Wrong man killed right after my release from Patton. At my place of employment.
I was released from Patton shortly after my 60 day evaluation. Which is about as quick as anyone gets a finding of incompetency turned around.
Judge Cloninger, and my faithless as Judas Iscariot himself, public pretender, Randy Tucker, I am sure figured that shortly after my arrival at Patton, I would;
" Start demanding that people listen." Or better yet, start threatening all kinds of adverse legal consequences.
In either instance, they probably envisioned me; "Raising my voice, shouting in wild eyed outrage. Pounding my fist on the nurses station ledge...
And quickly and quietly being approached from behind by two or three psych techs. That would body slam me to the ground, where one of them would drop with all of his weight on to the small of my back with a knee, while another would keep my arms from flailing about, and the third would pull a "ready to go" injection of enough of something strong enough to drop a rogue elephant in its tracks.
Something that will reduce the patient to a drooling, piss soaked mostly immobilized, wheel-chair restrained puddle of humanity that can only mumble things like; "My mouth is dry." for the next two to three days.
And once a person has an "incident" in their patient records. That person has a HISTORY.
And once you have a history. Well...They need to "hold you longer. And evaluate where all of this anger is coming from. They'll want to "try" several different mood, and let's not forget, mind altering combinations of drugs. Just to get an idea as to which one achieves the most encouraging results.
And after they get you on the daily heavy duty mind and body tranquilized combo drug conga line of despair, it isn't long before there is another incident. Then another. And if, or when, what ever is left of you is "allowed" to leave their facility/program/lower level hub of Hell, You have a HISTORY that leaves with you.
I know that this sounds way too melodramatic to be real. As in "actually going on." But I saw what I just related to you shortly after my arrival at Patton. And I witnessed the repeat of this structured little psych ballet between patients and staff numerous times in the 75 days that I was at Patton for; "Treatment, and evaluation.
All I can truthfully relate to you is this;
There is no treatment.
There is no evaluation.
You are what ever that commitment paper says you are. Nothing more, or less.
At my 60 day evaluation, which is the first time that everyone who was assigned to me and my particular mental health problem gets together and comes to some kind of agreement as to exactly how the states determined intention of skinning your psychological cat is going to be accomplished.
With great pains taken to conjure up the illusion of a process that endeavors to be humane and helpful.
But the illusion is necessary because no one who has chosen "Mental Health" as their profession is willing to put the truth into words as relates to what they do. Which is this;
Drugging as many mentally disabled (problem) people as possible, so completely, by the use of unbelievably debilitating drugs, that none of them would be able to effectively document, describe and convey to others the Stephen King wide eyed nightmare that our mental health system has become.
Mans inhumanity to man, gussied up to look like compassionate care and concern.
Institutionalized inhumanity to man.
But at my 60 day evaluation, they chose to "punt" instead of run with the ball, or pass me off to another wing. Another process. Another mental management mantra.
When I walked into the room. As soon as I sat down, I was asked; "What are you doing here?"
I had repeatedly, but in a non emotional, non insistent manner related my blues and hard luck tale of woe to each and every person in that room. Some more than once, or twice. So my response at that moment was this;
"You have no idea how much that I wish that I had a more believable truth to relate to you, as to why I was sent here." Unfortunately, this is the only truth I have."
Then the lead psychologist said; "We're sending you back. With our finding that you are competent to stand trial."
So I was transferred back to Ventura County Jail 15 days later. Where I am sure no one was expecting to see me for a long time.
And much like that old Irish prayer; "May you be in Heaven an hour before the Devil knows your dead." My return to Ventura County Jail, was followed by my immediate release from it.
Because I had O.R. (waiver of bail) on all charges, when I was remanded to custody, and sent to Patton. With my competency restored, my O.R. releases were as well.
I WAS GIVEN A COURT DATE TWO WEEKS IN THE FUTURE AND RELEASED.
Before any members of the judicial/prosecutorial/advocate cut-throat crew that had done this to me even knew that I was back from Hell.
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NOW THIS OATH FORSAKEN, CUT-THROAT CREW HAS REAL PROBLEMS.
I'M BACK.
NO HISTORY.
COMPETENCY RESTORED.
QUICKER THAN THEY EVER THOUGHT WOULD BE POSSIBLE.
I layed low, completely out of sight, until I reported to court as ordered two weeks later. I had a couple of friends with me. It was in and out. I only got one thing accomplished that day. But it was the one thing I wanted most right then. I relieved myself of that morally bankrupt,
worthless, souless, rat bastard poster child of every bad lawyer joke there ever was. Randy Tucker.
Now I was pro per again. I had regained my right to speak in my own legal defense again. They were scared shitless.
Then, my plan was to drop off the map again for another three weeks. Until March 29th, 2004. The next date the court assigned for the start of my jury trial.
I was never more of a threat to this nest of vipers than I was at this period of time.
With my right to speak in my own legal defense restored. I could bring up, on the record, the allegations of misconduct I had brought against the prosecution.
