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

by Susan Lindauer

  In a single beat, my heart bounded from abject terror and despair to sheer elation and joy! In short, redemption!

  “They’ve sent him papers from that psychologist you were seeing in Maryland. Judge Mukasey’s so angry that he’s called a court meeting to discuss it.”543

  “You better tell your friends to stop! They better not post on the blogs anymore.”

  Well, this was truly an Amnesty International moment of the internet age! In my heart, I cried thank you, God! Thank you, God! Thank you!

  In a powerful rollercoaster of emotion, I seized the bars, overwrought with relief.

  I cried back: “MY FRIENDS WILL NEVER STOP! YOU ARE GOING TO STOP! THIS IS AMERICA! WE ARE FIGHTING TO PROTECT THE RIGHTS OF ALL DEFENDANTS UNDER THE CONSTITUTION!”

  “YOU WILL NEVER GET AWAY WITH THIS! DO YOU HEAR ME?”

  “TELL THAT DIRTY, CROOKED PROSECUTOR, O’CALLAGHAN, WE WILL NEVER STOP!”

  “YOU ARE BREAKING THE LAW!”

  That’s what I shouted at him: “You are breaking the law.”

  It was a watershed moment! A turning point in the dynamic of my case. I understood immediately who was responsible for that blogging, and what it meant that the Court had been forced to confront blowback from these unconscionable actions.

  I could not wait to thank JB Fields and Janet Phelan! The blogs saved my life that morning!

  When the mainstream media blacked out my story, the Justice Department banked that I would be forcibly silenced while they did their worst.

  They didn’t count on JB and Janet!

  My precious friends refused to give up. They took my story to the “New Media” on the internet. The blogs were just starting to flex their muscle, and discover their power to break through the barrier of media silence. Nowadays everybody takes that for granted. But my story broke at a critical moment when the corporate media had fallen behind the curve, and the blog media emerged to fill that void of knowledge for the public.

  The blogs are the best hope to save our democracy!

  In desperation, JB posted all of the session notes from my court-ordered meetings with Dr. Taddesseh at Family Health Services in Maryland. The session notes explicitly declared that I suffered “no depression,” “no mood disturbances,” and “no symptoms of psychosis.”

  Then JB and Janet Phelan made the rounds on alternative radio—Michael Herzog, Cosmic Penguin, Greg Szymanski, the Genesis radio network, Derek Gilbert. Republic Broadcasting. Liberty. Oracle. They’re awake and vigilant in defending our liberties. JB and Janet Phelan urged their listeners to contact the Court.

  Janet Phelan is particularly eloquent on the abuse of women by psychiatry, and the treachery of the Patriot Act as it seeks to deprive Americans of our natural rights under the Constitution.

  Well, some wise and independent thinker decided the Judge really ought to see those psych notes from Maryland. That wonderful person— nameless to me today— pointed out to the Court that no symptoms of “mental illness” showed up in real life? Only when politics got introduced to the psych equation!

  Judge Mukasey was livid! To his credit, he demanded to know why those papers were available on the internet—but not in his courtroom? Why had my attorney not brought those favorable psych observations to the Court’s attention, given that I was fighting for my life against forcible drugging, for what I called “non-existent conditions?”544 Here was a credible source in psychology, who observed me for a full year and agreed.

  And what could explain the stark contrast between the session notes from Maryland and the sworn testimony by Dr. Vas, Dr. Kleinman and Dr. Drob?

  Judge Mukasey demanded a formal explanation. Of course there was none. It made no sense, except to prove psychiatry invents a rationalization for itself in the courtroom.

  As the guards shackled me to leave the Court, I turned to the U.S. Attorney, Edward O’Callaghan, and declared loudly:

  “This is a crooked prosecution. My witnesses prove everything is true. You can’t let them into Court because all of your lies would be exposed. You’re a dirty prosecutor, Mr. O’Callaghan. You’re nothing but a God damn crook!”

  Hearing that, Judge Mukasey bowed down, and winced, and shook his head.

