"CHOMO"
Chapter 1: Who Is Joel Barr?
I know that by writing this story, I am simply going to get myself deeper in trouble. But I’m already in prison,
doing what is virtually a life sentence for crimes that did not occur, so what have I got to lose? I can’t afford to
miss this once in a lifetime opportunity to tell this story, so here goes...
I had no idea that Senator John McCain’s path and mine would cross some day - become entangled. Back
then, in 1967, he was a nobody - so was I. I still am.
I can’t say he was a nobody. I mean that he was somebody I didn’t know existed. Nor did I know he knew my
brother, John Barr, or that they had been stationed together on the aircraft carrier, the U.S.S. Oriskany; or that
they were, both, Lieutenant Commanders, and flew the same type of Navy jet (A-4 Skyhawk attack bombers)
over the same targets in North Vietnam; and even had chow together almost every day.
“Joel Barr, come to the superintendent’s office,” was paged over the loud speaker system of my high school. I
had been expecting this page, but not to the office of the superintendent who presided over our entire school
district! Ouch! I was expecting to be called to the principal’s office. After all, he was the target of my latest
shenanigan. And it was a real doozy.
Yep! This one was probably going to get me expelled. But I had accepted that possibility when I published the
latest story in the high school newspaper, The Barton Bugle, which I had resurrected and then edited and
published.
I had already been in trouble the week before for publishing the second in a series of articles about our high
school principal and his perceived affair with a younger, recently hired, secretary who worked on his staff. Both
were married.
Even though I didn’t reveal his identity by name, the thinly veiled references to “Mr. A.” were easy to see
through.
So, I left my seat in class and began the walk to the superintendents’s office located in the grade school next
door.
As I left the high school building and began walking across the gravel drive (which separated the high school
and grade school) I saw Mr. A purposefully striding down an adjacent sidewalk on a course that would intersect
mine just about the time we would be entering the grade school doors. Yep. This was it.
What had brought this all about, I thought, was not only the most recent story I had published about Mr. A.,
but how I had accomplished it.
You see, after the first two stories Mr. A. was so pissed at me that he demanded all future editions of the high
school newspaper to be submitted to him for final approval (censorship) before being printed and distributed to
the student body.
I didn’t like the idea about being censored by anyone, especially when I had the hottest, final segment, of his
story ready to publish. So, I created two editions of that week’s newspaper. One for Mr. A. to approve, and the
other for publication and distribution.
I knew Mr. A. would find out about the ruse. I just wanted to get the paper fully circulated before he caught on.
I really wasn’t worried about what he may do to me, after all, the truth was on my side. And if he really pissed
me off, I would reveal the whole story. I felt strong.
I figured the worst that would happen would be that I would get called into the principal’s office and we would
have a stare-down contest. But the Superintendents’s office? I hadn’t counted on that.
I was screwing up my courage, preparing to accept my fate, as I was walking between the cars parked in front
of the grade school. This was going to be especially tough because my expulsion would probably occur in front
of my Mother who had become the secretary to the superintendent since my Father, a teacher, had passed
away four years earlier. She had become the bread winner of our family.
“Oh, well. Here goes...” I thought, as a little girl, probably a second grader, came running out of the school
building in a panic, yelling to anyone who could hear: “Mrs. Barr’s son’s been killed! Mrs. Barr’s son’s been
killed!”
I almost laughed at the obviously erroneous conclusion the little girl was spreading about me. I hadn’t even
been into the superintendent’s office, yet. I was in trouble, yes; but I hadn’t been killed over it!
I took one more step before it hit me. I wasn’t the only son Mrs. Barr had. My brother! My brother, John! My
hero!... had been shot down!
Like I said, I didn’t even know John McCain existed at that time. I didn’t know he had been shot down the week
after my brother. My grief over my brother blotted out everything else. I barely paid attention to the stories and
photos about John McCain that were publicized by the North Vietnamese from time to time over the next five
years... stories of John McCain renouncing the war in Vietnam and America; photos of him making these
announcements to the North Vietnamese.
Besides that, I was too busy. Within two months of the announcement that my brother had been shot down, I
had enlisted in the Marine Corps. I picked the Marines because it was a surefire path to Vietnam.
I had enlisted while on a school trip to the Beta Club Convention held in Little Rock, Arkansas, in December of
1967. The Marines postponed my reporting date to boot camp in San Diego, California, until after my graduation
from high school.
Since you know I’m writing this story from prison, and I’ve already described the trouble I got into as a senior in
high school, I’d better toss in some of the other things I was recognized for at that time before you conclude
that I am where I belong... in a negative way. During my Junior and Senior years at Barton High School (1967-
68) I was elected as the student body president and president of the French Club, Drama Club and Beta Club. I
was elected as the “Most Friendly” person in my high school, and at our graduation ceremony I was awarded
the American Legion Award for Patriotism. And if I had not gone into the Marine Corps when I did, my next rank
in the Boy Scouts of America would have been that of an Eagle, the highest award. And our Boy Scout Troop
(Troop 55), although it was the smallest troop in the state of Arkansas, won more awards than any other troop
had ever done. For these stories and more, check out my high school yearbook, The Barton Bear, for 1968.
Barton is a small farming community (also known as Walnut Corner) about 15 miles west of Helena, in Phillips
County, Arkansas. On the map, Helena is on the Arkansas side of the Mississippi River, about 60 miles south of
Memphis, Tennessee. And according to Paul Harvey, the renowned news commentator, the Barton Bears
football team holds the longest record for consecutive winning football games of any high school in America. I
thought you’d like to know that (smile).
And while we’re on the subject of prison, remember, a lot of innocent men have gone to prison for crimes that
did not occur, or they did not commit. Joseph of Egypt was imprisoned on the false charges of an attempted
rape (see Genesis 39: 7-19). Nineteen innocent people were hanged for being witches on the word of 5 young
girls at the Salem Witchcraft Trials. Nelson Mandella did more than 20 years in prison on false charges before
becoming the President of South Africa. And every week we hear of more and more persons exonerated from
wrongful convictions and coerced confessions based upon DNA evidence. This age old problem of wrongful
convictions is recognized in Ecclesiastics 4:14 which reads: “From a prison house one comes forth to rule;” and
is warned against in the Ten Commandments which contains the admonition: “You shall not bear false witness.”
(Exodus 20:16). Evidently, the practice of lying on the witness stand to achieve the wrongful conviction of an
innocent man is one of the Top Ten problems in our justice system to this day.
As for my high school principal and myself, he offered me a deal that almost any high school student would love
to have. He told me that if I would agree to drop out of school, he would see to it that I would receive “passing
grades” in all of my classes, and would receive a high school diploma. I was flattered that he evidently felt so
unnerved by what I could potentially reveal that he would make me such an offer. But I turned it down because
I was already getting much better than “passing” grades in all of my classes. I felt that if I accepted his offer,
the record would imply that I had barely squeaked by with only “passing grades”. Had he guaranteed me all “A”
s, it would have been a different matter.
After boot camp and a battery of tests, I was selected to serve in the Marine Corp’s division under the Office of
Naval Intelligence (0. N. I. ). After a careful background search I was granted a Top Secret “Crypto” security
clearance, and was trained in electronic intelligence (elint) before being sent to Vietnam.
One of the areas of expertise I had been trained in was in the search and recognition of particular types of
enemy radar signals. Especially the radar signals emitted by enemy antiaircraft sites to “lock on” to, and guide
their surface to air missiles (SAMs) to shoot down American aircraft like those flown by John McCain and my
brother, John Barr.
I can tell you this information, now, because it is no longer classified information, but back in the late 1960’s,
specifically, October of 1967, when my brother and John McCain were shot down, it was Top Secret information.
Here’s why: back in the late 1960’s computers were not capable of doing the things they are now. They were
slow and bulky compared to today’s computers, because they were built from vacuum tubes and transistors.
Microchips had not been invented yet. Computers weighed tons, filled up entire rooms, and due to their glass
vacuum tubes, they were too fragile to be operated aboard electronic surveillance aircraft. Therefore, most of
the tasks computers easily accomplish in real-time today, took our military weeks, months and years to do back
then. For example, discovering the radio frequencies on which an enemy antiaircraft site operated its targeting
radar.
We needed to know those frequencies so we could tune in to them and listen for that targeting radar, because
whenever the targeting radar would come on, it meant that the North Vietnamese were about to launch a
missile toward one of our aircraft. We could then warn the pilot of the targeted aircraft, and he could break off
his attack before coming into range of the surface to air missile (SAM), or take other evasive action that could
save his life, such as preparing to eject over water, as John McCain did when he was shot down.
But finding these frequencies was like finding a needle in a haystack, because they were used by the enemy for
only a few seconds at a time - only long enough to guide a missile to its 500 mile per hour target. To find a
targeting frequency we had to be extremely lucky because, unlike general surveillance radar with its rhythmic
“beep” constantly and predictably sweeping the skies, the radio frequency of the enemy’s targeting radar - with
its distinctive sound (described as a centipede with a wooden leg, walking across a wooden floor) - could only
be found during those few seconds it was in use. So, when we would find a targeting frequency, we never let
the enemy know that we knew, otherwise they would change the frequency, and we would be back at square
one. That’s why that information was Top Secret.
Another reason those targeting frequencies were so hard to find was that we had to search for them,
manually. As I said before, we could not use computers to aid in the real-time search for those frequencies
because the computers back then, were too big and fragile to be used aboard our electronic surveillance
aircraft. And we had to use aircraft to search for those radar frequencies because the enemy radar would
deliberately use only enough power to bounce off its target and return. We could fly our electronic surveillance
aircraft in a holding pattern, slightly outside of their effective range - too far away for their radar beam to
“illuminate” us and return, but close enough for us to pick up their targeting frequencies whenever they may be
in use, targeting one of our aircraft between us and the enemy.
