To be perfectly honest, the first half is a slog. I’ve read some of the other reviews, and I appear to be in the minority on this; others found the trial to be unbearably boring.
But at any rate, it needed to be told. The overstepping of authority was so much worse than I thought. The coverup was positively disgusting. Truly, the story of the Weaver family is heartbreaking and terrifying.
So if you’re gonna read it, I suggest you make a spreadsheet of every person mentioned. Because there are a TON of people in this book, and most of them resurface a few times. Maybe even print off a map with the small cities in the Idaho chimney clearly marked, just to give you some reference. The ebook includes several pictures at the end, so those can be referenced as you go along. Randy was handsome! That surprised me for some reason.
Four stars due to repetitive facts, and also I noticed the author had a tendency to switch between calling people by their first name or only last name, which added to my confusion. Admittedly, it doesn’t take much.
Notable passages:
Vicki wanted to be a housewife. Randy wanted to be an FBI agent.
he was treated with the deference of the only boy and the youngest child.
There was only one tree on the whole 3,000-acre town site, and so they nailed a plaque to it.
Randy was adamant about the Great Tribulation, how the government would turn on its people, and bloodshed would be visited upon white Christians. Then he talked about the beautiful piece of land he was buying and said, “Armageddon’s gonna end on that hill.”
Seemed every six months or so, the sheriff was called up to Ruby Ridge to talk to the Weavers or one of their neighbors. Someone was shooting guns at night. …This guy shot that guy’s goat.
“Am I correct in understanding that you believe the end of the world will come sometime in the next two months, that this will start to take place—something between the blacks and the Hell’s Angels—and that it will end up at your house, on your front door, and that it will be the start of the end of the world?” “More or less,” Randy said.
Sheriff in such a large, sparsely and strangely populated county was often a difficult job to fill. In 1983, the sheriff of Boundary County had gone to Alaska for a vacation and just never returned. His chief deputy assumed the job because there was no one else, and then, five years later, he quit, too. ..On the Democratic side was a part-time school bus driver, a bartender, and Boundary County’s first-ever bailiff. Running for the Republicans were Lonnie Ekstrom, the chief investigator for the sheriff’s office, and Randy Weaver.
She looked like any teenage girl except for the World War II gun belt slung around her waist and the semiautomatic pistol sticking out of the covered holster. “What do you want?”
Young and muscular, with stooped shoulders and surfer looks, Hart met the most important requirement for undercover work—no matter how long you stared at him, he just didn’t look like a cop.
Guys like that lost their whole lives over $600, over principles and ideologies that have no basis in reality, no logic. Hunt didn’t understand that blind devotion…Hunt had arrested more than 5,000 fugitives in his 15 years as a deputy marshal. Yet he’d never fired his gun in the line of duty. He was world-weary and gruff, a guy who stooped and shambled along persistently and who could bring anyone in with enough reasoning and cajoling. His best weapon was his tenacity. He just wouldn’t give up. A big, gentle-looking guy, the other marshals saw him as the hardest ass in the service, simply because he wouldn’t give up.
When the local sheriff walked into the house to arrest the fugitive, Kahl shot him. A federal agent outside the house also fired, again hitting the sheriff, who, before he died, managed to squeeze off a shot that killed Kahl. Agents outside didn’t know Kahl was dead, and so they fired tear gas inside, blistered the house with gunfire and, finally, dumped fuel into the house and burned it to the ground.
But the deliberate, hangdog Hunt proceeded the way he always did in such cases, learning the fugitive’s habits, tracing his family, figuring out where his money came from, trying to get inside his head.
Marshals duty in North Idaho was considered the worst assignment in the country because of cases just like this, stubborn antigovernment types whose failure to appear became more serious than the actual crime they’d committed. There wasn’t a lot of personal stuff on Hunt’s desk, a few family pictures and a photograph behind him, a picture of the bloody car door of a law officer who had gotten too excited during an arrest and had accidentally shot himself in the leg. It was a good reminder to proceed cautiously and a warning of how badly things could go. NAPLES, IDAHO, LOOKED LIKE A TOWN that was in a constant state of evacuation. In March of 1991, it was essentially a dying railyard and lumber mill, a tattered school and a general store, all clinging to an old highway in a glacial valley—Down the road a piece, at the North Woods Tavern, where the occupation of every third customer was “handyman”—some guy looking for work on a road crew or a dairy or a Christmas tree farm, anything to pay the property taxes while they finished the corral and got the roof on the log cabin.
