LAW-Swindled

LAW-SWINDLED; FOR LIFE!

"It is more important to society that innocence should be protected than it is that guilt should be punished." John Adams

Prior to 9-11-01 few citizens would think that innocent persons would be yanked out of our seats at a resturant counter, beaten and thrown in a cage merely because we sat next to a criminal. I was, and that is just the first step in an ongoing oddessey of harassment, torture and confinement known for thirty years to be fraudulent by hundreds of officials and citizens. One day soon even you might suddenly "fit the description" and be dragged away by grinning, sparkly-eyed detectives drunk on the chase and their unlimited power. By reading this, I hope you'll be forewarned and able to stop the process before it reaches its insane climax.

This skullduggery began with an education-resistant, teenage paroled joyrider. He lived with six other teens when the police broke in and ransakced their home and persons at gunpoint seeking drugs. Instead of drugs, they found this parolee. They made him choose between finishing his sentence in prison or handing them all the dope dealers he could squeal on. These secret police gave joyrider marked money and drove him in their unmarked car to all his friends to try and buy dope. These detectives planned on this coup to give them the weekly bonus and subsequent raises and promotions as they rode their snitch to fabled dope kingpins.

Joyrider planned to spin fables of kingpins until he could find a chance to jackrabbit away. The unseen flaw in both plans was that no one would sell joyrider and his beefy, furtive pals any dope. Eventually they gave up, planning to begin again early the next day. They gave joyrider one of their "business" cards so he could call them immediately in case he found anyone who would sell him some dope. Soon as that last promise passed his lips, joyrider sprinted to his girlfriend with a new plan. He would rob some people for enough money to "get out of town". He called another teenager who had a car and gun. They robbed an elderly couple he knew as a child. They didn't recognize him. but he somehow lost the cop's snitch card while in their home.

The crime was reported soon as they left, and the cops immediately knew who to chase. The detectives spent most of the night and next day one step behind joyrider's current whereabouts. The six friends he lived with told police that he'd boasted of the crime before leaving with his clothes for his mother's home. His mother told police of his girlfriend's mother, and her mother told police that her daughter would be at work as a waitress at six PM.

I was at that resturant. My shift was over and I sat at the counter waiting for my ride to show up. Joyrider sat in the chair next to me. Almost immediately my life turned toshit simply because I was a white teenager sitting next to a criminal. Two suited men entered and grabbed joyrider in a chokehold. One demanded "who's this with you?" Without pause or thought, the other one ordered "Take him, too!" He choked me with one arm, shoved a gun into my spine and dragged me away. Though joyrider's defense was retardation and illiteracy, he was again intelligent enough to deduce which way the detectives thought process were flowing and take advantage of them. When the cop got him hogtied and in the dark for more torture, he croaked agreement to speculations that I was robber number two. They quickly stopped torturing him an raced to torture me.

Innocent persons don't confess easily. They choked, poked and wrenched me as they demanded I confess. They used their wrist shackles as torture devices cranked down so tight they'd cut my hands off, or felt like it. I could see my hands turn blue as I sat on them while the cop in the back seat strangled me to unconsciousness. I knew my hands would never work properly again. The cops promised to kill me, and each time I woke up, it was the same nightmare. I tried to reason with them, but they were immune to reason. They were like smirking vampires. The less I confessed, the more he dug his fat fingers into my carotid arteries. My whole head tingled with the rush of blood returning. The effect became more pronounced as he choked me closer and closer to death. Their eyes and teeth glinted with feral pleasure as they recounted how many "gooks" they'd turned into vegetables with this technique. Eventually they took time out to drive me to their lair.

Still I tried to reason with them. This non-confession tactic drove them mad. One finally just bashed my head with his leather gloved fists. My nose began dribbling blood like a spigot. Just before he beat me unconscious, I saw it spill on his slacks as his knee rushed up to slam into my testicles.

I awoke with my head in their waste basket. They threatened to start again. I had two thoughts: what good is life without hands? Civics books say forced confessions are not permitted. I slyly promised to confess just to save my hands. They removed their torture devices. After some minutes I was able to sign their many papers waiving all my rights and confessing to crimes unknown. I was able to do this because school teaches that the judicial branch des not accept forced confessions and that our three branches of government have checks and balances to prevent and correct this type of corruption.

They left me in a dim cockroach infested cage for two years. One lawyer actually found the room with my blood splattered all over it. He tried to leave with a sample, but the cop threatened to beat his brains out. A public defender refused to believe the facts until it leaked out from the police department and courts into the newspapers that their brutality was becoming well known. He was appalled when I asked him to help me sue the cops for beating me.

