Deed Of Trust-North Carolina Deed Of Release Deed Of Trust Release: Fill & Download for Free

I’m writing this answer because I assume a few hundred people a year find themselves in this situation and they won’t know what to do. I’m writing a long answer giving all the details so if they search for similar stories using Google they might find this and be heartened by it.Super hard? Yes, I’m afraid so. But sometimes it’s the only option. Thanks, self, for asking! I did it, and it felt like I went through all nine circles of hell in the process. But if it absolutely must be done, here’s the drill:If only I knew then in 2008 what I know now in 2019, what tales my past self would whisper to my future self. Ghostly tales told with a flashlight shining up under my chin in dark of night. Chilling tales. Getting a bond title in North Carolina is scary.My story isn’t even all that weird—it’s just a hair too weird to get a free and clear title in North Carolina, so that’s why the bonded title. I bought a cheap used car in 2008 on finance in a debt shared by my ex and me, in Augusta, Georgia. A 2005 Scion.[1] Nothing to write home about, but it’ll probably run trouble free for years. About 6 months later in the fall of that year, my first marriage became irretrievably broken and I moved out and filed for divorce, stipulating that the Scion went to me and the Korean hatchback went to my ex husband, because even at that time our bank accounts were relatively separate and that’s who was paying for (and driving) what. Seemed fair.For reasons too complicated to get thoroughly into, a 500 dollar friendly divorce turned into a 3,000 dollar ex parte affair. If I had a single dollar for every time I said “ex parte” to some paeon on the phone in the course of trying to title this car, I could’ve bought at least a used Forester free and clear from the salvage lot on Patton Ave in Asheville. Or at least a moped.So the ex parte divorce was granted in Georgia in February, 2009, but at that time I was TDY in DC, preparing to PCS to Africa indefinitely, and the registration was still current in mine and my ex husband’s name in Georgia.I remained overseas for a long time. Years, actually. Pay was good. I paid off the car lickety split. If there ever was a release of lien, though, the bank sent from the bank to a dead mailbox in a suburb of Augusta, outside of Ft. Gordon. My ex husband and I both long gone, and purposefully not talking.After a period of time, life overseas started to feel more and more untenable to me and I quit my job and moved nearby family in North Carolina. Problem was that even though I had perfectly valid divorce papers that had the car transfer in writing, I’d have needed to remain in Georgia with a good lien release to actually transfer the car to me. I had neither.And at this point, driving this stupid car to Georgia (risking arrest along the way for a long-dead plate in the process) and hiring a lawyer to explain why I had Georgia title but no Georgia residency, then getting the title and filling out additional paperwork to transfer the title to North Carolina for a car registration was going to cost literally more than the car was worth.I had a large piece of metal in my driveway that I couldn’t get rid of. I couldn’t sell it. I couldn’t donate it for a tax deduction. Most junkyards wouldn’t take it. I was worried that if I left it unlocked on the bad side of town the police might find it and try to return it to me. No good!So I asked some questions on Quora:How do you register a car without a title in North Carolina?Why is it so hard to register your car if you don't have the title?If you were deeded a car in a divorce, how do you get a copy of the title?Can you donate a car without a title to a charity such as the Salvation Army or Goodwill in the United States?Is there any state where I can register my car in a single day without a title?What happens if you abandon a vehicle in North Carolina and do not attempt to retrieve it?In the process I found out (for the very first time) that “bond” titles were thing that you could do if you weren’t able to get a regular title for a car due to extraordinary circumstances. Sounds good. So I decided to take a week off of work (paid vacation) and see if I couldn’t figure out how to pull this off at my leisure.I also happen to be privy to some locals-only information that the NC DMV Tag office at Marshall, NC is simply superb and worth the trip if you live within an hour of there. You’ll never have a nicer, cozier experience at a DMV everywhere. 10/10 would go again! Seriously they’re super sweet. Any indictment of the system forthcoming comes with only the very nicest things to say about its frontline support team. Let’s give underappreciated bureaucrats and civil servants a well-deserved ovation!This is an image from their facebook page, to give you an idea about how small-town Pinteresty cute these Marshall DMV folks are.Day 1 of my week off work. Research required documents from the DMV.First thing I did was definitively rule out getting a “straight” title. Based on the cost of the required steps and the resale value of the car (1500–2000) it was out of the question.Second thing I did was look up what a “bond” title would require (mind you I’m not a used car salesperson and I don’t do this for a living)You need a affidavit of facts as to how you found yourself in this ridiculous situation. This has to be notarized. The license and theft inspector will need to see it filled out before they do their report (more on this later)You will need a licence and theft inspection certificate from the law enforcement arm of the DMV.To get this, I showed them my divorce decree putting the car in my name and a replacement “release of lien” letter notarized from my former lienholder, USAA. The also accepted a (non-notarized) version of the affidavit of facts for a missing title document.I scheduled a visit ahead of time for the License and Tag office to come to my house to inspect the car since it was technically inoperable due to a long-expired Georgia tag. They seem to operate on a first-come first-serve schedule. This visit took me 2 weeks to set up. I had to say “ex parte” and “overseas” and “I have all the papers” many times over the phone to make it happen.Day 2 of my week:Contact Marshall DMV via facebook to find out the tax value of my car ($2470) so I can ask