Another woman caught 15 years for “contempt of court” for refusing to testify against a corrupt Los Angeles cop, who threatened to kill her younger brothers every time her case went before the Judge. He’d show up at her brothers’ jobs, force one or the other into a squad car. Then he’d drive up and down the California highways, pointing out isolated spots where he could dump their bodies. Or he would describe how he could plant drugs on them, and send them to prison like their sister. Or how he could fake an attack on himself, so it looked like the kid assaulted a police officer.
This woman was eight years into her sentence when I met her. And she never broke the law in her life. Not a speeding ticket. Her attorney begged the Judge for mercy, since the cop continuously threatened to kill her family throughout her imprisonment—in case she changed her mind about testifying. Nobody cared.
That’s the new prison system. Some inmates committed major offenses, like drive by shootings. Others opened the front door for druggie friends of their adult son or daughter, living at home and dealing meth or heroin in the basement. Under federal sentencing guidelines, they all get sentenced as if they actively participated in the drug conspiracy. It’s a cautionary tale.
And it’s a legitimate reason why some Judges allow psychology to mitigate sentencing. Some of these women have stories the Courts need to hear.
One young woman at Carswell had been living on the street as a prostitute since she was 16. She’d run away from home because her brother raped her. A serial killer picked her off the street at 19, and confined her to a torture chamber for several days, chained from the ceiling. She got cut up and raped. When the guy went to work, she jumped out a window, naked, and flagged down help. She was a lucky survivor. Police found bodies of other prostitutes buried in the back yard.
Her attorney asked for mercy in sentencing on a drug charge a few years later, citing post traumatic stress from hellacious abuse throughout her young life. She was only 23 when I met her, and this was probably the only break she ever got in her sad life. Should we as a society begrudge her that small compassion? A proper psych evaluation (unlike mine) would allow her to share that horrific experience with the Judge, and appeal for mercy. I hope she got it.
One of my most beloved friends at Carswell was a grandmotherly inmate, who cared for the Alzheimers woman on M-1, and brought hugs and comfort to the whole unit. Her brother, a “fire bug,” put a pipe bomb in her attorney’s car, which exploded when the ignition turned on. She was indicted for conspiracy in that attack, which happened while she was at Carswell for a psych study on another charge, linked to abusing prescription drugs, like Valium. She was self-medicating to stay calm, after a life of intense trauma.
It turns out her brother, who’s criminally insane—and free— burned her home to the ground twice before, with her children inside the house. While she was in prison, he burned down her teenage children’s house a third time. Alas, he was out of control—and untouchable in the Courts.
Apparently, she and her siblings grew up in the most tragic circumstances. There were hints of incest and severe beatings and alcoholism. Her own father shot her in the foot with a gun. I saw the scars. She showed up with a bloody gun shot wound at school the next day, and teachers took her to the emergency room.
Now this darling woman was maternal and non-violent, except she had survived a childhood of sheer hell. It broke her brother completely. But she has not committed violent crimes herself that I know of. It’s doubtful she ever would. She does animal rescue work, and studied for the ministry. I loved her because when I first got to M-1, she helped me make my first prison bed, which has a trick to it. And she was God-sent for the Alzheimer woman on the unit, who had no idea she was in prison, and was terribly frightened and confused by other inmates. This grandmotherly inmate kept her safe.
I believe her Judge acted wisely and compassionately in considering the full picture of her history before sentencing her with leniency. Her attorney survived the car bombing, and supported the reduced sentencing!
The case of the Alzheimer woman illustrates the exact opposite of compassion in sentencing, what happens when the Courts refuse to weigh mitigating factors of a defendant’s personal story.
Obviously this woman suffered dementia and couldn’t be left alone. So her daughter—an incorrigible drug runner in and out of Mexico—took her elderly mother to pick up drug supplies with her. They got arrested together coming back across the border. Her daughter should be strung up for this. But the Judge made no allowance for the Alzheimer mother’s state of incompetence, and sentenced her to seven or eight years in prison. The poor old lady would wander the hallways, lost and confused, looking for her children, who are now grown up. She imagined somebody had stolen her children. At night she’d get frightened, and wander into different cells. She also thought some inmates were family members. She needed a nursing home. But with a drug conviction, it’s doubtful any place will take her.
