Lewisburg, Tennessee
Tuesday, April 3, 2001
Five days after the arrests of Kopp, Marra and Malvasi, the phone rang at a farmhouse in Lewisburg, Tennessee. Susan Brindle picked up. It was John Broderick, the lawyer who had once defended her sister, pro-life radical Joan Andrews. Broderick talked to Brindle about the arrest of Jim Kopp in France. He was going to see Jim on Thursday. “Any messages for him?” he asked.
“You’re seeing Jim?” Susan said, the name sounding more like “Jeem” in her southern accent. “Can I go with you?”
“Susan—”
“I’ll raise the money. Please. Can I go?”
Susan Brindle had been a pro-life activist for years, although not as high-profile as Joan. She hadn’t seen Jim Kopp in years. Susan had first met him at a pro-life convention in Atlanta in 1987, gave him a ride one day. A real decent man, she thought, really holy. A pacifist, too. She didn’t want to believe he was guilty of murder, but needed to ask him in person and see his reaction to be convinced. Broderick agreed to Susan’s request. He would get her in.
“There’s someone else I’d like Jim to meet,” she added.
That “someone” was Bart Slepian’s niece, Amanda Robb.
Bart’s death had hit her hard. She went on tranquilizers. Amanda started thinking about her uncle’s killer, maybe too much. She went to a shootings range, felt an assault rifle rock her bones as she tried to blow holes in human-shaped targets at 100 yards. Amanda’s writing career had included a daytime Emmy nomination as part of a team writing television shows like All My Children. Now she was researching an article on Kopp, on the shooting, its impact on her own family. She wanted to meet her uncle’s killer.
Her phone interview with Susan took place on the day of Jim’s arrest. The call had been prearranged, the timing was a coincidence—although Susan felt there was deeper meaning. She didn’t believe Jim had shot Dr. Slepian and she believed the call was a sign that Jesus was welcoming Amanda into Jim’s life. So she would try to get Amanda an audience with him.
The next day, April 4, Broderick, Susan, and Amanda each flew to Paris and met at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Together they took a train west to Rennes. Amanda agreed that for the first visit it would be just Susan and Broderick. At that time, Susan would prepare Jim for meeting a special visitor.
Rennes, France
Hervé Rouzaud–Le Boeuf rose early, dressed, looked out the window towards the old stone building a few blocks away. A room with a view, mused the lawyer with a grin, his pale blue eyes twinkling. The building down the street was the Rennes Court of Appeals. No matter how many times he saw it, the power of the building as a symbol never failed to strike a chord. It was where actions of the state were called into question, under the dispassionate protection of the French Constitution, by criminal lawyers such as himself, the place where justice must be done and must be seen to be done.
Rouzaud–Le Boeuf cut a jaunty figure as he left his apartment building. He looked rather like the late Canadian prime minister Pierre Trudeau: modest height, silver-gray hair of liberal length poking out from underneath a black fedora, leather briefcase in hand, maroon shirt, tweed jacket, black scarf for the nip in the air. He was 54 years old, from a city in Brittany called Vannes, where they spoke not French but Breton. His office in Rennes was on Rue Bonne Nouvelle, first floor, near Place Sainte Anne. In his office he kept prints of ships and nautical maps, a tribute to his father, who had been a captain on oceangoing cargo vessels.
He had not been surprised to receive the call requesting that he represent an American fugitive charged with murdering a doctor. A legal service had recommended Rouzaud–Le Boeuf. He was an obvious choice. He spoke fluent, elegantly formal English and was well versed in international law relating to extradition. He took the case. The lawyer knew that Mr. Kopp was accused of committing a murder in New York State, had fled the United States and ended up in France using false passports. The Americans wanted to extradite him for trial.
