 
They Weave the Spider's Web

By Evedine L. Lane

Copyright © 1997, 2014 by Evedine L. Lane All rights reserved

Revised for digital distribution.

Published by V. L. Ruby at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed as a free publication. If you would like to share this book with another person, please return to your favorite retailer and obtain another copy.

***

_"Daddy"_ Copyright © 1989 by M. L. Lane. Reprinted with permission.

***

Deception is a profane power, brilliant and flashing. Like a spider's web, its power is a shining illusion, gossamer thin, leading the unwary to their ultimate destruction.

Deception. It does have appeal!

Sometimes for many of us it takes trials and tribulations for the truth to break through, for true knowledge to shine clearly on what is real, wise, important, loving, and truly kind.

They Weave the Spider's Web is not a tale of woe. In spite of hardships, heartbreaks, and seemingly futile battles against injustice, it is a story of adventure, a fight of truth against lies: a triumph!

Living it, the author and her husband learned increasingly the power of the Living Truth; that Truth is indeed God, all-powerful, indestructible, eternal.

On that they came to rely.

For Waldemar

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1: BEFORE THE BEGINNING

Chapter 2: NORTH TO ALASKA

Chapter 3: THE DEAL

Chapter 4: LAWYERS AND LIARS

Chapter 5: IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR

Chapter 6: NO MAN IS AN ISLAND

Chapter 7: HOME TO MONTANA

Chapter 8: SHEOL

Chapter 9: NOT IN MY JURISDICTION

Chapter 10: POWERS AND PRINCIPALITIES

Chapter 11: LIFE GOES ON

Chapter 12: TAX FILINGS – OR NOT

Chapter 13: HANDCUFFS AND CHAINS

Chapter 14: ARREST AND TRIAL

Chapter 15: JAIL

Chapter 16: NO CHASING LIES

Chapter 17: ALL IN THE FAMILY

Chapter 18: DISORDERED CONDUCT

Chapter 19: A PREVAILING WALL

Chapter 20: A WEDDING

Chapter 21: STAY TUNED

Chapter 22: A QUESTION OF COMPETENCY

Chapter 23: ROYAL TREATMENT

Chapter 24: LEXINGTON

Chapter 25: EXAMINATION

Chapter 26: JOURNEY HOME

Chapter 27: VERDICT

Chapter 28: SPIRIT OF FREEDOM

Chapter 29: SENTENCED

Chapter 30: A DIFFERENT FIGHT

Chapter 31: OUR WEAKNESS, HIS STRENGTH

Chapter 32: SEIZURE

Chapter 33: GOD WILL GRANT THE VERY BEST

About the Author

Contact the Author

# PROLOGUE

I don't remember when I met my husband-to-be. Among my earliest recollections is an occasion years ago when I was working as a secretary for the Farmers Home Administration in Plentywood, Montana. Waldemar and his first wife lived on his farm thirteen miles northeast of town and had come into my office on business. They had been shopping and their two little girls were hot, tired, restless. Cute toddlers, one had her dad's dark good looks; the other was blonde, resembling her attractive mother. I gave each a stick of gum.

I am struck by the unpredictability of life. I look back over the memorable years of my marriage and marvel. That day in the office I had no idea of the things to come.

I feel that many people are of the opinion that if Waldemar and I could have lived our lives over, we'd have done things differently. But we wouldn't have. We often agreed in the latter years that in spite of all we had gone through, we weren't hurt. God had been with us every step of the way. We were blessed.

Had we known what our actions would lead to, however, very likely we would never have dared take the stands we took. Jail. Imprisonment. The loss of farmland, mineral rights, bank accounts, real estate, an automobile. Public humiliation. Misjudgment on the part of friends, neighbors, relatives.

My husband is gone now. He died of a heart attack early on the morning of June 7, 1989. Waldemar went to his grave without getting the "justice for all" promised by our government. Yet my prayers go on. Through our struggles and stand for truth and right, we learned more and more of God's love and power. He is in control. Scripture tells us "there is nothing hidden that will not be revealed." My hope is that I will see justice in my life-time but I know that God's timing and purposes are for the best whatever and whenever they may be.

# ONE: BEFORE THE BEGINNING

We started dating in June 1954, a couple of years after Waldemar's divorce. By then his ex-wife had remarried and was living in Arkansas. The girls were with her in the summer; with him through the school year. On our first date he told me he had just returned them to their mother. As soon as they were back in the fall, he brought them to see me. Cute, energetic, with bubbly personalities, Carla was then nine years old and Marbea, not yet eight.

We were married on March 17, 1957, in the Lutheran Church in Comertown where I had grown up. Both Waldemar's parents and mine had come to the rolling plains of northeastern Montana in the early years of this century, raising large families through first the good years of farming and then the dry, dusty years of the Depression.

There had been many coincidences and similarities in our lives. Both sets of parents had started married lives just across the line in Canada and had moved down to Montana with small children. My parents settled in Comertown in 1919, buying land adjacent to the town. Waldemar's grandparents and their three daughters had emigrated from Germany to Canada, where on December 2, 1900, his parents and an uncle and aunt were married in a double wedding ceremony. The husbands were also German immigrants. By 1910 all of that family had moved to Montana and settled on homesteads close together in an area soon to be dubbed, "Dutch Valley." Waldemar's mother and my dad had both died at the age of sixty-four.

There were times when Waldemar, in his early teens, had driven cattle to the stockyard in Comertown, seven miles north of Dutch Valley, to be shipped east. He told me that one of those times he'd noticed the bunch of ragtag kids climbing on the stockyard's wooden enclosure. In Comertown all the kids hung out wherever there was any action and I had been among them, one of the ragtags he remembered seeing that long ago day.

When Waldemar was in his late teens he felt that there was a stigma attached to people of German descent so he had his name changed legally from Steinke to Lane. Because of his black hair, friends nicknamed him Blackie, a name that stuck with him all his life even after his hair had turned to grey.

Waldemar remodeled the old farm house the winter before we were married. He had been born in that house on February 6, 1917, the eighth in a family of nine children. His brother Paul, two years older, farmed with him. Waldemar had bought his parents' land and buildings and also additional land till he owned about 1200 acres of crop and pasture land. Paul rented land nearby. The two brothers got along great, with Paul often in the field as Waldemar kept machinery repaired. By necessity farmers must be jacks-of-all-trades. The farm equipment was kept on our farmstead; welding and shop equipment were shared.

Paul lived in town that first summer of our marriage and their dad, a widower, lived with him. In the fall Grandpa took the train to Seattle to live with his daughter Helen and her husband.

By the next summer I was pregnant with our first child. A "New Year's baby," my doctor predicted. The fall of 1958 came with a scanty harvest. We'd had hail again. "That's six years out of the last seven," Waldemar told me. Farmers, though, learn to accept such set-backs, always hopeful for a better "next year".

I was obsessed with impatience, waiting for my baby to be born. Would it be on Marbea's birthday December 15th; my mother's December 22nd? Christmas? But those days went by and New Year's Day arrived with still no labor pains. A blizzard was raging, an almost whiteout; snow swirling in cold below zero weather. In spite of the weather, or rather because of it, I was determined to get into Plentywood to stay with my brother Larry and his wife Bonita. I dared not wait to risk traveling the country roads after labor pains would start. Waldemar and our neighbor, Oluf Petersen, drove me to town. When we'd reached the highway, a mile from home, we found roads blocked, traffic stopped. We went home and later tried again. This time the snow plow had come and we made it through.

Our baby girl, Vicki Dawn, was born eight minutes after midnight on January 7th, 1959. The doctor wrapped the precious newborn in blankets and took her out to her proud father and Uncle Larry waiting in the lobby. "She looks like a Swede," the doctor said with a smile, aware that Waldemar often kidded me about my Swedish heritage. She was indeed a darling little towhead.

As soon as Larry got home and had told Bonita the news, he called Seattle. My widowed mother had moved there by then, as had two of my sisters and a brother. He'd had their instructions to "call whenever it happens, day or night". We were a family of four sisters and two brothers. The oldest, twins, Alice and Doris, had been born in Canada in November 1918; Glen was born in Comertown in January 1920. My birth was in January 1922; June's in June 1924; and Larry's in March 1926. My parents had a rough time raising six scrapping kids during the depression but when we were grown we were a close-knit family.

In 1959 the government started a new program for farmers called, "Soil Bank". We signed up, planted our cropland to grass, fenced it, and then planned what we would do for the next ten years. We were to get $5,000 per year under the program. Mom and my sister Alice paid us a visit that summer. I had lived in Seattle during World War II and again later, but the climate had not agreed with me. We didn't think we wanted to go there but Alice changed our minds. "Besides," Waldemar told me, "My Pa and your Ma are there". So Seattle it was.

Seattle was a challenge to Waldemar. A jack-of-all-trades on the farm, he now needed to choose a single trade to support his family. He picked floor covering, almost on a whim, having laid linoleum in the new kitchen of our farmhouse. With his meager experience he found the skill more difficult than he'd expected. The wages were good, however, and he stuck with it.

The greatest blessing of all in our time in Seattle happened on the evening of May 28, 1961, when our son, Jack Wade, was born. After three daughters, Waldemar was delighted that his fourth child was a boy.

The winter of 1963 – 1964 I had a long, bad siege of asthma, an illness I have battled all my life. In the spring we reluctantly put the house up for sale and made plans to move back to Montana. We bought a house in Great Falls where Larry and Bonita were then living. By that time they had five children. It was wonderful having our two young families living close together with a chance of getting better acquainted. Waldemar again got work in floor covering. We were there just one year, however, when adventure beckoned us.

In June, Waldemar and a friend made a trip to Alaska, investigating the work situation there. He liked what he found and returned to get the family. Renting out the house, we pulled up stakes and headed north. Thus it was in that snow-covered land at the top of the world that our education was about to begin.

# TWO: NORTH TO ALASKA

Going to Alaska had been a dream that my husband had held since his teenage years. He told me that in the Thirties he had heard of people heading for that northland, hoping to homestead and seek their fortune and that's what he wanted to do. We had been married eight years when he decided it was time for him to live his dream.

When we arrived on August 17, 1965, tired, unemployed, I wondered if we had made a mistake. After the first night in a boarding house in a beautiful location at the foot of a mountain near Palmer, Alaska, I awoke with a bout of Asthma. The fog hung heavy, seemingly held in place by the mountain. I cried in despair. Far from home, with two little children, no job and a climate that did not seem to agree with me.

After some discussion we decided that we would go to Anchorage and if it was foggy there, we'd go on to Fairbanks, hopeful that the climate away from the bay would be better. My lungs did improve as we traveled on. Soon, to my relief and delight, we came in sight of Anchorage, a little city positioned in bright sunlight. The climate would be OK! We'd stay there. All would be well.

It did seem that way at first. Waldemar checked with the Floor Coverer's Union and immediately got a job. By mid-morning we also had an apartment. We settled in and that fall Vicki started first grade. For the first six months or so work was plentiful. Anchorage was still rebuilding after the devastating Good Friday earthquake of the previous year.

In December we got a wild idea about investing in property there. We still had three Soil Bank payments coming and were sure we could get an advance on that from our hometown bank for the down payment. Yes, we were foolish! In our forties we thought the world was our oyster, that we could find our pearl. We got in touch with real estate agents and drove around looking at rental properties. Then, answering an ad in the paper, we contacted a Bert F. Kellogg and made an appointment to look at his two new duplexes. We waded through deep snow to reach the buildings, liked what we saw and began to negotiate.

Mr. Kellogg had a loan with the Alaska Mutual Savings Bank and it was there that we went to discuss the matter. Mr. Earl Miller, a vice president of the bank, was also from Montana, a fact that made for conversation. He understood that in Montana our twelve hundred acres was no big deal. There, because of the little rain we got, cropland had to be strip cropped, half of the land put in crop each year, the other half summer fallowed. When I was working for the Farmers Home Administration, two sections was considered to be a "family-sized unit."

It was touch and go for us to be able to buy the property but negotiations went ahead. Miller told us that the bank and Kellogg had worked over the loan, dividing the figures in the event that he would be selling the duplexes separately. We wanted both, however, and we eventually took over the existing loan. We were assured that the loan was at eight per cent interest and the length of the term was twenty-five years.

As soon as we'd agreed on the matter and signed the earnest paper, Mr. Kellogg urged us to move right in, even before the deal was finalized. We did that, being anxious to be in our own place before Christmas. The fireplace screens were not yet installed nor were there any drapes. This posed a problem for us in getting tenants. Then another problem arose. We had agreed to take over Kellogg's loan and also pay him on a side note for two years. In March Kellogg insisted that we owed him interest going back to the date of the loan, June 2, 1965, in addition to the amount we had agreed upon in writing.

We hired an attorney, James N. Wanamaker, and Kellogg had his attorney, David Pree. Though both lawyers explained to Kellogg that he was wrong, he angrily objected. That would have been a good opportunity for us to back out of the deal and we should have. By then construction work in Anchorage had fallen off and it looked like hard times were ahead. However, we felt obliged to keep our bargain and we did.

That was when we first met Attorney David Pree, who was to figure in our lives very much in the coming years. I recall him as a squat man, easily vexed, red of face when frustrated or angered. Waldemar and I both empathized with his secretary that day but were amused too. Pree called to her in another room, asking for an eraser. She seemed intimidated by the man and we heard her ask timidly, "An eraser with a pencil on it?" Pree's face reddened and he angrily retorted, "Yes, with a pencil on it!"

We closed the deal and made our home in one unit of the two duplexes, renting out the other three. We enrolled Vicki in her new school, got acquainted with neighbors, became involved in the normal activities of church and community.

Then our lives were changed.

# THREE: THE DEAL

January 13, 1967, might not be a day that will live on in infamy, but for us that day was the beginning of a new life. From then on we called it "Deal Day," our "anniversary," and celebrated it annually by eating out at a nice restaurant or night club. It was our secret, few people knowing that we were celebrating anything. We didn't hide the fact but we didn't announce it either. People thought we were nuts anyway, why add to their confusion?

By that date reality was setting in swiftly as we came to realize that we actually hadn't been very bright in investing in those duplexes. One day after Waldemar had been to a doctor on some minor problem, he wisecracked that the wrong part of him had been checked. "It's my head where the problem is! That's what should have been examined."

In our conversations we discussed mental pictures of ourselves below water, our hands held above, signaling for help. We wrote to Paul and asked him to sell a certain cow for us, but Paul refused. He wrote back that the time was not right. His next letter contained the unfortunate news that the cow had since suddenly died.

It did seem that all our married life had been like a financial roller coaster. When things went well, everything clicked and we were in the chips. On the ride down, nothing worked out for us. Maybe that's why we could laugh. This was merely the down ride?

Also we had our dreams and these we had fun comparing. I envisioned a movie company finding our duplexes to be just what they wanted as background for an Alaskan movie. Waldemar said he could "see" the Tyonek Indians, an oil-rich Alaskan tribe, having a special interest in our location.

Neither of us could have imagined what actually did happen. We were in for an education that money could not buy; an education that would cause us to lose our naiveté, our awe for title: Judge, Lawyer, Preacher, Banker. We would soon learn what the word "System" meant in both theory and reality. Most of all and dearest to our hearts, we were about to learn the meaning of the word TRUTH and its power.

When my son had been born prematurely the doctor would not give me any pain killer except a little gas. He said in premature births the welfare of the baby had to be of first consideration. The gas did not take away my awareness of what was happening, nor did it remove the pain. What it did seem to do was put me above the pain on an objective level. I thought in effect, "OK, it hurts. So what?"

Waldemar and I were to fasten on to the truth in such a manner. We were to go through persecution, injustice, ridicule and anger but we were to find that with the help of God, we could take it. It had its purpose!

Our battle became not for ourselves and our own welfare so much as it was a battle for truth and justice. This was a difficult concept for some to understand. Money was a god many people believed in and our actions looked foolish in their eyes. If bowing and groveling was what it took to save our money and freedom, that's what we should do, they advised.

The dreams we had confessed to each other were just that – fun talk – but there WAS financial hope for us that January 13th. Near Comertown an oil well was being drilled on land owned by my mother. This gave a bit of substance to our dreams; just a smattering, but we glommed on to it.

Like the Tyonek Indians, we too would soon be wealthy? Mom would surely share her money with us? Waldemar mentioned it to the banker one day. "Well," Mr. Miller joked, "I suppose the next time I see you, you'll be wearing a diamond stickpin in your lapel".

Back in Seattle Mom was suddenly the center of attention. My family called her the "Rich Oil Widow" and her sons-in-law curried her favor. "Coffee, Dina? Let ME get it for you". Everybody had fun in the anticipation.

Still, ahead of us was reality. We seriously considered what we should do about our situation. Should we put the duplexes up for sale and go home? In checking through our loan papers, we made a discovery. The repayment schedule was missing.

Waldemar called the bank and argued with the clerk who told him that it was not the bank's policy to let the borrower have that schedule. That did not make sense. Another voice came on the line, also female. Finally, "Well, alright. I'll put it in the mail today."

We received the schedule on January 13, 1967, along with a letter from my sister Alice regarding the oil well. We had been waiting for both. The news from Alice was disappointing. The well was plugged. There was to be no diamond stickpin in Waldemar's lapel then or ever. We could handle that. We'd had our fun and excitement, our hopes and dreams, and they had been pleasant. Maybe next time?

It was the bank's schedule that shook us. It was for FORTY-YEARS instead of the twenty-five year term which the bank had represented it to be! They had lied to us and soon we were to find out more. The loan was illegal. Alaska State Law prohibited loans on any real estate smaller than a fourplex for a period of more than twenty-five years. THAT was why we'd been lied to.

Immediately we called the bank. Earl Miller responded. "You would hit me with this one today – on Friday the 13th!" Feigning surprise that the loan was of forty years duration, he was the one who told us that it was illegal. He said he would check on it and get back to us. The bank now had a problem and when Miller didn't call back, we got on the phone later and again called him. This time he "explained" that a clerk in the bank "must have flipped the pages in a book to the wrong schedule." The loan would now have to be rewritten to comply with the law, he said, and we'd therefore have to pay about $50 more each month.

That demand was not legal. We not only could not afford it but the bank had wronged us, not the other way around. The law was on our side, not the bank's. We told them we were entitled to the package deal as it had been represented to us and that they were obligated to re-write the loan to accommodate both us and the law. Our request was a just one and we were soon to learn it was more than fair.

We went back to the attorney we had retained when we bought the property.

Attorney Wanamaker opened a law book and showed us the Alaska State Law prohibiting the loan in question. He should have done that in the first place! He should have caught the deception and advised us legally. We had paid his fee, trusting in his intelligence and integrity.

Then, to our amazement and anger, Wanamaker said there was nothing he could do about the fraud, that the crime involved was trivial, "like stealing a pencil". He insisted that we would have to make the increased payments or suffer foreclosure. We paid him his fee and left. Now we understood on which side his bread was buttered!

The next attorney we consulted was J. R. McCarrey, Jr., who told us that courts were inclined to favor banks. This was (he said) because banks are quasi-public institutions and for the sake of the economy it is necessary that people trust them. (A deceptively clever and illegal excuse)

However, Attorney McCarrey did want to help us and he was sure his former clerk, William A. Hilton, then living in California, would research the law if we were willing to pay him $100. We gave Attorney McCarrey our check for the $100 and he assured us that Mr. Hilton would do a good job. And he did!

When McCarrey received the briefing, he called us into his office. Before giving it to us, he cut the signature off, explaining that Hilton didn't have "jurisdiction" in Alaska. After a detailed listing of the facts, Hilton had written, "A court will not enforce a breach of contract which is void, but will leave the parties where it finds them. It is clear from the foregoing that the bank is without right to enforce its note or foreclose its trust deed (Mortgage).

Here was an honest man, but one who (like us) naively trusted the courts of our land to uphold the truth and enforce the laws. The duplexes were legally OURS. By their violation of law and misrepresentation of fact, the bank had forfeited its rights. Now that the truth had been confirmed in writing, our problem was to try to get the law enforced. Attorney McCarrey told us that "illegality taints everything it touches." With our briefing in hand, he told us that he would like to help us, "but I am alone and the bank has the best attorneys in Alaska. They would ruin me." He said that the only way we could get justice would be if the matter got into the hands of someone in power with an axe to grind. This was America? We were learning fast.

A few days later McCarrey called with the information that he had contacted another attorney who would join him in our defense. We hurried to the office of Attorney Renfrew, who quickly gave us a sermon on "reality". Yes, the property was ours legally but according to reality we would have to settle for something less. For a contingency fee, he and Attorney McCarrey would get us the package deal that had been represented to us, he said.

We pointed out that we'd tried to get that on our own and had been refused by the bank. NOW they would give it to us, Renfrew assured us. He said that if we took them to court, they would simply say that someone had flipped the pages of a book and had chosen the wrong schedule by mistake. We realized he was right about that because Miller had told us that himself.

By that time we had written several letters to officials to no avail. If it was reality we were up against, we'd go with it but we'd still like to have a little time to think it over, we said. "Yes," McCarrey encouraged us, "Think it over." His partner pretended to agree. "Yes, think it over – but don't take too long."

We went home and talked about it. Realizing what we were up against, two little cogs in the machinery against a bank's fraud and all the powers behind it, we decided we would hire the attorneys. I inserted paper in my typewriter and was about to write the letter letting them know of our decision.

Suddenly it hit us – both at the same time: "Flipped the pages of a book!" Where did Renfrew get those precise words? We checked our letters to and from officials, copies of which we had provided the lawyers. Had that statement been mentioned in any of them? No! The whole thing became like an open book, all doubt and indecision gone. Renfrew had made a deal with the bank! We wanted nothing more to do with him. Waldemar hurried to McCarrey's office to get our file. "Did Renfrew talk to the bank?" McCarrey froze, then denied it. Bribery is a serious offense and he knew it.

# FOUR: LAWYERS AND LIARS

We knew very little about government officials and their responsibilities but friends gave us clues. Neighbors we talked to gave advice. We wrote to the State Bank Examiners and got no help there. A letter to the District Attorney evoked a subtle threat. The Bar Association dodged the issue. Someone told us that we should contact the Title Insurance Company. "This is their job. They should fight the battle for you." Title Insurance had sounded great but put to the test, there was no protection given. We learned that what officials and lawyers SHOULD do and what they WOULD do were two different things. The image was touted; the reality disdained.

We had not realized how naive we were when we started writing our letters. In our discussions we talked about how the bank would be squirming now that we had "squealed" on them. We almost felt guilty for being tattle tales. But we soon learned that there was a Mutual Protection Society in effect against us. Getting no local or state help, we started writing to Federal officials, including the Justice Department, Senators, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, all in vain. We found Stonewalling firmly established, no breakthrough allowed. The System, we found, went all the way to the top or, more accurately, that's where it had its headquarters.

Letters we received from officials stunned us with their illegal suggestions. Several of them, clearly indicating behind-the-scenes agreement, said that the bank would probably alter their books to show a twenty-five-year loan, accept our scheduled payments and then, at the end of that period of time, subject us to the balance, fifteen years of payments all at once: a balloon payment. This, the letters said, would bring the bank into "compliance with law". We were expected to believe this was legal advice, coming as it did from officials. There were times when the responses we got were evasive telephone calls. We immediately confirmed such conversations in letters to them.

We kept copies of all letters we sent and received and our files grew! When we realized our correspondence was becoming dog-eared from much handling, we started keeping duplicate files. We wanted to keep the originals in prime shape. Maybe someday they would be published?

In the spring of 1967 while we were discussing the "deal" one day, I was standing at the sink washing dishes, my back to Waldemar. We were pondering what we should do next when Waldemar suddenly exclaimed, "We're not making any more payments!" I was stunned. His voice was firm and positive, excluding all argument. We were in the right, but could we stand up against the protected power of the bank? "We can't do that," I said. "We've got to get the government on our side first." Then instantly, like a bolt from the blue, enlightenment hit me. I pulled my hands from the dish water, turned and faced him. "You are right! We'll stop payments." The thought that had come to me surely and truly was this: Right is right no matter who denies it. With truth and law on our side, we don't need permission from anybody to stand on it.

We stopped payments and wrote the bank accordingly. Truth is an indestructible power and we knew it. When Christ proclaimed himself to be the Way, the Truth, and the Life, he meant exactly that. His words are not just a figure of speech. They are reality. Corruption is an illusion, temporary. Truth is eternal.

Looking back now, I realize it was at this point in our "deal" that public opinion turned against us. Our action in obeying God instead of "government" was incomprehensible to the public in general. American "Freedom and Justice for All" had been drilled into all of us from the time we started school. People did not want to believe corruption was king in America. Waldemar and I had not wanted to believe it either.

The bank's attorneys, Hughes, Thorsness and Lowe, replied to our letter by threatening us with foreclosure. Confident that they had the System on their side, they trusted that the law would be brushed aside, their stand upheld. In May Attorney David Pree wrote to us and to our tenants, saying that Kellogg was taking over the property and all rents were to be paid to him. The letters had been hand-delivered by a man who did not identify himself. Pree must have been wary of using the United States mails for his illegal attempted "take over." His crime was deliberate; but even crooks often cower in the face of truth!