He refused, of course. He was part of the problem. He did what most PD's do; procrastinate, delay, excuse, dither, ignore and hinder all progress. After a thorough study of the legal process from beneath its iron cleated treads, the real reason for this became clear. It is to let paying customers to the front of the line. This self clogging function occurs because all the paupers are paid for at the first of the fiscal year in one huge tax gobble. Like a lamb led to the slaughter, I fell for each excuse in turn; go to the nuthouse and eat good food at taxpayer expense for two months while we verify your sanity. Really "we" will be waiting for the newsmedia to cool down! I haven't had time to investigate yet. The depositions aren't ready yet. The hearing is dalayed because of backlog. Be smart and agree to numerous delays because the court reporter is too busy to type the hearing transcript: This is good as gold because its his fault they're not giving you a speedy trial! I'm taking a job with the prosecution again; you get a new PD. Take his advice. So long!

While the PD was conning me out of making him do his job, the cops were very busy. They taught the elderly couple to salivate at my picture by telling them a bad criminal would escape justice if they didn't point at me in the court. Old people don't trust their own eyes, but they'll agree with whatever a cop tells them. The first lawyer's testimony about my blood and the cop's threats toward him scared the cops badly. It came out years later that their vicious ways were common knowledge among the judge and lawyer community. Their reign of terror would end just a few years too late to benefit me. Their party was winding slowly into the open and would end quick if they didn't manage to put me away forever. They did this by steering another old woman onto me. She and her husband had worked for the police, helping a famous, ambitious Tulsa prosecutor launch himself at the governor's seat. His idea of sweeping out the garbage involved having his media tools publicize with much fanfare his conviction of many ponrography dealers for obscenity. Mr. and Mrs Hunt were porn dealers, and they were helpful in pointing the detectives at whoever of their fellow porn merchants had the most obscene inventory and how to trick them into showing it to non-regular customers. This they did in return for promises from police that they could continue to sell their own filth.

After a series of arrests, the porn merchants realized it was not a good idea to let the Hunts vouch for strangers determined to buy their filthiest inventory. Signed police reports say Mr. Hunt began checking his car for bombs. Then the Hunts returned from work and found a teenager hiding inside their home. He killed Mr. Hunt with one bullet as his wife watched. He ran through a glass door, slashing his wrist as he ran away. He left a bloody palm print leaping a fence. Police followed his blood trail five blocks to another witness. A third witness had seen him snooping around the neighborhood earlier.

All three witnesses gave police matching descriptions, separate in time and location. Police took 21 fingerprints belonging to the killer, and eight blood samples. Each witness separately helped the police draw the culprit they saw. All three drawings and all three descriptions agreed on four things: that the killer had short, neat, brown hair; no glasses.

This murder occurred seven days before the police attacked me in my resturant and had their media tools showcase me as their trophy for two days of feeding frenzy. These three witnesses did not miss this circus, and nobody called police to accuse me of being Mr. Hunt's killer. The killer's fingerprints were concealed by the police. For 78 days police plied Mrs. Hunt with thousands of high school pictures in many boxes of yearbooks. She picked no one. Eventually she broke down and agreed with police that it must have been me despite the fact that newspaper photos of me from 10-22-72 prove I had very bushy, frizzy. long black hair and thick. black framed glasses, exactly opposite of the description (and drawing) she'd given police at the moment after her husband's murder. She just wanted the police out of her life. Police wanted me out of their life, so they gave me life.

How? Easy! Police keep their evidence secret. This way it can vanish, appear or change to fit their needs and no one is ever the wiser. Mrs Hunt's part in this deal required her to sign a paper for police naming me as the killer. The cops immediately called their media tools for a second feeding frenzy and backslapping party. Putting their target's picture in all thi papers and broadcast media along with the grisly, anonymous police-scource low-down accounts for the largest portion of their conviction process. This poisons all the logic out of the juror pool as surely as cheap gas causes a run on the pumps.

The PD came to the cage and showed me the lies in the paper under the cop's picture of me. I sent him, then another, then a third PD to get the cops to test the blood. This alerted the cops to the fact that conviction would be impossible unless they found a way to ditch the killer's blood. At first they simply lied to each PD, claiming they had no blood. Many blood samples were taken by at least five police identification "experts". They just concealed this fact for 26 years. Police and prosecutors pay lip service to physical evidence, but depend on the fact that all they really need is a pointing finger and a slick lipped prosecutor. The factors that cause this phenomenon are to numerous to detail here, but TV programming spawn many of them, and many more of them are described in my treatise "Innocent's Guide to avoiding Fraudulent Conviction".

The detectives next took Mrs Hunt's official, sworn accusation to the first witness, who reported seeing the culprit nosing about the Hunt home shortly before the murder. She knew that their picture of me was not a picture of the culprit and told them so. She refused to sign any of their papers accusing me. The cops couldn't get from her a reciept for her testimony against me, so they concealed her so I could not use her to trip up their other liars.