Whether or not the American military was aware of the targeting frequencies used to shoot down American
planes was information the North Vietnamese wanted to know. That’s why it was Top Secret. American lives,
like my brother’s, depended on us knowing those frequencies without the North Vietnamese knowing that we
knew.
As Marines we were taught, as every other member of the armed forces is taught, that in the event we are
ever captured by the enemy, we are to give up no more information than our name and serial number. Just
enough information that can be used to identify us under the Geneva Convention, so that it can be confirmed
that we have been captured, and are not simply missing in action and presumed dead. As Marines, we weren’t
even supposed to tell them our rank. Let the enemy figure that out for themselves, wasting their time on an
enlisted man, thinking he may be an officer.
Understandably, I was a bit disappointed in John McCain every time the news showed photos (or film clips) of
him saying whatever the North Vietnamese wanted him to say. Sure, I felt sorry for him, and I knew he was
responding to threats of torture and the promise of rewards to make him cooperate with the enemy. But that is
precisely what we, including my brother and John McCain, were warned and taught not to do! We were aware
of those risks, and the possibility of torture, to coerce us into giving up more information than our “name, rank
and serial number.”
Like so many other Americans, I too looked the other way regarding the concessions John McCain had made to
the enemy. After all, I thought, what could he tell the enemy that would affect their ability to conduct the war?
Chapter 2: Super Bowl Sunday
After my Honorable Discharge from the Marine Corps in 1970, and a brief hiatus (living in a cave in New Mexico
in order to find out what God wanted me to do with the rest of my life), I went to Arizona; Nixon was President
of the United States; and I began to lose faith in the integrity of my government.
On Super Bowl Sunday, 1979, I became primed to become politically active when I finally figured out that our
government was no more of a democracy than our political nemesis, the Soviet Union (the United Soviet
Socialist Republic/ U.S.S.R.). We just pretended to be democratic (and still do today), and they did not.
Let me tell you about Super Bowl Sunday, 1979. I worked for Tom Fanin and Associates Realty at the time. I
was new to the company, so I was low man on the totem pole, so to speak. Therefore it fell to me to be the
only agent/employee on duty on Super Bowl Sunday. Everyone else in the world was at home watching the
game. I was by myself, sitting behind the desk, in the office, at the southwest corner of Horne and University in
Mesa, Arizona.
With all that time and silence on my hands, it was easy to daydream. For some reason I began chiding myself
for having never, ever, written a letter to my congressman (whomever that may have been). Perhaps it was
because, with all that time on my hands at that moment, and nothing else to do, perhaps writing a letter would
have been an appropriate use of the time. And since I had heard, so many times, the admonition to “Write your
congressman! Write your congressman!”, perhaps the thought of the word “write” triggered my mind to finish
the phrase with the words, “your congressman”. Nonetheless, regardless of the reason why, I began feeling a
little bit guilty for having never taken the time to do my citizen’s duty to write my congressman for any reason.
Like I said, I didn’t even know who my congressman was.
It’s not that I considered myself a worthless scoundrel for not having written my congressman, after all I had
volunteered to serve in the Marine Corps during a time of war. I did serve in a war zone. And I did receive the
Vietnamese Service medal and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry to prove it (somebody threw a war and I
showed up). But I did feel I was hiding behind those facts to cover up my belief that I was too lazy to be
categorized as a “good” citizen. So, as I sat there behind the front desk, I made myself a stern promise that
“tomorrow” I would find out the name of my congressman, and I would write him a letter, even if it was just to
say “Hi”.
Having resolved to resolve that sin of omission, but still feeling the effects of the adrenaline of guilt, I couldn’t
quite “just drop the topic” and switch gears, mentally, on that issue. I was still caught up in the curiosity of the
moment wondering: Who was my congressman?
I wondered what he would be doing when the mailman brought him my letter? Would he stop what he was
doing to read it? And answer it? Would my letter arrive all by itself, or would the mailman deliver it with a
handful of other letters arriving at the same time from other constituents? Would there be so many letters that
they would need to be delivered in a gray canvas bag marked “U. S. Mail” for him (and his staff?) to go through
that day? Would the bag be half full, or completely full? Would there be more than one bag? Several?
Embarrassingly, I was frustrated by this seemingly trivial detail, and with nothing to take my mind off of this
feedback loop, I decided to insert some arbitrary numbers into the equation so I could go on with my
imagination. Maybe “arbitrary” isn’t the right word. “Guesstimate” would be better. I wanted to insert a number
that I could justify, even if I knew it wasn’t perfect, so I did some quick math.
Back then, in 1979, Arizona had about a million registered voters (my guess) and only four congressional
districts. Anyway, I divided the estimated number of registered voters (1,000,000) by the number of
congressional districts (4) to arrive at the estimated number of constituents (250,000) who could, possibly, send
a letter to their Arizona congressman.
That still didn’t tell me how many bags of mail that would equate to, but it did give me enough data to go on to
calculate, roughly, how much time it would take the congressman - and his staff - to read that much mail.
For the sake of simplicity, I allowed that it would take one minute per letter (this includes opening and collating
the letters) to read the mail. Voila! Two hundred and fifty thousand minutes. Uh... but what does that mean in
real time? How many hours?
A few moments later I was looking at the answer - a huge amount of time. Almost two years! And that’s if his
staff did nothing but read letters at a rate of one letter per minute, 8 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days
a year!
Instantly, I realized that it was statistically impossible for the congressman - any congressman - to be aware of
what the majority of his constituents wanted him to do on any piece of pending legislation. Not even one piece!
Never mind about the thousands of other legislative issues he’s supposed to be representing them on... or
trying to read.
And don’t believe that bull crap about them “voting their conscience.” How can a legislator vote his conscience
on a thousand pieces of legislation he has never read?!
In short, I was confronted with the undeniable truth that the democracy I, and my brother - and countless
others - had fought and died for... did not exist. I felt cheated, duped, robbed and raped by my own country. At
least by its government.
Democracy. I had been raised on that word. From the time I was born. Always, I had had at least one brother in
the Army or Navy (my two brothers were 18 and 16 years older, respectively, than me). I had always been told
that democracy was what we were fighting for. I had repeatedly heard the age old quote that “although
democracy is a poor form of government, it’s the best among all the others,” and on, and on, and on.
And now, there it was in black and white. Democracy doesn’t exist! Anywhere! And my brother died for nothing.
That’s too big of a loss to just sweep under the carpet and “learn to accept it” like I had to do with the myths
we lie to our children about so casually these days such as Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and so on. My instant
reaction after my moment of “this can’t be true!” was to wonder if it could be made to come true, even
theoretically.
The fundamental question I asked myself, next, upon which my entire faith in the future rested was : “Is it
possible for a legislator to tally the votes of his 250,000 constituents in one day, every day?”
It was in the early days of computers, and everyone had access to a telephone, so it occurred to me with great
relief that, “Yes,” it is possible. Putting the system together would be the next step. But it would be possible -
that my brother did not die “for nothing at all.”
Over the next few years I became more involved in politics. I became chairman of the legislative affairs
committee for the Mesa Chamber of Commerce in 1981. There, I became acquainted with my state senator, Karl
Kunasek. One day I called him at his office and spoke to Mr. Kunasek about the idea of enabling all voters to
voice their opinions to their legislators, on all pending legislation, from any touch-tone telephone. Karl said he
liked the idea.
When I hung up the phone I felt excited. I had done the right thing. I had started the ball rolling. Or so I
thought.
Over the next several days, weeks and months I kept my eye open for the news report that would surely
follow, I thought, telling the world of the coming technological step toward true democracy. I waited. And
waited. And waited.
One morning in 1989 I awoke in my bed, and as I lay in bed collecting my thoughts, I realized that TEN YEARS
had gone by since my revelation on Super Bowl Sunday, 1979... and no one had done anything to make it come
true. As I lay there in my bed, my dream deflated. I knew that the next action had to be mine, or there would be
no action at all. I remember thinking to myself: “I can continue to lie here, in this bed, close my eyes and go
back to sleep, and wake up TEN YEARS FURTHER DOWN THE ROAD” with still nothing further accomplished, “or I
can get up now and start working to make it happen.”
That was the day I began working on the toll-free telephone polling system that would become known as 1-
800-THE-VOTE. In January of 1989 I created the toll free polling system “1-800-THE-VOTE”, which permitted
every Arizona voter to voice, toll free, their opinions on every piece of legislation, then pending, before the
Arizona Legislature.
On a lighter note was how I obtained that specific telephone number that spelled out “1-800-THE-VOTE.” I had
asked the phone company if that number was available, and was told that it was not, and that they could not
reveal the business who held it. So I dialed the number myself and learned it was possessed by Dial America.
After explaining my need and paying $300, their manager transferred the phone number to me.
Chapter 3: How I Learned John McCain Knew My Brother
I think it was in the fall of 1987. Probably October. I was casually reading a story in the newspaper
commemorating the 10th (?) anniversary of John McCain’s capture by the North Vietnamese. The story was
nothing special to me... until I read that John McCain had been stationed aboard the aircraft carrier U.S.S.
Oriskany at the time he was shot down. My brother had been stationed aboard the same aircraft carrier at the
same time, and they both had been pilots... of the same kind of aircraft (A-4 Skyhawk, attack bombers). My
eyes were now glued to the article! My heart was pounding - and they both held the same rank as Lieutenant
Commanders. Finally, according to the newspaper, they had been shot down within one week of each other.
John McCain was shot down first. Seven days later my brother was shot down. I didn’t see the connection.
After reading the article again and again, I was convinced that John McCain and my brother must have known
each other. How could they not? Not only must they have seen each other every day as they went to and from
the same hangar bay where they held the same rank, they were probably housed in the same officers’ quarters.
The next day when I went to my office (by then I was again self employed in my original profession as a
corporate recruiter or “head hunter”), I placed a telephone call to the office of Senator John McCain in
Washington, D.C., the message was a question. The question was, simply; “Did you know my brother, Lt.
Commander John Barr?”
Two hours later my receptionist paged me in my office. She said, “Senator McCain is calling you on line one.”
