The controversy had been brewing for years, but by 2016, the fight over the Mississippi state flag and Confederate monuments had reached a boiling point. Across the South, symbols of the Confederacy were being torn down, erased, and vilified in the name of progress. But to me, this wasn’t just about statues or flags. It was about something far more fundamental—history, democracy, and constitutional rights.
I never saw myself as an activist. I was a Marine Corps Veteran, a journalist, a father. My life had been built on discipline and duty, shaped by an oath that didn’t expire when I took off the uniform. That oath—to support and defend the Constitution—wasn’t conditional. It didn’t bend to popular opinion or political trends. So when I saw politicians and activists trying to erase history, ignoring the will of voters, and trampling constitutional rights in the process, I couldn’t stay silent.
My stance had nothing to do with family heritage. I wasn’t waving the state flag which bore the confederate emblem out of nostalgia or some deep-rooted personal connection. In fact, I wasn’t raised in a household that glorified the Old South. But I knew that the people of Mississippi had voted—by a wide margin—to keep their flag in 2001. And I knew that tearing down monuments and erasing history was a slippery slope. If the government could override the will of the people so easily, what else could they take away? So I spoke out. Publicly. Loudly. Unapologetically.
I traveled across the state, attending city council meetings and urging local officials to honor the integrity of their citizens’ vote. It wasn’t about personal beliefs; it was about upholding democracy. If elected leaders could dismiss the will of the people on this issue, what would stop them from doing it again and again? Time and again, I reminded them that their duty wasn’t to bend to outside pressure—it was to represent the people who put them in office. Some listened. Most didn’t.
The deeper I got into the fight, the more I realized how little the government actually cared about the Constitution it claimed to uphold. Transparency? A joke. Accountability? Nonexistent. And the more I pushed, the more resistance I faced. At first, it was just roadblocks—public records requests ignored, officials refusing to engage. But when those tactics didn’t work, they tried something else: they came after me.
First, it was whispers—rumors designed to discredit me. Then it was harassment, intimidation. But I wasn’t prepared for what came next. I wasn’t prepared for how far they would go to silence me. Looking back, I can see that 2017 was the turning point. That was when my activism evolved. That was when I truly became a target. And that was when I realized the fight wasn’t just about statues and flags—it was about power, control, and a system willing to destroy anyone who dared to challenge it. And I was just getting started.
On the late afternoon of May 1, 2017, a lone protester stood at the Lafayette County Courthouse in Oxford, Mississippi, facing the imposing Confederate monument that had loomed over the town square for generations. In my hands I held a flag- the state flag of Mississippi. On my hip, I carried a legally owned firearm. By all accounts, my demonstration was silent. No violence. No incitement. Just a man standing on public property, expressing a viewpoint. Yet within minutes, deputies arrived—not to ensure my safety, not to maintain order, but to remove me.
According to the official Lafayette County Sheriff’s Report, Chief Deputy Scott Mills had ordered Captain Timmy Pruitt to the scene, citing an alleged violation: protesting without a permit. The reason was procedural, but the motive was clear—this was not about public safety. It was about control.
An Excerpt from the Lafayette County Sheriff’s Report dated 05-01-17:
“At approximately 1700 hours, I was asked by Chief Deputy Scott Mills to go to the courthouse square in front of the monument. He stated that there was someone there protesting without a permit. Mills stated that he had checked with Lisa Carwyle (County Administrator) on whether there had been a permit issued for today, and she had said there had not been.”
The deputy, Timmy Pruitt, approached me, immediately recognizing me from previous encounters. I had a good idea what was coming. Instead of engaging, I did something revealing. I pulled out my phone and started recording.
“I was giving him to the count of three to leave or he would be arrested for disorderly conduct. At the count of two, he started walking away, but then turned back to ask for my badge number. I then placed Matt under arrest.” -Timmy Pruitt (Report dated 5-1-2017)
Within seconds, my silent protest had turned into a criminal act, punishable by arrest. My crime? Noncompliance. While the report frames my actions as defiance, the reality is more complicated. The very fact that I reached for his phone suggests a deep mistrust—a fear that whatever happened next might require evidence. My instincts weren’t wrong. The arrest, carried out under the justification of “disorderly conduct,” was a pretext—a common tool used by authorities when legal violations are thin but the desire for removal is strong. It’s a law that has historically been wielded against those who inconvenience power, from civil rights activists to modern-day demonstrators. But the most revealing moment came after the handcuffs were locked. While being transported, I made an offer—one that spoke volumes about my perception of the justice system and its true function. Pruitt stated in his report:
“Before Matt was transported, he told me in the presence of Investigator Noe that if I let him go, he would not press charges against me and he would leave.”
