What had become, to me, a few hours of reading entertainment was actually the crash and burn of someone’s life. Admittedly, I wasn’t all that worried about how Jason Collier was holding up. As an outsider looking in, I couldn’t find any sympathy for the man, when he had brought all of this upon himself.
His children? They were the innocents, the ones who hadn’t asked for any of this drama to overtake and upend their lives, but that was exactly what was happening. And as I continued to watch—albeit from more of a distance at this point—I saw the damage someone seemed to enjoy inflicting as they destroyed these children’s lives with each post and interview she participated in.
Lonnie, who was still trapped within the flames of the dumpster fire we had both fallen into, reached out to Jason, and it was then that I reminded myself there are always three sides to every story.
His.
Hers.
And somewhere, mixed into all of the bullshit from either side, the truth.
Lonnie convinced me that we needed to give Jason a voice, and after some internal struggling, I agreed. Not because of him, but because of the injustice, the pain and humiliation others were inflicting—apparently without remorse—on those who were the true innocents and victims in this train wreck.
We knew that someone would tell Jason’s story. Whether it was us or some tabloid or even a more reputable magazine. There was no stopping that train, I don’t care what anyone says. But at least this way, we knew what would be printed, and we could ensure the children would be taken care of with the majority of any proceeds.
This is Jason’s truth. In his own words. Lonnie and I have worked together to present to you a variation of the story you were so wrapped up in. Because, admit it. You fell down that rabbit hole right along with us back in January. It’s why you’re reading this now.
Is it fucked up?
Definitely.
Do I condone what he did?
No! No, a million times no—see, I’m back to being overdramatic. Sigh.
But does he deserve to have his story told?
Well, fuck, people. Wouldn’t you want your story told if given the chance?
1
From the City of Stinnett, Texas, Facebook Page
“Facebook User” doesn’t recommend City of Stinnett.
Jan 26 at 10:40 AM
“Chief Jason Collier is living a double/triple life. I was his girlfriend until yesterday. He lied to me and presented me with fake annulment documents when I found out he was married. I also found out about a 2nd girlfriend, Stephanie, last night. He has lied to us, our children, and asked us both to marry him. He is a poor representative of your town. He would also visit me in Amarillo when he was on shift. We just returned from vacation in Taos on Sunday—meanwhile, his other GF was told he was on work assignment in Portland, OR.”
That post was suddenly worldwide news, and I, Jason Brent Collier, at the age of forty-one, was now the meme that was taking over the internet. Only the day before, it was still Bernie Sanders, sitting in that chair at President Biden’s inauguration, looking chilled to the bone in his winter coat and mittens. Social media was overrun with people joking that they thought dear old Bernie would be the meme that “Brought America Together Again,” but apparently it was me. Pictures of me and coffeepots, me and a cardboard bride in her wedding dress with the face cut out so that tourists could add their own, not to mention the songs I was now featured in on not only Facebook, but YouTube as well.
People who didn’t know me were making timelines of all the women I was supposedly dating, engaged to, or even reportedly married to and had a child with. Some of these people, I didn’t even know…
But unfortunately, several of them I did, in fact, know.
Not just in passing, but in the biblical sense.
Because I wasn’t innocent in the chaos that was now taking over my life after a single vindictive post placed on the Facebook page for the City of Stinnett, Texas, where I was the police chief. I had a moment of insanity—admittedly, that moment evolved into several months—but the man the world was currently tearing apart limb from limb wasn’t the real me.
I was the shy, quiet boy who grew up in Hereford, Texas, “Beef Capital of the World,” which was located about forty-eight miles southwest of Amarillo. My dad, Jerry, was a Vietnam War veteran and owned a full-service gas station where I had my first job at the age of seven, pumping gas. And when I was tall enough, I started doing oil changes and washing the cars that came in for service.
He and my mom, Carole, were married in April of 1970, and I was their second son. Everyone respected them and knew my brother and me because we worked at the station. In the 1990s, they sold the station and started a car dealership. When they bought vehicles at auctions, I would travel with a group of older men, and we would drive the cars back. I had several other small jobs after that, even learned how to weld from my cousin, but I always knew I wanted to be a cop.
Working at the gas station, seeing the cops come in for service, I fell in love with the cars and admired the respect the officers got from others in our community. While I was in high school, I went through jailer’s school, and afterward, I worked for a while at the Potter County Jail. I was never promoted, but I was steadily given more and more responsibilities.
At the age of twenty-one, I attended the Panhandle Regional Police Academy through Amarillo College, while still working full time. I would work the night shift then go
