PART 10:EXTREME PREJUDICE: THE TERRIFYING STORY OF THE PATRIOT ACT & THE COVER UPS OF 911 AND IRAQ

This woman is very fortunate she had an uncle who had been a lawyer for 40 years,and loyal friends.This government is evil,and does not play fair.....

EXTREME PREJUDICE:

THE TERRIFYING STORY  OF 

THE PATRIOT ACT & THE 

COVER UPS OF 911 AND IRAQ

BY SUSAN LINDAUER

CHAPTER 20: 

INCOMPETENT TO STAND TRIAL 

Franz Kafka, Meet Susan Lindauer 

There was no warning. Just a message that Judge Mukasey wanted to see us in Court the following week. Talkin swore he had no idea why. 

I was not stupid. I had not been called to Court in 17 months, since shortly after my arrest as an “Iraqi Agent.” Something was up. My uncle, Ted Lindauer, was concerned too, and immediately promised to fly out from California to come with me. 382 It was inconvenient, for sure. Ted was in the midst of relocating to Illinois to become Chief General Counsel for a corporate client. But both of us sensed something was not right. Not for the last time, Ted dropped everything to help me. Andy Card and the White House might be against me, but I was not without loyal family support. 

I’d been pestering Talkin for months about when we could see the psych evaluations. I’d met Dr. Sanford Drob for the defense in January, and Dr. Stuart Kleinman for the prosecution in April. 

It was now September. According to Talkin, Dr. Kleinman still had not submitted his evaluation. As for the court meeting, maybe Judge Mukasey was getting anxious about the psych reports, too, he shrugged. Maybe the Court wanted to hold the Prosecution’s feet to the fire, and get things moving. 

So did I! I still had no idea if Dr. Drob had updated his evaluation after learning of my uncle’s success. I had explained Ted’s law credentials. I did not offer Ted to Dr. Kleinman. Still, I trusted both psychiatrists to have the integrity to acknowledge my authenticity. The FBI and the Prosecutor had verified my background, too. 

Pretending my story lacked independent validation would be perjury at this stage. It would amount to gross prosecutorial misconduct by the U.S. Attorney’s Office, and an ugly breach of ethics by Drob and Kleinman, equivalent to professional malpractice. 

As for Talkin’s incompetence, I’d have to rely on Dr. Drob’s perceptiveness to read between the lines. Surely an insightful psychiatrist would recognize that calling on family help for something as significant as witness interviews suggested my court appointed lawyer was under performing. Talkin required extra help. I had recognized my attorney’s need, and answered it effectively. 

Score ten points for the defendant! Unhappily, I was used to Talkin mumbling alibis for why something important had not got done. So when he demurred that he had no idea why Judge Mukasey was calling us to Court, I figured Talkin really had no clue. Surely the Court could see that nothing was moving. I thought it was a good bet Judge Mukasey wanted to force the question. 

I expected Mukasey to haul us into court and apply some arm-twisting for a plea bargain. In which case, Ted’s appearance could be critical. If the Prosecutor believed Talkin was the extent of my legal defense, I would get royally screwed. O’Callaghan had to know Talkin was dickering around. It was much better to have a tough attorney like Ted Lindauer on the scene to challenge the merits of the indictment, based on hard facts of alibis and witness corroboration for my story. 

That’s what should have happened. 

Tragically, I had no concept of how psychiatry has become highly skilled at manipulating the courts. Or how defense attorneys, not functioning to the best of their abilities, are eager to help them do it. 

Still, neither Uncle Ted nor I was prepared for what awaited us that September afternoon in the Southern District of New York. 383 

When Ted Lindauer and I arrived together at Talkin’s office in the Wall Street District, Talkin swore a thousand times that Dr. Kleinman’s evaluation was not available to the defense. He flat out denied having read it. Talkin speculated that it would be ready in time for our meeting with Judge Mukasey. 384 

Ted’s appearance unnerved Talkin. He expected me to appear alone, without family guidance and support. By contrast, Ted projected legal muscle, aggressively filling the role that Talkin should have performed himself. Ted’s companion, Ashala, was traveling with him in New York, so there was a third party witness to all of what transpired that afternoon. 

Almost immediately Talkin started whining. While insisting he had absolutely no idea what Dr. Kleinman’s report said, if it was negative, he said the prosecution would probably ask for some sort of psychiatric detention to explore my competence further. 

Ted Lindauer jumped on point: “That’s bullshit! Susan’s not incompetent. There’s no way that’s going to fly. We will fight it. She’s not going anywhere until that happens.” 

Ted continued: “I’ve been reading the laws on psychiatry. She’s entitled to a hearing before the government takes action against her. She’s entitled to call rebuttal witnesses, and show evidence that she’s been wrongfully attacked. We intend to exercise her full rights under the law. Her family will not allow this to go unchallenged.” 385 

Sam Talkin started to sweat. And whine. 

“I don’t have a single piece of evidence that proves her story’s true.” 

Ted Lindauer turned to me: “Fire this man. Right now.” 

He turned back to Talkin. “I have spoken to Susan’s witnesses— I had no trouble locating any of them. 386 They were all eager to help. She’s got a great case, Sam. If you’d interviewed them yourself —” Ted growled—“you would know that. You could have pushed for dismissal months ago.” 

Then Talkin got scared. “I don’t know what the Prosecutor’s going to do. I just think maybe, it could be, that the Prosecution would want her to go to some facility for a few months, just to see if she’s okay. If something can be done to make her competent, we can go ahead with a trial like she wants.” 387 

Ted jumped in again: “Are you fucking nuts? Do you understand what you’re dealing with here! Andy Card and his cronies at the White House will never let her go, once she’s locked up in some prison psych ward.” 

“Andy’s my own flesh and blood. But I will tell you frankly, he’s a hatchet man for the Bush family, going back decades. His worked for Daddy Bush in Massachusetts. He was Deputy Chief of Staff at the White House and Secretary of Transportation for Daddy Bush. That’s before he went to work for George, Jr.” 

“And he didn’t get those jobs by being a nice guy, Sam. Andy Card is vicious. And his friends are vicious. That’s the only life in politics they know. Somebody like Susan would get screwed to the wall if these people get a chance at her. They wouldn’t give a damn that they have stomped somebody so small. Have you read the indictment?” Ted glared at Talkin. “Susan’s in their way because of what she knows about Iraq. If she goes into some psych prison, they are never going to let her out. She’s going to be fucked!” 

“She’s going to get trapped there, Sam!”

Mercifully, on that awful day I had no idea how accurate his prediction would be. 

Talkin started whining: “I don’t know what’s going to happen yet. We have to wait and see the report.” 

Ted stayed on point: “No matter what that report says, Mr. Talkin, I am telling you right now— We, her family, are demanding a hearing. We are going to challenge the reliability of those psych evaluations. We’re not going to lay down and let the Prosecution screw her.” 

I turned to Ted, grabbing for that hearing. “Ted, we’ve got a year’s worth of session notes from Dr. Taddesseh at Family Health Services. He’s on record saying there’s nothing wrong with me. No depression. No mood disturbances. No psychosis. No delusions. Nothing! Those are current records, which show that I’ve exhibited no “psychiatric symptoms” throughout my indictment. We’ll get those papers to the Judge. And we’ll get Dr. Taddesseh to testify at the hearing.” 

“It’s all political. And we can prove it!” 

Ted was fierce and unwavering: “Mr. Talkin, you are going to tell the Judge that we demand a hearing.” 

“If you don’t tell him, then I will.” 

“Susan, you must tell the Court that as of right now, I am acting as co- counsel in your defense. 388 Then I can address the Court myself on your behalf. If you can’t handle this case, Mr. Talkin, then we’re going to replace you. We’ll do that today if we have to, as well.” 

