Tellico Plains Officer Indicted: Sexual Battery on a Minor

In the misty shadow of the Unicoi Mountains, the story of the Tellico Plains Police Department reads less like a standard log of law and order and more like a Appalachian gothic novel—a generational tug-of-war between the "Old Guard" of mountain politics and a modern push for professional accountability.

Today’s indictment of Clayton Foxx—a 24-year-old accused of statutory rape while on duty—is a gut punch to that hard-won progress. It represents the "Bad" resurfacing in its most predatory form. The town has been trying to shake off the "Isbell" and "Parks" eras for over a decade, only to have a 24-year-old officer bring that negative spotlight right back to the department.  TBI agents began investigating Foxx in April 2025. Foxx is accused of engaging in sexual contact with a minor while on duty and providing false information to investigators in two separate interviews.

Secrets in the Smokies

However, there is a silver lining in the way the department responded: No Cover-Ups: Unlike the old days of missing files, the current leadership immediately handed the reins to the TBI.

While the new guard in Tellico Plains struggles to fix the broken house Bill Isbell built, the man himself is living in the shadow of Sheriff Grady Judd—a place where the "Good Ol' Boy" network didn't die; it just moved south to Polk County, Florida.

The Modern Guard: A Hard-Won Reputation:

Enter the "Good." In recent years, a new leadership has attempted to drag the department out of the bad and into the light of the 21st century. Under the current administration, the "slush fund" culture was dismantled in favor of strict state-monitored protocols. For the first time in a generation, residents began to see a department that functioned like a professional agency rather than a private club.

The recent chiefs (Jeb Brown and David Bookout) have been credited with "cleaning house," establishing a baseline of respectability that the town hadn't felt since before the Isbell audits.

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The Sheriff Grady Judd & Bill Isbell Alliance (2010)

In 2010, the political landscape of Monroe County was heavily influenced by the endorsement of Florida Sheriff Grady Judd for Bill Isbell.

The Campaign: Bill Isbell, while serving as the Tellico Plains Police Chief, ran for Monroe County Sheriff as an Independent in 2010. Grady Judd didn't just endorse him; he essentially served as a high-profile surrogate, campaigning heavily for his "buddy" Isbell.

Judd pitched Isbell as a candidate who would bring a "Florida-style" professionalization to the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office.
Despite the "Judd factor," Isbell lost the election to Randy White. Isbell retired shortly after in 2011, ending a 41-year career in law enforcement.

One of the most bizarre cases linked to Sheriff Grady Judd: The case of attorney Ellen "Ellie" Marandola, a retired lawyer from New Jersey. The timeline of that bizarre escalation is almost hard to believe.

The Complaint: It started when Marandola formally questioned Judd’s decision to donate county-owned basketball hoops and equipment to local churches, arguing it violated the separation of church and state.

The "Loud Sex" Allegation:  Shortly after her complaint, a neighbor (who was a vocal supporter of Judd) accused the then-62-year-old Marandola of having "loud, screaming sex" that could be heard in the street. Officially known as  the  "Loud Sex Fiasco."

In 2010, Judd’s deputies arrested her for "breach of peace." The story became national news, largely because of the absurdity of the charges against a retired grandmotherly figure, leading to the "Loud Sex Fiasco" parody and heavy criticism of Judd for allegedly using a neighbor’s grudge to retaliate against a political critic.

The Florida Connection:
For those who don't know, Grady Judd is essentially a "law enforcement celebrity" in Polk County, Florida, known for his blunt, viral press conferences.

Moving from the high-drama politics of Monroe County to a neighborhood shared by one of the most famous sheriffs in the country is quite the "retirement" plot twist. It’s a sharp contrast: leaving behind a department plagued by audit findings to live next door to a man who prides himself on "law and order" transparency.

Bill Isbell—the man who presided over a Tellico Plains department that the Tennessee Comptroller later found to be a sieve of missing funds and unrecorded cash—now lives  just a few doors down from Sheriff Grady Judd.

Judd is a national figure, a man who conducts press conferences with colorful charts and a "lock 'em up" swagger that has made him a hero to the "thin blue line" crowd.

Isbell is a man who left behind a trail of "accounting irregularities" and a department so ethically hollowed out it eventually collapsed into the slush-fund scandals of his successors.

The connection isn't just about property lines; it’s about a shared "old school" DNA. In Monroe County, Isbell was the power broker—the man who ran the town’s police and later tried to seize the Sheriff’s office. In Polk County Florida, Judd is the power.

Reports of their "buddy" status suggest a mutual understanding between two men who spent their lives at the top of the food chain in small-to-mid-sized jurisdictions. For Isbell, being a "friend of Grady" offers a shield of respectability that his final years in Tennessee lacked. 

Judd's Style: He used his power to silence a critic (the NJ attorney) using a neighbor's absurd "loud sex" complaint as a legal weapon.

Isbell's Legacy: He operated in an era where the rules were "suggestions," and loyalty to the chief often outweighed the accuracy of the evidence room inventory.
They are two sides of the same coin: one who successfully branded his brand of "tough" policing into a media empire, and another who slipped away to Florida before the audits could turn into indictments.

