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Resistance See other Resistance Articles Title: How The Deep State Tried, And Failed, To Crush An American Farmer Under the nose of U.S. marshals and FBI agents, Wayne Cryts stole 32,000 bushels of his own soybeans, and then faced the wrath of a judiciary hellbent on his imprisonment. Staring at 20 years behind bars, Cryts was acquitted by three separate juries. “It’s called lawfare,” he says, “but there was always one thing the government didn’t understand. When they took everything I had, there was nothing left for me to lose.” Judas farmers, kangaroo courts, bucket brigades, gun grabs, crooked politicians, sacks of cash, crazy Cubans, tractorcades, and The Dukes of Hazzard: Welcome to the saga of Wayne Cryts, the farmer who charged hell with ice water. An Old Flame In 1946, a stone’s throw north of the Missouri Bootheel in Stoddard County, Cryts was born to corn and cotton 12 miles west of Crowley’s Ridge. The fourth-generation, teen-aged Missouri grower fell to the charms of Sandy Hyten, and the pair wed in 1964, living in a bare-bones, tin-roof shack, grateful for a crude outhouse and a kitchen sink with no drain. A decade later, pennies pinched and dollars stretched, on winding gravel outside the tiny town of Puxico, the couple built a small, ranch-style house—the home where they remain today. Simple. Private. Wayne and Sandy Cryts, Puxico, Missouri. Wayne and Sandy Cryts, Puxico, Missouri. (Photo by Chris Bennett) By the late 1970s, Cryts worked roughly 2,700 dryland acres (1,400 owned) of corn, milo, and soybeans. He stored a portion of the grain roughly 45 miles southeast in New Madrid County at the Ristine Elevator. “Ristine. Ristine. Ristine,” Cryts, 78, slowly repeats, as if conjuring the name of an old flame. His words slide out in the crawl of a heavy drawl—a sonorous voice registered between backwoods and Southern. “If Ristine hadn’t happened, you’d have never heard of me.” Lizards and Levi’s Farm country was on the boil in the late 1970s. A deep market rut and high interest rates pushed many farmers toward a dire fork—pathetic commodity prices to the left and foreclosure to the right. In 1977, five farmers in Campo, Colo., seeded the American Agriculture Movement (AAM), sparking an explosion of grassroots meetings across the U.S. with participation from 1.5 million producers. AAM’s dual pillars rested on a call for parity (a crop price to cover production costs and enable a survivable living) and country of origin (COOL) changes. Epic 5,000 tractor army on the streets of Washington, D.C., in 1979. Epic 5,000 tractor army on the streets of Washington, D.C., in 1979. (Photo courtesy of Oklahoma Historical Society) Cryts heard the AAM gospel and caught the fire. He stood in the conversation pit at scores of meetings, rallied the faithful, and joined tractor caravan protests. “I was the guy that took no interest in anything beyond my own rows, but I finally woke up to the trouble all farmers were in.” (Cryts drove in the epic AAM 5,000-tractor army to Washington, D.C. and was part of the McAllen Bridge war in Texas.) “Wayne was a workaholic and never took off for nothing, but he took to AAM naturally,” Sandy echoes. “One day he wasn’t a coffee shop farmer; then suddenly he was.” In 1979, as Cryts felt populism’s pull, he averaged 35 bushel-per-acre soybeans, and held back part of the crop, hoping to catch a market wave. He deposited 32,331 bushels in three 1950s vaulted Quonset huts at the 23-acre Ristine Elevator facility—owned by the James Brothers Co. of Corning, Ark. The price for storage? One-twelfth of a penny per bushel per day. Cryts was the single largest holder of soybeans at Ristine. He had a Commodity Credit Corporation (CCC) loan on the soybeans at $4.54 per bushel; $146,778. The December 1979 market price was $10.86; $351,103.80. “I was holding tight,” he recalls. “Beans had climbed over $10 per bushel and I was looking to nail that crest. Interest rates were at 18% and I needed every penny from those beans. They were my family’s future.” In August 1980, with his present year’s soybeans burning in the rows due to severe drought and his previous year’s soybeans still in the Ristine bin, Cryts hit the Big Apple. Alongside Texas producer David Senter (future AAM director) and Nebraska producer Corky Jones, Cryts hauled a Ford tractor to New Jersey, hopped into the open-cab seat, and drove across the George Washington Bridge to crash the Democratic National Convention at Madison Square Garden. “I was a yellow dog Dem,” he recalls, wearing a wide grin. “I couldn’t be more opposite now, but things were sure as hell different then.” Loosed on the streets of NYC, Cryts was transformed into a 5’ 10” concrete cowboy, and the sight of a Missouri farmer atop a tractor decked in AAM flags rolling down cosmopolitan streets was a genuine spectacle. “We went through Harlem and the south Bronx and got stopped under an overpass surrounded by hookers and homeless,” he describes. “I honestly don’t think they’d seen anything like us in their lives. The police sent a vice squad over to make the hookers leave us alone.” Tractorcade snakes along the highway to D.C. in 1979. Tractorcade snakes along the highway to D.C. in 1979. (Photo courtesy of Oklahoma Historical Society) Rumbling down the final stretch of Seventh Avenue wearing a jean jacket, high-rise AAM trucker hat, ever-present Levi’s, and a Case knife on his hip, Cryts pulled directly in front of Madison Square Garden, turned off the engine, and stepped onto the sidewalk in lizard-skin Justin boots, surrounded by a circus of activity: suits-and-ties hollering in thick NYC accents; environmental protestors in sandwich boards alarmed over acid rain, purple-haired gay rights activists, and a host of characters screaming for peace in the Middle East. Cryts split the throng and beelined to a payphone to assure his wife of a safe arrival. Standing in a booth outside the Garden, over 1,000 miles from Bootheel dirt, Cryts heard words that changed his life when Sandy picked up the horn: “Wayne, the Ristine Elevator went bankrupt.” Flash to bang, Cryts was hurtling toward history. A Bureaucrat Scorned James Brothers Co. (Corning, Ark.) had pledged 11 grain facilities in Arkansas and Missouri against a $3 million loan from the First Tennessee Bank