Talkin sputtered how it was too early to get excited. 

It was a short walk to the Federal Courthouse on Pearl Street, but I felt like I was on death row walking to my execution. This was far worse than anything I had imagined. It was surreal that my public attorney would lay down the fight, so the Justice Department could trample us. Uncle Ted looked numb. 

Not for the last time, I thanked God for Uncle Ted. I tried to breathe, and stay calm in the face of this shocking turn of events. 

A funny thing happened on the way to the courthouse. Talkin vanished. He told us he had to make a couple of phone calls to check the status of the Kleinman report. I’m sure he wanted to warn O’Callahan that I brought the cavalry with me, ready for battle. I was not traveling alone to New York, as they expected. Whatever worst scenario they’d plotted, they had a strong challenger in my Uncle Ted. He’s more of a powerhouse in the courtroom than either of those two lightweights put together. 

They would need some dirty tricks to pull off this judicial fiasco. 

Once again, as fate would have it, Uncle Ted and I were not paranoid enough.

When Ted, Ashala and I entered the courthouse, we were ushered into the jury room. Talkin met us, and immediately tossed a copy of the missing evaluation by Dr. Kleinman on the table. It was open to the conclusions. 389 

My jaw dropped, as I read the following: 

1. “Ms. Lindauer grossly overestimates the likelihood of her prevailing at trial. Criminal defendants commonly (grandiosely) overestimate their chances of winning at trial— and associatedly act self defeatingly. Making poor choices and being (legally) incompetent are not synonymous.” 

“Ms. Lindauer’s erroneous judgment, however, emanates from a reality distorting mental illness— which primarily determines how she assesses and approaches her legal case. She irrationally applies her superior intellectual ability and believes she very likely will win at trial—and that even if she does not, she will be heroically regarded for her purported “antiterrorism” efforts, and consequently, not be sentenced according to the federal sentencing guidelines.” 

“She understands the concept of the (federal sentencing) guidelines, but because of her mental illness misjudges the reasoning that would likely be employed in applying them to her.” (sic) 

2. “She distortedly evaluates the utility, including existence— or at least availability, of evidence she reports she intends to use in her defense.” 

“The evaluator does not offer an opinion regarding the far ranging covert Government relationships and authorizations she asserts.” 

“It is, however, reasonable to conclude that it is not reality-based for her to believe she will be able to present convincing evidence she was one of the—if not the Government’s primary “antiterrorism asset(s)” , and that once jurors learn of all she declares she has done to safeguard the welfare of the United States, they will 

1) indignantly regard her being prosecuted, 

2) overlook evidence against her, and 

3) probably acquit her. 

She largely contemplates a psychotically based defense of justification, in which she projects onto jurors how she views herself and her role in the world.” 

3. “She irrationally rejects a potentially viable defense, i.e., the “insanity defense.” 

“The evaluator does not offer an opinion whether her mental state satisfies the criteria (for an insanity defense) —only that it is reasonable to consider employing it.” [WOW,what a load of horse dung right there D.C]

Thus concluded the psychiatric evaluation by Dr. Stuart Kleinman, Associate Clinical Professor of Psychiatry at the Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons. 

Well, looking this over, it struck me that a burst of insanity had suddenly seized the Court proceedings. I was appalled. Ted Lindauer couldn’t believe what he was reading, either. He was aghast. In 40 years as an attorney, he told me that he’d never witnessed anything like this before. 

In the jury room, he turned to me abruptly. 

“Susan, you must fire Mr. Talkin immediately. Fire him, Susan! Or your defense is lost!” 390 

“Tell the Judge that you’re naming me co-Counsel, while you bring a new attorney on the case. Then I will address the Court. I will tell the Judge that I have personally interviewed your witnesses myself. They are highly credible, and your story checks out in total. And I will demand a competency hearing to challenge the wrongful assumptions in these evaluations.” 391 

“We’ll have a list of witnesses to his clerk by close of business tomorrow.

You got that, kid? You’ll have to work fast to get it ready. Do you understand?” (I nodded, gratefully.) 

“But you must fire Sam this moment,” Uncle Ted pleaded with me, fiercely. “You cannot delay. You cannot hesitate. You’ve got to act right now.” 

I was in a state of shock. 

My whole life was flashing before my eyes. I’d worked in anti-terrorism for nine years covering Iraq and Libya. But I was not competent to stand trial?

In my brain, I did a reality check. 

In August, 2001, I warned the Office of Counter-Terrorism about a 9/11 style of attack, involving airplane hijackings and a strike on the World Trade Center. Before the 9/11 Commission issued its report, the FBI confirmed my warnings in its interview with Parke Godfrey. 392 I suspect Dr. Fuisz and Paul Hoven also verified it— since they freely told the New York Times about our team’s warnings. 

But I was not competent to stand trial? 

I gave advance warning about the bombing of the USS Cole, and the 1993 attack on the World Trade Center. But I was not competent to stand trial? 

I started negotiations for the Lockerbie Trial with Libyan diplomats in New York. Then I held preliminary talks on resuming the weapons inspections with Iraq’s Ambassador Saeed Hasan and senior Iraqi diplomats. 

But I was not competent to stand trial? 

It had to be a joke. A sick and twisted joke. 

Give me a subpoena, and I could prove my bona fides in any court in the land — with lightning speed. I would humiliate these idiots! 

Psychiatry had tossed reality straight out the window. These people were crazy! I mean, seriously disturbed! 

Had Dr. Kleinman actually read the charges against me? I was accused of acting as an “Iraqi Agent.” Obviously I had contact with Iraqi officials over several years. That’s one thing the Justice Department and I agreed on. 

As for my so-called “grandiosity, ” thinking I was one of a very few Assets covering Iraq, well golly! Banner headlines in the “Washington Post” bemoaned CIA Director George Tenet’s grief that he could “count on one hand the number of Agents inside Iraq.” 393 Only three of us covered the Iraqi Embassy at the United Nations, and my co-defendants got recruited after 9/11. Before 9/11, in all likelihood, I was the only Asset covering the Embassy! 394 

Clearly if I was an Asset, I was one of the very few. That’s a statistical fact. 

And my work heavily engaged in anti-terrorism. That was no joke, either. 

Would a New York Jury respect my team for our advance warnings about 9/11? Or that I was up to my eyeballs winning Iraq’s cooperation with the 9/11 investigation? 395 Would they be impressed that I persuaded Baghdad to invite an FBI Task Force into Iraq? Or that Iraqi officials agreed to hand over financial records on Al Qaeda figures? 

Given the fruits of my labor, might New Yorkers express disgust that the Justice Department sought to punish me for allegedly eating a couple of cheese burgers? 396 Or would a New York jury understand that work was done on their behalf? 

I’d say it was a good bet. They’d probably start asking hard questions about the 9/11 investigation, too! 

Ah, but could I authenticate my story through independent sources? That was the clincher. 

The answer was absolutely yes! 

Flipping through Dr. Drob’s evaluation on the table next to Dr. Kleinman’s, I saw quickly that it was not updated after my exuberant phone call, crowing with victory about Uncle Ted’s success on my behalf. 

My heart dropped. Dr. Drob’s evaluation scorned my confidence in the quality of my Scottish witnesses from the Lockerbie Trial particularly, as evidence of my “mental impairment.” 397 

This was the Twilight Zone. My witnesses included Congressional staffers, journalists, and university faculty. Their support stood as remarkable testament to my credibility within my own circle of Middle East and international contacts. 398 

It was a challenging case, but I could win. 

Certainly I had no reason to throw it. 