Nervously I pressed the blinking button on my telephone and said, smiling, “Hello?”
The female voice on the other end of the line said: “Please hold for Senator McCain.” A moment later the
Senator came on the line. We exchanged some cordial greetings. I gushed, all over the phone, my thanks for his
return of my call.
Then I explained to him what I had read about his service aboard the Oriskany and how that raised the
question of whether he had known my brother.
“Yes,” he answered. I didn’t know what to say. Here I was, talking to one of the last human beings to see my
brother alive. I was almost speechless. I was on the verge of tears.
“What was he like?” I asked as the tears welled up in my eyes.
“He had a great sense of humor,” McCain said, “and he was one of the friendliest persons I’ve known. He loved
his family very much.”
I couldn’t think of anything else, meaningful, to say or ask. The last time I had seen (or spoken with) my
brother had been when I was 7 years old, when he and his wife - with their baby boy - had visited us on their
way to their new duty station on the east coast. He had been about twenty-three at the time.
I thanked the Senator for his time. The telephone call had lasted about 3 minutes.
Chapter 4: 1-800-THE-VOTE
In January of 1989 I created the toll free polling system “1-800-THE-VOTE”, which permitted every Arizona voter
to voice, toll free, their opinions on every piece of legislation, then pending, before the Arizona Legislature.
The people of Arizona loved the system, placing, sometimes, more than a thousand telephone calls a day to
vote for or against pending legislation. To my shock and dismay, however, many Arizona legislators did not like
the idea of being told how to vote on legislative issues by their constituents.
As one legislator from Tucson put it:
“This is not some Greek city/state democracy. This is a republic. If my constituents don’t like the way I
vote, they can elect someone else.”
Faced with such resistance - and still angry over my brother’s sacrifice for a democracy that never existed - I
realized that the only way I could incorporate such a statewide toll free polling system into our legislative
system would be if I were to be elected as governor. Then I could bring it in as a part of the executive branch of
government. So, in 1990 I threw my hat into the ring and ran as an independent candidate for governor against
the former Mayor of Phoenix (currently the Arizona Attorney General), Terry Goddard, and the former Chairman
of the Arizona Republican Party, the wealthy Fife Symington.
The press made quite a thing about the fact that both Goddard and Symington were graduates from Harvard
University as if that was proof that they were brilliant men. To me it indicated that they both had come from very
wealthy families who could afford to buy credentials for their children.
Me? I had a high school diploma from Barton, Arkansas, and four years of study at Scottsdale Community
College in Scottsdale, Arizona. But as far as measures of intelligence go only an I.Q. test gives an indication,
however questionable, of who may be smarter than whom. I couldn’t get into Harvard because I didn’t have the
money, but maybe I could get into Mensa, “the high I.Q. society.” Maybe Goddard and Symington couldn’t get
into Mensa, no matter how much money they had, because they didn’t have the I.Q. It was worth a try.
I called the phone number (in the Phoenix white pages of the phone book) for Mensa. I found out when and
where the next test would be administered. I took the test and passed it. That’s why and how I joined Mensa.
But when I informed the press of my acceptance into Mensa, the Arizona Republic newspaper (which by then
had endorsed Goddard and Symington as its choices for Democrat and Republican candidates) described me as
a “self proclaimed near genius.” Ouch! Which goes to prove “it’s not what you know, but who you know” and
also, that “money talks” (as if you didn’t know that).
My candidacy for governor taught me quite a few things and made me some powerful political enemies. One, in
particular, was an assistant director for the Arizona Department of Transportation (ADOT). Terry Campbell, an
accountant for the Arizona Department of Transportation, had come to me to inform me of a huge waste of
money, time and resources within ADOT because an Assistant Director, who knew nothing about computers,
had spent millions of dollars trying to implement a computer system, throughout ADOT, that would never do the
job it was supposed to do.
KFYI radio, a major news radio station in Arizona, invited both Terry Campbell and me onto a talk show to
discuss the computer fiasco. After the talk show, and as I was preparing to leave the studio, I was informed
that a telephone call had come in for me and the caller was waiting on hold. When I took the call, I discovered it
was the Assistant Director from ADOT whom we had just discussed on the air. He informed me that, thanks to
my radio appearance, he had been called into the Director’s office and fired. He warned me that he would get
even with me, informing me that he had many well placed friends in high places, and that I would never
know where his retaliation would be coming from.
The next several weeks were uneventful. Even though my campaign committee collected several thousand
more nominating signatures than Goddard and Symington, combined, it still wasn’t enough - the way the law
was written - for an independent candidate to get onto the ballot.
But 1-800-THE-VOTE was still going strong with the people, in spite of its unpopularity with the legislature,
and the wealthy plutocrats running the state. Democracy still had a chance.
Then a funny thing happened. I thought it was a good thing, at first. I was flattered. The Arizona Corporation
Commission had contacted me. They wanted to know about my business enterprise in Apache County, Arizona.
I was flattered because I had created a business corporation through which rural land owners could obtain
access to water without having to drill their own prohibitively expensive ($20,000 - $100,000) water wells (by
letting them buy into my well), and I thought the Corporation Commission wanted to encourage my business
plan in other rural areas.
And I was helping land owners apply, with me, to the federal government to obtain the mineral rights to our
lands. It was during the attempted acquisition of our mineral rights that I learned that corruption had even
infiltrated the Bureau of Land Management. Several hundred of my fellow land owners, with me, had filed the
appropriate paperwork and paid the necessary fee to have the Federal Government transfer to us the mineral
rights associated with our respective lands. It’s not that we thought there may be extractable minerals beneath
our lands, we simply wanted to secure our lands from others who may wish to live on them, without our
permission, under the guise of “prospecting.”
However, because several hundred of us in one area were making simultaneous applications to obtain our
mineral rights, someone in the Bureau of Land Management sensed that a significant mineral discovery had
been made on our lands when in fact nothing of the sort had occurred. That person then contacted a mining
company and told that company that it appeared that a significant mineral discovery had been made in Showlow
Pines, and that the land owners were attempting to acquire those rights.
Shortly thereafter I received a notice from the Bureau of Land Management telling me that I must refile a
document with them in order to proceed with our mineral rights acquisition. I telephoned the BLM to challenge
the need for filing the document a second time. But by the time I had received the notice in the mail, all of our
mineral rights had been sold to a large mining interest (less than 24 hours)!
To learn the identify of the mining interest to whom the BLM unscrupulously sold our mineral rights, find out
who owns the mineral rights on our former property located at lot 128, Showlow Pines Unit 1, in Apache County,
Arizona. Then, let me know, because I never did find out. (See Postscript for my address.)
Not a single person had complained about the way I was doing business, so I could not imagine anything but
good from the Corporation Commission’s inquiry. Besides, it was the obvious source of funds that paid for the
operation of 1-800-THE-VOTE.
The first indication I had that anything might be wrong came at the meeting the Corporation Commission
arranged with me at their offices. After introducing the people around the table, one of whom was an attorney
from the Attorney General’s Office, I was read my Miranda Rights!
Knowing I had done nothing wrong, and since the questions asked did not seem pointed, I perceived the
reading of my rights as merely a procedure. After the meeting we shook hands and I left.
A few weeks later, at about 8:30 in the morning, a knock came at my door. When I answered it, a young
woman, whom I recognized from the meeting at the Corporation Commission stood there. She handed me some
papers, then turned and left.
Moments later, as I read through the documents, I was stunned to realize that the Arizona Attorney General
and Arizona Corporation Commission were accusing me of having committed securities fraud! Their logic was
that by permitting local residents to become co-owners in my water well, was akin to selling them stock in a
company.
Stock is usually considered a security. Stock is not always a security. Only when it is offered as an investment
for the purpose of making money, merely by the passage of time, is it considered a security. Requiring persons
to become shareholders in a private water company (or owners in its well ) in order to receive water from that
company or its well, is not the same as offering stock for sale merely in the hopes of reselling it for a higher
price or receiving cash dividends.
To sell securities you must have a license to do so. The sale of a security without a license is deemed to be
security fraud. That’s the law.
I was pissed! What had I done to deserve this accusation? Had I unknowingly offended one of the persons
who had bought into the well? Had someone filed a complaint against me? No.
As I read further into the documents it became clear what the State of Arizona, through its Attorney General
and Corporation Commission wanted. Deep within the document the Arizona Attorney General was seeking an
order from the Corporation Commission commanding me to “cease and desist funding 1-800-THE-VOTE, a
legislative polling service.” There it was, clear as a bell.
The Corporation Commission’s next move was to create a press release to all of the news media in Arizona in
which it announced that I was under investigation for fraud.
The next day, after the Arizona Republic newspaper reprinted the press release as a front page article, the
prosecutor, Wendy Coy, from the Attorney General’s office, made hundreds of photocopies of the newspaper
article and mailed them to every person with whom I did business, along with a letter inviting them to contact
her with any complaints they might have against me. Not one person complained. But the article and the letter
left the distinct impression among these people that they had been the lucky ones, and that I must have
defrauded many others.
To me, it was obvious what the Corporation Commission and Attorney General were attempting to do. They
were attempting to taint the jury pool with pretrial publicity to such an extent that any jury that may be
selected to hear my case, would already have heard enough negative publicity about me that they would
already have made up their minds about my case, even before they would have been selected to be jurors. In
other words, the government was doing everything in its power to make sure I would not get a fair trial.
Well, two can play at that game, I decided. Rather than look like some guilty slob, caught red handed, and now
trembling silently for mercy; I decided to fight back and plant in the jury’s mind an image of an honest man being
persecuted by the government for his political convictions. And a picture is worth a thousand words.
So, I gathered up some chains and locks I borrowed from some friends, and I went downtown and chained
myself to the flagpole in front of the Arizona Corporation Commission; but not before I telephoned the Arizona
Republic newspaper and told them what I was about to do. I told them to send a photographer to photograph
me chained to the flagpole.
