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Duluth Georgia Police Officer Frederick J. Stemp, Jr.
In the year 1999 (and the years that followed) I entered the chess game of my life that I would have to say ended up with me either loosing, or at best gaining a draw. That will be for you to determine.
In ‘99 I began going to a tech school called the Computer Learning Center, where I earned a degree in Computer and Internet Programming. (We can all thank my father for that.) The school went out of business after 25 years and on the month of my graduation, so I really didn’t get all that I was promised. However, another thing I was not expecting was to go to jail that year after having been beaten by many cops.
First I have to explain the greater metropolitan area of Atlanta, Georgia. There is none. There is Atlanta, and then there is Georgia. The two are separate. Atlanta is a big city. I lived either in the city, or in Georgia, from between 1993 or 4 and 2001. The city is surrounded by Interstate 285, also known as, the perimeter. Atlanta is contained inside the perimeter. You go outside, however, and you’re in Klan kountry. As long as I stayed within the confines of the perimeter all was safe. Outside the perimeter is a different story.
I stayed inside while I worked and lived at the compound for Action Unlimited and while I was vice president of the International Artist Guild, Inc. It was at that time that I felt that the organization was going in the wrong direction, so we parted. That was Holloween 1997. There was even an article about me and the end of the compound (cover mention) in that week’s Creative Loafing. From there I moved outside the perimeter to be closer to my love. I moved to Norcross, in Gwinnett county, Georgia. Only, my roommate was taking my rent money, buying pot with it and not telling me, so when I returned home from a four hour shift at work, all my thing where on the side of the road being picked through. I lost the picture of me and Mr. T. After that I decided to get my own place. I stayed with my girlfriend for a few weeks, then a buddy I worked for, then moved outside the perimeter. It was from this new place that I was going to start a new life.
Life was going pretty good. I wanted to get into Internet programming to work with rock n’ roll bands on their web sites. I enrolled in school and began working on my degree.
During this time, my mother brought a cousin of mine to my attention. She now lived in the area and waned to get together with me. We did. But my cousin is a bible thumper and that’s not me at all. The last thing I want to do is tell someone what is what, because what if I am wrong? She belonged to one of those $15 million mega-churches in a city called Alpharetta, I believe. She was engaged to a church member and spoke of them often. She was finally able to get me to go over there and check it out. It was a disgusting display of wealth. I wasn’t into it. She was an ex-Catholic and knew I had also left the church. She said this was different. Finally, I gave in and told her I would attend a service with her. This service was to take place on Good Friday, 1999.
On that Friday evening, I grabbed my Bible and headed to the church. It was around 5:30 or 6 PM. Rush hour. As I was driving through the town of Duluth, Georgia, I got pulled over by one of Duluth’s “finest”, Officer Frederick J. Stemp, Jr., I’ll never forget his name.
I knew what this was all about. Shit, I didn’t have my tape recorder with me; didn’t think I needed it. I knew for a fact that I was not speeding. That was not something I ever did for obvious reasons. But I did have long hair, a beard and I was driving an old car with dents. I knew exactly what this was about. That morning the police buried the cop that wrote the book on how to profile a drug runner. I knew what was up.
He pulls me over and I sit with my hands on the wheel, waiting for him to approach the window because I will not give him the excuse that he saw me go under my seat and he wants to search. When he arrived I cracked the window to talk to him. There was black electrical tape across his badge. He told me I was speeding and asked for my “paperz”. I complied. I slid my “license”, insurance card and registration paperwork out the window, which was accepted by the officer. After getting the paperwork, rather than go back to his car and write me a ticket, which he would have seen me in court for, he asked me to roll down the window for a game of 20 questions. No, sir. Not doing that. He called for back up. He kept asking me to roll it down. I kept telling him that he had what he asked for, so got write me that ticket and let me get on my way. I had a church to attend and my cousin to meet. There was no time to play 20 questions with him, but he refused to do his job. He became irate. He took his pepper spray out and began to shake it. Then he began to spray. I got frightened. With my left hand I took hold of the window’s handle and began to roll it up. He dropped his spray and attempted to stop me from rolling up the window by sticking his hands through the slit and trying to push down the window for what reason I still had no clue of. I guess no one has ever disrespected his “athoriti”. His fingers were caught and could not be removed from the door. He was in pain. He screamed at me to release his fingers. I told him I would not until his backup showed up. I wanted there to be witnesses around, even though this was a very congested road at the time, but no one was stopping.