Then somebody told us about a black woman lawyer who was reputed to be a fighter. That was something different, we thought. We'd give it a try. We made an appointment and paid her the requested $500 retainer fee. We were to find out that neither color nor gender made any difference. I would say that hiring Attorney M. Ashley Dickerson had been another mistake, but again: "All things work together for good for those who love the Lord." I still believe everything that happened was meant to be.

Dickerson had an assistant, a clerk by the name of Ronald Tippitts, who we mistakenly thought was an attorney too. Both of them "explained" to us the difference between theory and reality. In theory we were supposed to get justice against a bank, but this was not reality, they said. They came up with a number of arguments to prove their point. Mr. Tippitts had come from Oregon. Maybe there they would enforce the law, he said, but not in Alaska. He made it sound as though law enforcement was merely a matter of geography. He also made the statement that some lawyers were so good that they could prove in court that a lie was the truth and vice versa. Stupidly he added his opinion that the bank's lawyers were that "good". That's what we were up against, he told us. Thus Attorney Dickerson and her assistant tried to prepare us for defeat to get us to do the bank's bidding. For that we had paid her $500!

We always hoped there would be breakthrough somehow. The Bible assured us that "suddenly in an instant" the wicked would be broken beyond healing. We waited for that to happen, but it didn't in Waldemar's lifetime. Even so to this day I am glad that we handled the matter with trust in God in disregard of the threats and persecution. I rejoice in the many blessings God had given us in Waldemar's lifetime and which he continues to give me now. Justice will happen, I know, but in God's own good time.

Perhaps my husband is now receiving the promises of God that we read about and discussed so much in our time together. First Corinthians 2:9, "But as it is written, eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him." In Isaiah we read, "None calleth for justice, nor any pleadeth for truth: they trust in vanity, and speak lies; they conceive mischief, and bring forth iniquity. They hatch cockatrice's eggs, and weave the spider's web: he that eateth of their eggs dieth, and that which is crushed breaketh out into a viper."

As the years went on and our battles increased, many people were to suggest that we write a book. Referring to our files of letters to and from lawyers, government agencies and officials, we would reply: "It is written." The title, we agreed, should be, "They Weave the Spider's Web". We talked of how hard it would be to write a narrative to go with the correspondence. My brother Glen said we should get someone to do it who knew how to write. I told him that no one could write this book except we who lived it. It would have to be accurate!

While still in Alaska, we had kept our relatives in the lower forty-eight states posted on our battles. They offered their advice, believing that banks and lawyers could not get away with anything evil here in America. As the matter went on, however, and our letters to officials got quite bold, Glen joked, "When it gets too hot for them in Alaska, they'll be leaving." In truth, we weren't as brave as we wanted to be. Never before had we taken on people in government, calling them on their lies and illegal suggestions. We did get a little squeamish.

That wasn't why we left Alaska when we did though. Construction work had slacked off considerably after the rush of rebuilding following the earthquake. Waldemar was often out of work and our finances were tight. We had begun to think of leaving the state even before that fateful January 13th. However, once our legal battles had begun we did not know whether we could leave. For several months we batted ideas back and forth. Should we try to sell, stay until this problem was straightened out, or simply pack up and go?

As was so often the case, when Waldemar finally made a decision, we took action immediately. My sister Doris and her husband Alf were planning their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary celebration in the Seattle area on June 11th. All my family would attend. Just days before that date, we decided we would have to be there. On June 7th, 1967, we hired one of our tenants, Leo D. Chambers, to manage our property and also to clean our apartment after our departure. The next day about noon, after much hectic packing, we were on our way, heading to Seattle.

Because of the mess we left I'm sure it did look like we'd left Alaska in front of bullets. Butter and dishes were left on the kitchen table after a hasty snack. Waldemar had given me orders that I was not to pack anything lighter than a feather if we could get along without it. Once he grabbed and threw on the floor something I'd thought was vital. I've forgotten what the item was so he must have been right about its lack of importance. Even so our station wagon was well filled and we had a loaded rack on the top.

As we stopped at a gas station, we were both amused when we saw Bert F. Kellogg on the grounds, casually walking in our direction, a cigar in his mouth. Suddenly he became aware of us. He took in the loaded down station wagon, pulled the cigar from his mouth, and stood stock still. The last mental picture we had of Kellogg in Alaska was of him standing, mouth open, staring in surprise.

# FIVE: IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR

Free at last! That's the way we felt when we had driven over the twelve hundred graveled miles of the Al-Can highway and were again back on pavement in Canada. We had left Alaska and its problems behind and were heading for Seattle. The day, June 11, 1967, was beautiful and our mood serene.

Awaiting us in Seattle was the family reunion. When we left on June 8th, we still hoped we might make it to the party but we didn't. We missed it by one day, arriving on June 12th. Still, we did get in on the family gathering.

Also there were two new houses for us to see and in which to visit. Since we had left Seattle in 1964, Doris and Alf had sold their huge rambling old house and bought a one-story modern home in a nice new residential area, Maple Wood, near Renton. Behind the house was "country," There were vacant lots rambling down to the Cedar River, beyond which was a high hill. A few years later they also bought the land between the house and river, referring to it as their "north forty." Twice they entertained for the Sheridan County, Montana, picnic. This was an annual get-together of a hundred or so Seattle area residents who had moved there through the years from "back home."

Alice and Mom had also bought a new house together, a wood and brick structure with three bedrooms on the main floor and a huge recreation room complete with a second fireplace in the basement. By the time we got there, Glen had moved in with them. A carpenter by trade, he had divided the recreation room into two spacious rooms, one of which he used for his own bedroom. He had also built a garden house in the back yard.

It was in Mom's house that we stayed until we found a house to rent a month later. Waldemar went back to work and in the fall we enrolled the kids in school. Vicki was then in third grade and Jack in first. They had to walk several blocks to Daniel Bagley Elementary School, going through an underpass to cross busy Aurora Avenue.

Marbea soon joined us and enrolled in the University of Washington after having taken a couple of years off from college to work. A year later she married a service man. They went to Japan where he was stationed and in August 1970, she gave birth to twin sons. Carla had also gotten married and had a son, born in November, 1964. We were grandparents.

The "deal" continued after we left Alaska. Though we had hired a manager and retained an attorney, following the "rules," we still had not gotten justice. By letters and telephone conversations we learned that on our departure, Kellogg and Pree had immediately gone to our duplexes and taken over with no interference by our attorney. They must have taken courage from the fact that we'd left in haste, leaving so much behind. No doubt they concluded that we were running scared and were ready to give up the fight. Attorney Pree had once been described to us as being like a bulldog. "When he gets his teeth into something, he never lets go." Now his fear of the truth and law must have been diminished; his faith in the System restored.

We learned that our manager, Leo Chambers, had been harassed and charges had been brought against him in court. His wife was hospitalized with hives brought about by stress. It would seem that the "stealing of a pencil" had turned into a mountain of fraud and persecution. By fighting for law enforcement, we were made to look like criminals while the guilty were treated as the law.

Our manager wrote that he'd been forced to remove our furniture from our apartment and the tenants had been ordered to pay rent to Kellogg. What was our attorney doing all this time? She was following the rules of the System!

We instructed Chambers to sell our household goods and keep half of whatever he got but we never heard from him again. We believed that he had been convinced by Dickerson and officials that we had been in the wrong. Indeed we were already getting that kind of feedback from friends and even relatives. We had stopped payment! We were not law-abiding! We had to pay our dues like everybody else. Now we had a new battle on our hands: Public opinion.

That is the way criminal injustice works. It starts a chain reaction in which crime is piled on crime, lie is piled on lie, with deception posing as law and more and more people caught in its web.

Attorney Dickerson filed a "cause" in the court. Then she wrote us that because we were not in Alaska, the court had ruled that before the suit could proceed, we had to either sign an affidavit that we would return to that state to live or we had to post a $2,000 bond. We refused to play the game. The law had been violated and we were the victims of fraud. We would neither post bond nor return to Alaska. Now we had learned something else about corruption in our courts. The Twist. It works like this: "Treat crime as civil and put the burden on the victims."

Soon Mrs. Dickerson wrote that because we had not been there beside her, she had not been able to prevent the court from foreclosing on our property, a deliberate lie. Months after the reported foreclosure, we got a letter from the State Farm Insurance Company regarding insurance we had on the property, revealing it was still ours. We wrote to the insurance company requesting cancellation of our policies and giving them the reason. This created a problem for the bank which dared not allow the property to become uninsured. We had touched a weak spot, insurance.

The State Farm Insurance Company went along with the System. They chose to cater to the bank in spite of the fraud. They could not cancel the policy without the bank's approval, they said. It took considerable correspondence before they were willing to heed our request. The next problem we ran into concerned refund on the cancelled policies. State Farm promised that they would remit it to us. The bank got the money instead. (Or, DID they cancel the policy?)

About that time we got a notice from State Farm Insurance that our automobile liability insurance would not be renewed because of three minor accidents on which we had collected. One of them had been the cost of a child's tricycle left in our driveway into which Waldemar had backed.

On the day that we got the letter from State Farm, I drove toward my mother's house in anger and got involved in an accident. Police said it was technically the fault of the other driver who had hit my car from the left. But we were told it was up to the drivers and their insurance companies to settle the matter. This was my first experience with insurance agents and their reports. I was gullible and caught off guard when I was advised not to "stick my neck out". In other words, don't tell the truth. Before the accident, I had been angry and not as careful as I should have been and felt I was partly to blame. I signed the paper on the agent's advice. How easily deceived I was! Insurance companies (I've heard) tell their clients even in writing to never admit blame.

Later that day our neighbor told us that State Farm Insurance agents had been at her house asking questions about us. They told her that we had applied for insurance which we hadn't. Crime breeds crime.

Insurance, we realized, is sold under the guise of Security. Instead it makes huge profits, gaining powerful influence over the masses by selling FEAR. At our new awakening we no longer worried about the big "What If." We wrote to State Farm and requested the cancellation of all our policies.

After that we read with new understanding about the evils brought on by insurance: arson, murder, lying and fraud. We also recognized the huge bubble of inflation brought about when the cost of insurance is passed along the line down to the end user. That goes for everything sold retail and all services such as medical, dental, education. Then, adding insult to injury, people are convinced that they must buy insurance to cover the ever increasing cost of inflation. It's a pyramid situation.

In our many discussions, Waldemar and I agreed that our "deal" opened our eyes to a new understanding of truth and an awareness of Society's misconceptions. We felt the "deal" took the lid off a "can of worms" and it strengthened our determination to take the stands we had to take.

# SIX: NO MAN IS AN ISLAND

Attorney Dickerson was not the only one who lied to us about a foreclosure action that never happened. Several officials and agencies joined that club. If corrupt officials thought they had the power to overrule the law, why bother to lie? They are cowards, that's why. Scripture tells us: "The wicked run when a leaf drops." Clever as they may consider themselves to be, deep within most mortals is the fear of the truth, testimony to its almighty gripping power. The seeming confidence of criminals is bluff.

Through our own checking we found out that the Kelloggs had been given an L/C from the bank. With that and pressure from their attorney, they were induced to take over our property illegally. It was then reported to us by officials that the bank had "complied with the law. Case Closed."

From the beginning we had been told, "Your fight is with the Kelloggs." Set up as scapegoats, they had been put in the middle for the purpose of taking the brunt for the bank, with the crime treated as a civil issue.

We wrote to the judge and requested that the cause filed by Attorney Dickerson be withdrawn on the grounds that the whole matter was fraudulent. He refused, claiming that the rights of the defendants would be contravened if the suit was withdrawn! His "ruling" that the suit could neither proceed nor be withdrawn also gave officials an alibi for their inaction: the case was in "litigation". Another ruse.

Possibly we would have given up on the fraud and let the matter rest, but it seemed the Lord had other plans. In the two years we were in Seattle, things kept happening. We got bills for electricity, gas, and taxes. All of this indicated that not only was the property ours of public record but also that the Kelloggs were doing business in our name.

On March 19, 1968, we got a letter from the Greater Anchorage Area Borough. It had been posted to us at our Alaska address and forwarded. Labeled "Nuisance Complaint," it reported excessive accumulations of refuse and debris strewn on the ground around garbage cans at the location. It said: "Failure on your part to comply with this notice will be met with prompt legal action."

We responded to all bills and threats we received with full details of the situation. But nobody would heed our word against that of government officials.

In a letter we wrote to the Kelloggs on March 7, 1969, we told them the suit against them in our name was phony and we had no intention of suing them. We also told them that the duplexes were no longer insured. This brought a ridiculous response from their attorney. Pree expressed his "pleasure" in the fact that the suit was phony and asked us to sign a quit claim deed to the property. On page two of his letter, he threatened that if we were not willing to sign the quit claim deed, HE would proceed with the phony suit.

After our arrival in Seattle in 1967, we had consulted with two attorneys and contacted a third by telephone. Our landlady had referred us to Attorney Kenneth A. MacDonald because, she said, he was the president of the American Civil Liberties Union. He refused to get involved in our "deal", saying we did not have "that kind of rights". Besides, he said, he had to go along with the System because of his huge expenses, including $800 per month rent for his offices. His fee for this non-advice was ten dollars.

The second attorney we met with was Phil McIntosh. He brazenly "explained" to us that when a bank contract is in conflict with state law, it is the contract that is binding. Not the law! (To get this in writing, we confirmed what he'd said in a letter to him right after the interview. As we expected, he didn't reply.) As we were ready to leave his office after paying his $10 fee, he stood up and emphatically told us that if we continued going to attorneys about the situation, we would get "screwed" for all we had.

Waldemar and I both liked to read and often got books from the library. One that I got about that time was a book on libel. I was pleased to notice that the author, an attorney, lived in Seattle. I dialed the number. I told him I'd read his book and hoped he would be willing to help us. He was silent for a moment then faltered as he asked "Who wronged you?" When I told him it was a bank, he replied in an obviously squirming voice, "I'm too busy."

Angered, I said, "I thought so!" Then I slammed the phone down. When Marbea came home from college that day, she found me in tears. The lawyer who wrote that book may have made money on it but he was a fake.

We contacted the Federal Bureau of Investigation. When their agent, Charles R. St. John, came to our house one Friday he was friendly and encouraging. He said he was impressed by our file of evidence, that we'd made the job easy for him. He took the file with him when he left, saying he would make copies, prepare charges, and come back on Monday. We were elated, aware that the Federal Bureau of Investigation had unlimited investigative resources and legal power.

Friends and relatives wondered why we had not called the FBI before. They insisted that if we were in the right, all we had to do was contact the appropriate authority. People in general refused to believe that our government could or would be in the wrong. Always, we were judged amiss; troubles were somehow our own fault. At times we were told if we didn't like it here, we should go to Russia.

When Mr. St. John returned he had the charges ready and we signed them; but he was like a different man. He was tense and irritable. As we signed the charges, I asked if we would be required to provide the proof. "You just have to say it! It is our job to prove it," he snapped. We never heard from him again.

We made several attempts to contact the FBI after that. Once at our request another agent came to our house. Claiming he could not stay long enough to take off his coat, he said that the matter involved was a civil one, not in the jurisdiction of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

A letter we wrote to J. E. Milnes, Special Agent in Charge, under date of April 4, l969, got the same response. Though we'd spelled out clearly the subject matter, his reply was evasive and vague. It contained no identifying information other than "information previously provided."

A demand letter we got from the Anchorage Natural Gas Company threatened us with a lawsuit if we did not pay a delinquent gas bill, revealing billing was still in our name. By this time we were used to injustice and knew that no one in authority would back us up. We paid the bill with a long letter of explanation, asking that the money be refunded to us and requesting that the gas be shut off in our property until further notice. The money was not returned and the gas was not shut off.

We had hired an attorney to take care of legal matters for us, to no avail. The statement that "no man is an island" was certainly relevant in our fight for justice. The situation concerning our duplexes was not just between the bank and ourselves. It involved the government and public utilities in all branches: gas, electricity, taxes, insurance, the Bar Association, even garbage collection; and the news media. Violation of law is like quicksand, pulling in anyone foolish enough to think they can walk on it for profit, fame and power and still escape the consequences. There will be a day of reckoning!

Still hoping that at least one department in our government would stand up for what is right, we contacted Mr. Ira D. Cox of the Intelligence Division of the Internal Revenue Service. Like Mr. St. John, Cox told us he was impressed by our file. He asked if he could make copies and said with emphasis: "We'll find out who owns that property!"

Ira D. Cox, it turned out, was another government official we were never to hear from again.

# SEVEN: HOME TO MONTANA

When the ten years of our Soil Bank program had come to an end, we rented our cropland to Paul on a cash basis and stayed on in Seattle for one more year.

At the end of that time, we wrote to the Kelloggs:

"We plan to return to our farm in Montana in July and thought it would be well to send you our address. It is Route 2, Box 19, Plentywood, Montana.

"Should you ever travel near us, you would be welcome to stop in. However, a word of caution: there are two roads leading from the main road to our home. On rainy days and at the time of spring breakup, one road - though it may appear only slightly muddy - has a soft, deceptive bottom. Many people who do not know the right road choose this one and get stuck. The other road has a low spot which may be completely covered by a little pond of water. It looks bad, but people who have tried it know that it has a solid rock bottom, and this is the road they choose.

"If you ever decide to come our way, you must take the road with the rock bottom. You may have to go through deep water, but you will get through."

We were all set to return to Montana in June 1969. We gave notice to our landlord that we would move out on June 30.

My family had long enjoyed good health except for my asthma and my mother's arthritis. There had not been a death in the family since my father's passing on June 7, 1951, when he died of cancer. Grateful that we were all grown and on our own at the time, we adjusted to life without him. He had been a wonderful dad and we missed him.

Waldemar's father died in February 1963. Keeping his mental alertness into his 90's, he would often walk around the neighborhood of his daughter Helen's home in Seattle, teaching the German language to anyone willing to learn it. One night Helen found him wandering around in her living room, "looking for his cows". He died in his sleep a few nights later at the age of 92.

All of Waldemar's brothers and sisters were still living, all in good health. Helen had been widowed in December 1961, and Marie's husband had died before Waldemar and I were married.

We in my family remembered well the anguish we had suffered during my dad's illness; and now we were to go through it again. This time it was my sister Alice. She had been so special to all of us. Her nieces and nephews were treated as her own, except that few parents would have tried so hard to spoil their children. Our two often stayed at her house overnight, getting chocolate cake in bed if that was their desire. One night when we were leaving them there, I told them that they were to get to bed at a reasonable hour.

"You're not the boss in this house," Vicki teased, confident that Alice would be willing as ever to spoil her. "That's right, Mama," Alice responded, "You're not the boss here."

When Doris' son was a child and had broken a window, his dad told him he would have to pay for it out of his allowance. Alice tried to slip him the money but I don't think she got away with it.

One Saturday morning in Great Falls, my brother Larry stopped in just as we were eating breakfast. When Vicki and Jack objected to the food I was urging them to eat, he facetiously ordered me: "Give them what they want or I'll call ALICE!"

Alice often put her foot in her mouth and then shared her bloopers with us. There was a time when riding to work in a car pool that a friend exclaimed, "Oh, Alice, did you see that beautiful Dalmatian back there?" No, she hadn't, she said, "but then I don't know much about flowers."

On June 30, 1969, Alice was in so much pain she was unable to get out of bed.

Doris and Alf took her to the hospital and she stayed there one week, having tests made. She had not felt well all summer but doctors had told her they didn't think she was in much trouble. "Probably a stretched muscle," one had said.

We had planned to leave on July 1st but Alice's illness changed our plans. We took her home from the hospital on July 7th when we learned the diagnosis: terminal cancer of the liver. That was a horrible blow to all of us and our trip back to Montana the next day was one of the most heartbreaking of my life.

At Great Falls we put our house on the market and then went on to the farm.

Telephone calls were frequent among members of my family. On August 2nd, Waldemar took me to Wolf Point, a hundred miles from home, to board the train for Seattle. Alice died on August 7, 1969, one month after the diagnosis.

Back home again after the funeral, I settled down once more to farm living. School started and life went on. Doris was the administrator of Alice's estate. It was settled satisfactorily with no problems. Not then. It wasn't until many months later that a problem arose and another battle against officials, lawyers, confusion and deception was about to begin.

Several years before, my mother had gone to an attorney and had a deed to her farm drawn up, giving her land (more than eleven hundred acres) to all six of her children. However, she did not sign it then. She just had it ready to give us when the time should be right. A few years later she took it to a notary public and signed it. Now it had two dates on it, the date it had been drawn up and the date she signed it. She still did not deliver it to us, not yet ready to do so.

Alice had died and her estate long since settled. Now the time was right, Mom decided. She was over 80 years old and she wanted us to have the property while she was still alive so no lawyer would get the lion's share of her estate. Waldemar and I picked up the mail in town the day the deed arrived. We hurried to the courthouse and, according to Mom's instructions, left it in the Office of the Clerk and Recorder for entry into the public records.

That was really stupid. It was the next day that I realized what we had done. Now the land was also in Alice's name though she was already deceased. A deceased person cannot possibly come into ownership of property!

We tried in vain to explain that to the Clerk and Recorder, the Judge, the County Attorney, State Officials. The deed, we told them, was null and void, was filed in error. We wanted the records to be corrected. Surely there was a way that this could be done? No crime had been committed, no intention to defraud. My family thought we were making a mountain out of a molehill.

District Judge Sorte asked us to meet with him in the Sheridan County Courthouse in Plentywood. We went to the courtroom and he invited us into a smaller room. After hearing our story, he said we'd have to hire an attorney and take the matter to court. We'd been through all that before, had no desire to have anything more to do with lawyers, no intention to get involved further in court games. I said, "You mean we have to explain this to an attorney so that he can explain it to you?"

Startled by my question, he angrily replied, "Yes." I commented that it had been easy for us to make the mistake and it shouldn't take an act of Congress to correct it. Knowing how technical courts can be, we wanted the public records to be right; legal. The correction should have been easy to make by someone in authority. He refused. Like the "stolen pencil" fracas, this too grew into a mountain. By this means we had made for ourselves another enemy with dire results a few years down the road.

We again wrote letters. County Attorney Tom Darland should have been just as interested in getting the public records corrected as we were. It was senseless to keep that error there, clouding the records when the deed in question could not possibly be valid. However, we kept running into seemingly brick walls. Hiring attorneys became regarded as one of the supreme laws of the land. We didn't need one, didn't want one. In public opinion the Lanes were fast becoming troublemakers and idiots.

In response to our pleas for help to Attorney Darland he wrote several long, angry letters, reciting ridiculous erroneous explanations of law and the way it worked:

"If you feel there has been a fraudulent document placed of record, the remedy for you to pursue would be a civil action in courts. It would do you no good to write to this office, the Commissioners and other officials which you list in your letter for the reason that this office, and none of the other persons or courts you are writing to, can summarily resolve this matter. None of us can, on our own decide that some document is fraudulent and remove it from the records."

Tom Darland also defended forgery and crime. I quote from another part of the above mentioned letter: "I am perplexed to know just what your difficulties are, but from what I can gather from your letter, it would seem that if there is a forged or illegal document of record, there is nothing any of us can do for you."

My family was upset. Larry called Tom Darland and tried to hire him to straighten it out, but never heard from him again. We concluded that neither Attorney Darland nor Judge Sorte knew how to handle the error. Possibly such a situation had never come up in law school?

It wasn't until the summer of 1981 that something more was done. Without telling me about it, knowing we would have nothing to do with lawyers in the matter, my family hired local Attorney Loren O'Toole to make the correction. He didn't know how to handle it either. What he did was treat the void deed as though it were valid. He then "probated" Alice's Montana estate, naming each of us, including our mother, as heirs, receiving one sixth of Alice's share of the land. Then, complicating it even more, he had my mother deed her share to the rest of us. Oh my!

The cost for this? I learned from papers I got from Attorney O'Toole after the matter was settled and the "deeds" all filed, that my sister Doris and her husband had paid a fee of $1,000. Part of the money was for the lawyer's fees and part for the inheritance tax!

I could not go along with this "solution" and my family knew it. The land was still my mother's regardless of the void documents in the public records. She continued to treat it as her own land, which we all agreed she had a legal right to do. One time the man who leased the land from her took the written lease to Attorney Darland, wanting to make sure it was legal. Darland assured him it was. After all his claims that the erroneous deed of record could not be corrected, now his stand was that the farm was still my mother's.

My mother continued keeping ownership of her land, collecting income and paying taxes on it until the year before her death. At that time she asked if I would accept another deed, this one valid, and I said I would. When I got the new deed, giving the five of us her farm, I took it to the courthouse and got it recorded with no further trouble. The land then legally belonged to my brothers and sisters and myself. It had been that simple, no lawyers needed. They had caused enough trouble.

