Ruby Ridge Read online

  SHACKLED AT THE WRISTS AND ANKLES and wearing an orange jail jumpsuit, Randy Weaver walked in small, chain-rattling steps down a hallway with Byerly on one side and Barbara Anderson on the other. They escorted him into a long, narrow courtroom on the second floor of the federal building in downtown Coeur d’Alene—one of the buildings damaged five years earlier by the bombings of The Order II. At the end of the off-white room, in front of windows overlooking shimmering Lake Coeur d’Alene, an attorney and part-time magistrate named Stephen Ayers waited to hear the case. Since there was no federal judge in Coeur d’Alene, it was the magistrate’s responsibility to try first appearances and misdemeanors for federal prisoners in Coeur d’Alene.

  Anderson left for a moment and came back with coffee for the three of them. Randy held his Styrofoam cup with both hands, because, with his wrists cuffed, it was the only way he could drink it.

  The charges were read, and Ayers entered a not-guilty plea for Randy, who leaned over the railing and talked with his wife and with Wayne Jones, the security chief from the Aryan Nations, who was there to vouch for Randy’s character.

  After only one night in jail, Randy—like many federal prisoners—didn’t have an attorney yet. But what upset Byerly was the fact that the U.S. attorney from Boise, Ron Howen, had declined to fly up for the arraignment. Byerly had called Howen—the U.S. attorney’s expert on white separatists—and told him about the arrest. He told the prosecutor that Randy and his kids were armed and that, if the government didn’t request Randy be held until the trial, there was a good chance he would jump bail. But federal attorneys didn’t travel to Coeur d’Alene often, and Howen didn’t think they had grounds to keep Randy in jail. So the first appearance continued without an attorney for either side.

  Ayers set a $10,000 unsecured bond for Randy’s release, meaning he’d have to pay the bond only if he didn’t show up for court or if he violated the terms of his release. Ayers added the conditions that Randy find a job if he didn’t already have one, that his travel be restricted to northern Idaho, and that he check in with probation officers constantly. He was to give up all firearms or destructive devices and stay away from alcohol and drugs.

  Ayers asked Randy if he had a preference about an attorney, and when Randy said he’d like Everett Hofmeister, the magistrate said he’d do his best to appoint him.

  “Yeah,” Randy said, “in fact, if I can’t have him appointed, we will try to hire him. My wife might even have to hock her ring.”

  “All right,” Ayers said. “Well, you need to understand that … if you’re found guilty of this charge, you will probably be required to reimburse the government for the cost.” Ayers later admitted he had made a mistake.

  Ayers read the pretrial report, which concluded that Randy’s only real asset was his property, which was assessed at $20,500. “And you own that free and clear?” he asked.

  “Yes sir,” Randy said. But he said the land was probably worth only half that. Now Randy was confused about the bond. “You’re telling me that you’re recommending that I could be released with this ten-thousand-dollar deal over here. I don’t understand, secured bond? I can’t get no ten thousand. I don’t understand.”

  Ayers said Randy didn’t have to put up the money, but if he didn’t abide by the rules, then he forfeited his bond and the land could be sold to make up the $10,000. Again, Ayers was mistaken about how an unsecured bond worked.

  What if he got pulled over for having dirt on his license plate, Randy asked. “Would I blow the whole ten grand there?” Randy asked. “Would they throw me in the slammer?”

  Ayers said probably not.

  Randy also was confused about the gun issue. “How far does that go? My kids own firearms.”

  “You can discuss it with your attorney,” Ayers said, “but, you know, in my view, I think you’d probably be better off not having those things in your house. You’d better put them with somebody else.”

  But what if he needed a gun for protection?

  “Look, Mr. Weaver,” Ayers said, “even if you are in fear for your life, you cannot possess a firearm.”

  “I’ll get rid of them,” Randy said. And then he promised to show up for court, and he signed the paperwork that indicated he would show up in Moscow, Idaho, a month later, for trial.

  RANDY AND VICKI RAGED AND PRAYED all the way back to Ruby Ridge, gathered the children, then raged and prayed some more about what they should do. The treachery and deceit were almost more than the couple could bear. The lawless highwaymen of ZOG had no legal warrant, didn’t identify themselves, seized Randy’s legal gun, and usurped the power of the county sheriff. Vicki wasn’t charged with a crime at all, and yet they treated her like a gangster.