For decades, the badge in Tellico Plains seemed to carry a different weight. The era of Bill Isbell set a tone where the lines between "community policing" and "personal kingdom" became dangerously blurred.  While Isbell eventually traded the humid politics of Monroe County for a retirement near the iron-fisted Sheriff Grady Judd in Florida, he left behind a paper trail of "accounting irregularities." In the world of the Tennessee Comptroller, "irregularities" is a polite term for thousands of dollars in drug funds and evidence room cash vanishing into thin air, leaving a legacy of skepticism that would haunt the department for years.

The $1.9 million settlement wasn't just a payout for a death: it was hush money for a broken process

When an elected Sheriff uses the power of his office to publicly cross-examine a Medical Examiner outside of a courtroom, he isn't just "seeking the truth"—he is actively sabotaging the machinery of justice.

In the American legal tradition, the courtroom is the only legitimate arena for the testing of evidence. By moving that process to social media and "grilling" the Knox County Medical Examiner, Dr Suzuki--Sheriff Jones didn't just perform a political stunt; he executed a pre-emptive strike on the integrity of a homicide investigation.

A Medical Examiner (ME) is a creature of science, not a subordinate of law enforcement. By publicly confronting the ME over the homicide ruling in the Lester Isbill case, the Sheriff committed three cardinal sins of judicial interference.

Intimidation by Proximity:  When the person who controls the jail and the deputies is the same person berating a witness, the "questioning" carries an implicit threat. It signals to every other professional in the system—from nurses to patrol officers—that a conclusion contrary to the Sheriff's narrative will be met with public humiliation.

Contamination of the Jury Pool:  This "theater" was designed to reach the citizens of Monroe County before they ever received a jury summons. It was an attempt to poison the well of "community judgment" ensuring that any future juror would already have the Sheriff’s rebuttal ringing in their ears.

The Chilling Effect:  This is the most insidious outcome. When a high-ranking official "corrects" an expert, it creates a structural deterrent.  Future experts may hesitate to label a death a "homicide" if they know it will result in a digital lynch mob led by the county's top cop.

Legal watchers have raised the question of why DA Hatchett has not pursued obstruction charges. In many jurisdictions, an official using their platform to influence or harass a witness in an active proceeding (like a grand jury) would be a textbook case for Witness Tampering or Retaliation.

"The least serious form of witness tampering... the intentional harassment of a witness... which results in that person being hindered or discouraged from testifying, is a crime." (18 U.S. Code § 1512)

By treating the Medical Examiner like a hostile suspect rather than a forensic authority, the Sheriff signaled that in Monroe County, the "administrative track record" is protected by a wall of aggression.

Uncapped Liability: Why the Federal Isbill Suit Could Bankrupt County Insurance

The political landscape of Monroe County, Tennessee is currently shivering under the weight of a $1.9 million settlement in the death of Pastor Lester Isbill—a figure that, while substantial, is being whispered about in local diners and law offices as a "discount on dignity."  

• A system that shaved costs and shaved care.

• Policies that valued budgets over bodies.

• Treatment that said, implicitly, “You matter… just not at full price.”

In the context of a jail death, it’s devastating. Because dignity is supposed to be baseline — not premium, not optional. Constitutionally, pretrial detainees are protected under the 14th Amendment, and courts have long held that deliberate indifference to serious medical needs violates those rights. That’s not charity. That’s minimum law.  

Video of Memorial for Lester Isbill -- As the 2026 election cycle heats up,  the death of 74-year-old retired pastor Lester Isbill has transformed from a tragic jailhouse incident into a  potential federal intervention and an electoral uprising that could unseat one of the region’s most defiant figures: Sheriff Tommy Jones.

For many in the community, the lower settlement number serves to minimize the sheer cruelty of Isbill’s final hours. This was not a quick medical error; this was a nine-hour slow-motion catastrophe. Isbill,  disoriented and suffering from a hypertensive crisis,  was stripped, hooded, and strapped into a restraint chair until his heart simply gave out. 

The most volatile element of this election season is the "Medical Examiner Incident." After the Knox County Forensic Center took the rare, scientifically rigorous step of amending Isbill’s manner of death to homicide,  Sheriff Jones launched an aggressive public counter-offensive. He didn't just disagree; he held what local pundits called a "public grilling," attacking the credibility of the medical examiner in a phone call, then posting his version of the contents online.

In a small county, this was a transparent attempt to poison the jury pool. By casting doubt on the autopsy before the civil trial could even begin, Jones signaled that any local juror who sided with the medical examiner was essentially "siding against the badge." 

While this tactic may have pressured the family to accept the $1.9 million settlement to avoid a hostile local trial, it has opened a much more dangerous door for Jones: Federal Scrutiny.
A Federal Target: Witness Tampering and Civil Rights

Legal experts are now pointing toward the Department of Justice. The Sheriff’s public intimidation of the medical examiner—a key witness in both civil and criminal proceedings—could be interpreted as a violation of 18 U.S.C. § 1512 (Witness Tampering). 
Furthermore, the "color of law" statutes (18 U.S.C. §§ 241–242) are looming. 

Sheriff Jones has presided over at least $4.15 million in payouts in just two years.  Anyone who might be indifferent to jail conditions is rarely indifferent to property taxes being used to settle "negligence premiums."  Seven of Jones’ subordinates are currently facing homicide-related charges.  

Lester Isbill was a man of the cloth, a neighbor, and a senior citizen in medical distress. The Sheriff’s attempt to blame the victim for his own death has alienated the very "law and order" base he relies on.

