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"When plunder becomes a way of life for a group of men together in a society, they create for themselves in the course of time, a legal system that authorizes it and a moral code that glorifies it."

Frederic Bastiat (1801-1850)

in his book, "Economic Sophisms"



I can remember: dreaming. Vivid dreams of red so red, and greens so deep, and verdant, a sartorial intensity which some times, woke me out of a deep, deep sleep, uncontrollably salivating.

I was in prison, engaged in my hunger strike—having suffered huge injustices no American should ever suffer, for no crime ever committed. Yet here I was, placed into solitary confinement because I wouldn’t book, I wouldn’t consent, I wouldn’t submit. I’d lie there in bed, with a garish light pouring down from the ceiling in a roughly 6 by ten concrete cell with nothing but concrete and stainless steel accommodation’s. This just wasn’t injustice, it was torture too.

The local political regime within Butte county was perhaps the most staggeringly corrupt institution I had ever witnessed. To this day, I suspect that Butte County, which is mostly an agricultural county, of perhaps 250,000 people total, which is the third largest county in California, and widespread with a large land-mass area, was/is a testing ground to try out new political tyrannies; new forms of injustice, to use against the people of Butte County as a laboratory test bed, and then port these selected injustices around this nation. Yet, with all its county influences, it has a huge city on a hill of courts and county services in which cities such as Boston, New York, Detroit or LA would envy. This small rural community had a Sheriff’s department with six state-of-the-art helicopters, state-of-the-art prison system, state-of-the-art court systems...state-of-the-art....everything.

The courts, which I have found out are like virtually all other courts around this nation, were so egregious as to become an institution to be feared—which it still is. There is no law or justice within the Butte county courts. There is however; an inhumane brutality, along with a banal corruption, disguised as "law."

I felt a tremendous injustice since my first interaction with them in 1985 in demanding my son. That’s when they first steam-rolled over my efforts to obtain him, and when I told them that he was taken right out of our home. I didn’t say the word kidnapped then, but I do now. After they did everything opposite of the law I expected them to, I stopped—and began to analyze what was happening. After 13 long years, I sit here writing this book as a completion to my studies. As God is my witness I wished none of this had ever happened, and if our courts had worked, this whole thing could have been properly solved the first time in ten minutes. The time, effort, courts, countless documents, needless research and drain against the community and nation in my one case alone, is simply staggering. The drain against my life: abominable. Adding these types of useless effort up—only to deny fathers their unalienable rights as fathers—is a reality that is so profound, so complete that it exemplifies a complete indictment of this whole system. It is a universal charge of treason, which exemplifies what is really transpiring within our modern court systems. Simply put—it is way, way, way out of control.

Yet, as I lay in bed in this cell, trying to sleep—these dreams of food would gigantically intrude into my sleep. They were so real as to wake me, out from a sound sleep. I would sit there, in the half darkness with the cold neon lamp eternally pouring light from above, with the air conditioning pumping cold-air into the room at full blast. They did this to me knowingly, as a torture—in order to break me, which they never accomplished. The one dream that consistently haunted me was one of lettuce and tomatoes. A friend of mine would have me over for dinner with his family, and during the long hot Chico summers, they would serve a delightful salad for dinner, simply made of dark greens, purple onions, and thickly sliced tomatoes freshly picked from their garden, with a deep red wine vinegar and some light spices and cracked pepper. I really loved this dish, and we had it several times. Little did I know I’d be haunted by it during my arduous battle with out-of-control Butte County authorities.

There is a point in my hunger strikes, (of which I did four of them over this, the first being a 5 day strike during my first illegal incarceration at my ‘arraignment,’ the second being upon my first commitment after the faked ‘trial’ which had no jurisdiction lasted 63 days, the third after the Sheriff defaulted in his agreement to let me go, which lasted 10 days, and the fourth and final hunger strike was the 72 day strike which almost killed me, when they came and pulled me out of bed for being sick on my first 63 day hunger strike and they had released me on "Sheriff’s Parole"); when your body just becomes accustomed to no food, and you get along just fine. This usually happens at about anywhere from 10 to 20 days into the strike. You no longer are hungry, you just live life normally and for me, I did a lot of writing during this time period. Somehow the hunger strike made me think a lot more clearly, as my writing from this period appears quite astute and fluid.

Because I would not consent, nor book, they kept me in solitary confinement. They call this administrative segregation. What most men don’t know, is when you book, you consent to the arrest, which I never did. Thereby, the county never gets paid for your incarceration from the Federal government, whom must have that tiny box checked in which to dutifully send out funds to these jail institutions. Worse than that, they put me in a cell, and then intentionally turned up the air conditioning. This was very bad for me. I can remember it being so cold, while the outside temperature raged at about anywhere form 100 to 120 degrees, it was approximately 55 degrees in my cell. By 1pm every day, my socks would be soaking wet because of the condensation that collected on the floor. With four walls of concrete with everything else steel, the effect was amplified. This, along with my hunger-strike soon wore on me, and within about ten to fifteen days of this I finally got deathly ill. I couldn’t even get out of bed anymore.

They knew what they were doing—because the second I got sick—poof! They had me out of that cell and moved me right into the warmest cell they could get me into. It was torture, designed, implemented, despotically enacted. I never said a word, never complained—and conversely, not one of these Jail Guards ever went to their superiors or the Media and said: "Hey—we are torturing this guy, and its wrong." Everybody just played their part. I adhered to my principles, they adhered to their continuing criminal corruption.

That isn’t to say I didn’t try to defend myself from this cold—no! Life in jail is rather odd. They restrict everything—even paper. I never had enough paper to write on. I never even had pencils. For the first month, I wrote with a tiny little pencil I found that was, no kidding—1/4 inch long. I wrote with this until it was just about 1/16th inch in size—just the lead remained. Yet, they’d give us as much toilet paper as we wanted! So, I’d take a roll, chew it up in my mouth, then; take the spoon size wads I chewed, and push them into the lower part of the air-conditioning duct grill, and let them harden. Then, after they hardened, I’d chew up another wad of toilet paper, and build off that now hardened mass just like a wasp building a hive, to effectively restrict the input of cold air into the cell. After about one to three days of this, slowly the temperature would start rising in my cell, becoming much more palatable and warm. But this would last until a guard would come in, instantly notice it was warm, turn; look at what I had done, and bang off the hardened shell over the air conditioning duct. Within one-half our it would be freezing again, and we’d start the whole process over.