# EIGHT: SHEOL

When we had arrived back on our farm from Seattle in 1969, certified mail was waiting for us. The bank and the Kelloggs were still in illegal possession of our duplexes, collecting our income. Now, it seemed, their lawyers were trying hard to make their crimes appear legal, but they needed our help.

Corruption with all its power couldn't just commit its crimes and be satisfied. Instead, it could not give up. Illegality was not an end-gate. Scripture tells us, "There is no satisfying Sheol." We didn't know specifically what Sheol meant but the way we continued to be harassed and persecuted, we could well believe that "corruption" was the meaning of that word.

The papers we got were court documents. David Pree had carried out his threat, wanting us to believe he had succeeded in "our" case where Attorney Dickerson had failed. She had told us of the court's ruling that our suit could not proceed without our posting a bond of $2,000. Yet the same judge had refused to allow us to withdraw it.

Now we were being told that with this case which the courts ruled could neither proceed nor be withdrawn, Attorney Pree had finally accomplished foreclosure action, the tables having been turned. The ridiculousness of this feigned court procedure defies comprehension.

Our own letters to officials, courthouse staff, judges, Senators, even the Supreme Court, continued. Everybody that responded either "confirmed" the lie that the foreclosure had taken place in 1969 or they played dumb.

On January 29, 1970, we wrote to Senator Mansfield, "When those in authority refuse to do that which is right, who do people turn to for justice? "Luke 14:34 - Salt is good; but if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltness be restored? It is fit neither for the land nor for the dunghill. Men throw it away. He who has ears to hear, let him hear.'"

A man of Senator Mansfield's status should have detected the stonewalling going on, the refusal to promote law and uphold justice. Instead he acted as a mere middle man, passing the buck on to others and sending their reports to us; all of which supported the lies and were filled with vague evasive phrases, meant to deceive.

In January 1970 we wrote to Ira D. Cox, Intelligence Division of the Internal Revenue, "When you microfilmed our file a year ago, you told us that the Internal Revenue would 'find out who owns that property'. Since it is again time for us to file income tax, we must have the following information: Who did the Internal Revenue decide to show on their records as the owner of this property?"

Mr. Cox did not reply under his own signature. We got a letter signed by Mr. Gerald Peel "confirming" the foreclosure lie and adding, "From this information it would appear that you are no longer the legal owners as of December 29, 1969." This reply may have been ghost written by Cox. We got this indication in a copy of a letter sent to us later with other papers, possibly inadvertently.

On February 16, 1970, we wrote to Senator Mike Gravel, "Because you are a Senator from Alaska, we would like to know your stand on the following question: 'Does the Anchorage Area Borough have a legal right to tax us for our Anchorage property (real estate) each year even though they have knowledge that our property is in the illegal possession of other parties?'"

Gravel's letter, another evasion, was relatively brief. "Your letter of February 16, 1970, does not give sufficient information to render an opinion on the assessment and taxation of your property. Even if clarification of such items as illegal possession were available to me, this would undoubtedly be a matter of law and would therefore require an opinion of a qualified attorney..."

We knew that Senator Gravel could not be that short on intelligence. Obviously legal ownership would have to be established before a man could be legally taxed for it. Anybody of elementary intelligence would know that. Ours was a test question and we got our answer. Senator Gravel, in dodging and confusing the issue chose to follow the rules of the System.

Our bill for taxes from the Anchorage Area Borough revealed to us that the title to our duplexes were still of public record in our names! No foreclosure had taken place. "There is nothing hidden that will not be revealed."

Waldemar and I wondered, would people in high places rather be revealed as dishonest or as stupid? What a blow it must be to egos of high officials, lawyers and others when caught in crime, to have to claim ignorance as their only defense. Fostering an image of brilliance, what a come-down to have to hope for exoneration of their crimes by a claim that they had been deceived.

Because of our "deal" we did a lot of discussing, thinking, searching for truth. Because our government denied us protection of the law, it forfeited its rights to collect income tax from us.

Then another revealing letter came in our mail. From a Mr. Scardi of Alcan Realty, Anchorage, Alaska, dated April 28, 1970:

"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Lane: In going through the local tax records in our search for properties of our many clients, we find that you own the following described property in the Anchorage area: Saxton Sub Blk 11 Lot 16; Saxton Sub "Blk 11 Lot 15. Due to the increase in property movement in this area we feel it is the opportune time to sell. We would be happy to appraise the property, at no cost to you, and submit what we feel would be a fair market value."

Somehow, always, the truth comes through. The Lord has His ways! In April 1970 the public records showed there had been no foreclosure! Yet the Internal Revenue Service had written us that a foreclosure had taken place on December 29, 1969; and the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation wrote us that it took place on November 29, 1969. We got both letters in the mail on the same day. Though they had agreed on the lie they had neglected to coordinate the dates.

We replied to Mr. Scardi on May 4, 1970, "Thank you for the information. Mr. Kellogg has the master keys to both duplexes. Please appraise the property and let us know what you feel is the fair market value. It is quite possible that we will sell the property this summer." We sent a copy of this letter to Mr. Bert F. Kellogg, 1600 E. 26th Avenue, Anchorage, Alaska.

In spite of our anger and frustration, we realized we were getting a good education. The scales were gradually dropping from our eyes. Our naïveté and awe of titles, people, departments and agencies was quickly disappearing.

The word "Truth" and its awesome power became increasingly important to us in our daily lives. We found there was no subject more compelling. Because of that interest, Waldemar and I talked, talked, talked. One day Waldemar was in the Farmers Union gas station in Plentywood chatting with a group of men. "Well," he said finally, "I've got to go home and talk to my wife." As he was leaving he heard someone exclaim in a tone of pretended disbelief: "Go home and talk to his WIFE? Is the man sick?"

Each year the Cattlemen's Association had a banquet for its members. The invitation said they could bring a friend. One of our neighbors, on the board of that organization, was in our house having coffee one day. "Hey, Dale," I said, "The invitation to the banquet said Waldemar could bring a friend. I'm his friend. Can I go?"

"OK," Dale said, grinning. "If you are his friend, you can come too." I went. While waiting for the dinner to be served, we were chatting and laughing when Dale came along. Amused by our banter, he said, "Yes, I see you are right. You are his friend."

# NINE: NOT IN MY JURISDICTION

The Federal Bureau of Investigation had refused to give us identifying information about the charges we had filed in Seattle. They wrote us that they could not give us even a file number.

Because of their constant attempts to deceive us, we were planning how we could sort of "sneak up" on so-called authority to find out what methods were used when situations WERE handled legally. We hoped to catch them off guard. On November 14, 1970, we wrote to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This time we made no mention of our Alaskan "deal" but simply said: "If we should file formal charges with the FBI, would we be given the file number of those charges? Also, would we eventually be provided with a written report as to the outcome of the investigation? We know very little about the methods of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and would appreciate very much any information you can give us concerning the general procedure followed when charges are filed. Thank you."

The reply, from one Richard S. Held, Special Agent in Charge, dated November 17, 1970: "I am in receipt of your letter of November 13, 1970, regarding the filing of formal charges with the FBI. Inasmuch as it is noted that you reside in the State of Montana, I have taken the liberty of forwarding your letter to our Special Agent in Charge of our Butte, Montana, office located in Room 11 U. S. Court House and Federal Building, for appropriate attention."

What we had asked for was information, but apparently that agency was wary. Instead of telling us what we wanted to know, they sent an agent. Very possibly our names were before them and they did know what we wanted to find out and why.

We had gone to Plentywood to shop for groceries one day, picked the kids up after school and had just arrived home when we saw a car turn into our driveway. "There's the FBI," Waldemar guessed. There was snow on the ground; we were all dressed in our winter attire. We invited the man into the house without asking him who he was. Leaving him standing in the kitchen, water dripping from his boots, we went about the business of taking off our coats. The kids settled themselves in front of the TV in the living room. Waldemar changed into work clothes, and I went into the kitchen and started getting pans out to prepare supper. We had not planned or discussed any of this.

Finally, Waldemar came into the kitchen and addressed the man who had been standing there silently all this time. I can imagine him thinking: "They are in for a surprise when they find out I am an FBI AGENT!" Now Waldemar asked, "Who are you and what do you want?" He told us, displayed his credentials, and we invited him to have a chair. The whole thing became like a situation comedy. It must have been our demeanor that puzzled him, and we were amused when he asked, "Were you expecting me?"

Totally lacking in us had been the awe that people are expected to register in such an encounter. We told him about the fraud and crimes of which we were victims. We weren't surprised when Mr. Godfrey "found" that he didn't have "jurisdiction" to file charges. Nor did we get the information we had asked for. The Federal Bureau of Investigation not only has jurisdiction to do what is right, it has an obligation to do it. If their Montana man couldn't handle it, they should have turned the matter over to whomever did have such authority. Mr. Godfrey had been well "trained!" "Lack of Jurisdiction" had become the watchword of corruption.

What Attorney McCarrey had told us in Alaska in 1967 is true: Illegality does taint everything it touches. Law mandates that anyone having hidden knowledge of crime is guilty of aiding and abetting. Law does not grant immunity to anyone, including lawyers, Senators, bankers, judges, preachers. Crime does not have the privilege of privacy. Silence where crime is concerned is not a right.

The morning after Martin M. Godfrey, FBI Agent 8469, called at our house muddying our kitchen floor, we wrote him a letter, confirming the interview. We mentioned that we'd told him about the Alaskan fraud of which we were victims and that we'd shown him our files. The last sentence in our letter was: "You then told us you could not file our charges because you do not have the jurisdiction. If you should change your mind, you know where we live."

On November 27, 1970, we wrote the Office of the Attorney General, United States Department of Justice, telling about the foreclosure lies and the discrepancy in the dates. We said we would not be governed by any lie, and that "until we can SECURELY file an honest, lawful income tax return, we will file none." Copies of this letter were sent to six other officials.

On November 27, 1970, Mr. C. Guy Tadlock, Executive Assistant, U. S. Department of Justice wrote: "This is in reply to your letter of November 27, 1970, addressed to the Attorney General in which you state that you will not file an income tax return until the situation with reference to the sale of your property is clarified. At this point in the controversy, the matter is within the jurisdiction of the Internal Revenue Service. The Department of Justice does not become involved until there is litigation between the Government and the taxpayers. We would ordinarily send your letter to the Commissioner of Internal Revenue for his attention, but we note that you have already sent him a copy."

In this way we were informed that the Justice Department of the United States would not uphold the truth or enforce the law in the crimes against us.

Officials are sworn into office under an oath to defend the Constitution. However, Oaths, Truth, and Law mean nothing to corruption.

Scripture tells us: "Because justice is not speedily executed, the wicked are prone to do evil." There will come a day, I know, when each and every one of us will receive justice. Sadly, for many this will not be a day of gladness.

# TEN: POWERS AND PRINCIPALITIES

By the time Vicki and Jack got to high school the ugly bugaboo insurance reared its head. Just about everybody thought we were paranoid in our distrust of insurance.

One afternoon an insurance salesman came to our house. From a town a hundred miles away, he was an agent with the Aid Association for Lutherans. He told us that members of our church had cautioned him to keep away from us with any sales pitch. The poor man thought he had to do his "Christian" duty, however, and said, "I prayed for you all the way out here."

We had quite a discussion that night on the evils of insurance and the fact that the Lutheran name was being exploited for the sake of profit. We commented that Christ said the church was to be a House of Prayer and not a den of thieves. The agent got angry and finally burst out, "You call my mother a sinner!"

We hadn't been talking about his mother at all and said so. "Well," he said pointedly, "SHE buys insurance!" It seems to be a common tendency that when people find they cannot confute the truth, they switch from what to who. The insurance salesman used this ploy, indicating that we were "judgmental" and therefore wrong.

Scripture: "You are not fighting flesh and blood; you are fighting principalities and powers" We knew our fight was not essentially against people. Instead it was against deception. Like a snake, deception is subtle and the unwary are easily fooled.

Now that our son and daughter were in high school, we discovered that insurance pushers were everywhere, including in the school system. The Plentywood Schools were well covered by liability, property and staff insurance paid for by our property taxes, yet now they made it "law" that no student could participate in any sports unless parents also had the kids covered. We couldn't believe it! Surely our two would not be punished because we didn't believe in insurance? But they were! All through high school Vicki and Jack were barred from participation in any sports, even track.

Letters again went out to every place we could think of where common sense might prevail. All in vain. We got no sympathy even from friends. The argument was that if we didn't insure our kids and they got hurt, killed or maimed, the school would be in jeopardy of going bankrupt. It was as though money was their only concern, not the safety of the students. If sports were really considered that dangerous they should not have been allowed in the school system.

One of the letters we wrote went to Dolores Colburg, State Superintendent of Schools. In her reply she defended the school's action and advised us that it wasn't enough to HAVE rights. We had to EXERCISE those rights. No doubt she meant we had to hire an attorney and take the matter to court. We were amused, though angered, as we mentally pictured ourselves putting collars and leashes on our little rights and walking them around the farm yard for exercise.

Soon after that the Montana State Legislature, with the admitted help of the Insurance Industry, passed a "law" that Montana citizens could no longer drive their cars unless they bought liability insurance. Ruling that no one could license their cars without the insurance, they made sitting ducks of any who would not bow, thus creating two "crimes" for us to commit. No license and no insurance. Waldemar was jailed several times because of this. Eventually, needing to drive our vehicles without fear of arrest, we did bow. In spite of our disbelief in the god of insurance, the Insurance Industry had won. Now I pay my liability premiums twice a year "under protest" - my toll money to the Insurance Industry so that I can drive my car in peace without harassment and threat of jail.

The Biblical "framing mischief by statute" applies here.

# ELEVEN: LIFE GOES ON

In spite of our battles, life continued in a seemingly normal fashion on our farm. The little town in which I'd grown up was no longer in existence. Established in about 1913 with the coming of a branch of the Soo Line Railroad, it lasted for about one generation. Peak population was probably less than 200 residents. In the late thirties a new paved highway was constructed, running through Plentywood and Westby, by-passing Comertown at a point seven miles south. This was a disadvantage to the town's growth. In addition, the drought and hard times of the thirties caused a few farmers in the area to sell out and seek homes and lives elsewhere.

(Unknown then, a sea of oil lies beneath the surface in that region. Comertown and all of Sheridan County is located in the very productive Bakken Oil Field. Financial benefits are now being reaped by those whose forebears stuck it out.).

Comertown had been my life. Truly it had been great growing up there. Money was scarce but inflation had not yet reared its ugly head. Even through the drought we had food on our table, shelter in homes heated by coal and wood, freedom to run and play without fear of abduction. Our houses did not need to be locked; no bars were on our windows. We knew everybody in town and in surrounding areas. With the passage of time, friends and acquaintances of my childhood became to me like remembered family.

The first class to graduate from Comertown High School did so in 1929 when I was seven years old. I remember the commencement exercises and knew all the graduates. The last class graduated there in 1953. I attended that too! I remember every graduate in the history of the school, sadly most of them now gone.

In 1972 an all-school reunion was planned and I was on the committee. Local people pitched in to help and rejuvenate the Comertown Park for the event. About a block in size, it was a good place for our gathering. Often in years past, ice cream socials and other events had been held there.

The reunion was held in July, an immense success, several hundred attending. There was a family picnic in the park and a banquet in the Blue Moon night club near Plentywood. It seemed that God had truly blessed our area that summer. Rains had been abundant, hillsides lush with green growth; gardens bountiful. Those who returned "home" from distant places, wondered now (they said) why they had ever left. Pictures were taken; there was talking, laughing, reminiscing. A little history book was compiled and printed, a souvenir of the occasion.

Later that fall Vicki and Jack took a young vicar in our church to that little ghost town to show him around. From a city in the east, he was amused when he saw the remnant of the reunion. Two signs, still posted one on each side of the wide gate of the park admonished: "No parking between these signs."

Thanksgiving that year brought an interesting episode into our lives. We had expected Larry and Bonita and family to come from Great Falls. I'd prepared a turkey dinner with all the trimmings and we'd invited a few of Waldemar's local relatives too. Then it turned out that Larry and his family could not come after all.

On our way home from church that day we noticed a car with North Carolina license plates parked beside a small telephone communication structure. On an impulse Waldemar turned the car off the highway and drove to the building. Inside we found a man and his wife and invited them to our house for dinner. They seemed hesitant, taken aback by our invitation; but at our urging they did accept. We learned he was an electrical engineer who did a lot of traveling on his job. That couple made our Thanksgiving dinner an interesting and memorable one. They were truly appreciative of our hospitality and through the coming years we heard from them each Christmas from other parts of the world, including Africa.

Another matter of interest in our lives happened in February 1975, when we found a new relative. A woman, sixty-five years old, contacted us in an effort to get in touch with my Uncle Ernest who had fathered her when he was a teenager. It had happened that when the grandmother intervened, the young mother refused to marry Ernest, later telling him the baby had died. The truth was that she gave the baby up for adoption.

Uncle Ernest and his wife Gertie lived in nearby Westby. Together with my husband, I brought Virginia's letter to them. Both my uncle and his wife were eager to meet her and her husband Chuck. Aunt Gertie wrote to her, welcoming her into the family. Arrangements were made for a meeting in the summer.

Virginia did not get a chance to meet her dad, however. In April he was taken to the hospital where he soon died of cancer. By then Virginia had heard from many of our relatives and we all were saddened that the meeting had not taken place. That summer Virginia and Chuck did come to visit us from their home in Oregon, meeting a number of local relatives gathered at our farm, including her father's widow and one of his sons. They then went on to North Dakota to see other relatives. Since we had cousins living in the same area as Virginia's half-brothers, they helped bring that meeting about. Her brothers were quick to believe her story because, they said, she looked so much like their mother. After that Virginia enjoyed contact with her large extended family on both sides until her death years later.

# TWELVE: TAX FILINGS – OR NOT

When the time came for us to file our 1970 income tax returns, we still had not gotten justice from our government and harassment continued. Therefore, across the face of our 1040 form we printed the following message:

OUR PROPERTY AND INCOME IN ANCHORGE, ALASKA WERE TAKEN FROM US WITHOUT LEGAL REASON AND WITHOUT DUE PROCESS OF LAW, BUT WITH THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE INTERNAL REVENUE SERVICE AND THE U. S. DEPT. OF JUSTICE. COPIES SENT TO: I.R.S. WASHINGTON, D. C.; JUSTICE DEPT., WASHINGTON, D. C.; U.S. SENATOR J. W. FULBRIGHT; I.R.S. HELENA, MONTANA

The only action we got from the government concerning this was a telephone call from the Utah office of the Internal Revenue Service. The caller said she wanted to know what the problem was and how that office could be of help. We told her, "The Washington D.C. office has all the facts. Check with them."

It was several years before we got any other response, though after that we no longer filed returns. We had made no secret of our non-filing and wanted the public to know about it and why. On September 10, 1974, we wrote a letter to the editor to be published in the Plentywood Herald, revealing that we hadn't filed returns since 1969 and briefly giving the reasons therefor.

We got a few calls after the letter appeared in the paper. Callers represented themselves as IRS personnel, asking for details, even whether or not we had any guns on hand. Very likely these were crank calls. We responded that we would give out no information over the telephone. If there was anything they wanted to know, they should ask for it in writing. It was over a year later, on November 11, 1975, that two agents of the Internal Revenue Service came to our home. They had with them a copy of a clipping from the Plentywood Herald containing our letter, and penciled in at the top of the paper we noticed the word, "Why?"

From a little card one of the men held in his hand, he started to read us our "rights". We knew what our rights were and that their little card did not spell them out.

We wanted to tell the agents our story and should have been allowed to, but they were programmed. They thought they couldn't let us tell them anything until they read their card. We wouldn't let them do that. Finally they took their papers, their card, their bewilderment and left, having accomplished nothing. We watched as they walked to their car in silence, studying the ground on their way.

Threats through the mail continued. The Montana State IRS got into the act, pretending ignorance. We had included them in our correspondence through the years, yet now they wrote that they had discovered our lack of filing through routine checking. We knew better. There were behind-the-scenes forces trying to save the face of government in the crimes against us.

On December 22, 1975, Sheriff Ben Holt and two deputies arrived at our farm. On orders of the State IRS, they seized both our Pontiac Bonneville automobile and Ford pickup, leaving us stranded without transportation just days before Christmas. There had been no court action, no warrant. The sheriff placed a paper labeled, "Writ of Execution," on our table. It had been signed by the Clerk of Court. She was another scapegoat in the war against us, with higher-ups subtly and cleverly attempting to dodge legal jeopardy for themselves. Sheriff Ben Holt told us, "I have to obey Tom Darland or lose my job."

We wrote a letter to the Plentywood Herald about this but the letter was not printed. Stu Polk, Justice of the Peace and editor of the Herald, told us he didn't have to print anything he didn't want to. He said that he had to be careful of libel, a trumped up excuse.

After mailing the letter, we laughed as we read our copy, noticing an error in spelling. We had listed everything we could think of that had been in the vehicles, including insulted coveralls. Yes. Even as serious as it was, even as angry it made us, we did have laughs.

Needing transportation, we phoned a car dealer in Crosby, North Dakota. He brought us a used car which we immediately purchased. A few days later our Pontiac was sold for $325 at a "public auction" to a friend of the sheriff, the only bidder present. Just a few days previously we had bought new tires for $350, our Christmas gift to each other. They went with the car, a nice bonus for the sheriff's friend. Our written reports of this blatant disregard for law resulted as usual: Truth ignored; fraud upheld.

The tax the State claimed we owed was about $300. On December 31, 1975, Sheriff Ben Holt sent us papers showing how the money had been disbursed. The pickup and all the other items were returned, along with the list of those items. Inventoried by Glenn L. Gebhardt, Undersheriff, and witnessed by Greg Boyd, Plentywood Police Department, the list included: two screw drivers, one small Testament, three drill bits in plastic case, two blankets, one pair of thermo coveralls, one wind breaker, one dress coat (3/4 length), one pair of red mittens, one windshield scraper, four street tires, two mounted on rims; 5 qts. of Union 76 oil, 3 cans of sterno heat, 50 lb. bag of Oyster Shells (Brand name "Pilot"), one pair insulated coveralls, spare tire, six combo wrenches, one knife, one Crescent wrench, one open end wrench, one Handy Hoof Trimmer.

The image of law enforcement was thorough; the reality denied.

# THIRTEEN: HANDCUFFS AND CHAINS

In June 1977, Waldemar, charged with not filing income tax returns, received a summons to report to Federal Court in Billings before Judge James Battin. Though I was his partner in the battle, I was not charged with him. Jack and I went along to the hearing and I asked the judge if I could be my husband's counsel.

Surprisingly, Judge Battin agreed to my request. With microphone in hand I felt I was finally allowed to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I soon found that was not to be the case. At one point I told about the lawyer in Seattle who had warned us that if we didn't stop going to attorneys for help, we would get "screwed" for all we had. I pointed out that the word was the attorney's, not mine. The judge challenged my statement, his tone belying his question. "WHO said that?"

I sensed that he didn't want my answer but I told him I could give him the name, place, and date. "You will be given your opportunity to do so," he told me, stopping my story right there. As I expected, I was never given that "opportunity." I also told the judge about our vain efforts to file charges of the crimes against us. I asked him how such charges could be filed. He said they would have to be filed with a United States Attorney.

In the lobby right after the hearing, we confronted Lorraine D. Gallinger, the United States Attorney involved in prosecuting the case against Waldemar. She was arrogant. She said she could not file charges for us, "It wouldn't be ethical. I'm supposed to get a conviction." The game had its rules, no truth pursued.

When we insisted on talking about the crimes against us, she assured us that the government knew all about them, Alaska, the duplexes, everything. Her attitude was "So what?" Then full of self-importance she proclaimed sarcastically, "If you are a lawyer, speak up. Otherwise, shut up."

We were in enemy territory, not in the hands of a government providing justice for all. Next we went into a small office and again tried to file charges with Attorney Zimmerman but he cut us off. As though our charges were threatening, he taunted: "We don't scare easy,"

Judge Battin had asked my husband if he wanted to waive a Grand Jury Indictment, to which Waldemar responded with an emphatic "NO!" We would have welcomed a chance to testify before a Grand Jury. We expected to be called and to be given the chance to tell the truth. But that never happened.

We got the news of a Grand Jury "indictment" later in the month and Waldemar was ordered back to court. We had ordered transcripts of the first hearing and they were a long time coming. When we read them we discovered they had been altered. The write-up made us look like dolts. We reported the alteration and did not pay the fee requested. Our claim that the transcript had been altered was never denied. Later it was reported in newspapers, with everything slanted to make our claim appear ridiculous.

With such evil going on in the name of "law," we wrote to the judge and told him we would not come for the trial of our own volition. He later remarked that no one had ever written such a letter to the court before.

