Garfield shooter's instability, extreme ideology likely contributed to violent confrontation

Before a tense, six-hour standoff Wednesday captured Pittsburgh’s attention and ended with the death of William Hardison Jr., there were several warning signs that a confrontation with him likely wouldn’t go smoothly.

Probation records, legal documents and social media history all point to an unstable life filled with run-ins with police, housing insecurity, potential mental health problems and evidence that Hardison adhered to an extremist ideology that made him believe he did not have to follow American laws.

“He had some unusual, bizarre legal theories and ideologies,” said defense attorney T. Brent McCune. “Nobody really anticipated anything like this.”

‘No interest in talking’

Wednesday’s standoff at 4817 Broad St. in Garfield started when seven Allegheny County sheriff’s deputies showed up to evict Hardison, 63, based on a court order.

Deputies deliver 300 to 400 eviction notices each year, the sheriff’s office said. Actual physical evictions, like the one attempted Wednesday in Garfield, don’t typically result in confrontations, according to Allegheny County Sheriff Kevin Kraus.

“We do evictions all the time,” he said. “Certainly, if we had information he had guns in the house and would use that level of force against the police, we wouldn’t have put a deputy at the door.

“Based on everything that transpired at the scene, we believe he was waiting for us to come in the house,” Kraus said.

The seven deputies arrived at the Broad Street address at 10:30 a.m. and spent 20 minutes knocking on the door and trying to call Hardison outside, Kraus said.

“We didn’t know if he was in there or not,” he continued. “As soon as we opened the door, he was standing with a rifle in his hand. He started firing.

“It’s amazing nobody got hit.”

The deputies returned fire and dove for cover, but two of them got pinned down, Kraus said.

When Pittsburgh SWAT officers arrived a short time later, Kraus said they were able to get the deputies to safety.

The gunfight — in which it is estimated thousands of rounds of ammunition were fired — lasted for more than six hours. As it unfolded, the sheriff’s office flew two drones with video and thermal-imaging cameras into the house through windows to try to pinpoint Hardison’s location and movements inside, but Hardison managed to disable both of them, Kraus said.

Hardison also shot down several other drones outside the home that were operated by city police.

At 5:08 p.m., Hardison was pronounced dead. The medical examiner’s office said Thursday it appeared he had been shot by law enforcement.

Seventy-five officers involved in the gunfight, from the city, county and sheriff’s office, remain on administrative leave while state police investigate.

“It’s clear he intended to kill cops that day,” Kraus said. “He had no interest in talking. His only interest appeared to be opening fire on our deputies when they arrived.”

Some have been critical of how police handled the situation, believing things could have ended peacefully if family members had been given more of an opportunity to communicate directly with Hardison during the standoff.

William Hardison Jr.’s son, also named William Hardison, told Tribune-Review news partner WTAE-TV during the standoff that his father could be stern and fights for what he believes in. He told the television station that his father believed the Broad Street house should belong to him.

In a plea, the younger Hardison said, “Please surrender, please give up. You have children and grandchildren. I love you dearly. Please stand down.”

Multiple family members have declined interview requests since the standoff. The Tribune-Review spoke to Hardison’s nephew, Rayshawn, who wouldn’t share his last name but had photos of himself and Hardison on his Facebook page. He said the family is devastated by Hardison’s death.

“They are going through tragedy right now, they are broken,” he said.

Extreme ideology

Hardison had a lengthy criminal history marked by misdemeanor charges such as simple assault, fleeing police, drug possession, disorderly conduct and traffic violations. A 2019 arrest for carrying a firearm without a license resulted in a felony conviction.

Under Pennsylvania law, none of those offenses prohibited Hardison from possessing a firearm. Under federal law, however, Hardison would not have been permitted to have a gun.

In the 2019 case, Wilkinsburg police said they tried to pull over a pickup driven by Hardison on Nov. 26, 2019, after he failed to stop at two red lights. Hardison pulled over a couple of streets away and started to walk off.

“(Hardison) stated, ‘I don’t answer to you,’ and continued to walk away,” police wrote in a criminal complaint, adding that Hardison “continuously stated that he was a ‘Moor’ and that he doesn’t answer to police … (and) that he was not in our jurisdiction.”

Police found a loaded handgun inside the pickup, as well as bullets and brass knuckles, the complaint said.

In July 2022, Hardison pleaded guilty and was ordered to serve two years’ probation.

Defense attorney T. Brent McCune, who represented Hardison in that case, said he hadn’t spoken to Hardison since he was sentenced but remembered his client well.

“I remember him pacing around my conference table, sweat pouring off his brow,” the attorney said, describing Hardison as “a very intense person, hard to handle, stubborn.

“It’s kind of his way or no way,” McCune said.

McCune recounted Hardison’s belief that he was a Moorish citizen.

