As one begins to practice, for whatever reasons one takes up Nichiren Buddhism, it is most important that his hand is held tightly by the group.
For though the group in its divine intention of facilitating Kosen-rufu, much emphasis is placed on tranquility, harmony and happiness as the benefits of chanting and eventually receiving one’s own Gohonzon.
However, Kosen-rufu is a perpetual waterfall of effort to be exerted by each of us – to give back, equally, what we have taken for ourselves and pass on the gifts of Nichiren Buddhism.
When we chant to the Gohonzon, we chant for balance within ourselves, despite whatever desire we may pretend we need fulfilled. So too, when we introduce people to Nichiren Buddhism, we must take care that we educate that the path toward this happiness and tranquility that we promise is accomplished by the untying and re-tying of the knots of karma we have been weaving through the millennia.
First, there will come clarity to the new Nichiren Buddhist that faithfully chants Diamoku and Gongyo morning and night. And then immediately their faith will be tested. It is most important at this time, as they first begin to practice, that we teach the beginner the cycles of the ten worlds, so that they may recognize the blessings of what they will otherwise perceive as new hardships along with what they will also perceive as coincidental blessings.
The effects of previous causes, many from previous lifetimes as well, are without question - inescapable and must be experienced – must be lived through – crossed like a raging river so that new causes can be made for new effects to be enjoyed by all.
Kosen-rufu is not merely a recruiting tool. Faith, study and practice will hold the beginner fast in their new life of recognition of the Gohonzon within themselves.
We must remember that Kosen-rufu is for all – the beginner as well as the long time practitioner of Nichiren Buddhism, support, love and encourage each other inside and outside of the group. It is in this way we can be most devout and nurture the universe through our Gohonzon – i.e. our true Buddha Nature.
Copyright 2013 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
I fell in love with several people, all at the same time recently. Unfortunately, I was unable to speak with them, since I had lost my voice, crying out after so many stray children I have loved just as much, watching them die, one by one, as they were oblivious to my warning pleas borne of desperation, sorrow and foreknowledge.
But all of that does not matter. It is amazingly inconsequential to these people. My confessions to them are moot, as they do not see anything more than the now, and my Chi that shines before them in it’s brilliant imbalance.
So it did not matter that when I spoke, I sounded detached from eloquent phraseology. Grasping to translate my thoughts from ghetto ridden pejorative, I tried in vain to communicate to them by way of something resembling civil conversation.
Yet, they were not listening to me with an ear for appraisal, but rather, with hearts of compassion and the deepest love one could know. Expressing to me all of the things I had expressed to others for so long as I had unknowingly journeyed to be with them.
After having stepped outside of an imaginary world I once thought was so real, it was inescapable, moments of clarity come to me now, in such rapid succession, that I now have no choice but to resign myself to the truth. The truth being that I have no knowledge of the world of which I only share for my part, and that my happiness and fulfillment, which I previously saw as so fleeting, can only come accompanied by the acceptance of my faith.
A faith not derived from any kind of understanding, per se – but by the resignation of my devotion to the Lotus Sutra. Falling forever backwards into the enlightened arms of Nichiren Daishonin. Just as these people have, is now how they can only look in my eyes to know who I truly am, and yet without my pen attached to my tongue, I cannot even thank them for what means so very much to me right now.
My master talks to me nearly every day without fail. So much easier it is to write my parts of conversation with her, as I feel I have a chance to repair my gutter diction before it is presented to her. And, as always seems to be the case, the most beautiful and humble of us all, are the last to even be aware of the fact that they are so.
But I can tell her everything and anything, because from years of faithful practice, every single nuance of my fear, pain, joy and enlightenment, she already knows. All three thousand times over from the very flames of her own Diamoku and faith.
She makes every step so comfortable, while giving me the courage and advice I need to take the next step. Preserving my faith in this brave new world made of my own Diamoku fire.
Wrapping my true Buddha Nature within the duality of the Tao, is the easiest thing I have ever done, if for no other reason than the faith my Master and the Modesto Rising Sun has in me.
Faith that my very presence among these people is “mystical”. As their presence is to me.
Copyright 2013 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
My Divine Sensei led Diamoku and Gongyo this evening, prior to our study of Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.
Her enunciation of each word was so artistically articulated from a life time of practice and reverence to the Gohonzon.
For many years, I chanted Nam Myoho Renge Kyo in secretive solitude, as though I were honing a sword for battle.
Without diligence or the mirror of my Gohonzon, my Diamoku was lost on the wind as it left my tongue – misplaced with ill intent. As I felt abandoned by my own mother, so too, I felt my Gohonzon to had been long ago abandoned by my self.
It has now only been sixteen days since I crossed the threshold of a Beautiful and Mystical Hawk’s palace, into the loving arms of my true family after thirty-two years of abandoning them, as I had always felt abandoned. Yet within these sixteen days of faithful practice, the illusions of my ego have been all but completely diminished by the fire of my Diamoku and scattered by the winds of my Gongyo.
