Anarchist to Abolitionist: A Bad Quaker's Journey
The Homer Problem
I'm not a fan of phones. Although, I realize that in our modern world it's very difficult to function without one. I have three adult children and one grandson, and a phone means I can stay in touch with them in case of an emergency. But I wish it were not so.
When we arrived in the town we currently live in here in Ohio, back in 1998, my wife made a simple, but almost deadly mistake. Against my advice, when Cindy obtained phone service for our home, she allowed it to be a "listed" number rather than "unlisted," as I had preferred. Maybe I watched too many film noir crime dramas where some bad guy gets some woman's address from a phone book, I don't know. Maybe I was just paranoid.
In late June of 2002, one evening sometime after 11 PM, our home phone rang. I was still awake but Cindy had just fallen asleep. The phone woke her up, before I could answer it. The male voice on the phone asked for Cindy Stone. I assumed it was her work calling with some problem only she could solve, so I almost handed the phone to her. Then, I had this odd feeling and instead I asked who was calling.
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I'm going to refer to this idiot caller as Homer Simpson because of certain similarities to the TV cartoon character. Anyway, he identified himself and said he went to high school with Cindy. I knew how unlikely that was, since Cindy attended high school in Mojave, California and this guy sounded like a typical red neck with a Midwestern accent. I baited him by asking if he went to school somewhere around Dayton, Ohio, a city just north of us. He said he did and told me the name of the school. I asked how he got the number and he stated he looked her up in the phone book.
I was blunt, but not rude, as I told him he had made a mistake. I explained that Cindy is my wife and Stone is not her maiden name. I also said she didn't go to high school anywhere near Ohio. Then I hung up.
About five minutes later, he called back and insisted on talking to Cindy. This time, I was rude and hung up on him again, but he called right back. I unplugged the phone from the wall, along with all the other phones in the house. Then, I went back to bed, in hopes of never thinking about that idiot again.
A few days later, this process pretty much repeated itself, except Homer was drunk. With the earlier calls, I had suspected he had been drinking, but this time it was clear he was drunk. The bad thing was that our son was away from home for the evening and I needed to leave the phone plugged in, in case he had an emergency or broke down on the road or whatever. So for about an hour, stupid drunken Homer called over and over.
We knew Homer's number because we had a fancy new feature on our phone called "Caller ID", and we knew his name because he was dumb enough to tell me on his first call. So, with that information, the next day, I called the phone company to see what they could do to stop this idiot from calling.
Nothing, is what they could do, absolutely nothing, unless commanded to do so by a court order. They did offer to record all of my incoming calls, but destroy the recordings within five minutes of the end of the call, unless I dialed a specific code. Then, the recording of that call would be saved. Again, it would take a court order for them to release the recording to anyone. I thought that was better than doing nothing at all, so I scribbled down the code and told them to do the recordings.
They strongly suggested I contact the local police so that there would be a police report of the situation if the thing ever turned into a legal problem, or if Homer ever tried to turn violent. I hated the idea of getting the cops involved. I've rarely had a positive encounter with police, and try to avoid them any time I can. Nevertheless, I called the local police.
The pig, oops, make that police officer, came to our house to interview me. I told him the story and asked what he could do. Since Homer didn't present a "viable threat," the pig could do nothing to stop the calls. He said that with evidence I could haul Homer into civil court and try to extract damages, but damages would be difficult to prove. About the only thing I could do was try to get a restraining order. Mostly the pigs answer was to just hang up on Homer. In other words, the pig just wasted my time. He oinked and ate a donut. Not really, but he may as well have.
Homer started calling at later times, sometimes at 3 or 4 AM, slurring words and throwing insults at me. He had stopped talking about Cindy and I had become the point of his drunken obsession. During this time, Cindy used the information we had on Homer to look up all of his public records. We knew his current address, along with all of his former addresses. We knew the make and model of his current vehicle, along with every vehicle and boat he had ever registered. We even verified that he had indeed attended the high school he had claimed. One more piece of information we found out was that he was employed at the GM truck body plant just up the road from us. And, considering the hours that he called, I could assume he worked the evening shift. I dropped by the parking lot one evening and watched to see what he looked like, and since I knew the pickup he drove, it was easy to spot him. More on this in a moment.