my insurer for a surety bond that covers 1.5 times that.FYI: in North carolina basically all surety bonds are $100 dollars.Meet with the license and theft inspector at my home and get him to fill out a form saying he saw my car and didn’t think it seemed to be stolen (based on documents I gave him proving definitively it was mine)Day 3 of my week:Call my auto insurers (also USAA—the GREATEST BANK EVER) to see about getting a surety or indemnity bond as required by the State of NC.End up getting routed to the financial investment office at USAA due to my saying “bond” over the automated phone systemGet routed back to insurance. Talk to a nice lady who asks me to write a bunch of “holographic” affidavits and scan them to her explaining what happened to the original title.Scanning documents is freakin’ hard. Be smart and get u a cam scanner or similar smartphone app on Google Play, or just do what I ended up doing (later) and fax them. Scanning is bullshit. Oy.Scan the same divorce and DMV documents 5–6 times and email them again and again, and again, and………again. Because “the edges look cut off on Page 6”Find out that the MVR-92 H form has to be filled out in front of a notary in order for the bond to be effective.Tell the representative “no, I can’t get my ex husband to handwrite an affidavit saying he let me have the car. It’s in the dang divorce decree already and as much as I’m fond of the poor guy, it’s not like he’s in my rolodex these days. That ship has sailed. (ex parte, ex parte, ex parte, ex parte)”The bond is 100 bucks and I’ve just spent 6.5 hours on the phone with an insurance salesman (saleswoman already went home for the night—just keep saying “ex parte, ex parte, ex parte” stick to your guns) trying to sort this out. Poor guy probably works on commission and is learning less than the saddest, shittiest Quora Partner from my business with him. I actually feel bad for him. But this simply has to be done. I can’t afford to keep this car unregistered anymore.Day 4Wake up at 7:00 AM. Futz around the house for a bit. Drive to the Marshall DMV to get the MVR-92 H notarized, per instructions.Field several further requests from bonding agency to resend different pdfs and JPGs of relevant documents. It’s a few hundred emails and photographs of documents, literally. It takes hours.Pay 5 dollars per notarized signature (total: 15 dollars)Pay 100 dollars for bond title as expected (after spending an additional 20 dollars at the UPS store to actually FAX documents in since the scans and photos weren’t cutting it)Get fax receipt at 4:30 PM from UPS store.Drive to the nearest tag office. Find out that the bond on tax value should not have been issued on a conversation “over the phone” smile real nice. It’s 4:59. The office closes at 5. The lady takes it easy on you for once.Correct your notarized affidavit because you messed it up a bit (another 5 bucks for renotarization)Show them all your other collected documents.Choose a plate—”In God We Trust”, “First in Freedom”, or “First in Flight”. As an abstaining nontheist Quaker I went with “First in Flight,” natch, and wondered if the license plate lady was judging me the whole time for not saying “In God We Trust”.I asked about a “Partially Disabled Veteran” plate and got told “yes, but we don’t keep those in stock”. I plan on going back in a bit and changing out for one, though, just in case my partial disability is relevant to anyone who would otherwise wish to pull me over for bad driving. We take what we can get! Every little bit helps!Pay another 199 dollars and a few cents for a legit NC plate (handed to me literally over the effing counter) with a year to get my car emissions inspection in order (inshallah).Get let out of the DMV office by a security guard, long after the doors were finally locked for the evening.Day 5–7Go camping and drink a fuck ton of cheap bourbon and a dude who enjoys hanging out with me sometimes. Woo hoo!In conclusion: an experience I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, made brighter by a few kind souls. Good learning and preparation for when I plan to bring the famed Toyota Tacoma from California, NC side. Thanks for reading!Footnotes[1] http://Annika Peacock's answer to What type of car do you drive and what does that say about you? (https://www.quora.com/What-type-of-car-do-you-drive-and-what-does-that-say-about-you/answer/Annika-Peacock#)

In November 1978, I had six months earlier been honorably discharged from a three year stint in the Navy and was sentenced to 20 years hard labor in the Commonwealth of Virginia for Armed Robbery. Convicted in Newport News, about three weeks later, I was transferred “behind the walls” to Richmond, otherwise known as 500 Spring Street . “The walls” were aptly named as the prison was inside the city and the walls around the prison were easily a good thirty-forty feet high. You could not see out and you could not see in. It was a cold, miserable place. At the time there was no shrubbery or trees or any living plant life inside the living area. Everything else was red dirt, concrete, iron and brick. Years later grass was planted in some areas of the buildings and tufts of grass peppered the athletic field in erratic patterns and lent a little color to the palette. Your only sense of the outside world was to look up at the blue sky and see the white clouds as they scurried by.This is James P. Mitchell who was Warden of 500 Spring Street the day I arrived. He was a no foolin’ round kind of guy. This video gives you an excellent inside look at the prison after it was condemned and shut down. I see my old cell in Building Three on the top tier. Just seeing it again brought a sinking feeling and a spirit quenching moment.I was assigned to Cell Block 3 (Segregation), West side, third tier. I spent the first day checking in, getting my clothing, bedding and hygiene products. Meeting counselors and doing paperwork. At the time, this prison was the most secure, maximum security prison in Virginia and I had been sent there because I had an administrative hold (warrant) on me from the State of South Carolina for another Armed Robbery. In the history of the walls Black men were electrocuted for TOUCHING a White woman. A decidedly racist environment. Anyone with an admin hold was deemed high risk for escape and was treated with extreme caution, which meant leg irons and waist