This Really Isn't Necessary, Part 3

"This Really Isn't Necessary"   (Read:  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3)

Part 3: Fear and Loathing in Drayton Plains

---

On the evening of January 8, 1992, at approximately 20:30, in the storage unit of Building 6, at the Dumpsterview Apartment Complex, in Drayton Plains, Michigan, one or more persons intentionally started a serious fire.

Minutes before, Anne Lewis, living on the second floor, heard loud, angry male voices and violent crashing sounds in or near the apartment directly above hers.  Indeed, according to the fire report, she thought someone had broken the window of that overhead apartment.  She went to her balcony and looked up.

She then smelled smoke, gazed down and saw billows lapping up toward her window.  Quickly, she called for help and, while the fire trucks were on their way, worked frantically with the apartment manager and other residents to get everyone out of the building.

Thanks to these efforts, everyone who had been at home in their apartments that night made it to safety.  One older woman in the adjoining set of apartments suffered severe smoke-inhalation and had to be helicoptered to an intensive care facility in Ann Arbor.  She recovered, but had she been in the hallway minutes longer, she'd have certainly perished.

Many firefighters that night were treated for smoke inhalation at Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak.  So was Jim DuPree, a well-known hyperactive Drayton Plains traffic cop and Walter Mitty wannabe.  As officer DuPree was running to and fro without a mask, firefighters informed him that in a bedroom of the third-floor unit, they had located a device growing marijuana.

When DuPree left the hospital early the next morning, he valiantly returned to the scene and dutifully called his buds at the State of Michigan Narcotics Aggression Alliance (NAA), a county-wide, state-funded collection of rotating municipal cops specializing in investigating and/or busting people for drugs.

Without obtaining a search warrant, NAA detective sergeant Jeff Goodman, entered the premises, examined the growing system and made a determination that marijuana, indeed, was present.  At that point, the apartment was identified as a "crime investigation scene" and sequestered along with the fire-damaged surroundings.

Early Wednesday morning, Goodman obtained a search warrant, and with a fellow narc, ransacked this third-floor apartment, turning up an illegal firearm, some legal firearms, some cannabis literature, along with the Growtronic unit, and a handful of plants holding maybe a half-ounce of weed.

He left the search warrant on the dining room table.  The charges, though on the same warrant, were significantly separated, one for "manufacture and/or delivery of a controlled substance" and the other for the illegal firearm.

###

On the evening of January 8, 1992, I'm working a little later than usual at my office in Southfield, Michigan.  I had agreed to help a friend with a resume, and because he lived in Roseville, it would be a straight shot down I-696 and a quick trip if I waited until after rush hour.  I get to Don Baylor's place about 19:00.

Don is at home with his wife, Debbie.  Over beers and other residue of the Christmas past, we labor a little bit at his existing brag sheet and come up with fairly good copy, which along with his drawing portfolio, he would be presenting to the tank plant down the street.  I leave around 20:30.

I stop off briefly at a favorite Bloomfield Hills bar, then arrive at my unit at close to 22:30.  The yellow-taped area gives up the fact a fire has occurred.  A crowd mills.  My neighbor downstairs, Anne Lewis, majorly geeked and all aflutter, tries to give me an idea of what's been happening.

"Where were you?  It was exciting, we got all these people out.  I almost fainted from the smoke.  We were running and yelling, and the firemen got here really fast.  You know somebody up there was really loud tonight, like having a fight."

I'm trying to think, "What the hell, who could possibly have come by that evening?  I don't have that many friends, certainly few who would drop by, and no enemies that I know of either.  And nobody has a key."  I make arrangements to spend the night elsewhere, and return to the scene late the next morning.

The guy who escorts me in is fire-department cleanup.  My plan is to gather up a few things, then see if some other friends or family can put me up for a while.  The apartment is lost to smoke damage, which has made an acrid stench everywhere that's hard to bear even through the disposable breathing filter.  As I gaze around, it slowly registers that my crib has been sacked.

