Tears? Not from me, a man hardened by decades of daily abuse and harassment from the most petty, vicious and greedy people that the Earth has ever spawned. But a less tempered man would have been bludgeoned to tears by the abysmal hopelessness of this catch-22 type situation, so I detail here, hoping that knowledge of it will help get this problem fixed.

It began with a scummy little twerp who, police say, got caught in the act of a daytime burglary and gunned down a man in his own home as his wife watched. He then bashed through a glass door, bled all over the porch, hopped a chain-link fence, leaving a trail of blood that a dog pulled the cops across for five blocks before losing the scent. This was the cartoon version sold to jurors for creating a false conviction of me. The actual facts were, as in most trials, much more complex and pruned down to a nub so as not to confuse jurors or let their minds stray from the goal of declaring guilt. I wasted 13 years for all local, state, federal and supreme judges to show their true colors and line up together on the side of injustice. Then I escaped, uncovered the killer for them, and proof of corruption in steering the two witnesses onto me, concealing their crime scene descriptions of the killer, and stealing eight samples of his blood and 23 of his fingerprints. Upon returning with a grocery sack full of signed police reports proving massive evidence theft, I found that a new generation of crooks had taken over and were so absurdly corrupt that they refused to try me for escape! I’d stupidly told them that I could not escape from a conviction obtained through fraud.

The hordes of appeals judges again proved to be impervious to facts proving wholesale corruption among their fellow gov-crats. They all refused justice, and instead garbled up the record, then cleverly ruled on their garblings instead of the facts. More than four decades into this fraud, they finally let me “meet” the parole board. As expected, this is another fraud. After a grueling 90 minute trip, hogtied, to another prison, and hours of waiting in a barren, windowless cage with no books, not even graffiti to read, I get my turn to see them. They are on TV! Their lead dog is a silk suited dandy that appears almost life-size. His minions flick into view when he pushes a big button. They are far away, dark and unrecognizable. They can easily be mannequins, jerked to lifelikeness by thin threads. The screen flicks by itself between whichever of two images that the dandy chooses, himself (mostly) and me. I have no need to see myself, but their camera depicts me as a vulture sees roadkill; from a height, looking down. It does this for 3 seconds every ten seconds for my entire 15 minutes.

The dandy, who I’ve written for years as if he were a real doctor (as claimed) and a learned man, open to new concepts and ideas, has never written back. None of them have. He begins with the standard lawyer system hypocrisy about swearing to tell the truth. Then he asks questions, rehashing the prosecutor’s case against me. The first snag occurs when I do not agree to be guilty for him. He actually lets me reveal a fact concealed by police at trial: their one eyewitness to the crime was noted by the cops to be heard still screaming hysterically inside her home when the cops pulled up to the curb. I, careful not to offend any of them, try to articulate, gently, the fact that hysterical witnesses are not as likely to be accurate as calm ones.

The dandy hotly disagrees and begins to seem to testify to his fellows, as if he must convince them that I am a liar. He says, “I know from experience, personally, that eyewitnesses are accurate!” The exact opposite is true: the most unreliable evidence is eyewitness evidence. Every type of evidence is more reliable than eyewitness evidence. I let him rant, uncorrected.

The Catch-22 here is that the parole board is nothing more than another ulcer in the same appendage that created this fraud. As such, they are determined to defend it against all facts and logic. Any attempt to lead them to the innocence-proving facts results in a volcano of bile against even the suggestion of non-guilt.

The next snag occurs when I tiptoe around the fact that the police, prosecutors and FBI lab are caught in the act of lying about the blood and deliberately concealing it, then destroying it, then years layer, causing the fingerprint smudges to disappear out of police vaults as soon as they became sources of DNA. (My appeal to have them tested caused them to vanish.) The doctor begins loudly overtalking me, as if he is afraid that his fellows may hear and be convinced to stray from his agenda. He begins hurriedly testifying about how hard it is to get clean DNA off asphalt. I correct him. DNA was not available then. Remarkably, he remains relatively calm and quiet as I explain the fact that police had collected many times the amount of blood required type it for over 300 antigens. The details are too complex for them to listen to for more than a few seconds, but I get most of my point across before the “doctor” can recover and interrupt with more prosecutor style testifying. This was so far over his ability to refute that he could only say that “typing destroys the blood.” This is when I realized that he is not a real doctor, but only a “doctor” of divinity. His bio says he is both a doctor and a pastor. Any first-year medical student knows that antigens did nothing more than cause blood cells to clump together. They destroy nothing, and it can be tested further. It was appropriate, however, that one of the most judgmental and intolerant types of people (a religionist) usurped the highest seat of power available to him for his machinations.

I let him get away with his ignorance, as ignorant despises correction. I had made my point. I had sent each of them all of these police report and a roadmap of how they refuted the prosecutor, police and witness. None had seemed to have read any of them. I was impressed with the shallowness of their grasp of even the prosecutor’s cliff-notes. I conclude that they emptied their P.O. boxes directly into the landfill.

The suit concludes his case against me by testifying to the others a bit of trivia that I had not considered important. “I see here that the victim picked you out of only the third lineup.” This was undoubtedly something extra cooked up from the prosecutor for them. It indicates that they feel the cracks made in their fraud by my publishing their police reports on my website, JamesBauhaus.com. The lineup nonsense is a cartoonish lie too. Police spent over three months muddying her memory by bringing her boxes and boxes full of school house yearbooks and other mugshot sources. Cops would pick their own candidate for her to convict. There were more lineups than I had bothered to count; certainly more than three. The cops gradually steered her to me, forgot to destroy her crime scene description of the killer. He had short hair that was blonde or brown. He wore no glasses. I’ve worn glasses since age 12, my hair is unmistakably black and it was, it turns out, at least 5 inches longer than the killer’s hair, proven by her drawing by a police artist and a newspaper photo of me taken after the crime.

So now I know one more hard-won fact about the government and its parole board: parole requires guilt. Innocent men are an abomination to the infallible suits in control of justice. Feeling the word “justice”in my mouth makes me want to vomit. And for this, we pay each one of these persons $80,000 per year for five days of work per month. Insufferable arrogance and mind-bending immorality such as this exhibited by the law-lords every day should bring strong men to tears; tears of frustration, in that we can’t do better than this to protect the weakest from the high and mighty!