The Rise and Fall of the Montana Freemen

7/31/2019 The Rise and Fall of the Montana Freemen

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Last Modified May 6, 1996.

Copyright May 1996 by Mark Pitcavage. No duplication or commercial use of this documentmay be made without the express consent of the author.

Introduction: In terms of America's ongoing struggle against antigovernment extremists, onlythe Oklahoma City bombing of April 19, 1995 has surpassed the saga of the militants of "JustusTownship" in remote eastern Montana in terms of media coverage. In terms of actual importance,what the Montana Freemen have done--and what similar groups across the country continue todo--may well eclipse a solitary act of terrorism by a few angry individuals. For the MontanaFreemen have been waging a quiet war against the rest of the nation for several years now, a warfought with computers and comptrollers' warrants, liens and legal briefs. For the first time, hereis their complete story.

Every Man a King: The Rise and Fall of the Montana Freemen

"Every man a king, every man a king, you can be a millionaire." So went the catchycampaign tune for Louisiana Senator Huey Long. Long, in the troubling economic times of the1930s, won a following with his "Share the Wealth" plan, in which he proposed to alleviatepeople's suffering by using the power of the federal government to redistribute the nation'swealth.

Now, in the troubling economic times of the 1990s, a new group of people have arisen to give anew, contemporary meaning to Long's famous song. People can become kings--or "sovereigncitizens"--not by embracing the federal government but by rejecting it, along with most otherforms of authority. And groups of these sovereign citizens have come up with a novel way bywhich any person can become a millionaire--by issuing their own money. The most infamous of

these right-wing anarchists are the Montana Freemen, who spawned an extralegal empire in thewilderness of Montana, using not AK-47s but legal briefs, not military uniforms but the UniformCommercial Code. But they wavered between between being patriotic paralegal-guerillas andsimple frauds, and ended up bringing down upon themselves the enmity not only of the hatedfederal government, but friends and neighbors as well. Federal and state governments, oncebesieged by the filings of the Freemen, now were laying siege to the Freemen themselves, at alittle compound labeled "Justus Township" near Jordan, Montana.

ROOTS

To understand the roots of the Montana Freemen, like so many other elements of today's so-called "patriot" movement, one has to go back to Posse Comitatus, the nebulous antigovernmentmovement founded in 1969 by retired dry cleaner Henry L. Beach. Beach, a former Silver Shirt(a 1930s-era pro-Nazi group), argued that the only legitimate government was local government.The highest legitimate elected official in the country was the county sheriff, who could formjuries and call out the able-bodied men of the county to enforce the law. Naturally enough, Beachand other members of the movement were strongly opposed to the federal government,especially those parts of it which dealt with money, the Internal Revenue Service and the Federal



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Reserve System. The IRS draws its authority from the Sixteenth Amendment, which Possemembers (and other tax resisters) believe was not lawfully ratified; thus, it is unconstitutional.Moreover, suggests the Posse, the revenue laws, if examined carefully, say that income tax isvoluntary for individuals. The Federal Reserve System, on the other hand, was not a lawful armof the government at all, but rather, as one Posse publication put it, "a private monopoly which

neither the people nor the states authorized in the constitution." It printed paper money whichclearly was not allowed by the Constitution. The racist elements of the Posse--which did notinclude the whole movement, particularly after it expanded in the early 1980s--went further, toargue that the Federal Reserve was controlled by a small group of international Jewish bankers,who profit by destroying the United States in a mire of debt and paper money. Many Possemembers adhered to the virulently racist sect Christian Identity.

Related to the Posse was the township movement, led in part by Walt P. Mann III, ofBloomington, Utah, which took root in Utah, Wisconsin, and other states. Township advocatesargued for setting up small sovereign communities, over which no other level of governmentcould have power. In Wisconsin, the Posse set up a "constitutional township" on a 1400-acre plot

at Tigerton Dells; there, warning signs posted "Federal Agents Keep out; Survivors will beProsecuted." The Township appointed its own judges and foreign ambassadors.

Accompanying the quasi-anarchistic attitudes of the Posse was a no-holds-barred attitude as towhat should be done to those seen to violate the principles held dear by the Posse. Henry Beachrecommended punishing government officials "who commit criminal acts or who violate theiroath of office" by having the posse remove them "to the most populated intersection of streets inthe township and, at high noon, be hung by the neck, the body remaining until sundown as anexample to those who would subvert the law." Many Posse members began to wear small goldhandman's nooses on their lapels.

In the 1970s, the Posse was a small but irritating extremist group. Dispersed across the country,but finding support primarily in the Northwest and the Great Plains states, it numbered in thethousands (a 1976 FBI report suggested that membership could range from 12,000 to 50,000).Particularly troublesome was the Wisconsin Posse, headquartered at Tigerton Dells (where, in theform of Family Farm Preservation, it still operates) which disrupted government meetings andassaulted public officials. In the early 1980s, however, a severe farm crisis which resulted infinancial loss and foreclosures for many small farmers allowed the Posse to reach out to a moremainstream--and thus larger--audience. Farmers in Kansas, Nebraska, Wisconsin, the Dakotas,and elsewhere, looked to the Posse for help. The Posse offered up targets for people to blame: thecourts, the money system, the federal government, the Jews. Illegal activities--includingcounterfeiting, paramilitary training, bombmaking, threats against public officials, and tax

resisting--greatly increased. The movement found a martyr in tax resister Gordon Kahl of NorthDakota, who died in a shootout with law enforcement officers after being tracked down for hisparticipation in another shootout which killed two federal marshals and wounded three others.

Shootouts, however, were rare. Far more common were the legal battles waged by Possemembers, which included two basic strategies. One was the placing of frivolous liens on theproperty of public officials who opposed or angered them, notably IRS agents. Since the lienswere without cause, they had no legal weight, but until they were removed, they could damage



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credit ratings or interfere with the buying and selling of property. The second was the simpletactic of flooding the courts with legal documents, filings, motions and appeals, often usingconvoluted and archaic language, which clogged the court system and frustated judges andprosecutors. Associated with this was the tactic, practiced in some areas, of establishing so-called"common law courts," which were vigilante courts that often threatened public officials. Typical

of many others was David Scott Clark, in 1986 a 78-year old automotive garage operator inPhoenix who, along with several others who called themselves "freemen" and "sovereigncitizens," filed so many frivolous suits that a Maricopa county judge issued a court orderrestricting court responses to them. Foreshadowing the rhetoric of the mid-1990s, Clarksuggested the order was the work of people who wanted a "one-world government."

However, by the late 1980s, Posse activity had died down. Many of its leaders were dead, inprison, or lying low. Few found tax resisting particularly profitable, except those who taught thetheories to others for a price. Because it never had a strong organization or national focus, it diedout in some areas, stayed alive in others. Perhaps the best way to characterize it would be as adormant volcano, manifesting little activity on the outside but possessing a fiery heat deep down,

just waiting for some shaking of the earth to open up a new channel through which lava couldonce again flow.

FOUNDERS

Among the states in which the Posse was active was Montana, sparsely populated and inhabitedby people who believed in minding their own business--and that the government should mind itsown. "With our Democracy deteriorated into hypocracy [sic]..." read one recruiting notice inMontana for the Posse in 1974, "the time has come for action." Other organizations such as theMontana Vigilantes continued the Posse ideology.

It is unclear whether any such groups lasted into the 1990s, but clearly there was a part ofMontana's small population that was receptive to such beliefs. They were susceptible to the sirensongs of people like Roy Schwasinger, head of the tax protest group We the People, based inColorado. Schwasinger travelled the country, including Montana, relating his theories--for thesmall sum of $300--on how the Federal Reserve was illegitimate, the money system worthless,and debts irrelevant. Schwasinger would later get his own come-uppance, on charges of fraud,but not before he had managed to convince a great many people that much of government wasunconstitutional and illegitimate. Among the converts were numerous Montanans.

One of the Montanans attracted to the ideology espoused by Posse Comitatus was LeroySchweitzer. A stubborn man by temperament, Schweitzer came to resent deeply what he saw as

government interference in his life. A crop duster in Montana and Idaho, he refused to get alicense to fly his plane, leading to warrants for his arrest on federal charges. He also refused topay taxes, which caused the Internal Revenue Service in November 1992 to seize (and sell) hisCessna crop duster, his Bozeman, Montana, home, and other equipment--to pay $389,000 infederal taxes dating all the way back to the 1970s. Schweitzer's first run-in came when he refusedto pay $700 worth of taxes back in 1977; a business partner had to pay up in order to free $6,000in business accounts frozen by the IRS, which also audited Schweitzer the following year. Notlong after, Schweitzer became a tax resister. He attended Posse Comitatus meetings and



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according to the Associated Press had contacts with some members of the neo-Nazi group, TheOrder, infamous for its string of armored car robberies in the 1980s.