chains everywhere you went outside your cell. It was a soul crushing, physically debilitating experience. You couldn’t run, skip or dance a jig; but, shuffled around with your leg irons cutting into your Achilles tendon and rubbing your ankle bones raw. If you were a problem or had a smart attitude they had a tactic to put you in your place. A guard would walk up behind you as you passed by and kick one foot behind the other, causing you to trip. With no way to break your fall (with your hands shackled to your waist) an unexpected trip would result in a face plant and many black eyes and chipped or broken teeth. It was almost inevitably accompanied by an “Oops, watch your step” and laughter from the guard. There was no mercy for the convicted. Not all COs were pricks; but, enough of them to make your life miserable if they wanted to. You felt absolutely helpless. There are no witnesses to anything in prison. Shady CO’s perform their deeds in private. Lots of blind corners, empty rooms and hallways in a prison. I think in hiring the guards they had put an ad in the paper, “Sadists wanted.” You just had to bow your head, make yourself as invisible as possible and tough it out.Because I was awaiting transfer to SC for additional charges I was not placed in Gen Pop (general population); but, kept in the Ad Seg (Administrative Segregation) Unit on lock down. Lock down is staying in your cell 23 hours a day with one hour for a shower and exercise three times a week. Your world was a five by nine by eight feet concrete and steel box in a cavernous tomb like building built a hundred years ago. Everything was rusty and mildewed with black and green mold. The smell of urine and the mildew was stifling and within days you developed a hacking cough that produced a yellow slime from your lungs. During the Summer months the humidity and heat brought another stench, the smell of human funk. In the winter months we huddled under thread bare, scratchy wool blankets, our breath creating vapor trails as everyone wheezed with the flu which raged rampant in those close quarters. The lights never went out. The rats ran over the pipes and down the halls with impunity and cockroaches swarmed the cells, running over your face and body as you slept. It wasn’t unusual to wake up and find a cockroach perched at the corner of your mouth or eye looking for moisture. It was a 24 hour a day cacophony of doors clanging shut, locking levers and mechanisms being thrown in and out of battery, buzzers going off, loudspeaker announcements, whistles, COs barking orders, and shouting and screaming by other prisoners and guards. The crescendo of sound dropped to a dull roar between the hours of midnight and 6 a.m. Every four hours a siren wailed and it was count time. You were required during standing counts to be at the door of your cell to be counted (three standing counts and three in-place counts every day). You were housed with another inmate you hoped and prayed was a decent sensible person. I was lucky, my cellie was a guy named Mitch from the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Like me, he was a young, early twenties fellow that was soft spoken, genuine and didn’t belong in this God awful place. We were both thankful for someone to lean on in this hellhole.The only saving grace of this situation is you were not put out in the general population with all the crazies with multiple life sentences and thousand year convicts who cared about nothing and no one. Violence erupted at the slightest provocation or pretext of “disrespect”. You minded your own business, did not speak to anyone you absolutely didn’t have to and avoided protracted eye contact unless you wanted a confrontation. As a new arrival most confrontations were a test to see if you could be “punked”. Any sign of weakness resulted in the predators converging on you to see what havoc they could wreak. With little else to do, the predatory sickos were obsessed with the weak and toyed with and tested them mercilessly, day after day. If you ever backed down or showed any sign of reluctance to fight back, your life was hell from then on out. To get your “cred” back, you had to at some point seriously hurt someone (shank or club someone) to get the crazies to back off. Daily life was something to be tolerated and ended each day with a prayer, thankful that you were one day closer to your release.A year later I was transferred to stand trial for my crimes in my home State of South Carolina. I was sent to the notorious CCI in Columbia. A crumbling, turn of the century dungeon that housed South Carolina’s death row and execution chamber. The conditions of this prison were horrendous, thus it’s name the “Prison from Hell.”https://www.thestate.com/news/local/article183488606.html Click on “Listen to this article” beneath the video.Thankfully once again, I was not placed in Gen Pop. Four more months of lockdown. By now I had been on lock down for over a year and a half [almost 13,140 hours 788,400 minutes]. It took about 120 days for my case to come to trial. I received an additional twenty years sentence to run concurrent (at the same time) as my Virginia sentence. When I returned to Virginia I was assigned to Powhatan Correctional Center (the State Farm) and was so thankful for being moved to Gen Pop and off lock down. Powhatan was another maximum security facility located on a sprawling farm next to the James River.Inmate labor worked the farm and provided food for the facility as well as many of the other correctional units nearby. Because of my concurrent sentence from South Carolina I received a detainer on my custody status and remained at the highest security classification my entire term of detention. About four years in, my appeal was successful and a determination was made that I had not used a gun in the commission of this crime as the victim had contended. The victim had falsely and maliciously claimed I had a gun when I did not. This was pre video surveillance and a camera smartphone in everybody’s hands. Seven witnesses and no one else had seen a gun. My charge was changed from Armed Robbery to Strong Arm Robbery and my sentence was reduced from twenty years to eleven. Elation and tears of joy swept my body, I felt like I had won the lottery. Routine set in. I worked at various jobs in the prison complex. I did piece work as a seamster making prison