EXTREME PREJUDICE: The Terrifying Story of the Patriot Act and the Cover Ups of 9/11 and Iraq

by Susan Lindauer

  Still, prison’s prison. No defendant should ever get shipped off to a prison cell without a trial or a guilty plea. Nobody. Ever.

  My heart sighs to recall it, even today.

  All of that explains how on September 23, 2005, Judge Mukasey ruled that I would be detained at Carswell Prison for a maximum of 120 days— four months and no longer, according to restrictions laid out in federal law.407

  I would self-surrender to Carswell Prison by twelve noon on October 3, 2005.

  On February 3, 2006, Carswell would have to release me.

  After the court meeting, Judge Mukasey’s clerk told Uncle Ted that he expected the prison evaluation to finish more rapidly. Most likely, I would be home within 60 days, the normal timeframe for these sorts of evaluations. That would be after Thanksgiving, but in time for the Christmas holidays. That gave us reason for hope.408

  Those crazy psychiatrists had not won a real victory yet. Carswell still had to uphold a finding of incompetence. Prisons don’t like doing that without a very good reason. Judge Mukasey expected Carswell to throw it back.

  Now, it’s risky for defendants to second guess a Judge’s thinking, though none of us can resist. In my gut, I believe the Patriot Act influenced what happened that day.

  I’m convinced a straight arrow like Judge Mukasey hated the Patriot Act, which strips away constitutional protections, and mucks up the U.S. court system. I could be wrong. But for months before that dreadful September day, Judge Mukasey had options to fast track my case. He could have rejected the finding of incompetence outright, or granted my request for a hearing. For that matter, he could have hauled us into court months earlier to set a trial date.

  Instead, he gave my Defense every chance to maneuver out of this mine field. He gave us latitude to work out an end-game, which was extremely generous of him, in the larger scheme of things. With a seasoned, ferociously dedicated attorney like Ted Lindauer, my Defense would have had more options. With Brian Shaughnessy, my attorney after Carswell— who regularly swims with the sharks in the most complicated international cases— we would have enjoyed vastly more options still. Shaughnessy had a shot at overturning the Patriot Act. He’s that good.

  It would have been a different ball game. But like Judge Mukasey, both Shaughnessy and Ted Lindauer had 40 years in the law.

  On September 23, 2005, I had a public attorney running scared from his own mistakes. And I had no money to replace him. I was fucked.

  Those crazy shrinks saw nothing about my nature, however. All of us face tragedy of some kind. A survivor knows there’s a moment of clarity when you see what’s coming, and you make a conscious decision—You will face this storm without breaking. You will survive. You will bend far. You might stoop low. But you will get through it—whole—on the other side. Because there is no other possibility for you. That is your spiritual truth. And that becomes your reality.

  I admit that I had a good cry on my way home to Maryland that night. A State Trooper stopped me for a speeding violation on I-95, and let me go without a ticket.

  By the time I hit Takoma Park, I was resolved to endure. I had 10 short days to get my affairs in order. I was thunder struck, but my grief would have to wait.

  I had to pack up all of my personal possessions.

  I had to arrange for the payment of my mortgage and utilities.

  I had to break the news to friends, who shared my disappointment that I’d lost my chance for a trial.

  And I had to arrange for the care of my two dachshunds and two cats. My beloved friend, Karin Anderson, the angel of animal protection in Takoma Park, promptly agreed to board my precious dachsies, Raqi Bear and Mahji Bear at her home. She promised to take them to play in our yard once in awhile. My cats would stay at my house, including 19 year old Midnight, who waited faithfully by the front gate every afternoon for my return, as the months rolled on.

  Karin would find renters to live in the house, while I was gone. My dear friend and companion, JB Fields would stay in the house, too, and watch over Midnight and Lou Lou cat. As necessity required, Karin would cough up her own cash to hold my household together.

  Several small miracles would occur in Takoma Park in my absence, thanks to this dear lady.