  The vision that came from Yahweh coincided with the family opinion: they were to stay on the mountain forever. When it was settled, Vicki wrote a letter to the U.S. attorney’s office and then another one to “all my Saxon brothers and sisters in the Aryan Nations.” Vicki wrote that Israel was outnumbered millions to one and that they should never give up. “Don’t they realize that one with Yahweh is the majority? He shed His blood for us, can we expect to do any less.”

  There was more proof of the One World Government’s plans when the notification of Randy’s trial date arrived from the U.S. attorney in Boise. Although Randy had been told to report to court on February 19, the notification listed the trial date as March 20—something they later tried to pass off as a simple mistake. Perhaps they were trying to confuse him or get him to show up on the wrong date, so they could throw the leg irons on him again and say he’d missed his trial date. Their lying treachery was so transparent.

  Finally, Vicki wrote a letter to her mom, back in Iowa. She tried to reassure her, promising that the family was okay and that the arrest had been unlawful. The government had no intention of giving Randy a fair trial, Vicki wrote, and the Weavers were not going to obey such liars. “The conditions of his probation would be impossible not to violate,” Vicki wrote. “We are staying home. We have been shown to separate from lawlessness and warn our people of the coming troubles.” Vicki sealed the letter and sent it down the hill with Judy Grider.

  In Fort Dodge, Jeane walked slowly away from her mailbox, planted along the straight rural road with a hundred others, like rows of short saplings. She carefully opened the envelope, pulled out the letter, and read Vicki’s clean cursive. Its tone was strange and—apart from the usual Yahweh and One World rantings—it was like a good-bye note.

  “We have all loved you and pray that Yashua bless you for all the things you’ve done over the years to help us,” Vicki wrote on the last day of January 1991. “The past seven years have been trial and testing for me. I know what I need to do to take care of my family under hardships….

  “I’ll keep writing as long as someone can come up. We have the peace that passeth understanding.”

  IN THE FEBRUARY 7 MAILBAG at the U.S. attorney’s office, there were letters and packages addressed to most of the thirteen lawyers who worked in the office, but only one was addressed to the “Servant of Queen of Babylon.” Like he did with hundreds of other pieces of mail, the young clerk opened the envelope, glanced at the writing, stamped the letter with the date, and set it in one of the piles, this one for Maurice Ellsworth, the U.S. attorney for Idaho. The clerk walked into the bright offices on the third floor of the federal court building and slid the letter, along with the others, into the U.S. attorney’s mailbox. The U.S. attorney’s secretary came by, grabbed his mail, walked into the office, and set it on his desk. And that’s where Maurice Ellsworth found one of the strangest letters he’d ever seen. It was addressed to Ellsworth, who was listed as the Servant of the Queen of Babylon. The letter said the stink of lawless government had reached Yahweh and Yashua. “Whether we live or whether we die,” the letter read, “we will not bow to your evil commandments.”

  It was dated February 3, 1991, mailed from a P.O. box in Naples, Idaho, and signed “Mrs. Vicki Weaver.”


  The attachment that Ellsworth was supposed to pass up the chain of command was more alarming. There was more of the Yahweh Yashua stuff, a Bible quote from Jeremiah, and—this is what worried Maurice Ellsworth—a quote he soon found out was from Bob Mathews, the martyred leader of The Order. “A long forgotten wind is starting to blow. Do you hear the approaching thunder? It is that of the awakened Saxon. War is upon the land. The tyrant’s blood will flow.”

  Ellsworth got strange antigovernment letters occasionally—with suggestions for Japanese trade or Russian foreign policy—but this was unlike anything he’d ever seen. Ellsworth picked up the telephone and called the supervisor of the U.S. Marshals Service in Boise, the agency charged with protecting federal buildings and employees, as well as arresting fugitives. A deputy marshal came to his office, and Ellsworth handed him the letters. He said they appeared threatening and he’d like to know what this was all about.

