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

by Susan Lindauer

  Mercifully, my old handlers had not left me in the lurch. Years before Dr. Fuisz and Hoven told me what to do if I ever got arrested (always a possibility given my close proximity to terrorism investigations). They commanded me to tell the Judge everything. From their perspective, I should have spoken up sooner. (Except that I did. I expected my attorney to talk for me. I expected these idiot psychiatrists to portray my story with a degree of accuracy.)

  By this time, Dr. Fuisz and Hoven must have thought I had truly lost my wits. But when I moved to action, it was an avalanche. Judge Mukasey received a vast amount of debriefing in those midnight letters, while I was locked up at Carswell and M.C.C. By now the Court had a clear picture of my side of the story.547

  Judge Mukasey could see the powerful forces arrayed against me. He could see the ugliness of their fear, and the powerful motivation to destroy me, so as to tighten their grip on power.

  But none of us could figure out how he would end this game— or if he would feel compelled to go along with the government. The path of least resistance was what I feared most.

  A great Judge like Mukasey thinks about legal precedents, and how his decisions will set the pace for future cases. But not all Judges do.

  A lesser Judge could not have figured a way out of this steel trap.

  A lesser Judge could not have developed a strategy for stopping the drugging—and getting me out from the Patriot Act—all at the same time.

  Thank God for Judge Mukasey.

  That summer in New York was hot and humid. While I waited, I paced the roof top recreation yard, my anxiety off the charts, praying with all of my heart for his decision to go my way.

  I was terrified with panic. I could never have kept fighting without the support of the other women inmates. My best friend at M.C.C, Sarah Yamasaki from Japan, had rained as an opera singer. Throughout the summer, Sarah blessed us with roof-top performances. She was an ebullient woman, keeping our spirits up, helping all of us transcend the brutal conditions of our imprisonment.

  The rooftop yard was eleven stories above the side walks of Manhattan. All of the women prisoners longed for grass and trees and freedom. One afternoon, one of the really spiritual women announced that she was praying hard for God to send us flowers!

  “God can do it!” she laughed. “Just watch now, I tell you, God can do it!” She was so joyful that we all laughed with her.

  And wouldn’t you know, the wind whipped up, blowing strong. From somewhere far off, a cloud of soft pink and white petals from a dogwood tree, wafted high up in the sky, fluttering over the prison yard and landed on the roof. Hundreds of soft petals swirled at our feet, blowing back and forth across the rooftop.

  All of us shrieked in joy. We laughed uproariously. I remember that afternoon as one of the rare moments when all of us were truly happy. And the woman turned to us, and said, “I told you God would send us flowers!”

  And she looked at me, and I remember what she said: “Susan, God’s standing with you. God won’t let these people hurt you. Try not to be afraid.”

  That was easier said than done.

  When you’re locked up in prison, four months feels like eternity, especially waiting for such a critical decision that impacts the rest of your life. It’s hyper stressful.

  By now, all of the women and guards understood that I expected them to hunt me down any time, anywhere, interrupting any activity, when that decision came.

  Early that afternoon, my psychic radar exploded off the charts. I was at the MCC library, returning a spy thriller from the 1970s, about a spook who gets carted off to a nut house and heavily drugged by CIA psychiatrists to stop him from talking about some operation at the Soviet Embassy, during the Cold War. The plot felt awfully familiar. I tell you, Robert Ludlum and I would have enjoyed a good tea party together, scones and crumpets all round.

  In the library that afternoon, a vibrant energy engulfed me, like a powerful electrical current. I felt a rush of excitement, like I hadn’t experienced in months.

  I rushed to the guards to ask if my attorney had sent for me.

  The guard shook his head, with a tired, knowing smile. Not yet.

  They’d heard me ask many times before. Always they’d calm me down. And they’d promise to come get me as soon as anything happened. They handled it well.

  Later that evening, I jumped into the shower after dinner, escaping the hordes of prisoners for a moment of privacy.

