“Mr. Dixon, is that really you?”
“Uh—yes,” Chuck replied hesitantly, unsure why the attendant was so excited.
“Oh, my God! I can’t believe it’s you! Mr. Dixon, we are all so proud of you. Oh, my gosh, wait ’til I tell my family. Wait…”
“Okay, thank you,” Chuck said.
The attendant handed Chuck his license and the paperwork. Chuck slipped his license back into his billfold and put the forms in the glove compartment. As he reached for the button to roll the window up, the attendant shoved a piece of paper and a pen at him.
“Sir, could you please sign this for me?”
Nobody had ever asked Chuck for his autograph unless it was on a contract, loan document, check or some other important instrument. “Sure,” he said, “what’s your name?”
“Steven, sir.”
“Okay, Steven, here you go.” Chuck scribbled a note, and handed the paper back to the kid. It said, “Steven, God Bless Texas. Best regards. Chuck Dixon.”
Steven read the inscription and blurted, “Sir, I’m so honored to meet you. I’m sorry about what happened to you and your house. I’ve never been prouder to be a Texan than I have been over the last few days. Again, thank you, sir!”
“Listen, Steven, we all have to pull together. We’ll be fine, and so will Texas.”
Steven lifted the gate, and Chuck drove off. As he did, he glanced back toward the gate to see Steven point to his car as he drove away as if to tell the next person in line at the booth he just met someone famous. Chuck smiled at Steven’s exuberance.
As he tried to get comfortable in the small car, Chuck’s thoughts turned to his wife Christy and son Colton.
The Dixons’ house had been destroyed by the ATF raid when Chuck was taken into custody. As a result, Christy and Colton had been temporarily relocated to a remote and private Hill Country ranch.
After the climax of the tense stand-off in Austin, the family had been flown back to the Houston area by private jet, and Chuck knew his family was anxiously awaiting his arrival at a friend’s home. He picked up his cell phone and called Christy.
“Hey, baby, I’m finally on the road.”
“Chuck, are you sure that’s safe?” she asked. “Why wouldn’t you let the Rangers bring you back?”
“I need time to think and de-compress. I’ll be fine.”
“Sweetheart, I am so worried about them coming back for you.” He heard her voice break.
“Babe, I think we chased them out of Texas for now,” he laughed. But he knew, deep down, that this entire episode was far from over.
“When do you think you’ll be here?”
“Probably around eight. The traffic leaving Austin is a little worse than I thought.”
“Chuck, people are already here waiting for you.”
He sighed. He was tired, somewhat frazzled and not looking forward to being around people again. He just wanted to get home and be with his family.
“Really? Damn! How did they find out?” Chuck thought where he was staying was to be kept quiet for now.
“I think Jane told one or two of the group and word just kind of spread,” said Christy.
Jane was a member of the local Tea Party group Chuck and Stan Mumford had organized from scratch. The group had grown to a sizeable organization and was one of those that drew the attention of federal agents.
“Okay,” he said, “but can you tell them I can only spend thirty minutes with them? Make up some excuse. I’ll spend time with everyone as soon as I can, but tonight I want to be with you and Colton.”
“We want to be with you, too, darlin’.” He sensed the love in her voice, along with a wariness he knew came from the recent events. “I wish we had a home to go to.”
“We will have, babe. We’ll figure this out, I promise. Maybe the house can be repaired or rebuilt. Have you been back over there?”
“No, but some of the folks put tarps over the roof and other damaged areas to keep rain out,” she told him. “They brought us clothes, including some for you. It’s strange; news reporters are staking out the house and it has become something of a tourist attraction. A steady stream of cars passes by at all hours of the day. Chuck, there are hundreds of Texas flags in the front yard, placed there by complete strangers!”
“Wow! It’s awesome that some of our friends thought enough to tarp the house.”
“Well, you know what kind of people these are.”
“Yes, I do.”
“And Chuck, they know what kind of person you are.”
