To smuggle in the barrel, Austin purchased a used G19 barrel from the internet and one day replaced his service barrel with the used one from the internet, but not before he removed the serial number from it. He simply walked into the courthouse as usual with a different barrel on his duty side arm. Just before he was to leave the courthouse that day he simply removed the barrel from the sidearm and left it in the dead drop that had been indicated to him. Once he made his way back to his patrol car, it took thirty seconds for him to put the service barrel he had stashed back into the weapon. The firing pin was smuggled in one of his spare magazines on another day.
He didn't like the fact that his department kept track of every round of ammunition, but he had a simple solution to the problem. To avoid having to explain missing duty ammunition, he simply replaced one round of the duty ammunition with ammunition he had purchased privately. The new ammunition his department used was not available to civilians, so he would bury the civilian round at the bottom of a spare magazine, then retrieve it once in the courthouse and leave it at the dead drop. He did this once or twice per week until he had left eighteen rounds.
That momentary sudden silence in the din of normally room filling conversation was always a strange occurrence. It always seemed to last longer than it should, and this time was no different. The packed courtroom went back to a low volume cacophany of conversations just as suddenly as its momentary stoppage. Today was the seventh day of Donald Greesy's trial. He had remained generally subdued from the time of his arrest for double homicide, and he was just as subdued now, moments before the beginning of the day's proceedings.
Today he would witness the testimony of the arresting officer and several bystanders to the events leading up to his arrest. Donald was lost in thought, staring blankly at the feet of the court stenographer when he heard the bailiff loudly say, "All rise for the honorable Judge Munson," his voice trailing at the end. The judge entered the courtroom and took her seat. Now the courtroom was intentionally silent in anticipation of the testimony to resume for the day.
Donald felt resolved to his fate. He had felt a calmness inside and around him for several days. It was because he had made his decision, which brought back the serenity that he had felt for much of his life - a serenity that had been shattered for the last fourteen months since his arrest.
He stared blankly at the starched officer on the stand who was calmly answering the questions brought by the prosecutor. He knew the officer's name and most of his background, but at this moment his mind was blank to it. The officer was describing the events in great detail; he was vividly describing the scene depicted in the grisly photo that was blown up to poster size.
The photo of the alleged crime scene depicted three lifeless bodies roughly arranged in a triangle, each about ten to twenty feet apart and lying in three distinct pools of blood.
"Explain the cause of death of this victim," the prosecutor requested of the officer pointing out one of the bloody bodies in the photo.
"Well...it was determined that this person died of three GSW's, I mean gun shot wounds, to the upper torso from point blank range..."
"I object your Honor..." stated one of the lawyers representing Mr. Greesy before being cut off by the prosecutor.
"Officer Collins, I meant that I wanted you to explain what led up to the death of the victim."
"Oh, sorry," the officer replied, somewhat taken aback that he didn't understand that from the beginning, knowing that the later testimony of the coroner would explain the exact causes of death. "This victim died during a direct physical confrontation with Mr. Greesy. Witnesses at the scene indicated that this person had physically struck Mr. Greesy multiple times before being shot at a distance of less than two feet by the defendant. He was deceased when we arrived on the scene."
"And what about these two victims?"
"Well sir, the one on the left there was shot twice in the upper chest at a distance of about nine feet, while the one at the top of the photo was shot four times in the upper left side and upper back from fifteen to twenty feet..." then the officer suddenly added, "...he was obviously running away when he was shot."
"Your Honor! The officer is not a forensic scientist, nor a witness, who can determine such events," cried a defense lawyer.
"Sustained," ordered the judge. "The jury will disregard the last statement of the testimony."
"Officer Collins? Did any of the witnesses indicate that either of the two victims you just described were retreating when they were shot by the defendant?"
"Yes sir. Two of the witnesses, Mr. and Mrs. Urbanosk both made statements that the victim on the left was backing up and that the victim at the top of the photo had been turning and running away at the time they were shot by the Mr. Greesy."
At this point, Donald disappeared inside his thoughts, yet his eyes were always focused on the proceedings. By looking at him, no one would have known that he was in another place. Several more officers offered their testimony, and a break was about to be called before the eye witnesses were called to testify. A wave of calmness swept over Donald as he palmed the strange, yet familiar object taped under the table. He momentarily considered removing the tape completely, then reconsidered. It wouldn't matter.
