We’re governed today by men and he-women, not laws

By Olaf Childress
firstfreedom@gulftel.com

Begging your pardon that this issue has only 20 pages; I was unavoidably detained at a distance from my electronic confuser. New readers: The First Freedom aims to shout, shout the battle cry of freedom. And, inasmuch as I was minding my private business, motoring along on a highway last May when held up by a Police State roadblock that put me behind bars for “failing to salute a police officer, show proof of insurance, drag myself across the pavement at no inconvenience to those shakedown artists (resisting arrest) and a lapsed license plate decal,” your editor is taking that challenge as an opportunity to pursue this matter of Alabama’s 144-year occupation under the tyrant’s yoke. I was in a hearse with signs, “Death to the 14th Amendment” and battle flags plus “www.14thfraud.com.”

Our Dixie forever!
She’s never at a loss!
Down with the eagle
And up with the cross!
We’ll rally ’round the bonny flag,
We’ll rally once again,
Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

I shall explain from personal experience why we must appeal to a Higher Power than these visible, TV-addicted magistrates and juries; which is not to cease pursuing justice in the here and now, but quite the contrary. As this is written in mid-February 2009, the longer version by court reporter Rheannon Miller of Bay Area Reporting in Mobile, Alabama (she estimates 152 pages at $4 –, $650 already paid), should confirm what’s abbreviated here.

Convicted on July 2, 2008, by the town of Silverhill’s municipal court Judge Ken Raines and having paid $1,900 “costs” and fines on that date, I returned there the next day and handed over an additional $1,250 in order to file an appeal for a jury hearing.

Summoned to the circuit court at Bay Minette, Alabama, on three separate dates (8/26/08, 12/01/08, 2/02/09), I refused the systemites’ hints to drop my demands, and, on February 3, 2009, actually stood before 23 candidates for twelve jury seats.

Judge Harry Wilters: “Mr. Childress, do you actually feel competent to argue your own case? Do you understand how to strike a jury? What kind of education have you got?”

“Yes, yes, and as a newspaper editor I’m not without letters.”

“Turn off that recorder on your table.”

The elderly judge then bade me question those prospective jurors. Invited to rise and identify herself, Cathy Higgins of Fairhope said housekeeper, age 47, works at Holiday Inn. I asked her: “May Congress pass a law respecting an establishment of religion?”

“Sit down!” shouted the judge at myself on the first of what was to become several such outbursts during his kangaroo leaps. “You may not refer to the law, just the facts of this case.”

“Your Honor, I wish to stand before a jury of my peers, which would indicate that they, too, must prove themselves educated and qualified to render true justice.”

“Your what? No! Just stick to the facts regarding this case. I’ll tell them the law.”

At that point the prosecutor stood and magnanimously offered no objections to my selecting all twelve of the jurors. Most systemites are pretty sure of themselves. It’s great amusement within the courthouse crowd. “Alright,” said the judge, turning to me: “Okay, which twelve?”

“Your Honor, I would like to ask them some questions, if not about their grasp of the law, then perhaps whether they reckon themselves liberals or conservatives, how long they’ve lived here, etc.”

With a huge sigh: “Okay, we’ll give you another chance to question the jurors about the facts of this case. Stick with the facts.”

“Very well. Members of the jury pool, do any of you know anything at all about the facts of this case? No? Then I’ll just ask each of you to stand and tell me about your hobbies or some such trivia.”

And thus did I strike the jury.

Judge Wilters: “Mr. Childress, you have asked for a new trial. This is it; Silverhill doesn’t count. We are not here conducting an appeal hearing but a whole new trial. Do you understand that?”

“No. An appeal for my constitutionally guaranteed right to come before a jury and explain the lower court’s errors was timely filed in accord with official instructions. This is the fifth time I’ve been summoned to appear regarding the charges of which I was convicted and punished at that first ‘hearing,’ the four others in Bay Minette all resulting from my demand. This jury must now hear my charge – which the previous magistrate wouldn’t even consider – that the court itself lacks jurisdiction over a sovereign until proving its own legitimacy when challenged.”

Thus began my recorded ordeal.

Stating his case and addressing the jury for this “all-new” trial, Silverhill’s attorney (same prosecutor as before!) Michael A. Dasinger III reiterated the four charges for which I now stood facing double jeopardy. Halted at a Police State roadblock on May 29, 2008, the “defendant” had disobeyed a police officer and resisted arrest (didn’t get out of his auto promptly when told to do so), produced no evidence of insurance or occupation government’s license plate.