I also sent out a press release. It was a copy of the letter I hand delivered to the Corporation Commission
demanding my right to a speedy trial by jury. And, just to be sure, I brought with me a four foot by eight foot
piece of plywood to which I had thumb-tacked dozens of letters of thanks from many of the people who had
done business with me.
That flustered them. Now they looked like the bad guys, and they knew they had no power to influence me into
signing a plea deal. They already knew they had no case against me. Now everybody knew.
But keep in mind, their objective at that time was not to put me behind bars. All they wanted was for me to
“cease and desist funding 1-800-THE-VOTE,” the legislative polling service. They didn’t need (or want) a jury to
obtain a court order for that.
Over my incessant demands for a speedy trial by jury the A. G. and Corporation Commission conducted,
instead, an “administrative hearing”. An administrative hearing is exactly like a criminal trial except that the
jury is the Corporation Commissioners, and they cannot sentence you to prison (they can only fine you - big
time), and you are not entitled to be represented by a lawyer unless you can afford one! How does that fit in
with the Miranda Rights, which were read to me, and contained the phrase: “If you cannot afford an attorney
one will be appointed for you”?
By then I was almost flat broke, My business had been so disrupted by the A. G.’s tactic of mailing photocopies
to my clients that I could barely pay my bills. I couldn’t afford to hire an attorney, and the government refused
to appoint one for me. I had to represent myself.
The first day of the hearing drew so many spectators to the Corporation Commission that, on day two, the
hearing was moved, without notice, to the Arizona Attorney General’s office and was conducted behind closed
doors.
As for the Corporation Commissioners who were to be my jury, not one of them ever showed up for one minute
of the two week long hearing.
At the end of the hearing we all went back to the Corporation Commission. There, finally, sat 3 of the
Commissioners. By now I was no longer the same optimistic idealist I had always been. I had learned that good
doesn’t always prevail over corruption. I realized that in spite of the facts and evidence on my side, these three
commissioners could still vote against me. So I came prepared.
I brought with me a six foot long, four inch thick limb I had sawn from an olive tree. After stripping it of all its
leaves and twigs, this symbol of peace now stood capable of becoming a weapon. I wanted the members of the
press who were present there that day to appreciate the irony of an olive branch as a club. The message I
wanted to convey was “peace through strength.”
I also brought with me, in my truck, a stencil and a can of red spray paint. In words 1 foot high, the stencil read
“ARTICLE 6” in reference to the Sixth Amendment of the U. S. Constitution. I was prepared to stencil those
words onto the Corporation Commission’s wall, and the marquee across the street at the Attorney General’s
office, if the three-commissioner panel ( in lieu of the jury I was entitled to) found me guilty of breaking the law.
The Corporation Commissioners knew what I intended to do. It had been published, shortly beforehand in the
Arizona Republic or Phoenix Gazette, that I would spray paint the words “Article 6” on their wall if they - not a
jury of my peers - found me guilty of breaking the law. Not only that, but I had clipped the article from the
newspaper, photocopied it, and mailed a copy of what I intended to do to each of the Corporation
Commissioners and the Attorney General’s office.
So when the day came, and the commissioners (without hearing even one word of testimony) followed the
recommendation of the hearing officer and found me guilty - I went out to my truck, retrieved the stencil and
spray paint, and with a dozen people gasping at what I was doing, I stenciled the words “Article 6” on the
inside wall of the Corporation Commission, then walked across the street and stenciled those words on the
marquee of the Arizona Attorney General.
Shortly afterward, a photographer from the Arizona Republic/Phoenix Gazette came to the Corporation
Commission to photograph my handiwork which was published the next day in the paper.
A few days later a member of the Arizona Capital Police force came to my residence and wrote me a ticket for
“criminal damage.”
At first the State could not find a judge willing to hear the case against me. The first two judges to whom the
case was assigned, recused themselves. But finally the state found someone who owed it a big favor to sit on
my case.
Her name is Donna Hamm, and her husband was in prison for a murder in Tucson. He would be released if she
would find me guilty.
Because I had notified the Corporation Commissioners and the Attorney General of my intent to spray paint the
words “ARTICLE 6,” and they had voiced no objection, my argument in my defense was going to be that my
actions were done with their tacit approval, and therefore could not be criminal damage. In order to make that
argument, however, I needed the Corporation Commissioners to testify that I had, in fact, notified them of my
intent to spray paint the walls. So I issued subpoenas to compel the commissioners to testify in my defense.
But before they could testify, Judge Hamm quashed all of my subpoenas. When the day of my trial came, I had
no witnesses for my defense, and no jury to hear my case.
I did, however, have quite a few supporters who had helped me put together an 1/8th mile long paper banner
on which we had stenciled, in 1 foot high letters, on both sides, the entire text of the Sixth Amendment. An hour
before the trial began, we marched with that banner from the Arizona Corporation Commission to the
courthouse.
My first argument at trial was that I should have a jury to hear my case instead of Donna Hamm. Donna and
the prosecutor argued that I was not entitled to a jury because the offense was a misdemeanor and not a
felony.
Then they called forth a witness who was supposedly an expert in calculating damages. He testified that the
amount of damages I had caused was more than twelve hundred dollars!
Rather than challenge his damage estimate as ridiculous, I pointed to the law where it said that criminal
damage in excess of $500 is a felony. Therefore, I reiterated, I must have a jury.
In the end I was found guilty, by Donna Hamm, of criminal damage and fined $500. But the amount of damages
was finally estimated to be “zero dollars.” Shortly thereafter her husband, Larry Hamm, was released from
prison.
My case was then transferred back to one of the judges who had recused himself from presiding at my trial.
His name was, I believe, Justice of the Peace, Peterson.
I telephoned Judge Peterson’s office and told them to tell the Judge that I did not intend to pay the fine, and
that since it was election season and he was seeking reelection, if he signed a warrant for my arrest, I would
position myself in front of one of his large campaign signs, then using my cell phone I would turn myself in and
videotape my arrest, in front of his poster, for use on the five o’clock news. The warrant became “lost.” More on
that later.
In spite of the humiliating beating I had suffered at the hands of Arizona’s “politicians against democracy,” I
had learned an even more powerful lesson from the people. I learned that the people do want to participate in
the legislative process, and will do so voluntarily if the barriers are lowered sufficiently to allow them to do so
easily from their home, or office or cell phone.
To borrow a line from the movie Field of Dreams: “If you build it, they will come.” I, then, moved on to the next
phase, which was the task of providing to the voters the complete list of all the proposed new laws pending
before the Arizona Legislature. No one was doing that.
First I went to the Arizona Republic newspaper which, at the time, was holding several “town hall” type
meetings throughout Phoenix in an attempt to find out what changes its readers wanted to see. The Arizona
Republic had bought out its chief rival, The Phoenix Gazette, and was closing down the Gazette, so the “town
hall” meetings were a gesture to the subscribers of the, now defunct, Phoenix Gazette, inviting them to become
friendly subscribers of the Arizona Republic newspaper.
I attended the town hall meetings and asked the Arizona Republic to begin publishing a complete list of all
Senate and house bills pending before the Arizona Legislature, so people could vote on them using 1-800-THE-
VOTE - not just the dozen or so bills that the newspaper found interesting. I was told by spokespersons for the
Arizona Republic that the newspaper would not print such a complete list because, in its opinion, no one would
be interested in reading it. “It would be a waste of ink and paper,” I was told.
“Okay,” I said to myself, “then I’ll publish the list.” And while I’m at it, I thought, I might as well start a new
political party that would do what the Republicans and Democrats won’t, and that is REPRESENT THE WILL OF
THE PEOPLE! From that frustration the Grapevine Newspaper was born. And the Arizona Tea Party.
The mission and purpose of the Grapevine was to publish a complete list of all senate and house bills pending
before the Arizona Legislature. The mission and purpose of the Tea Party was/is to recruit and elect candidates
to the Arizona Legislature who will vote on pending legislation in accordance with the will of the majority of their
constituents, so long as they are not being asked to do something that is unconstitutional.
Chapter 5: The Grapevine Newspaper
First there was the Arizona Tea Party. Then there was the Grapevine.
In 1993 or 1994 I established the political action committee known as the Arizona Tea Party. I began actively
recruiting citizens to become legislative candidates for the Tea Party. I created a logo (a wooden crate of tea)
and stenciled it on T (tea) shirts. I wrote a campaign theme song based on he Boston Tea Party, and a poem
entitled “The Greatest Democrat.” I created small cardboard boxes designed to look like little crates of tea - with
tea bags inside. And I rented out a grade school cafeteria for an evening to host a stage show and
entertainment for the public. But due to lack of publicity, hardly anyone showed up.
Publicity. I needed an affordable (cheap) avenue of publicity. And not just for the Tea Party, but for the
publication and distribution of pending senate and house bills. More and more it was becoming feasible to start
my own newspaper. And I could fill it with “news” stories about the candidates for the Arizona Tea Party. The
way I saw it, I would be able to fill several editions of the paper with stories about the Tea Party candidates.
After all, I was looking to recruit 90 candidates (30 senate, 60 house of representatives), and I had already
recruited at least four.
I explained my plan to some of my associates in Mensa, one of whom had already been helping me with 1-800-
THE-VOTE, Phil Janes, and another, David Broome, who said he could get me a computer program for laying out
newspaper proofs for printing.
We discussed the plan over lunch at Leigh Butler’s home, even wondering what to name the paper. Phil Janes
suggested we call it “Tea Leaves” as in “reading tea leaves.” But in the back of my head kept drumming the
beat of the melody of the popular song “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” That’s how the paper got its name.
Finding a printer that could print a newspaper was another matter. Not just any ol’ printer could do the job. I
had to find a printer with a “web” press - whatever that was - and I didn’t know where to start.
I contacted the Arizona Republic newspaper to see if they could do the job. “No,” they said. Then I remembered
seeing a small newspaper that was published from time to time by the Libertarian party. I knew people in the
Libertarian party. I had met them when I was running for governor.