uniforms. After taking a welding course I worked in repairs and construction for the surrounding facilities. My most distasteful job was working on the “kill floor” at the prison abattoir. Just prior to slaughter, animals are walked up a raceway into the abattoir where they enter the stunning box. ... As soon as the animal is stunned, it is shackled by a hind leg and then the large blood vessels are severed to induce bleeding (a process known as 'sticking'). That was my job, the stunning and the sticking. I believe I was assigned that job out of spite by prison authorities, as my love of animals was well known. It was no secret I had a pet mouse and a pet cat in the institution. It was devastating to me and a mind numbing experience to be the taker of life on that scale. We processed tens of thousands of pigs and cows. All of whom were dispatched by my hands. Crazies kept their distance from me. After all, I was the only convict on the yard with a gun and a razor sharp ten inch knife that took a hundred lives every day. Every evening I would lay on my bunk, stare off into the distance and muse in disbelief about the enormity of it. Three days a week I tutored illiterate inmates, coaxing them towards their GED.Unless you were independently wealthy before being committed or have well to do people on the outside, most inmates have to find a hustle to pay for the little extras that make life bearable in a prison environment. I was amazed at the ingenuity displayed by some who were sixth grade educated. You must understand from the onset that things of this nature were an “us against them” exercise. Hustles were generally victimless, except maybe the State. It was survivalism and ingenuity at it’s finest. I judged no one for their hustle. I pointedly didn’t have anything to do with their hustles, because if they flop or more importantly get caught you don’t want to be blamed as somebody in the know. Inmates who worked the kitchen plied the food trade. A fat, hot, grilled, real eggs and real cheese sandwich could be had from 4a.m. to 8 pm 7 days a week. For the right money (three First Class stamps or 5 stamps for two sandwiches). They were also the source for someone wanting to make “mash or pruno” (alcohol) as they could get the necessary sugar and yeast. Some of the kitchen workers ran delis. You could arrive each day to a selected table in the dining room and have waiting fresh vegetables and fruits and high end protein foods. Things stolen from the guards kitchen or just not available to the rest of population. It all came at a cost or trade. Inmates who worked the laundry hustled dry cleaning and wash & iron services for the better heeled. Then there were the stores. You could borrow food stuffs and cosmetics usually one for two back on payday (some items like Ramen noodle soups were two for three back). Then you had the guys who ran the gambling and drugs. Some of the better educated and savvy ran legal services and institutional infraction advisories. Some who worked outside the fence specialized in bringing contraband into the institution. Then you had your armorers you could buy weapons from. If you could cut hair or do braiding or any other kind of specialty with hair, you were always in demand.My running partner and best friend was an Italian kid from Brooklyn, of course his name was Anthony and he went by Tony. We had a very specialized hustle. We could bring back through the visitation shakedown process (which involved stripping naked, raising your nut sack and spreading your buttocks and opening your mouth rolling your tongue around fingers through the hair) the contraband brought in through the visiting room. Most contraband brought to an institution was brought on visiting days by visitors. Visitors went through very strict pat down and some strip search routines if they were suspect of anything illicit; but, the right to visit, if you had done nothing wrong, was kind of a sacred right as people sometimes came great distances to visit. So however people were able to smuggle items into the visiting room was up to them. It was then the package was handed off to us and we made it disappear from the visiting room and reappear on the prison yard, for either a cut or a fee. We used this dodge at least a thousand times for the seven and a half years of my incarceration in Virginia and were never caught. Tony left first and when I left I sold the method for $2500. My personal hustle stemmed from that ability to bring in contraband. My visitors would bring me cigarettes. I would tell you how we did it; but, out of respect for whomever is still there, someone may still be using this hustle, so I cannot divulge our method. With the advent of tobacco being restricted from prisons, a cigarette was worth what dope was. During those years, with the price of a pack of cigarettes being what they were (1978 $0.36 1979 $0.40 1980 $0.45 1981 $0.49 1982 $0.60 1983 $0.63 1984 $0.72 1985 $0.78 1986 $0.85 1987 $0.94) you could get as much as a dollar (or equivalent) a cigarette. With a cost of two to five cents each and selling for a dollar, it was more profitable than cocaine or heroin. In addition it was a whole lot easier for a visitor to explain a pack of cigarettes on them than an ounce of dope and with tobacco not being per se illegal the worst they could do to me were institutional charges (not outside criminal court). With good time, work credits and education credits I maxed out that 11 year sentence in 7½ years and was returned to South Carolina.In South Carolina, with 7½ years under my belt and no detainer I quickly moved into “trustee” status and was housed at a minimum security housing unit, which meant dormitory style housing with more freedom but less privacy. Now I was close to home and had people who knew people, which definitely helped. The prison warden, “Ms. Rick”, was a member of a church my father had preached at when I was a boy. She was my guardian angel. It was good to be home. I was assigned a plum job as a driver to transport inmates from prison to prison and from remote camp units to prison hospitals and court appearances. My van was assigned a single guard who accompanied me everywhere I went. My assigned guard was a five foot, chubby Black woman I called “Mrs. G”. She was the best. Many times when we were on our way to or from an assignment she would tell me to pull into a McDonalds