Then I see the search warrant and list of property seized on the dining room table, and I get that primal fear of apprehension in the pit of my gut.  The growing system is gone along with the weapons (and some coins and other valuables that don't show up on the seizure list).  Now I realize what this is all about, and shaking, I quickly put a few items in an athletic bag along with the search papers, aiming to get out of there fast.

My fire-person escort mentions some officials have come through and hauled out some things, but "we don't have anything to do with those guys," and suggests I go down to the Drayton Plains police department and check it out.  I think, yeah, right, and you just go over to that balcony there and do a swan dive.

One of the men walking through the building, apparently a fire department employee, pulls a badge and asks me to stick around to talk with a fire investigator.  My heart is in my throat, but I say sure.  I get to a phone in the temporary Red Cross unit, call work, return a call that my ex-wife has left with the fire department, assure her I'm fine, but may have some other problems.

The fire investigator, Riley Hughes, interviews me.  He's polite, simply inquiring where I was (Don's, Bloomfield Hills bistro) and whether anyone has it in for me (No).  As an arson investigator, Riley is no ball of fire, just a county employee going through the routine motions of a job.  And that's fine with me at this point.

"Anything unusual, you can think of?" he asks.

"Nope."

I leave him and drive to work, where I ask an esteemed colleague the name of his divorce attorney (need a lawyer, any ol' lawyer, pronto).  Hal Crockett is an old salt who knows the rules in the criminal world, too, and his assistant will handle the matter of contacting the detective and giving me up voluntarily upon service of the arrest warrant, if/when one exists.

The next days are filled with insurance claims, removal and restoration of items from smoke damage, moving in with some friends for two weeks, and, of course, trying to find out the status of the arrest warrant.

I remember going to the apartment that weekend with a friend to pick up some things.  He's taking some boxes to the truck, and casually asks two women who live downstairs across from the storage area:

"Anybody have an idea of what started this?"

"We heard it was the cops."

But as far as I know, no official, including NAA personnel or their boys, have been considered suspects, nor has any work gone forward as to who the two (or more) men were at my apartment the night of the fire.  I get a twinge of conscience, in case no one has mentioned these dudes to Hughes, and express my misgivings to Crockett:

"You know a lady almost died at that place.  I'm thinking the reason NAA isn't coming after me is they don't want to open any investigation into their own activities that night, or activities of people who may have been working under their guidance or loose authority.  I'm thinking of going back to Hughes, tell him what I've heard, maybe go to the newspapers."

Hal, the veteran barrister, leans back slowly in his chair, then issues his carefully weighed response:

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!"

Well, as Ayn Rand says, "Morality ends where a gun begins," and in this case maybe it ends where a fire begins.  More collateral damage from the war on drugs?  How many real crimes transpire without apprehension or punishment because potential witnesses feel they'll reveal some victimless crime for which they will be prosecuted?

After more contacts by the attorney with Goodman and others at NAA, no arrest warrant is forthcoming.  They don't return calls.  We get written notification of a forfeiture hearing on the guns, which there is no point in fighting.  Three years later, a "come-in" letter arrives in my mailbox, and again we contact the signer, and, again, no one knows jack about a warrant.  Nothing in LEIN.

Time to forget about it and move on.

A few months later, I go to Houston for that contract job.

Two years more and here I am in cuffs standing before the magistrate.

…

She shakes her head, having a hard time accepting 1) this is a seven-year-old incident, 2) the prisoner volunteered to come in back then, 3) the arrest warrant was just made public (put in LEIN) six months ago, and 4) the county had suddenly gone to all this trouble to bring him in.  My escort cops even somewhat gratuitously testify:

"Your honor, we don't think Mr. Brandt poses any risk of flight."

That's me.  She gives me what Puchalski calls the "Get Out of Jail Free" card (a personal recognizance bond of $10,000) with the proviso I can travel to Texas, wind up my affairs there, and return for the preliminary exam in three weeks.  No out-of-pocket money.

