The McDermott
Affidavit

The verified public record: Brandon McFadden, a Tulsa-based special agent of the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF), pleaded guilty in 2010 to conspiracy to distribute drugs in connection with the Tulsa Police Department corruption scandal — a federal probe that implicated multiple TPD officers, overturned convictions, and freed wrongfully imprisoned defendants. The Tulsa World covered the scandal extensively, including a two-page spread on the Anthony Mata case illustrating the bad-actor ATF agent at its center. Jane Duke, then the United States Attorney for the Eastern District of Arkansas in Little Rock, was assigned as the special prosecutor over the Tulsa probe — the outside counsel repeatedly named in the Tulsa World's coverage. Former Northern District of Oklahoma federal prosecutor Neal Kirkpatrick later left the United States Attorney's Office and appeared as defense counsel for Brandon McFadden.

David's firsthand account — the Mata visit: "Anthony Mata came to me at 7419 South Shelby Lane and told me that Tulsa ATF agent Brandon McFadden took 55 pounds of marijuana out of a 110-pound seizure and didn't turn them in — only to learn later that McFadden and TPD officers were selling dope. Cops aren't supposed to sell dope, especially ATF agents. I was very upset. I got the ball rolling on a special prosecutor coming to Tulsa, Oklahoma. The lawyers — like Tulsa lawyer Kevin Adams — took over and took a lot of credit. I was behind the scenes."

The Go Junk contract: "I, David Bruce McDermott II, and Go Junk junk removal service, got the junk removal job for the Tulsa ATF — because no other company would adhere to the United States Department of Justice protocol out of Washington. I did. They were pretty surprised when they later learned they had hired the guy that basically got the ball rolling on a special prosecutor coming to Tulsa."

The Jane Duke call (2010): "In 2010, Special Prosecutor Jane Duke called me from the office in Little Rock, Arkansas, at my home at 8485 Disney Road, Mounds, Oklahoma — my cell, 918-407-3395. We spoke for two and a half hours. I told her the who, what, when, and where throughout her case. She shared with me how the future and breadth of her case had been contaminated, and — as she recounted it to me — how prosecutors Alan Litchfield and Neal Kirkpatrick from the Northern District intimidated her. At the end of the conversation she asked me: 'David, who protects you?' I said: 'I protect myself.' Later, when I called back to speak with her, a friend of hers at the United States Attorney's Office confided in a whisper: 'Jane no longer works here. She got really afraid working here, so she left. She's a realtor now.' She worked as a realtor in Little Rock for a while."

[The statement that named prosecutors intimidated Ms. Duke is presented strictly as Mr. McDermott's recollection of what he says Ms. Duke told him in that call — an allegation, not a finding. Phone records for the 2010 call are identified above so the record can be independently verified or subpoenaed. Ms. Duke's current position is being confirmed and will be added.]

"Bobby Kent Walker, cell number A78 in the Tulsa County Jail, from November all the way up and through almost December. One thing led to another, and Bobby got me hooked up with Harold Teal Tarter — a former murderer out of Galveston, Texas. You can even look up the article, back in 1978, when I was eight years old: he shot somebody in Galveston. It made the news."

Who Bobby was: "Bobby Kent Walker was a West Tulsa, serious, long-term, well-known outlaw criminal — a murderer who had done half his life in prison. He was married to Dreama Sue Walker. Dreama Sue Walker is now my wife. Bobby died in April of 2017, and Dreama and I would later hook up on June 17th of 2017. We've been a force to reckon with ever since."

"Bobby Kent Walker talked me into representing myself. So did Harold Teal Tarter. They wrote me specific instructions. That was the beginning of how I came to represent myself." A letter documenting these instructions exists and will be produced in copy on this shelf.

Playing for the appeal: "Brett Brough did not agree with me representing myself. But once I elected to do it, we immediately went to baseball on what type of appellate traps were going to be out there for appeal — because David was going to get convicted. David was going to federal prison whether David liked it or not. David knew it, but David didn't know it as well as everybody else knew it. That's a fact. I got myself convicted before my jury on day six." The trial was lost by design of circumstance; the appeal — United States v. McDermott, 64 F.3d 1448 (10th Cir. 1995) — was the game being played all along.

