Cached from the Arkansas Democrat, October 15, 1995. Copyright 1995, Little Rock Newspapers, Inc. All rights reserved.
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Victor Paul Wierwille (left) founded The Way International, passing the reins to L. Craig Martindale in 1982.
The church was beset by infighting and tax troubles after Wierwille died in 1985, and membership fell from an estimated 100,000 to 20,000.
The Way: After a family breaks up, questions arise about the group
By MARY HARGROVE
Arkansas Democrat-Gazette Staff Writer
On Valentine's Day, Steve told Joyce how much he loved her and that he would never leave her.
But within weeks, Joyce had lost her husband, her security and her longtime friends. She began to wonder if God
also had abandoned her.
Her life fell apart after The Way International, the religious group she had been devoted to for 12 years, cast
her out. She was "marked and avoided," meaning she `had devil spirits" and other Way members were not allowed
to see or speak to her. Ever.
How could they suddenly turn their backs on her? What had she done?
Steve told her that The Way leadership in Little Rock had decided she could not return to fellowship meetings
unless she became more submissive to him and to The Way. She was not being obedient and respectful enough.
"I think the real reason was that I was going back to college and thinking for myself," Joyce said. "I was
missing Way meetings and they were not able to control me like they wanted."
Hurt by the rejection, Joyce began to question Steve about how The Way dominated their lives. They argued and
she said Steve lost his temper.
"You're possessed! You're possessed!" she said he screamed.
Their 7-year-old daughter listened in her bedroom at the trailer home.
"We talked about it later," Joyce said. "She knows how he feels. He thinks I work for the devil. She told me
she thinks her dad is wrong."
After fighting for several weeks, she said Steve gave her an ultimatum: If she wouldn't obey him and get back
with The Way, he wanted a divorce.
Joyce called her brother in Connecticut and was shocked when he said, "You're dealing with a cult. You need to
protect your daughter."
It was the first time she had considered that The Way might be a cult.
"I began to realize it was all twisted around," she said. "They said if you turned your back on the ministry,
you're turning your back on God. And that's not true."
She vowed she was not going to lose her daughter's trust and respect because of The Way teachings.
She borrowed money from her parents and hired an attorney. She was going to fight.
"HOW MANY FATHERS DO WE HAVE?"
In an apartment on the other side of Little Rock, a 5-year-old boy, blond and blue-eyed, poked at his supper,
then stared up at his mother.
"How many fathers do you have?" the child asked.
"I have two fathers," Deborah responded patiently. "My physical father in Alabama and my heavenly father."
The little boy's words, suddenly challenging, filled the apartment. "No you don't. You only have one father.
You're not standing with the ministry so God isn't your father anymore."
"We talked a lot, but I couldn't change his mind that night," Deborah said.
It was another in a series of devastating blows. Deborah had been a follower of The Way for 18 years. Nine
months earlier, The Way leadership in Little Rock, in a three-hour screaming session, had accused her of having
a "homosexual spirit."
Homosexuals, The Way teaches, are "the lowest" of the devil spirits and are "worthy of death."
Their evidence against Deborah? She did not shave her arms and legs. She rode a motorcycle and worked on cars.
She was not submissive to her husband because she had balked at taking his last name. She asked too many
questions of Way leaders.
The family was "marked and avoided."
"My husband was told by The Way that he could not get back with them as long as he was living with me," she
said.
He filed for divorce after seven years of marriage. He left her, but stayed with The Way.
Her son's outburst followed a weekend visit with his father. Deborah was worried about the future. What kind of
a relationship could she have with her son if he thought she worked with the devil?
She finally understood, she said, that The Way was a destructive cult. Its leaders controlled lives, demanded
uncompromising devotion --or else.
She hired Joyce's attorney, Phillip Hendry. "The purpose of being in court is not a dispute over doctrine, but
indoctrination," Deborah explained. "These people purported to love me, and yet they dashed my family to
pieces.
"They broke up my marriage, confused my little boy and made me -- an adult woman -- question God and whether I
wanted to live."
A QUESTION OF POWER
There are between 3 million and 5 million people participating in groups considered to be cults in the United
States, plus more than 2 million ex-members.
Cult experts say that custody disputes are increasing nationwide, posing new questions for the legal system.
