Jack Murphy Swatted: The Night the Cops Came
THE NIGHT THE COPS CAME
My five year old daughter was sleeping in her room that was too small. We’d just finished our nightly ritual where I read her a story, tuck her in, and then sing her our special song. It’s not any real song, just a song I made up years ago for her older sister. It’s now a tradition. She yawns as soon as I start singing it. Kids adore routines. They also adore Dads who sing songs.
@The_Red_Hen and I climbed into bed. We were under the covers, cuddling up, trying to make the cold bed warm. We’d had a long emotional day as so many of them had been recently, and we were just falling off to sleep.
The house was still and dark. The neighborhood quiet. It was time for rest. After a crazy day, I had settled in, no tossing and turning, just a moment of peace.
BANG!! BANG!! BANG!! on the front door.
“Holy shit, was that our door?” I blurted out.
I was naked. My heart was pounding. I hoped it was just one of those things you get from from living in a transitional neighborhood. Maybe a senile old lady thought this was her house. Or maybe some drunk guy wanted to use the bathroom. Who knows. I waded down the stairs slowly and stood eight feet from the door and yelled, “Who is it!?”
“The DC Police, Sir.”
The police? at 11:00PM at night? After I had gone to bed? They’re rolling up on me on Tuesday in the middle of the night?
The lights were off but I could see two Detectives on my porch. A man and woman, both swollen from the bullet proof vests under their dark windbreakers. Silver detective badges hung from their necks. They looked tired and annoyed.
“What is this about?” I asked through the door.
I wasn’t going to open the door and let them in. No chance. I’ve talked with enough cops to understand how they get you to give up your rights. Cops are trained on how to make you talk even when you have the right to remain silent. They know how to get in your house even when you can keep them outside. Talking to them through the door is fine for now.
“What is this about?” I asked again as I hid behind the wall, hoping to maintain some semblance of privacy in my own home.
I was stressed. My voice gave it away. On a normal day, my voice has a deep commanding presence but right now I could hear it was tight and tense.
“The tweets, dude, the tweets, dude.” the Detective replied.
Tweets? Like for real? The police were there at my door because of a tweet?
He said it with a tone that suggested I should have known what he was talking about. It was like he wanted me to reply with a confessed tweet in mind. But I had no idea.
My mind swirled with the possibilities. Life had been kicking me in the balls over and over. Lacy MacAuley of ANTIFA had just doxed me two months earlier. Everyone thought I was an alt-right nazi all of a sudden. People dug through my internet trash to find reasons to hate me. Trolls on twitter took old tweets out of context to make me look like a racist. More than one news organization called me a rape advocate. Drama came at me from every direction.
After the doxing, threats of physical violence seem so real, that I walk down the street on high alert, expecting to be noticed and screamed at or even assaulted at any minute. A few weeks earlier, 20 people dressed in black followed me to a social event to stand outside the door and scream at me. “Racist! Fascist! Rapist!”
And now the cops were busting on my door in the pitch black darkness just when I was about to fall asleep.
“The tweets?”I asked incredulously.
A) I had no idea what he was talking about and B) what the fuck? They are really here for a tweet I made? The world was truly at a tipping point. Just two months ago I’m an honored public servant. And by tonight I’m publicly shamed, fired from my job, banned from little league, and now the Police are after me.
I’d been doxed and now swatted.
He asked if he could come inside again and I said no. I told them to wait as I went up stairs to dress. While I was there, I thought about calling my lawyer as a precaution. My throat was swelling shut from the adrenaline. I could feel my hands shake when I buttoned my pants. I wasn’t thinking clearly. But when I went back down there, I thought, ok I’ll give it a listen at least.
They asked me about the tweet again and I said I really didn’t know. That’s when they showed me. They had two 8.5 x 11’s printed out. One with a giant sized copy of my driver’s license, the other a blown up copy of a tweet I made six days before.
“What did you mean by this tweet, sir?”
The two Detectives from the Criminal Investigation Division were on my porch at 11PM dressed in black to question me about a tweet. A tweet. A TWEET.
ANONYMOUS NO LONGER
My entire life is under a microscope. My twitter and blog used to be anonymous and written for people who didn’t know me. It used to be a private place I could share stories about the pain of divorce or reveal my inner thoughts. It was a therapeutic creative writing exercise.
But now it’s basically my real name and everyone important in my life is scrutinizing everything I say. There are squads of lawyers combing through every utterance I’ve ever made online. Every tweet I thought was just between me and a random person on twitter some Tuesday night in 2016 is now fodder for the public record, analyzed by a legal team or two, and potentially a stick of dynamite I’ve lit in my own hand.
My twitter writing used to be cathartic. I’d work through emotions or intense ideas anonymously with my anonymous friends. But now the reality is total fucking opposite. My twitter is not only public, it’s fuel for the fires in the bellies of those who wish to see me shamed, shunned, silenced, and even harmed.
Tonight they sent armed warriors to my house for no reason. Tomorrow, those same guns could have a purpose. Make no mistake, my enemies would relish the prospect of an accidental shooting.
“SIR! What did you mean by this tweet?”
I stuttered out a reply, “It was a metaphor, Sir. I am going to sue my employer for firing me illegally.”
Unsatisfied, the Detectives kept pressing me – “What did you mean by this tweet? What are you going to do?”
The tweet was innocuous. It was the twitter version of singing the blues. It was a metaphor for the future, not a veiled threat of violence against my employer, or god forbid, against children.
But none of that mattered, the people with guns were at my door demanding an explanation.
What if my story wasn’t good enough? What if the truth wasn’t what they wanted to hear?
Were they going to drag me out of my home and away from my family and lock me in cage over….a tweet?
I explained the whole situation to the detectives. As I revealed more of the story their entire disposition changed. Their shoulders relaxed and their attitude shifted. I could tell they were frustrated they had been used as a tool in a war that didn’t involve them and certainly didn’t require their service.
They even began to see things my way.
“Help me help you,” he said. “Help me clear this off my desk and we will leave you alone.” Truthfully, I was still suspicious. I didn’t know if this was another ploy to get me to overshare, but I went with it. We talked for 15 minutes and by the end, the detectives were offering me information. The next day they sent me the entire file. I saw just who it was who sent the police banging on my door while my children slept.
My employer, the DC Public Charter School Board, armed with information from ANTIFA and fueled by progressive politics of hate, swatted me as part of their war against me.
Because I had written things they didn’t like, because I wondered if sanctuary cities were a good idea, because I questioned feminism – they sent armed police to my home to harass and terrify me.
This is the world we live in today.
If you have a different idea, if you think differently, if you dare challenge the status quo – the men (and women) with guns come to your home. If you dare speak out, ANTIFA tries to ruin your life. If you speak your mind and bring sanity to the insane, they ban you from public service and take away the special moments you have with your children, like coaching your boy’s little league team.
I’m out here taking arrows for all of you. And that’s ok. Someone has to do it. It is my calling.
I’ve lost my job, lost little league, had my reputation smeared, and now my personal safety is at risk.
All for speaking the truth.
But you know me by now. I will never back down. I will never give up. And I will take this dumpster fire they lit and turn it into the future I always dreamed of.
If you want to know what scares the progressive left so much, if you want to know what strikes terror in their hearts, if you want to know what the future holds and how to get there –
At the time of my doxing, I was working on Democrat to Deplorable and now I’m fortunate (worked my ass off) to have this to offer you. Help me turn something terrible into something wonderful. Buy my book, review it on Amazon, and spread the word. Together we truly can change the world.