way to charge me under state law. (You’re not paranoid if somebodyrnreally is persecuting you.) I was charged with violating arnstatute that had been on the books for 19 years: TCA 67-1-rn1440(d), “delaying and depriving the state of revenue to whichrnit was lawfully entitled at the time it was lawfully entitled thereto.”rnIn all those 19 years, not a single Tennessean had discoveredrnhow to violate it, but I had. Truth to tell, I had not evenrnfigured it out, since I was accused of “delaying and depriving”rnthe state of revenue the amount of which was unknown and tornwhich the state had never become lawfully entitled. Theyrnaccused me of a crime I could not possibly have committed,rnbecause I did not know it existed. Never mind, due process justrnslows things down.rnThey were charging me with not collecting sales tax on exchangesrnof gold and silver money for paper money. Yournknow—^like when you go to the bank and give the teller a twenty,rnand she gives you back a ten and two fives, less sales tax.rnWhat? She does not charge you sales tax? Of course not, becausernit’s an exchange of money for money.rnBut neither the state of Tennessee nor any other state canrnadmit that gold and silver coin are money. If they do, they willrnadmit they are operating outside the law. The monetary emperorrnis naked, and state officials from the Chief Justice of thernSupreme Court to the governor to the second assistant tirernchecker are afraid to tell him. They should be afraid, becausernthe monopoly on money creation is the jugular vein of the feds’rncontrol.rnBut in January 1990,1 did not have time to worry about staterncharges. Susan and I were both facing 19 years in jail if convictedrnin federal court. We knew the statistics, too. Humanlyrnspeaking, we had no chance. Ninety-eight percent of federalrntax prosecutions end in guilty verdicts.rnThe next year and a half was a struggle. Only a survivor of arncriminal prosecution could understand how it hammersrnyour soul. Most defendants never make it to trial. Through therninvestigation alone, federal agents and prosecutors can destroyrntheir businesses and their families, and break their spirit.rnStripped of business, money, family, and hope, most pleadrnguilty just to end the nightmare. In our case, one poor defendantrnpled guilty with no idea what it meant. When a defensernattorney asked him whom he had conspired with, he screwedrnup his face in confusion and paused several minutes. “I dunno.rnMyself, I guess.”rnOur trial began on February 26, 1991, over a year after ourrnarrest. Day after day I had to listen as the prosecutor hatefullyrntwisted everything I had ever done into something evil. Thisrnwent on for four and a half long months. The governmentrnentered immaterial documents by the hundredweight.rnTo the charges of “willful failure to file income tax returns,”rnwe argued that no statute makes anyone liable for an incomerntax (except “foreign withholding agents”). No one—not thernfederal district court judge, not the Assistant U.S. Attorney, notrnthe IRS, no one—was able to point out that statute, because itrndoes not exist.rnHere was a “man bites dog” story if ever there was one, butrnwere the local media interested? Hardly. The first day of trialrnwas covered by an old reporter for the Commercial Appeal whornwith great insight described issues and characters. Next day hernwas yanked off the case and replaced with a hack who publishedrnRestaurant by the Searnby Charles Edward EatonrnThe man was exhausted but suddenly relaxed: he feltrnhappy, he felt well—rnIt would not throw him if he should open clean whiternoysters at a tablernAnd find dead ears, in their liquid of sorrow, lying on thernshell.rnThis is the man, you see, who has swallowed a pound ofrngrainsrnAnd no matter what you set before him he will delve andrnfind a pearl—rnWhy split the mind so often if you cannot count upon arnlittle something for your pains?rnMake him do it then, make him show you how as long asrnhe is able—rnBring him a bucket of blue-lipped, recalcitrant clams,rnLeave a knife, a napkin, and little else at your dour table.rnHe will bend down and lend an ear to all those saturatedrnears,rnTap with his knife: May I come in, your friendly, localrnsurgeonrnWho has learned at the end of a long, hard day not to bernqueasy with your fears?rnHow to be limpid, life-loving, and totally withoutrnqualms!—rnSo many people sit us down at bleak, uncompromisingrntable d’hoternTo find the pearl when none is there, for those extendedrnpalms.rnI hae known hard days and sat alone, curiously alive, in arnsad cafe,rnBeen given a knife to rap on the table like a medium forrnmessages—rnA peari, a plate of ears, at the end of my strength and whatrnhave I to sav?rnFEBRUARY 1997/21rnrnrn