He kept screaming for me to let his fingers go. I kept telling him no. Within a minute or two, there were four more cars and six more cops, none of which had a dash cam, sure. One ran to my passenger’s window, drew his gun, pointed it right at my head and screamed for me to let the dumbass with his fingers caught in my window go. Knowing he was a cop, he probably would shoot me in my head if I didn’t, or another would have broken the window, so I let him go. As soon as I did he bent over, grabbed his spray and sprayed it through the opening window. The United Nations has outlawed this use of chemical warfare in the theater of war. But the police...
I opened the door to more pepper spray in my face and immediately fell to the ground, choking. A couple of cops grabbed my arms and dragged me off the road to place me behind my car. I was coughing and choking the entire time. I was handcuffed and before someone brought me to the county jail, administered water in my eyes to get the swelling down and allowed me to drink some water to help my throat. I know that wasn’t Stemp. He was attending to his fingers. He was certain I was a drug runner. They searched my car.
The jail was a treat. Upon arrival I was grabbed by six 250-pound assholes (sheriff’s deputies) and brought to an empty cell. There, they put me on my stomach, hog-tied me with handcuffs, then began hitting me. Not big punches, but with the knuckle of their middle fingers. With their fists shaped with the thumb on the middle finger, causing it to protrude, and me out of view of cameras or anyone else, they hit me hard, only landing one knuckle with each punch which felt like…well try it, see how it feels. After the beating I was placed in a straight jacket and cuffed to a restraint chair for a few hours. I must have been bitching. Officer Stemp, just stood and laughed.
Now we get into what it is like to have to deal with jail employees of all kinds. After a couple of hours it was time to book me in. The welcoming committee already gave me the OLE “how do ya do”. As soon as I got to the nurse, I began bitching. I was telling her how I needed to see a doctor. She looked up at the officer standing behind me and said I was fine. I wasn’t fine. I had three fractured ribs and a sprained ankle. I felt pain for weeks every time I coughed or laughed. This poor lady wanted to help me, but Stemp would let her. I was saying how I was going to own this place when I got out and was going to sue everyone. While I was there an officer asked Stemp what he wanted to charge me with. Stemp stood there thinking for about seven seconds, give or take, then said Obstruction of a LEO. Wow, did he say obstruction, not assault? This was clearly a felony assault charge on a police officer. Assault is ten to twenty years, obstruction was only one to five. I say only, but one minute is too long. Could this guy be that stupid? “Sure, sure”, I quickly said as to make sure he didn’t catch what just happened and get him to stick with his first choice, a lesser felony. “Charge me with a felony so I can’t get out of this place.” Stemp looked over to the questioning officer and said, “Yup, make it Obstruction of a LEO.”
Now I knew I would be out of there in a couple of hours, but I figured if this idiot didn’t know the difference between an assault and obstruction he would get his jollies hearing I couldn’t get out and jump on the chance to charge me. The entire ruse worked. After a couple of hours, and after paying $5,000cash bail, I walked out of there a “free” man. But I was in pain. I had to see a doctor.
I went to one of the county hospitals to get checked out. They shot me up with a radioactive isotope and gave me a CAT scan, or an MRI, or something like that. Cost over a grand maybe a grand and a half to do, I don’t have insurance. When I got out they looked over the x ray and showed me where I had three fractured ribs. There was nothing the doctors could do for them. I had to heal on my own by not moving for a while. I couldn’t use my keyboard because I couldn’t move my torso. I was in great pain every time I laughed, coughed or sneezed. I wanted to kill this Stemp, but he had the king’s privilege standing behind him. Good thing for him, because if he didn’t, he would have definitely been killed. I’m not going to put up with this shit. This is a bad cop, an evil person, who deserved to die. If I had a gun in the car with me, I probably would have shot him and stood on my second amendment right to do so. But when I saw that gun pointed just four or five feed from my skull, I quickly opened up the door. Good thing I was white.
Upon hindsight, I should have stayed in jail, but I had to be in school on Monday morning. I didn’t have time to be sitting in jail all weekend waiting to see a judge on Monday. But should I ever finish this section here, I will have the advantages of a preliminary hearing written down. It was a bad move, but we do these things when we have responsibilities. The “authorities” know and love that fact.
