Little Orange Bible
Uploaded by
Morgan HiltonLittle Orange Bible
Uploaded by
Morgan HiltonDeadly Force™
By Morgan Hilton
Copyright ©2025 Morgan Hilton
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
“Little Orange Bible”
"Protect and serve, huh?"
Those were the first words I remember hearing after being
pulled from my isolation cell by my public defender, Kirk
Wurstcase. I couldn't afford a fancy lawyer, but this guy seemed to
be on the same page as me. He appeared to me as if he should be at
home, cooking a “mean steak” on the grill. A “barbeque stain on my
white t-shirt” kinda guy!
I sat down across from Kirk, my hands cuffed, and asked him if he
wanted to hear the full story. Of course, I knew deep down that I
wouldn't have enough time out of my cell to take Kirk years back to
where it all began. I told Kirk what I could, and then made my way
back to my freezing cold, lonely cell, where I would await my fate.
I've always been afraid of the unknown, and this was no different.
Four days in isolation, after being nearly killed by police, was far
from enjoyable. I picked at the so called food, cried at the little
square window as I watched the others, and uncomfortably slept
most of my time away. Four days felt like four months, but I made it
through with the help of some kind inmates and a little orange Bible
that was passed through the bottom of my cell door.
At some point, as I sat in my bunk, feeling alone, scared, and lost, I
opened the little orange Bible right up to Psalms 18:28, which says,
"You, Lord, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into
light."
How perfect.
I thought for sure I was going to spend the rest of my life in jail after
what I had just done. But to my surprise, on what would have been
my fifth day in jail, I was told to pack up, and I was released on an
ROR bond to my mother's house. To my further surprise, I would
now receive a very expensive, new ankle bracelet that I would wear
on house arrest for the next six months.
I happily rolled up my mat, slipped on those very stylish orange
slippers, grabbed the tiny amount of things I had, waved my fellow
inmates goodbye, and was off to be fitted for my new jewelry!
Those six months weren't as awful as you'd think. I spent most of
that time trying to wrap my head around not only the events that had
just occurred but every single event that led up to my near-death
experience. I made friends during that time and lost friends. I was
overwhelmed with worry, and I was numb to the possibilities. Not
knowing what was in store for my future, I still made the most of
every day, even if that meant just walking the perimeter of my
mother's backyard, finding cool-looking bugs.
I started getting phone calls from Kirk to discuss my case. In the
first few calls, I had several questions, some of which have yet to be
answered. Meetings with Kirk were scheduled, and I grew less
nervous with each phone call and meeting.
In one of the first calls, I asked Kirk if I could have access to the
911 calls I made that night, along with all the body-cam footage of
that horrific night. I was granted access to each call and eventually,
the footage. I knew that as long as I had solid, concrete evidence of
what happened that night, justice would be on my side, no matter
what the front page of the paper said.
Yes, I made the front page news, but they left out my side of the
story, including the fact that the multiple 911 calls made that night
were by me. They also forgot to mention that local police officers
mocked me, told me they weren't coming until I demanded them to,
and that I was hung up on after I begged for help.
In one of my first meetings with Kirk, I was to review some major
clips of the body-cam footage. While Kirk had a tiny screen of the
footage playing, I asked him to pause at the moment I was being
tased.
"How many times was I tased?" I asked Kirk.
He replied, "Why do you ask that?"
I pointed at the tiny screen and said, "Because in those moments
right there, that's where I felt like I was dying."
The way Kirk Wurstcase's face sank said it all. He shook his head,
and we moved on.
"Now, did you break your ex's phone or delete anything off of it?"
Kirk asked.
"What? No, I'd never do anything like that," I replied.
Kirk went on to explain that my ex had relayed to police that I
"smashed her phone, made her delete applications off of it, and told
her she couldn't talk to her friends." I couldn't believe what I was
hearing. Anyone who knows me knows I'm not a controlling person.
Not only did she leave me for dead, but now I'm finding out she lied
to police.
Kirk also informed me that my ex was thrilled to hear I was being
charged and that when the police told her I'd be going away for a
while with all the charges on me, she exclaimed, "Good!"
“Your broken hand...how did it happen?" Kirk asked. “Because your
ex claims that you broke it because you didn't want her going out of
the house with one of her friends.” Another lie.
I had confided in my ex enough to tell her nearly everything about
the jail, including the meeting I had and recorded with the jailer,
Jack Grimes. This meeting took place days before my life was
forever changed. In short, the meeting had me in tears and second-
guessing myself as a correctional officer and as a person, in general.
Jailer Jack had me look into his "problem identifier," which was a
mirror he pulled out from his desk drawer. I knew right from wrong,
but somehow, this man almost made me forget everything I stood
for.
I played this recording of the meeting for my ex. Not long after, she
asked me if she could go hang out with one of her male friends. Any
other time would have been ideal, but this was a time when I
actually needed someone to just be there. I told her to go. I
explained to her that if she didn't know that I needed her in that
moment to just go. She explained to me that she felt like I was
setting her up by telling her to go, but in all actuality, I just wanted
to see what she would do when times were rough. Boy, was that just
the beginning.
She ended up leaving to go with her friend, and I was left alone to
deal with my feelings. All I remember is getting very angry and
hitting the end of the couch, thinking it would be soft. It was, in fact,
not soft, and that's how I ended up breaking my hand. However, a
broken hand would become the least of my worries as the days
passed. Soon, I would be facing an initial offer of 25 years, house
arrest, multiple court dates, court-ordered therapy, a forensic
evaluator who asked me if I thought I had superpowers or if I
believed I could communicate with the TV, and lots of uncertainty.
After that meeting, I returned to work with a bright purple cast, and
this time, I was feeling more empowered than ever. I was ready to
show the jail what I was made of, even with my right hand broken.
I, in fact, was also about to quickly find out just what I was made of.