Rachel Bernstein, a therapist at the Cult Hotline and Clinic of New York, defined a destructive cult as `a
system that enforces unquestioning loyalty through deception and manipulation. It is more concerned with the
continuation of the power of the leader and the control of the group than the spiritual and emotional health of
the followers."
With little case law available, judges must balance one parent's right to practice religion against another
parent's right to prevent exposure of the child to harmful material.
The questions of whose rights prevail -- and what is considered a harmful religious activity -- are being
explored in Arkansas.
The real first names of those involved are used in this story.
Joyce and Steve's case was decided last week. Deborah's case is scheduled to be heard in November.
'THAT COULD DESCRIBE BAPTISTS'
In the third-floor courtroom of the Pulaski County Courthouse, Chancellor Vann Smith studied the feuding
couple.
Earlier, he had granted custody to Joyce. Her daughter could visit Steve every other weekend and one night
during the week.
But a routine divorce suddenly took a unique legal twist.
In the final hearing, Joyce had come back to court to ask the judge to prohibit Steve from taking their
daughter to Way meetings when the little girl visited him.
"I believe that he is involved in a cult," Joyce said speaking softly into the court microphone. "The Way
ministry promotes a distinct us-versus-them mentality. No one leaves without being possessed by the devil. ...
They promote a prejudice and hatred of anything outside."
Steve's attorney, Keith Billingsley, scoffed.
"That could describe Baptists," he argued. "All religions, to some degree, believe they're the ones that have
the proper way. And if you don't necessarily follow their teachings, in some way you are excluded."
He insisted the case was about the father's First Amendment rights to practice religion and not about
alienating a child from her mother.
The judge leaned forward. He had his own questions of Joyce.
What exactly was The Way?
And, since she had attended their meetings for 12 years, why is it now so bad?
A MESSAGE FROM GOD
The answers can be traced to a 147-acre tract in rural New Knoxville, Ohio, 20 miles south of the Indiana
border. It is the birthplace of Way founder Victor Paul Wierwille and headquarters of The Way International.
Wierwille was born Dec. 31, 1916, in the family farmhouse, the youngest of seven children.
He received his bachelor of theology degree from Lakeland College in Wisconsin and his master of theology
degree from Princeton Theological Seminary. In 1941, he was ordained in the Evangelical and Reformed Church,
which eventually was absorbed into the United Church of Christ.
Wierwille founded what would become The Way a year later, after he said he received a message from God.
"He spoke to me audibly, just like I am talking to you now," Wierwille explained in a Way biography. "He said
he would teach me the Word as it had not been known since the first century, if I would teach it to others."
He asked God for a sign on that sunny autumn day. Suddenly, he said, snow fell so heavily that he could not see
the gas pumps across the road. Wierwille remained with the Evangelical and Reformed Church, but began to study
the Bible and write a new interpretation of Biblical events including:
€ Jesus Christ is not God.
€ There is no Father, Son and Holy Ghost Trinity.
€ The modern-day Jews are not the chosen people of the Bible. They are an unrelated tribe from Siberia.
€ Mary was not the mother of God, but the mother of a man. Praying to her is idolatry.
€ Speaking in tongues is evidence that a follower has been born again.
€ People are asleep after they die until the return of Jesus Christ.
In 1953, Wierwille began teaching what he called Power For Abundant Living classes that later evolved into a
36-hour taped introductory course to The Way.
His ideas were controversial and he resigned under pressure from St. Peter's Evangelical and Reformed Church in
Van Wert, Ohio, in 1957, according to reference books and newspaper articles.
Wierwille began working on The Way full-time, holding Sunday fellowships in his home. He moved The Way to the
family farm in 1961.
He defined The Way as "a Biblical research and teaching ministry." Others would call it a cult.
LIKE BEING IN A FOG
Wierwille organized The Way around the structure of a tree. Individuals are Leaves, local home fellowships are
Twigs, state advisers are Limb Coordinators, headquarters is the Root.
The group attracted media attention in the 1970s as it grew rapidly. Followers were easily recruited from high
schools and colleges. The intimate Twig meetings appealed to frustrated Vietnam-era youth looking for
alternatives in a time of cultural confusion.
"The Way was a home ministry and these people became your group of friends. People loved each other," said
Dave, a Little Rock ex-Way follower.
"Among the fellowship, it was nothing to pray for someone who had broken an arm. And it was healed."
Throughout the country, the Twigs generally met twice during the week and on Sunday mornings to sing, pray and
listen to teaching tapes by Wierwille.
The charismatic founder was featured in Life magazine in May 1971 riding a raspberry-and-white
Harley-Davidson. Holy Spirit doves adorned his cuff links, tie clasp, lapel pin and ring.
However, media attention began to focus on other aspects of The Way.
Rumors of survival training and the buildup of a military stronghold circulated. The Way vehemently denied
those stories.
Students attending advanced classes, however, were required to learn how to shoot a gun. They were advised to
bring a Bible, Dale Carnegie's "How to Win Friends and Influence People" and "a rifle or shotgun (handgun also
if desired,)" according to several newspapers, magazines and interviews with the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette.
Way spokesmen said that the gun class was merely a "hunter safety course." In some states, they brought in
state troopers to teach it.
Wierwille also warned followers about the Illuminati, supposedly a world cartel of powerful individuals
secretly planning to overthrow the U.S. government.
"Our backpacks were to be ready at all times," two Little Rock women said. "We were to carry guns, food, a
sleeping bag. If the government fell, we were to move to remote locales and maintain the structure of the
ministry."
Charges of anti-Semitism brought more unwanted publicity when followers were urged to read "The Myth of the Six
Million" and "The Hoax of the Twentieth Century." Both books cast doubt on the Holocaust.
Six ex-followers have told the Arkansas Democrat-Gazettethat Wierwille and other Way leaders had
taught that the Holocaust was a myth concocted by the Jews.
Bill Greene, The Way public information officer, disputed that.
"The Holocaust definitely happened," he said, "but we feel like the numbers, the six million deaths, are very
exaggerated. ... The modern-day Jews make billions and billions of dollars off of foreign aid and off people
feeling they have some type of obligation ... because they have been a nation that has been persecuted."
Throughout the 1970s, young men and women continued to embrace The Way.
Dineen became a follower in 1979 when she was a 22-year-old living in Kentucky. She later moved to Little
Rock.
"I had a huge hunger to learn about God," she said. "I joined at a time when I was rather unhappy with
organized religion and lonely for true Christian fellowship.
"My husband Larry and I would see them three times a week and talk with them on the phone daily. We learned a
lot about the Bible and Larry turned to Christianity instead of drugs."
But what had started out as a tender, nurturing surrogate family had become a domineering group, preaching fear
and practicing mind control, she said.
For example, the Twig coordinator demanded to know how much money Dineen and Larry made and the kind of bills
they had.
"When we bought a truck, he wanted to know why we hadn't come to him and asked permission," Dineen said. "When
we told him it was none of his business and we didn't trust him with all of our personal affairs, he said we
were being rebellious and disobedient to leadership."
Greene denied that The Way intrudes into the private lives of followers.
"We don't tell people what to do," he said. "We tell them what the Word says how you're supposed to live a
Christian marriage. We teach the Word and then YOU decide whether you want it or not."
But Dineen said The Way nearly ruined her 20-year marriage when that same Twig coordinator played one against
the other: "It got vicious. The Way was pulling us apart."
The couple left their Little Rock Twig in January and were "marked and avoided."
"I don't know if The Way changed or if we never really looked at the signs," Dineen said. "It's like being in a
fog and suddenly waking up and seeing what you've done.
"The Way taught that we were the spiritual elite, the cream of the crop. That is so egotistical. I've always
been close to God and I knew he was looking down and saying, `Gosh, kid, you're breaking my heart.' "
DISPUTE AT FORT CHAFFEE
The Way in Arkansas made headlines in 1980 following a controversy at the Fort Chaffee Cuban refugee center.
The Way had asked to be admitted to the fort to offer religious services to Cuban refugees. They were not on
the government's approved list of faiths, so the request was denied.
Fourteen Way members then applied for and got jobs as "bilingual personnel."
Complaints surfaced that Way followers were "experiencesing" to the refugees and arranging to have them contacted
by local Way groups within 24 hours of their resettlement outside the fort.
Employees were warned that a worker would be fired if he used his position to pass his religious beliefs onto
refugees.
The Way asked for a meeting with Fort Chaffee administrators. After that meeting was delayed, the 14 Way
followers angrily walked out and did not return to their jobs.
But that was a minor setback.