  That’s when the message came— at the most unexpected moment. Suddenly there was a pounding on the shower door, and one of my cellmates stuck her head in the shower room. My attorney was waiting downstairs. A guard had come to take me.

  That kind of news travels lightning fast, and several inmates hovered outside the shower room.

  I was soaking wet, with a towel over my shoulders. I didn’t stop to comb my hair. I just ran for the guard. The visiting office wouldn’t stay open much longer. I wasn’t taking any chances. I had to know the answer that night.

  When I got to Sam Talkin, both of us stood in shock, staring at each other. And he said, very quietly, “Judge Mukasey ruled in our favor. You’re going home.”

  Talkin looked as stunned as I was.

  With one stroke of a Judge’s pen, my nightmare was over.

  Victory was mine. After 11 agonizing months at Carswell and M.C.C, I was saved, mind, body and soul.

  I collapsed on my knees, thanking God for it. Yes, I did! Truthfully, I could not stand on my legs.

  Oh my reputation was destroyed, as Republican leaders intended. But my intellect and creativity, my daily functioning and spirituality—what mattered most to my life—that was saved. What was most precious to me was preserved.

  I was deliriously happy. Ecstatic. Elated. Bounding in joy.

  It was night-time. There was one guard left to share my happiness. I would be off to Court in the morning before Ms. Eldridge arrived to hear my exquisite news. But in my heart I knew she would be happy for me. All the staff understood what this meant to me. They’d been anxious, too. These were good people.

  Prisoners are always happy—and somewhat jealous—when a fellow inmate goes home. It doesn’t happen often. Mostly prisoners get transferred to other prisons after sentencing. But those are your friends for life. They’re the ones who have helped you survive a living hell. You don’t forget them.

  That night, my closest friend on the women’s floor, Sarah Yamasaki, my opera singer friend, made a farewell card for me, with a gorgeous Madama butterfly. I have saved it on my bookcase.

  “Now, however, there remain faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love,” she wrote, citing 1st Corinthinians 13: 4-13. My favorite Bible verse.

  Sam Talkin had already phoned JB Fields, who swore that he would drive to New York in the morning to fetch me home!

  The next morning at 11 a.m. we appeared in Court to make it official.

  On September 8, 2006, his very last day as a federal Judge, Chief Justice Mukasey rejected the Prosecution request to forcibly drug me and released me on $500,000 bail.548

  I waved my arms wildly in thanks to Judge Mukasey, who had a great big grin on his face, as bailiffs ushered me out of the courtroom.

  Without question, Judge Mukasey saved my life.

  People are always surprised when I describe Judge Mukasey as my hero. He’s a man of fierce integrity and devotion to the law. In my case, he was surrounded by scoundrels, who brazenly lied to his Court at every turn. Forever I will give thanks for my life to his eagle-sharp acumen. If not for his shrewd aptitude, I would have been physically and intellectually destroyed. He became my secret champion in this twisted legal scheme.

  The degree of corruption confronting him on all sides was terrifying to behold. Carswell expected to catch him in this trap. Except for his brilliance in the law, and his ferocious determination to protect due process in the courts, they would have succeeded.

  Justice is cast in bronze as a blindfolded lady holding a scale of
weights, signifying how truth hangs in the balance of the Court. That blindfold over the lady’s face took on sinister implications in my case, with the Prosecutor and these looney psychiatrists boldly violating legal requirements to acknowledge the truthfulness of my background.

  Psychiatry shocks me to this day for the contempt it showed our judicial system. Something has gone terribly wrong when psychiatry could lie so recklessly, without suffering consequences for its dishonesty. Psychiatry betrayed a total lack of integrity in the courtroom. I believed it should be disqualified as “expert” testimony, on par with DNA, ballistics or forensics. They can’t meet standards of reliability.

  It’s worthy of John Grisham or Robert Ludlum alright.