One phone call later I had the name of their printer located in Payson, Arizona. Soon I had a price quote. All I
had to do was raise the money.
Money wasn’t as easy as it used to be. After the Corporation commission ruined my business, I was on the
verge of bankruptcy. My house had been foreclosed on. I had been forced to sell virtually everything I owned. In
fact, I had now moved in to live with my friend, Leigh Butler, a woman and socialite 20 years my senior.
Leigh was helpful, but she was gun-shy of investing any money in my newspaper project. She had been scared
off by the allegations of the Corporation Commission and a piece of wood that someone had tossed down my
water well decades ago. That piece of wood, I later discovered when I installed a pump, was submerged slightly
below the water line in the well, and had prevented a video camera equipment team (hired by Butler) from
submerging their video camera. Thus, it appeared to Leigh that the water in the well was only six inches deep -
not 60 feet deep as indicated by the well driller’s log from the mid 1960’s. Hiring that camera crew cost Leigh
about $1,000. So she wasn’t eager to pay for the printing costs for a new newspaper of questionable merit.
It just so happened that another acquaintance of mine - a computer nerd/ genius who had no motivation to
clean up after himself, Ed Voelkel - was expecting a visit from his parents from Colorado. He didn’t want them to
see his house and property as it was - lawns NEVER mowed; pool never used or cleaned; same inside, every
room of the house including kitchen and bathrooms. In a panic he asked me if he could hire me to clean up his
house and property before his parents arrived in a couple of weeks. Problems solved.
With the money I made cleaning his house and yard, I paid for the first print run of the Grapevine newspaper in
May of 1994. I was ecstatic! But then my bubble burst.
I had misunderstood the campaign laws. The deadline for turning in the petitions to establish the Arizona Tea
Party as a bona fide political party had passed. I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. I was sick.
I had counted on the Grapevine newspaper to be the publicity machine to help us get the ten thousand
signatures we would need to achieve ballot status and put our candidates on the ballot along with the
Republicans and Democrats, and our dear friends, the Libertarians. Now it was over. Just like that. Boy, that
hurt.
Plus, we had thousands of newspapers still to distribute. That, alone, had been an exhausting job. Every day,
after bringing the newspapers back from the printer in Payson, Phil Janes and I would deliver hundreds of
newspapers to valley businesses, bars, barber shops and beauty salons. Anywhere we thought customers
might be sitting around with a little time on their hands, and might be willing to read something while they
waited. It took almost an entire month to distribute most of that print run. I did not want to do that again.
There had to be an easier way.
The fact is, I was so frustrated with the whole thing that I was ready to throw up my hands and call it quits.
“To hell with a second print run,” I thought. What’s the point? To work my ass off for nothing?
Phil Janes wasn’t as disheartened as I was. In fact he was plugging away, putting together the next edition of
the Grapevine. I was amazed. We didn’t even have the money for the next print run and here he was, arriving
every day on his bicycle at Butler’s house (10 miles, round trip) to put together another edition of a newspaper I
had given up hope for. He wouldn’t stop.
So, I couldn’t. I figured, as long as he’s willing to put in his time to edit the paper, I’ll find the money to print it.
After all, that’s what publishers are for.
I took my best shot. I contacted the executive Vice President of Dimension Cable Company, whom I had grown
to know over the past year through a public access television show I produced at Dimension’s studios (it was
free, so what the heck?). I showed him my first edition of the Grapevine, explained our mission and purpose,
and told him I would like to have Dimension Cable as a sponsor/advertiser of the Grapevine. He gave me $500
for an 1/8 th page ad. I was ecstatic.
When Butler saw the $500 check from Dimension Cable, she became ecstatic too. She saw the Grapevine as a
potential money making machine. Suddenly, she wanted in.
But I still did not relish the idea of having to spend another month distributing newspapers all over Phoenix and
the valley. There had to be a better way.
Then I remembered something. It was a suggestion I had made to Ferdinand Haverly, publisher of another
small newspaper in Phoenix, shortly before it had gone out of business. He had put the word out that he was
looking for ways to expand his circulation without increasing his costs.
It had just so happened that a few days before Ferd made that request that I had encountered the answer to
his question - and if he had taken my advice his paper would have lasted a few years longer - at least as long
as the Grapevine did.
What I had observed was the result of having missed my exit on the freeway. So I had to go on to the next
exit, get off there, cross over the freeway and get back on, headed back to the exit I had missed. Doing so, I
saw a man standing by the roadside as I waited for the first left turn arrow. He was holding up a large
cardboard sign, hand printed with the words “Will Work For Food.” After making my second left turn, and as I
waited for the green light on the on ramp, I saw another man standing by the roadside. He was holding up an
Arizona Republic newspaper for sale.
One man wanted a job by the roadside; the other man HAD a job by the roadside. It clicked. I told Ferd that he
should employ the homeless, standing by the roadside, to sell his newspaper as the Arizona Republic was doing.
Having remembered all that, I quickly decided to try an experiment. Using a copy of the first edition, I fabricated
a mock-up of another “edition” of the Grapevine. This “edition” had a large sign as its back page. The page read
in huge letters, “HELP THE NEEDY - BUY THE GRAPEVINE - 50¢”.
I posed two men on a traffic island in an intersection and photographed them holding up the mock-up, as if it
were a bona fide edition being offered by them for sale to passing traffic. I published that photo on the front
page of the “real” second or third edition of the Grapevine to go along with the cover story announcing our new
method of distribution.
Next, I paid one of the men who had posed in the photo five dollars an hour to stand at an off ramp underpass
of the Piestewa (then Squaw Peak) Parkway and hold up the back page of the Grapevine newspaper for drivers
to read. I told him he could keep all the money from any sales he made. Two hours later he had made $20. Ten
from me, and ten from the sales of the Grapevine.
Now that I knew that the paper would sell if offered from the roadside by homeless vendors. I drove further
down the parkway and found a homeless couple “flying a sign” to work for food. I gave them at least 50 papers
to attempt to sell, and told them to call me when they ran out... which I expected to occur within 24 hours.
On day “three” I drove down to the intersection where I had last seen them, hoping they could tell me what
the problem was. Hopefully, they would still be there.
As I drove up to them, they rushed out in the traffic to meet me. They were ecstatic to see me! What had
happened, they explained gratefully, was that they had sold the last of the newspapers before they realized
that they had forgotten to retrieve my phone number from the paper. “Yes!” they said. They wanted more
Grapevines to sell!
Word about the Grapevine spread quickly through the homeless community. Within days we had dozens of
vendors selling the Grapevine from the roadside. Our next big challenge was getting the newspapers to the ever
growing number of vendors spreading further and further throughout the valley - daily!
What began as one trip a day to deliver newspapers to vendors, quickly became two trips, then three, then
four. Every time I would return from delivering newspapers to vendors, several more telephone calls would have
come in requesting deliveries. Soon, instead of returning to the “office”, I would call first to see if any more
delivery requests had come in. Eventually, my day consisted of doing nothing but making deliveries to vendors
throughout the valley. I would load the vehicle up with as many bundles of newspapers at 50 per bundle as I
could, and I would be gone all day making deliveries.
By then the news media had caught on to the Grapevine’s existence (after all, there were now vendors at
every major intersection in Phoenix, Mesa, Tempe and other cities). Keeping up the supply became a challenge.
At the same time, many vendors were reporting requests from the public as to when the next edition would be
coming out? Once a month wasn’t often enough, said our vendors. They were beginning to lose customers. The
Grapevine began going through a maddening growth phase. We decided to become a weekly newspaper in
order to meet the demand for new editions. But in order to do that we had to make three big changes.
Number one: We would have to bring on a new editor who could produce a new edition weekly. Phil Janes had
been doing a heroic effort producing a monthly newspaper, because he was using a computer program that
none of us knew how to use. He was learning as we went along, and there was still so much to learn ... and no
manual to teach us. We were truly flying by the seat of our pants. We needed someone who knew what he was
doing!
Fortunately, at one of our Mensa gatherings we had run into Kevin Birnbaum. Kevin was a budding movie
producer who had just produced an exceptional western/horror movie that met with good reviews, and he was
fluent in the computer layout program we were using to produce the Grapevine.
Number two: We had to bring on a full time delivery staff to meet the wholesale demand for the newspaper
throughout the valley on a daily basis of resupply.
Number three: We had to charge vendors 10 cents a paper ($5 per bundle) to cover the costs of the first two
changes. I presented the problems of weekly publication and consistent delivery to the vendors. They met and
discussed it overnight. They agreed it would be in all of our best interests for them to begin paying a wholesale
price of 10 cents a paper so we could continue as a weekly newspaper.
As the Grapevine became so successful, so rapidly, I realized it was time to start protecting it. I decided it was
time to register the name of the Grapevine Newspaper as a trade name with the office of the Arizona Secretary of
State. I discussed the matter with Butler and offered to register the paper in both her name and mine as equal
partners since she had permitted the Grapevine to grow out of her home, and had even volunteered to cover
some of its expenses not met by the wholesale pricing.
Butler even volunteered to drive downtown and register the trade name for me. Very nice. However, when she
returned and I saw the paperwork, I learned that she had registered the trade name of the Grapevine
Newspaper in her name only, as her sole and separate property! When I asked her why she had done that she
said it was done “accidentally.”
I was angry that Leigh Butler had registered the paper in her own name, only, as if she owned the newspaper,
but my legal research had already shown me that I had nothing to be concerned about there. With proof
published in the first edition that I was the publisher and founder of the Grapevine I would always be able to
publish the Grapevine unless I sold it. By registering the trade name as her own Leigh simply reserved the right
to also publish a newspaper using the name Grapevine. But she could not exclude me from using the name for
my own newspaper. Soon it would come down to that.
By December of 1994 the circulation of the Grapevine had increased to almost 60,000 papers per week. It had
one of the largest circulations of any newspaper in Arizona, except the Arizona Republic. We had employed more
than one thousand vendors.