Schweitzer was a charismatic man who could inspire deep affection. "He's one of the best-hearted people I've ever known," his father-in-law, Edwin Hardesty, told a Billings Gazette

reporter well after Schweitzer's troubles with the law had begun. "He's still a part of my familyand we still love him." As Schweitzer delved deeper into Posse and constitutionalist ideology inthe 1980s, his normal streak of stubbornness turned to extremism. When he helped his friendBernard Kuennen's legal defense--Kuennen let his dog go around unvaccinated--the twobarraged the judge with questions on the difference between "admiralty" and "common" law("sovereign citizens" believe that our court system is an admiralty court system that hasillegitimately expanded its jurisdiction). Schweitzer defied policemen who stopped him for trafficviolations. When Schweitzer operated a crop-dusting company in Washington, a state safetyinspector appeared one day at Schweitzer's airplane hangar for an inspection, and cited the pilotfor a minor electrical violation, explaining to Schweitzer that it was intended to protectemployees. Schweitzer, according to a source familiar with him, fired his only employee right

then and there. "Now, there are no employees who work here, so see how your regulationsprotected the man," Schweitzer is reputed to have said. Schweitzer eventually sold his businessand moved to Montana, where he briefly went into a fireworks business with his brother, then gotinto the tax problems that resulted eventually in the loss of his plane in 1992.

Schweitzer found the ideal partner in Rodney Owen Skurdal, who could add ruthlessness anddetermination to Schweitzer's own persuasive stubbornness. Skurdal's qualities manifestedthemselves in relentless manipulations of the legal system to serve his own purposes, a skill thathe developed to a fine art. Skurdal, a native Montanan, joined the Marine Corps upon leavinghigh school in 1971, spending nearly a decade in the service until discharged in 1980. During hisstint with the corps he served in a security detail as a driver in a support unit, attaining the rank

of staff sergeant. After his discharge he moved to Wyoming, where he very early demonstratedhis skills as a legal guerilla when he became involved in a workman's compensation suit afterbeing injured while working at an oil rig. Skurdal, already under the influence of the PosseComitatus, claimed that the federal government lacked the authority to print paper money anddemanded to be paid in gold bullion. Acting as his own attorney, Skurdal stretched the case outfor over a year, finally reaching the state supreme court, which dismissed the suit as "perhaps themost frivolous appeal ever filed here." A Wyoming newspaper claimed that U.S. District Courtdocuments from a lawsuit that never went to court showed that witnesses testified that it wasafter the skull fracture he sustained at the oil field in 1983 that he first became preoccupied with"constitutional" issues. His former wife, Susan Deleano, testified that after the injury he had "anodd personality" and refused to use a social security number or driver's license.

Skurdal moved back to Montana some time after 1988; in 1992 he bought a log cabin nearRoundup, Montana. According to some, he was peaceful and quiet at first. "Rodney never yelledor got upset," said a sheriff's deputy, "I think he could be reasoned with. But I don't know what'scome over him in the past year." A former girlfriend described him as peaceful and religious."Rod doesn't have a mean streak in his body," she said.



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To others who knew Skurdal, especially the court officials who had to deal with him on a regularbasis, this description seemed to be overly generous. Skurdal, as a "sovereign citizen," believedthat any virtually any government at all meant enslavement. In a court document filed inMontana in 1994, Skurdal offered the following as examples of "tyranny": "A Social Securitycard/number, marriage licenses, drivers licenses, insurance, vehicle registration, welfare from the

corporations, electrical inspections, permits to build your own home, income taxes, propertytaxes..." Skurdal was also a member of Christian Identity, and as such, openly racist, claimingthat non-whites were "beasts," and Jews the children of Satan. His common law documents oftencontained racist justifications, proclaiming the superiority of whites. Skurdal's extreme politicaland religious beliefs were intertwined and inseparable; his legal briefs were as likely to refer tothe Bible or to Identity teachings as they were to refer to legal code. The Uniform CommercialCode simply became one more religious text from which Skurdal could cite chapter and verse.

Skurdal's guerilla tactics at one point had simultaneous suits on-going in every one of Montana's56 counties; three times he was able to get up to the Montana Supreme Court--over traffictickets. When the fed-up state judiciary finally decreed that courts were to dismiss Skurdal's

documents as frivolous unless they were signed by a lawyer, Skurdal simply mailed his writs anddocuments to out-of-state agencies, which--assuming they were valid but mis-delivered--sentthem back to Montana, where unsuspecting officials filed them. Musselshell County AttorneyVicki Knudsen spent nearly four years dealing with Skurdal's various court cases over drivingwithout a license, and his other motions, before finally giving up her job in disgust. Skurdal,among other documents, filed a "Citizens Declaration of War," which condemned "foreignagents" within the "country of Montana." He also filed a document accusing county officials ofattempting to bring in a New World Order. In July 1994, Chief Justice Jean A. Turnage of theMontana Supreme Court imposed a $1,000 sanction on Skurdal and limited his access to thecourts, calling his filings "not only nonsensical but meritless, frivolous, vexatious and wasteful ofthe limited time and resources of this court, of the clerk of this court and of the various public

officials and counsel that are forced to deal with and respond to Mr. Skurdal's abuse."

Skurdal purchased a small farm near Roundup, Montana (population 1,808), in MusselshellCounty, but his determination not to pay taxes to the federal government did not take long tocause problems. Skurdal's property was "seized" by the IRS in 1993 and put up for sale for$29,000, but nobody quite had the testicular reserves necessary to come and take it from Skurdal,who continued to occupy the land. Musselshell Count Sheriff G. Paul Smith was not about tomake an issue of it, so the land went into government possession, on paper at least. In June 1994the government again unsuccessfully tried to auction the property. The following year, the IRSsued Skurdal in an effort to get him to move--a singularly ineffective tactic.

In late 1994, Skurdal invited Schweitzer to move in with him; in early 1995 the two were joinedby Daniel Petersen. With the two Freemen moved in, Rodney Skurdal's twenty-acre farm nearRoundup became a headquarters, the four-bedroom home a command center. Computers, faxes,laser printers and shortwave radios were willing electronic servants. Outside, the small ranchsported a vegetable garden, a pool, a satellite dish, and a swingset and basketball hoop. It alsosported warning signs: "Do Not Enter Private Land of the Sovereign...The right of PersonalLiberty is one of the fundamental rights guaranteed to every citizen, and any unlawfulinterference with it may be resisted."



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What Schweitzer and Skurdal resorted to, a sort of bureaucratic guerilla warfare, was neither newnor unique to them. They represented merely the cutting edge of a rage against governmentinterference that was sweeping the country. Some directed their rage at the federal government,and manifested their anger in paramilitary militia groups; some directed their anger at peoplewhose skins were a different color. Many were, in the words of Peter Finch, simply "mad as hell

and not going to take it anymore." What else could explain people like Edwin G. Thrall of EastWindsor, Connecticut? Thrall, a 76-year old retired farmer and demolition contractor, waged abattle for years against local government that culminated in an armed standoff. An iconoclasticloner, he built a dance hall years ago without ever bothering to get building or zoning permits.East Windsor town officials would not let him open the hall to the public; Thrall did so anyway,landing in jail several times in the 1970s for violating injunctions. In 1979, he had a standoffwith police, shooting the tires of their cruisers; in 1995 he held another one, a five-hour standoffwith more than two dozen police, after his property was taken by the town because he refused topay back taxes on it (in retaliation for the town's refusal to let him use the dance hall). Thrallentered the property, began to use heavy machinery to work on the roof of the dance hall, andthreatened police who tried to stop him with a shotgun. Thrall called himself a "constitutionalist"

and "sovereign property owner." He didn't believe anybody had any right to interfere with hisproperty--including to tax it.

Thrall was not a lone crank; far from it. In fact, across the country, other "sovereign citizens"were taking up not shotguns but pens--though still wielding these instruments against thegovernment. In the Ozarks, George Gordon operated the George Gordon School of CommonLaw for anybody who might come and learn how to file motions and papers. "You know, theguys at Waco had a remedy," he mused. "they had the judicial system. I sit here and expect a raidjust because of the work I'm in, but does that mean I'm going to start shooting at the policeman?No! My solution is to go into court and defeat the jackbooted thugs."

This was the strategy of Schweitzer and Skurdal as well. Not only did they refuse to pay taxes orto vacate their land, but they struck back, clogging the court system with frivolous suits. "Once acourt accepts one of these asinine Freemen things," said Roundup resident and former countyattorney Vicki Knudsen, "it's in the system. Everybody named in it becomes involved [and] hasto respond. It's not funny. It's not romantic. It's scary." Freemen in Garfield County generated somany documents--and threats over filing them--that Court Clerk and Recorder JoAnn Stantonlost forty pounds.

