A LETTER FROM RON HATTON ABOUT MONTANA ATROCITIES IN RAVALLI COUNTY

Hi John,

Can you post this on your site to help this man? I personally know him and can verify that what he said took place did indeed take place.

Christopher

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The first thing I want to tell you is by the time you read this letter or soon thereafter, I will be dead. So I guess there's no harm in telling you who I am. My name is Ron Hatton, and I am a very tired, very beaten, yet very accomplished man. But I will soon be dead, along with all I had hoped to build with my life.

I have already made all the arrangements. I am going to set to sea on a raft (earned by my recent labors), with only some fruit and some water to see that I have the strength to carry out my final journey.

“Why am I doing this?” you might well ask. That question is a complicated one to answer, and as I have shared so much love in my life, and there are so many who care for me, I thought it only appropriate to send out this letter. It is made easier as no one knows exactly where I am, and no one will be able to find me before I set sail on December 31^st. To be carried far out into the Pacific Ocean before death comes to claim me.

I am a man who has seen many terrible things in my life, though precious few by nature. The greatest crimes committed by men who had legal protection, whether it be in the form of the legal fiction of a corporation or from behind the safety of a badge.

Since I moved to Hamilton, Montana in July of 2012, I have been victim of them all. To get only a fair inkling of the atrocities that are a part of the daily lives of some of the residents there, to get only a general idea of the qualities of those in authority there, you will find a certain letter written by Roy Pilkey to the White House about the events he personally witnessed an interesting read. (Just look for it on the internet. Look for Roy Pilkey corruption, Montana Ravalli County and you are sure to find it. It is my hope my letter finds its way to as many of the public as his has.) While he lived in Ravalli County just south of Hamilton, he took the time and energy to attempt to expose these people and their destruction of what should be an idyllic setting to raise a family, or to retire in peace.

Nothing could be farther from the Truth.

While I am sure there are many who settled in Ravalli County and found nothing untoward, for it is only those who challenge the status quo that find something quite different from what the community appears to be.

Operating behind a veil of secrecy ensured by the cooperation of other evil people, their activities are covered up and concealed by those who share in their beliefs. Their power rules over the law and the principles upon which our nation were founded matters nothing. In fact, when you control the evidence, the witnesses and the judiciary, you can get away with even the most heinous of crimes.

As I write this, I will soon be considered a fugitive, a man on the run. But I am not running from The Law. I am running from its absence. Facing 110 years in prison and more than $100,000 in fines for crimes that were inflicted on me by the individuals about whom I write, I have had all my rights denied me, and have had every attempt to find true justice thwarted by the very individuals in whom we automatically place our trust. This trust given because these individuals hold public offices. Offices that give them the ability to hide their actions, or worse, to justify them by quoting the letter of the law.

But is not the intent of the law more important? Are not the laws created to ensure the safety and protection of The People? What happens when the law is enforced by criminals? What happens to those who challenge their rule?

What happens to them is what has happened to me, for I am a believer that when injustice is witnessed that good people should rise and fight it, for as the old adage goes: “All that is necessary for evil to prosper is that good men do nothing.”

But the good people in Ravalli County live in fear of those in power.

Even one of the highest judges in the county, Judge Langton, lives as a modern day dictator, but is in reality only a puppet, for he has committed atrocities and broken many laws since achieving his position, delivering his version of the law. A certified drug addict and alcoholic, he has been videotaped at parties doing all kinds of heavy drugs, running naked and having sex with “anything with legs” as it was told me by one of these residents.

Yet he still sits the bench.

For those of you with some legal knowledge you will no doubt have heard of “The doctrine of unclean hands.” If you are unfamiliar with it, you would do well to look it up, for it states clearly that Mr. Langton has no right to sit in judgment because of his personal failure to abide by the very laws he is called to enforce.

I say shame on you Mr. Langton. Shame on you and on those who use your history to control your actions on the bench. You are a complete and total fraud.

As it is said in the movie V for Vendetta by the hero known only as V, “I know why you did it.” You were motivated by fear. Shame of your actions coming to light. Those who enforce the laws under your direction, the sheriffs, the police officers and representatives of not just the county but the entire state are evil and will use what they hold over you to keep you under their thumbs.