I was dumb-struck. Talkin had fallen down on the job. But my uncle jumped into the breach and saved the day 399— as Dr. Drob was fully aware. His conclusions could only be calculated to mislead the Court’s understanding of the strength of my validation. 

That struck me as grossly unethical and dishonest. 

I had a strong defense alright. Nobody at CIA or the Justice Department had to worry for little old me. Really, their concern touched my heart! 

The Prosecutor, O’Callaghan, might have some difficulties, though. He’d have to explain why I was indicted for eating cheeseburgers during the 9/11 investigation. He’d have to explain why supporting democracy in Iraq constituted a major felony. Or why an Asset should face indictment for recruiting a senior Iraqi Mukhabarat officer to help identify foreign terrorists playing hide and seek with Iraqi Intelligence in Baghdad. That was phenomenally valuable to any serious anti-terrorism effort in Iraq. It was platinum value. And the Justice Department called that “Conspiracy with Iraq’s Intelligence Service?” 

Did the FBI understand anything at all about intelligence work? (Maybe not.)

As for this nonsense about Sentencing Guidelines, the Supreme Court had struck down the compulsory nature of federal guidelines, making them advisory only. If a jury did manage to convict me of eating a cheeseburger, the nature of the action was so innocuous— sharing a lunch that cost $15 in New York City— it would be reasonable to expect a Judge to adjust his sentencing, accordingly. It’s doubtful my actions would send me up the river for 10 years. 

Under the circumstances, my choice of legal strategy and my expectation of the consequences of a conviction struck me as entirely “rational” and “sensible.” 

On such a black day, I had to smirk that after 10 hours with me, Dr. Kleinman admitted he “could not offer an opinion if (my) mental state would qualify for an insanity defense.” 

I rolled my eyes. Obviously there was no grounds for an insanity defense. The Justice Department anxiously wanted me to use a psych defense, regardless of better options. It would be like falling on my sword to save the Bush Administration and Republicans in Congress, who had invented a wild story about the failure of my Pre-War Intelligence activities and 9/11—(and their brilliance on national security). 

Republicans were very fond of that story. 

That’s a bloody stupid argument for making bad legal decisions, however. My prosecutor was a fool indeed, if he thought I would allow him to choose my defense. 

My problem was not poor legal strategy, but a mediocre court-appointed attorney who wasn’t playing straight with the Judge. Talkin did not have 40 years in the law, like Ted Lindauer. He was overworked and under-paid. A trial required a great deal more effort than he could put into the case. This was an easy exit. 

Psychiatry was corrupt enough to oblige him. I was horrified. This was like a John Grisham novel. “Fire him, Susan!” Ted Lindauer pulled me out of my shock. “Fire Talkin right now, and I will demand a hearing. That’s the law. We’re going to hold the Feds to it.” 400 

From my shocked consciousness, I heard Talkin start to speak, kind of apologetic, kind of whining. 

“Well, see, there’s going to be a problem having a competency hearing. You know? See O’Callaghan (the prosecutor) wants her to go for a psych evaluation. It’s not really a hospital. It’s not a prison. Yeah, I guess it’s a prison. No, not really.” 

“She just has to go there for four months. They’ll decide whether she’s competent to stand trial. Then we can decide what to do next. If she’s not competent, they’ll probably just drop the charges. It’s just for four months—” Talkin whined. 401 

Clearly, he’d known all along what the Justice Department was going to hit us with. 

My jaw was suspended open. We had just gone from John Grisham straight to Franz Kafka. 

“Four months?” Ted was appalled. “Are you serious? We don’t agree to that! We don’t care what the Prosecutor wants. That’s not a deal that Susan wants to accept. Do you, Susan!?” 

I shook my head, aghast. 

“I have researched this law, Mr. Talkin. There’s a fail safe that protects her from incarceration until there’s a hearing. We intend to use it to challenge these reports.” 402 

Uncle Ted was ferocious. Even in an ambush, he stayed on point. 

“I can see holes all the way through these evaluations. I can straighten out some of this when I speak to the Judge this afternoon. We’ll address the rest of it at the hearing.” 

I learned that day that Ted Lindauer is a damn fine attorney, who does not crack under pressure. Throw him a poisoned brief, if you will. He will fight for his clients to the death. He was immediately ready and repositioning himself to thwart any unexpected challenge. It was very impressive that afternoon. Trust me. 

Ted turned back to me, fierce. 

“Fire him, Susan! Do it now!” He pleaded with me, deadly earnest. 

I could only nod. I couldn’t even speak. I felt numb and disoriented, in a state of horror. 

My emotional shock was about to take a deep turn for the worst. 

Bowing out of the room, Talkin returned moments later with Judge Mukasey’s senior law clerk. She had a message for us. 403 

She spoke crisp and staccato, as if addressing a full court room, instead of speaking to us privately in the jury room. 

“We understand that you’re thinking of replacing Mr. Talkin, so Ms. Lindauer can demand a hearing. Judge Mukasey is aware of this. We want to make clear that if Ms. Lindauer moves to do that today, she will be seized immediately and taken to prison. As of today, she will forfeit her bail permanently— until the end of the case.” 

“If she agrees to forego the hearing until after completing a four month psychiatric evaluation in prison, she will be allowed THREE days to get her affairs in order before surrendering to prison on MONDAY MORNING.” 

It was now Thursday at about 4 pm. 

On the jury room wall, “EXTREME PREJUDICE” was scrawled in blood graffiti behind Judge Mukasey’s clerk. 

Can anyone imagine such a nightmare! There I was, falsely condemned in the Drob evaluation, which wildly impugned the strength and integrity of my witnesses. The Kleinman report proclaimed me incompetent, on the basis of declaring my innocence. And now I was denied my fundamental rights to a simple pretrial evidentiary hearing, just in case, maybe, I was telling the truth. 

Instead, I would go straight to prison without a guilty plea or any sort of hearing. Andy Card and Colin Powell would be spared the embarrassment of facing me in open Court. Republicans on Capitol Hill would be free to continue spinning wild and inventive stories about 9/11 and PreWar Intelligence without threat of public exposure. They could accelerate boasts about their outstanding leadership performance on national security! I especially loved their patriotic outbursts of devotion to Assets like me on CNN and the Fox News Channel. 

Campaign season thrilled my heart! Presidential Debates were especially fun, listening to John McCain! 

My story shattered those myths irrevocably! The Democrats were just as bad about reinventing the truth. But only the Republicans imprisoned Assets to stop us from exposing leadership fraud and voter deceptions. My co-defendants— both Assets like me— spent 18 months in prison before getting deported. And now I was declared “incompetent” and thrown in prison without a trial, too! 

If you ask me, they exhibited a form of “group psychosis.” 

Politicians hated the reality of Iraq. They couldn’t admit it was “delusional” to pretend their War policy was successful. I must be “delusional” for calling it a disaster. 

Obviously my thinking had to be corrected— not theirs. 

Psychiatry was a farce. Seriously, if I’m incompetent, it’s time to shut down the entire Court system. We probably need to shut down the Intelligence Community as well! 

Stunned and disoriented, Uncle Ted and I shuffled into Court to face Judge Mukasey. The room was packed with U.S. Marshals. Ted whispered he’d never seen so many marshals in one courtroom at a time, not for the most violent criminal offenders. 404 

We were slightly reassured when Judge Mukasey appeared dubious of the evaluations. He assured us that he did not automatically give credence to what psychiatrists said about any defendant. (I tell you, my Judge was incredibly smart!) 

Judge Mukasey said something to the effect of, “just because they’ve said these things about Ms. Lindauer, doesn’t make it true. But I am willing to allow you to pursue it, Mr. Talkin.” 