The Freemen didn't just issue phony suits, however; they also tried to create phony money usingcomplicated schemes involving the filing of liens worth millions of dollars against variousMontana property owners or the U.S. or Montana governments. Until they were found invalid,

bank computers might list these liens as assets. This in turn created a window during whichbanks might transfer money against these assets. So Freemen would deposit fake money ordersin other banks, to be drawn upon the bank listing the lien. The money orders, generally signed bySchweitzer (Skurdal, Daniel Petersen and William Stanton also signed the notes on occasion),looked real, except for small details such as a lowercase "u" in "United States." Bogus checkssometimes carried the words "Certified Bankers Check -- Controller Warrant," instead of a bankname, along with account and lien numbers. Many checks were drawn against a non-existentaccount in a Butte, Montana, branch of the Norwest Bank. The checks stated that they were also



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redeemable at the Office of the U.S. Postmaster. If the Freemen withdrew the funds depositedbefore all parties realized that there was no real money involved, they might get away with ahefty sum. They didn't always succeed; Freeman Will Stanton got caught in October 1994 whenhe wrote a hot check for $25,000 to pay his taxes--these funds were drawn upon $3.8 million ofassets at Merrill Lynch which that company had discovered were no good.

The Freemen didn't just try to use the money orders themselves; they also sold them, advertisingthem as a way for people to get themselves out of debt. If you owed $20,000 in mortgagepayments, you could simply make out a bogus money order to the amount, and your debts weregone. Or better yet, they suggested, make the money order out for $40,000, then demand animmediate refund of the "overpayment." They might well write you a good check before theydiscover that the money order they received was bad. As one "patriot" explained on the Internet,"LeRoy Schweitzer does have their [sic] own monetary system. When you attend their course onlocation, they will issue you CHECKS times two (biblical) to pay off all IRS debts and all loansto banks for no charge. They are having success in this area, but it is hard fight [sic]." By April1994 more than 100 banks across the country had reported receipt of bogus money orders. Not

all of these came from Schweitzer and Skurdal; a good number of them came from Posse hotbedTigerton, Wisconsin. But the Montana Freemen contributed their fair share. One of the morebizarre incidents in the Freemen saga came when the mayor of Cascade, Montana, apparently aFreeman sympathizer, actually deposited a bogus $20,000,000 in the town bank. Most attemptsto pass the checks involved considerably smaller amounts; the Denver Business Journal inDecember 1995 reported that 15 Schweitzer checks had been passed recently, ranging from$2,600 to $91,000. Some people tried to use them to cheat their ex-spouses, sending them aschild support checks. For some time, local bank officials and postmasters were puzzled, foralthough they knew the checks were not valid, they had not at that point heard of LeroySchweitzer--the fake checks had been distributed faster than the news of them had. Not untilearly 1996 were banks generally aware of the nature of the bogus checks, and even then, not all

were. And ordinary people, many of whom received the checks in return for selling cars, boats,or for services rendered, had no knowledge whatsoever that the check or money order they hadjust received was bad. "People see these and, if you're a very unsuspecting person," an Omaha,Nebraska, county treasurer explained, "they really do look authentic."

Authorities were not sure what to do; they wanted to shut Schweitzer and Skurdal down, but theFreemen made it abundantly clear that if they were going to go down, they would go downfighting. "These people want to be martyrs," Sheriff Smith lamented. "I don't know how far theyare willing to carry that." And Smith, with only six men in his sheriff's department, didn't want tolose any of his own men. People were also slow to take action because the circumstances seemedso unusual. Roundup, after all, was not simply a small town, it was an intimate town. The same

family operated the local car dealership for over half a century. If people weren't related to oneanother, then they certainly knew each other. The advent of the Freemen sent shock wavesthrough the community; the terror hit home because it was so intimate. You couldn't lose yourselfin Roundup the way you could in New York City. If someone issued a death threat against you,everybody around knew exactly where you lived, where you worked, where you went to church.Similarly, when Skurdal began to issue threats, he was not issuing them against faceless officials,but against the friends and relatives of people in town. Some people didn't have a problem withthe Freemen. "They wave. We wave," explained one neighbor. "As long as you're not



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government, they won't bother you." But for most others, life among the Freemen was not socarefree. Once the Freemen came to town, Roundup began to change. The County Courthousestarted to lock its doors; the county attorney purchased two new guns with which to protecthimself. "This was like Mayberry..." said deputy school superintendent Kathy Fister, "This waslike hometown America." But now to many it had the markings of a Beirut wrought in miniature.

FRICTIONS

The Freemen of Roundup--Schweitzer, Skurdal, Daniel Petersen (and his wife Cherlynn)--werenot the only Freemen. In Lewistown a logger named Jay Brand railled against the government; atCoffee Creek Ronald Fulbright and a group of several others, active in Roy Schwasinger's "Wethe People" organization, were indicted on federal charges of conspiring to injure judges andattorneys in their bankruptcy case. And about 150 miles to the northeast, near Jordan, Montana,were another group, equally radical. They were centered around the Clark family--patriarchRalph Clark and his brother Emmett, Emmett's wife Rosie, his son Edwin, his nephew Richardand grandson Casey, Richard's wife Kay--in Jordan, Montana, for whom the 1980s were a

troubling time. Not opposed to government interference, but instead accepting nearly $700,000in various kinds of government handouts, through poor planning and overextending themselveswith land and machinery purchases, they became unable to cope with their debts when hardtimes hit. Starting in 1981, the Clarks stopped making payments on federal farm loans; accordingto the county attorney, by 1995 they owed $1.8 million in missed payments. The tight-nit Jordancommunity sometimes helped them out; in the early 1990s his neighbors helped him plant cropsso he could avoid foreclosure. But the Clarks' inability to keep up with their debts made themeasy prey for the rhetoric of Roy Schwasinger, Leroy Schweitzer, and other antigovernmentsharpsters. "This thing just kept building every time I talked to them," lamented Ralph's andEmmett's brother Alven. "They just listened to these prophets." But in fact, as early as 1982,Ralph Clark told a Montana reporter that the sheriff would need the National Guard to get himoff his ranch. In the 1990s they tried various schemes such as setting up revocable trusts to try toavoid federal and state taxes. Eventually, a bank foreclosed on the 960-acre wheat farm of RalphClark, selling it at a sheriff's auction for $493,000. The Clarks decided to set up their own court,a "common law" court. In January 1994 three dozen Freemen took over Garfield County'scourthouse and held a meeting creating their own county government. Present at the meetingwere Rodney Skurdal and Daniel Petersen, who had driven up from Roundup. Richard Clark wasthe presiding judge. The makeshift court charged the real judge, as well as various others whomthe Clarks had felt persecuted them, with contempt. "We've opened our own common law courtand we have the law back in the county now," Clark told the thirty people who attended themeeting, which was even videotaped.

But setting up their own court was only the beginning of what the Clark family had in mind, asJordan's residents soon discovered. Soon posters appeared, offering a bounty of one milliondollars for the arrest of Sheriff Charles Phipps, as well as the county attorney and the judge.Bemused, Phipps asked a Freeman if he could get the reward if he turned himself in. TheFreeman told him yes, but that he wouldn't live long enough to enjoy it. He'd be "tried, convictedand hung."



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Phipps was no longer amused, but his resources were limited. He had a deputy and a tiny, two-cell jail, but little else. Phipps was not only the sheriff but also the town coroner and livestockinspector. Still, he arrested Freemen now and then, when they wandered from their ranches andfarms, charging them with threatening public officials. He soon became aware that he had aserious standoff on his hands; the Clarks were not going to budge from their farm. In April 1994

Ralph Clark was ordered to appear in court to face charges of solicitation of kidnapping, whileon the same day his farm was auctioned to settle the $37,864 he owed in mortgage payments (ona $710,000 mortgage). Clark defied the order to appear, so a warrant was issued for his arrest, butthere seemed little possibility of anybody going out to the ranch to arrest him. The Freemencontinued their activities. In June 1994 they issued "subpoenas" against Montana's two senators,its state supreme court justices, and the district judge. The following month they mailed to 45jurors who were to sit on a trial of five Freemen for impersonating public officials letters thatmade threats against them and their property if they convicted the Freemen.

"They've taken a stand," explained a fellow rancher to a foreign reporter, "and now they arerefusing to negotiate. If you talk to them, tell them there is still room for negotiation. It is a

horrible situation. There is wrong on both sides here." Not everybody thought the Clarksblameless; some thought them lazy. But the Clarks' descent into the world of the Freemenseemed to many Jordan residents to be a tragedy. Not a few of them blamed outsiders like LeroySchweitzer, who they felt convinced the Clarks that they could keep their farm by engaging intheir common law tactics. "I think it started out with everyone thinking it was a bit humorous,"said Lance Tonn, a laywer for the bank that foreclosed on the Clarks. "But when you havesomeone about to suffer an economic loss, as they are, and some who seem to have lost touchwith reality, you have a bad situation."

Local public officials chafed at their impotence. "They know we know where they are," GarfieldCounty Attorney Nick Murnion complained in July 1995. "It's like they're saying, 'We're here, we

have guns, and we know you're scared to come get us.'" Sometimes they fantasized. "Ifsomebody were to take an Army tank up to Skurdal's," mused one, "Well, why not? The IRSowns the place, so it wouldn't be like taking his property." But the reality was that Army tankswere not in the picture, and the Freemen were.

