A must read article from Cop Block.
If you don’t believe this story, that’s OK. If you had come up to me and told me this story when I was in my 30s I would have called you liar too.
What matters is that two state judges, four federal judges, the DA, the GBI, the FBI, and a federal jury all believed me. The evidence and the testimony of all witnesses was simply overwhelming.
The story below doesn’t get to everything that happened. This is a saga, not a bedtime story. If you have questions, feel free to ask: disparunia[at]aol[dot]com I will answer truthfully even if it makes me look bad, which is all I have done since the beginning. I have no need to lie, the truth damns THEM, not me.
This article is part 1. I have another lawsuit in the making right now, so I can’t really comment on what that entails, but I will be writing about the cops robbing my house and what happened during my civil suit in part 2.
If you would like to see a nice little article written in a nearby paper, here is a link:
On April 30th, 2006, I got arrested.
April 30th was a Sunday. I had gone to a nearby town called Cumming to shoot in the indoor pistol range at Bull’s Eye gun store, which I do two or three times a month.
On my way home I stopped off at Autozone and picked up some wires and connectors for some work I needed to do to my truck.
I drove home, drove into my yard and up to my shed, and went into my shed to get my crimping tool.
When I came out of my shed I was surprised to see a Lumpkin County Sherriff’s Office vehicle with its door open. Behind the door was a deputy holding a gun. He screamed something at me, and I calmly said, “What are you doing here?” He then screamed at me ”Get on the ground or I’ll shoot your ass!” I told him, just as calmly, “Well, don’t be a pussy your whole life, son. Take the shot.”
He again screamed that he would shoot me, so I told him to holster his weapon and calm down. I asked him what he was doing at my home. He screamed that I had been speeding, 72 in a 55MPH zone. I told him again to holster his weapon, showed him I was unarmed, and told him to leave my property and return with his supervisor. I told him I would allow him to write me a ticket. He again hysterically screamed he was going to kill me.
I asked him why the lights on his car weren’t on. He looked at them and refused to answer. I told him I had not seen him behind me nor had I heard his siren. He screamed at me to get on the ground.
Realizing that I was going to be arrested as soon as his buddies showed up, and knowing my house was unlocked, I walked towards my back porch. He began screaming that he would kill me, again, and, again , I told him “Take the shot”.
I went into my house and secured the back door. I then placed my keys on the table and exited the front door. A deputy had arrived at my front porch. He was behind the cover of his car. I said, “Hello” and he responded in kind. I walked towards my truck. The idiot deputy who had initially pulled me over was holding his gun towards my shed, at a 90 degree angle to any expected threat. I said “Hey! Jackass! Threat’s over here!” He immediately turned and pointed his Glock 22 at me.
I lowered my tail gate as he screamed that he would shoot me if I did. I then sat down calmly on the tailgate, whereupon he told me that sitting was OK, but if I moved he would shoot me. I then mocked him for holding his gun sideways, gangster style. I also made sure he knew what an idiot he was.
About 20 minutes later the rest of the shift showed up. I was arrested without incident and placed in the back of the initial deputy’s vehicle. The initial deputy’s name is Sterling Cole Jr.
The cops proceeded to begin searching my truck. A number of other cops, GSP and a neighboring SO, along with plain clothes LCSO deputies showed up. I had been sitting in the car for about 20 minutes when a red faced midget with a skin condition opened the door. He said “I’m Sherriff McClure. Is this your house?” When I told him yes, he said “Well you’re gonna spend tonight in MY house.” I thought, “Want some wine with that cheese?”
He closed the door and went to stand in the middle of my yard with all the other cops. They had a little confab, then they strolled leisurely to my porch. They formed the worst Hollywood stack I have ever seen. The Sherriff did something to the door, then loudly announced, “I opened it with a credit card!” 7 or 8 people then trundled into my home.
I sat there handcuffed, twisted up in the narrow back of the car with the windows up, roasting in the heat. 70-80 degrees outside is nice, but it gets hot quick in a sealed car.
Sherriff Mark McClure walked out of my house and over to where my red Corvette ZO6 was sitting and proceeded to open it and search it as I watched. Finding nothing other than a Kimber 1911 in my center console, he returned to my house where things were being removed and placed on the porch.