  Activists understand the concept of duct tape to fix everything from broken pipes to an empty wallet.

  We persevere. Whatever comes, we take. We go on whistling in the dark. We don’t fall apart.

  Oh yes, they found a fighter in me.

  Oh, but you still think I’m paranoid?

  Not nearly enough, friend. Not nearly enough.

  On September 23, 2005, my nightmare of “extreme prejudice” was just beginning.

  CHAPTER 21:

  THE BRIGHT SECRET

  There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

  Than are dreamt of in your philosophy

  –Shakespeare, Hamlet

  On the drive back to Maryland that unhappy September night, I thought about the two things psychiatry hated about me. I confess I was surprised by the depth of that hatred, and the bitterness of it. Until this point, I’d never been hated like that in my life.

  It was illuminating, to say the least.

  Looking over the evaluations, it appeared Dr. Drob and Dr. Kleinman hated my spirituality. And they hated my strength and motivation as a woman. They wanted me to grovel with apologies for it, and I refused. That angered them. Perhaps it hurt their pride. I’m not sure I was worthy of their attack, but I’m content that I never backed down.

  Because you see, I have a deep spiritual life, which is constant for me and private. I’m not evangelical, needing to convert others to my way of thinking. I’m not discouraged by anyone else’s lack of faith. I’m not even terribly religious, perhaps the greatest irony of all. I never discussed my viewpoints with Drob or Kleinman at all However faith and spirituality happen to run deep in my soul.

  So as long I’m confessing everything else, I confess this freely, too—

  I believe in God.

  I believe in angels.

  I believe in grace.

  I believe in prophecy that comes from ancient times, and comes still to those who open our hearts to listen.

  Almost nothing astonished me so much as the insults I suffered for the private expression of my faith during my legal ordeal. Interestingly, the men who attacked me had strong connections to the Republican Party, which formally espouses support for religious viewpoints.

  My own prosecutor, Edward O’Callaghan left the Justice Department in July, 2008 to work for the Presidential Campaign of John McCain and Sarah Palin. He was assigned to Sarah Palin’s top campaign staff in Alaska, handling “Troopergate.”409

  Yet in the hypocrisy of the moment, I was subjected to the most blistering and vicious attacks for quietly practicing my faith more moderately than Sarah Palin herself.

  O’Callaghan lampooned the focus on spirituality in my life— in federal court of all places, where citizens should be protected from such attacks. That kind of hypocrisy by a Republican operative should disturb all Americans, regardless of political stripe or personal religious beliefs. It provides damning evidence that the GOP manipulates faith for the sake of political advancement, while privately holding spirituality in the greatest contempt. I have nicknamed it “Campaign Christianity.” It’s a false front to get votes and money. There’s no spirituality backing it up. It exploits religion. That should be offensive to anybody who really believes in God or the integrity of the electoral process.

  That said, I freely declare that as part of my work in anti-terrorism, I invoked my spirituality in establishing contacts with Arab diplomats, in keeping with my anti-war philosophy.

  For me, it was important for proving society doesn’t have to rely on threats of violence to accomplish these goals. And the Arabs responded graciously to my communications.

  They recognized that my opposition to violence had a spiritual motivation, and our relationships evolved more closely as a resu
lt.

  I hold strong beliefs that terrorism manifests from intense spiritual pain that gives rise to violence. And I strongly believe that you can not oppose violence without love. You can not fight evil with evil. You need love to diffuse hatred, and mercy to diffuse intolerance. And yes, for me, that includes a mindfulness of God.

  Throughout the 1990s, those beliefs guided my actions in all of my contacts with Libya and Iraq. And I have never recanted. Surely I have a right to invoke a spiritual dynamic in my own life to protect myself from absorbing the violence around me.

  My spiritual viewpoints are uniquely my own. Still, it explains why I faced open hostility in pro-war circles, which resented acknowledging what I accomplished through tactics of non-violence. I wanted to prove that military aggression could be avoided. I wanted to show that my anti-war approach to the Arabs could achieve cooperation in multiple areas, while reducing the stress and tensions that spill over into violence.