Local officials did ingeniously use what tools they had at their disposal. After the JordanFreemen posted their bounties against the sheriff and other officials, Murnion filed charges aginstfifteen of them for impersonating public officials. Murnion was responsible for a developing anew weapon, when he dug up an old law against "criminal syndicalism," a crime defined asadvocating violence or terrorism for political purposes. Originally intended to be used againstlabor protests, this felony, punishable by ten years in prison, seemed to be the perfect response to

the bounties and threats of hanging that the Freemen routinely issued.

In February 1995 Murnion won his first conviction for "criminal syndicalism," against 64-yearold rancher William Stanton. Stanton was in many ways a typical Freeman, unable to cope witheconomic disaster. He had filed for bankruptcy in 1988 and managed to make payments until1993, when he missed one and was hit with a foreclosure. Some neighbors claimed gamblingproblems exacerbated his situation. LeRoy Schweitzer offered Stanton a $3.8 million loan, whichthe banks did not accept. But Stanton did not take his anger out on Schweitzer; rather, he became



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more opposed to the federal government. He became a full-fledged Freeman, as did his family--his wife Agnes, his grown son Ebert, and Ebert's wife Val, the latter two moving in from Billingsto help Agnes run the farm. "She became really preoccupied with it," said Agnes' sister ofStanton's wife. "No matter what the conversation was, it would always come back to commonlaw or what was wrong with the government." Stanton, as the Freemen's "constable," had been

the one to offer the $1 million bounty for the various Garfield officials; he had also been the oneto tell Sheriff Phipps he'd be hung from a bridge.

However, Stanton's conviction, rather than cowing the Freemen, instead resulted in one of themost serious and scary of the Freemen's various escapades. The FBI first learned that somethingmight be up and tipped off Murnion and County Attorney John Bohlmann of Musselshell that theFreemen might be planning something against the two of them and the judge who tried Stanton.According to Sheriff Smith, the tip said that the Freemen were planning to kidnap a judge, tryhim in their court, sentence him to hanging and videotape the proceeding. In response,Musselshell County put reserve deputies in the courthouse to protect District Judge Roy C.Rodeghiero and to accompany him to and from work.

Then the day after Stanton was sentenced, on March 3, 1995, a Musselshell County deputystopped two Freemen, Dale Jacobi and Frank Ellena, for not having license plates on theirpickup. Nor did they have a driver's license. The deputy asked the men to get out of the pickupand discovered that both were carrying concealed weapons without permits. Searching Ellena,deputies discovered what was later revealed to be a hand-drawn map of Jordan, with the officeand home of Nick Murnion circled. In the car, they found a considerable supply of guns andammunition (including bullets that could pierce body armor), 30 sets of plastic-strip handcuffs,some $60,000 in gold and silver, about $26,000 in cash, duct tape, a video camera, a 35mmMinolta camera, and various pieces of radio telecommunications gear. Deputies were sure theyhad come across part of the kidnapping crew.

Later in the day, around 6pm (about an hour and a half after Jacobi and Ellena were jailed), thetwo deputies at the Roundup jail, Orville "Buzz" Jones and Mitchell "Dutch" Van Syckel,dropped their jaws as three Freemen walked into the jail and demanded the items seized from thecar of Jacobi and Ellena, which were in clear view to everybody in the jail. These three were partof two carloads of Freemen, five in all, who had driven to the jail, communicating by two-wayradios. One of the deputies noticed a concealed weapon on one of the Freemen, made visiblewhen a jacket opened. The deputies were able to place the three Freemen under arrest onconcealed weapons charges. They then went outside to the vehicles, where two freemen occupiedone of the cars. One of them was talking into a hand held two-way radio. As the deputiesapproached, the passengers locked their doors and refused to exit the car. When deputies saw

guns on the persons of the Freemen, they broke open a window and placed them under arrest.That night they learned the identity of the Freemen and discovered to their surprise that the groupincluded a ringer: a thin man with a grey beard turned out to be not a Freeman but none otherthan John Trochmann, founder of the Militia of Montana, who lived clear on the other side of thestate. Trochmann had become infatuated with the Freemen ideology and had praised them in hisnewsletter "Taking Aim" (in fact, his wife Carolyn Trochmann was even a featured speaker forthe "American Sovereigns Group"). Why Trochmann had decided to accompany the Freemen ontheir fishing expedition the deputies could not figure out. Clearly a complicated plan had been



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devised. "If this isn't evidence that some type of evil intent was afoot, then I'm not a very goodpolicemen," Jones said. Jones could sympathize with the economic plight that many of theFreemen were in, but not their tactics. "My Grandpa lost his ranch during the Depression..." hesaid. "I go by that ranch every day, and I see the trees my Grandma planted, and I see where mydad was born. And it just tears at my heart. God, I understand them almost to the point that it

scares me. But I do not tolerate crimes of violence."

After the arrests of the Freemen and Trochmann, a second assault began--this time on the phonelines, as the sheriff's office was flooded with hundreds of calls, many of which threatenedviolence. John Bohlman received at least forty "straight-out death threats" against himself andhis secretary. Many of the phone calls were local, but others were long-distance. Bohlman'ssecretary ended up moving her daughter temporarily to Minnesota after one caller threatened thechild. A good many of the calls demanded that Trochmann be released, and were clearly fromMilitia of Montana members or sympathizers. M.O.M. co-founder Randy Trochmann issued apress release denying any links between M.O.M. and the Freemen, claiming that Trochmann hadjust travelled to Musselshell county to negotiate a "settlement" between Freemen and local law

enforcement officers. Randy Trochmann had no convenient explanation for the unusual activitiesof the Freemen that day.

Unfortunately for Roundup officials, they had to drop most of the criminal charges against theFreemen, apparently because of the way the searches were conducted. Only two concealed-weapons violations stuck. Nick Murnion charged six more Freemen with criminal syndicalism,for a written demand on a Justice of the Peace that he show up at Rodney Skurdal's home andprovide various pieces of evidence, but of the six, only one was arrested--Frank Ellena, whocooperated in court and got a bail reduction that allowed him to post bail, after which he claimedhe had lied in order to escape an "evil trap." Both Ellena and Jacobi jumped bail.

Incidents such as the kidnapping episode made law enforcement officers in Roundup and Jordanall the more unwilling to provoke drastic responses, but local opinion was less hesitant. Peopleresented the fact that they had to pay taxes and obey laws, but the Freemen could flout thosesame requirements with apparent impunity. "Call the IRS and ask them why they haven't seizedtheir property," demanded car dealer Brian Hoiland of Roundup. "Why do they get specialtreatment? I think the federal government has a responsibility to the people who are payingtaxes." Brian's brother Bruce, the fire chief, agreed. "There's no reason in the world they don't goup there, arrest them, clean it up and be done with it. What kind of message does that send...?Not a good one." The Oklahoma City bombing on April 19, 1995, helped to change someattitudes. Montanans were less willing to tolerate the extreme anti-government behavior of theFreemen.

But local officials wanted federal help, and that help seemed unforthcoming. In early April 1995,John Bohlman wrote a letter to President Bill Clinton himself, pleading for help, telling thepresident that "personally, I believe we will have a confrontation that ends in gunfire before theend of the year." Many residents of Garfield and Musselshell Counties were convinced that theFBI was at least keeping the Freemen under surveillance--there were too many unfamiliarvehicles and men in plaid shirts on the roads. But U.S. Attorney Sherry Scheel Matteucci refused



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all comment on the subject of an investigation. "All I can tell you is that it's our intention toenforce the law," she said, "and I have absolute confidence that it will be done."

Reporters covering the Freemen scene soon coined a term for the reason behind the inactivity:"Weaver Fever." The shootout and siege at Ruby Ridge in 1992, in which white supremecist

Randy Weaver's wife and son were killed, as well as a federal marshal, had caused a severebacklash in the northwest among right-wing extremists, helping to spawn the militia movementin Montana and Idaho. The reporters might well have added "Waco" to the term they invented,for the siege of the Branch Davidian compound in 1993, with its fiery end, was just as much acause celebre among the extremist right. It also aroused severe criticism of the federalgovernment's methods from the general public, too, stinging them where it hurt the most: publicrelations. Consequently, after the hail of protest following Waco, federal law enforcementagencies began to step very gingerly indeed, as did their counterparts on the state level.

But while nothing was done, the Freemen population grew--by July 1995 the Skurdal cabin aloneheld six Freemen. In fact, public officials began to suspect that the lack of action against theFreemen was one factor in their growing numbers. "Their argument about taxes spreads becausethey say, 'See, the government knows that tax is voluntary and that's why they're not prosecutingus,'" said John Bohlman. "The fact is that Rodney has written documents that say if anybodycomes on his land, he'll kill them." In fact, Skurdal and Schweitzer seemed completely in controlof the situation, ignoring or threatening public officials, while conducting their money orderscams with impunity. They treated the media--who had by 1995 become quite curious about therenegade anarchists--with disdain, generally refusing interviews unless the newspaper ortelevision crew would agree to a $100 million lien as a bond to guarantee fair treatment. If publicofficials were reluctant to engage with the Freemen, the Freemen were themselves ready for aconfrontation. "This is a holy war," Rodney Skurdal wrote in a document demanding theresignation of Sheriff Smith in April 1995. "God's laws vs. man-made laws."

