1 I was leaving the office when the phone rang. 2 'John? It's Mike,' he said. 'Mike Clarke.' 3 There was something broken in the sound of his voice. 4 Clarke is a Chicago guy from the Northwest Side who moved his family to a McHenry County farm because he loved the countryside. He's the SBC worker and turkey farmer I've written about. 5 This spring, he was charged with felonies and branded a vigilante in the local papers there. His 19-year-old son also was charged. Clarke's family was shamed. They were the subject of common talk in a small country town. 6 And what exactly was his crime? 7 Protecting his family and his neighbor—a frightened elderly woman—from a hooded stranger late at night. 8 Clarke called 911, but witnesses say it took police almost an hour to get there. The stranger repeatedly refused to identify himself as he walked toward the Clarke home. So Clarke tackled him. Witnesses supported Clarke's account. 9 But he made a mistake. He complained that deputies did not show up on time. And they didn't like that. The trespasser wasn't charged, but Clarke was. 10 'You said they'd break me, that I'd take a deal,' he said. 'Well, you were right. I took the deal.' 11 SBC suspended Clarke without pay and wouldn't reinstate him until the charges were resolved. With no money coming in, he was threatened with the loss of his home and his dream, those few acres, the horses, chickens, the delicious Bourbon Red heirloom turkeys he raised. 12 The law had leverage over a man alone. What began as a felony ended as a misdemeanor, in a technical pleading, so the law could protect itself. 13 And a man who once believed in the law was broken. 14 Without admitting or denying guilt, he agreed that if the case had gone to trial, prosecutors could have proven that Clarke and his son had committed misdemeanor battery. The courtroom word for this is 'stipulation,' a bloodless word, perfectly legal and perfectly loathsome. 15 Clarke could have fought this and won. There were witnesses to support him. But SBC wouldn't take him back until the matter was resolved. Clarke was out of work and broke. And the law in McHenry County knew it. 16 'I had to get back to work—my supervisor is a good man—I just had to get back to work, that's all,' Clarke said. 'And my son, I want him out of this. I don't want him to have a record. You met him. He's a good kid.' 17 I met him, and the rest of the family, when we drove out to his farm to pick out our Thanksgiving turkey last year. I watched his son, the accused vigilante, playing with my much younger sons and Clarke's other younger children, chasing chickens, tossing a football, walking out among the turkeys, shepherding all the kids on a November Saturday afternoon. 18 Clarke's son is gentle and kind. He's studying to be a teacher. He isn't the thug he was made out to be by the McHenry County deputies. 19 He was a boy alone with his dad, as a stranger walked their land at night, hooded, refusing to identify himself, with police nowhere around. 20 'I taught all my kids to believe in the police, to be about law and order, and now what?' Clarke asked. 'This has changed me. It's changed my son. I still want them to be respectful to police, but this has changed everything.' 21 How? 22 'I've seen the other side of it now,' he said. 23 After 'stipulating' on July 7, father and son were placed on three months' supervision and each was fined $250. 24 'If they successfully complete their supervision, then they d