Ninety four days after the murder, this detective took their picture of me to Mrs Baker and tried to sell me to her. Despite the fact that police had concocted this picture to be black and white to disguise my hair color, had short hair and had removed my glasses, she was not tricked. She refused to sign too. She even told the cop "I remember seeing this kid on TV and in the newspapers months ago, and I'd excluded him then. His hair was much too long to be the kid I saw running from the scene."

Stymied, Detective McCullough cogitated over this setback for 28 days before finding the obvious solution to type into his "weekly" report. He simply lied, claiming she had indeed named me the killer. Amazingly, he also typed into it her words about remembering my too-long hair seen in the newspaper. These words he twisted slightly to slant them in his favor. McCullough also concealed, besides the blood and fingerprints, all three descriptons ( and drawings ) made to police monemts after the murder, thus now the killer had long black hair like mine. In court, the cops simply lied about the blood and prints, claiming none of them knew anything about this stuff they themselves had signed off on having collected, since no one could get into their files, at least no honest person, they got to lie on the Bible and escape detection.

Mrs. Hunt pointed like a champion bird dog despite her certain knowledge that I had not killed her husband. How cold-hearted must she be to let his killer escape justice? Mrs. Baker balked. During the prosecutor's pre-trial rehearsal she repeated to him what she'd told McCullough, "You're attacking the wrong kid." She'd told my PD the previous Saturday that the police had shown her no one she could accuse as the killer.

Trial was delayed while McCullough and prosecutor Truster used the lying police report, written 15 months previously, to bludgeon perjury from her. The official police document said she named me as the killer. Was she calling officer McCullough a liar.? Did she want to go to jail for lying to police? We know he did it! Are you going to let him escape justice? She quickly caved in to police demands.

The police monopoly on what evidence is revealed, concealed and manufactured leaves innocent accusees with no defense beyound our screams of innocence. Even these are chopped off as the judge forces us to object to the lies in his courtroom by whispering in his PD's ear. This gives the jurors the false impression that "he didn't deny it, so he must be guilty!" The PD keeps us quiet by selling us the lie that appeals judges will correct any "mistakes". This is so he can exit before his victim realizes the whole judicial process is an elaborate fraud.

The appeals system is demonstrated to be a farce only after four long years of having facts, logic and reason trumped by legal gibberish. Appeals function to provide false hope until the victim becomes used to existing in captivity. This prevents most suicides, escapes and violence toward guards. By the time you realize the appeals system is a farce too, you're deep enough into your sentence to see the glimmer of parole, which performs the exact, same function of providing false hope.

After trial, the killer was seen twice: first by my sister at her grocery store checkout line; he was startled to notice our distinctive surname on her nametag. She was startled to see his face that resembled mine, plus his knowledge of my fate. He gave his name as "John Shelton" and quickly vanished. The second time he was seen by a fellow prisoner at OSP's trustee building. Quinion Leigh teased me with this knowledge, but would not reveal his name to me. I wrote the Tulsa cops, warden and many other government officials telling them that now the killer's prints are in their crime computer. Please match the crime scene prints to him!

They ignored me, but the warden sent his deputy to get my whole story. He promised he would help, then promptly vanished. Less than ten days later another prisoner murdered John Shelton "for a cigarette," so the newspapers said. Inexplicably, Shelton was not at the trustee building, but a the most maximum security hellhole at OSP; the east cellblock. Two years later I was shown a picture of Shelton by the underground network of honest guards. He was 10 years too old and didn't resemble me. So; the killer was not dead. He'd given my sister a fake name, probably of his criminal mentor. By coincidence both were in prison at the same time! The guards had hired an inmate to kill the wrong guy!

Three years after this I managed to escape. For over ten years I sneaked back into Oklahoma to persue the killer. Instead of finding him, though, I first found signed police records that prove my innocence and their corruption. I returned to prison, planning to use these police reports at my escape trial. Like an idiot, I thought the judge, DA and PD were honest and told them my plan. They stole my escape trial with a cunning ruse. They had the guards drag me past the juror pool while wearing prison clothes. Then the judge defied actual law and claimed this prejudiced them against me. (This is not prejucicial in escape trials) Then he refused to delay trial for the next juror pool. Then he ran away before I could make any other suggestions that would cure his "prejudice" scam, refusing even to cite me for contempt for calling him a shit-eating maggot.

In five years of appeals, 39 judges in eight courts all agree, through use of legal gibberish that:

1. Evidence theft did not occur, nor did wholesale perjury.

2. The first eyewitness was not concealed, nor were her descriptions and drawing of the culprit concealed.

3. Two witnesses fingerpointing in court 21 months after the crime is more accurate than three witnesses describing the culprit at the scene minutes from the crime's occurrence.