One day we got a call from a Billings attorney, Kenneth Tolliver. Waldemar refused to talk to him but the attorney and I had an hour-long conversation. He understood we'd been doing some work, he said. I responded that yes, we were always busy. There was garden to hoe, et cetera.

"No," he went on, "I mean research on law."

We were used to the caginess of corruption, having encountered so much of it. Mr. Tolliver said he was "sympathetic" to our cause and wanted to be Waldemar's attorney. He got a solid "no" for an answer but continued to argue. Finally, angry, he said, "Well, Mrs. Lane, if your husband doesn't hire me, I guarantee he will be arrested before the weekend." He was.

Waldemar was on a tractor in the fields a few days later when the marshals arrived. Jack and I rode with them in their car to the field where they found him. He was arrested and after they got on the road, out of my sight, they not only put handcuffs on him, but also chains. As soon as they left I called the Billings Gazette and told them what had happened. My thinking was that corruption is tough but it does not thrive well in the glare of publicity. Of course I had not yet learned how much under the thumb of the System the media was.

This was our first experience with jail and it was hard. This had happened on June 30, 1977. I agonized having my husband in jail. I got very little sleep the next two nights. On Saturday morning I was working in my garden, remembering dreams I'd sometimes had of snakes wrapping themselves around me with no chance of my getting loose. I prayed. Suddenly I felt I KNEW what would happen that day. I hurried into the house and told Jack we had to stay by the telephone. I felt sure that Waldemar, intimidated by jail, would agree to accept Tolliver as his attorney just so he could get out.

That's what did happen. The call came a little later and soon Jack and I were on our way to Billings to get him. Bail had been set at $1500 but when he agreed to let the attorney "represent" him, the requirement of bail was dropped and he was allowed to go home.

When I saw Waldemar, he was dejected. Attorney Tolliver had warned him about our letter-writing, said we were not to write anymore and Waldemar told me that was the way it would have to be. We both felt the oppression and I agreed, feeling defeated. Letter writing had been our only defense and we had constantly hoped for break-through.

We stopped at a cafe for supper on our way home. After we'd eaten, our spirits were revived! Our resolve to fight returned. Both of us felt the same way. We had the Lord on our side, what else did we need? Our letters would continue, we agreed, and they did.

On July 1, 1977, the judge wrote me a long letter. "I've set the time for your husband's trial on the indictment returned against him by the Federal Grand Jury.

There must be no question raised at that proceeding concerning your participation in the presentation of Mr. Lane's defense. You will not be allowed to act as your husband's attorney. You may, of course, be called as a witness on his behalf but that decision rests entirely within the sound judgment of Mr. Kenneth Tolliver, the attorney I have appointed to represent your husband."

Then he went on about Waldemar: "He wisely elected, I believe, to be represented by competent and able counsel." Waldemar had not elected wisely or otherwise to be represented by Tolliver. He had been coerced into it so he could get out of jail. Judge Battin knew that.

On July 6 Tolliver called again and this time, too, Waldemar refused to go to Billings to court. Attorney Tolliver then filed an affidavit in the court records. "Kenneth D. Tolliver, having been first duly sworn, upon his oath, deposes and says as follows: That I am the court appointed attorney for the defendant Waldemar W. Lane, that in that capacity, on the 6th day of July, 1977, before the hour of 12:00 o'clock noon, I spoke with WALDEMAR W. LANE on two occasions by telephone and that on both occasions said defendant indicated to me that he desired the United States Marshal to pick him up at his home in order to secure his attendance at trial in this matter."

That was not true. Waldemar had not indicated that he desired the marshals to pick him up! Instead he had refused to voluntarily go to a Kangaroo Court. On July 7th the marshals arrived and Waldemar was again taken prisoner. The power of Corruption is mighty (though temporary). The next time he was ordered back for his sentencing, he promised that he would come back, saying, "I now know you have world power." At those words, I noticed a startled look on the judge's face. Waldemar's promised obedience to him was in no way a compliment and I'm sure Judge Battin was struck by exactly what my husband meant.

# FOURTEEN: ARREST AND TRIAL

The trial was held on July 23, 1977. Waldemar was dressed in the clothes he had been wearing when he was arrested. Bib overalls were his favorite attire for farm work and that day he was also wearing an old plaid flannel shirt that I had bought at an auction sale. The shirt had been with other rags in a box of stuff I'd gotten for a dollar at the estate sale of an old bachelor. I'd been about to throw it away when Waldemar retrieved it and said, "I can wear it in the field." Thus that old shirt made history.

Now we learned that the "sound judgment" of Attorney Tolliver was that I was not to appear on the stand as a witness. He did give me a choice, but I'm sure he anticipated my answer. If I wanted to take the stand, I would not be allowed in the courtroom for the rest of the trial. He was right in his conclusion. He knew in that way he could safely keep me from testifying. I had to know what was going on at all times.

Many of our friends and neighbors had been subpoenaed to testify about business dealings they'd had with Waldemar. Strange how much the IRS could find out about every little detail in our lives while ignoring the crimes committed against us. Marbea's husband flew up from California and seemed happy to be the "go for" for Tolliver. He would happily have gotten Waldemar's power of attorney at Tolliver's urging if Waldemar had been willing to give it to him. He was naive and apparently thought that it was his purpose in life to help us out, to overcome our foolishness for our own sake. Like just about everybody else he thought we had to be wrong if the government said so. He was useful though. I gave him our file of letters to give to Attorney Tolliver. I hadn't wanted to have any contact with the man himself, but I was happy to burden him with the truth contained in our correspondence.

We were sure Tolliver had his secretary make copies of everything in the file, hoping to find something he could use against us. But we knew that with the written information in his hands, he had no excuse for not knowing what was going on. After the lunch break he appeared in the courtroom saying he had left the file in his office. A little later it was delivered to him. The only letter from our files that he presented in court, as I recall, was the one we had written to the Plentywood Herald telling the public that we were not filing returns.

The excuse he gave us for that was that it was a matter of strategy. If he could get just one letter presented, that might open the door for more, he said. We were not fooled. Attorney Tolliver was there to serve the court, not Waldemar. A conviction was in the works. The jury was impressed, no doubt, by this well dressed attorney "striving so hard for a lost cause." When he told the jury about the briefing we'd gotten from McCarrey, he said, "I regret that a fellow member of my own profession would mislead his clients in this way."

He went on to say that though the Lanes were wrong, they THOUGHT they were right. He cited "English Law," using that as a feigned excuse to set a guilty man free because of his confusion.

Strangely as I listened to the evil being spouted in that courtroom, a feeling of peace came over me. I saw that the whole matter was out of our helpless hands, and in the control of God. Had it not been so vile, I might have felt that we had to fight the battle personally. Now I felt we were released from the fight. It was too much for us!

The biggest surprise of the "trial" happened when Bert F. Kellogg strode into the courtroom. We'd been told that our "deal" could have no bearing on Waldemar's defense, but now Kellogg was put on the stand. Asked if he had purchased our Alaska property under foreclosure action, Kellogg, under oath, said, "Yes." We were stunned when Attorney Tolliver called him on his lie. Tolliver said there had been no foreclosure. He had called the courthouse in Anchorage the night before and had gotten the truth. Tolliver had been told the truth when all involved had lied to us!

"Oh," stuttered Kellogg, "I was out of town but I was TOLD there was." Now the lies told by government officials in writing about a foreclosure action that had never happened had been refuted in court! Further, Mr. Kellogg had lied under oath. Yet nothing at all was done about the perjury and fraud. The whole thing was treated as if a feather had drifted through the room, a matter of no consequence.

What then had been Tolliver's purpose? Why had Kellogg been flown all the way from Alaska at government expense and brought to court? The ways of corruption are truly strange. Perhaps there was a plot to pin guilt for the whole fiasco on Kellogg, an effort to save the face of government officials? However, plans don't always pan out and something must have backfired. The ploy, whatever it was, did not succeed.

There was a small group of sympathizers for us at the trial, Billings residents, who gave comfort and support to my son and me during intermissions. They prayed with us and one couple also treated us to lunch. I had no appetite at all but at my host's urging, did manage to eat some lettuce salad. Jack, a teenager, ate heartily.

I felt especially sorry for Waldemar's brother Paul. He too had been subpoenaed and was in obvious distress. As a witness having had dealings with the accused, he was not allowed to sit in on the trial proceedings except for his own time on the stand. He was called in the forenoon and managed to get through that experience. At noon I saw him sitting on a bench in the lobby in utter misery. He'd often argued with us about our stand against corruption, and like my family, thought we were foolish to continue the fight. He did not understand that we had no other choice.

Now he was certain that Waldemar would go to prison. I tried to give him whatever solace I could. I told him that nothing would happen that the Lord did not will, but Paul seemed unreachable on that score.

After lunch Paul was again called to the stand as a character witness. He was overweight, had arthritis, and his brother was in trouble. Paul was scared and his agony was plain to see. Attorney Tolliver, showing off his professionalism, his utter perfection of performance as though he were playing a role on TV, asked Paul to state his name. Paul did. The attorney then went on, "Are you the same Paul Steinke who was on this stand here this morning?"

Paul's quaking response brought the house down. "I sure HOPE so." Both Waldemar and I laughed as hard as everybody else in the crowd. It was the perfect quip to a foolish question though Paul in his innocence had not planned it that way.

The jury's deliberation was briefer than we'd expected. While Jack and I were having lunch with our new friends, the verdict was brought in: guilty on all counts.

# FIFTEEN: JAIL

Waldemar was kept in jail until the morning after the guilty verdict. The man who had treated Jack and me to lunch came that evening and found us in the lobby of the hotel where we were staying. He said he and his wife would like to have us spend the night in their home; but I was too upset to accept the kind offer. He asked if there was anything else he could do for us and I told him I would appreciate it very much if he could visit my husband. I couldn't make the effort myself and risk rejection. He said he would do that. Later he contacted me again. The visit had not been allowed.

I had no idea what event was to take place the next day, not yet having experienced much court procedure. We all gathered in the courtroom at the appointed time and it was then that Waldemar assured Judge Battin that he would return for the sentencing on July 29th. There was some discussion on bail and it was decided that $2500 in cash should be placed in the hands of the court.

Chief Marshal Lou Aleksich made a telephone call to the Security State Bank in Plentywood and asked them to send the money out of our savings account, which they did, cleaning out the account. The bank required no written order or any signature from us, but cooperated at once on the telephoned request. Waldemar was released from custody and we went home.

My brother Larry's daughter Janet was married in North Dakota on July 30. All my family were to be there but Waldemar and I had to miss that event. We let Vicki and Jack take our car and drive to the wedding, about 300 miles from our farm, their first trip alone.

We had our old pickup and that was the vehicle we used for our trip to Billings. I was well aware that I might have to drive it home by myself. Judge Battin gave Waldemar a suspended sentence, placing him on probation and requiring that we file income tax returns. We drove home with mixed emotions, feeling defeated at the illegal obligations imposed on him and yet relieved that he was out of jail.

The $2500 was not returned to us but instead was imposed as a fine. This later became an issue when the court claimed Waldemar had not turned it over voluntarily! What was that all about? It had been taken from our bank account and we hadn't objected? (Oddly the money was kept in limbo for about ten years until finally we got a document saying it had been transferred from bond status to the payment of the fine. We had no comprehension of what their problem had been.)

We made a trip or two to Wolf Point to see the probation officer as ordered but the confusion and ignorance we encountered was too much for Waldemar. He rebelled, determination renewed. He refused to honor the probation terms any longer.

He was again arrested on June 22, 1978. Vicki, Jack and I drove to Billings on Sunday, June 25th. The hearing was held the next day and Waldemar was sentenced to jail for six months. With heavy hearts we drove home that day without him.

He was first put in the Yellowstone County jail in Billings. Early one morning, after instructions to take his bedroll, he was transported to the State Prison at Deer Lodge. That was far across the state from Plentywood. Waldemar wrote interesting letters to us, describing the prison and his life there, keeping us amused by his sense of humor. It was heart-breaking to have him there and I prayed daily for his release. He said the quarters were comfortable and the food delicious, servings huge. Even so he wanted to come home. He wrote to me, citing a law to which someone had given him access, requesting that I ask the local Sheriff to get him transferred to the jail in Plentywood. "But don't blow your cork," he advised me.

I did what he asked, hanging tightly onto my cork, and soon Waldemar was settled in the Sheridan County jail in Plentywood. I was permitted to visit him for an hour each Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I was not allowed to bring him anything to eat.

Not knowing that, I once brought an ice cream cone to be given him and I was then told the "rules" of the jail. I have a hunch those "rules" were specifically for him.

Waldemar had his Bible with him and also a deck of cards. In the five months he was incarcerated, he read the Bible through from cover to cover. He had done that before but never in such a short time.

With his cards he played Solitaire but he also had another use for them. To get exercise he walked around the perimeter of the jail. Using some computation of his own, he figured out how many times he'd have to walk that circle to make a mile. Each time he made the circle he turned over a card, that way keeping track of the count.

Not knowing what Waldemar's purpose was, jailers became concerned. There was a stationary TV camera in the cell. Watching that, they could see Waldemar pacing, pacing, pacing. Worried about his state of mind, his inability to take such confinement, they asked him if he'd like to have a pastor come to talk to him. To that question they got a resounding "NO!"

By that time, Waldemar knew that pastors too would believe he was guilty, not at all doubting the Government. They too had been taught all their lives that America was a land of freedom with liberty and justice for all. Waldemar was in no mood to explain to those men of the cloth the difference between the flag, the Statue of Liberty and the Living God.

At times other people, including politicians, visited him in jail to try to talk "sense" to him, show him how wrong we were. This angered him. "They have eyes but they do not see, ears but they do not hear."

Waldemar's jail time was up just before Thanksgiving 1978 after he'd served five months behind bars. He'd been given one month off for "good behavior". It was great to have him home and we went to a restaurant to celebrate.

One time a neighbor of ours had an infected toe. Finally after days of agony, he managed to puncture the boil and pus poured out. Telling us about it later, he made a remark that I thought was poignant and also applied to how we felt: "The relief was worth the pain."

# SIXTEEN: NO CHASING LIES

From their toddler days, we had taught our children that there is no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy. Children believe whatever they are taught and their faith should not be betrayed. Myths foisted on them by adults are not necessary for their entertainment. They have healthy imaginations of their own.

Vicki had imaginary ducklings which I first "met" before she was two years old. After arriving at my sister's house one day she ran back to the car and opened the door to let them come out. For several years after that her ducklings were involved in all areas of her life. When Jack was born, one of her ducklings also had a baby. She got ideas from TV too and one day when she mentioned the word "pilot" I asked her if she knew what that was. "Oh my yes!" she exclaimed, "One of my ducklings' daddy was a pilot for many years." Jack, too, had his fantasies. We all do, even now as adults. But hopefully we know the difference between fantasy and reality. The gray area that we often hear about between right and wrong, simply doesn't exist.

In December of 1979 my mother would reach her 90th birthday. The summer before we planned advance parties to celebrate the occasion. The first one was held here in Plentywood. A week later we had a gathering in Edinburg, North Dakota, where Larry and Bonita lived. Relatives from both my mother's and dad's sides came from miles around. Though Mom was almost ninety, she was physically active and had all her mental faculties. On her actual birthday another party was held for her in Seattle with friends and relatives in that city attending.

She'd had a great year, but with a cloud over all. Just before we were to go to North Dakota for the party there, a summons had been delivered to Waldemar and me. We were to appear at the court of Judge Peter G. Meloy in Helena, Montana. Charges had been brought by the Montana Department of the Internal Revenue.

We went to Mom's party in Edinburg and enjoyed seeing all the relatives there, but were also thinking of what would happen after our return home when we would have to go Helena. By coincidence, a grandniece of Waldemar's had her wedding date set in Helena for the same weekend we were to be there. Vicki and Jack traveled with us. We stayed with Waldemar's nieces and their families and visited with his sister Blondie and her husband Clarence.

As we passed the jail on our way to court, I wondered if that would be our "home" for a while. The possibility was very real and it filled me with dread. When we got to court our "rights" were read to us. Judge Meloy seemed loathe to preside on our case. Was there a lesser matter to which we could plead guilty, he wanted to know. Plea bargaining was offered but no, we hadn't even stolen a lollypop so we couldn't accommodate the court in that way. He asked if we were man and wife and, indicating Vicki and Jack, asked if those were our children. He seemed to have compassion, a rare thing for us to encounter in our fight.

Finally he set a date for our "arraignment" for a week later, August 23, 1979. We had come five hundred miles across the state and we were expected to cover that distance again in another week. Harvesting was in full swing at that time and we decided the court could have their "arraignment" without us.

Waldemar was busy in the harvest fields on August 23 when the telephone rang. It was Judge Meloy. He wanted to know why we had not come to court. I told him about harvest and we had quite a lengthy discussion. One of the things I mentioned was the threat we sensed in the "reading of our rights". Judge Meloy had a listening ear and he was easy to talk to. I appreciated that.

Finally he suggested that we might be able to get a change of venue from Helena to Plentywood. It turned out, however, that the Internal Revenue opposed it. It wasn't intimidating enough?

We began to get court documents about the matter. We decided, as Waldemar put it, that we would not "chase their lies" and play their games. We simply ignored the documents that continued to come. From time to time we read items about ourselves in the newspapers.

The Internal Revenue Service took the matter of change in venue to the Montana State Supreme Court. Soon newspapers informed readers that a Plentywood pair would be forced to travel five hundred miles across the state for their trial. We read the story about it in the Billings Gazette issue of April 10, 1980, when neighbors noticed it and brought the paper to us.

We never did go to Helena for the trial. Instead we eventually got court documents from Judge Meloy. The substance of his ruling, based on some precedent he quoted, was that the charges brought against us exceeded a certain time limit. We rejoiced in his final words, "Action barred. Cause dismissed." Wow. An honest judge?

That did not stop the Internal Revenue! With their "power" to overrule law and decency, they didn't need a trial or conviction. They were instead a "law" unto themselves and they got full cooperation where they needed it. When they asked for all the money in our checking account in the Montana National Bank, they got it.

We had been doing business with the Security State Bank until the Federal Internal Revenue Service several times took our accounts there. One of the owners of Montana National Bank happened to be a brother of Waldemar's ex-wife. He and his wife were friends of ours. When he heard about the confiscation of our funds from the other bank, he'd commented, "They can't do that!" He said that if his bank got such a request, due process of law would be demanded.

So when our money was taken from the Montana National Bank, I called the ex-brother-in-law. His wife answered the phone. "Guess what, Lois," I said.

But I didn't have to tell her. She knew.

# SEVENTEEN: ALL IN THE FAMILY

In March 1980 flu was epidemic in our area and both Waldemar and Paul were sick. Paul, living alone, called me and said every bone in his body ached. That night he called an ambulance and was taken to the hospital. A couple of days later I brought his mail to him but he told me he was in no condition to read anything. On the forenoon of March 10th he was flown by air ambulance to a hospital in Billings. He died there on the morning of March 12th.

Paul, at 65, was the first sibling in the family to pass away. All his family came for the funeral. Almost immediately we sensed trouble concerning the land that he had been farming.

Waldemar and Paul had rented that land for many years from a family named Johnson. When we were living in Seattle in 1960, Paul wrote that the land was up for sale. He wanted to buy it but had not been able to get financing. We contacted the Federal Land Bank. After arranging to increase the mortgage on our own land, we made the purchase. Then we re-sold it to Paul for the same price on a Contract for Deed.

In 1975 we paid the mortgage off. After that Paul, having made an error in judgment, was unable to make another payment on his contract with us, half of which was still owing. Each fall he would tell us that he would pay it off the first of the year but that never happened. We were patient with Paul and would have given him the deed at any time he made the final payment. He had broken the contract but we had no intention of foreclosing.

Early in 1980 Paul discussed with us his plans to retire. He said he would rent the land to a grandnephew on a ten-year lease on the condition that the nephew would buy all Paul's machinery so that he, Paul, could pay off the mortgage. We had no objection to that plan. After Paul's death Waldemar checked with the Security State Bank which had been financing Paul's operations for years. He learned that the transaction had been in the works but it had not been completed. The unsigned lease was there lying on a desk. Negotiations had been delayed, the banker said, because they had questioned Paul's title to the land. They knew that Paul had not paid us for the land and therefore he did not yet have the deed.

In April we were shocked when officers of the law arrived on our farm with a ten year lease, purported to have been signed by Paul on his deathbed, with the grandnephew, Gene Rice, Jr., named as lessee. Gene, Jr., known by his friends as "Boogie," was working in the North Dakota oil fields at the time of Paul's death. The lease was obviously forged, with both Paul's and Gene, Jr.'s signatures appearing to have been affixed in the same handwriting.

Along with the lease was a document from Judge James Sorte ordering Waldemar to stay off the land and to not interfere with the handling of his brother's estate.

By checking the probate file, we were surprised to find that it contained forms signed by each of Waldemar's brothers and sisters, all dated the same date, as though a meeting had taken place at that time and a vote taken. The forms listed Kurtiss Rice, a nephew and non-heir, and George Steinke, Paul's brother who lived in Kalispell, Montana, as administrators. The heirs had been lied to but in their blind faith, anything a lawyer said or did was legal. They followed the "advice" they were given, unsuspecting.

By phone calls and letters we received confirmation of the fact that the completed forms had been mailed to the heirs for their signatures. Waldemar, alone of the heirs, had not been included in the mailing list.

Attorneys named for the estate were Tom Darland, no longer County Attorney, and his partner Richard Overby. The forged lease had been "notarized" by the latter.

Our legal deed to the land was of public record in the office of the Sheridan County Clerk and Recorder. Also recorded there was a document showing that the Deed of Contract had been rescinded, that Paul's rights to the land had been forfeited when he broke the terms of the contract. We had taken care of that as soon as we became aware of the conspiracy that was taking place in the matter.

Later that fall we were again stunned when we were summoned to court in a civil case on false charges that Paul had paid us in full for the land and that we had refused to give him the deed. The charges also claimed that we had Paul's machinery on our farm and had converted it to our own use. Paul had always headquartered his farming operations on our land and the "administrators" had never tried to remove the equipment. We ignored the illegal summons.

The Rice nephews had been used and advised by Tom Darland and Judge Sorte in this fiasco. Those two men had taken on malice against us at the time of Alice's estate fiasco. Greed on the part of Gene Rice, Sr. had made him a sitting duck for this. He wanted the land. George Steinke had been lied to as had all rest of the family. Deception is subtle and people are easily fooled.

The Rices had known that Paul had been unable to pay for the land. Kurtiss had once ridiculed Waldemar, saying, "It's your land. All you've got to do is take it." At the time, Kurt was angry about Paul's delay in paying a bill he owed him for custom harvesting. Paul had been honest but stubbornly slow about paying his bills.

We reported the fraud by means of letters to government officials and got the same response as we'd received in the Alaska deal. We were still "Public Enemy No. I" We were expected to believe that no one in authority had "jurisdiction" and that their "hands were tied".

Judge Sorte's next action was to order another deed recorded, transferring the title to the estate of Paul Steinke. Here was the judge who had claimed he could not correct a minor error without formal court action. Now he committed obvious and deliberate crime by ordering the filing of the fraudulent deed. On his order, the deed was signed by the local Clerk of Court! Again she was used.

In the spring of 1981 Waldemar started farming the land, knowing that our title to the land was legal. He was arrested and brought before Justice of Peace Stuart Polk. I was present at the hearing, late at night after Waldemar had been in jail for several hours. We asked if charges of fraud could be filed in the matter and Polk said, "No." The new County Attorney, a young man just out of college, was there in the room and he acted subservient to Polk, remaining silent.

It seemed like we were in a Hitchcock Series. Overwhelmed by the evil in the room, I spoke up. Addressing Stuart Polk, I said, "May God have mercy on you." A church man who proclaimed himself to be Christian, he now looked shocked. He angrily ordered me from the room, saying, "We'll get you too, Evedine." And they did.

Waldemar was released from custody on a $100 bond and ordered to a trial set for May 8. He refused to return to the kangaroo trial and forfeited the money.

It was a few days after this that the Montana State Internal Revenue confiscated our account at the Montana National Bank, causing several of our checks to bounce. The bank tried in vain to get us to cover the bounced checks and after considerable correspondence, gave up,

I'm inclined to have nightmares (with good reason?). I have them often.

One night I dreamed that I was in jail, at the mercy of Stuart Polk. He had my purse and also my glasses. I awoke with a start as I realized I had said out loud, very humbly, very politely, "Please, Mr. Polk, may I have my glasses?" Embarrassed, I glanced at my husband and was relieved to see he was sound asleep. I knew I'd be in for a lot of kidding if he'd heard. Waldemar loved to tease! I got up, went to the bathroom and then came back and crawled into bed beside my still sleeping husband.

About to doze off, I was startled wide awake when I heard Waldemar very calmly, very innocently ask: "Did Mr. Polk give you your glasses?"