Chuck tried to say something, but the weight of the last ten days was almost more than he could bear. He choked up as he tried to hold back tears.
“Okay, babe. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
He ended the call. As he drove, he mentally reviewed the events of the last few days, thinking about the cloud of uncertainty that hung over the immediate future.
A non-binding resolution had been passed for Texas to peacefully secede and once again become an independent republic, yet there was no conciliatory sign from either President Johnson or his administration. This administration had become the most effective in American history at managing its message to the public, manipulating the media, and swaying public opinion, even to the point of blatant lies and deception.
Just like the notorious gun-running scheme in Mexico, the administration seemed poised to completely dodge the criminal conspiracy in the Rash Sally investigation, despite indisputable evidence. There had been no federal investigation into Stan Mumford’s murder, even with eyewitness accounts. Never in American history had an administration been this evil, Chuck thought.
“Why doesn’t America care?” he said aloud without even realizing it.
Thinking back to the U.S. Constitution, he tried to remember if the Founders had created enough checks and balances to take on an executive branch that had become insidiously autonomous. When the executive branch controlled all levels of law enforcement, who could or would arrest the president or the attorney general if they acted criminally?
As the sun set, Chuck drove east into the darkness, wondering how the country got to this point. Would the evidence of the tampering of the vehicle that ultimately killed Tim Spilner and his wife turn public opinion? He was so deep in thought that he almost ran a red light going through one of the small towns on the route back to Houston.
As he came within blocks of his friend’s expansive home, he spotted vehicles parked on both sides of the street as far as he could see. Lone Star flags lined the block, especially the dozens that adorned his friend’s yard.
As he passed the mailbox, a man standing outside the friend’s house recognized Chuck. He stepped out from the curb and waved Chuck down.
“Mr. Dixon, we have a parking spot just for you in the driveway. Go ahead and turn into the driveway and pull all the way up to the garage.” Chuck recognized the guy from various Tea Party events but was embarrassed he couldn’t recall his name.
“Thank you, son.”
Chuck followed the instructions and drove up to the garage door. As he got out of the car, his slightly paunchy gut rubbed against the steering wheel, making it difficult to slide out. He promised himself that he’d lose some weight and never allow himself to get in this position again.
Once outside the vehicle, he reached for a small bag on the back seat, consisting mostly of toiletries that others had picked up for him. Since Chuck had been taken by the ATF from his home and imprisoned at Ellington Air Force Base near Houston, he’d had only one change of clothes that Gov. Cooper’s staff picked up for him.
Before he could shut the car door, people streamed out the back door to greet him.
Christy ran up to Chuck and held onto him as if she would never let him go. He slipped his arms around her as they kissed, then he was almost knocked off his feet as Colton rushed up to him. As they stood there, arm in arm, it occurred to Chuck that he was going to do everything he could to prevent what happened to him fro
m happening to anyone else.
As the small group of people escorted Chuck inside, a group of more than thirty people in the living room and kitchen spontaneously erupted into applause. Chuck didn’t know what to make of it all, and he felt tears on his cheeks and in his eyes. He wiped them away, instinctively thinking that crying was a sign of weakness. Then it occurred to him that he’d never again think he couldn’t cry. Life was too precious, his mother always told him, not to show honest sadness and grief or happiness and joy.
Chuck’s gaze connected through the enthusiastic crowd with the diminutive wife of his best friend, Stan Mumford, who had been murdered by ATF agents during the raids on Tea Party organizers’ headquarters and homes.
This was the first time Chuck had seen Sheila Mumford since that terrible day. Ignoring the rest of the well-wishers, Chuck went straight to Sheila. Almost apologetically, he took her into his arms for a long, comforting embrace. Nothing was said between them for several minutes, then Christy and Colton joined in for a group hug. Not only were Sheila and the Dixons crying softly, but the friends surrounding them broke down, too.
