicate with me fine, but on the recommendation of Barrar, Judge Collier ordered a second evaluation at the Superior Court level.  This is against the Rules of Professional Conduct of an attorney, as Barrar had no right to interject, particularly since he was the main complaining witness against me in the case.  He obviously didn’t tell Judge Collier that he threatened me prior to me sending the email, so that was never put on the record.

            Judge Collier postponed the arraignment till December 2, 2016 while the order was being crafted for me to undergo the second psychological evaluation.

            When I returned to the POD, I started playing a game of chess with a Russia and one of the Correctional Officers called me out of the POD, telling me to gather all my belongings, and I was being transferred.  I was sent to solitary confinement and wasn’t given the reason for the transfer or punishment.

            I found out later that Barrar had gotten in touch with the Sheriff’s Office and was coordinating with them on how to go about getting background information on my without violating my Constitutional rights.  In essence, my former attorney was working for the enemy.  He advised them to listen in on my calls, and to drop any call when I was talking with my attorney, but to get background on me during the other calls.  I also found out that they were attempting to get background on my attorney, Jennie Clark, as the Clark County Prosecutor keeps a dossier on the attorneys practicing law in Clark County.  When I requested these dossiers on the attorneys, they would not provide me with them.  

            They CO’s were obviously monitoring my phone calls, and what I found out later, the other inmates had somehow gotten access to my PIN code and they were using my account to make phone calls to deplete the minutes I had, so that I had to have Traci purchase more minutes so that I could call her and Jennie to coordinate my defense.

            December 2^nd, I went to the arraignment and Barrar and Kauffman were there.  Judge Zimmerman denied my release at a previous hearing, awaiting what the decision of the Superior Court as to what their bail imposition was going to be.  I was happy to hear that my bail for sending the email in the felony case was going to be $10,000, and all of a sudden Katie Kauffman spoke up and said that she received a call from a concerned inmate that was a non-client and that I was recruiting him to blow up the law office of Vancouver Defenders.  

            I can’t recall if the judge was Collier, I believe it was, but he immediately increased my bail to $75,000 due to me recruiting this unknown inmate to blow up Vancouver Defenders, Barrar’s law office.  Of course, these allegations are patently false.  

            I found out later via public records request that the person that made the call was Francisco Ortiz, and he was a client of Vancouver Defenders.  He was incarcerated within 48 hours of the time that I was sent to jail by Judge Zimmerman, so it was obvious that he was a plant.  He’d listened to me when I was playing chess with the Russian and found out that I had a 71 Cuda and a 78 Nova and that I was going to give them to him as payment for his services to blow up Barrar’s office.   

            As an aside, from my experience with explosives, it only takes one person to perform such and act.  And surely, I would not recruit a sex-offender pedophile like Ortiz.  He was a freak, and I tried to avoid him at all costs the entire time I was in the POD because he was so odd.  The one thing we did have in common that we spoke about was Katie Kauffman.  He told me that she represented him and that she treated inmates like they had the plague.  This is something that I experienced in my brief time around her, so our feelings were mutual regarding my read on her.  She presents herself as if she is above everyone else that is charged by Clark County.

            December 6^th, I had a bail hearing in front of Judge Zimmerman, or what may have been perceived as a status hearing, I am not sure which.  Judge Zimmerman denied bail, once again, based on the charges in Superior Court because I hadn’t gone through the second psych evaluation.

            The hearing was originally scheduled around the noon lunch-break, I am not sure what time, however, it was not held at the scheduled time in the scheduled courtroom.  I had a few friends that were following the case along with Guy and Traci that showed up to the hearing in support of me.

            Since the hearing did not take place at the scheduled time and place, my friends were trying to find out more information about what was going on, and they noticed that John Terry, Jeffrey Barrar, and Judge Zimmerman were in one of the courtrooms in the basement of the courthouse having a meeting that lasted approximately 30-45 minutes.  They also found out that my hearing had been rescheduled to 3:00 p.m. that day, and when Barrar took off, they went into the courtroom just prior to the hearing starting.

            As my disability advocate, Traci had been emailing John Terry, which he would rarely respond to.  She was sure to point out to him that there was a conflict of interest because he was Barrar’s former employee, not to mention that he was an all-around piece of shit that was working for the other side trying to frame me, and she was calling him out in emails for his corruption.

            By this time, I was exhausted, as I could barely sleep, and they’d just started me on Abilify, so I didn’t have all my wits about me. 

            Judge Zimmerman was sure to point out how sad of a case this had become, as it was originally charged as a misdemeanor, and now there is this murder-for-hire plot which he wasn’t sure about, and that there was a guy in a similar situation that got 17 years.    Immediately after the hearing, she told me over the phone that she recognized reading a case similar to mine and was excited when she was able to find it. When she found the case, she posted it on the blog as a screw you to the powers that be, as it looked like a frame up also, using “inside informants”.  

            During the hearing, the conflict of interest came up, and Judge Zimmerman queried the court Clerk to find out who was the “next-up” on the court appointed attorney list (the one made by Barrar).  He didn’t know who it was and essentially punted on assigning me a new attorney.  Then it turned to my mental capacity, and their goal was essentially to put me on the train (railroading) me up to Western States Hospital.  However, the head of the jail had to inform Judge Zimmerman how the system worked, and they couldn’t just railroad me up there, as there was a waiting list and that I was sixth on the waiting list before they had a bed available for me.

            Terry was really advocating for me (not), and wanted to know what medication they were giving me, and whether it was voluntary or court ordered.  Of course, I voluntarily took it, otherwise Judge Zimmerman would have surely ordered it.  When it came to bail, he would not set the conditions. 

            Around the time of the hearing, I was released from solitary and put in a regular POD with other inmates when I was called out to do my second psych evaluation.  I wasn’t sure who was going to do it, but was somewhat relieved that it was Dr. Rice again, because I was with a different attorney, Jennie Clark, and she was able to advocate for me, unlike what John Terry did a couple of weeks earlier.  I knew that if Dr. Rice was going to find me incompetent and need of restorative treatment like she did with the evaluation with Terry, she would at least have to record the juxtaposed position of having different attorneys having differing opinions as to whether I could communicate with them and assist with my defense.  In essence, Jennie could have become a witness in the case for domestic violence and rebut everything that Dr. Rice put in her opinion. 

            I was put back in a regular POD around this time, spending about 10 days in the hole.  When I got to the new POD, I was approached by an inmate named Alred.  He was a young kid, around 25-27 years old and had a few tattoo’s the main one being his name Alred across his back.  He told me a portion of what his charges were, and they didn’t really add up.  There was a stolen car charge, where his buddies were not going to rat him out for, and he was also implicated but not charged with discharging a firearm near the scene of a crime.  

            He also told me that he worked for one of the biggest drug dealers in Clark County and made reference that he was used to “gun play," which was an odd way of talking about using a firearm.  

            Alred talked incessantly about Judge Zimmerman.  We both agreed that Zimmerman was a piece of shit.  The crux of what Alred told me was that he was incarcerated with a guy while doing jail time in the Department of Corrections and this guy told him that Zimmerman was a pedophile and was caught in a compromising situation with two underage girls in a hotel room and that one of the girls OD’d and Zimmerman had to call in a favor from a local biker gang to help clean up the mess (I never did find out what the “mess” was).  In return, Zimmerman would front-run search warrants and let the gang know when a search warrant was issued.  

            In a previous hearing, I believe around September of 2016, Judge Zimmerman told me that he heard that I was threatening him on Facebook.  I asked him “who’d you hear that from?”  Obviously, whoever told him this would be a witness in the case, so he would not answer that question.  I surmise that it was Jeffrey Barrar.  He also said that he’d just read a case where a defendant got 12 years for threatening a federal judge. 

            I’d just been told that a guy got 17 years for almost the exact same thing that I was accused of, Judge Zimmerman told me that I was threatening him on Facebook, and now there just happens to be a guy in my POD, Alred, that is talking incessantly about Judge Zimmerman.  Not to mention the fact that I was just falsely accused of the murder-for-hire plot, and I am looking at getting sent to a looney bin.  I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but it sure looked to me like they had the train on the tracks with the engine running, and I was surely going to get railroaded.

            Over the course of the next week, Alred talked about Zimmerman regularly, and there were 25-30 other witnesses in the POD that heard us talking about Zimmerman.  My odds weren’t good, it appeared at least, 30:1.  All the prosecution had to do was call these witnesses and ask if I was talking about Zimmerman all the time, and they would agree that I was.  When, in fact, it was Alred that was the one that was always talking about Zimmerman.

            I played possum a bit with him, taking the disabled veteran route and needing help.  He told me that his grandma really wanted him to straighten his life out, as he said that he worked for the biggest drug dealer in Clark County and he needed to go on the straight and narrow to make grandma happy.

            Alred didn’t look like your average druggie.  His skin complex was nearly perfect, an oddity I thought, for a drug dealer the deals methamphetamines.  In the other POD, I’d met other meth dealers that were true drug dealers, and they had the tell-tale sings, such as the pock marks from years of doing meth, and Alred had none of these traits.  In fact, he looked more like a fed with long hair and a few tattoos to give him the appearance of street cred amongst other dealers that didn’t have situational awareness.

            He also made it a point to stress the importance of one’s word, and referenced the code of honor among thieves.  I attempted to ingratiate myself with Alred and play on the code of trust, and that I was a trustworthy person and a man of my word.  I told him that I really wanted to help him out, and at the same time, he could help me out by working as my caregiver as a disabled vet, and I believe that Alred bought this.

            At the time, my mom had filed the restraining order against me, so if I was released from jail, I would have had to have a place to stay and a plan looking forward, either getting a house on my own with a caregiver, i.e., Alred if he got bailed out, or staying with Guy and Traci.

            Over the course of the week or so that I was in the POD with Alred, I’d told him that I’d surely help him out, and if I got out, I would put some money on his books at the commissary, and if he was bailed out, I had a little Subaru that he could drive around while he was helping me out.  

            After we received the report back from Dr. Rice, her opinion had changed, and I no longer needed to go to Western States Hospital to be admitted till I got better.  Evidently the short-lived doses of Abilify worked wonders…or I didn’t need to be on the meds in the first instance.

            We had a bail hearing in front of one of the judges, I cannot recall who it was, but they stuck with the original opinion of Judge Collier that my bail should be set at $75,000.  Or, I had the option of waiting until a judge got assigned to the case and wait and see if they reduced the bail and they would set the hearing for the 29^th of December.  At this point, I didn’t care what it cost, I needed to get out of the grips of Clark County ASAP, so I opted to try and get bailed out.  However, I didn’t have the whole $75,000 in assets to get bailed out.  Perhaps the Cuda, Nova, and what I had in my accounts, which was about $15,000 at the time would work.

            Miraculously, Gretchen stepped in and said that she would sign for the bond.  I am not sure what the procedure was or is, but she was able to back the bond.

            Even though I could not have contact with her, and Traci was sure not to tell me how it was getting backed, as it could be construed as third party contact, Traci was able to arrange me to get bailed out.  

            When I was talking with Alred, I was sure to mention to him that I wanted to expose these crooked judges, cops, and attorneys.  And anything I wanted, or needed access to, Alred could provide the solution.  For instance, I told him that I wanted to get this into the media and he said that there were people that did drugs in every industry, including the media, and since he worked for the biggest drug dealer in Clark County, he could get a reporter to help us out.  He was the one-stop shopping center for anything that Matt needed.  A proverbial miracle.

            I knew that it stunk to high-heaven, so right before I got bailed out, I wanted to make sure that I covered my tracks and I penned a couple of page letter outlining my “conspiracy theory” about the money-laundering through the USO Fund, the corruption in Clark County, and whatever else I could think of at the time, and was sure to write in the letter to him that I wanted to do everything within the bounds of the law to expose this corruption.  I gave him the letter when people were present so at the very least, if they were called to testify, they would have to answer as to whether I gave him a letter.  That would pin Alred down to the position as to whether I gave him something before I left, i.e., the letter, and if he didn’t have the letter, why not, or what did it say?  In essence, I wanted to ensure that I covered my bases so he couldn’t come back on me.

            Looking back on this, it almost appears as if they changed gears from having me incarcerated to a position where I was actively working with Alred, and I had enough trust placed in him to fund his commissary  account and promised him something in return for his help.  And if I funded his account, or did anything with him from that point forward, they could make up any story they wanted to and paint the picture that I placed my faith in him.

            In order to make Alred a legitimate witness, they allowed, or worked with Gretchen to get me bailed out to make that link so they could backfill the story with anything they wanted and use Alred, the fed, as a witness against me.  When I got out, I completely dropped the Alred issue and never funded his account and broke the criminal “code of honor”.

            Unfortunately, John Terry was still my attorney in the misdemeanor case.

Chapter 18 – The Rat Fink: John Terry

            Guy and Traci were ordering all the hearings that I’d gone to in front of Judge Zimmerman and transcribing them as I was getting out of jail.  We have every hearing transcribed.  In addition to transcribing the hearings, they were making meme’s about Jeffrey Barrar and the corruption in Clark County and posting them on the blog. 

            One of the hearings, John Terry could be heard arranging a plot to screw one of his clients.  Traci took painstaking measures to try and get this background conversation transcribed, and it was a golden nugget, which she placed on the blog as another FU to the Cabal.

            The headline on the blog – Case Fixing 101: Sidebar Scamming – ETHICS? WE DON’T NEED NOT STINKIN’ ETHICS!  There was a picture of John Terry standing next to Kris Carrasco, who both worked at Vancouver Defenders for Jeffrey Barrar.

            The transcript:

9:53:37 AM

JT: How was your honeymoon?

KC: (mumbles response)

JT: I have a potential (inaudible) phone call (inaudible).  Are you up for it?

KC: (inaudible)

JT: (inaudible) just call this girl in Oregon and ask her if (inaudible)

9:53:49

JT: (inaudible) she had a baby (inaudible) and two years later she said it was his hid.  She got a paternity test.  My guy didn’t take the paternity test, my advice and several criminal attorneys’ advise. (inaudible) ordered by the prosecutor.  The age of consent is 18 in Oregon.  Always, we just want his mom to have visits.

9:53:53

JT: You call up and ask if mom can have visits.  She says no, ok.  If she says yes, good.

KC: Why me?

JT: I can’t do it, I represent the dad.  I’ll tell you a little bit more.  Grandma, (pause) got a DNA swap (Terry laughs).  We’re gonna test it, like secretly.  If it’s his kid, he’s just gonna own up to it.  If it’s not his kid, nobody (inaudible) test exists.

9:54:16

KC: Yeah, I mean, I’ll, I’ll do it for free.

JT: No, I’m gonna pay you some (inaudible).  I’m gonna pay you for a half hour at least.

9:54:27

KC: (inaudible) I mean, that’s the least I could do for you…

JT: Just say “I represent Grandma…(inaudible)”

KC:  Give me the names and the numbers and I’ll (inaudible)

**JT (John Terry)

KC (Kris Carrasco)

            There are about 100 things wrong with this transcript.  What hits you right in the face is that John Terry is discussing his client’s case with not only Kris Karrasco, he is also discussing the case with “several criminal attorneys” and possibly the prosecutor.  This is a breach of the Rules of Professional conduct, as he is sharing his client’s information with others.

            Next, there is the glaring issue that if the DNA test is not favorable to HIS CLIENT, they are going to destroy evidence in his client’s case, a criminal act.  Not to mention that he is going to hire another attorney, Carrasco to do it.  This begs the question, how was Carrasco paid?  If via check in the mail, it was mail fraud, and if deposited, possibly wire and bank fraud.

            Next, Terry is talking Carrasco into posing as a shill, i.e., holding himself out as an attorney representing another party to the case who has not been hired or signed a retainer agreement to do so.  Additionally, if the test is not favorable to his client, he is going to fraudulently induce him to capitulating to something he is not liable for.  

