December 20, 2006 – January 23, 2007
While I was waiting to board a plane to South Dakota for the Christmas holiday, Dale Eagle was having his pre-trial hearing. I was at Chicago O’Hare Airport, sitting near the massive brachiosaurus skeleton that hangs above the terminal. Around me was a sea of strangers, all moving with purpose toward gates and destinations that had nothing to do with mine. No one knew who I was. No one knew what I was carrying with me.
It felt strangely normal. I had grown accustomed to being invisible in large crowds, and sitting alone with my thoughts helped pass the time between flights. I knew the pre-trial hearing was coming. Prosecutor Wilson had told me I didn’t need to be there. There would be nothing new, just procedural matters and the setting of a final trial date. I would read about it later, online, like everyone else.
Dale had made comments to police officers that his lawyer didn’t want admitted in court. He had said things like, “I put a good hole in him,” and “It was like shooting a deer,” both in reference to my dad. I understood immediately why his lawyer wanted those statements struck from the record.
The trial was set for January 22nd. We finally had a date.
I tried to enjoy Christmas with my brother. We talked about Mom and Dad, which made it impossible not to think about the trial, but we mostly avoided discussing it directly. When we did, it was practical—planning when Chris would come to Fairmont and where he would stay. The fact that the trial was less than a month away sat quietly in the background, occupying my mind even when I tried to push it aside.
Once I got home, my meetings with Prosecutor Wilson became more frequent. He walked me through the entire trial process. We went over the questions he would ask me, and the ones I would likely face during cross-examination. I had done my homework on Dale’s lawyer. I attended a couple of his cases and noticed a pattern. He would ask the same question repeatedly, changing a word or tense each time, waiting for the answer he wanted. Once you gave it to him, that was when he attacked.
That was my fear, being trapped on the stand. I didn’t want to come across as arrogant, combative, or unlikable. I had to be mindful to keep my disdain for Dale in check. Preparation helped. Speaking the truth makes things easier. The more I prepared, the stronger I felt.
I was told not to bring up anything outside the scope of the questions. If I did, it would be fair game for cross-examination. If we stayed focused on the events of May 16th and minimized Dale’s ridiculous accusations against us, the trial would remain centered on what mattered. Dale murdered two people in cold blood and tried to murder another.
Monday, January 22nd
The week of the trial arrived.
Monday was jury selection, held in the main courtroom. The room looked like it had been pulled from a movie—dark hardwood benches shaped like church pews, worn smooth by decades of use. The architecture carried the weight of the 1930s, solemn and permanent. The space felt almost sacred, like hallowed ground.
More than fifty potential jurors were brought in. From them, twelve jurors and three alternates would be chosen. The questions used to narrow the pool were odd and revealing.
“Do you listen to talk radio?”
“Do you shop at Walt-Mart or Target?”
Teachers were quickly struck at the request of Dale’s lawyer. It became clear what he was after—jurors guided more by emotion and empathy than by evidence.
One juror asked to be dismissed. Both lawyers and Dale approached the bench. I could hear what the man said. He believed we had no right to be on Dale’s property. He believed Dale was justified in defending what was his.
I shook my head.
Dale broke into a wide grin and turned toward his family. They waved at him, shouting, “We love you!” It made my stomach turn.
For the rest of jury selection, Dale sat beside his attorney like a folk hero, soaking it in. I looked directly at him. He never saw me. He was too busy enjoying himself.
Watching him hardened something inside me.
No matter what Dale or his lawyer tried, I would counter it. He was not walking out of that courtroom a free man.
By the end of the day, the jury was set. The twelve jurors and three alternates were taken by transit bus to view my parents’ Explorer, impounded as evidence. Then they were driven to the farm to see the crime scene before returning to the courthouse.
When court adjourned, Dale stood so an officer could cuff him. He smiled and waved to his family. They blew him kisses.
I looked at my aunts and uncles and saw the anger etched across their faces.
When I played football, opposing teams would sometimes trash-talk to get under your skin, hoping you’d make a mistake. Coach always told us to point to the scoreboard. If you’re winning, that’s what matters.
I told my family not to let Dale’s family get to them. Truth was on our side. When this was over, the scoreboard would reflect it.
Jury selection was over. Opening statements would come next.
Today felt like the coin toss—choosing whether to receive or defer, deciding which end of the field to defend.
Tomorrow was kickoff for the most important event of my life.
Tuesday, January 23rd
We weren’t in the grand courtroom, the kind you see on television. The trial had been moved to a smaller room usually reserved for magistrate hearings—gray walls, plain furniture, nothing ornamental. It felt clinical and stripped down, almost as if the room itself was trying to mute the horror of what we were about to revisit.
Judge Janes began by walking the jury through the process. Opening statements. Evidence. Instructions of law. Closing arguments. Deliberation. Again and again, he returned to the standard they were required to use: guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. The language was routine, but the weight of it settled heavily over the room.
The prosecutor went first, and he didn’t waste time easing anyone in.
My dad was shot in the back.
My mom was shot through the windshield.
I was chased through the house.
There was no drama in his delivery, no attempt to soften the truth. Prosecutor Wilson called Dale’s actions deliberate and willful, driven by malice and intent to kill. He laid out the long, ugly history between our family and Dale—much of it already familiar from the earlier trial where Dale had brandished a gun. There had once been a friendship. It ended after an incident that got Dale banned from the property. After that, he retaliated by blocking our access to the right-of-way.
