The Crucible of Lawfare: A Pro Se Battle Against Legal Witchcraft
By David K. Clements
THE COURTS ARE A CRUEL MACHINE, a labyrinth of rules where truth stumbles. For the pro se litigant, alone without a lawyer’s shield, it’s a rigged battlefield. They fumble the law’s language, miss deadlines, botch filings. Judges, weary of errors, frown. Opposing counsel, sharp and funded, prey on every slip. The system demands precision they can’t give. Fees stack high; emotion clouds reason; resources run dry.
The law isn’t a sanctuary for truth but a crucible for manipulation, intimidation, domination. Victory belongs not to the just but to those who crush their foe. A pastor once taught me: witchcraft isn’t always potions or cauldrons. It’s any spirit seeking control, not truth. In churches or courtrooms, that spirit thrives.
Legalism haunts the courts, cold and unholy. Attorneys wield its weapon: accusation. Like Satan accusing Job in heaven’s court, they accuse in earth’s, twisting truth into lies. Their god? The rules of procedure. “To hell with a father’s plea for his kids,” they sneer. “Did he cite the right statute?” Another moves to bury a small business that failed to observe the fine print. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. Pro se, I fought their spells, scarred but standing.
Yes, I’m here to tell you legal witchcraft is as present in a courtroom as any coven meeting; robes still adorn the judges. Ballpoint pens act as magic wands. Legal briefs, with their precise words, replace spells. Oral argument takes the place of incantation. Unopposed, the haggard clerk, wart extending from her nose, etches a false record, wiping out the truth—at least the truth as God sees it.
I’m a lawyer. I know the law’s edges. But I’ve also stood pro se, no firm behind me, no secretary to check my work. Just me against their machine. Fear grips, but faith holds tighter. That’s the story today.
The Crucible of Lawfare: A Pro Se Battle Against Legal Witchcraft
The 2014 Race
The year was 2014. Sun scorched the pavement outside my campaign office in New Mexico. Dust and hope hung thick. I, David K. Clements, ran for U.S. Senate, a Republican with fire to shake Washington. A year earlier, I’d won the GOP chairmanship of New Mexico’s second-largest county, a nobody rising fast. The primary was a grind—door-knocks, debates, hands shaken raw. Thirty-three counties, each with a convention to win delegates.
My opponent, Allen Weh, a multimillionaire, had the establishment’s nod before a vote was cast. A new black box, Dominion, rolled out that year. A vote conjurer, it could summon ghosts, switch tallies, erase truth. But before its shadow fell, I fought for votes the old way: county conventions, then a statewide showdown.
I surged. At Bernalillo’s pre-primary, in Weh’s backyard, I was set to claim half the delegates. Polls showed me edging toward victory at the state convention. The crowd felt it. Momentum was mine. Weh’s campaign manager, Diego Espinoza, saw it too.
So, they cheated. An illegal slate—thirty phantom delegates, not even present—was injected to steal seats from those who waited hours to vote. Cameras caught it. The Santa Fe Reporter quoted eyewitnesses Bill and Elaine Henderson: “Irregular, illegal, a damned charade.” Their words unmasked the rot, but the damage was done.
I reported the fraud. The GOP shrugged, fearing Weh’s wallet. With a week until the state convention, I sent a single email to delegates, exposing the cheat. Time remained to fight.
Then Espinoza struck. That single email? He hacked it. Spoofing, some called it. He flooded delegates’ inboxes with thousands of duplicates, making it look like I’d lost my mind. A forensic report traced the hack to him, hard proof of deceit. I published it, but confusion reigned. At the convention, my lead held briefly. Then Espinoza’s phantom slate tipped the scales. My 47% fell short. Weh took the nomination.
Newspapers called it a race. Two months remained until the primary. The black box waited.
The Lawsuit
Fearing my near-upset, Espinoza filed a defamation suit, claiming I lied about his hack. Lawfare, bankrolled by Weh’s millions. Pure witchcraft—manipulation to tarnish, intimidation to silence, domination to crush. The Sheriff’s Office investigated Espinoza’s hack with my cyber evidence, but the lawsuit aimed to distract.
Election night, at La Posta, adobe walls glowed under lantern light. My team crowded around televisions, eyes on the Secretary of State’s site. The first report flashed: I led by 14,000 votes. Cheers shook the rafters. Victory seemed mine.
