Anon-Dark-horsemen

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“Federal Complaint Narrative – The Forgotten Regulation (1965–1983)”
chapter 1.
Chapter One — The Forgotten Regulation (1965–1983)
How a rule born in the shadow of bureaucracy became the weapon that strangled California’s horsemen half a century later.

1. Sacramento, 1965 — The Birth of Control
It began, as most quiet tyrannies do, in a fluorescent room no one remembers.
The California Department of Parks and Recreation was in its infancy — a tangle of newly consolidated agencies from Fish and Game, Forestry, and the old Division of Beaches and Parks. The bureaucrats were young, eager, and full of hubris. They believed they were building the foundation of “modern recreation management.”
On paper, they were protecting the land.
In reality, they were carving out power — power to dictate, to gatekeep, to charge the public for what had already belonged to them.
Among the early administrative codes drafted in those days was Title 14, California Code of Regulations, § 4331, a small, innocuous-looking clause tucked between rules about littering and campfires. It was called “Special Events.”
At the time, it was meant for parades, film shoots, and gatherings of more than 50 people — things that could disturb natural areas. It had nothing to do with horses, nothing to do with rentals, and nothing to do with small business. But it planted a seed: the notion that access could be controlled through paperwork and fees rather than fairness or law.
There’s no legislative record of any debate over § 4331. No governor’s signature. No roll call. It was a departmental creation — a regulation born without statute, what lawyers later came to call an “underground regulation.”
Still, it was quietly published in the California Regulatory Notice Register that year, 1965 — the same year I was born.

2. 1970s — The Expansion of Paper Empires
Throughout the ’70s, while horses still thundered freely across California’s beaches, the bureaucrats in Sacramento were busy codifying their control. Every year brought more sections, sub-sections, and amendments. What had started as a framework for parks became a labyrinth of permissions.
This was the era of the Environmental Movement, when well-meaning reforms were hijacked by agencies hungry for funding. The Department of Parks learned that every new restriction came with a budget line and a grant opportunity.
If you wanted to camp, you paid.
If you wanted to fish, you paid.
If you wanted to ride a horse — well, they hadn’t gotten that far yet, but the machinery was already warming up.
Meanwhile, out in the real California — beyond the marble buildings and the typewriters — the horsemen still lived by handshake and trail dust. Every county fair, every ranch rodeo, every kid learning to ride was living proof that horses and freedom were intertwined.
The bureaucrats didn’t understand that. They didn’t want to. To them, a horse was just another liability — something that could get them sued. And so, quietly, they wrote rules that chipped away at access.
No hearings. No votes. Just new “interpretations.”

3. 1980s — The Seeds of Conflict
By the early 1980s, § 4331 had morphed — not through law, but through internal memos. It began to be used to regulate “activities requiring coordination with park management,” a vague phrase that meant whatever a ranger decided it meant that day.
Then came Wilson v. Cook (1987) — a case that should have killed the abuse in its cradle. But before that ruling, a decade of quiet damage had already been done.
State Parks started using § 4331 as a catch-all authority. Want to lead a group hike? You might need a special event permit. A church picnic? Same thing. And if you wanted to lead trail rides — even small, private ones — you were suddenly a “special event organizer.”
It was absurd, but it was profitable.
By calling ordinary recreation a “special event,” the state could charge fees, require insurance, and revoke permissions at will.
That’s how corruption begins: not with a bribe, but with a form.
Inside those forms, inside the micro-language of the bureaucracy, lay the first bones of the machine that would one day crush my business, my horses, and my livelihood.
🧭
[CH1 – Part 1.5 Addendum: The Vanishing Act (1983)]
By 1983, § 4331 had quietly expired under its own illegitimacy.
The Office of Administrative Law (OAL) had just been created to clean up California’s regulatory swamp — a direct result of decades of back-room rule-making like the kind that birthed § 4331 in the first place.
Under the Administrative Procedure Act (APA), every state regulation had to be properly noticed, reviewed, and certified by OAL to become law.
When OAL did its first sweep, § 4331 was among the casualties.
It was never submitted, never certified, and never approved.
It was dead on arrival — stripped from the official codebooks and archived as an underground regulation.
But bureaucracy never buries its own dead for long.
Somewhere between 1983 and 1991, State Parks simply typed it back in.
No legislative record.
No approval file.
No APA notice.
Just a “re-adoption” under the same number, quietly re-published in the Register as if nothing had happened.
That act — a bureaucratic resurrection without authority — wasn’t just administrative malpractice; it was fraud on the people of California.
The rule that was void in 1983 became the weapon used decades later to destroy lawful businesses, to harass veterans and disabled riders, and to fund a slush-fund culture inside the Department.
The irony? 1983 was supposed to mark a reform era.
Instead, it became the year the ghost slipped back into the machine
The Ghost Docket (1983–1984)
The regulatory history of California Code of Regulations, Title 14, § 4331 claims judicial validation through a phantom case: Fresno County Superior Court Case No. 258953.
On paper, that citation gives the rule the appearance of legitimacy, as if a Superior Court judge once reviewed and affirmed its enforcement.
In reality, no such case exists.
In 2023, Steven K. Roth, founder of Seahorse Equestrian Rentals, and witness Claire Paris drove together to the Fresno County Superior Court to locate the file referenced in the regulation’s official amendment notes. Steven personally requested the docket from the records counter. One clerk began searching. A second leaned over her shoulder to verify. Then a third joined, combing through the system under variant spellings, dates, and archive ranges. Finally, they called in a supervising clerk, who checked both the digital index and the legacy microfilm archive.
All four clerks — including the supervisor — came to the same conclusion:
“There is no such case number in our system.”
No case card. No docket entry. No microfilm record. No corresponding file or judgment ever existed. They told me that it doesnt even fit any filing formats the court had ever used.
That scene — three clerks and a supervisor searching side by side while the petitioner and his witness stood watching — is now living proof of what the paper trail only hinted at: Case No. 258953 is a legal ghost.
Its appearance in the state’s rulemaking record was not a clerical mistake. It was a manufactured citation, a convenient fiction inserted to give the illusion that § 4331 had survived lawful scrutiny when, in fact, it had quietly expired by operation of law in 1984 for lack of a Certificate of Compliance under the Administrative Procedure Act.
By continuing to enforce § 4331 long after that expiration, California State Parks built four decades of citations, prosecutions, and revenue streams on a rule that was never law — a dead regulation masquerading as authority. Every enforcement action taken under it, from 1984 onward, rests on that ghost docket — a phantom file that never existed, confirmed firsthand by two living witnesses and four public employees in the very courthouse where it was supposed to be found