  The marshals quickly found out Vicki Weaver was the wife of a guy who’d recently been arrested. They found out that Weaver had been a difficult arrest, that his kids were armed and even slept with their guns, and that Randy had vowed not to be arrested again. Weaver’s court date had been changed from February 19 to February 20. His attorney was notified and he tried to let his client know, but Randy wouldn’t answer his letters. So, on February 20, a failure-to-appear warrant went out for Randy Weaver, and the case was assigned to the U.S. Marshals Service, the agency charged with bringing in fugitives. In Boise, the chief deputy marshal, Ron Evans, sent a letter to his boss in Washington, D.C., writing that Randy Weaver had the potential to be “another Bob Mathews and his homestead another Whidbey Island standoff.”

  DAVE HUNT WASN’T WORRIED. In fifteen years as a deputy U.S. marshal, Hunt had seen plenty of guys like Randy Weaver. How many times had he gone to a government auction where some guy’s life was sold out from under him, all because the dope decided to skip his trial date or not pay his taxes? Guys like that lost their whole lives over $600, over principles and ideologies that have no basis in reality, no logic. Hunt didn’t understand that blind devotion. He was a guy who was ruled by sense.

  A former Marine with two tours as a guerrilla warfare trainer in Vietnam, Hunt had arrested more than 5,000 fugitives in his fifteen years as a deputy marshal. Yet he’d never fired his gun in the line of duty. He was world-weary and gruff, a guy who stooped and shambled along persistently and who could bring anyone in with enough reasoning and cajoling. His best weapon was his tenacity. He just wouldn’t give up. A big, gentle Baloo-looking guy, the other marshals saw him as the hardest ass in the service, simply because he wouldn’t give up.

  At first, Hunt didn’t think Weaver was any more dangerous than any of the other tax protesters and government bashers in the West. But his boss, Chief Deputy Evans, had a bad feeling about the case from the minute he saw the Queen of Babylon letters. Evans had been the chief deputy in North Dakota in 1983, during the shoot-out and standoff with tax protester and Posse Comitatus member Gordon Kahl. Wanted on a simple probation violation, Kahl got into a gunfight on a rural highway near Medina, North Dakota, and two lawmen were killed. Three other officers were injured, along with Kahl’s son. The sixty-three-year-old Kahl fled to Arkansas where, four months later, lawmen found him hiding in a house near the Ozark Mountains. When the local sheriff walked into the house to arrest the fugitive, Kahl shot him. A federal agent outside the house also fired, again hitting the sheriff, who, before he died, managed to squeeze off a shot that killed Kahl. Agents outside didn’t know Kahl was dead, and so they fired tear gas inside, blistered the house with gunfire and, finally, dumped fuel into the house and burned it to the ground. The case made Kahl the first modern martyr among the radical right wing.

  Evans saw the same potential for violence in this case. By February 6, a clerk had typed “very uncooperative” in Randy Weaver’s Marshals’ file and someone scribbled “crackpot” on the case file. By February 20, after Weaver’s initial court date passed, his description went out over the National Crime Information Computer as: “Aryan, carries firearms.” Evans and Hunt waged a friendly debate over how dangerous and how stubborn Weaver was. From the beginning, Hunt felt the pressure from Evans to bring in the tactical guys and go after Weaver—to rush the cabin. But the deliberate, hangdog Hunt proceeded the way he always did in such cases, learning the fugitive’s habits, tracing his family, figuring out where his money came from, trying to get inside his head.

  He and the other deputy assigned to the case, Warren Mays, went over the case file and read the biblical passages that Vicki and Randy quoted in their letters. From his desk in the marshals office on the seventh floor of the federal building in Boise, Hunt looked out the window at Schaeffer Butte, which towered over Boise. Marshals duty in North Idaho was considered the worst assignment in the country because of cases just like this, stubborn antigovernment types whose failure to appear became more serious than the actual crime they’d committed. Such cases, once they started going badly, could pick up their own momentum, like a stone rolling downhill.

  There wasn’t a lot of personal stuff on Hunt’s desk, a few family pictures and a photograph behind him, a picture of the bloody car door of a law officer who had gotten too excited during an arrest and had accidentally shot himself in the leg. It was a good reminder to proceed cautiously and a warning of how badly things could go.