This was not the plea of a violent criminal. It was a negotiation—a recognition that, in many cases, power is less about law and more about leverage. Had this been a different setting—had the officers wanted to, say, de-escalate—they might have let me go with a warning. But discretion was not in my favor. Instead, my firearm was confiscated and logged into the evidence locker, an act that functioned not just as a routine police procedure but as a warning. This was not about public safety. It was about precedent. The charge—failure to comply—is one that rarely holds up in court. But it doesn’t have to. The real punishment is not the conviction—it’s the arrest itself. The financial cost. The legal fees. The chilling effect on anyone else considering standing where I stood.
This case fits into a well-documented pattern. Protesters advocating for racial justice, Indigenous land rights, or political accountability are often met with swift arrests, while other demonstrations—sometimes armed, sometimes overtly hostile—are permitted with little interference. In cities across the country, officers have exercised discretionary enforcement, meaning certain groups can be policed more aggressively than others. And crucially, the power to permit a protest is also the power to deny it—allowing those in government to effectively choose which voices are heard.
On paper, the law treats everyone equally. In practice, it is a scalpel—precisely wielded, selectively enforced. My arrest was never about a flag or even about the lack of a permit. It was about who was inconvenienced by his presence. Had the courthouse lawn been occupied by a different group—perhaps a group that advocated for the removal of the statues and the state flag—would the officers have been called? Would a permit even have been checked? These are the questions that expose the deeper, unspoken mechanisms of power—the ones that don’t need laws to function because they have precedent, tradition, and influence on their side. And as long as that remains true, enforcement will always be a matter of who, not what.
Public debate is the foundation of democracy. It allows citizens to challenge authority, voice grievances, and engage in the decision-making process. But in Oxford, Mississippi, in the spring of 2017, speaking out against city leadership came with consequences. My issue at hand with the City of Oxford was the city’s removal of the Mississippi state flag from city property—a decision championed by Robyn Tannehill, a member of the Board of Aldermen and an unopposed candidate for mayor. The proposal was controversial because it disregarded the wishes of many residents who saw the flag as a representation of the state’s history, culture, and identity.
Believing that a municipality receiving state tax dollars should be obligated to fly the state flag—especially since most citizens had voted for it—I decided to attend the Board of Aldermen meeting on May 16, 2017, to voice my concerns. Particularly since I was arrested just two weeks prior for holding the State flag on a public sidewalk. As a Second Amendment advocate, I carried my legally owned firearm on my hip, as I always did. I also carried the Mississippi state flag, a symbolic reminder of the decision I sought to challenge.
But democracy requires more than just showing up—it requires a fair chance to be heard. The mayor at the time, Pat Patterson, refused to acknowledge me. He strategically ended the meeting by calling an executive session before I could speak. Effectively, my grievance was silenced before it was even voiced. I stood up anyway. If I was going to be ignored, I would make myself heard. “You’re wrong for making this decision without the people’s input,” I told them. I then pointed at each city official and called them cultural Marxists—a label meant to expose their decision as an ideological move rather than a reflection of public will. My dissent was not tolerated. Mayor Patterson ordered me to leave, and I was escorted out by Oxford police officers. Under the First Amendment, every American has the right to petition the government for a redress of grievances. The Oxford Board of Aldermen meeting was a public forum, and as a taxpayer and resident, I had every legal right to speak. The Supreme Court has ruled in cases like City of Madison Joint School District v. Wisconsin Employment Relations Commission (1976) that public meetings are protected forums where citizens can express dissent—even if officials dislike what they have to say. By silencing my comments and removing me from the premises, the city was walking a fine legal line, effectively suppressing speech it found inconvenient. Outside, I continued exercising my First Amendment rights, peacefully assembling and speaking about what had just happened. If they would not hear me inside City Hall, I would make sure the public knew how they had silenced opposition.
I refused to let the city officials dictate the narrative. If they would not hear me on their terms, I would use their system against them. The next day, I contacted the City Clerk and officially added my name to the docket for the next Board of Aldermen meeting on June 6, 2017. This time, they would be forced to acknowledge me.