of Memphis. The bank called the loan; James Brothers nosedived. A federal bankruptcy judge in Little Rock, Charles Baker (born and raised in Missouri), stepped into the fray, and took control of the elevators, including Ristine. Baker determined that stored grain was an asset of James Brothers to be sold free and clear of liens to pay off elevator debts. “I was supposed sit back, be quiet, risk getting pennies on the dollar, and like it,” Cryts says. “I was supposed sit back, be quiet, risk getting pennies on the dollar, and like it,” Cryts says. (Photo courtesy of AAM) Concern creeping, Cryts dialed Tom Hopkins, director of the Division of Grain Inspection and Warehousing at the Missouri Department of Agriculture. “The James Brothers told the Ristine manager to ‘take a vacation’ because he wouldn’t let them sneak out the stored grain,” Cryts explains. “The manager blew the whistle to Tom, who put padlocks on the elevator. Tom assured me all the grain was accounted for and that I’d have access in a month after the red tape was cut.” “Ristine was the same old story,” Cryts continues. “Bankruptcy comes in; lawyers appear who play a game of receipts; a trustee is appointed who is paid by percent and drags it out five years; judges lord over the whole business; and farmers eat a crap sandwich. It’s called a gravy train and everyone gets a seat, except the farmer.” Cryts and family in 1981. Photo courtesy of Wayne Cryts Cryts and family in 1981. Photo courtesy of Wayne Cryts (Photo courtesy of Wayne Cryts) “I knew how these bankruptcies worked,” Cryts adds. “The elevator’s bills get paid, with farmers last in line. Then they tell everyone farmers got paid 100%. Hell yes, farmers sure do get paid 100%, but only of whatever was left in the pool at the end. From 1974 to 1982, there was something close to 140 elevators in 20-plus states that went under. Most of those farmers got 5 cents to 59 cents on the dollar. In my case, I was supposed sit back, be quiet, risk getting pennies on the dollar, and like it.” Days later, eating breakfast over television with Sandy, Cryts watched a reporter announce the reopening of the Ristine Elevator the following day at 8 a.m. Was his grain was about to pour out of Ristine? Cryts called New Madrid producer N.J. Howell, the second largest holder of soybeans at Ristine—25,000 bushels and delivered the news. “Wayne, what should we do?” responded Howell. At sunrise, starting in nearby Kewanee, Cryts hooked a disk to a 1586 International, and drove to Ristine with Howell (also on a tractor and disk). They parked and unfolded on opposite ends of the elevator scales. No grain in; no grain out. “I had to keep the grain from getting away,” Cryts says. “As long as the beans were in the bin, I had a chance. Once they were turned into money, it was all over because I sure wasn’t going to rob a bank.” Two-hundred and fifty miles southwest, Judge Baker was taking notes. Hell hath no fury like a bureaucrat scorned. The Great Soybean War A monumental showdown brewed, pitting farmer against government, and state against federal authority, all over who owned a Bootheel bean crop. Baker ordered federal seizure of the Ristine Elevator. Arriving in sedans, decked in suits and badges, U.S. marshals, led by George Welch, set up shop at Ristine on Sept. 16, establishing a control center inside the elevator office. Cryts held tight to his warehouse receipts. “The grain was not leaving. I would go to court and prove my case, but I would not let them take my beans.” After marshals put additional padlocks on the elevators, Cryts and his fellow farmers responded with their own padlocks, resulting in ludicrous soybean security: three separate sets of locks on the bins. Cryts and company kept eyeballs on the elevator. All day, all night. “We slept in the parking lot, or on cots inside the office, watching every minute over the grain. We knew there was grain moving out of other elevators involved in the bankruptcy, like in Piggott, Arkansas, and we made sure Ristine didn’t follow.” “The marshals were highly sympathetic to us and were just doing their job,” Cryts notes. “We agreed to move our machinery, with assurance that grain could go in, but not out. But guess how many farmers delivered grain? None. Who in the hell would risk delivery to such a place? In fact, the trustee, Robert Lindsey, sued 20 farmers for failure to deliver grain. You couldn’t make up how crazy it was getting.” Cryts’ phone rang off the hook with producers providing advice and warnings about nightmare experiences in elevator crashes. As media picked up the story, support swelled for Cryts across farm country. Homer repeat: Homer Evans of Puxico, Mo., and Homer Evans of Ulysses, Kan., helped organize the Ristine coup. Homer repeat: Homer Evans of Puxico, Mo., and Homer Evans of Ulysses, Kan., helped organize the Ristine coup. (Photo courtesy of AAM) Support also flowed from the governor’s office: Judge Baker’s claims of federal authority ruffled feathers in Jefferson City. Backing Cryts, Missouri Gov. Joseph Teasdale and Secretary of Agriculture Jack Runyan declared Ristine within their state jurisdiction. Teasdale obtained a temporary injunction in the Missouri Circuit Court of New Madrid County, along with an order to use force if necessary to control Ristine. However, when Baker called the bluff, firing back with contempt of court charges and the potential arrest of Teasdale, the governor washed his hands of Cryts. The constitutional jam ended with a whimper. Teasdale and the Missouri Department of Agriculture walked away, leaving Cryts, 35 years young, holding the bag. “It was a gut punch when Teasdale backed off,” Cryts recalls. “Suddenly, there was nothing standing between me and the federal government.” The Great Soybean War was on: Farmer versus feds. Damn Farmer Refusing to close a pocketknife he didn’t open, Cryts attended a drumbeat of hearings, stretched across months, over grain ownership in Little Rock, all while overseeing a 24-7 vigil at Ristine. The steady drip of courthouse trips was maddening for Cryts: He listened as sticky- fingered attorneys argued over his soybeans. Cryts holds a sample jar of his “liberated” beans from Ristine. Cryts holds a sample jar of his “liberated” beans from Ristine. (Photo by Chris Bennett) “That’s how they bleed a man,” he says. “We