The Sovereign and Luckey

Angela Baxley Glass, two months before trying to stop to see her momma in Statesville… singing too loud, and with tail lights off…

“How long, Strong God, Holy and True? How long before you step in and avenge our murders?” Then each martyr was given a white robe and told to sit back and wait until the full number of martyrs was filled from among their servant companions and friends in the faith. — Revelation 6:10-11

In the strange world of my life, I became friends with Officer “Cheeky” who arrested me before he was finished processing me. He knew nothing of what would happen after I was placed in the hands of the Iredell Sheriff’s department jail, and I hope he forgives how our relationship began instead of carrying a burden from it with him. He pulled me over because my music was too loud (noise ordinance; I was practicing my singing, I guess I need to keep practicing!) and for my tail lights be “out” (actually just not turned on, thanks to a design flaw in the VW Jetta).

I knew nothing about who the “Sovereign” people were, but Cheeky had them in mind when he pulled me over, as the first thing I said was my husband could find my license, and I don’t know who the car is registered to. It’s amazing what happens when people have pre-conceived notions, power and authority.

Iredell County Jail Internal Corruption: When someone deliberately chooses to violate the law, they will be scrutinized by the same standard and legalities as anyone else. It won’t matter who they are related to, who they are friends with or how many votes their connections resulted in. Officers need to abide by the same laws that they enforce, there are no exceptions. — Mark Nicholson for 2014

Cheeky immediately pegged me as one of these people, hence his threat to take me to jail.

 

Having already dealt with law enforcement across multiple states—Seattle, La Jolla, California, and now this—who are threatening and abusive, I’ve learned the best is try to submit and get through it, despite the absurdities of each situation.

He threatened to take me handcuff me and to jail, and I complied. I turned and put my hand behind my back and he snapped the cuffs on. I asked him to be careful for the left wrist — they damaged the nerves on that one last time, and it affects playing the violin.

Sgt. Gibson, on the scene.

Sgt. Gibson, on the scene.

Cheeky wasn’t happy because he wanted more, so then he searched the car—is that legal?!—and a woman came to pat me down after he asked what’s in my pocket (wearing my Cambria sweatshirt) and I said simply it’s (my medical) marijuana. He hesitated there. I think in that moment he knew that he’d gone down a path he didn’t want to. He’s a good guy this one, but it’s a hard thing to stay a good guy and be a cop.

Oh, and let’s not forget that twice they ripped my sweatshirt yanking me around by the neck and such. I told Sargent Gibson he owed me a new one as it was my ‘honeymoon’ gift to myself. Let’s see if he knows how serious I am. He seemed to have a good sense of humor. I mean, it’s easy to be relaxed and easy going when you have the power and authority.

Magistrates Order

“unlawfully and willfully did HAVE MUSIC AT UNNECESSARY LEVEL TO WHERE I COULD CLEARLY HEAR THE MUSIC FROM INSIDE OF THE DEFENDANT’S VEHILCE FROM ACROOS THE INTERSECTION OF BROAD ST AND TRADD ST”

Note the CAPS LOCK on the arrest report which emphasizes the proper order of events… He was upset because I couldn’t produce ID fast enough (it was in the car, my husband located it later — all I needed was a moment to figure out where my backpack and purse were) and thought I was one of these “sovereign citizens” and went from pulling me over as a “show” for the ride-along woman for a “warning” to threatening me to take me to jail (absurd, there was no premise or need, though I submitted to his will immediately) and then him adding the additional charge for “weed”.

Guess he lost my SPARC packaging (see report)? We’ll see in court.

I am creating this page for him — he was humorous and interested. He said he likes to learn. So do I. So I am not what he thought I was, but now I’m curious to learn more too.

Hi Cheeky! Darryl said you called already — I’m at home and hoping to rest, the story of what they did to me shall follow, for you. It warmed my heart to know you called, I’m proud of you for being you!

So first, what was it that he had in mind? What kind of person did he think I was and thus framed our interaction around that assumption?