I had been in the car for about two hours or so when a scrawny white guy, about 5 foot 6 inches with a high and tight, opened the door. He was holding a tape recorder. He said “Is this your house?” I said, “Is that on?” He nodded yes and I said loudly, clearly, and firmly, “I want a lawyer.” He snorted in disgust, rewound the tape, started it and said, “Is this your house?” “I want a lawyer.” He rewound the tape, shut the door, and walked away. His name is Jason Stover. He was the head investigator.
About 45 minutes or so later a white guy, 6 feet tall, fat, blonde, came over. He removed me from the car and started walking me to the house. He said something fairly innocuous like “Nice day isn’t it?” and I thought, “What the hell?” Then I noticed the tape recorder in his shirt pocket. I said “Ah! A tape recorder! I want a lawyer!” He sighed and switched it off. His name is Ryan Miller, and he was an investigator with the LCSO.
Miller brought me into my house and sat me down on one of my chairs. The cops were enthusiastically trashing my home. Miller brought out a clip board and said, “I need you to sign this.”
“I ain’t signing shit.”
“No. You don’t understand. I need you to sign this so we can search your house.” He said this in a real buddy buddy way, ya know, c’mon maaannnn, help me out…
I looked at him, amazed, and said, “I really don’t want you people in my house.” He responded, “OK, I’ll just sign it for you then.”
“Really? I had no idea you could do that.”
As Miller and I were talking a short, pear shaped, near-mongoloid looking asshole with red hair came in. He proceeded to open a case with investigator stuff, cameras, fingerprint stuff, a recorder, etc. He began staging photos. When I called him on it he just smirked. His name is Benji Nix. He was an investigator with the LCSO.
Around 7PM I was transported to the jail. After being forcibly scalded I was placed in a holding cell. Cole thought it would be funny to tell the jailer I was suicidal, so they put me in a suicide smock, which is essentially a little green miniskirt, and nothing else. I was then placed back in a cell.
Around 10PM I was pulled out and brought to an interrogation room. There were about 6 or 7 men there. Stover came in and asked me “Are you wealthy or politically connected?”
“Are you wealthy? Doo yoou haaave a laaaaht of muuneey?” he said in a smart assed tone.
“Doo you knoow aaannny judges or senators?”
He smiled a shit eating grin and scurried out of the room on his little cockroach legs.
A big fellow with a scraggly beard introduced himself as an ATF agent. The ATF guy asked Stover if the cameras were turned off and Stover said yes.
The ATF agent said, “Look, we know about your friends.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, So I said, “OK.”
He said, “We know you are a white supremacist.”
I laughed and said “Really? How?”
“We found white supremacist literature at your house.”
“Really? What were the titles?”
He looked confused for a moment and said, “Well, I don’t know.”
“Let me know when you find out.”
He wanted to ask me about my bomb making materials. I laughed again and held out my hands. “See that? Ten fingers. I plan to keep them. I don’t play with stuff that goes boom.”
He again looked confused. “I want to talk to you about your machineguns.”
“When I get one we’ll talk then.”
He stepped outside and conferred with his fellows for a few moments. When he stepped back in he said, “Look, we’re going to get a warrant and search. Is there anything you want to tell us about? It will go easier on you if you cooperate.”
“Nothing I can do about you getting a warrant man. Have fun. I’m sleepy. I want to go back to my cell.”
The ATF slithered out, and was I led back to my private cell.
The next day I was medically cleared by a very sweet old nurse. She asked me why I was suicidal, and I told her that this was the first I had heard about it. She asked if I was seeing a doctor, so I pointed at myself.
“You’re a doctor?”
She gave me an odd look and handed me some regular clothes, then I was taken to the regular lock up.
The next day I was taken from the cells and led out. I thought I was finally going to get to make a phone call so I could get the fuck out of there. I was led to the chapel. A prisoner had told me that the chapel had no recording devices in it. I believe that may be true, and what happened there is why.
I was ushered into the chapel by a guard and then he left. A small, insignificant, prematurely balding white male was sitting there in a cheap suit. He introduced himself as Special Agent “Smith” of the FBI. I stuck out my hand and he looked at me with an absolute sneer. I thought, “Oh no, motherfucker. I have shaken the hands of politicians, pedophiles, and used car dealers and you won’t shake MY hand? Uh uh, noooo.”
He held up a clip board.