# EIGHTEEN: DISORDERED CONDUCT

While Waldemar was in jail in 1978, time dragged and I longed for breakthrough. Since I needed to do something special and had always enjoyed writing, I started a daily journal. This proved to be good therapy for me, a good outlet for my emotions. It is also a good source of factual information.

Until I got my computer I wrote my diary entries in long hand, with much scribbling. Waldemar used to kid me about it, saying my secrets were all safe since I wrote in code. Often he would demonstrate what good penmanship looked like, writing his own name and bragging about his good firm strokes, easy to read.

I have a lot about him in my diary, describing the way he would talk to himself, facial expression to go along with his private speeches, hand movements. "I'm the only one who will listen to me," he'd claim. He was a delight to watch, especially when he was talking (in his mind) to a judge, lawyer or official, obviously in control, triumphant. I'd liked to have listened in to whatever he was thinking but I was never able to do that.

Outside on his tractor, to hear himself above the noise the tractor made, he used to shout his conversations but I never got close enough to hear those either. The dog did though. One day Waldemar came into the house with a story that was amusing yet pathetic. He'd been carrying on his tirade against a judge when he noticed the dog slink away, tail between his legs, obviously sure he'd been guilty of something.

On May 20, 1982, Waldemar hurried into Plentywood in the morning to get a tire repaired. He needed to be home early because we'd made arrangements to sell our wheat to Bruce Bolstad who lived in a neighboring town. He was coming in a huge semi-truck. The fall before we'd had rains through the harvest season and our wheat had sprouted. Now it could be sold only for feed at a low price.

We were also expecting another visitor whom we were eager to talk to. A seismograph company was dealing with Gene Rice, Sr. on the "Johnson" land and we'd contacted their agent about it. We'd told him on the telephone about the fraud and forgery by which the land had been illegally taken from us and we mentioned the fact that "illegality taints everything it touches." We told him that's why it was important for him to know the truth.

He was told that officials, lawyers and judges were involved and that if he would come to our house we would show him the undeniable evidence. He agreed to come. I asked him what his name was. "Benedict," he said. "I hope that's not Arnold," I commented.

About 8:00 a.m. Mr. Bolstad called, wanting to know how many men and trucks he should bring. I told him Waldemar had gone to town but I was expecting him home by nine and that I would have him call then.

As time passed and Waldemar did not come home, I became nervous, wondering what had happened. Finally I went upstairs and looked through a west window, hoping to catch a glimpse of our pickup approaching. Instead I saw seismograph crews crossing the "Johnson" land. Alarmed, I knew without a doubt that Waldemar was in jail.

I ran downstairs, grabbed my coat and purse, jumped in the car and headed for town. As I neared the "Johnson" land, I saw Waldemar's pickup sitting on the field empty. Waldemar's nephew, Gene Rice, Sr., was nearby in his pickup and he drove toward me. "Where's Waldemar?" I asked. "Jail," he said. After a brief exchange of angry words, I continued on my way to town, praying as I went.

Mr. Benedict had decided not to come to see us but instead had gone to the County Attorney! When "government" is involved in crime against citizens, many people choose to believe the government, not the victims. Even those who know the truth will obey officials to be on the "safe" side.

One employee was in the sheriff's office when I got there, Viola Hall, a dispatcher. I asked, "Is Waldemar in jail?" Her tone was snippy. "Yep, he is." I asked her if I could send a message in to him, "Nope. You can't." When I asked her why not, she responded, "Because there isn't any officer here." I slammed my palm on the counter and said, "Then get an officer in here!" She got on her dispatch radio and I sat down in the hall to wait. Then I heard her say in a triumphant voice, "I need you to come in and help me incarcerate someone." She didn't say who. She didn't have to. They knew.

At that point I could easily have left but I thought, "Fine, if they jail both of us the public might wake up to what is going on." I waited in silence. Finally the two officers who had arrested Waldemar - Ken Simon and Tom Gable - came in the door. They saw me sitting there on the bench and one took my arm. "Come with us," he said. "We're charging you with disorderly conduct." Sitting quietly on a bench is disorderly conduct?

I later learned that the deputies had driven Waldemar's pickup to the farm. Stu Polk had threatened me, "We'll get you too" and I'm sure that plot was in the works then. Surely, they thought, when I learned Waldemar was in jail I'd make a fuss? What could be a more vague and believable charge against me than Disorderly Conduct?

All three of them led me back to a room adjoining the men's jail. There they emptied my purse on a table and started inventorying its many contents. (When Waldemar and I were dating he'd kid me about how much I carried in my purse. "Have you got a hammer in there too?") The process was taking time and I was being verbal all the while.

Waldemar was lying down on a bunk toward the rear of the jail and didn't hear the ruckus. When one of the other inmates told him some woman was "really giving them hell," he bounced off the bunk and came to the bars. "Evedine, is that you?" "Yes, they're locking me up too". (Waldemar told me later that he was relieved that now I knew where he was and why he hadn't come home. He hadn't been given that one phone call.) "Good!" he exclaimed. "Where did they pick you up?" "They didn't. I came in." I started to tell Waldemar about Bolstad's call but my jailers cut our conversation short. They stopped the inventory and hurried me off to the drunk tank. That was a sound proof room for drunks but which doubled as a woman's jail when necessary. The cell I was put into had two barred cells adjacent to a larger room. I was put into one of the cells behind locked bars. The cell was lighted by a small bulb in the ceiling in one corner. Under it was the toilet and wash basin. There were no windows to the outside, no clock or TV. At that time I didn't have a wrist watch. There was a set of bunk beds but no chairs so I had to sit hunched on the lower bunk.

The outer room had a table and the lighting there was better, casting some brightness into my cell. The door was thick and had a small window in it. Jailers could see in and were able to check on inmates at times.

When Waldemar finally got to make his one phone call, it was too late to reach Bolstad. On his way back to his cell, he passed mine and pounded on the door. "How's it going in there?" I didn't hear it. (He told me about it later when we were home)

Suddenly remembering I had bread raising in the oven, I realized I needed to get the attention of the jailers. A fork had been left in my cell and I used it to clang against the bars but nobody heard the noise. Fortunately Viola Hall soon came in on some errand. I told her about the bread, asking her to call my neighbor Borgny Dahl. After I got home the next evening, I learned that Borgny had taken the bread to her house to bake. She'd also put the thawing hamburger back in the refrigerator, fed the dog, taken in our mail, and told Mr. Bolstad we were in jail.

The wheat buyer came to the jail and talked to Waldemar. Of course he had been astonished at the news, having just talked to me that morning. "What for?" he'd asked Borgny but she didn't know either.

Ken Simon and Viola Hall came in to read me my "rights". I guess that's ok to do after the innocent are locked up? With the guilty that has to be done first or they go free. They also completed the inventory list of my purse contents and Mr. Simon had a questionnaire for me to verbally complete. "Do you have any allergies?" "I have all kinds of allergies," I told him honestly. He looked up, pen suspended in air and snarled, "Don't get smart with me."

A little later I was brought before the Justice of the Peace and shown the charges, signed by Ken Simon with Tom Gable and Viola Hall as witnesses. I told Stu Polk, "You must be proud of yourself." Sensitive to my disrespect for his personage, he asked stiffly, "What did you say, I must be proud of myself?" I realized my mistake at once and corrected it. "No," I said, "You must NOT be proud of yourself." He responded, "I'm just doing my job."

Court came into session, formalities began, including another reading of my "rights." Then he went into his staged litany: He told me I had a right to remain silent; to have an attorney; to have a jury trial; to pay a bond of $100; to plead guilty or innocent. I wondered what would happen if I "exercised" my right to remain silent. I soon found out. Polk said, "Let the record show that she remained silent." I was then "remanded" back to jail.

Lunch the first day was two meat sandwiches, peaches and orange juice. Because of my allergies, I sent back the orange juice and had Viola exchange the whole wheat bread for white. Supper was a plateful of macaroni hot dish. I wasn't hungry and it wasn't good. There were two buttered sandwiches with it, and peaches (canned) were offered, but I sent them back. I ate about half of the food.

There was a Bible which I read at times. I glanced through magazines (mostly sports publications), walked around in the tiny cell for exercise and I prayed. My attitude was great and I know the Lord took care of that. Jail, I thought, was at least endurable.

In the evening, at my request, the bars were unlocked and I had the use of the outer room too, luxury! For the rest of my stay there the bars were open. The night clerk was Cherril Sorenson.

Through the night I was awake for hours. I couldn't see outside and had no way of judging time. Finally I started to doze off at intervals and found sleep very welcome. I may have gotten up about 7:00 a.m. I had no idea if I'd slept one hour, two hours or more.

When breakfast was brought to me, Viola Hall told me it was about 8:30. The breakfast looked great. There were pancakes smothered in syrup and butter with several little pig sausages. I had to ask if I could have toast instead of the pancakes. She made the substitution. Ironically my being in jail gave her more work to do. She had to wait on me and because of my allergies, I was a difficult customer to please.

# NINETEEN: A PREVAILING WALL

"And I will make thee unto this people a fenced brazen wall: and they shall fight against thee, but shall not prevail against thee, for I am with thee to save thee and to deliver thee, saith the Lord."

That forenoon in the Sheridan County jail I had alternating moods, at times in high spirits, believing that everything has its purpose, even false imprisonment. Later I would feel a burning anger, triggered by unbidden thoughts of the injustice and ignorance with which we had to contend. How much easier it would be, I thought, to deal with things if we were free to move about, talk, go outside for fresh air. Thus back and forth my emotions went, wavering between faith and dejection.

I expected that I would be released that day but I wasn't that hopeful about my husband. I wondered too if I would be fined and if so, would I refuse to pay and then be subjected to more jail. I couldn't see myself being a willing slave, but on the other hand I knew I was a weak mortal.

In the afternoon Viola Hall and a deputy came and got me. I was taken up in the elevator and brought into the courtroom. I was dressed in my jail attire, my hair a mess, no makeup on. When I'd had my "mug shot" taken I'd commented on how bad I looked. "We've had worse," the official had said.

There were a couple of people in the courtroom audience that I knew and maybe a dozen who were strangers. Waldemar was not there. He was still locked up. County Attorney David Cybulski gave his speech. He said that I'd used profanity in the Sheriff's office, a lie. Viola Hall and Ken Simon were both called on to testify to my "crime," both obviously shaken. Now they were being made to take part in the plot in court! Much as they'd enjoyed their game of locking me up, this must have been scary. Viola testified that I'd called her "cute."

To give substance to the County Attorney's charge of profanity she went on to say that I'd used the word "hell". She had been coached to come up with something profane and that must have been as extreme as they'd dared to go.

After I'd been allowed on the stand, the County Attorney vaguely recanted his charges of profanity. I didn't catch just what words he used as he changed his tune, but I know there was no apology there.

None of this mattered to the Justice of Peace. With no valid charges against me, he declared me "guilty as charged" and sentenced me to ten days in the County jail, suspended.

Waldemar was then brought into the courtroom for HIS "trial." He was permitted to have me as his witness. Between the two of us we told the story about our land and the crimes by which it had been taken from us. We told about Paul's estate and the reasons Paul had not been able to pay us for the land.

One year wheat prices started going up and Paul had a good harvest. There wasn't enough room in the bins so he had the wheat piled on the ground, gambling that prices would go still higher. Waldemar begged him to sell enough to pay us off but he refused. Instead he borrowed more money from the Security State Bank and bought new machinery. The bank officials had advised him that now was the time to replace his old machinery and it was a temptation Paul did not resist.

One day the next summer Waldemar came into the house looking ill. He said Paul's wheat, stacked on the ground near our bins, was full of worms. He estimated the loss to be worth about $20,000. If he'd sold it in time he could have paid us off and retired. The new equipment was an added debt for him and he was unable to make another payment on the land.

That spoiled wheat became a stink pile and the smell permeated our whole farmstead. Eventually it was disposed of somehow.

Justice of the Peace Polk acknowledged that he'd heard the story before.

Then he said we could tell the truth from heck to breakfast and it wouldn't make any difference. "This is just a little court," he "explained." He further stated that a higher court had ruled against us and fraudulent or not, a little court was bound by the rulings of a higher court. It was a stupid reason and another lie. Waldemar was declared guilty and sentenced to jail for ten days and again locked up.

After the "trial," I talked a little with the County Attorney. I noted that Waldemar's nephew Gene Rice, Sr. and not his grandnephew Gene Rice, Jr. had filed the charges. Waldemar had told me that returning from town that morning, he had noticed seismographers on the land and an officer there. He'd turned onto the land to find out what was going on and the arrest had been made, trespassing the charge. In the officer's car while Gene signed the charges, Waldemar asked him, "Are you Gene Rice, Jr.?" Gene replied, "I'm Gene Rice."

This whole fiasco had involved the older Gene Rice, with his son working in the oil fields in North Dakota, having nothing to do with it at all.

I mentioned to Cybulski that Gene Rice, Sr. had no authority in the land in question, legally or otherwise. It was his son's name that had been forged as the lessee on the fake ten-year lease. Cybulski told me he knew that. He said, "I know Boogie. I went to school with him." Then he added that he was tired of doing everything for Gene Rice. He said we should get a good attorney. We'd heard that song before, over and over again. We knew that Gene was getting by with what he was doing only because he was a pawn of Darland and Sorte. Cybulski, too, was used that same way, under the thumb of their agent, Stuart Polk.

I was angry as I drove home. I needed to talk to my husband and by the time I got home I was very depressed. We had not known Viola Hall, Ken Simon or Tom Gable personally, but we did know Stuart Polk. I thought surely there was a spark of decency in the man. I decided to call him, to plead for Waldemar's release from jail.

When he answered the phone, to my surprise and his, I started crying. Startled, he was all concern. "Evie, what's wrong? Has something happened? Are you alone?"

"What's wrong?" I reiterated. "My husband is in JAIL!" Maybe his conscience then kicked in. A woman's tears sometimes do something to a man. After some discussion, he said he'd think about it. Later that night he released Waldemar from jail and I went and got him.

After he got home we had so much to talk about. We began to find the whole episode not only bizarre but even hilarious. We went to bed but kept talking until I looked at the clock and realized it was 2 a.m.!

We got little sleep that night. Early the next morning Vicki and her girlfriend Jill arrived home. Vicki had graduated from college weeks before, had been on a trip down south where she had visited with Carla in Arkansas and Marbea in Arizona. She had driven back to Montana with Jill, who was attending Arizona State.

Out of Jill's hearing I started telling Vicki in low tones what had happened. As Jill came into the kitchen I stopped talking. Then, realizing that it would seem as though we'd been talking about her, I took the "bull by the horns" and said, "Jill, do you know where Vicki's parents spent yesterday?" "No," she said, not dreaming of what was coming next. I then said just two words: "In jail."

Jill's hand went to her mouth covering an instant guffaw. Then we all laughed and we told the girls the whole story. At one point I asked, "Waldemar, why are we finding this to be so funny?" "Well," he quipped, "You're tough! It took three of them to lock you up."

We got some much needed rain that day and Waldemar was unable to work in the fields. In a jovial mood we went into town for dinner in a cafe. Waldemar thanked the waitress when she left a pot of coffee on our table. He said, "In jail they just let me have one cup a day." Not missing a beat, the middle aged waitress replied, "Well, I sure wouldn't go back and give THEM any more of my business."

Early the next morning my anger about the crime got to me and again I placed a call to the Stuart Polk residence. His wife answered and I asked for Stu. When he came on the line I asked how we could go about getting a transcript of the trial we'd had in his court. "Ah, er, um," he stalled for time. Finally he said, "In a little court there aren't any records kept." A weak and phony excuse. I remembered Polk telling the deputies, "Let the record show that she remained silent."

I exclaimed, "Then in a little court crime can be committed?" "I hope not," he said. Before I slammed the phone down, I exclaimed, "A terrible crime WAS committed in your court."

On Saturday, May 23, we got a letter from County Attorney David Cybulski. It was a two-page missive in which he "explained" what we could do about the forgery and perjury we had "commented" on at our trial. He told us that normally we would have to get the help of a law enforcement agency; then maybe he'd investigate. If he found crime, maybe he'd prosecute. He added that even if crime was proven, the prosecution of the crime wouldn't restore our property. No, he said, we'd still have to get that back "according to law".

Nice try! But we knew better.

# TWENTY: A WEDDING

Vicki married Chris Ruby on August 8, 1981. They had met the year we returned to our farm in 1969 when both were in fifth grade. Cal and Julianne Ruby had moved with their family to Plentywood that year because Cal had accepted a position with the Montana National Bank.

It wasn't until they were seniors in high school that they had their first date. Chris took Vicki to the prom. Chris had been active in sports and his mother commented that if girls had been shaped like footballs, he would have noticed them sooner.

Both went to college after high school, but Chris gave up after a year and got a job. A big man, six foot three inches in height, he preferred physical work. Even so he again enrolled in college, this time in Minot, North Dakota, about 180 miles from Plentywood. He wanted to have "something to fall back on," he said. They became engaged in the summer of 1979 and made their wedding plans for after Vicki's graduation from college.

The wedding was lovely, a joyous occasion, held in St. Joseph's Catholic Church in Plentywood with about two hundred guests in attendance. Many of our relatives from far and near came for the wedding. This included all of my family and many from Waldemar's. It was an occasion for a happy reunion with much reminiscing and laughter. There was a lot to do, but our house guests were gracious and provided helping hands when needed.

We served a buffet dinner at the reception, catered by the women of St. John's Lutheran Church. All were neighbors of ours on the farm. They were good cooks who sometimes also catered for other occasions such as annual dinners put on by local businesses.

The day before the wedding was especially busy. Vicki and I were getting ready in the afternoon to go into town to take care of things. My mother had gone to a bedroom to take a nap. After a short while she came out to the kitchen saying she hadn't been able to sleep. Her eyes were red-rimmed and we asked her what was wrong.

"Oh, Vicki," she said, "Do you remember when you used to run to meet Alice when she'd come off the bus?" Vicki immediately went to her grandmother and gave her a hug, then started crying herself. Tears are contagious and then it was my turn. My sister June, busy at the kitchen sink, kept her back to us.

The date was August 7th, the anniversary of Alice's death twelve years before. When I'd worked for the Kelly Girls in Seattle on temporary jobs, I'd leave Vicki with my mother each day. When Alice came home from work, Vicki would run to meet her. Alice often talked about what a treat that had been for her, the little toddler heading her way, hair flying, arms outstretched.

"Oh," Mom apologized, her face breaking into a smile. "This is supposed to be a happy occasion and now I had to go and start this."

That evening at the rehearsal, I sat with Cal and Julianne at the back of the church as Waldemar walked Vicki down the aisle. As he handed his daughter over to her husband-to-be, he made a remark that I didn't catch. Cal laughed and the Priest and Chris grinned so I asked what had been said. Cal told me: "And you'd BETTER take care of her."

Though we were members of the Lutheran Church, we were not concerned that Vicki would join her husband in the Catholic faith. There is one God. We will be judged by what is in our hearts, not by the church to which we belong.

The newlyweds made their first home in Minot since Chris still had his college degree to earn.

Carla and her husband had come from Arkansas and we enjoyed their company for a whole week. They were still here when Jack had his "hearing" before Justice of the Peace Stuart Polk. The night before the wedding Jack had driven our car into town. Within an hour he was home again, angry. He had been given a ticket for driving our car which did not have current registration. We had been refused registration and a license plate because we didn't believe in insurance.

A few days after the wedding, Jack took a half day off from his summer job to appear in court. He was a student at Montana State University, Bozeman, majoring in Electrical Engineering. He worked each summer to help finance his education.

At the hearing, Justice of the Peace Polk asked questions to which Jack responded politely and articulately. Stu Polk knew about our stand against insurance. We had written letters to the readers of the Plentywood Herald on the subject and he had once commented, "Your letters make interesting conversation."

Now as he listened to Jack explain why our car was not currently licensed, he played the role of a judge hearing the facts for the first time. Pretending intense interest, he responded to Jack with "hmmm, hmmm" each time he answered a question. Finally he told Jack he would talk the matter over with the City Attorney. "I will get in touch with you." he said.

A few days later, to our surprise and shock, Jack received a summons! He was to appear at a TRIAL. This time Jack took a whole day off work, and then learned he would have to lose another day. Mr. Polk sentenced Jack to twenty-four hours in jail. His only "crime" had been driving our unlicensed car to town,

Whatever Polk hoped to accomplish that day, it was not justice. Jack handed me his billfold before he was led away to his cell. I said, "Jack, I'll pray for you."

Stuart Polk, Justice of the Peace and Editor and owner of the Plentywood Herald, made headlines a few years later. Over a five-year period he had been stealing money from the traffic fines of Sheridan County. Judge James Sorte was the presiding judge in the matter. Polk pleaded guilty, avoiding a trial. He was removed from office, fined, and required to make restitution. He was not jailed.

# TWENTY-ONE: STAY TUNED

Our lives seemed to be taking on a soap opera quality. It was not infrequently that I added to my letters to relatives, "Tune in tomorrow." The difference was that this was real. We were living it. Sometimes I didn't want to know what would happen next and I'm sure our close relatives were apprehensive too.

I had mixed feelings about picking up our mail when it came, filled with both dread and hope. We prayed for break-through and justice, while realizing this might not happen soon. Instead, we knew we might get more threats, further persecution.

In March 1982 Jack went to Seattle for his spring break to take in a football game and visit with our relatives.

On Wednesday, March 24, 1982 - 7:20 a.m. I wrote in my diary:

"At the moment I'm overwhelmed by our latest happening in our deal. For the past two evenings we've been gone from home. We were at the whist party in Westby on Monday night and at the GTA dinner in Plentywood last night.

"We were home in bed and asleep last night when the phone rang at about 10:30. It was Jack with Glen on the extension, calling from Seattle. There was relief in Jack's voice. 'Where have you been?' was his first question. They had been trying to reach us both nights and believed we both must be in jail!

"At six a.m. Vicki called. She said Jack and Glen had both been "sure" we were in jail. She'd tried to reassure them, telling them somebody would know, "They're allowed one phone call, you know." But Jack pointed out that we had NOT been allowed that "one phone call" last time. And, incidentally, when Vicki had been startled out of slumber by Jack's late night phone call (two hours difference in time) she'd reached for her glasses in the dark and broken them.

"All this really jarred me. Our kids do not have wild imaginations in this matter. Their fears are justified! How often have I wondered whether or not any delay on Waldemar's part meant he was jailed? In town one time when he went to the post office to mail a letter or a package, he didn't come back to the car (where I waited) as soon as I expected. With fear in my heart, I went to the P.O. to check! In the summer when I expect him home from the fields for supper, the thought has crossed my mind, and grown - 'Has he been arrested?'

"I felt angry that we all had been put into such an insecure position by a government that promised 'justice for all'."

I'd just put the diary away but then decided to record some of our further conversation. "Glen was discussing a job he should do in connection with the house, some leak somewhere. He said, 'I'll do it when I feel better.' But in response to my concern, he assured me he felt OK but just wanted to rest. 'Well, I'll put it this way - I'll never be 21 again,' he said. I knew what he meant. Waldemar and I have our aches and pains too. We're all in our sixties. So I said, 'Yes, Glen, I know. NONE of us will see 21 again!' Immediately I was startled to hear the young voice of Jack. 'I will.' Sure enough. Jack will be 21 on his next birthday, May 28th. "

That was March 24, 1982, and little did we know on that day that an amazing adventure would soon be in store for us.

On Jack's twenty-first birthday, May 28, 1982, Waldemar and I were flying through a freak spring blizzard from the Federal Corrections Institute at Lexington, Kentucky, to the Cascade County jail in Great Falls, Montana.

# TWENTY-TWO: A QUESTION OF COMPETENCY

On April Fool's Day, 1982, Waldemar and I were ready to drive into Plentywood to buy groceries. Because of all the snow and blocked roads we'd had since the first of the year, we had been snowbound much of the time. About once every three weeks we'd gotten the County to open the road into our farmyard so we could get to town for groceries. Then we'd have to hurry home before our road was blocked again.

Very occasionally had we gotten out for any entertainment. The two nights that Jack had called and not found us home had been exceptions.

On March 26 Waldemar's sister Martha called with the sad news that her husband had died. We again got the County to open our road and went to Minnesota for the funeral. We arrived home on March 31 and it was the very next day that the astounding adventure was to begin.

On that first day of April 1982, we were about to put on our coats and head for our car. Through our kitchen window we saw two cars go by and as we watched, they turned around and came onto our driveway and into our yard. Five people came to our door and we thought they must be Jehovah's Witnesses. We were wrong. They were five special agents of the Internal Revenue Service with "warrants" for our arrest. We were allowed to call our neighbors to let them know we were in custody and to ask them to notify our daughter. Letting us gather a few essentials such as medication, money, toothbrushes, playing cards, our Bibles, and my diary, they then handcuffed our wrists behind our backs.