Then Leigh got greedy. She came up with the idea that we should double the retail price of the Grapevine to
$1.00 per edition, and start charging the vendors a much higher wholesale price, immediately. I expressed to
Leigh that changes like that had to be gradually worked in over a much longer period of time, otherwise it could
have disastrous results. I thought I had made my point, and went to bed.
But to my chagrin I awoke in the night to hear Leigh talking on the telephone to the managers of our delivery
crews. She was telling them how she thought they should handle any disgruntled vendors who objected to
paying the higher price she was ordering that they must now charge, beginning “tomorrow.”
The shit was about to hit the fan. Leigh had already changed the cover price on the back of page of the
Grapevine to read “$1.00”, and the original had been sent to the printer. All we could do now was wait.
It didn’t take long. Within an hour of the first deliveries the calls started coming in, from vendors objecting to
the new prices, and their customers as well. By the end of the day dozens of vendors had announced they were
quitting, and so did many more customers.
Many customers called to say that they had previously bought the Grapevine using a dollar bill and saying “Keep
the change” to the vendor, knowing that the extra 50 cents was going to help the vendor who was selling the
paper. But now that the price of the paper itself, had gone to one dollar, and the extra 50 cents would be going
to the publisher, they would rather not buy the Grapevine at all. Chaos reigned.
The second day after the price increase, delivery drivers reported that more than half of the vendors were not
at their regular spots. Apparently they had quit. Those still remaining were hiding the retail price from the public
and still selling what papers they could for the previous price of 50 cents, just to keep what customers they
could.
As a last ditch effort to save what was left of the Grapevine, I had our printer print a new front and back page
changing the price back to 50 cents. Then I had our delivery drivers distribute those new pages along with the
remainder of the papers. Things stabilized.
But problems worsened within the management of the Grapevine. Leigh resented that I had reversed her
middle of the night price increase. She didn’t get along with the advertising sales staff, refusing to allow the
manager to come into her home. That meant we had to move the advertising sales office to other quarters. And
then one day, while I was outside, Leigh Butler locked me out of her house and refused to let me come in. I had
to find a new place to live... before dark!
I stayed at Phil Janes’ house and made sure that I had enough money to continue to pay our editor, Kevin
Birnbaum, to produce the next several editions while teaching Phil Janes and me how to effectively use the
computer layout program. It was imperative that Phil Janes learned how to streamline production and layout
because of what we had to do next to survive.
For the next couple of weeks there would be two different versions of the Grapevine on the street. One
produced by Leigh Butler and her friends, and the other by the regular Grapevine staff that had followed me.
I wanted to minimize conflict between the two groups, so I took our printing business to a different printer.
However, Leigh Butler had someone follow us from Phil Janes’ house to the printer. When there she called the
Phoenix police and told them I had stolen her newspaper and asked them to come arrest me.
The police came. But they told Leigh our problem was a civil one, not a criminal one. Then they arrested me
anyway. Remember that warrant for my arrest from Judge Peterson’s office that disappeared during the
elections? Yep. It reappeared as mysteriously as it had disappeared in the first place.
The fine for spray painting “Article 6” on government property was $500. I had the money, but I needed it to
pay for the next print run of the Grapevine. The alternative was 20 days in jail. What an experience.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio recognized my face while I was in his new “tent city” (this was before the days of pink
underwear). He had appeared along with some Arizona legislators on a public access television debate I had
produced for Dimension Cable. He remembered that, and asked me what I was doing in his jail. When I told him,
he laughed, and had me brought out to his car in the parking lot where he telephoned KTAR news radio and
had them interview both of us over the phone and on the air. For a time reference, the Oklahoma City bombing
occurred while I was in jail. When it was announced, the inmates cheered.
While in jail, several inmates brought me stories they thought were newsworthy. I read the stories, out loud,
over the telephone to Phil Janes who tape-recorded our conversations and transcribed the stories later that
day for publication in the Grapevine.
In the meantime, Leigh Butler published an edition of the Grapevine announcing that I had been arrested and
fired from the Grapevine. The vendors didn’t know what to think or who to believe. After all, there were TWO
Grapevines now, and except for the stories, they looked almost exactly the same.
But I had a plan. I knew that the vendors always preferred to sell the most current edition of the Grapevine.
They would only sell an-out-of-date Grapevine if they had no other choice and that’s all they had. So I decided to
make our Grapevine a daily newspaper, at least for a while; long enough for Butler to throw in the towel.
Two weeks is all it took. On day one of becoming a daily paper, I made sure the television news crews were at
our printer’s plant to videotape the presses running. I wanted everyone, especially the vendors and Butler to
get the message that the most current version of the Grapevine would be mine. It took only a matter of a few
days for vendors to catch on to the idea that the Grapevine was now a daily paper whose date would always be
current. So when Butler’s weekly version came out, it was already out of date, and no vendor wanted to
purchase it. Butler only published one more edition of her Grapevine, then acknowledged that she would not be
printing any more editions of the Grapevine.
We quietly went back to being a weekly newspaper and about a month or two later, Butler began publishing,
truly, her own newspaper, “Southwest Solutions” and our paths never crossed again.
But things were heating up in another area, though. Someone was putting pressure on the various police
agencies throughout the valley to begin harassing and arresting the Grapevine vendors, even though they were
not breaking any laws. Various police agencies began prohibiting vendors from standing on medians, or traffic
islands, or selling newspapers to the occupants of any vehicle. Some vendors who refused to cease and desist
selling the Grapevine were given tickets and sometimes arrested.
The police said the vendors were a safety hazard, yet never once was a vendor cited for causing a traffic
accident, or injured while on the job. And never was the issue of safety raised while the Arizona Republic
newspaper sold its copies by the roadside. The Arizona Republic ceased selling its papers from the roadside
because the vendors preferred selling the Grapevine, because Grapevine vendors got to keep ALL of the money
they received from their sales, not just half.
One of the persons who sold the Arizona Republic newspaper from the roadside was a young man named
Jayhawk Arnoldi. Jayhawk claimed to be a paralegal whose uncle was a retiring Federal judge. Judge Mickey or
Muecke? In spite of all my skepticism, I did need someone to handle our growing legal confrontations with the
city of Phoenix. So I took Jayhawk on as our legal department, and taught him how to edit a newspaper.
Chapter 6: The Coldest Winter of My Life
In order for any legislator to represent the will of his/her people, that legislator must learn the will of the
people on every piece of pending legislation. Thus the people must be informed of every senate and house bill
as it is created, not just the “Top Ten.” That’s what the Grapevine was for.
The mission and purpose of the Grapevine newspaper was to publish a complete menu of the Senate and
House bills pending before the Arizona Legislature. Citizens could then call the toll free telephone number of 1-
800-THE-VOTE (or one like it) and vote for or against the pending legislation. A computer would tabulate the
votes and direct them to the appropriate legislators who represent those constituents. That way legislators
would have a broad knowledge of the will of their people regarding all pending legislation - not just a few vocal
lobbyists. And not just on the handful of issues they were able to find time to read.
I thought that the legislators would deeply appreciate knowing how their own constituents felt about pending
legislation. Some did not. I was amazed!
I was even more amazed as I watched lobbyists and legislators band together and put pressure on the city
councils of Phoenix, Mesa, Glendale and other Arizona cities to outlaw the sales of the Grapevine on their
streets! I had Jayhawk file a lawsuit against the city of Phoenix, in Federal Court, on behalf of the Grapevine’s
First Amendment Rights.
The Grapevine argued that not only was its' right to sell newspapers from the roadside protected by the First
Amendment of the United States Constitution’s “Freedom of the press”, but local laws as well.
Phil Janes had previously pointed out an ordinance of the Phoenix City Council which clearly stated that it was
not unlawful to sell handbills [newspapers] to the occupant of any vehicle. Confronted with this fact, the
Phoenix City Council met and passed a new ordinance to replace that one. The new ordinance read: “No person
shall remain on or adjacent to a street or highway and solicit business, employment, or contributions from the
occupant of any vehicle,” and was a class 1 misdemeanor, the most severe class of misdemeanor there is,
punishable by up to one year in jail.
As far as the Grapevine goes, it was also “the writing on the wall”, so to speak. Advertisers did not want to
advertise in the Grapevine if it could no longer reach the vast volumes of people it did from the streets of
Phoenix. And I did not want to see the vendors going to jail for selling a newspaper.
So, on the last day of fall, 1996, my new editor, Pamela deSpencer (a.k.a. “Paloma”) - [who, by the way had
been introduced to me by Kevin Birnbaum before he went onto start his own businesses (thank you, Kevin)] -
and I moved all of our belongings into a tee pee of sorts, on land I possessed in Apache County, Arizona.
Sleeping on the ground in a tent, when it’s five below zero, is impossible. The ground sucks the heat right out
of your body, right through the sleeping bag. You have to roll over every five minutes just to let your “ground
side” warm up. All night long you keep thinking: “When is the sun going to come up? When is the sun going to
come up? Come on!”
Jayhawk Arnoldi remained in the office space in Phoenix, living there as well as editing the final editions of the
weekly Grapevine. Paloma and I could no longer afford the rent on our one bedroom apartment, and it would be
impossible for all three of us to live in the office, permanently. But it was so cold in Apache County, at 6,500 feet
elevation, in December and January, that Paloma and I welcomed the trips back to Phoenix in the weeks before
the Phoenix City Council voted to, effectively, outlaw the Grapevine. So, temporarily, in January of 1997, all three
of us lived out of the Grapevine office... even though by then, we were several months delinquent on paying the
office rent.
One of our contributing writers, Paul Bechtel, recognized our housing dilemma in Apache County and donated
to Paloma and me, the use of his full sized camper which he had on the back of his pickup truck. One day he
took me with him in his truck with the camper shell all the way to the property in Apache County. There, we off-
loaded the camper onto the property, then returned to Phoenix. That camper made all the difference in the
world to Paloma and me. Because of it we were able to survive the winter of 1996. It’s propane stove provided
us the much needed heat, so we could take off our coats. Its bed with mattress made sleeping at night not only
possible, but a relative luxury. And the burners on the stove meant we could have coffee anytime we wanted,
and hot water to bathe. We could fry eggs. We were ecstatic!