“Sheila, I am so, so sorry,” Chuck whispered, his mouth close to her ear. “We all loved Stan. Are you okay? How about the kids?” He stepped back to peer down at her.
“It’s hour by hour, day by day now, but we’ll be all right soon,” Sheila replied, wiping back tears.
“Stan was a hero to me,” Chuck told her, “and I’m sure he’s a hero to everyone in Texas. What can we do for you and the kids, Sheila?”
Deep inside, he felt responsible for Stan’s death. Although Stan had originally introduced him to the Tea Party, it was Chuck’s idea to organize their own chapter. Had Stan not gotten so involved at that level, he would undoubtedly be alive today, and Chuck knew it.
Chuck bent over to say something quietly in Sheila’s ear, barely able to speak the words. “Sheila, I feel terrible that my involvement with Stan led to this. I’m sorry I didn’t make his funeral. I don’t really…”
“Shush.” Sheila grasped Chuck’s face with both hands, then put her forefinger over Chuck’s lips.
“Now, you listen to me, Chuck Dixon. Stan absolutely believed in what you were both doing. He was his own man; you know that. I loved that about him. Don’t feel guilty about what happened and don’t apologize. This could just as easily have happened to you, and it nearly did. You understand me, Chuck?”
Chuck couldn’t talk. He nodded as tears streamed down his face.
Just then, several others broke into the conversation with offers to provide any assistance Sheila needed. All the folks gathered at the house represented the core of the local Tea Party group Chuck and Stan had organized and led.
Chuck could tell the group was anxious for news. They were hungry for information and they kept him talking until nearly midnight. More than anything, they wanted to know what was likely to happen next.
“We appear to be at a dangerous stand-off,” Chuck told them. “Federal troops are at the state borders and in the Gulf. The feds have put stops on banking and transfers of money. The worst thing is that Congress had no cojones; they couldn’t get impeachment out of committee.”
“And where does that leave us?” someone asked.
“President Johnson wants the governor for the raid that freed me and for the confrontation in Austin, even though it was started by the FBI and ATF. Unfortunately, the president now feels emboldened again because the Rash Sally conspiracy has taken a back seat to this crisis.” Chuck paused. “The sense I got when I was with the governor was that this could get very dicey in a hurry. We all need to pray.”
“Are we talking armed conflict?” asked another.
“Two months ago, I would have said that’s not realistic but, after the stunts the feds pulled, I think anything is possible. We need to tighten up our communities, families and organizations. This could get very bumpy before it gets better.”
“I’m frightened,” murmured a middle-aged woman.
“I am, too,” said Chuck. “But we better get smart. I need to get some sleep now, but we should meet tomorrow and start reorganizing. We have a lot of work to do to protect ourselves and our families going forward.”
One of the men in the group stood up. “Texans have faced adversity before. Chuck is right; we need to pray. We need to reorganize from a political organization to a group of tightly connected and prepared citizens.”
“Agreed,” said Chuck. “It’s time to circle the wagons for what might be the most stressful time in any of our lives. With God’s help, we’ll make it just fine.”
Chapter 2
“All political power is inherent in the people, and all free governments are founded on their authority, and instituted for their benefit. The faith of the people of Texas stands pledged to the preservation of a republican form of government, and, subject to this limitation only, they have at all times the inalienable right to alter, reform or abolish their government in such manner as they may think expedient.”
~ The Texas Constitution of 1876, Article 1, Section 1
Gov. Brent Cooper sat in his deep leather chair behind a massive oak desk. The Seal of the Great State of Texas was intricately carved in the center, facing anyone who sat in front of the desk.
The governor was as massive as his desk. Tall, with salt-and-pepper hair, he still looked like he could put on a uniform and play tight end for his alma mater, Texas A&M. The governor invoked images of a conservative LBJ or even Sam Houston, who could command an entire room or any other venue with just his presence.