When I finally got sick, I categorically kept refusing treatment. When the nurses and doctors would visit me, and inquisitively ask: "How do you feel?" I’d say in return: "I give you no information." From this, they could not act, as my refusal to admit to them anything blocked any of their job duties. What could they cure if they didn’t know what hurt me? I knew I was driving them nuts, and belligerently kept them and others at arms distance. I would not be weighed, I would not allow them to check my pulse or blood pressure—they got nothing. Zero. All they could do was come into my cell and get no information, just silence to all their questions. They hated it.

Another thing they did was to try and put an arm band on me, to give me a prisoner number. I wouldn’t do it. They’d come in with one, or two guards and demand I put it on. I wouldn’t talk with them or acknowledge them. Then, they’d grab my arm, and put the band on my wrist. The second they closed the door, I’d wait until they were away—and just rip it off. They’d come back—and they would be floored. This sharade persisted throughout my ‘incarceration.’

Soon, they were writing me up. I didn’t care—it was all meaningless to me. They’d try and leave a write-up on my small desk—and I’d just push it back under the door with ‘refusal for cause’ boldly written across it. Soon, I was getting write-up’s for this too. And again—I’d refuse these also—sending right back out "Refused for Cause."

I was resolute, as then as I am now. I was fully aware of what I was doing and risking, however; some guiding light within me—from the start of this thing years earlier was clearly telling me that this system was wrong and had to be destroyed. I had no idea what I was doing nor what it’s ultimate impacts would be, but every single day I was in there, I knew it was the right thing to do. Hell—with our broken court systems—it was the only thing anyone could do given the circumstances. Since they did not allow me any redress, neither would they get any redress from me. Quid pro quo.

Soon, I saw my folder when I’d go and have meetings with them, when they wanted me to book, or take a physical, or whatever mundane administrational function that they were trying to pass over me. I’d look on the desk and most folders of other prisoners would be anywhere from a quarter inch thick, to maybe an inch. Mine, within about a month was close to 2 to 3 inches thick...and growing. Soon, they weren’t writing me up, and the attempts to put a wrist band on me became less and less infrequent.

In doing my hunger strike I would feel relatively fine up to about 30 days, then; I started getting weak. I couldn’t write as long, focusing became a problem, as each day progressed, even reading got harder. I could walk and still shoot basketball when they let me out for recreation one hour two to five times a week, but that was getting harder and harder. Pretty soon I was just going out to walk, then; just to sit and look at the sky.

These dreams about food persisted. Potatoes, vegetables, were the mainstay—I barely remember ever dreaming about steak. I think I had some lobster dreams too, but; the tomato salad of my friend was the most vivid. God, that dream must of woke me up salivating probably a half dozen times.

Yet, they would torture me by bringing food into my cell. They would open the tray, then let it sit there for me to smell, as if they could break me by doing so. Again, little did they know that this conflict was bigger than them, or I. This was a fight for who controls my own home, which for the past 13 years has been usurped by a criminal government, feeding off of it for its own benefits. They weren’t going to win anyway they dealt the cards, I was in charge—it was my body as it was my home. They could temporarily steal my son, or even my money, but; they couldn’t steal me, in the final analysis, they were screwed and they knew it.

What was bad though was the pains. At about 25 days, weird little pains start poking into you. First they start in your stomach, as your intestines contract by having no food. Sometimes this became a dull pain that wouldn’t go away, but it was bearable. It was the chest pains that started at about 35 to 40 days that alert you to the fact that your body is using your heart muscle as fuel, as it starts to eat that organ alive. What was most surprising, is that during this time frame of relative sensory deprivation stasis, letters began coming in from around the nation. Each and every one whom wrote was absolutely supportive of my efforts and to a person, totally understood what was going on. Many in fact were trying to help and write congressmen, the media, and really get my plight known. I was touched and found new sustenance by these letters. You don’t know how they kept me going. Many knew what this struggle was about, really; not much more had to be said. Just the ‘hi’ and "keep up the good work, we’re behind you" were enough. Some letters were long and flowing, and these gave me time to digress and lose myself in them. As book reading got harder, letter reading became a pleasant diversity. Many letters of which I received were absolutely humbling. People really poured themselves out into them, and many of them called me hero.

One typical letter came from a gentleman whom I never met, in which I never knew how he got my address, but here it was staring me in the face, from a couple thousand miles away.

3905 South Farm Road 75

Republic, MO 6738

June 17, 1996

Laura Johnson

Springfield News-Leader

651 Boonville Ave.

Springfield, MO 65806

Dear Laura,

In regards to the article "Dad cites patriotism in not paying child support," News leader Monday, June 17, 1996, p.2A; Robert Cheney should not feel like he is a victim of political persecution. All divorced fathers and their relatives are victims of the same Judicial System, members of the American Bar Association, and the law enforcement agencies who operate the divorce courts for their own financial gain. THIS IS A NINETY SIX BILLION ($96,000,000,000) dollar-a-year business. The system shows no mercy and will attack anyone who will try to pour money into the system in order to see that justice and property settlements are equitable. This is done in order to maximize the greatest financial gain for those in the system. All in the best interests of the children!, is a statement added to all good laws protecting the rights of fathers and their children and allows judges to operate the courts to maximize the financial gain for his friends in the Bar Association, and enforced by our tax.

Again, I want to Thank the News-Leader Staff for printing my letter to the editor, January 3, 1996 in which I stated, "Divorce cases should be removed from the control of the judiciary and the American Bar Association. There must be a better way to bring about separation of families. There is no need to subject the children and the divorcing parties to such thievery, fraud, extortion, harassment, antagonizing behavior and I would like to add lies, by the judicial system and the divorce lawyers for their own financial gain."

I totally agree with Robert Cheney, I don’t want my grandchildren to inherit the system that has already attacked myself, our family and my son. I don’t advocate the overthrow of this system but I do strongly advocate immediate change if not sooner! This financial gain is paid for by the young men’s family and the young men’s property is taken and the men are placed into slavery with the threat of debtor’s prison and his children are taken from him, by the police with brute force and on his property, all in the best interests of the children!