Awakening each morning without the intense desire for suicide, I have lost nearly fifty pounds now, able to walk miles without breaking a sweat and the symptoms of my once dying heart are completely healing. All with no more physical effort than my practice of Diamoku and Gongyo. But there was much more emotional effort – fear, shame, anger and remorse, that I know I would not have been able to face without my Modesto SGI family and their unwavering trust, support and love. I know, because for three decades I turned away and ran from my Gohonzon – my true self.
Tonight, I chanted just beyond the shoulder of my Divine Sensei. I chanted along with her, as though her chanting was my own mother’s heartbeat. So alluring and comforting her voice was, that I could not have resisted, even if I had wanted to, the turning of my ear toward her as close as I could to chant with her, taking my breaths with her and melting together with her in the sacred words, which she so reverently pronounced with much conviction and pure intent - Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.
Surrounded by us, the rest of my true family chanted, each in their own rhythm, seeming to me to represent a raging sea of Diamoku fire. Making my Divine Sensei’s mystical words seem all the more like my own mother’s heartbeat. Filling within me a lifelong void of love, purity, compassion and enlightenment.
Nam Myoho Renge Kyo
Copyright 2013 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Enwrapped within conversational greetings, she was oblivious to my stealthy approach. The steps of which were culminating the full measure of three decades of shame, loneliness and much regret.
Though normally, I would have been most inclined to have draped the banner bearing this tale across the message elicited from a plenipotentiary, yet with the countenance of a mystical hawk, her eyes suddenly met mine in query.
So stunned I was by the silent eloquence of her warm and rich and regal beauty, that I further shamed myself by foregoing so much as kneeling or bowing. I could only stutter the name which had been in my heart nearly all of my life as I swiftly attempted to justify my intrusion by reciting it to her as though I had never spoken it before, and therefore could not pronounce it.
Upon the correct saying of the magical name, I was ushered into the comfort of the house. It was upon my first step across the threshold of her palace that my gaze was forever captured by the splendor of her life force enshrined before me upon a mantle in full radiance of deserved pride.
Without my pad and pen, I found myself unable to speak with the confidence with which I was once able – a confidence to be expected of someone from this side of the tracks, perhaps. Yet the candor of politeness hid it well from me, by all in attendance that day.
Soon, the familiar incantations reverberated from the walls which in turn dripped the echoes of the gifted words that I had shed so many tears in solitude to hear once more.
Yet the shame I had come to be accustomed to, for so many years was soon to be mild, at best to the shame I have come to know from reciting those enchanting words for what has really only been a matter of mere days now.
Like a raging fire, these words have burned away my pretentiousness and the aching memory of whom I thought I was. And within this holy fire, I find myself even more fearful of these people than I could have ever imagined I could be. Because now, I realize that I need them so much, as I always have.
Three thousand was a number very difficult to keep track of. So I simply did not. Though I was aware of their ten vessels, once given to me on sacred parchment, they were meant to be like nesting dolls. However, without that scroll before me, I could not even simply count to ten in my mind, with or without understanding. And I became lost from the tao.
Instead, I imitated the Gifter, feeling that if I could make just one of these worlds shine so bright, that the others within me would eventually fade away and that I would be free of them.
Yet, in denial of the most simplest truth of life – the tao – I was devoured by my own ego. Unable to see that everything I had done and constructed was solely for no other purpose than deceiving myself so much, that I would never feel the need to ever rectify what had shamed me so, thereby dishonoring everyone and everything I had ever touched throughout my entire life for more than thirty years. All of this because I was afraid to confess one solitary sin to a Nichiren Priest.
Now, I am truly at the beginning. Not that I have ever been elsewhere. Yet, with these people, that I need so badly, my discomfort arises from the many years that I have been able to maintain a position of superiority – though I never saw it like that until now, that does not compromise it’s truth. Through their practice, they are independent and strong. They don’t need me, yet I need them. Karmic irony as it were.
Perhaps one day, I will allow myself to understand why of all the wrongs I have committed in my entire life, the one that has affected me most detrimentally was losing a piece of paper.
Copyright 2013 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Any clothing, backpack or instrument that could be conceived as being useful on a camping trip now is considered to be sufficient evidence to arrest, prosecute and convict any person of violating this new anti-homeless person law, if the officer states that he believes the person is intending to not sleep in a dwelling at anytime in the future. Just like the gulags of NAZI occupied Europe, an individuals only recourse would be to provide sufficient documentation to the police officer that they are financially stable. Stability that has been clearly defined by sub-committees created by the current Mayor and Modesto City Council. If one is unable to produce these “papers” upon request of the officer, they will be jailed and stricken with a criminal misdemeanor that will follow them for the rest of their natural lives.
Though the public was allowed to speak, it was nothing more than a legal formality that the Modesto City Council had to weather. For when the last of fifteen speakers in opposition to this massacre of the spirit of the United States Constitution was finished speaking, the public was scolded by councilman Joe Muratore. A man who has stated that even transvestites have no place in the City of Modesto, much less, “human blight” I.e. the homeless or other “undesirables”.