His thoughts turned immediately to the most pressing issue. Did Kopp face the death penalty if he was shipped back to the United States for trial? Rouzaud–Le Boeuf was well aware of the American fondness for the death penalty. Their new president, George W. Bush, inaugurated in January, had signed death warrants many times as governor of Texas. His new attorney general, the conservative John Ashcroft, a former Missouri senator, supported capital punishment as well. But he also knew that New York State had more liberal politics than other parts of the country. France, and the entire European Union, had outlawed capital punishment. The European Court of Human Rights had declared capital punishment “a form of torture and degrading treatment.”
Rouzaud–Le Boeuf considered death sentences just one of the peculiarities—and shortcomings—of the American justice system when compared to that of the French. It was not that Hervé Rouzaud– Le Boeuf was anti-American. Not at all. Let us just say the American legal system did not ring as true to him as the British, and therefore the Canadian, and particularly the French, which he favored above all else.
He brushed up on New York criminal law. Under former governor Mario Cuomo, a Democrat, there had been no death penalty. But Republican George Pataki had beaten Cuomo on a law-and-order platform that included the restoration of capital punishment. When Bart Slepian had been murdered, Pataki called it an act of terrorism and a cold-blooded assassination. The sniper, he added, should be caught and put to death. As Hervé Rouzaud–Le Boeuf prepared to meet James Charles Kopp for the first time in jail, he was well aware that his task was to save the American’s very life.
The Rennes prison is a sprawling, worn, old complex with towering walls. James Charles Kopp was led into a visitor’s meeting room, and waited. He looked drained, weak. A cold he had been fighting didn’t help. Susan Brindle and John Broderick were brought in. Jim’s eyes met Susan’s, his tired face looked relieved. An old friend. “Thank goodness you’re here,” he said. “When John said you were coming I knew everything would be all right.”
She was instantly struck by how terrible Jim looked. She took him off to one side. There was something she had to ask him.
“Jim, you know, good people, God bless them, paid for my ticket to come over here. I need to be able to tell them—you need to look me straight in the eye, be really honest with me, because—tell me, did you do this, or not?”
He looked her in the eye, unyielding, no pretension, no false sincerity, no nervous smile, no fidgeting. “Susan. I did not do this. I did not do it.”
She felt relief. She’d never believed he could have done it. And now, looking into his blue-gray eyes, hearing his voice, she was certain of it.
“You have to tell everyone, hold a press conference and tell everyone I didn’t do this,” he continued. “No one knows. Tell them, please.”
Later, Susan said she needed to ask something else. “Jim, there’s someone I want you to meet, she’s here in Rennes. Her name is Amanda, and she’s Barnett Slepian’s niece.”
His niece? Here?
“She’s a smart girl, I’ve spoken with her. She’s a pro-abort but she’s as honest as can be. She’s tormented. Will you see her?”
“Susan, please, please,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to. Just tell her for me, can you?”
“Can you do this, please, for my sake, can you? Just tell her what you told me. She has a right to meet the person accused of killing her uncle, and to learn the truth, for the sake of her own soul.”
Hervé Rouzaud–Le Boeuf arrived at the prison, was escorted to the meeting room to see his client, and quickly discovered he was not alone among those wishing to offer Mr. Kopp advice. He saw the woman with dark hair. She had an American southern accent. He took her hand in a chivalrous gesture. His English seemed from another time, words rolling off his tongue with precision and distinguished élan.
“It is most pleasant to meet you.”
No matter what he said, Hervé Rouzaud–Le Boeuf sounded like a diplomat holding court at a cocktail party. She was introduced to him as a “legal clerk” but seemed more a friend of Mr. Kopp’s. There was a lawyer there, an American named John Broderick. A colorful man, this Mr. Broderick, caricature of the avuncular Irish-American, tall, gruff, booming voice, viselike handshake. A strong personality. But then, James Kopp had a strong personality, too, Rouzaud–Le Boeuf could tell that from the start. Very opinionated. Kopp did not seem to mesh well with Mr. Broderick, they did not seem to share the same views, not today, anyway. There were loud disagreements. Eventually the French lawyer sat with Jim, away from the others. Now was his chance to take the measure of his client. Rouzaud–Le Boeuf looked into the mans eyes. Mr. Kopp was clearly agitated, frightened, surely in need of rest. Understandable. But the lawyer needed to know the truth.