DEFIANCE

Although they presented a bold front to outsiders, among themselves the Freemen must haveargued about their security, for in September 1995 Rodney Skurdal and Leroy Schweitzerdecided to pull up stakes and leave Roundup, to join the Clarks up in Jordan. At night they andother Freemen launched a convoy of six vehicles to travel the 120 miles between the two towns.Law enforcement officers did not stop them.

Once the Freemen were united on the Clark ranch, the waiting game--now narrowed down to onesite--began again. At the ranch were many of the most radical Freemen. As of November 1995,

the laundry list of charges against them was already voluminous: five charged with threateningpublic officials, three charged with impersonating public servants, one charged with solicitationof kidnapping, one charged with obstructing a peace officer, six charged with criminalsyndicalism. Two were under investigation (later charged) with armed robbery; Richard Clarkwas under investigation (later charged) with theft of $70,000 worth of grain that belonged to hisson but which he would not let his son remove from the property.



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Sheriff Charles Phipps of Jordan, equipped with a two-cell jailhouse for a town of almost 500people, now had to deal with a band of wanted men many times bigger than his minisculesheriff's department. He was in no hurry to do so. Assuring the occasional inquiring reporter thatsomething would be done eventually, he was nevertheless reluctant to engage the well-armedFreemen in any sort of serious confrontation. Moreover, the war with the Freemen put a

tremendous strain on local government budgets. "Even the trials we've gone through are almostmore than our little counties can bear," said Carol Hellyer, the office manager for Sheriff Phipps."We run on pretty tight pennies." State officials were just as reluctant. "They are the last on thelist of problems we have had to deal with," said Montana's attorney general, Joseph P. Mazurek,in September. "We'll do everything we can not to put officers or others in harm's way. In somerespects, the public's patience has been tried, but law enforcement has erred on the side ofmaking arrests without causing violent confrontations." Federal officials too spoke only of bidingtheir time. "I think federal law enforcement has always been very reluctant to go knocking downdoors," U.S. Attorney Sherry Matteucci explained. "Law enforcement by its nature requiresconsidered, planned, cautious action that is based on probable cause of evidence. It takes time todo it right and that's what we want to do." In November, Nick Murnion and John Bohlmann even

testified to Congress about Freemen activities. "I believe this group has declared war on our formof government," Murnion said. "They are in open insurrection."

In the meantime, the Freemen group had their own miniature kingdom to run. The Clark farm,with its cluster of buildings, became the new headquarters for the seminars of Schweitzer andSkurdal. It was no longer a farm anymore, but "Justus Township," with its own laws, court, andofficials. Ralph Clark was the "marshal" of Justus, others served on its court.

The seminars became the main activity at Justus. Ostensibly free, people had to pay a certain feeto guarantee that they would show up. The Freemen would take their willing pupils in groups of25, for a week's worth of tutelage, while the students took notes and videotaped the talks. At one

point, Freemen claimed that people from 46 different states had attended their seminars. "We arethe new Federal Reserve," Schweitzer assured a group of students at one seminar, "We arecompeting with the Federal Reserve--and we have every authority to do it." The Freemen hadlittle interest in people who were not interested in the seminars, and continued their hate-haterelationship with the press, in November 1995 going so far as to confiscate at gunpoint $66,000worth of equipment from a not particularly bright ABC television crew. A Polish journalistclaimed to have been run off by the Freemen. The Freemen also lashed out at others whoannoyed them, such as Pastor Jerry Walters of Zion Lutheran Church in Roundup, who receiveda lien of $100 billion from Rodney Skurdal. Walters--whose Zion assignment was his first afterseminary--quickly ran afoul of Skurdal after his arrival in Roundup, when he proved unreceptiveto Skurdal's Christian Identity beliefs. The Freemen, reasonably well-armed with rifles and

shotguns and a large quantity of ammunition, tried to build a real arsenal, contracting with aMontana arms dealer for $1.4 million worth of guns. Unfortunately for the Freemen, thoughperhaps happily for the citizens of Jordan, they tried to pay for the arms with one of Schweitzer'sbogus money orders, and the deal fell through.

Ensconsed in their hideaway, the Freemen became increasingly isolated, generally seeing onlyseminar visitors and friends who brought them supplies. Their former relations with the MontanaMilitia soured over time, and the Freemen eventually even put a bounty on the head of John



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Trochmann. The M.O.M. decided that, whatever the lure of the Freemen philosophy, Schweitzerand Skurdal were too flaky to support. Moreover, the existence of the Freemen seemed tothreaten the dominance that M.O.M. sought over the patriot movement in the state. "They weregiven an opportunity to solve it peacefully," said M.O.M. leader Randy Trochmann. "We'vepretty much washed our hands of them."

But if the Freemen no longer appealed to the Trochmanns, they did attract others, people whomade the pilgrimage to the Clark compound and stayed. One early Freeman was Dale Jacobi, anex-police officer from Canada. Many were fugitives from the law. Dana Dudley and Russell D.Landers, of North Carolina but more lately from Colorado, fled the latter state where they wereto be tried on charges of conspiracy and securities fraud; they brought 16-year old Ashley Taylorwith them. Montana seemed a likely haven for them; so too for Steven Hance and his sons Johnand James, who faced charges in North Carolina of assaulting a police officer with deadly forceand resisting arrest. Elwin Ward brought his wife Tammy and two children to the Clark ranch;the Wards were on the run from child-welfare officials in Michigan. At least for a time, JohnPatrick McGuire, a former felon, was on the ranch; McGuire was later arrested in Wyoming and

extradited to California on various charges. Others were locals, such as the Stantons--William'swife, Agnes, his son and daughter-in-law, Ebert and Val, and his granddaughter Mariah, onlyfive. From a distance, other sympathizers praised the Freemen for actually having the guts to setup "common law" courts and act on their beliefs. "Yes, there is a remedy!" one "patriot"publication announced. "Re-establish the common-law court in your county lawfully. Throughthe hard work and research of Leroy Schweitzer, Rod Skurdal, Dan Peterson, Richard Clark andmany others, they found that the other side left us a remedy intended only for them, hidden in thefootnotes and punctuation of their secret codes and statutes."

The people of Jordan, though not of one opinion, generally viewed the Freemen with a mixtureof distaste, distrust and fear. Few liked the wanted posters the Freemen put up, or the threats they

made; others didn't like the fact that the Freemen could get away with not paying taxes. Somebegan to call them "the Freeloaders." Alice Fogle, a waitress at QD's Restaurant, summed up theviews of many when she labeled them "just a bunch of losers." Civil rights advocates, such as theMontana Human Rights Network, were even less complimentary, chastising law enforcementofficers for taking no action.

DISTRIBUTION

Though Schweitzer, Skurdal and the other Freemen were by now committed to staying holed upin their farm buildings, there was nothing stopping the flow of fake checks and money orders. Asmore people attended the Schweitzer seminars and came away with the knowledge of how to

pass bogus financial instruments, checks with Schweitzer's name on them spread across theentire country. Banks everywhere learned--sometimes the hard way--what a Norwest bank checkmight mean.

Usually, efforts to pass the bogus checks were not successful. When Joseph Yacapraro ofCoshocton, Ohio, tried to pay a car loan with a $75,000 Schweitzer check, the bank refused toaccept it and Yacapraro's truck was ordered repossessed. But Yacapraro was simply the tip of theiceberg. In San Diego the representative of an auto credit company admitted to getting such



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bogus checks one every ten days. Attempts to pass the phony money against private individualswere often more successful. One person bilked was Jason Mayhew of Texas, who sold his car tosomeone with a Schweitzer check for $17,000. Mayhew was able to get his car back, but otherswere not so lucky. In fact, Allan Kramer, the man who unsuccessfully tried to get Mayhew's car,had passed $500,000 in bogus money orders to get seven cars, four homes, a boat and a condo in

Hawaii.

Sometimes the checks were used not to get money or to get out of a payment, but simply to makea point. In Ohio, common law court adherent Larry Russell appointed himself a notary publicand offered a $1 million check from Norwest as a "bond" to back it up. Russell's friend andcommon law court judge Bill Ellwood called Schweitzer "probably the most knowledgeablefellow in the country on the common law."

But if Schweitzer and Skurdal perfected the bogus money order, it was M. Elizabeth Broderickof Palmdale, California, who turned the scheme into an assembly line. A student of Schweitzer(she called him "a great American") who surpassed the master, Broderick was a Canadian nativewho moved to the United States in 1967. After being convicted of operating a pyramid scheme inColorado, she moved to California and eventually began holding seminars in October 1995 inwhich she taught the distribution of bogus checks. Her seminars, which cost $125 merely toattend, often had over 300 participants at a time; her staff alone numbered around thirty people."It's based on common law and God's laws," explained one Broderick supporter. "A sheriff in fulldress uniform came in and said everything was true." Federal officials claimed that Broderickhad written more than $30 million worth of fraudulent checks; later still, the figure was revisedupward to over $100 million.

