PART 13:EXTREME PREJUDICE:THE TERRIFYING STORY OF THE PATRIOT ACT & THE COVER UPS OF 911 AND IRAQ

EXTREME PREJUDICE:

THE TERRIFYING STORY  OF 

THE PATRIOT ACT & THE 

COVER UPS OF 911 AND IRAQ

BY SUSAN LINDAUER

CHAPTER 27: 

EXTREME PREJUDICE 

“Everyone strives to reach the Law, ” says the man. 

“So how does it happen that for all these many years no one but myself has ever begged for admittance?” 

The doorkeeper recognizes that the man has reached his end, and, to let his failing senses catch the words, roars in his ear: 

“No one else could ever be admitted here, since this gate was made only for you. I am now going to shut it.” 

–The Trial by Franz Kafka 

Forcible drugging with Haldol— The harshest antipsychotic available, which blocks bodily functioning and imitates the stone-like effects of Parkinson’s Disease. 

This was the stuff of nightmares. And the worst was coming fast. 

If O’Callaghan won this fight, my capability to think and function would be utterly wrecked. I would be so doped up that I wouldn’t be capable of exchanging ideas through conversation or the written word pretty much ever again. 

That was the whole idea. 

I would be chemically lobotomized like those other broken women on the notorious M-1 of Carswell. Women who couldn’t hold a fork to eat, or raise a cup to drink without spilling on themselves. Women who couldn’t shower or dress themselves. Women who slept 15 to 18 hours every day, and often wet their beds at night. 

If that wasn’t bad enough, because I was pretrial, Carswell wanted to lock me up “indefinitely, ” which could imply the maximum 10 year sentence. Carswell was testing the waters to see if the Patriot Act could be categorized with violent crimes, which typically hold “incompetent” inmates for the maximum possible detention. If the Court accepted “indefinite detention, ” it would be up to Carswell to recommend when to free me, at whatever time the Justice Department decided my Intelligence background no longer threatened Washington’s elite. 

Hell would freeze before I got out—and my life would become a living torture until that end. 

This was “extreme prejudice, ” alright. The goal was much worse than discrediting my reputation as an Asset. They sought to destroy me as a human being— body, mind and soul. 

Only “extreme prejudice” could destroy all evidence of Washington’s Crimes Against the American People— and protect Republican leaders, who had staked their reputations on a totally false and revisionist myth about their performance on national security. 

In truth, Republicans had blundered badly. They had to go nuclear on me to shield themselves. 

And now we had gathered in New York for a hearing to debate this God awful proposal. 

They had not counted on one problem, however. Just because somebody wants to kill you doesn’t mean that you have to surrender without a fight. 

In which case the FBI should have listened to Paul Hoven more carefully. He used to chuckle, “Susan, if I was taking gun fire in a back alley at midnight, I would want you by my side. Because you would fight to the death.” 

Psychiatry had nothing to do with reality in my case. This attack was strictly politically motivated. Having studied the competency law at Carswell’s prison library, however, I understood exactly how to tackle it and defeat it. The competency law itself gave me all the opportunity I needed to bring clarity to the situation. Satisfying the Court was simply a matter of presenting a couple of participatory witnesses, who could assure Judge Mukasey of the authentic details of my life. I was also entitled to supply evidence to prove my functionality. Any hearing would do, so long as I could exercise my right to challenge the questions raised in these absurd psych evaluations. 

Once reality came into play, this bogus psychiatry would get thrown out the window. Oh yes, give me due process, and this phony psych debate would be smashed. 

At my first face meeting with Talkin at M.C.C, I made perfectly clear that’s the strategy I wanted to pursue. I was furious that I was suffering because he had misread my case so badly. Talkin had gambled with my freedom and lost. Since O’Callaghan was reneging on his promise to drop the charges, I wanted to take a sledge hammer to these ridiculous psych evaluations, and go back to my original defense. 

Talkin wasted no time disabusing my expectations. 

Only the psychiatrists who’d invented this nonsense story would be allowed to testify. Indeed, the Defense intended to call just one witness, somebody named Dr. Robert L. Goldstein, a psychiatrist on the faculty of Columbia University. 

I had never spoken with this man, or laid eyes on him until he showed up in Court to disparage my reputation. Yet Dr. Goldstein was ready to assure Judge Mukasey that he had greater insight to my character, personality and life’s work than anyone outside of psychiatry who’d known me 15 years or longer. 

It was a flagrant violation of my rights under the competence law. I knew that, because I had read the law, and I understood what it meant. Yet here again I confronted psychiatry’s unscrupulous finagling of court procedure. 

Now I was truly terrified.

Prison guards woke me before dawn on the morning of May 4 for the first of two hearing dates. I showered and ate a small breakfast before getting hustled through the ancient concrete tombs of M.C.C. to the federal courthouse next door. 

There I was strip searched, garbed in a special prison uniform for court, and dumped in a holding cage. I waited for hours, it seemed, before I got called to Court. 

There I stood —the woman who tried to stop the 9/11 attack— just 1000 yards from the rubble of “ground zero, ” where the World Trade Center once graced the New York skyline. The whole thing struck me as preposterous and grotesque. 

I was frantic to speak to my Judge. I had prepared a brief written statement so I could stay on point, though my emotions burgeoned on hysteria. 

To my dismay, Judge Mukasey refused to allow me to address the court. 508 

JUDGE MUKASEY: “No. She’s got a lawyer. Anything that she has to tell me, she should tell you. You can tell me or not, depending on whether you think it’s in her legal interest to do it.” 

TALKIN: “Ms. Lindauer… wishes the Court to know that she is competent to stand trial, and wishes to stand trial, and she denies all of the reports. It’s her position that all of the reports are false and inaccurate.” 

JUDGE MUKASEY: “I understand that, and there’s now a record that that’s her position. I think there was a record of it before, and so any effect that might have on subsequent proceedings, the legitimacy or lack of it, in any subsequent proceedings is now clear.” 

If that sounds harsh, it was. In fairness, Judge Mukasey was stuck between a rock and a hard place, confronting two wretched options. It must have infuriated him. He could accept an incompetence defense for a faithful U.S. Asset who successfully engaged with pariah Arab nations like Libya and Iraq for almost a decade. He had to know that was legally absurd. Or he could reject the incompetence strategy, and force the Defense to go to trial. In that case, he would be forced to implement the Patriot Act in his courtroom, a law crammed with every imaginable weapon for assaulting the Constitutional rights of due process for all defendants in the U.S. Courts across the country. 

My case created a lot of bad law. A great Judge like Mukasey thinks about that. 

