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

by Susan Lindauer

  Christmas at Carswell was one of those times in my life that I stopped to be mindful of my blessings. In a few weeks I would be home. In the meantime, I had met some strong and fascinating women—Sharon, Nancy, Toie, Jessica, Renee, Karin—very special ladies who, for whatever reasons, got caught in a bad spot. We laughed and joked together. We cried together. We played silly games to entertain ourselves. We poured over law books at the prison library, studying our cases together. I hope we came to respect each other.

  I was counting those last days. Other women came in for psych studies, and left after six or seven weeks. I should have gone home myself, but the Bureau of Prisons wanted to hold me until the 120th day allowed by federal law for these sorts of competency evaluations. There was no purpose to it, except maximizing the sentence.

  Alright then, I could wait until February 3rd. This, too, would pass. The government had made its play. There was nowhere to go but dismissal or trial.

  Or so we fervently believed.

  That all changed on December 23, 2005, two days before Christmas.

  Carswell had already authenticated my story. Infamously, they now started looking for ways to eradicate it.

  My nightmare of “extreme prejudice” was about to begin in earnest.

  CHAPTER 23:

  IF AT FIRST YOU

  DON’T SUCCEED,

  SHOOT THE HOSTAGE

  “I’ll be judge, I’ll be jury,” said cunning old Fury;

  I’ll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.”

  –Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

  The warning shot fired at my head two days before Christmas.

  On M-1, one of the prison staff, Dr. Collin Vas, hustled up and thrust a paper in my hand.

  “Notice of a medication hearing?”439 My hands started to shake. “What the fuck is this?”

  Drugs? But I knew at first glance. This was “extreme prejudice” for sure. If I understood the intelligence community at all, a serious attack was coming.

  And with sudden clarity, I understood why. I had to grimace.

  My upcoming release posed new threats to the so far successful cover ups of 9/11 and Iraqi Pre-War Intelligence. So long as the Justice Department locked me up tight in prison on a Texas military base, the truth got locked up with me. But once I got released and the indictment got dismissed, that truth would crash down like an avalanche on the political comforts of Washington. Republicans—and a few big name Democrats, too—had staked their reputations on a massive public fraud about the “effectiveness” of anti- terrorism policy and Iraq’s phony lack of cooperation in the 9/11 investigation. They had adjusted to that lie most comfortably. I took that comfort away.

  My threat level had multiplied in prison. The abuse I suffered in their cover up—false arrest and false imprisonment on the Patriot Act— showed deliberate and calculated malevolence towards our system of political accountability. It suggested premeditated deception involving top ranking Republicans. My federal prosecutor, Edward O’Callaghan would later join the senior campaign staff of John McCain and Sarah Palin in the 2008 election. The man who covered up my team’s 9/11 warnings would brag of advising McCain’s Presidential campaign on anti-terrorism policy, according to his internet biography.440

  If the corporate media woke up from its coma, this would be a hellacious scandal.

  Psychiatry had already whored itself once to the White House by pretending I was incompetent. As behaviorists, I’m sure they recognized that once they sold out their professional ethics, the second act of corruption came much easier—floating the idea that I should be drugged until I abandoned my claims about Iraq and 9/11. I doubt very much they stopped to consider how obscene their proposal really was.

  If they hadn’t considered it, I was ready to connect the dots for them.

  The internal “medication hearing” was scheduled for December 28, 2005441— five days away. The hearing notice advised that I was entitled to present witnesses and evidence from outside the prison. I could also call prison staff. But with such short notice from Carswell, the week between Christmas Eve and New Years would be impossible to accommodate my rights, since witnesses would be traveling for the holidays. Adding to my difficulties, I had used up my phone time. So I could not contact witnesses until January 1st, when I got a new batch of minutes. Oftentimes an attorney flies in to attend prison hearings, as well—a role Ted Lindauer could have played.

  Without delay, I ran to Dr. Shadduck for an explanation, along with an urgent request for a one week postponement, so I could pull everything together.