By avoiding a public trial,  the Sheriff’s Office effectively kept the most harrowing video evidence from playing on a loop in a courtroom,  a move that opponents say was designed to protect the Sheriff’s political viability rather than provide justice for the Isbill family.

If federal prosecutors conclude that Jones used his office to knowingly intimidate or corruptly persuade a witness under federal protections, the "stunt" moves from a local political maneuver to a federal felony.  Federal attention moves slowly, but it moves decisively — and Monroe County may soon see where that current leads.

By attacking the homicide ruling,  Jones didn't just defend his staff; he arguably interfered with the civil rights of the Isbill family to have an untainted legal process. 

To the casual observer, nearly $2 million is a victory. But in the shadow of the Joshua McCleary verdict—where a jury awarded $2.25 million for a similar case of jailhouse medical neglect—the Isbill settlement feels mathematically and morally insufficient.  Critics argue that by settling for $1.9 million, the county’s insurers successfully "capped" the price of a life.

When Sheriffs Test the System: Two District Attorneys, Two Very Different Reactions

Every prosecutor campaigns on the same promise: tough on crime. But there’s a question rarely asked on the stump: Tough on whom?

For District Attorney Ashley Welch, just across the mountains in Western North Carolina, the answer is etched in court records. Since June 2025, Welch has systematically used the power of her office to dismantle a culture of impunity, filing formal petitions to suspend or remove three sitting sheriffs in Swain, Graham, and Cherokee counties.  

She didn't treat allegations of abuse as political static; she treated them as legal emergencies.

In June 2025, Swain County Sheriff Curtis Cochran was charged with serious crimes, including sexual battery and abuse of office. Welch immediately filed a petition to suspend and remove him. A judge suspended him pending further proceedings. Cochran resigned before the removal hearing concluded.

Weeks later, Welch filed another removal petition — this time against Graham County Sheriff Brad Hoxit — alleging misuse of authority. Again, a judge suspended the sheriff while the case moved forward.

In Cherokee County, amid mounting operational failures, Welch publicly declared she had lost confidence in Sheriff Dustin Smith. He announced his retirement soon after.  Three sheriffs. Formal petitions. Judicial review. Consequences.  Welch did not treat allegations against law enforcement as political disputes. She treated them as legal events.

But in Monroe County, Tennessee, a different—and far more disturbing—test of "toughness" is unfolding. While North Carolina invokes the law to protect the public from the police, Monroe County appears to be using the media to protect the police from the law.

The Personal Phone and "Paper Trail" That Could Topple the 10th District

 

In the fallout of the Lester Isbill homicide ruling,  If Sheriff Tommy Jones reportedly moved his "media offensive" to the palm of his hand by using a personal phone "at times" to circulate his "scripted" confrontation with the Medical Examiner, Jones may have believed he was operating outside the reach of the law.  Under the Tennessee Public Records Act (TPRA), any communication on any device regarding official business—like a homicide case—is a public record.

Discovery would also seek to prove the Sheriff used taxpayer-funded phones, internet, and office hours to coordinate this media hit. If these messages were sent during official office hours, the Sheriff was acting in his capacity as a public servant, making those digital footprints fair game for discovery.  A Sheriff discussing a homicide ruling, scripting a confrontation with the  Medical Examiner, and circulating that footage to influence public opinion is performing a public function.

The Content Rule: Tennessee courts have consistently ruled that it is the content of a message—not the owner of the phone—that defines a public record. If the Sheriff texted a reporter about an active homicide investigation, those texts belong to the people of Monroe County.

The Custodian’s Burden: If using a private device for official business, the Sheriff becomes the legal custodian of those records. Deleting them doesn't just hide a secret; it potentially constitutes the destruction of public records, a serious legal violation.

As the 10th Judicial District moves toward a series of landmark homicide trials, a new and unsettling narrative is emerging: one of a Sheriff who reportedly "scripted" his own defense and a District Attorney whose silence has become a local lightning rod.

The "Pre-Meditated" Phone Call

New details suggest that the "unprecedented" phone call between Sheriff Tommy Jones and Dr. Suzuki—the medical examiner who ruled Lester Isbill’s death a homicide—wasn't a search for truth, but a calculated media event.  Sources indicate the Sheriff may have emailed the "narrative" of this confrontation to news outlets before the conversation ever went live.  Under the Tennessee Public Records Act (TPRA), any communication on any device regarding official business—like a homicide case—is a public record.
By distributing a script that questioned the doctor's methodology before the public even saw the footage, the Sheriff arguably moved from "investigator" to "defense publicist."

Discovery: The Digital Paper Trail

If a civil rights lawsuit proceeds, the "Discovery" phase will likely become the Sheriff's biggest hurdle. Under the Tennessee Public Records Act (TPRA) and federal civil procedure, attorneys can dive deep into the Sheriff’s digital footprint.

"The Coordination: Emails and metadata could reveal if there was a "quid pro quo" with specific journalists or if DA Stephen Hatchett was warned—or even consulted—before the script was sent.

Class Action vs. Mass Tort: Who Wins?

As the community reels, legal experts are debating the best path for accountability.
The Class Action Route: A Class Action would argue that the entire community of Monroe County has been harmed by a systemic deprivation of their civil rights. The "class" is the public, and the injury is the "Unholy Alliance" that has corrupted the fair administration of justice.