  NAPLES, IDAHO, LOOKED LIKE A TOWN that was in a constant state of evacuation. In March of 1991, it was essentially a dying railyard and lumber mill, a tattered school and a general store, all clinging to an old highway in a glacial valley—the town’s gaps filled by trailers and single-story houses in need of new paint. Down the road a piece, Budweiser was on tap at the North Woods Tavern, where the occupation of every third customer was “handyman”—some guy looking for work on a road crew or a dairy or a Christmas tree farm, anything to pay the property taxes while they finished the corral and got the roof on the log cabin. The town wasn’t incorporated; there might have been 300 people in a mile radius of the Naples General Store and five times that many with Naples addresses who lived on the veins of dirt that cut into the foothills and mountains around the town.

  In early March 1991, Dave Hunt and Warren Mays drove up to Sandpoint and checked into Connies Motor Inn, the same place Weaver used to meet Kenneth Fadeley. The deputy marshals drove north on Highway 95, eased onto the old highway and into Naples. Their mission consisted of the patient drudgery of fugitive chasing: find the Weavers’ friends and ask what it would take to get them down. They spent five days in northern Idaho and talked to people who knew the family, to a gunshop owner who’d sold Randy some guns and to the people who ran the general store and post office—who told Hunt that the Griders had been picking up the Weavers’ mail.

  They drove to Bonners Ferry and talked to the sheriff, Bruce Whittaker. When they were done interviewing him, Hunt asked if the sheriff could help them find Bill Grider.

  “Yeah, that’s him over there.” Whittaker pointed across the street to a grocery store parking lot where Hunt saw an imposing, muscular guy, six feet three inches tall, with a bushy mustache, loading groceries in a battered green pickup truck.

  Bill and Judy Grider were suspicious, but they listened.

  Hunt said he was trying to solve the problem peacefully and would the Griders please take up a message. “Tell him he has to surrender to the courts. I don’t care how he does it. He can do it through Hofmeister, he can do it through the local sheriff if he has more faith in that, he can do it directly to the court, or he can surrender to me. I don’t care how he does it. I just want to get this thing resolved.”

  Hunt and Mays met the Griders the next day at the house they were caretaking—the red house on the old highway that the Weavers had once lived in. Bill and Eric Grider had shaved their heads since the day before.

  They were in mourning, Bill said.

  Thirteen-year-old Eric wore a white T-shirt with a skull and “White Power” written
on it. He pulled from his wallet a worn piece of Scripture—Jeremiah 7:29—and began reading: “Cut off thine hair, O Jerusalem, and cast it away, and take up a lamentation on high places….”

  Grider said he’d passed Hunt’s message along and he gave the marshal three letters from Weaver—handwritten copies of the two that had already been sent to the U.S. attorney and a third—with the same defiant, poetic language.

  “You are servants of lawlessness and you enforce lawlessness. You are on the side of the One World Beastly Government,” the letter read.

  “Whether we live or whether we die, we will not obey your lawless government.”

  That apparently was a no. Already tired of this case, Hunt knew this was no way to carry on a dialogue.

  “Why shouldn’t I just go up there on the mountain and talk to him?” Hunt asked.

  “That’s not a good idea,” Bill Grider said. “Randy’s ready to meet his Maker.” He told Hunt that Weaver’s kids were up there and that the whole family was pretty strong in their convictions and their belief that they were the target of a conspiracy. “Let me put it to you this way. If I was sitting on my property and somebody with a gun comes to do me harm, then I’ll probably shoot him.”

  Hunt got along well with the Griders though, and he had the impression that he was building trust. He shared a beer with Bill, and young Eric was fascinated to hear the stories of Aryan heroes that Hunt had arrested or transferred, especially David Tate, the Order member who shot and killed a Missouri state trooper in 1985.

  Hunt went back to Boise, filed his notes, and kept working the telephones, talking to anyone who knew the Weavers, anyone who had a suggestion about how to get them down. He even called Vicki’s parents in Iowa. They were very nice and tried to be helpful, but it was clear they had no control over Randy either.

  Alarmed by Evans’s constant concern about the Weaver case, Hunt kept detailed notes, and after his first trip to northern Idaho a portrait of Randy Weaver emerged: