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further orders from church leaders.
    In Utah, even in Short Creek, people are generally polite, and the confused workers were in a quandary; they had been taught unwavering obedience from the cradle, and to live their religion. They also knew that not following their leaders’ orders held dire consequences. Any of them could become the next Ross Chatwin if they did not follow their instructions exactly. I had presented them with an unexpected legal gauntlet that went directly against the word of the prophet. Their response was to call for help: the town marshals.
    Up drove Sam Roundy Jr., the town’s chief marshall, a six-footer who weighs in at over three hundred pounds and wears a badge and gun, but dresses just like any other FLDS member. His shirt stretched tight across his belly. He and a couple of deputies took charge. Now it was my turn to be puzzled.
    I immediately asked Roundy why he was there in the first place. This was a civil dispute in which he had no authority other than to keep the peace and possibly arrest anyone who might try to break into the Chatwin home. Under state law, the police do not have the authority to become involved in civil disputes between private parties. To intervene would quite possibly violate the Chatwins’ constitutional rights, which meant the cops would be the ones breaking the law.
    On the other hand, I was glad to see them arrive because at least they were sworn law enforcement officers. They could interpret the legalities for the workmen and settle the situation.
    I made some introductory private investigator–to–police officer small talk to put them at ease, then handed Roundy the letter from Dudley. Roundy was trapped. He didn’t even pretend to be a real cop. The marshal pulled out his cell phone, hit the speed dial, and his first words were, “Uncle Warren?” He turned away from me and read the letter aloud over the phone.
    When he hung up, he deliberately threw the document to the ground. “This doesn’t mean anything to me,” he snapped, and turned to the men standing around. “You men get to work. Go on in,” he told them.
    When Roundy ordered a deputy to break off the locks on the door, Ross handed over a key. The front door opened, and about fifty workmen jammed inside. It was a disturbing and unreal sight. In that other world, where the rest of America lives, police cannot just show up and send people into one’s home without a warrant and have them literally tear the house apart. This was breaking and entering, vandalism, trespassing, and about a half dozen more criminal offenses, but worst of all, it was a violation of what most Americans consider to be their absolute constitutional right to be secure in their persons, places, and things. It was a grotesque intrusion by a government agency into a U.S. citizen’s home under the color of law—the first of many illegal actions by the Colorado City town marshals’ office that I would witness in the years to come.
    While I was protesting to Roundy, one of his brothers, who was also a deputy, told Ross to get into the police car. “Hey, he’s arresting me!” Ross called out.
    That quickly got my attention. I was outraged, and barked, “Why are you arresting him? What has he done? You can talk to him, but you can’t detain him. It’s his home and property!” Unable to cite any charges, they backed down and let him go. The officers had been ready to snatch a private citizen into custody simply because they wanted to. The entire morning had become a legal circus.
    From inside the house came the pounding of hammers and the whine of power saws. The carpenters were already busy. I pulled my video camera out and began recording the crime in progress.
    Racking my brain about how to stop the madness, I pointed out the absence of building permits. The contractors claimed that they were working off the original permit, which I knew was five