In exchange for my cooperation, he relented slightly on the timing. If I would agree to a voluntary surrender, he would give me 10 days to get my affairs in order – not three days, as the Clerk told us. 

Ten days. 405 

Ted Lindauer nodded that I should stay on the Judge’s positive side as long as possible. It might not last very long. 

Really though, I had no choice. I had a mortgage and pets. It would be a lot to lose if I couldn’t work out a support strategy for coping. My household was not prepared for a prison surrender of all things. I joked with friends that it’s a good thing I’m capable of running my own affairs. Otherwise I could never have pulled everything together on such short notice. 

It could hardly be termed “consensual, ” however. I adamantly refused to forfeit my rights to a trial or hearing. Judge Mukasey was very much aware of that. 

Still I gasped, more deeply shocked than moments before, when O’Callaghan stood up to announce where the Bureau of Prisons was sending me. 

My prison psych evaluation would be handled at Carswell Prison—inside Carswell Air Force Base outside of Fort Worth, Texas. 

Not only would I be denied a trial— to punish me for believing in my innocence—I would be locked up in prison on a Texas military base, as an accused “Iraqi Agent” to determine if I “could become competent in the future.” 

Talkin put up no objections to this de facto plea bargain—which he cut on my behalf, without my knowledge and over my strongest objections. 

As for my statutory rights to a competency hearing, I could still have it — after I completed my prison sentence. 406 

To be fair, a Judge who regularly sentences defendants to five, ten, twenty years in federal prison looks on four months as a slap on the wrist. And honestly, it is. It’s the best sentence any defendant could hope for in the federal system. The women I met at Carswell shook their heads in envy of my promised 4 month discharge. From the Judge’s perspective, this might have been sensible. Afterwards, the case could go away. If unpleasant for me, it would be short-lived. And it would get us out of his courtroom. 

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 result. 

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 nonviolence. 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 antiterrorism 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 nonviolence. 

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.” 

“You’re nothing like that. We can see already that what they wrote in these evaluations bears no resemblance to you.” 

“Maybe it’s because of post-traumatic stress from my work in anti-terrorism?” I suggested, not sure what to say in this first conversation, without digressing into all the politics of my case. 

“Post traumatic stress would rarely qualify for incompetence.” The prison psychologist shook his head decisively. “Otherwise most prisoners in the system would be exempt from prosecution.” 

He looked at me hard. “How would you describe your attorney’s handling of this case?” 

He nailed it. Still, I hesitated how much to admit about my attorney’s failings. If I told the prison psychologist, he would tell the Prosecutor. That could not be good. 

“Sir, you raise an excellent point,” I replied, distinctly and slowly. “That’s what I thought,” he nodded. “Sometimes attorneys get overwhelmed by complicated cases like yours. Especially public attorneys who tend to be overworked in their case loads. They see this as an easy way out.” He said, reading my reticence with a high degree of perceptiveness. “That doesn’t mean we’re going to accept it, you understand.” 

I nodded. Inwardly, I groaned. Thanks to my idiot attorney, I was going to serve a prison sentence, without a plea bargain. Then I’d have to start back at square one and go to trial, with a new attorney who would require private financing. The only thing to recommend this strategy was if the case could go away after Carswell, and I could go on with my life without a conviction on my record. That was the trade off for four months in prison. It looked doubtful. 

“Judge Mukasey said the evaluation must be completed by February 3rd , but it might finish sooner.” I pressed him. At least I had an exit date. 

“Oh it won’t take that long.” He shook his head. “I just don’t understand why you’re here. I’ll have to make some calls about this.” 

I understood. Anybody could see it was obscene to pretend I’m “incompetent —” though I understood the desire to bastardize me. Unforgivably, this psychiatric “diagnosis” lined up beautifully with false claims on Capitol Hill about intelligence failures before the War. It communicated what Congress wanted Americans to think— that “incompetent Assets” shouldered the blame for bad decision making. Assets failed to perform— not elected leaders. Since I was an Asset, I must be incompetent, too. 

Psychiatry accommodated Washington’s agenda with unforgivably corrupt and unethical evaluations. 

You had to hand it to Republican leaders at the Justice Department, however. This brute force attack was a masterful strategy to hide the truth about the Iraqi Peace Option and our advance warnings about 9/11. First, the false indictment gagged me from discussing what I had done before the War, which contradicted everything Americans had been told. Then the finding of incompetence killed my reputation as an Asset. Denying me a trial stopped me from gaining a forum in a court of law to expose the deceptions on Capitol Hill. 

Finally, burying me in prison on Carswell Air Force Base outside of Fort Worth, Texas gave the White House free reign to rewrite the history books without challenges. Even if I was stoic enough to speak out afterwards, in the eyes of many, my reputation and credibility would be destroyed. Nobody would listen. I would be alone. 

Oh yeah, I understood alright. 

Why the rush, though? That nagged at me. Why, indeed? 

When I arrived at Carswell, the prison was so over-crowded that a batch of us new arrivals, about eight of us, had to go to the punishment block, called the SHU, or solitary housing unit. 

That’s where I got locked up for my first two weeks at Carswell. They had no other beds. 

Actually solitary confinement would have significantly improved my living conditions. The cell was a standard eight by ten feet. Crammed into that tiny space, four inmates slept on two metal bunk beds. Our few possessions, including a change of prison clothes, got stored in small bins tucked under the bottom bunks. There was an open toilet in the corner without a lid or proper seat. Toilet paper got rationed between the four of us. 

Whoever got the idea that federal prisons are country club havens for pampered inmates has obviously spent no time in either facility. 

Sitting on the cold concrete floor, leaning against one bunk, I could stretch my legs and hit the other bunk with my feet. I got a top bunk. Most of the day I had to stay there— crouched on the bed 22 + hours daily. 

Twice a week, each of us got to leave the cell for showers. Since it was the punishment block, we had to be handcuffed through a slot in the door any time we left our cell. Even in a medical emergency, inmates on the SHU had to get handcuffed before guards could enter a cell, such as when a cellmate went into diabetic shock early one morning at 4 a.m. 

We looked forward to showers all week, so we could stand for 45 minutes, getting the cramps out of our legs. Inside the shower room, we had to strip for a visual inspection before we climbed into the shower. After the shower, we had to stay stripped for a visual inspection before dressing to return to our cell. 

Often on shower days, guards allowed us to wait inside a small exercise room, with a large, bright mural painted on the wall. That mural probably saved the sanity of more inmates in the SHU than all the psychological counseling at Carswell combined. 

Outside prison there’s a presumption that inmates have a basic right to one hour of exercise every day, even in a maximum security setting. In fact, all of us on the SHU got one hour outside every week or 10 days, locked inside a fenced yard with a basketball hoop, surrounded by a sky high fence. What passed for that one hour of recreation included the time necessary to shackle us all, and stand us in line. And the time to march us out to the prison yard. Just as we relaxed enough to enjoy the sunshine, it would be time to get handcuffed and marched back to the SHU. When all that time got accounted for, we probably spent 30 minutes outside about every 10 days. 

Some of these women got locked up on the SHU for months at a time. Nobody at Carswell started off crazy. But I did meet several women at Carswell, who had been punished on the SHU for such long periods that I questioned if they might be broken. The pattern of their detention was sadistic, their offenses so minor as to warrant a more measured response. Clearly the guards wanted to damage their souls. I saw women whimpering and shattered. Trust me when I say the SHU could be a form of torture, especially without access to recreation or daylight. 

The cell was extremely uncomfortable. The bunks stood away from the walls, far enough that inmates could not enjoy such small comfort as resting our backs against a hard wall surface. 

