Let It Bang

by RJ Young

  A 2013 class-action lawsuit alleged that Texas Law Shield LLP engaged in barratry—commonly known as ambulance chasing. The plaintiffs, Brad and Terrilyn Crowley, alleged that a salesperson for Texas Law Shield was pitching to students at a concealed-carry class, encouraging them to sign on to Texas Law Shield at a cost of about $130 a year, for peace of mind. “In return, so the sales pitch goes, Texas Law Shield will provide legal advice to all clients and a legal defense, with no additional charge, to any client who is civilly sued or criminally charged as a result of using a firearm so long as the member was using the firearm in a legally permissible location,” according to a petition filed in Brad Crowleyv. Texas Law Shield.

  This is, as you’ve seen, exactly what happened to me in my concealed-carry class in Oklahoma. U.S. Law Shield’s headquarters in Houston had no comment regarding the organization’s policy related to pitching their firearm-defense program at concealed-carry classes.

  Texas Law Shield and its sister program, U.S. Law Shield, are commonly misconstrued as law firms or insurance companies. They are not law firms. And Texas Law Shield is only a quasi insurance company. Texas Law Shield, made up of several limited liability corporations, has spread out over various states without in fact having a unified program.

  Because most of the states in which U.S. Law Shield offers legal-service plans do not regulate the industry, the company can presumably stop defending a member at will, if, for instance, the state organization runs out of money.

  Then there’s this troubling clause, wherein Texas Law Shield defines the use of a firearm as

  any incident where the Legal Service Contract Holder either discharges or displays a firearm for the purpose of using the firearm as a weapon to stop a threat, whether the Legal Service Contract Holder pulls the trigger and discharges the firearm or not. This term does not include taking the firearm to a location that is prohibited by federal, state, or local law, negligent or unintended discharges, or negligent or unintended displays.

  This is truly problematic for a contract holder. At the heart of legal cases related to guns is the issue of whether a person was using the gun to stop something perceived as a threat. The clause allows latitude for Texas Law Shield to conclude that a client was not justified in using a weapon and thus is not eligible for coverage. The Houston attorney Mark Bennett says, “Texas Law Shield looks to me like a sucker’s bet. You’d be better off making friends with a good criminal-defense lawyer, sending him a good bottle of bourbon now and then, rather than sending your money to a company that, in the highly unlikely event you get in trouble with your gun, might—or might not—provide you with a lawyer of unknown provenance.”

  Yet U.S. Law Shield persists in its fear-mongering. According to the company, for 90 percent of its members, the need to use deadly force arises at their homes or near their vehicles. In the company’s estimation, the deck is stacked against gun owners because of the media and the legal system. The overwhelming financial burden of legal defense during criminal prosecution or a civil suit makes U.S. Law Shield an essential protective measure for gun owners.

  THE REPRESENTATIVE FROM U.S. Law Shield was six feet tall. He wore a black button-down shirt, blue jeans, and an openly carried Sig Sauer .380 pistol. Before he started his spiel, he stated that no video recording or photography of any kind was allowed during the event. He then launched into stories about U.S. Law Shield members who had been protected by the company’s services, followed by tales about those who wished they’d had them. He described the financial strain for even those gun owners who shoot and kill a person in lawful self-defense. For $10.95 a month, a bit more than the cost of a Netflix subscription, he assured us we could all be saved from monetary stress. Should we have to use a gun in self-defense, we would have access to legal representation for criminal or civil proceedings anywhere in Oklahoma and receive updates on firearm carry laws, as we were about to in this very workshop.

  “Like the card says”—the representative pointed to a stack of cards on the table—“you defend your life. We defend your freedom.”

  The sales pitch was followed by the keynote address. A bearded man named Blake Hayes, wearing an ill-fitting pinstriped suit, delivered it. As an attorney at Hanson & Holmes law office in Tulsa, with a special interest in the use of deadly force, Hayes gave us a basic understanding of gun laws in Oklahoma. He explained succinctly that according to the Oklahoma Firearms Act of 1971, a person is justified in the use of deadly force if that person feels in imminent peril of great bodily harm or death. Following his rundown of the Oklahoma Self-Defense Act, Hayes outlined recent changes to concealed-carry law in Oklahoma.

