RAINBOW REVISITED

Rainbow Farm Resembles Graveyard Year After Two Lives Lost.

VANDALIA -- Rainbow Farm Campground today resembles nothing so much as a
graveyard.

Overgrown weeds choke fields that were once neatly mowed. Charred remnants
of buildings and signs provide a haunting background to the rusting hulk of
a late-model Volkswagen Beetle slowly decaying in a parking lot. And near
the property's entrance at 59896 Pemberton Road, a spray-painted sign
provides a simple epitaph: TOM AND ROLLIE ARE FREE.

That sign, painted on weathered plywood, begs some compelling questions
about the lives of campground owner Grover "Tom" Crosslin, 46, and his
friend Roland "Rollie" Rohm, 28, who died Labor Day weekend last year
during a five-day standoff with authorities.

Were the two men freedom fighters killed for their outspoken stance in
favor of marijuana legalization? Were they criminals whose flagrant
disregard for the law and public safety led to their deaths?

The answers depend on who answers. Family and friends accuse law
enforcement of foul play. Authorities argue they did everything possible to
avoid the tragedy.

The only two who know the reasons behind what happened are Crosslin and
Rohm, and they took that knowledge to their graves.

But here's the story as it unfolded last Labor Day weekend, pieced together
using FBI, Michigan State Police and Cass County Sheriff's Office reports
obtained by federal and state Freedom of Information Act requests from The
Tribune, Cass County Prosecutor Scott Teter's report on the incidents,
recent interviews and reporting over the course of the standoff and since.

Trouble in paradise

Crosslin opened Rainbow Farm Campground in the mid-1990s. By 1998, it had
become well-known for widely attended festivals with names like HempFest
and Roach Roast.

People camped, listened to music and heard proponents of personal rights
and marijuana legalization. The festivals drew thousands and the attention
of publications such as High Times Magazine, a periodical centered around
the marijuana lifestyle calling Rainbow Farm among the nation's top 10
"stoner" spots.

The festivals also drew the attention of police with reports of loud music,
public lewdness and illegal drug use. In May 1999, police undertook an
investigation with undercover officers in an attempt to document Rainbow
Farm's activities.

Lt. Michael Brown, who commands the South Haven, Mich.-based Southwest
Enforcement Team (SWET) anti-drug task force, said in May 2001 the
festivals had rampant sales and use of illegal drugs.

"You would be amazed," he said. "You go in there, (drug use) is just
everywhere."

With evidence from the probe and a tip campground employees were being paid
under the table following two years of seeking to halt illegal activities
at Rainbow Farm through other methods, police secured search warrants based
on potential tax-evasion charges. Officers found more than they figured
they were going for.

"There was a significant marijuana growing operation in the basement of the
house, and there was marijuana all over inside the house," said Cass County
Prosecutor Scott Teter, who had written warning letters on two occasions to
Crosslin warning him his property could be seized as a public nuisance.

The threats riled Crosslin, who replied back: "I have discussed this with
my family and we are all prepared to die on this land before we allow it to
be stolen from us."

With Crosslin defiant, Teter ended up suing under an ordinance requiring
permits of more than 500 people. Crosslin won both times, claiming the
gatherings were sponsored by an Ohio-based group promoting marijuana
legalization and that the ordinance exempted non-profits.

But Teter wasn't done with Crosslin.

On May 9, 2001, he charged Crosslin with felonies of manufacturing
marijuana, firearm possession and maintaining a drug house. Rohm had been
charged with manufacturing marijuana, maintaining a drug house and firearm
possession, although the last two charges were dismissed about a month later.

If they had been convicted on the charges, Crosslin was facing up to 24
years in prison and Rohm up to 15 years.

With the allegations, Child Protective Services took Rohm's 12-year-old
son, Robert, from the home, placing him in state foster care. The boy had
been raised by the pair since age 4.

Gideon Israel, a Rainbow Farm regular, had said: "It's been extremely
one-sided. This is a very political issue we hope to resolve through the
system."

Most of summer 2001 was peaceful at Rainbow Farm. Both posted bond --
$150,000 for Crosslin and $25,000 for Rohm -- and moved home.

But there were conditions.

Besides no future drug use, Cass County Circuit Judge Michael Dodge ordered
no more festival gatherings pending a December 2001 court date.

But that order was apparently ignored Aug. 17, 2001, when less than 500
people showed up for an impromptu Rainbow Farm event. Undercover police
reported seeing both Crosslin and Rohm using marijuana.

