They probably won’t publish it, although the facts therein are as true as grace:

Keith Miller is a crook who thought his power and friends would protect him from the scrutiny he deserved. Truth is he had crossed the line more than this sexual peccadillo [and Hilton Head Island partnership investment] with a fellow employee. I watched him interfere with a spacious home in Lakeview Park so grossly under-assessed in the tax office for more than 45 years as to criminally accommodate a newspaper executive. When our knowledge of the scandal was brought to his attention, he refused to adjust the assessed value of this home as a Beaver Lake bungalow until we threatened going before the County Commissioners to expose him and the dishonest owners. Then, after blowing up, blustering, and threatening me, he did finally adjust the value of this high 7-figure Westwood Rd. home, but refused to impose any arrearages, although the owners, who bought the property in 1982, should have been required to pay the adjusted ad valorem taxes for the preceding 10 years.

And if justice had been served several people would have been prosecuted in the criminal courts for this corruption, including Miller and the unsavory owners.

Sacred to the Memory of Shelley Smith Williams, My Only Daughter, Whom I Always Loved and Adored So Much!

She died in August 2024 by her own hand. She was still just as young and beautiful the last time I saw her in 2024 when we got together for lunch in Newport to celebrate her birthday. This photo was taken at her high school prom in Alcoa, TN. Her escort is Tom Turnbow who went on to a very successful life. When he was dating Shelley, Tom and I sparred on the tennis courts of Alcoa. He was such a nice young man, great at tennis, and I hoped she would stay with him. But she could not brook an alpha male. Farewell, sweet girl, farewell. I hope I get to see you again and hug you and tell you how much I missed you…and how much love and beauty you brought into my life.

I just had to share this great lecture with you from 8-figure CEO and hockey coach, Michael McLean: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cmSjwBktQrE&ab_channel=MichaelMcLean-BadAssCEO

And btw, I never knew the sleazebag magistrate, Joseph Carroll Knight, was Jewish until I happened on a website suggested to me by a Jewish friend to learn that kinfolk of the friend had joined Chabad House as members. Some anonymous coward jumped me by sending me snail mail claiming I am anti-Semitic. Well, I am not, and I did not know sleazy Knight was Jewish until after I saw his photo on the website of Chabad House.

The late Muryel Sue Gross, Dr. and Barbara Michalove and their sister Lois Michalove, Marc Rudow (he worked in my office as a student intern), Dr. Ruth Westheimer (whose parents died in the Holocaust after having sent her to Switzerland circa Kristallnacht), Ted Frank (conservative attorney I used to debate in usenet), Asheville mayor Kenneth Michalove, Mayor Leni Sitnick, Bob and Andrea Fink (college friends who came to Knoxville from Brooklyn), other college friends — Robert Schwartz, Bill Zwick, Ronnie Werner, Alan Roth and his Catholic wife Sharon (she converted and they invited us to their synagogue and we attended), Bob Satz Asheville restaurateur and a client, the late Lloyd Cooper (a great friend and client who invited me to his son’s Bar Mitzvah), Stephanie Cooper (Lloyd’s surviving spouse and a wonderful travel agent here in Asheville), concert cellist Mischa Maisky, concert pianist András Schiff, NY Philharmonic conductor Leonard Bernstein, Benjamin Nathan Cardozo, Supreme Court Justices Louis Brandeis and Ruth Bader Ginsburg, comedian Myron Cohen, Buddy Hackett, Simon and Garfunkel, Norman Mailer, Marcel Proust, Heinrich Heine, pianists Helene Grimaud and Martha Argerich, and Khatia Buniatishvili, Attorney Paul Rifkin, and so on, almost ad infinitum.

I lived with a friend, Dove Landsberg, for several months as her tenant in Torrance, CA. She was a retired schoolteacher and full of mirth, goodness, and wisdom. “The Jews learned to live by their wits,” she said, “in order to survive.” I agree. That Dove! She was one hell of a wonderful human being. And so is my beloved friend, Lois Michalove.