By 1983, the organization claimed to have 2,657 Twigs with an average of 10 members each. More than 17,000
attended the annual Rock of Ages festival in Ohio. The Way was active in Latin America, Great Britain and
western Europe. It reported more than $23 million in annual income.
In 1985, the IRS revoked The Way's tax-exempt church status, claiming it had engaged in political campaigning.
The Way appealed and two years later, it was restored. The sect eventually built an elaborate training center
and a 6,000-square-foot president's home in New Knoxville, Ohio, with funds generated, in part, from weekly
tithing. Each household was asked to send at least 10 percent of its income to New Knoxville.
Wierwille abandoned the motorcycle for an elaborately customized bus and a private airplane. The Way had opened
colleges in Emporia, Kan., and Rome City, Ind.; a family ranch in Gunnison, Colo.; and an outdoor academy at
Tinnie, N.M. On May 20, 1985, Wierwille "fell asleep" and was laid to rest in the Garden of Living Waters at
New Knoxville. He was 68 years old.
LOVE-BOMBING
Bitter infighting after Wierwille's death nearly destroyed The Way. Stories and widely circulated letters
alleging illicit sexual activity by leaders as well as accusations of financial mismanagement resulted in large
groups breaking away.
The number of followers plummeted from an estimated 100,000 to 20,000, where most observers think it remains
today. (The Way does not release figures.)
The stories of sexual affairs with married clergy have persisted.
In the August issue of New Woman magazine, one ex-Way member said she regularly had been summoned to
Wierwille's recreational vehicle, where they had sex. Her story is similar to what an Arkansas woman told the
Democrat-Gazette. She also said she had sex with Wierwille and other Way leaders during her nearly
16 years at the Ohio headquarters.
"I never really thought about telling anyone," Glenda said. "He was the only man in my life. I didn't have a
father or grandfather or brothers. I didn't really think it was right, but then it was like, `Who cares? It's
OK. I'm going to heaven.' "
Another Arkansas woman said she had sex with two married Way Corps clergy while in Ohio. The Way Corps is a
leadership group.
"They called it a one-time healing," she said. "They said I was under condemnation and wasn't living up to the
level of righteousness. That I needed someone to love me so I could stand for God."
More ex-followers began speaking out, disillusioned with the "do-as-we-say" doctrine and the harsh treatment of
those who asked questions. De-programmers and counselors were seeing depressed and suicidal ex-followers.
Rebecca, a real estate professional in Little Rock, joined The Way in 1988 after meeting followers who worked
with her husband.
"My marriage was breaking up and I had a 1-year-old child. They do what they call love-bombing. They call you
every day and ask how you're doing and tell you that you're the best," she said. "There is a basic need to be
accepted and I was so terribly miserable at that time."
But Rebecca was uneasy. She felt The Way was taking over her life. She was reprimanded last year for enrolling
her son in Tiger Cubs, a scouting organization. A school counselor felt the first-grader needed the social
interaction. That meant Rebecca would miss some Way meetings.
She said local Way leaders accused her of misplacing her priorities. They became further irritated when she
questioned why so many Little Rock members were "marked and avoided."
"They (Way leaders) would scream in my face. The screaming is awful," she said. "It flattens your personality
and squelches your life."
Rebecca finally quit.
"I told them fellowshipping in fear was not fellowshipping at all," she said.
"I felt very fearful that first month. Also humiliated and embarrassed. I felt guilty for having recruited
people and felt grief like a whole family had died. They had been my only friends for six years."
Rachel Bernstein, of the Cult Hotline and Clinic, said that reaction is typical of those who leave cults.
"The Way is a very high-pressure, intensive group," she said. "There is a sense that they are going to be your
new family and that if anybody, including a spouse, speaks out against the group, then you need to get them out
of your life."
Based on the calls and information gathered by the hot line, Bernstein considers The Way a cult.
"When you see people needing so much help and being so confused, it has crossed the boundary from being a
church to a destructive group," she said.
Herbert Rosedale, a New York attorney who has represented hundreds of ex-cult members, agreed.
"When you have cases involving The Way, it's not that somebody simply had the money sucked out of them,"
Rosedale said. "They get introduced into a whole different culture and they end up giving up their lives. The
Way is a cult, absolutely. I have represented people involved and it has had a tremendously destructive
effect."
The Way's public information officer, Greene, has heard the cult label for years.