Yes, if this can happen to you in this free country!, and God only knows what else!


Robert E. Hackley

This kind gentleman also sent the news article about me from his local paper.


Page edited by Laura Johnson; call (417) 836-1199 after 5p.m.

Monday, June 17, 1996

Dad cites patriotism in not paying child support.

Oroville, Calif.—Some call him a typical deadbeat dad. Robert Cheney says he’s a patriot and a victim of political persecution.

Cheney, the executive director of Butte County’s anti-government Sovereign Patriot Group, ahs refused to pay nearly $11,000 in child support for his 13 year-old son. The reason: He doesn’t recognize the court that ordered the payment of the government behind it.

Now, that same government is making sure Cheney serve a 1 ½-year sentence for failing to comply with the 1989 court order. He’s been in jail since June 6.

"He doesn’t want his son to inherit the system that attacked him," said patriot group member Kevin Haddock.

This news-story which was published by the News-Leader is endemic the problems of our society. Although the ‘general’ basis of the story is true, major points are wrong. First of which caught my eye, and which we have battled over and over is the assertion that my organization is Anti-government. It is not. We are Constitutionalists, or strict structuralists. This is our proper term. We demand that the constitution means what it says, that it is the supreme law, that law is the law, and thereby; government must operate accordingly. We have never been ‘Anti-government’ nor ever will be, yet; this terrible label has been attached to us in countless cases, and has in fact, become a general moniker to all those who are Patriots when, in fact; the exact opposite is true. Secondly, the assertion that I did not recognize the court again, was a complete lie! In fact, I did recognize the court, per se; as my legal paperwork stated as such; however; as is my right—I challenged jurisdiction thereof, which any American is allowed to do not only by legal procedure, but is a right by birthright! There is nothing wrong in this. In fact, when I did challenge jurisdiction, and on April 29th, 1996, Judge Stephen C. Howell stated on the record that "I have no jurisdiction in this matter." Thereby concluding the case! These are the facts.

There is no way, by these facts; that I could go into prison. Yet, here I prison. The whole thing was a sham, and the results of this, are an exigent danger to every living American.

The fact that I when went got drawn into other subsequent fraudulent court sessions without ever legally contracting with those courts, and then in getting thrown into prison, cannot be explained away by any law whatsoever. What we are speaking of here, is the fact that a court without jurisdiction, placed me into prison. A legal impossibility, and a great crime in the United States. You can’t do it. It’s an impossibility. It’s a criminal act.

In citing People v. Zadro (1937) 20 C.A. 2d 320, 66 P2d. 1204, the court said: "It is elementary that legal jeopardy does not arise where the court has no jurisdiction." (20 C.A. 2d. 323.) I have posed this legal conundrum to many lawyers and to a tee, each and every one when they have learned about my case has become strangely mute and quiet. But we again return to Brad Rhunt: "Where do you go when the Judge does not obey your law?" We now know, you can only go to jail.

This, is not my legal question any longer, it has become every single American’s legal question—and as we visibly watch more and more of our legal rights erode away, this question will have to be answered soon, one way or the other.

Finally, to prove this point when the "Judge" in this supposed trial, who was a hired outside Judge from Fresno or Modesto named Richard C. Cumming who was flown in specially to handle my fraudulent "trial," he found me guilty through a ‘jury trial’ (which I never agreed to, nor chose any of the jurors, nor did I participate in), he plead "not guilty" for me when I never plead nor allowed him to plead for me—and when the "jury" (with planted shills on it) found me "guilty" I never accepted the verdict! Yet, the "Judge" in this matter, Cumming, sentenced me to jail for 1 ½ years. The DA noticed that there was a huge mistake in doing so, for they couldn’t keep me in jail for a misdemeanor for more than 1 year in a county jail—so the DA made a motion (which I refused) to reduce my prison term by 6 months, so that my total time would be only 1 year. Yet, I resisted this, and wrote a motion refusing the reduction in sentence as my claim was that this "jury" and "court" never had jurisdiction in the first place!! Yet the Judge reduced it anyway’s...

What court could I go to have Howell placed into jail? Or Cumming? Or the DA who all knew they were implementing illegal laws and acts. Where do I go? Now, more importantly; a larger question--where do you go??

To the only place I went when presented with absolute power which is out of control was the same place many other fathers went before me: unjustly into debtors prison.

The maxims state clearly: "Judici officium suum excedenti non paretur." -- To a judge who exceeds his office or jurisdiction no obedience is due. Jenk. Cent. 139. This maxim is carried into case law, such as Zadro noted above: There are many other cases also. "When a judge exceeds his jurisdiction and grants or denies that beyond his lawful authority to grant or deny, he has perpetrated a non-judicial' action." Yates v. Hoffman Estates, 209 F.Supp. 757 Ill. D.C. 1962. Clearly, I was suffering through a non-judicial action. But this is fine, how does one protect oneself from such arbitrary illegal persecution? As far as I can see, we can’t, and this is the real story of this book. We can no longer protect ourselves with law against this ‘new and efficient law,’ the law of mutual responsibilities and obligations which Hillary desires for us so.. This is a new problem exacerbating within the American experience, and we have no idea how to handle it. There is no answer. There is only extreme danger.

What I mean by this isn’t that there isn’t an answer, I think the answer is very clear—but what I am saying, is under the present construct; as far as fathers are concerned—there is no answer. The only thing Fathers can do is to bow and obey. To pay as quickly and mindlessly as they can with the least amount of impact to themselves. They must become on within the herd of the many zebra’s—finding safety within the masses. Yet, because of technology, even this is becoming more and more impossible.