The Mass Tort Route: More likely, and perhaps more damaging to the county, is a Mass Tort. Unlike a class action, a mass tort treats each victim—of the Isbill family,  and others—as individual plaintiffs with unique damages.  This allows for massive, personalized settlements that could bankrupt the county's liability insurance.

The "Scripted" Evidence: If discovery reveals the Sheriff sent his "grilling" script to reporters before the call took place, it establishes premeditated intent to influence a state witness. This moves the case from a PR mistake to a potential federal conspiracy to interfere with civil rights.

Sent Emails: All emails sent by Sheriff Tommy Jones, or any Public Information Officer (PIO) for the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office, to any news media organization (including but not limited to WBIR, WVLT, WATE, and the Knoxville News Sentinel).

Any draft statements, "scripts," or narrative summaries regarding the phone conversation between Sheriff Jones and Dr. Suzuki that were created or distributed via government-owned devices or networks.  Metadata and Attachments:  All attachments to said emails and the accompanying metadata (time stamps and recipient lists).

While a standard records request can be stalled by bureaucratic "purring," the Discovery process in a federal civil rights lawsuit or a Mass Tort provides a high-voltage searchlight.

Subpoenaing the Recipients: Attorneys don't need the Sheriff's phone to prove the "script" existed. They can subpoena the news stations that received the narrative. If a journalist produces a text from the Sheriff's personal number sent before the "grilling" began, the intent is exposed.

Forensic Metadata: Federal discovery can reach into cell towers and cloud backups. If it’s proven that the Sheriff used private channels to bypass DA Stephen Hatchett’s oversight, it establishes a pattern of 

Official Misconduct that could define the upcoming election.

Subpoena Power: Discovery allows attorneys to subpoena third parties—like cell service providers and the news stations that received the Sheriff's "narrative"—to prove exactly what was sent and when.

                  _________________________________________________

This was not transparency: It was intimidation of a homicide witness

In Tennessee, there is only one lawful place where a medical examiner may be aggressively questioned about a homicide determination: a courtroom. Under oath. With a judge present. With attorneys bound by rules of evidence. Anything else is not cross-examination—it is coercion.

Chickens come home to roost

What occurred in Monroe County obliterated that line.

During an active homicide investigation, the Monroe County Sheriff personally contacted the Knox County Medical Examiner, Dr. Suzuki, a female forensic pathologist acting in her official capacity, and subjected her to a confrontational interrogation over her medical findings. This was not testimony. It was not a peer review. It was not a court-sanctioned inquiry. It was an off-the-record “grilling” initiated by the county’s top law enforcement official, directed at a key homicide witness whose conclusions directly affect criminal liability.

Then the sheriff escalated.

Rather than submitting his objections through lawful channels—court motions, expert review, or prosecutorial process—the sheriff publicly posted and distributed his version of that conversation to news outlets and local media. In doing so, he placed Dr. Suzuki on public trial without oath, without due process, and without any legal authority whatsoever.

At that moment, this ceased to be controversial conduct and became legally dangerous conduct.

Under Tennessee law, a medical examiner in a homicide case is a witness. That status does not depend on whether charges have been filed or whether the sheriff agrees with the findings. Witness intimidation does not require explicit threats. It includes actions intended to pressure, influence, discredit, or retaliate against a witness for her conclusions. Publicly broadcasting a confrontational exchange—framed to undermine credibility—during an active investigation is precisely the kind of conduct the statute is designed to prohibit.

The fact that the witness is a woman, and the official exerting pressure is an elected sheriff with arrest authority, only heightens the coercive imbalance. This was not a dispute between equals. It was a public power play aimed at a forensic professional whose role is supposed to be insulated from law enforcement pressure by design.

There is a reason medical examiners are structurally independent. Their job is not to help the sheriff, protect a narrative, or smooth the path to prosecution. Their job is to tell the truth about death, even when that truth is inconvenient. When a sheriff publicly targets a medical examiner for doing exactly that, it sends a chilling message to every forensic witness in the state: disagree at your peril.

And yet, the District Attorney has said nothing.

That silence is not benign. Prosecutors are charged with safeguarding the integrity of investigations and protecting witnesses from coercion—especially when the alleged coercion comes from within law enforcement itself. When a sheriff publicly confronts and exposes a homicide witness during an active case, prosecutorial silence does not preserve neutrality. It signals tolerance.

This is not a misunderstanding of process. It is a deliberate bypass of it. Sheriffs do not interrogate witnesses outside court and then publish the encounter. They investigate facts and bring cases. Courts test credibility. When a sheriff assumes the role of interrogator, narrator, and enforcer all at once, the conduct invites criminal scrutiny under Tennessee law.

What makes this episode so alarming is not that it happened—but that it happened openly. No secrecy. No plausible deniability. A public confrontation, followed by a media rollout, in the middle of an election season. That is why legal observers struggle to find precedent. Not because the law is unclear, but because officials rarely test it this brazenly.

If Tennessee law means what it says, this was not transparency. It was intimidation of a homicide witness.

Judge and Jury over his own Jail's Homicide?

Like Chris Rock once said to a packed crowd during the Jessie Smollett Scandal..."What the Hell was he Thinking?" ... 

When prosecutors retreat, other actors fill the void. Sheriffs begin to play investigator, prosecutor, judge, and jury. The public is asked to accept performances in place of process. Accountability becomes optional.