You cannot imagine how good it feels to get out of there, mix with my family and friends, get a shower, put on some clean clothes, use a telephone, play with the computer, drive a car, the things we take for granted.  The other thing you need to realize, once more, is I'm one of the lucky ones, having some means to free myself of this quagmire.

After a day, Mom and I tag-team her '86 Ford Aerostar to Houston, pick up my car 50 miles away from where it was towed off (some vultures in Baytown relieve me of ~$200.00 for that), then we crash at my efficiency near the Galleria.  Mom leaves for Michigan next day in the van with most of my apartment contents.  I hang around and give notice, then finish up work there in ten days, and head north with the rest.

So now it's time to face the music.  I want to run through it here, mainly because some readers will also become victims of the state for peaceful, voluntary acts that are felonies.  This may help you know what to expect, maybe save you and your families some grief.  But also for cathartic reasons and to close the book.

In a normal criminal court proceeding, you have two stages: a preliminary examination, to determine if there is reason to go to trial, and, assuming no plea agreement is reached, a trial.  In Michigan, preliminary exams are held in district court, and any subsequent felony proceedings in circuit court.

The cards are stacked against you, as a defendant, even with a good attorney, and I have, arguably, the best in Michigan.  The cops and the prosecutors are against you, as a matter of system function and job security—they represent the state.  Judges, with few exceptions, function as cheerleaders and sacerdotal scorekeepers for the prosecution.

The prelim is quite an eye-opener.  Detective Goodman testifies to the events of the early morning of January 9, 1992.  His manner upon examination by Puchalski is apologetic: "did not have a warrant initially…, somebody at Oakland  County said it was OK…, long time ago…, remember most but not like yesterday…, physical evidence disappeared…, we may have pictures…."

Puchalski:  "Move to dismiss."

Assistant Prosecutor:  "Inevitable discovery."

Visiting judge:  "The court will adopt the argument of the prosecution and bind the defendant over on both of the charges….  Bond will continue."

Goodman knows Puchalski from Puchalski being a former assistant prosecuting attorney, and he indicates to Puchalski, in private, that the cops have no axe to grind here against his client and hopes the case can be dismissed or a good plea deal made.  I.e. acknowledging the foulup it is.  And maybe that's all it is.  Just a normal NAA snafu after a fire it had nothing whatsoever to do with.

My next milestone is the evidentiary hearing before Circuit Court Judge Clyde Williams for which Walt puts together a formal motion consisting of five due-process reasons to dismiss the case:

1. Delayed justice
2. Illegal search
3. Loss of physical evidence
4. Questionable and nonverifiable conclusions from the evidence
5. Improprieties in issuing the warrant

Quite a compelling document.  Naturally, the circuit court prosecutor finds nothing there to cause him to deviate from his customary punitive advocacy.  And Judge Clyde may dwell on the left side of the Bell curve intellectually, but he also lacks initiative.

He tells Puchalski "Yes, yes, I understand we'll deal with all that at the pretrial," failing to grasp that, no, the judge is supposed to listen to and rule upon evidentiary issues now.  That's why it's called an evidentiary hearing.  Walt is astounded that Williams doesn't even realize how the system works, especially when this is a case, due to all its irregularities, that normally "gets kicked," i.e. routinely dismissed.

In the meantime I want to get the fire investigation report.  I call Oakland County Arson and find out the case is still open and they won't release the report.  Puchalski gets a court order and they give us an incomplete report.  It contains nothing of Hughes' interview with me.  Nothing of his exculpatory interviews with Don or the Bloomfield Hills barmaid.

But the fire investigators do narrate what Anne Lewis reports about the noises made by the men upstairs, so they've known about that all along.  Who were those guys?  Now, if you're a real fire investigator, you'd want to find them, wouldn't you?

But so what.  If we go to trial, the question of who set the apartment fire will not be considered relevant, unless we have clear proof it was set by police to obtain evidence.  Even then, Puchalski tells me the evidence issues can't be resubmitted after they've been ruled upon in the evidentiary hearing.  Which hearing never happened, anyway, because Williams was such a dimwit.