Another one of our former advertisers, Dave Simpson, had given us a vehicle to use for deliveries of
newspapers to our vendors after Paloma’s truck had been damaged in an accident. When we moved to Apache
County, he let us keep it, giving us the title with the understanding that we would pay for it at some
undetermined time in the future. With his permission we sold that vehicle to raise money to start another small
newspaper, the White Mountain Highroads in Show Low, Arizona, in the spring of 1997.
The White Mountain High Roads was a, purely, “fluff” publication. Paloma and I created it as a source of
advertising revenue because we had no income. We deliberately avoided any mention of politics, and all topics
that could possibly polarize our readers or advertisers.
The word “Highroads", in the mast, was a deliberate double entendre. Not only were we located,
geographically, more than a mile high (6,000 + feet), but we were pledged to remain above the fray, politically,
as well. At least that was the intent.
I was burned out on politics. I had tried my best to achieve a noble cause that I believed in. I had failed. I had
not quit. I had been beaten. Yet, there was still a smoldering ember inside me. And just in case it would ever
catch fire again, I registered with the Arizona Secretary of State’s Office, in 1997, the trade name of the Arizona
Democrat newspaper (Azdem). Its day would come.
With the Grapevine now defunct and its office closed, Jayhawk Arnoldi had no place to stay, even though he
was still pursuing the lawsuit against the City of Phoenix. The White Mountain Highroads was becoming
financially successful, so we moved to larger offices; large enough for Jayhawk to have an office of his own, in
which he came to live. Eventually we made enough money to afford to rent another small office for Jayhawk to
live in, Tempe, Arizona. This was necessary for him to continue working on the Grapevine legal case.
Then, one day, as Paloma and I were talking at the property in Apache County, an unusual feeling came over
me. Later on, I described it to the doctors at the Navapache Regional Medical Center in Show Low, (now
renamed Summit Health Care Medical Center) as a “buzzing sensation.” But most remarkable, it affected my
short term memory so profoundly that I could not remember what was behind me, out of my sight, nor could I
remember (as I was told later) events that would transpire, even a few minutes after they occurred. Paloma
rushed me to the hospital. The doctors could find no obvious cause for the condition (like a blood clot in the
brain) so they classified it as stress related and told me, effectively, that I was going to have to quit my job as a
newspaper publisher. That ended the White Mountain Highroads.
From time to time, however, Paloma and I still found it necessary to travel to Phoenix, especially while litigation
was still ongoing between the Grapevine and the City of Phoenix. Somehow, we had stayed in contact with
several of the people we had met through the Grapevine, the Tea Party, or other associations. One couple we
had met was Ed and Marjorie Gaudreau, who invited us to stay with them whenever we would be in the valley.
For this we were mighty grateful.
I had met Ed Gaudreau, originally, in 1994. I don’t remember exactly how or where, but I do know he was one
of the several persons I had inspired to become legislative candidates of the Arizona Tea Party; and he had
submitted an article opposing a piece of proposed legislation that would have affected the earnings of notary
publics, such as he, and his wife Marjorie, and his mother.
Ed seemed to share some of my beliefs about the benefits of a truly democratic form of republic. He said he
was willing to represent the will of the people (from his legislative district) if he were elected as a legislator from
the Tea Party.
He and his wife also shared my affinity for marijuana (I am, after all, the chairman of the political action
committee For the Taxation of Decriminalized Marijuana). Ed told me once that he could not remember the last
day in which he had NOT smoked marijuana! Ed and Marge always had plenty to smoke whenever we stopped
by, and if he didn’t have any at the moment, he would always go get some.
But it troubled me when, after it had become apparent that the Tea Party would not obtain ballot status, that
he renigged on his promise that he would be willing to represent his constituents, and switched his political
affiliation to another party. But mostly it troubled me that Ed told me that he would never, as a candidate,
support the legalization of marijuana - even if the people of his district wanted him to - because he felt such an
admission could lessen the likelihood of him being elected! It seemed as if Ed was willing to say anything or do
anything to get elected. In other words, getting elected was an ego trip for him, not a public service. Perhaps as
an attempt to make up for the fact, I learned later, that he had never completed high school. He had, however,
obtained a G. E. D.
My personal disappointments, however, were no grounds to judge him as unworthy of my friendship. Besides,
he always had pot; and actions speak louder than words.
But sometimes, people’s actions are symptoms of deeper and more serious problems, as I would some day
learn.
Jayhawk Arnoldi, for example, was a person who some persons would describe as a pathological liar. And
though I suspected as much, the issues he lied about, pathologically, had usually had little effect on my life or
business. For example, his claim that Federal Judge Mickey (Muecke?) was his uncle, was a complete fabrication,
as I would later learn by asking the judge through his judicial secretary. And I did not want to create an
unnecessary confrontation which could result in Jayhawk’s angry resignation during the pending litigation. But
all good things must come to an end.
Near the end of our litigation with the City of Phoenix, Jayhawk told me that the presiding judge had called a
special meeting in his office and had ruled in favor of the Grapevine. I was jubilant to hear the news. Jayhawk
would be moving all of our equipment, computers, etcetera to the new office in the next few days.
Several minutes later I returned a telephone call to the Gaudreaus, only to receive from them condolences over
having lost the Grapevine’s lawsuit against the City of Phoenix, which they had just heard on the news! I was
stunned. Not only over having lost the lawsuit, but over Jayhawk’s lie to me claiming we had won.
My next call was the office of the Maricopa County Superior Court judge who had presided over the case. I
spoke with his secretary. She confirmed that the case had been dismissed, and denied that any special meeting
had
been called at the judge’s offices as Jayhawk had claimed.
I was chagrined to tell Paloma the bad news, but we both knew what we had to do next. We immediately
climbed into Paloma’s truck and began the four hour drive from Show Low to Tempe to grab our equipment and
computers before Jayhawk took them with him to his next, yet undisclosed, destination.
Jayhawk was not at the office when we arrived, but returned without incident while we were loading up the
equipment on the truck. I told Jayhawk that I had called the judge’s office and learned the truth about the
dismissal of the law suit. That was the last I heard about Jayhawk; except as an ancedote a few months later, I
was informed that Jayhawk had announced to the news media that I had given the Grapevine newspaper to
him! Paul Bechtel had heard it on the Phoenix news and drove all the way to Apache County to confirm that
questionable fact with me. I told Paul it wasn’t true, and rode back with him to the valley to issue a press
release, by fax, to all of the news media denying the story.
Chapter 7: Ed Gaudreau
In 1998 or 1999 the U. S. Government notified my family that it had recovered remains from a crash site in
North Vietnam, and had confirmed through DNA that the remains were my brother’s. The government then paid
for the transportation costs of myself and other family members to attend the funeral service for my brother to
be held in Texas. I thought perhaps that we might receive a word in condolences from John McCain, or perhaps
that he may attend the funeral, but there was no comment. Enough said.
When I returned to Arizona from my brother’s funeral, I was flown into Sky Harbor Airport, in Phoenix, on a
Sunday. The only problem with that was that the bus service between Phoenix and Show Low did not run on
Sunday, and I had only enough money on me to pay for the bus ticket. Not the bus ticket and a place to stay
overnight. So I placed a call to the Gaudreaus, hoping that I could spend the night at their place.
To my surprise I learned that Ed and Marge had lost their house, and had moved in with Ed’s mother, Estelle,
taking their two adolescent children with them. Still, Ed and a friend of his came to the airport and picked me up,
and took me back to his mother’s house in Phoenix.
As we turned onto the street where Estelle Gaudreau lived, a tow truck was just pulling away from Estelle’s
house - with Ed’s car in tow. It was being repossessed! In a rage, Ed jumped out of his friend’s car and flew
into a tirade against the tow truck driver who ignored him and slowly drove away with the car. It was a very
uncomfortable circumstance for all of us. And it just got worse.
Moments later Ed’s 18 year old son came back from the store where he had gone to get cigarettes. Ed further
vented his wrath on his son, and it seemed they were about to come to blows. They were standing toe to toe in
Estelle’s living room, exchanging horrific words and threats. I had never seen such an expression of violence as
was pouring from Ed Gaudreau toward his son.
It was then that his wife, Marge, and fourteen year old daughter, Crystal, took me by the arm and led me away
into the family room. With the door closed behind them, and no chance that Ed could hear them - with fear in
their faces they told me with their words that they were afraid... of Ed Gaudreau.
No sooner had they revealed their fears to me than Estelle came up to me and volunteered to drive me, with
her husband, all the way to my home in Apache County, now! Right this very minute! And without further ado, I
got into their car, and they drove me all the way home, arriving about 10 p. m..
But in the moments before we left Estelle’s home in Phoenix, I told Marge that I had several pieces of land in
Apache County, and if she and Ed wanted to, they could come live on one of those lots - in the used motor
home they had recently purchased to live in.
A few weeks later, Ed, Marge and their daughter, Crystal arrived in Apache County. I took them to some
property I owned (through my water company, Showlow Pines Water Utility Corporation) a few miles away and
told them they could live there for the next year if they so desired.
A couple of weeks later, after several visits during that time, Ed drove up with his wife and daughter in their
motor home. He told me that his mom was providing him with a second, also used, motor home they had
acquired in Phoenix, and that he and his family would be going back to Phoenix to get it and return. He asked if
I had any other property, nearer to my house, that they could stay on?
I had deliberately chosen property, for them to stay on, knowing that good distances make good neighbors.
But now that he had asked, “yes”, I had a lot available that was, literally, just around the corner. When Ed
returned he moved both of their motor homes onto the property.