You are not a man, sir, for a man knows dignity. You should have resigned your post rather than try to hold an office to which you are not entitled.

Of course, neither are those who influence you in such matters. Neither are any of the sheriffs or police officers I met, nor the DA nor the public defender's office. You are all frauds, supporting your own failures in a network where even the worst of you will be protected by a veil of silence and deceit.

Beginning sometime in March of 2013, I began to notice some strange occurrences in and around my recently purchased home. Strange occurrences that could only have happened by the actions of other people entering not just my property, but my home as well. Yet when the sheriff's office was called to help me figure out what was happening, they dismissed me out of hand as though I were a worthless individual, one whose suffering mattered not one whit to them.

I have dedicated my life to the service of others. As a poet, I have touched the lives of millions of people. As an inventor, many hundreds of thousands of other people with whom I share this planet. For these accomplishments I have been honored by many people, yet in Ravalli County, I received only shame by those who are charged with making life better and to honor all who serve.

I am the developer of The Gadgetman Groove, a simple adjustment that increases combustion efficiency in gasoline engines of all shapes and sizes. A discovery in and of itself that brought a tremendous amount of resistance by not only my peers, but by the powers that be. My patent attorney (Mr. Anthony David Logan) to this day cannot believe not only why the patent office itself hadn't issued a patent, but the ridiculous reasons they have denied the issuance of a patent for this unique technology.

As of this moment, more than three and half years and more than $30,000 have been invested into obtaining a patent, and I have decided to simply stop pursuing one. When those in charge of our world do not want something delivered that will detract from their power they will simply not let the mainstream know about it. Of course, they have been known to make the lives of successful inventors in the field of energy a living hell. Either that, or, should they achieve a certain level of popular awareness, simply imprison them and/or kill them outright. (Stan Meyer, Tom Ogle, Nikola Tesla, and many more)

A plethora of examples of these dead inventors can be quite easily found if you care to look for them. Simply search on the web for “Dead Inventors” and you will see soon enough. Those that have eyes to see, let them see.

I do not want you to pity me, for I knew before the discovery of The Groove what I was getting myself into. I can't say I didn't care. I cared a lot, as should we all. In fact that is why I decided to go forward with its delivery while declining offers to purchase my discovery for as much as $400,000,000. But I can and will say that it grieves me they have also decided to attack those that supported my efforts. Now, Collette Thomas, to whom I gave my company, is beginning to experience some of the challenges I faced.

Love her and support her, for she is a woman of great power, and has become one who has tremendous importance in my life, and may help you to find some of the freedoms that have been denied you by the people who have been attacking me. In fact, she bailed me out of jail both times I was arrested, in spite of the fact of knowing me for only a couple of weeks. She was even at my home on both occasions I was arrested and knows of the lies and the deceit those that arrested me perpetrated in falsifying the documents, many of which were altered after my arrest, some being completely deleted from the records.

There were two people that moved into my guest cottage allegedly for only a few days until their first paycheck came in. It was my pleasure to help someone in need. What I did not know at the time is they were plants. One of whom was facing 39 separate charges and both being drug addicts of popular knowledge.

Yet, when I found them smoking meth in the cottage and called the sheriff's office to have them ejected, they refused. These were the same people that somehow were able to enter my home at their discretion to plant whatever they were told to plant. Dozens of meth pipes were found in and around my home. In my kitchen sink, in my shop, in my closets, in my couch, and in my laundry. The latter was the most interesting discovery, for this pipe was found in my laundry, filled with residue, after having survived no less than three wash cycles and 60 minutes in the dryer.

A GLASS pipe? 60 minutes tumbling in the dryer? Residue of a water-soluble drug still in the pipe after THREE wash cycles?

Some things are just impossible. This is one of those things. But many such “impossible” events have occurred to me in the last year. At least, they were what I would have considered impossible before I witnessed them myself.

I was living in a home which others could enter at their discretion, that was riddled with surveillance devices, and was seeing people around my home at all hours of the day and night. The so-called “Law Enforcement” wouldn't even investigate when they could see very clearly the evidence of damage done on my property. In fact, they ignored my pleas for help and ridiculed me when I reported the events. So, I turned to outside help in the form of private investigators.