  In May 2017, Hayes explained, Governor Mary Fallin signed Senate Bill 397 into law, which permits handgun licensees to carry firearms on public buses. Senate Bill 35 now allows some men and women in the military to carry a firearm without a license. Chiefly this “Handgun Carry Military Exemption” means that eighteen-year-old veterans may receive a handgun license. To wit: they can get a handgun license, but they still can’t buy a beer.

  As of August 25, 2017, according to Bill 397, it remains illegal for a person to possess a gun on elementary or secondary school grounds, except that “a concealed or unconcealed weapon may be carried onto private school property or in any school bus or vehicle used by any private school for transportation of students or teachers by a person who is licensed pursuant to the Oklahoma Self-Defense Act, provided a policy has been adopted by the governing entity of the private school that authorizes the carrying and possession of a weapon on private school property or in any school bus or vehicle used by a private school.”

  “Now it’s mostly courthouses, jails, and post offices where you can’t conceal,” Hayes said.

  “But what about those ‘guns banned’ signs?” an older white man asked. “Do I have to leave my gun?”

  “People can bar you from entry,” Hayes said. “But the law you’d be breaking is trespassing. That’s the law violated.” In Oklahoma, trespassing carries a maximum fine of $1,500 and no jail time upon first offense. But Hayes was quick to add that a business owner could ask you to leave for having a gun on his or her property only if he or she knew you had a gun. “I’m not telling you to go around and violate the law. I’m telling you to conceal your gun.”

  Hayes said he didn’t see anything wrong with the advice he was giving; he himself followed it. The man walks around, most of the time, with a piece in his trousers and a vigilante’s logic at the forefront of his mind. Make no mistake, Hayes said, he loves the law. But, to his way of thinking, the law won’t save you from a bad guy. “Until a business demonstrates it takes my safety and the safety of my family as personally as I do,” Hayes told the crowd, “I’m not going to surrender my firearm.” For this, he received mild applause and at least one “You’re goddamn right!” from a fella wearing a hat that identified him as a Vietnam War veteran.

  During this portion of the workshop, I heard Hayes answer questions that dealt, in part, with shooting an unarmed person in the back, concealed carrying while at work, and the legality of walking into a police station with a firearm. A grandfather, who said he walked his grandson to school and was “concerned about dogs as much as anything,” asked about the ramifications of carrying a firearm at a public school. Hayes explained that it was best he leave the gun at home or in his vehicle.

  Another woman raised her hand, and Hayes called on her. “What if I shoot a burglar in my house?”

  “Then that falls under the Castle Doctrine,” Hayes said.

  The Castle Doctrine is a part of the Oklahoma Firearms Act of 1971 that states: “The Legislature hereby recognizes that the citizens of the State of Oklahoma have a right to expect absolute safety within their own homes or places of business.” Then there’s this part: “A person who uses force . . . is justified in using such force and is immune from criminal prosecution and civil action for the use of such force.”

  Imagine me walking into your house uninvited, weari
ng a tie-dye shirt with a huge peace sign screen-printed on it, environmentally safe shorts on my legs, a pair of Chacos on my feet, and a large poster held above my head reading, DON’T SHOOT! I LOVE YOU! If you shot me dead and then claimed to police that you “have held a reasonable fear of imminent peril of death or great bodily harm,” it is highly unlikely you’d be under threat of prosecution by any district attorney in Oklahoma. Twenty-four states have some variation of the Castle Doctrine as law.

  In March 2017, a twenty-three-year-old Oklahoman put the Castle Doctrine into action.

  ZACH PETERS WAS asleep at around noon in his parents’ home in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma—a suburb of Tulsa—when he heard a noise. It was the kind of noise that provoked a fight-or-flight response. He retrieved his AR-15 assault rifle, walked into the kitchen, and fired at three intruders. One of them fled. Peters took that moment to race back to his bedroom and call 911. He began to explain what had just occurred.