I was put in a car with two men and a woman. Waldemar was put in the second car with two men. En route to the county jail in Great Falls, Montana, we stopped at a small town for lunch. There they took the handcuffs off our wrists and we seven people went into the cafe like ordinary citizens having a friendly meal together.

When we were led into the County jail in Great Falls, the staff there seemed astonished. "What's this all about?" one asked. The agents explained. A woman jailer led me to a two-room unit in which there were comfortable beds, but no chairs, mirrors or clocks. The sink did not have a stopper and the shower was not inviting. There was a TV that was controlled with the lights by a switch outside the room, out of my control. Through a small window I could see across the street to the courthouse where I had worked in the mid-forties.

The woman jailer told me that my husband was not being put in with hardened criminals, but would be in a room in the basement formerly used as a recreation center. It was a comfort for me to know that. She said some young men, trusties, were in there with him. I could sometimes hear loud talking and complaints from the male inmates in nearby cells and I was glad Waldemar was not there.

In the next few days we had hearings, but no arraignment, no trial. The hearings concerned only the matter of attorneys, which we refused to hire. On Judge Hatfield's orders, two attorneys came to the jail to talk to us. In spite of this coercive action, which we resented, it did give us a welcome chance to tell our story even if to a limited extent, and to express our views on the injustice being done to us. One of the attorneys, Schwandt, seemed able to grasp what we had to say and some of his questioning was logical. The other lawyer, Johnson, a member of a firm in which his father was a senior partner, seemed naive, his understanding nil.

We found out later in the courtroom that our discussion with the two lawyers had been reported in detail to the judge. He repeated verbatim a remark that Attorney Schwandt had made in our interview in the jail: "Trying to get justice in court without an attorney is as difficult as a man trying to take out his own appendix." Unfortunately that is true. We didn't get justice WITH or without an attorney. We tried it both ways.

Waldemar often remarked, "There is no wrong way to tell the truth; no right way to lie."

We were kept in the Great Falls jail about two weeks, not knowing what would happen next. After several "hearings" which were all about lawyers, Judge Hatfield "determined" that there were grounds for him to believe we might be mentally unbalanced. We wouldn't hire lawyers, we "claimed" we were the victims of conspiracy; we wrote increasingly "erratic" letters. People thought we were "sick".

There was no hearing in which those "facts" were produced as evidence, no opportunity given us for our defense. On merely the judge's say-so we were ordered committed to the Federal Corrections Institute in Lexington, Kentucky, to have our "minds probed."

By this time stories about us had been in the newspapers a lot. Now the headlines were about the elderly couple from Plentywood who were being sent to Lexington to have their minds examined. It was also said that the way we talked and wrote indicated that we were part of a tax protest group. While many people may have believed we were conspiratorial and/or paranoid there were others who didn't and who wrote us encouraging letters.

It would have been easier for us to cope with all this if I hadn't had asthma and if Waldemar wasn't bothered by arthritis. Several times when I was in jail in Great Falls, the staff forgot to deliver my medication to me and there was no way that I could make contact to remind them. That was dangerous and frightening. To get the medication in my own control I finally had to contact the lawyers who had been assigned to us.

On April 7th Jack came from Bozeman to visit with us and we learned from him that Paul's "estate" had been "settled" and also that Gene Rice, Sr. had bought the three hundred and twenty acres from the estate for $94,200. We could only conclude that he had been forced to buy it, his part in the crimes held over his head by his attorney, Tom Darland. Paul had not been able to pay us what he owed on his $12,500 contract and in our estimation, Gene was no better off financially than Paul had been. With the price of wheat consistently low, the land only half under cultivation and unimproved, no buildings on it, the deal was not an investment we thought Gene could handle, nor was it likely he would have chosen it of his own volition.

We agreed that this matter not only involved Gene further in the fraud but added to his money problems as well. Waldemar and I had no doubt that illegal coercion was involved and the fact that it was done while we were locked up was not a coincidence. The high price Gene was forced to pay for the land provided a huge fee for Tom Darland!

A few other visitors besides Jack helped brighten our days in jail in Great Falls.

Cal and Julianne Ruby had moved to Great Falls several years before and they were a great help to us, much appreciated. They came to visit us in jail, provided hospitality for Jack, were at our "hearings" and kept our relatives informed through Vicki. Another couple, friends of ours, visiting relatives there, read about our incarceration in the Great Falls Tribune and came to see us one day, a welcome surprise.

The staff at the jail were good to us for the most part, sometimes letting us get together and visit for an hour or more. We needed the chance to talk, to discuss what was going on and what we could and should do about it. Waldemar told me that after such get-togethers he always felt great, and so did I. We needed the inspiration and encouragement that we got from each other, and especially after learning the latest about the Darland affair. Our discussions provided us with different perspectives as we "tossed the ball" back and forth.

Waldemar did love watching ball games on TV, however, and one day after we'd had a couple of hours together, he realized that he was missing a game. We walked to a room where deputies were sitting around talking. Waldemar was in a good mood at the moment and his sense of humor came to the fore. Addressing the men in the room, he said, "I'm being hen-pecked. Lock her up." They laughed and one of them carried out his order. In jail, my husband had clout!

# TWENTY-THREE: ROYAL TREATMENT

On April 16, 1982, we were transported from Great Falls to the jail in Billings. Before we left, Waldemar was allowed to make a telephone call to our neighbor Robert Dahl to ask him if he would lease our cropland for that year. Robert agreed and later told us how helpless he'd felt when questions arose that needed input from Waldemar who was out of reach.

As we were getting ready to leave for Billings, I noticed that the marshal who would drive us there was smoking a cigarette. "Please, I have asthma, will you not smoke in the car?"

"I WILL smoke," he said. He did agree to open the window a little but this concerned me too because Waldemar seemed to be coming down with a cold and the draft wouldn't be good for him. I was handcuffed with my coat on; he was handcuffed with his coat off.

New problems arose in the Billings jail. The young woman jailer, snippy and full of ego, said if I wanted medication I would have to take it when she brought it in for the others or I wouldn't get it at all. Aminophylline, like many drugs, can be toxic if it is not controlled right. I asked the woman if I could see a doctor. She said doctors were not accessible on the weekend. That evening after supper she came back and grudgingly, sarcastically, said a doctor had told her I could have my medicine every six hours as prescribed. "And that means I'll wake you at MIDNIGHT!" she exclaimed, inferring she was still boss and I'd regret it.

I had to sleep on an iron bunk with a thin plastic mattress, no pillow. That was hard for my 60-year-old body, but there were open bars through which I could call if I needed help and I had cell mates. The women in my cell were considerate and did their smoking near the bars where the smoke could escape to the outside corridor.

On the afternoon of April 18, a deputy came to my cell and told me that a reporter for the Billings Gazette had asked for an interview with Waldemar. He had said he'd agree to the interview only if I was also present.

We were both happy to have the opportunity to tell it like it was. We talked as much as we could in the limited time we had. The reporter, a woman, at first took notes. I'm sure she realized we were telling the truth and as we went on about the injustice, arrogance and crime we'd been subjected to, she stopped writing. Possibly this was too much for the Billings Gazette? As we talked, a photographer was moving around taking pictures from all angles; but we were too intensely interested in telling our story to pay attention to him.

When the interview was over, my mouth was dry. Terribly thirsty, I asked if I could have a drink of water. A deputy had been in the room through the interview, listening in silence. Now he sprang into action saying, "I'll get it." In minutes he was back with the welcome cold water. After drinking it I commented, "I was SO thirsty." To my surprise he responded, "I know. I was thirsty too!" I marveled. Hearing the truth in that room had affected him the same way that telling it had affected me. I don't know if the interview and pictures were ever published. I doubt it.

Early on Tuesday morning, April 20th, we were flown from Billings to Lexington, Kentucky, escorted by Marshal Lou Aleksich and his wife Ada. This had not been our first encounter with the chief marshal from the Billings area. He had been involved in Waldemar's first trial; but even before that our lives had crossed his. When he was a young man with the Highway Department in Helena, he had gotten acquainted with Waldemar's first wife who was also employed in that city. Like Waldemar and me, she had grown up in Sheridan County.

In 1943 Aleksich was transferred to Plentywood and there he renewed his acquaintance with Cora. He also met Waldemar after they were married in 1944. I was not living in Plentywood at the time so did not know the Aleksich family. However, in 1955 the Farmers Home Administration state office assigned me to the Billings office for two weeks to help train a new employee. The FHA office happened to be located in the Federal Building where Aleksich was then headquartered as U. S. Marshal.

I met him in the lobby one day. Since he'd heard I was from Plentywood, we got into a friendly conversation, discussing our mutual friends there. He'd commented on what a great place Plentywood was and how he had enjoyed his years there.

At Waldemar's first hearing in Billings, while he and I were sitting in the courtroom waiting for the judge to arrive, Marshal Aleksich came striding across the floor toward us. "Hello, Blackie," he said. We then had quite a conversation in that courtroom though I suspect the marshal may have been uncomfortable, being in the strange position of friend and foe at the same time.

We had been there on time but we had quite a wait for the judge to show up. When we commented on that, Aleksich justified the situation saying, "Judges CAN be late. A judge can do whatever a judge wants to do." I quickly responded, "Someday the godship of judges will go down!" I was aware of the marshal's silent disapproval of my remark but I didn't care.

Now as we approached Aleksich for our trip to Lexington, Waldemar cautioned me to hold my tongue, which I did. However he had a few words himself to say about the injustice we were getting. He also asked if we could be transported this time without handcuffs. He won that favor at least.

I sat next to a window, Ada Aleksich next to me, another woman passenger to her left. The lady had been on a vacation and was returning home. She seemed surprised that anyone would go to Lexington and wanted to know why we were going there. Ada whispered something to her and the questioning stopped.

Waldemar and I got "royal treatment" on that flight. All details of the trip were made for us, all expenses paid. Ada Aleksich held my purse and when I needed my pill or wanted my lipstick, I had to ask her for it. We had been first in line to enter the plane with our escorts. Prisoners! Other passengers might have thought we were people of importance getting the privilege of head of the line. Little did they know! The passenger beside Ada Aleksich knew; of that I was certain.

At Denver where we changed planes other marshals were waiting to make sure all went well, perhaps to help with the criminals if they got violent? Ada Aleksich went with me when I needed to go to the restroom and a male marshal waited near the door.

More strange things were yet to happen. Twice, after all passengers were on board a plane for Lexington something was problematic and we had to move finally to a third plane. The pilot wisecracked that he was ready to retire soon after many years of safe flying and wanted to make sure he could live to do it.

When wine was about to be served, Marshal Aleksich tapped his wife on the shoulder from his seat behind us and told her I was not to have any. She was discreet and asked me politely, (for the benefit of the listening stewardess) "Shall we send this back?" That was fine with me. Wine can cause allergic reactions in me and I told her so.

It was with apprehension that we neared our destination. We would not be going to motels this trip and we didn't know what was in store for us. Would we be put in with hardened criminals? An insane asylum? It is fear of the unknown that is hardest to take. Corruption, wise as a serpent and NOT innocent as a dove, kept all plans from us, using secrecy as its intimidating tool.

In Great Falls when we'd treated the matter too lightly to please officials, we'd been warned that this would not be pleasant. Probably they did not want us to go through with this travesty, instead hoping we'd be scared enough to bow and hire attorneys. With us in the control of lawyers, we'd be no problem to the "government" and all would be well?

It was evening when we arrived at the Lexington airport. We were escorted into a limousine and driven to the prison by an attractive young woman. "What is this prison like?" I asked. She must have sensed my trepidation. To my relief, she responded, "This is the Cadillac of Prisons."

Choice words! Just what I needed to hear.

# TWENTY-FOUR: LEXINGTON

Prison! Waldemar and I had celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in March with a dinner out. How far we had come in such a relatively short time! We'd had our wedding ceremony in the Lutheran Church in Comertown; had lived on the farm, moved to Seattle, spent a year in Great Falls, two years in Alaska and finally were again living on our farm.

The first ten years had been normal. We had naively gone about our lives, struggling to make a living and bring up our children the best we could. The next fifteen years were action-packed with scales falling gradually from our eyes as we saw firsthand the cancer of corruption in our country.

The cancer was growing rapidly with corruption gaining in world power. True religion became more and more oppressed by a government claiming to be free, with liberty and justice for all. It seemed that God was giving corruption a long rope with which to hang itself.

The motto "Of the people, by the people and for the people" may sound great but people can be gullible, fickle, greedy and egotistic, prone to disagreement yet sticking to a claim of united patriotism. A truly infallible motto for our nation would contain the words, "Of the truth, by the truth and for the truth." God is the Supreme Power whether Man believes it or not. Knowing we were fighting for right against evil, we were not ashamed of our imprisonment.

Life in the Federal Correction Institute at Lexington, Kentucky, was not intolerable but it did start traumatically. Though we were not convicts, had not had a trial or even an arraignment, we were in custody in a Federal prison, strip searched, fingerprinted, and photographed. All our personal items such as money, birth certificates, Social Security cards, medication and driver's licenses were taken from us. We were each given a number, our identification for the duration.

We had arrived too late for the evening meal but after all admittance routines were over, we were served our supper. Two black inmates came over to talk to us, interested and friendly. No doubt an elderly grey haired couple brought in together did arouse curiosity. They asked questions and we told them a little of our story. "You strong," one said. He sounded sincere.

We were soon separated and turned over to staff people who were to find sleeping quarters for us that first night. Actually I got a nice welcome to prison life when Kathy, who was on duty, walked with me along the corridors looking for a room in which I could bunk. Though we found none, we talked as we walked and there was no condescension in her attitude. Like the black men, she too wanted to know why we were there. My story was much too long to tell, so I simply said that my husband and I were taking a stand against the Internal Revenue Service. "Shake," she said enthusiastically, putting out her hand.

All the rooms we'd checked were filled, three bunk beds in each with women smoking in every one. Finally we found a vacancy. It was a room in a unit that was being transferred to men's quarters. Kathy received authorization for me to spend the night there. She asked if I would be afraid but I assured her I would be fine. I saw a comfortable bed with a soft mattress and a pillow in a room where there was no cigarette smoke, a welcome change from the Billings jail. No, I was not afraid. Waldemar and I were locked up with convicts all around us but we were there for a purpose. So be it.

It had been late at night when Kathy had found me the place to sleep. She explained the prison rules. Counting was necessary so inmates had to be in their rooms at midnight. At specified hours during the day they had to leave all other activities and stand outside their rooms beside the door. Rules about telephone calls were that we could make them but they had to be collect.

After the count that midnight, I called Carla and told her where we were. "Oh, that sounds ominous!" she moaned. I assured her that it wasn't bad and gave her our address, asking that she pass it on.

The trauma for me came next day when I was escorted through several long corridors with doors locked behind us as we passed through. I had to carry my own bedroll, the walk was long, and the locked doors did seem ominous. No one told me where I was being taken or why. I was a number, could ask no questions, get no information.

That first morning in prison Waldemar and I had gotten together in the dining hall, had breakfast and agreed on the place to meet for lunch. We'd been told the rules of the compound and made our plans accordingly. At noon, Waldemar was in the appointed place. Waiting for me, he missed his lunch and it was not until ten o'clock that night that he found out what had happened to me. Kathy finally got the message to him. When I had seen her in the psychiatric unit to which I had been taken, I'd expressed my concern about it.

The day after I was moved, Waldemar too was transferred from the compound. We never did find out why he was put in the hospital instead of the men's psychiatric ward.

My first introduction to the head of my unit, Dr. Eardley, told me I was in for trouble. His face stands out clearly even now. My immediate impression when I saw him was that his face was like a mask with a smiling mouth but eyes shining with malice. Very soon I learned that I would have trouble getting my prescribed medication for asthma. He told me he was boss and I would get it when HE decided I needed it. That's when trauma really set in. I felt I could cope with injustice and our incarceration if I could stay well. I tried appealing to other staff members but everyone said Dr. Eardley was in charge and there was nothing they could do about it.

When I went to bed that first night in the unit, I had not had medication since early morning. Kathy happened to be the staff person who made the count that night and when she saw I was ill, she took me to the Nurses' station. There I was checked by a nurse who called Dr. Eardley at his home and got the authorization to give me the pill.

The next morning when I saw Dr. Eardley in the Nurses' Station I asked him if he'd made the call to Dr. Messinger in Plentywood that he had promised he would make. Angrily he snarled, "What time is it?" I looked at the clock on the wall: "Ten o'clock."

"I said I would call in the morning and it's still morning, isn't it?" That evening he called me back to his office where I found another psychiatrist with him. His name was Dr. Frieberg, I was told, and he was from California. Dr. Eardley placed a telephone call to the office of Dr. Harold Messinger and reached a nurse. She confirmed that I was a patient of Dr. Messinger's and that I did have the prescription for aminophylline, to be taken every six hours.

When he got off the telephone, Dr. Eardley told me, "Well, the only good thing I can tell you is that I don't smoke." He would not let me have the medication. I recognized then that he was sadistic and felt that any begging on my part would compound the abuse.

Then the inquisition began. I would have been happy to tell my whole story to anybody who wanted to know it but I knew the purpose of the two doctors was to treat all truth as a figment of my imagination. "Why do you think you have asthma?" was one of the questions. Another was, "Have you always felt persecuted?"

On guard, praying for answers that would be safe, I longed for the interview to be over so I could get away, even without the pill I needed. They asked about my belief in God and if other members of my church believed as I did. My response was that I had all I could do to relate my own beliefs. I could not speak for the beliefs of anyone else.

They talked about taxes and like the other officials we'd dealt with, they were interested only in our obligations, not our rights. Dr. Eardley explained to me that he was both a mental and a physical doctor, "and we'll take good care of you here," he said. I dared to hope that the drilling was over at last and stood up to leave. Dr. Eardley wasn't done with me yet, however. He took me next door to his clinic and checked my heart. I sensed his disappointment when he found it was not beating wildly in fear. Then he used his stethoscope and listened to my lungs, pronouncing them "clear."

"What do you think?" he smiled. I wanted to get away from the man. "I have asthma," I said and strode off down the hall. He didn't call me back and I felt I had made my escape. I was thankful that my asthma was not acute at the moment. At midnight I went again to the Nurses' station in need of medication. Once more I got it after a call to Dr. Eardley. It was slight consolation to me that the doctor had to be awakened from his sleep each night on my behalf.

Heading back to my room, I knew I had to do something about the situation. It could not continue. I wrote a letter to Judge Hatfield, hoping it would not be intercepted and bring more punishment on my head. Telling him about the withholding of my needed medication, I offered to hire attorneys if necessary so that we could get out of that institution for the sale of my health. The coercion seemed to have worked and I felt guilty about bowing. Corruption, I thought, was winning. With prayer I mailed that letter and it did reach its destination. Weeks later I got the response, a copy of a document filed in the court's records. It said that the head nurse of the institution had been reached by telephone and that I was by then getting my medication on a regular basis.

I had asked Dr. Eardley if I could visit with my husband at times and he had told me that he would never initiate such a visit. If someone else authorized our getting together, he would allow it, he said.

The afternoon that my letter was mailed, I got a happy surprise when I was told that Dr. Kuniev from Waldemar's unit was waiting to see me in the Nurses' Station. A jovial man with a foreign accent, he said he would take me to see my husband. "I had to come and get you," he explained in good humor. "Your husband put his foot down! I had no choice. He wouldn't answer my questions until he could see you."

I really appreciated that kind of talk and I was glad that he was the doctor in charge of Waldemar's unit. After my sordid experiences, his friendly demeanor was like a breath of fresh air. On the way to the hospital unit, I told the doctor about Dr. Eardley's refusal to give me my needed medication. Dr. Kuniev responded that he had no jurisdiction in the matter, that Dr. Eardley was in charge of my unit and he could do nothing about it.

He led me to Waldemar and brought us into his own office to do our visiting. Saying he would go about his work and we were to visit as though he were not present, he did listen. I'm sure what we had to say did at times pique his curiosity. That day when I told Waldemar about the letter I had just sent to Judge Hatfield, he heard it. It didn't occur to me at the time, but I have since concluded that he immediately tipped Dr. Eardley off. It was that night that I started getting my medication on a regular basis.

God had answered my prayer.

# TWENTY-FIVE: EXAMINATION

The Blot Test. Psychiatrists use it to probe minds. Declaring there is no right or wrong answer, they use it to "test" people who have been accused of mental phobias. "What does this blot remind you of?" "An insect." "Why does it remind you of an insect?" Now you are supposed to say something that might be called bizarre. THEN the psychiatrist will know from your neither "right nor wrong" answer that you are nuts.

You point out the senselessness of the test. You tell the tester that a blot is just a blot, nothing more, that it does not remind you of anything other than the foolishness of the "test". Then you bring up the subject of the Bible. The Bible, you say, is clear in its meaning. Ah, the tester disagrees. The Bible has no real substance. What's contained in the Bible is subject to everyone's opinion.

The Blot Test and the Bible. A comparison has been made and the Bible has been found deficient. Said my tester, "In the blot test, eighty per cent of the people come up with the same answer so there must be SOMETHING there."

Judge Hatfield had ordered us committed to the Lexington Institute for thirty days. When the day of our supposed departure had come and gone, we were given no reason for the delay. We were not told anything. This caused us concern. Dr. Kuniev had gotten my husband and me together about once a week and that helped a lot. We needed to talk, enjoyed exchanging letters we'd gotten from our children and clippings they'd sent.

In a letter to the editor of a newspaper, a man in Western Montana had used a bit of satire in referring to us as the "bib overall bandit and his doll." He said he was glad we were behind bars, making the nation safe. Then he went on in a serious vein, lamenting the coddling of criminals and the cover up of crimes committed by people in high office.

Our visits with each other helped both of us to endure, even to enjoy our situation to a certain extent. Though the incarceration was not of our choosing, it was nevertheless an adventure, a glimpse into prison life, dire though that was. I told Waldemar about the funny and sometimes traumatic things that went on in my unit daily. I told him about my interviews with the psychiatrist Petrino, the testing and discussions that to my surprise I enjoyed, had found challenging.

Waldemar and I discussed the "deal" too, had serious talks about the Bible and our fight for right. "They might keep us here," he said once, expressing a dread I'd also considered. The head nurse once told me that if the prison authorities wanted to keep us there, they could and not even a court could get us out. She was unpleasant and I had to deal with her often when it was time for my medication. Once when I'd come a little early, she rebuked me. Pointing to the clock, she told me to come back in twenty minutes. I did exactly that and she sneered, "Mrs. Lane, you are a clock watcher, do you know that?" Possibly, like Dr. Eardley, she had it in for me because of the letter I'd written to the judge.

Several times Dr. Kuniev, listening in on our conversations, interjected opinions of his own. "The Bible says God helps those who help themselves," he said. We had heard that lie many times in connection with our stand against insurance. That trite saying was man made, not in Scripture. God, unlike Santa Claus, does His own work, helping those who trust him and need his help.

Waldemar told me about a time he got into a conversation with the prison Chaplain. Both Missouri Synod Lutherans, the two men found they had acquaintances in common. The Chaplain knew a couple of pastors who had been Waldemar's classmates when he had attended a Lutheran high school in St. Paul, Minnesota. At one point Pastor Schave asked, "What is truth?" Over the years we had been challenged often about the meaning of that word and now the pastor was doing it too.

Waldemar snapped his answer: "The truth is anything that is not a lie" Too many people in our arguments with them had claimed truth was an abstract concept, subject to belief. Often we heard, "There is your truth and there is my truth." As though truth were a matter of opinion.

One day the Chaplain, on Kathy's request, arranged for me to visit Waldemar with him as our chaperon. We had a fun visit that day and later I learned from Kathy that he had told her he had enjoyed it too.

The day I got the news we would be leaving the Institute I was eager to tell Waldemar. Though we didn't know what further persecution might be ahead of us, we wanted to get on with whatever it was. The "Not Knowing" was hard to handle.

Kim was one of the women I'd gotten to know. She and I had been at loggerheads about our opposing beliefs. My belief was in God; hers was in lawyers. In her late thirties, she was an inmate who had worked in a bank and embezzled. After her conviction she'd had a nervous breakdown. She had not been able to endure the county jail, she said, and had tried to commit suicide.

Her lawyers had assured her that her stay in the psychiatric unit would be brief, but she had suffered several disappointments. Promised dates of her release fell through time after time. Kim was bitter and didn't want any of my "magic," she said.

Strangely we soon became friends and I found her to be a fun, witty person. She was the first to defend me when another woman threatened to kill me. A black woman, Nettie, accused me of stealing from her a needle I'd found on the floor and she'd come after me. Demented, she chased me down the two flights of stairs and past an officer on the ground floor who intercepted. Kim happened to be there to witness the action and she told the officer about the times Nettie had threatened me before. Nettie was then put into lock up.

