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The column included a line that was prophetic. "I do not relish the thought of losing my job, my possessions, my house. I do, however, love my Lord, my countrymen, my heritage as a Christian and the preborn victims of the American Holocaust too much to allow material possessions and threats of lawsuits to deter me from the task that lies ahead."
Nine months later, Judge Lee ordered Northeast Indiana Rescue and its three leaders to pay the National Women's Health Organization $61,616 for legal fees and expenses.
Brown and his wife divorced in December 1990. Ellen walked away with an eight-track studio recorder, a 1987 Ford Taurus and $2,750 from the sale of their New Haven, Indiana, home.
Except that Brown never sold his house. He simply quit his $45,000-a-year factory job, stopped making mortgage payments and drove away.
He would later explain it to the Wichita paper as a "scorched earth" policy.
"My enemies have pursued me, and I'm gonna make sure that they have nothing," he told the Eagle.
He arrived in Wichita in time for the Summer of Mercy.
Steve Mashburn remembers meeting Brown that first week in July 1991. "He had a sleeping bag and backpack and all his belongings in his car," Mashburn tells the Pitch.
Brown told Mashburn that he was on his way to sit on a mountain and figure out what to do with the rest of his life.
Mashburn had been paralyzed in a diving accident as a teen-ager. At gatherings, he usually lingered in the back in his wheelchair. That was where he bonded with Brown.
Mashburn was the outreach pastor at Wichita's small Christian Family Ministries church. He spent his Friday nights talking to homeless people and kids.
On Saturdays, he parked his wheelchair outside one of Wichita's abortion clinics. "Please don't kill your baby," he would yell to women on their way to the clinic. "God doesn't want you to kill your baby. There's hope. There's help available. We love you. God loves you."
Mashburn can't be sure his preaching made any difference. But he had a friend who liked to show off a picture of himself with an infant. The friend said the baby had been born after he handed its mother some literature on alternatives to abortion. "We knew by faith that what we were doing was right," Mashburn says. "We knew a lot of women changed their minds. Within the first year of going out there, we saw evidence of our own activity. Not somebody else's but our own."
Sometimes Mashburn would be joined by a couple of others, sometimes a dozen. But the Atlanta blockades had inspired the folks in Wichita as well. Instead of simply talking and handing out pamphlets, the protesters gathered and sat in front of clinic gates.
Such demonstrations were becoming common across the country, championed by Randall Terry's Operation Rescue. In 1991, a group of nearly twenty Wichita ministers invited Terry and his activist army to hold a weeklong national action there. "They said, 'We looked at your city and heard about George Tiller,'" Mashburn recalls.
The events that followed would launch Brown's celebrity status among Wichita's abortion foes. Through a recorded message, they could hear him 24 hours a day -- a comforting voice in the night reassuring them that the Bible said they were right.
George Tiller took over his father's medical practice in 1970 after his parents, sister and brother-in-law were killed in a plane crash. Tiller, a KU Med graduate who was working as a U.S. Navy surgeon in Oakland, California, adopted his one-year-old nephew and returned to Wichita. He transformed the small family practice into a specialized abortion center called Women's Health Care Services. He wanted to move abortions out of hospital maternity wards so that women who were ending their own pregnancies wouldn't have to walk past nurseries full of newborns.