  “OK, sir, we’re getting people out that way,” the 911 dispatcher said. “And they attempted to break into your house and then you shot them. Correct?”

  “Correct,” Peters said. “They got into my house. Two of them are still in my house.”

  “OK, are they white males?”

  “Um, I didn’t really get a good look.”

  “OK, can you see them right now?”

  “I shot two of them, and now I’m barricaded in my bedroom.”

  “You’re barricaded in your bedroom?”

  “Correct. Southeast corner. They broke in the back door. I can hear one of them talking.”

  “OK, what are they saying?”

  “I can’t hear them.”

  “OK, where were they shot?”

  “Upper-body.”

  “Are you hurt sir?”

  “No.”

  He told the dispatcher which landmarks to look for when they arrived. Peters was still armed while on the phone with the dispatcher.

  “OK, sir,” the dispatcher said momentarily, “my deputy is on scene. I’m going to need you to unarm yourself and put the gun away.”

  “As soon as you confirm the deputy is in the house, I’ll unload the weapon.”

  “Just go ahead and keep the deputy, I’m sorry, keep your weapon on your bed and remain unarmed please, sir.”

  Peters killed all three intruders—the third was found lying dead in the driveway. One of the suspects was carrying a knife. The others carried brass knuckles.

  The three intruders were later identified as teenage boys—sixteen, seventeen, and nineteen years old. A spokesman for the sheriff’s department said that, at first glance, the event looked like self-defense. Prosecutors eventually agreed. A medical examiner’s autopsy found Peters had shot two of the teenagers in the back. They were fleeing. Still, the Oklahoma Firearms Act of 1971 states that a person can “expect absolute safety” in their dwelling and that deadly use of force is legal if it occurs “in the process of unlawfully and forcefully entering or had unlawfully and forcibly entered.” The law sets no limit on shooting people who are leaving, fleeing, or have their back to you under those circumstances. You can shoot. You can kill. And the law will uphold the murder you committed as self-defense. Peters did not face any charges for the triple homicide.

  Hayes used this incident as a teaching moment for the workshop.

  “You’re supposed to be able to kill anybody who comes into your house, but three kids dead shocks the conscience for a lot of people,” Hayes said. “So that’s a real-life example that’s ripped out of the headlines where you can show somebody, even if they’re kids, even if they don’t have guns, you can shoot them if they’re in your house, and you will get away with it. Because this guy did.”

  The only thing Peters had done wrong, according to Hayes, was talk too much. Hayes’s advice would’ve been to hang up just as soon as the police knew there was a crime and the address where it had occurred.

  “I have a belief that everybody needs a legal defense,” he said, “but the best representation I can give our members is talking to them before something like that happens. So if I was to get up in the middle of the night and go defend one of our members, I would tell them the same thing I tell them in the class, which is, ‘Hey, we’re not going to make a statement tonight. If they want to arrest you, they can arrest you. We’ll bail you out, and you’re gonna go home.’”

  A FEW WEEKS after the workshop, I met with Hayes at his law office. It was a Friday, and he was dressed in blue jeans, sneakers, and an olive drab shirt reading WOOBIES across the front. He made himself a cup of coffee as he began to tell me just how he came to make deadly force in self-defense a legal specialty of his.

  Hayes grew up boxing. It was his dad’s favorite sport, and one he took to more than any other. He boxed into his teens, when the Ultimate Fighting Championship debuted in 1993. That’s when he saw a skinny Brazilian named Royce Gracie annihilate all other combatants with a form of martial art called jiu-jitsu. “Royce choked everybody out and beat them all up,” Hayes said. “I was like, Man, I need to learn that stuff because if someone does that to me, I’m in trouble. I’d never seen that kind of stuff before.” He began formally training in jiu-jitsu in 1997, has since earned his black belt, and owns a jiu-jitsu academy where he is also an instructor.