“Look, I want to talk to you, but first I need you to sign this.
“I ain’t signing shit.”
He gave me a stern look and said in a nasty tone, “I don’t think you understand. I’m a Federal Agent. I have a lot of power here. I can make all these little local charges disappear, but you have to sign this and talk to me about your friends.”
I thought to myself “He can’t make shit disappear and just what the hell is this “friends” bullshit? And what charges? Speeding and resisting?”
I counted to ten in my head, slowly, then said, “OK. I’ll sign.”
“You will?” He had this eager surprised look on his face, like he couldn’t believe that crap had worked. As he proffered the board and a pen I said, “Whoa! Before I sign I’ll need a letter from the magistrate stating that when I sign this all my local charges are automatically dismissed.”
He gave me a dirty look and put down the clip board.
He took a deep breath…
“I have a gun collection.”
“Good for you.”
“No. I have a gun collection, but it’s not like your’s.”
“Ha!” I said, pointing at him, “You’re married!”
“He looked confused for a moment and said, “Yes, but, no, that’s not what I mean. I mean I have a gun collection, but it’s not like your’s.”
“Well, set aside some of your disposable income every month and after a while you can build one up.”
“No. I mean I don’t have a collection like your’s.”
“Work at it!”
He paused and breathed deeply.
Quietly he said, “I have a gun collection,” then he threw up his hand to stop my reply, “but it isn’t like your’s”, hand up again, “I don’t keep hundreds of loaded magazines lying around.”
“Neither do I.”
“Yes you do.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes you do! I saw pictures!”
“I’ll bet you saw lots of pictures. What did they do? Take the 5 or 6 loaded mags I have in my range bag and lay them on top of all the empties, then take a picture to make it look like they are all loaded? Besides, for me to load 100 mags would be 3000 rounds! I am way too lazy to do that, and doing that would destroy the mags.” He paused and considered that.
“Why do you need a hundred rifle mags anyway?”
“Then why do you have them?”
“After the assault weapon ban ended they dropped from $50 each to $10 each, and I figured if they ever brought back the AWB I would have a lifetime supply.”
He paused and considered again. He decided to try another tack.
“I want to talk about your friends.”
“”What do you mean?”
“I know you are a white supremacist.”
“Heh heh. Really?”
“And how do you know that?”
“White supremacist literature was found in your house.”
“Really? What were the titles?”
He stopped and looked at me oddly. “I don’t know.” He was starting to think that maybe something wasn’t right with the story he had been told.
“Look man, get the letter from the magistrate and I will sign your paper if my lawyer says to.” I turned to the intercom and did my best to sound like a Yankee with a hemorrhoid.
“I’d like to depart now.” The little sycophantic chickie on the other end gushed, “Oh yes sir!” and hit the button. As I stepped into the hall the SA said, “You sure you won’t sign?”, again holding out the clip board. “Get the letter and I will.”
He looked at me with a flat expression and said, “They’re going to ream you out.”
The next day I was again led out of the cells by an escort. Again I hoped to get a phone call.
I was led to the same interrogation room from the first night. In the room was Jason Stover and Benji Nix.
They sat me down at the table. Nix said nothing.
“We’d like to talk to you about this.” Stover shoved towards me one of MY gallon ziplock bags containing all my antibiotics, cardiac drugs, local anesthetics, and other meds.
“What the hell is this?”
“Drugs!” he yelled exultantly.
“Where is my lawyer?”
“We don’t need a lawyer. Let’s just talk about this first.”
For the first time since this began I raised my voice. I yelled, “MOTHERFUCKER! I want a lawyer! I told you I wanted a lawyer back at the house! I told your asshole buddy I wanted a lawyer back at the house! I WANT A LAWYER! WHERE’S MY FUCKING LAWYER?”
“You never said you wanted a lawyer!”
“You recorded it on tape! Where’s my lawyer?”
“Oh! You want a lawyer! Oh, umm…” He looked at Nix and said, “You need to erase the video tape.” He gestured at the camera on the wall with his head.
Nix grunted “OK.”
I was then led back to the cells.
The next day I was allowed to make a phone call. The first lawyer on the wall wasn’t there, so I called the next. By absolute serendipity I got the best damned criminal lawyer in the Enotah Circuit.
“Raymond George, can I help you?”