had to be at each hearing so we didn’t lose our claim. I’m talking about endless court dates and postponements and gavels and collection of bills, only for Judge Baker to deny, deny, deny.” “The fix was in and everyone knew it,” Cryts contends. “The notorious Rose Law Firm was involved and it’s no coincidence that Baker was hired by the Rose Law Firm shortly after my case. Baker called me a ‘damn farmer’ behind closed doors. I don’t know where his personal hate came from, but it was very real.” In January 1981, the month of Ronald Reagan’s inauguration, Cryts caught advice from a Minnesota farmer, urging Cryts to ask freshly arrived USDA staff to pay the difference between market price and loan, an out used in several prior elevator crashes. Alongside Missouri Rep. Bill Burlison, Cryts flew to Washington, D.C., and met with two newly appointed USDA undersecretaries: An agreement was reached. Finally, relief. Cryts had full support from Sandy: Return with your shield or on it. Cryts had full support from Sandy: Return with your shield or on it. (Photo by Chris Bennett) “All of a sudden, this career USDA bureaucrat, Arnold Grunden, walks in the room,” Cryts recalls. “He was an unelected lifer, in position regardless of who was president. He said, ‘No. I’m legal counsel here and we’re not doing it.’ Congressman Burlison smacked both hands down on the table in disgust, but it was over. That was a moment I understood the second, third, and fourth layer of bureaucrats. That was a moment I understood who controlled government. I flew back to Missouri— emptyhanded.” The time was nearing for Cryts to steal his own grain—and he didn’t care if it harelipped the judge. No More Talk No secrets. Cryts announced his intention to raid Ristine. On Jan. 15, 1981, an American farmer proclaimed open defiance of the federal judiciary. In a conference room at the Ramada Inn in Sikeston, assisted by KSIM’s radio man Bill Anderson, Cryts held a press conference with flash bulbs galore: newspaper and television reporters from Memphis, St. Louis, Jonesboro, and more. Additionally, the FBI and U.S. Marshals attended, along with a large contingent of AAM farmers. AAM’s five founding fathers with Wayne Cryts on Ristine coup eve. L-R: Jerry Wright, Derral Schroder, Lynn Bitter, Gene Schroder, Wayne Cryts, and Alvin Jenkins. AAM’s five founding fathers with Wayne Cryts on Ristine coup eve. L-R: Jerry Wright, Derral Schroder, Lynn Bitter, Gene Schroder, Wayne Cryts, and Alvin Jenkins. (Photo courtesy of AAM) Cryts promised he would remove his grain from Ristine on Feb. 16, George Washington’s birthday, at 10 a.m. on a Monday. “I told them there was going to be no sneaking or hiding. I was going right through the front door to get my beans before I financially bled to death. Shoot me, beat me, lock me up—it’s happening.” Cryts had the full support of his wife, Sandy: Return with your shield or on it. “Everyone in farming knew Wayne was going to Ristine to get our grain or get arrested. He had given his word and he would back up his word,” Sandy says. “Talking was over.” Pillow of Doubt Ristine’s fuse burned shorter by the day. Against a backdrop of barrel- roof bins, the 23 acres of elevator grounds were packed with federal marshals, FBI agents, Judas farmers—government moles dressed in in ill- fitting overalls and trucker hats, Pinkerton Detectives, Missouri state troopers, television reporters, newspaper writers, Cryts’ contingent of Bootheelers, and a steadily increasing flow of farmers from across the nation. Federal marshals wait to serve Cryts with papers at Ristine. Federal marshals wait to serve Cryts with papers at Ristine. (Photo courtesy of AAM) Twenty-plus state flags, each representing a block of on-site farmer support, along with countless AAM slogans, signs, and banners, adorned the elevator. And still they came. “As we got closer to Feb. 16, there was about 3,000 farmers piled in, including a few fake farmer plants working for the feds who tried to blend in the crowd,” Cryts says. “The pressure was building on me because I had no clue what might happen. There was going to be no violence on my part, but that grain was coming out.” The night of Feb. 15, Cryts held a rally and called for calm. “Farmers were talking rough. Hell, everybody back then had a shotgun and rifle in their back window. And all the government officers certainly were armed. But I declared there would be no violence no matter what on our part, and I told the marshals that if anyone in our farmer group acted out, then they should be arrested accordingly.” Sidestepping potential congestion, Cryts’ farmer army parked 70 trucks on the gravel shoulder beside Ristine, with an additional 10 trucks parked at the Ramada Inn in Sikeston. Inside one of the trucks, in case of emergency, were stacks of 5-gallon pails—enough to arm a bucket brigade. If by no other means, Cryts was ready to hand-scoop 32,331 bushels of soybeans. As Sunday, Feb. 15 wrapped, Cryts laid his head on a pillow of doubt. The swirling dynamic was bizarre. Farmers watched the grain; marshals watched the farmers; news media watched the marshals; and Judge Baker watched them all. The Dukes of Hazzard Cryts woke to a deep-holler fog. Wrapped in a peculiarly heavy, early- morning mist blanketing the level land around Sikeston, Cryts took a phone call from a constitutional lawyer with a last-minute legal pointer. Cryts scratched down the incoming advice on a napkin and stuffed the paper in a front pocket. He walked toward a white Ford bob- truck, and ushered his daughter, Paula, into the cab, alongside Sandy. His son, Terry, climbed into the bed, and stood at the ready beside a dozen Bootheel farmers. Fifteen miles from hotel to elevator. Flanked by Alvin Jenkins, Cryts walks the federal gauntlet at Ristine. Flanked by Alvin Jenkins, Cryts walks the federal gauntlet at Ristine. (Photo courtesy of AAM) At Ristine, Cryts approached Ristine like Bootheel Moses, fronting a bewildering cavalcade of several thousand farmers driving pickups, bob trucks, and 10-wheelers, caboosed by an elderly Oklahoma farmer pushing a wheelbarrow mounted with Old Glory. At 9:50 a.m., Cryts waited in his cab, nervously chewing over the final 10 minutes. In all the details and rabbit trails of preparation, he had made a glaring omission. A thick logging chain ran across the driveway—a simple, but effective deterrent. Into the gap stepped Herman Linville, a Hatfield & McCoy type farmer from Stoddard County, cloaked in a long- hanging Levi’s jacket atop bib overalls. Often mistaken for Cryts’ shadow, Linville had stood with Cryts during the McAllen Bridge melee. Wielding heavy-duty bolt-cutters, Linville waltzed in plain view of authorities and dropped the chain. At 10 a.m. on the dial, Cryts exited his truck and walked up to big and tall Howard Safir, the U.S. marshal lead. Safir produced a court order and read aloud, forbidding Cryts from grain removal. Cryts stood his ground, fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the breakfast napkin, and responded in kind, toe to toe: Your court order was written under equity law. I am a sovereign individual and a citizen of the State of Missouri operating under common low; therefore, your court order has no weight of law against me, nor does it have jurisdiction over me. Safir handed Cryts the court order, and in a surreal, impromptu diplomatic response, Cryts presented Safir with the napkin. Cryts then proceeded down the line and shook hands with each marshal, before climbing back in the cab, putting the Ford in granny low, and easing forward, unsure if the marshals and agents would pull sidearms. “I had no backup plan in that moment,” Cryts admits. “If they’d have refused to move, I wasn’t going to run anybody over. Maybe we would have cranked up the bucket brigade—by any peaceful means necessary.” Cryts reads his napkin declaration to federal marshals. Cryts reads his napkin declaration to federal marshals. (Photo courtesy of AAM) As Cryts rolled forward, Safir and his subordinates parted. Cryts pulled onto the scales and an open-air heist began, with Homer Evans, a Bunge elevator manager and farmer from Ulysses, Kan., and Corky Jones, an elevator operator and farmer from Brownsville, Neb., handling the scales, running a probe, and sampling for trash. The grain removal centered on three of Ristine’s five Quonset huts: Peel off a sheet metal section with a railroad pinch bar, drop in a vacuum pipe, and fill each vehicle. By 5:30 p.m., with 50-plus trucks loaded, Cryts shuttered the operation until the next day, and returned to his Sikeston motel room. (The infamous pinch bar, dubbed the “Ristine Key,” was auctioned by AAM members and sold for $4,000 to a group of Texas farmers.) A heist in motion at Ristine. A heist in motion at Ristine. (Photo courtesy of AAM) The following morning, Cryts proceeded at Ristine. At 1:30 p.m., with loading completed, the FBI, commanded by Glenn Young, requested a final meeting with Cryts in the elevator office. “They told me I was going to get people killed, get people arrested, get people in trouble, and it’d all be my fault,” Cryts says. “Glenn Young was playing the good cop, with his arm around me, gently telling me to stop for the good of my family, and that if I’d leave today, no arrests would be made.” Tin peeled via the “Ristine Key” before bean removal. Tin peeled via the “Ristine Key” before bean removal. (Photo courtesy of AAM) Leaning in close, Young delivered an ultimatum: “This is it, Wayne. You’ve gone as far as you’re gonna go. It’s over.’” Cryts paused. For one year he’d eaten stress by the spoonful while holding meaningless warehouse receipts, attending countless court hearings, maintaining elevator vigils, and watching crops burn in the field—all while the Ristine grain dangled in limbo and loans loomed. He was worn to the bone. The FBI agents surrounding Cryts could smell weakness. Three days running with no sleep, hand across temples, he spoke softly to Young: “Could you please leave the room? Just give me a minute and take everyone out. Guard the door and don’t let nobody in.” Spotting a crack in the levee, Young cleared the office room and left Cryts in silence. Unraveling like chewed twine, Cryts fought back tears and replayed the events of past months. “No one but me and the Lord ever knew how close I came to giving up. I stayed alone in that room for what seemed like 20 minutes or more, weighing it out. I didn’t want anyone hurt or in jail. I asked myself one last time if I was willing to pay the price.” Composure regained, Cryts knocked against the door to recall the FBI personnel. Entering the room, Young patted Cryts on the back, and asked, “Wayne, what are you going to do?” “Glenn, have you ever seen The Dukes of Hazzard?” Young smashed his fist on the desk, roiled by the reference to General Lee in flight from the law: “Is that your final answer?” “Final,” Cryts answered, walking out of the office. “And I’m going right now.” A massive crowd of farmers, 77 trucks and 1 wheelbarrow, all loaded, awaited Cryts. One wheelbarrow and 77 trucks: The Ristine coup. One wheelbarrow and 77 trucks: The Ristine coup. (Photo courtesy of AAM) The Pledge of Allegiance rang out across the elevator grounds, led by Colorado producer Alvin Jenkins, an original founder of AAM. Sheet metal repair, sealing, and repainting was in the sure hands of Clarence Banfield, an 80-year-old Kansas farmer who road to Stoddard County on a Greyhound bus. Stan DeBoer, a Nebraska grower, oversaw road grating and cleanup—down to the last cigarette butt. As noted in a subsequent FBI report, Cryts and company left the Ristine Elevator in better condition than prior to their arrival. “The people helping me were a bunch of regular Americans from across the country that had enough of government,” Cryts says. “They put their farms in jeopardy. They willingly walked into the federal crosshairs. I was acting out of desperation for my livelihood, but they had nothing to gain but upholding their own beliefs about freedom. They were the heroes.” The FBI made no arrests. As the convoy departed Ristine, every farmer signed a scale ticket, and every farmer was photographed and plated by the FBI—including the wheelbarrow pusher. Destination? Twenty-five miles west to the MFA Elevator in Bernie, Mo., and a high-wire game of cat-and-mouse played with soybeans. Get Cryts In late afternoon of Feb. 17, under clear skies and warm sunshine stroking 60 degrees, Cryts’ soybean convoy chugged into Bernie, where mayor R.B. Woods moved engines out of the firehouse and provided snacks, coffee, and shelter, along with meals from local restaurants. The next morning, 8 a.m., with a convoy yet to unload, Cryts felt a one- two punch combo. The fix was in. The conspirators at Bernie MFA. The conspirators at Bernie MFA. (Photo courtesy of AAM) Cryts called the Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service (ASCS) office, explaining his intention to sell grain to the MFA Elevator, exchange checks at the bank for cash, and deliver the cash to ASCS toward his Commodity Credit Corporation (CCC) loan. ASCS’ response was simple and succinct: “No.” ASCS officials declined Cryts’ payment attempt with check or cash, citing direct orders from Washington, D.C. Additionally, CCC threatened to pull MFA’s license if the grain facility accepted Cryts’ soybeans. Judge Baker piled on, threatening impounding and conspiracy charges for any elevator accepting Cryts’ grain. Resolute: “I have many regrets in life ... But Ristine? I’d do it all again in a heartbeat,” says Cryts. Resolute: “I have many regrets in life ... But Ristine? I’d do it all again in a heartbeat,” says Cryts. (Photo courtesy of AAM) Cryts was reeling. “How could I pay off my loan? Where could I put all these beans?” Despite the setup, Cryts slipped the noose when the Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals in St. Louis made an emergency ruling, ordering MFA to take the grain until determination of ownership. However, Cryts was slipping into legal hell. “That’s when I truly realized my fight with the government was only just beginning.” FBI top agent Glenn Young, genuinely concerned after reading the tea leaves, offered sage advice on the sly, according to Cryts. “This is just starting,” Young warned. “Take everything out of your name and Sandy’s name or you will lose it. Everything. The government is going to take everything you have, Wayne. They’re coming for you.” Get Cryts. Bat Outta Hell An arrest warrant was issued for Cryts three weeks after the Ristine raid. On March 6, 1981, he was arraigned in St. Louis by U.S. Magistrate William Bond on felony charges of interfering with the duties of U.S. marshals, a crime punishable by six years in prison and a $5,000 fine. A grand jury was convened. The panel refused to indict. The judge dismissed all charges. Cryts was safe—in the short term. Inside the ASCS office: Cryts’ payment via check or cash was denied. Inside the ASCS office: Cryts’ payment via check or cash was denied. (Photo courtesy of AAM) Four months later, in the anvil heat of July, Cryts’ mailbox clinked with a letter from the CCC, calling in the loan: Pay up now or forfeit grain. Translated: Adios, amigo. Almost cornered, Cryts weighed options. ASCS refused cash or check, but the technical language of the letter allowed for payment via commodity. “I was infuriated by how crazy the whole thing was,” he continues, “but at least I had a lifeline.” (For more, listen to a podcast interview with Wayne Cryts at Farming The Countryside With Andrew McCrea) Cryts called Eric Thompson, elevator manager at MFA Bernie, and asked for his soybeans. Thompson was in a pickle. Give Cryts access to the soybeans and face conspiracy charges, or refuse access and watch Cryts go under? Thompson’s solution came with a heavy wink. He told Cryts that MFA would stand aside if Cryts threatened “use of force.” Following the feint, Cryts told Thompson, “Yessir, I’m willing to force my way in.” Instantly absolved from legal responsibility, Thompson gave Cryts the green light to load soybeans—77 trucks all over again. Beans in hand, Cryts drove like a bat outta hell to the ASCS office in Bloomfield: “I’m here to pay my loan with grain. Where do you’uns want it?” ASCS reps, strings pulled from on high, denied delivery: “We’ve been instructed not to receive your grain.” Further stymied by a ruling from Baker deeming any purchasing elevator as part of the conspiracy, Cryts pressed the nuclear option: Bean by bean, scatter the grain to the wind. Sell, baby, sell, and pay whatever is owed to whoever will accept cash on the barrelhead. How so? Cryts’ cohort of AAM farmers took the truckloads of soybeans and disappeared. “I told them all, ‘Boys, just go sell wherever you can and get me the money whenever you can.’” However, Cryts’ instructions for Harley Sentell, a close farming brother in Butler County, Missouri, were precise and included a direct jab at Judge Baker via the grain elevator at Corning, Ark.—part of the bankruptcy and technically owned by Baker. “I told Harley, ‘Sell two loads of beans to the James Brothers headquarters in Corning. The guys there won’t know me from Shinola, so put my name on the ticket. That purchase will make Baker’s own elevator part of the conspiracy and therefore he’ll hesitate before he charges any other elevator.’” “Harley sold Corning the grain and they never knew what hit’em,” Cryts adds. “That was just one more reason for Baker to hate me.” Seeds of Sedition The Ristine boomerang hit Cryts on Feb. 9, 1982. Called to appear before Judge Baker, Cryts was granted immunity and ordered to provide the names of all farmers who helped steal the Ristine soybeans. It was political chess: The government already possessed the identity of each farmer involved (photos and signed scale tickets) and didn’t need Cryts’ attestation. Tickets and receipts from Ristine: Wayne Cryts kept them all. Tickets and receipts from Ristine: Wayne Cryts kept them all. (Photo by Chris Bennett) Nonetheless, Cryts declined to allow the judge to hang the wrong horse thief: “No way would I give him a name—not even one.” Frustrated by Cryts’ refusal to play canary, Baker tossed a pencil across the courtroom and threatened civil contempt of court. Cryts responded with disdain: “... I am so sick and tired of this forced mockery of justice and those thieving, money hungry lawyers that come into a bankrupt elevator like a bunch of vultures and milk every dollar out of the escrow account. And by the time they are finished, the farms are left with nothing. They take the assets of honest, hardworking people and get rich off them. Your Honor, I think this circus has gone on for long enough. You do whatever you have to do and let’s get on with it.” Baker chose to lock up Cryts until the Bootheel farmer broke. On April 28, 1982, Cryts was processed at the Pope County Jail in Russellville, Ark., with Baker promising freedom upon testimony: “Cryts can be released from jail by telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth ... Cryts has planted the seeds of sedition and must harvest the bittersweet bounty of his own folly by staying in jail.” However, Baker’s heavy hand ignited media coverage and kicked an anthill in farm country. In southeast Missouri, pickup trucks sported a common bumper sticker: ''Free Wayne, Jail The Judge.'' Jailhouse phone lines were jammed. “Donations for my defense came pouring in, AAM hired the famous attorney F. Lee Bailey to represent me, and the news went crazy because people started realizing what the government was doing,” Cryts says. “The mayor of Russellville brought me the key to the city; high school groups came into jail to hear me speak; and all of it made Baker’s blood boil because he created a circus he couldn’t control.” “Bill Clinton showed up at jail to visit with me, and that tells you how deep corruption ran in the bureaucracy. After this case was all over, Judge Baker suddenly got a sweet job with the Rose Law Firm. Please don’t tell me that was a coincidence.” During incarceration, Wayne Cryts tells Bill Clinton how the cow ate the cabbage. During incarceration, Wayne Cryts tells Bill Clinton how the cow ate the cabbage. (Photo courtesy of AAM) In early May, Sen. Bob Dole of Kansas requested Cryts’ testimony in Washington, D.C., at a Senate bankruptcy hearing. Baker refused to let his prisoner go. (Cryts also received significant support from Iowa Sen. Charles Grassley, who offered to serve a portion of Cryts’ time and petitioned Reagan for a pardon. “Hell no,” Cryts says. “I told Grassley I would never take a pardon. I didn’t do anything.” When Baker balked at Dole’s request, DOJ provided additional encouragement. “DOJ threatened Baker and told him they were going to find him in contempt and put him in jail with me. I reckon we’d have been great cellmates. Anyhow, the judge suddenly let me go to Washington.” Given a furlough, Cryts flew to D.C. and told the Ristine tale. Four days later, he was back behind bars in Arkansas, while a whirlwind of pressure circled Baker. On June 2, after 30-plus days in jail, Cryts was released, but Baker was not finished, recommending criminal prosecution for Cryts: “It is obvious to this court that Mr. Cryts envisions himself to be some sort of folk hero who has been called on from on high to right the wrongs inflicted upon farmers when grain elevators fail. His refusal to cooperate should be deemed criminal...” Additionally, Baker levied a fine of $287,000 and went after Cryts’ finances, assets, and bank accounts. “There was nothing left in our name for him to get,” Cryts reflects. “Baker even tried to seize my farm equipment, but my neighbors got there first and hid all my machinery on their ground.” For almost two years, Cryts had walked a high wire above ruin. “The whole time, I thought proving the facts would set things straight. Turns out, the government only cared that I had dared to break its rules—truth be damned. And for that, I had to pay.” Cargill Blinks Paper sacks, rubber bands, and greenbacks. As Cryts’ farming brethren sold his grain at the four corners, money flooded in, spurring Cryts to stash the cash in safety deposit boxes rented by a friend. “Guys literally walked up and handed me sandwich bags filled with bills, no questions asked. I started paying off all the people I owed. I sure as hell didn’t want to use that system, but my hand was forced.” In response, Baker issued an order to over 100 Bootheel banks to confiscate any money deposited by Cryts. The Internal Revenue Service knocked next in a sequence of curious timing, demanding payment for overdue taxes. Cryts drove to the IRS office in St. Louis and asked if he could pay via asset seizure. All over again: Loading soybeans out of Bernie. All over again: Loading soybeans out of Bernie. (Photo courtesy of AAM) “I’m sitting there with this IRS agent, and I asked him if I could pay in beans. He says, ‘I think so. Just let me make certain with my supervisor.’” “The supervisor comes in, and I explained the situation all over again. All of a sudden, the supervisor sat up in his chair: ‘Wait. Wait,’ he said, as everything dawned on him. ‘You’re that soybean guy? You’re that Cryts guy? No way. We’re not doing it.” “That’s the level of government collusion I was up against,” Cryts says. “Courts, agencies, departments, and career bureaucrats were madder than hell, all because their lifetime power was threatened.” In the fall of 1982, in legal limbo, Cryts began harvesting and hauling grain to Cargill in New Madrid. Baker issued a grain confiscation order to Cargill. Cryts went on-site to Cargill’s concrete elevators and spoke plainly, warning of a Ristine repeat. “Give me back my grain or give me cash. It’ll be tough busting in one of your elevators, and I don’t know right now how to do it, but I’ll get my grain out. I promise to do the least amount of damage I can, and I’ll pay for repairs when I’m done.” Cryts addresses a media swarm. Cryts addresses a media swarm. (Photo courtesy of AAM) Cargill blinked. However, the New Madrid facility was barge-only and had no load-out for trucks. “They told me I could go inland and get my grain from another elevator. I went to Dexter and got my grain, and then drove it to MFA Bernie and sold it. That marked the event where the government gave up on confiscations.” The feds may have grown tired of chasing Cryts’ grain, but the government exchanged its grip on Cryts’ soybeans for a better handle on his collar. As in, a 20-year stay in the penitentiary. “Guilt or innocence was out the window,” Cryts exclaims. “They weren’t turning loose of me no matter what.” Rat on a Cheeto. A Cold Day In Hell The home phone rang at all hours with calls from farmers, agriculture organizations, and mayors across the nation, asking for a Cryts appearance or speech. “It became a way of saying thanks and I never asked or wanted a penny in return,” Cryts describes. “Sometimes my expenses were paid; sometimes not. I made it to every event possible out of gratitude.” In August 1982, Cryts took a call from the northwest corner of Arkansas and the tiny town of Gravette, just under the state line, roughly an hour south of Springfield, Mo. On the horn was Bob Pigott, chamber of commerce president, asking Cryts to speak at the Eighty-Ninth Annual Gravette