All of this explains how, after my initial fury at getting labeled incompetent, I recognized there’s a time when this sort of sentencing has merit, and should be applied.
With regards to my case, apart from psychiatry—which I despise— I think there’s a special angle to incompetence that relates to the Patriot Act, uniquely.
Incompetence applies strictly to a defendant’s ability to assist in preparing a defense. Under the Patriot Act, there’s serious question how any defendant facing “secret charges,” “secret evidence,” and “secret grand jury testimony” could possibly assist any attorney in preparing for trial. “Classified” evidence that I’d worked as an Asset for nine (9) years in counter-terrorism got suppressed, though it would have freed me of the most serious charges and some of the minor counts. My attorney attended a secret debriefing at the Justice Department, where legal strategy was discussed,, which he was prohibited from sharing with me or other attorneys working on my case. Thus, I could not participate in my defense at a serious and meaningful level.
By its very structure and nature, therefore, it could be argued the Patriot Act renders the most capable defendant “incompetent to stand trial.”
During these months at Carswell, I came to question if perhaps Judge Mukasey used such a line of logic to decide my case— different than the official psychiatry, but a logic, nonetheless, that weighs whether a defendant has become incapacitated by circumstances beyond the defendant’s control. During those months at Carswell, I spent many afternoons walking the track, wondering if his decision to kill the case was more inspired by repugnance of the Patriot Act.
There’s no question but that my case created a new and different kind of precedent for incompetence. Judge Mukasey was fully aware of all those different factors when he chose to accept the finding of incompetence.
And so, while avoiding the mess of psychiatry— which I revile— I would argue that attorneys confronting the Patriot Act should cite my case as a precedent that the law itself creates an artificial state of incompetence to assist in defense strategy.
It could be argued that Judge Mukasey would concur— within a range of non-violent activities. Non-violence would be key, also the likelihood of steering clear of criminal behavior in the future.
Until Christmas, I was not afraid. In a Christmas card to JB Fields, I posed for a photograph in front of a life size mural of a motorcycle, with a brave smile, which I thought would comfort him.
Soon I’d be home. Or so everybody believed.
Storm clouds had churned over my case when I arrived. But I had not allowed them to swell into gales.
Carswell’s psychology department had two tasks. First, prison staff had to deliver an opinion whether the incompetence finding should be upheld or thrown out. Secondly, they got to recommend what might be done to restore my competence, so prosecution could go forward. Judge Mukasey had the final say, regardless.
From my first days in the SHU, Carswell established that I was obviously not suffering hallucinations, or depression, or hysterics
, or threatening violence towards myself or others. The only thing left was for Carswell to examine at a basic level whether my story could be validated.
It’s critical to understand the predicament that brought us to this point. I got locked up, because the Patriot Act allowed the Prosecutor to withhold “exculpatory” knowledge from the Court, corroborating my identity as an Asset, under rules for “classified evidence.”
The FBI verified my story early on. Witnesses repeated to Ted Lindauer— and later my second attorney, Brian Shaughnessy—everything they told the FBI. In ordinary circumstances, the Courts require Prosecutors to acknowledge “exculpatory information” as soon as it’s discovered. Unhappily, in my case, the U.S. Attorney refused. The Justice Department wanted to see if my Defense could validate my story by ourselves, without their automatic cooperation. It was a test.
The false and grossly irresponsible allegations by Dr. Drob, casting aspersions on the quality of my witnesses, caused tremendous damage and confusion, resulting in my loss of freedom.429 Of course it was flatly untrue. Dr. Drob acted recklessly and dishonestly, by failing to update his report after learning of Ted Lindauer’s success on my behalf430 That was not “last minute” corroboration. That was six months before Carswell. Dr. Drob had plenty of time to update his findings. He could have spoken with Ted himself, if he doubted me. He chose not to.