  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see my approach has fallen out of favor. I have faced severe criticism, even scorn, by those who don’t understand what I was doing.

  Nevertheless, I would argue that my approach accomplished a lot of good. I’m content to know that, even if I’m alone in thinking it today, because of the change in politics.

  In my defense, my handlers, Hoven and Dr. Fuisz were fully knowledgeable of that influence. After my advance warning about the 1993 World Trade Center attack, Dr. Fuisz and Hoven supervised me closely. We met weekly for debriefings until 2002. All together, I met approximately 800 to 900 times with both men. In addition, from May, 1995 onwards I met 150 times with diplomats from Libya. And from August, 1996 onwards, I met 150 times with Iraq. I also covered Egypt, Syria /Hezbollah, Yemen and Malaysia.

  That speaks for itself. My approach was highly successful, or neither the Americans nor the Arabs would have engaged with me for so many years. Either side could have shut off contact.

  Instead, Libya’s former Ambassador to the United Nations, Issa Babaa once paid me a supreme compliment, saying that “if everyone approached anti-terrorism like you, Susan, all of the Arab countries would want to help America.”

  Most people aren’t in the mood to respect Islam after 9/11. However, as somebody who has done this work successfully for years, I would argue that respect for faith creates a bridge between cultures, and establishes a common system of values, which transcends our differences. By relying on those common values, Islamic governments can become allies and partners for the greater good, in solving problems through non-violence.

  That’s not popular today. But as our governments search for new ways to address conflict, it’s worthwhile to understand what kinds of strategies achieved so much good in the past. I believe that’s hopeful for the future. I believe this approach could work effectively again. At least it’s worth trying.

  I am not alone in believing that a spiritual life heals more injuries than focusing on negative experiences and pain.

  Nonetheless, psychiatry openly despised me for trusting God to stay with me through my ordeal. They wanted me to doubt. They scorned my faith that God cares what happens to someone so insignificant as me. The evaluations by Dr. Drob and Dr. Kleinman dripped with sarcasm, using ridicule to discourage me from vocalizing my faith.

  Did I think I was big enough for God to love? (No, I thought I was small enough for God to love.) I thought that I too could be worthy of receiving the bountiful love of the universe, the force of God, the Unnamable. And I was grateful for that love.

  And no, never on the worst days of my ordeal did I believe that God stood apart from me, or somehow betrayed me.

  I never recanted my faith. I was never tempted to abandon my beliefs to escape the criticism that psychiatry tried to beat me with. I never allowed their attacks to trick me into believing that God had somehow failed to save me from their abuse. Throughout this ordeal, I felt deeply that God never left my side. I believed that God was my witness.

  There’s a true story that you can choose to believe, or not.

  The weekend before my arrest, I had no idea that my life was about to capsize irrevocably, almost immediately. I awoke one morning and experienced a genuine state of grace. It lasted for hours. It’s the kind of thing that you hope for if you have any kind of spiritual life. It’s sort of a nirvana thing, if you’re Buddhist. It’s an epiphany, if you’re Christian. The Arabs call it “seeing with an open heart.” It’s a mystery, if you appreciate mysticism, as I do. When it came upon me, I felt a deep sense of connectedness to that greater force of creation and beauty in the world, a synchronicity that comes from active mindfulness. It was remarkable and distinctive. I would describe it as a gentle and pervasive force that washed over me with the purest cleansing love.

  Before my troubles started, it gave me redemption. And wholeness. And love.

  In short, it blessed me with grace.

  I had no idea that a grand jury was closing its debate over my indictment in New York City.

  I had no idea that I was days from getting arrested for treason on the Patriot Act.