A sophisticated attorney, like Brian Shaughnessy after Carswell, had a shot at striking down key planks of the Patriot Act. Shaughnessy had the legal knowledge and confidence to attack its constitutionality. Alas, he was not leading my defense at this point of time. My public attorney, Sam Talkin was over his head. 

The result could have been catastrophic for everybody else. 

“Warrantless searches” on the Patriot Act posed the least of my worries, though they excited the most public outcry, and I endured at least two! 

By far the scariest part of the law pertained to “secret evidence.” 

“Secret evidence” worked against a defendant in two critical ways, I was finding out. 509 Under the Patriot Act, the Justice Department could deny access to any evidence of its choosing. Neither the defendant, the Judge or the Jury would be allowed to see it. As a token gesture, some classified evidence could be revealed to tease the attorney—depending on his level of security clearance. 510 Even so, whatever limited access the attorney enjoyed, he would have no authorization to discuss with the defendant, or other attorneys associated with the Case. That carried enormous consequences American could never imagine— like the “secret attorney debriefing” on February 10, 511 which preceded Dr. Drob’s declaration of my incompetence on February 28. 512 

The Patriot Act made that possible. 

“Secret evidence” laid the ground for two “secret charges” in the indictment. 513 If I had a possible explanation, it would be meaningless to share with my attorney. In all likelihood, he would not know the nature of those “secret charges” either. 

That creates unexpected logistical difficulties at Trial. Any alibi would be purely speculative. We’d be shooting in the dark. Indeed, it’s questionable whether the Judge would allow a Defense to argue hypothetical alibis in front of a jury. But what else could you do? Judge Mukasey would have been forced to decide. 

For all that, it was dawning on me that “secret evidence” on the Patriot Act carried an even more frightening and onerous burden that I had not previously understood. 

“Secret evidence” that established my innocence and might save me from years in prison, called “exculpatory knowledge, ” got withheld from the Court, too, including all important confirmations of my work as a U.S. Asset in antiterrorism for nine years, supervised by U.S. Intelligence! That meant everything. And the Justice Department greedily withheld validation of that truth. They simply declared it “classified evidence, ” and refused to acknowledge it. 514 

That’s how we ended up in Court on a fine day in May, fighting over whether I should be forcibly drugged with Haldol, Ativan and Prozac to “cure” me of believing what the FBI, the Bureau of Prisons, the U.S. Attorneys Office and the Justice Department all knew to be fully truthful. Ted Lindauer and later Brian Shaughnessy would know it, too—But when confronted, the Feds refused to admit it. 

Though I was frightened and confused that day, I’m now convinced that Judge Mukasey could see the horror of it, too. 

And so I have tremendous sympathy— and respect— for Judge Mukasey, because I believe he perceived that bigger picture of casualties for the U.S. Court system.

If he could not kill my case, Judge Mukasey might be compelled to instruct a jury that the use of “secret evidence” to substantiate “secret charges” could not be devalued in deciding whether to convict me. 515 He might be required to instruct the jury that the Justice Department considered the “secret evidence” sufficient to prove some unidentified act of wrongdoing occurred on some non-specific day, violating some non-specific law. And that’s all the Jury needed to know. 516 

I could get five years in prison, without knowing why. 

A straight arrow Judge and preeminent legal scholar like Mukasey doesn’t like that. He would enforce it, because that’s the law of the land. But a great Judge thinks about the consequence of his decisions for due process and civil liberties. At the highest level of Chief Justice, he considers the precedents throughout the Court system. 

From the first days of my indictment, I could see that Judge Mukasey regarded “secret evidence” with strong distaste. He didn’t like what it meant, or where it led, creating bad legal precedents in the Courts that he loves. 

There was one more problem facing both of us that morning. Judge Mukasey could only work from whatever defense strategy my attorney gave him. Judge Mukasey could not craft that strategy himself, or apply his greater skill to improve upon it. 

This incompetence defense was the only option Talkin presented the Court. Talkin made no effort to strike even the most innocuous charges, that I ate cheeseburgers on days I was not in New York, or that I supported free elections in Iraq. 

This was all Mukasey had to work with. 

On the face of it, incompetence was grossly insulting. However under the original agreement, I would have served the most minimal prison sentence possible under federal law, just four months. It would have killed the case without a trial, sidestepping the Patriot Act with its treacherous legal precedents for the whole U.S Court system. And I would have walked away with no conviction on my record. A Judge might consider this a very reasonable solution. Most inmates would agree. 

Forcible drugging was a different beast,. It made a great big mess out of our legal solution. Face it, I’d been a damn good sport about going to Carswell, and this was a blatant double cross. The mere suggestion of Haldol terrified me no end. 

I tell you without shame, I almost broke down and wept, shackled in that courtroom. 

Judge Mukasey could see that. He was fiercely attentive to my courtroom demeanor that morning, fully alert, while I sat quaking in obvious fear. 

But his choice—and mine—was whether to throw out the whole incompetence finding, and go back to square one. Or go forward into this storm. 

For myself, there was no question. I abhor drugs. There’s no way I would consent to ruin my thinking and my consciousness with mind-altering psychotropic drugs. 

I would fight forcible drugging all the way to the Supreme Court. I considered it medically unethical and politically motivated. And I would not submit for any reason. 

Honestly, I’ve dealt with terrorists who didn’t frighten me as much as these crazy fools who call themselves “psychiatrists.” 

That was the backdrop when Judge Mukasey struck his gavel to call the Court to order, as sunshine burst through the tall windows of his chamber. 

The first witness that May afternoon was Dr. Collin Vas, throwing down the gauntlet on behalf of Carswell. 517 

Introducing himself, Dr. Vas testified that he’d worked as a staff psychiatrist at Carswell for a year. He attended medical school in Banglo, India. He earned a postgraduate diploma in psychiatry at the Christian Medical College in Vellore, India, and finished his psychiatric residency at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. 518 

On behalf of Carswell, Dr. Vas requested the Court’s permission to forcibly strap me to a gurney and inject me with Haldol, 519 until I could be “cured” of claiming that I worked as an Asset on 9/11 and Iraq. 520 According to Dr. Vas, my “cure” required the harshest drugs available to the prisons, a drug known to imitate Parkinson’s Disease, causing heavy loss of motor functioning, especially at the high dosages prescribed by Carswell staff. 

And why exactly? What disturbing symptoms of “mental illness” had I exhibited? 

By this time, Carswell had scrutinized me for seven (7 1/2) months, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Surely there must have been some serious behavior problems to justify forcibly drugging an inmate with the harshest drugs available to prison staff. 

Medical ethics would surely demand that symptoms of a “disease” show itself before recommending treatment to a willing participant— Let alone forcing it upon an unwilling prisoner. 