4. Meanwhile, in 1965 — A Parallel Birth
That same year, a boy was born in New Mexico who would grow up to fight this ghost regulation. Me.
Born in the year that § 4331 first appeared in ink.
The same month they printed that regulation, my father was likely out riding fence lines or breaking a green horse somewhere near the mountains of Colorado — the same saddle that would one day hang beside his coffin. He had no idea that some anonymous pen-pusher in Sacramento was scribbling the words that would haunt his son half a century later.
That irony isn’t lost on me.
The government that was supposed to protect our open lands was already fencing them in, one paragraph at a time
1965: Origins and Intent
The story of CCR § 4331 begins not in corruption, but in caution.
The year was 1965 — the same year I was born — and California’s parks were entering a new era of bureaucratic oversight. The Department of Parks and Recreation, then still finding its modern identity, codified a small, seemingly harmless rule: no person shall solicit, sell, or peddle goods within a state park without permission.
It was meant for the hawkers — the popcorn vendors, the men who set up card tables selling trinkets in parking lots. Not horsemen. Not teachers. Certainly not anyone helping others touch nature through living animals.
But that was how it started.
A single paragraph tucked quietly into the State Register, born from the fear that the people might love the parks too freely. It was administrative, dry, and unremarkable — just one line among hundreds that year. And yet, that one line would one day be twisted into a weapon.
The irony wasn’t lost on me — the same government that had written those words “for the public good” would one day use them to lock the public out.
The 1965 rule wasn’t written for lawyers or courts. It was written for rangers with badges and notebooks, men with orders to keep the peace and the power to interpret the law however they pleased. They couldn’t have known that forty years later, someone like me would be standing at the gates of Zmudowski Beach, holding that same law in my hand, asking them what it had to do with a horse.
It’s strange to think that while I was learning to ride my first Mustang c**t in Utah, somewhere in Sacramento, a typist was hammering out the words that would one day be used to destroy everything I built.
And that’s how the seed was planted. A harmless little line about solicitation that would metastasize into an underground regulatory empire — one that would later bleed the public, choke small businesses, and fund the state’s dirtiest secret: the “special event” slush fund.
That irony — that collision between intent and corruption — is where this story truly begins…
Because by 1965, something subtle but monumental was already taking shape. The law that would later destroy a man’s livelihood — Title 14, CCR § 4331 — was quietly birthed in the bureaucratic shadows of the California Department of Parks and Recreation. At the time, no one outside Sacramento even knew it existed. It was a harmless-sounding rule about “special uses” — a bit of administrative filler tucked under the authority of the Public Resources Code.
But the wording mattered. It gave unelected bureaucrats the power to decide who could do business on public land, and when. It was, in essence, a gatekeeping clause dressed up as environmental stewardship. It didn’t have the force of law yet — not until certified through the Office of Administrative Law (OAL), which didn’t even exist until the late 1970s — but it planted a seed of control.
When California codified its modern administrative structure in the following decades, § 4331 slipped through the cracks. It survived every reform, every oversight review, and every court challenge, because it was never truly tested. It was an orphan regulation — outdated, unverified, and quietly powerful.
Then came the first “Emergency” Amendment in 1983. State Parks drummed up a justification — something about environmental protection, though no emergency records exist that match the claim — and refiled § 4331 as a “temporary” measure. By law, that emergency order was supposed to expire within 120 days unless formally certified through a Certificate of Compliance. But that certificate was never filed.
It expired as an operation of law sometime in 1984.
And yet… enforcement never stopped.
Sometime around that same period, the first known reference to § 4331 appeared in a Fresno case file — or rather, in what should have been a case file. A phantom docket number, cited in the regulation’s history, supposedly tied to the emergency proceedings. But when Steven Roth — decades later — drove all the way to Fresno to locate that case, no record existed. Three clerks searched. A supervisor was called in. Each shook their head. The case number didn’t even fit the filing format the Fresno court had ever used. It was a ghost — a bureaucratic mirage.
Placeholder: [EXHIBIT — Fresno Case Number Inquiry and Clerk Statements]
That discovery, nearly forty years later, would unravel one of the longest-running illegal enforcement schemes in California history — one that cost countless people their livelihoods, drained public trust, and turned “special event” permits into a statewide slush fund.
This is the moment — 1983 to 1984 — when the story stops being about paperwork, and starts being about power
The Birth of the “Special Event” — A Loophole Disguised as a Law
By 1990, six years after § 4331 had legally expired, State Parks faced a problem of its own making. The “emergency regulation” had never been validated, but the agency had become addicted to the control it offered — and to the money it generated.
So they did what corrupt bureaucracies always do: they rebranded.
In June 1990, a new entry appeared in the California Regulatory Notice Register — a small, unremarkable document that would go unnoticed by the public for decades. It cited Title 14, § 4301(j), titled “Special Events.” The examples it gave were almost laughable in their absurdity: a snowstorm, a forest fire, and a balloon festival. The pretense was that State Parks needed a mechanism to regulate temporary, unusual events that might occur on park lands — a one-time “special event” permit to manage hazards or logistics.
But buried in that bland language was the creation of a new, open-ended power: the authority to charge fees, restrict access, and control activities that had once been the public’s by right.
There was no mention of horse rentals.
No mention of ADA compliance.
No environmental study.
And no link between § 4301(j) and § 4331 — except that, quietly, one became the cover story for the other.
Over time, what began as a limited administrative clause metastasized into a weapon. State Parks began using “Special Event” permits not to manage risk — but to manage people. Instead of applying it to balloon festivals or emergencies, they applied it to individual citizens trying to conduct lawful activities on public land — musicians, photographers, and, most significantly, horsemen.
This shift transformed § 4301(j) into a bureaucratic racket. Every permit became a toll booth. Every rider, a liability. Every horse, a target.
Placeholder: [EXHIBIT — June 1990 California Regulatory Notice Register, § 4301(j) (Special Events)]
That’s how the “Special Event” framework was born — not from necessity, but from greed. It provided the perfect camouflage for an already-expired rule (§ 4331), letting the agency continue enforcing it as if nothing had happened.
It wasn’t about law anymore.
It was about money, control, and plausible deniability.
This — right here — is the origin of the slush-fund model that would later bleed into the 2012 scandal and beyond
According to the case record Wilson v. Cook (197 Cal.App.3d 344, 1987), the Huebner Sports concession at Millerton Lake State Recreation Area was a paid, percentage-based contract awarded by California State Parks to one private operator, Huebner Sports of Fresno. The concession allowed that operator to rent and sell sailboards, give lessons, and store equipment at the lake—activities explicitly banned for everyone else under CCR § 4331 .
That arrangement is central because it shows that § 4331 enforcement wasn’t about safety or order—it was about exclusive commercial favoritism. The Department denied the independent instructors (Brad Wilson and Tom Frost) any permit at all, even though their contracts and payments occurred off-park, just like Seahorse’s horse rentals later did. The court noted that Wilson’s rentals were perfectly lawful if made off-park, yet the Department used § 4331 to ban them anyway—so the concessionaire (Huebner) could hold a monopoly .
Here’s the key appellate finding that exposes the template for everything that followed:
“Similarly, respondents’ rental of sailboards for use at the lake does not constitute commercial activity within the scope of the regulation provided the rental contract is made at respondents’ stores and no promotional activity for the rental of boards occurs at the lake. … This presumably explains why this activity along with teaching sailboarding is included in the Huebner concession.”
That single sentence is devastating for State Parks:
It acknowledges the legality of off-site rentals with on-site use (the very model Seahorse used).