Five minutes later, the votes flipped. Weh took my lead. The Secretary claimed mail-in ballots caused it. Impossible. No slow count could shift votes so fast. The black box had spoken. I learned later—November 3, 2020—its name: Dominion.
Weh won. I faced his lawsuit. An old adage echoed: “Only a fool has himself for counsel.” Attorneys cost $300 an hour. Researching their claims—15 hours. Writing a response—5 hours. Filing a counterpunch (a motion to dismiss)—20 hours. Depositions—30 hours. I’d be bankrupt in months.
So, I fought pro se. Their accusations cut—my name, my campaign, my honor. I called Espinoza’s lawyers. “I don’t care if this takes years,” I said. “I’ll outlast you. The day that a jury sits, you’re mine.” Click.
Two years later, the courtroom buzzed like flies. A week before trial, I was worn thin—depositions, hearings, my prosecutor caseload heavy with a murder trial looming. Unable to find a baby-sitter, my son Roland, five, sat behind me at a pre-trial hearing, wearing Hulk smash hands, promised a candy bar to stay quiet.
Espinoza’s lawyers, suits crisp, painted me a villain. They moved for judgment, chanting rules like spells. I parried, threw case law back.
The judge stared. “Motion denied. We go to trial.”
They faltered. I’d tried 40 jury cases in two years, soon to be named Prosecutor of the Year. They’d done one. Before a jury, their rules would crumble. Fear didn’t grip me—I was too angry. I vowed to God I’d rather die than let them win.
My son brought me back to the present. “Did I do good Dad? Was I quiet?”
“Yes son,” I replied. “I owe you a candy bar.”
The next day, their lawyer called. “What will it take to settle?” I only wanted one thing. The one they didn’t want to give. To tell the world Diego Espinoza hacked me as I did in the beginning. They balked. Their entire strategy from day one. Put a muzzle on Clements. So, they sent a deal. It wasn’t a bad offer. But it had an NDA.
Temptation tugged—I wanted freedom from the burden. The Holy Spirit steadied me. Another day, another offer. They were beginning to crack.
This time. No NDA.
While I can’t disclose the contents of the settlement agreement, I can tell you that Diego Espinoza’s lawsuit was dismissed with prejudice. That he’s a coward. A weasel. And that he hacked my campaign. And I can shout it from the rooftops until the day I die.
The University, 2025
The desert air is sharp now, September 2025. I sit at my desk, a former professor, drafting a lawsuit. New Mexico State University fired me in October 2021—not for teaching, where I’d won their highest award, but for defying their COVID vaccine and mask mandate. Lawfare again, a policy of control, not truth. They took millions in bribes, disguised as health measures, to coerce faculty and students, breaking my contract, trampling my rights.
I warned them at my termination hearing: their kangaroo court would be exposed. I stayed silent since, focusing on electing Trump to fight the depopulation engineers. Now, with Trump nominating RFK Jr. to dismantle the CDC, I wait no longer. Pro se, I’ll sue.
This fight—against courts, mandates, lies—needs warriors. It’s for Roland, Eleanor, Logan. It’s for anyone sued wrongfully, afraid to fight. Lawfare demands spiritual grit. What’s more, the lawyers trained in their ivory towers are cowards. 2020 proved it. It will be the lumberjack layman, the pro-se plumber that rights the wrongs we’ve seen. I leaned on the Holy Spirit to endure isolation, to stand when lies swarmed. The university’s mandate harmed students—blood clots, myocarditis, miscarriage. It grieves God’s heart.
Fear is the true enemy, not the rules wielded by liars. I survived by taking fear to God. He sustained me. Scripture commands no fear; it chains you to silence. Trust the Spirit to walk beside you, step by bitter step. Tools like Grok, AI’s shadowed aid, can unearth rules in seconds, leveling the fight. But wisdom to wield them comes hard. Cast out fear, and truth finds its way.
David K. Clements is a seasoned attorney, former law professor, filmmaker and dedicated advocate for election integrity and constitutional rights. If you think he's on to something, consider being a monthly sponsor of his independent journalism at:
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And so it begins. You were made (by Him) for this. God Bless and keep you & yours, David Clements.
1 John 4
18 There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves torment. But he who fears has not been made perfect in love. 19 We love Him because He first loved us.