            This is the epitome of working against the best interests of your client, the same thing he was doing in my case.  Of course, I immediately file a Washington State Bar complaint, which as stated, is like ratting out the mobsters to the mob.  They took no action because I was not involved in this specific case and had no interest in the case.  However, I had an interest to keep from being framed by Terry, which they did not address. 

 

 After I was released from jail, I was required to meet with my attorneys within 48 hours, which I did.  When I went to meet with John Terry, I was sure to take a witness with me, as I knew that he could weave a story into anything.  

            I was ready to progress my case, but he refused to discuss the case with me, strategy, or anything revolving around what transpired.  The ONLY thing he did was ask me if I wanted to have access to fire arms.  I found that question odd.  I told him, “Of course, I want to retain my 2^nd Amendment rights”.  

            In response to this, he had me fill out a form regarding firearms and sign it. 

            I my way back to the apartment, I discussed with Shannon, the witness, how odd that was, and whether she thought that he was going to file something in regard to the form that I’d just filled out and she said that she wouldn’t put anything past him at this point.  We agreed that I should address the issue to make sure he didn’t file anything in court, so I sent him an email letting him know under no circumstances should he file anything with the court regarding the form I’d just filled out.  I was of the thought that he would use it in a motion in front of Judge Zimmerman to point out that I was immediately seeking access to firearms as soon as I got out of jail.  This is how corrupt they are!  They were trying to build a case, one piece of paper at a time, and this was another piece of their puzzle to give the jury the impression that I am insane.

Here is the email:

John,

 

Please forward a copy of the paperwork you had me sign yesterday.  I do not want you to file any paperwork in the court requesting anything regarding a firearm.  I am going to testify that I don't have any firearms, nor do I need a firearm. 

 

With that said, I will abide by the restraining order and not carry nor seek to carry any weapon.  Again, I have no firearms, nor access to any firearm.  It is not my intention to purchase a fire-arm nor have acres, nor seek access to a firearm.  I DO NOT want you to file any paperwork regarding a firearm in any court of law.  

 

Thank you for your attention to this matter.  

 

Again, please supply a copy of the form that you had me sign, and if you have filed it or any motion with the court.

 

Thank you.

 

Matt

            Once Terry found out that I’d filed a WSBA complaint against him (after our meeting) he called me and was enraged that I’d filed the complaint against him.  He was screaming at me, and then started making statements like he thought that I was still mentally ill.  I put the phone on speaker so that Guy and Traci could hear.  Traci even turned on her recorder on her phone to capture the conversation, it was so heated.  While I was yelling back at Terry, Guy was imploring me to shut my mouth by making a cross motion across his throat telling me to cut it off, immediately.

            I’d kept Terry on the phone long enough and was able to somewhat calm the situation.  He told me that he did not have to withdraw as my attorney due to me filing the WSBA complaint.  I can’t recall specifically if he stated he looked into the case law, but I believe he did say this.  

            The conversation switched to Judge Zimmerman and my desire to have him recused due to being corrupt, and his prejudicial statements and ruling conducted over the course of the time he’d presided over the case.  The case was originally in front of another judge, but they brought Zimmerman in for the set-up.  

            Terry implored me to keep him on as a judge.  He told me that while Judge Zimmerman was odd, he had a great legal mind.  Terry confided in me that Zimmerman had been through four divorces, and that one night when he was out on the town with one of his associates, they met a gal in a bar and she said that she’d gone on a date with a judge and he was extremely odd.  He and his associate came to the conclusion that it was Judge Zimmerman and they had a laugh about it with the gal in the bar.  He then reiterated that while Zimmerman may be odd, he has a great legal mind and that I should think it over during the Christmas Holiday and get back to him after Christmas about his recusal.   I did not share any information I’d learned from Alred with him that day, and I knew that I was going to drop a bomb on Terry’s ass after Christmas.  After all, I wanted to think about how I worded it, and it’s better for me to write it down to make a record of it and ensure I have all the facts necessary.

            I recall making a chart with multiple pages of the prejudicial remarks that Zimmerman made over the numerous hearings, and it was several pages long.  It was a clear-cut case he needed to be off the case.

            After Christmas, I sent Terry a letter letting him know that while he deemed Zimmerman odd and that he went through 4 divorce, the inmates referred to him as a pedophile, and that he should be recused.  I also filed a police report stating as much with the VPD, letting them know that Terry even thought Judge Zimmerman was odd and referenced the conversation in the bar with the gal.  I wanted to get it all out on the table so that all of them knew what they were saying about each other to get them to chase their tales.  However, I’ve learned that these psychopaths don’t care what’s said about them.  

            Both before and after Christmas, I was laying out a plan of action with bullet pointed directions for John Terry to perform in preparation for trial.  He never performed a single task that I gave him.  He was assigned as the Court Appointed Attorney in this misdemeanor case, and later he would complain to me about the amount he was getting (not getting) paid to represent me.  Since he was appointed by the Court, and I was not an indigent client, Clark County paid for my defense, which, as stated, he complained about.  It is clear that he did not want to perform his duties as I requested because he was not getting paid enough for it.  In reality, he was put in place to assist them with the frame-up. 

            After I started gathering the materials I needed for the trial exhibits, he quickly recognized that I was preparing for trial without him and he and Clark County needed to take a different tact, so John Terry withdrew from the case stating that I filed a WSBA complaint against him and did not trust him.  I did not trust him from the outset, yet he waited until after the New Year when I was barking orders (via email) for him to get these exhibits into evidence and get ready for trial.

            Clark County changed their tactic and let John Terry resign so that I would have to fund my defense and I hired Jennie Clark, who they knew was an easy mark to run over, and they inundated her with pointless procedural hurdles when she attempted to get discovery.  

            Jennie was outmatched, and I’d learned that they were just going to run over her, so I sought out the help of an attorney that I thought would be a better fit to represent me, Angus Lee, who is a former prosecuting attorney and a former Spec Ops operator in the Marine Recon Unit.  He was an officer with the unit and eventually ended being an attorney.  I thought it would be a great fit and he would represent me to the fullest extent.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.  He was just another shill in their game and delayed the trials time and again.

            In early spring of 2017, I’d found BLEMS, LLC., the corporation that included Barrar, Lane, and Stahnke and forwarded the information to Angus.  I’d tracked down one of the contracts they had with the state of Washington, and it was a contract to build an addition onto the Clark County Correctional Facility in Yacolt, Washington.  Talk about a conflict of interest, defense attorneys having a contract to add an addition to a jail.  I’m not privy to any of the other contracts they had, but it surely looked pretty nefarious, and a jury might consider this evidence of the corruption that I’d been complaining about. 

            By this time, Judge Stahnke was appointed as the judge in my felony case.  And like I’d done numerous times before, I filed a public records request to ascertain how he got assigned to my case and how judges got assigned regularly.  I didn’t receive a response.  

            I believe the hearing was scheduled for March in front of Judge Stahnke and I’d sent the information about the prison contract with their business, BLEMS, LLC to him.  When I showed up to court that day, Stahnke wasn’t there.  In his stead was Judge Vanderwood, the other partner in their business, and Angus made the off-hand remark that there may be some sort of conflict and he might want to pass this on to Stahnke.  Given the subsequent events, I am quite sure that Angus passed on the information to Stahnke that I’d come across BLEMS and the contract with Washington to build on to the DOC facility.

            From March through January 2, 2018, Angus delayed trial time and again, and essentially tortured me, as I was trying to see my daughters and was not allowed to.  By this time, I’d hired another divorce attorney and we tried numerous times to get information from Shelane, but by this time, she was representing herself, and simply didn’t respond to our requests for information.  Dealing with her was futile, as she went into hiding and couldn’t be served.

            At one point, the I showed up to my divorce attorney’s office and she was drunk as a skunk, so I knew that she’d been had, and was having to deal with the pressure placed on her by the Cabal.

            Approximately July through September, I’d filed numerous Orders to Show Cause, which requires the judge to sign and Shelane to be served.  However, she would not answer the door at her apartment and every month, the OTSC expired and I would have to petition the court for an new order in another attempt to drag her into court for the fraudulent filing of the Temporary Orders that were issued in 2015, two years earlier. 

            Since she wouldn’t respond to my requests for discovery, or at all, I finally had enough of these games and wrote out subpoena’s for evidence.  By this time, Judge Altman had resigned, Judge Randall Krog was appointed by Governor Inslee, and elected the during the 2016 election.  This is the sham that the Governors play in each state, allowing a judge to retire before the end of their term, they appoint the successor, and they run as an incumbent appointed by the governor.  I haven’t found a race where one of the appointed judges has not won as the incumbent.  Statistically, they get re-elected at over a 95 percent rate.  

            I filled out subpoenas for the documents that I would be able to use in the criminal action, such as the request for the naked photo of Shelane on Mike Roe’s iPhone (my former Divorce attorney).  I was also seeking her bank records for the time she was on welfare, her phone records for the time of 2016 when she supposedly went on a “preplanned vacation," and any reservations she made for this vacation. 

            And like what had transpired before, Judge Krog, who was the only one that could sign these subpoena’s, told the court Clerk to shred them, another felonious violation of RCW 40.16.020.  He had not made any rulings in the case, however, he’d signed my request for her to appear via the filings of the Orders to Show Cause.  These were substantive, i.e., procedural rulings, not factual rulings.  After he shredded my request for subpoena’s, I filed a motion to recuse him due to this felonious act.  He immediately denied that citing that he’d made “rulings” when signing the OTSC.

            Then I filed a motion to repair the record with copies of the subpoena’s that I’d sent him and requested for a factual determination, i.e., witnesses to testify as to why these were shredded, trying to make a case within a case.  In the motion, which is allowed to be docketed without having to serve Shelane, I asked for Judge Krog and Clerk Cross (the Skamania County Clerk) to testify as to how and why these got shredded, making sure to reference this was the second time in the case my documents had been shredded in violation of the law. 

            Judge Krog withdrew from the case immediately thereafter without citing a reason.  Obviously, another felony, recusing himself in order to cover up the felony that he’d just committed.

Judge Jeff Baker was appointed as the judge pro tem in the case, and he immediately ordered me to get an attorney.  He stated “you need to get an attorney” during the hearing…sternly.  I took that as an order and hired Tessa Cohen who practiced divorce law in Vancouver with her husband, Matt.  She seemed like she cared.

            Within a couple of months, the billing changed and I was notified that her firm had merged with a larger firm in Vancouver, Landerholm Law.  At the time I didn’t think anything of it, I was just looking forward to getting the divorce over with and getting the parenting plan in place.  A guardian ad litem was assigned, Mike FitzSimmons, to do a case evaluation regarding custody of Jessi.  By this time, Paige had turned 18 so she wasn’t an issue, but Jessi was still 15. 

            I shared with FitzSimmons my concerns about Shelane’s opiate use, the fact that the girls were being molested, that Shelane slept with Mike Roe, and that there was a pornographic journal out there somewhere.  He did the evaluation, and I didn’t see it until much later.  Tessa told me that Jessi was getting up there in age and could make her own decision, and that we shouldn’t challenge the custody hearing, as it would just add to the expense and we could address the issues at trial.  Again, this was 2017, when Jessi just turned 15.

            Around Christmas, my defense attorney, Angus said that he’d reached a plea deal with the prosecutor for time served, and he was essentially working out the particulars.  What they do is inundate you with crap you need to provide to them, so I had to get all my military records, med records, and anything that would be favorable into the prosecutor so they could do an evaluation to see if I was worthy of getting a plea.  This was just a CYA on their part, and another thing to keep me occupied and my eye off the ball.  And like all the attorneys before, Angus never interviewed Shelane, nor did he interview Torres.

            At that time, I was beat up and ragged from this 6 year morass and was ready to take care of things in divorce court.  I knew that Shelane wouldn’t be able to stand up to the scrutiny under cross examination, and she was representing herself.   I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

            We reached a plea deal, and the conditions of my release were that I couldn’t have contact with Shelane for a year, couldn’t have contact with Katie Kauffman for five years, and I had to undergo an intake evaluation by a counselor in the state of Washington to determine if I needed to undergo anger management therapy.  All of those were acceptable, and in fact good for me, as when I went to be evaluated for anger management by a psychologist licensed by the State, they would obviously find out that I was framed by my wife and the psychopath Torres, and that would be another way for me to add new evidence into both the criminal and divorce trial.  A perfect witness!  Again, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

            I picked one of the five counseling agencies in the area, made contact, and sent the counselor some of the information I had, filled out the forms they requested, made an appointment and attended the appointment.  During the intake interview, I pled my case and said that I was framed.  At the end of the interview, the psychologist told me that the sessions were on Tuesdays and Thursdays at such and such time, and that I could show up to the sessions.

            I was flabbergasted!  Did you not listen to a word I said, what part of framed do you not get, I thought.  I sent the counselor a bigger packet of information pleading my case with more evidence and asking why I needed counseling when I was framed. 

            I showed up to counseling anyway, to make sure I was in compliance with the court ordered evaluation, and I was quickly singled out by the counselor and kicked out of the class, and my money was refunded to me for the evaluation.

            I called Angus, and he told me essentially to soldier up and be the “grey man” and do what I needed to do in order to graduate the class, so I tried to do as he said.  

            I’d been going to counseling for PTSD at the VA for quite some time after the plea deal, due to the fact that I really needed treatment, in addition, I was hopeful that my counselor could be an advocate for me regarding my need for “anger management” therapy.  I wasn’t angry, I was frustrated!  Furthermore, they could testify as to what treatment I was going there for, diagnosis, and treatment plan.  I was telling my psychiatrist and psychologist at the VA what had transpired.  Oddly enough, my new psychiatrist’s name was Dr. Judge.  My psychologist was Dr. Hunziker, who I did not see eye-to-eye with.  It’s important to have a good connection, which I had with my previous counselor, but I had been transferred from her to Dr. Hunziker. 

            I was in a pickle, as I did not want to do anything that was “Against Medical Advice," and I did not want to be prescribed any medications.  I’d been on them for a few years, and it was a horrific experience, first, trying to find one that worked, and when I did, I had an adverse reaction to it (uncontrollable hiccups).  Then I landed on one called Venlafaxine, which was tolerable, but it was like being on a rollercoaster with highs and lows, as I would feel my serotonin levels drop quickly if I didn’t take them exactly on time twice a day.  

            My best therapy was talking to get my thoughts out and using my treatment team as a sounding board to ascertain if my interpretation of events were logical.  The more I studied, the more I believed that my version of events were logical.  I would bring in more facts each time I came in, along with telling more of my life story to see if the facts were aligning with my theory, and I would get the pat response that they were concerned with treating my symptoms, and Dr. Judge would float the idea of me going back on medication, which I wanted to avert at all costs, and told him as much.  It was a fine line, dancing between him ordering them, and recommending them, which I would revert back to my adverse reactions regarding the meds.  Furthermore, if I was on meds, this would be another factual issue as to my credibility, and any prosecutor would grab onto that and let everyone know that I was on psychiatric meds and automatically be labeled as not credible because I was on psych meds, as most people automatically interpret someone being on psychotropic medications as either psychotic or mentally ill.  I wanted to avoid this “label," in addition to staying off of them because of the numerous adverse reactions I’d had with them.  They fogged my thinking, while dealing with a rollercoaster of emotions and I wanted to avoid that at all costs.  Not to mention, I was smoking marijuana daily for pain…and to conceal the pain of not seeing my daughters.  

            For these reason, I waited to attend the intake for the “anger management” evaluation, which I deemed would be a formality and that the counselor I went to see would immediately see that I was framed, getting the proper treatment at the VA, and had my wits about me, and find that I did not need anger management.  I was completely wrong, and shocked when Angus told me to just soldier-up and get it done. 