I could bring up on the record, how judge Cloninger had illegally moved the disposition of my case forward before convening a misconduct hearing to see if my allegations had merit.
I could bring up on the record how judge Cloninger had illegally and coercively attached the condition of giving up my right to speak in my own self defense to his changing a "no bail" warrant into a waiver of bail O.R. release.
I could bring up on the record how the first words out of the mouth of the pre-positioned, pre-determined public defender, that I was forced to take as counsel if I wanted out of jail were to request a competency hearing.
I could bring up how judge Cloninger had ignored the evidence/letter of the Ventura County Sheriffs Dept. Legal Unit Head, E. Hobin, that stated that on May 28, 2003, a block was placed on my being let out of my cell to be in court for the third derailed start of my jury trial. That she could not get lifted.
I had been hiding out on Silver Strand Beach. At a friends house. Another friend, Debbie Castillo, rented a room there as well.
She was the cashier at the Channel Islands Liquor Store. In the shopping center where all of this craziness transpired.
Suddenly, not too long after my first court date after my release from Patton, when I relieved myself of counsel. Debbie is arm robbed twice in eight days. By two completely different robbers.
No cashier at this liquor store in twenty years has ever been arm robbed. Then twice in eight days.
To this day, Niether one of them has been identified.
Then the owner of the liquor store. Pete Nebrek tells Debbie to; "Ask Mikey if he will come to the store with you on the nights that you work, and I will pay him to be your security."
The hairs on the back of my head started standing up when she told me that Pete had suggested this scenario. Because I had tied him into an earlier "trick bag" that these nut jobs had hoped that I would jump into.
But Debbie was my friend. And she was crying, and saying that she really needed to keep this job, but couldn't bring herself to work there any longer, unless there was some one with her at night.
So I said O.K.
I worked with her the next two nights. Then she was off for two days, and so was I.
The first night that both of us were off. A man was shot, execution style, (five rounds to the head and chest) as he took one step out side the door to the store.
There was a shooter. And there was a spotter. They each had a their own "get-away" car. They each had a driver.
The spotter went into the store, while the shooter paced back and forth, just outside the front door. Looking in to the store each time he walked past the door.
The spotter, it appears was to "designate" who was supposed to be shot, by some visible, and possibly audible cue, of recognition.
I believe that the spotter was supposed to give these cues/signs etc. when he saw me.
But I was off that night. And besides Pete, the owner, there was only one other person in the store.
Danial Alizar Hernandez.
And the spotter didn't give the cues/signals/signs for the shooter to lock onto.
But Danial Alizar Hernandez did.
When he turned away from the counter to leave the store, he recognized the spotter. They evidently had been/were on, good terms. Because when he recognized the spotter, he reached out, and took his hand, and said something like "Hey! What's up?"
I know this, because it is all on the video.
The shooter, walking back and forth just outside the door, looks in, and sees the acknowledgment/sign/cue/go-ahead.
Danial Alizar Henandez takes one step outside the front door, and takes five rounds to the head and chest.
When the shooting starts. Pete ducks down behind the counter. The spotter ducks down on his side. He hears the "bing, bing, bing" of Pete making a call on his cell phone.
The spotter then stands up, and reaches over the counter, and down to where Pete is trying to make call. He grabs the phone out of Pete's hand and hunkers down again. He then either makes a call using Pete's phone, or pretends as if that is what he is doing.
Mean while, the shooter gets into the passenger side of his get away ride. And they head out of the parking lot towards Hemlock St. with tires screaming. Reaching Hemlock, they hang a left and disappear into the night.
The driver for the spotter is a woman. Because she is heard by Pete, and even some people over at Champs Sports Bar screaming over and over, at the top of her lungs; "Get in the car! Get in the fucking car!"
Where upon, he runs outside, and does exactly that. He gets in the fucking car!
Now this get away driven vehicle is laying rubber, and fish tailing its way out the other exit from this parking lot. On to Victoria Ave. North bound.
Like the two previous armed robbers. The shooter and the spotter are never identified.
But all of this, part fact, part supposition extrapolation of events that I view as being meant for me, might or might not be true.
While it might "possibly" be a mixed signals fuck-up between the spotter, and the shooter. It could have as easily been some "bad blood, gang related, "payback is a bitch" type convergence of events.
Except for these two factual additions to the events that night; And the basic and simple logic and reason trails that this additional information would take you down.
I found some one who saw an Oxnard Police Dept. patrol car parked just across the street from the shooting. With a clear view of what transpired.
This person was sober, not a flake, and had worked for the Oxnard School District for twenty-three years. Here is what he relayed to me. Almost two months after the shooting.
There was one Oxnard P.D. patrol car parked on Hemlock St. Just before Anchor St. approx. 70 yards away from the shooting. With a clear view of the front door of the liquor store. And what went on there.
And when the shooter's get away vehicle sped out of the parking lot at a high rate of speed, tires squealing, he didn't budge. Even though they would have only been thirty, to forty yards directly in front of his patrol car when they did so.
He didn't respond to the shooting victim. He didn't give chase to the shooter's get away vehicle.