Sovereign

Sovereign citizens believe that the “illegitimate government,” largely through the 14th Amendment, enslaved all Americans by creating a special class of citizenship, “citizens of the United States,” members of which would have no rights—only whatever privileges the government deigned to grant them. The government tricked Americans into becoming “citizens of the United States” by offering them privileges, such as driver’s licenses and Social Security, which were actually hidden contracts with the government through which Americans unknowingly gave away their sovereignty.

Sovereign citizens believe that Americans can tear up these so-called contracts, regain their sovereignty and become immune to the “illegitimate” government, which they claim has no jurisdiction over them.

Arriving at the jail house I asked him how long he might think it would take?

My husband, Darryl, and I had just finished volunteering for five days in New York City for an organization called Feast on Good (@feastongood). We had wanted to drive up on Sunday but found that we were too tired. So we chose to rest that night at home, and then leave the next day. While I would have wanted to leave by 10am, my husband is the opposite of my type and lingers in most things he does. We left late to begin the 10.5 hour trip to NYC where we’d be staying with my best friend @Eris.

We arrive at 1:30am and go to sleep immediately. We were disappointed because while volunteer check-in at the Feast wasn’t until 10 the next morning, the car would have to be moved at 8am. Darryl awoke and started circling while I quickly showered and ran down to meet him and trade places, so he could shower then. He got out of the car, and I took the drivers seat, and I got situated in the car — you know, having to adjust the seat to my height, get buckled and check the visor (habit). I pulled the visor down, and strangely saw as I did so a cop back-in in front of me blocking me in. I rolled my eyes, and thought he was going to approach me and ask … but nope, he immediately goes to the plate and starts writing a ticket.

The Jerusalem Bible (1966)

The Jerusalem Bible

I was trapped into a parking ticket in the duration it took to take drivers seat of the car. He didn’t care, until I started bawling and explained that I have no money, no job, and am here volunteering. I think it was the prominent copy of The Jerusalem Bible (1966) in the back window that made him falter. He said the typical “I’ve already started it…” and I wailed because of course he had — he had trapped me in so I could not move.

I waited for the ticket as I openly cried. Defeated. We barely had enough money to drive to New York, now a ticket. My husband would never believe that it happened so fast, and I can’t believe we had worked so hard to abide by law just to be entrapped as law breakers.

He said I could write in on the back and explain and it might be waived. So I will print this portion of the story and tell the truth — he trapped me.

Oh, the engine was running the whole time, but that doesn’t really matter, because it was a no standing space. We weren’t standing, we were trading places. Now I wonder if the law rejects that as well? If so, how could I even pick up a guest? It was in a hotel zone at south of Central Park. Oh well, that’s just curiosity for me of law and process.

The cop told me since I now had a ticket I could stay as long as I wanted. I turned the engine off, its not like I could even move until he moved his car anyway. I stayed. I cried and waited for Darryl. I pulled myself together not wanting to bring my sadness and moment of despair into my husband’s morning nor to the Feast! (The ticket is $115 fine.)

Over the course of the next four days Darryl and I make fast friends with the rest of the volunteers at Feast on Good. I have never been so impressed by a collection of people. Everyone was so eager, willing, and hard working. Collaborative and organized. We hauled furniture in, packed in and packed out boxes and boxes of all the conference supplies. Hauling stacks of chairs from one space to another bundles under each arm. Stuffing swag bags in assembly line fashion. Stuffing dossiers reminding me of my first days in an office. As with any volunteer group pizza was the order of the day, and night. 🙂 I nibbled here and there as my tummy had become a bit picky from living in California and I was holding out for us to enjoy New York and have dinner together later… but later was always too late. We slinked home at 11pm only to have to return by 6:30am the next morning. And in between was my only time with @Eris.

The last day I was utterly ashamed, though I did my best to mask it. I didn’t sleep at all—I had hoped to wash our volunteer t-shirts in the sink and have them dry, hoping that the three hour of ‘sleep time’ we had would suffice for drying. There was no cold water. It was just scalding hot water. We couldn’t shower, and frankly I couldn’t wear my shirt again. My Tom’s had given out in the course of the day and there was no retribution to be had.