The day I found out about our departure date, it was Kim who told me. I'd met her on the stairs and heard her excitedly say something about "going out on Friday." I thought she was talking about her own release and was happy for her. "No, no!" she exclaimed, "YOU are going out on Friday!" She'd been in the office of one of the staff on some personal matter when the telephone rang. Kim listened to the official's end of the conversation and heard enough to get the facts: The Lanes would be leaving early on the morning of Friday, May 28. I marveled that Kim could rejoice in my good news even as she was waiting desperately for her own.

Friday was yet a few days away and I found I still had to deal with Dr. Eardley. Since that night of my inquisition I had seen very little of him, but he told me one day very nicely that, "We'll have to get together before you leave." A day or two later he called me into the Nurses' Station at a time no one else was present. Maybe that had been arranged. He locked the door and lit into me. "Why did you write that letter? I think you are a fraud and a phony. I think you're crazy and what if I put THAT into your report?"

I felt strangely calm. I knew God was in control, not Dr. Eardley! "I can't help what you put in my report," I said.

This was another inquisition, more foolish even than the first. Now I was more in control, knowing we would soon be leaving. He talked about the waiver of our rights to have an attorney. "You and your husband can be sent to prison...separate prisons! How would you like that?"

I told him we had not waived any right and had no intention of doing so. "We have a right to NOT hire attorneys and we exercised that right."

"You and your words!" he exclaimed, obviously not knowing how else to respond. Then he started asking personal questions like when and how I met my husband, why did I marry him, and what is love? Even sillier, he asked me if I knew that two heads are better than one. Then he told me to draw a stick figure to illustrate it. Obliging him, I drew two stick figures on a sheet of paper. "Now sign that and date it," he instructed. I did.

"Am I making you nervous?" he asked. I said "No." "Then why are your hands shaking?" I held out my hands, showing him they were steady and that I was calm. I have arthritis in the first joints of my fingers, making them a little deformed. He noticed that and used it as an excuse to change the subject. Then using his stethoscope, the doctor listened to my heart, again disappointed. When I asked how it was, he answered grudgingly, "Normal".

Now I perceived a change in his attitude, a sort of defeat. I had not cowered. Before the interview was over he changed his tactics and the conversation even became a bit friendly. He had grown up in a small town too, he said, and could understand how people could know each other without remembering when they'd met.

Before going to bed on Thursday night, Kim and another friend, Sandra, a black woman, gave me strict orders to wake them to say goodbye before I left in the morning. "No matter how early it is," Kim said.

It was early that Friday morning, Jack's twenty-first birthday, that Waldemar and I left the Federal Corrections Institute at Lexington, Kentucky. Again we were given the Royal Treatment as we were flown back to Great Falls. This time another marshal, Sorenson, and a female government employee were our escorts. The woman had a rough flight, was nauseated all the way, and I felt sorry for her. "This is a terrible way to earn a living," she said as she often vomited, filling bag after bag.

After we changed planes at Denver, Waldemar and I were given the privilege of sitting together. There seemed to be a change in attitude and we dared to hope something good might have happened. We hoped that the injustice against us might soon come to an end. By the time we got to Billings we were in a blizzard, unusual for that time of year. The plane couldn't land but went on to Great Falls. It didn't land there either because of the low visibility. The pilot announced that we would fly on to Kalispell. When the plane landed, we were surprised to see so many people get off. That's when we learned that we had been too wrapped up in our conversation to have heard the second announcement. The plane had turned around and gone back to Great Falls, landing there.

In the airport we got into a discussion with our escorts who said THEY would never want to go to jail, as though jail had been our choice. We were escorted to the courthouse through blowing snow. We were without winter coats or boots, our winter clothes having been sent home from Lexington. In court the judge reluctantly said our reports had been favorable, that we were capable of acting as our own attorney. He then made the comment that it wasn't HIS opinion. He told us he had lifted our requirement for posting a bond and we could go home for the weekend but we were to appear in the court for another hearing on Tuesday.

We felt this was just a ruse to require our obedience. It was ridiculous in that we'd be spending most of the time traveling to and fro. It was Friday then and we'd have to be back Tuesday morning. Our house had been locked up (neighbors had put a padlock on it) and would be cold with no food on hand. The prospect wasn't inviting. We chose to stay in jail, angry that the injustice was still going on. We should have been free to go home and stay there.

News in the media was about the couple from Plentywood who were having to spend Memorial Day weekend in the county jail. Now I found myself again in the "lock-up" I'd dreaded. Much as I'd wanted to leave Lexington, at least there I'd had space in which to move around, a certain amount of freedom. The weekend seemed long and frightening as we waited for Tuesday's unknown. When we'd been in jail previously, personnel had been great in letting us get together, sometimes to visit for hours at a time.

That Memorial Day the staff seemed especially busy and I waited in vain for the visit, promised "when we get time." It was hard to take, especially since we didn't know what the morrow would hold. The locked door got to me. Late in the afternoon, not knowing how long we'd have to be there, I prayed in desperation, "Lord, please unlock the door."

The ways of the Lord are truly beyond our understanding and I was amazed and awed at the way my prayer was answered that night.

Early in the evening Waldemar and I had finally been allowed to get together. We were left by ourselves in a booth a long time, nobody bothering us. After a couple of hours when we were deep in conversation, we were startled when one of the staff came and asked, "Are you Evedine Lane?" Then he told us, "Your daughter is going to have a baby."

We were going to become grandparents again, and this would be the first grandchild of my own flesh and blood. We were thrilled. Yes, physically the door remained locked; but that good news, in its own way, set us free. The lock on the door faded into insignificance. I knew then that the Lord had heard my prayer and all would be well.

# TWENTY-SIX: JOURNEY HOME

I had thought of our Memorial Day weekend in the Great Falls jail as three days in the belly of the whale. While it was hard to take, it had not been totally unproductive. On Saturday the jailers had allowed Waldemar and me to be together and we had worked out a petition: "We will hire attorneys only for the purpose of having the illegal charges against us thrown out of court." We listed all the reasons and contacted the attorneys, Greg Schwandt and Bjarne Johnson.

When we met with them on Sunday, they refused to implement our plan. Instead we got arguments. Attorney Johnson angrily rebuked us. "Alright, you trusted in the truth before and lost and if you trust in the truth now and don't hire us, you will go to jail and stay there."

Knowing that the truth is Christ, we considered that an outrageous thing to say. After we'd gotten home and before our trial, we filed a paper in the court's records, quoting him and declaring that we would meet his challenge. We would not hire him but would trust the truth instead.

Everything we did and said, of course, was ignored. On the forenoon of Tuesday, June 1, 1982, we were brought to court again for another hearing. The mood seemed to have changed and the judge even asked us a little about our "deal". He also admitted that we were capable of going to trial without lawyers. However, continuing to point out our "folly" in refusing to hire attorneys, he said about us, "They think the truth is cut and dried."

He was wrong. Truth cannot be cut and dried. Truth is powerful and eternal. In due time everybody will have to answer to it, many to their sorrow.

June 29th was set for our trial and we were told we were free to go home on our own recognizance. At least we had respite for several weeks and we were delighted. It felt good to be out of jail after two months in custody.

Our money, Social Security cards and driver's licenses had been retained in Lexington. We were told that these would be sent to us either upon our release or after our sentencing. When we told Judge Hatfield about that, he was surprised. He said, "It boggles the mind." Since we were without cash, the government had to pay for our bus fare home. While our transportation was under discussion, we brought up the fact that the IRS agents had brought us there and Waldemar suggested that marshals should drive us home. "It wouldn't hurt them any," he said, getting a chuckle from people in the courtroom.

One of the marshals loaned us $5.00 so that we could walk uptown and have lunch in a cafe. How good it felt to be able to walk together in the fresh Montana air! We went to a little cafe and Waldemar ordered bacon and eggs with hash browns. I had a hamburger. We thought we'd checked the prices carefully and were embarrassed when we got the bill for $5.25. Rechecking, we realized we'd ordered from a child's menu. There was nothing we could do but explain our predicament to the waitress. She quickly took our bill and crossed off the twenty-five cents.

Walking back to the jail, we met Attorney Bjarne Johnson and again he warned us that the matter was too serious for us to "trust it to the Lord." He said that because of the seriousness of our situation, we should trust him instead. I don't think he had a clue what a stupid remark that was. I assured him we would most certainly give the matter of whom to trust our most serious thought. He looked pleased and satisfied that I'd given him that assurance.

After the hearing, we'd met with the U. S. Attorney and an IRS agent and looked at the numerous papers that they had compiled for our "trial". They told us we could subpoena our own witnesses and could have any of the papers we wanted, but at ten cents per copy. They warned us that we should consider keeping our expenses down because under a new "law" if we were convicted in court, the whole expense of the trial would be ours to pay.

Cal Ruby came for us and took us to his home for supper. While it was cooking, Julianne and I went to a store where she bought a maternity top for Vicki with a calendar design on it, saying, "I can't wait." The dinner she served was delicious and we called our kids from the Ruby home.

It felt weird being free. We had to get oriented to the new feeling after our two months of lock up. Later the Rubys drove us to the bus depot, giving us money for expenses along the way. The marshal who had loaned us the $5.00 for lunch had later dug in his pocket and handed us another $25 on loan. We sent him a check in payment as soon as we got home.

The trip home took all night. We were routed through Billings and had lay-overs in two more towns before arriving in Plentywood about noon the next day. We talked to a few people there and got comments in our favor, exciting to us and appreciated. We called our neighbor Borgny Dahl and she came to town for us, then stayed on at our home to talk. There was a lot that had happened while we were gone. We were saddened to learn of the deaths of several friends.

Seeding had been delayed because of the rain and snow. Robert was then in the fields, just getting our crops in. We drove there and talked to him too for a while.

Free! That's what we were. We could come and go as we pleased. What a novelty. That night I cooked spaghetti for supper and realized I'd have to adapt to normal life again, cooking, cleaning, laundry. It had been a long and strange two months.

Yes, ahead would be our trial, but that was several weeks away. We would cross that bridge when we came to it. In the meantime we enjoyed our life on our farm.

Daily I went for walks in the lovely June sunshine, enjoying every minute. As I thought about the glories of being home again and the pleasures of being able to walk along on our own country roads, a hymn ran through my mind over and over, filling my heart with its apt message, fitting our situation perfectly:

I walked one day along a country road

And there a stranger journeyed too,

Bent low beneath of the burden of his load,

It was a cross, a cross I knew.

"Pick up thy cross and follow me,"

I heard the Blessed Savior call.

How can I make a lesser sacrifice

When Jesus gave his all?

# TWENTY-SEVEN: VERDICT

We had almost a month to enjoy our freedom from jail before it was time to go back to Great Falls for the trial. Naturally we thought of the date with trepidation and waited in vain for the judge to rule on a petition we had filed.

Hoping that by some miracle the judge would have the decency to throw the case out of court, we subpoenaed nobody. We wanted Tom Darland to be called to the stand, believing he would not be capable of standing up against the truth in court. Realizing the futility of fighting corruption on our own, we decided to do nothing. We had the truth on our side and that was all we needed. Someday the guilty would have to answer for their crimes. We both believed that then. Now a 91-year-old widow, I still believe it. Truth has power.

The day came for us to leave for Great Falls. Jack, home from college for the summer, went with us. We brought along our files and a typewriter. The morning of the trial Waldemar went out to the car through pouring rain to get the typewriter because we thought we had a plan. After several attempts we gave up the idea. It was not to be.

We went to the courthouse and before the trial was to begin, we were summoned into the judge's chambers. Government lawyers were also there. When we mentioned the petition we had filed, the judge read it into the records. We had never had an arraignment and he now asked us how we chose to plead. According to legal court procedure, isn't this supposed to be done in court? There was no secret about the fact that we had refused to file income tax returns, therefore no reason for the trial. I asked about Nolo Contendere and the judge turned to the IRS lawyers, asking them if they would allow us to plead that. "No!" was their response.

We were innocent of wrong doing, victims of corruption and we said so. Jack was escorted into the room too, to sit quietly and just listen. There was a lot of discussion at that meeting. I repeated more than once our stand that we had been denied protection under law. I pointed out that obligations enforced while rights are denied is tyranny. The judge rebuked me. He claimed (in exaggeration) that I'd said that twenty-five times and he didn't want to hear it any more. That was the way he dodged the issue, neither confirming nor denying the validity of the statement. The trial would be held and we were warned about what we couldn't say in court. Thus we could not have any defense and we were told that if we got out of line, the appointed attorney would take over.

Verbally and by a written document we had filed we made clear our refusal to hire an attorney. Now we learned that Attorney Bjarne Johnson would be seated by us to keep us under control. He was the man who had warned us to trust him instead of God. We resented his presence and the illegal restrictions forced on us.

Many of our neighbors and friends had been subpoenaed by the government and we saw them in the hall. They were sympathetic and seemed uncomfortable. I'm sure they would rather not have been there. One had bought a pig from us for about $30. Others had rented portions of our pasture land and there were grain buyers, courthouse personnel.

At Waldemar's trial in Billings in 1978, we had been stunned to see Bert F. Kellogg. Now we got another surprise. Tom Darland was in the lobby. "What is he doing here?" I asked a friend. "He was subpoenaed."

All afternoon we waited for Darland to be put on the stand. We knew he'd have a tough time evading our questions and dared to hope for breakthrough.

A witness for the government took the stand. Their lawyers questioned him at length to establish his "expertise" before having him reveal our income. He did not mention any business Waldemar had conducted with Paul. The IRS had interviewed him several times in the past, checking on us. Documents that we had bought for ten cents a copy showed that the IRS knew that Paul had not paid us for the "Johnson" land.

Later when we asked why our dealings with Paul had not been mentioned by the "expert," we were told that it was because Paul was deceased and could not testify. A flimsy alibi. Internal Revenue agents who had interviewed him were still alive and they could have testified.

All of the figures given by the "expert" were gross income. We were told that our expenses were irrelevant. This trial was not to prove that we owed any money, the judge said. It was just to determine whether or not income tax returns should have been filed.

Before the trial was truncated, we asked the judge if Tom Darland could be put on the stand. Without any explanation, Judge Hatfield said, "No."

"Why can't he? He was subpoenaed," Stalling for time, the judge addressed the government's lawyers. "Was he subpoenaed?" The answer was "Yes."

"No," repeated Judge Hatfield.

The trial was over, the jury deliberation brief. The verdict: "GUILTY ON ALL COUNTS."

# TWENTY-EIGHT: SPIRIT OF FREEDOM

After the verdict had been announced, Judge Hatfield thanked the jurors for a job well done. In praising them, he said he'd lost sleep during the night worrying about the trial. He wished he could reward them with a gift.

Judge Hatfield also commented on the "law" that mandated we would have to pay for the cost of the whole trial in addition to our own expenses. He said that was "a travesty of justice." "But," he added, "They will have to pay it."

He set the sentencing for Tuesday, July 20, 1982, and we were allowed to go home without bail. We were required to talk with the Pre-sentencing Official before we left the courthouse. We did and he requested that we write him about our side of the story.

We were pleased about the write-up about us in the Great Falls Tribune, written by reporter Barbara Mittal. We bought enough copies to send to our kids and others.

After we got home we again reveled in our freedom. We found that with every sordid experience we suffered, afterward we were elated, counting it all as an interesting experience. In my diary I mentioned this but said it wouldn't be good for anybody else to know it. We wouldn't want to be sent back to Lexington for another mind-probe! It was strange that life could still be fun for us.

It was also odd that though so many people thought we were wrong in our fight, they were still our friends and family and showed us many acts of kindness. They were concerned for us, wishing they could get us to "see the light."

On Saturday, July 3rd, we started working on "Our Side of the Story" but Jack and Waldemar had to go to a neighbor to get a combine part they needed. The neighbor asked Waldemar what he thought the sentence would be. Waldemar responded, "I don't know, but we've sure had fun fighting them!" That evoked a burst of laughter from the men. Often Waldemar's tone of voice added humor to what he said.

We completed the letter after they got home and got it in the mail the next day, again elated. Every time we'd gotten a letter mailed we felt hope anew. On July 6th the Pre-sentence Officer who had by then arrived in Plentywood, phoned us, saying he would be out to see us the next day. He had not yet gotten our letter. We felt certain that the purpose of his visit was to put out "feelers" to find out how firm we were in our resolve not to file income tax returns. When he came we showed him our files of letters and had a good discussion, happy to answer any questions he had. He seemed interested and we looked forward to a good report, even though at one point he referred to the truth as "semantics". In this way he showed a confusion common to many people.

About the middle of July we went to Minot to see Vicki and Chris. While we were there we went to look at apartments with Vicki. With the baby coming, they would need more space.

After we got home we drew up a limited power of attorney for Jack, giving him authority to handle all our finances for one year, excluding sale of real estate, purchase of insurance, costs of any court action, or the paying of any fines or liens against us. Thus we were preparing for prison!

# TWENTY-NINE: SENTENCED

July 29, 1982, found us on the road to Great Falls, heading to the next chapter in our ongoing saga. It had been hard to know what to pack for the trip. Would we be a few days in Great Falls or in for a long stretch in prison? Should we bring winter apparel, boots? How much money? Waldemar said since we couldn't trust them we shouldn't bring much.

We got a motel room and settled in. The next morning we woke up to apprehension. This was the Big Day. Sentencing was set for 1:15 in the afternoon. The weather was lovely. We had breakfast and spent much of the morning driving around looking the town over. Great Falls had become quite a little city after I'd worked in the courthouse there in 1946; and it had grown considerably more since we'd lived there in 1965. As we returned to our motel room to check out at 11:00 o'clock, I thought how very happy we would be if we could go home that night. What luxury it would be to sleep in our own bed, freedom ours to enjoy.

When we arrived in the courthouse for the sentencing we were given the report said to have been prepared by the Pre-sentencing Officer. It was loaded with lies, no so-called "semantics" there. When I saw the officer in the hall, I asked why he'd written such a false report. Turning and walking rapidly away from me down the hall, he called back, "I had nothing to do with it!"

In court the judge asked us about certain statements in the report and when we said they were lies, he gave instructions to somebody to "make changes". That's all. It was perjury, not typos and it should not have been treated as anything minor. We wondered why the lies? What was the purpose? Distraction from the truth? Something to stir up anger in us? A goad to get us to speak rashly, to induce us into contempt of court?

"We're keeping this report," Waldemar said. Quickly someone came from behind and grabbed it out of his hand. "You can't have it," the snatcher exclaimed. Judge Hatflied heard this exchange but said nothing.

We were sentenced to five years in prison, four years suspended for me; three years suspended for Waldemar. We asked why the difference and he told us. Waldemar had had a prior conviction. Double jeopardy? He had served his term for that.

BUT, ah! There was a condition! Cooperation with the Internal Revenue Service and filing income tax returns would set us free. We were given sixty days in which to make the decision.

Sixty more days of freedom! We were elated. How wonderful it was to be able to go home with still a chance for freedom from prison. At Wolf Point we stopped and had supper. As soon as we got home we called our children. They had already heard; the Rubys had called Vicki and she had passed the news on to the others. My brother Larry, then living in North Dakota, had also asked friends of his in Great Falls to keep him posted and they did.

My mother and Glen called that night. Glen commented that "they are overdoing it." He added that soon even "bums" would be able to see what was going on.

Mail on July 22nd brought a letter from IRS Agent Michael Cameron. It was brief, telling us where to contact him relative to filing returns and asking if we had any questions. Indeed, we did have questions. Our first concerned why Tom Darland had been subpoenaed and Judge Hatfield had refused to let him take the stand. We asked what it was that the judge didn't want revealed in court that day.

Cameron wrote back a few days later. "I will not discuss with you any of the issues that were or were not resolved during your recent trial."

In the next week we did a lot of talking, analyzing. Whether to file or not to file created uncertainty in our minds. We needed encouragement and got that from our constant discussions and daily reading of the Bible

As if we didn't have enough to contend with, mail then brought papers regarding the Paul Steinke estate. It seemed that our noses were being rubbed in the evil with no let up. We learned that Darland tried to involve our children in the fraud by sending them Waldemar's purported "share" of the inheritance.

We had reported repeatedly to all concerned about the fraud; and Waldemar had written a letter to the lawyers, waiving any claim to the non-existent estate. Paul had died in debt! Now the papers we received contained information that Waldemar's children were in line to get his share as though he, too, was deceased. The kids refused the temptation and sent back their $2500 checks. They also wrote reports of the fraud to state officials, in vain. (Years later we learned that the money was listed with other "unclaimed" money in the state's records).

Further, Attorney Tom Darland charged the estate an additional fee, justifying it as his right because he was "compelled" to attend our trial as attorney for the estate. His confidence in the System was unbounded!

Waldemar was so angry the night we got that information that he couldn't sleep when he went to bed. (A rare occurrence for him.) He'd gone to bed early but then got up and wanted me to play Smear with him. I was writing in my diary at the time. "Quit," he said, "You can finish tomorrow." I did stop and we had our games of Smear. That was a simple card game we played a lot in the evenings. It took little thinking and thus freed us to talk as we played, a good pastime. Much "settling of the world's problems" was accomplished as we had a great time besting each other.

I had a lot to write in my diary that summer and Waldemar kidded me about it. I expounded on how the diary was growing and marveled that I had started it at a time when I had no idea of all that was to happen to us. I commented to Waldemar and Jack, "How many people start writing a story before it happens!"

Jack responded, "Do you want the EXACT number?" From the stories of our "adventures," Jack had compiled a storehouse of descriptive terms for me. Quoting a description applied to me by Dr. Frieburg at my inquisition, he now said, "It really helps that you're so ANIMATED."

Indeed, in spite of everything, we had fun.

# THIRTY: A DIFFERENT FIGHT

Mail on August 21 brought a packet of court papers from some tax protesters, a kind offer to lend assistance to us in our battle. The people had obviously done a lot of research on court procedure and wanted to be of help to us. However, our fight was different.

I wrote in my diary to this effect: We are fighting the whole system. We will not willingly appeal to a court when we know the court is guilty. It would be like asking for help from a thief with the "legal decision" his to make.

We knew our stand to be the right one, that truth is above court procedure and not the other way around. By then we'd had enough experience with the court system to know there was no justice there. Any appeal would be, as Waldemar often put it, "just chasing lies."

Lies, we knew, skittered around, always out of reach. They were not in our power to vanquish. Instead, we knew the One who would overrule them and that he would in His own time. "With hail I will sweep away their hordes of lies."

At the end of August we had company, relatives visiting from North Dakota and also from Seattle. Life went on as though everything were normal. Waldemar and Jack spent much time working on the combine, getting it ready for harvest so Waldemar could help even though or land had been rented out. When we went to town we stopped at an implement dealership and admired the new combines, large machines necessary for cutting and threshing grain. The price of one was $115,000. In spite of inflation the price of wheat was still at depression levels.

As Waldemar turned the calendar over to September, we wondered if we would be there to do that on the first of October. Yes, the possibility of prison was on our minds. As the time drew near we discussed, prayed over and analyzed the situation, the power of truth, and our own weakness and indecision.

We wrote letters, continuing to hope for the "light at the end of the tunnel." Perhaps by a miracle we would be spared the ordeal ahead of us. We had emotional arguments with relatives and friends who did not want us to go to jail, advising us to bow for our own sake. Weak mortals that we were, we needed encouragement to persist but didn't get it. We were expected to "Get real. Leave God out of it." According to many, it was world power we were fighting; world power that we had to obey.

It was widely believed that the stubborn Lanes were going back to prison. On the first of September a friend called to ask for help with combining but his first words were: "You're not in jail yet?" He was told, "No. Not until September 20th."

Contemplating going to prison, Waldemar did some creative work on my notebooks for me to take along for my diaries. Our "trial run" of two months in custody prepared us for what we could expect. In Great Falls and Lexington, I had been allowed to have my notebooks with me, but in Billings they were taken from me because of the spiral metal binding. Waldemar took the metal spirals out and laced them with shoestring, then covered that with electrician's tape. My husband was a great "fixer" and knew how to do things like that.

Several years before, Carla had sent us a huge sign about five feet by nine inches in size for our mailbox. She had made it herself out of beautiful cedar wood and had carved "Waldemar W. Lane" on it in huge script. Years of rain, snow, heat and cold caused the wood to become weather worn. Waldemar decided one day to fix it. Armed with paint he took it out to his shop. I watched for a while as he worked on it, using red barn paint for the sign with white paint for the lettering. I commented that most couples had signs with BOTH their names on it. Then I went to the house to do my daily work. Finally the sign painting was accomplished and Waldemar came hurrying to the house with news for me. Gleefully, he said, "Come and see!"

Back in the shop I found out what his excitement was all about. In a corner of the sign in a space four inches by two inches, he had written in white paint: "And Wife."

A few years later when we had moved into a rented house in town, the sign went with us and got comments. Said one man: "That's got to be the worst case of discrimination I have ever seen." Said a woman passing by, "I wouldn't stand for that." Then she added, "But you don't LOOK abused!" Waldemar enjoyed that sign and so did I.