You can judge for yourself whether Carswell met that medical criteria: 

That afternoon, the Court cut to the chase. 

Had I been observed to suffer hallucinations? 521 

O’CALLAGHAN: “If you could turn to page nine, please. Do you see that?” 

VAS: “Yes.” [The Prosecutor was referencing an observation report from Carswell.] 

O’CALLAGHAN: “Do you see the cross-outs in that area?” 

VAS: “Yes. That’s all my handwriting.” 

On October 3, 2005, the day of my prison surrender, psych staff cited a goal of “decreasing the intensity and frequency of auditory and visual hallucinations in 120 days.” 

On October 26, 2005— three weeks after my arrival at Carswell—that objective was struck from the observation report by Dr. Vas himself. 

Scrawled across the page was the wording: “Not Applicable.”] 

VAS: “The reason why it was crossed out is that during the time that Ms. Lindauer was present at FMC Carswell, she denied ever experiencing hallucinations, and we did not see any external evidence of that.” On cross examination, the question of hallucinations got raised again:

TALKIN: And you said that you never observed any hallucination behavior, you personally never observed it?” 

VAS: “No external evidence, yes.” 

TALKIN: “And basically everyone at Carswell that you spoke to, no one else observed any external evidence?” 

VAS: “Nobody observed any external evidence, yes.” 

TALKIN: “And you say that she denied that she had any hallucinations while she was there?” 

VAS: “That is true.” 

What? No hallucinations! No hearing voices! Nothing at all? 

No, no, no! Reports to the contrary are media propaganda, spun by White House overlords. Oh, that must have been so disappointing! 

What’s a poor psychiatrist to do? Why, look for something else, of course! 

What about delusions? Any evidence that I suffered those? That would be very helpful indeed! 

Let’s not forget: the “internal medication hearing” 522 on December 28, 2005 cited “treatment of delusions” as necessary for the “restoration of (my) competence.” That “summary of evidence” was hardly ambiguous. 

It described the nature of my alleged delusions as follows: 

“She denied the possibility of mental illness, once again reporting in detail her belief that the government is having her detained because she represents a threat to the administration, due to her differing beliefs about their policies on Iraq. She states she has been a government agent for 9 years working in “anti-terrorism.” 

The handwritten document was signed by Dr. Pederson and Dr. Collin Vas. That would be the same Dr. Vas testifying before Judge Mukasey. 

O’CALLAGHAN: “Can you please turn to page 11 of Government Exhibit 1. Does it have hand writing on that page?” 

VAS: “This is Ms. Lindauer’s handwriting. At the top of the working diagnosis section, she writes “None. Witness proves it’s all true.” 

O’CALLAGHAN: “I direct your attention to page 14 of Government Exhibit 1. Is there handwriting on that page? 

VAS: It states: “Susan Lindauer reports no episodes of hallucinations and demands that Shadduck interview witnesses. Disagrees entirely. [signed] Susan Lindauer, January 16, 06.” [See Appendix] 

O’CALLAGHAN: “And directing your attention to page 17 of that exhibit, is there handwriting on that page?” 

VAS: “It’s got Ms. Lindauer’s signature dated March 28, 2006, and “Refused to agree with diagnosis. No symptoms.” 

O’CALLAGHAN: “What is your understanding of whose handwriting that is?” 

VAS: “That’s Ms. Lindauer’s handwriting.” 

O’CALLAGHAN: “Turn to page 18. Is there handwriting on that page?” 

VAS: “It says “Never suffered those symptoms.” That’s relating to psychotic symptoms.” 

O’CALLAGHAN: “And whose handwriting is that?” 

VAS: “That’s hers. Ms. Lindauer’s.” You can not imagine how my hands shook as I clutched the pen to write those words. I looked around M-1 at the damaged lives of other women inmates. I could see what awaited me if I did not fight back hard. And win. Low and behold, here was the clincher: 

O’CALLAGHAN: “What is the working diagnosis that is recorded on page 11?” 

VAS: “Well, it is: “Ruled out delusional disorder.” And that’s entered in the computer.” 

O’CALLAGHAN: “And did you rule out “delusional disorder” during the course of Ms. Lindauer’s evaluation at FMC Carswell?” 

VAS: “At the end of the diagnostic phase, which was completed in December of 2005, delusional disorder had been ruled out, after the behavioral observations, diagnostic interviews and psychological testing.” 

O’CALLAGHAN: “If you could turn to page three, what should the correct date be?” 

VAS: “December 21, 2005.” 

Wait a minute! What was that? 

No delusional disorder? 

That’s right. No delusional disorder! 

Not what the corporate media told you, eh? 

The Justice Department was sh— out of luck. As hard as they tried, Carswell could find no evidence to justify such a politically tantalizing diagnosis. They could provide no examples of delusional episodes to the Court that I couldn’t attack as perjury and medical fraud. Darn! 

My story was fully truthful and authentic! Inconvenient, yes. Disappointing, no doubt. Unhappily for Carswell’s psychology department, it all checked out. 

That made it awfully difficult to declare that I suffer a “delusional disorder.” 

For my own protection, after Carswell’s refusal to release me, I took the battle to Carswell. I warned every single person in the Psych Department that if Dr. Shadduck appeared in Court and denied authenticating my story, I would demand that he face prosecution for felony perjury. 

I told staff and fellow prisoners alike that Shadduck could expect to spend some quality time in prison himself, if he lied under oath to Judge Mukasey—like a lot of the women inmates at Carswell.

I suspect that’s why Carswell sent Dr. Vas to testify instead. 

The next question should have been—why? Why did Carswell rule out “delusional disorder?” 

Did Dr. Vas have the integrity to elucidate for the Court why Carswell had been forced to abandon such a prized diagnosis? 

Nobody asked those pertinent questions. And Dr. Vas offered no explanation. There was no mention of my two outstanding witnesses, who bombarded Shadduck with phone calls until the Chief of Psychology finally broke down and verified my story. 

The truth was so glaring they could not risk it. They did not dare. 

Dr. Vas gave the date the diagnosis got struck— December 21. And he said no more. 

Sitting in the defendant’s chair, I was astounded by the timing. The “internal medication hearing” took place on December 28, one week after the “diagnosis” had been struck. (See Appendix). 

That’s the meeting when Dr. Vas and Dr. Pederson suggested I should take Haldol, Ativan and Prozac as treatment for my “delusional disorder,” for the “restoration” of my competence. 

And now in Court, Vas admitted that “delusional disorder” had been thrown out one week before the “internal medication hearing” took place. 

For me, that epitomizes the irrational nature of psychiatry. Would any reputable medical doctor prescribe insulin for a patient not suffering from diabetes? Would a medical doctor recommend chemotherapy after ruling out cancer? 