Because of that, Dodge scheduled a bond revocation hearing Aug. 31, 2001.
But neither showed for their hearings, even though Crosslin had told his
attorney, Dori Leo, he planned to.

"Tom was defiant," Leo admitted, adding "Rollie was scared."

With both absent, Dodge issued warrants for their arrests on contempt of
court charges.

Start of a standoff

At noon EDT Aug. 31 -- the Friday before Labor Day weekend, a dispatcher at
Cass County Central Dispatch received a telephone call from Dan Owen, a
Cassopolis man who noticed something strange while driving past Rainbow Farm.

Owen reported a fire at Rainbow Farm, saying a pavilion was ablaze.

The dispatcher hit tones for Newberg Township Fire Department and
ambulance. Another call came in, from Bob McDonald, whose uncle, Carl
McDonald, was a neighbor:

McDonald: "They just had a fire call come for the, uh, over the radio,
because ... a pavilion's on fire."

Dispatcher: "Um-hmm."

McDonald: "But, Tom Crosslin?"

Dispatcher: "Um-hmm?"

McDonald: "... came down and told my uncle here, about a half hour ago, to
get the hell out of there, because there's going to be trouble because Tom
and a bunch of other people are all dressed in camouflage attire. OK. And
I've called up to Cass County before when uh, my uncle ..."

Dispatcher: "And they said there's going to be problems, huh?"

McDonald: "Well, here's the deal. My uncle also told me, and I called the
police about it, that he's acquired .50-caliber guns."

Dispatcher: "OK."

McDonald: "Fifty-caliber, cause he said the bullet's about like, uh, six,
seven inches long."

Dispatcher: "All right."

McDonald: "And he told them that they wasn't going to take them alive, so
with the fire burning there, I don't know, it might be some kind of a ploy."

Shooting the sky

Upon hearing reports of trouble at Rainbow Farm, dispatchers rounded up
emergency and police units, directing them to assemble at the intersection
of White Temple Road and Black Street, about a mile away.

The activity also attracted news media.

A Bell Ranger helicopter with WNDU-TV, Channel 16, South Bend, was hovering
overhead that afternoon, surveying the scene. Richard Voigt, a veteran
pilot, was at the helm.

He later told FBI Special Agent Christopher Favo he was circling about 1:30
p.m. EDT to film the fires when he got a call from WNDU that police
notified them his helicopter was being fired on from the ground. Upon
returning to South Bend Regional Airport, an inspection revealed a bullet
hole in its tail.

Shooting an aircraft is a federal crime. Because of that, more than 50
agents from the FBI joined the more than 50 Cass County sheriff's deputies
and Michigan State Police already surrounding Rainbow Farm.

Contacting Crosslin

As officials learned more, it became apparent communicating with Crosslin
and Rohm was urgent.

A stroke of luck came in the form of Tracy Brown, a 25-year-old Cass County
resident known as "Buggy" to friends. A friend of Crosslin and Rohm, Brown
had seen smoke coming from the burning buildings and went to ask about it.

Brown was turned away by Rohm, who said "it was not a good time to be
there," and asked him to leave. Brown did, heading to the police command post.

Because of his friendship with the two, Brown became an intermediary,
visiting at least 10 times during the eventual five-day standoff. The
messages, mostly centered around frustrations Crosslin and Rohm felt with
court actions threatening to take away their property, jail them and
deprive them of "son" Robert.

Both "Crosslin and Rohm were carrying rifles and held them in their arms,"
Brown told the FBI, adding he had also seen boxes of ammunition in the house.

"It was a shock to see the weapons and ammunition," Brown said.

Support of Friends

With Crosslin and Rohm holed up at Rainbow Farm, supporters, friends and
family erected a makeshift campsite at White Temple Road and Michigan 60.
With signs protesting police involvement and backing the pair, those
gathered hoped that the situation would end without tragedy.

Rohm had said the week before that "everything was going well; everything
was cool," said Melody Karr, a Rainbow Farm supporter from Mesick, Mich.,
and co-founder of the Michigan Cannabis Action network, a marijuana
legalization advocacy group. "When we found out what was going on, we drove
down right away."

Supporters worried, believing police purposely kept them in the dark. A
fright came when supporters caught a glimpse of activity in a building at a
vacant plant near the command post.

"We could see (police) in there doing target practice," Karr said. "We
started yelling; we knew what was going on. The next day, all of the
windows in that building had been painted over."

Over the weekend, the situation remained tense. Contact was limited to
demands to speak with Robert.