Hardison believed that if he pulled out his Moroccan flag, it was a free pass or, as McCune described it, an “innate sovereign right to travel that the state, PennDOT, the federal government could not infringe on.”

A video posted on YouTube in May 2019 shows Hardison in a confrontation with Pittsburgh police, repeatedly telling people he is a Moor and waving a Moroccan flag out the window of a white pickup. Moorish sovereign citizens believe a fictitious 1787 treaty between the United States and Morocco grants them immunity from U.S. law, according to the Southern Poverty Law Center.

“You got no jurisdiction over me. We are Moors,” Hardison could be heard saying in the 2019 video.

Hardison spent several minutes swearing at police, saying he could sue them and repeating that they had no jurisdiction. Eventually, officers stepped up to view a piece of paper Hardison was holding. They then allowed him to drive off without following.

Rachel Goldwasser, an analyst for the Southern Poverty Law Center, said the paper is likely a Moorish name declaration, which Moorish sovereign citizens believe grants them independence from American laws.

Kraus said sheriffs were aware that Hardison identified as a Moorish sovereign citizen and that he had a disdain for law enforcement. Kraus said that led the sheriff’s office to increase the number of officers they sent to evict him, but he said he didn’t expect the incident to become violent.

“We knew it could become a challenging conversation, but we certainly didn’t expect what we were up against at the door of that residence,” Kraus said.

Moorish sovereign citizens have a recent history of violent encounters with police, Goldwasser said. The FBI classified all sovereign citizen movements as domestic terrorists in 2010.

In August 2017, authorities said John Jones Bey shot at constables in Indianapolis when they were serving him with eviction papers. Authorities managed to coax Bey out of the home after a three-hour standoff. Before that incident, he attempted to sue the state of Indiana for $11.5 billion, claiming his status as a sovereign citizen entitled him to the money.

Goldwasser said many Moorish sovereign citizens tend to stick to themselves, but there are recent instances where they have organized.

In 2021, a group of heavily armed men refused to show police licenses for their firearms, claiming they didn’t recognize U.S. laws. A nine-hour standoff ensued. They were later identified as being part of a group called Rise of The Moors, which claims on its Facebook page that it has more than 1,400 members.

“There have been multiple events with Moors and crime and confrontations with law enforcement,” Goldwasser said.

Marked by instability

McCune said Hardison served in the military and was proud of his honorable discharge. Military officials were unable to confirm on Friday what branch Hardison served in and when.

While the gun case was pending, McCune suggested to Hardison that he could enter the Veterans Court program, but Hardison wasn’t interested because of its more intense supervision.

McCune said he believed Hardison suffered from mental health issues, but none serious enough to prohibit him from pleading guilty in his case.

“I didn’t feel he was insane,” the attorney said. “He’s not the first sovereign citizen client I’ve represented.”

When they appeared in court shortly after George Floyd was killed in Minnesota, McCune recalled that Hardison wore a covid mask and then shouted in the courtroom, “I can’t breathe,” which is what Floyd said as police killed him.

McCune described Hardison’s behavior as bizarre.

According to county probation records, when officers first contacted Hardison after his sentencing, they suspected he had mental health issues — noting he believed police were infiltrating his computer. Hardison denied having any mental health issues.

For the first several months on probation, the records showed Hardison had regular phone contact with probation officers and saw them in person multiple times.

In September, he told probation he was living in a homeless shelter. In November, he reported working with a local veterans program to secure housing.

Probation officers visited him at a Wilkinsburg residence in April of this year. In May, officers spoke to him at the Broad Street address in Garfield.

Hardison’s nephew Rayshawn said he would help people move to earn money. He also collected Social Security disability payments, the probation records said.

However, in June, Hardison expressed civil rights concerns to the probation office for constantly contacting him. He became irate and told officers he would file a federal complaint against them, records showed.

The records said Hardison missed requested appearances with probation officers Aug. 3 and 17.

On Aug. 11, Hardison sent probation a text message that he wasn’t a “straw man,” a reference to a term used by sovereign citizens to describe a fictitious entity that is responsible for legal actions — separate from a person’s physical being.

Probation told Hardison to report on Aug. 15. Although he did not appear that day, he did send a message that said, “William Hardison. Everything good.”

Probation officers also attempted to visit Hardison at the Broad Street house July 31, but no one answered, the records said.

Probation officers anticipated seeking a warrant for Hardison for violating his probation but had not done so before Wednesday’s events.

Goldwasser said it’s common for sovereign citizens to experience financial and emotional instability, which can often lead people to embrace the extremist ideology. She said for people like Hardison who were already radicalized, a confrontation such as an eviction can be a trigger.

“Once you feel that you are blocked off, and you already feel that the U.S. government is illegitimate, it is much easier to get into this kind of situation,” she said.

“Hardison probably thought this was the best decision he could make, and it wasn’t.”