The question answers itself. Any respectable physician would consider it grossly unethical to prescribe treatment for nonexistent conditions—much less to impose harsh drugs on unwilling participants, without cause. Low and behold, when Judge Mukasey issued his ruling, he made a straight declaration that he perceived my Defense lacked satisfactory corroboration from independent sources, as evidenced by the psychiatric evaluations. 523 

Clearly Judge Mukasey had no idea, relying on psychiatric evaluations and court testimony, that my story had been fully validated by highly reputable independent sources, who spoke with the FBI, Ted Lindauer, and Carswell’s own Dr. Shadduck, on behalf of the Bureau of Prisons. 524 Psychiatrists could have corrected those misrepresentations of their own volition. But that would have defeated their objective,to maintain a false authority in court proceedings that allowed them to force a finding of incompetence over a Defendant’s loud objections. The evaluation process was driven by ego. 

It’s why I named it “delusional psychiatry.” 

Wait—This was a court hearing on whether I should be strapped to a gurney and forcibly injected with massive doses of Haldol. 

What could justify forcibly administering such heavy drugs, if there was no evidence of hallucinations, depression or a “delusional disorder?” 

Was I aggressive towards guards or other inmates? 525 

VAS: “She was initially very cooperative and pleasant with us. She wanted to tell us her story, and we listened, and we actually did not have many problems until we gave her feedback.” 

“At the end of the diagnostic phase, we met with Ms. Lindauer and informed her of her psychiatric diagnosis, and recommendations for treatment with psychotropic medications. She became very angry and enraged and has been hostile towards many members of the treatment team since.” 

“Until she left Carswell, she was quite hostile and oppositional.” 

I freely admit that I revile psychiatry. But was Dr. Vas’ statement truthful? Was my behavior hostile towards prison staff, guards or other inmates, as Dr. Vas insinuated? 

Observation notes from prison staff on M-1 paint a different portrait. 526 

On February 22, 2006, M-1 staff wrote: “Ms. Lindauer is functioning well on the unit.” 

Other handwritten notes said, “Functional and not a behavior problem, ” underlined by staff. 

Another staffer wrote, “Not a problem when confronted about anything.” 

Another guard wrote, “She is low key and cooperative. Cares for self, good hygiene. Zero behavioral problems. She is focused on getting a trial.” 

On March 29, 2006, interaction with staff was called “appropriate.” 

On April 3, 2006, interaction with staff. “Appropriate.” 

On April 9, 2006, interaction with staff. “Appropriate.” 

My attorney raised this point on cross examination. 

527 TALKIN: “Throughout the reports, pretty much the interaction with staff on M1 was appropriate?” 

VAS: “For the large part, yes.” 

TALKIN: “And for the large part, her interaction with everyone, except the psychiatrists and psychologists, was appropriate?” 

VAS: “Appropriate is kind of a complex word.” 

Actually, it’s not. No matter how badly Carswell abused my rights, I kept my cool. I stayed pleasant and cooperative with M-1 staff and guards. I never created problems on the unit. That’s remarkable, if you think about what I was facing. 

And it explains why every monthly report declared that I “socialized well,” showed “good intellectual functioning” and “good physical health.” [See Appendix] 528 

Throughout those frightening months, staff frequently described me as: “Smiling, pleasant and cooperative. With good eye contact.” 529 

Sounds like I was a model prisoner. 

As for my hostility towards the psychiatry staff, try to imagine the shock of my predicament! What would be the normal reaction of a prisoner stonewalled and denied release on the day promised by federal statute? After you’ve surrendered to prison over your strongest objections? While the Court refuses to honor your statutory right to call witnesses to prove you’ve been telling the truth about everything? 

Would that upset you to wake up on the morning of your release date, and discover that your prison detention was prolonged “indefinitely”? Up to 10 years! 

Carswell speculated that “very likely” my “cure” would require a “lengthy period of detention” and prison “treatment” because my confidence in my Asset work was so deeply embedded in my spirit. Evaluations warned that breaking my sense of identity would take much hard work.

All signs pointed to long years of imprisonment. 

Would you be frightened? Would it be irrational to feel scared? 

I suspect that would be upsetting for most people. 

It’s a heart-stopping moment, for sure. 

Most “indefinite” detentions are limited to incompetent inmates who are violent or destructive, and pose a lasting threat to the community. Typically, they get detained for the maximum sentence as part of the incompetence finding. In my case, it would be up to Carswell to recommend the timing of my release. That would stay open-ended for years. 

So yes, I freely admit that I was horrified. From that moment on, I feared greatly for my future. 

That strikes me as perfectly sane. 

The question was why? 

How does psychiatry justify any type of forcible “treatment” — if that individual shows no symptoms of any kind? No hallucinations, no delusions, no depression, no aggressive behavior. If they’re cooperative and functional, without behavioral problems? 

Dr. Vas and Dr. Shadduck kicked around until they found a solution —a diagnosis of “psychotic disorder not otherwise specified.” 530 

No wonder it took 7 ½ months. 

O’CALLAGHAN: “And why was that diagnosis determined to be the most accurate diagnosis?” 

VAS: “Well, primarily because she does not clearly meet the criteria for the diagnosis I have just stated. When somebody does not meet a specific diagnosis, and if there is inadequate or conflicting data, we come to a diagnosis of “psychotic disorder not otherwise specified.” 

O’CALLAGHAN: “Does psychotic disorder “not otherwise specified” contain a delusional disorder component?” 

VAS: “It certainly contains a component of delusion.” 

On cross examination, Talkin questioned what that diagnosis actually means? 

TALKIN: “Now that’s kind of a catch-all diagnosis. In other words, if someone doesn’t fit in to, say, for example a delusional order– and you can’t find another psychotic disorder, then you put them in “psychotic order not otherwise specified.” 

VAS: “Yes.” 

TALKIN: “So basically that’s a diagnosis that you’re not able to completely diagnose the individual?” 

VAS: “In some situations, yes.” 

TALKIN: “As far as you can tell from Susan Lindauer, other than her interactions with you when she became hostile or angry, when you told her she had a disease,as the reports indicated, she basically functioned normally among the other individuals in the facility, correct?” 

VAS: “Yes.” 

TALKIN: “And Dr. Pederson concluded that Ms. Lindauer wasn’t suicidal?” 

VAS: “That’s right.” 

TALKIN: “He concluded she wasn’t a risk of injury to herself?” 

VAS: “Yes.” 

TALKIN: “Or to anybody else?” 

VAS: “Yes.” 

TALKIN: “Or to property, I believe?” 

VAS: “Yes.” 