We had thin foam rubber pads for a mattress and one thin blanket. Most of the women slept all day, so mostly the lights stayed off during the daytime. To stay occupied, I read trashy books from the library cart, or wrote letters home to friends. During the daylight, I would hunker under the one narrow window of our cell to catch the sunlight. 

I confess that in those first days I felt too intimidated to lobby for keeping the lights on. My bunk mates had spent a few more nights at Carswell than me. I’d never spent the night in county lock-up, let alone federal prison. 

My first week at Carswell, small talk with these women scared the hell out of me. 

One pretty Latina inmate looked so young and innocent in our tiny SHU cell. What crime could she possibly have committed, I wondered? Ah, but appearances can be deceiving in prison. At 18 years old, she got hit with a 20 year sentence, which sounded dreadful. In late night conversations, she admitted hanging out with a Los Angeles street gang back home, driving around with guns and drugs in a car. And oh yeah, one of the guys got high on crack and started firing a gun. (Sounded like a drive-by shooting to me, but I didn’t push it.) Hey, that happens, right? Somebody smokes a little cocaine and starts acting crazy, shooting out of the backseat. Next thing, you’ve all got 20 years in prison! What a bummer! 

Another inmate I liked very much had tattoos of two tears by one eye. Prison staff kept stopping by our cell to ask about those tattoos. One of the wardens visited the SHU specially to see her. The guards really appreciated the artwork! 

Very sweetly she explained that in prison, tattooed tears usually indicate how many persons an inmate has killed. And she had two tears! She winked at me with a big smile. Most prisoners only have one! Registering my immediate shock, my cellmate swore that she hadn’t murdered anybody! Girlfriend just liked the look! 

Yeah, so did I. 

And what are you in for? They leaned close to hear. 

Oh, I’m in for treason! Because I opposed the Iraqi war. But really they think I ate a cheeseburger. 

I wasn’t about to ask these women to keep the lights on, if they wanted to sleep. I would read in darkness rather than poke an argument in that cell. I imagined I was totally at their mercy. Once I got my bearings, I discovered I had nothing to fear from (most of) these ladies. Most of us wanted to “do our time” as quietly as possibly, and avoid the stress of unnecessary confrontations. Prison staff at Carswell would be far more dangerous to my future. My fellow inmates would help me through it, despite their own traumatic pain. 

One man occupied a lot of my thoughts in that dark SHU cell, where prisoners mostly couldn’t tell if it was day or night. 

That man was former Secretary of State Colin Powell, retired head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the U.S. Armed Forces. Three weeks before my prison surrender, Secretary Powell broadcast a major television interview with Barbara Walters on “20/20” on September 8, 2005. 410 It aired at the exact moment the Justice Department was mobilizing to ship me off to Carswell without a trial or hearing. 411 

It was a most enlightening interview. Colin Powell complained vehemently to America’s First Lady of investigative journalism, Barbara Walters, that nobody at CIA tried to warn him off claims about Iraq’s illegal weapons stocks and manufacturing capability, as grossly exaggerated by Iraqi exiles. Powell angrily denounced the intelligence community for failing to speak up before his big speech at the United Nations, weeks before the War. He particularly criticized “lower-level personnel.” 412 

Powell said, and I quote: “There are some people in the intelligence community who knew at that time that some of these sources were not good, and shouldn’t be relied upon.” 

“And they didn’t speak up. That devastated me.” 413 

There was just one problem. It was all a lie. 

Colin Powell had been warned explicitly—by me— identified as a primary Asset covering the Iraqi Embassy in New York, that he should question dubious claims about Iraq’s weapons capacity. Twice that January, 2003, I left papers at Powell’s home for his review— not difficult since he lived next door to my CIA handler, Dr. Richard Fuisz. I pleaded for him to support peace. And one week before his speech at the United Nations, on January 27, 2003, I respectfully urged him to consider the following: 414 

“What I have to say next will be more aggravating, but I have an obligation to advise you.” 

“Given that Iraq has tried for two years to hold covert talks with the United States, with the promise of immediately resuming weapons inspections, there’s a very high probability that Iraq has no weapons of mass destruction. Forget what the Iraqi Opposition has told you. They’re famous liars, and most desperate to engage the United States in their protection. You can’t kill 1.7 million people and return home after a vicious bombing campaign to a great parade.” 

“No, Iraq emphasized for more than a year before Kofi Annan got involved, that Baghdad would jump at the chance to prove to the world they had no weapons. At any moment Iraq was ready for those inspections to begin, and that says to me that they felt always they had nothing to hide. They simply insisted that without U.S. support for the plan, it would have no benefits or meaning for resolving tensions. Current events have proved that they were right.” 

“Don’t deceive yourself, Mr. Secretary that War would have no costs. Believing your own rhetoric at this moment would be the most rash and incendiary mistake. Fighting street battles searching for Saddam would entail deadly risks for U.S. soldiers. No matter what Iraqis think of Saddam, the common people hate the U.S. for sanctions and bombings, and they would consider it traitorous to help you.” 

“Under these circumstances, the brutality necessary to win this war would be consumption for the entire Arab world. It would produce a disastrous period of occupation. The Iraqis have fought occupations before, and they would strike back wherever possible.” 

“Outside Iraq, Islamists would point to the failure of west-leaning leaderships to protect the Iraqi people. Fundamentalists would seize on that failure to force concessions for their strict cause. There would be a shift to the will of the people alright. No wonder Iran has been chuckling to itself. Iran and Osama—not the United States— would be the greatest victors in this war. The Arab Street would rush to their side.” (Yes, I called the rise of Iran, here and in other papers.) 

“Please let me help you. You can still achieve a greater victory, Mr. Secretary, and maintain the force of America’s moral authority in the world’s eye. The objectives of the Bush Administration can be achieved without igniting terrorist revenge and international boycotts. Or destroying political alliances in the War on Terrorism. Or forcing massive deficit spending that will prolong the U.S. recession and scare the hell out of Wall Street and the Middle Class. Or starting a Holy War— which this would become.” 

I knocked it out of the ballpark. My advice addressed every one of the complaints raised by Powell. What’s more, he received my second warning on January 27, one week before his speech to the U.N. General Assembly on February 5. 

Far from valuing my efforts to provide quality intelligence feedback in the run up to War, Secretary Powell complained to the FBI that somebody so junior as myself dared to contact him! 

He turned over those papers to the Justice Department, and I got indicted for approaching him and Andy Card! 415 

He forgot to mention that to Barbara Walters. 

His fireworks of fury was a stage act, a spectacle of political theater. Whether you agree with the war or not, that was a selfish and ugly fraud. 

Everybody presumed my “beloved” cousin, White House Chief of Staff Andy Card lodged the original complaint to the Feds. Actually it appears Colin Powell did the dirty deed, though Andy certainly cooperated with the FBI investigation. Powell began it, and John McCain seized on it as justification for my indictment, so I could be silenced while Senator McCain’s Presidential Commission issued some very silly findings about Pre-War Intelligence. But there’s no question that Powell played a key role as instigator. The FBI cited copies of my handwritten notes to Powell and the manila envelope delivering papers to his home, as evidence against me 

At Carswell I dreamed of showing those papers to Barbara Walters! In fond moments, I imagined her reprimanding General Powell for lying to his fellow officers and American soldiers, and stripping some of those medals off his chest! 

If I had my way, the man would face a court martial. 

As if that wasn’t awful enough, days after that “20/20” broadcast—on September 17— the Justice Department rubber stamped the order that I was “incompetent to stand trial.” 416 That guaranteed Powell’s lie about Iraq would not face public challenge. I could never confront him or Andy Card as my accusers in open court, per my rights under the Constitution. 