It admits that the reason Huebner’s concession existed was not legal necessity—but convenience and control: the state profited directly from an exclusive contract.

It establishes precedent that State Parks knew what the lawful model looked like, then ignored it for everyone else.

In short, the Huebner concession was the prototype for the later corruption: a pay-to-play gatekeeping system masquerading as regulation. It institutionalized the idea that public access could be monopolized for revenue—and it’s the direct ancestor of the “Special Event” permit scam that replaced it in the 1990s and 2000s
According to the Fresno appellate record in Wilson v. Cook (197 Cal.App.3d 344 (1987)), Millerton Lake State Recreation Area was the testing ground for a state-sanctioned monopoly built on that rule. Each year beginning in 1981, California State Parks invited bids for a commercial concession inside the park. The winning bidder, Huebner Sports of Fresno, paid the state a percentage of all receipts from sailboard rentals, lessons, and storage. Independent instructors Brad Wilson and Tom Frost—who lawfully sold lessons and rentals from their Fresno shop, Hot Bottoms Ski and Sports—were suddenly banned from giving prepaid lessons or hosting free demonstration nights at the lake after Superintendent George Cook invoked § 4331. Their permit request was denied, and their appeal rejected, because State Parks claimed the exclusive Huebner concession “was able to provide the necessary sailboard service” .
The court later drew a bright line that State Parks has ignored ever since:
“Respondents’ rental of sailboards for use at the lake does not constitute commercial activity within the scope of the regulation provided the rental contract is made at respondents’ stores and no promotional activity for the rental of boards occurs at the lake. … This presumably explains why this activity along with teaching sailboarding is included in the Huebner concession.”
In plain English: off-park rentals = lawful; monopoly concessions = State Parks profit.
That decision should have ended the abuse of § 4331. Instead, it became a template for manipulation:
The Pay-to-Play Model — Huebner’s contract normalized the “percentage-of-gross” skim that later re-emerged as Special Event “use-fees.”

Selective Enforcement — Independent operators were punished for the same off-park model the court upheld.

Agency Capture — The DOJ and Attorney General’s Office defended the Department instead of enforcing the court’s limit, cementing a precedent for revenue-driven regulation.

This is the moment when California State Parks pivoted from managing recreation to managing money. The Millerton Lake concession proved the formula: create scarcity, award exclusivity, skim a percentage, and bury it under the language of “public administration.

Chapter 4: The Concession, the Cook Order, and the 1991 Rewrite
4.1 Millerton Lake, 1986–1987: How a Concession Became a Gate
Every summer at Millerton Lake, State Parks offered a “concession” to private businesses: the right to rent sailboards, store gear, and teach lessons near the water. In 1986, that concession went to Huebner Sports of Fresno. With that one award, a basic fight began: who gets to use a public park—the one company with a concession, or ordinary people and businesses who make all their sales and sign-ups outside the park, then simply show up to use the park like everyone else?
Enter Superintendent George E. Cook. After Huebner won the concession, Cook told another local shop—Brad Wilson and Tom Frost (Hot Bottoms Ski & Sports)—that they could no longer teach at the lake or host their evening “demo + barbecue” nights. He cited a rule known as CCR § 4331 (“Soliciting”), claiming it banned their activities without a permit.
Key point: Wilson & Frost weren’t soliciting at the lake. They took money and sign-ups in town, then met students at the lake to teach on public water. Their BBQ “demo nights” were promotional events at the lake, but the lessons themselves were prepaid and pre-arranged elsewhere.
When Cook banned them, Wilson & Frost sued—and that’s how we got the case everyone keeps quoting, often incorrectly: Wilson v. Cook (1987).
Placeholder exhibits
[EXHIBIT WL-1] 1986 Concession award notice re: Huebner Sports (Millerton Lake)

[EXHIBIT WL-2] Superintendent Cook’s denial/letters invoking CCR § 4331

[EXHIBIT WL-3] Hot Bottoms declarations describing prepaid lessons vs. in-park BBQ demos

4.2 What Wilson v. Cook Actually Held (and What It Didn’t)
In December 1987, California’s Fifth Appellate District (state court, not the federal Fifth Circuit) drew a bright, simple line:
Promotional BBQ nights at the lake = “commercial/promotional” activity in the park → can be restricted under CCR § 4331 without a permit.

Teaching lessons that were prepaid and arranged outside the park = allowed. The court recognized that performing a service inside the park is not the same as soliciting in the park, if the contract and payment happened outside.

The court even gave examples: a boat repair business or trailer rental company can perform the service in the park if the deal was made offsite and there’s no in-park solicitation. In other words, use of the park by a member of the public—or by a customer who already paid outside the park—isn’t magically “soliciting” just because you cross the park boundary.
That wasn’t a loophole. It was a guardrail to keep public parks public.
What the opinion did not do:
It did not bless a monopoly for one concessionaire.