I researched the P.I.'s in the area, and one name came to the top like cream. (A much more apt description would be that of a gaseous turd) William “Bill” Buzzell. He was reputed to be the best and the fairest investigator in the valley. So I called him.

Now, I know I must've looked ragged to put it mildly. I was not being allowed sleep, for every time I laid down, within minutes odd and unusual noises would occur, sometimes on my roof, sometimes under my house, and once (just once mind you) I woke to hear a man and woman whispering in the hall outside my bedroom.

I jumped up and ran down the hall, just catching their shadows as they rounded my chimney. I heard a sound like carpet rubbing against a wall, and when I got there, they were gone.

This is just one of hundreds of events. Naturally, I was quite distraught. This more complicated by the complete lack of concern of the sheriff's department. So, when Mr. Buzzell showed up, I have no doubt of what he saw. I was a wreck. Still, I offered him $2000 to perform 2 days of surveillance on my property which he rather unpolitely declined.

The way he declined was by refusing to show when scheduled and failing to return any of my numerous calls over the ensuing two weeks.

Bear in mind that Hamilton is a town of only 5000 people. Jobs are hard to find and almost the only money coming into the county is from the travelers (many of which get fleeced by the 'law' as well) so it is very strange for someone to turn down $2000 for only two days work.

This was another nail in my coffin. Someone who makes their living by personal investigations, a “professional”, would not work for me although the payment was in cash. Money was short for many in the community, and I was obviously a person in desperate need of his services.

This behavior was duplicated by every other private eye within a 300 mile radius. Not even one of the others would even return my call.

Time went by and in July, I had my first run-in with the law. Now, bear in mind that I don't go anywhere, staying at home, doing my job over the internet. I couldn't stand to leave my home, for every time I did, something happened to my home in my absence.

I was sitting on my couch watching a movie in mid-July when I heard a voice outside my living room window. It was a man's voice apparently talking on the phone. I looked out my window and there was a man talking on his cell phone. What he was saying sent chills through my blood as I overheard him telling someone there were drugs in my house and where they could be found. In shock, I practically ran into my bedroom and looked where he was directing and there I found exactly what he said. A bag of what appeared to be meth and a small glass pipe.

I gathered the pipe and the drugs and went to the bathroom where I opened the baggie and dumped the contents into the toilet. I then wrapped the pipe in many layers of toilet paper and crushed it into small fragments, and then sent it after the dope and the baggie. The swirling swooshing sound of its disappearance did little however to calm me.

I allowed myself a small sigh of relief and then ventured out into my yard. As I looked to the west I saw the same man-a lithe, red headed man sporting a full beard-standing between the blue cedars which had first caused me to love this house. On the other side of the cedars were two city cruisers, just visible through the branches.

Now, remember that I lived in the county. What were the city officers doing at my home?

The more I thought about it, the more obvious it became to me that if they could plant one bag of dope, they could plant two. So, I went for a deeper look.

I began emptying my closets and my drawers. In exactly the opposite location, I discovered yet another bag of dope and yet another pipe. I tossed them onto the bed amidst the mess I had just created and picked up the phone, calling the sheriff's office.

I told them I heard a man telling someone there was drugs in my home and where they could be found and I wanted them to bring their boys and their dogs and go through my house and get rid of any and all traces of drugs from my home.

They arrested me for possession anyway.

Now, when I went to court for my bail hearing, the judge gave me a reduced bail, citing the fact that I had called them to get the drugs out of my house. But when the Discovery was made, the report clearly cited that I had not called to ask them to remove drugs, but rather that I had called to report someone had stolen (get this!) my couch.

There is no way I am going to be able to cover all the fraudulent reports by the police, so I'm going to try to stick to the most relevant matters-those pertaining to the violations of my privacy. Violations that pushed me to the point I was ready to have myself committed. I was questioning every aspect of my reality. But perhaps that was the point of this exercise: to see how far a man like me could be pushed before he went mad.

Truth be told, I cannot be sure of many of the details and this is only my attempt to find some sense from the madness that was my life.

What in the world could happen to a person (in this case many people) that would cause them to think that these actions are justifiable? What could happen to generate such psychotic and anti-social behavior?