This is the first of many proposed laws that are being passed without any participation considered by the general public. The opportunity afforded to speak to these issues are only formalities, and freedom of speech at the sub committees or city council meetings are truncated by the iron fist of our new fuehrer - Gerrad Marsh.
Marsh’s inherited police force, the Modesto Police Department, testified that approximately ninety percent of homeless individuals are rapists and child molesters that when camping in alleys or parks are - “looking for prey”. This was seconded by analogies provided by councilman Dave Lopez. When in actuality, when one reads the McClatchy Pravda editions of the daily Modesto Bee, it would seem that the Modesto Police Department is comprised of rapists and child molesters, if not homicidal maniacs.
No longer do members of this anti-American, NAZI infiltrated Modesto City Council bastardize the very name of Jesus Christ and the very word of God, to justify their cruel oppression and elimination of the homeless, transvestites and other “undesirables”, since they have learned that the public may have input, but they do not need to listen. Since they no longer work for us.
The people of the City of Modesto, rich or poor, gay or straight, young and old are now officially in servitude to the Modesto City Council and beginning to experience an actual totalitarian regime.
If you do not earn enough to have your name on a document that can be considered a mortgage, lease or rental agreement, you can and most likely will be charged with a misdemeanor if you are found in public by the Modesto Police Department.
Uber allis Modesto Elite.
May God have mercy on their souls. Because I sure as hell won’t.
Copyright 2012 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Robert W. Stanford
Ezekiel 25:17, Pulp Fiction
Along my daily path, by the fork, the chickens have fortified their ranks with bunny rabbits. Now late at night, what at first appears to be leaping cats, are rabbits. At least two dozen encroaching upon the fork and the chickens that reside there. Almost as joyful as the older dogs that bark upon my approach, only to subside at the sound of my voice. “It’s me!”
Of course, it didn’t use to be that way. Literally, years ago, I would leave seething canine ferocity in my wake down every Airport District street I would walk. Not any more, just the occasional bully dogs, we all come across no matter how many of our own shoe prints are etched into the dust which shall never be covered by sidewalks. Now, I leave broken hearts and whimpering in my wake, as so many dogs want me to spend more time than a passing pet and reassurance of what magnificent animals they are. But there is always tomorrow…for me, at least.
Not so much for JD Love, who’s memorial still graffiti’s Oregon Park appropriately for the surrounding neighborhood. Walls that many of us, probably including his own mother, are not looking forward to seeing be re-painted. Despite the murderous numerical references to the CA state penal code - 187...and Norte.
Now he is forever a part of the Modesto Airport District; a part of it’s culture. That is of course, at least until Nazi Joe Muratore, the sixty-two thousand dollar thief finally gets his way and has the entire 1.2 square mile area that comprises the Modesto Airport District razed in favor of a financial shell game to be forever played with outside investors and the actual Modesto City/County airport that separates us in the Airport District from the bordering area between Ceres and Modesto, aptly named, “No Man’s Land”. Two ghettos separated by Lear Jets and caviar. All the while, useless to those that are in reality just like us, is their fork in the road.
Pollo, Polo and Looney were standing outside of the now infamous non-tobacco front shop one day.
And then, just like every other day, dark clouds appeared and commenced engulfing the atmosphere with grief. One of us was missing - Lil’ David.
“Why pollo?”, he softly asked me. “Why did the cops have to lie to her like that? They said that they would protect her. And now look at David.”
Through his tears, it was not that I had nothing to say, but at this point, it would have sounded insensitive and uncaring for the situation at hand. Not because it was a rant against local law enforcement, but rather, because it would sound more like an “I told you so!”. It just really wasn’t the time for another political lecture against the ways of the tyranny that has now befallen us.
All just another piece of scenery stripped away from me, just like animal control always picking up the wrong strays. Or my neighbors that delight in killing my dogs. Taking something away from me that makes the Modesto Airport District a beautiful place to live. Leaving a tragically ended memory in it’s place, with much pretentiousness.
I have found it to be not just the trauma of these murders that take me away to a place of intense and bitter anger, but their repetition. Is this really what I have chosen to do? Watch everyone die, while trying to show them which side of the fork to take instead?
Seems pretty noble, since there has been nothing but sacrifice of every part of my being and rewards that seem rather inedible.
But not to a fat bitch like Karlha Davies of the Tuolumne River Trust.
Maggie Mejia has taught her well.
She would rather talk shit about me behind my back, then actually try to get to know who I really am. What it is that I really do. Instead, she distracts for her own narcissistic gain. But of course, nothing can stand in the way of her precious river or any aspirations it’s contamination might bring for a political future. What’s another dead baby, as long as you can successfully convince the impoverished to swim in a contaminated river?
Maggie Mejia has taught her well.
Just as bad as the fat assed crack whore, Mary Lynn Lebow, who allowed meth to drive her and the Modesto Airport Neighbor’s United into the ground.
One who now, after embezzling practically $70,000 dollars a year for several of those years (money earmarked primarily to prevent infant death) is heading up a Healthy Start Program, when she should, in all actually, have her own children taken away from her and herself, be thrown into a desolate prison.