TALKIN: “So that’s the position of the people at Carswell?” 

VAS: “Yes.” 

TALKIN: “Carswell is a federal medical center, but it’s a jail, correct?” 

VAS: “Yes.” 

TALKIN: “It’s a prison?” 

VAS: “Yes.” 

TALKIN: “No one’s free to leave?” 

VAS: “That’s correct.” TALKIN: “The interaction among individuals in that jail is different than it would be on the street, correct?” 

VAS: “Quite true.” 

TALKIN: “People are guarded in their behavior with others?” 

VAS: “Often times.” 

TALKIN: “Selective in who they speak to?” 

VAS: “That’s right.” 

TALKIN: “Everybody in the jail is like that for the most part—Withdrawn. For the most part, people are like that?” 

VAS: “Many people are like that.” 

TALKIN: “That’s normal behavior in that type of a setting, correct?” 

VAS: “Agreed.” 

TALKIN: “And throughout the government exhibit that describes her behavior, that’s exactly how Ms. Lindauer’s behavior is described among her peers, correct?” 

VAS: “That she was guarded, yes.” 

TALKIN: “And selective?” 

VAS: “Yes.” 

TALKIN: “And there was also times that she was smiling, correct?” 

VAS: “Yes.” 

TALKIN: “And there was times that she was happy, correct?” 

VAS: “Yes.” 

TALKIN: “And there was times she was having a good time with other individuals, correct?” 

VAS: “Yes.” 

TALKIN: “And there was times that she wasn’t having a good time with individuals?” 

VAS: “True.” 

TALKIN: “Sometimes she had a bad day, correct?” 

VAS: “Yes.” Hello! I would have expected Carswell to give me a clean bill of “mental health, ” with that kind of reporting. 

And yet, no matter the absence of “symptoms," Carswell and the US Attorneys Office didn’t bat an eye when they asked for permission to shoot me up like a street junkie. 

At least Dr. Kleinman and Dr. Vas interviewed me. The witness for the Defense, Dr. Robert L. Goldstein, a Professor of Clinical Psychiatry at Columbia University, 531 never bothered to do that. 

I laid eyes on him for the first time when he appeared in Court on the second morning of testimony. 

On the bright side, at least Dr. Goldstein opposed drugging me. He assured the Court that drugs would not cure my “condition.” 

Dr. Goldstein also scoffed that I might suffer schizophrenia, though nobody had suggested it to that point. It’s still worth noting: 532 

GOLDSTEIN: “The criterion for schizophrenia has never been met in this case, because the patient does not have those enumerated criteria, which do include prominent hallucinations; disorganization of thought and delusions— but delusions of a bizarre quality.” 

“When I say bizarre, I mean it’s a term of art in psychiatry, which means that such things could never happen in the real world. For example, believing that Martians have implanted electrodes in your brain to control your behavior or something like that. Whereas in delusional disorder, you have non-bizarre delusions, things that possibly could happen, like somebody could be following you, somebody could want to kill you, somebody could have special talents and relationships as I enumerated before.” 

That would have been well and good, if he had stopped there. 

Instead, Dr. Goldstein put forth a hypothesis that I suffered “delusional disorder, mixed type,” that encompassed two areas. Paranoia. And grandiosity. 533

Pay attention, folks. Soviet Psychiatry invoked identical terminology and diagnosis to attack political dissidents and intellectuals during the Cold War Age— One third of all Soviet intellectuals, who got arrested for anti-government activities, got locked up in mental asylums, using this “diagnosis.” 

“Paranoid delusions,” according to Goldstein, encompassed “individual beliefs that they’re being persecuted, followed, spied on, individuals want to harm them, even kill them, or otherwise cause mischief in their lives. And they spend lots of time trying to protect themselves against these various imaginary enemies.” 

Right there, Goldstein exposed his own “grandiosity” by trying to invent a reality to support the diagnosis he wanted to make. 

Had I experienced paranoia at all in my life? I confess that I’ve been known to joke with friends that we have our own satellite tracking devices, so the feds can watch over us. That doesn’t mean we believe it, however.(Or that we’re wrong!) 

I would call paranoia an occupational hazard. For almost a decade, I was part of a community that relies on surveillance for its livelihood. 

Intelligence. 

Surveillance. I think I see a connection. 

So was I paranoid? Probably. 

Was that irrational paranoia? Was that surveillance false? 

Not on your life. Surveillance would be de rigueur for any Asset engaged in frequent contact with diplomats from Libya and Iraq, Yemen, Syria/Hezbollah, Egypt and Malaysia. In the context of my work, it was quite ordinary. 

Once when I protested some particularly heavy surveillance during the Lockerbie negotiations, my handlers laughed derisively. Paul Hoven scolded me, saying the Feds wouldn’t be doing their jobs if they didn’t track me. If you’re dealing with Libya and Iraq, you’d be foolish not to expect it. It would be pitiably naïve. 

Incidentally, FBI wiretaps captured 28,000 phone calls, 8,000 emails and hundreds of faxes in a two year period before my arrest. 

There was surveillance video of me walking my dachshunds in my neighborhood. 534 

I’d been subject to two “warrantless searches” on the Patriot Act. And I was subsequently indicted as an “Iraqi Agent.” 

Maybe I thought I was under surveillance, because I was under surveillance! 

Admittedly, my beliefs about surveillance might seem irrational to outsiders or colleagues who had no idea that I functioned as an Asset in frequent contact with diplomats all over the Middle East. However I would never discuss surveillance with friends or family not connected to my Intelligence projects. Except in the most extreme circumstances, they would rarely know what was happening. 

Was I frightened about this surveillance? Did I “spend lots of time trying to protect myself from imaginary enemies, ” as Goldstein implied? 

Notoriously not. My brilliant attorney after Carswell, Brian Shaughnessy, used to chuckle that a woman dealing with Iraq and Libya is probably not afraid of anything. 

The psychiatry crowd failed to grasp that if surveillance truly frightened me, I would have cut off my dealings with the CIA, and stopped meeting diplomats entirely. I would have become a librarian. I was so “not paranoid” that the Justice Department accused me of meeting with an undercover FBI Agent and “conspiring with Iraqi Intelligence—” which has to require some fairly bold actions. 

Most of my close friends would say I wasn’t paranoid enough. 

Dr. Goldstein’s second “diagnosis” that I suffered delusions of “grandiosity” struck me as equally ludicrous and uninformed. 

“Grandiose delusions, ” according to Goldstein, “involve situations where individuals believe they have special talents or outstanding abilities, relationships with successful or prominent people, or that they have special gifts—being clairvoyant or other special gifts.” 535 

That could describe half the populations of Washington, Chicago, New York and Los Angeles. The civic leaders of small town America. And practically all of the guests on CNN, the Fox News Channel and Real Time With Bill Maher. 