Broderick herself was a supremely self-confident woman (she regularly wore a button whichread "Lien Queen"), with an ego to match. To her students, she claimed that the checks had afifty percent acceptance rate. To one reporter in early 1996 she claimed that she was the personresponsible for the infamous bankruptcy of Orange County, California, because of the liens sheplaced on it. "I told the county attorney a year before they went into bankruptcy that I wouldtaken them into bankruptcy if they didn't give me my property back," she said. "The treasurer isjust a scapegoat." Orange County, she claimed, owed her $180 million because a judge thereillegally authorized a search of her home; when the government did not respond to this claim,she declared it in default, then tried to put the $180 million in a bank. It refused, so she put a$100 million lien on the bank. Of such stuff paper fortunes are made. Broderick estimated shehad liens worth $1.18 billion against California, against which she would generously letparticipants in her seminars write checks and comptroller warrants. She also, just to make sure,had liens on the federal government. "Many, many mortgages, many many car loans have been

paid off," she told one reporter. "And I'm proud to say that it works as long as the feds don't getin the way. That's the only problem." But the feds rarely seemed to interfere with Broderick, whokept turning out graduates of her seminars. Many of them were simply desperate people lookingfor some way to avoid crushing debts. "It's hard to believe," said one attendee whose parentswere losing their home, "but might as well take the chance."

The uses to which people put the money orders were varied. Some, duped by Schweitzer,Broderick or others, clearly believed that the money orders were valid and used them in good



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Though the two freemen were armed, there was no struggle or violence. Schweitzer and Petersonsaved their energy for the following day, when they were brought into a heavily guarded federalcourtroom to be arraigned. They shouted down the judge and other members of the court, yellingthat the court had no jurisdiction over them and that they did not have to listen to it. The Freemencalled for a change of venue to "Justus." The judge finally abandoned the arraignment attempt,

and had the court give them written copies of the arraignment while calling for a new attempt totake place with the Freemen watching the proceedings in another room. The surprised reportersand other courtroom audience members discovered what veteran observers of the common lawmovement had known for some time: every courtroom encounter with a "sovereign citizen" or"freeman" had the potential for elaborate courtroom theatrics. To "sovereign citizens," the courtsystem was an illegimate "admiralty" creation, no more valid than a three dollar bill printed inMad Magazine. When brought to court, sovereign citizens often treated the courtroom as arescued cult member might treat his or her family: with a great deal of kicking and screaming. AsSoldier of Fortune Writer Jim Page--who had spent time with the Freemen--noted, theirfanaticism was like a holy war. "Their political philosophy is based on their religiousphilosophy," he explained. "And in that respect, they are very similar to the young man who was

just convicted of murdering the prime minister of Israel. They're similar in the depth of theirconvictions to Hamas." That the Freemen could instill considerable fear could be seen in theactions of County Attorney John Bohlman, who when he heard of the FBI move on the Freemendecided to remove himself and his two small children from his Roundup, Montana, home,fearing Freeman vengeance for the capture of Schweitzer and Skurdal. Indeed, CB scannerspicked up reports suggesting that Freemen would come into Roundup to kill people, althoughnone in fact did.

The feds acted on two sets of federal indictments against the Freemen, both issued in 1995,although many Freemen were wanted on various state charges as well. The first indictment camefrom a Montana grand jury in May 1995, which charged Schweitzer, Peterson, Skurdal, and

Richard and Emmett Clark with: conspiracy to impede government function; conspiracy toprevent by force, intimidation or threats the official duties of U.S. District Judge Jack Shanstrom,U.S. Court Clerk Lou Aleksich, and Garfield Count Sheriff Phipps; threats to assault, kidnap andmurder Shanstrom; and mailing a threatening communication to Shanstrom. A second Montanagrand jury, in December 1995, issued another indictment naming the above five and sevenmore--John McGuire, Cherlyn Bronson Petersen, Agnes Bollinger Stanton, William Stanton,Ebert Stanton, Ralph Clark and Dale Jacobi--with 51 counts of conspiracy to defraud and toobtain money through false pretenses, plus interfering with commerce (for hijacking televisioncamera equipment). McGuire, apprehended out of state, and Stanton, still behind bars, were notin the compound.

With Schweitzer and Peterson behind bars, authorities moved against the remaining Freemen,surrounding the Clark farm. The FBI, however, was taking great pains to insure that whathappened was not a repeat of the notorious 1992 standoff at Ruby Ridge, Idaho. FBI DirectorLouis Freeh consciously decided to eschew earlier military-style tactics. Indeed, the desire toavoid a confrontation appeared to be what made authorities wait nearly two years before takingovert action. The FBI had been gathering information for months, perfecting its case against theFreemen, but was in no hurry actually to apprehend them. During all this time, of course, theFreemen were openly running their fraudulent schemes and threatening public officials like Nick



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Rescue Team, the agents in Montana included behavioral specialists and trained negotiators.Instead of FBI snipers, authorities installed video surveillance cameras on a microwave toweroverlooking the main road leading to the farm. The FBI was aided in this by the fact that theFreemen compound was in an area of high visibility, unlike the heavily wooded area that hadsurrounded Randy Weaver's cabin at Ruby Ridge. The FBI also had extensive eavesdropping

equipment, some of which had been in operation for months. Managing the situation was theFBI's Critical Incident Response Group, which sought to fix three problem areas that plagued theagency at Ruby Ridge and Waco: not enough agents to handle extended standoffs, a lack ofcoordination between tactical agents and hostage negotiators, and confused lines of authority.Indeed, so many FBI personnel appeared in the area that they took up all the hotel rooms inJordan, causing the army of reporters and journalists to engage in a mad scurry for apartments,mobile homes, and hotel rooms in other communities. Heading up the FBI was Robert "Bear"Bryant, an assistant FBI director who in 1988 participated in the Marion, Utah, siege of a groupof armed religious zealots (which had no loss of life). An NBC spokesperson said that the roleplayed by Dennis Franz in the television show "NYPD Blue" was based on Bryant.

Six of the "Justus Townships" residents voluntarily left the ranch after the arrests of Schweitzerand Peterson, leaving about twenty Freemen behind, including several children. Police blockedmedia access to the farm, allegedly fearing violence against journalists. The crowd of lawenforcement officials established an operations center at a county fairgrounds in Jordan,population 450, the seat of Garfield County. The operations center had vehicles, command posttrailers, and even an airstrip. Phone lines to the farm were cut, except for a line set up by the FBIfor family members of those on the farm.

Although few expected the Freemen to surrender immediately, authorities soon went to worktrying to convince the Freemen to come out peacefully. On Tuesday, agents broadcast atelevision appeal, in which U.S. Attorney Sherry Matteucci promised that there would be no

violence or harm done to them. "All of us very much want this situation to be resolvedpeacefully," she said. "I urge them to come in and talk with me, talk with lawyers, talk withwhomever they feel comfortable about this situation. We absolutely intend no harm to thepersons who are on the current property. I assure them that we are doing everything possible tomake certain that a dangerous situation does not develop up here." Also appealing to theFreemen was Sheriff Phipps, who was noticeably more considerate of their safety than they hadbeen of his own. The Freemen were unresponsive.

As many had suspected would be the case, a standoff developed. With the Freemen not onlyunwilling to surrender, but reluctant to negotiate, there was little hope for an early resolution tothe situation; the standoff was likely to become a siege. But the FBI was unwilling to repeat the

1993 Davidian siege. There would be no tight blockade, no high pressure tactics. Theyestablished no boundary or perimeter around the Freemen, instead settling for roadblocks in thearea. The permeability of the dragnet was demonstrated by intrepid reporters who skipped byFBI and Montana Highway Patrol checkpoints to get up to the Clark farm for a look-see. At leastone camera crew working for NBC, exhibiting more intestinal fortitude than intelligence, hadtheir camera equipment confiscated on Wednesday by patrolling Freemen. FBI agents questionedpeople driving to or from the farm, but generally did not stop them. People travelling through thearea were halted and asked to complete a form informing them that they were nearing an area



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"which is considered extremely dangerous due to the presence of persons charged with federaland state crimes" and explaining that people aiding the Freemen could be considered as"accessories after the fact." On Thursday the Freemen themselves blocked the county road infront of their farm with a barbed wire barricade.

Indeed, the siege was more of an embargo than a blockade; the authorities were generally morewilling to let outsiders approach the farm than the Freemen were to let them in. The FBIdiscovered it was difficult even to communicate with the people in the compound, who refused toacknowledge the authority of the federal government. "We are continuing our efforts to talk withthe people on the ranch," said FBI agent Tom Ernst to a French reporter on Thursday. Amazingly,Ernst added that he "would not characterize it as a standoff."

