investigation, and the Senate had held hearings. Both had
recommended reforms to the rules of engagement, particularly
concerning the use of deadly force.
The Weavers had filed a wrongful death suit for $200 million but
settled out of court when the government offered Vicki’s three
daughters $1 million each. Randy Weaver was awarded $100,000 and
all charges, except two related to court appearances, were dropped.
Randy Weaver had been interviewed by major news organizations and
had even co-written a book with his daughter. He now made his living
speaking at gun shows.
If it was a cover-up, it was a very bad one. There had been media
coverage, official inquiries, oversight. Wasn’t that the measure of a
democracy?
There was one thing I still didn’t understand: Why had federal
agents surrounded Randy Weaver’s cabin in the first place? Why had
Randy been targeted? I remembered Dad saying it could just as easy be
us. Dad was always saying that one day the Government would come
after folks who resisted its brainwashing, who didn’t put their kids in
school. For thirteen years, I’d assumed that this was why the
Government had come for Randy: to force his children into school.
I returned to the top of the page and read the whole entry again, but
this time I didn’t skip the backstory. According to all the sources,
including Randy Weaver himself, the conflict had begun when Randy
sold two sawed-off shotguns to an undercover agent he’d met at an
Aryan Nations gathering. I read this sentence more than once, many
times in fact. Then I understood: white supremacy was at the heart of
this story, not homeschool. The government, it seemed, had never
been in the habit of murdering people for not submitting their children
to a public education. This seemed so obvious to me now, it was
difficult to understand why I had ever believed anything else.
For one bitter moment, I thought Dad had lied. Then I remembered
the fear on his face, the heavy rattling of his breath, and I felt certain
that he’d really believed we were in danger. I reached for some
explanation and strange words came to mind, words I’d learned only
minutes before: paranoia, mania, delusions of grandeur and
persecution. And finally the story made sense—the one on the page,
and the one that had lived in me through childhood. Dad must have
read about Ruby Ridge or seen it on the news, and somehow as it