The better half, I would add. 

Here psychiatry exposed its true nature, as a defender of Mediocrity and Conventionalism. My experience proves that psychiatry makes a study of gradations of the Ordinary. It’s greatest purpose is to keep Americans in a box, ineffectual and always seeking approval, rather than acting decisively to create their own life. 

If Goldstein had spoken with me—instead of making up stories—he’d recognize that I’m a fairly down to earth woman. I perform like a work-horse, not a show horse. I’m not a celebrity seeker. I’m an activist motivated by love for my causes, not a desire for publicity. 

I understand how difficult it is to create change. I find it amazingly hard. And also worthwhile. I have made the commitment and sacrifices. I have learned to appreciate the smaller moments when a project advances slowly. I have learned not to feel daunted by what’s left to be done. I give thanks for my small role. 

And since when has ambition, hard work, self motivation and pride for one’s achievement become a personal liability? Is that not the refuge of mediocrity to scorn personal striving for excellence? 

Grandiose, huh? You don’t like motivation and achievement? 

Fine. If I’m grandiose, do you think I care what you say? Just spell my name right. Because I did this work— or I wouldn’t have been under surveillance for 10 years! 

To his credit, Judge Mukasey posed an incisive question that swooped right over the heads of these lunatic psychiatrists. 

He asked Dr. Goldstein, “What is your understanding of the charges against Ms. Lindauer ? Do you understand that she has been accused by the Justice Department of engaging in these activities?” 

Right there Judge Mukasey pointed to a serious flaw in the logic of psychiatry. The indictment itself depended on my relationships with Iraqi diplomats at the United Nations. The rationale for prosecution hinged on these activities. 

Now these crazy psychiatrists paraded into court, arguing that these events never occurred. 

But if the actions did not transpire, how could the US Attorneys Office justify the indictment? (Obviously, they couldn’t!)

My wonderful Judge, brilliant and canny, had found his way out of our box. (I just didn’t know it yet.) People, I love Judge Mukasey. Thank God for his legal savvy! 

The question from the Court’s outlook was whether my activities rose to the level of a crime. Was I an Iraqi Agent? Or was I acting under the legitimate assumption that I was performing as an Asset, under the long-time supervision of U.S. Intelligence? 

The Justice Department was not conceding that my actions never took place. Nor did I deny participating in them. 

Only the crazy psychiatrists got twisted in their thinking, and wanted to cure me of believing those events occurred— which was fairly bizarre, given the backdrop for our Court drama. 

That implication flew right over their heads. 

Instead Dr. Vas and Dr. Stuart Kleinman swore to Judge Mukasey that with enough Haldol, and enough prison time, I could be cured of believing that those events took place—actions stipulated in the indictment itself. 

And how long would this “cure” take? 

Psychiatrists frowned. That was a harder question. 

How many years of Haldol, Ativan and Prozac would be required to eradicate an individual’s sense of identity and life’s purpose? 

How much drugs would it take to destroy my belief that two men named Paul Hoven and Dr. Richard Fuisz had been guiding forces in my life for almost a decade? 

Would five years be enough? 

How long would it take to destroy my recollections of the terrorism investigations and policy that our team contributed to? 

Or to destroy my memories of diplomats at the United Nations? Ambassadors that I’d known socially? To forget conversations from our back channel dialogue? 

How much Haldol would it take to destroy my natural sense of privilege and joy that I felt participating in this work? 

Would this cure require the maximum sentence? 

Could they destroy my dignity any faster than that? 

They could certainly try. 

For that matter, how much drugs would it take to stop me from claiming I warned about the 9/11 attack? Or insisting that one faction of the Intelligence Community urged Attorney General John Ashcroft’s private staff to coordinate an intra-agency response and pre-empt the 9/11 attack? 

What would it take to stop me from knowing the truth about Pre-War Intelligence and the comprehensive peace framework negotiated with Iraqi diplomats that would have solved America’s conflict without War? 

How much time? How much drugs? 

Psychiatrists told Judge Mukasey that they could not know the answers to those questions. It might be accomplished in several years. Or it might require the maximum 10 year sentence to make sure that I was really and truly “cured.” 

Carswell would be sure to let the Court know when I was ready for release. 

One point they agreed on. With enough Haldol— eventually— my brain would be so fried that I would forget the whole thing. 

My life could be “corrected.” 

Erased. 

Terminated. With Extreme Prejudice. 

CHAPTER 28: 

METROPOLITAN 

CORRECTIONAL CENTER 

“Former CIA Asset and political prisoner, Susan Lindauer joins us today for a KBOO Radio Special, 

How to Succeed in Terror Without Really Trying. Lindauer not only looked out over the Abyss— 

She went camping there.” 

– Chris Andreae for Air Cascadia. 

KBOO Public Radio, 

Portland, Oregon 9/14/2011 

There’s a great Robert Redford movie that hits a nerve for me —“Three Days of the Condor.” In it, an intelligence operative stumbles on a “black operation” at the height of the Cold War. His entire team gets snuffed while he’s at lunch, all of his associates terminated “extreme prejudice” style. He goes on the run, hunted by an assassin, while he tries to figure out what the hell he’s uncovered that’s got everybody so afraid. 

The movie ends with Robert Redford standing proudly in front of the New York Times. 

His intelligence chief from CIA warns him to go to ground. “Otherwise someday a car will pull up on the side of the road, and the door will open. They might send a friend.” 

Oh no, Robert Redford assures his Langley boss. “Look where we’re standing —” under the sign of the New York Times. If the spooks harass him, the New York Times will publish everything. The CIA’s black operations will be exposed. The murder of his associates will be in the open. 

“You don’t know that,” the Intelligence Director shakes his head. “You can’t be sure.” 

“I can be sure. They’ll do it,” Redford retorts, with confident naivety. “They’ll publish it.” 536 

My nightmare paralleled “Three Days of the Condor” in so many ways—right down to the fact that the New York Times Magazine had the dirt to blow the whole thing wide open. One of the Magazine’s writers told me that Richard Fuisz and Paul Hoven vouched for everything weeks after my arrest —my 9/11 warning, my role in the Lockerbie negotiations, and how our relationship started after I warned about the first World Trade Center attack. In 1993. 

If Dr. Fuisz and Hoven volunteered my bona fides to the New York Times, it’s a good bet they told the FBI. Don’t you think? 

As a former journalist myself, I recognized what a huge story the Times was sitting on. It would rock Washington. Not only that, most of my anti-terrorism work involved New York City, the paper’s home town.