  Shadduck explained that this “medication hearing” was the first of its kind in the federal prisons.

  As luck would have it, the 2nd Circuit Court of Appeals, which covers defendants from New York and New Jersey, had just handed down a crucial decision regarding the rights of federal inmates to reject drugs in prison. The 2nd Circuit had ruled that inmates must have the right to an internal hearing before drug recommendations are presented to the Court. Through this hearing, inmates would receive notification of what prison staff wanted to do, and they would have an opportunity to proffer a rebuttal. Above all, the Appellate Court stipulated at length that inmates have rights at these medication hearings, chiefly the right to call witnesses from outside the prison, and show any evidence that supports their cause against drugging.

  It was a critical tool for prisoner rights, and an outstanding appellate decision. I cannot express sufficient gratitude for the inmate who fought for all of us. It must have been a bitter fight. I was profoundly grateful for it, and I wanted to make full use of it. Indeed, I would be the first inmate anywhere in the federal prisons to invoke my rights under this decision.

  Most significantly, it afforded me the opportunity to prove my authenticity to the wider staff at Carswell, and debunk the stupidity and dishonesty of psychiatry’s attacks on the superior caliber of my witnesses. On those grounds, I explained to Shadduck that I wanted Ian Ferguson and Parke Godfrey to testify by speaker phone. I reminded Shadduck that he’d already spoken with both men, and they confirmed the salient points of my work with Dr. Fuisz and my 9/11 warnings.

  There was nothing delusional about any of it.

  Whatever crooked scheme Carswell hoped to achieve with this “medication hearing,” I intended to wreck. Other prison staff would be forced to confront what Shadduck already knew. My story was easily verifiable. Carswell was up to its eyeballs in a vicious cover up scheme.

  Oh yes, high caliber witnesses would always be my best protection, in Court or in prison.

  I just had to cross my t’s and dot all my i’s to show that I met the highest standards of proof. They were playing games. Obviously I could not afford to. I had no intention of relying on the integrity of the psychology business after what I’d suffered at their hands already.

  As for my “mental health” status per se, Parke Godfrey had been a close friend in Maryland since 1990, visiting my home every week, and speaking with me by telephone two or three times a week. By December, 2005, he’d known me 15 years. Godfrey was ready to testify that he saw no evidence of mental illness or instability of any kind in my behavior.442 That would certainly make “involuntary drugging” difficult to justify over my strenuous objections. And I had no intention of going along with such a thing. I abhor drugs of any kind. I would take this fight all the way to the Supreme Court if I had to. Even then, I would never agree.

  This testimony mattered enormously.

  My request for a one week delay was justified to guarantee fairness in the proceedings. After the 1st of January, when I got my new batch of phone minutes, I could send for the Andy Card letters to show my communications to Andy Card and Secretary Colin Powell had been professional and respectful at all times— never threatening or hostile. Finally, I would submit the 12 months of observation notes from Family Health Services in Maryland,443 which documented that Dr. Taddesseh saw nothing wrong with me— “no psychosis,” “no depressio
n,” “no mood disturbances,” “no reason for additional psychiatric intervention” That was pretty definitive.

  I was confident Shadduck already had copies of Taddesseh’s notes from Maryland. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I had to go into this “medication hearing” with all my ducks in a row.

  It meant a one week delay, and no longer.

  Shadduck refused the postponement.

  I was shocked, frankly— and worried. This new “medication hearing” had been crafted to protect inmates in circumstances exactly like mine. By refusing to accommodate a legitimate request to call witnesses and present evidence, Shadduck was deliberately thwarting the 2nd Circuit’s intentions. A one week delay would hardly drag down the system—not after three months in prison, with no action at all.

  For his part, Shadduck recognized the critical importance of what Ferguson and Godfrey would say to his colleagues. He wanted their statements shut out of the prison record for the same reasons I wanted them in. He understood that rejecting my request for a short delay would violate the spirit of the 2nd Circuit decision.

  He did so anyway.

