As my Apple Watch vibrated my wrist, jolting me from a deep sleep, I sighed in anticipation of what fresh hell the day would bring.
I was in the middle of yet another storm of retaliation from the political extremists who had been the targets of my investigative reporting for more than two years. The latest characters, hardened neo-Nazis who were part of a group called the Goyim Defense League, were as angry as any I had ever seen.
They were looking for revenge for what I had done to them.
With a groan, I pulled myself from bed and headed downstairs in my pajamas and sock feet, quite sure that feeding our two young house cats was going to be as good as the day got. As part of our morning routine, I took perverse joy in making them beg for their breakfast. “Who’s hungry?” I would call out. To my ears, their responses delivered in unison sounded like singing.
It was certainly a lot more fun than the neo-Nazi livestream I had watched before going to bed.
The Hitler wannabes were angry that my reporting — about how GDL leader Jon Minadeo had worked his way into video chat rooms popular with children, where he berated kids of color and tried to recruit the White ones — had caused them to be deplatformed from their highly lucrative web domains.
Watch the original broadcast story below:
They had barely made it back on the air the night before after registering a new website.
Popping a disposable cup into my Keurig, I opened my iPhone, ready to confront whatever lay ahead.
As the coffee machine began to gurgle and gulp, the hot, brown liquid, pouring into my ceramic cup, my eyes immediately jumped to the long string of notifications from my X account. Normally, such a sight would be a source of satisfaction over some post having gone viral.
Something told me, though, these notifications would be the beginning of another difficult day in my ongoing journey into the world of hate.
“What the heck?” I sank down into a chair at the kitchen table with my freshly brewed coffee. What I saw on my phone was even worse than I had feared.
A newly formed account called @PhilsDeadWife had ripped off pictures from my late wife’s dormant Facebook page.
The header image was a family photo of Peggy and me with our son at the beach in happier days—before her yearslong battle with alcoholism tragically ended with her dying at home, alone with just her demons.
Looking at the website, I found myself fighting back grief that was welling up in my mind. The profile pic was one that was especially painful because in it I saw a woman so vastly different from the one with whom I had fallen in love three decades earlier. The physical ravages of years of drinking, from my perspective, were obvious; the look in her eyes seemed to reveal her inner pain.
Hoping my personal story might help others, I had openly talked about her disease and her tragic death.
Now, that transparency was being used as a weapon against me.
“This is why I drank myself to death! You always pick the wrong battles Phil,” the account had posted in response to a tweet about the neo-Nazis being deplatformed.
That account had posted a high-school picture of our son, now a young adult, with a caption saying he had “a soyed out loser freak” for a father. PhilsDeadWife added, “I’m so glad I’m dead because living with @PhilNvestigates was HELL!!!”
“Why did they have to bring my son into this?” I thought, anguished over the targeting of one of the best human beings I have ever known.
Despite all my professional accolades, raising such an incredible young man was my proudest accomplishment. I really did not care what they said about me— after all, it came with the mission that I had undertaken — but my son did not deserve to be drawn into this nightmare.
Later, another neo-Nazi account replied to one of my posts, “I heard your wife was gonna tell on you for being a paedophile and then she died.”
PhilsDeadWife replied, “It’s true!”
The account later tweeted at me again, “I’m haunting you from the grave for what you did to me Phil.”
“Good God!” I cupped my coffee in both hands and stared into the dark liquid that swirled inside, feeling as if I had just received a violent punch to the gut.
Like an old engine sputtering back to life, the trauma of having discovered Peggy’s lifeless body nearly 10 years earlier began to flare within my soul. It was a pain I had tried to suppress but, despite the passage of time, it was always there, waiting for a spark to re-ignite the trauma that lay dormant in my mind.
Soon, another newly created X account began taking shots at me.
“We’re coming for his family—got all the addresses,” tweeted @Troonkiller3000.
I knew from my research that “troon” was a despicable slur for a transgender woman.