Gov. Cooper wore starched and creased Wrangler blue jeans, a pressed dress shirt and slightly western-style blazer that looked like he’d just stepped off the pages of American Cowboy magazine. If ever there was a modern-day image of the “Marlboro Man,” he was it, without the mustache. Although the governor liked his hunting, whiskey and cigars, nobody in this room underestimated him. The governor’s politics were usually of the sort where he would simply impose his will, rather than craft backroom compromises.
The governor had invited several people into his private office to figure out how to deal with the crisis. In attendance were the two U.S. Senators Kevin Simpson and Roberto Perez that Cooper had recalled from Washington, D.C., as well as several key members of the Texas Congressional delegation, including several Democrats. From state government were Lt. Gov. Gene Foster, Atty. Gen. Jeff Weaver, and several state senators and legislators who had shown they understood the situation both in Texas and in Washington. The commandant of the Texas Militia, the Texas Guard, the head of the Texas Department of Public Safety and several key lieutenant colonels stood at the back of the room.
The governor had also asked Rev. Mavis Scoffer and Clarence Cardinal Biggs to attend. Standing next to Cooper’s chair was Pops Younger, commander of the Texas Rangers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, we have a growing crisis. I brought you here to get your input on a plan to diffuse this situation. Before I begin, may I ask Rev. Scoffer to bless this meeting?”
The black Baptist minister made his way to the front of the governor’s desk, clutching a large weathered leather-bound bible and began, “Dear Jesus Christ, please heap your wisdom on the leaders of this great State of Texas as they put forward a plan to protect her citizens and to do the will of the Father. We ask the Holy Spirit to open their hearts and minds and lift them up to accomplish the great tasks that lay ahead of them. We ask this in our sweet, dear Jesus’ name. Amen.”
“Amen,” came a chorus from the delegation.
Gov. Cooper rose. The room got eerily silent, so much so that one could hear the antique leather chair creak as he stood.
“Thank you, Rev. Scoffer.”
The governor surveyed the entire room, looking at the contingent of Texas luminaries with his steel-blue eyes. Cooper was a hit with lady Texans, and many politicians credited his ability to draw a substantial Democratic vote was because of his popularity with women, driven by his r
ugged good looks, even though he was sixty-three years old. Whatever the reason, Cooper was one of the most admired and successful Texas governors of all time. Like many Texas governors before him, Cooper was a larger-than-life character.
“I have asked you here for what is likely one of the most important tasks of your lifetime. Texas is at a precipice. Texas has been here before. I likely needn’t remind you of your Texas history. Today we have a new challenge,” said Cooper. “It will be up to the people in this room to meet these challenges and lead Texas into a new day, whatever that may hold and whatever Texans decide. I would like to turn the floor over to Jeff Weaver for his assessment on where we stand.”
Weaver was the antithesis of the governor. He was a University of Texas graduate who went on to Harvard Law School, although he would always joke that it was only because the University of Texas didn’t have its own law school at the time. Always smartly dressed in a crisp suit, with his trademark State Seal of Texas cufflinks and Lucchese-handmade snakeskin boots, he looked like he could be as comfortable on Wall Street as he was in Austin. Raised in Port Lavaca, Texas on the Gulf, he was a good-looking man in his mid-forties with dark hair a little gray at the temples, and was a brilliant attorney and prosecutor.
Despite the natural rivalry of their two alma maters and the fact that each had little in common other than their love of Texas, they got along famously. Many would claim their friendship was born out of the same circumstances that drove many young men in battle to become great lifelong friends. Such friendships happen many times when men fight a common enemy and wind up in the same trenches with the same people. To Cooper and Weaver, the common enemy had become the current Johnson administration and the federal government.
“Folks, here’s the situation as we see it,” said Weaver. “First, we have federal troops blocking every major road and interstate leading out of the state. People with Texas drivers’ licenses are allowed to return home, but that’s about it. Texans trying to get to other parts of the country are allowed to leave. Any trucks with shipments of any kind are turned back and we have overflow situations at major interstate entries where trucks are sitting parked.”
A State of Treason Page 2