Products (154)

<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?--> <div class="element element-bodymatter element-container-single element-type-chapter element-with-heading" id="chapter-1"> <div class="heading heading-container-single heading-size-full heading-format-full heading-alignment-flexible heading-without-image"> <div class="heading-contents"> <div class="title-subtitle-block title-block-title-is-element-number"> <div class="element-number-block"> </div> <div class="title-block"> <h1 class="element-title case-mixed"><span class="element-number-term">Chapter</span> <span class="element-number-number">One</span></h1> </div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="text" id="chapter-1-text"> <div class="inline-image inline-image-kind-photograph inline-image-size-small inline-image-flow-center inline-image-flow-within-text inline-image-aspect-tall block-height-not-mult-of-line-height inline-image-without-caption inline-image-begins-section inline-image-before-element-end"> <div class="inline-image-container"> <img alt="Creepy Cattle Skull" width="210" src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0301/3604/1571/files/skull-3163496.png?v=1728592403" height="280"> </div> </div> <p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-with-first-letter-t"><strong><span class="first-letter first-letter-t first-letter-without-punctuation">T</span>HE SIGN SAID WELCOME to Sunnyvale.</strong></p> <p class="subsq">It was a large sign, the size of a family car, and it was showing its age. The passing vehicles had kicked up the dust from the road, which had reacted with the rain and trickled down its fa&ccedil;ade in little rivers, leaving a trail of sediment behind. Some of the kids from the village had taken potshots at it with their BB guns, leaving angry welts in the surface of the metal. It was plastered with bird shit and the facility&rsquo;s cartoon mascots&mdash;all animals, of course&mdash;looked like they were suffocating beneath the weight of it all. Sunnyvale&rsquo;s tagline was right there beneath it: <em>The Home of Good Food</em>.</p> <p class="subsq">Tom Copeland stared at the sign as it grew larger in the windscreen, floated softly past on the passenger side, then disappeared as the path rolled away beneath them. Calling it a road would have been like comparing a burger van to a McDonald&rsquo;s. At best, it was a narrow dirt track that had been worn into the grass by the passage of vehicles and time. Copeland was glad he was in the back of a Land Rover and not on foot or bouncing up and down in his Vauxhall Corsa.</p> <p class="subsq">It had been an unusual day so far. This was his first time visiting the facility, and he was following the strict instructions that John MacDonald had given him when he was offered the job. He&rsquo;d met the three men he was sharing the Land Rover with in the car park of the Red Lion.</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll need to hitch a lift until you&rsquo;re given security clearance,&rdquo; MacDonald had explained. &ldquo;If you don&rsquo;t have a key card, you can&rsquo;t get in.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">The Land Rover hit a bump in the road and the driver, a dour-faced Scot with a bristly ginger beard, smacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand and shouted, &ldquo;Come on, ya bastard.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">Copeland turned his face to the window again. He was sitting in the back behind the passenger seat because it was the only seat left when they&rsquo;d picked him up. There had been no time for introductions. That had come later, once the Land Rover had started to worm its way through the back roads and, eventually, the countryside. Sunnyvale was tucked away in a natural dip in the Chiltern Hills, a good ten miles away from the nearest major town or village. There had been plenty of time for them to talk during the commute.</p> <p class="subsq">The driver had introduced himself as Big Jim Benton, and Copeland had made an immediate mental note not to mess with the guy. Big Jim had a mess of scars poking out from beneath his fiery beard, deep, sunken eyes, and a fat face. He was built like a brick shithouse thanks to twelve years of professional hooliganism and ten years before that of amateur street fights in downtown Leith. His right arm was a mesh of tattoos, and they caught and reflected the sunlight when he hung it out the window. His hair had started to recede and he had a small mole on the left side of his face. He was a little overweight, but he was far from obese. The excess was from the cheese, the beer, and the kebab meat, and it clung mostly to his face, his waist, and his stomach. It was the kind of bulk that belonged to professional wrestlers, a slowly cultivated weight that came in handy when he needed to use it. He could turn it into a weapon when he got in tussles with unexpected vandals or trespassers. It&rsquo;s what his job was all about.</p> <p class="subsq">The passenger seat was taken up by Big Jim&rsquo;s second-in-command, an Irishman called Darragh O&rsquo;Rourke. He wasn&rsquo;t as muscular as Big Jim, but he had the look of a wiry street dog with a bruised muzzle. He wore his greasy brown hair down to his shoulders, where it grazed his skin and brought blackheads and spots out in angry welts. He had a disconcerting habit of reaching beneath his Kevlar jacket and scratching at his skin, then bringing his hands back out and investigating his fingernails for blood and pus. He also bit the damn things, which Copeland thought was nothing short of cannibalism.</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Darragh&rsquo;s from Belfast, ye ken,&rdquo; Jim said.</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;That&rsquo;s right,&rdquo; the Irishman confirmed. &ldquo;I came over to Liverpool during the recession and ended up moving here for work.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Ah worked with Darragh afore Sunnyvale,&rdquo; Jim continued. &ldquo;Eh&rsquo;s a good lad, ye ken. Eh&rsquo;s goat a dog. Ye&rsquo;ll like tha, Mr. Vet Man.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Yeah?&rdquo; Copeland said, raising an eyebrow. He&rsquo;d never much cared for dogs, but he was socially adjusted enough to know when he was expected to say something more. &ldquo;What breed?&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;She&rsquo;s a little Jack Russell called Milly,&rdquo; O&rsquo;Rourke said. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s got a lot of energy. The missus says it&rsquo;s good practise for when we have kids.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Take mah advice,&rdquo; Jim grunted. &ldquo;Git yeself tha snip afore it&rsquo;s too late. Ah cannae stand wee bairns. Ah&rsquo;d rather stick ma dick in a blender thun huvtae raise some wee shite ah didnae want in tha first place.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll bear that in mind,&rdquo; O&rsquo;Rourke replied, but he was laughing.</p> <p class="subsq">The Land Rover&rsquo;s final passenger sat to Copeland&rsquo;s right, slouching back against the leather seats. He couldn&rsquo;t have been out of his teens. He was an Englishman from Bootle with a thick accent who looked as out of place in his security gear as a bum in a shirt and tie. He had short black hair with zigzags shaved into the back of it, as well as big lips, big ears, and a massive nose that looked as though it had been broken a dozen times. The kid&rsquo;s face reminded Copeland of a cross between a cauliflower and a bowling ball.</p> <p class="subsq">The young man nodded at him. &ldquo;First day?&rdquo; he asked.</p> <p class="subsq">Copeland nodded, then flashed a glance at the man&rsquo;s name badge. &ldquo;Sure is, Chase,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The first day of the rest of my life.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Yeah,&rdquo; Chase replied. &ldquo;Something like that. What are you doing here, anyway? You working the line?&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;I&rsquo;m a veterinarian.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Jesus,&rdquo; O&rsquo;Rourke said. &ldquo;What the shite are you doing at Sunnyvale?&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;What do you think?&rdquo; Copeland replied.</p> <p class="subsq">That killed the conversation, at least until Big Jim hit a button on the radio. He&rsquo;d matured into adulthood while grunge was on the rise and was still listening to Pearl Jam and Alice in Chains all these years later. Kurt Cobain was dead. Layne Staley was dead. Chris Cornell was dead. And in a lonely hotel room somewhere, Eddie Vedder was shitting himself at the prospect of being next.