PRO TIP: I learned from a seasoned event woman that she uses Mitchum’s men’s deodorant for the days before and during an event, before returning to natural deodorant.

So I dressed in my red jeans and wore my vintage Ralph Lauren ruffle shirt — reminiscent of the “pirate shirt” of Seinfeld — and topped my nasty unwashed head with a Goorin Brother’s cloche hat. I put on my best smile, and thought — “You’re never fully dressed, without a smile!”

We leave the event early. I was helping with research, but there wasn’t much more I could do and Darryl had no specific assignment to be concerned with. We were both worried about making it home in time, given our exhaustion and need for rest, before his daughter’s launch event the next afternoon.

We left and drove as-is. Icky. The Feast finished without us. Our thoughts were with our friends as they dined among the beautiful and intelligent people we had met, those who had come together for change in this world. I thought of the kindness of the Rockefeller’s and the MacArthur’s. I reflected on the meaning of ‘chobani’ given my families association with The Watchtower and of “the faithful and discreet slave” as faithful shepherds feeding the flock.

Darryl couldn’t go on. We were only two hours out of the city, but as Jill had warned, we had hit traffic.

I suggested we stop in Bethlehem, and we stayed at the Holiday Inn in Allentown. I had no priority but to shower. He went for food and I stayed in the room. My b’loved brought me back a smuggled glass of red wine, along with a wrap (knowing I’m most fond of Mediterranean).

The next morning I awoke to him moving slow and packing. It was strange to see because I sensed no sense of urgency. What I didn’t know is that he hadn’t set an alarm and thus had “overslept” to what duration I didn’t know. I wasn’t in charge of the schedule and knew not how far we had to go. I figured he had that handled as that’s what we normally do. I need less time to ready in the morning than he, so I get up after him treasuring my few extra minutes of sleep.

We were not going to make it to Charlotte for Melissa.

I drove, and decided to take the long way home. Darryl, still exhausted, rode in the backseat. I did my best to cheer his devastated spirit. It was a beautiful but lonely drive. We both wanted to be somewhere else. We wanted to be with Melissa, our busy bee.

I’m not a Sovereign citizen the way the officer thought. I don’t know of those people. I do have many names, all legally documented and given to me.

  1. Born: Angela Marie Niblick
  2. Adopted: Angela Marie Baxley
  3. Married: Angela Marie Benson
  4. Changed Name: Angela Marie Baxley
  5. Married: Angela Marie Niblick Baxley Glass

I don’t believe in the human governments and nor do I participate in their politics.

“We must obey God as ruler rather than men.” — see Baxley vs. United States

FBI Arrests Third Baxley Here in Draft Violation Cases, The Charleston News and Courier, May 22, 1943

FBI Arrests Third Baxley Here in Draft Violation Cases, The Charleston News and Courier, May 22, 1943

I am in one accord with God’s word:

“Let every soul be in subjection to the superior authorities, for there is no authority except by God; the existing authorities stand placed in their relative positions by God.” –Romans 13:1

As far as who I am, and what sovereignty I belong to; I am a child of God, and Christian:

Though it is impossible for the natural man to see our organization, because he cannot understand the things of the Spirit of God, we trust that you can see that the true congregation is most effectually organized, and in the best possible working order.

“But the natural, nonspiritual man does not accept  or  welcome  or  admit into his heart the gifts  and  teachings  and  revelations of the Spirit of God, for they are folly (meaningless nonsense) to him; and he is incapable of knowing them [of progressively recognizing, understanding, and becoming better acquainted with them] because they are spiritually discerned  and  estimated  and  appreciated.”—1 Corinthians 2:14

The Apostle Paul urges all to unity of faith and purpose. (Phil. 3:15,16, Diaglott)

All led by the same Spirit may and do come to a knowledge of the same truth.