I introduced myself and gave him a thumbnail. I told him I needed to get out so I could get my defense rolling and that I needed to get bonded out. I couldn’t tell him the charges because I didn’t know.
He said OK, then I asked his fee. It was pricey. It was more than worth every damned penny in the end.
I told him fine, you’ll be paid in an hour, and gave him a contact name. There was silence, so I had to make sure he was still there. He was, and three hours later I went before the magistrate judge for bail.
I had 37 charges levied against me. 33 drug charges, and 4 non-drug. 7 were felonies. I was charged with having pennicillan, amoxicillan, Benadryl, Dramamine, and curiously, I had a felony “Dangerous Weapon” charge. Just to help you understand how eager they were to stack any charges on me no matter how ridiculous, there were 4 doses of Benadryl and two doses of Dramamine, still in the original wrappers. You can buy them that way at most gas stations.
I went to my lawyer’s office and told him the story. I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe a bit of it. When I told him about the FBI jackass he started to look sick, but was laughing when I finished the story.
After that I went and got some junk food, and headed home. My house was destroyed. They had trashed the place but their vandalism hadn’t ended with just throwing things and turning over furniture. They had broken off my door knobs and damaged the walls and smashed a few plates as well.
I got everything back into a semblance of order and noted that in addition to my medicines I was missing my MP5/10, a pristine West German marked Sig 226, a bunch of camping gear, the web gear I used as an armed contractor in Iraq, a bunch of mags, a parachute bag, my computer, my brand new digital video camera, and some other odds and ends. All my other guns were there though.
My door mat was missing. It said COME BACK WITH A WARRANT in big letters.
There was also a warrant on the dining room table. I read it completely, but could not find the narrative alluded to in the warrant. The warrant had been signed for the search at 10:15PM, more than 7 hours after they started their search. Nix was the affiant, and he stated in the application that they needed a warrant because they had been searching without one.
I brought the warrant to my attorney and told him of the missing items. When he read the warrant he asked if I had tampered with it. I had not. He got a huge smile on his face. Then he told me not to worry, it was probably a paperwork mix up, everything was at the property room.
The terms of my bond said no firearms were to be in my possession and that I was to remain at home from 7PM to 7AM every day.
That night I cleaned my guns and packed a few mags, then I went for a ride. I got home about 10PM, and saw my landlord at my place.
We talked a bit about what went down and he told me there were a number of witnesses. He also told me that they had left my pistols sitting on my truck seats in plain view with the doors opened wide overnight, and that a neighbor had called him to go shut the truck doors.
I thanked him, and went to bed, my AR beside me.
Over the next two months I got my witnesses to make statements. My lawyer spoke to the magistrate judge who was incensed at how he had been lied to and promised to testify on my behalf.
My door mat was found by some workers building a new deck for me. It had been folded up and stuffed under the back porch. My lawyer was delighted when he saw it.
We proceeded to wait. We were prepared for trial, all we needed was a date. Once a month I would call Raymond up and our conversations were always a variation of:
“Hey Raymond. Anything?”
About 8 months in we were told that there was some audio we could listen to at the DA’s office. I was happy. See, they had told us there was no patrol video, so I wanted to hear the audio.
Ooops…It was the video, and it was absolute gold. We watched it and my lawyer was about to have a seizure he was so happy. The deputy never turned on his lights, never used his siren, never used his PA, and was never behind me until I was in my yard. The deputy’s repeated histrionic screaming that he was going to murder me did not make him look real good.
Then the secretary told us there were evidence photos. We looked at them, many illegally staged, and I said “HAH! See! He stacked loaded mags on the empties! You can see the followers! Just like I told you man!”
Raymond gave me a level look and said, “You were right.”
I told him, “Ya know man, nobody ever gets it 100% right. Nobody. It doesn’t matter who you are, but ya know what? I have been 100% right in everything I said, haven’t I?”
11 months and 6 grand juries later we got tired of waiting and asked for a committal hearing. This is where a magistrate hears the initial part of the case and he can make a summary ruling. The “judge” who heard my case was a “man” named Edmondson. He agreed that they had performed an illegal search then dismissed our claim stating the search was reasonable.
The old SOB saw me downstairs 10 minutes later, still in his robes. He stopped me and haltingly apologized to me. I smiled, shook my head, and walked off saying nothing.