  But he knew it was true, and he knew that truth would not stop coming.

  LIFE AT M.C.C.

  I wish I could say that I stayed calm and brave through that hot, humid summer in New York City. But fear washed over me again.

  On the women’s floor of MCC, the hypocrisy of the Justice Department’s demand for forcible drugging did not go unremarked. Other inmates considered it grossly unfair that they should be sentenced to many years in prison for trafficking in narcotics. But the Justice Department could lock up me for refusing to take drugs that had much worse side effects than anything they were caught holding. As far as inmates are concerned, there’s no difference in prescription drugs and contraband narcotics. It’s just another pill.

  Inmates recognized that prison populations provide a captive market for the pharmacology business. Prisons are big profit centers for these drug companies, with only limited benefits for inmates. (Junkies love that stuff, mind you; it keeps them supplied with drugs in prison. They also trade pills for commissary.) But those drugs would destroy my quality of life back home. My functioning would be wrecked worse than if I was shooting up heroin or smoking crack. Marijuana’s recreational— not like these drugs. There would be no hope of functioning at all. Heroin has a withdrawal. This stuff gets in your body, and doesn’t stop messing you up.

  I doubt that hypocrisy was lost on Judge Mukasey, either—But I didn’t know it yet. All I could see was that everybody was lying to him. The bolder the lie, it seemed, the better its chance of success.

  On that note, I adjusted to the routine of prison life at M.C.C. What else could I do?

  Prison food was ghastly. Cells were over-crowded. Pages of the law books were torn out or crumpled—and urgently needed to be replaced, since all the inmates were either pre-trial or awaiting sentences.

  Outdoor recreation was limited to the roof-top for one hour every other day. There were volley ball nets, basketball hoops, and a hand ball court— very much appreciated. But mostly we walked laps around the rooftop. Male prisoners might have enjoyed more recreation time and library access, because of the criteria for gender segregation. It’s impossible to put male and female prisoners together. Really though, women inmates need to go outside every day, too. It makes a huge difference to emotional strength, coping with the pressures of trials and sentencing.

  And yet, to be honest, MCC was a paradise compared to where I’d come from. Oh yeah, the food was much better at Carswell. Recreational opportunities and the outdoor track made Carswell a vastly more “comfortable” prison. On the other hand, the poor quality of medical care for chronically ill prisoners—and the frightening abuses of women on M-1— made Carswell a much more dangerous and sinister lock up.

  Good staff at MCC made a big difference, too. Ms. Eldridge balanced furious control over our daily life with an equally ferocious determination to make sure women prisoners got mammograms, and lived safely amidst our fellow inmates.

  Hey, I played pool with a bank robber, who kicked my butt with every set.

  But I tell you proudly that the women’s floor at M.C.C. had to be the cleanest in America. Women scrubbed their cells all day long. They tacked wash cloths to the end of mop sticks, and scrubbed down the walls and ceilings, something that astonished me at first. But hey, it kept everybody busy through the day. Me, too. And our walls sparkled bright.

  Happily again, New York was close enough to home that my wonderful friend, JB Fields, could visit me on weekends and holidays. Now we could meet on visiting days and talk together, a huge relief.

  To my last day, I will cherish the beauty care/ hair salon set up by women prisoners, so that we could look attractive for visitors and court dates. Prison hair salons teach job skills, so inmates can find work after prison. Several times
those ladies pulled me out of my cell, and styled my hair. They tried so hard to cheer me up. Those women might have done some stupid things, probably some criminal things. They would have to pay for their bad judgment, but mostly they were not bad to the core. A lot of them would not repeat those mistakes again—if they got jobs after their release.

  An absolutely wonderful prison chaplain from Rykers Island appeared faithfully every Saturday, urging women inmates to give God a chance to support us through our personal crises. He was inspired. And he revitalized our strength. He brought the faith of God right into that hell, and I saw women prisoners studying the bible together in little groups through the rest of the week. He was a source of redemption that all of us ached for. A number of inmates changed totally because of the spiritual wisdom he brought into that prison hell.