“Mr. Le Boeuf. I am innocent.”
The lawyer studied him. Kopp spoke in detail of the road to his arrest, rambling at times, going off on tangents, but repeatedly stressing his innocence. Rouzaud–Le Boeuf had stared into many faces over the years, both the guilty and innocent. Looking at his new client, he was convinced. It wasn’t so much what he said, or that he had an airtight alibi—he did not. Rather it was the genuine way he talked. By the time he left the prison, the lawyer had no doubt. He had not been sitting next to a murderer, he thought.
Susan spoke further with Jim. There was so much she wanted to know. Why had Jim planned to return to the United States right before his arrest? Why not just stay safe in Europe? “It’s insane, Jim, you’re free, why come back to America?”
“Because I heard that Amy had cancer.”
What? Amy? What, Susan wondered, does Amy Boissonneault have to do with this? She hadn’t seen Amy in at least a year. Amy was 34 years old, 12 years Jim’s junior, and was the best friend of Susan’s daughter. Susan had no idea Jim felt so close to Amy. He told her he had tried to send Amy money so she could undergo alternative cancer treatment. “I heard she had cancer,” he said, “but at her age, it was low risk, I thought she’d be OK, but when I heard it went to her brain I had to get back to America. I had to tell her that I love her—and ask her to marry me.”
Susan’s eyes teared up, and so did Jim’s.
“For the first time in my life,” he continued, “I feel that Jesus wants me to have a wife and kids.”
Jim had felt affection towards Amy for a long time. Perhaps he never revered her in the same way as he did Loretta, but Jim was attracted to Amy and admired her. Jim likened Amy to Mother Teresa. Both women were gentle, saintly, on the surface, but underneath were also tough as nails. Jim loved that about her. Amy called herself a tough farm girl. Jim knew the feminists would hear that and miss the point. She was delivering calves with her bare hands when she was ten, he liked to say. You could find her in the dead of winter up on a friend’s roof fixing a hole. That’s the kind of woman she was. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Susan. It was from a magazine, a picture of an engagement ring.
“You’re thinking, ‘Jim is crazy, he’s finally lost it,’ and I understand that,” he said. “But I need you to do this for me. I need you to find this ring, have it blessed, and then call Amy’s father, ask him for permission.”
“Permission? Jim, her father is going to give his blessing for his daughter, who has cancer, to marry a man who is accused of murder, who’s been gone two and a half years? It’s insane!”
“I know, I—”
“Look, I’ll ask her, but not her father.”
“No-no-no, just ask him, just say, ‘Mr. Boissonneault, if Amy didn’t have cancer, and if Jim wasn’t in jail accused of murder, would you allow him to date Amy?’ And if he says no, then don’t ask her. I’ll just pray. I’m meant to wait. But if the answer is yes, can you find her, bring her over here to me?”
Susan left the jail that night, thoughts swirling, caught between what her heart and her mind were telling her. Her heart won out. Back at the hotel, she spoke to Amanda Robb. Jim had not killed her uncle, Susan was sure of it. And Jim was about to become engaged.
“Jesus is going to work a miracle,” Susan said. “I just know they’re gonna get married and have babies.”
Amanda couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
The next day, Bart Slepian’s niece was introduced to Jim Kopp. She expected to meet him in a room divided by Plexiglas. But in the Rennes jail they sat in a private room, only a wooden table separating them. Jim carried a Bible with him. Amanda, a writer, soaked up the atmosphere, took the measure of this man Kopp, made mental notes. He was tall, lean. Baby-blue eyes. Handsome? Yes, she decided, maybe even shockingly handsome. He offered his hand. “Hi, I’m Jim,” he said.
