A Living Nightmare: My Family Was Destroyed by a Weaponized Government Under the Biden Regime

About the Author:
Tim Barton is a Texas real estate developer, father, entrepreneur, Trump supporter, and devout Christian who has survived targeted political persecution. His story reflects the lived reality of countless American citizens who have endured lawfare in the Biden-era weaponized justice system.

Background:
Timothy Barton, 62, a Texas real estate developer and outspoken supporter of President Donald Trump, who built a successful real estate development firm, JMJ Development, over 35 years ago, has seen his life unravel in a Kafkaesque nightmare. Once a respected entrepreneur and outspoken Trump supporter, Barton now stands as a stark example of how political vendettas can strip a man of everything—his wealth, his home, his business, and even the safety of his family—all for doing what he believed was right. Barton alleges that his cooperation with a 2019 investigation into a suspected Chinese money-laundering scheme has led to a relentless Department of Justice (DOJ) and Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) pursuit, costing him his business, home, and financial stability.

It was 2022, or maybe even earlier, when my life—and my family’s life—was ripped apart. The United States government, through its relentless attacks by the weaponized DOJ, decided I was the enemy. No jury, no trial, just a sudden, suffocating assault that left me questioning everything: my worth, my future, and my ability to protect my children and provide for my family.

They didn’t just come for me; they came for my son Max, my daughter Victoria, and my ex-wife Martine—everyone tied to me by blood or love. They tried to break me down and destroy my family, and despite the hardship, I’m still standing, fighting to expose the ugly truth and give a warning to other Americans: what can happen to me can and will happen to you if we don’t clear out the DOJ and end weaponized government.

I woke to a pounding on my door at 5 a.m., the kind that stops your heart. Six FBI agents, armed to the teeth, stormed in like they were raiding a cartel. They dragged me out, half-dressed, in a spectacle that felt ripped from the playbooks of Roger Stone or Jeff Clark’s arrests.

It was Friday, a calculated move to ensure I’d be locked up through the weekend, no bail hearing until Monday. When I asked one agent what this was about, he smirked, “You like the showtime we gave you?” Confused, I pressed him. “The bullhorn, the lights, the 5 a.m. raid,” he said. “The full showtime.”

The FBI’s theatrics weren’t just intimidation—they were psychological warfare. Now, every knock at my door sends a jolt through me. Is it them again? The FBI? Probation? They’ve broken me to the point where I flinch at shadows, haunted by the thought of their return.

It started with my face plastered across newspapers, my mugshot a daily spectacle. “Criminal,” they called me, in every publication that mattered. My name was poisoned. The FBI, the Department of Justice, and a pre-judgement receiver with his lead counsel Charlene Koonce wielded their power like a sledgehammer, smashing every piece of my existence.

They froze my bank accounts, blocked my credit cards, and seized my assets—my office building, my son’s property, even the microwave popcorn and toilet paper in my office. They auctioned it all off for pennies on the dollar, a public humiliation where strangers in Dallas, Texas, could pick through the scraps of my life. I’d stare at the auction website, dumbfounded, wondering how selling popcorn was justice.

The worst wasn’t the material loss; it was the emotional devastation. My son, my pride and joy, looked to me as his hero. He’d started his own projects, building a life I was proud of, but because he carried my blood, they targeted him too.

They seized his assets, threw him out of his home, and left him jobless. I’ll never forget the day he looked at me, his eyes full of confusion and pain, and asked, “Dad, why is this happening? You’re my everything, and you can’t protect me?” That moment broke me. As a father, nothing cuts deeper than admitting to your child that you’re powerless.

My daughter became our lifeline, working three jobs—her day job, bartending, even doing facial treatments—to keep us afloat. She paid for my cellphone, our food, and the roof over our heads in her cramped apartment. I’d wander the streets during her work-from-home hours, not wanting to burden her with my presence or the stress of my case. Imagine that: a father, once a provider, now a guest in his daughter’s home, afraid to overstay his welcome because if she lost her job, we’d all be homeless. The shame of it was crushing, but I couldn’t let it consume me. I had to keep going for her, for my son, for all of us.

The government’s grip tightened daily. When they let me out of jail without giving me a trial, it wasn’t freedom—it was a leash. I was under probation, drug-tested, spot-checked, and forbidden from leaving Texas without permission. My probation officer could barge into my home at any moment, and I had to report every dime I borrowed. They made sure I couldn’t rebuild. If I wanted a loan, I had to tell the lender, “The FBI will know you’re helping me.” No one would touch me. Friends fled at the sight of me, fearing the government’s plague would spread to them.

This is lawfare, plain and simple, a weaponization of the system to crush dissent. The SEC and DOJ haven’t even made a case against me, yet they’ve unleashed a pre-judgment receivership to strip me bare before a trial. The judge ordered the receiver to punish me for “previous bad acts,” though no jury has heard my case. No evidence, no due process—just a lawyer with unchecked power, tearing through my life like a predator eating what it kills.

Money was a constant terror. My lawyers demanded fees I couldn’t pay, threatening to abandon me if I didn’t come up with cash. I was begging for scraps—$100 here, $200 there—just to survive the week. My son and I moved into a rental property we were lucky to keep, but it was empty. For months, I slept on the floor, too broke for a bed. I’d see couches on the side of the road and haul them home, piecing together a semblance of normalcy. Every day was a calculation: What do I eat? What can my son eat? How do I stretch this $100 to next week?

Faith has kept me going. I turned to God, asking why I was being tested. I believe there’s a reason I’m still here, that my strength and will are meant to expose this darkness. This isn’t just about me—it’s about the countless others who don’t have my stamina, who crumble under the government’s relentless beatings. They destroy lives with military precision, then gag survivors with threats: “Speak, and we’ll come for you again.” That’s why no one talks. That’s why this keeps happening in America, hidden in the shadows.

But I’m not hiding. I’m not embarrassed to admit I slept on the floor, scavenged furniture, or begged for $100. That doesn’t define me. What defines me is my refusal to break. Every day I survive is a message to the government: You won’t stop me.

This is my call to America: Shine a light on this injustice. The government shouldn’t be allowed to dehumanize people, to destroy families, to auction off their popcorn and toilet paper, all without a trial. With new leadership under President Trump, we can expose this strategy for what it is—a vile, efficient machine that crushes lives and silences survivors. I’m standing up, not just for me, but for everyone who’s been broken and can’t speak. The sunlight is coming, and it’s time for the truth.