Various excerpts from Beyond Outrage


The long, white envelope that arrived was postmarked USA and read Shorewood Police Department. What I saw as I opened it riveted me. On official Shorewood Police stationary, signed by Chief Banaszynski, there was a message I thought just about impossible:


Dear Mr. Inglin,

     Per your request, I have forwarded a copy of the letter to Milwaukee County District Attorney John Chisholm. I have requested that he, as chief law enforcement officer in the county, handle this matter. I also told him that I would be available to answer any and all questions.

     Hopefully this will be satisfactory on my part in the matter.

David Banaszynski

Chief of Police





Lawyer Glynn had gazed out the court hallway window and mused that “Things don’t work like they should, here in Milwaukee County. They work in other counties, but not here.”




Thada-Anne was one tough lawyer. Born and raised in South Africa, daughter and wife of prominent doctors, she saw life from the view of wealth and white. In her world Nelson Mandela was at least an inconvenient disruptor. When white rule ended, so did her love of country and her search began for… “some place more civilized”– New Zealand.

The exchange rate for the South African rand on the black market in those days, however, dented what was a fortune at home, considering that black servants earned the equivalent of 100 dollars a month. Unlike Zulus or Xhosa, a team of Maoris in her new country wouldn’t build a swimming pool for what a lawyer like Thada earned in less than one good week in Johannesburg.

“Life is hard,” Thada was fond of saying as she spread her delicately painted nails like a cat just ending a refreshing nap. “You have to be prepared to do what’s necessary to survive.”

Thada may not have picked fruit, but she sure could pick banks. And the art of handling men was as familiar to her as to… well, an old whore.

With a bogus power of attorney, a fax machine and a powerful will, Thada-Anne phoned the Sparkasse Horgen, in Canton Zurich, Switzerland, where she knew her client kept money. She phoned the bank manager one morning and the conversation went like this:

Good day, Mr. Buehler, my client is urgently in need of funds. I have in my possession his power of attorney. Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars are to be wired immediately to an account I will specify. Delays are costly, Mr. Buehler. I remind you, I am a lawyer. If my instructions are not carried out with dispatch, I will take the necessary legal action.

Now, any fool knows that you can’t fax a bogus power of attorney to a bank and expect to have one-quarter million dollars delivered to your account— and most certainly not in Switzerland. But any fool would have been wrong.

The paperwork was later filed by the Bezirksanwaltschaft Horgen in Zurich, and Thada was invited, in abstentia, to appear in Switzerland on charges of bank fraud.

Lawyer Thada-Anne was no fool. She kept the money and her license to practice law in New Zealand because she practiced the real rules, stayed out of Switzerland and covered up her crime. But when that arrest warrant was issued, well… Thada-Anne just couldn’t hit back.



I registered a complaint with the Ethics Committee of the Wisconsin Psychological Association (WPA), via Dr. Tony Kuchan, who was responsible for ethical matters. When I informed Kuchan that my reports were falsified, he was incredulous.

“But that’s impossible,” he e-mailed me. “It simply cannot happen. It would be beyond outrageous for any lawyer to tamper with court-ordered, professional reports. Not even a scoundrel would dare do such a thing.”

“But it happened,” I objected, “and I have the documents to prove it. You can obtain them from original sources.”

Despite my offer, Kuchan refused to listen.

“It can’t happen. And I can do no more,” he proclaimed with finality.

“What about looking at the documents?” I insisted.

“We can do no more. I’m sorry.”

In follow-up, I wrote to the American Psychological Association, in Washington D.C. They never responded.

The Wisconsin Bar, in the form of Cynthia Schally, terminated its investigation of the falsified psychological reports after I offered official copies.





“But what if other reports are being altered?” I objected again.

     Cornered and frustrated by my persistence, Dr. Diamond angered: “Okay, no, … you’re probably not the only one, okay, okay? But I can’t help you. Get a lawyer; go to the Board.”





Martin Kohler turned to face me, arms crossed, legs splayed in the defiant stance that he used so often, and said, “Truth? Well, you know… the truth is a very funny thing.”





“Who’s your attorney?” Detective Banaszynski asked.

“Martin Kohler,” I replied.

“Oh, you’ll be in good hands then,” he said, sounding pleased. “We know him well. He’s a favorite of ours.”

“Can he help my boy?” I asked.

“If anyone can, Marty can,” he replied confidently.

I took comfort in that reply, and would remember it often. But it was Banaszynski who was in good hands.





A few days after my appointment with her, the therapist sent a letter to Mr. Wilson, stating that she saw no need for further psychological assessment or treatment.

I returned to see Probation Officer Wilson.

“Can I see my son now?” I asked.


“Why not?”

“Judge’s orders.”

“What judge?”

“The judge in your case.”


“No, Judge Randa, the federal judge.”

“But he was the judge in the tax case. What do taxes have to do with seeing my son?”

“It’s not for me to say,” Wilson shrugged.

Thada phoned Wilson.

“We’d like to see Erich’s health and educational records.”

“What for?” Wilson asked.

“What for? He’s Mark’s son, that’s what for. Isn’t the reason obvious?”

But it wasn’t obvious to Wilson.

