by Alan Sears
Chapter Twenty-Five
JOHN SAT IN the grand jury room and watched Joel Thevis earn his salary. John had made it clear to Joel and the rest of the team that the Preston case would be their biggest score. The courts had taken most other “Bible based” religious programs off the air, and many pastors were fined and censured, but Pat’s case would make history. Well known to the media, he would garner a great deal of attention, which was just what John wanted. Pat would be the first minister indicted solely for exclusionist preaching—all the others had charges such as gender hatred involved. His sermons touting Jesus as the only way would doom Pat and make sure the federal courts sent a message to America that no one would ever forget.
Joel and the two attorneys who had managed the grand jury process appeared before a magistrate judge. As instructed, the grand jury foreman said, “Your Honor, we have a sealed indictment. The name of the accused will not be revealed.” Then, as each of the various counts was presented, the judge polled the jury members, asking, “Is this your vote?” Each member answered in the affirmative.
Arrest warrants were signed and delivered to a representative of the U.S. Marshals Service. Copies of the documents were sent electronically to the marshals’ office in Nashville. Once they processed the documents at the local office and logistics for a full-scale apprehension were laid out, a large party of marshals, FBI agents under DTED orders, local police, and a representative from DTED would drive to Rev. Preston’s home to serve the warrant. John wished he could be there.
According to procedures developed by John’s office in conjunction with the Marshals Service, Pat’s house was placed under twenty-four-hour surveillance. The agents reported to John that no one had gone into or out of the house. By the time the marshals arrived, John knew, a surveillance helicopter and a television news chopper would be circling overhead. TV news crews would be there to record the arrest. They had done similar arrests across the country and the media had never failed to show for the big event.
John made certain that the media knew the agent who would lead the raid on Preston’s house had been part of the SWAT team the day Ronnie Lee Jefferson had been gunned down. The deputy marshal would be leading the arrest, and had made a point of saying he wasn’t about to lose another agent, especially to the preacher who had buried Ronnie Lee Jefferson’s killer.
“With all the charges against this man,” John told the team, “it’s clear he’ll never leave prison. He’ll never see the light of day again, and he knows it. Take no chances. He’s been on hunting trips with members of his church and is known to own a high velocity rifle and some shotguns. Consider him armed and dangerous. He has already fought with law enforcement once—now he’ll be desperate.”
To reduce the threat of armed resistance, team leaders requested permission from the director in D.C. to tear-gas the house before going in, and permission was granted. John Knox Smith demanded a maximum-force entry. He told Joel Thevis, “I’ve invested a lot of my professional capital in this case, so you’d better not let me down. No injuries, no escapes.”
A DISTANT THUMPING drew Pat from his solemn thoughts. He had done nothing for the last few days except eat, sleep, and pace the floor. He wasn’t a psychologist but he recognized reactive depression when he felt it. He struggled to form thoughts, couldn’t work, wanted to sleep all the time, and cut himself off from friends and family. His body hurt, his stomach became a churning vat of acid, and he fought tears several times a day. His active prayer life had been reduced to a chant: “I don’t understand, Lord; I just don’t understand. Please help me.”
The distant thumpa-thumpa-thumpa grew closer. Then he heard a similar sound. It took several moments for the sound to weave its way through the fog of depression shrouding Pat’s mind. Helicopters.
Glancing out the window Pat saw a low-flying helicopter circling his home. Alarms went off in his brain. A motion at the north side of his property snatched his attention. Then he saw them: Men dressed in black, each carrying some kind of weapon. They didn’t approach the house, they swarmed. White and yellow letters dressed their uniforms: FBI, FEDERAL AGENT, SWAT.
“Blessed Jesus,” Pat prayed. They were the only two words he could force past his lips. He watched as an officer approached the front door in a gas mask, carrying a shotgun with a tear gas launcher attached to the barrel. The next thing he knew, a rocket crashed through the front window. Pat jumped to the side to avoid being hit. Glass crashed to the floor. Something exploded. Smoke and fumes filled the room. Pat dropped to the floor to avoid the gas. His eyes burned and watered so much he couldn’t see. The gas choked him, pushing up his nostrils and into his mouth.
What little Pat could see terrified him: Four officers in full SWAT gear burst through the door.
“Federal agents. Down! DOWN ON THE GROUND. Do it now!” Gas masks muffled their commands.