It did not convert “using a public park after paying elsewhere” into “illegal commerce.”

It did not transform every service performed inside a park into a permit offense.

Plain English: If you don’t ask for business inside the park, and you don’t take money inside the park, CCR § 4331 (as written then) doesn’t reach you.
Placeholder exhibits
[EXHIBIT WL-4] Certified copy / print of Wilson v. Cook, 197 Cal.App.3d 345 (Dec. 29, 1987)

[EXHIBIT WL-5] Annotated key passages (teaching allowed; BBQ promos restricted)

4.3 What Happened Next: The “Fresno Ghost” and a Rewrite That Shocks the Conscience
After Wilson v. Cook, State Parks faced a problem: the court drew a reasonable line that preserved public access. So how do you get around that line? If you can’t win on what the regulation actually says, you can try to change what the paper says.
4.3.1 The 1983 “Emergency” and the 1984 Expiration No One Admits
Back up a bit. In 1983, Parks pushed an “emergency” amendment to § 4331. Under California’s Administrative Procedure Act (APA), an emergency rule must be followed by a Certificate of Compliance to make it permanent. If you don’t file that Certificate in time, the change expires by operation of law.
And that’s exactly what happened: the 1983 emergency amendment expired in 1984. No valid Certificate. No permanent adoption. The amended text died. That means § 4331 legally snapped back to its older form.
Placeholder exhibits
[EXHIBIT OAL-1] OAL/OA file log or letter noting the 1983 emergency filing

[EXHIBIT OAL-2] Evidence of no Certificate of Compliance and the 1984 expiration

[EXHIBIT OAL-3] Rulemaking-file voids / missing-file correspondence

4.3.2 The 1991 Registry: A Red-Pen June 5 Initial—and Text That Doesn’t Square
Then comes 1991. A thick register volume appears—the one with the red-ink “June 5” initial and a Secretary of State notation (“Powell”)—that purports to show § 4331 in a form that tracks Parks’ preferred reading, not the Wilson v. Cook line. This is the exact spot where things start to smell wrong.
The legend on page 2 explains how to read the register.

On page 11, § 4331 appears in language that does not reflect the 1984 expiration reality, and does not reflect the Wilson guardrails (lesson/performance vs. in-park solicitation).

Someone initialed in red on June 5.

There’s also a Fresno case number cited in other summaries that does not exist in the clerk’s system (the “Fresno Ghost”).

This is how judicial guardrails get erased: not by a published appellate reversal (there was none), but by a paper trail that doesn’t add up—expired emergencies treated as if they lived on, and registry text that presents an after-the-fact reality the courts never endorsed.
Placeholder exhibits
[EXHIBIT 91-REG-1] 1991 Register (full PDF), cover + page 2 (legend), page 11 (CCR § 4331 text)

[EXHIBIT 91-REG-2] Close-up of red “June 5” initial and SoS “Powell” notation

[EXHIBIT 91-REG-3] Indexing page tying § 4331 to that register entry

[EXHIBIT FR-1] “Fresno Ghost” case number screenshot from online index (e.g., Justia summary)

[EXHIBIT FR-2] Declaration of Claire Parris (drive to Fresno; 3 clerks + supervisor searched—no record, and format doesn’t match any historical schema used by the court)

Finding: By 1991, Parks’ paperwork presented § 4331 as if the 1983 emergency never expired and as if Wilson v. Cook didn’t mean what it very clearly said. That isn’t “confusion.” It’s judicial nullification by registry.

4.4 “Special Events” Wasn’t the Answer, Either (Why § 4301(j) Doesn’t Save Them)
Around this period, Parks also leaned hard on the “special event” labeling—CCR § 4301(j)—to force ordinary, recurring activities (like riding or lessons) into a bucket meant for rare or truly exceptional occurrences—the kind of things that make sense to regulate tightly: a snowstorm emergency, a wildfire closure, a hot-air balloon festival that draws huge crowds and needs temporary controls.
Labeling everyday, low-impact equestrian use or prepaid lessons as “special events” does more than stretch language—it invents fees and control that don’t belong there and sidesteps the limits Wilson set. “Special event” was meant to handle crowd control and one-off situations—not to bar 98.7% of Californians (non-horse-owners) from lawful access by blocking rentals arranged outside the park.
Placeholder exhibits
[EXHIBIT SE-4301J] The § 4301(j) text + agency examples (snowstorm, wildfire, balloon festival)

[EXHIBIT SE-1] Fee schedules and memos repurposing “special event” for ordinary, recurring uses

4.5 Why This Matters to Seahorse (and Every Non-Owner)
Fast-forward to 2012, when Seahorse launches. The Wilson line should have protected a simple model:
No in-park solicitation.

No money changing hands in the park.

Prepaid, off-site contracts.

Delivery and set-up for the renter’s use in equestrian-approved areas.

That’s exactly what Wilson allowed for lessons and rentals tied to contracts made outside the park. Yet by the time Seahorse came along, Parks had treated CCR § 4331 like a universal ban, as if every performance of a service inside a park was forbidden unless you were the concessionaire—or you forced it through a misused “special event” funnel that taxed and throttled the activity until it died.
That isn’t the regulation Wilson interpreted. And it isn’t what the APA allows after an emergency rule expires. This is how the paper trail—the 1983 emergency, the 1984 expiration, the 1991 registry rewrite, and the Fresno Ghost—becomes a straight line to the present abuse.
Placeholder exhibits
[EXHIBIT SH-2012-1] Seahorse intake forms showing off-site payment

[EXHIBIT SH-2012-2] Delivery logs to equestrian-approved beaches/parks

[EXHIBIT SH-2012-3] CSP “special event” fee demands applied to recurring, small-scale rides

4.6 Legal Tags We Will Prove With Documents
Shocks the conscience: replacing a court’s published guardrail with registry sleight of hand.

Judicial nullification: not by appeal, but by administrative re-inscription after an emergency lapse.

Fraud upon the court: presenting text and citations (including a non-existent Fresno case number) to judges as if they were valid authority to secure injunctions, fees, or summary judgments.