Meanwhile, teams of specially trained FBI and state police officers had
taken to rotating shifts -- 12 hours on, 12 hours off -- at "observation
points" around Rainbow Farm.

Bolstered by a Michigan National Guard light armored car brought in to
monitor the situation, the posts created a perimeter to prevent an
attempted escape. If they had, "across the road from the house is all state
land," Teter said. "It would be almost impossible to find someone out there."

Both sides waited and watched, with the only exchange being terse reports
from Brown and occasional bursts of rifle fire from the house.

Crosslin's Death

A wild card by the name of Brandon James Peoples entered the fray on Sept.
3, 2001 -- a Monday.

An 18-year-old friend of Rohm and Crosslin, Peoples had heard news reports
of the situation at the campground, and, after waking at around 1 p.m. EDT,
had decided to visit his friends.

With the police presence and the possibility of hostilities, Peoples simply
took a circuitous route, walking past some police and approaching from the
north. His plan was to try to talk his friends to give up or run away, and
his presence to surprise authorities that morning.

Rohm and Crosslin "invited me into their house," Peoples said. "They showed
me a wire that they indicated would blow up or burn the house. They also
said the yard was mined. (Rohm and Crosslin) both said they shot at the
armored vehicle. They said they called it 'Sparky' because of the bullet
sparks."

Both said they were not planning to leave.

"By this, I thought they meant to stay until the end," Peoples said.

Peoples would be the last person to see them together alive.

Crosslin asked Peoples to help him get supplies, which he agreed to.
Peoples and Crosslin left, walking along a trail past the police perimeter
south to the home of Carl McDonald at 60152 Pemberton Road.

Crosslin, his Ruger Mini-14 rifle slung over his shoulder, forced open the
door, filling a garbage bag with a coffee maker, coffee filters, hot dogs
and a 12-pack of Miller Lite beer. Spotting a .22-caliber rifle in a gun
rack, Crosslin asked Peoples if he wanted it. Peoples said no, to which
Crosslin said: "Don't you want to stick around and have fun?"

The two retraced their route. Upon returning, Crosslin saw they had
forgotten the coffee pot, and asked Peoples if he would return to retrieve
it. Scared of booby traps, Peoples declined.

Crosslin talked Peoples into going after he said he'd accompany the teen,
and the two retrieved the Bunn Pour-O-Matic pot. On the trail back while
stopping at a campsite to rest, Crosslin apparently looked straight into a
position occupied by FBI Special Agent Richard Salomon, who was on the
Rainbow Farm property's perimeter monitoring activity.

Crosslin looked surprised, raising the Ruger Mini-14 rifle he was carrying
to his shoulder, and appearing ready to fire at Salomon, who was only a few
yards away. Crosslin never got off a shot.

"Both Salomon and (Special Agent Michael Heffron) fired simultaneously,"
Teter's report said. "The .308-caliber round fired by Salomon struck
Crosslin in the forehead, killing him instantly."

Heffron's bullet, a .223-caliber round, passed through a small tree and
shattered, pieces of the bullet striking Crosslin in the hand and side.

Peoples, looking down when the shooting happened, got peppered with
fragments of Crosslin's skull and brain, injuring him some and making him
hysterical.

At the protest site near Vandalia, no one notified supporters of what had
happened to Crosslin. With rain clouds building, some on hand had gone to
make sure nothing exposed would get wet. It was at that point when one of
the protesters noticed a special report on TV about the 4:40 p.m. EDT death.

"We were devastated," said Karr, noting that some of those on hand started
screaming "Murderers!" in the direction of the command post.

"Some people wanted to rush the gates (at the post), but cooler heads
prevailed," she said. "There was a lot of anger and despair."

Ending It Alone

After Crosslin's death, state police took over the observation post. At the
same time, negotiators contacted Rohm in an attempt to get him to surrender
peacefully.

Negotiations even included a letter from Robert, who investigators agreed
to bring in if Rohm gave himself up.

The letter read:

"From your son Robert

"Hey dad please come out so no one gets hurt. I love you a lot we can do
all of the fun things we did befor (sic) o.k. dad I love you a lot!!!

"You rember (sic) all of the good things we use to do like playing
paintball wars or playing bumper cars on the golf carts.

"I am safe and o.k. I am in good shape until you get out.

"Love Robert"

Negotiators reported Rohm was quiet and composed, and sounded lethargic.
When he failed to answer the telephone, police fired a nonexplosive 37 mm
cannon round through a window of the house, prompting Rohm to answer the
phone and ask why he was being shot at.