Human decency—and journalistic integrity— demanded coverage. 

And so I waited, hopeful and desperate, after the May hearings on forcible drugging. 

Except Robert Redford was wrong. The loud silence of the corporate media answered my prayers. 

If your life depended on the New York Times, you’d be in a helluva lot of trouble. Now I was frightened out of my wits. Scared like a scalded cat, as the saying goes. My hair turned from dirty blonde to white in a couple of short months, after Carswell refused to release me. I had so much white in my hair that the prison hair salon refused to dye it for me. Prison rules prohibit changing an inmate’s appearance. 

I existed in a state of constant anxiety over this horrific chain of events that got worse with every throw. 

The Metropolitan Correctional Center is maximum security detention for pre-trial inmates. It houses every sort of crime—from murder, bank robbery and securities fraud, to drug trafficking and terrorism. Yet I would come to dread leaving it. 

Ms. Eldridge ran the women’s floor of the prison like a sergeant matron of a military boot camp. She could hunt out contraband nail polish like a bloodhound. She kept discipline tight among the 100 women inmates crammed into 10 by 12 foot cells, often sleeping four to a room on double bunks, with an open toilet in the corner. 

My heightened state of fear might have added to my vulnerability, except that Ms. Eldridge refused to tolerate inmates harassing one another. Discipline was for our own protection, and the guards kept a close watch over me. Other inmates might not have understood my status as a political prisoner, but the guards recognized something was up. One guard would call out “Peace!” whenever I walked by. Another guard sang to me once, when she saw me weeping. They made a special effort to keep me safe in my obvious state of fright, while I waited for the Court through that sweltering hot summer. 

I will always be grateful for that. 

At M.C.C. my sleep was black, and my waking hours stormed with suppressed anxiety. In prison, all of your emotions have to be swallowed down, or blocked out. There’s no privacy for grieving. Everything’s exposed. My status in the law was so degraded by this point that I had to fight doubly hard to overcome my despair. I lived in sheer terror for the day the Judge would issue his ruling. I had no idea if I would win. Carswell definitely expected me to lose. 

The consequences of the Judge’s decision could be monstrous. I would not only lose my freedom, but the best parts of my life— my creativity and my intellect. 

By my way of thinking, forcible drugging qualified as a threat of torture. It would mutilate the most precious memories of my life and my happiness for those memories. I happen to enjoy the human condition, with its joys and pain and small kindnesses. 

I was proud to go to prison for opposing the violence and suffering of the Iraq War. I considered my actions deeply righteous on behalf of the anti-war movement. If I had to pay for that, then I had no regrets or remorse, whatsoever. These are my life-long values, which I cherish with all my heart. I would make any sacrifice for them, because I believe they are important values. And I’m willing to defend them. 

Only drugging was abhorrent to me. Prison life could be harsh. It’s terribly unpleasant. But you can survive it. This threat of forcible drugging, however, terrorized me, because it aimed to destroy the best parts of what I am. I regarded it as manifestly evil. 

I could not believe that strangers would dare to deny my life’s work as an Asset, and somehow they should have more rights to speak in a court of law than “participatory witnesses”— friends and colleagues who engaged in these activities with me, during the period of the indictment. 

If the Court had questions, it struck me that finding answers should be a simple matter of firing off a couple of subpoenas, and calling those participatory witnesses to testify. Judge Mukasey could confront them with questions, in open Court, in full view of the Community. And they would reply with insight from firsthand contact to the events. Primary sources are always superior and more trustworthy. Who else could possess such insight? 

By now, I was desperate to provide that comfort to the Court. 

My attorney commanded that I should not write my Judge—and I never did until Carswell refused to release me. 

Now I appealed to the Court in long, desperate letters, begging for a proper hearing. I regretted that I had not spoken up sooner. 

On four occasions, I filed witness lists with phone numbers, addresses and email contacts, urging Judge Mukasey to hear those primary sources before deciding the petition to forcibly drug me. 537 I pleaded to give priority to witnesses connected to the events above those looney tunes with psychiatry degrees parading before his Court. My arguments for the natural priority of participatory witnesses over “speculative psychiatry, ” as I called it, would have formed the basis of any appeals to the higher courts, if Judge Mukasey ruled against me. 

Indeed, my case provides damnable evidence of how untrustworthy psychiatry is. 

The problem, as I understood it, was that Judge Mukasey could not overrule my attorney’s legal strategy. Even if a Judge saw that changes would benefit me, or that my attorney’s performance was sub-par, he could not impose a correction. 

Along those lines, if a Defendant requests a hearing over the attorney’s objections, the Judge can not supersede the decision to forego it. That’s how they got me. 

It was a legal spy thriller worthy of John Grisham or Robert Ludlum. Talkin, meanwhile, did not want witnesses revealing how easily my story could be verified, or how my Uncle Ted had felt compelled to interview them on my behalf. 

Hence, my attorney’s nickname, “No Talkin.’” He was protecting himself from questions of his own incompetence. 

That didn’t stop me from writing tearful, frightened letters to Judge Mukasey at 2 a.m in the dark of my cell, listening to Anna Nalick’s beautiful song, “Breathe” on the hand radios we carried with ear plugs. Her lyrics captured all of my agony that summer. When I finished my letters, I would play Free Cell solitaire on my top bunk early into the morning. I hardly slept at all. 

I got so desperate that I proposed my old intelligence handler, Paul Hoven, should testify in closed court. 538 I suggested he could provide more forthcoming answers without fear of media exposure. By this stage, nothing else mattered. 

I promised that Hoven could vouch for: 

1. My warning to the Tunisian Embassy two days before the first attack on the World Trade Center in February, 1993, and how that act triggered our relationship. 

2. How Hoven introduced me to Dr. Fuisz in September, 1994 for the purpose of starting talks with Libya’s diplomats for the Lockerbie Trial. 

It was Hoven who recruited me. There’s no blame in that. These were all extraordinary events in my life, and I’m deeply proud of our work together. But I was very young when I met Paul Hoven. Approaching the Libya House at the United Nations would never have occurred to me, if Paul had not coached me. 

3.Our relationship was easily corroborated by the crowd of top Republican Congressional staffers who got together for drinks every Thursday night at a watering hole known as “the Hunan, ” close to the Senate, where Hoven and I met. At trial, some of those individuals could expect subpoenas— which probably did not endear me to their former Republican bosses who lead the Senate to this day— Those would be the same Republican leaders who aggressively deceived the public about 9/11 and Iraq. 