  Here was the crux of the problem: Throughout my imprisonment, I had no effective legal representation that cared for the outcome. Psychiatry recognized Talkin’s inadequacy, and played to it, unforgivably. The second problem was that Judge Mukasey could not re-craft my attorney’s defense strategy. He could not compel Talkin to accept a hearing to check the accuracy of my story. Afterwards, he was caught by surprise when the Prosecutor pushed into the vacuum of court knowledge, with this request for forcible drugging and indefinite detention.

  Ah but this was “extreme prejudice.” It was a bloodless execution.

  Despite all of that cunning amassed against him, Judge Mukasey accomplished something more clever than I would have dared to hope. He outfoxed the psychiatrists, and crafted an outstanding decision against forcible drugging, which should help protect other Americans in the Justice system. If it protects more Americans from this sort of abuse, then it’s worth what I had to sacrifice. It was absolutely worth four extra months in prison. I have no regrets that Judge Mukasey took longer to craft it right.

  As a critical prologue to his decision, Judge Mukasey expressed frustration that he was asked to rule on the question of my authenticity without access to rebuttal witnesses, who participated in the events, and could answer those questions with authority.

  In this, he saw the legitimacy of my grievance. He complained that he was forced to rely on the subjective opinions of individuals who were strictly guessing, and could not possibly enlighten the Court with the truth.549

  Then, very cleverly, Judge Mukasey used the U.S. Attorney’s own arguments in favor of forcible drugging to shoot down the continued prosecution of my case. Looking at the available, non-classified evidence, Judge Mukasey questioned whether my actions rose to the level of criminal activity at all. If the Prosecutor was correct about my mental status, he said, it was impossible.550

  That’s the only way he could protect me.

  Judge Mukasey’s outstanding decision against forcible drugging hinged on three points—that I was not threatening to myself or others in my daily life. Secondly, drugs would not improve the quality or functioning of my life. Achieving some improvement to the quality of life would be necessary to justify forcibly drugging a defendant—something I support wholeheartedly. And thirdly, Judge Mukasey doubted the prosecution was serious about trying the case. Restoring my competency would not lead to a trial, because it appeared doubtful the Prosecution intended to go forward.551

  It was a brilliant decision. It’s especially subtle if you understand the day by day blows of our legal fight.

  He took all of the Prosecution arguments, and turned them back on the Justice Department, in a hard push to kill my case.

  I wanted to stand up and cheer. I recognized immediately that he’d executed a brilliant move, like a chess expert who studies the board for a long time, then executes a blitzkrieg to win.

  There was a downside. Judge Mukasey upheld the finding of incompetence against me—which was necessary to squash the case, unfortunately. And his decision relied on some of my spiritual viewpoints, my belief in God and angels and prophecy, and my exploration of religious mysticism, which I enjoy very much.

  Candidly, in one of my summer letters at 2 a.m, I told Judge Mukasey that I would not be offended one iota, if his decision cited my religious viewpoints. He would not prick my faith, or undermine my spirituality. By that time, the only thing I cared about was avoiding forcible drugging. Incompetence insulted me, but I refused to allow psychiatry to define me. That took the sting out of it.

  In fact, Judge Mukasey acted consistently with what I told him I could accept. I understand he’s a religious man himself.

  In my heart, I believe that Judge Mukasey thought liberating me from prison and a bad indictment would be worth accepting the finding of incompetence. From a legal standpoint, other attorneys after Carswell have told me he made a generous ruling in favor of my defense— though outside the Courts, incompetence still raises eyebrows. I am convinced Judge Mukasey upheld the finding as a vehicle to kill the case.

  That’s what the Patriot Act has brought us to. A choice between incompetence of a loyal and devoted Asset, or shredding the Constitution and due process of law, tearing down the most cherished rights of all defendants in the legal system.

  Given that I was in prison, without hope of a trial, many hot summer nights on lock down, I and most defendants would probably agree with his choice, even if it’s appallingly unfair. Psychiatry should have had more integrity than to meddle in my case, in the first place.

  Bottom line: Judge Mukasey stopped the Prosecutor from physically torturing me with Haldol. And he guaranteed the Justice Department would have to stop persecuting me for knowing the truth about our advance predictions about 9/11 and our Iraqi Peace Framework. At the same time his decision acknowledged the Government’s fear of my intelligence background.