Under our Captain, all the truly sanctified, however few or far separated in person, are closely united by the Spirit of Christ, in faith, hope and love; and, in following the Master’s command, are moving in solid battalions for the accomplishment of his purposes.

Bear in mind, God is not dependent upon numbers (See Judges 7, as an illustration).

Recognizing this organization, which is of the Spirit, and desiring no assimilation whatever with the worldly, who cannot see or understand it, we are quite willing to bear the reproach of a peculiar people.

We always refuse to be called by any other name than that of our Head–Christians–continually claiming that there can be no division among those continually led by his Spirit and example as made known through his Word.

— Zion’s Watch Tower, March 1883

Iredell County Sheriff, known for internal corruption.

Cheeky left me at the jailhouse when he was done checking me in.

Iredell County Jail

Charles Luckey, Fletcher, Adams, (Hance, Campbell — these were nice women), et al.

By the time he was done there was no hope of bail that night I was told, and at best maybe at 6am, although they laughed at me and said ‘good luck’ getting a judge on Sunday. I came in and there was a chair which looked just like the electric chair sitting in the middle of the entrance.

Detention Chair… why? I got a concussion, thanks to Charles Luckey.

I was strapped in, and Officer Luckey was brutal. He pulled the wrist band so tight on my right hand that it was bulging and red. They ignored my requests to ease the pressure,… that is until I pointed out that my thumb was turning BLACK. The male nurse was standing by observing but obviously not going to get into the space of the authority of these smurfs. When putting me in, Luckey said “put your head back” and I was dazed wondering what he meant as I was already strapped into the chair and my head was already back—he slammed my skull further back into the chair, and I felt woozy. I have a concussion and now have to figure out how to get that documented properly. It’s so sore that I cannot rest my head, and from the strained muscle the pain is down through the left side of my neck, shoulder and back.

My head was also hit when they threw me down onto the wooden bench, accidentally I’m sure, but there was no need for such force. Was all this because Cheeky told them that I was “a sovereign”? At the time I had no idea, but tried to keep my panic down by singing and being as joyfully me as I could—I mean, the absurdity of the situation was unbelievable.

Remember, I was brought in for singing (noise ordinance) and having no tail lights*…

I was taken to change into the gray and purple striped jailbird jump suit.

First I had to be searched again. There was an older and a younger woman. The older woman was a beautiful ‘elderly’ woman with died auburn hair to cover what would have been beautiful silver hair, and the younger was the ‘bad ass’ been on the force for 10 years and tattooed kind. The older woman said to put my back to the wall, and the younger said to put my face to the wall. I hesitated and I was being yelled at by both women, and Luckey who was standing just outside the restroom. I stopped, stood firm and yelled myself: “I cannot obey two conflicting orders at once. Which is it? Who is the authority here?” I was thrown face first the wall, and the poor ‘grandma’s’ face to realize that she had caused this. She mouthed and pointed with her eyes to the other woman—she is the authority.

Officer Luckey was the worst. I was stripped of my clothes, showered and then left bleeding wearing just a jump suit. After singing (mostly Patsy Cline songs) in the beautiful acoustics of the isolation cell I was placed in, #145, they moved me from isolation into a windowed tiny square room looking into ‘the pit’ while they worked. It was there that I had a gush of blood release from inside me—trust me, I was trying to maintain feminine dignity as much as possible up to that point—and drain running down my leg. I had had it. I opened the jumper and pulled it down to wipe away the fluids, and to clean up the mess.

Lady Godiva by John Collier: a woman’s body is not shameful.

Now I am naked in an open sight room, and angry. If you know me, you know that once I’ve had it, I’ve simply had it. I start bouncing up and down saying, “hey everybody, there’s a naked woman over here”.

I simply could not believe that a menstruating woman would be left with no means of protecting herself and those who would be in contact with her. My blood was smeared on the window (from my hand) and I was disgusted beyond belief (this is all recorded by the jail security cameras and can be witnessed if they will give up the footage which condemns them for public view).

They open the door and it’s wide open with no one in view.

I am told to walk out.

I do with all the calmness and dignity that I can muster.