  As impossible as it sounds, I felt a serious presence of God inside those prison walls, which truly surprised me.

  It felt like a few seriously determined angels had staked out the corners. And they weren’t going anywhere. If prisons are a battleground for the soul, in the spiritual fight between good and evil, I will share my testament that the promise of redemption shall be kept. I get criticized for talking about my faith. But some intense spiritual work goes on at MCC and Carswell. It’s surprising to behold in such a place. It does not imply that prisoners are innocent of their crimes. On the contrary, it involves a process of responsibility and deep transformation.

  A lot of prisoners carry the bible. And they study it. And it changes them. You can feel an extra presence actively pulling them. And it comes from outside of our lives and beyond the harsh physical world of the prison, which is so ugly and claustrophobic.

  All of that proves that even in the worst situations, it’s possible to discover something extraordinary and beneficial that you would never experience otherwise.

  Strikingly, in all of the confusion created by psychiatry, it got lost that I was perfectly happy with my thoughts, my choices and priorities. I chose my life actively. I accepted responsibility for all parts of it. I had not suffered from my lifestyle. Even in prison, I never considered that I lost the better parts of myself. I was never paralyzed. I worked every day, in some way, to win my freedom.

  That’s how I coped. It’s what stopped me from becoming bitter.

  Locked up with these women, I saw more evil outside that prison than in it. Which brought us full circle, to the corruption of psychiatry.

  Under federal law, I was entitled to a hearing on my competence as a matter of procedure.

  Unhappily, psychiatrists have made themselves experts in loopholes of the law, and sought to defy the most basic legal protections for defendants at every turn.

  These psychiatrists understood they had lied to the Court. Now they banded together to protect their group against exposure.

  They exhibited a form of “group psychosis—” manifesting from a state of extreme narcissism and grandiosity. They fought to eradicate all external factors of reality, and create a non-reality that accentuated their power. I pictured them constructing this “consensus” in some dark closet, without a light bulb.

  It’s evident they understood the illusion of psychiatry requires the suspension of truth. External factors of reality threatened them terribly. In my situation, their construct of “non-reality” would have been smashed in the first minutes of participatory testimony. Their power would be gone. Their authority would collapse in the space of a moment.

  And so, coming full circle, they grouped together to fight any presentation of facts by participatory witnesses, in order to shield their group in its isolation.

  If any ballistics or DNA expert falsified testimony on the results of gun testing or blood forensics, they would be shunned forever. They would never be permitted to testify in a court of law again. Professionally, they would be disgraced.

  Psychiatry carries no such ethical burdens. They can falsify and fabricate to their hearts’ content. They freely embellish. They require no behavioral evidence to support their “conclusions.” In my case, they freely acknowledged that in 7 1/2 months of observation at Carswell, they saw no symptoms of any kind.

  That didn’t matter. They face no burden of culpability if they get caught in a major court deception. They go forth to the next defendant, without sanctions or penalties.

  These sorts of fraudulent actions demonstrate why psychiatry should be restricted in the Courts. It’s strictly pop culture, the fad of the moment. There’s nothing scientific about it. It’s a matter of legal convenience.

  Change the attorney, and you change the psychiatric “diagnosis.”

  Even now, when I remember this nightmare, I am horrified by it.

  I am appalled because, in its zealous quest for authority, psychiatry allowed itself to be exploited to promote a political agenda, as a weapon to punish independent thinking by Americans. My values support non-violence and non-aggression in foreign policy. For that, I was locked in prison without a trial. That contradicts everything our democracy stands for, as far as encouraging a pluralism of voices in the public debate.

  Psychiatry prostituted itself for politicians. And worthless politicians at that.

  This attack was straight out of the Soviet Union and the Cold War, from the gulag age, when psychiatry punished intellectual dissidents, using shock treatments and drugs to correct political thinking.