She shook his hand and quietly muttered, “Amanda.”
Amanda later wrote an article about the meeting, and her quest to find Kopp, and sold it to New York Magazine. It ran under the headline “The Doctor, The Niece And The Killer.” She wrote:
“There was a long silence, and to fill it I told Jim two people had sent their love to him via me. The instant I mentioned the second person’s name, Jim curled into a fetal position and sobbed… Eventually he choked out that he thought this person hated him. He pulled himself together, saying, “If you wait long enough, everything in life comes back to you.” Then he started rambling… His narrative was a tangle of strands about victim souls, abortion, his “calling” to stop it, his destiny, my uncle’s murder, and fleeting mentions of his “fiancée.” “I didn’t shoot your uncle,” he said. “But I’m going to plead guilty and do the time—25 years straight up—because someone of my religion did.” This hung heavily in the air. I worried I was going to throw up. As I felt my face twitching, Jim smiled beatifically and changed the subject to movies. He suggested I watch Pay It Forward, which he said was the story of his life… He then urged me to see There’s Something About Mary and quietly added that I looked like Cameron Diaz… It suddenly dawned on me that my uncle’s killer was flirting with me.”
Amanda Robb told Jim she wanted to understand him, asked if she could write to him. He agreed. A guard entered the room to escort him back to his cell. He handed Amanda a Bible. Inside, he had written “To Mandy.” Only her family had ever called her by that nickname, she reflected.
Before leaving Rennes, Susan Brindle spoke to Jim about Amy one more time. Amazing thing. Susan had called home and spoken to her sister about Jim’s proposal to marry Amy. And her sister Joan said that out of the blue Amy had called, said she was coming to town, would stop in to say hi. Susan relayed the story to Jim and he smiled. God was directing everything! Susan finally said goodbye to Jim. She took the train back to Paris. That night she searched for the ring Jim had requested, went store to store for several hours, until, late in the evening, she found a small jeweler who had it. She bought the ring and took it to Notre Dame Cathedral to get it blessed. No priest was available, so she returned the next morning to early mass and got the ring blessed. Then she caught her flight to New York. Susan called Amy’s father early the next day. He knew she had been in France visiting Jim Kopp. “How are you, Susan? And how was Jim?”
Susan got around to asking. “Mr. Boissonneault, can I ask you a really strange question? If Amy didn’t have cancer, and Jim wasn’t in jail, would you ever allow him to ask her out? I just need to know.”
“Kind of an odd question, don’t you think?” he said. “I know, I know. But I need to know.”
“It’s not really up to me. It’s up to Amy.”
“Thank you. And God bless.”
Susan went and saw Amy, who was visiting Joan’s home. They walked in the backyard past a statue of the Blessed Mother. “How is Jim?” asked Amy. “Does he talk about his friends?” “He does. He talks about you.”
“Me?”
“He talks about you, he really cares about you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He loves you, Amy.”
Amy stared at her, bewildered. “What? Jim? I always—I always thought of him like a priest, in a way. Never thought of him in that way.”
Susan smiled. That was how she had always felt about him, too. “Jim did say that you went on a date once,” she said.
“A date?”
“Yes, to an antique store or something.”
“That wasn’t a date!”
“Well, Jim doesn’t go out alone with girls, and you two were alone. To him it was a date.”
Amy was shocked. She didn’t know what to say. Susan drew the engagement ring out of her pocket.
“Jim asked me, Amy, to ask you to marry him.”
Amy started to cry. Susan did too. “You can tell him to ask me in person when I see him in France.”
It was all too much. But miracles happen, right? Maybe Amy would get better, and Jim would get out of jail, and—and they could get married, maybe even live in France. But Amy was dying, they had no future, did they?
Susan, Amy, and Susan’s daughter flew to France and visited Jim in the Rennes prison. They met as a group, then Amy and Jim met privately. The women left the jail and walked outside its walls to a specific spot Jim had told them about. Just stand there and listen, he had said. It was dark. They could barely hear, but were sure they could make something out.