For me, I think it must be acceptable in their society to do such things. A society which, like the Nazi's, said it was okay to kill millions of people. Or like the ancient Mayans (and others) where they would cut peoples' heads off, or cut out their still beating hearts and show it to the victim before the life left their bodies.

Societies created by evil people, shaped over generations of mental illness.

Sorry. I didn't mean to digress. Please  be kind and understand that I am still in shock and allow me a venture or two into trying to make some sense of it all. I don't think I ever will because my mind simply cannot work that way. Nor do I want it to.

Time went by rather rapidly for me this past year as you might imagine. There was so much happening almost every day that I couldn't keep track of it. I had been taking pictures of the stuff going on and of the people I had invading my property, but my journaling, my email, and all the pictures vanished from my hard drive. Paper records also disappeared (including the files on my property) and I was left with only one thing: my memory. Whoever was doing this was certainly well-organized and thorough to say the least.

It is my theory someone from higher up than the sheriff and the chief of police was working this deal, for how else would you explain the presence of city police officers working outside their jurisdiction?.

Following my first arrest (there were two) I had been out under the care of the public defender's office. Carol Johns was my attorney (at least she claimed to be an attorney) and was in charge of mounting a proper defense. I know for a fact that she couldn't possibly have cared less about whether I was innocent or not. All she seemed interested in is coming to a successful plea agreement with the prosecutor's office. No matter the testimony of those of my friends who witnessed these events, the professionals who supported my theories, she refused to investigate my story.

Sometime in October, more than three months after the first arrest, she finally assigned a private investigator. They had the finest PI in the area. You may know his name. That's right. Mr. William “Bill” Buzzell.

Now by this time I had been able to put one and one together to come up with three, figuring that Bill was, in all probability, responsible for the placement of the surveillance devices in and around my house. I told Carol this, and she didn't show one ounce of concern that he may have been the one hired to initiate the illegal activities that would wind up leading to the theft of my freedom, of my reputation, of my home and the destruction of my company.

Funny thing here. Bill had been the investigator for the public defender's office for quite some time. But two days after he was assigned to investigate my claims, he resigned. Not that it would have done any good, for the main monitoring station for the surveillance devices which had been mounted inside an abandoned satellite dish had been removed on the night of September 17^th.

In the course of spreading my discovery, I made a lot of friends. People from all walks of life respected me for what I had accomplished, many of whom had visited with me, some for days at a time. Among these honored friends were more than one retired police officer.

I shared my story with them as they were depending on my support and my instruction to help them master this new technology. And I did my best to live up to their expectations.

In speaking with one gentleman (who shall remain nameless and respected) shared with me the proper way to set up a surveillance system. Investigating officers, upon receiving the proper warrant(s) would install low-level devices throughout the area. Low wattage devices (which are more difficult to detect) which then relay their signals to a more powerful base station which then boosts the signals and relays them to a monitoring station somewhere in the vicinity.

This base station was installed inside the base of the satellite dish.

I know this because on the 18^th I was walking out of my shop when I saw my satellite dish dismantled and laying in my side yard.

It was late in the afternoon, and as this was just one more event in the long series of similar events, I just shook my head and went on about my business. This was yet another piece of evidence that, had a proper investigation been mounted, would have given credibility to my story. As it stands, all evidence is likely to have been removed completely, the only evidence remaining the testimony of myself and my friends.

I called Carol the next day to inform her of the event, which I had not reported to the sheriff. Why should I call the very people that have exerted every effort to destroy me? But she insisted, so I made the call. Sgt. Horton came out to take a look, most certainly only an obligatory answer to a vandalism report.

There in my yard laid a 10' steel satellite dish that requires three stout men to lift, carefully laid upside down on the ground. All the nuts and bolts were missing, and there wasn't a bent piece of metal on the whole assembly. It was yet another professional job which would have required a minimum of four people to complete.

You know what Sgt. Horton had to say about the whole thing?

As we stood inside my sunroom just in from the back yard, he said (and I quote) “Ron, you know, I'm not talking to you as a sheriff now, I'm just talking to you man to man. I think you should go get some blood work done.”