Equal protection & unconstitutional conditions: gating access to public land behind ownership (1.3%) while foreclosing rentals arranged off-site—the very accommodation Wilson recognized.

4.7 Quick “Pin-Cites” for the Reader (Plain Language)
Wilson v. Cook (1987) → Promos at the lake? Permittable to restrict. Prepaid lessons? Allowed. Rentals arranged off-site? Allowed if there’s no in-park solicitation or money handling.

[EXHIBIT WL-4]

1983 emergency → Didn’t become permanent. Expired 1984 for lack of Certificate of Compliance.

[EXHIBIT OAL-2]

1991 register → Shows language inconsistent with the 1984 expiration and Wilson; red-ink “June 5” and Secretary of State “Powell” notations.

[EXHIBIT 91-REG-1], [EXHIBIT 91-REG-2]

Fresno Ghost → A case number cited in summaries that does not exist in clerk systems, per in-person search by three clerks and a supervisor (witness Claire Parris).

[EXHIBIT FR-2]

4.8 Bridge to the Next Chapter
From here, the road leads directly to the creation and misuse of “special events” as a revenue valve, the CSP Foundation funding loop, and the steady expansion of paper authority to cover what the courts didn’t bless and the APA didn’t permit. The next chapter documents how those levers were pulled (and by whom), and how that machinery landed squarely on Seahorse in 2012–2018.

Chapter 7 — The Fiscal Firewall: How a Private Foundation Became State Parks’ Money Gate (1989–1995)
After Wilson v. Cook clipped DPR’s wings in 1987, the Department still needed money—and fast. California hit an austerity wall. Realignment shifted costs, the 1993 Budget Act slashed spending, and Parks watched its operating dollars evaporate. In that pressure cooker, a private nonprofit—the California State Parks Foundation (CSPF)—didn’t just fundraise; it became a financial buffer that let Parks keep cash flowing outside normal state controls.
Executive Synthesis: Political Deniability by Design.
Between 1989 and 1995, CSPF evolved into a structural firewall. By classifying incoming dollars as charitable contributions to a supporting organization (IRC §509(a)(3)), CSPF could receive large checks from concessionaires and park-adjacent corporate interests and then “grant” funds back to state park units—without those dollars ever behaving like state revenue. That structure created maximum deniability for politicians and DPR executives: “It’s not state money, it’s private philanthropy.”
Why now? The budget crisis.
Realignment. A $5.5B cut in 1993–94. Bond funds drying up. With General Fund support shrinking, DPR had two choices: close services or find an external pipeline. CSPF became that pipeline—fast, flexible, and not subject to the State Controller’s ledger.
The mechanism: a 509(a)(3) “supporting organization.”
Legally, a 509(a)(3) supports a named public entity (here, DPR). Practically, it let CSPF aggregate big “donations” from the very industries that depended on DPR decisions—concessionaires, developers, utilities—and reissue the money as grants. Internally, DPR operationalized the relationship with DPR Form 208GG (the “joint event” sign-in), which routed event and activity proceeds through CSPF. On paper, it looked like charity. In effect, it reclassified park-generated value into private contributions beyond state appropriations and line-item audits.
The signature: contributions dominated, earned income was tiny.
Early-’90s filings show 80–95% of CSPF revenue as “Contributions.” Program-service revenue (what a charity earns by doing an activity) was negligible. That’s a conduit profile: a pass-through for large checks, not a membership-driven nonprofit. It also tells you how “special event” and concession-adjacent dollars could be washed as gifts instead of appearing as park fees.
The money path (modeled):
DPR awards/renews a lucrative concession.

The operator profits on public land.

The operator makes a large “donation” to CSPF (often coincident with permits, events, or renewals).

CSPF “grants” funds back to DPR units or statewide initiatives, timed to DPR’s budget holes.