  He split the baby down the middle. He struck a legal balance that was partially unpleasant to me. More importantly, in this perverse game of the Patriot Act, using what tools a Judge has, Judge Mukasey saved my life and my freedom.

  Like I said, the man’s my hero.

  CHAPTER 30:

  ILLEGTIMUS NON

  CARBORUNDUM EST

  Don’t let the Bastards Get You down!

  Staggering out of the lock up at MCC felt like a surreal experience, putting it mildly. One moment I was getting strip searched, shackled for court and thrown into a holding cell by tough bailiffs. The next, I was waving good bye to Judge Mukasey.

  After fighting like the devil to escape “indefinite detention,” the process of releasing me took less than 10 minutes at the inmate center. They pointed to a door. And I crossed over into freedom land. When that steel door clanged shut, I left behind sterile linoleum and shabby prison chic for modern Manhattan.

  In all, I had been imprisoned 11 months without a trial or hearing to check the authenticity of my story. That’s seven (7) months in excess of the 120 day maximum allowed by federal law for competence detentions that involve no violent actions or threats.552

  JB Fields gave me a bear hug, as I reeled from the shock of it.

  Then another gentleman stepped forward. Without giving his name, he identified himself as the former legal counsel for Panamanian dictator, Manuel Noriega and Edwin Wilson, that other black angel of the covert CIA crowd, who got nailed for running a black op involving Libya in the 1970s. Ed Wilson spent 27 years in prison, mostly in solitary confinement, until he got released on appeal, his attorney reminded me, shaking his head sadly. And the whole time the CIA disavowed knowledge that he’d got sent up for running a covert intelligence operation.

  Sort of like me.

  I got lucky. Wilson’s attorney winked at me sharply. Thought I had it rough? I didn’t know how rough the boys could play when the CIA really wanted to rumble. They gave me a break.

  When I asked for a business card, the gentleman shook his head with a grin. He swore he just happened to be in Judge Mukasey’s court that morning, tying up loose ends for another client on the Judge’s last day on the bench. He wanted me to understand that Judge Mukasey had dealt with me quite generously. He shared a great story about interrogating General Noriega, playing the strong man himself in a dark room, with a single lamp
on the table. He was the real thing, alright.

  Call me paranoid if you like, but it’s a truth universally acknowledged that there are no coincidences in the intelligence business. If you choose to believe that a high level spook attorney for General Noriega and Ed Wilson just happened to visit Judge Mukasey’s courtroom that morning of my release, without some sort of design, I won’t argue with you. But you don’t have a functional grasp of how intelligence works.

  On the intelligence side, I’m sure everybody hoped this attack would stop now.

  Trouble was, my legal drama wasn’t finished. Despite a year in prison, and two and a half years under indictment, I was still pre-trial. Little did anyone guess that I was only at the halfway mark of my ordeal. My attorney made (another) fateful mistake, by failing to seize the opening provided by Judge Mukasey’s outstanding decision to move for dismissal. That decision gave us everything we needed to demolish the indictment, but Talkin took no action to push it through.

  Meanwhile, a few fiercely independent thinkers on the blogs came out for a look-see to find out what the heck the GOP was hiding behind my indictment.

  A surprising number of “awake” Americans had the smarts to question why the government refused to grant my requests for a trial. Roping me on the Patriot Act set off alarms on the blogs.

  They kept my story alive.

  And me? Well, I don’t know how to quit.

  Before I could resume my fight, however, I had to draw back my strength. And my little family in Maryland had to recuperate. My beloved 19 year old cat, Midnight was waiting by the gate when JB Fields and I drove up to my house in Takoma Park. At Carswell, I was heart-sick to hear that Midnight waited by that front gate every afternoon since I left, a year earlier. Midnight looked stunned, but recognized me immediately. With profound relief, my little family was reunited. My precious dachshunds, Raqi Bear and Mahji Bear performed dachsie races around the yard in honor of the occasion.