Day Celebration and serve as grand marshal of the parade. Wash, rinse, repeat. At home, Cryts unloads a portion of beans from Bernie. Wash, rinse, repeat. At home, Cryts unloads a portion of beans from Bernie. (Photo courtesy of AAM) Bud Shell, owner of the Ford dealership in Dexter, Mo., stepped up and provided Cryts with a blue travel van, a repeat gesture by Shell. On the morning prior to the Gravette festivities, as Cryts sat in Pigott’s clothing store, the office phone rattled with a call from a familiar and trusted voice—U.S. marshal George Welch, a highly-respected presence at the Ristine affair. “Wayne, they’re coming for you,” Welch stated. “This is a setup. There is a federal marshal tracking you and they’re going to find a way to arrest you. I know this because they tried to get me to do it and I told them to go to hell.” Welch was preaching gospel. At 9 a.m. the following day, as Cryst again sat inside Pigott’s store, a team of U.S. marshals surrounded the building. Chuck Papachio, a U.S. marshal from Brooklyn, NYC, entered the premises and handed Pigott a writ garnishing any payment planned for Cryts. (However, the Chamber did not pay Cryts.) Papachio turned to Cryts: “Do you have any valuables on you?” “I’ve got my watch, wedding ring, boots, and about $150 in cash,” Cryts answered. Papachio requested turnover of said valuables. Cryts refused. During the verbal exchange, Papachio’s men were covering the rear exit, pistols drawn. Cryts only found out about Papachio’s backdoor coverage at trial, months later. “When I heard during testimony that the government was locked and loaded that day, I have to ask if they were hoping I’d resist. I’ll always wonder if I’d have run out the back door whether they were going to shoot me dead. It shows you an outrageous level of government overkill.” If lizard-skin could talk: Cryts’ Justin boots have a tale to tell. If lizard-skin could talk: Cryts’ Justin boots have a tale to tell. (Photo by Chris Bennett) As the confrontation continued between Papachio and Cryts, a bystander hollered, “Wayne, the marshals are outside taking your van.” Cryts raced to the street and stepped off the curb, blocking a tow truck from van access. Papachio warned Cryts to move or face arrest. “I can accept being arrested,” Cryts answered, “but I can’t accept you stealing this van.” Cryts maintained calm and told Papachio. “I’m not going to be a problem. Just let me be the grand marshal and as soon as the parade ends, do your thing if you want to arrest me that bad.” Fearing an unruly Gravette citizenry, Papachio acquiesced, but his hesitation almost went sideways. After the parade concluded, Papachio cuffed Cryts and placed him in a county patrol vehicle. The crowd erupted, tearing off the antennae and kicking in the doors before the car picked up speed. “It got wild,” Cryts remembers. “People were rocking the car back and forth, and the officers were bad shook up.” Processed at the Sebastian County jailhouse in Fort Smith, Cryts traded his jean jacket and Levi’s for blue-and-white stripes. He was fingerprinted, photographed for a mugshot, issued a tin cup, and deposited in a cell with eight Cubans. “These were genuine criminals dumped by Castro in his 1980 prison cleanout, and I was scared to death. I had no options but to act tough and be ready to fight, bite, whatever it took. Helluva night: I ended up killing 280 cockroaches.” Two days later, Cryts posted bond and was released until trial. “My van,” he recalls. “They kept my damn van.” Jack Lewis holds the “Ristine key” sold at auction for $4,000. Jack Lewis holds the “Ristine key” sold at auction for $4,000. (Photo courtesy of AAM) In October 1982, in Fayetteville, Ark., Cryts’ trial process began on charges of interference with a federal marshal, with a potential sentence of 20 years in federal prison. His attorney, Bill Wilson, pushed for a guilty plea, Cryts recalls. “Wayne, plead or you’re looking at a couple decades of hard time in maximum security. Baker issued you a court order not to remove the grain, and you violated that order, but the marshals and FBI officers refused to back Baker and stop you. Basically, you stripped Baker naked of his power and you’re a threat to the entire system. They’re going to make an example of you one way or another. Plead guilty now.” Undaunted, Cryts insisted on a jury trial. Federal Magistrate Judge Franklin McWaters presided in Fayetteville. “The prosecutor spouted all kinds of crap to the jury,” Cryts contends. “He said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, don’t get on a cruise ship with Wayne Cryts. He’ll take the lifeboats and leave the women and children behind. He wants notoriety. He wants fame. He wants power.’” Cryts took the stand, looking as guilty as the boy who burned down the barn. “I told them I did it. I hid nothing. The prosecution said I refused a direct order from a federal marshal, and I told the jury that was true.” After Cryts exited the stand, Bill Wilson put head to hands and whispered, “Wayne, you’re the best witness the prosecution has had.” After closing statements, Judge McWaters put a thumb on the scales: I want to tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury one thing. If you come back with anything other than a guilty verdict, we might as well throw our laws out the window, everybody strap on a six-gun, and go down the street shooting. “Can you imagine how that felt,” Cryts says. “I’m up for 20 years and the judge tells the jury they sure as hell better find me guilty. Literally, those were the last words heard by the jury.” Seated at the defense table, Cryts was lost, unable to read blank expressions worn by the jury as they shuffled out. No smiles. No frowns. Retreating to a hallway, Cryts collapsed on the floor, and waited for the inevitable. Three hours later, the jury returned, again filing in with faces set in stone. The bailiff handed the decision to Judge McWaters, who read in silence, then peered down at the jury: “Is this unanimous?” McWaters then tossed the decision on the courtroom floor. The bailiff picked up the paperwork and read aloud: “Not guilty.” The prosecutor scrambled out of his chair and demanded a jury poll. Each juror rose, stated a name, and sounded off. McWaters rapped the gavel. Court dismissed. Knees to jelly and adrenaline gone, Cryts