Wednesday, May 20, 2015

I Ain’t Goin’ Out Like No Punk, Bitch

A few days ago, I attended another child’s funeral. This time it was my own grandson. So please, I beg your pardon if I might offend thee, yet I am a bit pissed off as it were. Now that I have been there, I understand. And I also understand that there is a certain amount of freedom when you have nothing left to lose. I intend to exercise some of that freedom in this article now.

Before I begin, in the interest of posterity and hopefully avoiding a lot of explanation to the few intelligent people I may or may not know that will inevitable approach me and inform me, as though they were a parent or school counselor of my inappropriate diction, let me make this disclaimer. First, my use of the word faggot has nothing to do with gays or the gay community in any way – it is just easier to type then cock sucker. Secondly, I really don’t intend to injure or kill anyone, I will leave that to their own karma and pray that I am not there to bear witness because I would have no choice to do anything I could to prevent such a thing. Other than that, Fuck You.

I stood at the graveside and spoke. I can’t remember exactly what I said, but it was certainly not what I meant to say. What I meant to say was that this whole situation has brought me to ask no more than one question, simply this – “Why can’t I catch a fuckin’ break?”.

Of course the misery did not start with the death of my grandchild. It really started with my daughter’s faggot junky old man. A real piece of work. One that prefers to inject a Drano derivative into his veins and thinks this defines manhood.

Check it. Not to mention that he actually goes so far as to blame my daughter for the death of her child without any substantial evidence of any kind and much worse sins that I just really don’t need to go into, since anyone that’s been around the block more than a time or two already knows that this is the same old Fucking story with the same fucking subplots ending and fucking pulp in the middle of it all.

Sitting in opposite pews as though my daughter was some sort of a fucking baby killer, he sauntered over there with his pants hanging off his ass like he was one of the little kids I had not wanted to bury in my recent past. Sporting gangster gear and eliciting the word “Nigga” as though he had the fucking right, he would not even show enough respect to take off sunglasses he obviously was too stupid to realize were women’s glasses when he lifted them from whatever nodded junky there was to lift them from.

Seeing the sides of the earth in which my grandson’s casket would be lowered down, I thought of someone much more deserving to be buried alive in there. If I had only known my thoughts were shared by the boy my daughter should have been with that was there with us that day, I would probably be a lot poorer after having paid off Lakewood Memorial for their cooperation, groundskeeper services and silence. But life is long. For me anyway. And what this faggot can’t possibly realize is that I am one fucking vindictive mother fucker.

Before all of that shit, it was the hardest thing I ever did, to watch my daughter stand before the casket of her child sobbing as though her world had just come to a tragic and abrupt end. Oh, fuck. I guess it had. Something broke inside of me and the priestly austerity went to hell along with my respect for a faith which was never really my own. It was only days before that I had spelled it all out for her. You know, my daughter, Whitney Stanford. That was when Deegan Stanford was still alive. Still the prince of our heritage. I explained to her why I do what I do and have done what I have done. That we must stand up against the NAZI scum bag pigs and others that would destroy us for the gold fillings in her teeth. (Like her old man, that faggot I was telling you about. Mr. Hepstall)

Something snapped. Something gave way. No longer did I feel like it was ok to be polite and hold my tongue when I knew what the reality was. When I knew what the truth was. That all of these faggot mother fuckers that think they got something on me can go fuck themselves. Deegan Stanford was here. Deegan Stanford was mine and now he is gone. Therefore my fucking dues are paid bitches. I can say whatever the fuck I want. What the fuck can you do to me now? That’s right faggots. How do you like me now?

Copyright 2015 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Twenty-Five Years Later - Tears For Trina Published Again

Tears For Trina - Published Again In It's Original Form From 1989

Choose Your Edition

The autobiography of Robert Stanford and his adventures trying to find himself. All based on true stories, this autobiography was written by a twenty year old and details much of the history of Northern California from the late 1970's throughout the 1980's. Extremely controversial and explicit. Parental Guidance advised.© 2014

322 pages - all reproduced from one of the original editions of the 200 copy printing of 1989.

Each copy personally signed by author and also includes letter of authenticity. For an additional charge, letter of authenticity can be notarized.

In 1989 I hand published two hundred volumes of Tears for Trina under the pseudonym of Da Trione Laughing Heart.

Four years in the making, this work chronologically covered events of my life from 1977 through 1986.
I held nothing back and reported my life, my actions and the actions of others in raw unadulterated detail.
The first draft was over 800 pages long and after several edits I was able to bring the resulting work down to 300 pages by the elimination of many redundancies and stories that were just not appropriate for what I was trying to convey.

After selling approximately 175 copies (these being the only copies of the original printing in existence) I burned the remaining 25 volumes along with every shred of previous manuscript versions that I possessed in an effort to demonstrate that the work was not more important to me than my daughter. She was only two to three at the time.