The issue, then, is not whether Sheriff Jones overstepped. It is why he felt empowered to do so in the first place.  History provides the answer. Under a hands-on prosecutor, such conduct would have been unthinkable—or at least swiftly corrected. Under a hands-off one, it becomes normalized.

The recent spike in public interest regarding the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office isn't just about a blog post or a single video; it’s about a fundamental shift in how justice is administered in our district. To understand why Sheriff Tommy Jones felt comfortable performing an "unprecedented" public interrogation of a medical examiner,  then posting the conversation on social media,  we have to look at the history of the men who hold the keys to the courtroom.

For years, we lived in the "hands-on" era of Steve Crump.  Crump was far from perfect—the "massage therapist with benefits" blackmail/scandal involving Miranda Cheatham re-trial hearing proved that.  Yet, despite his personal failings, Crump demonstrated a professional spine. Video of Re-trial Hearing.

No one expected him to leave for Nashville in 2023, he had gotten past the 'blackmail allegations' and was re-elected for another 8 year term in 2022...while he was here, he was 'hands-on.'  Remember the Bradley County Sheriff Eric Watson case?  Crump didn't look for an exit; he empaneled a grand jury and got an indictment, although an outside of the district prosecutor landed with the case.  He showed that if you present a prosecutor with the truth,  they have an obligation to act,  even if it means indicting the top lawman in the county.-- Crump beat Hatchett in two elections for DA, Why?  Because folks decided they’d rather have a DA who actually prosecuted powerful people than  one who wouldn't touch them, like former DA Bebb.

Today,  we are living in the "hands-off" era of Stephen Hatchett. A protégé of the Bebb legacy,  Hatchett has returned us to a time where the DA’s office acts as a buffer for law enforcement rather than a check on it.  His silence regarding Sheriff Jones’s attempt to play judge and jury over the Lester Isbill homicide investigation is deafening.

Unprecedented Interference: Why the Sheriff's Post-Homicide 'Stunt' Faced No Charges

While seven jail staff members face indictments, the man who set the culture—the man who defends the use of nine-hour restraints on 74-year-old men—is allowed to conduct a public campaign to undermine medical science.  And our DA, the man we elect to protect the integrity of our legal system, does nothing.

The Isbill family deserves better than a "purring" tomcat in the DA’s office. They deserve a system that respects the homicide ruling of a medical examiner more than the political survival of a Sheriff.
Imagine being Lester Isbill's daughter, Windy. You lost your 74-year-old father after he was strapped in a restraint chair for nine hours. You finally get a homicide ruling from a brave medical examiner, and then you have to watch the acting Sheriff play judge and jury over his own jail's killing.

"Judge and Jury over his own Jail's Homicide"—is the heart of the matter. It strips away the political jargon and reveals the core violation: a conflict of interest so large it threatens the entire concept of a "fair trial."
Imagine for a moment being the family of Lester Isbill. They didn't just lose a father and a grandfather; they lost him to a system that treated a 74-year-old man in medical distress like a criminal. He was strapped into a restraint chair for nine hours, a "suffering" that his daughter, Windy Duncan, says has left a hole in her heart that will never be filled.

Then, after the Knox County Medical Examiner courageously ruled the death a homicide, the family had to watch Sheriff, Tommy Jones, go on a public campaign to undermine that doctor.  To the Isbill family, that "unprecedented" stunt—where the Sheriff grilled the medical examiner—must feel like a second betrayal. It’s one thing to lose a loved one to negligence;  it’s another to watch the highest-ranking law enforcement officer in the county use his platform to try and rewrite the cause of death.

THE UNHOLY ALLIANCE: Why the "Tomcat" Purrs in Hatchett’s Lap

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but in Monroe County, a video is worth a thousand excuses.
As the "Tomcat" Jones AI meme clip circulates—mocking Sheriff Tommy Jones’ satire-drenched demand for "only good comments"—the real story isn't the comedy. It’s the tragedy of a District Attorney’s office that has become a cheering section for the very man it's supposed to oversee.

Last fall, the Monroe County Justice Center hit a new low.  When the Medical Examiner (ME) had the professional courage to upgrade the Pastor Lester Isbill death from a "Natural" death ruling to a Homicide,  Sheriff Jones didn't respond with a detective’s file.  He responded with an unauthorized 'grilling' of the medical examiner.

In a move of staggering hubris, the Tomcat "grilled" the ME on the phone and blasted the footage to WATE, WBIR, WVLT, and local news outlets... By turning a forensic investigation into a news spectacle,  Jones sent a clear message:  In this county, science is subordinate to the Sheriff.  In any other jurisdiction, cornering a medical expert to force a narrative change is called witness intimidation. 

The "Unprecedented" Factor:  Prosecutors nationwide are trained to protect the independence of the Medical Examiner. When a Sheriff publicly attacks that independence, most DAs view it as an assault on the integrity of the government,  an offense that usually carries a "zero-tolerance" policy to prevent a total collapse of public trust.

Crump: Im Out of here

The Hatchett Honeymoon:
The irony of Hatchett’s silence is found in how he got the job. Voters rejected the "Biden-esque" appointment of Shari Tayloe—the hand-picked successor meant to protect the Steve Crump legacy.  Hatchett won because he promised a "New Era."
But the "New Era" looks a lot like the old one,  just with better PR.  By failing to charge the Sheriff with obstruction for his media stunt,  DA Stephen Hatchett didn't just drop the ball;  he handed it back to the Tomcat and told him to keep playing. 