On or about October 6, 1999, the following events transpired:
Now that Ed had moved to Apache County, and his wife had gotten a job working in the kitchen at Summit
Health Care Medical Center, I realized that I really did not know Ed Gaudreau very well, at all. So, I decided I
had better spend some time deliberately getting to know him. With that intent, I walked over to Ed’s place so
we could tell each other our life’s stories.
In the course of the evening’s conversation, and while discussing our childhoods, Ed made a statement that I
had never heard or read before. He said: “Most fathers have a sexual relationship with a daughter.”
I could not believe that statement to be true for two significant reasons: (1) I had never heard or read that
claim before; and (2) I had never seen any evidence that over 50% of the fathers I have met have had a sexual
relationship with any of their daughters.
In an effort to demonstrate the obvious flaw in that thinking, and using myself and Ed Gaudreau as illustrative
examples, since each of us has only one daughter, (if his statement were true then, statistically, one of us
would have had to have had a sexual relationship with a daughter), I said to Ed Gaudreau; “Have you had a
sexual relationship with your daughter?”
The first time I asked the question, he was still talking, and seemed not to hear me. So I waited until he
finished what he was saying, and asked him again. He just sat there, across the table from me, with a slight
smile on his face, but he did not answer. I thought perhaps, he was still enraptured by his own statements, and
still hadn’t registered what I had just asked him. So, in the prolonged silence between us, I asked the question
a third time - getting just a “little” nervous - “Ed, have you had a sexual relationship with your daughter?”
[By the way, the entire account I am describing to you here - and much, much more - can be found in my
lawsuit filed against Ed Gaudreau in the Apache County Superior Court in 2000. The case number is CV-2000-
121 “Joel K. Barr v. Edward and Marjorie Gaudreau, husband and wife.” Please read it along with the other civil
suits I have filed in Apache County Superior Court, especially Barr v. Navopache Electric Cooperative, Inc. S-
0100-CV-99102 and Barr v. State of Arizona et al., CV-2004-022; and CV-1997-? State of Arizona ex rel the
Arizona Corporation Commission v. Barr.]
With a sheepish smile on his face, Ed got up from his seat without answering, and walked out of the motor
home we were in, and went into the other motor home where his daughter was reading a book. Now, my worst
fear had become that I had inadvertently stumbled upon a dark secret that Ed wanted to share with me, and
that he had gone next door to ask his daughter’s permission to share it with me.
Moments later he returned. No sooner had he entered the motor home where I waited, and before he could
say anything or change the subject, I blurted out the question one more time - prepared for the worst:
Ed stood facing me. He said one word. That word was: “Yes.”
I was dumbfounded. I did not know what to do, or what to say. I had stumbled into territory that was far too
sensitive for what I had come prepared to deal with. Getting out of this sticky situation was like groping in the
dark.
I was confronted with the dilemma of a man who had just confessed to me, a publisher, a crime that could put
him in prison for the rest of his life; and I suspected that he had trusted me with that information in the hopes
that I would confess something similar to him. I could not.
I stammered that my ex-wife and I had divorced when my daughter was only five years old, and I had never
had an “opportunity” (much less entertained the thought) to develop such a relationship with my daughter. I
was trying to tiptoe nonchalantly out of those dangerous waters, (next, I’ll part the Red Sea) when the
publisher in me kicked in, and I figured I’d try to capitalize on the circumstances and ask some questions I may
never, ever, get a chance to ask again. So I asked him when he first had begun having a sexual relationship
with his daughter? By then, however, he had realized he had said more than he should, and he became
defensive. He asked me “What were we talking about?” - as if he had lost his chain of thought.
I responded, “Your sexual relationship with your daughter.”
With that he reacted as if he were horribly offended. He told me to leave his motor home, and said that he and
his family would be gone from my property the next day. Apparently he had some second thoughts about
leaving me behind with the information I now had. So, he stayed there for another two weeks.
I returned home and informed Paloma. We both felt shell shocked at this turn of events. Paloma suggested I
call the Apache County Sheriff's office - which I did - and the matter was investigated by then Deputy Sheriff
Matrese Avila, the Sheriff's child abuse "expert".
Apparently, even though we witnessed very bizarre behavior exhibited by Ed, the findings of sexual child abuse
were never filed, perhaps, as the Apache County "law enforcement" agencies "go easy" on someone if they
play the role of snitch.
Eventually, he moved his family to some property his brother owns in Navajo County. Later, I discovered that
Gaudreau had contacted some of the people I had introduced him to in Apache and Navajo Counties, and had
surreptitiously told them that I had been the one who had admitted having the sexual relationship with a
daughter. So in 2000 I filed the aforementioned lawsuit against Ed Gaudreau for slander and libel.
Chapter 8: Deputy Scruggs
At the time I filed the lawsuit against Ed Gaudreau, I was already helping the former wife of Dave Simpson (the
Grapevine advertiser who gave Paloma and me the car) in a lawsuit that had been filed against her for breach of
contract by a con artist who had already cheated her out of a hundred thousand dollars. I eventually got the
lawsuit dismissed, but in order to help her, her former husband, Dave Simpson (who asked me to help her) had
to loan me his computer (which he had shipped to me from Phoenix), and I had to find a place with electrical
power where I could work on her case.
By then we had met a woman by the name of Victoria Ries who had joined our Limited Partnership to obtain
water from our well. Victoria lived about 2 miles from our place and had electricity to her house, but her
telephone service had been recently disconnected for non payment of her phone bill. She and Paloma became
friends, as well, and soon there was talk of installing Dave Simpson’s computer at her house for me to use to
work on his former wife’s civil case, in exchange for me installing two telephones at Victoria’s house. One line for
the computer, and the other for our mutual telephone usage. As part of the deal, Victoria would have complete
use of the computer and phone whenever I was not there. We all agreed, and when Dave’s computer arrived, it
was immediately delivered to Victoria Ries’ house and she hooked it up to the new phone system which I used
not only for Dave’s wife’s case, but on the nascent Arizona Democrat newspaper whose trade name I had
already registered with the Arizona Secretary of State; and on my lawsuit against Ed Gaudreau which was filed
on October 2nd of 2000 (CV-2000-121 Barr v. Gaudreau). Victoria Ries was aware of my litigation with Ed
Gaudreau and why I had filed it. I let her read my pleadings as I wrote and edited them. She was aware that Ed
Gaudreau had claimed (to people we both knew) that I had had a sexual relationship with my own daughter.
This is where, I believe, Victoria Ries got the idea, later on, to accuse me of having molested her, then, 12 year
old daughter, Victoria Roderick. But I’ll get to that in a minute.
Dave’s computer stayed at Ries’ house until we finally managed to get electrical power installed to the well site
in the fall of 2001. Then the computer was moved to my property.
During the time that the computer was at Victoria Ries house we learned a lot about her. She is a British
National and a “former” “London Call Girl” as she called herself. Almost all of her upper teeth had crumbled and
fallen out due to methamphetamine abuse. She had six children, ages 2 - 27 fathered by five different
husbands. Only four of her underage children lived with her; three younger boys and a girl who was 12 years
old at the time of my arrest.
This may be a good place to interject how I met, and became involved with Victoria Ries and her daughter,
Victoria Roderick. This is important because my testimony, and that of my witnesses, differs from that of Victoria
Ries (which the court has chosen to believe over ours).
Victoria Ries testified that I volunteered to tutor her daughter, Victoria Roderick, when in fact it was the other
way around. Here’s what happened.
Victoria Ries and my fiancee, Pamela deSpencer (“Paloma”) became friends. During one of their conversations
Paloma revealed to Victoria Ries that I am a member of Mensa. With that in mind, Victoria Ries asked Paloma if
she (Paloma) would approach me and ask if I would be willing to tutor her daughter, Victoria Roderick.
I wasn’t immediately fond of the idea, so I told Paloma to tell Ries that I would “think about it.” After several
days I concluded that if I did not agree to help Victoria Ries in the home schooling (none of Ries’s children were
enrolled in school) of her daughter, then this backwoods prostitute and former drug addict would have no one
to help her.
I agreed to come to her house once a week to help in the home schooling of her daughter. But within two
weeks Victoria Ries’ two youngest sons had totally destroyed the teaching aids necessary to follow the
curriculum I had outlined. Consequently I was forced to abandon the structured tutelage of Victoria Roderick,
that Victoria Ries had asked me to do.
I should have suspected something was amiss shortly after we met Victoria Ries and her daughter, Victoria
Roderick (Big Vic and Little Vic) and learned that Little Vic had, with her mother’s assistance, previously accused
her father and Big Vic’s subsequent husbands of having molested her. And each time, the accusations occurred
after her mother had a falling out with the accused. Only two of the allegations had been reported to the
Apache County Sheriff’s Office, and it was determined that there was no evidence to support her allegations.
The cases were dropped.
But then, again, those men had not, 90 days earlier, filed a lawsuit against the Apache County Sheriff and
Deputies for false arrest. I had. So when I had a falling out with Big Vic (and simultaneously initiated a lawsuit
against the, then, 19 year old best friend of Little Vic, Chelsea Hoffman Farris) Apache County already had an
axe to grind against me. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I mentioned earlier some lawsuits I had been involved with that you should check out. The reason is that they
hold evidence of a pattern of practice by the office of the Arizona Attorney General to shut me up.
Remember the A. G./ Corporation Commission’s litigation in 1991 seeking an Order for me to “cease and desist
funding 1-800-THE-VOTE”? And the $15,000 fine?
They did it by filing a lawsuit in Apache County Superior Court (I don’t remember the year, 1997 or 1998?)
captioned as : “State of Arizona ex rel the Arizona Corporation Commission v. Joel K. Barr and Showlow Pines
Water Utility Corporation...” The purpose of the lawsuit was to renew their $15,000 judgement. I defended
myself arguing that the state had waited too long to renew the judgement (judgements of this kind have to be
renewed every four years or they become un-collectible), but the courts ignored my arguments and renewed
the judgements anyway. Then, in 1999, after I had contracted for, and paid