In a related action far away from the standoff in frigid Montana, FBI agents in southernCalifornia served search warrants on the Essex House Hotel, situated in Lancaster, fifty milesnorth of Los Angeles, to search two hotel rooms and one meeting area. The target of the raidswas none other than Elizabeth Broderick, Schweitzer's apt pupil. Broderick ran her two-dayseminars out of the Essex House. Agents carted boxes of computer records and equipment out ofher hotel rooms, and also raided her home. On Wednesday, March 27, federal attorneys in LosAngeles filed a complaint against Broderick and nearly two dozen accomplices, in order to barher from issuing her bogus checks and money orders. Broderick denied that the federalgovernment had any authority over her.

The initial reaction from the so-called "patriot" movement to the move on the Montana Freemenwas mixed. Many militia and common law court members spoke out in favor of the Freeman,predictably comparing their situation to that of Randy Waever or the Branch Davidians. Someclaimed that the action would be the first step in a federal clamp-down on the patriot movement,and predicted future violence or even civil war. Others, realizing the adverse publicity that theMontana Freemen had been garnering, were considerably more cautious. The Tri-States Militia, aloose umbrella group of militia units in a number of states, issued a "press release" condemningthe actions of the Freemen, stating that they find it "insulting and offensive that people who callthemselves members of the patriot community have combined their 'patriotic' activities with aclear attempt to defraud banking institutions and individual citizens through the use of phoney[sic] and/or money orders coupled with force and threats." The Tri-States contrasted the Freemenwith their own, ostensibly "constitutional" militias. The effectiveness of the Tri-States call wasconsiderably reduced in subsequent weeks, when it was revealed during the trial of militiamanRay Lampley in Oklahoma on conspiracy charges that John Parsons, the head of the Tri-States,was in the pay of the FBI. But in fact, the FBI had taken pains to notify a number of militiagroups across the country of imminent action against the Freemen, presumably to try to forestall

any rash actions on the part of the paranoid paramilitary groups.

The Militia of Montana, not only the militia closest geographically to the Freemen but also oneof the most prominent of the paramilitary groups, initially acted very cautiously, feeling its waythrough the webs of public opinion. The Trochmanns told reporters that they sent representativesto the scene to "monitor" the situation and to try to talk to Freeman Dale Jacobi, who used toown a business near M.O.M.'s Noxon, Montana, headquarters. The group issued a press releasetelling other militias to "stand down" and not head to Montana. John Trochmann even went so



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far as to praise the FBI: "I think the FBI has been handling it very patiently. I admire them fortheir patience. And they've had a tremendous amount of pressure from the public, from the locallaw enforcement, and from their superiors in the FBI and the justice department. I think they'recaught between a rock and a hard place, and they're doing the only thing they can do."

However, not all M.O.M. members were as cautious as the Trochmanns. Militiaman Ed Doshcalled the Freemen "good people," and suggested that "If somebody wants to travel from Billingsto Denver, I might tell them one way, you might tell them another. It's just different routes to thesame goal. Our views differ on methodology." When Steve McNeil heard about the siege of theFreemen, he decided to lead a militia caravan to Jordan. Later, McNeil was arrested for showingup at the courtroom where Schweitzer and Peterson were arraigned; another judge had earliermade staying at home a condition of McNeil's release. Had McNeil managed to get his caravangoing, he might have met with a rough reception, because a group of 30 local ranchers formed aposse to stand up to the militias and support the FBI, patrolling the area in their own vehicles,waiting for the militia to show up. "The militias will just pump more hot air into the Freemen,and make it worse," explained a local farmer, Cecil Weeding. "There will be a clash if they get

here. This country is sick and tired of that thing up there, and wants to get it over." But thesheriff's office received telephone threats from militia groups across the country.

Indeed, some prominent militia figures were considerably more eager to support the Freemen,while others, though paying lip service to the fact that the Freemen were wanted for manycrimes, expressed concern about their possible treatment at the hands of federal authorities. Themilitia leader under whom the largest fire was lit was Norm Olson, former commander of theMichigan Militia, the largest of the militia groups in the country. Olson had at times expressedideas nearly identical to those of the Freemen, but perhaps more importantly, the siege at Jordanoffered the militia leader another chance to grab the spotlight, which had been denied him sincehis ouster from leadership after he claimed that the Japanese were responsible for the Oklahoma

City bombing. Olson issued a press release accusing the government of planning thepremeditated murder of the Freemen, along with the complicity of the media. He called formilitia units around the country to converge on Montana as quickly as possible, and hinted thathe himself might show up there. Later he confirmed his intentions by issuing plans for an"Operation Certain Venture." Olson received support for this call to action by the Alabama-basedGadsden Minutemen, led by Jeff Randall. Randall issued his own rallying plea, noting that heneeded "dedicated volunteers," but advised them that "arrest is possible, and the FBI could verywell decide to shoot unarmed civilians." Minuteman founder Mike Kemp made dire predictions,asserting that "there won't be another Waco unanswered. They are pushing us to a confrontation.If the shooting starts, it could get very ugly, very quickly." Kemp argued that there was no reasonto use armed force against the Freemen, who, he asserted, only owed debts. "It's a civil matter,"

he said, ignoring the charges of armed robbery and assaulting a police officer with a deadlyweapon that have been lodged against some of those holed up on the Clark farm, as well as thestate charges.

Operation Certain Venture, according to Olson and Randall, would consist of an unarmed convoyof food, mail and other supplies ("women's necessities," explained Olson) to the MontanaFreemen. Olson suggested that April 19, the anniversary of Waco and the Oklahoma Citybombing, might be a possible day for the convoy to set out, and compared the proposed convoy



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to "a Normandy invasion, a landing on the beach." Indeed, the siege stirred up visions ofapocalypse for the militia leader, whose predictions had become increasingly dire since hisouster, including one during a Detroit radio talk show in early March in which he predicted that acivil war would occur in six to eight weeks. Speaking on the CBS show "Face the Nation" abouthis plans to go to Montana, Olson said that "if this is going to be the place where the second

American revolution finally culminates in war, then it's good for a battlefield commander to bethere to look at the logistics, to look at the needs, and to find out exactly what the situation is onthe ground."

Other "patriot" figures offered differing opinions. Gerry Spence, Randy Weaver's lawyer,complimented the FBI for its restraint. Bo Gritz, the patriot leader who helped to negotiate thesurrender of Randy Weaver, appeared to be positioning himself for another intervention,suggesting that "the longer these people stay within those walls, the more determined they get,"and even condoning the use of armed force against them if necessary. In Idaho, United StatesMilitia Association leader Samuel Sherwood called the Freemen charlatans and rogues. "We'vetold everybody to stay away," he told a reporter. "These people aren't what they are purporting to

be. They are not the innocent victims of oppression." However, members of the "FreemenPatriots," a splinter group at Gritz's patriot commune at Kamiah, Idaho, more radical than theirleader, expressed sympathy for the Montana Freemen and claimed that the standoff at Jordan wassimply a trap, with the Freemen as bait to catch more members of the patriot movement. Theyalso suggested that U.S. Army Special Forces or other military units had been deployed. ThePatriots, led by Ed LeStage, Chad Erickson, Pat Johnson and Michael Cain, announced plans tohold a protest rally at Lewistown, Montana on April 1st, to support the Freemen, and called forall supporters to show up with white ribbons on their car or truck antennas. "We support the God-given right of our Freemen Brothers at Jordan, Montana, to be heard in a righteous constitutionalcourt of law," their call to action read. The Freemen Patriots, who had criticized Gritz forinaction, seemed to find the Montana Freemen more to their liking. Their ability to command

support, however, was virtually nil. On April 1st, only a bare handful of people showed up atLewistown as commanded. Lewistown assistant police chief Bob Long described the scene as"five or six guys out there at a RV park south of town. Right now, there are more newspeople intown than freemen." LeStage explained to reporters that they were in the "early stages of a longrally here," and that he expected 800 people to show up by the end of the week. However,numbers dwindled rather than grew, leading one wag to suggest that they were being called"three men" instead of "freemen."

Meanwhile, judicial proceedings continued against the two captured Freemen. In court onThursday, March 29, Daniel Petersen and LeRoy Schweitzer sat quietly while Judge RichardAnderson read the indictment to them, but when asked to enter pleas, Peterson burst out that he

wanted "you to be an honest person and the rest of these perverts to be honest people." Petersenwas taken to a holding cell to watch the proceedings; Anderson entered "not guilty" pleas ontheir behalf.

Over the weekend, initiative seemed temporarily to shift to local officials and family members ofthe fugitives. Some, like Steve Mangum, a truck driver from Salt Lake City, had traveled longdistances to try to reach the compound. Mangum's former wife, Gloria and his daughter Jaylynnwere among the Freemen. FBI agents warned him not to try to enter the compound, and Mangum



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agreed. He was, however, concerned about the fate of his dauther, whom, he told reporters, "wastaught to hate blacks, taught to hate policemen, [and that] school was evil." Democratic UnitedStates Senator Max Baucus (of Montana) argued that the best way to resolve the conflict was tolet the local residents do it, along with the aid of family members.