            In February of 2019, I left a review on Google about Jeffrey Barrar and the folks with BLEMS, and I was issued a summons to appear in court.  Tony Golik was attempting to revoke my probation due to me leaving a Google review about the folks in BLEMS calling them out for running a RICO organization in Clark County and to get in touch with me if anyone needed a witness to testify about this corruption.

            Earlier, I’d posted about Rick Torres being a murderer on the Clark County Sheriff’s Office Facebook page and referenced the Wilkinson v. Torres decision, and stated essentially the same thing.  I’d waited till after the RO against me regarding Shelane was expired, and the only thing left to complete my probation was to get evaluated for “anger management” and to stay away from Katie Kauffman.  I believe that Judge Gonzales said that I had better not even mention her name.  When I left the Google review about Vancouver Defenders, I heeded his warning and didn’t mention Kauffman at all.

            When they issued the Summons to revoke my probation, I’d contacted Angus again and told him what happened and he said he would take the case and that it was going to be another $4,500 for him to take it on. I’d already paid him $15,000 to defend me in the criminal matter, along with paying Jennie Clark and David McDonald about the same amount, probably more.  I was into my defense for well over $50,000.

            I told Angus about the CCSO deleting my Facebook post warning the public about Torres and I knew that I had a case against them due to the fact that Trump tried to ban people from his Twitter account and he’d lost the case under the 1^st Amendment issue since he was a public figure.  This was the exact same thing.

            The Clark County Prosecutor that issued the Summons scheduled the hearing in front of Judge Stahnke, which was perfect for me, as his name was all over the Google review, accusing him of running a RICO organization.  He would have been a witness and ruling on the issue at the same time.  This is against the Code of Judicial Conduct, and the prosecutor immediately recognized his mistake and rescheduled it in front of Judge Gonzales at the last second.  I surmise that Angus warned them about it, so they cancelled the hearing and tried to get it in front of another judge that same day.  

            Angus sent them a motion on how to properly schedule a hearing via the Criminal Rules, which was a slap in the face to them, and more comical than anything else.  However, looking back on it, it was just his way of making it look like he was steeped in my advocacy, when he was doing nothing but making a show of it.

            After the initial hearing where Judge Gonzales warned me to take down the Google review or face jail time, Angus filed a motion to dismiss, which Judge Gonzales accepted because I did not violate the conditions of my probation by contacting Katie Kauffman by leaving a Google review about Jeffrey Barrar, Judge Stahnke, and the other BLEMS partners. 

            I was trying to insert the evidence into the same motion that my Facebook post had been deleted by CCSO, and this was retribution for that also, but Angus did not do this, he had a “back-up” plan.  He advised me to wait on this issue and then send a Tweet to the CCSO Twitter account to see if they did it.  He even wrote out what to Tweet, i.e., the 140-character Tweet that I posted to their Twitter account.  He wanted to see if they deleted the Tweet, which they didn’t because he’d already organized this with them.   He said that the lawsuit against Trump would have been an exact replica and all he had to do was change the heading from the folks that were suing Trump to my name and the defendant as Clark County.  It was a cut-and-paste lawsuit.  Since Angus had already alerted them to what we were doing, of course, they didn’t delete the tweet because nobody goes onto the Clark County Twitter page anyway, so they had no liability of me posting it to their account, and that was the end of it.  

            All Angus would have had to do is change the names on the lawsuit heading and insert Facebook instead of Twitter.  But he wasn’t my advocate, he was working for the other side.  I was grateful that I didn’t have to go to jail for leaving the Google review though.  In a show of protest, as soon as Judge Gonzales dismissed the case, I reposted the exact same Google review. 

            Through 2019, I’d done what he said and tried to soldier up and be the “grey man” at the new counselor, Dr. Drew Lindsell.  I didn’t hit it too hard, but made it known to him that I wanted to get this over and done with.  I learned that the anger management classes could be anywhere from 20 weeks to a year plus, so I was shooting for 20 weeks.  I started in the summer of 2019 with Dr. Lindsell.

Chapter 19 – The Never-Ending Divorce

            As I was going through counseling, Tessa Cohen was handling the divorce issue.  She pretended to listen to my concerns, but delay after delay got me to the point where I just wanted the thing over with, just like in the criminal action.

            I’d set trial for the end of 2017, and Shelane kept asking for more time, and was able to extend this morass for another year and a half.  She perpetually claimed that I was not responding to her requests for interrogatories, or evidence of my assets.  

            I’d filled out releases of information for my retirement account with  Oregon PERS, in addition to the 457-retirement plan that I had to cash in to afford the divorce.  At each instance, she was granted an extension for trial, and it was eventually scheduled for May 24, 2019.  What I did not recognize was the fact that she was getting the information to Judge Baker so that he could formulate how to shuffle my retirement to her.  In Washington State, a disabled person’s pension is not community property, it is disability.  However, Judge Baker, evidently arranging this with the Court of Appeals Division II, where Shelane would eventually appeal the case, wrote the judgement with their input and direction so they could change current case law based on the ruling from Judge Baker.  I’ve filed a public records request with the COA II asking for all contacts they’ve had with Judge Baker and it’s been over a year and they haven’t responded, so obviously, they are hiding the ball, and they did have contact to arrange for him to put in the proper verbiage to overturn the current case law.

            In essence, he awarded Shelane 43 percent of my retirement due to the fact that we were married for 14 years.  

            Tessa did not interview Shelane either, but by this time, like I said, I was exhausted and ready to get it over with.  Case law was squarely in my favor, and if Judge Baker ruled according to the law, Shelane would get nothing.  I’d been paying her spousal support since 2012, on and off, and she has been attempting to murder me.  I thought that would be evidence enough for her not to get a dime.

            The day of trial, Tessa told me “Don’t bring up Rick Torres, it won’t do you any good," so I heeded her direction.

            Tessa didn’t call a single witness on my behalf other than myself and my mother.  Our portion of the trial only took a couple of hours, and she was sure to only ask me questions to keep me from interjecting anything about Shelane’s drug use, and the abuse of the children.  However, the parenting plan was not at issue because Tessa advised me earlier that we were not going to challenge the parenting issue due to Jessi nearing the age of 18.  They’d successfully delayed the trial, and she would be 18 in August.  

            I tried as much as I could answering her limited questions to interject and state things like her multi-decade opiate abuse and her lying to other courts to damage her credibility.  What I didn’t recognize was the fact that the ONLY thing that she was claiming was that I was not disabled and did not have PTSD and I was gaming the system in order to get federal benefits, i.e., disability from the VA for PTSD, and Social Security benefits.  In essence, her entire argument discredited her.  

            After our two hour presentation, it was Shelane’s turn, and it took her over a day and a half to make the argument that I was a faker and a horrible person.  After the first day of what was supposed to be a one-day trial, the second date was scheduled for a week later.  This required Tessa to come back to court and cost me another $1000 plus.  It was a money game at this point.  At the end of the second day of trial, Judge Baker pointed out that Shelane’s entire argument was counter to what she was seeking, and if I was faking my disability, she wasn’t entitled to a dime.  He ruled that I wasn’t faking, and that she got 43 percent of my retirement when I turned 55 years old.  In addition, my monthly obligation for spousal support would extend through August of 2022.

            Judge Baker issued his formal ruling on July 3, 2019, giving her 43 percent of my retirement, child support until Jessi turned 18, and spousal maintenance for another three years of $1500.  In essence, I’ll be paying her spousal maintenance for about 10 years of a 14-year marriage.  

            In addition to hiring Tessa to represent me in the divorce action, I asked her to assist me in a claim for Public Safety Officer Benefits through the DOJ, which is a one-time payment of over $300,000 for firefighters that get disabled on the job.  I filed the claim in 2013, and the DOJ kept this case on the back-burner for six years, doing nothing with it.  My previous psychiatrist, Dr. Maya Nair said that my injuries that disabled me were attributed to my work condition, therefore, I believed that I was entitled to the $300,000 payment.  This was being held in abeyance, as it was essentially the bounty on my head, which Shelane and Co. would collect upon my “suicide”.  As I stated, this Cabal is so greedy, their bean-counters, who treat these murders like business transactions for a corporation, they want to profit as much as they can.  And once I was “Epsteined”, Shelane would be held out as the standard-bearer for a grieving widow that deserved as much support as she could get because her husband, the only person in history to become the first Navy SEAL, US Air Force PJ, Smokejumper, and Captain/PM with TVFR, committed suicide.  I surmise they were going to roll me up on August 17, 2016, when I was surrounded in Pendleton, and throw me off of a cliff to make it look like I’d committed suicide.  That’s what I would have done if I worked for the Clowns.  And nobody would be the wiser.

            In essence, Shelane would have gotten over $400,000 in Public Safety Officer Benefits, life insurance, in addition to backpay from Oregon Workers Compensation for a few hundred thousand dollars for wrongful denial of my claim, and continuing VA, PERS, and Social Security benefits of about $9,000 per month.  It was a win-win for the Cabal.  They would have laid it off to a corporation like JG Wentworth and got paid out immediately and given Shelane a pittance of what they’d garnered from my death.  

            In July of 2019, I was studying this more, and came across a public hearing that was videotaped at the Clark County Planning Commission.  Rick Torres was assigned to the Planning Commission as a board member after he quit the CCSO.  They were discussing a planning issue for a homeless shelter, I believe, that would have used a public-private partnership to create housing for the homeless, building an 83 unit complex for about $60 million.  I about choked when I saw this, as one of the non-profits of this public-private partnerships appeared to have a bunch of kids, all less than 30 years old working for it.  It looked fishy to me.

            Even more shocking, when I was watching the video of the hearing my former attorney, David McDonald, who lived a few miles from Rick Torres in Clark County, was testifying as a concerned citizen about the development.  I don’t recall what he said, but he surely didn’t bring up the issue that Torres was a murderer.  I looked into the other board members, and one of them was Steven Morash, a local attorney.  And you’d never guess which law firm he worked for….Landerholm Law, the same firm that Tessa Cohen and her husband merged with a couple of months into her representation of me.  I knew at that exact moment, I’d been had!

            I sent emails to both Tessa and Steven Morash asking to meet with them, but they declined to meet with me.  They made the excuse that it was two different firms associated with the name, and all of a sudden, they were working to correct the issue so there wouldn’t be any confusion between the two law firms with the same name.    

            Steven would not contact me back directly, as this would have roped him into all of this, so he had another person from the firm contact me telling me that they had nothing to do with Tessa Cohen.  This is evidence of guilt, in and of itself.  It was clear that he was funneling information from Tessa to Rick Torres and Co. so they could control me and control what went into the divorce record, as Tessa told me “Don’t mention Rick Torres, it won’t do you any good.”

            Over the course of the next few months, I tried to do everything I could to get Tessa to contact Dr. Nair to issue an opinion to submit to the DOJ for the PSOB’s, but she would not do that.  And, of course, all of my counselors could have been called as expert witnesses to testify about my disability at trial, but she never interviewed one of them, nor any of my doctors.  

            When Tessa called my mom to the stand, in essence, the only question that she asked my mom was whether I was trustworthy and told the truth, which she said, “Yes.”  Then she asked if Shelane was trustworthy, which she also mentioned “yes”.   My jaw almost hit the floor, and I couldn’t believe that she would state that.   When I found out that Tessa was working with Morash and Torres, it made sense as to why she brought my mother to testify, to solidify and statements that Shelane made so during any appeal, they could say that even Mr. L’Hommedieu’s own mother testified that Shelane was honest.  Sickening!  What mother’s won’t do for their children!

            I also attempted to get Tessa to file a restraining order against Rick Torres, as he’d already tried to kill me several times, but that would have legitimized the connection she had with Torres and Morash, and she would never file the RO against him.  I was truly concerned that this psychopath that had already murdered Jason Wilkinson, attempted to murder me a couple of times, and arranged with others to murder me, was going to murder me.  However, Tessa would not file a RO to give legitimacy to my concerns, and reopen the record in the divorce case, something that Torres, Baker, and Tessa could not afford to have done.

            I eventually filed the RO on my own, and my former attorney that is the Skamania County District Court judge, Ron Reynier, denied my request for the RO.  Since he was my former attorney (his employee, Julie Cline) he was conflicted, and not allowed to sign it, but he did anyway in violation of the Code of Judicial Conduct. 

 

 Chapter 20 – New Year’s Present: The Trap

            I’d constantly emailed many officials, like the Skamania County Prosecuting Attorney, the SC Sheriff, Dave Brown, and the SC Commissioners about my plight.  In addition, I was asking them for any information they have regarding any surveillance of me, which Adam Kick, the Skamania County Prosecutor who was assigned to respond to public records requests, constantly denied stating they had no information that I was under surveillance.  In spite of knowing that cloudcaptech.com was flying a plane over my house for years, and gathering both SIGNIT and HUMINT on me.  In fact, I believe that the dirt strip is a CIA black-site put in place to monitor my dad and his family and it’s been there for years.  As I said, I would constantly see Sheriff Brown exiting the area when I would leave the house, and he would either be right behind me, or I would be right behind him when he exited the neighborhood.  Coincidence?  I think not.  Not to mention the fact that he was at my house first, within minutes of when 911 was called, so I can only assume that he was at the hangar next to the airstrip when he responded those two different times in July of 2016.  I find it odd that the first person to show up was the actual Sheriff and not a deputy sheriff.

            I’d contacted the Clark County Commissioners, other city attorneys, and officials, including Governor Inslee and AG Ferguson, but one person that I hadn’t contacted up to this point was the Clark County Prosecutor, Tony Golik.  I’d been holding this in reserve (you can attribute this to God if you want, I do). 

            As you can probably tell by now, I was climbing the “Chain of Command” by first contacting my elected officials, i.e., the local Prosecutor Adam Kick, the local Sheriff Dave Brown, and the local County Commissioners.  Additionally, I’d been admonished by John Terry for constantly contacting DPA Lacey Blair under the threat he would resign if I kept contacting her.  In addition, I’d filed police reports with the City of Vancouver, contacted their mayor, and the Clark County Commissioners.  I have never gotten a response from them (other than Skamania County Officials that there was nothing to see here) so I contacted Washington State Governor Inslee and Attorney General Bob Ferguson asking for them to open an investigation due to the fact that Skamania County Sheriff Dave Brown and Prosecutor Kick were not doing their job.  The response I got from Inslee and Ferguson was that they needed a request from the local prosecutor in order to investigate the matter, and surely, Adam Kick and Tony Golik were not going to ask the Washington AG to investigate them. 

            At the time, I’d been going through the requisite “anger management” counseling for about 4 months, or 17 sessions up to this point, so I was checking that box to make sure that I didn’t get hauled in again for violating my probation.  However, around Christmas, after getting shut down by the crooked courts regarding Torres, I decided to step up the game a notch and took my computer with about 300 public records request, 5000 emails, and numerous FOIA requests into the FBI Field Office in Portland, Oregon.

            I had to provide my ID to the guard at the gate and I waited for over ½ hour for someone to meet with me.  Two FBI Agents came down to the guard shack and I informed them what I was there to do, report Torres and the corruption in Clark County.  They told me that I could not have my computer nor my iPhone in the room with them, essentially telling me that I could not provide them with the evidence that I had.  I knew that this was starting out on the wrong foot, and I pointed to the fact that General Michael Flynn was going through the same BS with the FBI because they changed the 302s in his investigation to make it look like he was guilty.  My argument to the FBI Agents wasn’t successful and I did as instructed and put my computer and iPhone in my car and returned to report the evidence I’d amassed up to that point.