“Do you wish to address the jury at this time?” asked Judge Wilters. Yes, I replied.

Knowing the court should not normally interrupt one’s opening statement, this was it. “Members of the jury, I appreciate your coming here to consider my appeal today regarding the lower court’s errors…”

“Sit down!” screamed the judge. “I told you, this is a new trial; if you can’t stick to the facts, that’s all.”

After a brief exchange with prosecutor Dasinger, he again turned in the direction of my table, wanting to know whether I had anything further to say.

“Yes, your Honor, I have arguments and extensive evidence for the jury regarding the facts, if allowed to continue. But I can’t see this hearing as due process if forbidden to speak the truth.”

Another sigh. “Okay, get on with it.”

“Members of the jury, even though the court may not see it that way, I do not come before you as a defendant, but rather as an appellant seeking due process. For here we have Mr. Dasinger defending the lower court’s errors which are many…”

“Sit down!” resounded the judge. I did. “Mr. Childress, we are not going to go on like this.”

But we did keep jousting, and my effort as an unlicensed practitioner who knows something about law of the land – to apprise this jury of the fact that there’s no crime without an injured party – drew the judge’s further wrath.

Prosecutor Dasinger called Police Chief Kimberly Wasdin of Silverhill to render an account of my arrest at her roadblock. Now came my turn, the judge asking if I had any questions for her.

“Yes, your Honor. Though I did not care to cross-examine the witness at Silverhill, at this time, however, in order that the jury may have at least some kind of a contest to render a verdict upon, I will now put a few questions to her. Ms. Wasdin, would that I could’ve been at that terrible crime scene you’ve described. Are you sure you didn’t yell loudly at me, and did not your squad brutally drag myself across the pavement to your patrol car?”

“No, sir, I asked you politely to comply with my instructions and was ignored.”

“But did I not offer to read the Fourth Amendment to you which forbids setting up such roadblocks?”

“Yes, sir, you mentioned having a copy of the constitution.”

“And you were very courteous in that performance of duty, calling me ‘sir,’ never shouting or using unnecessary force?”

A Herculean task stood before me here: I had to somehow bring this lying, neurotic female police chief who enjoys posing as Rambo to show her true colors.

“Yes, sir, that’s how it was.”

“Just whose idea was that Police State roadblock; did the people of Silverhill ask you to set it up?”

“Federal grants provide for them.”

“Were you drawing overtime pay when hauling me off at 7:00 PM to spend a night here in Bay Minette’s jail?”

“We don’t get extra pay, sir; police are on duty 24/7.”

“Silverhill is merely a one-traffic-light crossroads; yet, because I saw about fifty defendants arriving on July 2, the same day as I, at its municipal court and another fifty names were called who didn’t show, please tell us how many tickets you wrote up at that very profitable roadblock.”

“About forty.”

“Those recent police training seminars out back of Silverhill’s town hall, some 15 or 20 combat-uniformed police, what was that all about?”

Judge Wilters: “Stick with the facts that pertain to your case. Just the four charges.”

“Ms. Wasdin, did you sign this oath to uphold the U.S. Constitution?” I asked. She recognized her signature.

“Did you read the constitution before signing this document? Is not the Fourth Amendment – which forbids searches or seizures without probable cause or warrant – some part thereof? For it does say that “The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched and the persons or things to be seized.” Did your roadblock meet all of these requirements? Any of them?”

Here Judge Wilters came again to her rescue: “Mr. Childress! That has nothing to do with your case. Just the facts. The State of Alabama has rules and regulations for traffic which you must obey.”

“Your Honor, do rules and regulations override the U.S. Constitution?”

“Forget the constitution! Stick with the facts.”

“Ms. Wasdin, this account given to me by the prosecutor and entitled “Additional Arrest Narrative Continued.” Who typed it up?”

“I did.”

“Here let me state for the record that I and Attorney Dasinger both received from Circuit Judge Charles Partin at the same time an order to exchange with each other copies of all the documentary evidence we would introduce in this case. Twenty-one days was the limit set for compliance. Mr. Dasinger had all of my arguments in hand when due. He used more than three weeks in examining them, and, 45 days following that court’s order, I saw his papers for the first time – and the collaboration between the attorney and his client to fabricate their story quickly became evident.