God bless him. He was singing hymns.
Susan felt Jim had a beautiful voice. Not everyone was a fan— his singing drove his cellmates crazy. He had shared a cell with a Brit who was being extradited. They got along at first, but after a while he asked to be moved because Kopp sang his hymns, loudly, at three or four o’clock in morning. Amy made one last visit to see Jim. He did not propose to her. She asked him not to. She did not have much time to live, she was certain of that. Before they said goodbye, Jim elicited a promise from Amy. They would not tell anyone about their relationship, or what was said in private. They would take the secret with them to the grave.
Rennes, France
Tuesday, May 8, 2001
On May 8, the U.S. Justice Department formally submitted a request to the French government for the extradition of James Charles Kopp. A deadline was set for the end of the month for the French courts to decide the matter. Under the extradition treaty between the two countries, no one arrested in France for a crime committed in the United States could face a penalty harsher than a convict would face in France. As the deadline neared, American officials speaking for Attorney General John Ashcroft insisted that the death penalty remain an option should Kopp be found guilty of murder. This, even though the European Court of Human Rights had previously ruled that no individual could be extradited from any European country without a guarantee that capital punishment be taken off the table. The French Court of Appeal in Rennes would make the final decision on the matter.
Hervé Rouzaud–Le Boeuf considered the situation an intriguing one. His client had broken no French law. Perhaps he might be charged with illegal entry to the country, using a false passport and so on. Perhaps. Might get a couple of months in jail. After that? If the extradition failed, Mr. Kopp could stay in France or go elsewhere. No Western European country would send him back to the United States to face the death penalty. He could remain in legal limbo indefinitely.
Hervé Rouzaud–Le Boeuf faced something of a dilemma. On the one hand he could hope that Ashcroft would agree to drop the death penalty. But that would mean extradition and a murder trial for his client, a possible life sentence. On the other hand, maybe it would be better if there was no deal at all. Then French justice would determine Kopp’s fate. Rouzaud–Le Boeuf had many long talks with his client. The American was an engaging man, highly intelligent, but could be volatile at times, unpredictable. He talked of his family, his father. He told a fantastic story of how he ended up in France: he had learned that the Archbishop in Ireland was a homosexual, had started telling others about the fact, and some clergy urged Kopp to get out of the country. Yes, in their early conversations, Mr. Kopp seemed quite agitated, at times unbalanced.
The day neared when the Court of Appeal in Rennes would make its extradition decision. Rouzaud–Le Boeuf received a phone call. He should appear in court immediately. There he was handed the faxed letter. It was from the U.S. embassy in Paris. The Americans would not seek the death penalty for James Charles Kopp. Rouzaud–Le Boeuf smiled. His client was going to live. Of course, the Americans had little choice. They could not risk losing Kopp altogether. And, if Kopp was innocent, as his lawyer strongly believed, then he would be ultimately acquitted. How might Kopp fare in New York? He had retained a high-profile Buffalo defense lawyer named Paul Cambria. He would of course still need to navigate the American legal system and its sideshows—the media frenzy, the money, courtroom histrionics, plea bargains. In America, Rouzaud–Le Boeuf reflected, innocent men sometimes end up in prison, admit to crimes they did not commit.
