The raid was preceded by a lawsuit against the club by the Pascua Yaqui Tribe, which runs its own casino and accused Lee of stealing the tribe's business. He's convinced that the tribe, directed by the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs, worked with the state to target him — though he admits he's got no proof of that. The club closed, and its two co-owners, Johnny Ray and Donna Rogers, later pleaded guilty to misdemeanor gambling violations.
Under state gaming director Brnovich, a lengthy investigation took place into another club linked to Lee, the Ace High Card Room and Social Club in Surprise. This time, Goddard charged Lee and two co-defendants with three felonies: conspiracy, illegal conduct of an enterprise, and giving advice or assistance to a gambling operation.
New Times
The Poker Union, at Union Hills and Seventh Avenue in Phoenix, offers tournaments and cash games nightly.
New Times
Fernando's Room (a.k.a. the Bosnian Social Club) at Northern and 34th avenues, has blacked-out windows that obscure the card tables inside.
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His partners, Ronald Curcio and Michael Orlando, pleaded guilty and agreed to testify against Lee at his trial. Orlando — a former New Jersey resident convicted of felonies in the 1980s, including illegal gambling, fraud, and conspiracy to commit extortion — described in his plea agreement how fees collected from players at the club were used to pay him, Curcio, and Lee.
As the eight-day trial began, Lee hoped to put to use his research about the "evil" BIA and his theories of why poker, even when played for money, isn't really gambling. His court-appointed attorney advised against the tactic, but it didn't matter: The prosecution moved to prevent Lee from using these concepts as a defense, and the judge agreed.
"I couldn't even mention the Bureau of Indian Affairs!" Lee fumes. "I'm being attacked by a criminal organization!"
In early February, Lee was convicted of on all three felony counts. Not a single reporter showed up to Lee's March 7 sentencing hearing, which embitters the former "rock 'n' roll judge." In a recent interview with him and Schnaubelt, Lee grumbled that perhaps the "gambling cartel" somehow influenced the news media to keep his story quiet.
Thanks to the Internet, he doesn't have to rely on anyone to get his message out. A couple of weeks after he was sentenced, Lee bought two new domain names and launched the websites www.convictatlarge.me and www.convictatlarge.com. Both help promote a book he's writing called, Out of Bounds: The Untold Story of the Arizona Poker War — Professional Poker Players vs. BIA Gambling Syndicate. He also muses on two other sites: www.icgpa.org and www.pokerplayerarmy.com.
In Out of Bounds, Lee expounds on his notion that the gambling status quo hurts Native Americans. He takes on Andrew Jackson, a "real douchebag" who gets the blame for Native American genocide. And more important to Lee's cause, he calls Jackson the founding father of the BIA gambling cartel. Abolishing the reservation system and handing Indian land to the Indians, without BIA involvement, has been a theme of Lee's since before his indictment. The book sample also calls out gaming chief Brnovich as the culprit who "personally led the effort to railroad" him and his association.
Another focus on www.convictatlarge.me is his renewed 2005 petition to the U.S. government, which he updated and posted online on November 23. In a long essay, he links his criminal case to the history of Jackson and what happened to the Indians:
"I now consider the case to be [an] opening salvo in a revival of the so-called Indian Wars fought against the indigenous tribes later enslaved by agents from the [BIA]."
Lee, who moved from Tombstone to a Tempe apartment in 2010, is appealing his conviction and insists that his goal of having the BIA abolished has a chance, if his conviction is overturned.
His light punishment, he believes, proves that the judge in his case, Bruce Cohen, became his ally upon seeing how the gaming department and the BIA treated him. He expects others will come around, too, if he can get enough people to listen.
But Lee has been harping on this issue for years, even writing a letter to Oprah Winfrey about the BIA, which he called "a goiter on Uncle Sam's neck" a few days after he was indicted in 2010. Lee doesn't believe that his campaign has made him foolish. Quite the contrary.
"The state has been made to look ridiculous," he insists. "They can't stop me from telling people they're a big bag of wind."
Lee — who lives on Social Security benefits, appears in poor health, and walks unsteadily with a cane — vows to keep up the fight until he can fight no more.
John Schnaubelt wrote in a September 17, 2010, post on an online poker forum that he had met and interviewed Harold Lee on camera that day for a possible documentary.
He defended Lee from snipes by other forum members: "He's not a crackpot, but a jackpot. Sorry to disappoint. He's pretty confident that he'll be able to defend himself against the DOG mafia. Don't be surprised when the state dismisses the charges rather than suffering the embarrassment they've brought upon themselves."
Of course, that didn't work out so great. Neither did Schnaubelt's own poker venture, The Tilted Jack, which he'd incorporated just days before Lee's indictment.