The Bottom Line:
The Tomcat loves Hatchett because Hatchett provides the one thing a Sheriff like Jones needs most:  "Invisibility."  While the county faces a $4 million deficit and families wait for justice, the Sheriff is busy playing TV star and demanding "good comments."  And why shouldn't he?  When you have a DA who treats Homicide rulings like suggestions and ignores blatant witness intimidation,  you don't need to follow the law. You are the law.

As long as Hatchett continues to treat the MCSO like a protected kingdom,  Monroe County isn't being served by a "New Era" of justice.  We're just being served the same old cronyism, now with a fresh coat of paint and a $multi-million price tag.

A Prophet from the Supermax: Carlos Lehder’s Grim Warning to Nicolás Maduro.

The legend of Carlos Lehder—the man who once turned a Bahamian island into a cocaine fortress—is no longer written in blood and high-altitude logistics.  Today, it is written in ink. In his interview on Más Allá del Silencio, Lehder speaks with the haunting clarity of a ghost who has returned from a world meant to swallow men whole.
Here is the story of his descent into the "Dark Planet" and his improbable resurrection.

The Encounter: The Priest and the Permit:
The turning point of Lehder’s life reads like a scene from a magical realism novel. Imagine the most dangerous drug smuggler in the world, buried alive in an Illinois tomb, when suddenly the "Dark Planet" is pierced by a visitor.
Father Rafael García Herreros,  an 82-year-old Colombian priest and "apostle," traveled to the heart of the American prison system to find Lehder.  Through the small food slot of the steel door, the priest reached in and touched Lehder’s hands. Lehder describes the sensation as a "shipwrecked man finding a lifebuoy".

But this wasn't just a spiritual visit; it was a high-stakes negotiation.

Lehder wanted to cooperate with the U.S. government against Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega, but he knew that in his world, "snitching" meant a death sentence for his family. In a surreal moment of cartel bureaucracy, the priest acted as the intermediary. He brought word back from Pablo Escobar, who was then in his private prison, La Catedral. Escobar’s message was chillingly pragmatic: "Tell Carlos I’ve settled my own problems... let him do what he must to get his freedom". With the "permission" of the kingpin and the blessing of the priest, Lehder signed his deal.

The Prophecy: A Warning for Maduro:
Lehder’s narrative now turns to the present, casting himself as a grim prophet for Nicolás Maduro. He speaks of Maduro’s current situation with the cold eye of a veteran. He describes the New York winters where a prisoner is taken to a roofless cage at 5:00 AM to "recreate" in sub-zero temperatures.
He warns that Maduro is headed for Florence, Colorado (ADX Florence)—a fortress where the cells are buried four floors underground. Lehder envisions Maduro living in a "living tomb" just a floor away from "El Chapo" Guzmán, monitored by cameras every second of every hour until his body finally gives up. His advice is blunt: Plead guilty now. To Lehder, a trial is a vanity that leads only to the abyss.

The Resurrection: From Kingpin to Author:
Today, the man who once commanded fleets of Cessnas and an army of smugglers sits in the Colombian countryside, promoting his autobiography, Vida y Muerte del Cártel de Medellín.
The most captivating part of his transformation is his shift in values. The man who once sought power through the "Light Planet’s" vices now finds his greatest joy in a signature. He speaks with a newfound "virtue of humility," marveling at the fact that people now ask him for photos and autographed books rather than favors or fear.

He has traded the "Dark Planet" for the written word, claiming that while the judge sentenced his body to life behind bars, he never gave them permission to lock up his mind. He is, as he told his interviewer with a bittersweet smile, "a dog alive rather than a lion dead".

The narrative begins not with a roar, but with a cold silence. Lehder describes his 1987 extradition as a sudden shearing away from reality. One moment he was a titan of the Medellín Cartel; the next, he was being flown to the Marion Penitentiary, a place built to replace the cruelty of Alcatraz.

He calls the U.S. Supermax system "El Planeta Oscuro" (The Dark Planet). It is a world where the sun never rises. For decades, Lehder lived in a concrete box, a 3-by-3-meter universe where the only human face he saw was a guard peering through a slot to deliver food. He describes the psychological horror of "Planet Light"—the world we live in—becoming a torment. To survive, he had to murder his own memories of beautiful women, the laughter of his children, and the Colombian sun, because those memories were "afflictions" that could drive a man to the edge of the razor.

Unprecedented Interference: Why the Sheriff's Post-Homicide 'Stunt' Faced No Charges

In most American jurisdictions,  the moment a death investigation is ruled a homicide,  a firewall is erected.  Any attempt to breach that wall is typically met with the full weight of a Public Integrity Unit or a State Attorney General’s intervention.

The decision by DA Stephen Hatchett not to charge Sheriff Tommy Jones for his "grilling" of the Medical Examiner (ME) in the Lester Isbill homicide is considered unique—and highly controversial—because of how it contrasts with standard prosecutorial behavior across the country.

The Felony Threshold: Witness Coercion:
In other states, the Sheriff’s actions would likely have been categorized not just as "bad optics," but as a felony.

The Stand-Alone Offense: Under Tenn. Code Ann. § 39-16-507 (Coercion of Witness), a person commits an offense if they attempt to influence a witness to testify falsely or withhold information.