Now, she has come of age and though my futile ritual of providing a funeral pyre for Tears for Trina may have been muted, at best, at the time, the act came to be a pivotal foothold in my daughter’s life. As she became older, she clearly understood that my love for her superseded all else. So now, with her encouragement, I republish Tears for Trina once more.

Robert Stanford With Tears For Trina 1989

Robert Stanford Reunited With Tears For Trina 2014

Raw and never finally edited, the consistencies in names, grammar and spelling are horrible. Though today, as a professional writer, this would be an embarrassment to me, I have reproduced the work in its original and unabridged form. Through reading this book, you will be able to follow me through the most intense of experiences. You will be shocked and whatever you think of me before reading this book will drastically change afterwards. Certainly never meant for self-glorification, I fully trust that it will alter the way that you look at life and the angst of a teenager so curios and in such a hurry to grow up.

Many of the names have been changed to protect the innocent as well as the guilty, and some of the stories were modified to protect myself. This was intended to be more of a work of art than a reporter’s memoirs.

The mere fact that I was able to write an extremely comprehensible autobiography at the age of twenty is in itself an amazing feat and a testament to my desire to convey something special about my life and the life of others.

This work was certainly a labor of love as I take you side by side with me in my quest for finding myself and along the way experiences the horrors, joys and hardships of life. This work is reproduced from an actual copy of the original.

Each copy will be signed by the author and a letter of authenticity will be issued with each copy sold. For an additional fee, the letter of authenticity will be notarized. Pricing for both soft and hard cover editions are included in the "Buy Now" drop down box. Paypal and all major credit cards are accepted.

Thank you,

Robert Wade Stanford
AKA Da Trione Laughing Heart
AKA Jack Lennon
AKA Jerry McKinney
AKA Pollo Suave

Chapter Art by Nate Riddle:

Chapter One

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Nobody Cares

For several years now, I have been trying to save the world. Seeking my own salvation through the redemption of others, I have ended up with several sociologically dry case study books, a new language and a perspective unique, yet at the same time impaired by my own lack of experience. Experience I will never have. If I am to be so fortunate.

I was a good neighbor. I was a good priest. I was ethical and never once did I wince in the face of danger, manipulation or ridicule in the public square. I gave more than I had to give of my time, money and most of all - my self. I gave everything with a pink bow, emblazoned with gold lettering that spelled out "ACTIVISM".

Activism is a catch-all drawer of a word. It means so many different things to so many different people. For me it was more than a title, it was a condemnation. At the very best, it was a label that gave a clear indication to the community that it was OK for me to be ineffectual in relieving the plight of lesser, undesirable human beings, because I was nothing but shadow to begin with.

I held on tightly to the ideal that matters of life and death were to be taken with the utmost urgency. With the utmost importance. But that particular ideal, as with so many others, had long-since slipped away from the consciousness of the community. Along with any hope of compassion, empathy or understanding. All of these priceless precious things had been exchanged for narcissism and personal "Quality of Life" goals.

I thought that I could bring these ideals back again. I thought that I could surly demonstrate by example passion and devotion to others in such close proximity that it was worthwhile to address the needs of the suffering, whoever they may be. I thought wrong. I was wrong. Its true. You cannot revive a corpse.

In the face of further ridicule, slander and even persecution by my own religion, I write the truth to you now. The truth that no body really cares about anyone else but themselves and with good reason. To care about the plight of another human being is to take that suffering upon yourself, albeit in a different form, but suffering nonetheless.

For all of my valiant and noble effort, I am left with so much reward. A reputation that precedes me everywhere I turn, wrought with falsehoods and lies. I am penniless, unemployable and forever spilled over with suspicion and looked upon as nothing more than a maniacal, bothersome, trouble making dissenter. I am now seen exactly as those I have served - an undesirable human being.

And that is just on the outside. On the inside, my memories haunt my dreams, nearly every night. Filled with horribly unspeakable evil. Gang violence, child abuse to a horrific degree and lonely deaths along the creek's banks, all of which I will never be able to prevent. Now I see their wounds, tears and death states in every moment of my life.

I am nothing but a loser, having thrown my life away because I am so insane, I actually thought that I could lead the lost to reason. I thought I could redeem them somehow. I was wrong.

Now I am nothing but a shell of a man, hoping that my fake confidence will buy me a little more patience with the few friends I even have today.

Even finding solace in the refuge of my original religion has been fraught with misunderstanding and cult-like abuse. Led by a self-proclaiming thug that touts violent tendencies as a badge of honor, he sports the colors that have married me to children's funerals for so long that I have now come to know how inescapable these tragedies are since they are taken so lightly by so many who are protected forever behind the very veil that I myself have provided - "They just don't understand".