Just days later, on May 19, 2017, an unrelated personal conflict took an unexpected turn—one that would later be weaponized against me. I had frequented Frank and Marley’s, a piano bar owned by a local couple, Todd and Ashley Lynch. While Todd and I had no issues, Ashley had formed an unfavorable opinion of me due to a previous business interaction, considering me a “pushy salesman.” That day, as I sat at the bar eating freshly paid-for chicken wings, I decided to extend an olive branch. I asked Ashley to come over so we could clear up any misunderstandings. She refused. I responded, admittedly frustrated, that I thought her reaction was “fucked up”. What happened next was completely unexpected. Ashley walked over, grabbed my food, and threw it in the trash. Stunned, I asked for a refund for the meal she had just taken from me. She refused. Angered by the blatant disrespect, I turned to social media, going live on Facebook to call for a boycott of the establishment. I wanted people to know how I had been treated. In hindsight, this small barroom conflict—nothing more than a heated exchange—would become fuel for a much larger fire.
The next day, on May 20, 2017, I received a message from a seller on Armslist about an AR-15 I was interested in purchasing for personal protection. This was not a random decision. Days earlier, my ex had sent me text messages saying she had information that someone had put a hit out on me. She refused to name her source. I wasn’t about to take any chances. The seller, who lived near Jackson, agreed to lower the price to $550, and we made arrangements to meet. I drove three hours to complete the transaction. Upon exchanging cash for the firearm, the seller provided a handwritten bill of sale, documenting the serial number and the purchase price. Everything was done legally. But in small towns where power is concentrated, actions—even legal ones—can be twisted.
On May 22, 2017, just two days after purchasing the firearm, I was on my way to the local gun range to target practice with my new AR-15 and pistol. I never made it there. While driving, I was unexpectedly pulled over by two Lafayette County sheriff’s deputies. They weren’t there for a traffic violation. They handed me a restraining order. The plaintiffs? Robyn Tannehill—the very same official whose decision to remove the state flag I had publicly criticized—and her husband, Rhea Tannehill, a highly influential Oxford attorney who had previously represented my ex in a contentious child custody dispute. The affidavit supporting the restraining order was a mix of exaggerations, embellishments, outright distortions, and lies—but what made it most disturbing was how it listed constitutionally protected activities as reasons for the order. Among the claims against me were: (1) That I mounted an aggressive online campaign against Robyn Tannehill. (2) That I attended an Oxford Board of Aldermen meeting while legally carrying a firearm. (3) That I pointed at her while wearing a holstered gun—as though exercising my First Amendment rights while carrying a legally owned weapon was somehow a threat. (4) That I was an admin on a Facebook page called Southern Resistance and was responsible for every comment or post made by its community members.
This was not about protecting anyone—it was about silencing an opponent. I had no doubt that this restraining order was a political ploy designed to deter me from speaking at the next Board of Aldermen meeting on June 6, 2017—coincidentally, the very same day that Robyn Tannehill was to be sworn in as mayor. This was not just a misuse of legal authority—it was an attempt to criminalize dissent. In the span of a week, I had gone from a citizen demanding accountability to a legal target of those in power. But I wasn’t done fighting.
By May 22, 2017, the battle between free speech and political power in Oxford, Mississippi, had reached a boiling point. Robyn Tannehill, the incoming mayor, and her husband, Rhea Tannehill, a prominent local attorney, took an unprecedented step: They filed a restraining order against me. Contrary to what was represented in the petition, this push for a restraining order was not about safety. It was not about law and order. It WAS about silencing political dissent. For weeks, I had been vocal about their decision to remove the Mississippi state flag from city property. I had attended public meetings, criticized them on social media, and openly challenged their authority. Instead of engaging in public debate, they turned to the courts to silence me.
The 18-page restraining order petition, filed on May 22, 2017, laid out a series of claims—some exaggerated, some misleading, and some outright unconstitutional. The petition acknowledges that I had been an outspoken advocate for the Mississippi State Flag and had launched an aggressive campaign against the Oxford Board of Aldermen. The following statement is in Tannehill’s Own Words via her Affidavit filed May 22, 2017:
“Matthew Reardon is an advocate for the Mississippi State Flag, and as such he has mounted an aggressive campaign against the Oxford Board of Aldermen and Mayor for not flying the Mississippi State Flag.”
This is not a crime. It is protected speech under the First Amendment.The Supreme Court has ruled in New York Times v. Sullivan (1964) that public officials cannot claim harm from political criticism unless actual malice is proven.