It was as if he was there in case some; "John Q. Public", concerned citizen saw what went down, and then hopped into his vehicle to give chase.
If that happened. This officer was perfectly positioned to be right on the back bumper of said hypothetical concerned citizen, with his lights flashing and his siren playing the pull over blues.
Only having to get involved with the aftermath of this shooting if said hypothetical concerned citizen became in actuality, a real one. Which didn't happen. So he continued to do nothing for a few more minutes. Then slowly drove away.
But IF the "hypothetical" person, became a real person; All he would have to do is hold this hypothetical/real guy at the curb for 30- to 60 seconds. Then speed off! Like he is on a mission!
When in fact, his mission had just been accomplished.
Here is the other factual addition;
About eight months after the shooting, I ran into the waitress that worked the kitchen at Champs Sports Bar. She had been taking out a garbage bag to the dumpster at the exact moment that Danial Hernandez was gunned down.
She wasn't my friend, and I had no idea that she was out side, in the parking lot at that moment. On the day that I learned this, she was talking to one of her friends, who told her that; "I only come over here to this liquor store, during the daytime. Ever since that guy was killed in front of it."
To this, Amber (the waitress at Champs) replied; "I don't blame you." I was outside in the parking lot at the time of the shooting. Taking out the garbage bag from the kitchen."
Then she tells her friend; "I still can't believe that there was a police car parked on Hemlock,
AND ANOTHER ONE PARKED BETWEEN THE GAS PUMPS AT THE CHEVRON STATION WHEN THIS HAPPENED AND NEITHER ONE OF THEM DID ANYTHING"
I mean, before I could even feel a little elated that I had found an independent verification of the patrol car that was parked on Hemlock St. She lets loose with the double whammy mind fuck factoid of another, completely different police car.
Nestled between the gas pumps of the Chevron gas station.
Which is located right at the corner of walk and don't walk. Which in this instance means, Hemlock and Victoria.
I then asked her to tell me in which direction was the patrol car facing. Her response was; Towards her.
Which meant that when the spotters get away car sped out of the parking lot after the shooting, turning north on to Victoria Ave. This police car, like the one that was parked on Hemlock, was perfectly positioned to jump right out on to Victoria Ave and be right on the back bumper with lights and siren going of anyone that might have attempted to give chase to this get away vehicle.
Like the first patrol car, only having to "get involved" with the shootings aftermath IF some private citizen attempted to accomplish what it appears that the police were there to make sure wasn't accomplished.
I don't believe that Danial Alizar Hernandez had ever been a threat to those that controlled Law's power, and authority, not to mention those huge stacks of the highest denomination greenbacks in Ventura County.
But I was.
I had become the legal equivalent of a knife at the throat of not just some of the county's richest and most powerful individuals. I was a knife at the throat of these people's entire corporate rape, pillage, and plunder consortium.
A little over two weeks earlier, I had rid myself of my court appointed muzzle.
Daniel Alizar Hernandez was murdered. Execution style. On March 9th, 2004.
My fifth jury trial date was set to begin on March 29th, 2004.
Desperate people do desperate things.
I really need to know if Danial Alizar Hernandez is carrying my stone.
If he is. Then I must carry his until it marks the spot where the legal equivalent of a fire breathing dragon was finally slayed.
Or until it marks the spot where I fell in pursuit of that.
Post script to this part. March 29th, 2004.
As soon as I made it past the x-ray machine, and into the "Hall of Just Us" judge Cloninger, who was the head cheesy weasel that had put me through this, pretended as if he "accidentally" bumped into me.
He looked up, at me with what I could tell was a forced grin. And as our eyes locked, he said; "Mister Wilson. You're back!"
My grin wasn't the real deal either. But I was a lot better at making it look like it was.
They had no idea where I had been for the last two weeks. Who I had talked with. What might result.
In actuality, I had been unable to enlist anyone's interest or support. That goes with the territory of a finding of incompetency. It doesn't matter that it was restored.
But I wanted this crew to think that I was holding a hand full of aces. So I grinned at Cloninger as if nothing gave me more pleasure than seeing that he was still here.
I kept my eyes on his, and my grin was ear to ear as I replied;
Yeah. I'm back. And I will be the only person in that court room today that has a certified paper that says I'm not crazy."
His grin fled his face only slightly faster than he scurried out of the main lobby.
As I approached the double doors to the court room, I saw my prosecutorial adversary, senior deputy district attorney Catharine Taylor, standing just outside of them. She wouldn't look up at me at all.
As I walked past her and her little covey of minions and gophers I said; "Let's get this dog and pony show on the road. I'm the dog. Who's the pony?"
She never entered the court room that day. My sixth jury trial date was set for April 15th, 2004.
For the first time, during this whole convoluted battle royale, with this crazier than a shit-house rat dark force cabal of seriously cheesy weasels, I could see, and smell the fear coming off of these creatures.
This was extremely gratifying to know that I wasn't the only one who was feeling waves of fear washing over me from time to time. I was coming out of my terror zone.
They were just stepping into theirs.
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