To me, this bitch is just another Airport tweaker now. Another scum bag criminal to blame the death of my pets on. A pathetic excuse for a human being - standing on the accomplishments of others and snorting $70,000.00 worth of meth per year. Not anymore, though. Just whatever her salary is now.
Walking past the fork in the dawn of a new day is quite different than two to three o’clock in the morning. It’s like night and day. No longer are there only the stragglers and scrappers afoot. Now there are the familiar faces. Faces I have greeted more than twenty-four hundred times.
Everyone knows my name, where I am going, what I do, what I eat - everything - with affection - just like David did.
They see in me, something they can depend and rely on - hope. They see hope in me because they have watched my struggle for so many years. They can see now, that the only way I will be leaving them, will be as their own family members leave them - as a murder victim that not even the Modesto Police Department gives a second thought to.
Copyright 2012 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Murder/Manslaughter Charges Against Stanislaus Deputy Sheriff Dismissed Following Preliminary Hearing
It was Thursday, May 5, 2011 when my cell phone rang and I chose not to answer. I was listening to my son and his seventh grade jazz band playing a concert at Disneyland. I had volunteered earlier in the year to serve as a chaperone and had traveled on a bus with the jazz band members the day before. After their concert and later listening to them play in a Disney sound studio, I started catching up on telephone calls, including the one I missed during the performance. The call had come from Bennie Taylor, a Hayward police officer who I had represented in a very gnarly fatal officer-involved shooting a couple of years earlier. Bennie had left a message telling me that his wife, whose name was Kari Abbey, was having some "pretty serious legal issues" and could use my help and advice.
I telephoned Kari, a deputy sheriff employed by Stanislaus County, only to learn that she had been charged with murder, voluntary manslaughter, and several other felony offenses. She was unhappy with her current legal representation and wanted to talk to me about assuming her representation. That initial call, additional telephone calls I made during the next couple of days from Disneyland, and a meeting with Kari and Bennie upon my return to my office ultimately led to my entering the case of People v. Kari Abbey, venued in Stanislaus County.
The "heart" of the case filed by the District Attorney against Kari related to her fatal shooting of a woman named Rita Elias on September 24, 2010. Immediately following the shooting, detectives from the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Office and the D.A.’s Office commenced a criminal investigation surrounding the circumstances of the shooting. The Sheriff was quoted several weeks after the shooting in local newspapers stating that it appeared that Deputy Abbey had shot Rita Elias in "self defense."
The investigation appeared to stagnate for a number of months, but resumed momentum with the D.A.’s Office in March of 2011. At that point, Sheriff’s Department investigators and District Attorney investigators began seeking the issuance of search warrants for evidence relating in one way or another to the shooting. The investigators had learned that Kari, in addition to her detective assignment, managed a number of rental properties which she and Bennie owned or which were owned by other individuals, including her father. The fatal shooting of Rita Elias by Kari had occurred in front of a rental duplex owned by her father after her father, the property manager and Kari had gone there to collect rent from the tenants. When they arrived, the three male tenants were gone, but Rita Elias, laboring under the combined influence of alcohol and methamphetamine, was standing out front.
A verbal argument ensued between Kari and Elias, and when Elias advanced on Kari in an aggressive manner, Kari struck her with a fist, knocking her to the ground. Kari went down on top of Elias briefly, but then got back up and told Elias to leave. Kari threw a purse and a backpack which Elias had been carrying toward the street in order to hasten her departure away from the apartment. Elias continued to scream at Kari but picked up her backpack and purse and started to walk away from the area, according to a next door neighbor who we called as a witness at the preliminary hearing. The next door neighbor testified that as Rita was walking away from the area of the apartment, Kari said nothing to her to antagonize her or threaten her. All of a sudden, without warning, Elias put her purse and backpack down on the ground, shed the high-heel platform style shoes she was wearing, and said, "F*** it, I’m going to get a gun." The next door neighbor testified that Rita then made a beeline toward the front door of the apartment (where she had apparently been staying on and off with the three male renters whom Kari and the others had come to collect the rent from).
Given Rita’s threat to get a gun, Kari went to her own personal automobile, which was still running and which had her one-year-old daughter and six-year-old son inside, and retrieved a firearm. In less than a minute after Rita had walked into the front door of the apartment, she emerged holding what appeared to be a .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol. She carried the pistol in her right hand and a stick in her left hand. As she approached the area where Kari was crouched behind the front end of her father’s vehicle, Rita threw the stick down and raised the handgun, pointing it directly at Kari. Kari fired two or three times and Rita appeared to fall or stumble, and screamed a profanity. Rita then started walking around to the other side of the rear of the vehicle owned by Kari’s father, and Kari walked toward the same side of the vehicle at the front end. When Rita appeared once again holding the handgun in a raised position with her right hand, Kari fired several more rounds. One of the rounds, the second of three which entered Rita’s body, entered through her raised right arm on the outside of the arm just below the elbow, traveled briefly through the arm and exited in the inner bicep area and then reentered the body through the chest, ultimately penetrating the heart and causing the death of Elias. The autopsy confirmed that at the time this round was fired, Elias’s right arm was raised as witnesses had described it to the authorities.