“Whether we live or whether we die, we will not obey your lawless government.” That apparently was a no.
He was very sociable. He seemed like the kind of guy who only wanted to hop in his pickup truck, drive to a buddy’s house, sit on his porch, and bitch about the government. More than anything, Randy seemed to want to be a preacher, to have a following of people who agreed with his views. He didn’t seem suited to isolation. They were overestimating his military training. Randy had never been in Vietnam, although he didn’t seem to mind people thinking he had been. And he was no explosives expert, just an army grunt with some Special Forces training. Hunt completely discounted the theory that Randy booby-trapped his mountain. He was lazy and quite possibly a coward. He hadn’t held a job for a long time, and even some of Randy’s relatives said he was “as lazy as they come.” Vicki, who had grown up on a farm, seemed better equipped for the privation and solitude of Ruby Ridge. But one thing about Randy bothered Hunt more than anything else: his cowardice, the fact that he didn’t hesitate to place his children right in the middle of this danger.
And Hunt knew that when someone thinks they’ve been ordered by God to do something, they’re going to do it.
Hunt wasn’t about to call in the cavalry until he had exhausted every peaceful, commonsense solution.
It was a morning as peaceful as any she’d ever seen.
The next day, the Weavers were listening to their radio when they heard a report that they’d fired guns at Rivera’s helicopter. “The only thing I shot them was the bird.” Randy laughed. The crew later admitted they were probably mistaken.
Hudson listened as his top deputies explained how an Idaho woodsman could hide behind his kids for fourteen months and evade deputy marshals who knew exactly where he was.
Mark Jurgensen was a deputy marshal from Washington State who could fit in with the people of North Idaho for several reasons: first, he had a great beard; second, he was an excellent carpenter who could pass as someone building his own cabin; and third, he had false teeth that he could pull out, making him look like a toothless mountain man.
Randy was such a social guy, he wouldn’t be able to resist a friendly, bearded, toothless guy hammering away just down the road.
And then several things happened in rapid, foggy succession—the dog moved toward Roderick, Degan rose on his knee to identify himself, and in a thicket of who-shot-first stories, both sides agreed that everything just went to hell.
“Sam’s dead.” And then, Randy would remember, the family just went “plumb nutty.”
Hunt told a couple of marshals that headquarters wanted the CRT to wait. “You tell ‘em to go to hell, Dave,” one of the retired marshals said.
in the sanitized vernacular of federal law enforcement—”stabilize the situation.”
it had been three years since an HRT sniper had even fired a shot on a mission.
all fifty HRT agents—were sent on a single mission.
He couldn’t believe it when a Red Cross truck drove right past the evacuated people and turned up the hill to provide food to the federal officers. The Red Cross was founded in his native Switzerland as a neutral aid organization. They weren’t supposed to take sides! Red Cross officials said when they tried to help the people at the roadblock, they were chased off with clubs and sticks.
while a cold mist soaked them like grocery store produce.
Johnny Bangerter, a 23 year-old skinhead who looked like an angry Curly from The Three Stooges and who was the second cousin of the governor of Utah.
The APCs moved up and down the ridge, running over the gunshot body of Striker—which no one had bothered to move—twenty-seven times.
You have nothing to worry about.” “Get the fuck out of here!” Lanceley sat up and smiled. In fourteen years as a negotiator, he’d never heard profanity that sounded so beautiful.
If they think we are going to trust them, (We didn’t trust them before they shot us) they’re crazy!
“PAGE TWO,” PAUL HARVEY SAID. And then he talked about the standoff in North Idaho, and he pleaded with Randy Weaver to give up. “You can negotiate an end to this standoff right now, and believe me, Randy, you’ll have a much better chance with a jury of understanding home folks than you could ever have in any kind of shoot-out with two hundred frustrated lawmen.” …For most of the three-minute plea on his national show, Harvey criticized the federal government. “I wonder, too, with all the crass criminals we have running around in this country, this focus on you certainly constitutes grotesque overkill and frankly, from an objective distance, it looks pretty silly.”