  Not for the first time I was reminded how reality terrifies psychiatrists, and how fiercely they fight against it, desperate to protect their authority in the courts. Reality goes right out the window, while psychiatry labors hard—and violently— to deny it’s there.

  At Carswell, I coined a phrase for this phenomena. I call it “delusional psychiatry.” It’s the elephant in any courtroom.

  I was right to be paranoid.

  On the morning of the “medication hearing,” I was ready to rumble. Even so I was aghast to discover the full macabre horror that Carswell had schemed up for me.

  Waiting for me was Dr. Collin Vas and Dr. William Pederson. Shadduck was not present.444

  Immediately I was handed an internal document titled “Notice of Medication Hearing and Advisement of Rights,” and instructed to sign it. The paper left large blanks under the names of witnesses that I desired to speak on my behalf.445 Carswell wanted to pretend that I had not requested testimony by Ferguson and Godfrey. Dr. Vas grabbed the paper out of my hands when I declared my intention to insert their names under the blank witness list.

  On the paper, Dr. Vas wrote for me, “Ms. Lindauer refuses to sign,” with an X on the signature line.446

  There was no time to express outrage over such critical dishonesty.

  My attention quickly shifted to the section of the paper marked “Reason for Treatment: Restoration of Competency, Treatment of Delusions.”447

  And above that: “Proposed Treatment: Anti psychotics, Benzodiazepeines, Antidepressants and Mood Stabilizers.”448

  My jaw hit the floor.

  Seizing on the most important aspects, the list of drugs for “treatment,” I launched my defense with a strong offensive, pounding the irrational nature of proposing treatment for non-existent conditions.

  “I want the record to show that I have requested a delay to get witness testimony, and that has been refused.” I started off.

  “Let’s take a look at this. I see here that some of these drugs are for treatment of delusions? Are we here to talk about drugs for me? Or drugs for you? I ask, because you’re the ones who appear to be denying reality in my case.”

  My voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “What’s this drug for delusions?” I demanded.

  “Haldol.” Pederson was tight lipped.449

  “Haldol? To treat delusions, I see. A rhinoceros tranquilizer, I’ve been told.” I forced a smile.

  “If you’re really so worried, Dr. Pederson, I suggest that you delay this meeting for a week, so we can get these folks on the phone. You can ask them yourself. Nobody has to take my word for anything. I’m quite confident that you’ll find there’s nothing delusional about any of it.”

  Indeed, testimony by Parke Godfrey and Ian Ferguson, via speaker phone, would have smashed this “diagnosis” in seconds flat. Session reports by Dr. Taddesseh at Family Health Services in Maryland would have provided another knock out punch.

  “Perhaps you’re not aware that your colleague, Dr. Shadduck, has already interviewed these witnesses. He’s already verified my story.450 Dr. Vas, here, knows that very well. So I cannot imagine why you think I’d go along with this.”

  “Here’s some “reality” for you, Dr. Pederson. The Justice Department is pretending that I’m incompetent because Republican politicians in Washington don’t want to take responsibility for their mistakes in Iraq. They want to blame Assets, as if it’s our fault that the U.S. marched soldiers into Baghdad.”

  “You’ve got to love Washington, though. First they arrest me for telling them the war would be disastrous. Now they’re up on Capitol Hill holding press conferences, complaining that I never spoke up to warn them off the invasion. They’re nothing but god damn cowards.”

  “I think that’s the “real” reality, Dr. Pederson.”

  “Well let me set you straight: I would never agree to put psychotropic drugs in my body to help out a Republican politician who got himself in trouble in Washington. I’m not going to put poison in MY body to help out George Bush or John McCain. No fucking way.”

  I started lecturing them at that point:

  “Whether you talk to my witnesses today or not, your staff has already verified my story.”

  “If you go into court, and submit a falsified report saying my story was not authenticated while I was at Carswell, you would be committing felony perjury in a federal court of law.”