Polling the jury: "My jury was polled. Foreman David Anderson looked at me like he wanted to see me executed. But there was this one woman who worked for Eagle-Picher, and she was crying. That's why we polled the jury. You should have heard her reluctantly say yes — it was as if they forced her to agree. I feel — and my lawyer felt — I might have had a chance to hang that jury. It was a very unique, odd thing, on record, in case number 93-CR-163-E — which became the largest case ever on the shelf in the United States Federal District Courthouse for the Northern District of Oklahoma, due to the continuous relevant filings I filed that no other lawyer would file."

[Origin chapter — the seed of everything that followed: the pro se trial, the reversal at 64 F.3d 1448 (10th Cir. 1995), and the 31 Friday lawsuits. The 1978 Galveston news article, the Walker/Tarter instruction letter, and the full Harold Teal Tarter story — how he drilled David on what it would take to represent himself — are being pulled and will be exhibited here. The jury poll of the crying Eagle-Picher juror is preserved in the trial record of 93-CR-163-E.]

"I understand ex parte communication. At its level, ex parte communication is frowned upon — but never illegal. Period. We'll get into ex parte communication and my skills there later."

"I ex parte communicated with Judge Jim Huber in case number FD-09-1187, the Collins v. McDermott petition. I executed well over 3,000 — 4,000 — emails to him. He had to set up the court administrator to divert all the emails so they would no longer influence him, or be able to influence him. He ordered me to stop. And in court, on the record, he said to Matt Gomez — the petitioner's lawyer — 'I even ordered Mr. McDermott to stop communicating that way to me. And he's still doing it to this very day.' He never stopped me. I never stopped."

[Presented as Mr. McDermott's firsthand account of his own conduct and the on-record statements in FD-09-1187. A fuller study of ex parte communication — what it is, why courts divert it, and where the lines actually sit — is promised for a later chapter. Nothing here is a recommendation that any reader communicate ex parte with any judge.]

This is the letter that made everything else possible — handwritten to David in the Tulsa County Jail by Harold Teal Tarter, the Galveston man who had stood his own murder trial and lived to counsel a younger prisoner. The paper is torn now, water-stained and cracked, but it was never lost — the original that survived everything, all the way from Konawa, Oklahoma. What follows is the letter as David has verified it, word for word — the story Tarter used to convince David to stand up, alone, and represent himself all the way through a federal jury trial. It closes, as Tarter always closed: I'll be in touch — Harold.

David understood exactly what the parable meant, and he chose the door no one else would touch. The polished, well-used door — the certain firing squad — was the guilty plea and the sentence handed down without a fight. The old, rusted, cobwebbed door was the pro se trial: terrifying, unknown, and the only one that opened onto freedom. Tarter's letter is what made David start his trial and finish his trial — the discipline to see it all the way through a federal jury. It led directly to United States v. McDermott, 64 F.3d 1448 (10th Cir. 1995), case number 93-CR-163-E.

A record kept for thirty years — and the proof it was real. David has preserved the original handwritten letter this entire time; he sent Harold Teal Tarter three hundred and fifty dollars for the counsel it carried. This is what David means when he says he keeps records and tells the truth: the physical letter still exists, in his hand, decades later. And the parable was not theory. Tarter had also counseled Bobby Kent Walker — the West Tulsa man of Cell A78 — through a federal collateral attack under 28 U.S.C. § 2255 on an armed-career-criminal enhancement. Walker said if he didn't beat it he would take the money Harold had fronted him, shoot it, and end his life. He walked through the old door instead: he beat the enhancement, took a fifteen-year reduction, and lived. Two men, one parable, and the same lesson David built this entire platform to pass on — the door no one else will open is the only one that leads out.

[Reconstructed and then corrected to the exact wording of Mr. McDermott's surviving original handwritten letter, signed "I'll be in touch — Harold," preserved in his private archive along with proof of the $350 he sent Harold Teal Tarter. Harold Teal Tarter's Galveston murder trial in the 122nd District Court — the December 1978 shooting death of Lowell Edward Hopkins outside a Bacliff bar, Assistant District Attorney Jack Brock — is a matter of contemporaneous public newspaper record (David was eight years old at the time). The parable of the two doors is the story Tarter passed to David; the § 2255 armed-career-criminal account concerning Bobby Kent Walker is Mr. McDermott's firsthand recollection.]