Jeane felt lost, crying in a clearing in the woods 1,500 miles from her home, holding hands with an FBI agent who explained that they had accidentally shot one of her babies.
“There’s a shotgun on that robot!” Bo looked out the window. “Yeah, there sure is.”
And once you gird yourself up to die, it can be difficult to back down from that decision.
Other people were sorry the standoff was dragging to a close because the protest was going so well.
thirty people got pretty drunk pretty fast.
one of the Las Vegas skinheads posing with a black reporter from Boston, their faces dissolved in laughter as they Nazi-saluted the camera.
news reporters needed to realize how important their job was. They had to find some meaning in what had happened, some explanation. A few of the reporters almost sobered up. “I hope you will be responsible in telling this story,” Lorenz said. “And I hope you find the truth.”
Rachel and her grandpa walked through the grocery store in Sandpoint, looking for snacks to take back to the motel. The ten-year-old only wanted chocolate doughnuts. After all she’d been through, He wasn’t going to say no. She hadn’t been away from the cabin, hadn’t been off the mountain, in eighteen months, and now she was in a crowded grocery store, a blur of strangers and strange-looking people who were pushing carts with gallons of milk, loaves of bread, batteries, cookies, and frozen foods. She clung to her grandpa and whispered, “I sure wish I had my gun.”
a couple of the nicer skinheads
In October, two months after the standoff, Lorenz was so troubled that Wasiliki took him to visit friends at a nearby lake. And there he just snapped. He ran down the rural road, hiding in the bushes while his wife and friends looked for him. Then, the peaceful chef ran up to a house and dove through a picture window into a stranger’s living room, stood up, and began strangling a woman in the house, screaming that they were coming to get him. The woman’s husband hit Lorenz on the head with a baseball bat, and he collapsed. When he woke up, he ran away again and hid in a field until the police finally found him, curled up and whimpering.
At the airport, he screamed and cried and wouldn’t get on the plane. His friend decided to drive Lorenz back to northern Idaho, but a half-hour from the border, Lorenz begged his friend to stop. He grabbed his Bible and stepped out of the pickup onto the side of the road. A cattle truck was barreling down the highway, and Lorenz walked in front of it and was killed.
they began to see troubling questions: What were six marshals doing in the woods that day? Why would they shoot the dog during a gunfight? Why did they shoot Sammy in the back, when he was running away? Why did they need so many agents to settle the standoff?
They reasoned that an expert sniper couldn’t miss twice
Like most PDs’ offices, Boise’s was horribly understaffed; at any given time, 150 cases crossed Nevin’s desk, with time to prepare only five of them. It was straight triage, like bringing one ambulance to the scene of a fifty-car accident every day.
His head was shaved, he was pale and weak-looking, shackled, wearing an orange jail jumpsuit and orange thongs. Spence had expected a wild-eyed, charismatic kook, and what he was seeing was just a tired, little man. But he also sensed that he was listening to someone who was telling the truth.
“I have authorized Mr. Spence to undertake my defense understanding that he and I see eye to eye on very few political and religious issues. As a matter of fact, we are poles apart in our beliefs. But one thing he and I agree on, and that is people ought not to be murdered by their own government.”
He graduated high school at a time when it was still possible to go off to sea for adventure, and Spence had a fine time as a merchant marine. He drank rum, smoked cigars, visited whorehouses. But he refused to pay union dues, and the other merchant marines tossed him overboard and emptied a garbage chute on him. He eventually quit, moved back to Wyoming, was married, and got into law school, but his mom didn’t approve of his gambling or his godlessness, and they argued almost as much as Gerry and his wife did. During his first year of law school, Spence’s mother committed suicide.
at 24, Gerry Spence became the youngest county attorney in the state. He was a buzz saw. He shut down the Little Yellow House brothel in Riverton, revoked liquor licenses, and even prosecuted himself for shooting ducks outside of shooting hours.
a perfect mix of brilliance and self-promotion
“To think that three people are dead over a missed court date seems incredibly wrong and sad.”
This is a case, simply put, that charges Randy and Kevin with crimes they didn’t commit in order to cover up crimes the government did commit.”
But most juries know their job is to decide whose story contains less bullshit.
Striker became Old Striker and in coming days, That Big Ol’ Yella Lab, and finally, Old Yeller, Who Never in the History of the World Bit Anybody.