Pat was already on the floor. For the second time in his life, someone drove a knee into his back, yanked his arms behind him, and pressed metal cuffs on his wrist.
“Stop resisting.”
Pat wasn’t resisting. He had gone as limp as his convulsing body would allow.
Moments later, the officers yanked him to his feet and marched him to the door, pushed him through, then shoved him to the grass-carpeted ground. Agents put restraints on his ankles and linked them to the handcuffs with a chrome chain. Pat was hobbled.
In front of neighbors and news cameras, agents marched Pat to a waiting van.
Pat shook violently from fear and adrenaline. “I’m innocent. I haven’t done anything wrong.” His lungs hurt from the gas he inhaled. He vomited on himself and in the van.
The assault team drove Pat to the airport, and placed him on a government transport.
On the flight, still dressed in his filthy clothes, Pat asked one of the marshals, “Where are you taking me?’
“Reagan National Airport in D.C.”
“Then what?”
He shrugged. “My job is to deliver you to the jail in the airport, so no more questions. Just enjoy the flight.”
“I’m manacled like an animal and you think I can enjoy the flight?”
The marshal’s response was a simple smile.
After landing, they moved Pat to a small jail in some dark corner of the airport.
“How about removing the leg restrains?” Pat said.
“No can do, pal. Not without permission from the judge. You’re a high security and suicide risk.”
“Me?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
They allowed Pat to call Matt but no one else.
When Matt arrived, the first thing he did was to demand that the authorities show more respect for the human dignity of his client. “Why are you doing this to this man? He is not a criminal; he’s not a threat to anyone. His whole life has been dedicated to serving others. This man is a pastor, for crying out loud!”
No one was listening.
MATT WAS ALLOWED time with his client and although he had much to discuss, he felt at a loss for words. “How are you holding up?”
“Not good, Matt. I’m scared. I’m confused. I may be in shock. I can’t think.”
“After the way they treated you, I believe it.”
“What now?” Pat asked.
“Tell me about the arrest.”
Pat told the story in terrifying detail.
“I have to ask you something, Pat. The marshals tell me they confiscated a large cache of weapons—horde was their word.” He pulled a list from his briefcase. “A German-made Colt Sauer 30.06 bolt-action rifle and scope; a well used Turkish-made Huglu double-barrel shotgun; and a Weatherby Vanguard 7 millimeter REM rifle with a Sightmark tactical laser target-acquisition device. In addition, they discovered three handguns: a Browning 9 millimeter pistol, a Smith & Wesson .38, and a Glock G32 .357 Sig. They told me the Glock is a favorite of bank robbers and international terrorists. And there were dozens of boxes of ammunition of all types and calibers.”
He paused and studied Pat. “You own all these guns?”
“Well, yes. Gun collecting is a hobby. I took an interest in guns after an uncle took me target shooting when I was a boy. Some of those guns came from him. He gave them to me before he died. Like many men in my community, I hunt. Hunting is a licensed sport.”
“The prosecution is going to have a good time with that, Pat. A gun that can kill a deer can kill a federal agent.”
“I would never do that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. I know that. You know that. But a jury, well, who knows what they’ll believe.”
“Some of the men from the church would go hunting or fishing. It was a way of bonding.”
Matt rubbed his eyes. “Please, Pat, whatever you do, don’t say that again.”
“Why?”
“Because if I were prosecuting this case, I’d make the point that Christians like to bond over dead animals.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No, but it is what the jury will hear.”
“Matt,” Pat said, “you need to understand something about American history, the role of firearms, and the Second Amendment. Millions of law-abiding men and women own and lawfully use guns every day.”
Matt smiled a little. The smile turn to a frown. “That might fly in the deep South, but you won’t be tried in front of a Nashville jury. They are going to take you across the Potomac for a trial in D.C. And by the way, public opinion about gun ownership has changed a great deal since the Second Amendment was written. U.S. history not withstanding, Pat, the guns are going to be a problem.”
When Matt made a motion for bond, the magistrate judge noted the weapons inventory, the lifetime imprisonment potential, and said that no amount of bond would be enough to ensure Pat’s return. Matt then filed an emergency appeal of the magistrate’s order, but that failed as well. He then appealed to the Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit and, much to his surprise, got a hearing, but only because the arresting federal agents made a technical error in Pat’s arrest: Pat had not been given a chance to make an appearance in Nashville before being transported to D.C. On that basis, the court set a $10 million cash bond, which meant that Pat would be sitting right where he was until his case came up for trial.