This case wasn’t handled professionally. The D.A. at the time, and maybe still today, was Danny Porter. A lover of mine I met a few months after the arrest, was the floor in his Grand Jury, for six months, only her jury duty started a month or two after I was indicted. She told me that this guy could indict a ham sandwich. She said it was amazing how little evidence this guy brought in, yet still got 13 people to stand up. She said they figured that if someone was arrested by the police they must be guilty; sad. It’s was like, “yes, sir, what would you like next, sir.” I really, really wish she was on my Grand Jury. Beside him there was the judge. His name escapes me at the moment, but maybe when I find some time I will do some investigating on this case and get you all the names and dates of the case. I still have a lot of work to do and I also want to have fun. But this Judge was one tough son-of-a-bitch. I’m willing to bet he probably handled Larry Flynt’s trial as well. This case was a felony and I had never handled a felony case in the past. I had to get a liar…I mean lawyer, and fast.
I have got a problem with lairs…I mean lawyers. One, the obvious, they lie. The legal profession is the only profession, other than the entertainment business, where you have to pay for the product before you get to use it and there are no refunds if you’re not happy. Notice how they don’t have easy financing? You are about to buy a product that costs as much as, if not more than, a car. The car dealer will give you a payment plan, the liar…I mean lawyer, will give you jack shit. It’s like in Goodfellas. Want out of jail? “Fuck you pay me.” Want to stay out of jail? “Fuck you pay me.” Want probation? “Fuck you pay me.” Want to get off? “Fuck you pay me.” Wanna go to jail? “Fuck you pay me.” That is why the poor are in jail and the rich are not, or on probation. I know you might say black and white, and that may be correct because a lot if it is that, but this is really a class war we are heading into, not a race war. Those that don’t know the difference, like this officer here on this page, will perish from their own ignorance. Want to know how to get off going to jail on any crime? Good. You go to the liar…I mean lawyer, and he tells you I will get you off for $10,000. You give him the cash. He gives a third of it to the liar…I mean lawyer doing the prosecuting, a third of it to the judge and guess what, you don’t have to go to trial. He does no work for you whatsoever, yet you get to walk away. The ADA probably has to kick up to the DA. The judge, in addition, will get a percentage of the fine money you pay through deferred compensation. You are their dups. There is nothing you can do but take it up the ass.
I asked around and settled on this one lawyer, Billy. He was supposed to be some hippie friendly lawyer. He had a coffee table book of lawyer jokes in the waiting room, so I liked the guy. But Billy wasn’t doing as I asked. I could tell he was going the wrong way. I wanted a trial, but he wanted me to plea it out – no jail time. See, again, these guys don’t like to work. They’d rather just pay each other off. I could see where this was heading for me.
While awaiting trial, there was a hearing date moved. I got a letter in the mail, but it was too late to change my plans. This school I was attending was intensive studying with each subject taking just four weeks. To miss one class would put me behind substantially. It was two days away. I called Billy and told him that I never got the letter, so I won’t be there. He said I had to be, but I told him I had more important shit to do. We were learning how to build databases that month and all of that was going to be done in just four weeks - Fridays excluded. I didn’t show. Billy, the pussy, did and the judge issued a warrant for my arrest. I showed up to my original court date, but Billy wasn’t there and I was taken to jail.
This was pissing me off. This bastard probably changed the date to fuck with my schooling and me, but he is God. He can do or not do to me whatever he wishes and all I can do, if I don’t want to exorcise my second amendment right, is to just take it from my Lord…oh, wait, titles of nobility don’t exist in this country. I guess that statement means that the judge is mine, and your, Lord and Savior?
I ended up in county jail. There were three guys for every cell built for two. A third slept in a canoe kept under the bunks. It was sad, three of us in a seven by nine or ten-foot room with a steel door. All I heard in there was how corrupt Porter was or how over crowded he was making the jail. Everyone thinks it is only their county that is crooked and not the others, but they don’t know. For this judge to do this was illegal. I was right. We filed a Petition for Writ of Habeas Corpus. I finally got a hearing date, but like all these judges like to do when they are being sued, he released me before the hearing, thus making it moot.