“Ms. Wasdin, were you advised by Mr. Dasinger on what to say in your account?”

“No, sir, I wrote it all by myself.”

“Why does the typed font size change several times from one sentence to the next between 8-point and 10-point? Were you perhaps cutting and pasting to get that story straight? Are you sure Mr. Dasinger didn’t help you get your narrative right?”

“We type up our reports on two different computer programs. That’s why the font size changes between sentences.”

“Take another look. Here it changes in mid-sentence. Can you explain that?” She couldn’t.

Somewhere along about here the judge called a noon recess. My questioning later resumed.

“Ms. Wasdin, Did you have a warrant for stopping me that day? Is this a true copy as given me by Mr. Dasinger?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you saying this warrant was issued before my arrest? What was the date of that roadblock and my arrest? May 29?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why was this arrest warrant, signed by the town clerk, not a magistrate, dated May 30? Why does it contain the names of three witnesses, but not their signatures?”

No answer.

“You had seen my hearse pass on many occasions? And even waved back to me at times?”

“Yes, sir, when you tooted its horn.”

“Can you describe that horn?”

“It plays ‘Dixie’.”

“Any problem with its ‘Death to the 14th Amendment’ signage?”

“No, sir.”

“You recognized that vehicle at the roadblock, knew I was a local resident? How many more roadblocks have you set up lately?”

“None.”

I had many additional questions for this volatile female police chief, but an equally hostile court continually interrupted my line of questioning so that I couldn’t go on. I wanted those jurors to see through her smilingly polite countenance in the witness chair, a vehement and unstable nature. She had already been arguing with motorists and writing them tickets for hours before I approached that roadblock, and her state of mind was obviously explosive, leading to police brutality against myself. As I lay in back of her patrol wagon where they had thrown me – shackled so that I couldn’t buckle up – she sped through Loxley’s 30 MPH main street doing 60 MPH, which fact I yelled to her through the glass partition because truly scared of this mad woman. She retaliated by turning her radio up real loud, and, north of Loxley, looped off the pavement several times at high speed just to scare me apparently, for I don’t think she had been drinking

The prosecutor reinterpreted everything I had attempted to get across to the jurors. Then came my closing arguments.

“I remind you, and this is an important fact that’s insufficiently taught in public schools: a jury is the very backbone of our justice system. You’ve come here with very little nudging, because the court does not desire, and justice can’t be served by, those who would have to be forced against their wills to serve on a jury. You are more likely to think yourselves my peers than would that band of police officers working a roadblock for badly-needed overtime pay or whatever excuses for ignoring their oaths of office, especially the Fourth Amendment which forbids detaining and searching motorists without probable cause. Now I don’t want to insult this jury by calling you my peers, for it’s unlikely any of you, knowing about my staging a funeral procession to bury the so-called 14th Amendment, would drive around in a hearse displaying battle flags and signs that read ‘Death to the 14th Amendment.’

“You no doubt wish to live privately, and I can’t blame anybody for just wanting to be left alone by the government, but it won’t happen. Approaching that police roadblock a few weeks back, all the other motorists meekly complied, stopped and greeted those six or seven officers while producing licenses and papers, accepting citations for whatever was amiss and then driving on home to supper and an evening of TV. I never watch TV, so that’s not what this Alabama citizen missed when jerked from his hearse, dragged over the street by four officers, shoved in back of Silverhill Police Chief Wasdin’s vehicle and hauled off to jail, but I did miss supper.

“Most citizens these days just keep a low profile, and go along with every order the Department of Homeland Obscurity announces in its latest War on Whatever. Some still can’t imagine any evil coming down from the District of Corruption. A few of those motorists delayed an extra three minutes at that Police State roadblock by my non-cooperation probably growled under their breath for the inconvenience I was causing them. But they ought to thank people like me for resisting such travesties against our rights as practiced by power- hungry government agents.

“Ask yourselves why my presentation was so often cut short today by these many objections, while Mr. Dasinger proceeded without interruption.

