One Little Slip, a whistle blowers story

Counsel Required

It’s been many years since I first heard the saying that there are too many lawyers in the world. Like most professions, the talent pool has thinned over time, and the system itself now plays a role from the very beginning. Having worked alongside attorneys throughout my career—some of whom later became judges—I can say my opinions are widely shared among people in law enforcement. I won’t belabor the point, but the system no longer resembles what it once was.

There was a time when appearing in court, in person, before a judge actually mattered. When COVID hit, the shift to remote proceedings made sense. What never made sense was why the legal system failed to correct itself afterward. Instead of improving, it became more backlogged, more detached, and more prone to excuse-making. Like so many other institutions, accountability slipped while explanations multiplied.

I’ve always taken pride in having lived most of my life without needing legal counsel. Aside from real estate transactions—where protecting yourself is simply prudent—I’ve generally found I could research and understand matters as well as, if not better than, many of the attorneys I encountered. Surviving the dissolution of a 28-year marriage involving property, without lawyers draining both sides, reinforced that belief. Cooperation, mutual respect, and staying focused on what mattered made outside interference unnecessary.

So the idea that I would now need to retain counsel was not appealing—financially or philosophically. Still, given the court’s increased involvement, it became unavoidable. I retained an attorney with relevant experience and credibility, believing that would be sufficient. From the beginning, I tried to convey that while the issue might appear simple on paper, it carried deeper implications and serious consequences. In hindsight, I don’t think the gravity of the situation was fully appreciated.

That isn’t to say retaining counsel was pointless. My attorney had to intervene more often than expected—responding to letters, requests, and procedural surprises from multiple directions. But I did overestimate how aggressively my constitutional concerns would be pursued, particularly once it became apparent—very early in testimony—that my rights had been implicated. Looking back, I would have approached the hearing differently from the start. Since then, I’ve taken responsibility for handling matters myself, with a different attorney available only if absolutely necessary. What allows me to write about this now with confidence is that the record speaks for itself. My concern isn’t about litigation—it’s about accuracy.

Once retained, my attorney secured a hearing date. On November 12, at 2:00 p.m., we appeared in Supreme Court before Judge Gerald W. Connolly, Acting Justice of the Supreme Court. I brought my parents with me. I also invited a close friend. Based on prior discussions with counsel, and because no witnesses were deemed necessary, we appeared expecting to explain why I left an accident scene and to describe the actions I took afterward—actions that were documented.

The initiating correspondence from Judge Connolly, dated September 13, 2024, stated that my pistol permit was under his jurisdiction and referenced notification from the local police department regarding my involvement in a one-car accident on August 15, 2024, noting that I left the scene and later disclosed leaving a handgun in the vehicle. What appears to be a simple statement contained significant interpretation layered between its beginning and end.

What we were not prepared for was discovering, at the start of the hearing, that three accusatory documents ordered to be provided to my attorney had not been. The court acknowledged this as an apparent mistake and provided copies at that time. Upon reviewing them, it became clear that the narrative had shifted substantially, including the omission of a 911 call I had made. At that moment, requesting an adjournment would have been the prudent course to reassess how to proceed. We did not.

The first witness was the responding officer. Early in his testimony, he contradicted material assertions contained in the written submission to the court. That left only two possibilities: either the written account was inaccurate, or the officer’s sworn testimony was. Given his reputation and the consistency of his statements, the discrepancy was notable. A full transcript exists, but the larger point is that none of this should have been necessary.

Much of what I was compelled to discuss went well beyond the narrow issue of my eligibility to possess a handgun. Nothing in my conduct supported the position taken, beyond generalized language. Had the matter remained confined to verifiable facts, the outcome might have been different.

In the days leading up to the hearing, I received a call from my attorney informing me that a separate investigation had been initiated by state authorities at the request of local leadership. Potential felony charges were being discussed related to firearms I legally owned—one not yet added to my permit, and another that required modification under state law. Those firearms were already in police possession, having been voluntarily turned over. The judge was aware of this development at the time of the hearing. I understood then how easily a situation like this could destabilize someone. I also knew that, whatever the outcome, I would eventually tell my story.

Two months later, the court issued its decision. Any hope that my account had been meaningfully considered was gone by the first page, which largely repeated the contested narrative. There were inaccuracies throughout, including mischaracterizations of medical care I sought. An appeal could have addressed those issues, but doing so would have required further financial and emotional investment for no practical gain. I chose not to pursue it.

What followed was a prolonged and, at times, surreal process regarding the disposition of my long guns. Despite clear alternatives, the decision was made to transfer them to a third party for sale rather than release them to family. I disengaged entirely and allowed the process to conclude without my involvement.

Only later were certain personal items returned to me—others were not. Requests for basic documentation were denied, though that denial itself became documentation. Ironically, paperwork had worked against me at the beginning; now its absence spoke just as clearly.

I have made no formal records requests through the local municipality, as I have no reasonable expectation of receiving complete or reliable responses. That may change under different circumstances.

This experience cost me time, property, and peace of mind. It also placed me in sustained fear of further escalation based on misrepresentation. I don’t dramatize that lightly. When you understand how systems can be weaponized, caution becomes survival.

There is no monetary compensation that makes this right. Some losses are permanent. What remains is perspective. I know who I am, how I got here, and what I chose not to become along the way. Every step of my life involved trade offs, sacrifice, and restraint. I never took shortcuts. I never relied on grievance to define me.

If there is one place this process succeeded, it was in forcing a pause—a temporary theft of time and joy. That pause is over.

What remains now is the record, the truth, and the refusal to be silent.