While I was in jail I had to drop out of CLC for while. That school was charging me sixteen grand, I was not going to lose that. As soon as class got through the next two months of VB or C++, and started a new language, I returned. This Frederick J. Stemp Jr. is beginning to piss me off. He better hope I don’t have a psychotic episode and decide to give up on life. Muther Fucker! He’ll get his.
So I obviously fired Billy. I had a pretty good feeling he was working with the court to fuck me over. These liars…I mean lawyers, do that to gain favor with the judges and prosecutors. Makes them look like a real hero the next time they have a guilty client and “get him off”. A good friend of mine told me about his lawyer. He was saving his ass from pot charges, I think. I contacted this lawyer. After spending thousands on Billy, I shelled out five grand for Michael to take me to trial. December 6, 1999 was to be that trial. And all during the middle of my computer classes.
I wasn’t looking forward to this trial. I wanted my lawyer to try to delay this until graduation. He said he couldn’t, so on December 6, I showed up for trial. Other than my cousin being nearby, everyone else lived in the northeast. My mother flew down for the trial. It took two days.
Day one jury selection took longer than normal for any of the jury trials I have been in or at. That night I went out to dinner with my mother, then back the next day for the trial. I saw Danny Porter himself present in the audience on one or both of the days. This was a big trial. They had the famous Gnome, from the Compound. I’m sure many of the ADA’s from Atlanta had a hand in this as well.
During the trial one of the jurors, an eighteen-year-old kid, fell asleep. I pointed it out to Michael, but he said not to worry about it. On the stand they called Duluth Police Officer Frederick J. Stemp Jr. who took the stand and lied. One lie he said was about the car window. Hahaha, this is a hoot. Now I wanted to bring in the door as evidence, but Michael said it wouldn’t be necessary. Bullshit, because on the stand he told the jury of how I rolled up my window and how he got out. He told them he just pushed the window down. Hahahahahaha. What a joke this man is. It is impossible to move a window down, but the jury and my liar bought it. He was at the window, screaming bloody murder for me to let him go, which I didn’t do until I had a gun pointed at my head. Fuck this guy. And fuck this lair…I mean lawyer as well. We didn’t need the door? Fuck him.
There was also another lie he said about my wallet as well. I cannot remember what exactly it was, you could order the transcripts (if they really have them), but as soon as I heard it I turned to Michael who knew exactly what I was thinking about. I thought he was going to catch him at cross, but he never asked the question. Fuck liars….I mean, fuck lawyers. He also lied when told the jury he didn’t really know the officer who died in Alabama, but he did attend the funeral that morning and did attend classes taught buy this profiler inventor. After the funeral it was discovered that the officer was shot by a drug dealer that he know and had pulled over in an attempt to shake him down, which he do to this man often. The drug dealer had enough of this bastards extortion each time he ran his product through town, so he pulled a second amendment on his ass. Stemp wanted to distance himself from this corrupt cop. Ha.
So what do you think happened in the deliberation room. Hint: I didn’t get to go home that night. I wanted to post bail, return to school and wait for sentencing, but the Judge had other ideas. After sending the jury home, he decided to sentence me right there. He was so excited. This old fuck must have been 75 years old. He picked up a book I had in my car when I was arrested. Not the Bible one, no. It was a book called “Operation Vampire Killer 2000”. It was written by Jack McLamb, a former police officer (which rank I forget) with the LAPD. He was the one who blew the lid wide open on the LAPD crack connection. This manual was for police officers to teach them about their jobs and how evil they are towards the American people. The judge sat there in his chair, waving the homemade book while yelling at me that I was found in possession of this filth. What the fuck was this. I always wondered what happened to that copy. Who are these guys to steal my book then use it against me as a justification for the sentence imposed? Five year in prison to be split up between one year on the inside with the remaining four on probation, their money maker. But wait, there was more. Never in my life, other than one other time, have I ever heard of anyone getting these many hours, but I did. The judge also sentenced me to 400 hours community service: slavery. Gotta love that 13th (1865) amendment. But this guy was a douche bag. He sent me to prison, not jail. The difference being that in Georgia prisons they cut your hair, while in the jails you don’t have to. My hair was almost down to my ass. While awaiting to be brought to the prison, I spent a couple of weeks in county. I had an inmate in there cut my hair so the guards at the prison didn’t get off on how they took my pride. The judge placed me in the work release program. This was a treat.