The DA’s Standard: Most DAs would argue that a Sheriff—the ultimate figure of authority—"grilling" the state’s lead forensic witness after she issued a homicide ruling is a textbook example of attempting to "influence" testimony.  In many counties, the recorded phone call alone would have been enough to bypass a grand jury and file a direct information charge for Obstruction of Justice.

Official Misconduct, The "Private Benefit" Argument:
Other DAs often pursue Official Misconduct (T.C.A. § 39-16-402) when an official uses their badge for personal or political gain.

The Benefit:  By attempting to overturn a homicide ruling, the Sheriff was seeking a "benefit"—the removal of criminal liability from his office.

The "Unprecedented" Factor:  Prosecutors nationwide are trained to protect the independence of the Medical Examiner. When a Sheriff publicly attacks that independence, most DAs view it as an assault on the integrity of the government,  an offense that usually carries a "zero-tolerance" policy to prevent a total collapse of public trust.

The "Conflict of Interest" Protocol:
In many jurisdictions, if a Sheriff were even a potential subject of a homicide investigation, the local DA would recuse themselves immediately.

The Special Prosecutor:  Rather than presenting the case themselves, a DA in a different county might have requested a Pro Tem Prosecutor from a neighboring district or asked the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation (TBI) to present directly to the grand jury.

The Digital Weapon:  Sheriff Jones recorded the call/interrogation and posted it online, using his public platform to broadcast a challenge to the state's lead forensic witness.

The Message:  By publicizing the confrontation on social media, critics argue the Sheriff wasn't seeking clarity;  he was attempting to intimidate the ME into recanting her finding before the case could reach a courtroom.

The Missing Charge: Would Other DA's Have Acted?

In most legal jurisdictions across the United States, a "stunt" of this magnitude—performed by the head of the agency under investigation—would have triggered immediate criminal scrutiny.

Coercion of a Witness:  Most District Attorneys would argue that "grilling" the state's primary medical witness in an active homicide case constitutes Witness Tampering or Coercion. Under Tenn. Code Ann. § 39-16-507, attempting to influence a witness's testimony in an official proceeding is a felony.

Official Misconduct:  Other DAs often use Public Integrity Units to charge officials who misuse their badge to interfere with investigations for their own "benefit"—in this case, the benefit of clearing his own name and office.

Obstruction of Justice:  In many high-profile "death in custody" cases (such as those overseen by federal prosecutors or state-level AGs), any act by a superior to "bully" the forensic record is treated as a textbook case of Obstruction.

Why it Matters:  This removes the "intimidation" factor.  A District Attorney  who works with the Sheriff every day has a "compromised loyalty."  An outside prosecutor would have no reason to shield the Sheriff and would likely have pushed for an Obstruction charge to ensure the "Isbill Seven" didn't become the only people held accountable.

 

Eyes Wide Open: The Nightmare Keeping Tommy Awake

The fog rolling off the Tellico River into Madisonville carries a distinct chill this January 2026—the scent of a regime facing an inevitable sunset.  For over a decade, the political architecture of Monroe County has rested on a single, precarious pillar: the ironclad silence of Brian “Wormy” Hodge. But as the "Three Amigos" legacy begins to crumble, the man who once famously "took the hit" for the machine is staring into an abyss where his old protectors can no longer reach.

To understand why the lights may be burning at the Justice Center at 3:00 AM, you have to look back to 2017.  Federal Prosecutor Bart Slabbekorn stood in a Knoxville courtroom, his frustration palpable.  He had Hodge dead to rights—caught on a secret FBI recording sitting in a Monroe County Sheriff’s cruiser, in full uniform, bragging about orchestrating an absentee ballot-buying ring for the 2014 election.

Slabbekorn knew Hodge wasn't the architect; he was the engine. The Feds wanted the names of the those who paved the way for Tommy Jones to ascend.  But Hodge stunned the DOJ:  He chose five years of federal probation and a witness tampering charge over betrayal.  He looked the FBI in the eye and became the ultimate "fall guy," shielding the very foundation of the current administration.

The EMS Paycheck "Protected Asset" Exposed:

The machine’s reward for Hodge’s silence wasn't just a pat on the back—it was a spot on the public ledger.  In a move that defines the county’s "administrative track record,"  Hodge didn't just fade away after his federal conviction.  He was remarkably re-integrated into the county payroll,  serving as an employee at the Monroe County EMS Station.

This wasn't just a job; it was a statement of immunity.  However, that immunity shattered on October 2, 2024, when the TBI arrested Hodge for Sexual Battery—an assault alleged to have occurred right there at the EMS station while he was on the county clock. This is the "Catch-22" haunting the courthouse:

The Slow-Walk: The case has been noticeably sluggish. If the local system buries this felony, they confirm a decade of "state-funded corruption" to federal investigators.

The Breaking Point: If Hodge realizes he is no longer "untouchable," he becomes a legal nuclear option.

The Warning from a Neighbor, Dan Rawls and the 3-Minute Clock:
The refusal to see the writing on the wall was put on full display in August 2025.  Former Bradley County Commissioner Dan Rawls—a man who spent his career sounding the alarm on police misconduct—crossed county lines to offer a prophetic warning to the Monroe County Commission.
Rawls knew exactly what was coming.  He had watched neighboring Bradley County endure a mountain of lawsuits and federal scrutiny following the corruption-heavy term of former Sheriff Eric Watson.  He came to warn Mayor Mitch Ingram and the commissioners that Monroe was on the exact same trajectory.