and she would treat me to a Big Mac, fries and a shake. She had a strict policy of foregoing fries to watch her hips; but, she ate TWO Big Macs. That little woman could put down some groceries. After eight years of incarceration, this was manna from heaven for me. Mrs. G mothered me and after a year of working together she even trusted me to go into malls unaccompanied and walk around and just look at everything. After so many years of institutionalization any exposure to public things was mesmerizing. She would give me a dollar, or two if it was payday, to buy a soda and a ice cream cone. As I said, she was the bomb.Many people have asked what a “day in the life” of being a prisoner is. I have to tell you it is different for every single person in that prison. Other than shared communal activities and meals, everyone and everything is a wild card. Everyone has their path to making this journey. That being said, a day in my life as an inmate had many variations. During the time I was in Ad-Seg was one set of circumstances. Then during the time I was in Gen Pop doing distasteful work another. Or when I was a trustee with considerable freedoms? They were all very different “days in the life” of a man behind bars.Reading was my escape. After all, books can take you anywhere, keep you floating on a cloud of imagination and be that one thing you look forward to with an otherwise fairly forlorn agenda. I read at least one every three days, so I would say I read about a thousand books over a 9 year period. I had a friend who signed me up and paid for 3–4 book clubs. I loaned out the newest novels for canteen. You may be surprised to know the most loaned out books had to do with the OJ Simpson crime, trial and after life. They were worth their weight in gold for earning value.I guess the most painful “day in the life” was while I was on Ad-Seg lockdown and not any given day, just the whole lockdown experience. Making a home out of a coffin-sized living space brought back memories of my Navy bunk on a guided-missile cruiser; but, without the camaraderie that makes it worthwhile. Your personal space gets real small. The monotony of nothing to do was ever present. I read a lot of books and found reading to be the escape I needed to breach those walls. Unless you were an early riser, a day started with the 7 am distribution of breakfast. A cup of coffee stretched with chicory flavoring. A biscuit with some yellow stuff in it (supposedly eggs - probably artificial - they were poured from a carton) and some fatback to chew on (extra biscuit one First Class letter stamp). 8 am was the first standing count of the day. After breakfast and count, we started a cleaning routine that involved scrubbing the entire cell down with toothbrushes and lye soap. Done daily it was probably overkill; but, it took up about two hours of every morning and made sense to us being in a constant state of lockdown and close living conditions. After cleanup, it was exercise time. Pushups, situps, resistance curls, squats, and jogging in place. We were pretty creative when it came to outfitting our personal gyms. Breaking a sweat was our objective and it took a good hour to achieve. Two thirty minute sessions because there was only enough floorspace for one person at a time. One exercised while the other provided the count. We had no watches or clock. After a good sweat and a brief birdbath, it was time for the 12 noon count and then lunch. Lunch was an orange, apple, or banana with a bologna and cheese sandwich and a carton of milk. Mustard packs were quite the commodity as the only thing that brought the bologna sandwich to life. Getting an extra sandwich cost one stamp (another stamp for an extra slice of bologna, one slice of cheese and two mustard packs – another stamp for extra fruit). From 8 am - 4 pm we were not allowed to be in or on our bunks. So we sat on the floor, leaned up in one corner or another, as we spent some quality time reading or snoozing. The afternoon was sprinkled with medical appointments and counseling sessions. After the 4 pm count, we could lay on our bunks again and 6 pm brought supper. A thin gruel of some kind of soup (saw a lot of onion, cubed carrots and kernel corn) and a fist-sized chunk of cornbread/or brown bread washed down with one eight-ounce cup of sweetened tea (extra cornbread/brown bread and tea – 1 stamp). 7-9 pm brought showers and one hour of exercise three times a week in a caged in twenty-five by twenty-five feet enclosure, open to an inky night sky above. This rec area was shared with the death row inmates. After returning to our cells, some letter writing and making entries into my personal journal kept things real and in perspective. More reading until I fell asleep. Wake up in the morning and do it all again. I spent 788,400 minutes on lockdown in Ad-Seg. Possibly some of the longest minutes of my life.A day in Gen Pop worked around the same counts as the rest of the institution. After 8 am count, work crews formed at the gates and inside workers got on their brooms and cleaning duties, or whatever their assigned tasks were. Your daily job was scheduled from 8-4 with a ten-minute break each hour. Bag lunches were distributed at noon and after another count eaten on the fly during breaks. The same fruit and sandwich (workers got two cartons of milk); but, for variety added SPAM and other cold cuts to the offerings. Just that little variety probably kept us from going nutso. You eat a baloney and cheese sandwich every day for five years and see if it doesn’t make YOU a little twitchy. From 4 pm count to 8 pm count was free time. You could go to the yard, run around the track, play cards in the common areas, watch TV, eat supper in the dining hall, workout at the weight pile, get a haircut, hang out at the [law] library, engage in any religious or educational objectives, take a shower, wash clothes, clean up and arrange your “house” or just sit in the sun, catch some rays and top off your Vitamin D. After an 8 pm standing count we could come out of our cells, into a common area, play cards, mix foods and talk until 10pm, after which we were locked in our cells for the night. Reading, drawing, writing, playing chess/checkers or cards whiled away the time until you fell asleep. At midnight and 4 am we were counted while we slept. Wake up the next morning and do it all again.My time as a