Finally, the last and greatest lie within this news-story and an issue of which all fathers face is the staggering amount of money the DA invents. I owed zero to the DA and government over this issue, yet; the newspaper—without checking with me, disseminates this $11,000 dollar figure out of the DA’s assertion--as if it is the final truth. It isn’t. And unfortunately, the DA in sentencing to them to civil death ‘invents’ these figures through Disomaster figures and other ‘expert’ financial analysis without ever bringing forwards the real truth. Some fathers are invented to pay totally astronomical amounts, monies which they would never pay into any other items, such as houses or cars—strangely they owe to government! What amounts they couldn’t accrue even if they had the child living with them—the DA ‘expertly’ informs the media that they owe these phenomenal amounts, and the media actually prints these figures as if they were the real authority. How can you tell a guy that makes maybe $5,000 dollars a year, that he owes $63,000? I mean, this is insanity, it is organized crime—and they know it.

The ‘real truth’ in my case was that ever since the first trial, I had only asked for full custody of my own child—something which that court—and every subsequent has illegally denied me, yet; by law—is owed me (under California Civil Code §7004(a), §5105, and §22.2). I never submitted never submitted to their illegal actions. I have never paid their extortion—yet; they most certainly have stolen substantial amounts from me through ‘wage garnishment’ over an 11 year period. When government acts under "Parens Patriæ" to become ‘the ultimate parent’ and usurp my authority and all my rights; then, it becomes legally the parent and it enjoys those pretended rights so it in accordance, as a parent, assumes the responsibility. It oppressive function however, proves if anything—that it is not a parent of any type—it is only an out-of-control tyrant. No citizen goes safe to trial with the Government as his ultimate parent; a complete abdication of the true role of such title. If the state is going to pull these ultimate despotic doctrines and impose them against me against my will, then; as it is now the supposedly main Master to my child using a government doctrine that is no longer American, common law, or Republican From of governance? Under this reality, then it assumes all liabilities to pay to enjoy these newly asserted rights. The parent is no longer required to pay, for we have been displaced. We are no longer the parents.

I have never believed in them being the "ultimate parent" of my child, I have never authorized them nor supported them, nor shall I ever support these draconian Anti-American usurpation’s of home and family. To this day, I am my son’s only father, I will never pay the thief who assumed unwarranted authority and control over my life, who allowed criminal acts to prevail over justice, in abject defiance to my continued protestations. Thereby; I have never owed them anything, I never will owe them anything...and I still to this day, in overwhelming impossible odds, demand my child’s return to me, all monies stolen, returned; and a profuse apology from everyone involved in this criminal action. But now, because of my unjust incarceration, I’m also demanding damages, and a blanket indictment against all these criminals who were involved in this theft of my son.

On my first extended hunger strike, at day 63, the Sheriff, Mick Grey, had a meeting with me and two of my friends, Bill Brouhard, a Realtor and Doug Bussey a Lawyer-friend of mine. Both of them were shocked when they saw me, and surprisingly—I was kind of huffing it when I made the walk from my jail cell to the Sheriff’s office, a walk of maybe 120 yards.. My throat was dry as a desert.

The Sheriff just let both my friends speak with me, which they did. Both of them gave impassioned pleas for me to call of this hunger-strike. They intellectually entreated me to dissuade continuing any further, but—I parried and overcame their arguments one after the other. They couldn’t make a dent in me, and they both were losing the battle to dissuade me from continuing. I felt as if I had overcome this pressure until Doug, said something that kind of struck me hard.

There was a rather neat and gregarious gentleman in Chico, I can’t even remember his name, that was a well-known part of the community whom had died suddenly that early summer, taking everyone by shock. I think he was in his mid-to-late forties, and his death, was plastered all over the media. Although I didn’t know this gentleman, I recognized him and knew many in our community were devastated at his demise. This story was quite substantial, and raged in the local media for a good one to two weeks. Everyone who knew him, which Doug was one; was hurt by his death.

Doug looked at me, and with pained eyes said: "J.R., I’ve lost one good friend this summer—don’t force me to loose another. I don’t think I could take it." By this time I was drained—but that kind of sealed my fate. It was very emotional, and I just pursed my is strange how the human heart can effect even the best military plans and decisions. On a decision I regret to this day—I accepted the "Sheriff’s Parole." There was something in Doug’s voice, that just stopped me at that moment.

Then, surprisingly, although not one peep about my 63 day hunger-strike had made the local media—when the Sheriff heard I stopped my hunger-strike, he ceremoniously took me out to a local restaurant that exact instant to Table Mountain Tavern, in Oroville, California. We ate there, with me taking my first taste of food in about a two-month period of time. Surprisingly, I couldn’t taste a thing—my taste-buds had somehow shut down. Knowing what my body was going through, I had very little to eat, mostly mashed potatoes with gravy. All during this meal, everyone was very light hearted. I felt discombobulated though...I was still shaken by the whole incident. Grey, was almost rejoicing, he was very happy.

When we got back to the Jail, I finally "booked." I still regret doing this—but, the coercion was just too great. After all, just like the rest of you, I am human. Per our agreement, and in direct violation of Sheriff Parole policies, (as you are not supposed to have any write-up’s in order to be granted for Sheriff’s Parole...Hell! By this time my file must have been three to four inches thick!) I would stay in jail for about 50 days, and then the Sheriff would release me.

This isn’t what really happened, for when it came time to release me he reneged on his agreement. Upon that—I again resumed my hunger-strike, which being my third, lasted for about 10 days. Soon, the papers got pushed through and I was released.

After I was out of prison, I was invited to go on a Radio Show, called Veterans Forum, on KZFR in Chico, California. I was a guest speaker on this show and some very remarkable things started to happen as I spoke on this issue, live, on-air broadcast.

As usual, the phones lit up pretty hard and I began answering questions from the audience after telling them about Child Support, the law and the general corruption of this system. One gentleman called me up telling me that he was at his wits end in trying to deal with his local DA in Yuba City, California. He said, that even though his wage was garnished, and that the DA took out all the money he wanted each paycheck by computer, that he was always getting notices in the mail that he was behind in payments a certain amount, usually, one, two or three hundred dollars. He’d then take a day off he couldn’t afford, to deal with these people, and show them all his paychecks in which to straighten this mess out. They’d supposedly get everything right, and then sure enough, one or two months later—the same exact charges would start reappearing in the mail, once again charging him that he was several hundred dollars behind in his Child Support payments.