  It was a miserable and selfish game plan. It relied on the amorality of its practitioners, and their willingness to sell out their credentials for financial profit.

  It should never have been possible.

  To my horror, this was not Moscow or Leningrad in 1953.

  It was New York City in 2006.

  And I was petrified.

  CHAPTER 29:

  THE LAST MAN

  “One man with Courage makes a majority.”

  –Thomas Jefferson

  Throughout those steamy summer days on lock down at M.C.C. I pondered the insanity of my predicament. Indeed, it perplexed me.

  I was the nation’s scapegoat.

  Pundits shrieked. Comics scorned. I watched it all on prison television— helpless and disgraced— as the American people and the global community blistered the intelligence community with criticism for my work in Pre-War Intelligence and my failure to discover the 9/11 conspiracy.

  It was a real dog and pony show of false outrage. True political theater, Washington style.

  Meanwhile, I sat in prison— declared “incompetent to stand trial”— for “believing I had a 95 percent chance of acquittal,” based on the inadequacy of evidence against me.545 On that basis, two psychiatrists—who confessed to observing no actual symptoms of mental illness in my behavior— agreed that I “lacked sufficient appreciation for the gravity of the charges, which would be necessary to contribute to my defense.”

  Not surprisingly, I had a very different perspective.

  If anybody suffered from a “psychotic disorder,” it was Washington itself, fighting violently to disavow the reality of their choices before the War, and their responsibility for those choices. In angrier moments, I questioned prison guards if perhaps Congressional leaders should be forcibly injected with Haldol until they developed some integrity in their decision making.

  Alas, they had power. And I did not. At MCC, I was right where Republican leaders wanted me—locked down, in shackles and chains, so they could huff and puff without challenge.

  It got crazier as Republicans recognized that with Iraq out of the way, they could distract angry voters with boasts of their leadership performance against terrorism. Except once again, the Republican record of achievement was much less grandiose than they bragged.

  What did that matter? If I could be forcibly drugged, the GOP endgame would be perfected. Republicans on Capitol Hill could feed the country’s fever for national security unabated—and flog me with voter wrath for mistakes in their War policy.

  And I could never get out of prison and expose them— which
, let’s face it, would have to happen eventually.

  How did Republicans rationalize such savage dishonesty?

  Through simple, corrupt illogic: Intelligence exists to protect the leadership first and foremost. Assets are supposed to make leaders look good— whether they deserve it or not. Truth is what we sacrifice for our country. Politicians matter—Not the people!

  So much for your national security, folks.

  Anti-terrorism has deteriorated into showmanship and spectacle—color coded threats. It makes for triumphant grand standing. Congress gets to be circus performers, acting out a thrilling illusion. But as far as results on the ground, anti-terrorism policy proved awfully empty, scattered with lost opportunities —like the failure to shut down the financial pipeline for Al Qaeda, what I call “happy cash,” since the bulk of revenues comes from heroin trafficking.

  Why not kill two birds with one powerful blow?

  Actions speak louder than words—except in Washington, where it’s all hot air.

  Unhappily for me, this was about majority control of Congress and the White House. How the balance of power would fall— in favor of the GOP or the Democrats? Any action that protected the Republican marketing “brand” on national security was considered legitimate, though it violated the Constitution. Locking an Intelligence Asset in prison and threatening to forcibly drug me was an expedient strategy for holding onto power. That was the critical objective.

  I would be sacrificed on the altar of political ambition.

  Let’s face it. Their lie was much more helpful than my truth. That was the constant problem for my case.

  In our drama, Judge Mukasey was the X Factor. The inscrutable. The unknown. All of my fate rested on his shoulders. To him fell the responsibility for making sense of this mess of conflicting reports. Ordinarily, the defendant lost in these fights. I knew that. And it frightened the hell out of me.

  We expected the decision to take a few weeks.

  Instead, we waited four months.

  Chief Justice Mukasey was retiring. Mine would be the final decision of his illustrious career as one of this nation’s pre-eminent federal Judges.546