trustee was probably the easiest time I served. Being a “AA –Driver” trustee meant I was on permanent “out count”. Which meant I was the responsibility of the assigned guard to my van and I didn’t have to be any particular place when the rest of the institution had standing counts. I could come and go out the gates of the institution to the vehicle pool whenever I wanted to. From 6 am to 8 pm I had free run to be almost anywhere in the institution inmates were allowed; but, for the most part, I was on the road, picking up and dropping off inmates at various institutions and work camps. Up at 6 am every morning by 6:30 I was out the gate cleaning, washing, and fueling up my van with a cup of real coffee in my hand from the guard’s shack. Depending on the schedule for the day Mrs. G and I were on the road by 7 am. Mrs. G’s daughter worked at a Dunkin Donuts so Mrs. G had an endless supply of DD coffee and brought a giant thermos full every day. She also had a hook up with the guard’s kitchen (her husband was a supervisor) and had them pack biscuits with real butter and real eggs and sausage and Smucker’s grape jelly. Mrs. G loved to eat. Giant flakey biscuits with butter, eggs, sausage and grape jelly, I could get five stamps apiece if I smuggled one back into the institution. The van was my kingdom. I drove, operated the two way radio with ten codes and times, reporting our progress to Central Communications, and delivering an ongoing count of how many inmates we had with us and where we were going next. I made sure we stayed on time and schedule, read the maps if necessary while Mrs. G watched the road for what we called “pirates” (civilians who would interfere with the operations of the van or try to pull off an escape of an inmate) and kept an eye on the prisoners we had on board. A two feet long mirror above her head gave her a bird’s eye view of everything/everyone in the van; but, she hated it because it also showed the bald spot on the top of her head. In the year and a half I drove vans, we never had any escape attempts; but, we did have one incident.We were headed to Columbia, SC with a van load of prisoners from outlying camps headed to the main prison hospital for medical appointments. I noted Mrs. G had been quiet for about 30 minutes. I looked over and saw her with eyes closed taking what looked like a brief siesta. This was highly unusual with prisoners in the back. About five minutes later Mrs. G’s coffee cup slipped out of her hand and crashed to the floor. I looked again and saw her head lolled to the side and her eyes were rolled up into their sockets. We were still an hour from our destination at the prison hospital. It was absolutely forbidden to stop the van anywhere with prisoners on board, except inside an institution’s gates. I didn’t care, this was Mrs. G. I drove until I saw the next blue “H” sign at an off ramp, designating a hospital at this exit. Driving like a bat out of hell, I pulled into the Emergency Room entrance, jumped out and ran inside to summon help. Mrs. G was a diabetic and had a blood sugar event which had lead to a heart attack. I called in the emergency and explained the situation to Central Communications and while we sat waiting I regaled the ten prisoners in the back about how we would all be getting time cuts for this. I wasn’t sure about that; but, I was mainly concerned with trying to keep an escape from occurring compounding my decision to stop. In about an hour, prison authorities arrived without incident from the nearest prison facility. The doctor said in fifteen minutes it would have been too late. Mrs. G was out for sixty days; but, when she came back we were as thick as thieves and I was her adopted son. Instead of being reprimanded and punished for breaking protocol, they cut five years off my sentence.June 1986, I went before the parole board for the first time and was denied, which was not uncommon. No one made first parole unless they paid some powerful lawyer a God awful amount of money. June of 1987, after nine years of incarceration, I again went before the parole board and was released on parole. In August of 1987, I started college and completed a four year degree in three years. Graduating in 1990, I received a BS in Business Admin. and Computer Science from Erskine College and never looked back. Within that three years I also paid off the Court ordered restitution to my victims and shortly after graduation, maxed out my 15 year sentence with 12 on a 15 (because I had paid off my restitution I forewent the customary period of probation after parole - I was a free man). I worked for Lucent Technologies in Atlanta for the ten years (1996–2006) of its existence as an IT Manager. Working on an MS in Criminal Justice from Purdue. Went to Piedmont Technical College and got an AS in Machine Tool Technology/CNC programming. I intermittently worked for JACOBS engineering for years as a precision millwright doing turbine and motor alignments making $125,000/year. Between stints with JACOBS I took short term contract work overseas as a translator for our American troops and various NGOs in Afghanistan. After thirty-five years I received a full pardon from both South Carolina and the Commonwealth of Virginia. I became a notary public, an ordained minister, got my Concealed Weapons Permit from South Carolina and an FFL from The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives' (ATF) Federal Firearms Licensing Center (FFLC) [currently seeking SOT]. I now own my house, vehicles, a lake property and a boat free and clear and with 7 grandchildren have had a very fulfilling life. It was all because of the kindness of the people from my hometown and church who were willing to give me a second chance. My special thanks to Lee and Eleanor, Bill and Emilie, Jim and Sandra. They were with me, in a supportive role, every step of the way.