We had heard a lot about this, and in fact—the same thing happened to me. What we finally figured out was that the DA was intentionally doing this to pad his figures—again—so that the feminists would have ‘the facts’ of how many men only make ‘partial’ and not full payments. I informed this gentleman that the DA was intentionally doing this, that it was due to his need to fill quota’s. His job was to paint all fathers in as terrible light as he could, then label them deadbeats, so, they would use the system itself to generate false figures so that they could get more Federal funding to go hunt those terrible "Deadbeat Dads." What this meant of course was that it didn’t matter how much you paid into these criminals, come time for accounting, you’d always be just a little behind. This of course, "checked a box" for the computer which was tallying such rote figures so that they could later be used to justify increased need, thereby allowing more Grants to come into the county. The computer would show Washington and the feminists that; there were a huge ‘partial payment’ segment of the deadbeat dad issue, and boy—did they have to combat that crisis by hiring yet even more people. I know many gentlemen have approached me on this conundrum, and it was puzzling to me until I figured out why they were doing this. As with most everything linked to this perverse system, it was a lie.

Another gentleman called up and complained that he had after many years, finally obtained custody of his own children. After getting them, he was chagrined that the DA did not pursue the mother for child support like they did him. I told him not to go after Child Support against the mother, as since he accrued the benefit of having his own children he could not steal from someone else to pay for what now he was responsible for. As I spoke to him and told him how more than three times the amount of women default on Child Support than men; I got an epiphany and started to ask him about his children. He of course started rattling off facts about how they now were doing excellent in school that they were in no trouble—I had the chance to link him to the exact facts and figures which I previously discussed and how his case exactly profiled what was happening when Fathers got with single dads: that they flourished.

All in all it was quite a remarkable radio show, and after completing it, I was surprised when the secretary came up to me and told me that there were calls still coming in and would I like to speak to these people. Well, I agreed sensing some responsibility here, so I spoke to all these callers who were still flooding the lines. One conversation of turned out to be quite remarkable.

It was the third and final caller who waited patiently for me, and when I spoke to him, he forcefully told me that he a student from Chico State University, and that he was a major in Logic there. He then said that he had been reading about me in the local papers and that he was angry. He said "You are not what the media made you out to be. I just heard you and you had a command of the facts, you were articulate—and you are not what they term a radical of any sort!" he said with finality. Well, I was sheepishly chagrined and we spoke for a while to where I ended the call thanking him. I left the station, happy to have done a good show, and went on with my normal life.

Then; something very strange occurred.

One day about a week thereafter I got a telephone call from Fred Rusk, the disc jockey from the KZFR Veteran’s Forum show, and he informed me that for a week afterwards the secretaries at the station were complaining bitterly that they were still getting calls in about my show. This he said had never happened before, (and that the secretaries were not happy about this new development). I was kind of stunned at this reaction. I asked him if he wanted to do another show and he happily said yes, he would love to, so we began scheduling a time.

What was funny about this was about a week later Fred called me again to tell me that now his listeners were calling him at home! Apparently the secretaries had had it, and were forwarding the calls to his own private residence. I was more than amused. He took it in stride though.

Again, this is the premonition I have always had in regards to the Fathers Rights movement, that it will become the next major social movement which will eclipse all other previous movements. It is the White Rhino, and when it is given proper voice, it leaves a trial which those who come in contact with it—or even wander across it—will find profound.

Where ever I have been asked to go on the media, whether it has been Television, Radio, or the Newspapers, somehow; it has created an indelible impact. I can remember being on KPAY Radio in Chico, California, the largest radio station in the northstate; and when we started talking on that show, every single light on their phone banks lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree. As God is my witness, I will never forget the host of the show, Bruce Sessions, looking at pointing incredulously down at the phone, then turning in amazement to his production crew at the sound board and pointing back and forth to the phones while alternately holding his face, and then back to the phones as they lit up wildly.

We were supposed to be on this show for a brief fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, he took the first 15 minutes and totally blew us out of the water (this show was in regards to the Butte County Sheriff and the Brady Dayton Cumbuss murder). Well, we waited patiently, (I had to restrain my associate, Kevin Haddock who was crawling out of his seat trying to answer all Mr. Sessions allegations), but I knew that was not why we were here. Bruce wanted to torpedo us, and in that scenario, nothing you say will matter when media plans such an attack on you. He controls the show. Well, this went on for a solid fifteen minutes and then at a break, his production crew was waving at him to come in and have a meeting. Bruce during the commercial break went into the production room and spoke with his producers. We could see them conferencing through the large studio windows. After coming back he said that there were a couple of calls and several faxes asking him to "shut-up" and allow us to speak. He was disappointed, he lamented; but he was willing to be fair, "and let us hang ourselves" so he let us talk. So we did.

I was amazed that this had happened, as I was resigned to take this planned torpedoing, and cut our losses as such by not engaging. But, to his credit he now was letting us inform the public as to the law as well as the facts, so we opened up the volumes of law books we brought with us and began going through them, item by item over the law, procedure and what was the correct lawful thing for the Sheriff to do as mandated by his own laws. Poof! Within five minutes of our speaking, the phone lines lit up as if Hoover Dam had suddenly been wired into them. Call after call came in agreeing with us. Bruce who was stunned at all this, to his credit; kept mostly quiet and allowed us the time for our platform to be heard. He kept us there the whole hour, then; he asked us whether we could stay for the second hour. "Sure." We said. So, he bumped his second guest and kept us on. When that hour was over, he bumped his third guest and kept us there for the whole three hour show! I’ll never forget the next to the last call which came in just before the show went off the air, it was from an old lady who was a regular listener to the show. She told Bruce that the past few shows he had weren’t very good, in fact she said "They were in the crapper." She then said this was one of the best shows he ever had done, noting: "I don’t know who these guys are, or all of what they are really saying—I just thank God they’re here." She said with finality.

I relate this incident in which to tell many people that I have never talked down to people. When I did my own Television Show called: Sovereign America; I always spoke as high a manner and intellect that I could to the common person, challenging each and every one of them. When I first started the show, people warned me, "No...most of the people won’t understand you. They’ll tune you out. You’ll have to talk down to them. Come down to their level." "Go the lowest common denominator."

I never did.

