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At this late-summer hearing in 2009, Hardin is accused of violating a probation order restricting him from appearing in court or filing papers on behalf of anyone other than himself. The probation stems from an incident in 2006, when he camped out on the steps of the Capitol in Jefferson City and tried to arrest Lt. Gov. Peter Kinder for violating the U.S. Constitution.
Hardin appears unassuming for a man who wants to bring down the federal government — a "paper terrorist," as some agents refer to him. He is slight, with long hair and a beard, wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt that reads "Americans Republic Party" and "Don't Tread On Me." Along with the slogans, the shirt bears the yellow Gadsden flag — a favorite symbol among Tea Partiers — with its symbol of a coiled snake ready to strike.
The snake also appears on the chests of 30 other men and women of the Americans Republic Party who have filled the right side of the courtroom. Each one holds a black, leather-bound copy of the Constitution. The Browns are there. So is Suppenbach. Several supporters are Hardin's bank customers.
Over the course of what becomes a two-hour hearing, Hardin objects to every possible authority that the court tries to exert over him, including its authority to make him sit down. On this point, Judge Stephen Nixon concedes, and Hardin spends the trial brandishing a copy of the Constitution over his head as if it were a Bible at an exorcism.
Hardin's argument against being forced to sit down is the only victory he has today. To list each overruled objection would take more pages than a pocket Constitution. Nixon overrules with a calm that seems uncaring to the members of the Americans Republic Party and generous to the two prosecuting attorneys.
Hardin's most minor objections involve claims that he was forced to sign documents under duress. His most sweeping denounce the legitimacy of the judge, the court, the legal systems of the state of Missouri and the United States, and the bar-admitted lawyers who have sworn allegiance to British royalty.
Hardin's followers take copious notes, recording their leader's argument every time Nixon denies a motion.
When the hearing ends, Hardin has been sentenced to five years in prison. There's a collective gasp from Hardin's supporters. The prosecuting attorneys and the judge are unmoved. Sentencing is always followed by a gasp.
Hardin takes off his choker necklace and gives it to Harrington.
"I guess now I'll be writing that letter to the president of the United States from the Jackson County Jail," he says, before officers escort him away in handcuffs.
In the Moberly Correctional Center, Hardin's days are scheduled around four strict appointments. At 7:15 a.m., 11 a.m., 4 p.m. and 7 p.m., he gets a phone call from Harrington.
Hardin spends time in the law library. Being incarcerated hasn't given him second thoughts about offering his services to his fellow inmates.
"My theory is that if there's no property damage and no injured party, there's no crime," he tells The Pitch. "Most of the guys in here never committed a crime. It's just the system bringing them in so it can make money off of their incarceration."
He's certain that if he files enough motions, if he cites the right laws, he can build a chain of arguments he can follow back to the world.
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