Who Harold Teal Tarter was. The public trial record tells its own strange story: Tarter took the stand in his own defense and testified that the victim died by his own hand — yet also that he did not know how the body came to be in the trunk of his car, wrapped in plastic and doused with Lysol, which he then drove around for days. He was a Texas state inmate who, David recounts, grew so unmanageable that he was contracted out to the federal system; he was eventually released from federal prison and, David believes, returned to Galveston. David tried for years to reach him again and never succeeded. But the man's parable had already done its work.

If Harold Teal Tarter opened the door, James Sherrard pushed David through it. Sherrard was a legendary jailhouse lawyer at the federal facility in El Reno — a man of such prolific filing that, David recounts, the warden himself called him "inmate population control," because he sent men back to court every few weeks and got them out. His cell was stacked wall to wall with cases. David describes him as a figure cut from the same cloth as the Fifth Circuit litigants who forced courts to rewrite how the drug-quantity and "wastewater" laws applied to methamphetamine — a man who moved the law from inside a cell.

"James Sherrard was helping me in the law library one day," David recounts, "and he stopped, looked at me, and said: 'Now go on your own. You're too talented — I can't help you. I've got too many other people to help. You're gonna beat your case.' I beat my case." That is the whole arc of this platform in a single exchange: a man who knew the law telling a frightened man that he already had what it takes — and then stepping back so he'd have to prove it. David proved it: United States v. McDermott, 64 F.3d 1448 (10th Cir. 1995).

[Firsthand account. James Sherrard was, per Mr. McDermott, a prolific pro se/jailhouse litigator at FCI El Reno; the "inmate population control" nickname and the law-library exchange are David's recollection. Names and any specific filings will be anchored to the dockets as records are pulled.]

David's federal case, No. 93-CR-163-E in the Northern District of Oklahoma, sat before Senior United States District Judge James O. Ellison — the judge whose court David, pro se, reversed on appeal in United States v. McDermott, 64 F.3d 1448 (10th Cir. 1995). On remand, David filed a constitutional federal complaint every single Friday. After 31 weeks, Judge Ellison ordered the clerk to open 31 separate lawsuits under 42 U.S.C. § 1983 against assorted defendants — putting David before four different courts at four different times, still without a lawyer.

The 2014 phone call: "In mid-2014, Judge Ellison phoned me at home — about seventeen minutes. He told me: 'David, David — with this crazy administration and this Patriot Act, please never change how you act and defend yourself in law. Our nation will need men like you in the future.' That struck me deeply." Years later, from a parking lot in Okmulgee County, the judge told David that what happened in his case had cost him three years of sleep. David told him he was sorry.

[Presented as Mr. McDermott's firsthand account. Docket records for 93-CR-163-E and the 31 § 1983 filings are being pulled to anchor exact dates and case numbers.]

"Judge Bill Hittle, Tulsa County state court — a former defense attorney. One day I went through four state prosecutors before noon. All four denied working with me. I needed an SV-8 to get a ticket off my record so my insurance rates wouldn't go up. I went into court before Judge Bill Hittle in all-black sweats and sat there for four straight hours. I'm the last person in the courtroom, and he goes: 'Sir, you've sat there quietly for four straight hours and listened to every case attentively. How may I help you?'"

"I said, 'Well, Your Honor, I have been through four prosecutors — even this prosecutor here today before you, the lead prosecutor — and I requested that every one of them work with me so I could work out a deal, get the SV-8, and my insurance rates would not go up.' Judge Hittle started working the problem — 'why can't we do this?' — and the prosecutor turned around and insulted the judge: 'You two are gonna do what you want to anyway.'"

"Judge Bill Hittle immediately became infuriated: 'Are you suggesting that I've got some pre-arrangement?' He scolded that prosecutor with a tone that made him sit down, then turned to me and said: 'Mr. McDermott, I will give you this. You will be on probation for the next ninety days. Do not commit' — the conditions — 'and you come back, and you will get your papers.' Now understand: I'd been before Hittle a couple of times before and didn't fare very well in his court. But on that particular day, that prosecutor's mouth won my case for me."

[Firsthand account. The lesson David draws: four hours of silent, attentive respect for the court did more than four prosecutors' worth of asking — and a prosecutor's contempt for the bench can cost the State more than it costs the defendant. The exact name of the paperwork ("exoneration papers" — likely the deferred-sentence dismissal/expungement paperwork) is being confirmed.]