“To repeat: I have not been charged; there was no verified complaint. All those officers lured there by big bucks from the District of Corruption had no probable cause for stopping me; they ignored their oaths of office to defend and abide by the U.S. Constitution, its Fourth Amendment prohibiting what such Rambos go about nonchalantly doing to us. They are the criminals, and I will seek justice against such behavior. A crime is committed when one without provocation harms another. Wearing a badge doesn’t excuse bullying. Increasingly brutal police intimidation against private American citizens must stop. This isn’t Eastern Europe; we won’t put up with being randomly tasered, tear gassed or detained without cause, letting them bluff compliant victims into silence and write up fake search warrants after the fact against people like myself whom they can’t bluff.

“You jurors remain the conscience of our community and a sure check on power abuse by every department of government at all levels, especially with today’s rising threats in this Police State against which Alexander Solzhenitsyn warned following his bitter Gulag Archipelago years.

“Let me repeat. I came before you as an appellant; Mr. Dasinger is the defendant. The court will instruct you otherwise, but my arguments agree with Solzhenitsyn.”

Here the judge faced that same jury and meticulously recounted the four charges against me, instructing them to consider the facts alone.

You are to consider, said he, whether or not the “defendant”

Nothing else mattered. In the opening statement having admitted my presence at that crime scene where those four charges originated, the jurors needed less than an hour to return guilty verdicts on the entire docket and, Judge Wilters dismissing them from the courtroom, they immediately left for the reality of their TV altars. His Honor then ordered this convict forward – the big, Black sergeant-at-arms, perhaps thinking I didn’t know the way, nudging me along. So the jury, never having heard my case, had just followed orders.

“Mr. Childress, I am sentencing you to $1,000 on the first charge…”

Apparently this court knew nothing of the monies I had already paid Silverhill’s court treasurer and town clerk. The latter, assuring me she would forward that $1,250 fee for my appeal hearing to this present venue, may not have. It’s a racket which anyone who attends these non-recorded city hall scams can see unfolding before his eyes.

Attorney Dasinger intruded, “I think it is only $26 at Silverhill Municipal Court, so…” and thus they discussed briefly how to split the spoils. With my head spinning, it could have come out as “Six months of suspended sentence, fourteen days in jail and I’m going to cut that in half so you’ll actually serve seven days in carceration.” Let the transcript which I’ve ordered make what is recounted here more clear to those reading this – together with myself and the Alabama Appeals Court.

Dismissed and walking back to stuff my carefully-researched documents into the briefcase Irene would leave with, papers I will someday, somehow, read to a jury of my peers, God willing, due process having had no hearing this day, a pair of officers approached rattling heavy chrome chains. “Stick out your wrists,” said Deputy Mock. Moving back to the bench as the judge and his coterie were wrapping up, I asked his Honor if I might have ten minutes with my daughter. Yes, he nodded to the lawmen. I hastily wrote the following, even as Irene passed $40 to the Black female deputy for my necessities (returned to me on release seven days later, as nobody explained I had to sign up and wait three days before a once weekly visit to the prison commissary):

Pronounced guilty on four criminal charges this date, Feb. 3, 2009, your editor will spend seven days in jail. The judge allowed me ten minutes to scribble this message via Irene. The fines and additional suspended sentence plus seven [days] in lockup came as a complete surprise to me. Judge is now gone, also jury; just Irene, myself, two clerks and the young officer [Deputy Mock] saying, “You’ve got five more minutes.”

Each time I tried to introduce an argument, the judge ordered, “Sit down!” He is the father of the younger Judge Wilters who dropped charges against me ten years ago for unloading trash in the dump without first signing under duress a contract to produce a weekly quota of trash when 150 angry resisters showed up backing my stand.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

OLAF'S WEEK IN JAIL FOR HAVING FILED AN APPEAL

Feb. 11, 2009 – Well-named Deputy Mock cut me off at that point and shackled my hands and feet, as I told Irene to get out of the Bay Minette courthouse quick as possible and convey the above message to my son John for dissemination to TFF lists. But he was tied up in New Orleans supervising a past-deadline construction project carrying heavy penalties, and Irene didn’t know how to get the job done, so here it is the day after my release from prison. Because of my age they put me in a dispensary unit, the only inmate among eleven who wasn’t on twice-daily pills for one thing or another. More on where we’ll take it from here – and it’s definitely GO! – in the March issue of The First Freedom.     – Olaf Childress

Now the foregoing may not jibe with the court recorder’s account as to those points where my attempted presentation got cut short by a barked order to Sit! But, if it’s forthcoming and accurate, Ms. Miller’s writeup will show there’s no exaggeration here of the fact that the number of such “Sit down!” interruptions – one of which was punctuated with, “or you’re going to jail right now!” – gives proof that due process remained overdue in that courtroom where “just the facts” got a hearing

Wearing both handcuffs and leg-irons, I shuffled a whole city block down that long hallway from Courtroom 2 to the waiting patrol car that took me, ever accompanied by a pair of deputies, two additional blocks to jail.