</p> <p class="subsq">As they cruised towards the entrance to the complex, they were listening to L7, an all-female riot grrrl band. Benton was nodding along to the beat, the feminism wasted on a man with a Hibs tattoo and a history of casual domestic violence, but O&rsquo;Rourke was lying back in his seat with his eyes and ears closed, and Chase looked like he&rsquo;d tried to swallow a pickled onion without bothering to chew it.</p> <p class="subsq">Tom Copeland looked at himself in the rear-view and took stock of what he saw there. Back in the day, when he&rsquo;d been running his own practice instead of &ldquo;working for the man&rdquo; on a factory farm, he&rsquo;d shaved every morning and gone to great lengths to make sure that he smelled of expensive cologne. But he&rsquo;d lost all that when he&rsquo;d been dumb enough to steal ketamine from storage. His partner had called him out on it and given him two options: either sign over his share in the company or be reported to the police. For Copeland, that was no choice at all.</p> <p class="subsq">A shadow passed across his face as he stared at the mirror. It was an ordinary face with a large forehead and a receding hairline. He had short black hair that flicked up from his head because of the way he slept, and he had thin, weedy eyebrows that looked like he waxed them, although he didn&rsquo;t. He also had big, flat ears that hung to the side of his head like two strips of bacon, but his face wasn&rsquo;t fat and neither was his body. He kept himself in shape, but it didn&rsquo;t come easy to him. And he&rsquo;d let himself go since Linda had left him all alone in the big, empty house that he could no longer afford.</p> <p class="subsq">When he thought about stuff, he started squinting, and he saw from the mirror that he was squinting then. He was a good guy. He <em>knew </em>he was. But he&rsquo;d made some bad decisions, and sometimes he felt like an asshole. But he did his best, especially for the animals. His fellow humans chose to be evil and corrupt. The animals had no choice.</p> <p class="subsq">Copeland had only stolen the drugs because a very unpleasant man had forced him to do it. He recognised the man by sight&mdash;he&rsquo;d seen him in the practice&rsquo;s waiting room&mdash;but he didn&rsquo;t know his name. The name didn&rsquo;t matter too much when he had his metaphorical knife to Copeland&rsquo;s throat and his mouth full of threats against his family. The irony was that when he&rsquo;d been caught in the act and kicked out of his own veterinary practice, Copeland had lost his family anyway. But at least no one had lost their life.</p> <p class="subsq">Copeland looked away from the mirror. A stilted silence hung heavy on the air. He fiddled uncomfortably with his seatbelt and shifted position to try to get comfortable.</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Jim,&rdquo; O&rsquo;Rourke said. &ldquo;Be a top man and put something else on.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Like what?&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;How about some grime?&rdquo; Chase said.</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Fuck ya grime, ye wee gobshite,&rdquo; Big Jim snapped. He flashed a glance at Copeland in the rear-view. &ldquo;Chasey boy thinks eh&rsquo;s a rapper, ye ken.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">Copeland smiled. &ldquo;Is that so?&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Yeah,&rdquo; Chase replied. &ldquo;Opened for Devilman a couple of months back.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;And how come you&rsquo;re working at Sunnyvale?&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got no choice,&rdquo; Chase said. &ldquo;I need the money. Used to work as a labourer, and before that I was at a warehouse. Then I saw Sunnyvale was hiring and I thought I&rsquo;d give it a shot. Besides, women love the uniform.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Aye,&rdquo; Jim conceded. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true. But ah&rsquo;d appreciate it if ye could keep yer trap shut fae a while. Ah cannae be dein wi yer chat today, ye ken? Ah&rsquo;ve goat a hangover. If ah hear another peep, ah&rsquo;m gonnae drop ye off and let ye walk tae work.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">Chase opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. Copeland stepped in to fill the silence. &ldquo;An Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scotsman,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;What is this, some sort of joke?&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">Big Jim fixed him with another penetrating stare in the rear-view, but said nothing. A hundred yards or so in front of them, two of Jim&rsquo;s men were working a checkpoint. A high chain-link fence stretched to the left and the right of the checkpoint as far as the eye could see, disappearing into the trees and following the curve of the land. The fence was festooned with &ldquo;danger of death&rdquo; signs, their black lightning bolt insignias popping out from their bright yellow backgrounds. Other signs, white ones this time, warned of guard dogs patrolling the premises. Curlicues of barbed wire lined the top of the fence. Copeland spotted the feathered remains of a bird&mdash;a pigeon, perhaps&mdash;caught amongst the metal.</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Welcome to Sunnyvale,&rdquo; O&rsquo;Rourke murmured.</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Aye,&rdquo; Big Jim added. He glanced at Copeland in the mirror again and caught his eye. &ldquo;Ah&rsquo;m guessin&rsquo; this&rsquo;ll be yer first look at the place. It&rsquo;s a shithole, but it&rsquo;s our shithole.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">He idled the car to a stop at the barrier and leaned his head out of the window. &ldquo;Open the gate, ye whoresons,&rdquo; he shouted. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s me, Big Jim.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">One of the men on the gate shouted an acknowledgement and held his thumb up. The other raised the gate and waved them through. Copeland got a good look at the gatekeepers while Jim was revving the engine and easing the vehicle back into its slow, inexorable crawl towards the complex. They were wearing army greens with Kevlar vests and heavy truncheons on their belts.</p> <p class="subsq">Chase caught Copeland&rsquo;s eye and said, &ldquo;Sunnyvale&rsquo;s got the best security this side of the Mersey. Top lads.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Why so much security?&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;It&rsquo;s more than my job&rsquo;s worth to tell you that,&rdquo; Chase said. &ldquo;Especially not with Big Jim at the wheel.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Aye,&rdquo; Jim said. &ldquo;Eh&rsquo;ll find oot fae hisself soon enough.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">Copeland nodded. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m looking forward to it,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I love a challenge.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Is that why you&rsquo;re here?&rdquo; O&rsquo;Rourke asked. &ldquo;The challenge?&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Something like that,&rdquo; Copeland said. He sighed. &ldquo;Ask me about it some other time.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">The Land Rover was slowing again, and Copeland peered over O&rsquo;Rourke&rsquo;s shoulder and out through the windscreen. They were approaching something else, another mess of metal. As the vehicle drove closer, scattering dusty pebbles every which way across the dead ground, the terrain levelled out. At the same time, a wave of brutal fragrance pierced the vehicle and Copeland started coughing.</p> <p class="subsq">It was the kind of smell that lingered in the nostrils. There was a certain stickiness to it, like second-hand cigarette smoke. It reminded Copeland of a kid he&rsquo;d gone to school with who reeked of starch, fat, and vinegar because his parents owned a chip shop. Sunnyvale didn&rsquo;t smell like starch or vinegar, but it did smell like fat. It also smelled like sweat and fear, blood and bile. There was a not-so-subtle hint of rotting flesh and a fishy aroma that put Copeland in mind of bad sushi. It also smelled like desperation. It was a depressing smell, and Copeland couldn&rsquo;t help turning his nose up at it.