"Special Judge Kirstin Pace, Tulsa County, State of Oklahoma — the child custody case, Collins v. McDermott. They closed down the Tulsa County Courthouse east wing, first floor, four different times for hearings with me — cleared out the whole east wing. Private hearing only. Do-not-enter, contempt of court, unless you're a member of the case. On that particular day, former DA Bill LaFortune apparently was able to sit in the hearing."

"I'd already ground through Prosecutor John Bennett — who turned around and told District Attorney Tim Harris he could no longer represent the State in my case, because I was too skilled; I intimidated him and made him feel like he didn't know how to litigate. So they assigned Prosecutor Rachel Dewberry. And understand — I used to work for District Attorney Tim Harris. He had to fire our whole crew because they all came under prosecution by his own office for various things — DUI, possession, this and that — and he found out I was the big continuing-criminal-enterprise guy with the appeal that won."

"So now it's Rachel Dewberry, before Special Judge Kirstin Pace. Dewberry says something smart about me, and — wham, wham, wham: 'You will never talk about Mr. McDermott that way in my court of law again. Do you understand me, Prosecutor Dewberry? I know Mr. McDermott. I know Mr. McDermott to be highly detailed in affidavits, extremely knowledgeable of the law, extremely well-spoken in a court of law. You will never speak about Mr. McDermott that way in my court again. Do I make myself clear, Prosecutor Dewberry? You will apologize to Mr. McDermott immediately.'"

"Now, honesty for the record: the hearing went on, and I didn't fare that well that day. It got loud at the end. But when I walked out of that courtroom, former District Attorney — then private defense attorney, before he became a judge — Bill LaFortune's eyes were as big as silver dollars when he looked at me on my way out that door. Oh, yeah."

[Firsthand account of proceedings in Collins v. McDermott (Tulsa County; related email history in FD-09-1187 above). Note David's own candor: the judge's defense of his character and the outcome of the hearing are two different things — this shelf records both.]

"Judge Russell Haas, Tulsa County — David McDermott and some bankruptcy problems. Tulsa lawyer Tom O'Rourke was trying to make a civil collection from me — a credit card or something like that. One thing leads to another, here comes court. I wrote a 25-page brief, got it file-stamped, and dropped a copy off at Judge Haas's chambers."

"Come hearing day, we get called into chambers. I'm in hospital scrubs from my irrigation work — had to come straight to court, all muscled up. Tom O'Rourke grabs my scrubs at the shoulder, says 'Get in there,' and throws me into the chair on the right in Judge Haas's chambers. Judge Haas looked at O'Rourke like he couldn't believe I didn't retaliate right there — and gave him a very grave look."

"Then Judge Haas and I start talking about all his baseball memorabilia in his chambers. Twenty, thirty minutes. Toward the end I'm telling him about the things I'd found through Go Junk. Tom O'Rourke is frying in the chair to my left, and I'm reading the whole room. Then Judge Haas goes: 'Mr. McDermott — did you write this 25-page brief?' I said, 'I wrote every bit of it. Spent several days putting it together.' He goes: 'How did you know to bring a file-stamped copy to my chambers?' I said, 'Well, that's in the local rules of procedure, and I was trained to do that.'"

"And Judge Russell Haas said: 'Mr. McDermott, if you know to bring me a file-stamped copy of the pleading to my chambers, you know more law than 95 percent of the lawyers that have ever come — or will ever come and go — from the Tulsa County Courthouse. You are excused. We no longer have any interest with you. Mr. Tom O'Rourke, you will remain seated.' Oh boy. I got up. I knew what time it was. I walked out those chambers doors — and Tom O'Rourke stayed in that chair."

[Firsthand account, sworn by David McDermott to be true under penalties of perjury, and — per David — verifiable on the record through the Tulsa County Courthouse dockets. The practice lesson: know your local rules of procedure; a courtesy file-stamped chambers copy speaks louder than argument.]

"I had filed a lawsuit against some people, and one thing led to another — the lawyer I hired went ballistic, got all screwed up on drugs, and got sent to prison. We'll leave his name out of it, because I still like the guy and I felt bad how it all went for him. But I totally got screwed in those cases. And when lawyers came back around and counter-sued me, I showed up at their law firms myself: 'You don't want to counter-sue me. I'm going to come after you — your law firm too.' I've done that in many cases. We'll talk about that later."