1-Edward Stanton.There are several things wrong with this guy.First, in 1855...He snubbed the young attorney, Abe Lincoln when they were both hired to defend a man who challenged Cyrus McCormack's reaper patent."Lincoln was not made aware that he had been replaced, and still appeared at the proceedings in Cincinnati with his arguments prepared. Stanton's apprehension towards Lincoln was immediate and severe, and he did well to indicate to Lincoln that he wanted him to absent himself from the case."He proceded to rig the evidence and create a subterfuge that fooled the lower court."However, to assure a win, Watson (another attorney on Stanton's team) opted to use duplicity—he employed a model maker named William P. Woods to retrieve an older version of McCormick's reaper and alter it to be presented in court. Woods found a reaper in Virginia which was built in 1844, one year prior to McCormick's patent being granted. He had a blacksmith straighten the curved divider, knowing that the curved divider in Manny's (the man being sued by McCormack for stealing his invention) reaper would not conflict with a straight one in McCormick's reaper. After using a salt and vinegar solution to add rust to where the blacksmith had worked to ensure the antiquity of the machine was undeniable, Woods sent the reaper to Cincinnati. Stanton was joyed when he examined the altered reaper, and knew the case was theirs."Then, in 1859...He defended an adulterer, Daniel Sickles, who himself shot his wife's paramour, when he found out."Sickles' wife had began an affair with Philip Barton Key, the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia and the son of Francis Scott Key, writer of The Star-Spangled Banner. On Sunday, February 27, 1859, Sickles confronted Key in Lafayette Square, declaring, "Key, you scoundrel, you have dishonored my home; you must die", then shot Key to death (actually wounding him in the groin, and that lead to his death)." Sickles' life is like the stuff of "Drunk History". Also, the first use of an insanity plea in the US.Later...He was a Secretary of War during the Civil War, and consistenly locked horns with President Lincoln in executive decisions.He took on General Sherman at the end of the civil war to place a negotiated truce in N. Carolina on hold and put the nation back at war, unnecessarily."In late May, there would be a Grand Review of the Armies, where the Union Army would parade through the streets of Washington. Halleck offered the hospitality of his home to Sherman; the general bluntly refused. He informed Grant of his rejection, stating as well that he would only listen to orders from Stanton if they were explicitly sanctioned by the President as well. Sherman further stated that "retraction or pusillanimous excusing" would no longer cut it. The only thing acceptable to Sherman would be for Stanton to declare himself a "common libeller". "I will treat Mr. Stanton with like scorn & contempt, unless you have reasons otherwise, for I regard my military career as ended, save and except so far as necessary to put my army into your hands.In the ultimate act of his infamy, 1868...The country's only impeachment trial, (until William Clinton) was all about Stanton making himself a nuisance, and the process of reconstruction after the Civil War. Stanton barricaded himself in his office when President Andrew Johnson wanted him to resign from his position as Secretay of War. "Johnson became singularly focused on enacting Stanton's downfall." When the results of the ensuing impeachment failed, Stanton agreed to resign.Edwin Stanton - WikipediaA conspiracy to assassinate Lincoln by Northern cotton brokers making a fortune by secret supply lines breaching embargo and blockades by using Union enemy line passes corruptly generated. Stopping the war meant a return to pre-war cotton commerce and ruining their control of supply and market demand by how much they were making available. It was the equivalent of modern war’s for scarce natural resources. More war, more profit. Who was behind the execution of this execution? Edward Stanton, a nefarious character finding himself in a position of limitless power, as Secretary of War. The Northern war machine was run by his say-so. A thoroughly vicious and diabolical man. He instituted a draft and suspended a basic rule of law, the writ of habeas corpus. Sitting on Lincoln’s cabinet, he hardly had to take accounatabilty if policies were dastardly. The Lincoln personna was to emulate profound humanity. That kept Stanton free to manipulate. He had the Pinkerton detectives at his disposal. He had Booth hired. He kept Booth from being caught after The Deed, and found another to act as a body double, which caused Booth to be declared dead and free of inquiring minds. He controlled access to the dead body, spirited it away to a prison sub-basement and had it buried in a vault at a undisclosed location.“The Lincoln Conspiracy” by D. Balsiger and C.E. Seller, Jr.2-Henry Kissinger: US Sec. of State under Nixon. Creator of national policies to overthrow foreign governments and responsible for the death of thousands in Chile, Cambodia and East Timor3-Oliver North: Colonel in Marines made deals to fund rebel Nicaraguan contras to overthrow Sandinista government (seen as Communist foothold in Western hemisphere) from the sales of arms to Iran. This program was illegally carried on without Congressional oversight and also was trying to broker release of US hostages held in Lebanon. There was evidence of a cover-up with documents shredded to avoid government subpoena. His defensive posture was the noble serviceman whose sole purpose was to bring all military men home, including those he pictured as “lying face-down” in foreign battlefield puddles. The battlefield cemeteries filled with US vets in The Ardannes and Normandy beach, France, not withstanding. His hyperbole created an insinuation that namby-pamby congessional legislation is in the way when men of action do real work. As in, “You can't handle the truth.” Also called military coup d’état.4-William Randolph Hearst: Vast publishing empire who’s yellow journalism represented the creating and sensationilizing of war to increase sales and circulation of newspaper. The tail wags the dog. Citizen Kane was fictionalized version of his story.5-Richard Nixon: In 1972 hired “plumbers” to fix leaks by covering up his Committee to Re-elect the President’s (CREEP) operation to steal info from the opposition Democratic Party Headquarters at the Watergate Hotel. The name now epitomizes scandal. He resigned in 1974 facing impeachment. The severity of his crookedness, the on-going Viet Nam conflict that he favored and escalated, the diminishment of an evolving Baby Boomer majority’s higher consciousness by his excessive ‘straightness’ and the aftermath of permeating distrust for cops, government and all authority had long term national