</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;That&rsquo;s the famous Sunnyvale stench,&rdquo; Chase said.</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Do people get used to it?&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Nah,&rdquo; Chase replied. &ldquo;They just accept it. Ain&rsquo;t no use holding your nose, pal. You&rsquo;ve just got to get on with it. It&rsquo;s part of the job. It&lsquo;s what we get paid for.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Smells like shit,&rdquo; Copeland observed.</p> <p class="subsq">O&rsquo;Rourke laughed from the passenger seat. &ldquo;Smells like a whole lot more than that,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;But Chase is right. That smell won&rsquo;t go away no matter what you do.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;It gets in yer heid,&rdquo; Jim said. This time, he didn&rsquo;t look back at Copeland in the rear-view. His eyes were firmly on the road ahead. They&rsquo;d reached the second mess of metal, and now they were closer, it was clear what they were looking at.</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Is that another checkpoint?&rdquo; Copeland asked.</p> <p class="subsq">&ldquo;Aye,&rdquo; Jim replied. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s like Chase seid. Sunnyvale&rsquo;s goat the best security this side ay the Mersey.&rdquo;</p> <p class="subsq">Big Jim reached forward and turned the music off. The atmosphere in the Land Rover had changed, probably because the great facility was looming in front of them on the other side of the formidable fence. It blocked the sun and cast the approach into shadow, reminding Copeland of a Transylvanian castle in some old vampire movie.</p> <p class="subsq">The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. <em>It&rsquo;s a far cry from the old practice in Chalfont St. Peter</em>, he thought. It was followed by a second, more urgent thought, something that came from somewhere deep within him. It was a primal thought, like the urge to eat or drink or ejaculate, and it came on suddenly and without warning.</p> <p class="subsq"><em>We&rsquo;re being watched</em>.</p> </div> </div>

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <head> <title>Untitled</title> <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"/> <style> /* ePub CSS */ h1 {padding-top: 15%;} .indent {text-indent: 5%;} .center {text-align: center;} .right {text-align: right;} .margin {margin: 0 5%;} .margin-indent {margin: 0 5%; text-indent: 5%;} .bigmargin {margin: 0 5% 0 10%;} .bigmargin-indent {margin: 0 5% 0 10%; text-indent: 5%;} .hugemargin {margin: 0 5% 0 15%;} .hugemargin-indent {margin: 0 5% 0 15%; text-indent: 5%;} img {max-width: 94%;} body {margin: 0 3%; text-align: justify;} .spacer {padding-bottom: 1em;} </style> </head> <body> <h1 class="center" id="c3">CHAPTER 1: <br/>WAIT, WHAT? (JURY SELECTION)</h1> <div class="spacer"></div> <div class="center"><img src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0301/3604/1571/files/f1.jpg?v=1725028638" alt=""/></div> <div class="spacer"></div> <div class="spacer"></div> <div class="indent">When I got the letter in the mail kindly suggesting that I show up for jury duty, I had no idea what the trial would be or how big it was. I still didn’t even suspect it when I showed up at the courthouse. I was put in a room with a lot of other people, and I guess I should have had a clue then, but I just thought it was business as usual at the Ada County Courthouse in Boise, Idaho. There were trials to be tried and they needed jurors to try them.</div> <div class="indent">I was given a number. My number was 1864, but I didn’t think that meant I was number 1864 out of what someone later said was 2400 total jurors called in for this case. I’ve heard there were 1800, 2400, and 2600 initial calls out to potential jurors. All three of those numbers came from people I thought should know. Whichever number it was, it was a lot of people called for jury service in this case. Serving on a jury was my duty as a citizen and I would do as they asked.</div> <div class="indent">What they asked of me first was to fill out a questionnaire. It was pretty generic and still didn’t clue me in to what I might be in for. That was it for Day One. A few days later, I received a message that I was again to show up at the courthouse at a given time. I showed up and again sat in the same room with a whole bunch of other people. Potential jurors were being called into the courtroom around 50 at a time. Still not having a clue but wondering what case I might be called in for, I waited for my group to be called. Let me tell you, if you haven’t experienced it yet, things in the judicial system don’t move along very fast.</div> <div class="indent">When I was finally called to go in, I lined up with the rest of the people in my group waiting to be escorted into the courtroom. Here I should say I was only vaguely familiar with Lori Daybell. I knew her kids had been missing for a long time and that they were eventually found dead. I knew what she looked like from news clips that I really didn’t pay much attention to. (I know it sounds strange that anyone wouldn’t be very familiar with the case, especially someone living in Idaho, but I spent a lot of the Covid years building a cabin in the mountains up close to the continental divide between Idaho and Montana where I had no internet, cell service, or even electricity.) Two bailiffs escorted us into the courtroom and there she was, sitting between her two attorneys! It hit me like a brick in the face. And she was looking right at us.</div> <div class="indent">A lot of emotions were coursing through me at this moment. The first thing I felt as I walked into the courtroom was the weight of the responsibility I would have serving as a juror in this court. I could feel it. It was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop, and there must have been close to 100 people in that courtroom.</div> <div class="indent">After the trial was over, I heard people say they felt pure evil emanating from the defendant. Whether it was something real that actually existed or just an emotion people felt, I’m not sure. But that first day, there she was, sitting right across from me, and she was looking at each of us in turn. When her eyes came to me, I refused to let myself look away until she did, but man was it hard. I didn’t want to look at her. I didn’t even want to admit to myself that people who were accused of what she was accused of existed on this earth or that they were real. It’s not that I was assuming she was guilty. It was just that people had been murdered and it was sad. Her situation was sad. I hadn’t thought about it before, but before that, I guess I just thought of her as someone on TV. Separated from me by that. But not anymore. This was the first time during this trial that I realized I was being confronted with realities I would rather have avoided.</div> <div class="indent">At this point, the judge, Hon. Steven Boyce, announced to us what the case was, so now there could be no doubt—but the reality still hadn’t totally sunk in.</div> <div class="indent">My first impression of Judge Boyce, which was reinforced over the next several weeks, was that he was a kind and thoughtful man. Possibly it was because of his position, sitting above us all in his robes, but he seemed fair. He seemed like the kind of person I would want trying my case, if I were on trial. One thing I noticed right away is that he did not have a gavel. I was kind of disappointed by that. I wanted him to have a gavel. I guess maybe it’s a thing of the past, but in all the movies I’ve ever watched there was a gavel and at some point it was used by the judge to bring order in the court.</div> <div class="indent">Judge Boyce was appointed by Idaho Gov. Brad Little in 2019 to the Idaho Seventh Judicial District. He is a member of the LDS Church, as are most people from southeast Idaho. I learned later that some people didn’t think he would be up to the task. How could any judge be? This case was so convoluted. I think he did well though. Not just because he was able to wind his way through it all without making any critical mistakes, but also because I think he stood firmly on the law and didn’t allow himself to be backed into a corner. There are many decisions a judge has to make daily in a trial like this and any wrong decision can lead to a successful appeal of the verdict.</div> <div class="indent">Still though, there were up to 2600 potential jurors, so what were the chances of me actually sitting on the jury? I calculated the odds in my head while I sat there, something to take my mind off the heaviness of the moment. One chance in 144.4 to be exact. That is using 2600 as the number of potential jurors.