There was something else that worried him. There was a signature missing on the letter from the U.S. embassy—Ashcroft’s. It should be there, he thought. This was an important case, shouldn’t the attorney general himself make the decision? Now, on the other hand, it was unthinkable that top American officials would renege on such a promise. It would be a gross violation of international law. But there was still that risk, however small. On June 7, Rouzaud–Le Boeuf got what he was looking for—a public statement from Ashcroft on the extradition agreement:
James Charles Kopp committed a heinous crime that deserves severe punishment. We need to send a strong message that, no matter what our differences are, violence is not the solution. The FACE laws were created to ensure that violence against individuals providing legally available health services is not tolerated and will carry a stiff penalty, and I intend to enforce those laws. Shortly after the arrest, the French government, pursuant to its law and practice, asked the United States to assure it that the death penalty will not be imposed or carried out. Nevertheless, I have been working to ensure the United States’ ability to pursue strong punishment for this terrible crime. I wanted to make sure that our nation would not be constrained by limits placed on Kopp’s extradition by France, preventing us from seeking punishment outlined by our laws and our Constitution, such as the death penalty. Unfortunately, in order to ensure that Kopp is not released from custody and is brought to justice in America, we have had to agree not to seek the death penalty. I share the sentiments of Dr. Slepian’s widow, Lynne Slepian, that if the choice is between extraditing Kopp to face these serious charges in a United States court or risking his release by France, the priority must be Kopp’s return.
On June 28, the Court of Appeals in Rennes ruled that Kopp should be extradited to the United States for trial. But to Jim the game was just beginning. He was a lawyer’s son, after all. He decided to challenge the court’s decision. If he could delay his return, all the better. And if the ruling was by some chance overturned, he could remain in Europe indefinitely. As for the death penalty, he didn’t trust any of them back home, not even the pro-life conservative Ashcroft, whose hands were surely tied on the matter. The abortion industry was bigger than any one man. They all wanted him to suffer. The Edgars were no doubt putting the full-court press on anyone he had ever known or loved back home, he thought. No, once the Americans got him back home, all bets were off. He was certain “The Government” would never cease trying to make an example of him. And that meant that a lethal injection might still await James C. Kopp.
Rennes, France
Spring 2001
As Jim Kopp waited for the appeal court to rule, he wrote letters to family and friends. Now was his chance to explain the last two and a half years. Jim was certain the FBI had given his brother, Walter, who still lived in California, a rough ride. In his mind’s eye he could see the men in dark suits and sunglasses hounding his twin brother. “Yeah, uh, gee, Walt, we think you oughta cooperate—seems we found this stuff called DNA at the murder scene. James Kopp’s DNA. Couldn’t be anyone else’s DNA. Well, unless of course the killer had a twin. You reading us here, partner? Jail is not a pleasant place to be, Walt…”
He wrote Walter, protesting his innocence, defending his convictions:
I have been framed. I guess I just wanted to make certain you knew there was no deal on the table and likely not to be with the way I have been drawn and quartered before I even got to court. They knew they didn’t have to deal, not after the job they have done on me… I don’t blame you one bit if you are upset and frustrated. Me too, you know. I didn’t do this. But one thing I am guilty as hell about is my religion and beliefs, especially pro-life. In that regard I’m no different from all the people being put in new graves in Israel and Beijing… I know this is hard. You are suffering, through no fault of your own, for your brother’s religion. Many people in Russia and China are dead over this. You are so kind to keep asking to help when all I gave you, via the movement, not via killing anybody, is grief. I guess what I’m trying to say is that it is my religion and belief that bother the powers that be. If I were not pro-life, they would have not gotten this far. Actually, they would never have thought of it. I would be no greater a suspect than you are… My current lawyer, who I hope to keep, hates pre-trial publicity. But there is another set of lawyers out there who I have no control over who want to show the world about how I have been framed.
In another letter to Walt, he further developed his self-portrait as innocent fall guy:
If I could name who shot Slepian, I would. But I do not know for certain. I suspect I’m in trouble because I can make a good guess. But it’s nothing they don’t already know. Even if the FBI knew I did not do it, it’s too late for them to change horses and stick the blame on someone else. Do not to be ashamed is my word. I would think that’s good enough. But most people only believe what they read in the newspaper.
He wrote a long letter to Susan Brindle, intended as a message for all his friends to see—and he knew the Edgars would be reading it at their leisure, too:
The Peace of the Lord be always with you, but especially today!