When I did this show, I brought out the most erudite law and legal terms I could find and then explained what was the outcome of such determinations. We would bring out the Vehicle code and read exactly from its dry and highly ossified legal terminology. We would read the government code, Evidence code, the FRCP—the whole gamut of what we considered ‘law’ to be. If anything we pulled our audience along with us. We never ‘limited’ them. We pushed out the highest principles we could for any TV show—in fact, I can remember getting one fact wrong where I came back and told the audience that I got it wrong, apologized, made the correction and moved on. People need to trust you with the truth, and at some point you will always snafu. It is then that you have to admit your mistakes and tell the truth, and move on—letting them trust you that this is the relationship of really getting to the truth of issues. An investment of sorts between you and the viewer. What I presently see in our contemporary media, government and especially feminists—this is the last thing on their mind.

Well, even though the show was only on cable access—it was a huge success. I can remember walking around Butte County—and people would instantly recognize me. I became a "celebrity." Along with this new found fame, I also listened to my inner voice, telling me to stay close to the facts and hold the truth even more close, to never lose this as a principle. I’ll never forget going to a benefit Concert in downtown Chico. This concert was for Prop 215, the Medical Marihuana Proposition which later passed by a resounding margin—and as which the de facto ‘corporate’ government has still yet to obey. Nonetheless, there I was, just one of the masses, (I actually was coming back from a bike-ride) and just started walking around at this benefit/concert. It was so odd, I didn’t get 25 feet into walking through the event when the first people stopped me and started talking to me. Soon a small crowd had gathered. It was very unnerving being an ‘instant celebrity.’

I was quite amiable with these people none of them who I knew, speaking to them about the issue of Marihuana, which unlike the President of the United States, I had never taken or used one bit. But I supported their cause though, above and beyond just mere Marihuana medical use, of which this rally was supporting. Well, as I politely left the first group of people I had people coming up to me constantly introducing themselves and shaking hands. They had artisans there, like a small mini-fair who were selling a variety of things and one of them came up to me and gave me a small tile with some writing on it which he made and was selling, which spoke to the injustice of our local DA Mike Ramsey, who I considered to be a real criminal. I mean it was so surrealistic, it just kept on going on like this, I felt weird as if I was some kind of rock star—but I cannot deny that it was fun, and somehow moving.

What was the oddest thing about this was that, my Television show "Sovereign America" hadn’t been on air in over two years, because I was in jail, and never got on my feet again. Yet, I knew even during this time, that Butte College, who was the carrier and main station for Channel 31, Cable Access television; was still getting telephone calls for my television show even though it hadn’t been on for this extended time period! That, was truly astounding given the light, that not many mainstream television shows could boast that type of support. This support was wide ranging also, not just relegated to the supposed "Pot Heads" of Butte county.

I guess if anyone would label my countenance, it would probably best be considered as professional. I was at one bar kind of talking with some friends, when two gentlemen walked into this establishment, and the second they saw me both of them just exploded into what seemed a rage. I kind of knew these guys, but was taken back as they both quickly approached me. As most people do in small communities, you see certain people and you bump into them once in a while, but you don’t know there names, nor ever talk with them—you just see them every once in a while, way off in the distance--well, this was the exact case here. Both these gentlemen rushed up to me and one was saying "Here! This is the guy with the television show!. This, is who I’m talking about!!!" and they went on to relate how as they were driving in the car to come into town they were constantly discussing my show, and how good it was, or rather; how truthful it was. One knew who I was and was trying to explain it to the other fellow who never got it. I could see that in the car, they must have almost come to blows over this by both their reaction once they saw me.

The widespread acceptability of this format of not talking down to people and pushing their intellectual limits was driven home to me even among my friends. One of them, Pat Conroy, emotes perhaps the best of what Patriarch’s strive for. He owns his own construction company, he is a highly active and visible community leader, he is the consummate parent, being very active and involved with his children, cub scouts, school—the whole nine yards. He is fiercely loyal to his employees, yet, as a true capitalist, he works them as hard as possible, trying to gain as much profit for his company, so that he can garner more work and hire more people and provide even better for his family, and to give to charities, which is something else his family does a lot of. He reveres his own father, and his father he—and there is strong familiar ties among the Conroy clan, not just in the immediate family, but in the extended one as well. He does all this—and in concomitant fashion, he has a stunningly beautiful wife, who he loves, and she him—and she is a benefit to him, and she is a mother to her children; and...they live very well which is the actuality of the American dream. He, his wife and his family are the blueprint of what we Patriarch’s this nation should be doing.

He and I had many political discussions, and sometimes we’d agree, sometimes we wouldn’t—that’s the way things go, however; he did relate to me an insight that yet again proved the demographic marketability of using television as a real information tool. We were working together one day and he just stopped and said: "Oh—a funny thing happened last night."

I of course wondered so I asked him what it was. He said that he was on the phone with Steve Lotti, (yet another gentlemen in which the Patriarchal community would best emulate), and they were talking on the phone about some obtusely related business. Well, Pat told me, they were in the middle of their negotiations when, all of a sudden Steve on the other end of the line suddenly said: "Oh, I’ve got to go!"

"Why?" Pat reproached still wanting to continue the business discussion.

"J.R.’s on TV and I want to watch this." Steve quickly replied. {My personal friends call me by my nickname: "J.R."]

"What channel?" Pat excitedly asked, now unconcerned about the previous conversation.

"Channel 31." Steve responded.

"Okay, call back after the show and we’ll finish our discussion."

Pat then told me that both he and Steve hung up the phones, watched the show, and then when it was over; they both called each other back up—and then resumed the conversation—continuing exactly where they had left off as if nothing had happened...


Now, I find this remarkable, not just because these were friends that found it funny or somehow quaint that they had a personal friend with a small time Cable Access show, but rather in the fact that this show really meant something. It meant something because of the content of what we were talking about. This was the hook. Somehow, in talking about Americanism, and proving it through erudition and didactic research appealed to people on an intrinsic level. This format of taking the high road and holding people up to the highest levels of thought and philosophy challenged many people to think on an abstract layer, and—as I figured; they found themselves deeply gravitated to my show. I wasn’t getting these responses ‘just’ from my friends—but a cross section of the community and the letters we continually got in the mail, told me that we had a dedicated audience. We had a loyal following that went across all demographics within that community.