</div> <div class="indent">Judge Boyce asked us a lot of questions and we were given the opportunity to say why we shouldn’t serve on this jury. It was pretty obvious to me what I should say if I wanted to get out of it. Basically, they were looking for people who were not aware of what had been all over the news in Idaho, and the whole world for that matter, for over two years.</div> <div class="indent">He asked if it was a hardship for anyone and my mind was racing thinking about everything I would have to put off, all of my plans I would have to change to serve for a trial he said might last for eight weeks. By the time he came to me, I had heard some real hardships that some people would be facing if they had to serve on the jury and mine seemed pretty weak. My work is somewhat seasonal and springtime is when I usually start painting, replacing fences, fixing broken sprinkler systems, and things like that. None of it is critical. Putting it off for two months would just mean it would pile up and I would have to catch up later, but I could certainly do that.</div> <div class="indent">One young woman was a single mom of two kids and worked two jobs. She was afraid she would lose her jobs if she had to serve on the jury. At the very least, she would lose the pay she would have received, and she said she would not be able to pay her rent, among other things. Another guy had his own business and was required to travel. He would lose his contracts and the income associated with them. He would have to lay off some of his employees. Judge Boyce did not release either of these people, at least not right then. After hearing these stories and others, I would have been embarrassed to say mine out loud. There went my first opportunity to walk away. I wasn’t too concerned though, because my chances of being chosen to serve were still very slim.</div> <div class="indent">Before being released for the day, Judge Boyce admonished us potential jurors, as he would at the end of every day: We were not to talk to anyone about the trial or watch, listen to, or read anything related to the trial. So, not only were we going to be in court every day for up to eight weeks, but we couldn’t tell anyone what we were up to.</div> <div class="indent">Eight weeks is a long time and there were people wondering what I was up to. Because this case was so prominent in Idaho, some figured it out on their own, which was fine, and they were curious but respectful when I explained I wasn’t able to talk about it. Well, I can talk about it now!</div> <div class="indent">I was called back the next day for mostly the same long, boring drill. This time when my group was called in, the attorneys questioned us individually. The most common question was basically: What do you know about this case? Then: How do you <i>not</i> know about this case? Have you watched the series about the case on Netflix?</div> <div class="indent">Like I said earlier, I didn’t know much. I was honest when asked how I didn’t know much. I just said I found the story depressing and sordid, so I didn’t pay attention to it when I saw it on the news. It was true, but I thought the defense might be offended by my answer. Apparently they weren’t, or I suspect they were grasping to find 18 jurors who knew as little as I did. As for the prosecution, they told me later they were looking for people who they thought would be able to follow such a complicated case. That was it for Day Three—after the admonishment from Judge Boyce, of course.</div> <div class="indent">Day Four was kind of bizarre and I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. There were 42 of us in the courtroom and I didn’t know we had been boiled down to just those 42. Had I known, I would have calculated my chances of serving on the jury at 1 in 2.33. Considerably worse than the 1 in 144.4 of the previous days. The attorneys kept looking at individual jurors and passing papers back and forth, through the bailiff, from the defense to the prosecution and vice versa.</div> <div class="indent">I found out later after the sentencing, when I interviewed the prosecution team, that the prosecution and the defense each had the opportunity to release 12 potential jurors without having to have a reason. They would look over the jury, write something down, and hand it to the bailiff. The bailiff would walk the paper over to the opposing counsel. Opposing counsel would look at it and write something down, hand it to the bailiff, and the bailiff would make a return trip. This took hours and was excruciatingly boring, especially since I had no idea what they were up to.</div> <div class="indent">Finally juror numbers were called out and those jurors whose numbers were called were thanked for their time and dismissed. We were down to 18. I still didn’t understand we were the final 18 and I was on the jury! After being admonished by the judge, we left the courtroom and were escorted into the jury room.</div> <div class="indent">Randy, the court’s jury administrator, started giving us instructions and it slowly dawned on me. Holy crap, I was on the jury for the Lori Vallow Daybell case! Everyone was kind of looking around at each other, realizing we would be spending a lot of time together, and I imagine wondering where we all stood. According to Judge Boyce’s admonition, we couldn’t even discuss the trial with each other. I noticed some people had a kind of stunned look on their faces and I imagine I did too.</div> <div class="indent">We were told we would be picked up at an as yet undisclosed location and driven to the courthouse in vans. We would be notified when and where to be, and the pickup location would be changed regularly.</div> <div class="indent">Now I was a little nervous. According to the charges filed against her, Lori Daybell had either murdered or conspired to murder people she knew. Was I in danger? Was my family in danger? Would the pickup location be secure and guarded? Maybe I’ve watched too many movies. At the time, I didn’t know who Alex Cox was or that he was dead. I didn’t know who the players were, and I didn’t know whether some of them might still be out there. I wouldn’t say I was afraid, but I did ask my wife to keep the doors locked when I wasn’t home, and to be aware of what was going on around her, something we’re not used to in Boise.</div> <div class="indent">Looking back, I realize they were more concerned with the media hunting us down than any danger we might be in. Of course, I wouldn’t have talked to a reporter if they had found me, but the court didn’t know that for sure and there was a lot at stake. The media did try to contact me after the trial was over, but I didn’t answer their calls. I simply didn’t answer if the call came from someone not in my contacts. Once I figured out who in the media were legitimate, I talked to those people well after the verdict was in, but even then, I was careful about what I said, not wanting to take the chance of saying something the defense could use in an appeal.</div> <div class="indent">As it turned out, I was right to be careful. One juror innocently said something to Nate Eaton, a reporter who had covered the case extensively since the beginning. Neither the juror nor Nate Eaton would have intentionally done anything to endanger the verdict, but something was said by the juror that the defense tried to use to call for a mistrial. Fortunately that didn’t go anywhere, but why take the risk?</div> <div class="indent">We live in a very quiet neighborhood with only one way in and out and only two short streets that both end in cul-de-sacs. We all know each other and if there is ever a police car or fire truck in the neighborhood it’s big news. We started noticing police cars going by regularly or sometimes parked just down the street from our house. I never did find out for sure, but I suspect they were patrolling the neighborhood just to make sure we weren’t being harassed. I wasn’t sure at the time whether to be reassured by the security, or more nervous.</div> <div class="indent">You’re probably wondering why “juror number 18.” We all know that according to our U.S. Constitution, a criminal trial jury consists of 12 jurors. In this trial there would be 12 jurors, plus 6 alternates. The kicker was, that no one would know who the 6 alternates were until their number was literally pulled out of a hat after the prosecution and defense rested and the judge gave his instructions to the jury, just before the jury went into deliberations. Judge Boyce told me later they did that because it would be such a long trial and surely some jurors would have to drop out due to health, family, or something. But not one juror did.