I don’t like writing generic letters, i.e. letters intended for more than one person, but I am out of paper and stamps, and so many people have written. Also, it is tedious to repeat things, to the point where I don’t repeat them, and even good friends, as a result, are clueless.
As I told the extradition judge here, I am innocent of this terrible thing, and I desire to enter an American court as soon as possible to clear my name. Any delays toward that goal are procedural in terms of the slow grinding of the wheels of justice. Some advantage accrues to my defense lawyers in that they can prepare a defense.
Preparing a defense in this sense does not mean merely establish my alibi and things like that, things I could have attempted two and a half years ago. “Preparing a defense” means becoming familiar with the bizarre twists against me. For example, you would think that hair or carpet fiber appearing in a forest is laughable enough, and not hardly worth refuting, especially as both appear in connection with the stealing of my car from an airport parking lot. But suppose other defects appear in the hair itself; and you can get the hair omitted by pointing this out? Do you see what I mean? These are the sorts of decisions Mr. Cambria (my lawyer) must face. All of this stuff has to be evaluated on its merits, even if its appearance is ludicrous.
Why did I run away if I’m innocent? This is what everyone wants to know. The answer is a person, not a thing or an idea. The person is Maurice Lewis, R.I.P., who was poisoned in Canada in 1996, roughly.
Maurice’s body was found in a truck parked on the side of the road. His body had lain there two days. The official cause of death is “no apparent cause” or trauma—nothing except that he was dead. The RCMP report indicated the presence of someone who cleaned up the death scene before the RCMP got there (Royal Canadian Mounted Police—like CHPs, or State Troopers in the United States). Why do we know this? The RCMP makes no reference to any wrappers, papers, soda cans or bottles or bags that one would associate with eating a snack. The only people I know with no food wrappers in their cars are people who only eat in restaurants on long drives. Maurice Lewis was not such a person. All prolifers eat cheap so they can save money to pay for the expenses of pregnant women, which Maurice Lewis did do.
I spent six weeks alone with Maurice in a strip cell in Rome, when we were beaten. I know about him. So, the death of Maurice weighed on my mind in Fall 1998, when the first news of the FBI seeking me as a witness came on the news (i.e. if that’s how they treated Maurice, what about me?). Then there was the matter of the 1985 San Francisco trial against me for charges of assault with a deadly weapon. I was acquitted, but what a pain! I was not interested in repeating that experience.
Then there were outstanding warrants in a jurisdiction where I had just finished suing (unsuccessfully) the warden, who, (before I sued him) had murdered two inmates, crushing them to death in a trash compactor during an escape attempt. (Don’t worry, he won’t sue me for libel, this is an open fact demonstrated in court—the prosecution merely needed an eyewitness.)
So let’s review the bidding, as Nancy Kopp would say:
a) Maurice Lewis;
b) San Francisco, AWDW (i.e. I have already been charged with things I didn’t do);
c) Pittsburgh warrants (exposure: 4 years.)
Even so, when I heard I was wanted for questioning, I tried to turn myself in through a Vermont lawyer, Dan Lynch… and lo and behold when I called an intermediary, Dan had become a judge. This gave me pause. (Can you turn yourself in to a judge?) Sounded awfully ex parte to me.
So, the run theory prevailed. If I had it all to do over again, I probably would not have run away. But that’s hindsight.
If the above does not make sense, please ask any veteran rescuer, any veteran object of U.S. lawsuits, or for that matter (esp. about Maurice…) anyone familiar with Mena witness murders (New American Spectator), (No I am not a conspiracy theorist… yet).
My spirits are good. I look forward to a vigorous defense. My eyes are on God, I am looking to Him to free me. I am tired of running. The evangelical chaplain here gave me a tape of hymns by 2nd Chapter of Acts. Here is my favorite:
I pray for you all. Please write, don’t be afraid. Send it unsigned through a lawyer if you wish. I’ll figure out who you are. God bless you.
Remember my chains. It was a quote from St. Paul’s letter to the Colossians, 4:18.