We have a NC constitutional guarantee of open courts, but here in Asheville the judges thumb their noses at it: “All courts shall be open…” One judge, the chief district court judge [Calvin Hill], closes his court at will by having the door locked and a deputy posted at the door. Another, if she sees you in the courtroom and dislikes you because she’s afraid you might write something uncomplimentary (but true) about her [Julie Kepple], will single you out and angrily tell you to leave and even have her bailiff threaten you with his gun and taser. Still another one [Edwin Clontz] – who has recently been embarrassed by a pubic reprimand adopted by our Supreme Court – will have his bailiff rush at you as if to lay violent hands on you and then tell you, as he opens the door to shove you out, that “You’re free to leave!” If you want their names, I’ll give them to you. — published in Volokh Conspiracy, as a comment about an article in VS by Prof. Volokh in which the great Roman philosopher Plutarch advocated for open courts when a Roman nabob requested that a lawsuit in which he was a party be tried at his home. [The names were added here in brackets.]

But there is more: I learned from a Dr. Hubbard, a NC orthopedic surgeon, that he filed an application here in Buncombe for an absolute divorce. The property settlement had been concluded in earlier proceedings. Then I learned from him that the judge, Andrea Dray, refused to grant him the divorce when his ex showed up and demanded his Lexus. In other words unless he turned his Lexus over to her, also a medical doctor, Dray would not grant the divorce. Now that is about the extent I know about this shocker, and I have been trying to get to the courthouse to look at the file (Hubbard vs. Hubbard). The first time I looked for it, the file could not be found but then I called recently and it is in the clerk’s office… and thick too! So as soon as I am able to look at at and draw some conclusions for passing on here, I’ll pass on some more commentary about it. I am trying to get better at walking after kidney surgery.

Oddly, as you know, Hill and Dray, have been replaced by two more mopes, one from the despicable dissembling farce known as Pisgah Legal, and the other from Ron Moore’s nest of snakes. I can only infer that some of the Brahmins of the Bar convinced Hill, the courtroom golfball tosser, and ultra vires Dray that they had become personae non grata.

There will be more about the scandalous Buncombe courts, and in the meantime I am thankful to the one or two folks in the courthouse who anonymously send me very helpful hints about its numerous skanks and the sullied institution known as our courthouse: Whistleblower 1 and whistleblower 2. Aren’t you glad that the “fierce little biscuit,” Katie Dreher of Fifth Amendment fame, never got to be a judge? Well, let me tell you these latest two may be even rottener than she was. Meredith and Robin, I got my calculating eyes on you!

Joeyus Carrollus Ungeheuerus Ungezieferus Chazzerius Racketeerusmobbus WannabeusMossaddus Chicanerus Knightus,
Also known as Joseph Carroll Knight, Grimy Small Claims Magistrate of the
Small Claims Courtroom, Boudoir, and Personal PIGSty,
Buncombe County Courthouse,
Asheville, NC.

In 2023, I went to the courthouse to see about getting a lawsuit filed for elderly bedridden Donna Jean Oakes for the outrageous torts of negligent damage by Keffer Hyundai just east of the NC Highway Patrol office on US 70…and the incompetent creeps at Curtis Hi-Tech in Oteen, reputed to be owned by the scoundrel, Charles Careccia. She had driven her 2012 Toyota Scion to Curtis Hi-Tech for a simple 5k miles oil change, and the woman mechanic used a high-powered impact wrench to remove her oil filter and shattered the aluminum alloy crankcase on her engine. And yes, the crooks at Asheville Hyundai had over-torqued the oil filter body so that it could not be removed with a socket wrench and elbow grease. It was way too tight.

So the mechanic at Careccia’s place in Oteen, a woman, took an overpowered jack-hammer-like device to the Scion and blew a huge hole in the side of the engine. Now a nice reliable Toyota has been turned into an oil-burning, misfiring, sputtering hoopty by two gangs of crooks. Then the damage to this innocent woman’s humble car was unjustly forgiven by their corrupt RICO accessories in the courthouse–Joseph Knight, the prissing magistrate of small claims; Julie Kepple; Eddie Clontz, and James Calvin Hill, all crooked as snakes .