The next day at his first meeting with Pat since his client had been moved from the airport jail to a high security facility, Matt made a few things clear. “As you can see, we have an observer.” He motioned to a guard a few feet away. “They won’t let me meet with you alone. Supposedly, our conversation is secure, but I have doubts about that. Be careful what you say. Think before you speak. Got it?”
“Yes.”
Matt quickly brought Pat up to date on the case, then said, “This is like Daniel in the lion’s den, Pat. Daniel 6:23. ‘No manner of harm was found on him, because he believed in his God.’ It’s important that you keep your faith up. I’m praying for you. I’m sure others are, too.”
“Thank you, but you might be the only one.”
Matt heard only a small measure of strength in Pat’s voice. He had a right to despair. He was isolated, denied all calls, mail, and media, surrounded by dangerous men in the prison, yet he seemed to be gaining strength, and Matt considered that a miracle.
“Are you praying, Pat?”
He smiled. It was a forced smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I find I have plenty of time for prayer these days. Lately, I’ve been a little more coherent in my discussions with God. At times I feel a supernatural presence, a sense of peace and a promise of God’s mercy. But there are times when I’m in the darkest state of doubt and inner turmoil.”
“Have you spoken to Becky?” Matt asked.
“Just once. I told her to protect the kids as much as possible. They don’t need to be exposed to this.”
“She should be by your side, Pat.”
“No. I won’t let her. She’s confused, angry, but most of all, she’s frightened. I want her left alone.”
Matt started to tell him that having Becky present might help the case, but decided this wasn’t the moment.
“You had hunting photos in the house. A couple of them have appeared on the front page of the New York Times and in People Magazine. You’re being called ‘that gun-toting preacher from Tennessee.’ They’re reminding folks of the other Nashville preacher who killed the U.S. Marshal.”
“I wish I had gotten rid of those things.”
“So do I, Pat. So do I.”
EVENTUALLY, AFTER DAYS of stonewalling by prosecutors, Matt was able to interview some of the witnesses against his client. When he spoke to Bobby Douglas, he discovered the young man faced criminal charges of his own and had made a deal with the prosecutors for a promise of leniency. Matt wasn’t surprised. He had seen prosecutors use the threat of jail to pressure less-than-honest witnesses to “give up a bigger fish.” If the government used Bobby as a witness for the prosecution, all of that would come out, along with the terms of the agreement. Matt might be able to impeach Bobby’s testimony by showing that there had been a waiver of prosecution. But would it help?
To save his own skin, Bobby told the prosecutors everything he could think of that might help incriminate Pastor Pat. He said he had heard Pat in staff meetings verbally attacking women who had chosen to have an abortion. He said he had also witnessed Pat insulting people of other races and cultures. “One time we stopped at a bookstore,” he said. “Pastor Pat went in to buy a book—The ACLU vs. America, a work attacking the ACLU, as I recall—and there was this Hindu woman there—you know, with a spot on her forehead—standing in line in front of us at the register. Pastor Pat took one look at that woman and said, ‘Don’t you feel sorry for her, Bobby?’ I’m sure she must have heard what he said. And I thought that was so insensitive.”
“You told this to the prosecutors?” Matt asked.
“Of course.” Matt suspected someone had been coaching Bobby. “Another time,” Bobby told Matt, “Pastor Pat arranged for the men on the church staff to go hunting down near Chattanooga, and I was shocked to see all the guns and ammunition he brought with him. He must have had a dozen guns. There were all kinds: great big hunting rifles, two or maybe three shotguns, at least one pistol, and a bunch of knives. It looked like he was planning a war. And this was just a couple of days after he had been attacking gays and lesbians from the pulpit.”
“Bobby, don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic? I’m certain you’re exaggerating.”
“No, I’m not. I’m being straight up and honest.”
Matt closed his eyes for a moment. “Bobby, I know the kind of crimes the prosecution is holding over your head. A man who fraudulently obtains credit cards using someone else’s name and who uses chat rooms to solicit young women can’t call himself honest.”
Bobby went white. Matt knew the young youth worker felt helpless. The sad part was, so did Matt.