Tannehill cited my arrest on May 1, 2017, for disorderly conduct as proof of a pattern of threatening behavior. This couldn’t be further from the case. This is the reality; I was arrested for holding the Mississippi state flag on public property and the charge was not for violence or threats—it was an attempt to suppress my political expression. Had this case gone to federal scrutiny, it likely would have been challenged under City of Madison Joint School District v. Wisconsin Employment Relations Commission (1976), which ruled that government meetings are public forums protected by the First Amendment.
The petition repeatedly referenced my Facebook activity, attempting to reframe political statements as criminal threats. The following are Allegations in the Petition:
“On May 16, 2017, Reardon posted a rant on Facebook about the Oxford Board of Aldermen and threatened that ‘a Southern Fury is coming.’”
“On May 20, 2017, Reardon posted a video accusing Robin Tannehill of being corrupt, a communist, and a social Marxist.”
“On May 20, 2017, Reardon posted a photograph holding an AR-15 and a pistol.”
NONE of these actions are illegal. The Supreme Court in Elonis v. United States (2015) ruled that online speech cannot be criminalized unless there is clear intent to commit violence. Going even further, the Supreme Court in Near v. Minnesota (1931) that the government cannot preemptively censor speech. By seeking a restraining order based on political speech, Tannehill was attempting to use the courts as a censorship tool—a violation of the First Amendment. Tannehill also argued that my public display of firearms was cause for alarm. The following allegations are in the petition for a restraining order:
“On May 20, 2017, Reardon posted a photograph holding an AR-15 and a pistol.”
“On May 16, 2017, at a Board of Aldermen meeting, Reardon stared and pointed at me while wearing a pistol.”
This attempt to criminalize legal gun ownership raises serious constitutional issues. In Heller v. D.C. (2008) the Supreme Court ruled that the right to bear arms is an individual right. It must be noted as well that Mississippi is a constitutional carry state, meaning no permit is needed to openly carry a firearm. The petition did not claim that I brandished a weapon or threatened anyone—only that I lawfully carried firearms.
Perhaps the most damning evidence against the petition is the Oxford Police Report from May 25, 2017—filed just three days after the restraining order was granted.
“Upon arrival, I observed a subject that was known to me as Matt Reardon, walking around the Court House. Reardon was on Lafayette County property and was not showing himself to be a threat. I remained in the area and observed his actions until he departed.” –Sergeant Byron Baker in his Police Report dated May 25, 2017
This directly contradicts Tannehill’s claim that I was a public danger. If the police, after observing me armed and in public, determined that I posed no threat, then how could the court justify issuing a restraining order based on fear? This is selective enforcement at its worst.
Restraining orders exist to protect victims of violence and harassment—not to be used as a political tool. The misuse of restraining orders has been a growing legal issue nationwide. In Nieves v. Bartlett (2019), the Supreme Court ruled that government officials cannot take retaliatory legal action against individuals for exercising free speech. Courts have repeatedly found that abusing restraining orders to silence dissent is unconstitutional. Tannehill’s petition was not based on genuine fear—it was based on a desire to stop political criticism. The timing makes this clear: It was filed on May 22, 2017—just two weeks before the June 6th Board of Aldermen meeting, where I was scheduled to speak. June 6, 2017 was also the day Tannehill was to be sworn in as mayor. This was a coordinated effort to silence a political opponent.
If a local politician can weaponize the legal system to silence critics, what does that say about the state of democracy? If a court can issue a restraining order based on political speech, what does that mean for First Amendment protections? If a lawfully armed citizen can be labeled a threat, what does that mean for Second Amendment rights? This case was never just about me—it was about how far those in power will go to suppress opposition. But they underestimated one thing: I wasn’t backing down.
By May 24, 2017, the battle in Oxford was no longer just about free speech or gun rights—it had escalated into a direct legal assault on my ability to exist in public spaces without interference from those in power. With a restraining order now in effect, based on constitutionally protected speech and lawful gun ownership, it was clear that local authorities had chosen to weaponize the courts against me. But if local justice was rigged, I had one option left: take my case to the federal government.
On the morning of May 24, 2017, I commuted to the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Oxford, Mississippi, determined to escalate my case beyond Lafayette County’s legal system. I met with Assistant U.S. Attorney Bob Norman, who listened as I laid out two major concerns. The first being that I 100% believed that the restraining order was petitioned for and granted under false pretenses, using protected speech and legal gun ownership as justification. The second concern was the threat against my life, relayed to me by my ex, Phyllis Crowder, who claimed she had knowledge of a hit put out on me—but refused to name her source.