It wasn’t some mindless diversion we were putting on TV, but rather, we were bringing out American concepts and philosophical ideals which we were reading from age-old manuscripts, and old legal books and journals which almost fell apart on us in our hands as we read them on air. We were speaking to the heart of just not America, but the human spirit—of age tested truths, and self-evident theorems and controversial doctrines which had filtered down to us and handed to our form of government as a solid foundation. We found, to our surprise, that all people hungered this intellectual challenge when it was presented to them. This show, and others which we did, struck some immutable chord within people who heard us—and when they did hear us, the phones lit up like Christmas trees every time, to many people’s amazement. There was a power here as if a hammer were meeting an anvil, and everyone who witnessed these things—were circumspect in their surprise.

I’ll never forget going on the Art Bell show around 1995. I wasn’t on as a guest, but rather as a listener chosen to argue a political point live on air against another listener who would argue the opposite point. I had been a regular caller for quite some time, and had sent many faxes into his show, usually bringing out case law, or other historical or legal points of interest. He knew me well, and knew my political positions and as I found out later, had a certain respect for me. When Art introduced me, he paused for a bit, and then said something that kind of humbled me, he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, here’s the real thing, J.R., a patriot from Chico, California." He said this in a reverent tone, that kind of took me back by surprise, as most people today don’t want to align themselves with patriots or admit even being one. The mainstream vilification of that American institution as well has been much maligned by both our media and government. This indoctrination has been so complete, that now most children only associate ‘Patriotism’ with racism and avid gun control, and "Angry White Males." Yet, here he was venerating me live on air, to a national audience.

Nonetheless, it is time we as a nation of listeners and viewers push these, what are for the greatest part, mindless and shallow entertainment shows and push these institutions to higher limits. For instance, I have watched the Howard Stern show and marveled at its titillation value, its irreverence towards the moral and its campy, mindless think-quick-on-your-feet-in-your-face kind of broadcast style. Yet, strange at is may seem, this show even serves a function, an important function abandoned by most culturally elite mainstream broadcast information shows; and that is a forum to actually show us the other side of the coin. One of the major functions of news, is to inform the viewer. The mainstream media has long abandoned this precept of journalism as it can no longer be tolerated within the new Feminist driven mindset which overshadows them all. Thereby, no longer do the mainstream media show people such as a KKK member and give him a free forum to speak, no longer do we see controversial intellectuals and the other side of the human experience in which, we as the viewer, once we have seen both sides of an issue, or of a person, we can make the determination of what to think or who to vote for in our public forums. Unfortunately, this has become a lost art within the media—one which is not done out of chance, but is planned by spite, power, and outright control over the American mindset. Howard Stern show is—but a brief glimpse, if not a perverse glimpse into what many American’s don’t normally see anymore—and that is the other side of the coin.

This of course did not happen on our show. We would entreat guests to come on and to say their side, yet; again—upholding the Doctrine of the Silent Treatise, they would always refuse, at least the ‘public servants’ would; and thereby—we would be left with the difficult task of trying to intellectually take their side, which was quite difficult, yet; which we always tried to do: show the other side.

Again, when we tackled really tough issues, as in the Brady Cumbuss case, the unseen hand of our illustrious elite would actually censor our show. This happened once upon us breaking new news on the Cumbuss case, and Butte College who perpetrated the act, at the bequest of a ‘nameless’ public official, placed themselves in severe legal jeopardy in doing so. We could have had their FCC license—and many in my group wanted to go after it. However; I wrote the Dean of the School there, let’s just call him "Bob," a long letter informing him of the law, of his public Charter, and of the mandate given to him to air Cable Access television. We could have made things very messy for them, yet; I was prone as always to forgive first, and then if they proceeded to disregard the law a second time, then to go after them. Everyone should have at least one, two or three mistakes. We don’t live in a perfect world.

Their public access mandate by law was to broadcast ‘alternative’ viewpoints, which our show clearly did, as nobody else was even coming close to such subjects and issues which we were doing. They also, as a public broadcast facility came under FCC law, which under case precedent meant that we as a broadcast information show, "classical journalists" if you will; had the inviolate right to first publish (broadcast) then get sued if what we aired was not true. I politely brought these issues out to them, and demanded in no certain terms that the broadcast the show forthwith. They did. My repeated attempts to find out what public servant called them and ordered them to censor the show, was never met however. They protected that person. We never found out who it was—although we do have suspects.

One of the things which I should relate to you was in the fact by which I resisted the Prison Guards feeble attempts to control me. What most prisoners don’t know when they enter jail is that it is a psychological training ground. Classical doctrines of Skinner, Freudian, Jung, Pavlovian analysis, and other techniques are used to coerce inmate’s into behaving the way they want. When I went into jail, I wiped their whole psychological slate clean. They didn’t know what to do.

Most of the techniques really involve the concepts of positive and negative reinforcement. Do this, and I give you that. Don’t do this, and I take away that. When I entered prison I was so angry by the outrageous injustice which I had just suffered through that I just stopped cold. I remained resolved that I wouldn’t do a thing for these criminals. They were the enemy, and I was going to treat them exactly as what they were.

My first night there they try and break you—by doing slow and tedious paperwork, by placing you into cells and just having you stand malingering. I went through this same tactic in the Marines at boot camp, so I was way ahead of these people. When they asked me: "Do you want to book?" expecting the normal "Yes"—I patently refused and demanded to immediately see the 24 hour magistrate; something of which they are supposed to do by law, but belligerently refused. Well, after several discussions they decided they would place me into solitary confinement (for not booking); of course they called it "administrative segregation" which I refused. They did it anyway’s.

When it came time to place me into prison, two guards took me to a laundry room and told me to strip. I told them I wasn’t a prisoner, that a terrible injustice had just occurred and to immediately bring me to a magistrate. Well, they were pretty taken back by the whole thing, but they assured me, that I would wear prison clothes—I told them I wouldn’t—as I wasn’t a prisoner, that I refused to consent, that I wouldn’t book or submit. I told them I was there unjustly, by a court with no jurisdiction. I told them about Judge Steven Howell, and how he had admitted on April 29th, 1996 that he admitted he had "no jurisdiction in this matter." I may as well been talking to parakeet’s. They didn’t hear a thing I said—they just did what they mindlessly trained to do.