While Powell launched his “press junket” to rehabilitate his reputation, the feds booked me a bed at Carswell prison on a Texas military base, squashing my rights to a hearing on September 23, courtesy of the Patriot Act. While he washed the blood and dirt off his place in history, I faced punishment without trial, for daring to approach the former Chair of the Joint Chiefs with my analysis that Iraq did not possess WMDs. 

That made Colin Powell “crook of the year” in my book. Truly it was Kafkaesque. My first two weeks in the SHU, I reeled from the shock of it. Every time I got strip searched and handcuffed in the SHU, I smoldered in rage as I thought about Colin Powell and that mockery of an interview with Barbara Walters. That “20/20” interview rammed home that I was suffering so powerful men in Washington could rewrite their place in history, and sanitize their reputations. 

Still, I had no choice but to adjust. In the SHU, I learned how Carswell fit into the schematics of the federal prison system. 

It’s worth considering that according to the U.S. Census Bureau, one of every 100 Americans are housed in prison every day of the year. 417 Indeed, the United States boasts the highest rate of incarceration in the world. 

Officially called Carswell Federal Medical Center, it’s the only federal women’s prison in the United States that provides hospital and chronic health care for inmates suffering cancer, HIV/AIDS, heart disease, post-surgical rehabilitation, hepatitis and liver disease, and other chronic medical conditions. 

Out of 1,400 prisoners, about half require medical care. 418 The other inmates are completely healthy. That sounded reassuring, and I was hopeful. At first. 

Unfortunately, Carswell has a scandalous reputation for providing horribly poor medical care to prisoners. While I was at Carswell, the Board of Hospital Certification kept threatening to revoke Carswell’s board approval, unless they cleaned up their act.

And let me tell you why: 

A woman I met with diabetes got sent off for surgery— and got the wrong leg amputated. 

Another older woman had heart surgery shortly before surrendering to Carswell. Prison staff refused to give her heart medications prescribed by her cardiologist for postsurgical recovery. Almost immediately she suffered a heart attack, and lay on the floor for several hours. Prison staff stepped over her body, while inmates had the respect to walk around her. But nobody tried to get her off the floor and into bed until she regained consciousness three to four hours later. At that point, she crawled off the floor, and hobbled to her bunk by herself, with no staff assistance. 

Another woman had a bulging hernia. She carried her intestines with both hands and arms, lifting her belly at all times. Despite her obvious suffering, Carswell refused to authorize medical tests or surgery, though her condition qualified as a medical emergency. Carswell provided no medical treatment of any kind. We’d sit in the prison yard, while she’d groan in pain. Prison staff appeared totally indifferent to her physical agony. 

As we watched, the hernia got larger and larger, as if all her intestines had spilled into her gut. 

I rather expect she’s dead now. 

Notably, Carswell takes out a life insurance policy on every inmate, and collects financial benefits for every woman who dies. That practice has become embroiled in controversy over whether Carswell has a financial incentive to withhold care until sick prisoners die. It’s not a question of mercy. It’s a question of profit versus basic human dignity. 

Dying at Carswell is a nasty way to go. 

The scent of urine wafted through the vents of the hospital wing, making a permanent stench that suggested inmates upstairs were left soaking in their own excrement. At the very least, bed pans could not have been cleaned frequently enough. 

An ant infestation got so bad in the hospital wing, a few months after I shipped out, that Betty Brink, a journalist for “Fort Worth Weekly” reported the “tiny biters were crawling on comatose and dying patients in their beds, and covering the body of at least one paralyzed inmate.” 419 

Before prison inspections, there’d be a rush to paint the hallways bright white. Miraculously the air quality would improve, a blessed reprieve for our olfactory senses. Prisoners would joke that the Feds must be coming. Still, it raised our spirits, because conditions would get better for a few weeks. 

Within this prison that warehouses every sort of chronic medical ailment— and hundreds of healthy prisoners to boot— there’s a small unit on the third floor called M-1. Here, I came to believe, was every prisoner’s worst nightmare in the flesh, and Carswell’s greatest shame. 

M-1 houses 40 to 50 women at a time. About half of the M-1 inmates get shipped to Carswell for psychiatric evaluations before sentencing. The rest are long term inmates with special mental health or physical needs that require close observation. No inmate could be judged criminally insane, but some prisoners had suicidal impulses that required special monitoring. Detox was common for chronic heroin users coming into prison. Some had epilepsy. One suffered Alzheimer's dementia. No one got special care on M-1. It just mitigated the prison’s liability until their release. 

Regrettably, closer staff observation on M-1 did not translate to a higher standard of care. A 27 year old woman died of sleep apnea on M-1 several weeks before my arrival, because Carswell denied her access to a special breathing machine at night. Her Judge had mandated her right to use the machine. But Judges’ orders got flouted all the time at Carswell, even when defendants headed back to court, asking to enforce the original medical orders. It never happened. 

That time, a very young woman died. Carswell covered its liability, because she’d been housed on M-1. And the prison collected the insurance. 

That’s how the system works. 

And yet M-1 looked so good after two weeks locked up on the SHU. 

By now I felt like I was starring in my own spy thriller movie: I imagined my acceptance speech at the Oscars. “I would like to thank the Academy for getting me off the SHU. God bless you all!” 

At the start, I had no idea that in a few short months, I would fall down on my knees and beg God, truly, to let me off M-1, as well. 

But at the start, I was so innocent. I had no idea of Carswell’s full reputation. 

As for why the rush to get me into prison, the answer fell into my lap quite unexpectedly, just days after my release from the SHU. 

Late one night, I got a big clue, watching CNN on prison television. Democrats on Capitol Hill were trying to launch a congressional inquiry on Iraq, led by Rep. John Murtha (D-Pennsylvania) in the House, and Sen. Carl Levin (D-Michigan) in the Senate. 420 Democrats weren’t taking the Republicans’ word on anything. Who could blame them? 

Democrats wanted to investigate whether Republicans in Congress had smoothed things over for the Bush Administration —which of course, they had. In part, the Democrats also wanted to explore if and how pro-war Republicans had punished individuals who dissented from their war policy. 

Oh ho! That would shine a harsh spotlight on my case, front and center! As long as Republicans controlled the podium, they could block hostile testimony. If Democrats controlled the inquiry, the truth would come out. And it was an ugly truth. 

I would have made trouble alright! They were correct about that. 

By the time I finished describing in graphic detail how my two co-defendants and I all got arrested on trumped up charges as “Iraqi Agents, ” there would be no doubt Republican leaders had lied to America and the world community about Iraq, the CIA’s advance knowledge about 9/11, fraud in the 9/11 investigation—and the ludicrous rationale for the War on Terrorism itself. 421 

I would wax eloquent how my two young Iraqi co-defendants—Assets like me —helped the FBI because they wanted to stay in America, and the FBI promised to fix their visas. They betrayed their own father, an Iraqi diplomat, to do it. The Justice Department repaid them cold heartedly, by arresting their brothers and sisters, and throwing the whole family into prison in New York. Leveraging the siblings as hostages, the Justice Department pressured the boys to sign false confessions that they deliberately supplied bad intelligence to the U.S. before the War, and informed Iraqi Intelligence about exiles living in the U.S. who opposed Saddam’s government. 422 

These two boys worked at a dry cleaners and a video store in Manhattan. 423 They didn’t know any Iraqi exiles. None of the evidence supported the accusations. But the whole family got locked up for a year in prison, while the Justice Department extorted those boys to confess to nonexistent crimes. 424 One of the boys demanded a trial, and got locked up for 18 months. Then they all got deported with a forced nondisclosure clause. 

Transcripts from prison phone calls told their whole nightmare. 

It’s something Saddam Hussein would have done. It’s against everything our country stands for. 