  I was only mindful that something so beautiful, a force that I call God, was leaning to embrace me, and lift me up. And it fully immersed me in a pure source of beauty and serenity and love—whether anyone believes in God or not. I remember thinking that people suffer through all sorts of ordeals and indignities. (I had no idea what was coming!) And all of us wait for just one moment like this. A moment of abiding mercy. And it puts perspective on everything else, including what’s bad. It washes all of your pain away. And it cleanses your soul with unconditional love.

  This deep feeling of grace, that’s what it was—came out of nowhere. There was no external explanation that I could see. Nothing special happened that morning to invite it to me. It was suddenly there. And it washed over me for hours. I remember thanking God, or the universe, whatever you want to call that greater essence that we belong to, for all my blessings, though my life had been incredibly difficult recently.

  I thanked God for staying with me.

  I wanted to celebrate that moment of grace. So I went out to a nursery and bought a tree to plant in my front yard. A beautiful Japanese weeping cherry tree with tiny white blossoms that peak in the spring-time. I call it my “peace tree.”

  Five days later I got arrested for treason on the Patriot Act.

  And yes, I think there’s a force of God or something phenomenal out there. And I think it knew. I believe it saw the forces converging on me, and it reached down to comfort me. And it came to me before my troubles. And it gave me love. And it told me that everything was going to be alright. It saw my confusion before I ever experienced it, and it eased my sense of betrayal. And it took away my shame.

  I believe that. In my heart, I am sure of it.

  CHAPTER 22:

  CARSWELL PRISON

  With what iron, what blood, what fire are we made

  Though we seem pure mist and they stone us,

  and say that we walk with our heads in the clouds.

  How we pass our days and nights, God only knows

  –Odysseus Elytis, Nobel Poet Laureate, on the Greek Resistance to Fascism

  I will always remember Carswell as my own private Guantanamo.

  As an accused “Iraqi agent,” I was as close to an enemy-non combatant as you could get. Locked up in prison on a Texas military base had to be the last place on earth I wanted to be, while U.S. soldiers were losing a War that I had loudly criticized.

  Yet there I was, handcuffed to enter the prison gates at Carswell Air Force Base, north of Fort Worth, Texas.

  There would be a reckoning for this. Some things are unforgivable in a democracy, and this would be right at the top of that list.

  A Franciscan friend urged me to brace for prison as a sort of “monastic experience.” He urged me to stay calm and reflective. I could choose my own thoughts, even if I could not choose my surroundings. It was excellent advice, and that’s how I resolved to live.
His idea worked well for the first few months of my incarceration, until events got ugly.

  Even so, I was plenty shocked when the full tide of prison life crashed over me.

  The prison is located inside Carswell Air Force Base. The main buildings are the site of the former hospital where prison lore tells that President John F. Kennedy died after the shooting in Dallas. (He died at Love Field).

  It’s not without irony that some of the more sophisticated inmates declared that we walked in the footsteps of Jackie Kennedy.

  My first vision of Carswell was gray concrete blocs towering over a flat, barren landscape, protected by two walls of 20 foot razor wire fence. There was no shade, just vast concrete buildings, and a brief walkway to the Administrative headquarters and visitor center.

  The land was grassy green inside the perimeter fence, and the sky a vivid blue. Beyond the double razor wire fences, a few oak trees created a lush green buffer to the military base beyond. But otherwise the land had no distinction.

  If that’s all you ever saw of Texas, you would never want to go back.

  Why the rush? I asked myself, as I waited through the indignity of strip searches and inmate processing.

  It was October 3, 2005. I’d been under indictment since March 2004, without a single court appearance— not one. All of a sudden, after 19 months on bail, the Justice Department urgently required that I surrender to prison within 10 days.

  What was going on that made it so critical to get me out of the way? There had to be a reason. I was removed because something was happening. What was it? I would have many days to ponder that question.

  “Why do you think they’ve declared you incompetent?” One of the prison psychologists demanded skeptically, during my in-take interview. “Inmates declared incompetent are generally so mentally crippled that they can’t control their functioning. They suffer non-stop hallucinations or schizophrenia, for example.”