  “You would be lying to a senior federal judge. And I swear before God, I would make sure you pay for that. Perjury is a federal crime. You could go to prison. And I would not hesitate to prosecute.” Then I laughed. “A lot of women are at Carswell today, because THEY LIED to a federal judge or the FBI, too. So you had better stop and think about what you’re doing.”

  “If you want my witnesses to repeat what they’ve already told Shadduck, we can make that happen. I have no problem with that. I’d love to do it, in fact!. I wanted to delay this meeting until next week, so you could hear what they have to say.”

  “But I’ve already made them available to your staff, Dr. Pederson. It’s too late for you to deny my authenticity. At this point, if you falsify claims to the contrary—if you lie to a federal judge—you could face prosecution. Do I make myself clear?”

  They looked at me, stone-faced and silent.

  “Now that we understand each other, let’s see this list of drugs you’ve got. Oh my, anti-depressants!” I started reading the list of proposed drugs.

  “Prozac.” Dr. Pederson shot back.

  “Prozac! My, my! That’s a serious anti-depressant alright! How extraordinary that you think I should take a very powerful drug like Prozac when I don’t suffer from depression at all!”

  Dr. Vas spoke up. “Maybe someday— in the future— you might suffer depression. So this way you won’t suffer it. You could be looking forward.”

  I reamed him: “Wait a minute. I don’t suffer depression in prison, which has to be the most stressful and awful experience. Here, I’m active and motivated. I work on my case at the law library. I walk 4-6 miles a day on the track. I suffer no symptoms of depression of any kind. But maybe— someday in the future— years from now— we don’t know when— I might suffer depression. Someday I might. So I should start taking anti-depressant drugs now?? Do I understand you correctly?”

  Dr. Vas got all puffed up: “You admit that you suffered a period of depression 20 years ago, when you lived in Seattle. So you admit that it happened before.”

  I had forgotten all about that. But I didn’t let up: “Twenty years ago!?! You’re not serious? Twenty years ago I was a kid right out of college, trying to figure out my life. I lived in Seattle, where it rains non-stop. All the time! Yes, I got depressed. So I left Seattle. And I grew up. And guess what? I stopped feeling depressed.”

  I turned to Dr. Pederson: “You cannot seriously think that I would agre
e to take Prozac today because 20 years ago I got gloomy when it rained in Seattle? That’s not going to happen. No. You can forget about it.”

  Dr. Pederson pouted: “So you are opposed to drugs. We call it medication, by the way. And you’re telling us that you don’t believe that you need that, and you’re not going to take it.”

  “That’s right,” I replied. “I’m not going to put drugs in my body for non-existent conditions. Not Prozac or anything else! I consider it irresponsible for any “doctor” to suggest it, and I won’t do it.”

  “Let me repeat: I will not put drugs in my body for non-existent conditions. Now what’s this other stuff?”

  “Ativan. That’s a mood stabilizer,” Dr. Pederson replied. “It’s for stress.”

  “Well, considering that my only stress comes from prison, I’m sure I’ll be just fine once I’m released on February 3rd. So the answer is no. I don’t intend to stick around long enough to need Ativan. I haven’t needed it in the three months that I’ve been at Carswell. And I certainly won’t need it when I go home. I repeat. I am not going to take drugs for non-existent conditions. Not to save a bunch of crooks in Congress afraid of losing the next election. It’s not going to happen.”

  “My witnesses have already verified my story for Shadduck. After the first of January, I’d be happy to hook you up. That’s not a problem at all.”

  I don’t remember what else was said, but I’d swear on a stack of Bibles this accurately recounts our battle engagement at this “medication hearing.” I was tough all the way through.

  Friends, this was as bad as it gets. I went back to my cell shaking in fear, as I crawled into my bunk.

  Haldol? Prozac? Ativan?

  I finally understood what three months locked in prison on a Texas military base had not convinced me. The Justice Department, the CIA and the White House seriously wanted to destroy me. They had no intention of letting me go. I didn’t know how they could rig the system to hold me. But this was scary stuff. I gave thanks that I’m a tough street fighter, and fast thinking on my feet.