consequences.6-O.J.: Making the nation divided by trying to turn the discourse away from domestic violence and into fair treatment in due process without bias from your race. The decision by some to say fame and fortune can allow you to get away with murder. The assumption by others that he was framed by the white police of the LAPD. A belief in the concept, “If some one like him can't succeed, then no black man will ever be treated as a success in this country.”7-Jon Bonet Ramsey’s murderer: all child murderers, but especially those getting away with it. Case specifics. The community, the family, the socio-economic status, the conventional church attendance on news footage. If this American family can't have normalcy, will it ever happen?8-Andy Warhol: His style, his look, his point about 15 minutes of fame, his insouciance. He is not cool. He is too cool. “You don't get it. You’re not from NYC. Who are you, again? Do I know you? Should I? Who do you know? Is that Gene Rayburn? I’ve got to go…”9-Bernie Madoff: Admitted mastermind behind the Ponzi scheme that is the largest known case of financial fraud in US history. Cheating those millions of dollars out of people and all the others who have no concern for your welfare except as it concerns their ambition to accumulate more wealth. Wealth as an ends unto itself with no useful application to capitalism, philanthropy or generating employment through entrepreneurial enterprise.10-J. Edgar Hoover: FBI director who put together a list of undesirables that could be investigated, secretly monitored, and had covert reprisals instituted like secret toxins spiked in a coffee. Also, setting-up adulterers by sending prostitutes, unbeknownst to the mark, to receive a seductive proposal. The most well-known target was Martin Luther King, Jr. The list has no known limits. People who understood, wondered about the existence of their place on the “shit list.” People take a childish solace in learning he secretly dressed in women's lingerie. Despite the perversion, and the irrelevance of his private behavior, it does reveal that his own ability to remain free of surveillance was compromised. Surely, he would not allow such emasculating facts to surface. Whether an enemy or even if the veracity of the rumor is in doubt, the perception reached the public domain. It implies enough to cause it's desired effect.11-Louis Farrakhan: religious leader of the Nation of Islam based in Chicago, is a long-time activist for African American rights. If that was my problem with him, I'd lose credibility. He has a very inflammatory style. Purported to be anti-Semitic and anti-White. Black people want a solution to repeated instances of unfair behavior directed at them for no reason that they can control. Having stated the problem, I recognize my duty and find it in my compassion as a humanist to care and act approriately. I stand up and do what it takes to be excellent. Be neighborly. I reserve the right to trust the person-to-person discourse. I'm secure in the concept that a systematic way for race relations to change can be about ignoring prejudice and being there in the moment and liking or not liking the person, individually. If Farrakhan is motivated by alleviating suffering, excuse the intrusion. If he is a stated instigator of violent revolution, my intent is to ask these provocateurs to stand down. Him and others, that he represents. I say this knowing he used to be called Louis X. I know of Malcolm X’s rhetoric as espousing a violent style of change in contrast to MLK, Jr. I want Dr. King’s message to rise above the criticsm’s of Nation of Islam’s program.12-David Duke: Politically active leader of The Louisiana Ku Klux Klan. The ability to openly associate with white supremacist groups is tantamount to being complicit in telling constituents that hateful judgement is an accurate way to see the world. For every active member of the KKK that isn't ostracized, the impression I have is poor and uneducated white people are not seeing the error of their own Daddy’s prejudice. To change traditional attitudes rampant in areas of the South is to be consistent about denouncing people in the media eye and their beliefs.13-Jimmy Swaggert: Using his pulpit to carry on about the wages of sin, then secretly paying for sex with a prostitute. After being exposed by investigation, he openly apologized on TV, with a heartfelt emotional break-down in his composure. For his touching moment, he was able to recoup his pulpit and take control of his flock as a televangelist. Then, it happened again. The memory lasts of his betrayal now, showing how the right delivery of oratory persuasion leads to complete immersion in purposeful deceit.14-any infomercial salesman. (i.e. Billy Mays of OxyClean): A shouting man for a half hour, using shills as testimonials and the elapsed time spent induces a hypnotic control, which is supposedly entertainment. The snake oil salesman of the Old West in our electronic age. By failing to raise our intelligence, while still persisting as an entity, I suspect the average IQ is decling in this broadcast area. Earning money for the sponsors is what media hosts call it when they break for paid advertising. Fair enough. “We now return to our regularly scheduled program” the polite announcer says. The confounded infomercial or worse, the shopping network—makes our TV into a place that we are risking hypnotic, automatic operant conditioning when we tune in. The danger is less risky on non-commercial networks or premium channels or the selected exceptions where entertainment is done as a hospitality not mercantilism.I'm proposing that a list of 100 merely be calculated by the combined total of all answers. I have no ambition left and I want to pass the torch.There is no answer to this list that is the right answer. Too many choices. Too many ways to judge the quality called, “worst.” In reviewing my list, I'm seeing examples of many types of categories. Industrialists, politicians, statesman, etc. Perhaps that's relevant. I agree ahead of time, that there are different ways that anyone who has ever lived can be judged. There are good people who do good, mean well and follow through on their intentions. For me to have a problem with someone, means I voted. I can tout this list of fourteen as odds-on bad hombres.Edit: Meet the Single Worst Human to Ever Walk This Earth