And that was that. End yet another chapter in a successful conspiracy. Of course, Sgt. Horton had been to my property before, as he was the one that came (if I remember correctly) when I was trying to get the meth heads off my property. Others had come too, back when I still held some hope there was some honor in the sheriff's office. Only too late did I discover the truth, that all my faith in the offices they hold was very tragically misplaced.

I called one time (I don't recall the date) to report some other something happening, and was greeted by Sgt. Graysinger and an assistant. In the process of telling them of the noises I was hearing, of the sleep deprivation tactics that were being used and of the surveillance and the computer hacking (I'll touch on that in a few minutes), of the weird sounds disturbing my sleep, a rhythmic, obviously mechanical thumping sound started under the floor, proceeding across the floor from under my feet to under Sgt. Graysinger's feet, terminating under his assistant's feet.

“There! THERE! Do you hear that? What the hell is THAT?!?!” I exclaimed, glad that now I had official witnesses to at least ONE of the strange occurrences.

Sgt. Graysinger and his assistant both agreed they heard the same sound.

“What the hell is THAT?” I said.

“Oh, that's nothing.” Replied Sgt. Graysinger.

“Nothing”.

Yeah.

Right.

“Really?” I SAID. “Does YOUR floor do that?”

“No. But I wouldn't worry about it. Ron I want to take you to the hospital.”

They showed me such care and concern, these professional liars. They lied when they took their oath of office, and they lie every time they put on their uniforms and step into their vehicles that proudly sport the logo “To serve and to protect.”

I truly don't know how they can sleep at night. I don't know how these criminals can stand to look themselves in the mirror.

At first I justified the actions taken by these people, as I had a theory about what may have taken place in their demented little minds. As an inventor, I did all my work from home. I didn't need to go anywhere, save to pay my bills. From the outside in, I was a stranger who came to town, bought one of the most expensive properties, and had no visible means of support.

And I spent a lot of money. My then wife, Debbie, was spending $300-$500 a day in the casinos (I found out too late to do anything about it). If I was in law enforcement that had been given a mandate to rout out all drugs from my community, I might have looked at me and thought “METH LAB!!!”

But they didn't get any warrants, they did no investigation, they didn't even come meet me. They simply attacked.

Like rabid dogs they attacked, with all the other rabid dogs covering their tracks.

As it stands right now, the only real evidence I have of my home invasions was a forensics report on one of my hard drives which I was able to successfully smuggle out and get to my IT guy, Tony from Western Montana Computers.

This report (which is WAY out of my league) concluded that my computer had indeed been hacked in the most vicious of ways. But the most interesting part of the report concluded that whoever had drilled into my computer had actually done so from the comfort of my living room. That's right. Someone else had come into my home, plugged their computer into my router and killed my life.

It is my belief at least one of the conspirators was extremely familiar with the property. Far too many things happened that would require familiarity that could only come from a history with the buildings. As I bought the house from the Estate of Richard A. Arno, the children then would be my first suspects. As one of them is what I call “a bible thumping Jesus freak” he would be my first to look at. I believe his name is Wayne, so that's what I'll call him for now. Well, Wayne presented to me he was a pastor at a local church. I met his wife in the grocery store once, and this way too fat woman practically crammed her version of Jesus down my throat. That is not the kind of love my Jesus supported at all.

Anyway this Wayne (or whatever) approached me when I bought the house as he wanted the contract to maintain the property. I declined. He may be a crappy representative of the Love of Christ I bet he is a fine landscaper.

Anyway I declined his offer for two very good reasons. First I like to mow the yard. The thrum of the engine gives me and my brain some quiet time. I feel mentally refreshed after riding the mower around for a couple of hours. Second, there is no way in hell I wanted anything to do with his preaching.

The very start of all this crap as I reflect back on it was having my back yard mowed at the same time as the back door lock was smashed. It had been mowed starting at the gate to the road. Now, my mower was in the back yard only accessible through another gate.

Odd, wouldn't you say?

But that is indeed what happened. Not only that, but it appeared there were some changes in the house at that time as well, in the form of new light fixtures, partially installed in my laundry room. They were laying in pieces on the counters beneath them, as though someone were interrupted during the install.

There are far too many things to include in this letter if any of you are to finish it, so I will just list a few.