Work release is like, nighttime jail. As sentenced prisoners we had to spend each and every night, and every Sunday, locked up. From Monday through Saturday we were eligible for work release as long as we came back within the times they allowed for each our shifts. I think the judge may have been feeling a little human that day and wanted me to finish my schooling while in jail. Then why not allow me to post bail?. I took advantage of it. I had to drop out of school as soon as I was kidnapped, but I had had a long time job with this friend of mine (who let me live in his basement apartment when I lost my place in Norcross), so I left the jail during the days to work with him. But we were scamming the $y$tem. I made copies of the weekly work details with my buddy’s signature on it and had all I needed to stay as away from the jail for as long as possible, never working for anyone.
A lot of the guys in that jail lived in the area. Most of them had sex regularly with their wife or girlfriends, or dinners with their families. Not me. I had no one, but I made a lot of friends. A month or two after getting locked up my mother returned and we both packed up my apartment and put it in storage. It was sad letting it go, but I was broken up with my girlfriend long by then and there was no reason to live outside the perimeter anymore. Plus I was in jail for the next leap year, so I didn’t need it. My address became the jail from then on and that’s where my mail went.
In jail, I was a hero. I was one of only four people who had a sentence as long as mine, but I was the only person who ever stood up to the tyranny and that impressed everyone; everyone but the jailers. They didn’t like my reputation and made it very hard for me to get what I needed, one of which, was my medication.
I begin to explain, on this page here, how to play jail (I have to finish that section). One of the subjects discussed on that page was pill call. The situation with this arrest, and my constant thoughts of just wanting to kill these people who were doing this to me, had me seeking out medication to deal with my situation. I have been diagnosed with anxiety in the past. These thoughts of killing people were giving me panic attacks. I had to get some medication to deal with them. My medication said right on the bottle, “take when needed”. Those were my instructions by a member of the American Medical Association, but they didn’t care. I would go into a panic attack, seek out my medication and was told to come back during pill call. They didn’t care about what the AMA had to say about keeping me sane, they just wanted me insane. It almost worked.
I began sneaking in my pills. If they were not going to give them to me when I needed them, then it was my responsibility to keep the medication near. On one Friday, after entering the sally port and being prohibited from leaving, I found a large number of people waiting to be searched. Fuck, going to real prison now. I waited for my turn, had a good laugh with the C.O. and was taken to solitary confinement to await sentencing.
Word of this spread throughout the jail. I was going to be missed. A lot of guys went into a television room, which was adjacent to solitary, and spoke into a vent in order to talk to me. I was there for 17 days, then transferred next door to the prison work camp where I was to serve two months of my sentence there before I could be returned to the prison work release. They got my DNA there as well; mother fuckers. I hate needles.
These were real inmates at this place. I met a guy who was doing 15 years for setting his little sister’s rapist on fire. My crime wasn’t classified as violent, although it was, so I was wondering how I found myself living with 101 violent prisoners in a trailer doing long time.
At the prison work camp, PWC, they assign each inmate to a job. You have no choice. The put me on the courthouse cleanup detail. That really sucked. I was brought each morning around 5 AM to the courthouse where our detail had to clean it up and get it ready for the day’s business. Cleaning toilets, sweeping, vacuuming, moping floors, even cleaning out the offices of Danny Porter himself.
Our detail lasted past the opening of the courthouse. Once it was opened, we moved into the offices out of view of the public, but not the liars…I mean lawyers. A couple of weeks into that job I saw the prosecuting DA that sent me to this job. I starred him down for almost a half a minute. The next day they took me off of ever going back into the DA office. And I had been inside Danny Porter’s personal office. Hahaha. The pussies were too afraid to see me again; cowards.
After serving my two months and bothering the warden for a week or two, he finally moved me back over to work release.