</div> <div class="indent">I was proud of the other jurors (and myself) for seeing it through to the end. It wasn’t easy for any of us, and I think it was very hard for some. Not just because of time away from family and work, but also emotionally. Some of the subject matter we were exposed to was not for the faint of heart. It definitely took a toll on all of us. There were a few who I thought would crack, but they stuck it out.</div> <div class="indent">I had the opportunity to meet with the ones I was concerned about a few weeks after the trial and they seemed okay but are seeing a counselor. I hope they are okay. They are good people and didn’t deserve to be confronted with what we had to see and hear in that courtroom. Eighteen more victims of Lori Daybell—although I’m sure my fellow jurors wouldn’t admit that.</div> <div class="indent">Talking to some of the other jurors after the trial was over, I found out some of them actually cried when they learned they were on the jury. Not only because of the enormity of the case, but because of the hardship it would cause them serving for up to eight weeks, financially and otherwise. A few were moms with young children at home and I know at least one was a contractor with contracts to keep. Some were shocked and confused as to how they suddenly found themselves on the jury for this case. Some had mixed emotions, being excited to serve as jurors on such an important case, but at the same time feeling the weight of the responsibility.</div> <div class="indent">I know some of the jurors weren’t sure if they and their families were safe from Lori Daybell and her “friends.” Remember, we didn’t know much going into the trial. We didn’t know who the people were in the courtroom gallery. For all we knew, the people who were looking us over constantly could have been Lori Daybell’s supporters.</div> <div class="indent">At least one of us was followed home by the media during the trial. The idea that someone could do that must have been terribly unnerving. They would have had to follow our jury van from the courthouse to our parking lot, and from there, they would have had to follow the juror home. This was something our drivers were very careful to avoid, so they must have been quite stealthy about it.</div> <div class="indent">The other jurors I talked to after the trial was over all said they felt the police investigating this case did an amazing job. They felt sad the police had to experience the things they had to go through, and their hearts went out to the officers. I know I felt that way.</div> <div class="indent">When I asked one of the other jurors what they thought about the defense not calling any witnesses her response was: “Who could they call?” I thought that was a great answer and I had to agree because it was so true. By the time the kids’ bodies were found, Lori and Chad Daybell had lost the support of everyone, even Lori Daybell’s mother who had supported her right up until the bodies were found in Chad Daybell’s backyard.</div> <div class="indent">I think we jurors universally felt proud of the system we became a part of. I can say for sure I was proud to have served with 17 other people who I feel now were more than up for the task. Of course we all had different personalities, different political views, and different backgrounds, and that is as it should be, but I think we were respectful of each other and worked together well.</div> <div class="indent">After the trial was over, we were offered counseling and I did consider it, and still might take advantage of the offer. We’ll see how it goes. I’m hoping writing this book will help set my mind at ease.</div> <div class="indent">I’ve had some weird dreams and full-on night terrors since the trial, which hadn’t happened to me in years. One of the night terrors featured the bat Charles supposedly used to hit Alex in the head. Who knows why; nothing else in the dream made sense. It took me a minute after waking up to realize everything in my world was okay. It did make me terribly sad thinking of the terror Tylee and JJ must have felt.</div> <div class="spacer"></div> <div class="spacer"></div> <div class="spacer"></div> </body> </html>

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margin-top: 0em; } p.alignment-block-content-left { text-align: left; } p.alignment-block-content-center { text-align: center; } p.alignment-block-content-right { text-align: right; } </style> </head> <body> <div id="chapter-1" class="element element-bodymatter element-container-single element-type-chapter element-with-heading" role="doc-chapter" epub:type="chapter"> <div class="heading heading-container-single heading-size-full heading-format-full heading-alignment-flexible heading-without-image"> <div class="heading-contents"> <div class="title-subtitle-block title-block-with-element-number"> <div class="element-number-block"> <div class="element-number case-mixed"><span class="element-number-term">Chapter</span> <span class="element-number-number">1</span></div> </div> <div class="title-block"> <h1 class="element-title case-mixed">Not Just Another Day…</h1> </div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="text" id="chapter-1-text"> <p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width"><span class="first-phrase">U.S. Marshal Stephen Monier</span> arrived at his desk at approximately eight a.m. on Friday, January 12, 2007. This was going to be the fourth day of the trial for Ed and Elaine Brown of Plainfield, New Hampshire, on felony charges for conspiracy to commit federal income tax violations. The government had a very strong case, and the Browns were representing themselves.</p> <p class="subsq">A friend sympathetic to their cause, Michael Avery, from the suitably named Outlaw Legal Services of Florida, was serving as a “paralegal.” He had helped Ed and Elaine prepare all their pre-trial motions. He was seated at the defense table to “advise them.” The Browns had rejected any representation by an attorney.</p> <p class="subsq">It wasn’t going well for the Browns. Ed Brown’s spurious arguments against having to pay federal income taxes were rejected by the court, and his theories on the federal tax laws were shut down by presiding Judge Steven McAuliffe at several points. The government’s witnesses were showing that Ed and Elaine had stopped paying their taxes in 1996 and owed more than $625,000 in unpaid income tax. They were also charged with structuring, the intentional manipulation of financial transactions to evade reporting requirements.</p> <p class="subsq">As was his custom on getting to the office, Marshal Monier checked in with the control room upon arrival and spoke with the two court security officers manning the cameras and other systems monitoring courthouse activity that day. All was quiet, they said.</p> <p class="subsq">Marshal Monier and his chief deputy, Gary DiMartino, were both concerned about this trial. The U.S. Marshals Service (USMS) had deemed that the trial was “high risk” given that Ed Brown, a self-described “retired exterminator,” had become a leader in the militia group, U.S. Constitution Rangers. Membership in the rangers had grown in the aftermath of federal law enforcement’s attempts to serve arrest warrants at Ruby Ridge in Idaho and at the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas. Chief DiMartino and Inspector Brenda Mikelson had ordered extra courtroom security and intelligence gathering for the trial. They had ensured that court security officers were being extra vigilant in screening people involved with, or attending, the trial in the U.S. District Court in Concord, New Hampshire.</p> <p class="subsq">Marshal Steve Monier and Chief DiMartino had worked together for the past five years in the District of New Hampshire. Chief DiMartino was a career deputy U.S. marshal who had risen through the ranks to become a chief deputy in the Marshals Service, the number two person in every one of the ninety-four district offices of the USMS.</p> <p class="subsq">Deputy U.S. marshals are highly trained federal law enforcement officers, not unlike career FBI, ATF, and IRS agents. They apply for open positions in the Marshals Service, take written and physical exams, and are subjected to background investigations prior to being hired. They attend, and must successfully complete, the USMS Academy and other advanced training programs throughout their career.</p> <p class="subsq">Gary DiMartino began his law enforcement career in a Rhode Island police department before applying for, and beginning, his calling with the USMS.