The normal rise in the volume of activity and voices in the courtroom during the anticipation of the call to recess occurred right on time as usual. Donald had made note of it in the preceding days and knew that this would be the best time to make his move. He had all of the detailed plans in his head. All of his targets had patterned moves that were predicable. The innocents in the courtroom were also predicable.
In his own world, Donald had not heard anything - he had not felt anything. The scenario played out rapidly in his head every second. The alternate plans, the possible changes he anticipated, and those he could not, all ran in rapid succession through his mind. How many sheriff's deputies and beat cops might be passing by in the hallway? There were only three ways in and out, and most would come through one set of doors, which were currently locked. He knew timing was everything...
"All rise" were the first words he consciously heard since the testimony of Officer Collins hours earlier.
Donald Greesy, the one time IDPA ranked champion and accused double murderer was late on the "rise." The 3D CAD printed simi-automatic 9mm pistol came free from it's bonds will little effort and was pointed at the judge with two rounds to the head of the judge before Donald finished rising to the standing position with the rest of the courtroom.
He couldn't help but notice the brown coloring of the plastic gun with the blue painters tape flapping about as the semi-automatic slide moved with each round fired. Someone had taken the time to paint the once white plastic with brown spray paint so that it somewhat blended in with the table to which it had been taped.
He quickly rotated to his left, lining up the sights with the bailiff standing at the door to the defendants waiting room, elbowing one of the lawyers out of the way as he turned. The bailiff was starting to look towards the sound while his head was trying to sink into his shoulders caused by the sudden loud sounds less than a second before when two rounds from the gun impacted the bailiff's neck and face. The other bailiff less than three feet away also received similar treatment less than a second later.
Donald was counting on two very important things to happen for his plan to work: one was that the courtroom audience, as they were standing following the "all rise" request would obscure the view of the bailiffs and deputies at the back of the room, and that those same bailiffs and deputies would not have prematurely unlocked the doors to the hallway. They had not in the past, and he was counting on them now. With the sound of the shots, they would intentionally leave the doors locked if they had not already unlocked them.
Spinning back to his right and dropping to a kneel behind the defendant's desk, noting the slumping judge and blood and brain splattered on the back wall as he spun, he put two rounds in the head of a ducking bailiff manning the door to the jury room, who's pistol was half drawn. The deputy on the other side of the door, who's sidearm was fully drawn and nearly in line with Donald received a single round to the right thigh, which made him instantly drop to the ground clutching the wound with both hands. Donald was satisfied that he was safe from harm for a few seconds from the injured deputy.
The plastic gun, made on a 3D printer in someone's home had preformed flawlessly thus far. The barrel and very few other components were obviously metal, but this gun was 90% plastic. It didn't preform as well as his competition pistol, but at ranges of no greater than thirty feet, it was easy for him to hit a moving target the size of a head with the homemade gun. He had hit much smaller targets at considerably longer ranges during competitions.
Now Donald could hear the screams. Less than five seconds had passed, and the courtroom was pandemonium. He realized that some of the screams were not from fear, but from pain. That is when he realized that the deputies at the back of the room were firing in his direction. He couldn't see them through the mass of people scurrying like mad ants, but the sporadic gunfire continued.
Squatting, he shuffled to the prosecutor's desk scanning for the deputies and bailiffs at the back of the room. He noted that the doors were still closed, which meant they were locked. At this point nearly everyone was starting to fall to the floor to avoid being shot, and he could see the heads of the three armed men at the back of the room. With a quick site on the first head, Donald let two rounds go in quick succession, moving the plastic pistol to the next head in line to the right. Just as he squeezed the trigger a sudden shove sent him flying to the floor in the middle of the isle with no concealment.
He found himself sprawling on the floor in the open. With the majority of the court audience now on the ground, the remaining deputies had an open line of sight to his new found position on the floor. The bullets immediately came streaming in, impacting the floor all around him. With no other choice he raised his head and brought his weapon to bear, cleanly placing a single shot the heads of each remaining deputy. Less than 17 seconds had passed since the first shot impacted the now exploded head of the judge.