Fingerprinted, photographed, ordered to enter the same temporary holding cell as when on May 29 Wasdin had brought me there, I became its single occupant at the moment. Along with the two or three cells adjacent, all face this glass-enclosed prison staff which thus keeps incoming prisoners under observation at all times, summoning them out individually for interrogation. My accommodation includes a four-foot high semi-privacy half-wall at the back which more or less screens the commode. From it extends a bench welded onto that partition along the right wall; another one runs the length of the left side. All of these fixtures, including toilets and wash basins throughout the prison, are stainless steel.

This is standard procedure. The Rambos stand behind me waiting for any cue. Been here, done that. They won’t be calling me out for interrogation, as the record there shows I do not play – and will sign nothing, nor answer any questions under duress.
My move. I step up onto the right-hand bench and sit on the half-wall. “Get down from there,” one of them chimes. I stay put. A second deputy: “Can’t you hear?”

Several warnings follow, all unheeded, and soon my old friend Sgt. Thicklin joins the surge: “Hey, Childress, you can’t sit there. You gonna get down?”

“Sure, Sarge. Soon.”

“Well, come on, get off, then.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, when?” He enters the cell.

“When I’m ready.”

“C’mon, you don’t want me to put my hands on you?”

“No, I don’t want you to put your hands on me.”

“Well, then, get down.” A long pause. The deputies all look at one another, finally leave and close my “door.”

I stretch out on the bench for a couple of hours until two incoming prisoners join me just before supper is brought. One of them is well dressed and the other doesn’t hablar English. Later I’m given the grand tour of long corridors past many cells of inmates (also part of our Police State’s conditioning program), but they march me at last back up front right above the prison staff offices to join ten other men in a dispensary unit. Here, concrete block walls indicate a floor area measuring 35 feet by 15'-4" except for the 3'-4" x 5'-4" indentation at its northeast corner where a deputy resides behind three two-way mirrors watching TV and several cells. The 8'x8' toilet and dressing room north of this common area has a 30"x30" stainless steel shower unit, and horizontal bars of like metal on which we might hang a dozen towels to dry, except that not more than a single individual among these birds bathes on a given day, and I’m apparently the only inmate here who uses one of those little prison-issue toothbrushlets.

They are all TV addicts, lying on their backs ten hours a day watching that thing mounted above the two-way mirror facing south; that is, between drowsing and lining up when inmate orderlies reach pills or chow in through the entry door slot. These captives have almost no contact with the outside and nothing of well-informed news to discuss. So it’s mostly a silent society, just existing – laughing and joking with each other as the TV’s canned laughter prompts. What might such ones talk about? Nobody here knows anything they haven’t already discussed.

Which is not to say set them free, for at least a couple of truly dangerous men in this common cellblock would stay pacified no longer than incarcerated. What, then?

Well, let’s first regain from the Jews our own communications and exchange media, then educate the public that such gulags – rapidly rising across the land – contain far too many harmless drug users and political prisoners. While pardoning those who’ve kept the narcotics underworld in business, we mustn’t turn loose criminals who have murdered to get their fixes. I’m also saying we can forgive some inmates for more or less enjoying TV and three squares a day during times of high unemployment “out there,” which state of limbo is shared by our military grunts in many instances.

Or, are we all to become prisoners easily maintained because hooked on TV, even self-feeding, just dumb cattle grazing on sitcom propaganda: goyim too pathetic to contest that flimsy fence which corrals us?

Today’s universal gulag archipelago is about control. Those who wear utility belts heavy with taser guns, mace, pistol or such, and insignia to prove they’re system, or sit behind mirrors bouncing occasional orders off their rascally wards – are more in check themselves; and the parasite attached upon their backs unseen, that libertine thinking to rule the world, is least self-governed of all.