Norman didn’t dismiss my concerns. Instead, he took action. At least at the time it appeared that way. “I want you to meet with the FBI tomorrow morning,” he told me. The fact that he was willing to involve federal agents signaled something important to me; this wasn’t just a local issue anymore. It had now been brought to the attention of federal prosecutors.
The next morning, May 25, 2017, I arrived at the local FBI field office in Oxford as instructed. I was escorted into a conference room, where I sat across from two FBI agents, their notepads ready. For over an hour, we went over everything. The restraining order, and how I felt it was a clear abuse of power to silence me. The alleged hit on my life—and how my ex, despite warning me, refused to give details. My legal purchase of an AR-15 on May 20, 2017—which I obtained purely for self-defense in the event the death threat turned out to have any merit to it. The agents listened carefully, but like most federal law enforcement officials, they were careful with their words. They asked pointed questions like “Did I have evidence that the restraining order was politically motivated?” Had I made any direct threats against Tannehill or local officials? Did I believe my ex was telling the truth about the hit on my life?
I answered honestly and directly. I had never threatened anyone. I was being targeted for my political beliefs. And while I didn’t know if my ex was telling the truth, I had taken her words seriously enough to prepare for the worst. When the meeting ended, the agents thanked me for my time. “We’ll look into it.” But would they? Or was this just another bureaucratic box checked, another case file marked and ignored? I walked out of the FBI office with no clear answers, but I knew one thing: if no one else was going to stand up for my rights, I was going to have to do it myself.
Three weeks earlier, on May 1, 2017, I had been arrested for simply holding the Mississippi State Flag on public property. If Lafayette County authorities were willing to violate my First Amendment rights 3-weeks before, would they be so quick to do it again? What about my Second Amendment rights? It was time to find out. Later that day, May 25, 2017, I returned to the Oxford Courthouse Square. This time, I stepped it up a bit. I carried my Mississippi State Flag and I openly carried my pistol in a holster on my hip as I did before. However, this time I also wore a bulletproof vest, I strapped my AR-15 to my chest, and I took off walking around the courthouse square peacefully exercising my rights.
I just want to state for the record a few facts in particular. Mississippi is a constitutional carry state meaning no permit is required to open carry a firearm. Second, I was legally allowed to be there and never left public property. Third, I was exercising my constitutional rights—both under the First and the Second Amendments.
For over an hour, I walked peacefully around the courthouse square. I recorded everything live on Facebook. I wasn’t threatening anyone. I wasn’t breaking any laws. This was a public test of whether the government would respect its own laws.
Unlike my unlawful arrest for holding the state flag, this time, no law enforcement officer intervened. Instead, according to an Oxford Police Department report, officers received a call about a man walking around the square carrying guns and a flag. Sergeant Byron Baker (Badge #O-56) was dispatched to the scene. His report directly contradicts any claim that I was a public threat.
“On the above date and time, I, Sgt Baker (badge #O-56), was dispatched to the area of the square in reference to a subject walking around the County Court House carrying guns and a flag. Upon arrival, I observed a subject that was known to me as Matt Reardon, walking around the Court House. Reardon was on Lafayette County property and was not showing himself to be a threat. I remained in the area and observed his actions until he departed.”
The official police statement confirmed three critical facts. That Law enforcement knew exactly who I was. That I was lawfully carrying my firearms and flag on public property. And I was not behaving in a threatening manner. If I were truly a danger to the public, as the restraining order had implied, law enforcement would have intervened. If I were truly breaking the law, they would have arrested me. Instead, they let me be. This police report became one of the most damning pieces of evidence proving that the narrative pushed by city officials—particularly those behind the restraining order—was false. It wasn’t about safety. It wasn’t about law and order. It was about silencing dissent.
I had now taken my fight: 1) To the federal level (U.S. Attorney & FBI); 2) To the legal system (restraining order challenge). To the public square (constitutional stress test). Now, the real battle was about to begin. Would the FBI act on what I told them? Would the restraining order be enforced? Would Oxford officials retaliate against me further? The next moves would define how far the government was willing to go—and whether I was truly free in my own country. I was about to find out.