Oh yes, I would have a few things to tell a Congressional Inquiry. 

Understanding that, Republicans turned villainous, removing sources like me, so the Democrats would be starved for bloody meat, and the inquiry would go nowhere. 

It was truly despicable and cowardly. 

I watched the game play out on prison television, and I, the expendable pawn. I remember Rep. Murtha saying “Assets are slowly coming forward to tell us what really happened.” 425 

It was late at night before lights out. There was a night guard. I pulled him into the TV room. 

“Murtha’s talking about me,” I told the guard, practically in tears. “And I can’t testify because the Justice Department has locked me up here to get me out of Washington.” 

“I should be testifying on Capitol Hill right now. Not locked up in prison without a trial. Murtha wants Assets to come forward to expose what really happened before the War. Democrats in Congress want to hear what we have to say.” 

The guard looked at me sadly, truly sympathetic. “They don’t want you talking, Lindauer.” And he shook his head, prophetically. “They’re not ever going to let you talk. If you want to get out of here, you’re going to have to go along with them.” 

The Democrats’ inquiry explained a lot. Yes it did. 

Watching CNN that night, I steamed with impotent fury. I vowed to myself that I would hold the truth inside myself until it was safe to reveal. I would not let this go for the convenience of lying politicians. That truth was too important. 

And yet bitterly I saw the obstacles ahead of me, if I spoke up. My credibility had been so brutally destroyed by false allegations of “mental incompetence.” 

Who would listen to me now? 

I resolved to tough it out. They had power over their actions. They did not have power over mine. Really though, what else could I do? 

I stayed focused on my release date. February 3rd burned onto my brain. I kept my cool, and waited. It was four months. Okay, I could do that. I’m a pretty tough lady. I’ve got my wits, and I’m mostly calm under pressure. I could do that time “standing on my head, ” as the saying goes. 

Four months. Then it would be over. Or so my attorney, Sam Talkin, swore to me in prison phone calls. The White House had its pound of flesh for my transgression, opposing Andy Card’s war. Colin Powell’s reputation had got whitewashed and redeemed. The Justice Department would drop the charges, Talkin promised. And the case would go away. I would have no prison record. No conviction. For the first months of my incarceration, I had no choice but to trust him. He’d cut the deal. And he sounded awfully convincing. Uncle Ted and I wanted so much to believe him. 426 

Could you blame us? 

Uncle Ted and I had a back up plan if anything went wrong. Ted would demand a hearing on my behalf immediately. But surely this would be the end of it? That’s why they’d done it. To have an end game. That’s what Talkin kept promising us. 

I got tons of letters of encouragement from friends. I stayed active, walking four to six miles a day on the outdoor track. That’s 80 to 120 laps every day. I read lots of books. An old college friend sent me the complete Harry Potter Series, which delighted me and calmed my nerves. I read lots of spy thrillers and crime mysteries. New York Times Crossword puzzles entertained me for hours. I got pretty good at identifying four letter words for “betrayal.” 

Quickly I settled into the “monastic” experience of prison life, and tried not to get eaten up by bitterness. What else could I do? 

I tried to be kind to other women, and made friends I will cherish forever. These women provided a strong support network. We cheered for each other victories, and ached for each other’s private battles. We prayed for each other constantly. Though it sounds unlikely, I am a better person because I have known these women. 

M-1 had its quirks. It’s a locked unit. Why it’s locked, nobody could explain, since it’s a punishable offense for prisoners to wander beyond their designated areas. We spent lots of time waiting for guards to open the doors, so we could go outside, or come in. The guards griped about it constantly. 

A second unit, called M-2, houses another 70 to 80 prisoners after sentencing, whose health conditions range from heart disease to moderate suicide risk, bulimia and old age. That’s not a locked unit. It’s also not highly medical in function. That’s where my older friend collapsed from her heart attack—in full view of a “nurse’s station.” Yeah, it’s kind of a joke. That’s the point. 

The hospital wing takes up the top floors. Tragically, I saw lots of wheel chairs at Carswell, mostly transporting young women suffering AIDS or cancer. It’s a distressing sight. They sank faster, because although Carswell supposedly functions as a hospital, the nursing staff had a suspicious lack of medical supplies. 

Poor medical care was not the only hazard faced by women inmates. 

Coercive sex and outright rape are not uncommon at Carswell, either. Since 1997, eight professional staff at Carswell have been convicted of rape, averaging one staffer every year. They include two prison chaplains, a gynecologist, a psychologist, a supervisor of food services and three guards. 427 Some abuse involved sex for bribes— special access to contraband cigarettes, or staying out of the SHU, if prisoners got caught breaking rules. However, some abuse qualifies as violent rape. Women prisoners are helpless to fight back, without getting accused of assaulting a prison officer— which adds extra years on her sentence. That makes it difficult not to yield, and difficult to prove afterwards that sex was forced, not consensual. 

It’s shocking to think of the sorts of high level staff who have sexually abused prisoners. 

In 2008, Vincent Inametti, Carswell’s Catholic Chaplain for seven years, got sentenced to four years in prison for what his judge called “surprisingly heinous sexual crimes” against two women prisoners. 428 The Court speculated there might have been more victims who got released or feared to come forward. Inametti had a terrible reputation when I was at Carswell in 2005- 2006. Other women whispered that we should never accept favors from Inametti, or get caught alone in his office. We always stayed in pairs, dealing with that man. He was the prison’s Catholic Chaplain, and women inmates couldn’t trust him one on one, even for spiritual counseling. 

In addition to rape, abuse of inmates’ legal rights was a serious problem at Carswell, too. But I didn’t know that at first. 

I was determined to stay good-natured as long as possible. 

I settled into prison life, helped by the generous and devoted support of my companion, JB Fields, waiting at home for me in Takoma Park. 

JB Fields was a computer techie, who worked in Naval Intelligence on submarines before going to the Peace Corps and the U.S. State Department. He used to joke that he spent six years of his life under water. He was a free thinking intellectual with a blue collar streak a mile wide. He argued passionately in defense of civil liberties, and never hesitated to tackle tough issues, like the rights of gays to work openly in the military. 

Most famously, he rode a BMW motorcycle! Every weekend he took off on a road trip or scavenger hunt. He had an “Iron Butt” badge to prove he rode 1,000 miles in 24 hours. He loved diners and pubs. He was gregarious and generous and opinionated. And he loved to blog. 

JB was my companion and lover, though some friends were told of our relationship, and JB kept others in the dark. Some of his friends urged him to leave me to protect his career. But he never took the easy way. After my arrest, we applied our own peculiar brand of “don’t ask, don’t tell, ” for the sake of his work. He stayed with me through prison, but died of lymphoma cancer before my case got dismissed. 

In fact, JB got a Top Secret Security clearance after he moved in with me. So much for the Feds’ argument that I posed a security threat as an “Iraqi agent!” Before Carswell, we talked about getting married. His support was phenomenal to my spirit. He was my white knight of chivalry. I could never have survived without him. 

I had 300 minutes of phone time for all prison phone calls every month. That’s five hours of phone time, in maximum 15 minute blocks. At Christmas, prisoners got an extra 100 minutes. JB and I would count them down together. When I’d run out, there’d be such regret in his voice as he begged me to hold on until I got my next batch of minutes on the 1st of the month. He’d be waiting for my call that morning. 

To this day, I have a phobia against cell phones, because it reminds me of counting minutes from prison 

If JB was alive today, he would be an Oathkeeper —dedicated to upholding the U.S Constitution. 