All padlocks placed on the entrances to the buildings and gates were cut and discarded.

A hole was punched in the ceiling of my shop-from the topside.

When I got out of jail from the second arrest I had new drapes hanging in my living room. (done within 24 hours)

There was fresh paint on my shop vise. (I haven't touched a paint brush since moving in)

The tray containing all the keys to the property disappeared-for two days then reappeared in their proper place.

My digital camera had tape placed over the IR port-from the inside.

My Dell laptop had no Dell parts inside of it. (Clone)

My Acer laptop, an archaic piece with a dead battery magically began to work-without being plugged in. (Clone)

My HP desktop (which I had built) “lost” its cage fan, as in disappeared.

Same HP: While my CPU fan was completely compacted with dust, the motherboard and all components were absolutely glistening. (I had never cleaned it since I built it)

Same HP: The sticker on the bottom with the ID separated itself from the case.

All factory computers had false Microsoft tags. (Cloned)

Every time I logged into Skype my computer would die. (I reloaded Win 7 at least 50 times in the last 2 months I was in Hamilton)

Logging into my Skype account from another location, on another computer resulted in the same event.

Brent, an employee at the Hamilton Post Office was re-routing all my incoming mail, and probably much of my out-going mail as well.

While there are still many more things to report, this one bears a little more dialog.

I had started having difficulty receiving my part orders sometime in April. Parts that clients would send would disappear as well although the tracking numbers indicated they were “out for delivery”. One client, with a Jaguar, had three throttle assemblies “lost” in the mail. Believing someone was taking them from my mailbox I put a hold order on my mail and began going to the post office to collect my mail.

The lost articles continued. After speaking with Mike, the Postmaster there, he advised me to get a PO Box, so I did. On the first Saturday following the rental of the box, Collette went to collect my mail, but found none in the box. So she approached Tina (wonderful woman) from whom we had rented the box to ask if there was any mail still being held. That's when it came out.

Tina said “No” with a puzzled expression and then continued: “No, there should be at least three packages. Brent had them in his hands and was asking about them and I told him where to put them.”

So on Monday when the packages were still not in the box, we went looking for Mike, who happened to be retreiving some registered articles for an older woman. When he finished, we told him what had happened and he turned to Brent (who was standing behind him) and asked what was up. Brent admitted he had put them in the “Nixies”, meaning they were returned to sender.

This is directly against UPSP policy, and Mike said he would have a talk with him.

The mail loss continued, even worsened. Now my utility bills were being returned to sender as undeliverable.

I have several copies of this occurring. The only stuff that got through was what looked like shut-off notices. Fortunately, many of these were the bills that had been returned, simply placed in another envelope.

All pleas to the USPS Inspector General's office were ignored.

How's that sit with you?

Add to that people coming to visit me were needlessly detained by the City Police, and when my friends became victims of theft (only Gadgetman-related items, leaving behind a $2000 laptop and a $3000 camcorder) they refused to take a police report. Their reason? “There's no evidence that anything was stolen.” Then, when the victim investigated further, could find no record of the officers who responded to his call.

I know somewhere, these people are smirking in their closets, and laughing together about how I was raped. How they had destroyed yet another threat to their carefully crafted world. A world built to support their distorted views of how the world should be.

Well, they did succeed. Ron Hatton is dead. At the ripe old age of 54, Ron Hatton is dead and will never again know the joys of his beloved mountains, of the vast rolling plains of the midwest. He will never know the pleasure and the honor of being an American. He will never be able to casually enjoy reading the Sunday paper, nor visit any of the majestic areas of the United States again.

He is dead, and his country has died around him.

Never again will he hear the sounds of the whippoorwill nor write his book on “The Disappearing Smokies. Highlights of a Vanishing Culture.”

Ron is dead.

But what Ron has left in his wake is more than many men dream of. Some do, and for those men and women who dare to make the world a better place, take heart, for his legacy is one of kindness and compassion. Of sharing regardless of cost, and the world is a better place for his living as he did.

Ron has left us an inheritance, one which we can be grateful for, for he has stood when the world was burning and made a difference from the middle of the flames.

You can too.

Ron Hatton

December 29^th, 2013

A Date which will live in Infamy