The jury seemed genuinely sorry for the sad, loping deputy marshal.
He said Randy told him he didn’t like the German kind of Nazis, but that they had some pretty good ideas.
Juries didn’t want to see some smooth lawyer, he reasoned; they wanted to see themselves.
She was attractive and smart, and most of all, she was telling the truth.
and she wore honorably and sadly the pain her family had been put through.
They could never put her on the stand. She was just too damn honest.
“You heard a woman screaming after your last shot?” Spence asked. “Yes, sir, I did.” “That screaming went on for thirty seconds?” “About thirty seconds, yes, sir.” “I want us to just take thirty seconds, now pretend in our mind’s eye that we can hear the screaming—” Spence was quiet and whether or not they wanted to, everyone in the courtroom watched the plodding second hand on the wall clock straight across…the jury was as close as it would get to the horror of Rachel and Sara Weaver, who screamed and screamed until they were out of breath while their mother lay dead on the kitchen floor.
walking past a violently bored pack of television and newspaper reporters, who—at one point—challenged some loitering skinheads to a game of football.
THEY WERE LOSING IT. The jury had already spent more time sequestered than Randy Weaver and Kevin Harris had spent under siege on Ruby Ridge. And now, the judge was telling them to start over. Some of the jurors were beaten.
“While I respect her love of country,” he said, “we should not let patriotic fervor stand in the way of the truth.
The Founding Fathers of our nation wrote the Constitution and Bill of Rights with the idea that the citizens would be sensible enough to recognize the excesses of too much government power and gave us the tools so we could change or even abolish our form of government.”
He faced two stubborn coalitions that had moved from honest disagreement into angry dislike after weeks of debate, emotional outbreaks, and recriminations.
Sometimes, Jack Weaver wished they could ignore the precise jury instructions and use common sense to deal with Randy Weaver. “If I could have convicted him of gross stupidity, I would have,” he wrote in the diary he kept during the trial.
Seemingly shy and easily intimidated, the housewife wouldn’t budge. “I don’t want to send the message that it’s okay to shoot U.S. marshals,”
He said the case wasn’t over. “There is a dead mother who died with a baby in her arms. There is a little boy, four feet, eleven inches tall, who died with a bullet in his back. Who is going to be responsible for these deaths?”
After four years of investigation, at a cost of several million dollars, the U.S. government managed to convict Randy Weaver of failing to appear in court.
Such reluctance had a name among federal agents. They called it Weaver Fever.
He claimed to have “inserted myself in the breech more than 23 times between embattled Americans and government … which has continued a swift descent into chaos and anarchy.” By the late 1990s, after an apparent slowdown in the “chaos and anarchy” business, Gritz found himself mired in marital and financial problems. In September 1998, Gritz’s wife of 24 years filed for divorce. A few days later a passing motorist near Orofino, Idaho, found Gritz sitting next to his pickup truck, shot in the chest with his own .45-caliber handgun.
“Someday,” he said, “I hope that all of you will get the opportunity to walk out the front door with somebody who’s been charged with murder but isn’t guilty.” The law students leaped up and began clapping. David Nevin started crying.
“I just wanted to be left alone.”
A few months after the hearings, the deputy marshals assigned to the Weaver case were given the service’s highest honor.
In December 1995, the Senate Judiciary Committee’s Subcommittee: This country can tolerate mistakes made by people like Randy Weaver; but we cannot accept serious errors made by federal law enforcement agencies that needlessly result in human tragedy.” And that was it.
Amazingly, they found almost 40 pieces of evidence, many of which two crack teams of FBI agents had somehow missed when they searched the hillside in 1992 and again in 1993. Among the items that Sprungl noted were bullets and shell casings
Kahoe would remain the only agent charged. After five years and tens of millions of dollars, the federal investigation was over.
IN AUGUST 1995, the government settled the civil lawsuit filed by the Weaver family, paying them $3.1 million to compensate for the loss of Vicki and Sam Weaver. As part of the settlement, the Weavers dropped their claim and the government refused to acknowledge any wrongdoing.
“We didn’t hate anyone,” Randy wrote in the book. “We wanted to be left alone.”
It was the story of more accountability for agencies steeped in cold war secrecy and institutional arrogance.