Police State: How America's Cops Get Away with Murder
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We all want to feel safe. But safe from what, and from whom?
In his 60-plus years as a trial lawyer, Gerry Spence has never represented a person accused of a crime in which the police hadn't themselves violated the law. Whether by covering up their own corrupt dealings, by the falsification or manufacture of evidence, or by the outright murder of innocent civilians, those individuals charged with upholding the law too often break it, in ways more scandalous than the courts have dared admit. The police and prosecutors won't charge or convict themselves, and so the crimes of the criminal justice system are swept under the rug. Nothing changes.
Too many police officers are killers on the loose, and every uninformed American is a potential next victim. Police culture is mired in the dead weight of precedent and ruled by trigger-happy tyrants. Power will march our nation over the police state precipice unless We the People take action.
The FBI's massacre of the Weaver family at Ruby Ridge; the killing of mortally wounded Fouad Kaady by a group of police officers; the torture of teenaged Dennis Williams by cops seeking a murder confession - again and again, the question arises: When the very men and women we pay to protect us instead persecute us, how can we be safe? In Police State, Spence issues a stinging indictment of the American justice system and puts forth a plan to restore liberty and justice for all.
their home to the State Training School on the outskirts of Lander. He couldn’t find Beverly, so he called the cops, who eventually found her bloody body stuffed under the staircase. When a wife is murdered, the cops look first at the husband. Did he have a motive? Did he have the opportunity? Answer both in the affirmative and you’ve got yourself a bona fide suspect, one a jury will convict with a little creativity from the cops and prosecutors. But Sheriff C. A. “Peewee” McDougall wasn’t
right?” (During the recess I had asked Lindquist for the chart, and he said he no longer had it.) Lindquist replied, “I have it.” “May I have it, please?” I asked him. “I’m going to use it when I rebut this, as you well know.” “I have a right to see the chart, and I would like to have you bring it up here so that I can answer it.” Judge Lodge settled the matter. “The chart should be produced, but you shouldn’t write on it. It is Mr. Lindquist’s product.” Lindquist produced the chart, the
that Mr. Mayfield is not even entitled to know the extent to which his privacy has been invaded.” Our team’s Michele Longo Eder was a natural-born ferret and, more than Rosenthal or I, was responsible for the facts we gathered. I remember finding her on her hands and knees facing a mammoth pile of articles spread out on the floor of her office. She missed nothing printed or hinted. She attended a national investigators’ conference where the supervisor of the FBI’s fingerprint experts was giving
His name was Ferdinand Marcos. He fell in love with her, and eleven days later they were married. He bought her a seven-karat diamond ring worth a big chunk of change. Fifteen thousand people were invited, and most came to the wedding. She and Ferdinand took a world tour for an entire year as their honeymoon.” I said to the jury, “I tell you this for one reason. You never heard in the prosecution’s presentation of the case a simple but crucial fact—prior to the time that Mr. Marcos became the
questions,” said the woman with the gun. The man with his 9 mm on Randy hollered, “Get on your belly, Weaver. You’re under arrest.” “I ain’t gonna get on my belly in this slush,” Randy said. Then from above the road came a heavy voice. “Get on your belly, Weaver, or I’ll cut off your legs.” A man was crouched on the overhanging cliff. He was wearing white camouflaged overwear with a white hood that blended in with the snow. He manned a machine gun sitting on a pivot. By this time three more