By May 26, 2017, I had tested the boundaries of constitutional rights in Oxford, Mississippi. I had taken my case to the FBI, I had peacefully demonstrated in public, and I had documented evidence that the restraining order and other legal maneuvers against me were politically motivated. But the system fights back hardest when its corruption is exposed.
On the afternoon of May 26, 2017, a message came through my Facebook inbox. A follower wanted to meet at a local bar on the Oxford Courthouse Square for a beer. I arrived between 3:00 and 4:00 PM, parking just across from the bar. The moment my hand reached for the door handle, everything changed. Without warning, my car doors were ripped open. I was dragged from my vehicle and thrown to the ground by four Law Enforcement Officers: Chief Deputy Scott Mills, Major Alan Wilburn, and Lieutenant Jared Bundren with the Lafayette County Sheriffs Department; and a fourth individual I would later find out was Joey East whom was the Oxford Police Chief at that time and would later become the Sheriff of Lafayette County, MS.
They swarmed me like I was a dangerous fugitive, stating that I was “under arrest.” But when I demanded to know why, Mills refused to tell me. Not until I was booked into jail did I learn the charge: Aggravated Stalking – A Felony. I demanded the charging documents at the jail and was eventually provided with the charging affidavit. This affidavit claimed that on or before May 8, 2017, I had put Todd and Ashley Lynch in fear for their lives with an AR-15.
This accusation stunned me. It was not just false—it was impossible. I had indisputable proof of my innocence through A bill of sale dated May 20, 2017, proving I didn’t even own or possess the AR-15 until that day. Yet I was being charged with brandishing a weapon I didn’t own at the time of the alleged incident. Not to mention I have NEVER threatened any type of harm on the Lynchs’ nor anyone for that matter. This was no honest mistake. This was manufactured evidence, and I was the target. There was no doubt this was gaslighting at its finest.
Four days after my arrest, on May 30, 2017, I was removed from my jail cell and taken to Justice Court for my initial bond hearing before Justice Court Judge Carolyn Bell. Bell read the charge aloud, and I immediately attempted to present my evidence of innocence.
“I have undeniable proof that I didn’t own the AR-15 at the time of the alleged incident. The bill of sale—”
Bell cut me off. Not once. Twice.
“You have the right to remain silent.” Bell said.
In an instant, my voice was removed from my own defense. I knew I had the right to remain silent, however, I didn’t choose to exercise that right. She then set my bond at $150,000—an outrageous amount for an unsubstantiated charge based on a false affidavit. Particularly when I had a very limited criminal history with no felony accusations. She simultaneously appointed attorney T.R. Trout as my court-appointed attorney. Bell clearly knew I wanted a preliminary hearing to present my exonerating evidence, but she never scheduled one—nor did she inform me that I had a right to one. The hearing ended before I could even fight back, and I was escorted back to my cell. Silenced once again.
Later that same day, I was again removed from my jail cell—this time taken to Lafayette County Chancery Court. The restraining order hearing for Robyn and Rhea Tannehill was underway. I knew immediately that the courtroom was stacked against me as there were multiple attorneys from the Tannehill law firm were in attendance representing the Tannehills’ and their children, who just so happened to be in attendance as well. The courtroom was also filled with Additional spectators in the gallery. As for me? I was Dressed in an orange jumpsuit, shackled at the wrists and ankles, and made to look like a violent criminal.
Judge Glenn Alderson opened and presided over the hearing. I immediately requested a continuance, citing my lack of legal representation, my inability to prepare while jailed, and my appearance in a jail jumpsuit and shackles, which unfairly prejudiced the hearing. The request was granted, but before I could leave the courtroom, something else happened—something that revealed the real intent behind this legal assault. As Chief Deputy Scott Mills and Major John Hill began escorting me out of the courtroom, the Tannehills made another move. According to the Lafayette County Sheriff’s Office Report filed that day by Major John Hill:
“Rhea Tannehill then brought up the matter up to Judge Alderson that Matt was on the June agenda of the City of Oxford Board Meeting and did not want him there since the restraining order was in place.”
This was a direct admission of what the restraining order was really about—not safety, but barring me from speaking at the upcoming public meeting. I objected, stating:
“I should be allowed to go since I am on the agenda.”
But Judge Alderson sided with Tannehill, ordering that:
“If he showed up, he was to be arrested.”
This was a blatant First Amendment violation. I was being legally barred from attending a public government meeting for no reason other than political retaliation. It was not enough to have me arrested on a fabricated felony charge. They wanted me silenced permanently.