Joan of Arc, “La Poucelle”

In preparation for her journey, Joan cut her hair and donned men’s clothes—partly as a disguise and partly to hide her body from the desiring gaze of her fellow soldiers. Thus armored, she swore herself to virginity for as long as her crusade should last, and dubbed herself “La Poucelle” (The Maiden).

She arrived at Chinon in March 1429. She walked directly up to Charles and addressed him boldly: “Most illustrious Dauphin, I have come and am sent in the name of God to bring aid to yourself and to the kingdom.” She demonstrated her link with the divine in several ways, including repeating the words of a prayer that he had said mentally. Now convinced that this girl possessed divine inspiration, Charles still felt it necessary to subject her to a rigorous examination by priests to prove her adherence to established doctrine. Joan aced the examination.

Joan was taken to prison, where she would await trial. Since she was going to be tried in an ecclesiastical court, Joan should have been held in a church prison, guarded by women. Instead, she was shackled in leg irons and thrown in a military prison, surrounded by hostile men. Joan insisted on keeping her men’s clothes, in part to demonstrate loyalty to the voices of “God and the angels” above obedience to worldly authorities, and in part because in this attire she felt less vulnerable to sexual assault by male guards. This insistence on cross-dressing led to her eventual demise. Her trial began on January 9, 1431, and was engineered by Pierre Cauchon, a toady of the Anglo-Burgundians. With a jury of corrupt clergy and a trial paid for by the English government, officials sought to discredit Joan with an accusation of heresy.

On May 24, after a long, grueling trial, Joan was threatened with summary execution. Sick and terrified, she relented and signed a “confession”—and also agreed to wear a dress. But the devious Cauchon had manufactured a trap. After suffering several rape attempts by her guards as well as by a lord, Joan was stripped of her dress and given back her forbidden men’s clothes. She was forced to either remain naked or recommit the crime of wearing men’s clothing. She chose the latter and was convicted of being a “relapsed heretic.”

She was sentenced to death by burning. On May 30, 1431, Joan of Arc was executed in the square at Rouen. Eyewitnesses say she listened quietly to a sermon. Then, weeping, she asked forgiveness for her accusers. Most of the judges and a few of the English soldiers and officials were sobbing by the end of her speech. Still, they tied her to a pillar in the center of a woodpile and lit a fire beneath her. A Dominican monk held up a crucifix for her to look at as the flames engulfed her. She screamed the name of Jesus several times before her head dropped to her chest.

Joan was 19 years old when she died. It wasn’t until about two decades later that the English were finally driven out of Rouen and an appeals trial was conducted on Joan’s behalf. The court ruled that she had been convicted illegally by a corrupt court. She was exonerated and described as a martyr. And five centuries later, on May 16, 1920, she was canonized as a saint by the Roman Catholic Church. From peasant girl to Catholic saint, Joan’s short yet extraordinary life continues to inspire generations of women to fight for their beliefs, and reminds the world that one person—even a peasant girl—can change the course of history. — Women of Action Network

I am suddenly surrounded by people and I see Luckey coming at me in the chaos, seething anger, as he wields a black canister with gold and red of pepper spray in his hand—snarling he thrust through the others and puts it three inches before my eyes spraying madly. Closing my eyes and covering my face, naked, I fall to my knees and prostrate myself in the corner next to the bench, begging for mercy and clothes. The two women who were on staff helped me away as I could not breath nor function. My throat closed and I could not stand straight, nor see. It was the same pair who had searched me earlier prior to having me strip. Amazing what ill-conceived pre-conceived notions will do to a girl’s reputation and experience! To think how peaceably I’d offered my wrists to captivity at the whim of a cop who was bored on a ride-along night and just needed someone to pull over… and now here I am. I was told to shower and the shower was worse than the pepper spray, and I still could not see nor breath.