wept. As McWaters exited the room in a fury, Bill Wilson hollered out: “Your honor, what about Mr. Cryts’ van? Your honor?” McWaters turned about for one final pause: “It’ll be a cold day in hell when I release that van.” Mysterious Corn Cob Double jeopardy? Triple jeopardy? The government took another bite at the Cryts apple. “They were going to change up the charges and put me on trial until they got their guilty verdict,” Cryts insists. “When Ristine didn’t work, they just tried something else.” Ristine relief: “It wasn’t years ago,” says Cryts. “It was yesterday. I’ll die with a debt for those farmers who stood with me.” Ristine relief: “It wasn’t years ago,” says Cryts. “It was yesterday. I’ll die with a debt for those farmers who stood with me.” (Photo courtesy of AAM) In June 1983, throwing in the towel on Ristine, federal judge Thomas Eisele rang up Cryts on charges of criminal contempt for removing his soybeans from the MFA Elevator at Bernie. Mirroring his previous trial, Cryts refused to plead guilty, and a jury was seated in a Little Rock courtroom. Prosecutors subpoenaed Cryts’ father, William, but the move backfired on the witness stand. William claimed a mysteriously cloudy recall of the grain removal at MFA due to his perpetually poor memory sustained in a farm accident as a child after a fall from a loft when struck by a “wet corn cob.” The jury deliberated for 30 minutes, voting unanimously for acquittal. Eisele was incensed. “He cussed and criticized the jury. He openly told them he disagreed with their decision,” Cryts explains. “Since the jury acquitted me, Eisele did what he could to make my life miserable. He charged with me with civil contempt and fined me $341,000. To this day, I reckon it’s compounded to millions of dollars. I never paid.” “If Ristine hadn’t happened, you’d have never heard of me,” says Cryts. “If Ristine hadn’t happened, you’d have never heard of me,” says Cryts. (Photo courtesy of AAM) In less than two years, Cryts had faced a grand jury that refused to indict, and two trial juries that voted not guilty. Yet, the government was not finished. “That’s how the bureaucracy and deep state work in unison,” he says. “Make no mistake: There were going to keep trying me, but the story had caught too much media attention, and they couldn’t sneak it past the American people. Instead, they came for my guns.” Hands Down With federal fines sitting on Cryts’ shoulder, his assets were at risk. The courts grabbed his guns. “I didn’t have hardly anything in my name they could get, so they sent me notice of gun confiscation.” Cryts didn’t cotton to dead lion status. “I’d come too far,” he says. “I fought over beans, but I wasn’t going to fight over guns because I knew how this episode would have ended, and I didn’t want it to turn into a Ruby Ridge situation like we saw some years later. The government would have eventually taken my guns by force.” He broke down his rifles, shotguns, and pistols, placed the parts in the backseat and floorboards of the family sedan, and drove the firearms to law enforcement. On the steps of the Cape Girardeau courthouse, Cryts’ guns were auctioned by the government. Significantly, there were no bids beyond the raised hands of Cryts’ neighbors. Excluding Cryts’ farming brethren, the crowd was silent. “Like so many other times, the people around me were the heroes,” he says. “I got my guns back, bought and returned to me by my neighbors.” Ristine Dreams Forty-three years past Ristine, Cryts is a satisfied man, grateful for a quiet life in a modest home perched on a rise off gravel, surrounded by corn, cotton, rice, and soybeans in every direction. Looking backward at the Ristine raid, would Cryts do it again? “I have many regrets in life. I wish I’d have married Sandy earlier; 60 years is not enough with her. I wish I’d have not been short with my words with people many times; I’d take back speaking harshly at different points. Those are genuine regrets. But Ristine? I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.” “In the end, Ristine drew attention to major problems in elevator bankruptcies, and some states changes made real changes in their laws— some didn’t.” Beyond bankruptcy law changes, Cryts contends Ristine exposed the extremes of the bureaucracy. Process was punishment. “There was always one thing the government didn’t understand,” says Cryts. “When they took everything I had, there was nothing left for me to lose.” “There was always one thing the government didn’t understand,” says Cryts. “When they took everything I had, there was nothing left for me to lose.” (Photo by Chris Bennett) “You may or may not agree with what I did, or how I did it. I understand. But if you’ll look at how the government came after me, with charge after charge, just to get something—anything—to stick, then you can see what laws the bureaucracy is willing to abuse once the ball gets rolling and how they work in unison. I call it the deep state.” (For more, listen to a podcast interview with Wayne Cryts at Farming The Countryside With Andrew McCrea) Two years shy of 80, almost 55 years removed from the Great Soybean Raid, Cryts often vividly dreams of Ristine, surrounded by hundreds of farmers loading grain in truck after truck. “It wasn’t years ago,” he says. “It was yesterday. I’ll die with a debt for those farmers who stood with me.” “I’m so blessed today,” he adds. “I don’t have much, but I have all the things I truly need. Here I am in Puxico, Missouri. The government knows where to find me. Come get me.” For more articles from Chris Bennett (cbennett@farmjournal.com or 662- 592-1106), see: American Pie Reborn: How An Iowa Farmer Saved Buddy Holly Corn and Cocaine: Roger Reaves and the Most Incredible Farm Story Never Told American Gothic: Farm Couple Nailed In Massive $9M Crop Insurance Fraud Priceless Pistol Found After Decades Lost in Farmhouse Attic Cottonmouth Farmer: The Insane Tale of a Buck-Wild Scheme to Corner the Snake Venom Market Power vs. Privacy: Landowner Sues Game Wardens, Challenges Property Intrusion Tractorcade: How an Epic Convoy and Legendary Farmer Army Shook Washington, D.C. Bizarre Mystery of Mummified Coon Dog Solved After 40 Years While America Slept, China Stole the Farm Tags Post Comment Private Reply Ignore Thread
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