So if the cops bust down your door without a warrant, kill your wife and rape your dog, then catch you rolling a joint, don't expect to bring up any unprofessional police behavior at trial.  "Inevitable discovery," etc. absolves any police action if drugs exist.  Judges are 90% pro-goon, at least in the former people's republic and budding fascist theocracy of Michigan.

Sorry, lost it there.  Where was I?

Eventually, the persecutor offers guilty to the "manufacture" felony, dropping the gun charge.  Probation is acceptable to him, no need for doing time on a first offense, which is in accord with Michigan sentencing guidelines.  Plus, with only the one felony, I can get it removed by petition to the judge in five years.  So, judge, all that stuff about you being clueless …

Remember I said it was significant how the charges were eventually written up against me, separately.  If the firearm charge had been connected with the other charge, then, by statute, it's an automatic two year prison sentence!!  So Goodman did me a big favor; he could have shattered my life with the stroke of a pen.

Would a poor minority or person of white-trash extraction get the same consideration?

The probation interview precedes the sentence.  One question is "Are you a homosexual?" to which I answer "No."  Rather emphatically as I remember, because Puchalski told me one of his other heterosexual clients, who eventually had to do some time, got it mistakenly marked "Yes" by some careless or malicious probation officer (PO).

When the sentencing day arrives in January, sure enough the report notes me as a homosexual.  Further, it suspends my driving license for a year.  This last is a consequence of another get-tough-on-drugs statute, but the statute was implemented after my "crime" was committed.  Both issues Puchalski handles successfully with Judge Williams.  I can't say this enough: get a good lawyer!

No need to go into detail about probation.  It's like sitting in a Secretary of State's office (DPS in Texas) every month for about two hours, talking for a few minutes with someone who has a crummy job, and pissing into a bottle in front of someone else who has a crummier job.  Drug tests!  How can a whole nation sink to such depravity and cowardice that…  never mind, no mas, no mas.

A few months later, early release, it ends as it began, sitting on my butt in a state office waiting for its Byzantine machinery to process me and spit me out.  I'm thinking the same at the end as at the beginning, "What a stupid, evil waste of time, money, and life.  And not just mine!"

Why? I grew a natural plant that George Washington and Thomas Jefferson grew a bunch of.  I liked it.  My actions were peaceful and friendly (and uncharacteristically considerate, if you really want to get into the whole Tony Robbins motivational story).  Did I deserve this treatment?  Does anyone else?  It's JUST……NOT……RIGHT!!.

This is the most common sentiment expressed or implied, running through the minds, almost constantly, of the people on the receiving end of the state's criminal justice system.  Until you've been there—through a tax audit, a profile traffic stop, a BATF raid, any of a growing number of police-function assaults on peaceful, consensual activities—you can't feel the violation.

Today I was pumping gas and thought, "What if someone came up, held a gun to my head, stole my money, and drove off?"  The last thing that crossed my mind was that I'd call the cops.  Saving people from coercion is just a sideline for them now, a dying art.  Their main task is harassment of ordinary people for victimless acts.  In fact, you have more to fear from an average cop now than you do the garden-variety larcenist.

But cops are only the blindly obedient tip of the whip wielded by judges and prosecutors, then ultimately legislatures and the ruling class (ostensibly through a voting majority), that puts the law into effect.

The law has become a grand oppressor, as well as an ass: it has turned the nonaggression principle on its ear and made crimes of things that are not crimes.  It has turned the government itself into a predatory criminal enterprise resting on odd new forms of slavery, where ANYONE can be shanghaied and tied to the next yoke on the road to the detention center.

As a meagerly defiant and average middle-class victim of this predatory system, I would be doubly proud if my story sounds an alarm of some kind and helps generate some corrective action.  There's this dream I have where a group of people are milling around at a party talking about football scores and movies, while this 800-# gorilla destroys the furniture.  If we don't pay attention quick and do something smart, the party's gonna be over.

Read:  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3