"They call us a cult because we do not believe Jesus Christ is God. So they feel like -- in order for us to
prove that point -- we get into mind control and everything else.
"The Way ministry is not for everybody. Research takes a little bit of discipline. It takes a little bit of
thinking. It takes a little bit of commitment," Greene said. "Most people who go to church, they sit there for
an hour and a half. They come home. And they live like hell for the other six days. We don't do that."
The Way did not sidestep the cult controversy when talking with new followers. Deborah recalled leaders saying,
"We're accused of brainwashing, but I guess this is the best form of brainwashing there is. We're giving you
God. We're in good company. Jesus Christ and his followers were considered a cult."
"How many hours have you wasted debating whether Rev. Martindale is right or wrong in sending the
Way Corps full time? What a waste of time. You have no right to discuss whether I'm right or wrong. It's not
your responsibility. You make up your mind either to back us up or support us or you're wrong. Period.
Wrong."
L. Craig Martindale in "The Key to Success is to Obey," a Way tape.
In 1982, L. Craig Martindale had been installed by Wierwille as president of The Way.
Martindale had attended the University of Kansas, where he was a psychology major and played tight end on the
football team. He served as president of the Baptist Student Union and the Fellowship of Christian Athletes
before graduating in 1971.
In the 1990s, Martindale launched a "spiritual housecleaning" among Way followers.
It began with a denunciation of homosexuals that escalated into a frenzy to rid The Way of gay followers. The
"housecleaning" included practicing homosexuals, followers who had homosexual fantasies and those who were
sympathetic to homosexuals.
In a July 1994 letter to the Way Corps Martindale condemned and described lesbian and homosexual acts in
spectacularly graphic detail.
He then warned: "Some of us do walk by the spirit of God. And if you give us time we will smoke your sorry
asses out and bring degradation to your lives so that you can't hurt anybody in The Way ministry again."
Martindale's Sunday teaching tapes are milder than the letter. He castigates Roman Catholics, alcoholics, the
government and Way followers who were devoting less than 100 percent to the cause.
"For many people, The Way ministry is an extracurricular activity. If you didn't do The Way ministry, you'd go
to some damned church, you'd join some idiotic civic club," Martindale said.
"I guess you just want to hang around your communities and hang around your deadbeat families and hang around
your deadbeat friends and get drunk every Friday night and ask God to forgive you. ...
"And hang around your homosexual faggot-ass friends, put up with that because apparently your friends mean more
to you than God does."
"The witch hunt," as one ex-Way follower called it, expanded. Leaders were told by Martindale that they didn't
need physical proof. They could use "Genuine Spiritual Suspicion" to ferret out transgressors of any kind.
A seven-months-pregnant Little Rock woman, during an interview with the Democrat-Gazette and in
brief testimony before Chancellor Smith, said this teaching threatened the life of her unborn child and nearly
tore her family apart.
"POSSESSED FETUS"
Linda Fowler absently stirred cream into her coffee and shook her head sadly. She couldn't believe the group
she once loved had turned against her and her pregnant daughter.
"The last couple of years, The Way has been on a rampage," she said. "They've thrown a lot of people out. They
told me not to talk with my friend Rebecca. She was `marked and avoided.' I walked away from her without
batting an eye. I was totally convinced if leadership said she was a devil, that she was."
But Linda was not prepared to blindly accept another order: Local Way leadership demanded she walk away from
her pregnant 20-year-old daughter, Tara.
It seemed so different from the loving support she received when she became part of The Way in 1989.
"I was going through a time in my life when I really was reaching for God," Linda said. `
Her doubts about The Way's love for its followers surfaced in leadership training in Indiana. Linda had lost
her leg in a car accident when she was a teen-ager. At the Rome City campus, she was told to walk 4/4 miles
each day on her prosthetic leg while the others ran the course.
"I couldn't do that, but I gave it my best shot," she said. "They decided I couldn't go into the leadership
program because of that. They said they would not tolerate any more weakness in the Way Corps."
Her daughter, Tara, had joined The Way when she was 15. She and her mother moved to Ohio. There Tara met her
boyfriend, the son of a local Way leader.
Tara became pregnant when she was 18 while her mother was away. Tara said that Ohio Way leaders convinced her
it was best to have an abortion. She did.
In 1994, Linda and Tara moved into an apartment in Little Rock and became part of one of the eight Twigs
locally, which have about 10 members each.