            The interview lasted about 45 minutes, and evidently the FBI Agents had heard enough, and they wrapped up the interview.  One of the Agents was giving me the stink eye the whole time, glaring at me, and the other agent seemed to be shocked at what I was reporting to him.  They abruptly shut down the meeting and said they had enough to look into the matter, so I went back to Stevenson.

            When I left the FBI Field office, I asked what their names were, and they gave me Bod and Doug, or something like that.  I am quite sure that wasn’t there name, and there was no need for me to bother with verifying it because it would be on the 302s, if they wrote one.  I also surmise that they were given instructions by someone, i.e.,  Christopher Wray, on how to proceed with the interview due to the fact it took over ½ hour for them to come down and interview me.

            After I’d been ran off of the cliff and recovered, I’d done a recon to see what they were going to do if I approached them again, as I’d sent them the email on May 28^th, 2015, less than a week after I was run off the cliff, and I was met by an agent that gave me her card with her name and contact information on it, so I was glad that they didn’t murder me when I went there.  It was a recon to see what they were going to do when I approached them, and I told the Agent that I was on the trial of the DB Cooper parachute and had it nailed down to a high degree of certainty and asked her what I should do if I found it.  Of course, I already knew the answer to the question, which she obviously said, report it to us! 

            Within 48 hours of me reporting the attempts by Torres to kill me, making sure to say the Wilkinson v. Torres case to them about as many times as I have mentioned it herein, my computer was hacked and the files on my computer were rearranged as if someone remotely accessed my computer.  I noticed some of the files I were deleted, but since I’d amassed so much evidence, they would have had to crash my hard-drive and delete my Google account to cover this up.  Luckily, that hasn’t happened…yet.

            I believe that my Torres report was on or about December 22, 2019.  We didn’t have an anger management counseling session on Christmas Eve, and I showed up to the next session New Year’s Eve.  By this time, the class had filled up and there were about eight people in the class.  

            The class would typically start with the “offender” recounting the events that led up to the arrest and the reason why we all needed to be there.  There were a couple of guys like me that pled guilty just to avoid getting railroaded by the court system.  One of them was a young kid that I’ll call MJ.  He was an extremely bright kid, high IQ type and we got along well.  We’d talk after the sessions, and he would give me pointers, as he’d been going through the counseling for a while and in essence, told me the same thing Angus told me, and capitulate to graduate, i.e.,  confess to being a batterer.  Dr. Lindsell had somewhat coached/admonished me about saying I got framed, and that in order to graduate, that was the route that I needed to take.  This is obviously medical malpractice, in my mind!  But these are “State Certified” counselors, and they’ve evidently been through this rodeo before with “criminals” that don’t capitulate, and they hold the keys to your freedom if you don’t.  After all, who is the court going to believe, an “expert witness” with a counseling degree that is a doctor, or a criminal defendant’s?  So, if you buck the system, all they have to do is notify your PO and you are out of compliance with the conditions of your probation.

            New Year’s Eve, there was a new addition to the class, a guy that introduced himself as “Mike”.  He didn’t fit the mold of one of us scum bag defendants…he looked like a fed.  He was an older gentleman, between 55 and 60.  

            Like the times before, Dr. Lindsell asked us to share our story, and when it came time for me to share my story, I knew that this guy, whoever “Mike” is, is now a witness.  I’d been in medical classes for the past 30 plus years up to that point, and every professional that has ever taught a medical class has introduced themselves and given the practice area, name, rank, and SSN, so to speak.  It’s the way things are in the medical field.   Additionally, we’d been warned not to say anything about any of the clients in the counseling session because it is private medical information that is regulated by HIPPA laws.  I knew this from being a Paramedic at the fire department.

            When it got around to me and my time to share my story, I wanted to make sure that, “Mike," whoever the hell he is, i.e., possibly an FBI Agent, knew my story, so I told the group that I got framed, and went into the Wilkinson v. Torres case, and how he was working with my wife in order to frame me and then murder me for financial gain.  I got out as much information as I could during my ten or so minutes of the session.

            When I got home, I sent Dr. Lindsell an email, asking who the hell Mike was, and he let me know that it was Dr. Mike Wilbur, and he is a former veteran and now a forensic psychologist that works in Vancouver.  It was abundantly clear to me that Mike was sent in as a mole to get me nailed down that I admitted to being a batterer, and fill in whatever he wanted to with his subsequent report.  The timing of his arrival wasn’t a coincidence, either, as I am sure that he was sent by either the Clowns or the FBI.  

            After the next session, Dr. Lindsell pulled me aside and warned me that I was never going to graduate if I kept that attitude up.  I put my head down and said, “Yes, sir," and that I would comply, and shared with him my visit with the FBI, and let him know that I was still struggling with PTSD and needed help, and that I was looking for an advocate.  He took the bait and said that since Mike worked with veterans, and he was well qualified, that he could be a good resource for me and gave me Mike’s contact information.

            By this time, I’d reviewed all the internal affairs documents that I’d gotten from Clark County regarding Torres murdering Jason Wilkinson.  I’d written an eight page  “expert opinion”  regarding the murder.  I’d also interviewed Anthony Davis, the eyewitness to the murder and recorded and transcribed his interview and put it on a blog that I’d made, vector23.org.  His version of events was identical to what he’d reported to the police on May 8^th , 2005, and again in his affidavit written on behalf of the Wilkinson family when they sued Torres in 2008.  I deemed him to be truthful, forthright, and accurate with what he’d reported earlier.  He also told me that he’d been coerced to change his story by the Vancouver Police Detective, Stuart Hemstock, and the Clark County Sheriff’s Detective Eric O’Dell, which he declined to do.  They would stop by his house regularly in an attempt to get him alone and for him to change his story.  At one point, they told him to hire an attorney and come down to the station to “set the story straight”.  He declined to do so.  

            My expert opinion agreed with Judge Benjamin Settle, and added information that was not in his opinion through the eyes of an “expert witness”.  From a legal standpoint, I have never testified as an “expert witness," but I’d been writing medical reports my whole life, in addition to sitting on review committee’s regarding report writing in the fire department, in addition to having hundreds of hours of training, via our quarterly in-services that cover report writing so that we can depict scenes and events at scenes accurately to avoid liability at the fire department.  Although I wasn’t a police officer, I’d also had thousands of hours of weapons training as a SEAL and a PJ, so I used that association to give my opinion that the events as Rick Torres portrayed them in the report written by Detective O’Dell was not accurate.  In addition, I pointed out the untruthful statements during his testimony that were not addressed in the report, coupled with the fact that neither the Vancouver Police Department, Clark County Sheriff’s Office, nor the Clark County Prosecutor’s Office placed Torres on the Brady list do to his conflicting and false sworn statements that Judge Settle addressed, somewhat in his opinion by opinion that Torres “seems” to have contradicted himself.

            After I wrote the expert witness report, I started emailing Dr. Rice, who performed the evaluations on me at the end of 2016.  I sent her the expert witness report, the opinion of Judge Settle, the business relationship information of BLEMS, LLC. and a mountain of other evidence and asked her to re-check her opinion to make sure she had everything right.  In addition, I pointed out that I’d been in touch with Dr. Kevin Walters, who was my physician and told both he and Shelane that I was Jesus Christ, and stated he obvious, that this is not in her report.  Of course, I wrote her stating that should have been the headline of her report, if she’d accurately done any investigation at all, suggesting that the headline of the report should have been THIS FUCKER THINKS HE’S JESUS CHRIST!

            This, of course, is a juxtaposed position for her, as she left it out of her report, and it was both a legal and a factual matter, and from a factual standpoint, there has to be a witness to ascertain that I am either crazy, or I am Jesus Christ.  Furthermore, my religion has nothing to do with a court of law.  I can believe whatever I want about Jesus Christ.  And, I can back it up with evidence, i.e., my last name, prosecuted out of zip code 98666, my wife’s last name of [Judah] the ultimate betrayer, her birthday and SSN with 666 in it, along with the messages that God has sent me, including my BUD/S Class 153 aligning with John 21:11, and many other of my beliefs and messages I have received from God.  And if the State wants to bring a witness to testify that I am not Jesus Christ, obviously, I will divert my questioning of them directly to the Wilkinson v. Torres case and ask them if they know anything about exculpatory evidence.  In addition, I would have them read the Clark County Brady Protocol, which is written for the “common man” to understand.  I really don’t give a shit what the State believes about my beliefs, but if I were to get someone on the stand, rest assured, I would ask them their opinion of Judge Settle,  and ask them if they ran a police department if they would hire someone with an “execution” like this on their record.  Then, I would show them my expert opinion and ask them what they thought about it.  Then, we could have a discussion about their religion, if they so chose, which I believe I could hold my own with any theory that I wanted in regard to religion…since I am Jesus Christ, as a matter of law in Washington State due to the fact that I testified that I am in a court of law and the State would not allow me to call a witness to rebuff this argument, NOT A SINGLE WITNESS!

            With my expert witness in tow, and now an expert witness (Dr. Wilbur) in my corner, whether he was a willing one or not, it was time to spring the trap.  I’d known that the LinkedIn message that I’d sent Rick Torres was destroyed, at least by the Clark County Sheriff’s Office, as it was listed in Deputy Luque’s report, and most likely destroyed by the prosecuting attorney.  

            It was clear to me that when Torres called Deputy Luque out to his house on January 27, 2017, they were getting ready to roll me up for the murder-for-hire plot.  As I said, they’d already greased the skids and had me recruiting Francisco Ortiz to blow up Barrar’s Office, I’d threatened Judge Zimmerman on Facebook (which he looked up case law and found a guy got 12 years for), I was approached by Alred and told that Zimmerman was a pedophile and they were trying to get me connected to Alred so that he could make the same accusations, that I still wanted to harm Zimmerman, Terry had me fill out the form requesting that I wanted to retain weapons, and all of a sudden, I am supposedly posing as a Comcast van driver outside of Torres home.   

            Torres had taken a photo of me over to his neighbor and warned her that if she ever saw anyone skulking around his house that looked like me, to call the police, as I was a nut-job Navy SEAL that wanted to kill everyone.  Then, she saw a guy in a Comcast van outside his gated community and told him that someone was trying to gain access to his house.  His neighbor was evidently the lynch-pin to secure the charge, as they got a guy that looked like me in a Comcast van and she was going to be the only non-government witness against me.

            Deputy Luque showed her a picture of me when he showed up to interview Torres that day, and then told her to forget about seeing it and that he would return the following day with and question her with a photo array, which he did.  He again showed her my picture, which she’d seen three times up to this point, and the other five people in the photo array, she’d only seen once.  This is, of course, against all LE procedures, as she’s now familiar with my photo and had seen it three times, and the other five people once.  In essence, there was a .33 percent chance that she would statistically choose me over the others.  Luckily, she never identified me as the one in the Comcast van.  Tellingly, there is no report of Deputy Luque contacting Comcast to see if they had a driver in the area that day.   Lucky for me, Torres was dumb enough to give Luque the LinkedIn message which referenced the Wilkinson v. Torres case and Luque listed this as one of the pieces of evidence Torres gave him.  

            Three years later, after finding out that Clark County didn’t have this, it was time for me to spring the trap, so I sent an email directly to Prosecutor Tony Golik as a public records request asking for the LinkedIn message.  I sent the email on January 2, 2020, at 12:11 p.m.

            The following day, I get an email from Angus Lee with an emoji on it.  I hadn’t heard from Angus in a while and there was no real reason for him to be reaching out to me.  This was rare for him.  The emoji was a comic of a strafing run by a pilot dropping bombs with the caption “When you attack our embassy, but Obama not your president no mo.”

            His email was sent on January 3^rd, at 9:23 a.m.  

            I waited a couple of weeks and then sent an email to both Angus and Tony Golik asking if they’d spoken with each other and whether Tony contacted Angus to have him contact me.  Angus responded by requesting that I call him.  My response to him, “I am not going to speak to you on the phone.  All communications will be via email.”  Angus sent an email stating that he no longer represented me 13 minutes later.  

            Now, I am, to this day, still deemed mentally incompetent by the state of Washington due to Dr. Rice’s opinion from 2016 and I cannot represent myself in a court of law, and I cannot call a witness to testify.  As I said, Judge Baker ordered me to get a divorce attorney.

            The same day I sent the email to Angus, I’d prepare a letter that I went to Deputy Luque, Sheriff Atkins, and Tony Golik, asking them to investigate the lost LinkedIn message and what happened to it after Deputy Luque received it from Rick Torres.  

            Of course, I asked Tony Golik on numerous times since then if he got in touch with Angus Lee to threaten me in order to get me to shut up the day after I sent the public records request to him.

            I had Golik directly in my sights, and just dropped a bomb on him! 

 

 

Chapter 21 – Love Letters to Congress, Wray the Worm, Haspel the Hun, and the Fat Tub of Shit, Bill Barr.

            I’d been conducting what is called reconnaissance by fire up to this point, firing rounds over the head of the public officials, and my email to Golik was a shot directly at him (euphemism…as to make sure that nobody deems this a threat).  

            You cannot retreat after firing a shot like this, you have to continue on, as I was dealing with an overwhelming force and needed to bring out the howitzer and start firing the big rounds.  On January 17, 2020, I did the unthinkable, and sent a one page letter to all 535 members of Congress.  The letter (example to Navy SEAL Dan Crenshaw):

January 17, 2020

Representative Crenshaw,

 

May 8, 2005, Vancouver Police Officer Rick Torres executed 17-year old Jason Wilkinson.  He was allowed to resign from VPD January 1, 2006.  

 

In 2008, Torres was sued by the family of Jason Wilkinson.  January 23, 2009, Judge Benjamin Settle, of the Federal District Court in Washington opined:

 

Taking the facts in the light most favorable to the plaintiffs, there is no question that Torres acted with the unconstitutional purpose to harm, terrorize and in fact, kill Wilkinson.  After Key walked to the front of the minivan and the minivan began to back away from the telephone pole, Key and Torres looked at each other, seemingly acknowledged each other; then Torres walked to the passenger side of the minivan and effectively executed Wilkinson by shooting him eleven times at close range.  Torres shot Wilkinson when the minivan was traveling at a slow speed in the exact opposite direction from where Key stood.  Even after Wilkinson dropped his hands from the steering wheel and slumped in the driver’s seat mortally wounded, Torres continued to fire into Wilkinson as the minivan coasted in reverse.  Wilkinson v. Torres (2009)

 

Amazingly, Rick Torres was hired by the Clark County Sheriff’s Office in Washington State in 2013.  He was promoted to Sergeant a year after his hiring.

 

Is there anything we can do to prevent this from happening again, and prevent Rick Torres from owning a gun?  He resigned when I brought this case forward.    

 

I would like to meet with you and discuss a proposed CITIZEN PROTECTION ACT, a registry that automatically identifies an officer that has been involved with a shooting, such as the one described above.

I will be coming to Washington February 4-15 to ask for your support.  

 

Sincerely,

 

Matt L’Hommedieu

FORMER:

Navy SEAL

US Air Force ParaRescueman

US Forest Service Smokejumper

Captain/Paramedic Tualatin Valley Fire and Rescue 

 

PS.  If you want to know how Torres retained his badge and gun, contact Wray and Haspel.  

            Of course, the letter was under the guise of “gun control” in order to get the Dems riled up, but as you will learn, as I have, there is no difference between Democrats and Republican’s.  Their charade in Washington DC is nothing more than the political version of Professional Wrestling.  It’s all a show.  Their only goal, as directed by the “Cabal” is to continue print money.  When the Central Bankers, i.e., the Federal Reserve, get about 5 cents on every dollar, including their vig for printing money and issuing bonds, there is no incentive to stop the printing presses.  These noblemen and women (our United States Congress) are beholden to these Central Bankers and do their bidding, and it’s never going to stop…unless we stop it.