My diary dated September 9th tells me how Jack stalked a cricket and conquered. He and the cricket really had a thing going. Waldemar had gone to bed and Jack and I were in the living room watching TV. My hearing was gradually getting dull so I didn't hear the cricket but he did. It bothered him. He would hear the chirruping, go to the kitchen to check and the noise would stop.

"I'm going to get him," he announced. After his repeated trips to the kitchen, I finally went there myself and found things in a mess. The refrigerator and other furniture were moved to the middle of the room, cupboard doors open. The chirruping and stalking continued and finally Jack came back to the living room, beaming: "I got him." I went to the kitchen and saw that now the stove also had been moved out and there, lying on the floor, was the dead cricket.

I laughed. There was hope for my son. He had stuck to his mission and won. I went to bed and the next morning I found my kitchen restored to normal.

On Tuesday, September 17, Michael Cameron, Special Agent of the Internal Revenue Department, telephoned. He asked if we were going to file income tax returns and I said, "No." "Does that go for your husband too?" I said, "Yes." He said, "Alright" and hung up. I wrote in my diary: "Jack and I drove to the fields and talked to Waldemar. He saw us coming and drove the tractor to the road, got in our car and we discussed the matter. Here's what we are going to do. We're going to do all we can to be READY for jail. I'll write up a list of instructions for the Dahls and ask if they will take care of things for us. We'll go to Plentywood to the post office and have our first class mail forwarded to Vicki IF and when we go."

We planned that if we were taken to jail before we could drive Jack to Bozeman for college, he would have to drive there himself. A neighbor who rented our pasture land each summer called. He said he had taken his cows home and wanted to come and pay us right away so that we could get to the bank before it closed for the day. Everybody was mindful that all business transactions with us must be immediate. We took care of everything we could think of. I typed up the instruction sheet and the Dahls agreed to come over that night to talk to us.

Often in our discussions Waldemar and I referred to the Bible passage, "No one knows what the morrow will bring." That night this message was brought home to us full force. When we'd been dinner guests at St. John's Lutheran Church one Sunday on the invitation of members there, I had chatted at length with Borgny's sister Lillian, a life-long friend. She had retired that spring from teaching. She and her husband had sold their farm and were planning to move to Helena for their retirement years. Each of us was excitedly waiting for a first grandchild to be born. Among many other things, we had that in common.

Now Waldemar, Jack and I played pinochle as we waited in vain for Borgny and Robert to come. Finally after nine o'clock, Borgny called. Her news shocked me and I shook so much as we talked that Jack got an afghan to put over my shoulders. Lil and LaVerne had gone to Boise, Idaho, to see their new grandson. He had been born on September 12th, the birthday of Borgny and her twin sister Hulda. They had been on their way back to Helena when they'd been in a car accident and Lillian had been killed.

By the time we went to the funeral, I was fearful almost to the point of paranoia. The marshals had not yet shown up to arrest us and I was constantly on the lookout for them. Waldemar went about his business as usual and chided me for my watchfulness. He had far more strength and determination than I.

On September 19th the marshals still had not come and we drove Jack to Bozeman. I remember noticing cars on the highway and wistfully thinking, "They're all free to come and go as they please." Then peace came over me as the thought hit me: "We will be too. We will not go to jail!"

"Be not anxious for the morrow; sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Often that Scripture message provided consolation for me. TODAY we were free. That was all we needed to know.

# THIRTY-ONE: OUR WEAKNESS, HIS STRENGTH

The Federal Corrections Institute had finally sent our money back but they still withheld our Social Security cards and driver's licenses. They did not have a right to do that. We needed both documents. When we applied for duplicate licenses we were told they would cost a dollar each but we balked. Letters we wrote explained our stand that we had not lost our licenses for any wrong doing on our part. We sent copies elsewhere, including to Judge Hatfield. Probably we spent that much in postage, but we won that battle. We got our duplicates and didn't have to pay the two dollars. When a marshal called from Great Falls to tell us that the licenses had been paid for and to ask if we'd gotten them, we were delighted. That kind of attention was novel and appreciated.

Actually for the most part we'd had good rapport with the marshals. There was a good deal of kidding and repartee between us when we saw them at trials and in the jail. They tried to be helpful and sometimes seemed apologetic, saying they had to follow orders. I told one in Great Falls that he was a snob, not being willing to live in our humble abode (jail). He retorted that he was paying for our board and room though. I asked, "How much?" If memory serves me right, he said, $60 per day."

One of the marshals told friends of ours at Waldemar's first trial that when the arrest had been made, I was making bread. "It smelled so good and I was so hungry but she didn't offer me any," he complained. I retorted that he hadn't deserved it, coming to our farm and taking my husband away in handcuffs and chains. When that marshal had first greeted me in the courtroom, asking how I was, I had not recognized him. I'd said, "That depends. Who are you?" When I found out he was a marshal I'd remarked, "Oh, I thought you might be a lawyer." The marshal, referring to this conversation in talking to my friends, quipped, "She accused me of being an attorney."

Now through September and most of October we waited for the marshals to come for us. Every morning I watched the clock and the road fearfully as Waldemar admonished me to not be so foolish. When the forenoon passed each day I'd relax, believing that, since Great Falls is almost a day's journey away, they would come only in the morning, never in the afternoon. I was wrong!

They came on October 25th and it was late in the afternoon! Waldemar was picking rocks in the field up north. We went there to get him and came back to the house to talk. We were told that we'd be taken as far as Wolf Point that night and put in jail there. With the long delay, my dread of prison had increased. I did not want to spend the night in the Wolf Point jail. Suddenly I was willing to bow! My husband was frustrated with my lack of courage, but he finally went along with what I said, though angrily.

I put forth the suggestion that we should be allowed to remain home for the night on the promise that we would drive ourselves to Great Falls in the morning for the court hearing. A call was placed to Judge Hatfield and my plea was granted.

In court the next day the judge told us that we would have to file or go to prison. He said, "This is not a threat. This is a promise."

My mind had been played with too much. Now I wanted freedom even at the cost of bowing and I talked Waldemar into it. We agreed to file the seven years of income tax returns and we were allowed to go home. Waldemar was very unhappy that we had given in and so was I. I called Carla and lamented about our weakness but she encouraged me. "Well," she said, "you've had an angel of God sitting on your shoulders all these years. Maybe now he's just telling you to change your tactics."

Maybe she was right; maybe not, but I glommed onto that hope. I thought yes, maybe it's like a tug of war when one suddenly lets loose and the opponent falls backward. Hard. It is always easy for us mortals to try to justify our actions. We can only pray for help, strength and forgiveness.

One thought I had did make me feel better. When Christ died on the cross, HE went all the way, not bowing even faced with certain death. We were mere mortals. We were not Christ. Strangely that knowledge brought me comfort. In our weakness is His strength.

It didn't take us long to complete our income tax returns. In about a week's time we had them all done and mailed. We sent copies to Judge Hatfield, the Justice Department and others. Our thorough record-keeping though the years made the job easy.

Though Waldemar had not applied for Social Security when he turned sixty-five, now we reported such earnings on our returns and made the payment. Later he applied. When we told the Social Security clerk that our Social Security cards had been kept in Lexington, he replied, "They can't do that. That's illegal."

As he completed our applications for duplicate Social Security cards, he commented, "I thought you people could have done better if you'd fought it from outside jail." "Oh, you heard our story before?" The man was from Wolf Point and I was surprised. "I do read the papers," he said.

The filing of our income tax returns did give us a bit of a victory. This provided us with the means by which we could again report the crimes against us. We used what we called a "supplemental form" to accomplish this.

We spelled out the fraud involved with our two duplexes in Alaska and also in Paul's estate and showed losses conservatively estimated at over $36,000 annually. This included the value of the real estate plus income we were being deprived of each year, illegally, with the knowledge and consent of the IRS and other government officials.

Our annual income had always been low, our costs high. We did not owe one penny in income tax. Instead, the government owed us a lot of money and we made our request for it.

# THIRTY-TWO: SEIZURE

We had complied with orders to file income tax returns. We did as we were told. However, as the Bible says, there is no satisfying Sheol.

Corruption thought it could have the last word. Without taking us to court to prove it, the "government" claimed that the returns we filed were fraudulent. We knew this was their unceasing effort to get us to hire attorneys and go to court so that in some way the "government" could get off the hook for their crimes. They would have scapegoats.

Without "due process" at all, they seized real estate and oil rights and again what we had in a local bank account. They proved in this way that what we had said in our letters: If we filed honest income tax returns, the Internal Revenue would treat the truth as lies.

After we filed income tax returns, the IRS, pulling figures out of the air, first claimed that we owed $25,000 in taxes. Then they filed a lien on the mineral rights on our farmland. That was about a thousand acres of rights in what is now known as the very productive Bakken Oil Field. This field has been compared to the oil fields in the Middle East.

In September 1983, the IRS ran an ad in the Plentywood Herald setting the date on which our mineral rights would be sold on bid. Rather than stick around to watch the crime in action, we started off on a car trip around the nation. In Nevada we placed a call to a cousin of mine and asked him what happened at the sale. He told us there had been just one bid and that was for the amount that the IRS claimed was due them: $25,000.

The bid was not made by oil companies, local people or anyone else who knew the value of those rights. What happened was that my sister June and her husband wanted to "help" us. They wanted to save our rights for us. They appealed to other members of my family who also worried about all that was happening. But involving themselves with our oil rights was not what they were willing to do.

June's husband Ed therefore explained the matter to a business man in the California area in which they lived and made a deal with him. If he would put in a bid and get the rights, then June would buy half from him. Ed and the man flew to Plentywood and he put in the "winning" bid. We were told when we got home that no one else would touch the matter "with a ten foot pole." After the sale, oil companies must have deemed the matter settled because the new "owners" were able to get a good bonus on a three year lease.

We never heard how much they got, but June and Ed put what they received in special savings. In 1992 June sent me a check for $5,000. She wrote that it was interest on the money, and that they would send another $6,000 after the first of the year.

This presented a dilemma. I knew that my stepdaughters and Vicki and families needed the money, yet I really wanted justice to reveal the truth first. The need for the money won out. I wrote and asked June if it would be alright for me to accept the $5,000 on the condition that I would share it with each of Waldemar's children. I suggested that the rest of the money be left in savings until justice would be won. She agreed and the money received was appreciated.

Consequences of the transaction with the "prominent" business man, Jarrold A. McGlenn of McGlenn Enterprise, Soquel, California, was another matter. On January 11, 1985, he wrote us a threatening letter. I'm quoting it here verbatim, typos, bad spelling and grammar:

"On September 27, 1983 McGlenn Enterprise at public action, purchased the all the MINERAL RIGHTS to Section 7, Township 36, Range 57 (approx 420 acres) that were in the name of WALDEMAR W. LANE & EVEDINE L. LANE.

"From September 27, 1983 and for as long as WALDEMAR W or EVEDINE L. LANE shall own the surface rights of the above described property, there will be a FIVE ($5.00) per month charge, beginning 1 OCTOBER 1983 for the use of --WATER --, which belongs to McGLENN ENTERPRISE. NOTE: The WATER will be used ONLY FOR DOMESTIC USE ONLY. This matter must be brought to date (bill paid) on or before 1 FEBRUARY 1985 or a LIEN WILL BE PLACED ON YOUR SURFACE RIGHTS. Mail payments to: BERNICE A. McGLENN, 1300 OLD SAN JOSE RD., SOQUEL, CALIF. 95873."

We replied on January 11, 1985, as follows:

"Crime instigated by the Internal Revenue Department is illegal, and we have information that your "deal" with them in the matter of our mineral rights netted you a profit ALREADY of at least $52,000.

"Your confidence in corruption is indeed unfortunate. Your threatening letter to us dated January 11, 1987, will be brought to the attention of the Federal Bureau of Investigation by means of a copy sent to them today.

"Were you INSTRUCTED to threaten us in this way in an effort to compel us to "go to court?"

"Please respond immediately."

Mr. McGlenn's next letter to us was even more foolish:

"Received your letter dated 15 January 1985, and now I can understand why you let your holdings over the past years be taken from you. I am aware of all the things you have lost, from ALASKA to PLENTYOOD. It seems that know one is able to talk to you so you can understand that what you are doing is wrong. But we feel that what you are doing is what you want and that is your business. Your lack of knowledge is unbelievable

"We have made a PROFIT OF MUCH MORE than $52,00 and we are going to make a lot more than that, but that is OUR business.

"We don't THREATEN, the letter sent was to inform you as to your rights to the water on OUR MINERAL RIGHTS, and we will follow through with the letter. If you do not understand what our letter is saying, we suggest you contact a ATTORNEY or GO TO COURT, which ever is easy for you. WE REALLY DON'T CARE. You folks need the ADVICE OF A ATTORNEY very badly, and we suggest you get it. I will tell your sister what I wrote so you won't have to send them a copie.

"In the future, if you have any reason to contact us, PLEASE write a letter that makes at least a little sense.

"We are business people and have one of the finest names around. We don't like things being said about us or words used like "EXTORTION". We understand your lack of knowledge, and therefore are overlooking your letter, but we suggest you choose your words a lot better. You may find that the next thing that is for sale will be your SURFACE RIGHTS."

He was right. Our surface rights WERE sold by the IRS. How did he know? Though McGlenn Enterprise did not succeed in getting the $5.00 per month for our water, the IRS, failing to get us to go to court by using McGlenn in this way, DID file a lien on about seven hundred acres of our farmland. (Incidentally, before they "sold" our mineral rights, they also confiscated all the money in our checking account in the Security State Bank, causing several checks to bounce. They never did explain that or account for the money.)

This time they claimed they had "re-audited" our returns and had found we owed another $78,609.90. They based this claim on the assertion that we had not "proven" that we owned our (old) farm machinery and also that we had not "proven" the crimes we'd listed on our supplemental report. Therefore, said the IRS, the amount we'd shown as LOSS, was instead INCOME.

On October 7, 1987, that land was "sold" on bid. A number of people got in on the action, neighbors and others, justifying themselves by saying that "somebody would get it anyway." When we had learned of their plans, we tried to impress on them the fact that "illegality taints everything it touches" but that warning went unheeded. The argument was that it was not the truth that counted, but the say-so of the government. Whatever the IRS said and did made it safe - legal - for citizens to act on. Confusion reigned supreme.

After the sale we learned that it was our nephew Kurtiss Rice who had the top bid. Waldemar and I were sure that Kurt was used by the IRS the same way Gene had been used by Darland and Sorte. It was a ploy. They did not believe we would let our land go. They must have thought surely this action would at last drive us into court? The price was high (for that time) - about $200,000. The land was half pasture and there were no buildings on it. Kurt, we thought, was no better able to pay that price than any of our neighbors had been. This land was sold on what the IRS claimed was a sealed bid. Corruption has its ways, of that we had no doubt.

We learned later that it was the Security State Bank who had given Kurt the loan and that they had taken a mortgage for just six months. Clearly the IRS was counting on our capitulation. Within that time they must have thought we'd go to court and do their bidding in order to redeem our land.

When we wrote to the bank and asked them if any money had been exchanged in the fraudulent deal, our letter was referred to their Attorney, Loren O'Toole. Not even denying the crime, that attorney told us that the matter was "confidential" and we would have to get permission from the bank's depositor, Kurtiss Rice, before the bank could tell us anything.

Even with all this, the Internal Revenue had not accomplished their purpose. They were not done with us. We started getting information in the mails that now we owed another $60,000 for "capital gains." Besides, the Internal Revenue wrote us, other "creditors" could and did put in their claims against the money, including the Montana State Internal Revenue and the Federal Court for the $12,000 cost of the trial which we had refused to pay.

Finally the "government" seemed at long last almost satisfied. Letters of a more minor nature continued to come to keep the fraud alive, but we ignored them. Again and again Waldemar said that we were not chasing their lies.

In the mail one day we got a check for $20,671.78, with no cover letter. Printed on the face of the check were the words, "Tax Refund."

Now we were rich? As I was leaving for a nearby store for a loaf of bread one day, I asked Waldemar if there was anything else I should get. "Yes," he grinned, "On your way back, stop at the Ford Garage and buy a new car."

# THIRTY-THREE: GOD WILL GRANT THE VERY BEST

In spite of all we went through, Waldemar and I had a good life. We'd learned by experience that it was not a Sunday School picnic. "You will be persecuted by all for my name's sake." We were. Yet we knew God was with us in prison, in hard times, through ridicule.

I recall many amusing incidents of our life together, little instances that bring me chuckles yet today. When we were first married Waldemar loved to tell people things like, "The honeymoon is over. I open the door. She carries in the luggage." Or, "I do all the work around the house. I push the buttons."

There was a dinner party we attended at the home of my sister-in-law, Marie Rice. Her daughter-in-law, Evelyn, was telling us about a pet peeve. Commenting on the fact that pancakes always get more nicely browned on one side than the other, she said, "When I serve them, I do it nice side up, and every time...." she was getting more irked by the minute, "every time, before he eats, James turns them over!"

Exasperated, she must have hoped to show James how a proper husband should behave, so she addressed mine. "Waldemar," she asked, "when your wife serves pancakes, do YOU turn them over?" She should have known better. His response evoked laughter all around the table and when I reminisce about it now all these years later, I still smile. "Turn 'em over?" His voice sounded stunned with disbelief at such a question. "I can't even LIFT 'em!"

One night when Jack was about eleven, he, Waldemar and I were watching the Miss America contest. Remarking on the beautiful bodies of the contestants, Waldemar said something in low tones that he should not have said. Jack's eyebrows lifted in surprise but he didn't say anything.

The next night Waldemar and I were sitting at our kitchen table talking, the kids in the living room. Suddenly we heard 13-year-old Vicki say, "MY father? My FATHER said THAT?" Then marching into the kitchen, she went directly to her dad's side. Giving him the elbow, she said, "Ya ol sonuvagun!"

We had our laughs, so many of them. Waldemar was often teasing the kids and they learned to take it in stride. The school bus was in the yard waiting for a tardy Vicki one morning. As she was rushing through the kitchen on her way out of the door, he exclaimed, "Vicki, why are you wearing two left shoes?" Not missing a step, she shot back, "Because I have two left feet."

In grade school Jack had a good rapport with bus drivers. They had fun. The bus often brought the kids all the way into our yard. Occasionally they were dropped off at the mail box. One afternoon we laughed as we watched through our kitchen window. The bus stopped at the mail box and Jack got off. The door then closed and Jack realized that Vicki was going to be given the ride into the yard without him. Immediately he got in front of the bus and walked the narrow road across the top of the dam, the driver having no choice but to inch the bus slowly behind him.

Our Golden Years continued on in much the same way. After all the persecution, the tape seemed "spliced" and life went on as though our ordeals had never happened. We had never required riches, nice though that would have been. We had our "two loaves and five fishes" and that was enough.

After Chris got his college degree, he and Vicki came back and took over our farming operations. Though he'd never had any experience, a farmer was what he wanted to be. After the IRS took most of our farmland, leaving just the home place, he got a job in the oilfields. Now with the oil boom he has a lucrative income.

For financial reasons we all lived together for the first year and a half. It was a good arrangement since Vicki, pregnant with her third child, needed my help.

It was a bitterly cold night in November 1985, about three weeks before the due date, when the baby was born. The four of us had been playing whist when Vicki, having had some symptoms all day, suddenly threw her cards down. It was time for her to go to the hospital.

I called there to alert the staff that she was in labor and on her way, asking that they watch for her. On the way into town they came upon a stalled car. Aware that they could not leave the people there in temperatures forty degrees below zero, Chris took the driver to the nearest farm a few miles off the highway before rushing on to the hospital. An hour later he called. Their son had been born.

In the fall of 1986 we rented a house in Plentywood. A year later Vicki had her fourth baby, another girl. Now they had a family of two girls and two boys, Chrystal, Daniel, Kyle and Machelle. That last month before Machelle was born, we kept the three tots with us. I'd left Waldemar in charge one day and when I got home he was chuckling. He said the kids had been playing upstairs and Chrystal, 4, had come down with a doll tucked under her dress. A little later, tired of her game she'd pulled it out. It was lying beside her on the sofa when Danny, 3, came down the stairs. On seeing the doll, his eyes widened and he grinned. "Oh, it's a girl!"

We delighted in our grandchildren and Waldemar affectionately dubbed them "the four little urchins." Another son was born in the year after Waldemar died, Quinn.

My mother died in 1987, at the age of 97. We counted ourselves privileged to have had her as long as we did. We were grateful that she had remained alert and active all her life, being handicapped only by arthritis in her knees. She'd had a heart attack and was hospitalized two days before her death on May 30.

Mom had been frugal all her life and as a result was financially comfortable. When Glen learned that her final Social Security check would have to be returned because she had not lived the full month, he quipped, "If she'd known that, she would have hung on for another day." We laughed. Indeed, that was Mom!

At the time Vicki's third child was born, Marbea too was a new mother. Her son Evan had been born just nine days earlier. This was her second marriage and her twins Kirk and Kevin were then fifteen years old. Carla's son had been named Lane Waldemar after his grandpa. Carla and her first husband had been divorced. Eight years later she married again. Tragedy struck when, two weeks after the wedding, her husband was killed in a sky-diving accident at a State Fair. She re-married the next year.

Yes, we had a good life, all considered. Waldemar and I talked about how we had not been hurt by our experiences, but had many blessings instead. We had children we were proud of. We were grateful that Jack went from college to a job at Boeing in Seattle as an electrical engineer. We saw him at least twice a year when he came home on Christmas and summer vacations.

Waldemar loved to travel and we made many trips. After our last trip we realized we had been in every state in the continental United States. He was interested in history and plotted our routes, informing me what significant sights we were to see. My interest was in the vacation from housework and cooking. I enjoyed immensely the "maid service" we got in motels and restaurants. One night when we went into a motel lounge and had a cocktail, Waldemar moved over close to me and told the waitress, "We're THAT WAY about each other." He loved to kid and often laughed heartily at the bright quips he got in response.

Waldemar had his ball games on TV and once a week I went out and played bingo. One night after I'd played, he told me there had been no ball game for him to watch. "Oh," I said sympathetically, "then what did you do here all alone?" With a wry smile, true to his nature, he replied, "I moped."

My hearing had been gradually deteriorating and I'd made an appointment for a test. On the late afternoon of June 6 the hearing aid specialist came to our house and he was there over the supper hour. After he left, I was about to start supper but Waldemar said, "Put that hamburger back in the refrigerator; we can eat it tomorrow. Let's go out for supper."

Early the next morning, June 7, 1989, he suffered a heart attack and though I got him to the hospital by ambulance, he died minutes later. Vicki and her children were in Great Falls visiting at the time. Her mother-in-law drove them home that day. Chris went to Regina, Saskatchewan, to meet Jack who flew there from Seattle. They were all with me that night.

My house was filled the next two days with people coming and going, bringing food, love and comfort. All my family came for the funeral. My sister June and her husband, ever efficient, took over in the kitchen and kept everyone fed and well taken care of.

Not usually a demonstrative person, I appreciated the overwhelming love that came our way, the hugs, food, memorials and cards. Neighbors did the field work on the little acreage that the IRS had left us, freeing Chris the time to be with us.

After I'd called Marbea to let her and Carla know about their dad's passing, she cried herself out, she said, then sat down and wrote a poem in tribute to him. That was her therapy.

Our little church was filled for the funeral and Marbea read her poem. Not sure she could handle it, she had arranged with Chris to take over if she failed. She got through it, however, and after the services, the pastor told her she'd done well. Pointing upward, she replied "I had help."

DADDY

There is a man I've loved for years who never once has caused me tears.

When as a child I needed him he filled my cup up to the brim.

Then as I grew and needed more, this man still loved I so adore.

He often chided, sometimes lied; only a mortal filled with pride.

He went against the practiced norm and weathered well the wrathful storm.

He lived his life as best he could and left out words:

"YOU should – YOU should."

A lonely man at times I saw on his last trip to Arkansas.

Yet in the loneness also stood a woman proud; she always could.

He loved her long, he loved her dear. He is not gone; he's always near.

Throughout my life he's always been and with his passing I still win.

His lessons taught were well received and in my heart I have not grieved.

I've cried a lake and filled it up and now it's full, my loving cup.

I'll keep my tears because they're mine. No tears for him as he will shine.

He's on his way, a better life. He knows he's loved by Child – by Wife.

God will grant the very best: My love – My Daddy – Eternal Rest.

By Marbea Louise

June 7, 1989, 10:00 a.m. CST

###

# About the Author

Born in 1922 to a farm family in northeast Montana, Evedine L. Lane grew up assuming that government authorities in America shared and upheld the values of honesty and justice that she was taught. Experience proved otherwise.

Years later, when she and her husband found themselves in a long and seemingly hopeless fight against government corruption and its attendant public opinion, they came to realize something profound: Truth is not just a word. Truth is a power that cannot be destroyed or overruled. With this knowledge, though helpless herself, the author knew the story of their surprising journey had to be written.

# Contact the Author

Feel free to contact Evedine Lane at 2selane@gmail.com. Your comments are welcome!