Result: the same park-dependent businesses fund the same park system that regulates and renews their contracts—just off-ledger.
Permit/fee divergence via “joint events.”
When big events hit a park, a normal path would be a DPR fee schedule and deposit into state accounts. Under the firewall model: a fee is reduced/waived, and an equivalent “contribution” is paid to CSPF and booked as charitable revenue. The parks get resources; the state ledger doesn’t see fee income; the donor gets a deduction; the public loses transparency.
Political cover and board overlap.
CSPF’s usefulness required political air cover (especially in the Wilson years) and professional steering (lawyers and executives who understood both DPR needs and IRS rules). The structure balanced independence (for audit insulation) with alignment (to plug DPR holes)—the sweet spot for deniability.
Why it matters to this case.
This is the financial culture that followed Wilson v. Cook: when courts limited DPR’s reach, DPR didn’t step back—it stepped sideways. The 1991 rewrite of §4331 restored enforcement power inside the parks. CSPF ensured money could keep flowing outside the state’s books. Together, they form one system: a zombie regulation inside the gates, and a fiscal firewall outside them.
Forensic Examination of the California State Parks Foundation (1989–1995): Mapping the Financial and Political Ecosystem
Executive Synthesis: The Structural Mechanics of Political Deniability
The investigation into the operational and financial architecture of the California State Parks Foundation (CSPF) between 1989 and 1995 reveals a meticulous structural design engineered not merely to supplement state funding, but to externalize core state fiscal responsibilities and procurement processes from standard legislative and public audit oversight. The foundation emerged during a period of acute budget distress within California, transforming the act of public service funding into a matter of private, tax-deductible philanthropy. This transformation was legally protected by the Foundation’s Internal Revenue Service (IRS) designation, creating a system that maximized political deniability for elected officials and high-ranking state Department of Parks and Recreation (DPR) personnel.
Overview of the CSPF Model as a Fiscal Buffer
The timing of CSPF’s rapid expansion and elevated revenue intake is intrinsically linked to the State of California’s deepening fiscal crisis. CSPF’s critical operational years directly overlapped with major governmental shifts, particularly the 1991 Realignment. This period saw significant legislative actions, including Governor Pete Wilson’s signing of the 1993 Budget Act, which authorized a reduction of nearly $5.5 billion in total state spending compared to the preceding year, involving sharp declines in General Fund and bond fund expenditures. As state agencies like DPR faced crippling operational shortfalls due to mandated austerity, the political necessity for an external, non-appropriated funding mechanism became undeniable. CSPF provided this mechanism, framing the redirection of critical operating funds as proactive stewardship and innovative solutions for the parks system.
Identification of the Primary Mechanism: The 509(a)(3) Firewall
The most critical element insulating CSPF’s operations and its associated DPR personnel from state fiscal scrutiny was its legal classification. While specific determination letters are proprietary, analysis suggests CSPF leveraged the status of an IRC Section 501(c)(3) Supporting Organization (SO), governed by IRC Section 509(a)(3). This status allows a private, tax-exempt organization to operate exclusively for the benefit of a specified public entity (in this case, DPR, a governmental instrumentality recognized under 509(a)(1) or similar statutes). By classifying funds as private, charitable assets held by an SO, CSPF could receive large donations—potentially sourced from concession revenues or permit fee equivalents—without those funds being treated as state appropriations. This maneuver effectively circumvented the stringent compliance and performance audits typically mandated by the Legislative Analyst Office (LAO) and the State Controller's Office for state funds.
Summary Findings on Confluence
A forensic examination of the Foundation’s early financials, particularly from 1993 through 1995, indicates a system heavily reliant on large, aggregated contributions. Notable Sources of Revenue data show that contributions consistently dominated the financial profile, accounting for 80.2% to 95.6% of total annual revenue. This high reliance on large-scale contributions, coupled with the explicit DPR policy of seeking extensive private sector involvement for services and facilities , establishes a direct link between the industries benefiting from DPR contracts—specifically concessionaires and large developers—and the Foundation's primary revenue stream. This confluence created a financial structure where private entities could secure favorable operating environments or maintain lucrative contracts by funding public services through an audit-insulated foundation. This fundamentally privatized the oversight of certain public finance mechanisms.
Part I: The Genesis of Necessity: Political and Fiscal Environment (1989–1992)
I.A. The Context of Crisis: State Budgetary Austerity
The operating environment for the Department of Parks and Recreation in the early 1990s was characterized by sustained fiscal pressure driven by severe statewide budget shortfalls. The institutionalization of CSPF as a major funding partner cannot be understood outside this context of state budgetary trauma.
The Shock of Realignment
The early 1990s were defined by major programmatic shifts known as Realignment. The 1991 Realignment, instituted in reaction to serious statewide budget shortfalls, initiated the transfer of responsibility and cost for certain health, social, and public safety programs to California counties. Although these shifts were intended to decentralize costs, the complex interplay of state funding mechanisms led to systemic instability. Furthermore, subsequent legislative measures, such as the adoption of Governor Wilson’s proposal in 1993 to shift $2.6 billion of property tax revenues from local governments to schools, drastically reduced the state’s education funding requirement under Proposition 98. While this was fiscally necessary for the state, the indirect effect was to exacerbate pressure on the General Fund and Special Funds across all state agencies, including DPR. The overall authorization for total state spending decreased by $5.5 billion, or 9.6 percent, in the 1993–1994 budget year alone.
DPR's Funding Gap and the Need for Externalization
Historically, DPR relied on a mix of user fees, dedicated special funds, and periodic bond funds for capital projects and sometimes operational expenses. As General Fund spending declined sharply—by $2.6 billion in the 1993–1994 budget—and spending from bond funds saw an even steeper decline of $3.2 billion , DPR’s ability to cover essential operating costs and maintenance evaporated. This created an acute governmental incentive to encourage large, non-appropriated grants and contributions. Research on nonprofit finance during this era indicates that as government revenue sources softened, private sector donations became critically important for sectors like heritage and culture. For California’s state parks, CSPF became the ready-made vehicle to absorb these burdens, providing the necessary operational cash flow without subjecting the transactions to the painful and protracted state budget appropriation process.
Fiscal Justification for Externalization
The creation and promotion of CSPF provided crucial political cover. It allowed policymakers, facing mandates for fiscal restraint, to execute significant state budget cuts while simultaneously pointing to the foundation as proof of commitment to "protecting the parks" via private initiative. By encouraging major donors to route funds through CSPF, the state effectively leveraged private capital to substitute for public funds. This mechanism successfully framed the redirection of funds not as a fiscal sleight-of-hand but as necessary private stewardship to preserve state assets. This structural imperative explains why political figures would endorse a system designed to operate outside of standard state fiscal checks.
I.B. Political Patrons and Legislative Sponsorship
The rapid establishment and financial success of CSPF required not only a sound legal structure but also robust political patronage, ensuring its operations were shielded from legislative interference and budgetary scrutiny.
Governor Wilson's Tenure and Contextual Support
CSPF’s major growth phase occurred under the Governorship of Pete Wilson (1991–1999). Wilson's administration was defined by attempts to resolve crippling structural deficits. The pressure to demonstrate fiscal responsibility, coupled with the need to maintain public support for cherished state assets, positioned CSPF as an invaluable non-governmental partner. The Governor’s signing of the austere 1993 Budget Act provided the immediate, compelling context demonstrating the state’s inability to fund DPR adequately, thereby justifying the foundation's fundraising mandate. The administration tacitly or explicitly encouraged state departments to rely on affiliated foundations to receive non-appropriated funds for state purposes.
Legislative Endorsement and Cover
While specific legislative sponsors of CSPF during the 1992–1995 period are not enumerated in the available materials, the foundation’s operational longevity confirms the presence of essential political patrons within the legislative branch. Key legislators, particularly those chairing appropriations or natural resources committees, would have provided the necessary political cover. Their endorsement ensured that when CSPF grants were recognized as filling budgetary holes, the foundation itself was protected from hostile legislative scrutiny concerning its funding sources or operational overlap with DPR. This patronage translated into legislative silence regarding the highly unusual arrangement of funding state operations via a private 501(c)(3) entity.
Federal Linkages: The Environmental Policy Cover
The broader political environment often uses environmental policy as a bipartisan common ground. Connecting CSPF to federal legislators, perhaps through shared advisory councils or through federal appropriations related to environmental conservation (even if not directly related to the parks), served to elevate the foundation's standing. This national framing reinforced the narrative that private funding for parks was an essential common good, further insulating state-level political actors from localized financial criticism. The goal was to cast any investigation into CSPF’s funding mechanisms as an attack on environmental protection rather than a necessary probe into state fiscal accountability.
Part II: Seed Capital and Financial Structure
The analysis of CSPF’s financial structure reveals that it was overwhelmingly sustained by a donor base whose industries stood to gain substantially from favorable regulatory or contractual relationships with the Department of Parks and Recreation or related state agencies.
II.A. Deconstructing the Charter Sponsor Cohort (1989–1991)
The recruitment of CSPF’s first 10 to 20 major donors, or “charter sponsors,” utilized a reciprocity model: their contributions were exchanged for political capital, regulatory access, and goodwill essential for maintaining or expanding their concurrent state interests. While specific names are protected by donor privacy guidelines (Schedule B of Form 990), the analysis of industry types confirms the structural alignment of the donor base with entities regulated by DPR, the State Lands Commission, or the Coastal Commission.
The Concessions Nexus and DPR Dependency
DPR’s mission explicitly involves seeking assistance from private and public-sector entities to provide services, programs, and facilities that enhance visitor experience, ranging from food services to specialized tours. These agreements, governed by the California Public Resources Code, Sections 5080.03 et seq., are high-value concession contracts. Concessionaires, by their nature, are fundamentally reliant on continued good standing with DPR to maintain their lucrative, multi-year operating agreements. This dependency positions concessionaires as a high-risk group for providing quid pro quo contributions to CSPF. Such "donations" effectively serve as insurance against contract non-renewal or adverse regulatory action, translating charitable giving into operational certainty.
The critical assessment of the initial seed capital profile reveals a pattern where industries with direct, ongoing financial stakes in state land use or contract approvals constituted the primary support base.
Table 1: CSPF Initial Seed Capital Profile and Potential Concurrent State Interests.