On Wednesday morning, the facility’s shrink, who bore a striking resemblance to Silverhill Police Chief Kimberly Wasdin, summoned me to step out into the corridor where two deputies waited as witnesses.

“You are Mr. Childress?” she asked. “Is everything okay? Any problems from the other prisoners in there?” None, I replied.

“Do you know where you are?” Yes. In prison at Bay Minette, Alabama.

“Can you tell me what month this is?” February, 2009.

“Can you tell me the year you were born in?” 1932.

“Can you tell me in which month you were born?” October.

“Can you give me the exact date of that month?” The 27th.

“Can you tell me where you were born?” Marshall County, Alabama.

“Can you tell me” and similar questions indicated she was looking for any opening to challenge this patient’s stability. But her next bit of play-acting required the woman to concede laughingly that I was okay. She even chucked me on the shoulder, like a used car dealer thinking to have gained the sucker’s confidence. The prisoner retorted: “Now let me ask a question. Your name tag reads simply ‘Wasdin.’ Are you any kin to the Silverhill police chief?”

Still jolly, she replied, “Yes! She is my sister-in-law.”

“Well, you can just tell Kimberly I’m still gunning for her.”

“I most definitely will!” she giggled, and concluded her visit with an amiable laugh.

Stunned at the blatant audacity of this interrogation, and suddenly realizing the sheer stupidity of my joking about aiming to press charges against that May 29, 2009, Police State roadblock at Silverhill with the word gunning thrown in as mere slang, back in the cell I said to D–, “Boy, I hope she doesn’t twist what I just said into a physical threat.” His opinion didn’t help: “I’ve been in here long enough to know for certain. You’ve taken the bait and, as editor of a dissident newspaper, are now targeted. They want to keep you here, but probably don’t have enough ‘proof’ as yet to extend that seven-day sentence indefinitely. Mark my word, though. You’ll be back.”

Mimicking a zipping-up motion across his mouth, “Read my lips,” he signaled.

D– didn’t yet understand my motives. I replied, “This ‘case’ involves principles the ten of you fail to grasp. Those three Blacks in here with us at least accept what I’m telling them about MLK. They know it’s all phony, and admit the fact. That one there agreed with me when I told him after reading an affidavit he showed me, which he’s filing, that in his place I’d likely also invoke Jim Crow and KKK as excuses for whatever sex offense it appears he’s in for.”

Why? Because blaming Whitey fits the Jewish mediacracy’s agenda and the Black inmate I’m speaking of had no other leg to stand on. Playing along with TV fables might easily have gained him some kind of reprieve. I had asked that petitioner, “Are you aware of the Black Congressional Caucus?”

He was.

“Have you also heard about the White Congressional Caucus?”

He grinned. “Don’t think so.”

And suddenly I’m the interrogator.

“Can you tell me why that TV box up there on the wall has never mentioned the White Congressional Caucus?”

“No, why?”

“Because there isn’t one. Can you tell me why we have a Miss Black America, a Black Mayors Conference, Black Studies, Black Governors/County Commissioners/ magazines/newspapers/unions/teachers and innumerable other representatives for your folk, but no corresponding National Association for the Advancement of White People?”

He admits it’s phony. I agree that in his shoes I’d play the Jews’ harp, too.

“Can you tell me why ‘our’ government taxes us to support ‘La Raza’ – millions of dollars, matching other millions supplied by corporations?” Who’s La Raza?

I tell him, and eventually turn to the only Hispanic there among us, ever pursuing, as stated above, my motives.

The latter is one of five chess players in this cell contending amiably by turns at one end of our abode’s stainless steel “picnic table.” From El Paso, he also declares it’s phony, and wonders like Rodney King why we can’t all just get along. Losing his job as a wooden pallet-maker at nearby Loxley, Alabama, he had resorted to some kind of crime, as the growing Mexican population across America must eat. To him, along with anyone who will listen, I observe that all of us may soon suffer hunger and race wars. Hispanic gangs are today murdering the Black population in L.A., even as many Mexican immigrant workers return home disillusioned to the same joblessness that oppresses them here.

“What’s the answer?” he asks.

“Go back to your own people,” I reply. “This country isn’t the cultural melting-pot you see on that TV screen up there.”

“I agree,” he concedes. “But where can anybody find a better place?”

Not altogether unlike our three Blacks thrown in with us here, he doesn’t really want the truth but I give it to him it anyway.