I retained the services of a civil suit attorney named Matt Karzen. At 22 months, in February of 2008, we served McClure, Cole, Nix, Miller, and the road deputy supervisor Curt Donaldson with a federal lawsuit. We were running out of time because there is a 2 year limit to file. A buddy called me up about the time we filed the civil suit. He is an ex-cop, a CLEO in fact. He said, “Now I see why you have been pissed off about cops lately.” Turns out this case got national exposure in law enforcement circles as an example of how not to do traffic stops, searches, or any other damned thing.
When someone’s actions are held up as an example of how not to do things and the example is uniformly ridiculed by a professional peer group, that’s called a clue.
3 months after I filed my civil suit my criminal case went before a grand jury. All of the charges but 5 were spontaneously nolle prosequi by the DA. The charges remaining were the dangerous weapon, a dose of morphine from my cardio kit, a dose of ativan from my intubation kit, and a couple of other meds. Everything I had was legally acquired, and I was set to prove it in court.
My lawyer filed for a Jackson Denno hearing, where essentially you get to try the case without penalty before you actually try it.
The cops were the best witnesses I had. The idiots didn’t even try to lie when they were on the stand. They flat out admitted to almost everything. They acted like they were proud of what they had done. The “dangerous weapon”? Sherriff McClure said, “When I found the MP5 it was legal, but I figured if I took the end part off it would be illegal, so I did.” He manufactured an SBR in my house, in plain violation of state and federal law, then called the ATF.
By the way, I never did hear from the ATF or the FBI again. I am still waiting for my letter from the magistrate clearing me if I sign the FBI form. It has been nearly 6 years since I spoke to the FBI weasel. Anyone, please! If you spot a short, bald, scrawny, small testicled CPA looking asshole with a letter ask him if he is with the FBI and if the letter is for me.
In the middle of the Jackson Denno hearing the ADA, Thomas Dee Wight, attempted to get me to take a plea deal. I’m a flexible guy, so I went with my attorney to the court house.
The first offer was plead guilty to a felony, serve one year in jail, $5000 fine, drop the law suit.
Then it was guilty to a felony, 30 days, $1000 fine, drop the law suit.
Guilty to speeding, 30 days, $500 fine, drop the law suit.
No contest to the speeding ticket, $500 fine, time served, drop the suit.
No contest to the speeding ticket, drop the suit.
I looked my attorney in the eye. “Raymond, tell him I will plead guilty to a felony, time served, and I will drop the suit.
Raymond by now knew me, so he started getting a nervous look.
“Why would you do that?”
“Wight, Nix, Stover, McClure, Cole, Donaldson, and Miller will all agree to surrender themselves to justice at my hands.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Castrate them, emasculate them, and desquamate them.”
“What does desquamate mean?”
“Hang them upside down and peel their skins off in one piece with a winch, then post the videos.”
“Won’t that kill them?”
“No. Dehydration over the course of a day will do that.”
“I don’t think he’ll go for it.”
“Then I guess he just doesn’t want to win enough.”[Editor's note: This is a submitted post and reflects the views of the author only.]
The final written plea offer was 10 years, serve 3, $25,000 fine, 10,000 hours community service. First time bank robbers don’t get a sentence that harsh.
After three days of the Jackson Denno hearing spread out over 4 months, the Superior Court judge rendered his verdict. It was scathing. He lambasted the cops and their actions. He mocked the consent to search form that had been signed “Let’s go look” by Miller who admitted it. He was aghast at the fact that they destroyed evidence, then blatantly stated they had done so. He basically called them criminals over and over.
On February 23rd, 2009, all my remaining charges were dropped by the DA’s office.
Fun fact: The dash video of Cole’s stop is now part of Georgia POST training to teach police cadets how NOT to do a traffic stop. The guy is an object lesson, and will be the subject of a future article.
My attorney got back my rifle and my computer and my video camera, but many things were missing. Someone had stolen the Trijicon scope off of my rifle, and the missing pistol, web gear, and camping gear was a serious load of stuff that they had made off with when they were “searching” my home.
That’s when it got interesting…
Dr. Asher served 8 years in the U.S. Army as an Infantry paratrooper and later as an MP. He later served his community as a non-corrupt police officer before deciding to pursue a career as a doctor. Along the way he spent some time in Iraq as an armed contractor.
- Waiting for EOD to arrive.