Early the next day on Sept. 4, negotiations appeared to reach a successful
conclusion. Rohm agreed to surrender peacefully in exchange for a chance to
talk to Robert. However, he asked police to let him sleep until 6 a.m. EDT
since he was tired.

At 6 a.m., negotiators called. Rohm answered and agreed to stick to the
bargain, but sounded groggy and disoriented. He was told to come out with
his hands up, and move to the driveway's end without a weapon.

The negotiator then heard a sound like the receiver of the telephone being
laid on a hard surface, with Rohm being heard moving around inside the
house. At that point, police heard a crackling noise coming through the phone.

Five minutes later, just before 6:05 a.m. EDT, flames were visible. About
30 minutes later, state troopers close to the house said Rohm had exited,
dressed in full camouflage and carrying a rifle.

Rohm took up a position under a pine tree behind the home, looking toward
the driveway. Worried he would try to escape, state police gave the order
to bring the armored car to the house's side, ordering through a
loudspeaker mounted on the car for Rohm to drop his gun.

Michigan State Police Sgt. Dan Lubelan, and trooper John Julin, stationed
nearby, said they saw Rohm lift his gun toward the car, and said they had
concerns he would fire on the car as it cleared smoke coming from the
house, which was now burning fiercely.

Lubelan fired once, putting a round from his .308-caliber Remington sniper
rifle through Rohm's chest. Julin, wielding a 7.62 mm M-14 semiautomatic
rifle, shot eight times, hitting Rohm once in the leg. Lubelan fired again,
but did not hit Rohm.

An arrest squad, moving in using the armored car as cover, ran in and
handcuffed Rohm's prone body. Rohm was pronounced dead at the scene.

Aftermath

A year after the shooting deaths of Crosslin and Rohm, some still have
questions about why the pair had to die.

Police answer the same way they did directly following the standoff:
Crosslin and Rohm might be alive if they hadn't taken aim at police. Police
say little more than that.

"We're going to decline any interviews" about Rainbow Farm, said Special
Agent Jenny Emmons of the FBI's Detroit Bureau.

Michigan State Police Capt. Richard Dragomer, who commands southwestern
Michigan's Paw Paw, Mich.-based 5th District, said any further information
on the Rainbow Farm standoff would have to come from Cass County sources
with the state police investigation now closed.

Cass County Sheriff Joseph Underwood has said police did what they could to
try to end the situation "very peacefully."

"We did not go up to the house. We had observers back from the house. They
engaged our officers that were out in the field," he has said. "There was
no aggressive attempt made by law enforcement. They were engaged at the site."

Teter, who conducted an independent investigation of the shootings, said
the shooters acted appropriately in both cases, and ruled the killings
justified.

"I can't think of anything (the shooters) should have done differently," he
said. "I think they waited as long as they possibly could before making the
decision to shoot."

Teter cleared Michigan State Police and the FBI of any wrongdoing in
connection with the deaths. Neither of the officers involved was
disciplined or suspended for their actions.

These days, there's little sign of the violent ends met by Crosslin and
Rohm along sleepy, rural Pemberton Road. Except for the memorial sign, and
scraps of "Police Line: Do Not Cross" tape tangled in the charred cellar
where the farmhouse once stood, a casual observer might think Rainbow Farm
Campground had simply been burned and abandoned.

But to those who were there, the events of Labor Day weekend 2001 in
Vandalia will never be forgotten.

To Teter, Rainbow Farm is an example of the tragic consequences that can
arise from a situation where the law is ignored.

"I can understand the pain and frustration of the people who cared about
these men," he said. "But it needs to be understood that this resulted from
a choice they made.

"They chose to live outside the law, and leave all these people who loved
them behind to deal with the consequences."

To Karr and other supporters, Rohm and Crosslin were killed merely for
standing up for what they believed in. The main hope, she said, is that
they didn't die in vain.

She believes their message has come through loud and clear. At Hash Bash, a
pro-marijuana festival in Ann Arbor in the spring, Karr kept hearing
support for their actions.

"To the people in the movement, the sacrifice that (they) made will never
be forgotten," she said, noting there will be a candlelight vigil in
Cassopolis at the Cass County Courthouse starting at 6 p.m. EDT Monday
night to remember the two.

"One woman kept coming up to me to ask about (them in Ann Arbor), and tears
were just rolling down her face. (They) will not be forgotten."