“What makes America a great country is her people: we Whites. Never in all of the world’s history has a more generous and inventive people arisen. Our hard-working citizenry did it with prayers and vitality. Today’s hordes invading from everywhere believe they can reach the same abundance of wealth and heritage along shortcuts on “roadmaps” the Teeveelalaland magicians imprint upon their fantasies – Heaven here and now. But entertainment as feel-good “education” can’t “stimulate” Oriental and South American indifference into Aryan- American industry or German Fleiß.”

I mention the same Jewish presence in all of our troubles, north and south of the Rio Grande. He comprehends; however, is conditioned like most of us to go around this taboo subject. We simply do not admit the Zionist wizardry behind that curtain betraying our common Goyim race – which construct the Chosen One invented in the first place. Don’t care to discuss him, or our Goyish universality, I ask? Why not?

“See that boxful of laughter up there? My people, along with yours and Blacks and many others, have become TV addicts, mere sheep in a fold. Look around you. Are these Rambos in charge of us here any less brainwashed? European-American culture is momentarily in check. Yours isn’t under the same pressure.”

He couldn’t handle more such talk. Can you? Power is a deadly toxic, especially absent any authority other than conferred by the propaganda moguls thinking they’re in charge. Are they? What sane man joins a deranged cult that’s hellbent on ruling the world – obviously our enemies? A better place exists where each race’s own kind lives in harmony. I’ve always told whoever will listen, even so far as fifth generation Hebrews unpracticed in what they preach: “Get out. Leave my people. Our once-great heritage is defunct, in limbo until we slough off this Jewish yoke.”

On Friday at 10 AM I was summoned from the dispensary unit and accompanied by two deputies down many a corridor past caged inmates to a “visitation” with this slight fellow wearing a smart, dark suit and tie plus his badge and a name tag reading “Lusk.” (One cellmate later opined that he was the warden, and, if so, a man wielding more power than the theoretically-supreme law enforcement role of an elected county sheriff.) What a shock! He ordered those deputies having clamped the cuffs around my wrists to wait outside his interrogation room, then barked, “Sit!” while indicating a seat before this desk with no name plate or contents. One other chair, presumably his own, completed the furnishings.

“After you, sir,” I responded politely.

“No, you sit first.”

“I’m your guest, sir. Please then let us sit down at the same time.”

“You will sit,” he said, taking me by the shoulders and struggling to carry out his decision – resulting in a kind of waltz, the first I’ve ever danced with a man, kipping the falsely-upholstered plastic chair noisily and bringing two deputies running.

After Mr. Lusk explained to them that the prisoner wouldn’t sit, their commands likewise failing to overcome my sense of civility toward a host and superior, three additional officers stepped in through the open doorway to see if their services were needed. He dismissed that entire company declaring, “Back to his cell with him!”

“What was this all about?” I queried. “Isn’t there a visitor here to see me, as was just a few minutes ago announced?”

“Yes, but you must answer my questions about your threatening the Silverhill police chief before I’ll allow any visitors.”

I laughed.

“If you don’t sit, that’s it,” he said.

Which was okay by me. There’s nothing gained by kowtowing to such systemites, so, back to the dispensary.

The other prisoners were kind enough to continue snoozing each morning when the brighter lights came on for an hour before pills and then breakfast, during which time my morning prayers while seated on the metal bench in a corner disturbed no one except our Creator, who didn’t mind. And, so as not to disturb their sitcoms too much (nor this old soldier’s bones), I only did my gymnastics once during that week.

D– loaned me a couple of paperbacks to read in my spare time when not peering out our glass slot overlooking the bail bonding agents’ hovels sporting their bold-painted phone numbers, and the courthouse cupola beyond, its four sides each bearing a clock stopped at 11:40 (nobody knew whether Baldwin County had died in the AM or PM).

Monday around 10:00 AM the intercom called, “Mr. Childress, get yourself ready; you’re going to court.” A pair of deputies appeared immediately, and directed me into the hallway to receive shackles again hand and foot, after which we ambled slowly (I had time) down many a corridor to that prison’s rear entrance where our wheels awaited near its water tower.

My two bodyguards aren’t allowed to bring me back before Judge Wilters via the west entrance inside which his courtroom immediately sits, so we again shuffle that block from eastward past onlookers. After twenty minutes in a detainment chamber I’m escorted into his Honor’s presence. A dozen or so lawyers and other courtesans are milling about. The magistrate gives me a hard look.