My angst over the injustices that have caused me to see so many dead bodies is so fierce and fiery, that it has mentally incapacitated me. I am forever locked in a dungeon of despair and anguish over things I could never have prevented in the first place.

All I can tell you anymore for sure, is that you nave no idea how terrifying and horrible it is out there. All because no one really cares about matters of life and death anymore. All they care about is themselves.

Copyright 2014 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Thursday, December 26, 2013

I am the Grandson of Professional Cowboy of the Canadian Hall of Fame Jack Wade. These prints are derived from original photographs that I inherited from him. This is from his own personal collection and all of these photographs were acquired by him through his rodeo career, on site.

Every framing is custom done to fit each individual photo and is done by hand.

A letter of authenticity will be included with every item per request. For notary is an additional $20.00 - Multiple purchases can be combined on a single notarized letter if you wish.

All Shipping is free for all items.

I am still in the process of posting prints, so check back often. You can also sign up to be notified of new posts by entering your email in the box on the left hand side of this site.

I have categorized the prints and these are listed below and on the right side-bar of the site. Enjoy.

If you have any questions or special requests, please contact me at my email below. The prints can be any size you wish, just email me and I will respond with a quote of how much it will cost.

Thank you,

Robert Wade Stanford
1509 K Street #193
Modesto, CA 95354

Jack Wade listing in Canadian Professional Rodeo Hall of Fame

Jack Wade was born June 6, 1910 at Wakefield, England and came to Halkirk, Alberta where he lived until 1936, with three sisters and six brothers.

He started his rodeo career in 1925 at Battle River, Alberta, riding mane hold mounts. He claims he made more money there in two days than ranch work paid in two months.

For ten years he farmed and took in most summer rodeos in Alberta. In 1932 he trailed a chuckwagon and some bucking horses to Calgary. One horse, Typhoon, won the Calgary’s best bucking horse money. Jack drove chuckwagon for a time in the Calgary Stampede, until 1936, when he entered his first rodeo in the U.S.

Jack went to Sidney, Australia in 1938, winning the Steer Wrestling, returned in 1939, only to have a horse fall and Jack broke his foot.

Some of Jack’s accomplishments were All Around Cowboy 1936 in Dauphin, Manitoba and winning the Pendleton Round Up. He also won:

World Bronc Riding – 1939
Calgary North American All Around – 1940
Calgary Steer Decorating – 1940
Calgary Steer Riding – 1940
Calgary 2nd Bareback Riding – 1940
Calgary 1st Bareback Riding – 1942
Iowa State Fair All Around – 1941

He married Jeffie Gray of Hardy, Arkansas on June 2, 1942 in Little Rock, Arkansas. From 1947 to 1953 he judged in Calgary as well as St. Paul, Minnesota, Omaha, Spokane, Ponoka and Stettler, to mention a few. Having quit the rodeo run in the early 1950’s and finding little work in Canada, they moved to California. Here Jack drove an Auto Transport for 17 years.

Rodeo Print Categories

Australian Easter Show - 1938
Bring In The Clowns
Brownwood, Texas Rodeo
Bruce Stampede
Bull Dogging
Calf Roping
Calgary Stampede
Cheyenne Frontier Days
Classic Rodeo Shots
Cowboy Poses
Extreme Bronc Riding
Extreme Bucking Brahmas
Iowa State Rodeo
Jantzen Beach, Oregon Rodeo
Livermore, California Rodeo
Madison Square Garden
Phoenix, Arizona Rodeo
Prarie City, Oregon Rodeo
Red Bluff, California Rodeo
Reno, Nevada Rodeo
San Diego, California Rodeo
Trick Riders

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Homeless In Modesto the New Crime of the NAZI Regime

On June 5th 2012, the Modesto City Council, voted in a new law which paves the way for police to arrest any individual that they have “reason to believe” will not be sleeping in their own dwelling, thereby, with huge brush-strokes criminalizing a large portion of the citizenry of Modesto that the elite of the city of Modesto considers to be undesirable, or as termed by councilman Joe Muratore - “human blight”. What most of us would term as either temporarily displaced or “homeless”.

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

"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee."

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

By Michael Rains, Defense Attorney for Kari Abbey

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

The Rita Elias Toxicology and Autopsy Reports - Kari Abbey - Not Guilty!

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

Nothing Changes On New Years Day

Don't Forget To Pay For That Donut!
I didn’t see the roosters as I passed by the fork this morning, although a few hours earlier, at about three, roosters could be heard from all around, walking through the Modesto Airport District(1).

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


Today, December 19th 2011 was the final closing arguments in the preliminary hearing for the People VS. Kari Abbey. It was requested of me by the defense to be there and bear witness to what many of us thought was going to be a travesty of justice.

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.