As I argued to the judge who heard the preliminary hearing which lasted four days, Kari’s shooting of Elias was lawful in all respects as an act of self defense and defense of others, including her father, her two children, and several other bystanders in the area.
If this was a self-defense shooting, why in the world did the Stanislaus District Attorney’s Office decide that Kari Abbey had either committed a murder or a voluntary manslaughter? The D.A.’s argument was essentially this: Rita Elias was a "resident" and a "tenant" at the apartment where Kari and the others had gone to collect rent. When Kari and Rita became involved in a verbal dispute, Kari became the aggressor and struck Rita, knocking her to the ground. When Rita got up, Kari’s father was overheard by one or more witnesses to say something to Rita which suggested that if she did not leave he would "set" Kari after Rita once again. Since Rita did not have a cell phone and could not call the police, she had to defend herself and entered her "residence" to secure a firearm. Once inside the residence, Rita could claim the "defense of her castle" presumption contained in Penal Code section 198.5, and Kari Abbey, as the initial aggressor, would lose the right of self defense.
The D.A.’s clever and crafty "theory" for prosecuting Kari had several major obstacles, not the least of which was the fact that Rita Elias was really neither a resident or even a tenant at the apartment – she was simply a squatter who even the tenants who were interviewed said was essentially homeless and just "came and went" on various occasions. More significant, however, was the fact that the Penal Code section 198.5 presumption that allows a resident to assume that an intruder intends to inflict death or great bodily injury only applies when the resident is inside his/her "castle" to begin with. Here, after Kari Abbey had completely disengaged physical contact and verbal contact with Rita Elias, and Rita Elias appeared to be leaving, she suddenly and inexplicably set her belongings down, walked back into the apartment, armed herself, and reemerged from the apartment in order to point the weapon at Kari. According to one of the crime scene investigators, at the time of the shooting, Rita Elias was no less than twenty feet north of the doorway of the apartment and thirty to forty feet west of the same doorway. Thus, it could hardly be said that she was "defending her castle" when she pointed the gun at Kari.
Search warrants served at Kari’s residence, her workspace and assigned detective’s car led to the D.A.’s Office seizing evidence which became the basis of other charges which we also actively litigated at the preliminary hearing. As I argued to the judge, these subsidiary charges were really an effort by the D.A.’s Office to assassinate Kari’s character as a deputy sheriff, landlord, property manager and mother. To give our readers an example, Kari was charged with receiving stolen property when several different types of vests were found under other items of clothing in a walk-in closet shared by Bennie and by Kari. The D.A.’s office claimed that Bennie, who had recently retired from Hayward Police Department, had failed to turn the vests in at the time of his retirement, making them "stolen property." There were two problems with this "theory." First, no one from Hayward Police Department could identify the very aged and outdated vests as property of the Police Department, and in one case, a lieutenant from the Police Department who testified at our request indicated that one of the vests had been purchased by another officer who had apparently given it to Bennie. Second, of course, was the fact that no one could establish that Kari was even aware that the vests were located under the items of clothing on Bennie’s side of the closet or that she had any knowledge or belief that they were stolen to begin with. Thus, that charge was dismissed as well at the preliminary hearing.
We still need to deal with several more charges that the judge at the preliminary hearing felt could be decided by a jury. I am confident that no jury in Stanislaus County is going to convict Kari Abbey of those charges, and the only issue which warrants some amount of debate is how long it will take for an acquittal to occur once the case is submitted.
In the final analysis, I am glad I took the call from Bennie when I was at Disneyland last May. I am glad I entered the case for Kari Abbey because it is another case where politics resulted in a bad decision to prosecute a cop. I am extremely happy we were assigned a judge for the preliminary hearing who, despite the media attention this case had garnered in Stanislaus County, had the intellectual honesty and the fortitude to do the right thing with the most serious charges.
Politics and political grandstanding have no place in the very serious business of evaluating police officer conduct which often occurs in the spur of the moment without much time for pause or reflection.
Here, the Stanislaus District Attorney tried to "hook" Kari Abbey on very serious criminal charges based on clever and crafty lawyer theories, rather than a solid evaluation of the evidence. And, in doing so, the D.A. almost succeeded in reducing the search for justice in Stanislaus County to a fairytale from the kingdom of Disney.
Copyright 2012 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
This is the autopsy report for Rita Elias who was killed in self defense by Stanislaus County Sheriff Detective, Kari Abbey. In this report, it does show that Elias' arm was raised as though she was pointing the realistic handgun at Kari Abbey when shot.
Autopsy Report for Rita Elias
This is the toxicology report for Rita Elias after she was killed in self defense by Stanislaus County Sheriff Detective Kari Abbey, showing methamphetamine is present in Elias' blood stream.