Despite all the frictions over the past months, there was still good reason to think that thisstrategy might work. After all, in a small community like Jordan, family ties connected the Clarkfarm fugitives with many people in town. Only two years earlier, Jordan residents had raised$125,000 for a brain tumor operation for Casey Clark. Many families were split by the actions ofthe Freemen. While Ebert Stanton, his wife Val, and their 5-year old daughter Mariah patrolledthe Clark farm perimeter, staring at them from the other side was Tom Stanton, the farmer whohad organized a 25 man posse to storm the Freemen stronghold, before the FBI intervened.Jordan residents circulated a petition to be presented to the Freemen, urging them to come outand guaranteeing they would get a fair trial: "The following friends, neighbors and relatives urgeyou to immediately end this situation. We are concerned for your personal safety and the harmthat may come to others." The FBI over the weekend allowed several individuals to enter the

compound, although they would not identify who those people were. Two vehicles entered theranch on Saturday afternoon, then shortly before dark a pickup with Wyoming license platescarrying four people entered the compound. A network crew with a high-powered camera lenssaw a group of arriving visitors hugging and talking with Freemen in their compound. At leastone of the vistors allowed through was an intermediary sent by relatives of those on the farm.

Authorities were less willing to let others into the compound. On Friday they turned away twomilitiamen from Oregon, heavily armed, who had driven to Montana with groceries for theFreemen. They also turned away two members of a local militia (Gordon Helgerson and KamalaWeb), and Kevin Entzel, the stepson of arrested Freeman Petersen. Entzel hoped to visit hismother, Cherlyn. People wanting to visit the Freemen compound were asked if they were

carrying fuel, groceries, firearms or ammunition; those supplies were confiscated, or the visitorswould not be allowed to proceed. Other militiamen, in twos and threes, also began showing up inthe area, ignoring the calls of John Trochmann to stay away. Two militiamen even managed tobreak through the loose perimeter to join the Freemen. Stewart Waterhouse, a militia leader andfugitive from Oklahoma authorities, along with Barry Nelson, drove a Ford Taurus through aroadblock and on to the perimeter, adding to the number of people holed up on the Clark ranch.More people began to offer their services as intermediaries as well, including Randy Weaver,though the FBI did not leap at such offers.

However, neither petitions nor the pleadings of law enforcement officials could convince theremaining Freemen to give up. Some people speculated that Rodney Skurdal, perhaps the most

violent and radical of the Freemen, was holding the others in line. "It's a pity they didn't getSkurdal," one local lamented, "His proclamations are as heinous and as hate-filled as can be."However, ninety miles away, another Freeman fugitive, Richard Clark, turned himself involuntarily to authorities. Clark had not been on the ranch on the Monday when Schweitzer andPetersen were arrested. When arraigned in federal court on April 1, Clark refused to accept alawyer or to give his name, stating that his name was "private." He also briefly refused to eatfood.



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Also uncompliant were captives Petersen and Schweitzer, neither of whom were inclined in theleast to cooperate with authorites. Indeed, they refused to bathe or change their clothes, whileSchweitzer embarked upon a hunger strike, causing his removal over the weekend to a federaldetention center in Springfield, Missouri, that handled sick prisoners, so that his health could bemonitored. In Palmdale, California, Broderick and her associates were equally stubborn. A court

hearing had been scheduled for April 1 in Los Angeles for a requested injunction of Broderick'scheck-issuing schemes, but the Freemen--Broderick, Adolf Hoch and Laura Marie Hoey--did notshow up. A woman who refused to give any other name than "Myra" appeared in court and saidshe was filing a response to the injunction prepared by Broderick's attorney. Judge WilliamKeller barred Broderick first from filing liens against a postal service employee, then issued asecond injunction against the distribution of her bogus checks. Broderick defiantly continued tohold her seminars (by videotape), though she prudently did not hand out checks. "I am justappalled to think that a federal judge, someone who we're supposed to admire and respect, iscommitting a fraud," Broderick said, butter not melting in her mouth.

Over the second week of the standoff, the Freeman ever-so-slightly softened their stance,

agreeing to negotiations with a small group of state legislators (Democrats Joe Quilici and JohnJohnson; Republicans Karl Ohs and Dick Knox). The negotiators and the Freemen met on April4 and 5 in a mobile home near the ranch house; authorities, it seemed, hoped that they mightconvince the Freemen to surrender on Easter Sunday, April 7, because of the religioussignificance of that holiday. Reporters and television crews, already becoming bored in the tinytown, seized upon this remote chance as a ticket home. The standoff had already become amatter of routine to many: take a look at the Freemen, speak to authorities, speak to localresidents, try to file a story if possible, then get some sleep at whatever dismal place you couldfind a room and a roof. Only the occasional oddball or incident punctuated the routine, such aswhen two country-western disc jockeys from Spokane, Washington, drove into town to erect abig flag saying "We Come in Peace" in view of the Freemen's farm.

On Friday, April 3, the first cracks in the veneer of the Freemen appeared, as two people left theranch: Val Stanton and her small daughter, Mariah. Val was not wanted on any federal or statecharges. A relative of the Stantons predicted that this meant that Ebert and Agnes Stanton wouldalso soon be leaving the compound, and indeed, that turned out to be the case; they left on April6, to be taken into custody after officials blocked a caravan of media vehicles from followingthem. However, the rest of the world was not without cracks itself; as early as April 5, a statesenator, Casey Emerson of Bozeman, a man with ties to the militia movement, advocated seriousconcessions on the part of the government, including offering them money, dismissing some ofthe charges, and allowing them to give a presentation on national television. He also suggestedthat the Freemen be allowed to face a "common law" jury, "so they can get their bitching done."

Other Freemen and militia members across the Northwest also supported the notion of a specialgrand jury for the Freemen. Ohio militiaman Don Vos travelled to Montana to stay with FreemanLyle Chamberlin and monitor the standoff.

Moreover, despite the departure of the Stantons, the negotiations failed. "It's a very, very volatilesituation," legislator Joe Quilici explained on Sunday, April 7. "Right now, I can't be optimistic."Indeed, the Freemen continued to insist on their own government and their own grand jury. TheStantons seemed to have left more because of the intervention of family member Butch Anderson



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than through any talks between the Freemen and authorities. Nick Murnion, one of the mostexperienced hands in dealing with the Freemen, was convinced that a firm approach was needed."The only way negotiating works is if you apply pressure from a position of strength, and theyare not doing that." Murnion wanted, at the very least, to tighten the perimeter, cut off utilities,and prohibit visits from family and friends. Instead, the FBI eased off even more, allowing

Representative Karl Ohs to promise the Freemen a "mechanism whereby their story could beheard." But Jim Pate, the Soldier of Fortune magazine reporter who had managed to visit theFreemen in their compound during the siege, reported that negotiations had failed, that theFreemen were not willing to meet with any federal government officials, and that they werecontent to wait for a long time. Indeed, on April 8, the Freemen posted a press release on theirgate for authorities and media to find which declared the "independence" of Justus Township. "Itshould be further made known to all Men," read the proclamation in typical freemen pseudo-legalese, "that this republic, Justus Township, Montana state, united States of America, soaffirmed in Law is NOT that de facto fiction, the corporation, incorporated in London, Englandin the year of Yeshua, the Christ, eighteen hundred seventy-one, A.D., the United States, acorporation, so defined as their own Title 28 U.S.C. 3005 (A)(15)."

In the meantime, the siege was quiet. The children of the Freemen played in their compound,while the Freemen themselves patrolled the perimeter less, though they did post a notice askingthat the media stay a half-mile away. The FBI leisurely monitored the Freemen, at a cost thatlocal officials estimated at $300,000 per day. The FBI maintained the checkpoints and severalcommunications outposts. The media also kept watch the Freemen, from a distant ridge, evenbringing porta-potties to make the vigil more bearable. The few supporters of the Freemen triedto win people over to their cause; two of them, Warren Stone and Steve McNeil, even tried tohold a press conference, which mostly consisted of the two radicals accusing the media of lying.In Oregon, which had some Freemen problems of its own, Wasco County extremists warned thatthe standoff could end in violence. Some militia leaders, such as Ray Looker of the West

Virginia-based Mountaineer Militia, threatened violence if the FBI tried to take the compound byforce. In mid-April a group of twenty militia leaders from a dozen different states issued a fieryproclamation stating that the activities of the FBI were "unlawful" and that any injury or loss oflife would be considered by the militia "an act of war," following which they would "no longerrestrain our brethren."

But the most vocal person continued to be Norm Olson, who suggested that the "secondAmerican revolution" might break out at Jordan and that he might be its battlefield commander."People like Don Vos, myself and a host of others who might be called hard-line represent theworst possible nightmare--the loosing of the dogs of war," the Michigan militiaman said. Olson,after promising for some time to travel to Montana, finally showed up in mid April, dressed in

military fatigues and accompanied by sidekick Roy Southwell and attorney Scott Bowman,announcing to reporters that he planned to bring the children of the Freemen a teddy bear. Heappeared at the FBI

Documents

The Rise and Fall of the Montana Freemen