“The strength of police-issued pepper spray is stronger than what you can get as a civilian,” Kaminski said. “Foggers have particles that are fine. When you inhale, they will get into the lungs and irritate them [and] cause coughing. Streamers can still impact the lungs, but to a less significant degree.” According to a fact sheet from Vandenberg Air Force Base, pepper spray “causes instant pain and closing of the eyes caused by swelling of the eyelids.” If inhaled, the spray causes “swelling inside of the nose, mouth, sinuses and other mucus membranes.” Although the spray’s strength depends on the manufacturer, the Scientific American said that on the Scoville scale, which measures a pepper’s heat, pepper spray ranked hotter than the cayenne and the habanero. — What to Do If You Get Pepper Sprayed, ABC News Medical Unit

“Hot water will open pores in the skin and increase the reaction.” There was no cool water, and the shower was excruciatingly painful. I was being hurried and shushed by the women who wanted to contain me so as not to provoke further anger from the hostile men outside. I groped and struggled to compile with their instructions. Finally being able to open my eyes about the same moment the pepper water started searing my vagina. I had red blotches of burned skin in patches around my body marking the path of the stream down my flesh. I didn’t know then that the water was part of the problem, only later when I got home. I had to shower again later as the pepper remained in my hair and my incessant pleas for help were finally acknowledged as being likely valid and not just what I assume they believed to be ‘attention seeking’. My ear was in so much pain from having no relief from the spray. I wept and gasped trying to breath through the tiny opening my  throat. I was searing hot and shivering cold at the same time. I was already in shock from the stress of the strange event prior to this, now I was fighting to keep my body from going under, to maintain control and — for some reason, I kept thinking about — dignity. I was put in a strange wrap which looked like a moving pad turned into a straight jacket. The ladies fashioned underwear for me out of a massive brown pair of granny panties. They had to knot both sides to made them work, you’ll see in the photo below a comparison of my size to what I was given to wear, yet I was grateful.

My family was given conflicting information which kept me detained. My husband reports he was told to go home, because he waited outside but they said that he couldn’t do anything until 6am. Apparently that’s a lie. I could have been bailed out immediately. Dejected, and without recourse, he went home and after arriving an hour later he receives a call from Cheeky. Cheeky tells him that I could be released as soon as he has bail. Exhausted my husband sleeps. He knows not of what is happening to me. I have no communication to know anything at all of the outside. I just know that my family doesn’t have $5,000 to bail me out, and that Sunday isn’t an easy day to address justice.

I begged for my ‘one phone call’, and was left waiting for hours.

They had marked me as a ‘psychiatric’ case and I am denied use of utensils to eat, “finger food” it was marked. However “finger food” just means no utensils and every item was a mess. Sauce, beans in sauce, apple sauce, peas, carrots, etc. I received breakfast and I honestly couldn’t eat because of the pepper spray reaction having closed my throat. I was so hungry and weak, but there was nothing I could do. The next meal came at lunch and wasn’t on a tray—I guess the tray was a mistake for ‘psycho’ me, and this time it’s in a take out box. As I’m handed the box it splits under its weight and the meat, something of a gray patty of beef-ish looking stuff tumbles to the floor where it takes up residence next to the wafting piles of pubic hair which have been drifting about the floor like tumbleweed. I was told there are no replacements. That’s that. I do my best to eat the rice and the carrots that I have using the cap from the small styrofoam cup of liquid they gave me. When he came back to get the tray that guy was nice and commented on the cleverness, and wondered aloud why they would serve such food for ‘finger food’. The last meal I got I finally was able to have protein and it was another strange color patty, something like sausage, between two pieces of warm soft white bread. Honestly, I was so grateful I cried. I had been struggling with my blood sugar all day, not having had a normal diet even prior to arriving in this hellish nightmare. I could identify anything else on the plate and left it.

I was denied medical treatment — I told them I was having problems breathing, that I had medication specifically for breathing (which they had confiscated) and that I was having an allergic reaction to the pepper spray which may or may not have affect the heart rate / blood pressure issues. This is on top of the pepper spray going into my eye with an popped blood vessel. I asked multiple times in the last six hours to have my blood pressure checked but no one ever came again. I asked for appropriate food to manage my blood sugar, and was given blank looks each time. Apparently they’ve not heard of “diabetes” (Patterson).