            If you haven’t figured it out yet, Torres is a wet-worker, i.e., an assassin for the Central Intelligence Agency.  That is why he murdered Jason Wilkinson on Mother’s Day in 2005.  This was to send a message to the Wilkinson family.  I don’t know the reason, but the date of the shooting, the manner it was conducted, and the aftermath of it, i.e., the charade by Judge Settle and the 9^th Circuit Court of Appeals, can lead one to only one conclusion, Torres is being protected by the Prince of Darkness.  

            Torres quit the VPD, was investigated by CCSO, exonerated, and then hired by CCSO with this on his record in 2013 and quickly promoted to Sergeant.  Additionally, prior to him murdering Jason Wilkinson, he has an unexplained absence from VPD.  I surmise he was being given orders and direction during this time.

            Additionally, before the car chase began, Officer Keys was running the license plates of vehicles in a “trap house," or drug house, without probable cause.  They were obviously hunting for someone, and that someone was Jason Wilkinson.  When they found him, and eventually did a PIT maneuver ramming him into a telephone pole, they executed him by pumping 11 rounds into him from approximately eight feet away; and the investigation was a sham to exonerate him of the execution.  As Trump says, he could kill someone in downtown NY City and get away with it.  That is what happened her, and happens in Clark County numerous times a year.  It’s as if they have a license to kill in zip code 98666.

            After sending a letter to every member of Congress, I couldn’t stop there, and sent a letter to the higher ups in the DOJ, CIA and FBI.  The letter:

January 18, 2020

 

 

Attorney General William Barr

CIA Director Haspel

FBI Director Wray

 

August 11, 2020, I sent in a public records request for the video evidence of the Epstein hanging.   You have now destroyed that evidence, which I was requesting for my upcoming hearing. 

 

My first request is a FOIA request for all Executive Action or any orders to murder me or eliminate me, or whatever verbiage you use.  

 

I’ve asked for the evidence in the Dandol Dianzi memo, and I have not gotten an answer from the CIA or FBI, nor have I received any response about any of the information I have requested via FOIA request to prove my innocence.  All of you hold the key to that!

 

As it stands, right now, there is absolutely no way for me to complete the terms of my probation in the crime that you folks framed me for.  That topic is for another day. 

 

I will give you an example.  When I was in counseling, the counselor brought in a shill doctor, which was controlled by you folks to witness me saying that I capitulate, I abused my wife, etc. etc.   Instead, your agent, Mike, heard me say I was in counseling because I was framed….and have evidence to prove it.  In response, my counselor pulls me aside and tells me that I need to capitulate or I will never complete the terms of my probation.  For the next 3 years, I have to stay 1000 feet away from a protected person, and if I violate that, or am accused of violating that, I will go to prison for the remainder of my sentence, or more.  

 

Here is the message from my counselor.

 

Hi Matt,

 

Sorry for the delay, yes I would like to talk with your mental health provider.  How often do you see him?  I’m not sure what to think about the documents that you sent yet I am concerned about blame!   One of the program rules is to stop blaming the victim.

 

Even if it is true what your ex has done, the program rule is no victim blaming. So our mission, if you should choose to accept it is:  stop all forms of victim blaming!  We must stop.  I’m trying to be extra extra clear; Even if it is true what your ex has done, the program rule is no victim blaming.

 

Andrew Lindsell, MA, LMHC, SUDP, CADC II.

 

Here is my response:

 

Drew,

 

My dad killed JFK.  The CIA sent an assassin Rick Torres to murder me.  And I have to accept the fact that I need domestic violence counseling.  Forgive me if I am a little traumatized right now.  I am doing the best I can.

 

After my dad killed JFK, Howard Hunt killed 22 people in order to cover it up.  Nobody has died in this fiasco…not even me. Yet.  That’s where my confusion comes from.

 

Please help me understand.

 

Regards

Matt

 

As you can see, I am getting nowhere with my counselor.  So, I filed a FOIA request to get the information I need, making the connections.  And I await in this Serbonian Bog with no end in sight and the impossibility of extraction.

 

So, I am frustrated, AG Barr, that you immediately destroyed the evidence I asked for the day after Eptstein suicided himself.  I was going to show, via video evidence, that the CIA assassinates people, that the Island and the Zorro ranch are actually black sites, and Epstein was recruited by CIA early on (another FOIA requests I am still awaiting).  

 

Now, you have destroyed evidence that is crucial to linking this corruption together. Now, I will only have the evidence in cases such as:

 

John Garrett Smith

Jason Wilkinson 

Teresa Halbach (Steven Avery case)

Ronnie Clark  

Sandra Aldridge executing an African American man in GA

 

I am sure there are many more out there.

 

These all link directly back to CIA Strategic Activities Division, don’t they? 

 

Please provide me any information surrounding the topic discussed above.  If I can’t get that information to prove my innocence, I will never be able to complete the terms of my probation and will not be able to get my record expunged.  

 

I’d hate to have to file a motion for a new trial at this point, as I have finished nearly all the terms of my probation, except the counseling and remaining 1000 feet away from a protected person (one who was in on the frame-up of me).  It all seems pretty petty and ridiculous, but I guess my defense will still be…..the Federal Government is trying to kill me…..because my dad shot JFK….the Federal Government wants my genes…..because I am Jesus Christ.   

 

Now, if you would just let me get out of this mess, it would be a lot better for all of us.  Then, maybe I could see my daughters. 

 

Oh, and please send me the results of my gene testing after I joined the VA’s MVP program.  I’d like to see how I faired against the others.  It would be cool if my genes were worth a lot of money. 

 

I don’t think it was Million Veteran Program, I really think the true meaning was….in actuality, the Most Valuable Person.  

And nobody has killed me yet.  So, I either must be the MVP, or crazy.   Someone has to be.  And somebody had to shoot JFK.

 

It might have been the French Gunman on the Grassy Knoll.  Glad me and my dad were adopted.  His birth certificate says Charlie Brown. 

 

Thanks in advance

 

Matt L’Hommedieu

            By this time, I was fairly positive that this whole operation was being run out of the FBI Field Office in Vancouver, Washington, and they were keenly aware of everything that I was doing and saying, as they’ve had some attorney that has reviewed every filing of mine and they’d used the procedural rules to bar me from making any headway, i.e., getting someone to testify, or approving the many attempts to get a Restraining Order against Torres.  I’d filed many of them, and each of them was dismissed by a different judge from a different county.

            In addition, I was fairly sure that my genes were worth something, and that my daughters were a part of this, as they’d been being kept from me for so long.  There was no way they want me to see my daughters.  In fact, I am not sure my oldest daughter is alive.  But I am fairly certain they are being experimented on.  

            I also sent the request regarding Epstein due to the obvious CIA involvement.  When you start eliminating everything else, what else could it be other than a blackmail operation.  To this day, not a single name from the 1200-1400 hours of blackmail tapes has been released.  Unless you’ve lived in a cave your entire life,  you can see that there’s a two-tiered justice system, and our Kings (POTUS) and Noblemen (Congress) and elites are not subject to the same judicial standard that the average citizen is.  In fact, as I said, justice is meted out in the back rooms before anyone steps into a courtroom.  At least the Chinese are up front about it, and they track everything you do and give you a score in society.  These folks do it in the back rooms.

            They gather the data via backchannels, i.e., Thomson Reuters, and third-party surveillance companies that have planes that have Stingrays (and other monitoring equipment) to gather your SIGNET like Cloudcaptech.com, and this is sold on the black-market for extortion or adjudication by the Clowns.  Thompson Reuters has a service that attorneys are able to access to track you down and find any hidden assets.  I surmise this is linked with the NSA data gathering based on Section 702 under FISA and other “Terrorism” laws.

            As with my divorce case, the Clown’s meted out justice as to what they think that I deserve based on all the data they’ve gathered on me since I was a kid, and what they thought Shelane should get for playing her part in this morass and instructed Judge Baker to make the ruling that he did, and arranged it through the backchannels with the Court of Appeals.  As I said, they have every keystroke that anyone has ever entered into a computer, and they obviously saw that I was looking into case law regarding the divorce and disability, and Shelane shouldn’t have gotten anything.  Evidently, they don’t think I deserve to get what is being paid to me, so they meted out their own system of justice. 

            If you’ve ever read anything about the Steven Avery case, or looked into it at all, his attorney spells out exactly what happened, and the dirty cops collected two additional samples of DNA and used that to smear on the hood latch of Halbach’s car in order to convict him.  One of the dirty cops took it to the lab and singed into the lab as a different cop in order to attempt to keep his name from being the guy that errantly collected the additional samples.   It couldn’t be any clearer that Avery was framed.  Why has he spent his entire life in jail, other than being released for a short time?  There are two possibilities, he’s either a monster that needs to be behind bars, or he is a threat to the establishment.  

            You see that Torres is a monster, and he roams the streets free…to this day.  So, they obviously don’t mind having a killer loose.  Additionally, they don’t mind having pedophiles loose, or they would have arrested and disclosed all the people on the Epstein blackmail tapes, so obviously Steven Avery is not a monster.

            Something telling about his appeal was the fact that he had a new type of brain scan called “brain fingerprinting," one that could determine whether he was lying about the case, and it was determined that he was not a liar.  However, this “brain fingerprinting” was subsequently withdrawn as new evidence in his case by his own attorney.  Why?   

            It appears that there is something they want to know, and then hide about Steven Avery’s mind.  And as noted above, when the CIA was conducting the “Remote Viewing” program, they ended up killing one of their own remote viewers.

            Since Avery has been procedurally barred from entering any new facts into his case, like I am being barred from in the divorce case and the criminal case, and like John Garrett smith is in his case where the phone was logged into evidence 38 minutes prior to the crime, one can only come to the conclusion that these black-robed witches are using their black magic, i.e., the constitution coupled with their “criminal and civil rules” to bar anyone from seeing a jury, or having anyone factually rule on the matter.

            The reason that I put Sandra Aldridge’s name in the letter is because after she executed Patrick Long by shooting him in the back of the head when she was working for the Macon Police Department in Georgia, she was on her way from Georgia to Washington State the same time that Teresa Halbach was murdered.  And, if you think Torres is being protected, that is nothing in comparison to the protection being afforded to Sandra Aldridge.  She’s not being protected by the Prince of Darkness, she’s being protected by the Devil himself.

            In addition to executing Patrick Long and most likely Halbach, it appears that she has connections to someone in Brownsville, Tx that is running both drugs, human trafficking, and organ harvesting.   Of course, I’ve sent this to my buddies at the FBI with no response, including overhead photos of the houses, semis, and people she has connections to.  It’s all a big racket!

            This doesn’t even touch on the CIA drug-running operation.  We’ve been in Afghanistan for 20 years protecting the poppy fields, and there is over 10 million pounds of opium that is produced by the poppy farmers.  This equates to 1 million pounds of heroin.  Most of that is smuggled into the United States, however, the DEA only seizes about 5,000-7,000 pounds of heroin a year, and 95 percent of it comes from Mexico.  So, either we aren’t importing ANY of the heroin from the poppy farms in Afghanistan, or it is all being processed in Mexico and shipped through our southern border, and the amounts that are seized are being seized to ensure that none of the heroin that comes into the US is from an outsider, i.e., someone other than the CIA.  Evidently, the FBI, CIA, and DOJ don’t want to know this.

            A couple of days after I sent the above letters, I some overnight Speaker Pelosi, Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, and the others listed:

January 21, 2020

 

 

Speaker Pelosi,

 

I know you are very busy.  This may be important, I am not sure.  My dad shot JFK, and the CIA has been hunting me for the past 5 years.  I sent the enclosed letter to every member of the Congress and Senate. 

 

Could please ask AG Barr, Director Wray, and Haspel if they could sit down and meet?  I am headed to DC soon and would like to meet with your constituents to pass the “Citizen Protection Act (from Government)”. LOL.  I hope enjoyed the sarcasmJ.   

 

The CIA has attempted to assassinate me on at least three different occasions.  When they could not murder me, they attempted to frame me for a murder for hire plot to throw me in a mental institution for 17 years.  

The Prosecuting Attorney in Clark County, Washington would be a great source of information for you.  I’ve been messing with him a bit because they made me go through a mental evaluation….and I failed, of course.  The State did the evaluation.  Hopefully you’ll enjoy my sarcasm during this morass.  My last name is L’Hommedieu, so I am throwing the Jesus angle at him to keep him on his toes.  Might as well use every tool you haveJ

 

Please ask AG Barr and his folks not to slaughter me on my way to DC.

 

Thank you for your attention. 

 

Matt L’Hommedieu

 

I hope to be in DC early February.  Who knows, I may be able to watch the impeachment.  

 

Cc: Senator McConnell

Cc: Director Wray

Cc: Director Haspel

Cc: AG Barr

 

Obviously, I have much more information to share with you.  Oh, and can I get a copy of the Executive Action Memorandum to eliminate me?  I’ve never seen one.  Please treat this as a FOIA request.  Or is that TS-SCI? 

 

            I included the January 17^th letter to all members of Congress to make sure and connect AG Barr, FBI and CIA Directors Wray and Haspel with the January 17^th letter.  This is both triangulation to confirm/verify they all received the same information.  At this point, they completely stopped responding to my FOIA requests, in fact, they haven’t responded to many of these, as they know that my situation is so expansive, nobody would believe it anyway, and are banking on the fact that I can’t wrap this all together without looking like a lunatic.  Well, here I am!

            You may recall my meetings with Vinnit Bharara and Marc Lore in California in the early 2000s when I was trading sports cards with them.  I was the biggest Kobe Bryant rookie card collector in the United States other than a young kid named Tyson in LA.  Vinnie and Marc weren’t interested in my rare Kobe cards, they were interested in opening thepit.com and selling it.  They sold thepit.com to Topps for $6 million, then diapers.com for $545 million at the bottom of the market in each case.  

            Now, is it just a coincidence that Kobe Bryant’s helicopter crashed on January 26^th, 2020?

            I’ve flown a lot in helicopters, and when you enter or get inundated in fog, the pilot stops, hovers, and slowly exits the fog.  In Kobe’s case, the pilot did not do this, he increased his speed to 170 knots and started descending in an arc.  Then, there was a split second where it appears that the pilot attempted to do as I just stated, and slow down, increase elevation, then all of a sudden, he starts descending again at 4000 feet per minute, increasing his speed again to 170 knots and pile driving the helicopter into the ground.  It sure looks to me that his helicopter was overtaken by someone.  Additionally, this wasn’t his regular helicopter, it was his reserve helicopter that was blue and white and not the infamous “Black Mamba” helo. 

            I’d predicted immediately after the accident that it would be spatial disorientation as the cause of the crash immediately after the crash.   That’s exactly what the NTSB found!  Wow. 

            What better way to send a message directly to me in order to make me look like a lunatic, yelling, “Hey, they killed Kobe!”  Especially since they did, and it is obvious on its face, but they use the Hegelian dialectic and plausible deniability, like they have for generations in order to hoodwink the general citizenry.  Do you really think that Lee Harvey Oswald orchestrated the JFK assassination?  You can tell by all the confusion, misinformation, and chaos that the CIA is involved.  It’s their “fingerprint”.  

            Another example is the DB Cooper hijacking.  From the outset, there was confusion as to the name, DB or Dan Cooper.  This was by design.  Who had complete control of the MSM through operation Mockingbird in the 1970s, as was revealed in the Church Committee hearings?  The Clowns.  And once the Clowns have their hooks into something, they never stop.  

            The HTLINGUAL mail intercept program that started with Howard Hughes in the 1940s was eventually turned into COINTELPRO AFTER Congress told them to shut down HTLINGUAL because it was against the law to intercept mail without a warrant, so the CIA took that as it’s OK to intercept everyone’s phone conversation and implemented COINTELPRO.  When that was exposed, they supposedly stopped it, until we found out through Snowden that they were gathering the metadata on every single American citizen through PRISM and their associated programs, which now turns out, they are capturing every single keystroke and monitoring every individual in America through our computers and storing on a server in Colorado under HAMMER and SCORECARD, while at the same time running a psychological profiling operation on us to manipulate our behavior.