4. It's my fault I could not force the crooked cops to reveal all the blood, prints, decriptions, drawings, etc, they'd collected and hidden.

5. There is nothing strange about five forensic identification experts all making the same incompetent blunder eight times in a row in by claiming to have collected insuffieient blood for analysis once they finally got caught with their signatures on blood reports 26 years too late.( the routine police scam here used to ditch the blood is to divide the samples up into samples too tiny to test and then test each one individually. This destroys the evidence and makes it look like it wasn't deliberately destroyed. Plus it gives the DA a chance to dupe the jurors by saying "we tried heroic measures to try and test this evidence, but it was simply not physically possible to do so. Sorry. But we have plenty of fingerpointers!")

6. Likewise these 39 judges see nothing strange about my having grown five inches of hair in just seven days.

7. My black hair must have turned brown for a few crucial minutes before turning black again.

Innocent convictees never stop fighting for justice. We never accept captivity. We don't show remorse. The govcrats have thousands of ways to prevent our screams from being heard. Our hordes get more numerous every year, and harder for the crooks-of-law to conceal. Recent inventions to silence us are Clinton's accelerated death penalty act of 1996. This shoves their legal "mistakes" into the grave in only two years. The small print hacks off our appeal rights after only one year. It also lets judges call our appeals "frivolous." And it lets judges snatch up our savings and candy bar money for filing fees and fines for filing frivolous appeals.

Crying to the legislators or executive branch about crooked cops and judges gets you a form letter explaining that the fabled "checks and balances' do not exist in reality. Their watchdog bureaucracies serve up excuses and suggest you hire a lawyer. No lawyers answer your letters. Sometimes politicians will "help" by forwarding your complaint to the official who is screwing you.

The prison bureaucrats "help" in their own ways by preventing you from obtaining stamps, envelopes, paper, pen or information. Their rights-stealing techologies are as effective as those of the cops and lawyers. Since no one can see what they do to you, or cares, they can get quite vicious. Two of their most effective policies pit the captives against each other. They are called "random celling" and "level one." The first instigates racial violence by forcing incompatible persons to "live" in the same, toilet size cage. The other is sensorty deprivation when the encouraged violence erupts.

Typically the guards shove a black inmate into a white's cage, then scurry back to their control habitat. If the fight doesn't immediately begin, it is instigated by the Hitlerist gangs, who are specifically exempted from this policy! They tell the white to attack or get rat-packed by the Hitlerists. If that fails, they tell the black gang leaders to make their "brother" attack. Fully 15% of OSP's captives are thus intimidated out of "yard" or shower every day.

I personally withstood 70 days of urine flinging, fires, food contamination, etc. while the guards feigned ignorance every two hours. Decrying this to the prison administration, judicial bureaucrats or legislative politicians got no results except to have my pen, paper, stamps and envelopes taken away. Thinking beings can accomplish nothing when forced to put up your bedsheets trying to block urine and thrown garbage and glass. Then we're forced to take down the sheets every two hours when the guard pulls out his threats for blocking his vision.

After instigating such fights, guards take each victim's TV, radio, art supplies, even books, if that is all he has to take. Stamps are pinched down to two per week at the time when you need them the most. Nebraska prisoners "won" against this abuse in court (Jensen vs Clarke 94 F. 3D 1191 8th cir 1996) because the medical staff kept records too well, revealing the abrupt increase in stabbings, fractures and maimings caused ty these twin policies. The judges ruling is a roadmap teaching guards and administrators how to continue these atrocities in a way judges will accept. The guard unions and American Correction Associations nation wide study this ruling to learn how to conceal the paper trails through creative mislabeling of incidents. By cleverly inducing the inmates to gnaw on each other, the prison crats save all other officials the trouble of addressing pesky little things like innocence, corruption, humane conditions, civil rights, etc. The guards fire up the microwave and eat popcorn while watching their closed circuit inmate violence channels. They are a scream!

The Columbia University-Liebman study found an innocent conviction rate in death row cases to be a whopping 7%. This rate is much higher in all other cases, which have many fewer safeguards than the ceath penalty cases. This 7% sloppiness translated into a minimum of 147,000 innocents already in American prisons and 40,950 more innocents convicted every year.

Now that we are suffering an undeclared martial law and our rights are being taken away en masse, the number of innocents convicted every year is exploding. Don't get caught unaware like I was. Educate yourself and be alert. Know that the police and govcrats are now a lot more vicious than thay were 30 years ago when they stole my life to keep the killer free. The sky can fall on you any time, and the terrorists often wear silk suits, black robes and badges!