JB came out of Naval Intelligence. So he made a special effort, in our conversations, to insist that neither of us disrespected the military, though we both hated this Iraq war. All phone calls were monitored by prison staff, and Lord love him, JB tried so earnestly to communicate that it’s patriotic to defend the First Amendment. He used to say that old military guys like him signed up to protect the best parts of our liberties and our Constitution, including the right to dissent from the government. Disagreeing on political issues didn’t mean we loved our country any less. Throughout history, American soldiers have died to protect this very cause. 

So JB swore, with hand on heart! And so my first couple of months at Carswell passed without breaking my spirit. 

The large outdoor track in the prison yard was the focus of all inmate recreation and social life. For the sake of exercise and burning off stress, I walked four to six miles a day, half in the morning, and half in the evening, when the harsh Texas sun cooled off. As the nightmarish months trudged on, my release date becoming a distant fantasy, like an impossible dream, I used to imagine that by the end of my detention, I would have walked enough miles on that track to take me all the way home to Maryland. 

Twice a week, M-1 got “treated” to in-door recreation. Carswell had a small crafts room and a micro gym, with four tread mills, four exercise bikes and four Stairmasters. It was somewhat inadequate for a population of 1,400 women prisoners, but very much appreciated. Carswell would be a sorry excuse for a country club. Some surprisingly child-like activities qualified as indoor recreation, such as bowling with gargantuan plastic pins that got knocked down with huge plastic balls twice the size of basketballs. Board games like Monopoly, Sorry, LIFE and Chutes & Ladders entertained us for hours in the TV room, just to fill the time. We played card games constantly. 

Sometimes we got very silly, like the night we played “Monopoly, ” and I pulled a “Get out of Jail” card. I took it to the guard, and asked to go home. 

There was also a small prison library, which amused us enormously by specializing in True Crime dramas, stuffing every book shelf. We joked that the prison’s choice of reading would teach our fellow inmates how to make up better alibis the next time out. 

To put that in perspective, when a college friend shipped me a complete set of Harry Potter books, other inmates tried to buy it off me for commissary (prison currency, legal or otherwise). 

Otherwise, for recreation, women crocheted endless dolls and blankets for children and boyfriends back home. There was always a buzz over new yarns, colors and designs and patterns, and haggling over who wanted to trade a blanket for commissary. 

For the most part, Carswell inmates are not violent or destructive. In fairness, ten years ago a large number of these women would not have got arrested at all. Today there’s a mentality that favors sweeping out households, particularly in drug cases. 

Nowadays, grandmothers get locked up for refusing to testify against their adult children caught dealing drugs, while grandma cares for their babies. Most people forget that these grandmothers are holding their little worlds together, keeping children out of foster care. And the Courts punish them terribly as a result. One woman at Carswell was a quadriplegic who got locked up in a drug sting. She could not possibly have walked out on dope dealing family members, since she was paralyzed from the neck down. 

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 Alzheimer's 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 counterterrorism 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. Nonviolence 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 behalf 430 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 coauthor 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 knockout 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 friends 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. 

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 120 th 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.

next

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notes

CHAPTER 20 

382. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix. 

383. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix 

384. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix 

385. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix  

386. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix 

387. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix 

388. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix 

389. Psychiatric Evaluation by Dr. Stuart Kleinman for the Prosecution. U.S. vs. Lindauer Sept. 23, 2005. 

390. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix 

391. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix 

392. Ibid. Affidavit from Dr. Parke Godfrey in Appendix 

Chapter's 21-22

393. Ibid. CIA Director Could Count Agents in Iraq on One Hand. Washington Post. 

394. Ibid. Federal Indictment U.S. vs. Lindauer and Al Anbukes. 

395. Letters to Andy Card, March 1, 2001, September 24, 2001 and December 2, 2001 

396. Ibid. FBI Evidence. Restaurant receipts for 3 lunches after Sept 11, 2001 

397. Ibid. Psychiatric Evaluation by Dr. Sanford Drob for the Defense. 

398. Ibid. (i) Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer, (ii) emails from Edward MacKechnie 

399. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer 

400. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer 

401. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer 

402. Federal Statute On Procedures for Deciding Competence of a Defendant. (ii) Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer. 

403. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix 

404. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix 

405. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix 

406. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer. 

407. Federal Court Order for Surrender to Carswell Prison, Judge Mukasey, September 23, 2005. 

408. Ibid. Affidavit from Thayer Lindauer in Appendix CHAPTER 21 and 22 

409. Biography of Edward O’Callaghan, Law Firm of Peabody, Nixon. 

410. Barbara Walters Exclusive Interview with Secretary of State Colin Powell, “20/20, ” September 8, 2005. 

411. Psychiatric Evaluation by Dr. Stuart Kleinman for the Prosecution. U.S. vs. Lindauer. Court documents submitted Sept 17, 2005, with decision to incarcerate at Carswell. Appearance in Judge Mukasey’s Chambers occurred on September 23, 2005. 

412. Ibid. Barbara Walters Interview with Secretary Powell, “20/20, ” Sept 8, 2005. 

413 Ibid. Barbara Walters Interview with Secretary Powell, “20/20, ” Sept 8, 2005. 

414. FBI Evidence. Lindauer Letter to Secretary Colin Powell, January 27, 2003. Manila envelope with handwritten notes to Powell and signature. 

415. Federal Indictment, U.S. vs. Lindauer, manila envelopes to Powell and correspondence therein, with handwritten messages to the Secretary. 

416. Ibid. Psychiatric Evaluation by Dr. Stuart Kleinman for the Prosecution. U.S. vs. Lindauer. Court documents submitted Sept 17, 2005, with decision to incarcerate at Carswell. Appearance in Judge Mukasey’s Chambers occurred Sept 23, 2005. 

417. “U.S. Prison Rate remains new one in 100 Americans: Study” AFP. March 17, 2010 

418. Bureau of Prisons website, Federal Medical CenterCarswell. 2008 

419. A Crack in the Carswell Wall, by Betty Brink, Fort Worth Weekly. Jan. 31, 2007 

420. CNN Television News. Nov, 2005. Interviews with Rep. Murtha, Senator Carl Levin. 

421. Ibid. Federal Indictment. U.S. vs. Lindauer and Anbukes. 

422. FBI Evidence. Legal Discovery of Anbuke brothers. 

423. FBI Evidence. Tax forms and pay stubs for Anbuke brothers. 

424. FBI Evidence. Prison phone calls by Anbuke brothers from Metropolitan Correctional Center. 425. Ibid. CNN Television. Nov, 2005. Interviews with Rep. Murtha, Sen Carl Levin. 

426. Ibid. Affidavit by Thayer Lindauer (see appendix). 

427. Carswell Prison Blues, by Betty Brink, Ms. Magazine, Summer 2008 

428. Ibid. Carswell Prison Blues, by Betty Brink, Ms. Magazine, Summer 2008 

429. Ibid. Psychiatric Evaluation by Dr. Drob for Defense in U.S. vs. Lindauer. February 28, 2005. 

430. Ibid. Affidavit by Thayer Lindauer (see appendix). 

431. Staff notes on M-1, Carswell Prison, Oct, 2005 through April, 2006. 

432. “Cover Up of Convenience: The Hidden Scandal of Lockerbie, ” Ian Ferguson and John Ashton. 2001. 

433. Ian Ferguson biography. 

434. Ibid. Godfrey testimony. Southern District of New York. June, 2008. 

435. Ibid. Godfrey testimony. Southern District of New York. June, 2008. 

436 Ibid. Godfrey testimony. Southern District of New York. June, 2008. 

437. Carswell Monthly Reports 

438. Court order for prison surrender cited a release date no later than February 3, 2006, in accordance with the maximum 120 day detention allowed by federal law. Signed by Judge Mukasey

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