When he turned to evaluate what moved him out of position, he felt the burning pain overcome his senses. Donald looked down to see blood had formed on his slacks just below his left hip. Seeing the reality of it made the bullet wound hurt worse. There was also pain in his left side, whereupon he opened his jacket to see blood on his shirt as well. As he was looking himself over, cognizant of the limited time he had before he was jumped on by members of the audience, or the door was broken down by officers in the hallway, he noticed the prosecutor crouched under the desk, eyes wild with fear.
The overweight Assistant District Attorney, who was not willing to concede that Donald Greesy had acted in self defense when he was attacked by three men armed with clubs, but instead was a murderer because the other two men decided to retreat when Donald changed the odds in his favor and shot them for their transgressions, was starting to tremble as Donald struggled to bring himself to a sitting position facing the man.
"Why are you doing this?" the attorney half mumbled.
With his weight on both hands, one clutching the masterful homemade gun, and wincing in pain as he figured out a way to bring himself to a standing posture while keeping his left leg stiff, retorted loudly,"Why am I doing this? Why? I am doing this because people like yourself...and that judge, and those cops have all forgotten about Freedom. They have all forgotten about a person's Right to defend themselves against thugs. You sir, are NO different than those other three men I shot and killed. No, you are just like them. But instead of wielding a club and threatening myself and others with bodily harm, you wield perverted laws. You...and the others, have perverted justice and seek to steel our Freedoms and Liberties by a different kind of force, and foster the belief that the criminals have more Rights than the victims."
Pausing momentarily to look around the room, noting that some heads were starting to peer over the seats, and scanning for immediate threats he looked down at the cowering man shielded by the prosecutors table and continued, "NO MORE!"
Donald took another quick scan, taking particular note of the injured deputy still clutching his leg in pain. He leveled his pistol, aiming down at the top of the prosecutor's desk, "You, fat ass, are a tyrant!" and sent one round splintering through the top of the desk. Several women screamed at the sound of the shot. The attorney fell over on the ground facing up towards Donald who was now clutching his wounded waist with his left hand. The attorney was gasping for air as the bullet has entered through the top of his shoulder and passed through his torso from top to bottom, shredding his right lung and other organs.
Pointing his gun down at the head of the attorney and casting his gaze towards the injured deputy, Donald spoke softly, "sic simper tyrannis," then pulled the trigger, screams again erupting in the room.
He turned and calmly walked to the injured deputy and knelt in front of him, wincing as he did.He could hear pounding at the locked hallway doors. He took the almost empty homemade gun and put it in the outer pocket of his dress jacket and picked up the deputy's service weapon. Donald aimed it at the door across the room that held the defendants and spoke to the injured deputy.
"I hope you don't think that you are just lucky." Waiting momentarily he fixed a gaze with the deputy and continued, "I hear you are some kind of patriot. Is that true? Are you a patriot?"
Donald could see the extreme pain in the man's eyes. He realized that the deputy might be incapable of speaking in his attempts to overcome the pain of having a hollowpoint bullet rip through muscles, tendons, and vessels. The flesh on the backside of the leg was an exposed ragged mess with blood pooling on the floor for the last minute since he was shot.
"Deputy Cross. I shot you to keep you from shooting me. I could have easily put two in your head just like the rest."
Donald paused again looking around the room then fixed his eyes on the deputy again, "You are a hero today."
The deputy furrowed his brow slightly and tried to speak, instead making a low grunting noise.
"You need to decide what kind of hero you are going to be, and you only have a few seconds to decide..."
The deputy shuddered and shrunk his head deep into into his shoulders at the sudden cracks from his service pistol. As two deputies entered the room from the outer defendant's room, Donald made well placed shots into their heads, each receiving two rounds, with screams from the audience as the heads ducked behind the seats again.
"Are you going to stay here and be the survivor; the hero of the courtroom massacre, with the public fame and fortune that follows? Or are you going to be the obscure patriot who is a hero only in small circles, likely to never receive fame nor fortune, but instead to die fighting for what you know is right?" Pausing briefly he continued, "What's it gonna be Cross?"
Donald put his arms under the deputy and hoisted him to his feet as the both grunted under to pain of movement. He wanted to get though to the Deputy, to make him understand fully that what he was asking was not a trick or a ploy, but a legitimate offer. So he put his face inches from the deputy's and spoke just above a whisper, "Your wife says you consider yourself part of the three percent. Now's your chance. Remember either way you're a hero today."
Donald handed the Deputy's service pistol back to the deputy and opened the door to the jury room disappearing from view.
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