I was never certain whether Wilson was a nasty individual by nature, or whether he had been influenced by Milwaukee to treat me poorly. Regardless, he had no ears for my concerns for my son.

Thada and I discovered, by reading Randa’s court orders, that Wilson in fact did have the power to modify the orders— but he stubbornly refused to do so, stating squarely, “I don’t want the responsibility.”





I boldly approached a young blonde in a light-blue business suit. She smiled genially.

“Passport and ticket, please, sir.”

I handed her both, then waited for the expected.

“But there’s no visa in your passport, sir?” she questioned.

“I’m dual national,” I exclaimed with practiced authority. “… don’t have my U.S. passport at the moment. Leaving on the Swiss.”

The blonde looked over at another woman, an older woman with a flawless bronze complexion, the clearest eyes, and an air of tranquil dignity. That she was in charge was obvious, but she was nevertheless quick with a smile for the only passenger in her business class domain.

“He isn’t stamped properly,” the blonde informed her boss.

I glanced at a clock on the wall. The three of us exchanged looks, not a word spoken. The woman in charge fixed her gaze my way. Calling on my last ounce of determination, I smiled back as if I’d just won the lottery.

“Put it through approved,” she instructed the blonde. The two mumbled airline techno-speak, and then I heard, “… and don’t forget to give Mr. Inglin a courtesy pass to our first-class lounge.”

“About time,” I screamed voicelessly. “About time.”





During one of the breaks and with the recording microphone switched off, Elliott asked me exactly what it was that I wanted from Attorney Kohler.

“I want him to approach Hansher and tell him I didn’t receive a fair trial and that it needs to be righted,” I said.

“That,” Elliott replied grimly, “will never happen.”





“These books,” Kohler declared to the court, referring to my publications, “have caused me tremendous personal and professional embarrassment. Since they were first distributed over a year ago, I have been approached by peers at the courthouse on a weekly basis inquiring about the books. My existing and new clients have expressed concern after receiving these books in the mail. I have also been approached by friends and neighbors regarding the books.

“I have had to hire a public relations consultant,” he went on, “Mr. Harry Cherkinian, to specifically address the damaging publicity I have received as a result of these books. I have spent $30,000 in fees for Mr. Chirkinian’s work, in part to counter the effect of the books distributed by Mr. Inglin.”

Farther down the page I read, “Recently, while selecting a jury in a criminal case, one of the potential jurors stated that he had read all seven books distributed by Mr. Inglin. He further stated that he believed the contents of those books and therefore did not like me.”





I phoned Kim Seegmiller.

“Kim,” I said, “I have a letter from the Board investigating charges against Kohler. I’m going to fax it to you. Hansher states that he cannot recall denying me contact with my son. He also says he let me out of my sentence early. What do your records show?”

“My records don’t show any of that,” Seegmiller informed me shortly afterwards. “You weren’t released from your sentence early and you cannot see your son, and Hansher says you cannot see him.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ll fax you his statement. And that will mean I can see my son whenever I want, right?”

“No, I’m afraid not. But I wish it were so. The official order is to prevent you from contacting your son. I’m sorry. I have always wished you the best of luck, but you have one sticky wicket in your hands.”

“Do I have this right?” I asked, “We’re both saying that Hansher is lying. I know he’s lying and you know it. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” he agreed.

“So he’s deflecting the investigation by the Board on the one hand, but keeping the no-contact order as-is on the other?” I asked.

“That’s it,” Seegmiller agreed.





The discussion turned to the WBAPR investigation of Kohler. I explained to Hughes that Kohler claimed to have lost the case file. Suddenly Hughes turned and addressed Robins.

“You know as well as I do, Ira,” Hughes observed, “that even if everything in the booklets is true, the WBAPR won’t do a thing to Kohler. You already know that.”

Later, I remarked to Ira that, “It’s amazing how obvious Hughes thinks it is, that the WBAPR is useless.”

“Hughes was telling you what every attorney knows,” Ira explained. “The WBAPR is an attorney joke. It’s a graveyard for the mistakes of popular attorneys.

“And remember,” Ira added, “everything the WBAPR does is confidential. It’s set up by attorneys to protect attorneys. The Board won’t confirm or deny anything. They hope complainers go away.”





“You know,” Thada observed while I groused one more time, “as a lawyer, you quickly learn that, even though every step taken in a courtroom or carried out as an instrument of law may be entirely correct, the result can be a travesty of justice. Lawyers come to terms with that, and ultimately conclude that it’s okay— it’s the way the world works.”





Thada phoned the bank manager one morning and the conversation went like this:


Good day, Mr. Buehler, my client is urgently in need of funds. I have in my possession his power of attorney. Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars are to be wired immediately to an account I will specify. Delays are costly, Mr. Buehler. I remind you, I am a lawyer.

If my instructions are not carried out with dispatch, I will take the necessary legal action.




At my request, Diamond verified that his report had been altered. I also had the record from family court showing Matusiak had never prescribed medication.

Thada sent a letter to Randa, pointing out the inaccuracy of the pre-sentencing report. She asked him to correct the false interpretations by including Diamond’s actual report rather than the summary.

A few weeks later, we received Randa’s response. My case, he claimed, was no longer in his jurisdiction. The file was in transit to Utah. No other comment.















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