  From a family with a military background, Hayes was exposed to guns as a means of hunting and self-protection early in life, but only as an adult did he begin to see a handgun as a basic component of survival in a world where men and women can and will do harm to you and yours.

  “I don’t care if you’re Mike Tyson,” he said. “A six-year-old kid could be twenty yards away from you and shoot you and kill you before you can get over there and punch him. That’s just the way it is. If you’re serious about self-defense, you have to be armed and you have to know how to use a firearm. Otherwise, if a bad guy has one, you’re dead.”

  Slowly Hayes developed firearms skills as a complement to his abilities in hand-to-hand combat. He helped create a system of self-defense that he and several former servicemen, including members of the Green Berets, expert marksmen, and one Ultimate Fighting Championship veteran, sell to the public. The instructors put on self-defense seminars, teaching how to properly address threats that you believe could endanger your life. “But the hardest part is not pulling the trigger,” Hayes said.

  This is why he set his mind to becoming one of the leading experts on Oklahoma’s Self-Defense Act. He wanted to understand, and then help his students understand, just what the law expects from them as handgun license holders, exercisers of the Second Amendment, and protectors of themselves and their loved ones. It’s this mission that spurred him to attend a U.S. Law Shield seminar at a Tulsa gun range. It did not surprise me that a man with his background and education would soon be recruited into the organization. But I was curious as to why he said yes to being the man called in the middle of the night during one of the worst experiences of someone’s life.

  “I’ve seen people not only lose their life savings,” Hayes said, “but lose their mom and dad’s life savings, their friend’s, their uncle’s, whoever’s life savings, trying to protect themselves from a frivolous lawsuit or against criminal charges that shouldn’t have been filed. I have, frankly, more financial means than the average person, and I would hate to have to cough up the kind of money it would take. So I have that insurance myself because $10.95 is a drop in the bucket compared to whatever it might cost me if I ever had to use my gun.”

  “But could this insurance be construed as giving someone a way to commit murder legally?” I asked.

  “As an attorney, I can only deal with the evidence as it is. I mean, if you committed murder, it’s going to be pretty tough for me to prove otherwise, and all of those companies have a disclaimer that if you’ve obviously committed murder and you haven’t used reasonable force, you’re not going to get a defense . . . Now if it’s your word against somebody who was there who says it didn’t seem reasonable t
o them and it seems reasonable to you, then that’s when you really need an attorney. Having a good attorney who has experience doing that is important.”

  “I think if you present a gun,” Hayes said, “and you tell somebody, ‘If you don’t back off I’m gonna shoot you,’ and they continue to come forward, I don’t think there are many juries, especially around here, that would convict you. I try to tell people if you have enough standoff to do it, especially if there are witnesses around, to say as loud as you can, I’m gonna fucking shoot you if you don’t stop! So that then everybody there will say he said he was gonna shoot him if he didn’t stop, and the person charged forward anyway.”

  I found this interesting. I decided to see how far down this path it would be prudent to go. I presented Hayes with a hypothetical situation.

  “So what if I say, ‘You just threatened my life by brandishing a gun’?”

  “Right!” he said. “I did just threaten your life because you threatened my life, and the only way that one of us does not get killed is if you stop doing whatever it is I just asked you to stop doing.”

  “Then I call the police to say that you threatened my life. The police show up and I say . . . ?”

  “Frankly, if that happened, I would tell somebody to say I’m going to wait until I can speak to my attorney. Generally, in a situation like that they won’t arrest you. They’ll fill out a report and send it to the district attorney, and they’ll decide whether or not you need to be arrested. They’ll take your gun and put it in evidence because it is evidence.”

  I told Hayes that, as a black man, this particular scenario frightens me for many reasons. The first is, I can’t control someone else’s fear of me. There have been situations, especially with police, in which I have felt the other person is on edge simply because I’m a black man. I don’t want to give a person, or police officer with a gun, any reason to threaten me or shoot me. In my community, it’s been proven that I’m more likely to get stopped by police than a white person is. I told Hayes about the statistics and science I have found to prove that blacks have good reason to fear for their safety when dealing with police.