Toxicology Report for Rita Elias
Copyright 2012 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
|Don't Forget To Pay For That Donut!|
It was like they were calling to each other, back and forth in turn. One could almost reach out and touch their grandiose plans of having the Modesto Airport District completely dominated by fowl at the crack of the true dawn. A rooster revolution of sorts. Plotted through their hidden language.
I was so impressed with them, that I have decided to forego any rants that I would care to indulge regarding the avian flu and weak county interventions for personal aviaries of fowl. I will let these brave birds have their hope. Unless the economy doesn’t turn around, at which point I may be charged with chicken rustling.
Yet in the morning, seeing lush fields of chickens starting about their foraging day is just so invigorating on my slight trek to the start of my day. Especially when they are in the street and I start chasing them to and fro across the road. One really has to be aware of traffic when…chicken spotting.
Walking through chalk lines, some real - some imagined, I would think that others like myself would care to take comfort in the luxurious safety of good scenery.
So that in the midst of a dozen, obviously robustly large roosters planning some sort of a…coo - a master plan, if you will, of domination.
Just the energy of being within that interchange, while some guy that lives in what appears to be an RV has an exploding bonfire going in a burning barrel. A different scent every night, or should I say, “every wee morning”.
On some of these wee mornings, he incinerate particles board. Bonfire fuel acquired by chopped up furniture abandoned in another lot made vacant by Strand/Depot(2) type developer arson.
The formaldehyde fills my senses like Testers model glue in a plastic bag. At any moment I begin picturing myself writhing and twirling, while lying perpendicular to and abutted to the gutter of the sidewalk surrounding the county park.
Only the menthol provides any relief. And the coffee.(3)
Coffee acquired at the Vietnamese refuge camp, we are now not suppose to talk about or advertise for. I suppose something came over the wire. Of course all of this information comes from Chin. The one that says I eat like a cat. The one with that birth mark that looks just like a tattoo one would get for killing someone in a Vietnamese prison.
The same tattoo that she didn’t want to talk about anymore(4), not more than just a few morning ago(5) she dared point to it and made some vague reference to the hard life that she endured, trapped in a Vietnamese prison. But one knows that she is safe now in the confines of a Vietnamese refugee camp disguised as the Ye Olde Donute Shoppe.
It’s not a refuge for everyone though. That was finally decided when the latrine was redone in tile and the very best in bathroom fixtures. It must be part of the Asianic cultural reaction to disrespect from a community that completely thrashed the bathroom to the point of necessitating it’s complete replacement. Everything.
“Pollo.” She whispered.(6) “I go into bathroom today and people have sex in there.”
“What? Seriously? That’s horrible. I keep telling you. Just don’t let anybody use it. They can go to Jack in the Box.”, I replied, six years ago. That was before the re-model.
And a year or so after someone committed suicide in the Jack in the Box bathroom. Now they have to “buzz” you in.
Today, on any shift, they refuse no one. Most of the time they don’t have to, since the bathroom is occupied by families shooting up heroin they acquired from just around the corner. It’s so heart warming to see a mother pushing a stroller, accompanied by her older offspring - scurrying into the Jack in the Box bathroom to inject herself with heroin and nod out in a bathroom stall for an hour or so.
“Um, can you buzz me in?”
“Sure, go right ahead.”
That was the same family that approached every single one us, one morning - pimping out her oldest child to panhandle change for his mother’s heroin fix.
“Hey can I use your bathroom? I need to change my baby.” The zombie mother asked Chin.
“You want to use the bathroom? OK. You can use the bathroom. I will go and unlock it for you and you can go use the bathroom.”, Chin chipped into the undead whore of heroin and mother of three.
“SSSS - hey!”, I side whispered to the Mother Teresa of Vietnam.
“What what what is it?”
“Don’t let them use the bathroom.” I silently said, yet ever so sternly, while vigorously shaking my head back and forth.
“Pollo! She needs to change the baby. You can’t expect her to go Jack in the Box. That too far.”
And with that, it was not long until loud knocks were to be heard.
“Hey! What you do in my bathroom?! You need get out now! Pollo. Man. You were right. Why I not listen to you.”, Chin said to me, her hair unusually ratted out as though it had been styled that way, when in reality, it was from the sheer stress of the entire family having locked themselves in the bathroom for nearly five whole minutes now.
“Just give her a few more minutes to finish shooting up and she might be easier to get out.”, I said, as though I were giving report to a general regarding enemy troop alignment.
“Shoot up?! What you mean Pollo?!”
“Nothing. Nothing. Here, I’ll take care of it.”
And with that I was once more overcome by an air of exaggerated over bearing maniacal role play as I cast the family into the cold dampness of the street.
“And stay there….bitch.”
Coming back into my Morelia(7) fold, I am able to fill in half a dozen people with the situation’s past, present and probable future in less than 30 seconds. After all, I have to get to work. I can’t just sit here all day talking about some junky mother shooting up with her kids watching locked up in a bathroom of a Vietnamese Refugee Camp overtaken by Mexicans. Even the Vietnamese refugees have to adapt.
