Seattle Post-Intelligencer
August 18, 2006
Ruby Ridge, Waco — and Rainbow Farm?
The first two sites of notorious government violence within the United States seared their way into the American consciousness, but the third site remains largely unknown outside the Midwest. That’s because the outrage on a 54- acre farm in western Michigan occurred only days before 9/11 and was buried by coverage of that tragedy.
A startling new book should bring overdue attention to the farm where two blue- collar, gay, marijuana activists were killed on their property by government snipers. Dean Kuiper’s “Burning Rainbow Farm” is an exhaustively researched re- creation of that sorry event, plus a scathing indictment of government excess in the so- called War on Drugs.
Kuipers, a Los Angeles alternative journalist, is a Michigan native who grew up not far from Rainbow Farm. He is outraged by the government’s actions against Tom Crosslin and Rollie Rohm — a case study of escalating threats and questionable actions leading to a bloody confrontation. But Kuipers has done a fine job of ferretting out facts from all sides in his four- year quest to chronicle Rainbow Farm’s demise.
Make no mistake: Crosslin and Rohm are not blameless heroes. Kuipers paints them in shades of gray. Crosslin was a hard- ass with a temper, a onetime trucker convicted of assault and bank robbery and often in legal trouble, but also a generous, soft- hearted person honored for his civic projects. Rohm, 19 years younger, was a “lost boy” who liked to party, but he also was a loving father to a son from his marriage at age 17.
Crosslin and Rohm’s love was inspiration for Rainbow Farm, which Crosslin purchased by buying homes on risky rent- to- own contracts and owning a company that did odd jobs. Rainbow Farm was to be their utopian vision, a chill- out spot for others just like them — those who believe the government has no business mucking with private citizens doing private things on private property.
Rainbow Farm hosted gatherings of pro- hemp forces (much like Seattle’s Hempfest), drawing as many as 5,000 people to an event with an activist political agenda. And Rainbow Farm became a huge thorn to authorities, although way beyond the threat posed by a place that banned hard drugs and weapons.
Scott Teter, the Cass County prosecutor, acted as though Rainbow Farm were a personal affront. He was a no- compromises enforcer intent on using every legal option (and some borderline ones) to shut it down. Most unfortunately, Teter was as much of a hard- ass as Crosslin, ensuring that their affronts, assumptions and posturings would ratchet into confrontation.
Teter was unsuccessful in turning up evidence of tax evasion during a raid on the farm but the show of force did uncover a stash of marijuana plants growing in the basement, giving him all the evidence he needed to start property forfeiture proceedings. Forfeiture turns out to be the biggest villain in the entire saga — a blunderbuss first used to seize and sell property of druglords, but later a standard tactic against lesser targets without the necessity of trial or conviction.
Kuipers says this procedure is “rotten with corruption,” a $1 billion bonanza, a “major source of law enforcement funding at all levels.” As he writes, “The tactic is so lucrative that there are now over 200 federal statutues authorizing forfeiture for other crimes, not just drugs. By 2000, you could lose your property for things like making a false statement on a bank loan application, or failing to report to the IRS the purchase of money orders over $3,000 within 24 hours.”
Crosslin, a conservative/libertarian, was not about to lose his property — not without a fight. Nor was he about to surrender it at its full worth. So he burned the place down and resisted efforts to stop him, aided by newly acquired guns.
Inevitably, the FBI and Michigan State Police brought far more firepower. Crosslin, and later Rohm, were taken out by snipers, although they never fired direct shots at the encircling SWAT teams. Killing the distraught Rohm was a grotesque travesty.
Author Kuipers has a gift for trenchant incident and information, but he has filled the book with way too many minor characters and other plot diversions, stalling the narrative, adding unnecessary confusion. Despite that, “Burning Rainbow Farm” remains a riveting, and often shocking, account of government law enforcement gone wild.
The first two sites of notorious government violence within the United States seared their way into the American consciousness, but the third site remains largely unknown outside the Midwest. That’s because the outrage on a 54- acre farm in western Michigan occurred only days before 9/11 and was buried by coverage of that tragedy.
A startling new book should bring overdue attention to the farm where two blue- collar, gay, marijuana activists were killed on their property by government snipers. Dean Kuiper’s “Burning Rainbow Farm” is an exhaustively researched re- creation of that sorry event, plus a scathing indictment of government excess in the so- called War on Drugs.
Kuipers, a Los Angeles alternative journalist, is a Michigan native who grew up not far from Rainbow Farm. He is outraged by the government’s actions against Tom Crosslin and Rollie Rohm — a case study of escalating threats and questionable actions leading to a bloody confrontation. But Kuipers has done a fine job of ferretting out facts from all sides in his four- year quest to chronicle Rainbow Farm’s demise.
Make no mistake: Crosslin and Rohm are not blameless heroes. Kuipers paints them in shades of gray. Crosslin was a hard- ass with a temper, a onetime trucker convicted of assault and bank robbery and often in legal trouble, but also a generous, soft- hearted person honored for his civic projects. Rohm, 19 years younger, was a “lost boy” who liked to party, but he also was a loving father to a son from his marriage at age 17.
Crosslin and Rohm’s love was inspiration for Rainbow Farm, which Crosslin purchased by buying homes on risky rent- to- own contracts and owning a company that did odd jobs. Rainbow Farm was to be their utopian vision, a chill- out spot for others just like them — those who believe the government has no business mucking with private citizens doing private things on private property.
Rainbow Farm hosted gatherings of pro- hemp forces (much like Seattle’s Hempfest), drawing as many as 5,000 people to an event with an activist political agenda. And Rainbow Farm became a huge thorn to authorities, although way beyond the threat posed by a place that banned hard drugs and weapons.
Scott Teter, the Cass County prosecutor, acted as though Rainbow Farm were a personal affront. He was a no- compromises enforcer intent on using every legal option (and some borderline ones) to shut it down. Most unfortunately, Teter was as much of a hard- ass as Crosslin, ensuring that their affronts, assumptions and posturings would ratchet into confrontation.
Teter was unsuccessful in turning up evidence of tax evasion during a raid on the farm but the show of force did uncover a stash of marijuana plants growing in the basement, giving him all the evidence he needed to start property forfeiture proceedings. Forfeiture turns out to be the biggest villain in the entire saga — a blunderbuss first used to seize and sell property of druglords, but later a standard tactic against lesser targets without the necessity of trial or conviction.
Kuipers says this procedure is “rotten with corruption,” a $1 billion bonanza, a “major source of law enforcement funding at all levels.” As he writes, “The tactic is so lucrative that there are now over 200 federal statutues authorizing forfeiture for other crimes, not just drugs. By 2000, you could lose your property for things like making a false statement on a bank loan application, or failing to report to the IRS the purchase of money orders over $3,000 within 24 hours.”
Crosslin, a conservative/libertarian, was not about to lose his property — not without a fight. Nor was he about to surrender it at its full worth. So he burned the place down and resisted efforts to stop him, aided by newly acquired guns.
Inevitably, the FBI and Michigan State Police brought far more firepower. Crosslin, and later Rohm, were taken out by snipers, although they never fired direct shots at the encircling SWAT teams. Killing the distraught Rohm was a grotesque travesty.
Author Kuipers has a gift for trenchant incident and information, but he has filled the book with way too many minor characters and other plot diversions, stalling the narrative, adding unnecessary confusion. Despite that, “Burning Rainbow Farm” remains a riveting, and often shocking, account of government law enforcement gone wild.”