“I understand you’ve threatened to kill the Silverhill police chief.”

I chuckle, quickly adding, “Excuse me.”

He laughs. Clearly this antique judge is enjoying the sitcom we’re both engaged in, though in due process of time and events he may not think it’s funny. That is not a threat, merely an opinion. Called forward, his Black sergeant-at-arms reads aloud my probation terms.

Wilters: “You understand that?” I do. “Good.” Big smile. “Don’t let me see you here anymore.”

Tuesday morning after breakfast I’m brushing my teeth when two deputies come calling to escort me down to the departure desk of this hotel. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

“Better hurry,” calls a cellmate, “or they may leave you in here till afternoon.”

“Be right with you.” (What’s the rush? Those apparatchiks won’t get home to TV any sooner for such haste.)

Out of that institution’s orange pajamas and into my own clothes, told to answer her questions when receiving $40 held in my account, the Black clerk wants this guest before leaving to recite a “social security” number.

“Don’t have one,” I respond.

“I’ve got your number right here,” she replies.

“That datum was fraudulently assigned me in my youth by a corporation I’ve since denied having any contract with.”

Which is also why I had refused to sign their papers on checking in here a week earlier. Anytime a signature is forced out of me, it is preceded by “Without Prejudice UCC 1-308” notifying all that I reserve my rights and refuse to perform any contract or commercial agreement that I didn’t enter knowingly, voluntarily and intentionally; furthermore that I do not accept liability of any compelled benefit from an unrevealed contract or commercial agreement. What is my required performance of an unrevealed commercial agreement? Do I voluntarily use Federal Reserve Notes instead of true silver dollars? No.

“Do you know what we patriots call you officers?” I queried P. R. Deputy Wilson. “It’s not an evil word, but a fitting one.”

“No,” he said.

“ ‘Systemites.’ Naturally somebody has got to do your jobs, but it’s just getting too militaristic and gung-ho.”

“I understand what you’re saying.”

Striding unchained back into the forever 11:40 courthouse, a visit with Circuit Clerk Angie confirms mine as “unsupervised” probation. Dispensary inmate H– had said to make sure they don’t pull their usual stunt of an unannounced, therefore missed, appointment. (Ernst Zündel could tell you how this works, except that he’s sitting out five years in a German prison, following two in Canada, following a few jailed days in the U.S. after ZOG agents kidnaped him from his Tennessee wife and home on just such a “missed appointment” involving no crime but an immigration snafu. Chained hand and foot, those systemites shuffled Thought Criminal Ernst Zündel off to the Holo Inquisition.)

Appeals Clerk Sue Todd said 42 days would be allowed in which I might file my claims seeking $205,000 for damages from Baldwin County and the Town of Silverhill plus defendants Wasdin, Raines, the other Wasdin, Lusk and Wilters. Again pro se, as my Kampf can’t employ licensed lawyers without acknowledging the jurisdiction of a fraudulent corporation. I might explain this easier to a jury that’s been off TV for a whole week, but must go with the status quo. In addition to the above recompense I shall claim for damages, these suppressed arguments (maturing by further research) continue zeroing in on the source of many a legal impasse: the unratified fourteenth amendment. Whether the Circuit Court in Bay Minette will eventually admit its duty to consider such evidence, or likewise the Court of Criminal Appeals at Montgomery, Alabama, we’ll see. It looks doubtful. But then, so did Valley Forge.

The week following, I telephoned the sheriff’s department and made inquiries. Yes, they do have a Ms. Wasdin over at the corrections center – medical section, first name Carla. Also an investigator named Lusk, Officer Nathan Lusk.

Not forgetting three new subscribers The First Freedom has acquired there, I made the mistake of immediately inserting stamped envelopes and writing paper into their packages of papers, only a few days later learning about the correction center’s rules on incoming mail when these came back. Allen or AW (scrawled as mail clerk) had checked just one of 16 rejection boxes on the accompanying form: “All envelopes, stamps, paper and writing utensils must be purchased through the inmate commissary.”

Many prisoners across the land receive this newspaper. Occasionally it’s returned simply because the mail room doesn’t like that flag atop page one. We always file an appeal in such cases, and it gets through.