When I got caught smuggling my medication, I was back attending the computer school I should have been finished with and had my degree and job offer that was promised by the school by then. But Frederick J. Stemp Jr. wanted to fuck with me for reasons that we will discuss further down this page. Of course, I had to drop out again. I went back to work with my buddy until the school had a new class that was at the point where I dropped out. I got a 1200 square foot apartment inside the perimeter in an area of Atlanta called Buckhead, on the corner of I285 (the perimeter) and Roswell Road. It was a sweet location only 20 minutes from school in moderate rush hour traffic. It was more a campus housing unite for the local college. I had a sweet apartment on the top floor with a balcony overlooking the “quad” and pool that all the buildings were all built around. On December 7th, 2000, 366 days after entering the work release jail, I was released and happy to be. But I will say this, this one year run of my life was made much nicer by being sentenced to this jail and not the county jail. County jail is hard time. You sit in a block cell with a steal door and a roommate. They give you a few hours when you can leave your cell and mingle, but for the most part, you sit in a cell all day. Prison has much more freedoms.
When I was released I moved into the apartment I got while in jail that they never had a clue of. My probation was transferred from Gwennette County to Atlanta. Oh yeah, four years of probation was to really to be three or three and a half years normal probation with the first six or 12 months under “intense probation”. This was more like work release where they didn’t have to feed you. I had to be home between the hours of 7PM and 7AM. The probation officer could show up at my door at anytime to do a check and give me a piss test. If I wasn’t there, it’s fuck you time for me. My probation officer only showed up one time (that I know of, haha) and it was just a few minutes after I was on my balcony smoking a joint. I was still dressed in my business suit that I was required to wear at school. He walked in, sat down with his clipboard, looked around in amazement, then got up and left. Woo, was that close. I guess this guy didn’t get much high class felons to watch over. I ran for my pills and took a few.
I graduated from the school in February of 2001, nearly two year from when I started. The schooling should have only taken 12 months give or take a month, but Freddy Jr. (I hope Frederick J. Stemp, III doesn’t turn out like his father.), he had other plans. The first thing I wanted to do before finding any full-time job was my slavery sentence. I had to work for “them”, free of charge, what a country. I went to the probation office where everyone with this sentence gathers in the morning to be given jobs for that day. You, know, picking up trash on the side of the road, washing cop cars, cleaning offices, shit like that. A week or two into it, I got a job washing fire trucks for the Fulton County Fire Department. I would talk with my supervisor there, while I did that job. He was so impressed with me he asked the probation department to send me everyday. Quickly this supervisor brought my talents were talking about to the fire chief who wanted to interview me for a more permanent job more suited to my educational talents. For the next almost 2 months, I got up and went directly to the Fulton County Fire Department headquarters, 40 hours a week, and built an intranet web site to be used for all 27 fire departments. The chief and I became good friends. After that ended, I went back to work with my buddy and began looking for a job, but by this time the dot com boom had bottomed out and jobs were no more readily available as would have been when I should have graduated, two years previous. Thanks Stemp, you fucking piece of shit. I cannot wait to murder you one day.
Oh, but it gets better. September 11, 2001, changed the world for ever. This was going to fuck up my vacation plans to Hawaii. All air traffic had been grounded. My flight was in less then 10 days, my first time flying first class all the way to sunny Hawaii for my sibling’s wedding. On the 12th or 13th I had to meet with my probation officer at his office. I was piss tested the moment I walked into the office. As I met with him I was requesting my travel permit I had put in for on the previous month. The officer kept looking at me, scared out of his mind over 911, then told me he doubted the planes would be back in the air by then. (I knew it was Bin Laden the moment it happened and broke out into laughter over the one percenters being killed for their own greed.) What a scared idiot. I told him not to be so scared and that the planes will be back in the air soon. He didn’t believe me. What was the difference? If the planes were not flying by then, then the permit would be worthless. I told him to write it up anyway and he had me wait in the lobby for the results of my piss test. A few minutes after waiting they told me I passed the test, but right as I was getting ready to leave, I hear, “that test was for pot and alcohol, we have to do the other one.” Now what the fuck was going on? They wanted to test me for the hard drugs. I did it, and a few minutes later they come out and told me I tested positive for PCP. Yeah, right. I don’t think I ever did PCP in my life. Rather then arrest me though, they let me go home and told me to come back in a week. Wow, another mulligan from the U.