"But in this particular case — Judge Jim Sellers. And there's history there: Judge Jim Sellers is the son of Nancy Sellers and Jim Sellers of Southern Hills Country Club, the swimming coach. Nancy Sellers was the gifted-and-talented teacher at Nimitz Junior High. Nobody wanted me to enter that class — and because nobody wanted me in it, that's exactly why Nancy Sellers let me in. I even took the lead role in the Spirit of St. Louis production away from one of the preppy kids."

"I had written in this lawsuit about an incident at 101st and Memorial — how I jumped out of my truck, ready to defend myself in a fistfight with this yahoo I'd been suing. Judge Jim Sellers looked at me that day and said: 'Mr. McDermott, would you please come into my chambers? I want you to have a seat right there. In fact, you're going to sit down for another twenty or thirty minutes.' And he would not let me out of his chambers until he thought — until he knew — that I was all calmed down and wasn't going to be a hothead and go back out into society and do something stupid. Again: I was in hospital scrubs, sweating head to toe, buffed up from the irrigation work. I'll never forget it. Judge Sellers just made sure Mr. McDermott was cooled off before Mr. McDermott went back out that door."

[Firsthand account. Another bench story with a lesson this shelf keeps finding: the judges who treated David with patience — Hittle's four hours, Haas's baseball chambers, Sellers's cool-down — got respect back, every time. The unnamed imprisoned attorney stays unnamed at David's request.]

Chapters in preparation, in David's own queue, each to be told and anchored to the dockets: Judge Deborah Moody, Judge Mark Barcus (former Tulsa Public Schools board leadership), Judge Rodney Sparkman, Judge Cynthia Pickering, Judge Pandy Ramirez, Judge Deborah Riedhart, more on Judge James O. Ellison and Judge Michael Burrage — and judges around the country, including Philadelphia. Also promised: the counter-suit stories, the Harold Teal Tarter story, the Walker/Tarter instruction letter (in copy), and the ex parte chapter.

[Name spellings will be verified against court records before each chapter publishes. "Everything I'm telling you is the truth, and it's been an ongoing thing." — D.B.M. II]

"The most famous cop that I adore is Marcus Fultz — my case agent, the man who busted me. At sentencing I flipped him off. He said, 'That was not necessary.' A United States Marshal threw me back into my chair for it. I would later get on Facebook and tease him about that — I told him his whole case wasn't necessary."

"When I got out of prison, I went straight to the Broken Arrow Police Department and called him out of his office. He tried to shake my hand. I gave him a great big bear hug. On Christmas of 2023, he made us Christmas dinner and brought it to me. He later picked Dreama and me up to take us to go buy a car. I've had many consulting sessions with Marcus Fultz. He's kind of like the only father figure I've got left. Man — I kind of wish I would have cooperated with the guy. I don't know where I'd be. But we had to go through our story to get here. True story."

"Without Marcus Fultz, there's no telling where I'd be." "Had he not busted me, stopped everything I was doing — he just didn't know I was gonna wind up in law school. They tracked me down one night and said, 'Why the Tulsa law library every night? What are you doing? Why aren't you out dealing dope so we can catch you again?' Hair down to my ass, I looked at him and said: 'I'm gonna beat you guys. I'm going to law school. I'm gonna figure out how to get myself out of trouble.' They said, 'Where'd you get the white Camaro?' I said, 'I bought that for you guys to seize.'"

"After they took my boat, my truck, and my Sea-Doo, I hid all the rest of my assets — they couldn't find them. When Prosecutor Jack Morgan complained about it, Judge Ellison turned around and told him: 'I don't want to hear about it. McDermott gets to keep them. You never found them. Shut up about it, and don't bring it up to me again.' That's exactly what happened. Case number 93-CR-163-E."

"United States Marshal Bill Hunt and I — one thing led to another — got in an argument in the dress-out tank before federal court. It was just him and me in the cell, and he squared up: 'Right now, you and me, McDermott.' He wanted to fist fight right then and there. I said, 'You know what, Bill? Calm down. Hold it down.' It was all first-name basis — and that's a norm a lot of people don't know about the Marshals who transport prisoners. They call you Mr. McDermott when they first meet you, but it quickly gets to David, or just McDermott. No 'Marshal Hunt' — just Bill."

"We didn't fight. I went to court that day — and I told on him to Judge Ellison. Let me tell you something, Atticus: never tell on the United States Marshal who transports you to and from court that he wanted to fight you, and get him looked at and all that other stuff."