But reality has very little to do with psychiatry. It’s about ego. Evaluations are scripted to suit arguments before the Court.
I refused to play their game. If they expected to rely on Dr. Drob’s evaluation, they would be sorely disappointed.
Immediately upon surrendering to Carswell, I gave the chief psychologist, James Shadduck, the phone numbers and email addresses of two high-powered witnesses eager to vouch for my credibility.431
The first witness, Ian Ferguson, was a former Scottish journalist and co-author of “Cover Up of Convenience: the Hidden Scandal of Lockerbie,”432 a revealing expose of the bombing of Pan Am 103.
After the conviction of Libya’s man, Abdelbaset Megraghi, Ferguson jumped on board the Lockerbie Appeals as Chief Criminal Investigator, spearheaded by Edward MacKechnie, my star witness. His background qualifies him as one of the foremost experts on the bombing of Pan Am 103.
Ferguson is loyal to truth wherever he finds it. His integrity as an old school investigative journalist requires that he speak up when he observes injustice or political malfeasance So I had confidence he would not stand by idly, while the Justice Department locked me away on a Texas military base without any sort of hearing.
True enough, within a few weeks of my surrender, Ferguson began bombarding the psychology staff with phone calls, while they desperately tried to ignore him.
His input was critical.433 Most significantly, Ferguson could vouch for the Intelligence background of my two handlers, Dr. Fuisz and Hoven, and our close working relationships. Ferguson had direct confirmation of Dr. Fuisz’s CIA ties from the Lockerbie Trial. As for Hoven, at the point of Ferguson’s introduction to our team, his sources told Ferguson that Hoven was the Defense Intelligence liaison on Lockerbie. That’s why Ferguson wanted to talk with us— If I was wrong about Hoven’s identity, then Ferguson would testify other members of U.S. Intelligence were also mistaken. And that didn’t matter, because Dr. Fuisz was unabashedly CIA.
That’s all my Defense had to prove— unless the Justice Department protested the legality of a CIA operation inside the U.S. Then Hoven’s role as liaison to Defense Intelligence would become important. Otherwise, Dr. Fuisz’s ties to CIA would be plenty.
Once the intelligence connection was established, it would be absurd to suggest a long-time CIA operative like Dr. Fuisz could not be interested in Libya and Iraq at the same time. It would be particularly ridiculous since public records showed Dr. Fuisz testified before Congress about a U.S. corporation that supplied SCUD Mobile Missile Launchers to Iraq before the first Gulf War.
Ferguson provided the construct of my defense in one knock-out punch. After that, my identity as an Asset, supervised by members of U.S. Intelligence, should have been indisputable from Carswell’s standpoint.
Parke Godfrey was the second witness waiting to speak with Dr. Shadduck. A computer science professor at York University in Toronto, and a close friend since 1990, Godfrey earned his PhD at College Park, Maryland. Until 2000, he visited my home and spoke with me several times a week. He would swear that he observed no signs of mental illness or instability in all of our 15 years together.434
More critically, Godfrey would provide valuable confirmation of my team’s 9/11 warnings, and how in August 2001 I told him “the attack was imminent,” and he should “stay out of New York City, because we expected mass casualties.”435
There was nothing delusional about any of it.
Godfrey promised to make sure Dr. Shadduck understood the FBI was fully debriefed about my 9/11 warnings in Toronto in September 2004—a year before I got sent to Carswell.436
Denying my 9/11 warning would be incredibly stupid and politically dangerous at this stage. Given the range of confirmations— to the FBI, the Bureau of Prisons, and the U.S. Attorney’s Office, lying to Judge Mukasey would smack of a major government cover up that would bite everybody, if exposed.
That might explain why prison documents show I had to push Dr. Shadduck for almost two months to interview Ferguson and Godfrey.437 Obviously, Carswell was reluctant to confront the truth that I was pushing so hard to verify. The psych staff had a knuckle-tight grip on “plausible deniability,” and they were reluctant to let go.