            I couldn’t let the Kobe helicopter crash go without a response, so I sent the following letter to former SEAL and admiral, the DNI Joseph Maguire:

January 31, 2020

 

Admiral Maguire,

 

I sent the letters enclosed previously to the named individuals. 

 

It is my goal to get the Executive Action Memorandum to assassinate me rescinded.  I’ve asked the DOJ, FBI and CIA to provide me documents under the FOIA.  I will be coming to Washington DC prior to the State of the Union address on the 4^th.  

 

I respectfully request that the information requested be compiled in one place, which falls within the ambit of your “jurisdiction”.  The requests are simple.

 

·      Provide my entire intelligence community file

·      Provide all surveillance conducted on myself and my father, Dave L’Hommedieu from November 22, 1963 forward

·      Provide my FBI file depicting my threat assessment

·      Provide the name of the individual that tortured my wife

·      Provide the name of the person that authorized said torture

 

I am hopeful that we can meet when I come to DC from the 4^th through the 15^th.

 

I swore an oath in 1988.  “I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy.”  Are you letting me fall into the arms of the enemy?

 

I’ll leave you with what Dr. Kevin Walters told me.  He is a former Team 1 guy.  He said the only thing that will help me heal from my injuries, both mental and physical is through the grace of God.  I believe that.  He told me that I need faith, hope, peace and love.  That is what I am striving for!

 

Hopefully we can meet.  If not, please let me know where I can pick up the aforementioned items in my FOIA request.

 

Warmest Regards

 

Matt L’Hommedieu

portpj@gmail.com

 

PS.  You can view some of the information I gathered on the CIA agent that was sent to assassinate me on vector23.org. 

 

            If they were going to down my plane, then so be it…have at it.  I’d left a paper trail a mile long that they would have had to cover up.  And up to this point, they’ve done a yeoman’s job of keeping this under wraps.  I’ve approached the media on many occasions to attempt to get this to light with no success over the past six plus years.  That is how deep the Clowns have their hooks into the MSM and social media companies.  Shadow banning and censorship are powerful tools.  Now, you know why Congress isn’t touching the issue of the Epstein blackmail tapes or censorship.  They want this hidden.

            When I got out to DC, I stopped by the FBI, the Senate and House Intelligence Committee Offices, and the offices of Doug Collins, Will Hurd, Dan Crenshaw, Hererra-Beulter, and Senator Murray.  None of them would meet me, answer my calls or answer my emails.  I eventually went to a coffee session (meet and greet) with other constituents from Washington State with Senator Murray and we were all there, about 30 people, and introduced ourselves and stated why we were there.   I flew the flag of being a former Navy SEAL that a dirty cop, Rick Torres, tried to murder, and I am here to pass legislation to keep guns out of the hands of dirty cops like Torres.  We all had our photos taken, and Murray quickly scurried out of the room and left me with her aides, who did nothing with it. 

            I tried not to inundate them with information, keeping the letters short, sweet, and to the point.  I also included my expert opinion regarding Torres’ execution of Wilkinson, and information I thought pertinent, but as I said, I got no response, other than from a person from Deb Haaland’s office who met with me.  Now, she’s the head of the Department of the Interior.  She was at least smart enough to use the information I gave her for leverage to get a cabinet position.  Kudos on her part!  

            I tried as best I could to stir up some shit in DC, and I accomplished that, at least.  Additionally, I wasn’t about to let the Kobe execution go unanswered and go crawl in a hole.  If these fuckers are going to kill me, they’re going to have to shoot me in the face!   

Chapter 22 – Too Close to Home

 

            In August of 2019, Shelane filed an interlocutory appeal, which is disfavored in the Washington Court of Appeals system because the case has not been completely adjudicated, however, she did it anyway.  I’d figured out in July of that year that she was working for Tessa, Rick Torres, Judge Baker, and others.  I’d written up a Motion to Clarify the issues with Judge Baker regarding his ruling to clarify whether she gets 43 percent of my entire retirement or just for the allotted years we’d been married, which would have reduced it to about ½.  He clarified it stating that she gets the entire 42 percent.   It was like pushing a rope to get Tessa to move on the issue, but she did it, at least to get it on the record.

            I was still attending the anger management classes with Dr. Lindsell and in early 2020 he wrote to Prosecutor Golik letting him know that I was essentially noncompliant with my attendance.  He falsely reported to Golik (not the Washington Department of Corrections probation office who was supervising my probation) that I was a hit and miss type of guy and wasn’t attending regularly, which I had been doing.  I had to pay for each visit so I had a record of my attendance for 17 straight session, or more, until I went to Washington, DC.

            When I was in DC, I started a campaign to reel “Mike," Dr. Wilbur in, and sent him all the emails that I’d sent Dr. Rice, putting her on the spot, hence, putting Dr. Wilbur on the spot also.  I asked his opinion about my “expert opinion” regarding my interpretation of the murder of Jason Wilkinson.  I wanted to know if he thought my mental functioning was askew, or if I was on mentally functioning and what he thought of my “expert opinion” regarding Torres murdering Jason Wilkinson, along with the paperwork that I’d sent Dr. Rice.  In addition, I asked him if he thought that Dr. Rice’s opinion should have been included in her opinion of me and addressed the fact that the BLEMS crew was the one levying the charges against me and the judge in my case was part of the crew attempting to railroad me, and whether he had an opinion about these issues. 

            Each time I attempted to put him on the spot, via email, he punted on the issue and used a diversionary tactic to get out from answering the direct questions.  I immediately saw through him, and he knew exactly what I was doing also.  He eventually pulled back, by making sure to state in his email that he and I never had a doctor patient relationship in spite of Dr. Lindsell recommending I get in touch with him due to his psychological prowess as a forensic psychologist and his attendance of our counseling session.  

            My MO has been to get the last word in, so I am quite sure that I sent him a snarky email as a follow-up, thanking him for nothing.  I knew these people were going to stop at nothing to keep me under their thumb, so I was sure to include Tony Golik in the email chains, particularly when Dr. Lindsell was documenting my lack of attendance, which I responded with the dates, times, and my arguments above, such as why nobody would answer me regarding Dr. Rice’s opinion.  I couldn’t let Golik get the upper hand and reel me back into court, as the judge in the case surely wasn’t going to follow any semblance of the law, and incarcerate me based on whatever they could make up in order to hold me.  

            I’d been attending the classes and talking with MJ, the young kid that was in counseling with me.  He’d told me that his wife was married, and he’d basically copped a plea to get out from underneath he charges, then went back to his wife to attempt to work things out.  He was being kept from seeing his children also, and there were supervised visits and a restraining order filed against him.  The Clark County and VPD use these restraining orders to wrap people up in court in perpetuity because they are process crimes.  There is no way of getting out from underneath these process crimes, so they use the initial criminal charges by the officers that are a he-said-she said charge, and when someone violates a process crime, the defendant  is looking at double the time and double the punishment.  It’s a no brainer for the prosecution to levy these additional charges for the process crimes.  This is what they attempted to do when they attempted to revoke my probation.   

            When they called me back into court to revoke my probation, they said I violated the conditions of my probation and contacted Katie Kauffman.  I had no idea what they were talking about, and I did not even know where Vancouver Defender’s office was.  I had no reason to go there or determine where it was, yet I was supposedly planning to blow it up with Francisco Ortiz.  That’s how ridiculous the story was. 

            After I was summoned to appear in court for the violation, I looked up where their office was, and it was right by the weed shop in downtown Vancouver.  I wasn’t sure if it was within the allotted distance for me to stay away from, i.e., 1000 feet, but I was paranoid that was the reason that I was hauled into court because I went to the weed shop by the office of Vancouver Defenders.  Again, I didn’t even know where it was, but I reported this to Angus in fear that I crossed that magical line and got too close to her when I went to buy weed.  It turned out, that wasn’t the case, and they were pissed about the Google review I left regarding the BLEMS folks.

            When MJ got back together with his wife, there was an issue with the RO, and he told me  they were working things out.   When he determined it was never going to work because she was untruthful, he decided to continue with the divorce.  The pattern that I’d noticed was that the prosecutors were almost always charging the male in these situations.  In addition, I could tell by what MJ was telling me that his wife was acting like Shelane acted in our relationship.  His wife lied just like Shelane did in order to get a restraining order to get full custody of the children.  It was a carbon copy of my case. 

            Then MJ dropped a bomb on me, telling me that she was married previously to an FBI Agent, and she had a kid with him that she currently had full custody of and that this FBI Agent never got to see his own kid.  He told me that they’d set him up by monitoring him, and when he left the house with his child, they were waiting for him to pull him over while he had his child in the car and arrested him for an expired driver’s and hauled him in, and his wife ended up getting custody of his kid because of it.  I was shocked, because if they were going to do this to and FBI Agent, they were going to do it to anybody they wanted.  

            I sent a letter to Chris Wray, the FBI director, stating as much and showing him how crooked they are in Clark County.  It was another poke in Wray’s eye.  However, later, MJ changed his story and told me that he wasn’t an FBI Agent, and that he was in the Navy.  This didn’t add up to me, as the truth never changes, and all of a sudden, his wife’s ex-husband went from being and FBI Agent to someone in the Navy. 

            What did add up to me was the fact that this was a system and they are separating the dads from their daughters and they are siding with a known liar, like they did with Shelane.  Why?  Because they have leverage over the mother, and if she doesn’t capitulate to their demands, the threat is jail time, and turning over the children to the husband.  

            What length  are these single mothers going to go in order to keep from going to jail and keep from having her kids taken from them?   Well, therein lies the rub.  As I said, there were naked pictures of someone that looked identical to Shelane on Mike Roe’s phone, and at one point, Lisa Martin, Shelane’s first attorney, was meeting her out on the town with “an associate”. Shelane would never identify who this “associate” was, but it became clear to me that it was Mike Roe. 

            When I filed a WSBA complaint against Mike letting them know about the picture of the naked gal on his iPhone, he was able to submit his response as a “sealed” response, and I never got to see it.  And the WSBA was right behind him covering this up.  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he used a picture of a different girl, however the metadata was there somewhere, and when I tried to subpoena the photos, Judge Krog shredded them.

            On March 3, 2020, I got a call from Tessa Cohen’s assistant asking me if I was going to attend the final divorce hearing where the judge was going to sign the final divorce decree.  I was shocked that there was a hearing, as I’d never been made aware of it, but said that I would attend.  What I didn’t know is that Tessa had prepared all the orders and signed all of them but one.  The orders regarding the parenting plan were almost identical to the parenting plan that was entered on November 11, 2015, and Tessa crafted them.  It had almost the identical verbiage in it, which allowed the court to award full custody to Shelane, and Tessa knew the orders were fraudulent.  By parroting the initial documents, she was saying that I admitted to being an abuser and abandoning my children.  I’d been bitching about the fraud to Tessa for two years!  Yet, she prepared the documents, stating that I was a batterer and an abuser, and that I’d abandon the girls.  I didn’t see the documents she signed, until after the hearing, but Judge Baker and Tessa read over some of what was in the findings of fact and the orders she’d prepared, and Judge Baker clarified what his ruling was, and Tessa would write any clarifications in the margin.  At the end of him giving her directions on what to write, she handed one of the documents to sign, which I signed, knowing that I was going to file a motion to reconsider.  Tessa had already filled out a motion to withdraw, which did not become final until 10 days after the hearing , or on the 14^th of March. 

            During the hearing, I asked Judge Baker to be able to type of the documents for final approval and he said that the ones with the chicken scratch from Tessa in the margins would be fine.  I was flabbergasted, but knew that I was going to unleash a bevy of motions once she was no longer my attorney of record in the case so that she wouldn’t be able to thwart any of the subsequent motions I was going to file.   

            On March 16^th, I filed a Motion for a Stay of Judgement as Judge Baker said he was going to file the final decree on March 20^th unless he heard from one of the parties.  I knew Tessa had to get the documents over to Shelane (the ones that she wrote in the margins). 

            After I signed the documents in court on the 3rd, Tessa immediately changed the amount of time that I had to pay the $1,500 in spousal maintenance adding another 6 months, or another $9,000 to Shelane.

            I’d filed the Motion to Stay on the 16^th, and scheduled the hearing for March 26^th.  And, you’ll never guess what happened.  The entire court system in Washington State was shut down that day due to the “Novel Coronavirus”.   My hearing, along with all other hearings were cancelled until the court could get its head wrapped around the Covid-19 bioweapons system that was made by Anthony Fauci and Bill Gates in the lab in Wuhan, China. 

            As an aside, didn’t FF Fauci (you can discern what FF means on your own) claim in 2017 there was going to be a serious outbreak during the Trump administration?  Wow, what a soothsayer!

            In addition, I’d been sending all this information to Governor Jay Inslee and AT Ferguson asking for their help, and they were fully aware of what was going on, to include my dad’s participation in the JFK assassination and DB Cooper hijacking.  In addition, they were aware of the letters I sent each member of Congress on January 17^th, 2020 about Rick Torres, who was a CIA Asset that President Obama sent to murder me.  

            Was Inslee briefed on it when he flew back to Washington on his run for President of the United States?  One has to wonder if his run for POTUS was nothing more than an opportunity for him to get with our Kings and Noblemen and lay out the Bill Gates plan, i.e., the release of the Covid – 19 bioweapon, and he briefed them all on what was going on.  There was no way that Inslee was going to be POTUS, he had about a snowballs chance in hell.

            Additionally, Emily Inslee, his daughter-in-law is a program manager for the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation.  I think she is the head of the Screw Matt L’Hommedieu Program, and she is the conduit between Inslee and Bill Gates.  

            Is this starting to make sense?  The first case of the Covid-19 bioweapon in the US, or one of them, was in Washington State.  What a coincidence, and the timing of it….????  The day I file a Motion to Stay the judgement so that I can disclose what is enclosed herein in a court of law and get witnesses to testify.  Perhaps they didn’t want me doing this, and Bill Gates wants to “Block out the Sun (sp)” or is it “Block out the Son(sp).  YBTJ.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 23 – The Mark of the Beast

 

            I hope there is no doubt in your mind that there are true “prophets” that can see the future and the past.  This happened over 2000 years ago, and the prophets foretold of the times that we are in.  These prophets were the “soothsayers” of their time.  From my experiences, I’ve been able to see parts of the future and parts of the past.  The CIA has a program that trains people to do that, but they’ve told people they shut it down due to the Church Committee.  This is simply not the case, and the government is lying to you.  As mentioned before, the CIA does not shut down programs that work, they study it, run experiments on it, refine it to make it better, then they use it.  

            During MKULTRA and its’ progeny, the CIA scoured the earth looking for drugs that would help them refine their remote viewing program.  Additionally, as mentioned, they also were looking for things that they could use in their in their covert assassination program.  This is covered at length in during the Bay of Pigs when they were attempting to assassinate Castro.  One of the go-to’s of the day was the shellfish toxin they used in their electric gun.  Now, it's weaponized Fentanyl.

            Suffice to say, they’ve perfected their remote viewing through projects like LOOKINGGLASS.  Bill Brockbrader, aka Bill Wood, talks about Project LOOKINGGLASS in his interview with Kerry Cassidy of Project Camelot.  I’ve never talked with Bill Wood, but from my experience, what he’s let out of the bag surrounding the program is plausible, if not more likely than not.  And with everything surrounding these secret programs, there are bits of truth sprinkled in with propaganda.  I don’t know if what Bill was saying in his interview was absolute fact, but it coincides with some of the events that have transpired in my life, which I will get to later.