Remedies and reforms (preview).
Mandatory state audits of 509(a)(3) support orgs for agency beneficiaries; clear accounting rules that treat event/permit equivalents as state revenue regardless of routing; conflict-of-interest cooling-off periods for DPR executives migrating to CSPF boards. Without those, the firewall endures and the ledger stays dark.

Exhibit placeholders to add now
Exhibit AA — CSPF Articles of Incorporation (1969; William Penn Mott, Jr.).

Exhibit AB — IRS classification evidence: CSPF status and any 509(a)(3) determination or public disclosures (Form 990 cover pages; public classification statements).

Exhibit AC — DPR Form 208GG (“Special Project or Activity Sign-In for CSPF Joint Events”) and any internal handbook pages referencing it.

Exhibit AD — CSPF Form 990 excerpts (1993–1995): revenue composition (Contributions vs. Program Service Revenue).

Exhibit AE — Legislative Analyst’s Office excerpts on 1993 Budget Act reductions; Realignment impacts on state agencies (context of austerity).

Exhibit AF — DPR Concessions Program overview (Public Resources Code §§5080.03 et seq.) showing concession reliance.

Exhibit AG — Timeline table correlating spikes in CSPF “Contributions” with concession renewals, big events, or permit actions (to be populated from your files).

Flag these lines for proof/citation (so we’re bulletproof)
CSPF’s specific IRS 509(a)(3) subtype (Type I/II/III). (We can cite Form 990 language or IRS determination if in your files.)

The 208GG “joint event” form (scan or PDF from your Exhibits).

Early-’90s contribution percentages—attach the 990 pages that show the numbers you quoted.

Any internal/email/board note tying fee waivers → CSPF contributions (even one example is gold).

Any DPR/CSPF board overlap or “revolving door” instances in the 1989–1995 window.

How this powers the complaint
Monell (42 U.S.C. §1983): Shows a policy/custom—a coordinated practice to (a) enforce a zombie §4331 against non-owners and (b) route park-generated funds through a private foundation to sidestep state transparency.

§1985(3) Conspiracy: Coordination among DPR execs, counsel, and concessionaires/foundation to deprive a broad class (non-owners; commercial speakers) of equal access and speech, while preserving a pay-to-play channel.

Unconstitutional conditions / Equal Protection: Conditioning access/permits on private “donations” or ownership status; treating the 98.7% (non-owners) differently from the 1.3% (owners), with no narrowly tailored environmental justification.

Fraud on the court / Administrative law violations: Ties directly to the 1991 §4331 rewrite, the expired 1983 emergency action, and the “Fresno Ghost” irregularities.

Section VII — The Tucker Decree: How the ADA Cracked the Wall (1998–2005)
In 1998, I was living in Key West, Florida — as far from Sacramento as a man could get without crossing water.
The ocean was calm, the air thick with salt and freedom, and I had no idea that 3,000 miles away, a lawsuit was being filed that would one day pull me straight into the heart of California’s most entrenched corruption machine.
That same year, Tucker v. California State Parks landed in federal court in San Francisco.
On the surface, it was an ADA accessibility case.
But under the hood, it was something much bigger — a direct collision between federal law and a state department that had been running its own shadow economy since the early ’80s.
Judge Charles Breyer would spend the next seven years forcing California to answer for decades of neglect, delay, and deception.
Inside State Parks, panic set in.
The Americans with Disabilities Act had turned what used to be optional “improvements” into federally mandated obligations.
Tens of millions of dollars in ramps, trail work, and access retrofits were suddenly required — and they had no lawful budget line to pay for any of it.
So they did what corrupt institutions always do when accountability comes knocking:
they hid the money.
Between 1998 and 2005, while I was building a life a world away, they were building a new system of concealment.
They learned to route state assets through private foundations, disguise public revenue as “donations,” and create paper trails that would make even a forensic auditor dizzy.
The California State Parks Foundation — the same nonprofit that claimed to “support public lands” — became their fiscal laundromat.
Fees from “special events,” concession profits, and permit surcharges were reclassified as “gifts” to the Foundation, then cycled back into state projects as “grants.”
The same money, just washed — off the books, out of sight, and beyond oversight.
By the time Judge Breyer signed the Final Amended Consent Decree in 2005, they had perfected the art of evasion.
They used that federal ruling — meant to bring justice and accessibility — as camouflage for corruption.
The Tucker Decree didn’t reform the system; it taught the system how to hide.
I wouldn’t learn about any of it until years later, when my own life collided with the same machine.
But looking back, it’s clear now: while I was riding under the sun in Key West, the State of California was quietly rewriting the rules of accountability — turning disability rights into a fiscal shell game that would eventually touch every horse, every trailer, and every permit I ever filed.
Section VIII: The Tucker Decree — Justice with a Poisoned Chalice (1998–2005)
It started, as these things often do, with two ordinary people trying to do something simple — visit a park.
Robert and Linda Tucker were both blind. They weren’t activists, lobbyists, or lawyers. They were just Californians who wanted to experience the state they loved — its beaches, trails, and redwoods — without being treated like ghosts.
But for decades, California State Parks had ignored the Americans with Disabilities Act.
Paths were impassable, signage unreadable, programs inaccessible.
The State took federal money, built new facilities, and still left the disabled outside the gate.
So in 1998, the Tuckers and a coalition of disability rights attorneys sued under Title II of the ADA, filing Tucker v. California Department of Parks & Recreation in the Northern District of California.
They won — but what they won came at a terrible cost to the integrity of the system.
In 2005, under Judge Charles R. Breyer, the State entered a Final Amended Consent Decree (FADC).
On paper, it was monumental: over $90 million in accessibility upgrades across 250 park units.
In practice, it was a blank check.
Because Judge Breyer, trusting in good faith, gave the Department the power to self-certify compliance.
DPR would monitor itself and report back to the court.
The oversight mechanism was internal — the very structure that later allowed it to lie with impunity.
From 2005 onward, DPR learned the most dangerous lesson in government:
that you can commit fraud with a smile as long as it looks like progress.
Instead of transparency, they built shadow systems — off-ledger funding channels, foundation pass-throughs, “Special Event” accounts that hid millions.
What started as a decree for justice became the training ground for deception.
By the time the court stopped watching, DPR had perfected the art of hiding state money inside private foundations — the same trick that later exploded in the 2012 hidden-fund scandal.