It’s the perfect backdrop for my budding Spanish - Vietnamese refugees aggressively trying to keep dozens of Mexicans at bay with dirty Mexican words screamed with Vietnamese accents. It’s really special when Chin starts waving around her Babe Ruth slugger and threatening to kill everyone if they don’t provide her with enough session money for a Black Oak Casino(8) weekend.
1. For the lone traveler through the internet that may have no interest here….this is a private article. Be gone with you - NOW! To feather dust.
2. Two Modesto, California historical monuments that didn’t have to pass the giggle test of any landmark preservation laws, state or federal due to arson by local developers.
3. Coffee so good, it deserves to be my hook lead in. Keep reading.
4. When they, “arrested the man and the girl”.
5. Or more.
6. Like, “psssst”.
7. A group of approximately 36 rotating Mexican friends, all quickly claiming to be born within an eagles nest at the very top of the tallest mountain in Morelia, Mexico.
8. Actually, it was at Jackson Rancheria Casino that I was accused of eating like a cat. At a buffet, it was. And upon further recollection, it was actually her husband that accused me of that, after seeing my self-made sampler plate with only 3 items from the entire buffet. That’s right. He had to drive us back in my van to the David Bowie’s Low album that night.
Copyright 2012 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Chief Deputy District Attorney Dave Harris, of Scott Peterson murder case fame, started things off with a litany of charges.
Barely audible, he sat and muttered from his chair like a reluctantly false prophet.
He said all of the evidence showed that Rita Elias was an actual tenant of the house - that it was her home. He referred to the actual tenant of the dwelling as her roommates who were “trying to evict her”.
Harris painted a picture of Abbey going to the house which was apparently where Rita “lived” with several large males, including Abbey’s husband, Benny Taylor. Inferring that Abbey entered the house, dragged Rita Elias out by her hair and beat the hell out of her on the front porch.
Then, Harris went on with his colorful strokes at the truth, that Rita was forced back into the house by Abbey’s father threatening her with further “beating” by Abbey. A house which had no phone. “Rita Elias had no way to call 911” - “Kari Abbey used her status as a police officer as a weapon”.
Most of Harris’ citations were sensationalized to the point of ridiculousness and contradiction of testimony given by the same witnesses he attempted to cite - and most of these were Proposition 115 hearsay testimony by cops.
His opening statement was actually rather short, but effective enough to give anyone who may be the first to hear of it the impression that Kari Abbey was a crazed criminal - an extortionist that surrounded herself with overgrown family members, pumped up on steroids, all in an attempt to extract money from people and throw them out of their “home”.
Over and over again he used expressions to seemingly flesh out what had already been determined by Sheriff Adam Christianson, himself, as an obvious act of self defense by inserting falsehoods in the form of expressions misplaced within his dialogue - “forced entry” - “We’re gonna get money or get’ em out” - “They went there to throw these people out into the street” - “She severely beat Rita Elias” - “She ripped off the county”.
Then it was Abbey's defense attorney Michael Rains’ turn to speak. As though his knees were about to buckle under his very own weight, Rains pushed himself up from the table, where he sat next to Kari Abbey.
“Your honor….In this case, the entire judicial system is on trial. If there was ever a case where a crafty DA will re-construct the law to turn absolute self-defense into a murder charge - this is the case. Right here.”
Rains went on to cite those things that we do not hear from the Modesto Bee’s puppet reporters. Things such as the shooting actually not happening at the doorway where Rita Elias was “staying for a couple of days at a time” but up to seventy feet from there outside. And that at no time was there forcible entry, because Kari Abbey never stepped foot into the house.
He went on to point out the obvious. That despite facts, testimony or any reality whatsoever, Harris and his press hungry DA crew were going to do whatever it took to paint Kari Abbey as a terrible landlord, a terrible cop, a horrible mother and a horrible person - a real “killer”. A roided-out monster.
Rains went on to recite preceding testimony that Rita Elias was really not a tenant at this house at all. Especially in consideration of the testimony from the actual residents saying that for the most part Rita Elias was homeless, staying there for a few days and then leaving for long periods, living most of the time as a squatter in abandoned homes.
And then Rains went on to make several other pertinent points that Crafty Harris had done everything he could to keep hidden:
1. The United States postal service had no record of Rita Elias ever living there.
2. That Abbey did not come to the house unexpected, that she was there by appointment. An appointment derived from two previous telephone conversations with the actual tenants of the dwelling and was led to believe by them that she was there to collect rent.
3. That the actual tenants were three weeks late on the rent.
4. That Harris was severely amiss in his citation of the law, accusing Abbey of failing to provide 24 hour advance notice, because this only applies to actual entry of the dwelling, which though inferred by Crafty Harris, was simply not the case, as Abbey never entered the residence, nor ever intended to. She was simply there to collect rent according to arrangements that had previously been made by the actual tenants of the dwelling (the ones that also were trying to get Rita Elias to leave).
5. That Rita Elias was under the influence of methamphetamine, had been without sleep for several days, and according to actual testimony, had a tendency to violence and agitation.
6. That the back pack and purse that were found at the scene was in actuality all of the belongings that Rita Elias owned, including clothes and toiletries.
