We’d been in Boise for two months when Rich Vaughn called and said it was time to come back to Jacksonville. Shannon, who was six months pregnant, had to accompany me because the FBI believed she would have to testify as well. So the four of us boarded a plane and flew back to Florida. I had paperwork that allowed me to check my gun in a lockbox inside our checked baggage, so I’d be able to arm myself as soon as we retrieved our luggage in Jacksonville.
The FBI picked us up at the airport and brought us to a rental car agency, where we picked up a car they had arranged for us. Then we were escorted to a suite hotel under our new names, which had been revealed online by Nate Thayer. We entered the hotel and I immediately recognized the manager behind the reception desk as an old acquaintance. I handed him my ID, he looked at it, looked at me, and his jaw dropped. I could tell he’d recognized me and was confused, even scared—I could see his hand was shaking.
“Christian,” I said, remembering his name, “it’s me—Joe.”
Then I handed him a document from the FBI.
“Oh my God,” he managed, “we all wondered what happened to y> you.
We had FBI protection from that point forward until the trial started eight days later, after a six-day postponement. The morning the trial was set to commence, the FBI came to our room and knocked on the door. Then they entered the room to make sure we were all okay. I left with one of the FBI agents, got into an unmarked vehicle, and drove ninety minutes to the Columbia County Courthouse in Lake City, Florida. I felt comfortable that the Bureau had things under control and my family would be safe.
As we approached the courthouse, I noticed lines of reporters gathered outside. But I was more interested in observing the surrounding building sight lines in order to determine where, if someone were going to take a shot at the car, it would come from. We drove around the corner, the agent driving made a call, and we pulled into a sally port. A huge garage door opened, we drove through, and the door closed behind us.
I had already prepped my testimony with the lawyers who’d be prosecuting the case. They had informed me that Thomas Driver had recently pled out, leaving Charles Newcomb and David Moran as the remaining defendants I’d be testifying against. At the courthouse, I was taken to a holding room. I felt extraordinarily calm because I was both very well prepared and centered, thanks to my tried and true, battle-hardening breathing techniques that would help me stay in control until it was time for me to take the stand. When word came down that the moment had arrived, county deputies escorted me up a set of stairs and into the courtroom through the same side door through which the judge entered.
I heard murmuring start immediately from the jam-packed seats. And as I entered the courtroom, I heard someone close to the front mutter, “That’s him!”
The witness stand was to the right of Judge Wesley Douglas and the defense table was to the left, so I had to walk past Newcomb and Moran. I made a conscious effort not to make eye contact, but I wasn’t nervous. I felt prepared and determined. For ten years, my association with the Ku Klux Klan had dominated my life. This was my chance for closure, a chance I didn’t get in my first infiltration.
“Place your right hand on the Bible and raise your left hand in the air.”
I did as the bailiff instructed.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I do.”
“Be seated.”
The moment I had waited two years for had finally arrived. My heart was thudding in my chest as the prosecutor, Cass Castillo, rose from his chair. Castillo was a thin, bespectacled middle-aged Hispanic man with dark hair. He had actually retired as a prosecutor in 2014 to go into private practice, but had been called back on a special basis for this case because of his prosecutorial prowess and reputation.
Castillo had an assistant prosecutor named Kelsey Bledsoe working with him. She was in her midthirties and resembled Jodie Foster with glasses added to the ensemble. She had vast courtroom experience and was considered a rock star in prosecutorial circles; she had long drawn the highest-profile cases, like this one. They were the ultimate professionals, leaving me with the sense that they had my back and would be looking out for my best interests through the course of my testimony.
“Mr. Castillo,” the judge signaled.
Castillo moved out from behind the prosecution’s table to a lectern set halfway between the table and the witness box.
“Is your name Joe Moore, sir?” Castillo began.
“Yes,” I answered.
“How old are you, Mr. Moore?”
“Forty-six.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Have any children?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Moore, have you ever served in any branch of the United States Armed Forces?”
“Yes.”
“Which branch?”
“U.S. Army.”
To maintain my sense of purpose and remain centered, I focused on the courtroom the way I would a battlefield engagement, with detachment, objectivity, and dispassion. It was a large space, and there was even a second floor, like a balcony, that was also packed. I noticed there were no windows. In the very back row, I saw my mother-in-law, Sharon, sitting next to none other than Nate Thayer. I thought that was odd and wondered if they knew each other.
I wasn’t angry, because I was focused on the vital task at hand. All I could think in the moment was that these two very small people in the back of the courtroom were mistaken if they thought their presence was going to have an effect on me.
The early boilerplate questioning focused on my years of service and where I’d been stationed. Interestingly enough, the prosecutors and I had rehearsed answers actually alternative to the truth, since the classified nature of my deployments made them impossible to confirm.