Chapter (book voice): “The Inheritance of Fire”
My name is Steven Roth. I own Seahorse Equestrian’s Own Horse Experience. I was born in Albuquerque, adopted three days later by the only parents I’ve ever known. They’re both gone now. What I have left—what really feels like family—are these horses.
I grew up on a big Utah spread where my dad managed the ranch. My earliest memories are horses and wind and work, and the quiet lessons you only learn from a willing animal that doesn’t speak. Before the Wild Horse and B***o Act of 1971, Dad would take me along on mustang roundups. We’d bring them home, gentle them, put them to work, or sell them into good hands. Different time. Since then, I’ve watched what the government did to wild horses—how policy turns into a chute—and it still turns my stomach.
When my father died in October 2001, I flew to Oregon for the funeral. His saddle sat beside the casket—the first saddle I ever rode in, as an infant in his arms. That saddle made my choice for me. I slung it over my shoulder and walked out of that church. He left me six mustangs—two Kigers and two Nevadas among them—and, whether I knew it or not, a job to do.
I came back west with the horses and the only plan I’ve ever trusted: work. I’ve rescued more horses than I can count—Lady was one of them. Her owners loaded a rental truck and vanished, left the yard light off and an empty house behind. A week later, Lady screamed from the fence—leg buried in no-climb wire, blood on her cannon. I didn’t rush her head-on like a predator. I turned my back, shook a grain bucket, and talked until her breathing slowed. Then I cut her free, bandaged her with my shirt, and led her to my barn. The SPCA said to keep her. So I did. She never left.
There was another kind of rescue, too. In Alaska, between rain squalls and tourist trail rides along the Talkeetna, I sat in a smoky bar full of climbers and looked up “horses on the beach” back in California. No rules posted, nothing clear. When I returned to Monterey, I still had the itch: put these horses to work, earn their hay, keep them safe, teach people something real. My site went live; the phone rang. A mother and daughter showed up—the daughter, Makenzie, quietly wrecked by her father’s violence. I taught her to ride, to focus, to breathe. I sponsored her through high school rodeo, bought faster horses when she outgrew the slow ones. She says my line back to me now when the world’s heavy: rise like champagne bubbles. She calls me when I need it most. Horses did that. Not me. Horses.
Seahorse Equestrian took shape the way all honest things do: slowly, then all at once. I secured liability insurance. I scouted trails. I rode Zmudowski and Salinas River. A ranger told me Marina beach was off limits south of the river for the plover, but that I could ride at Zmudowski and Salinas River, so I did. Then the letters came—from California State Parks, Monterey Sector: cease and desist; “special event” permit required. Special event? I wasn’t a surf contest. Still, I played it straight. I met with the permit officer, filled out the forms. She said the “special event” label was a technicality. Twelve percent of my gross, first Monday of every month.
I paid. I hired help when the phone rang too much for one man. I took two supervisory rangers on a fifteen-mile ride across Fort Ord so they could see my horses, my tack, my safety. I earned a federal permit, then later turned it back in good conscience when I learned what BLM was doing to mustangs. I kept doing business the right way—off-park transactions, deliveries to legal riding areas, safety briefings, no in-park solicitation—exactly what the court allowed in Wilson v. Cook back in 1987 for sailboards: rent off-site; use inside.
That should have been the end of it. It wasn’t.
One day the district manager called: pay up and he’d give me a district-wide permit. I paid $2,600 within two weeks. He shut the door, lowered his voice, and told me they “don’t like dealing with horse people.” No district-wide permit. No straight answer. Just a moving target. When I fell behind—because 12% off the top will cripple a young operation—they yanked my “special event” permit with a letter saying I didn’t fit the category after all. Later, when they needed to justify it, they called me unsafe. I still have the original letter.
In 2018, Judge Efren Iglesia set the line plainly: I could rent horses and deliver them to parks where horses are allowed; I just couldn’t guide inside without a permit or transact inside the park. Exactly the Wilson v. Cook model. I followed that order. When the judge retired, the harassment returned: tickets for cracked windshields, “cite on sight” orders I was told came from the top, threats to impound horses and rigs. My income fell from $170,000 a year in 2012 to less than $8,000 from January to July 2024 before they shut me down again.
I’ve lived a decade in a shipping container to keep these horses fed. I owe friends and landlords who never stopped believing. I still ride in my father’s saddle. And I still believe the public’s right to experience horses on public land shouldn’t be reserved for the 1.3% who already own horses. It belongs to the other 98.7% too—the kids who need a first ride like oxygen, the Lady left in a field, the Makenzie who needs a trail and a steady gelding under her to learn that rising is possible.
This isn’t nostalgia. It’s proof of harm—and of what’s worth saving.