They threatened me every way known to man; with beatings, with several officers forcing me to do it, with ‘write-ups’ and with several other assorted penalties. Of course I didn’t want any of these things, but I was determined to staunchly send the message that I was resolute, that I was right and they were wrong—and that they were in very much deep trouble. So, both of the guards left and placed me into a cell right near this facility, about one-half hour later they returned with two other prison guards, (four total)...and a video camera! Inside my mind—I was just laughing at them. But I was also very concerned for my safety. I was entering into a Brady Cumbuss scenario, and this jail had a malevolent, well-documented, and brutal past. The complete Butte County political regime did not like me, especially this jail—I had to be careful. I had to also, remain resolute however.

They led me back to this laundry room, threatened me several times more, of which I refused; then they all attacked me. I knew I couldn’t hit these people, I wanted to send a clear and decisive message to the whole system—that from now on; things wasn’t just going to be ‘business as usual.’ Ever since I was a little child, I was inculcated with the precepts that we are a free nation. A proud and noble nation. That the time to stand up came, it was the small man, the true American whom stood up and who defended this nation, and others; and from and by these enoble acts of sacrifice, we protected not only other people’s Liberty and Freedom, but more importantly, our own. Well, I was in for the fight of my life. All four of these guards at once jumped me. To combat them, I placed each of my hands underneath each arm, and I crossed my legs and then squeezed myself inside as tight as I could, held this position for as long as I could. One thing that really surprised me was at how weak these four guards really were. I mean, one of them even appeared to be of stout countenance, yet; none of them could either move my arms, get my hands or nothing. This struggle ensued while the fifth man filmed the whole event.

This debacle went on for one minute, then two; five, and at about ten minutes maybe even fifteen total, (I’m only estimating here, for there was no clock), It was a long time, because they were winded, and I was outlasting them. Finally they got me down on the ground, and exhausted, one got my thumb and tried to break it by twisting it back with his full body weight. Slowly I unraveled, and once there, they began tearing off my clothes. Then, naked, I still refused to wear their prison suit, so they placed a blanket on me, and with the four (now exhausted) guards and myself, and the fifth prison guard still filming, they put a sheet over me to cover my nakedness, and in the middle of the night they all marched me to my cell in silence to where they left me.

What was most unnerving to them was that when they would take me to mental health (just like the Russians who couldn’t force political dissidents to do their bidding), I would always come back and refuse to wear prison clothes. But what was odd was, that in each subsequent battle, they would add two or three more guards. I mean the first time there were four, the second time about six, the third time eight or nine, and then the final time, they had thirteen guards wrestle me to the ground and strip me. No kidding. Thirteen.

This last time was most remarkable. For it was at my second term of imprisonment, and when I came back from mental health a second time, to which again; I would give the psychologists no information what-so-ever. It was about day 50 of my second hunger strike, and I was tired. It was about 3pm when they brought me back to intake, and a female guard came up to where I was standing and asked for my shoelaces, and again, I refused. She stood there shocked, and I can remember a guard distinctly standing to the left of me, sighing loudly and turning, shaking his head; walking away in disappointment. She made the call to main dispatch to inform them that I again, was refusing to disrobe and wear prison which there was circumspect silence from the other end. Again, the video camera came out, they filmed me, then; the camera went back in to administration and disappeared for a bit. Then, I can remember all these guards collecting around me, some of which were, and had become my friends. We waited while guard after guard showed up—all of them, confused. Not happy at all.

I told everyone who was assembling there, "Sorry gentleman, but I shouldn’t be here, and you know that." All of them remained mutely silent as they assembled around me. They didn’t even attempt to dissuade me.

We then walked back to the laundry room again, in total silence. Nobody was talking. The whole assemblage would walk down the cold concrete corridors, come up to a locked door, bunch up; wait for a bit as it would become unlocked, and this huge assembly would lead me, a guard to each side of me into what was becoming an all too intimate laundry room. It took about five to ten long seconds for everyone to crowd into that small room. I quietly assumed my locked position, the camera got a good place to film, and as usual again, they all pounced on me at once.

What was unusual from previous struggles was that this was the most professional beating to date. They worked systematically to force me to the floor. Each man who double and tripled team me would take a specific function of my body. Others off to the periphery would use their free hands to secure me. As they were mashing my face into the floor, I could take comfort that I somehow had contributed to a refinement of jail beating techniques and procedures within this draconian institution

What was most odd, was this time, unlike others, with the Film camera running I could hear the jail guards in the background standing saying "Don’t hurt him! Don’t—No! Don’t hurt him. Be careful. Be careful!!" came the admonitions. I could sense that these avocations came from their hearts. Clearly, there had been a paradigm shift from within this jail itself. Unlike previous times which lasted five to ten minutes...because of my hunger-strike, I barely lasted three minutes during this one, to where I, God—it is hard writing this right now and remembering—I cramped up severely. My arms, and legs, even stomach went into ripping knots. I couldn’t hold it back—"Cramps!" I screamed. "Ohh! Cramps!!!" I kept screaming over and over. I was totally debilitated. I was like a rag doll. When they got me up, I was drained...and it was hard holding my head up. Once up, it took about thirty seconds, maybe a full minute for the cramps to subside; while they took off my clothes. Then—all of them silently walked me back into administrative segregation once more.

I remember I couldn’t lift my head up, it just kept falling down. I was very weak, and the guards kind of lifted me as I walked with them. We got into administrative segregation, (solitary confinement) they put me in my cell into the bed with just my shorts on, and I lay there quickly blanking out into sleep. When they left—I’ll never forget was dead quiet for a bit in solitary confinement. Then the guy in the next cell said. "Jesus! Thirteen guys! Fuck. I just counted them. Thirteen guards! They had thirteen guards come and take you here—I ain’t never seen that before!" he said incredulously. Then he asked me: Who are you?"

I was a father who only wanted my son, my mind told me as I went to sleep. I don’t even remember if a answered him. I just fell into a deep sleep.