"Years later — after federal prison, after the federal courthouse, after federal probation, all of it — I appeared at a customer's home for a junk job, and I'll be damned if it wasn't United States Marshal Bill Hunt. He looks at me and goes, 'You're McDermott, aren't you?' I said, 'Bill, what's going on?' He helped Keith Troy Claxton and me load the piano, wrote us a check for $125, told me he was retired, and wished me the best of luck. It was the most unique opportunity and the weirdest exchange ever."

David states — and invites Facebook's own verification systems to confirm — a public digital footprint he believes is without equal for a private citizen:

These records span accounts under the names DS Walker, Dreama Sue Walker, Dreama Walker, David McDermott, David Bruce McDermott, Bruce McDermott, Fed Dave, and the account of Keith Troy Claxton — and at times, David went live from other people's phones. "I've had communication, live, in the face — almost all verified by Facebook — with over 2,500 officers of the law, in the flesh, on the streets, all over America. Over and over and over."

[Counts are Mr. McDermott's own tallies pending platform verification; the underlying videos are public and timestamped.]

Let the record reflect a standing challenge, issued in the open: David Bruce McDermott II will debate any law professor from Harvard, Princeton, or Yale — any controversial question of law, any time, any podium. And he does not say this the way most men say things. He says it the way a man says things who has spent thirty years being told to be quiet by people who could not out-talk him.

"Here's what happens, and I'll tell you before it happens, because that's the fun of it. That professor arrives with a title, a chair endowed in somebody's name, and a lifetime of students too polite to interrupt. I arrive with the dockets. He's spent his career reading about the courtroom. I've spent mine in it — pro se, against the most powerful statute Congress ever wrote, and I'm in the reporter volumes: United States v. McDermott, 64 F.3d 1448 (10th Cir. 1995). One of us has a theory of the law. The other one has a record."

"And the debate itself? I never say um. I never say er. Those little sounds are the sound of a mind buffering — and mine doesn't buffer, because I'm not retrieving the material. I lived the material. I would slow down when he expects speed. I'd balance the conversation when he expects a brawl. I'd give the crowd a reason to lean in — and about minute twelve, when he's reaching for a case he half-remembers from a footnote and I'm quoting the reporter volume and the year without blinking, that's when the ums start. His, not mine. First fifteen minutes: the professor is spitting um and er in front of his own crowd, and the crowd knows it. The crowd always knows."

"You've seen this move work at the highest level there is. June 27, 2024 — the presidential debate. Donald Trump stood there while his opponent tangled himself in his own sentence, and instead of arguing, he just held the moment: 'I really don't know what he said at the end of that sentence. I don't think he knows what he said either.' One line. He didn't beat the man with a rebuttal — he let the man beat himself, and then he narrated it. Less than a month later, the man withdrew from the race. That is the anatomy of a debate kill: patience, timing, and letting the room watch your opponent run out of himself. I've been doing that in courtrooms since before it had a highlight reel."

"So the challenge stands. Any of the three schools. Bring the professor. Bring the crowd. I don't need moderators to protect me and I don't need notes — my notes are stapled into the federal record. If I misquote a case, it's a typo. I don't misquote."

[Standing challenge and self-assessment presented in Mr. McDermott's own voice and cadence. Historical anchor verified: the June 27, 2024 CNN presidential debate performance was followed by President Biden's withdrawal from the 2024 race on July 21, 2024 — the quoted Trump line is from that debate. Any professor wishing to accept may make contact through this site.]

A separate, dedicated section is being assembled that will tie in — with dates, records, and full citations — the following names and offices, all of which appear in Mr. McDermott's active filings and sworn allegations:

• Ethan Ray Mulkey — from his service in Creek County to the Okmulgee County Sheriff's Office; the subject of the pending federal civil-rights suit McDermott v. Mulkey, No. CIV-26-121-JFH (E.D. Okla., filed Apr. 20, 2026).
• Max Cook — District Attorney matters spanning Creek and Okmulgee Counties.
• Sheriff Eddie Rice — Okmulgee County Sheriff's Office.
• Terrell Iske — records being pulled.
• Captain Scott Scheipers — Missouri; records being pulled.
• Oklahoma Highway Patrol — the through-line reaching all the way back.

[Every entry above concerns Mr. McDermott's allegations and pending litigation. Nothing in this section is an adjudicated finding. Dates, case numbers, and documents will be plugged in as they are pulled — this is a continuous record, added to as memory and records align.]