Chapter Fourteen

Thirteen Minutes

There is no way for me to put you fully in my shoes that day. I don’t think language alone can do it. The closest substitute is this: every word, every reaction, every moment was captured on body camera. Audio and video. Unedited in real time. What I was thinking, what I feared, and what I said—all of it exists, preserved, and verifiable.

That matters, because this chapter involves names, accusations, and intent. None of it is speculative.

Two officers arrived at my home with a suspension order for my pistol permit. Their instructions were to retrieve the permit and any handguns listed on it. At the time, this seemed simple. I checked my wallet and believed—incorrectly—that they already had my permit and the only handgun associated with it. I was wrong on both counts.

Thirteen minutes after they left my house, I understood just how wrong I was.

I had explained to the officers that I was being left unarmed in my own home, vulnerable in a way that people outside law enforcement rarely understand. We do not retire without enemies. That is not paranoia; it is reality. I made the mistake of allowing them to leave without fully grasping the severity of the order or the consequences of noncompliance. My mental and physical condition that day did not help.

When I sat down and reread the document, the words contempt of court jumped off the page. That was the moment the gravity of what was happening finally landed.

I immediately called the Bethlehem Police Department on a recorded line and asked to speak with the sergeant who had just been at my house. Although the department now claims they cannot locate that recording, the timestamp is clear. Thirteen minutes had passed.

It took nearly an hour and a half for officers to return. When they did, the transaction was smooth and cooperative. I surrendered my permit and the single handgun, unloaded and secured in a locked case. During that interaction, I explained—again—that this was not simply about paperwork or compliance. This was about stripping me of protection.

I knew, even then, that this action was born at least in part out of Chief Gina’s longstanding disdain for me. That knowledge did not come from paranoia or hindsight. It came from history.

I will not sugarcoat this. I will not pretend she is some defenseless woman deserving of gentler language. She went to great lengths to get what she wanted. In doing so, she documented her own deceit, vindictiveness, and abuse of authority. Every step is recorded. Every move is traceable. She is not nearly as clever as she believes she is, and that will matter later.

Escalation

During the retrieval, I shared a story with the officers about an interaction with the chief on the day of my retirement. That story—truthful, contextual, and verifiable—would later be twisted and weaponized. It gave Judge Connolly the opening he needed to declare all firearms in my home a nuisance.

Let that sink in.

This was never about public carry. That was never the concern. This was about my home, my safety, and the state deciding—after the fact—that I was no longer entitled to protect myself where I lived.

On Monday morning, September 16th, officers arrived again—this time to seize all weapons in my home. I was accused of failing to comply with the judge’s order, of making inconsistent statements, and of being a “nuisance.” The speed of this escalation would be laughable if it weren’t so dangerous.

How many hours did anyone spend investigating me in the four weeks prior? How much due diligence was done before deciding that thirteen minutes justified total disarmament?

This timing was no accident. A Friday afternoon service. A weekend to fester. A Monday morning surprise.

The Law They Ignored

Here’s the part that should terrify anyone paying attention: the moment the judge signed the initial suspension order, the law required immediate seizure of all firearms. Not later. Not selectively. Immediately.

That did not happen.

Instead, a narrative had to be constructed—one portraying me as unstable—because someone failed to follow the law from the start. That fabrication was unnecessary and false. Once again, Gina could not resist taking it too far. Those missteps will matter.

When I read the paperwork that morning, I knew two things:

I was being recorded again.
Everything I said would be scrutinized.

So I stayed calm. Cooperative. Clear. And I made sure—intentionally—to articulate my fear. Not performatively, but truthfully. I told them I was afraid not just of being unprotected, but of being harmed through continued escalation at her direction.

That night, I did not sleep. I fully expected them to return. I believed she thought I was hiding more firearms. In fact, I did have others in the house—antiques belonging to a friend and firearms inherited from my father. Thankfully, the antiques were removed before Monday. Otherwise, they would have been seized as well.

For the first time in my life, I experienced genuine fear for my safety.

Intentional Documentation

I did not respond impulsively. I remained quiet. I let the process unfold. Some friends may have mistaken my silence for guilt. They won’t after reading this.

Every time I spoke on camera, I did so with purpose. I referenced the misconduct. The retaliation. The history. My goal was simple: put everyone involved on notice, in audio and video, permanently linked to this case.

Given the chief’s prior public admonishment for manipulating body camera footage, I can’t say whether all of it survived intact. But it was said.

I referenced prior incidents. Including the time the town supervisor criminally trespassed in my barn years earlier. I suggested—on camera—that she consider how far she wanted to take this. Whether this was done solely as retaliation, or as a coordinated effort to poison me as a witness in a future federal case tied to my whistleblower status, remains to be seen. Either explanation reflects incompetence or malice. Possibly both.

She has always talked too much. And when you’re one of the good ones, information has a way of finding its way back to you. It frequently did me. Thank You Sgt. Hughes, you did warn her.

The Point of No Return

After Monday, I had no choice but to hire legal counsel. For the first time in my life—outside of real estate—I needed an attorney to protect me from further manufactured exposure. I have seen too many cases to believe that navigating this alone was wise.

This was still civil. There was nothing criminal. I believed—naively—that all I had to do was explain that I did not flee the accident.

If only it were that easy.