My Marsupial Court Marijuana DUI Final Report

by Travis Mateer

When I was pulled over by Missoula PD last year for having just one functioning headlight I didn’t think the night would end with me in handcuffs in the back of the police cruiser listening to shitty rap music, but I had underestimated how badly the city of Missoula wanted to legally fuck me.

My first indication this arrest was more than just a bored cop smelling weed and doing a power flex came AFTER the esteemed rap artist said FUCK THE POLICE through the cop car speakers. After that delightful synchronicity the cop asked me if I knew I was trespassed from the Double Tree Hotel, to which I replied NO. Well, said the officer, it says here in your “jacket” to inform you that you are no longer allowed on the property of the Double Tree Hotel.

Jacket? What kind of bad cop tv show is this, I remembered thinking to myself. Later, after my mommy came to spring me from the clink, I looked up the jail slang this weed-sniffing cop used. Here’s what my AI overview told me:

The Double Tree Hotel property is where I was arrested on tax day for violating an order of protection. This violation occurred NOT because I saw or interacted with my petitioner in any way. No, the violation, which was successfully prosecuted against me earlier this month, occurred because I didn’t leave fast enough after being told by Eric Levgold, who works at United Way, that my petitioner WOULD BE attending the event. If I remained in the parking lot with my “urban camping” trash removal display, then I would be within 1,500 feet of my unseen petitioner, and that’s what happened.

This protective order violation was the second I had been charged with. The first one, which the city completely dismissed, occurred outside City Council, and the cop who walked me away from the Council doors AFTER my petitioner arrived was NOT the cop who ticketed me. My petitioner was somehow able to convince a cop THE NEXT DAY to ticket me with a violation, so I didn’t learn of this charge until I appeared in front of a judge, an appearance I asked for myself in order to get clarification about MY rights to attend public meetings.

The second indication I got that my Marijuana DUI charge was an overt attempt to gain more leverage against me in the broader lawfare assault on my Constitutional FREE SPEECH protections came when the dumb city attorney actually used the DUI charge AS leverage in an offer that would have had me plead guilty to the order of protection violation so that the DUI would go away. This move surprised my Public Defender, who I didn’t know at the time had never tried a case all by himself before, so maybe his surprise was just naiveté regarding the tactics of lawfare.

Since the entire protective order was a farce established by a SUBSTITUTE judge who denied my objection to the fact he went to law school with my petitioner, then denied my request for a postponement so that I would have more time to find a lawyer to help me defend myself from the accusations made by my former creative collaborator and brief romantic partner, I was becoming VERY familiar with the tactic of lawfare and character assassination I had been dealing with for an entire year. That’s what gave me the confidence to say NO to each progressively improving plea deal.

If the cop was serious about proving my alleged impairment, he would have gotten a warrant and forced a blood draw at the hospital, but he didn’t do that because, I suspect, he knew he didn’t have to. If the leverage didn’t work out (it didn’t), the next assumption was that I would eagerly say YES to a plea offer, but I just kept saying NO, even when my own Public Defender started getting insistent, then annoyed, that I kept refusing every improving signal from the city they didn’t have a case.

I mean, how could I NOT accept a no insurance charge and single headlight charge in lieu of the FEAR a DUI should have instilled in me? I would have to be CRAZY, right?

I did soften my stance slightly when I emailed my Public Defender and said I would accept the offer if it came with an apology from the cop for arresting me and subjecting me to his terrible rap music, but I’m not sure that suggestion was taken seriously, so the next day I arrived bright and early a few minutes before 9am and waited. And waited. Then waited some more.

The hearing was a “jury instruction” hearing, and my lawyer was physically present, as was I. The city attorneys were on the floor just above us, so while we waited I told another public defender that it would be REALLY COOL if there was a hole in the ceiling, and a pole, so the lawyers could slide down like fire fighters. Hey, I suggested, maybe the city could use Tax Increment Financing to make this awesome improvement?

I was showing my joy over this process because part of my working theory about me living in this retarded town is that any time I exhibit joy over something, it is quickly taken from me. So there I was, enjoying the idea of having an audience (a jury) and an archivist documenting my brilliant words (a clerk recorder) as I recounted my hilarious DUI odyssey, including a deep dive into House Bill 701 regarding body fluid tests being crap and not adequate for court, according to our own Montana Department of Justice. And, of course, the rap song that dropped N-bombs like drone strikes on foreign poors.

The legal game of lawfare on that glorious Friday morning turned into a waiting game as the judge, the defenders, and the handsome citizen journalist all waited for the city attorney to show up. When a tall, nervous guy finally appeared, I quickly learned his nervousness was due to NOT being my prosecutor, and having NO IDEA where that prosecutor was.

I have to commend this guy, he did his very best to find the figurative strap-on dildo with with to fuck me with (jury instructions), but for some strange reason, after floundering around for a few minutes, he found NOTHING, and had to admit he KNEW NOTHING about my case, and would have to, therefore, move to DISMISS THE WHOLE ENCHILADA!

And that’s when the judges said I was free to leave.

On my way out of Marsupial Court I saw the granddaughter of old H.G Merriam, so I made a comment about the quality use of tax dollars I just witnessed with the city’s professional attorneys, but Ginny must have been in a hurry to get to an important meeting because she quickly scurried out of the building when she heard by joyful voice make joyful noises about her staff of kangaroos.

Hopefully the city isn’t TOO sad about this loss because it really wasn’t much of a loss, when you think about it. The suspension of my driver’s license is STILL in effect because, I learned too late, I only had 30 days to challenge that little dildo move by the cop/vampire when he demanded my blood. Also, since the COUNTY was still displaying mugshots for that mugshot extortion racket at the time, I had this lovely pic get displayed for all to see, including the staff at my kids’ school where my Tango-dancing ex-wife works.

Financially, this lawfare is brutal, not to mention the social impacts. I’ve had to endure. For example, I just obtained a text message, sent by a City Council member to a constituent who publicly defended me, and in this text message the Council member makes VERY SERIOUS accusations against me that have NEVER been charged.

While I consider my next legal moves, there is one more case I’m facing, in either District Court or Justice Court, that stems from my petitioner’s weaponization of the protective order that the substitute judge who knew her granted her. Through the discovery process I have learned that local authorities have been contacted by my petitioner over a dozen times as she attempts to do anything possible to destroy me, including contacting our mutual friend who I made the Engen documentary with, and who wrote this article about last spring’s urban camp trash removal controversy, which I got directly involved in after YEARS of successfully coordinating trash cleanups at homeless camps in my capacity as the Homeless Outreach Coordinator for the Poverello Center.

Lawfare is a marathon, so I’m doing my best to pace myself as I struggle to stay grounded, but it’s been absolute hell, as intended. If you’d like to help me out financially, Travis’ Impact Fund (TIF) is one way to do it. Or, if anyone needs a slightly “lived-in” box truck, I know one that needs to be sold yesterday.

Thanks for reading!