            The “prophets” or soothsayers of the day were using similar techniques.  And like the propaganda today, it’s hard to discern the difference between propaganda and truth as written in the bible.  And you know what they say, history is written by the winners.  So, was Jesus a winner?  Or, was the bible written by people in the Catholic Church, as what is thought to be the truth today.

            One of my experiences during Hell Week at BUD/S was having hallucinations.  We’d been up for days without sleep, and at one point, I believe on Wednesday, we were paddling from Imperial Beach on the Silver Strand to North Island Naval Station when I looked out to the blackness at sea and saw a red dragon.  I didn’t think a thing of this for years until someone in the SEAL Facebook group that I was a part of asked if anyone had hallucinations, which I immediately posted what I’d experienced.  

            After I’d posted my hallucination about seeing the dragon, I looked at other responses, and two posts above mine, there was a post of someone else seeing a dragon!  I was dumbfounded.  

            As you most likely know, in the Book of Revelations, the Beast comes out of the sea with seven heads and ten horns with ten crowns on its horns, and on each head a blasphemous name. As you know, blasphemy is an act or offense of speaking sacrilegiously about God or sacred things; profane talk.

            So, what could this Beast of the Sea be?  Is this literal or figurative?   And since the ones in power wrote the Holy Bible, actually commission by King James in the early 1600s, and published in 1611, one can surmise that things changed between the first versions of the Bible and the one we use today.  It’s understandable that if the Catholic Church wanted to hide something, they would.  In fact, they have the most extensive library of history known to man that has been hidden from the public eye for thousands of years.  Not to mention, the Catholic Church is the longest running government and intelligence gathering agency in the history of mankind.   They are hiding something for a reason, so you have to ask yourself why?  Is this what God would want, to have us go through this guessing game as to whether he is real?  I think not, God wants us to know him, but the devil does not. 

            Extrapolating what was known at the time of the prophets in the Bible that recount what is to transpire, one can only surmise that they saw things based on what was known and unknown.  So, what does this beast with ten crowns and its horns have to do with today?  

            Could this beast that comes from the sea be analogous to a system?  If so, what system is in place that promotes and rewards blasphemy?  

            If you’ve been following anything in the news lately, our entire system is upside down.  There is a two-tiered justice system, one for the Kings and Noblemen, and one for the plebs and the serfs.  I can’t help but think, since we have strayed so far from the nearly perfect document that was given to us by God, the United States Constitution, the Beast that has overtaken this document is the current US legal system which is based on Admiralty Law, or the Law of the Sea.  

            And the ten crowns are the nine US Supreme Court system and their ruler, i.e., the Vatican.  This would fit this system, and it has been spread over every continent in the world, or the seven continents, Africa, Antarctica, Asia, Australia, Europe, North America and South America that are all under Admiralty Law, or the Beast of the Sea.  All ruled by the Vatican.

            I am not going to make any apologies for the Catholic Church.  It is the spawn of satan!  Any church that protects pedophile by transferring them from one abbey to the next is not a true religion of God.  The system protects the system, not God’s children.  It preys on children, and it always has.  

            I am not talking about the average Catholic parishioner that does not know what is going on, I am talking about the church itself.  Do you find that the US Supreme Court has ruled that each Catholic Church is its own separate entity, and the Catholic Church could not be sued collectively for their systematic abuse of children by the priests that they have transferred all over the globe to obscure this abuse?  At the same time, the Boy Scouts of America are being held liable across the board for their abuse of children. 

            If you are part of the Catholic Church and tithing, you are supporting the head of the Beast.  The Catholic Church doesn’t even hide it anymore, and the pOpe endorses satan with symbology, i.e., his hand gestures and their satanic worshiping centers like the Vatican that has satanic symbology all over.  The pOpe is putting it right in the face of God.  

            Not only that, it is the wealthiest church, and their assets are being transferred throughout the globe as we speak.  Why?  Does God want his church to be hiding and shuffling money around?   This is inapposite as to what God would want.  

            If you think intuitively about this, look no further than the confession booth.  Who do you confess to?  Are you confessing your sins to God, and is he meting out the punishment, or is the priest?  Now, suppose this priest is a pedophile, and you are not aware of it.  Do you think he is going to go to jail, or is he going to reveal a secret (perhaps your secret) to a higher up power so that he gets off Scot-free? 

            In the intelligence community, information is the stock and trade.  And the Catholic Church, as stated is the longest running intelligence gathering service known to man.  How many of these pedophile priests have traded information, i.e., revealed a bigger crime to get out from underneath a charge?   It’s a completely flawed system, rife with abuse.  Of course, that priest is going to give you up, if your sin is greater than his.  It is self-preservation.

            Taken a step further, the pedophile priest has been transferred to another abbey due to his pedophilia.  What happens to the person that transferred the pedophile priest?  He’s just as culpable as the pedophile priest and subject to the same retribution, or extortion that the pedophile priest was.

            Taken a step further, in the fire service, there was a saying, telephone, telegraph, and tell a firefighter, which signified that loose lips sink ships.  How many people can keep a secret?  Very few.  Only under the rarest circumstances or facing the gravest threat, can someone keep a secret.  The only thing that keeps these lips shut is the ultimate fear, i.e., the fear of death, which my wife experienced when she was trafficked at the age of 14 years old by this Cabal.  They made sure that she kept her mouth shut by showing how far these psychopaths would go by gutting out another girl that was her age, letting her guts hang out, and she bled to death in front of her.

            Imagine carrying that burden with you for your entire life, knowing that the Clowns (CIA) are always watching and listening to every conversation.  And it wouldn’t take but a bit of truth by calling her on the phone and letting her hear a conversation she had with her mother on the phone, or a note about it to let her know that they are still watching.  There are many ways to reinforce and instill fear into her.  And when she had children, our daughters, they became part of this system.  

            Now, take it a step further, and the priest that knows about the pedophile priest that was transferred is subjected to the same type of extortive scheme.  There is no escaping it, as it is a system, and that system is fallible, in its entirety.  

            Let him who is without sin cast the first stone! 

            The entire US Justice system is “governed” by these black-robed witches that are just as fallible as you and me.

            There is a law on the books, 18 U.S. Code § 4 – Misprision of Felony.  The law reads:

 

            Whoever, having knowledge of the actual commission of a felony cognizable by a court of the United States, conceals and does not as soon as possible make known the same to some judge or other person in civil or military authority under the United States, shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than three years, or both.

 

            So, each time I have pointed out to the judges in my cases that they have destroyed evidence in the case, which is a felony under RCW 40.16.020, they have committed a crime under 18 U.S. Code § 4 – Misprision of Felony.  

            This would require a judge to admit to not reporting a crime and imprisoning and fining himself.  This law is never enforced, nor is it ever prosecuted, as it would disrupt the entire system because people like me are pointing out these crimes by prosecutors and judges every day, yet nothing comes of it.  It’s just an archaic law that “we” never enforce anymore.  This is the ONLY law that safeguards our justice system, and these black-robed witches have abrogated the use of the law and swept it into the dustbin of history and implemented the civil and criminal rules in its place in order to abrogate the attempts to enforce this statute that is based on common law, i.e., the constitution, in favor of the new version of Admiralty Law, which is based on the system of witch-craft that is both the civil and criminal rules, or Admiralty Law, or the “Law of the Sea” which has done away with Constitutional Law in our country. 

            This is the crux as to why I have been leading you down this civics lesson, as our constitution is based on common sense and the  Constitution, but these black-robed witches have hijacked the system and even tell you how to interpret terms in the statute, and how to rule.  They’ve taken away your ability to rule in a manner based on common sense, and through their pattern jury instructions, they get a jury to focus on words, rather than what is right and what is wrong.

            I believe that my case is a perfect example.  They were attempting to murder me, and almost did.  Then, they attempted to frame me for crimes I did not commit, and my ONLY recourse in order to attempt to escape this situation was to send a sternly worded email, and then flee the jurisdiction so that I would not be murdered.  I’d recognized what the judge was going to do in my case, and there was no way getting out from underneath this morass.  There is no pleading of self-defense when you are running for your life from law enforcement officers that are attempting to murder you, after you sent an email.   

            However, if this went to a jury without the jury instructions, and if I were able to provide all the information, surely, and hopefully, a jury that had common sense would deem that I did the least amount of “harm” possible in order to get out of the situation and save my life.  However, the system of Admiralty Law would not allow me to make that argument.  Hell, they wouldn’t even allow me to represent myself nor interview my wife or Rick Torres.  How could I possibly win, given this situation?  I was also facing 17 years in a mental institution, which was another hurdle that I would have had to navigate, not to mention that my attorneys were working with this Cabal the entire time. 

             And, if there is a guy like me that believes he is Jesus Christ, and wants to act like Christ did, i.e., what would Jesus do,  then what chance does anyone else have in this system?  Of course, this is somewhat tongue and cheek, and I hope you get the picture of the insurmountable odds that I was facing.  Of course, if you believe that Jesus was perfect and not a sinner, then I am obviously not Jesus, according to what you believe, and that’s OK.

            But, given the fact that 2000 years ago, there were some pretty advanced dudes, that were most likely doing either some type of drug or drinking adrenochrome to get visions in order to see the future and the past, they determined that there would come a day when someone figured out all of this black magic and there would be hell-to-pay.  

            As far as the adrenochrome, I have never taken it, but from the research done at DARPA, there is something that has been passed on in the genes of people from one generation to the next.  One of the experiments they did with mice was to shock the hell out of mice in a certain place in a cage.  Then, a generation later, they placed the progeny of those mice in the same cage, and they avoided the area where their parents were shocked altogether.  They learned this through their genes.  And if this is published work, imagine what other work DARPA and other researchers have done that has not been disclosed.  There is very little literature about adrenochrome.  

            If you have ever watched the movie Apocalypto, by Mel Gibson, you can discern that as early as about 500 years ago before the Spaniards invaded South America, there were still tribes that were marching people to the top of pyramids, slicing them open, then throwing their body off of the pyramid and eating their hearts.  They knew 500 years ago that there was something unusual about eating the heart of a fresh kill.  The native Americans did this also, it was their “reward” for getting a fresh kill.  It has since become passe, but this is something that my father would do, except he would cook the heart and liver before he ate it.  He always ate the heart and liver, and I can only assume that it wasn’t for the taste, as it tastes horrible.  

            The only thing I can think of was that it gave him visions, and he was able to see the future after doing so.  After all, he trained me to be in this position that I am in today, so did he have foresight?   I think he does have this ability.  After all, he was brought up in this system by the Clowns, i.e., the Charlie Brown Project. 

            It is not a coincidence that the Mormon religion is somewhat modeled after the Catholic Religion.  They have their Actin President of the Quo.  Then they have the First President (pOpe), President,  Quorum of the 12 Apostles, General Officers, etc., all the way down to the Stake President and Ward Bishop.  

            When my friend Rick, was attending BYU, he was on a wrestling scholarship and went to nationals three out of the four years he was at BYU.  After wrestling season his senior year, he decided he needed to get right with God and he went in to confess his sins to the Bishop if his ward.  He told about his drinking and cavorting around with women, and excesses,  the things that college kids do.  He obviously wanted to cleanse his soul, and must have told all, every sin. 

            The next thing he knows, he’s called in to face the Dean of BYU, and they were not only going to excommunicate him from the church, they were going to kick him out of BYU.  I can only surmise, given the behavior of the ward Bishop, and the reaction by the school that there was more to the story than what he told me, and what he told the Bishop of the ward was damaging to the Mormon Church, and they had to get rid of him, pronto.  His dad, who was high up in the church where I was from got involved and he was able to remain in college, but that was the last time he ever did anything with the Mormon Church.

            Years, later, he told me that his dad was losing it, and he would walk around his house with the curtains closed and a flashlight.  I’m sure he was paranoid as all get-out because of what he knew and what length the Mormon Church would go to in order to keep whatever secret he revealed, a secret.

            One doesn’t have to venture very far to discern that there is corruption within the Mormon Church.  The story of Mark Hoffmann, which is Murder Among Mormons, a documentary done by Joe Berlinger, is a perfect example.  He found an original document done by Joseph Smith called the Salamander letter.  This was the original story of Joseph Smith, and instead of getting his visions on the seer stones, the original basis of the church was described in the letter, and his visions came from talking with a salamander.  

            Over the course of a five-year period, Mark Hoffmann was sheep dipped by the powers that be in the Mormon Church, to include FBI Agents and local law enforcement, and he was put in a position where he was selling forged documents.  This completely discredited him, thereby discrediting the Salamander Letter, which he was essentially blackmailing the Mormon Church with. 

            Had the letter he was peddling been deemed authentic, this would have collapsed the entire Mormon cult.  So, they had to weave this story and use Mark’s peccadillo’s against him, i.e., greed, and they eventually discredited him by murdering two people with pipe bombs, and then attempted to kill him with a pipe bomb.  

            Then, he confessed to murdering the other two guys, because he had figured out, like I did, that the system was so powerful, he couldn’t get out of it by telling the truth because the truth was so entirely complicate, like this story, that nobody would believe it. 

            I was actually in touch with Joe Berlinger and asked for him to come out from New York to document my case.  He’d done a documentary on the West Memphis 3 case, which I studied very carefully, and it was so utterly confusing, you didn’t know what was up and down, what was true, and what was false.  And Berlinger was right beside these 3 teenagers that murdered these other three  eight-year-old kids in West Memphis Arkansas recording the whole trial, and lead-up to the trial.  It was an amazing documentary.  After 17 years in prison, the kids were eventually set free. 

             My read on the case now is that the eight-year-old kids were sacrificed during a satanic ritual and bled for their adrenochrome, using snapping turtles to torture them throughout the process.  Adrenochrome is the most expensive drug in the world.  When is the last time you ever heard of an adrenochrome bust?   It’s too easy to hide, and the people that harvest it get away with murder, literally.

            Look no further than the dental chair and kill room in Jeffrey Epstein’s home in Florida.

            So, no, I don’t believe for a second that Mark Hoffman tried to blow himself up.  I also believe that the Salamander Letter was genuine, and would have destroyed the Mormon Church.  In order to shut Mark Hoffman up, they threatened to torture and murder his family, after he had a shiv run through him in jail.  And he is right where they want him, where they can monitor his every move, while at the same time showing him that they are “men of their word” by keeping his wife and children alive.  I am quite sure they confessed to other crimes where they have used the same MO to show they are men of their word, which if he ever told, he would look like he was insane.  

            A perfect example is Ted Bundy, who confessed to being a serial killer, which he was not. 

            The game I am playing with these psychopaths is so obvious now, it’s getting ridiculous.  They sent a guy out to interview me about DB Cooper in 2019.  He has a Podcast where he interviews people about their theory on DB Cooper, and in 2019, he interviewed me for about two and a half hours.   During the interview, I was leading him down the path of E. Howard Hunt being DB Cooper, and my dad’s association with the JFK Assassination.   

            Within a few weeks, there was a hastily written book put out by Nat Loufoque.  In French, the last name means crazy.  So, Nat the crazy puts out a hastily written book about how E. Howard Hunt was actually DB Cooper in order to give the FBI plausible deniability that this is old hat, and it’s already been covered.

            Now that I have been beating the drum about Ted Bundy being framed, all of a sudden, Nancy Grace is doing a special on Ted Bundy, and she is interviewing the “victims” that survived Bundy’s attacks in order to make me look like a loon for putting it out on Gab that Bundy is innocent.  