Through out the 20-24 hours of the ordeal my skin was searing in pain from the pepper spray. Shock rolled through my body in waves, the waves eventually getting further apart and the pepper dissipating a bit. I felt so bad for the ladies who were caught in the spray with me, and for their discomfort. The pain would get so bad I couldn’t sleep. The lights never went out, and there was ruckus at all times. I tried to keep quiet, but found myself howling and begged for assistance again. That was the next shower. That one was worse than the first. I gave up. I went back to my cell with wet hair and continued to freeze. You might as well imagine that I was wearing a furniture wrapping (for moving) as a dress. Nothing to cover my legs nor feet, nor my wet head. No sheets, no blanket. I was told if I was “good” then I might be given a blanket that night at 10:30pm. I prayed that I would not be there to find out. Oh, and I forgot, Luckey threatened that I couldn’t even have a shower. That man should not be on the force, and I imagine he’s abusive to others, if not his wife, as well. He treated me like a petulant child, and had had the audacity to tell me that I could “trust him” on first encountering each other. I looked him in the eyes and had believed him. Because I believed him, and because he proved himself to be the worst of the aggressors, I am here writing out this story.

Hance, the woman I came to be comforted by, came to get me and I tried not to be hopeful. I knew that “he” was close so she wasn’t speaking. She ordered me through the door where Luckey stood, and I told her “you know that you will have to guide me past that man”. There was no way I was going to walk through that door with him standing aside it, it felt a trap. She was kind and kept her hand to my back, something I had told her earlier gave me a feeling of security and comfort. There was my husband and mother. They could get me bail in five hours—my parents were putting their house up for it—or I could see the judge the next morning. I chose the judge. Again, I was persuaded to be released as soon as possible. I wonder if that judge could have simply dropped all charges and done something—I was willing to wait. I told them they could choose either, I wouldn’t know until it happened. I was told I had to go, and I finished by telling them of all the abuse at the hands of Luckey. I was told I was not allowed to show them the marks on my skin, having been caught on camera starting to lift the absurd wrap up. Those burns are not visible anymore.

My husband will document the bruises tonight. I went back to my cell, finally having hope. I had no idea what was going on in the outside world, and there is no concept of time when the lights never change and there is no clock. I knew that it was either 12 hours or as little as 5. My hands and feet continued in searing pain, my vagina had found relief, and I tried to sleep. When Hance came to walk me out I felt happy and smiled. I told them all goodbye, and Luckey smirked thinking he was off the hook, I guess. He said have a lucky day, and I turned back to him. “I don’t believe in luck. It’s for the godless. I don’t need it. I am blessed. — Good luck, Luckey.”

The irony of the situation is that I walk out barefoot. Officer Cheek was to bring my shoes on arresting me, I asked for the pair of leather Lucky’s. He forgot though he promised. That’s when I started getting “cheeky” with him, and making friends… I didn’t need luck anymore than I needed those shoes. I hope that we will have access to all the recordings — there was a ‘family video’ that E. Cheek referred to, besides all the video of their brutality in the jail. I don’t mind the whole world seeing my naked body — I want you to see the truth. I wasn’t treated like a human, every answer I gave was treated as lie. My blood pressure was erratic and crazed, yet the female nurse continued to just simply believe that I was on ‘some kind of pills’. Her face read fear and to say she was concerned for my health would be an understatement. Yet, I could not get medical attention. The hospital that checked me out should never have let me go. They missed the exploded blood vessel, but noted the extremely high blood pressure and let it go anyway sending me back to abuse I’d never imagine.

I’ll never sing a-loud again. 😉

* Later he adds marijuana and drug paraphernalia (he had mistook my vaporizer for breathing as drug paraphernalia and never corrected the information, nor did he properly record the properly and clearly labeled SPARC packaging instead treating it as I had just ‘any’ marijuana, nor mentions that it was packed with lavender).

for the Republic Report

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