This whole process continued on for about six weeks, with Homer taking a couple days off each week, only to start it up again the next week. We had adopted the process of turning all the ringers off on all the phones except the one in the living room, which we turned down and had an answering machine attached. But I would still hear him calling, and he still woke me up most nights.
This went on until one night, when I was up late working on a project from my workplace. I decided to have a little talk with good old Homer. So I wouldn't disturb Cindy's sleep, I went to the living room to answer the phone. Sure enough, it was him. He sounded drunk, but only slightly. After he insulted me a bit, I told him a few things about him that I knew, like his address and his employer. I described his truck, and told him that I knew he stops at the convenience store across the street from the GM plant after work, and he buys beer, cigarettes, and lottery tickets. I also told him I knew about a boat he used to own.
He went silent for a moment, then he told me he knows some things as well. He said that he knew my youngest daughter arrives home from school to an empty house, and she uses the back door to enter. He said he knew that she was alone for almost an hour before her siblings arrive from their school. He called her, "Your pretty little blond girl." He also said that often times our son doesn't come home with our other daughter, and that on those days, the two girls are in the house all by themselves.
Homer had made a serious mistake. I hung up the phone, waited a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed the code the phone company had given me. Then, I called the local police by their direct line, and I told the dispatcher to give the following message to the officer on my case. I gave her his name and roughly this message; "I gave you a chance to stop what is about to happen and you failed. Now I'll take over. Do what you want with that information, but you may want to get the recording of the call Homer made to me tonight." I hung up the phone and disconnected the rest of the phones in the house.
I changed into a pair of pants that fit snug enough that I didn't need a belt (they take your belt when you go to jail), and made sure I only had my driver’s license in my pocket, nothing that could be considered a weapon. I wore boots rather than shoes, because they take your laces when you go to county lock up, but many county lock up jails let you keep your boots on. I grabbed the keys to the car that we were letting my son drive, and hit the road. I had a special surprise for Homer.
It took almost forty minutes to get to Homer's house. The living room lights were on when I arrived. I parked right in front of his house and walked up to the door, giving it what some call a "Cop Knock," which is five hard, rapid pounds. As Homer began opening the door, I rammed it with my body, throwing Homer backward. At that moment, I hit Homer as hard as I could square in the center of his chest. He went down hard, and I closed the door.
At first, I started kicking Homer in the ribs and stomach. I made sure not to touch his face. The reason I didn't strike his face is that when the cops showed up, I didn't want him bloodied. Cops aren't very bright and will often take the side of whoever looks to be the most beaten up. I didn't want to give the cops an excuse to be sympathetic towards Homer. Eventually, I sat down on him to keep him from rolling around, but I continued punching him, always in soft tissue areas.
Soon, I noticed an old woman coming down the stairs into the living room. She quickly picked up the phone then put it back down. She yelled at Homer, "What's the police number?" I don't know what she was thinking, but I imagine she was too panicked to remember 911.
She then picked up the large Dayton phone book and frantically began searching it. (Again, phone books! AGH!) I should have stopped beating Homer and recognized her as the threat she was, but, rather, I continued pounding Homer's soft tissue. That's when she decided to use the phone book differently.
She bashed me in the back of the neck. It felt like lightning surged through my arms and they both went limp. My face fell on Homer's chest. Her next strike was to the back of my head. I tried to lift myself off of Homer, when I took another strike to the back of the head. Then another. I don't know how many times she struck me with that phone book. The whole room was shiny, like it was all made of chrome. I knew I had to act or this old hag would kill me right there on Homer's chest.
I put every ounce of effort left in my body into getting to my feet. I slapped the book out of her hands and half picked her up, half shoved her onto the couch. I grabbed the phone and shoved it (probably harder than I intended) at her chest. I said, probably too loudly, "Dial 9 1 1 and tell them you have a home intruder! Do it now! Dial it!"
She looked at me dumbstruck. I shouted the order at her again. She began to dial.