Our despicable clerk’s office would not let me sign up Ms. Oakes as an indigent. She had to be there in the courthouse, they said, so I had to advance the court costs and sheriff’s fees. The statute of limitations was about to run. She lives on less than $1k per mo.; and, as a seventy-nine year old, I live on less than $9k a year, or a total of $860 per month — COURTHOUSE OUTRAGE NO 1.

After I brought her to the courthouse and pushed her around in a wheelchair, my octogenarian knees gave me months of pain and stiffness. Asheville direly needs a militant chapter of Grey Panthers.

I had not anticipated that I would be required to sponsor the lawsuit. Or that former trial court administrator, the conniver Marc Shimburg (and Joe Knight crony), would sneak around this day, peeping around corners, and follow me all over the courthouse. I know now that something evil this way came.

Don’t be fooled by this old photo and the youthfulness of this yutz judge’s evil face. His mug is now about 67 years old, hoggish, and creped with grime, chicanery, and wrinkles.

Oddly, the shyster has never heard of the common legal concept of res ipsa loquitur. Ms. Oakes drove her Toyota Scion to Curtis Hi-Tech in Oteen with a full sump of oil, and her computerized variable valve timing working perfectly. No engine lights appeared on her dash, except the one light that advised her maintenance was required — that it was time to change oil. She turned the car over to Curtis Hi-Tech for oil change and they had her Toyota in their exclusive possession while she waited in their waiting room. While they had their careless hands on it, they knocked a hole in her engine. When the lawsuit came to court, they should have had to explain their presumptive negligence; but they sat there in that shabby little courtroom like knots on a log, having already been assured the plaintiff would get goose-egged by the crook, Joseph Knight.

It’s a sad commentary that today, just as it was in the days of Jonathan Swift– who commented in Gulliver about courthouse depravity — that the judges are dredged up from the lazy, the scoundrels, fools, and bottomfeeders of the legal profession.

I crossed paths with Johanna in the Clerk’s office when I was being stalked by an angry neighbor illegally abusing our quiet neighborhood with her flophouse motel, an AIRBNB toxic nuisance.

I have to level with you that Johanna is an offspring, or by-product, of Steve Cogburn — condescending, hateful, scowling, obnoxious, dishonest, and a fierce enemy of due process of law. It’s hard for me to fathom she would have the audacity to run for this office. Some lawyers would never make it unless they had the state’s teat to suckle. Without warning or reason, other than dirty politics, a hallmark of the office when Steve sullied it with the malice of party and faction, Joanna, an interloper, attacked me as if I were a flea-bitten stray dog.

I’ll have much more to say, including comments about one or more disgusting candidates for the judiciary, and my happiness at knowing two of the judges who are eminently defrockable announced they are defrocking themselves.

I believe it is.

I am 79 now and not a spring chicken. About 20 years ago my friend Eddie Washburn from a wealthy old Rutherford County family told me about paying cash to participate in a group colonoscopy in Charlotte by Charlotte Gastro. I was immediately interested because my father had just been diagnosed with polyps which had begun to turn to cancer cells. My Uncle Raymond, his brother, had recently died of colon cancer.

My father’s polyps had just been removed before they began to spread cancer to other parts of his body. That’s what they told him. I saw photos of the darkened, diseased polyps; but at the time it had not occurred to me that these may have been stock photos. It occurs to me now.

After some finagling I got myself triaged into a group of Charlotte Gastro colonoscopies, and I watched on the screen as mine was performed by this cordial gastroenterologist with whom I was later to have several more warm conversations. In a few days I got a nice letter here in Asheville from the gastro doctor verifying what I already knew as an eyeball witness: I had no polyps.

I had noticed after the procedure at a Charlotte hospital that there were 8 to 10 men in recovery with me, and most of them had been rolled into the room in stretchers or gurnies as I watched. They were knocked out cold– unconscious. I was the only patient who was conscious and had been conscious all the time through my fascinating colonoscopy. While all these men were beginning to fart in concert, I pulled my hips apart so I could let the air pumped to balloon my colon escape without noise. After a while these men started waking up from the anesthesia; but I had never been asleep, something about me that has always been peculiar. It has happened previous to that occasion and afterwards, as you will see.

