A little about me, Holly Elizabeth Brown Wagner, and this book:The third time I was up close and personal with the United States Secret Service, all I really remember is that I was pregnant with my fifth child. That was the second time they asked me questions
about my Dad. I don’t remember much about the day other than what they wanted. I don’t know if my four children were there or if they were with my husband at the time, who was at our construction site. We lived in a very small rental while building a much larger home on 32 acres of land we had purchased a couple years earlier.
The Secret Service knocked on the side door under the carport. I peeked out, and at first thought they might be missionaries from my church. As soon as I opened the door all the way, I noticed they were much older than 19 to 21-year-old missionaries. Then I realized who they were. Not these two men exactly, but you just know by the third time! They wore dark suits and sunglasses. They were clean- cut, middle-aged men with badges on their belts. They introduced themselves to me, but as they told me what they wanted I couldn’t hear them. My mind was full of noise and all I could hear was my heart thumping. I reminded myself of my dad’s promise that he wouldn’t do anything EVER to go back to prison. He was living RIGHT! And I believed him!They repeated what they said even louder, “Do you know Larry Brown?” one of the agents asked.
“Yes, he’s my father.” I said hesitantly.
“Have your parents been here to visit you recently?” the other agent asked.
“Yes, they were here for a few days. They left yesterday.” I said even more hesitant.
“There has been some counterfeit money going around the area and it’s very good quality! Do you mind if we take a look around?” they asked.
“Sure," I said, trusting what my Dad told me would be true. “I’m sure you won’t find anything, so have at it.” I said firmly.
I let them in the side door which led to the kitchen and eating area. I led them to the hallway. On the left was the living room, the right was the bathroom, and three very small bedrooms.
As they stood looking at the entire house from that spot one of the Marshalls asked, “Where’d they sleep?”
“On the sofa, it pulls out into a bed.” The sofa sleeper was a sectional that could hardly fit in the small living room. The front door was almost blocked by it.
They removed all the cushions, pulled out the sofa sleeper, removed the mattress, and then put it back the way they found it. Then they looked in each of the bedrooms. What only took a few moments seemed like hours. My heart thumping louder and louder each time they searched through something else. If they didn’t stop digging around when they did I think my heart would have stopped. They must have stopped the search because they didn’t have a search warrant. I was relieved they didn’t find anything. Not that I doubted my dad, but you just never know what they are really looking for.
A few days went by and they arrested my dad. What on earth could the charges be? Did my dad lie to me? Was he passing counterfeit or using his alias names? What was it?
I couldn’t visit Dad the entire time he was in jail because of my first trimester complications, afraid to get to far away from my doctor. We were also rushing to get the new house built before the baby was born. Although time went by pretty fast for me, I’m sure it seemed like an eternity for my dad. You see, my dad and I had always been close. I would do anything for him and he’d do the same for me, anything except write a letter. I was so busy that I don’t think I even wrote him one letter.
I have most, if not all, of the letters that were written to him while he was incarcerated. Even inmates that were moved to different parts of the facility communicated with him the only way they could: by U.S. mail.
I was very upset this happened to him again! All I could think of was that if he was guilty he’d probably be put away for life.
about my Dad. I don’t remember much about the day other than what they wanted. I don’t know if my four children were there or if they were with my husband at the time, who was at our construction site. We lived in a very small rental while building a much larger home on 32 acres of land we had purchased a couple years earlier.
The Secret Service knocked on the side door under the carport. I peeked out, and at first thought they might be missionaries from my church. As soon as I opened the door all the way, I noticed they were much older than 19 to 21-year-old missionaries. Then I realized who they were. Not these two men exactly, but you just know by the third time! They wore dark suits and sunglasses. They were clean- cut, middle-aged men with badges on their belts. They introduced themselves to me, but as they told me what they wanted I couldn’t hear them. My mind was full of noise and all I could hear was my heart thumping. I reminded myself of my dad’s promise that he wouldn’t do anything EVER to go back to prison. He was living RIGHT! And I believed him!They repeated what they said even louder, “Do you know Larry Brown?” one of the agents asked.
“Yes, he’s my father.” I said hesitantly.
“Have your parents been here to visit you recently?” the other agent asked.
“Yes, they were here for a few days. They left yesterday.” I said even more hesitant.
“There has been some counterfeit money going around the area and it’s very good quality! Do you mind if we take a look around?” they asked.
“Sure," I said, trusting what my Dad told me would be true. “I’m sure you won’t find anything, so have at it.” I said firmly.
I let them in the side door which led to the kitchen and eating area. I led them to the hallway. On the left was the living room, the right was the bathroom, and three very small bedrooms.
As they stood looking at the entire house from that spot one of the Marshalls asked, “Where’d they sleep?”
“On the sofa, it pulls out into a bed.” The sofa sleeper was a sectional that could hardly fit in the small living room. The front door was almost blocked by it.
They removed all the cushions, pulled out the sofa sleeper, removed the mattress, and then put it back the way they found it. Then they looked in each of the bedrooms. What only took a few moments seemed like hours. My heart thumping louder and louder each time they searched through something else. If they didn’t stop digging around when they did I think my heart would have stopped. They must have stopped the search because they didn’t have a search warrant. I was relieved they didn’t find anything. Not that I doubted my dad, but you just never know what they are really looking for.
A few days went by and they arrested my dad. What on earth could the charges be? Did my dad lie to me? Was he passing counterfeit or using his alias names? What was it?
I couldn’t visit Dad the entire time he was in jail because of my first trimester complications, afraid to get to far away from my doctor. We were also rushing to get the new house built before the baby was born. Although time went by pretty fast for me, I’m sure it seemed like an eternity for my dad. You see, my dad and I had always been close. I would do anything for him and he’d do the same for me, anything except write a letter. I was so busy that I don’t think I even wrote him one letter.
I have most, if not all, of the letters that were written to him while he was incarcerated. Even inmates that were moved to different parts of the facility communicated with him the only way they could: by U.S. mail.
I was very upset this happened to him again! All I could think of was that if he was guilty he’d probably be put away for life.