7. That some of the evidence, particularly that evidence that Crafty Harris put forth as the child endangerment charge - three firearms found in the house of Kari Abbey, had been tampered with and was obvious by an examination of the photos.
8. That despite assertions by Crafty Harris, no key to the dwelling was found belonging to Rita Elias. Rita would come and go through a side window in the house - even against the wishes of the actual tenants.
9. Despite the perjury committed by Crafty Harris, Benny Taylor was nowhere to be found in the incidents discussed that lead to the death of Rita Elias.
10. Kari Abbey had left her car running. The car that contained her two young children.
11. Any blunt force trauma was not necessarily a result of the fight between Rita Elias and Kari Abbey. Even the coroner’s report regarding hair having been pulled out was suspect, since there was no hair found in the area.
12. Rita says to Kari Abbey, “If I didn’t have high heels on, I’d kick your ass”. Later Rita Elias took off her high heels.
13. That Rita Elias said directly to Abbey, “Fuck it, I’m going to go get my gun”.
14. It was impossible to look through the windows as they are “sheeted up”.
15. That according to testimony provided by Modesto Police Department Officer George Papadopoulos, there may or may not have been rounds in the chamber. That he folded under cross examination and that it was from this ambiguous recount of his that the Child Protective Services investigator derived their information.
16. That the children were not in the house, because they stayed in another part of the property with their grandparents, and if at any time they were near the firearms that there was an adult right there that would have prevented the children from having any contact with the weapons.
17. That the Modesto Irrigation District electric bill that had been submitted so proudly by the prosecution as proof that Kari and Benny were financing a “grow operation” actually turned out to be at the wrong address and bearing the wrong utility company.
18. That the two customer service officers that had worked for Kari in the past, may have worked with her long before Kari began to “amass this vast apartment empire across the city”.
In closing, Kari Abbey’s defense attorney insulted the Stanislaus County Court system by calling out to what many of us have come to believe is the common practice of perjury by both police officer and DA across the country, but according to Rains, the severity of Stanislaus County for running innocents through the “meat grinder of false justice” is proficient here and he had never seen anything like it.
A closing statement?
Looking right at Crafty Harris, he said in no mild mannered tone, “I smell a rat. It has a SERIOUS stench.”
Once again, Crafty Harris got his opportunity to earn his tax paid exuberant salary to propel himself into another Scott Peterson type fame scenario.
He went over every charge with the same drivel packed litany as he exposed of himself in his opening statement. Mostly relying on what is obviously his primal nature of laziness, on Proposition 115 hearsay testimony as “factual”.
He re-iterated the constant borage of misleading expressions - “forced entry” - “beaten” - “They went there to evict and get money”, etc.
What I personally thought was the most disgusting thing that this moronic excuse for a man proposed, was that the situation was actually reversed, and that if the gun had been real, that Rita Elias would be justified in shooting Kari Abbey in self defense. Of course the moron was still thinking that everyone was still buying his “Hang Kari Abbey” portrait.
You know the one by now. The one with Abbey snarling. The blood, the wads of Rita Elias’ hair in Kari’s claws. Kari “forcing entry” into the “home” of Rita Elias. But of course, what can you expect from your DA (Crafty Harris) that will say that “a little meth is no big deal“.
And with that, your overpaid and over fed pig of a District Attorney, Mr. Crafty, glanced at the clock, probably panicking that he might be missing a lunch date with one of our illustrious and oh so trusty Defense/Conflict attorney’s to dispose of a young black man’s life while sucking on an olive and dreaming of an oncoming election year.
With that, the proceedings fell back into the Judge’s court. I don’t believe that any of us in the courtroom were expecting him to arrive at a decision regarding the case so quickly, as he began by saying, “I have carefully studied the evidence of this case.”
One by one, now the presiding judge of this case went over each count. Citing the reasons for each decision for each account, every single one was going to stick, until he got to the fifth one, receiving stolen property. No evidence and the only person that could provide sufficient testimony has passed away.
On the charges of murder and manslaughter?
He held up the picture of the BB gun that Rita Elias used to threaten the life of Kari Abbey, and as far as Abbey was concerned - Abbey’s children as well. Then he held up a picture of a 1911 .45 caliber. No difference really. No reason for Kari Abbey to believe any differently than there was an actual gun being pointed at her and that she had no choice but to defend herself. In addition to meeting the requirements necessary to demonstrate self defense, Kari Abbey was justified in the shooting of Rita Elias. Therefore, there would be no grounds for trying Kari Abbey for the shooting whatsoever.
If it is so easy to charge a beautiful and caring Stanislaus County Sheriff Deputy with the murder of a tweaked out junky criminal like Rita Elias, why does it seem so hard to charge Harris, Jacobson and Bunch with the murder of District Attorney Nate Baker?
Since we have seen a glimmer of justice for Innocent Kari Abbey today, maybe we can soon see the end of these pathetic individual’s careers before they destroy anyone else’s lives on their insatiable hunger for the Modesto Bee’s favored lime light.
Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.