One more observation: You can endure a colonoscopy without anesthesia which I did in Greenville, SC in the early nineties when Bill Clinton was in office and the Republican doctor had made crude jokes about Chelsea Clinton. It had been my first and was uncomfortable but not enough to make me howl, or even squirm. It was the laxatives that had irritated me, not the invasion of my colon.

OK, back to my experience with Charlotte Gastro. A week or so after I got my letter of happy relief from the gastroenterologist, I received an alarming statement from a pathology laboratory in South Carolina demanding a whopping cash payment from me for “polyp biopsy and analysis of abnormal cells.”

I immediately began calling their phones and after some of the people I talked to dismissed me like I was a kook, I finally got the administrator of this fraud and talked to him. For brevity I won’t tell you how long it took me to get these greedy scoundrels off my back. Then the Charlotte doctor called me on the phone and apologized profusely and begged me to “let it go” after I had promised the crooks in SC I was going to my attorney general AND the attorney general of SC.

Fast forward 4+ years. The time came here in Asheville for me to have my colon invaded again, so I called Asheville Gastro. An appointments lady there pleaded with me to have their woman doctor perform the formalities, so I agreed. I was to pay cash because I had no insurance and was not yet qualified for medicare.

After all that pain and suffering with the harsh laxative scraping everything — and then some — out of my intestines, I showed up for the procedure. As usual I was administered an intravenous cocktail of demerol and benzodiazepine (Versed) and went through the procedure just as conscious as if nothing had happened. I watched the closed circuit TV screen while everyone else in the room tended to business. All of a sudden this doctor-woman exhibited a snare with a sharp-looped cutter on the end and purported to slide it up my chute and snip something off inside my colon, just a few inches above my rectum. I could see there was nothing there but healthy pink tissue…and certainly no polyp. So this was a fraud. The doctor then probed around upwards for a while… and soon enough the ceremonies were concluded.

Later this doctor, who was soon to quit Asheville Gastro and go elsewhere (or be fired), called me back in for a checkup. She went up my chute and purported to locate the area where she had performed her phantom polypectomy. I was fascinated to see her stick a sharp instrument into healthy, unscarred tissue and cause me to bleed like a stuck hog, but with utterly no pain.

Later I called Asheville Gastro, the only trick in town, and made a fuss. A young Jewish doctor, who impressed me with his gentle manner and candor, went into my colon with his scope and told me he could find no scar. “You won’t,” I told him, “because there had been no polyps and she only went through the motions of removing a polyp. She is a crook.”

Still, a SC pathology lab bill and the bill at Asheville Gastro had piled up to somewhere around $1,000. I wouldn’t pay it and told the bill collectors that I had been fending off a horde of frauds. I told them to “go to hell.” There is no gastroenterologist in WNC who will see me now because Asheville Gastro has ruined my credit with a corrupt bill for services. So now for years I have been playing Russian Roulette with my colon. The only thing I have done is smear little coupon cards provided by my family doctor with small dabs of fecal matter. However, I have been very careful to eat wisely, coddle my microbiome with Mediterranean-styled food, and hope I don’t come down with the dreaded killer, colon cancer.

By the way, my dad lived to be 95 and it was a psychopath urologist digging around in his bladder who killed him. I don’t doubt in my mind for one minute that THAT rat-faced little doctor worked a fraud on my poor old father who was filled with the ambition and the promises of his Heavenly Father to live to be 100 years old. The doctor had made all kinds of promises to my dad, and then when he was in recovery put on his chart he was to receive Tylenol for his post-operative pain. He began climbing the walls in his room at MMH in excruciating agony when I ran to the nurses’ station screaming and demanded something to kill his pain. They thought they could intimidate me with “We’ll call security if you don’t quieten down.”

“You call security,” I said. “I’ll take them to my father’s room and show them how you are causing an old man to needlessly suffer.” A few minutes later an RN was there in my father’s room, as my sister and I watched, giving him a shot of demerol. Because of the brutal stress of this “sawbones” operation, my dad was dead less than a month later. The doctor had been banging away at my father’s bladder AND his wonderful BCBS health insurance policy. I saw his huge bills, all paid by BCBS.