</p> <p class="subsq">Because he had served in several supervisory positions on both the East and West Coasts during his long tenure with the agency and had taught at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Academy in Glynco, Georgia, he was a highly respected and well-known chief in the USMS. Marshal Monier considered him a very qualified, competent, and professional member of the service and was pleased that when President George W. Bush had nominated him to become the U.S. Marshal for the District of New Hampshire, Gary was his chief deputy.</p> <p class="subsq">Unlike the deputy U.S. marshals, who form the corps or “backbone” of the USMS, each U.S. marshal (USM) who heads the district offices of the USMS is nominated by the President of the United States and must be confirmed by the U.S. Senate before taking the oath of office. This has been the case since the U.S. Marshals Service was created in 1789 by the 1^st Congress of the newly formed United States government.</p> <p class="subsq">When the 1^st Congress of the United States stood up the federal judiciary, they realized there was no agency to enforce court orders, apprehend offenders, or help run the court system. In the Judiciary Act, the 1^st Congress created the United States Marshals Service, with each marshal in each district to be appointed by the president with the “advice and consent” of the United States Senate.</p> <p class="subsq">President George Washington swore in the first thirteen U.S. marshals, including the first marshal of the District of New Hampshire, in 1789. The U.S. Marshals Service is our republic’s oldest federal law enforcement agency, with the broadest of authority in enforcing federal law and orders from the U.S. courts. For over 234 years, the U.S. Marshals have done everything from protecting the courts, to taking the census, to protecting the President of the United States.</p> <p class="subsq">In the twenty-first century, their core mission is the protection of the U.S. courts, enforcing court orders, apprehending fugitives, running the witness protection program, finding missing or abducted children, and taking the lead on enforcing the provisions of the Adam Walsh Act to track and monitor convicted sex offenders.</p> <p class="subsq">Congress and the U.S. Department of Justice made several legislative and administrative changes to how the work of the USMS was conducted over the decades, and in particular, in the twentieth century. Originally, each U.S. marshal could appoint his own deputies as needed, to carry out orders from the court.</p> <p class="subsq">As David S. Turk, the official historian of the Marshals Service, noted in his seminal work entitled <i>Forging the Star</i>,<i> </i>“[L]ong after gaining their Old West reputation with personnel such as Seth Bullock, Wyatt Earp, Bass Reeves, Bat Masterson, and Heck Thomas, U.S. Marshals and their deputies followed a winding trail of transition.”?<sup class="main-text-refnote-cue"><a href="notes.xhtml#chapter-1-endnote-1-text" id="chapter-1-endnote-1" class="refnote-marker marker-format-roman-lower endnote-cue roman-lower-i" role="doc-noteref" epub:type="noteref">i</a></sup></p> <p class="subsq">At approximately nine-thirty on that Friday morning, Chief DiMartino stuck his head into the marshal’s office and said, “Marshal, Ed and Elaine failed to show up this morning for the continuation of their trial.”</p> <p class="subsq">It was a decisive moment in the long run-up to this point in the case of the <i>United States v. Edward L. Brown &amp; Elaine A. Brown</i>. Their failure to appear was long feared by both Monier and DiMartino.</p> <p class="subsq">Both had had uneasy feelings about this case, since the district court’s magistrate judge released them on conditions, at their arraignment on May 24, 2006, on the income tax and other charges.</p> <p class="subsq">Among the conditions of release were that the Browns surrender all weapons to the USMS and the U.S. probation officers who would accompany them back to their Plainfield home. Further, they were to cooperate with, and report regularly to, the U.S. probation officers at the U.S. district court and appear at all future court proceedings.</p> <p class="subsq">Deputy U.S. marshals and U.S. probation officers drove Ed and Elaine back to their home in Plainfield to remove their weapons that day in May of 2006. Sharp-eyed deputy marshals noted the layout of the Browns’ home on the property, took photographs, and later sketched out the interior layout of the home. This proved to be pivotal in what ensued in the continuing Brown saga.</p> <p class="subsq">The deputies who went there also told Chief DiMartino that they didn’t believe Ed Brown had surrendered every weapon in his possession to the U.S. probation officers. The property, they reported, was simply too large and the house and outbuildings had too many places where firearms could be concealed.</p> <p class="subsq">Within a few hours of the morning the Browns failed to appear for the continuation of their trial, the news got worse. The USMS learned that heavily armed militia members and supporters of Ed Brown had gathered at the end of their long driveway leading to their hilltop home in Plainfield. Judge Steven McAuliffe issued warrants for the Browns’ arrest on failure to appear.</p> <p class="subsq">Initially, at the USMS and the prosecution’s request, the warrants were sealed. Chief Gary DiMartino counseled that the best course immediately was to call the Browns and convince them to return to court for the remainder of their trial. The marshal and Judge McAuliffe concurred, as Gary had carefully established a rapport with Ed and Elaine while they were detained in the Marshals Service’s detention facility at their arraignment in May.</p> <p class="subsq">“I had faith in Gary’s ability to use his considerable communications skills to convince the Browns that they should return to court to finish the trial,” Monier reported. Instead of immediately attempting to arrest the Browns at their home, where Ed’s armed followers had gathered, he consented to Gary’s suggestion that he try and convince them to return for the remainder of the trial.</p> <p class="subsq">Gary DiMartino spent the next three days talking with Ed and Elaine via telephone to do just that. The fact that the Browns took every one of his calls over that weekend was a positive.</p> <p class="subsq">At one point, it looked like the chief would be successful and that both Ed and Elaine would return to the court on Tuesday morning. Elaine was more noticeably willing to do that given the chief’s convincing arguments that this was a financial crime and that they need not take this to any further level.</p> <p class="subsq">Gary argued that it would be hard for them to continue to mount a defense if they weren’t in the courtroom to do so. The jury, he said, “will only hear the government’s side, and not yours.” As it turned out, Chief DiMartino was only partially successful.</p> <p class="subsq">Chief DiMartino continued to speak with them directly over the phone throughout the weekend and into the day on Monday, which was a holiday. On Tuesday morning, January 16^th, Gary had brokered the return of the Browns for the remainder of their trial. Elaine Brown got into the car to return to the courthouse in Concord. At the last minute, however, Ed demurred and refused to get in the car.</p> <p class="subsq">This was a partial victory for the Marshals Service. While it isolated Ed Brown from Elaine, Ed was not alone. He was left with some die-hard armed militia supporters who shared his belief about the “corruption of the federal government.” Soon thereafter, others joined the group, including members of the “Free State” movement in New Hampshire who, while not professing violence themselves, joined in the discussion about the “overreach” of the federal government into the lives of ordinary Americans. A select number of the New Hampshire Free Staters, who preached an extreme form of libertarianism, supported the Browns.</p> <p class="subsq">In a letter posted on the internet shortly after Ed Brown’s public announcement that he would not be returning for the remainder of his trial, New Hampshire native William D. Miller wrote on a blog posting, “I am going to see Judge McAuliffe and U.S. Attorney Colantuono and various other officials hanged for treason for these actions.” In response, the U.S. Marshals Service issued a “be on the look-out” (BOLO) to area law enforcement in an attempt to locate Miller.</p> <p class="subsq">Miller, a New Hampshire resident who was living in Florida at the time, had a history of local law enforcement contacts. He was also an early disciple of Ed Brown and the Constitution Rangers and had been one of Ed’s followers for some time.