When I returned to my house I knew that the fix was in. There was no PCP in my system, they never showed me the results, but I knew I was going back to jail. The ass of a judge told me at sentencing that if he ever saw me back in his courtroom on a probation violation, he would make me do the remaining time of my probation in prison. I had three years, almost three and a half, left on probation. No fucking way! I made plans to leave town. Each time I heard a knock at the door, I never answered it nor the phone. I had a fight with my sibling, so I didn’t care that I wasn’t going to Hawaii. I hunkered down in my apartment, hidden away from the $y$tem, for the next four or five months.
In February of 2002, I packed up my apartment and motorcycle and in the middle of the night left for Florida, to be with my parents for the first time in over 20 years. It’s not that I hate my parents, “it’s just that I feel better when they’re not around.” They were renting a house there while another was being built for them on some golf course. I moved in with them and quickly found a job building docks on the Inter Coastal Waterway, the ICW. I knew there was a warrant for my arrest and since it was a felony warrant I knew it would follow me wherever I went. Working with us was a part time cop. I never let on to anyone of my situation and after my 90 days they fired me with without reason, a totally legal move in the state of Florida. I was doing fine with the job, I think they knew about my warrant, but kept it to themselves.
My parents’ house was soon complete, so I moved in after closing to house site for them because they had to go back north for work. I lived, all alone, in this large house until the day I had to go to the post office.
I took my mother’s 350SL (disguised to look like a 500SL) to the post office. On my way home I was traveling down a speed trap and didn’t realize I was doing 50 in a 35 until the lights from a police car came on. I pulled over and gave the officer the paperwork. I knew I was going to jail. I lit my last cigarette, called my mother and waited for the officer to get the order to arrest. When he came back I just looked at him and offered my wrists for handcuffing. He smiled and said let’s go.
Sarasota County Jail sucks. It is very loud. It is in a high-rise building in the center of town, one of the richest counties in America. People such as Steven King, Oprah Winfrey and Jerry Springer all have homes there as well, so they don’t play around. By law they had 30 days to extradite me back to Georgia. If the state doing the requesting doesn’t show up after that time it usually means they don’t care about you and you are let go. After that date passed I was screaming to get out. They kept telling me they could release me, but as soon as I walked out the door they could arrest me again. After six weeks I finally went to Georgia.
I remember what the judge told me at sentencing, that if he ever saw me again in his courtroom he would place me in state prison until the expiration date of my probation. But as I spent time in Gwinnett County, I learned that my judge was finally put to pasture. Yahoo! Another reprieve from the U. I contacted my last lair…I mean lawyer, Michael, and he showed up for the hearing. He was able to get me credit for the time served, times two, I did at Sarasota. That was three months. He then sentenced me to another 90 days at the work release, but I asked for county jail and was given it. With that, I only had ot serve half of the sentence, rather than all of it at the work release. The haircuts had to end as well, plus I told those pricks at the other jail that they would never see me ever again and I keep my word.
When I got out, I flew down to Florida. Never fly again. (I was “randomly” pulled aside by the TSA for a strip search.) My instructions were for me to contact the probation department within 24 hours, but they wouldn’t take me. Even though it meant over 100 dollars a month to them, they didn’t want me in their $y$tem. Another break from the U. Georgia told me I could mail in my monthly probation with my 25 dollars I had to give them each month. Cha ching! None reporting probation. No more drug tests. I could be myself for the first time since 1999. I felt free. The judge told me that he would honor the first judge’s order that if I don’t get arrested for any other “crimes” he would expunge the file and I would have my voting rights restored. I won again. I made copies of the letter I was to send in and paid off probation so I didn’t have to send anymore money with the letters. Then I signed them all using a different pen each time. If I was never around to mail them, my parents were. I completed the probation, got my rights back, bought a house and continued with life as a “normal” person. During my probation I was stupid and after a schism with a lover, drove off on my motorcycle, drunk, hit a tree and got arrested. I never told Georgia. Fuck em.
The almost six years that followed Good Friday 1999 (which wasn’t so good for me), were six years I’d like to get back. So many people, spent too much money, lost great opportunities and lived with the an unending, uneasy feeling, which for myself was a blood lust for a fellow human being that has continued long past the end of my probation. Not as blood thirsty than you might think, but time after time a feeling that would creep in and overtake my thoughts.
It is time for former police officer Frederick J. Stemp Jr., to face his Saint Peter. Bang! You’re dead. I just killed you. Now you find yourself at the Pearle Gates. It’s your turn. Explain yourself. Why did I just kill you and was it my right to do so? Remember, Pet can pretty much see through you. You might have been able to deceive the juries, but you will never be able to deceive a true Christian.
