January 10, 1983:  I was in the comfort and security of my own home, at age 28, in my bedroom behind a locked door. I was talking on the phone with Joan, an operator for a tenant-dispute service.

For six weeks I had been stalked, threatened and terrorized by “John,” a man who had turned violent after I let him stay in my home for several weeks in need of a short-term place to live. Once he moved out, he began stalking and attacking me. Besides street drugs, he was taking experimental drugs (SSRIs) later found to cause murder-rage attacks.

While I was asking Joan for her agency’s assistance for a restraining order, John had gotten through my front door and made his way to my back bedroom. He began bashing his body and kicking my door to break it in; after about 15 bashes, it came flying open with old wood splinters flying into my face. My adrenalin shot up into a state of panic as I’d never felt before, as I blurted out to Joan to call the police as the door flew open.

Before I could mentally process what was happening, John swung a meat cleaver at my head at the speed of a baseball player swinging at a fastball only downward to chop my head in half in a “no time for prayer” split second. I dodged and the cleaver caught the phone cord and ripped the phone and receiver right out of my hands as it flew back toward him (a 1983 desk style phone). My loaded gun was sitting out because I was just about to leave for the day after ending the call with Joan. As he cocked his arm for another swing, I grabbed the gun and began shooting, impossible to know in that panic if it was two shots or more. But if more, barely any more. As the first shot rang out in my small wooden enclosure, the sound blast gave me a concussion, deafening and further disorienting me. The attacker went down, but began to get right back up. (The bullets were target practice reloads of very low power, not standard bullets.) I didn’t fire again and tried to call for help, but the cleaver severed the phone cord. So I ran across a large yard to an apartment complex to phone the police and ambulance.

My call reached the police about 40 seconds after Joan’s call to them; the first officer arrived within 2 minutes. They inexplicably delayed the ambulance for over 20 minutes, causing him to die from loss of blood, not  any specific gunshot; some reports say three hours later, while another had him still alive 4-½ hours later. They arrested and jailed me for premeditated, first degree murder.

 I bailed out ten days later; a huge mistake as I’d later learn, because I had no access to “jailhouse lawyers” who could have advised me what to do about my attorney deliberately sending me to prison to help the prosecution. Hiring him for many thousands of dollars paid up front, cash, was the biggest mistake of my life. He helped the prosecutor and his team of corrupt officials commit over 50 major crimes to falsify every piece of evidence to frame me for murder, with my attorney covering it all up, as he kept me muzzled under the threat of bail revocation and return to the horrors of jail. Santa Clara County, California, was then rated as the most judicially corrupt county in the entire country, out of 3,144 counties. To top it off, investigation revealed that the attacker was a homosexual whose male lover was on the verge of death from recently discovered AIDS, and John apparently not far behind. Some hidden evidence indicated he was having a homosexual relationship with one of the investigative police officers–who committed perjury against me along with several other corrupt cops.

They immediately cremated the body to falsify the gunshot wounds; they permanently disappeared the original autopsy report, replacing it with a second, false one, by Coroner Angelo Ozoa who was later busted for falsifying autopsy reports and committing perjury to Federal judges about it; they gave the meat cleaver attack weapon back to the attacker’s mother and never allowed the jury to know I was attacked with a meat cleaver; A gun he also had, originally listed as a real gun, later was said to be a mere pellet pistol, with fingerprints visible in the tacky blood. So they put it in an autoclave and smeared the prints so they could tell the jury that the smears  were from my wiping my own fingerprints off the gun to plant it at the scene. They threw out some of his bloody clothes after letting mold grow on them for months, to destroy bullet hole evidence so they could say I shot him repeatedly in the back. My bedroom door knob shaft, bent steel, from his body blows, the police removed and threw in the trash to destroy this evidence of his force to get at me. Miraculously, it ended up back in my hands but my attorney then took it and hid it until trial was over, leaving the jury to think that we had removed it to hide incriminating evidence. The amount of bullets still left unfired in my gun was decreased in subsequent reports while they planted bullet shells at the scene weeks later to claim I shot more shots than I did.

The prosecutor, police, coroner and my attorney all lied to the jury stating these were standard, high power kill bullets that one shot from would have finished him, yet I kept firing, according to this invented story–the only one the jury knew. A towel medics brought to aid the attacker, the prosecutor told the jury was my own towel I used to wipe my own fingerprints from the supposedly planted gun. My attorney outright told the jury over and over that we don’t disagree with the prosecutor that Lazor shot John in the back and back of the head repeatedly. My attorney graphically formed his large body into a balance beam scale in front of the jury, repeatedly, telling them that if the D.A.’s evidence “outweighs” ours, then find me guilty – which is a lighter preponderance of evidence standard, not the required “reasonable doubt” evidence of guilt standard for criminal trials.

Police photos prove the police moved and resituated every item of evidence at the scene to make it fit their invented story of murder. They forged my writings in a daily business schedule book, calling it a secretive “diary” which the judge approved of because my attorney refused to object to it. They ripped up all the flooring and tore out my bedroom door jam and replaced it all before trial to destroy and remake all the crime scene evidence. They seized without a warrant, and kept to themselves, exonerating documents of mine so that I could not have them to present in my defense. This is only the tip of the iceberg; all is 100% proven beyond debate by the state’s own evidence that took me 18 years to unearth, retain, and prove. When I exposed all this publicly, they went into an aggressive war against me with hit contracts and 51 transfers to keep me in prison for 40 years on an 8-½ year sentence. They claimed my sentence had a “life top” by which they could keep me in prison for the rest of my natural life, when in fact the “life” component does not apply to my sentence because I was not charged with “special circumstances” which is the one factor which is required to engage the “life” portion of this sentencing scheme.

Conclusion

This is how they stole 40 years of my life and, now, have me facing homelessness and losing all I have built in this past 16 months of freedom, solid work and no play. Just as they took all I had built prior to prison as a pilot, skydive teacher, ten times successful businessman, celebrity musician, professional singer and songwriter of many hundreds of songs, hardback book author, college student, teacher, patents-holding inventor, lifesaver, homeowner, contributor to my community, and much else while still in my 20s. Please help with what you can. I’m in dire, emergency need now.

https://rumble.com/v6or34u-free-lazors-own-words-of-how-he-spent-40-years-in-prison.html