</p> <p class="subsq">When Bill Miller learned of the trial, and Ed’s vow to fight any attempt to force him to return to the courtroom, Miller got in his car and drove nonstop from Florida “to protect Brown” at all costs. Miller was armed and ready to take on the role of “chief of staff” to Ed Brown when he arrived in Plainfield, New Hampshire, twenty-four hours later.</p> <p class="subsq">With Miller’s help initially, Brown made use of the internet, emails, blog postings, and media interviews almost immediately upon deciding that he was going to fight any attempts to arrest him or force him from his property.</p> <p class="subsq">“I will defend my property, and I am willing to die before going to jail…” Ed Brown told his followers. Apparently, Ed had concluded that he and Elaine were likely to be convicted at the conclusion of the trial. He was publicly critical of Judge McAuliffe and his rulings and, in interviews with the gathering media, called it a “kangaroo court.”</p> <p class="subsq">Word was quickly spreading through the militia, U.S. Constitution Rangers, and the sovereign citizen communities that things were heating up in Plainfield. Comments on blogging websites and emails about the federal government unfairly targeting the Browns were spreading hourly. Supporters were calling for all good patriots to stand up for them. One message being spread on anti-government websites was titled, “<i>Will Plainfield be another Waco?</i>”</p> <p class="subsq">Local and state media also began covering the Ed and Elaine Brown story. The <i>NH Union Leader</i>, New Hampshire’s only statewide newspaper, and the <i>Concord Monitor</i>, published in New Hampshire’s capital and widely distributed, and the <i>Valley News</i> (covering the Hanover, Lebanon, and Plainfield region) all took note. The marshal and chief assigned a deputy, who was particularly adept at high tech, IT, and the internet, to begin monitoring all activities related to the Browns. In a call to HQ, they asked that the Investigative Services Division (ISD) and the Intel Unit do the same.</p> <p class="subsq">On January 12, 2007, Margot Sanger-Katz, a reporter for the <i>Concord Monitor </i>(a prominent New Hampshire newspaper covering the capital city region)<i> </i>wrote one of her first news stories about the Browns’ trial when she reported on the first two days of it. The trial had already gained a local interest amongst the state’s papers and the statewide ABC-affiliated TV station, WMUR-TV 9, as supporters of the Browns demonstrated in front of the U.S. district courthouse.</p> <p class="subsq">Dave Ridley of Keene, New Hampshire, a member of the “Free State” movement in the state, held a sign reading “Ministry of Torture” in reference to “government-sanctioned torture with taxes.” “That’s why I support Ed,” Ridley told the <i>Concord Monitor</i>. “He’s standing up to the federal government.”</p> <p class="subsq">Ironically, Sanger-Katz’s article about the trial’s proceedings appeared on January 12^th, the same day Ed and Elaine Brown both refused to return to the courthouse. The government was close to resting its case against the Browns after the testimony of the lead IRS agent handling the investigation and testimony from several postal service employees about the Browns’ habit of purchasing multiple postal money orders just below the $3,000 limit required for notification to the government of the transaction.</p> <p class="subsq">According to the government’s witnesses, this “structuring” of money orders is a common method to avoid paying income taxes. Over a two-year period, the Browns purchased more than $300,000 in money orders. Ed and Elaine, according to postal service investigators, would separately each wait in line and purchase a money order for $2,800.</p> <p class="subsq">At the close of the court’s proceedings on January 11^th, both Browns told the court that they would begin their defense in the morning, and both told the judge that they planned to testify in their own defense.</p> <p class="subsq">Both, however, failed to return to court on Friday, January 12^th.</p> <p class="subsq">On Tuesday, the 16^th of January, 2007, the day that Elaine agreed to Chief DiMartino’s entreaties to return to court, she also agreed to have a court-appointed attorney, Bjorn Lange, represent her. Michael Avery, the paralegal, continued in his role and sat in on the plea negotiations between the government prosecutor and Attorney Lange.</p> <p class="subsq">Learning of the plea negotiations, Judge McAuliffe agreed to postpone the couple’s trial for another day when it appeared that Elaine Brown would be willing to reach a deal with the prosecution. That is, if she pled guilty to the extent of her criminal liability and conduct. As a dentist, Elaine Brown earned most of the couple’s income. She also had been charged with failing to collect employment taxes from the staff at her dental office in Lebanon.</p> <p class="subsq">The judge continued the trial for another day so that the government could calculate what they expected Dr. Brown would pay in back taxes and penalties and the terms of a prison confinement. Elaine was given until ten o’clock the following morning to make a decision on whether to accept a plea deal. If there was no deal, the judge ruled, the trial would continue with or without Ed Brown in the courtroom.</p> <p class="subsq">Because Elaine had failed to appear on Friday, the judge ordered new bail conditions for her. He ordered Dr. Brown to stay with her son in Worcester, Massachusetts, and not to return to her Plainfield, New Hampshire, home. She was only allowed telephonic contact with her husband, and she was ordered to wear an electronic ankle bracelet so that U.S. probation officers could monitor her whereabouts.</p> <p class="subsq">The Waco Branch Davidian standoff lasted fifty-one days. When both the Browns failed to appear on January 12, 2007, it set in motion what would become a nearly nine-month standoff, the longest armed standoff in the 234-year history of the U.S. Marshals Service. Would Plainfield, New Hampshire, join the lexicon of American history as another Waco or Ruby Ridge?</p> <p class="subsq">District of New Hampshire Chief Gary DiMartino, U.S. Marshal Steve Monier, and USMS Chief Regional Inspector Dave Dimmitt were determined not to let that happen.</p> </div> </div> </body> </html>

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} </style> </head> <body> <p class="alignment-block-content-center"><img src="https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0301/3604/1571/files/240919NobleSoundsCoverFrontFinal.jpg?v=1727194542" alt="" /></p> <div id="part-1-chapter-1" class="element element-bodymatter element-container-single element-type-chapter element-with-heading" role="doc-chapter" epub:type="chapter"> <div class="heading heading-container-single heading-size-full heading-format-full heading-alignment-flexible heading-without-image"> <div class="heading-contents"> <div class="title-subtitle-block title-block-with-element-number"> <div class="element-number-block"> <div class="element-number case-upper"><span class="element-number-term">CHAPTER</span> <span class="element-number-number">1</span></div> </div> <div class="title-block"> <h1 class="element-title case-upper">JOHN COLTRANE</h1> </div> <h2 class="element-subtitle case-upper">“MY FAVORITE THINGS”</h2> </div> </div> </div> <div class="text" id="part-1-chapter-1-text"> <div class="alignment-block alignment-block-align-center"> <div class="text-block"> <p class="alignment-block-content alignment-block-content-center"><a class="content-external-link text-is-url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qWG2dsXV5HI"><b>https://<wbr/>www.<wbr/>youtube.<wbr/>com/<wbr/>watch?<wbr/>v=<wbr/>qWG2dsXV5HI</b></a></p> </div> </div> <p class="first first-in-chapter first-full-width first-with-first-letter-j"><span class="first-letter first-letter-j first-letter-without-punctuation">J</span>ohn Coltrane cured my headache. I listened to “My Favorite Things,” and before the cut had finished, my headache was gone. Don't be surprised. People have made all sorts of miraculous claims for Coltrane's music; some even claim to have seen God while listening to Trane. This would have made Coltrane very happy, for that's exactly what he was after— nothing less than the vision of God.</p> <p class="subsq">Coltrane, nicknamed Trane, didn't start his musical career looking for God. He just wanted to play music. The Vision appeared later. First came the years of struggle. Trane, by jazz standards, was a slow developer. Many who believe he was one of the greatest jazz musicians (if not <i>the</i> greatest) forget how many years it took him to master his art. He was almost 30 years old before most people heard of him, when he joined the Miles Davis Quintet in 1955.