Another post warned, “I found the gym Phil’s granddaughter goes to. We’re coming.”
It was some consolation that, in fact, I did not have a granddaughter.
Still, I was terrified the would-be stalker may have mistaken another relative for a granddaughter. My mind flashed to a young woman who did regularly go to a gym, praying that she was not someone the neo-Nazis had discovered.
The next day, Troonkiller3000 posted again. “I am coming for Phil and his entire family. Good luck hiding.” A few minutes later, the X account claimed, “I’ve murdered multiple self-hating whites and I’ll never be caught.”
Another post declared, “We’re coming to Phil to give him the Charlie Kirk treatment.”
My mind raced.
“What do I need to do to protect my family, to protect myself?” Because of my work, I already had excellent home security. “What am I missing?”
Eventually, I called my son to let him know about the threats, to urge him to be careful — just in case.
Was this a real cause for concern or, as my company’s security consultant called them, just “howlers” looking to make noise?
Of course, I would let the company know so they could make decisions about what might need to be done to beef up my personal security, and I would ask Nashville police to put my home on the list for extra patrols. I had no choice but to assume there might actually be someone coming for me and my family.
“Am I missing anything — anything at all? What else can I do?”
During his livestream the next night, GDL leader Jon Minadeo cautioned his followers that they should be careful in how they took their anger out on me.
Noting that direct threats could land them in legal trouble, he urged them not to say they wanted to “kill” me. Instead, he suggested another choice of words — as if coded language would protect them legally.
“We could say ‘bill them.’ We can say — um, what was it? — ‘bill them to debt.’ We could say stuff like that, but don’t make any threats,” Minadeo added.
One of his followers quickly responded in the onscreen chat, “Bill Phil.”
Others resorted to video game references they commonly used to disguise their malicious chatter.
“I hope Phil gets hit by a car in gta 5 online,” one person typed.
Another added, “I hope Phil dies on call of duty.”
When I later called out Minadeo online for how he had tried to hide behind such coded language, a pair of his followers chimed in.
“Bill Phil and his family,” one suggested.
Another added, “Who wants to help me bill @PhilNvestigates?
Attempting to process the twists and turns of each passing day, not knowing what might be next, I had come to the decision that I needed to go to the FBI.
Months before, I had sat through the federal trial for another GDL member who had been convicted on criminal charges for making much more veiled threats online against Nashville District Attorney General Glenn Funk.
That GDL member, David Bloyed, was later sentenced to three years in federal prison.
“These bastards just don’t ever seem to learn,” I thought, determined that this time I would not be their punching bag.
This time, I would do whatever I could to send them a message that, if you threaten me — and especially my family — there will be consequences.
At least, I hoped there would be.
So, what will come from the FBI investigation?
Almost four months later, I can honestly say I have no clue. Investigators are not allowed to tell me what they have done or plan to do.
Adding to the uncertainty is the chaos and politicization of today’s FBI and Department of Justice. A veteran FBI agent who had previously investigated GDL was walking away from the job just days after I first met with him and his team back in November. After his departure, the case continued to be worked by an experienced Metro Nashville police detective who was assigned to the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force. He has assured me the case is not closed.
As for Jon Minadeo, whom I confronted outside Nashville City Hall in July 2024, he has generally been careful in trying to provide himself with plausible deniability should any of his followers act out on the hate he tries to stir up.
He claims his racist and hate-filled rants are “for entertainment purposes only.”
What I do know is this:
If anyone ever makes any threats against me again, and especially against my family, I will do absolutely everything I can to ensure that they end up in handcuffs, hearing the door of a jail cell clanging behind them.
Hopefully for a very long time!
Even more importantly, some may think these sorts of threats and acts of intimidation work, that such tactics will deter me from doing my job.
To them, I say: YOU DON’T KNOW ME!!!
Instead, such efforts make me more determined — because I realize what is at stake for our democracy.
Turning away from doing what is right is simply not an option.