Homer surprised me. Most men would have been begging for mercy, crying, or maybe trying to fight back. Homer was just lying there on the floor looking at me. From the look on his face, I believe he thought I was going to kill him right then. I kneeled by Homer with my face very close to his face. I told him exactly what I would do to him, and then what I would do to his remains, if he ever came near my family again. Then, I told him exactly what I would do to him if I spent one day in jail for visiting him that night. He believed me. I told him if he or his woman told the cops anything other than that this was a simple misunderstanding, he would pay dearly. Again, he believed me. As I stood up, Homer vomited on his floor.
I walked outside and sat down on the porch steps to await the police.
They arrived fairly quickly, two cars, each with one cop. One pulled behind my car, the other in front, blocking Homer's driveway and pinning my car in place. The first cop walked right past me into the house, the other walked up to me.
He started asking me questions, but I would only tell him my name. I told him that's all I would say. He tried threatening to arrest me for not cooperating, but I still didn't comment in any way. Then the two cops changed places and the process repeated. From what I could hear, Homer and his woman were sticking with the story that the woman had been confused, that she shouldn't have call 911. They kept apologizing to the cops.
Eventually, the cops both came to talk to me. Still, I stayed silent. They asked me if I would come to the police station with them, and I asked if I was being arrested. They emphasized that I wasn't being arrested, they would just like to talk to me away from Homer and the woman. I said I didn't like the idea of leaving my car in that neighborhood overnight, but they said I could drive it to the station. I agreed. The cop that was parked in front of my car led the way, while the other cop stayed behind at the house.
The questioning process continued at the station, with me sitting silently. They swapped off with several other cops, but they all got the same result. They acted tough, they acted like my friend, and they offered stories for me to use. It went on and on until almost 5 AM. Finally, I asked if I could leave. It was nearing the time that I needed to take a shower and go to work. They said I could, but gave me the card for an assistant district attorney, and asked if I could call this guy later that day. I agreed. I made it home in time to get my shower and leave for work before Cindy woke up. Later that day, I called the number on the card. The guy asked if I could come in and talk to him, and we arranged a time a few days later. I arranged some time off from work and when the day arrived, I went to the address on the card.
By that time, this guy, an assistant district attorney, had done a bit of research and had figured out the whole story, or at least most of it. He hadn't heard the phone recording, because he had nothing to take to a judge to get a court order. I told him I still had nothing to say. He laid out his version of the story, but I wouldn't give him a reaction. I just sat there.
At this point, he promised me that if Homer had threatened me or some member of my family, and if it was on that recording, he would prosecute Homer, but he needed something from me to take to a judge to get that court order. I didn't react. This went on for about a half hour before he gave up.
I wasn't about to trust some Vogon with information that he could easily turn on me. Besides, as long as Homer kept his side of the deal, there was no need for a government man to be involved. Even then, if Homer didn't keep his side of the deal, I didn’t need government help to solve the Homer problem.
The Zero Aggression Principle
Wikipedia says this:
The non-aggression principle (or NAP; also called the non-aggression axiom, the anti-coercion, zero aggression principle or non-initiation of force) is an ethical stance that asserts that aggression is inherently wrong. In this context, "aggression" is defined as initiating or threatening any forcible interference with an individual or an individual's property. In contrast to pacifism, the non-aggression principle does not forbid forceful defense. The non-aggression principle is considered by some to be a defining principle of natural rights libertarianism. The non-aggression principle is a prominent idea in anarcho-capitalism, (classical) liberalism, libertarianism, and some minarchism.
Some would condemn me for how I handled Homer. I don't care. If I had it to do over, I would have handled it exactly the same. Except, I shouldn't have let Homer's woman hit me, and I shouldn't have called the police in the beginning. However, if someone presents a threat to any of my children or my wife, they should expect me to do everything in my power to neutralize that threat.
Homer should count himself fortunate. Had someone threatened my wife or children when I was a young man, I would have just slit his throat and tossed him into a dumpster behind the nearest Kroger. Or gutted him on the street as an example for others. But I'm a better person now. No one bled, so no blood was required in return. Also, a large body of water is better for body disposal than a dumpster or a street. Leaving a dead body on the street or in a dumpster is forcing someone else to clean up your mess, and that's rude.
All that said, life was about to get really hard for me.
First post & table of contents
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Isn't the the statute of limitations a liberating thing? 😎