But the reception was icy. The "ringleader" of the commissioners, Paulette 'So' Summey, begrudgingly allowed Rawls a mere three minutes to speak.  As the clock ticked down, the disrespect was palpable—no "thank you for visiting," no acknowledgment of his expertise,  just a cold silence as he was ushered away.  They treated the messenger like an intruder, ignoring the fact that his warning was a road-map for their own survival.

The Isbill Catalyst and The End of the Old Guard:
While the Hodge case is slow-walked and Rawls’ warnings are sidelined, the Lester Isbill tragedy has ripped the doors off the Justice Center.  In late 2025, the grand jury indicted seven jail staff members—including nurses Courtney Woods and Greg Mills—for the death of a 74-year-old man in a restraint chair.  As these seven defendants head toward their 2026 court dates, the "administrative track record" Hodge was paid to protect is being dismantled in public view.  The eyes of the national media, led by the MSNBC "Silver Fox" Keith Morrison, are no longer looking for a "Secrets in the Smokies" story—they are looking for the "Truth in the Tunnels" of a system that has finally run out of excuses.

The Eyes Tell the Story:
In Madisonville, the most powerful person isn't the one wearing the badge—it’s the man who knows how that badge was bought.  Just as 23 yr. old YouTube vlogger Nick Shirley leveraged a digital lens to expose massive corruption in Minnesota,  the digital and legal paper trail in Monroe County is now a global record.

Monroe County is staring at a nightmare it can't wake up from.  If Brian Hodge decides that his EMS paycheck wasn't worth the prison time he’s now facing,  the silence of a decade is about to become a roar.

The cat is out of the bag. The silence is screaming. And in Monroe County,  the eyes are finally wide open.

THE HATCHETT-RUSH PARTNERSHIP & THE BRIAN "WORMY" HODGE PROSECUTION

 FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE DATE: January 13, 2026 LOCATION: 10th Judicial District (Bradley, McMinn, Monroe, and Polk Counties)

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OVERVIEW

The current leadership of the 10th Judicial District District Attorney’s Office faces significant legal and ethical scrutiny.  The partnership between District Attorney General Stephen Hatchett and his hand-picked ADA,  Paul Rush, may appear to some as inheriting and perpetuating the "administrative track record" of the Steve Bebb era—a period characterized by the protection of law enforcement and the public dismissal of crime victims.

POINT 1: THE "HATCHETT ATTACK" VIDEO (2014)

• The Evidence: A televised news interview features Stephen Hatchett (then Chief Deputy under Bebb) attacking the credibility of an alleged crime victim, ADA Cindy Schemel, before any investigation into her assault allegations against Bebb had concluded.

• The Present-Day Link:  Hatchett’s documented habit of labeling victim allegations as "just politics" creates a direct conflict in the Brian "Wormy" Hodge case.  Hodge, a former Monroe County reserve deputy, is currently facing sexual battery charges. Critics argue Hatchett cannot impartially prosecute a former deputy when his own record shows a history of shielding law enforcement "bosses" by discrediting their accusers.

POINT 2: THE "GOLDEN BOY" ADA PAUL RUSH (DISCIPLINARY HISTORY)

• The Evidence: Despite being rejected by nearly 70% of local voters in a recent judicial bid, Paul Rush was appointed by Hatchett as a lead ADA in September 2024.

• The Censure: Rush was publicly censured by the Tennessee Board of Professional Responsibility (TBPR) for intentionally withholding exculpatory evidence from the defense in a previous criminal case.

• The Present-Day Link: Entrusting the "Wormy" Hodge prosecution to an ADA with a history of suppressing evidence risks a massive waste of taxpayer funds.  Any verdict reached could be easily challenged or overturned due to the office’s lack of discovery integrity.

  
  
  

POINT 3: THE NEED FOR OUTSIDE PROSECUTION AND VENUE

• The Argument:  To ensure a fair trial for both the victim and the state, the Hodge case should be removed from the 10th District entirely.

• Neutral Venue:  Moving the case to a different venue separates the proceedings from the dense political web and local "loyalty culture" of the Bebb-Hatchett lineage.

• Institutional Recusal:  The combined history of Hatchett (attacking victims) and Rush (suppressing evidence) suggests that the conflict is not individual, but office-wide, necessitating the appointment of an outside prosecutor (Pro Tem) to ensure the standard of justice is met.

• Public Perception:  In the "Bible Belt" region where family values are paramount, Hatchett's defense of a man accused of using the DA's office to subvert custody battles for friends is a significant point of contention.  The "Hatchett Method": This early instance of Hatchett dismissing serious allegations as "just politics" establishes a pattern.  For those following prior cases, it suggests that his first instinct as a prosecutor may be to protect the "administrative track record" of the office rather than investigate the claims of victims.

• The Pension Preservation:  The fact that Bebb resigned early to save his pension is a well-known local detail that reinforces the "good old boy" narrative. Hatchett’s televised defense of Bebb during that same period is often viewed as his "loyalty test" that helped launch his own political career.  This context reinforces the point:  if the leader of the office (Hatchett) has a history of publicly discrediting victims and spinning the circumstances of high-level corruption,  then the integrity of current sensitive cases—especially when handled by an ADA like Paul Rush with his own disciplinary record—is naturally called into question.