After this ruling, Mills and Hill escorted me into the back hallway to wait as paperwork was processed. Then, Rhea Tannehill entered the hallway.
According to the Lafayette County Sheriff’s Report:
“Matt told Rhea ‘Fuck you. You are a fucking liar.’”
Tannehill immediately snapped.
“Rhea then started walking toward Matt with a water bottle in his hand and said, ‘I’ll bash your head in.’”
Deputy Hill had to physically restrain Tannehill, ordering him to leave. Tannehill stormed away, but as he walked around the corner, he made another comment that Hill could not hear.
This was not just an emotional outburst—this was a direct act of aggression from the man who had just successfully barred me from a government meeting. If the roles were reversed, I would have been charged with threatening a public official on the spot. But when Rhea Tannehill threatened me, in a courthouse, in front of a Sheriff’s Deputy, what happened? Nothing.
The system was only designed to punish me—never those who abused it for their own political gain. Despite this incident occurring in a courthouse hallway and being documented by a Sheriff’s Deputy, no legal action was taken against Tannehill. If this was documented in the Sheriff’s Report, why was there no follow-up investigation? Because the system protected its own. The same way the FBI ignored my report on May 24, the same way my evidence of innocence was ignored on May 30, and now, a clear act of aggression from a politically connected attorney was also being ignored. I had been set up, railroaded, and silenced. And they weren’t done with me yet.
In the days that followed, legal maneuvering was happening behind the scenes—without my knowledge. A habeas corpus petition was filed by Attorney Kristian McCray with the Trout Law firm under cause number L17-233, citing constitutional rights violations. It was approved to proceed, It was a path to fighting back, But it mysteriously never moved forward. Why?
Because my mother had hired a private attorney, Brennan Horan, to represent me. I doubt I would have agreed to this or encouraged hiring Horan as retained counsel had I known about the habeas corpus filing by McCray with the Trout Law Firm. Horan only met with me once, where I laid out my Evidence of innocence, The unconstitutional tactics used against me, and my demand to fight the charges. But something felt off. I wasn’t impressed with Horan after the initial meeting with him days after he was retained. Horan admitted he went to law school with Rhea Tannehill. I had legitimate worries on whether Horan could and would properly represent me, and what the chances were that he could potentially be improperly influenced by Tannehill.
The next time I saw Horan was at the continued restraining order hearing on June 15, 2017. What was odd about all of this is that Horan was solely retained to represent me on the felony charge of Aggravated Stalking in Circuit Court, not this matter involving the restraining order in Chancery Court. Horan claimed he was doing this as a favor, however what I would later find out was that this “favor” was not intended for me. Instead of preparing a defense, he took me into a side room and made an offer:
“If you agree to a permanent restraining order and don’t contest it, it will help make the felony charge in Circuit Court go away and get you out of jail.”
I was shackled, powerless, desperate for freedom. Under coercion, duress, and deception, I signed the permanent order. But I was not released. The felony charge remained.
On July 6, 2017, I was taken to Circuit Court, where Horan reiterated to me that he knew I couldn’t have committed this alleged crime. Yet with that he gave me what he claimed was an ultimatum:
“The system wants to get you. If you don’t take this deal, they will fabricate more charges to ensure you go to Parchman for a long time.”
Horan claimed that it would take multiple bond reduction hearings to get my bond lowered to an amount I could afford, and that was no guarantee. He also advised me that not taking a plea would result in substantially more legal fees which I nor my mother was in a position to afford after everything else.
He said the offer was five years of supervised probation, banishment from Lafayette County for those five years as a condition of probation and the signing a covenant not to sue Lafayette County, the City of Oxford, any elected officials or employees of the City or County, the Sheriffs Department or any Deputy, OR Todd and Ashley Lynch for any conduct or action leading up to and including the Arrest and Charge on May 26, 2017 for Aggravated Stalking. The County would also insist on the forfeiture of my firearms and bulletproof vest. I felt my hands were being tied on this. I had no true choice. It was coerced. It felt forced. It was a weaponized plea deal designed to try to silence me.
And I signed. But not out of guilt. Solely because I had been cornered. Denied key aspects of Due Process.
I walked out of jail a free man that day on July 6, 2017, but I had lost: my rights, my firearms, my home county where my only child at the time resided, and my ability to hold my government accountable for everything they had done. I had been Set up, Silenced, and legally exiled (although to this day I still question the legality of a state using banishment).
The government had won this battle. But the war was far from over.