Thankfully, Ferguson and Godfrey were both gravely frightened for my safety, and worked tenaciously to get through to prison psychologists. Ferguson was especially vigilant, calling Carswell repeatedly from his home in France for several weeks. Prison staff told Ferguson that Dr. Shadduck was on vacation throughout November—a flagrant lie. Ferguson would not give up. And neither would Godfrey. Everyone recognized the grave risks that I faced, and the intensely political nature of the Justice Department’s attack against me. They were determined that it should go no farther.
I was at the prison gym, running on a treadmill, when Dr. Shadduck rushed to find me. Wide eyed, hands shaking, he asked for Ian Ferguson’s phone number.
They’d been talking on the phone to France, where Ferguson lived, when the phone cut off. Shadduck had a lot more questions. But “yes,” he stuttered, “your story checks out. It’s all factually true.”
Shadduck told me that he spoke with Godfrey later that day.
Godfrey later testified in Court that it was a short conversation.
Short enough to learn that I had definitely warned about a 9/11 style of attack involving airplane hijackings and a strike on the World Trade Center in the spring and summer of 2001.
I gloated. The Justice Department’s deception in the Court had been thwarted. Ferguson and Godfrey had provided knock out punches on my behalf.
Needless to say, I felt profoundly relieved. Few defendants could hope for so much.
And think what that meant—
Staff for the Bureau of Prisons had received confirmation that an “Iraqi Agent” locked in their prison was really a U.S. Asset involved in Pre-War Intelligence, who gave advance warning about the 9/11 attack. And they were fully aware that the FBI had previously confirmed that truth, as well.
From that point on, any action to harm me would qualify as a government cover up, impeding accountability to the people of New York, where I was supposed to stand trial before a Jury of My Peers, who would render judgment on my actions before and after the 9/11 attack.
Of critical importance, Carswell received all this verification within my first 60 days at the prison. Staff could have authenticated my story earlier if they’d returned Ferguson’s phone calls from France.
In any non-political situation, the psych evaluations by Dr. Drob and Dr. Kleinman would have been debunked. My Asset work and the 9/11 warning stood up to scrutiny. Long time fri
ends in Maryland reported no signs of mental instability. After those witness interviews, it should have been time to ship me back for trial, or dismiss the case, if the Justice Department wanted it to go away quietly.
But my indictment was off the charts, politically speaking. The competence question was a legal farce. In which case, both Ferguson and Godfrey’s testimony had tremendous value for a different reason: If O’Callaghan reneged on his promise to kill the case, it was critical for the Justice Department to know I wasn’t operating from a weak position, as Dr. Drob labored to imply.
No matter. For the rest of December, I experienced as much peace as prison allows.
Yes, I was stuck in prison for the Christmas holidays. But surely the Justice Department had done its worst already.
Just a few more weeks and Judge Mukasey would either the drop the charges entirely— or the Court would move for trial, and hear the truth, too.438
I could wait them out.
Everything moved my way in December, as I counted the days to my release. Down in Texas, locked behind a razor fence, I thought about the weeping Japanese cherry tree in my front yard— my “peace tree—” waiting to flower in Maryland. Friends reminded me the tree would start blossoming shortly after I got home. JB Fields was excited, too.
For Christmas dinner, Carswell feasted us with Cornish game hens, corn bread stuffing, green beans and macaroni and cheese, with pecan pie for desert— a real treat from our daily fare. I was so delighted that I wrote down the menu, and sent it home to JB, since I’d run out of phone minutes.
My phone calls to JB ended exuberantly with a promise I’d be home by Valentine’s Day. Then we’d be together. JB promised to pick me up from Carswell on his BMW motorcycle. He swore that he’d ride all the way to Texas to get me. We giggled how I would hop on the back of his bike at the prison gates, and we’d zoom off to glory. Our future looked so hopeful.
EXTREME PREJUDICE: The Terrifying Story of the Patriot Act and the Cover Ups of 9/11 and Iraq Page 43