Listen up Freddie, I am taking some time off. This past week has worn me out and I still have to edit and proof this work. I give you, Frederick J. Stemp, Jr., one week to write your response to Saint Peter and send it to me for publication. You and I are going to do some healing for all the world to learn. Also, I want it written just like I wrote my story on this page, or in my book Without A Gun, or like you wrote here, only stating the truth of your feelings and intentions during this incident and the years that followed. I want to see if you have a ploy to gain entry into the Kingdom of Heaven, or if you really have changed. I’ll bet you think you are smart enough to deceive Peter; you snake. You have nothing to worry about, the statute of limitations has run out. You won’t go to jail, or even lose you pension over telling us all the truth; maybe just your pride. I can tell you this, your twitter replies, and the way you blocked me, say to me you really haven’t, so it should be interesting to see how this “confession” will read. (I forgot, you’re Catholic.) You’re a database administrator, no? Great, maybe we need to hook up to build the database for the defections, since I quit doing that after my experiences with Donna Piranha. It will never happen if you don’t do it. I’ll be back and writing, periodically, the rest of this page where we will explore the life of Fred Stemp and what his core beliefs are that would make him believe that the decisions he has made in life have been holy and that he is not going to Hell. This will be done more intensively if I don’t receive and e-mail form Fred by August. Oh, oh, extortion. Now you know what it is like to play trial and have all these extortion demands made on you. Check back and refresh for the updates. Until then, peace.
Update: July 25, 2016
Fred Stemp has deleted his twitter account and reopened it in the past two or three days. (Doesn’t matter, I downloaded his information a year ago; I’ve been waiting for this day.) I am starting to believe that Fred Stemp is getting scared of who else is out there that he fucked over who would want to kill him if not only for the law? I don’t want to kill you, asshole, I want to stop calling you “asshole”. I want to heal. That is only going to come with your confession and my forgiveness. You confess to the pedophile....I mean the priest, so let’s hear it. Perhaps Fred just got a lesson on how people have not forgotten about the crimes he committed against them and how many of them may be looking for “pay back”. Maybe there is a lot more. At least he learned about internet security. A data base manager? Not sure I would want to work with you on this liberation. Maybe you’ve learned.
This weekend I was with the Dead & Company, where one of my neighbor’s for the weekend was a high school principle in disguise for various reasons. We talked and by the end of the night he (and others) pledged to write me in for president should Bernie Sanders fails us, which he probably will. I had forgotten all about this asshole, Stemp. Then the boys break out with a song called Wharf Rat. A line in the song reminded me of him: “All of my life, I spent doing time for some other fucker’s crime.” Not all my life, but since 1999. I did jail time for Fred Stemp’s crimes against me. That all came rushing back. All he had to do was his job, but he wanted to deviate from it and now I have PTSD because of it. But that wasn’t all. The encore blew my mind. It is a tune that I think should be apropos to this situation with Frederick J. Stemp, Jr.: Knocking on Heavens Door, by Bob Dylan. The boys did an excellent job with that tune that night. If I were he I would really listen closely to that song again. Take some LSD if you have to. The song that is/was playing is from the first time I saw the Grateful Dead play it. It is from JFK stadium in Philadelphia, on July 7, 1989. There, I dropped acid and danced with over 115,000 of you. What a ride! This show was turned into a CD and DVD.
Maybe, my concern for his going dark on the net is really no concern at all. Maybe he just wants some privacy while he heals me. Check back soon and we will all find out.
December 18, 2018
Fred, (stupid name), decided to go back into his cocoon and hide. He is no Michael Cohen, who read my book in early September and realized, Trump never let him win in the casino. Whatever it takes to get them to Jesus. This man will never have the come to Jesus moment like Mike, because he knows he’s evil, he doesn’t want his family or you to find out, and that scares him. This poor man cannot even hold down a steady job. He is truly a loser. But he is proud of his bullshit he’s been pretending he knows what to do. In fact, he placed his resume on line because he is so proud of his life. This guy was a bicycle cop that just got into a patrol car when he arrested me. Sue me Fred.
Oh Boy...lookie at what we got here...more to come soon...
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