            One needs to go no further than watch the documentary put out about Ted Bundy by JOE BERLINGER.  If you watch them backwards, you will find that the murder he was convicted of would be dismissed due to the bite-mark evidence being used to convict him.  Bite mark evidence has since been determined to be junk science and cases are now overturned because of “expert testimony” regarding bite mark evidence.  Furthermore, he was convicted of beating up and attempting to rape a gal in Utah that could not identify him as the culprit when she was questioned in court.  The judge was sitting as both the judge and jury, and Bundy trusted that the system would work, but like the priests, someone had something over the judge in the case, and Bundy was convicted even though the gal that testified against him couldn’t positively state that he was the killer. 

            These police officers that work with this same Cabal to rig these trials are not stupid.  Crime is their profession, and if you don’t think they can frame you, you are sorely mistaken.  They will professionally frame you…and you’ll never get out.  The ONLY way that I was able to survive from being imprisoned for the rest of my life was to tell the truth, the whole truth, the entire time, and document every bit of it and sending it to the prosecuting attorney.  I did not exercise my right to remain silent, I exercised my First Amendment rights to yell from the tops of the mountains that I was being framed by my own attorney…while documenting it.

            When Angus took over the case, he immediately stated that he would withdraw immediately if I involved anyone in the media.  I wrongfully trusted him.

            So, if you are the Clowns (CIA) and have access to every single conversation, text message, and keystroke that someone puts into a computer or that goes across wire, you own that person, plain and simple.  Everyone has sin and shame in their life.  They use it against you, because, like the priests and bishops, they are above the law and untouchable.  

            These people, in this system, are using their black magic, i.e., Admiralty Law, in order to get anything they want.  And in my case, they are using it to traffic my ex-wife and children, and they have been for almost a decade.  Luckily, up to this point, I have been able to stave off the attempts to murder me.  This goes for the Catholic and Mormon Churches, as well as the judges that get appointed.

            It is no coincidence that there are six Catholics on the United States Supreme Court, with 9 heads, and a hidden hand ruling them all, for a total of 10 crowns.  Or, perhaps you don’t believe that in 1611, they didn’t know there were seven continents that would be ruled over using the Beast of the Seas, i.e., Admiralty Law.  After all, Columbus sailed in 1492, and the Holy Bible we use today was written over 110 year later.  

            Oh, and they used the same tactic against Ted Bundy that they used against Mark Hoffman, his family.  Bundy was allowed conjugal visits while he was in jail and had a child and got married.  His reward for getting sparked up was to allow his child to live.  He had to choose whether to sacrifice himself so his daughter could live, or suffer the same fate that the girls he was accused of killing suffered…at the hands of Nelson Rockefeller and Governor Dan Evans, Rockefeller's 1968 running mate.  

            The Rockefeller Commission was a charade designed to hide the connection of the Cabal back to the assassination of JFK, while at the same time hiding his murderous, satanic sacrificial penchant of the women that Bundy admitted to killing. 

            Bundy wanted to be President of the United States.  He wanted to clean this mess up, and when he was accused of murdering the girls in Colorado, he escaped, went and met his handler, which was most likely someone in the CIA, then was recaptured, only to escape again. 

            One has to wonder what relationship his family had with McGeorge Bundy, the long-time CIA agent.  We’ll probably never know. 

            However, a guy that escapes once, then escapes again through a roof vent, was obviously being assisted by someone.  In addition, he was somehow able to make it to Michigan to watch the Rose bowl, and then to Florida, where he supposedly killed more women there.  This was a proximity crime, and you will learn later, this is the same exact thing they attempted to do to me.  This is a playbook that they use, on rare occasion, but they use it never-the-less.  Bundy just so happened to be the target because he had information that could bring down the entire Cabal, i.e., the DB Cooper hijacking.  Of course, my dad watched this unfold and had to do the bidding of the Clowns in order to keep his family alive.  It’s no coincidence that both he and Tina Mucklow (the stewardess of NW Orient Flight 305, the hijacked DB Cooper plane) went into a mental facility around the same time, in 1980.  This was around the time I was fed to this sexual monster that molested me; three years after my dad had to put down two dogs that had a stick shoved up their rectum and were stuck together as a warning to my father to get with the program.

            Bundy was a warning to anyone that wanted to attempt to buck the system, and he believed he was being guided and helped by a friendly agent when he escaped from jail the second time with the aid of his handlers, thinking that he would be revealing the biggest scandal in the history of the world, and exposing Nelson Rockefeller for who he is, a murderous, satan-worshiping tyrant with a penchant for murdering beautiful women.  And his partner in crime was Governor Dan Evans of Washington State, where, to this day, they are running one of the biggest sex trafficking rings out of in the United States, ran out of zip code 98666.

            Bundy knew they’d murdered Dudley Swim, and the $100,000 blackmail.  He also knew about Jon Huntsman, Sr.’s role in the bribe, and he was transferred from the law school in Seattle to the University of Utah under the guise that he was going to be watching Huntsman.  He had the same equipment on him that he had when he was following around Governor Evans’s opponent during the 1972 election, a ski mask, crow bar, gloves, tape, and a rope.   These were items that the Watergate burglars used when they broke in to take photos of the KOMPRAMAT of the Democrats in 1972.  One of Bundy’s assignments when he worked for Governor Evans was to follow around his opponent and record everything he said.  He was trusted by Governor Evans to do this.  So, what changed, why did they need to frame him?  He knew too much and had high aspirations and was a threat to them.    

            William GatesSr., a close confidant of Governor Evans; imagine that!

            Perhaps there is more to the meeting between Jeffrey Epstein and Bill Gates than just a philanthropic endeavor.  

            

            

             

 

Chapter 24 – Bloodlines

 

            I’ve talked about genes, and the gene trading program, so I thought that this chapter would be appropriate to delve into the bloodlines.  As you know from watching any of the series on Netflix, it is virtually apostasy to taint the bloodlines of the “royal” nobles with that of the gentiles, i.e., the plebs and serfs.

            Bill Gates has a business relationship with Blackstone, a private equity firm, and they just purchased Ancestry.com for $4.7 billion.  Ancestry.com is one of the largest genetic research databases known to man…and Bill Gates has a business relationship with them.  And if you know anything about these genetic testing sites, they trace your ancestry back to their roots, i.e., where you came from.  Think of this in a sort of chain of command chart, only inverted, and you can get an idea why this information is so valuable.  They are trying to find the perfect genome, one that is able to ward off attacks from viruses. 

            Moreover, think about the business ramifications of this.  What is the sense of purchasing a DNA site, when the customer has already paid their $50 to have their genes tested, and the ONLY thing that is supposed to happen with this private health information is for Ancestry, hence, Blackrock, is for them to keep this information secure.  This is like purchasing a bank with safety deposit boxes, which the renter of the safety deposit box is never going to pay another fee.  There is no income stream from that.  However, if you had access to those safety deposit boxes, i.e., the holder of values and VALUABLE INFORMATION, you could use that information to your benefit.  Think of it from the perspective of Jeffrey Epstein.  Let’s say that Jeffrey Epstein had 1200-1400 hours of tapes with wealthy elites and politicians on them molesting underage girls.  What would that be worth?  

            If I were Jeffrey Epstein, as soon as I got in trouble (in 2008), I’d want to use that information as a “get out of jail free” card.  And surely, I would not reach out to a bum on the street, I’d reach out to someone that had a lot of wealth…and power.  It just so happens that the NY Times did a piece tracing back the Epstein relationship to Bill Gates to this time.  Epstein served his 13-month sentence and then was released.  Do you think it’s odd that he served 13 months?  Do you think that it’s odd that E. Howard Hunt served 33 months?  Starting to see a pattern here?

            Around the time of his sentence, Bill Gates started “The Giving Pledge” where he was miraculously able to coerce hundreds of wealthy elites to donate half of their wealth (in some cases all of their wealth) to the Foundation.  The same foundation that has Emily Inslee as the program manager in charge of the Fuck Matt L’Hommedieu Program.

            Now, I readily admit that I’ve sent hundreds of emails that sound nonsensical.  People will read them and, taken at face value, sound completely insane.  If you look at one single email that I sent, you would get that idea.  This is what I call a recon by fire, starting with the most outlandish ideas, and then narrowing them down as I get more information on the matter.  This is what I did with Bill Gates.  I had always thought that my genes were valuable and had the capability of helping mankind, that’s why I donated by blood to the Million Veteran Program.  After I donated my blood, knowing that it had the potential of curing Herpes Simples II, I found out a few years later that my brother had Hepatitis C and was miraculously cured through prayer.  In addition, as I stated earlier, he nearly succumbed to viral meningitis, and was able to survive that.  So, when I went to court on August 8, 2016, I had a theory that someone was trying to kill me for my genes, and had a witness and there would be tests to corroborate what I said, i.e., facts, a positive and negative test for Herpes and a positive and negative test of my brother’s for Hep C.

            This had nothing to do with the fact that I wanted to read the Wilkinson v. Torres case into the record.  And, as stated, when I said they wanted me for my genes, Judge Zimmerman almost shit a meat axe that I said this in open court…at least that was my read on it.  He knows about this!  Therefore, he had to shut me down immediately, as I hit the nail on the head.  Not to mention the other facts which are enclosed herein. 

            Fast forward to December 3, 2020, and Bill Gates was telling reporters that everything was going to be back to normal in about five months due to the vaccine.  And, as I said, they use code words all the time, i.e., Gates plan to “Block out the Sun(sp)”.  His code word, vaccine, was the cure for the virus, i.e., me.  So, at 12:44, I penned an email, cc’ing US Attorneys and Sidney Powell, among others with this letter:

 

 December 3, 2020

 

Tony Golik,

 

I am working for the President of the United States running an operation to expose the corruption within our federal, state, and local government, to include our judiciary.  It is called OPERATION BLUNT FORCE.  I have been authorized to release this Top Secret Information.  

 

As you are well aware, you framed me first, for a domestic violence charge, and secondly, threatening a public official.  This was a ruse to murder me so you could perpetuate running your RICO Organization that consists of murders (including the murder of Jason Wilkinson), attempted murder (of myself and John Garrett Smith), extortion, and racketeering.  In addition, you and this organization were going to profit from my death.   

 

And as I have stated to you on multiple times, you have controlled the process, not only in my criminal case, but my divorce case too.  You’ve done this to ensure that no factual evidence gets presented in any of my cases.  That is about to change, and I recognize that you are going to go to any and all lengths to incarcerate me, paint me as a lunatic, and imprison me for 17 years.  This will all come out at my upcoming trial.  And, like I said, please bring any witnesses to testify against me, I am ready. 

 

As you also know, you had Jeffrey Barrar, John Terry, and then Angus Lee appointed to represent me in order to control the evidence that got put into the record.  They did a yeoman’s job of it, particularly since they did not request judicial notification of the Wilkinson v. Torres case.  We all know that you withheld exculpatory evidence in order to hide facts which would have exposed this RICO Organization which is trafficking drugs, women and children, not to mention hunting down and murdering people for sport, then covering it up.  

 

Other exculpatory evidence you, along with our US Department of Justice have been withholding is the depths of depravity the richest people in the world are perpetrating on the American citizenry.  For instance, the coronavirus pandemic.  

 

As we all know, this is nothing but a ruse.  An example of this is the fact that the coronavirus orders were released by the Washington Supreme Court on March 17, 2020.  This was in direct response to the motion (Stay of Proceedings) that I filed on March 16, 2020, in Skamania County Superior Court.  The subsequent hearing scheduled for March 26^th, 2020 was stricken from the record.

 

I attempted, through every means possible to get the newly discovered evidenced placed into the record.  However, with your managing your end of the operation to keep me from exposing this RICO Organization, you have kept the record from being reopened.  This is an exact replica of what you have done in the case against John Garrett Smith.  You have kept him from reopening the record, while the Court of Appeals and Supreme Court have readily accepted the new evidence that you submitted into the record, falsely explaining away how his iPhone was logged into evidence 38 minutes prior to the crime being committed.  This new evidence should have garnered him a new trial.  Not to mention the compounding effect of his cellular phone calling him back while it was logged into evidence and the fact that the recording used to convict him was spliced 17 times.  

 

You clearly understand the way that OPERATION BLUNT FORCE is working.  We are going after the entire judiciary in order to show the American citizenry how corrupt our judiciary is.  Examples of the corruption within our judiciary are the felonious shredding of documents in my divorce case by Judge Altman and Judge Krog, not to mention the fraudulent withdrawal of Judge Baker in order to avoid breaking this case open and subjecting him to the real fact that he should have ruled that he violated the coronavirus orders and fined himself $50 million for doing this.  This was an outcome that could not take place, as it would have garnered national attention.

 

In order to keep wraps on this, you assigned Judge Evans in order to keep a lid on this, and carried out your orders to keep the record closed.  Now, while I say they were your orders, I use that term loosely, as they weren’t specifically your orders, they were the orders of your controllers and you were using your official position to carry them out.  As we know, Governor Inslee is not even the one making these orders.  He is nothing but a puppet like you.  But, who is he working for?

 

This brings me to my request.  I have been instructed to ask you for all exculpatory evidence in this case.  In particular, who is giving the orders to Governor Inslee.  This will obviously blow the mind of the jury in this case, and you know what I am asking here, as the DOJ has been working feverishly to keep a lid on this too, so this is the information that I am and have been seeking.

 

As you recall, and must know, through your unauthorized surveillance of me, I have requested the videotapes of the Jeffrey Epstein murder.  I requested these from the Fat Tub of Shit, Bill Barr, immediately after Jeffrey Epstein “suicided” himself.  So, now I am asking you for all this exculpatory evidence, including ALL the videotapes of the Metropolitan Correctional Facility from the time Epstein was incarcerated there, and all log books of every person that entered and left the facility from the time he entered it till one week after his “suicide”.

 

In addition, I am asking for every tape that was garnered as a result of the search of Epstein’s properties.  These are the tapes that Bill Barr is holding back in order to blackmail all of these wealthy people.  As you are fully aware, on those tapes is none other than another Washington citizen, William Henry Gates III. 

 

Of course, he is the one pulling the strings in my case in order to keep the sex trafficking ring that you folks are running here in Washington State under wraps.  So, in order to defend myself properly against the false charges you have levied against me in the misdemeanor case, and subsequent frame-up for threatening Mr. Barrar, which resulted in the fraudulent guilty plea I reached, I will need this exculpatory evidence.  I would ask that you have it ready by the hearing on the December 17^th, 2020.  You and your cohorts, like the Fat Tub of Shit have been hiding this exculpatory evidence for years, and this has resulted in a tragic miscarriage of justice, not only for me, but for my friend, John Garrett Smith, who you framed for attempted murder, AND STOLE HIS BUSINESS WORHT $150 MILLION.  And, I am very upset that you are trafficking my daughters.  You will obviously pay the ultimate price for this; they have a cell waiting for you in GITMO.  

 

Also, provide all the documents of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation.  I will need that to show that you are laundering money through that organization to continue the graft and corruption in Washington State.

 

In addition, provide all communications between Bill Gates and Governor Inslee, to include dates, times, and how he has done it.  In addition, any communication he has had with any government official will be necessary to show that he has been orchestrating this coronavirus pandemic scam.  

 

Furthermore, I ask that you calculate the time of speedy trial.  I believe that we have less than one month before that runs out, and of course, I have not knowingly waived my right to a speedy trial, as my attorneys have always been working on your behalf and not mine.

 

In addition, treat this as a cease and desist order, stopping you from using this coronavirus as a ruse in order to shut down the courts.  You are violating every person in the State of Washington’s Constitutional rights due to this scam.  

 

Of course, I will be able to show the connection between Bill Gates and Anthony Fauci, who used this as a ruse to shut down the courts to keep his transgressions a secret.  So, provide as exculpatory evidence every piece of information between Anthony Fauci and Bill Gates.  Of course, you have this, or the Department of Justice has it.  It is their insurance policy.  If I received my message right, it is held by a third party cut-out of the DOJ, so get that from the Fat Tub of Shit.