Even if I had told the truth, it would have opened a whole can of worms with the defense, who could demand corroborating evidence I wouldn’t be able to provide.
“Now, have you ever shot anybody, Mr. Moore?”
“No.”
“Had you ever seen combat during the time that you were in the service?”
“No.”
“Ever serve in Special Operations in any capacity?”
“No.”
The questioning continued for about an hour, during which we covered all the issues in my personal life that had sprung up during my two and a half years serving as a recruiter.
“Explain to the jury what kind of treatment did you get while you were still in the service,” Castillo prompted me.
I turned to face the twelve men and women of the jury. “I was referred to a mental health counselor, who saw me a number of times in regard to the depression set on by duties as a recruiter.”
“You mentioned that you separated from the army in 2002. What type of discharge did you receive?”
“Honorable.”
I was baring my soul, covering some of the most painful times of my life in response to Castillo’s questions. He had no choice; if he didn’t get these issues out front right away, the defense attorneys would. They were certain to hammer me on a great deal of my past anyway. At least this way, the jury wouldn’t be surprised by anything they heard. It would just be information that had already been covered, and hopefully they’d be able to see right through what the defense was doing.
Then we came to a part I had planned for, but that was unsettling nonetheless.
“Now, do you know who a man by the name of William Seaton is, Mr. Moore?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“He is my father-in-law, my wife’s stepfather.”
“And what is his wife’s name?”
My eyes sought out my mother-in-law in the back of the courtroom, next to Nate Thayer. I held her stare briefly and expressionlessly. She broke it first, turning her gaze downward, where it lingered. I pulled my focus back to Castillo.
“Sharon Seaton,” I replied.
We had to bring this out as well, because we’d learned that Rusty was going to be testifying later in the trial in a desperate attempt by the defense to impugn my testimony and defame my character. Under Castillo’s direct examination, we went through a blow-by-blow description of how I’d suspected my wife’s mother of abusing my one-year-old son, and the aftermath of that, including the need for us to relocate to St. Augustine after Shannon’s parents evicted us.
Then we moved on to how Joe Armstrong and the FBI had recruited me to go undercover in the Wayward chapter of the United Northern and Southern Knights, where William Hawley served as the Grand Dragon. We went through the details of those months as well.
“Now, did you perceive that what you were doing for the FBI in terms of infiltrating the Ku Klux Klan in the Gainesville area to be a dangerous endeavor?”
“Yes.”
“That your life may be in danger?”
“Yes.”
“Your family’s life might be in danger?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Mr. Moore, did your work with the FBI cause you to be away from home for periods of time?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Now, did you tell your wife that you were working with the FBI?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Were you the first to reveal to Mr. Seaton that you were working with the FBI?”
“No.”
“Who did so?”
“My wife.”
Shannon regrets doing that to this day, but I don’t blame her at all. I think part of the reason why she’d told her parents was to warn them she was protected now, no longer dependent on, or subservient to, them.
We covered the circumstances that led to the end of my first deployment inside the KKK and moved on to Rich Vaughn spotting me at the gun range, which led him to ask me to come back in.
“What did [the FBI] propose that you do, Mr. Moore?”
“They wanted me to look at—look for other KKK organizations in the area and report back to them any information I had on those organizations.
We continued in more detail from there, on how I’d made contact with Jamie Ward and later met him in the parking lot of a Dollar General in late spring of 2013. I answered questions about both Ward and Mike Christopher to set up my ultimate testimony about what transpired at the cross burning and all that followed.
Then we started covering the barbecue that had taken place later the same day I’d met Jamie Ward.
“Mr. Christopher pulled me aside and wanted to talk to me about the military and tell me what he had specifically done in the military [as a Marine],” I said in response to another of Castillo’s questions.
“Did you use the fact that Mr. Christopher was interested in the military and had experiences in the military as a way of endearing yourself to him?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I inflated my military background and claimed that I had more experience than I did. I told him I was in an elite unit, a Special Operations unit, and I truly was not, and I told him I had been to various combat theaters and I had not.”
The FBI was aware of the nature of my military service, just as they were aware I was gagged by official government agencies that prohibited me from disclosing it.
Castillo went on to cover how I first became acquainted with Charles Newcomb, David Moran, and Johnny Grant after they’d come over to the Traditionalist American Knights from the Loyal White Knights. Then we finally came to the night of the cross burning, when I was approached by Newcomb and Moran, in the company of Thomas Driver, about “dispensing justice” on Warren Williams.
“Mr. Newcomb,” I testified, “took me to where Mr. Moran was standing on the property, and Mr. Driver, who I’d never met previous to that evening, was standing next to him. Mr. Moran states that Mr. Driver has a situation and wanted to talk about it and tells Mr. Driver to tell the story. Then Mr. Driver pulls out a picture with some information on it.”