</p> <p class="subsq">A musician who decides on a life in jazz is like the monk who dedicates his life to unending prayer and takes a vow of poverty. You hear about gold records ($1 million in sales), platinum (one million units), and even multi-platinum. A jazz album is a big hit if it moves 10,000 units. And jazz gigs are so few that most musicians have day jobs—sometimes as music teachers but often any sort of work they can get. If they strike it lucky, they might be offered a fairly steady job in a club but often they take whatever there is.</p> <p class="subsq">A fellow sax player walking into a club in Philadelphia was horrified to see the very studious, shy, almost introverted John Coltrane “walking the bar.” This occurs when a musician, usually a tenor saxophonist, is supposedly gripped with such passion that he loses control of himself, jumps up on the bar and begins to honk and wail on his horn, head bobbing, eyes closed, shuffling from one end to the other, while the drunken patrons yell encouragement. No doubt, Trane needed the bread. Critics write about musicians as artists, which is fair enough. They forget these musicians are also out to make a living. Almost every jazz musician has had his time “walking the bar,” or its equivalent. Musicians say: “You got to pay your dues if you want to play the blues.”</p> <p class="subsq">John Coltrane spent more time than most paying dues. He spent six or more hours a day practicing. If a musician friend came by his home to visit, Trane would invite him down to the basement to practice for a few hours. He would even practice in his dressing room between sets at a club. When you hear Coltrane and maybe think he plays like a man possessed, you're right. He was on a quest: first for Excellence, then for Beauty, then finally for The Love Supreme.</p> <p class="subsq">If you want to hear Coltrane's Excellence check out the album <i>Giant Steps</i> or a number like “Chasin’ the Trane.” If you want to hear Coltrane's Beauty, I highly recommend “In a Sentimental Mood” off his album with Duke Ellington or “My One and Only Love” with singer Johnny Hartman. For his Vision, go directly to the album<i> A Love Supreme,</i> which I love supremely. I've taken the easy way out and selected his most famous song, “My Favorite Things.” I believe it illustrates Coltrane's excellence, beauty, and vision.</p> <p class="subsq">Jazz has always taken music composed in another style and done something different with it—“jazzed” it up. “My Favorite Things” comes from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical <i>The Sound of Music</i>. It's a fine little tune and fits nicely within the context of the overall show, but does it really qualify as the all-time greatest Richard Rodgers composition? Coltrane turned it into a classic. He did this on three levels: sound, rhythm, and interpretation.</p> <p class="subsq">The sound on “My Favorite Things” is—for want of a better word—haunting. It stays in your head long after the track has finished. This haunting quality comes from Coltrane's choice of performing the number on a then-recently acquired soprano saxophone. In 1960 when Coltrane's version of “My Favorite Things” came out, the soprano was seldom heard. Only a few musicians played it. The most notable was New Orleans jazz great Sidney Bechet, a contemporary of Louis Armstrong’s. After Coltrane, many sax players began using the soprano as a second horn. The soprano produces an “oriental” sound absolutely right for the trance-like meditative mood Trane wishes to convey.</p> <p class="subsq">However, even before you hear Coltrane's soprano, the rhythm sets you up. McCoy Tyner (piano) and Steve Davis (bass) introduce the number in waltz time. But this is not your ordinary waltz. I had trouble convincing a friend of mine who plays classical music that “My Favorite Things” is really done in 3/4 time. Maybe she was expecting something by Strauss for students at the Arthur Murray Dance Academy. This is no Bavarian oom PAH PAH or Viennese DUM dah dah waltz. Davis on bass acts as the rhythmic anchor. He starts off accenting the first beat but not exactly on the beat. Sometimes he's ahead, sometimes he's behind. After the first few minutes, he moves the accent all over the place. Elvin Jones would probably rather poke a drumstick in his eye than go oom PAH PAH. No sir, Elvin does what he does best—cross-rhythms. He plays clear and for Elvin, known as a power drummer, rather subdued, relying on his cymbal and snare drum with some subtle bass drum accents here and there. Meanwhile Tyner lays out easy-going block chords (chords played simultaneously with both hands). The combination of Davis-Jones-Tyner creates a hypnotic meditative mood. Simultaneously they provide a fluid rhythmic reservoir for Coltrane to float in, pleasant musical waves on a calm, clear lake.</p> <p class="subsq">And in floats Coltrane. He plays the first 16 bars pretty much the way Richard Rodgers wrote them. Well not exactly because Coltrane plays jazz so the notes don't fall exactly on the beat and since no one is playing on the beat; anyhow, it all blends together. Anyway, you know right off what you're listening to—“My Favorite Things.” And you also know right off this is no ordinary version of “My Favorite Things”; something special is happening. Coltrane is one of the most lyrical ballad musicians in all of jazz. He played only ballads he loved and had the ability to convey that love to the listener.</p> <p class="subsq">Tyner-Davis-Jones does eight bars of what is now becoming hypnotic rhythm and back comes Coltrane for a repeat of the first half of this 32-bar song. In fact, you won't hear the second 16 bars of the Rodgers melody until the ending of Coltrane's version. After this second statement of the theme, Trane flashes some of his fantastic technique at you for 24 bars. Then two more repeats of the theme where he begins to unwind with a few flurries of notes at the end, after which comes another 16 bars of technique.</p> <p class="subsq">All this, at its most elementary level, is building and releasing tension. You hear the intro in a minor scale with beats falling every which place and the tension starts rising. What is this all about, you wonder. Coltrane plays the melody in a major scale and you begin to relax. Then the minor scale and cross-rhythms—tension. Statement of the melody— release. Then Trane does some serious BLOWING—tension. Restatement of the melody— release. And so it goes.</p> <p class="subsq">Coltrane turns it over to McCoy Tyner's piano. Tyner’s job is to put you in a euphoric trance. At one point Tyner plays the same right-hand note for 16 bars while his left hand keeps the chords going. Then 16 bars of moving off that note and returning: up and back, down and back, up and back, up and back, down and back. Tyner builds and builds with his blocks. Builds and builds; four and a half minutes building and building. You're in no state to ask what he's building to. You know he's building to something.</p> <p class="subsq">Coltrane returns with a fairly straight run-through of the 16-bar melody. And then he lets loose with six minutes of the most beautiful sounds you can possibly imagine. Trane soars, glides, dips, climbs, circles. Flurries of notes, “sheets of sound” (writer Ira Gitler’s term): These come flying at you. Trane does some flat-out amazing interval jumps at triple speed. He plays so wildly, and so wonderfully, it is beyond my limited ability to describe these six minutes in words. I can call it a musical ecstasy. Only once during his solo does Trane restate the theme to remind you that this ecstasy is about “favorite things.”</p> <p class="subsq">What favorite things? <i>His</i> favorite things. <i>Your</i> favorite things. The things you love. The things that have the most meaning in your life. Somehow Trane knows. And you know that he knows. How can he know? Elvin Jones, many years later, said Coltrane was “... like an angel on Earth. This is not just an ordinary person. I've been touched by something greater than... than life.” It seems to me Trane knows that although our favorite things are different, we all have our favorite things. And this unites us to him and to each other. And realization of this unity of us all is Trane's ecstasy.</p> <p class="subsq">Finally he plays the entire 32-bar melody and ends it… slowly, beautifully. We come out of our trance and float lightly down to earth. What an experience—all 13 minutes of it. Now you know why “My Favorite Things” is one of my favorite things and how John Coltrane cured my headache.</p> </div> </div> </body> </html>