Wilson reminded the jury of the confrontation at the post office—the bloody nose, the black eye—and then brought them to May 16th. The shootings. The chase. What came after.
This was not self-defense, he said.
This was premeditated murder.
I kept my eyes straight ahead. By then, I’d learned that if I studied the jury too closely, my mind would spiral—wondering what they were thinking, what they believed, whether they believed us. Panic lived down that road.
Then the defense stood.
They told a very different story—one built on fear and fragility. Dale was portrayed as a disabled former coal miner. A man with diabetes and heart problems. A retiree living on disability, physically incapable, they argued, of surviving a beating. Vulnerable. Afraid. Pushed beyond his limits.
And then came the comparison.
The attorney likened Dale’s actions to the Boston Massacre.
My eyes went wide. My mouth literally fell open. For a moment, I wasn’t angry—I was stunned.
This is an insult to history.
I looked toward the jury without even meaning to, silently asking, Are you hearing this? They gave nothing away. They just listened, faces neutral, absorbing it all.
I’ve always respected John Adams—not just as a historical figure, but as a founder whose commitment to principle helped shape the country. His defense of the British soldiers after the Boston Massacre wasn’t about excusing violence. It was about the rule of law. About proving that justice mattered more than rage.
To use that moment to justify cold-blooded murder felt like a betrayal of everything Adams stood for.
It felt blasphemous. A sacred civic moment twisted to excuse evil. The dead invoked to legitimize murder. A lie dressed up as scholarship, hoping no one would challenge it.
The defense pressed on, telling the jury they needed to understand Dale’s mindset. They accused authorities of failing to protect him. They accused us of harassing and bullying him, of attacking him at the post office, of creating an environment so volatile that Dale had no choice but to defend himself. They framed his actions as tactical—almost military—eliminating a threat under duress.
The strategy was clear. Find a historic precedent where people who shot unarmed individuals were found innocent. Plant the idea. Not an argument rooted in facts, but one built on suggestion.
It felt stretched. Desperate. Weak.
This wasn’t chaos in a crowded street.
This wasn’t fear in the fog of revolution.
This was a man lying in wait—armed, angry, and resolved.
And I knew no amount of historical name-dropping could survive what the evidence would show.
The seed he tried to plant was a lie.
And lies, no matter how carefully framed, don’t survive light.
After a short recess, court resumed. I had been instructed to stay outside the courtroom until it was my turn to testify so my testimony wouldn’t be influenced by what I heard. From there, I watched the first witnesses come and go.
Most were law enforcement officers who had responded that day. Each carried a piece of it with them.
One deputy described arriving at the farm and sitting near Dale as he talked—too freely. Dale’s attorney objected, arguing that the statements shouldn’t be admitted. Judge Janes allowed them. Dale wasn’t rambling or confused. He spoke clearly about the gun, the damage it caused, even whether he should have chased my dad farther.
On cross-examination, the defense tried to redirect.
Why wasn’t it recorded?
Why wasn’t there video?
Wouldn’t a recording be more reliable?
The deputy answered calmly. He wasn’t trying to get a statement. He hadn’t asked questions. Dale had spoken on his own.
I remember thinking, They aren’t denying the words. They’re arguing about the pen.
Next, the head of the Crime Response Team testified. Using diagrams and photos, he showed where my parents’ bodies were found and where the shotgun shells lay. He explained distances and timelines. Under cross-examination, he dismantled claims that my dad had been armed with a German Luger or that there was another access road to the farm besides the right-of-way.
Another deputy described securing Dale at his home—how Dale tried to flee before retreating inside, how he later asked for air once he was in the squad car.
Then the gas company workers took the stand. The defense tried to suggest my dad had been angry earlier that day. Both workers rejected that outright. Calm and soft-spoken, they described a pleasant twenty-minute conversation with my parents. One mentioned that Dale had flagged them down to ask whether they had permission to use the road and when a gate would be installed.
My brother testified next. He told the jury who our parents were—my mom, a travel agent; my dad, retired from Ford. He described hearing about the shooting through my voicemail. The message was played in court.
Finally, the Director of the Trauma Center at Ruby Memorial testified about my injuries. When I arrived, my vitals were unstable. I had damage to my head, face, neck, chest, and back. Pellets and metal fragments posed serious risks—strokes, organ failure. My eye was damaged, and the full extent of the injury was still unknown.
The defense tried to soften it. They leaned on uncertainty. Possibility. Doubt.
The doctor didn’t argue. He explained his assessment, point by point.
Court adjourned at 4:10 p.m. Eight prosecution witnesses had testified—many of them experts. Dale’s attorney tried to undermine them, largely because their testimony contradicted Dale’s story. There was no second access road. No weapon in my parents’ vehicle. The most damaging evidence came from Dale’s house: muddy boots, his clothes, the murder weapon, and the shells that matched it.
By the end of the day, the shape of the case was clear. The prosecution was building something solid. The defense was trying to shake it loose.
That afternoon, while sitting in a waiting room, I was told I would take the stand the next day.
I wasn’t nervous.
I was calm.
I knew what I knew.
I kept the situation in prayer, asking that I would represent Christ well—and honor my parents. I slept well that night.
Tomorrow, I would tell their story.