Tara adopted a Boxer puppy named Mia Bella.
"The Twig coordinator came to the apartment. She hated the dog," Linda said. "She told us the dog was possessed
and to get rid of it. She wanted us to beat it and she said, `BEAT IT. Get a belt.' " They ignored the
instructions.
In March of this year, Tara told the Twig leader and her mother that she was pregnant again. Her Ohio boyfriend
had visited Little Rock and was the father.
"I'm pregnant and I'm not going to have an abortion," Tara said firmly.
She was soon summoned to appear before the state coordinator, Linda said.
"We had heard about the screaming sessions and fights from others who were confronted, so we agreed we wouldn't
react to anything," Linda said.
A "HOMOSEXUAL SPIRIT"
Way leaders told Tara that because she was being disobedient, she had a "homosexual spirit."
Tara said she was branded a heretic during the two-hour meeting because she refused to have an abortion. They
said she did not have the right to keep the child without talking to Way leaders first.
"They told me that night that Tara could not go back to fellowship until she changed her mind about the
abortion," Linda said.
They also ordered Linda to move out of the apartment, and to stay away from her daughter.
"The damned fetus is just as possessed as she is," Linda quoted them as screaming.
"They kept threatening me. They said all these horrible things would happen if I let her stay with me. The
adversary (the devil) would ruin my life."
Monty Hobbs, current Way state coordinator, was present at that meeting, according to Linda. He was not state
coordinator then. Hobbs has not returned several phone calls or responded to a letter asking for an
interview.
In the courtroom, attorneys for Joyce and Steve sparred over whether Tara's testimony was relevant to the
request by Joyce to forbid Steve from taking their daughter to Way meetings.
"We are showing with this experiences what the child might face in the future," Joyce's attorney argued.
The court heard Tara's story. Then, it was Steve's turn.
Steve's testimony about The Way and its teachings varied drastically from that given by the ex-Way members who
spoke on behalf of his ex-wife.
Steve, who joined The Way in 1980 and has remained a follower, said he had never heard that those who leave The
Way are possessed and have devil spirits.
"Are devil spirits taught in The Way?" he was asked by Hendry.
"No," Steve replied.
Hendry introduced a Way comic book belonging to Steve's daughter with a page devoted to fighting devil
spirits.
Steve denied that he had ever accused his wife of being possessed. He insisted that followers at Twig meetings
do not disparage those who have left. His ex-wife he said, was not discussed at these meetings.
"Our purpose is to teach the word of God," he said.
He also said that Martindale does not speak badly of mainline churches in his Sunday teachings. The Way teaches
other "religions have the right to live the way they want to live," he testified.
To refute that testimony, Hendry played a tape of Martindale preaching on Father's Day. For 20 minutes,
Martindale's voice filled the courtroom, sporadically belittling the pope, Oral Roberts, Billy Graham, Pat
Robertson and Islam.
"Wherever Roman Catholicism dominates, you have abject poverty and enslavement," Martindale said.
"The great Billy Graham, the great Oral Roberts, the great Pat Robertson ... they've all kissed the pope's
ring. ...
"The Islamic movement is treacherously powerful, treacherously fanatical, treacherously full of hatred."
When the Sept. 12 hearing concluded, Smith took under advisement Joyce's request for limited visitation.
A THE JUDGE'S DECISION
Last Wednesday, Joyce and Steve sat on opposite sides of the courtroom, separated by an emotional gulf far
wider than the physical table and chairs. They both tensed as Chancellor Smith announced his ruling.
"There is no evidence to suggest the child has been harmed by attending the Way meetings," Smith ruled. "She
has gone to them since birth. He may take her with him."
But, Smith cautioned, the father was not to expose the child to anything that might alienate her from her
mother -- including Martindale's Sunday teaching tape.
"Listening to those tapes could be traumatic," Smith said. "The child shouldn't be hearing that anyway. That
child is not to be present for the type of discussion I heard on that tape."
Smith added that if the little girl appeared to be acting out or disturbed, including calling her mother "a
devil," that Joyce could come back to court.
Joyce has 30 days to appeal.
Deborah, whose hearing is Nov. 7 before another chancellor, hopes the decision in her case will be
different.
"We're fighting an uphill battle," she said. "I want justice but I don't know that any outcome will be
acceptable to either party."
