One version of this scenario played out for 51 days this spring in Waco, Texas. The other unwound last August in the remote mountains of northern Idaho, in a bloody 11-day standoff between federal marshals and white separatists Randy Weaver, 45, and Kevin Harris, 25. Its cost: the lives of Weaver’s wife, Vicki; son, Sam, 14, and Deputy U.S. Marshal William Degan-and $1 million in manpower and equipment.
Weaver’s case might have been overlooked if not for David Koresh. But in the wake of the Texas inferno, brutal questions are being pressed as the murder-and-conspiracy trial of Weaver and Harris enters its ninth week in U.S. district court in Boise. How much government force is necessary? How should it be applied? And, in trying to get its man, how scrupulous must the government be? More ethical than it has been, argues Weaver’s attorney, Gerry Spence. “The relationship between this and Waco is the ungodly power of the federal government against individuals,” he said last week after announcing the defense would not put on a case because the prosecution “didn’t prove” its own. Federal attorneys refused comment on the case.
What unfolded before U.S. district court Judge Edward Lodge could chill the fur off a grizzly: grim photos of Weaver’s slain son; tales of government evidence tampering; wrenching details of how Vicki Weaver was shot while holding her infant daughter. Everything about the case is rough edged-including Weaver, a former Green Beret who, though he had never had even a traffic ticket, was no boy scout. Linked to extremists who label the United States part of an international Jewish conspiracy, he was a renegade who lived a spartan existence with Vicki and four children: their house on Ruby Ridge was a plywood cabin with no electricity or running water; they ate what they grew or shot.
But even in a spot where guns were as common as fir trees, Weaver’s love of firearms seemed unusual: in an October 1989 sting, federal officials said, he sold two sawed-off shotguns to a Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms operative. He was indicted but says he was given an incorrect trial date. When he didn’t show in March 1991, he was declared a fugitive. Convinced he was the object of “trickery,” Weaver barricaded the clan inside the ramshackle compound. In an ominous letter, Vicki told prosecutors Weaver would not obey a government he deemed his enemy. The U.S. attorney took it as a threat and summoned marshals to bring Weaver in. They set up surveillance and waited-for 16 months.
Mother’s blood: Everything changed on Aug. 21, 1992. Degan and two other agents were scouting for a new lookout when the family’s dog chased them down the mountain. They were followed by Weaver, Sam and family friend Harris, all armed. What happened next is the crux of the case: who fired first, igniting the bloody standoff? Whatever the spark, Degan was dead, a bullet piercing his lung; Sam was killed by a shot in the back. The next day, Weaver and Harris were wounded and Vicki slain by an FBI sniper; she was found clutching baby Elisheba, showered in her mother’s blood. Though only Harris, Weaver and his three daughters remained, the government brought in an arsenal-helicopters, armored personnel carriers, 200 agents. A week later, Weaver surrendered.
But the furor endured, in part because of the FBI’s handling of evidence. Bullets recovered from the shoot-out were lost. Transcripts from FBI interviews, including the sniper’s account of Vicki’s death, were received by the defense after the agent testified, prompting Lodge to sanction the prosecution for “inexcusable and extremely poor judgment” and force it to apologize.
Weaver’s is one of four cases in the past decade in which extremists and Feds clashed to disastrous end; Waco is the most recent. As it inches toward trial, the painful questions of Ruby Ridge will resonate. Again and again, the question is whether maximum force is being used with minimum judgment.