Castillo held up the picture in question.
“Now, Mr. Moore, this picture, had you ever seen it before?”
“No.”
“Do you remember what the information said on this photograph?”
“It had a name and some other biographical information.”
“What do you see on the photograph, besides the writing? What image did you see on that?”
“I see a picture of an inmate.”
“And what race was he?”
“Black.”
“Had you ever seen that individual before?”
“No.”
Castillo took me through the remainder of my conversation with Driver and Moran in painstaking fashion, making it plain what they wanted and were asking for my help in doing. Next, it came time for the defendants to implicate themselves in the recording I had made thanks to the wire I was wearing.
“And do you know who Charles Newcomb is, Mr. Moore?”
“Yes.”
“And do you see him in the courtroom?”
“Yes.”
I pointed Newcomb out, looking at him for the first time since entering the courtroom. He was looking straight at me, his expression utterly devoid of emotion.
“And do you know who David Moran is, Mr. Moore?”
“I do.”
“And do you see him in the courtroom?”
“Yes.”
I pointed David Moran out for the court. He was looking down, taking notes, but suddenly he looked up. Our eyes met briefly, but long enough to reveal a rage that told me he wanted to launch himself at the witness stand. But I also saw something in his eyes I’d never seen before: fear.
“Thank you, Mr. Moore. Could you please listen to the following recording?”
Castillo then hit a button on a laptop resting on the lectern, and the recording I’d made at my meeting with Newcomb after the cross burning played over the courtroom speakers:
I’ve already looked at the map and looked at where [Warren Williams] is at, but, you know, tell me the likely scenarios that you—you would feel comfortable with, Brother Joe.
I tell you I feel comfortable with just doing recon and make sure where he’s at. One night we find him out there and I could walk right up and put him out of his misery.
Okay. It’s that simple.
Newcomb spoke that last line matter-of-factly, as if he had no regard for human life at all. Castillo stopped the recording there and addressed me.
“‘Where are we at looking at the church over in Palatka?’ you said at a later point in the recording,” Castillo asked, stressing the word “church.” “What did you mean by that?”
“‘Church’ refers to the target.”
“And that would have been Mr. Williams.”
“Yes.”
He switched the recording back on.
Did you get what I asked you the other day, Brother Joe?
I went to get that special ammo you asked for.
And then this from Newcomb:
If we can grab him up, throw his ass in the car, and take off with him somewhere and we’ll just inject his happy ass with a bunch of insulin and let him start doing his flopping.
It felt like Newcomb was testifying against himself. My response resounded through the dead quiet of the courtroom.
Let’s ride, Brother.
That was for the reconnaissance we did in Palatka the morning the Florida highway patrol car crawled up our tail and chased us out of the neighborhood. Then the conversation on our way back home played over the speaker, Newcomb postulating on how we were going to snatch Williams up.
The next question is how are we going to pull this son of a bitch out when he’s living in the projects?
All we need to do is step up to his front door, have a pizza delivered, Brother Charles.
What pizza place delivers over here? They ain’t allowed to come over here to the projects.
It was right about then on the recording that Newcomb noticed our tail. He said to Moran:
See that red car back—to the back left?
Yeah.
I seen him back there.
Is he still back there?
He stopped at the red light, but now he’s coming up on us again.
This is just a strange car that he’s not seen in the area before, two white guys sitting in the front.
Next came the recording I’d made getting Driver to establish motive and concede his culpability.
I don’t know what it is he’s got, but he’s dirty and he tried to pass it to me. When he realized he couldn’t get the better of me, he bit me. I had to go through fricking like nine months of blood work, you know. They had told me that I had Hep C from him and everything. Come to find out, you know, luckily it was a false positive. I had to go through all that shit because of him. I’m going to tell you like this. If it was me personally and I had another chance at him, I’d stomp his larynx closed after I kicked his teeth out so he wouldn’t never bite nobody again.
That was followed by the recordings of me showing Driver, Moran, and Newcomb the picture of Warren Williams, apparently shot dead in the chest. My initial testimony that morning was to establish the timeline and confirm the veracity of the recordings, starting with David Moran. I heard myself say:
Have a seat. I want you to have a chance to see this and make sure it’s all clear.
Oh, shit. Ha-ha, oh, shit. Ha-ha, oh, shit. I love it. Fucking pissed on himself. God fucking—good job, Brother Joe.
Is that what y’all wanted?
Yeah. Hell, yeah.
All right. And you’re happy with that?
Yeah.
Okay. Because, you know this was a group effort.
Hell, yeah.
All right.
Brother, I love you, man.
Call Brother Thomas and make sure he remembers to meet me. I am going to meet him next.
I love you, brother.
I love you, brother.
God bless.