4. How Dr. Fuisz’s CIA bona fides covered Syria and Lebanon in the 1980s. Those included: 

• The hostage rescue of Terry Anderson et al. in Beirut. It was Dr. Fuisz’s team that infiltrated the terrorist network hiding the hostages, and located the coven of cells in the back alleys of Beirut, where they were chained. Dr. Fuisz called out the Delta Force to make the rescue only to be stopped by top officials in Washington, who postponed the rescue until right before the 1988 election of President George H. Bush. Dr. Fuisz never forgave them. 

• Dr. Fuisz and Raisa Gorbachev, wife of Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev, launched the very first Russian modeling agency in the West—which incidentally imported computers to the Soviet Union at the height of Glasnost. 

• Dr. Fuisz’s firsthand knowledge of Lockerbie, and ability to map out the conspiracy and masterminds behind the bombing of Pan Am 103. 

• How Dr. Fuisz got outed as CIA after he stole the blueprints for Syria’s brand new telecommunications network from a locked crypt. Syrian agents tried to congratulate him by kidnapping him in London for a private interrogation. Scotland Yard had other plans— a first class spy thriller involving a decoy. 

5. Finally, Hoven could confirm our team’s advance warning of a precise 9/11 scenario, involving airplane hijackings and a strike on the World Trade Center, throughout the spring and summer of 2001. Prosecution psychiatrist, Dr. Stuart Kleinman, acknowledged that Hoven told the FBI he spoke with me 40 to 50 times after 9/11. 539 Ergo, by Hoven’s own admission, we were in close contact during the 9/11 investigation.

It was a critical acknowledgement, and I seized on those implications. 

The key was to ask Hoven direct questions: Did Susan and Richard do this? Yes or no? 

Give me a chance and I could prove everything. 

More witnesses were coming forth every day, (including old friends from the Hunan) appalled by news leaking out on the blogs of this horrific threat to forcibly drug me. They abhorred the judicial abuse I was suffering under the Patriot Act. They had the integrity to want to make things right—for which I am eternally grateful. 

If Hoven committed perjury under oath, he would be exposed. After what I suffered, I would not hesitate to prosecute today, if he or Dr. Fuisz lied about supervising my work. That’s obstruction of justice. I would demand they face maximum penalties in sentencing. 

In which case, they’d get front row seats to life at M.C.C. 

M.C.C. is a maximum security pre-trial detention center, subject to lock downs for every inmate count. Lock downs confine inmates to our cells a good 15 hours a day. Morning lockdowns lasted until 10 am. After lunch, we got locked down again from about 3 pm until 5 pm. Then after dinner from 8 pm to 9 pm—or in that ballpark. 

At times I was the only English speaker in my cell, which made conversation an interesting challenge. Mostly we tried to be friendly, with lots of pantomimes and smiles. But whenever four people get crammed into a tiny space, there’s inevitable tension. All of us were pushed to our breaking points, waiting for Judges to decide our fates. 

Lock downs give prisoners lots of time to think. Indeed, prison life swamps inmates with old memories. Dr. Fuisz and Hoven certainly occupied a lot of mine. 

I remember sitting in Hoven’s truck in October or November of 1993, and Paul chuckling to himself, in his dark way. 

Hoven: “Do you think it’s an accident that I found you, and I just happen to know that you warned about the World Trade Center bombing (in 1993)? I know things your closest friends and family don’t know about you.” 

“What do we have in common? Nothing at all. I’m a conservative Republican, and you’re a goofy Democrat. I’m a soldier, and you’re a peace activist. There’s no way that we would have any social contact except for your warning about the World Trade Center. They sent me to find you. They think someone needs to keep an eye on you. They don’t want you wandering around Washington getting into any more trouble.” 

Or before my job interview with former Rep. Ron Wyden, now Senator for Oregon: 

Hoven: “Don’t go complaining to Wyden about surveillance. Nobody’s violating your rights by watching you. The CIA’s not allowed to target American citizens, or conduct operations inside the United States. That responsibility falls to the Defense Intelligence Agency. And they’ve got a legitimate reason to keep track of you. Nobody’s doing anything wrong here.” 

One conversation particularly echoed back in tragic chords. It was during the Lockerbie Trial in 2000. 

Hoven: “I’ve been thinking about what I’d say if I ever have to testify about you in Court. You’d better know something. If anybody asks if I’m a Defense Intelligence Agent, I’m going to tell them “ no.” 

“Agents are foreigners. And I could never be a foreigner, since I was born in the United States. Americans who work at the Defense Intelligence Agency are called “ officers.” To be correct, I’m your “ case officer.” 

“You’d better remember that. Because spooks can be very particular about the use of language. That’s how we can deny things without actually lying. If you ever get in trouble, you’d better tell your attorney to ask if I’m your “ case officer.” Or your “handler.” If anybody asks if I’m a Defense Intelligence Agent, I’ll look them straight in the eye and say “ no.” And that would be the truth.” 

Any way you cut it, it would be crazy to deny that Hoven was deeply entrenched in the murky world of intelligence, whatever technical capacity he chose to admit. It’s a shadow world of double blinds, certainly. But this was the guy who bragged about exposing Oliver North and Iran-Contra. His circle of spook friends included legendary CIA figures like Bill Weisenberger, closely tied to Edwin Wilson, that dark angel of the covert crowd, who served 27 years in prison for a black operation involving Libya. 

Among friends, Hoven presented himself as a dedicated intelligence passer, a straight line to the Intelligence community. He called himself my “handler” and my “case officer.” And he gave me protection when some of the less friendly Arabs stuck their heads up to say hello. Heck, his sources would tell us when they were coming. 

As Hoven used to tease me, about identifying spooks who might approach me at the United Nations: 

“Susan, if it walks like a duck. And it quacks like a duck. It’s a duck!” 

Hunkered on my top bunk on lock down at M.C.C, I used to ask myself: After so many years together, how could these men stay silent while this happened to me? Knowing that I faced “indefinite detention ” for up to 10 years and forced injections of Haldol to erase my knowledge of our field operations, how could they take no action to help me? 

I never expected such cowardice. 

We know Hoven and Dr. Fuisz told the truth at first. They told the truth to the New York Times Magazine, which botched the story. Hoven spoke with Ted Lindauer, and acknowledged everything. Yet throughout my indictment, Dr. Fuisz refused to speak with my attorneys. He would hang up when they called, often shouting expletives. 

I got a glimpse into Dr. Fuisz’s fear one afternoon, at the close of a court meeting. 

FBI Agent Chmiel leaned back and whispered that Dr. Fuisz denied knowing of my trip to Baghdad. 

That astonished me. I recalled painfully those 30 to 40 phone calls in the two weeks before my trip, pleading with Richard for payment of my debts that had accumulated from our work together. I bombarded him with requests to arrange payment for my years of service—In those days, Assets got paid at the end of a project, in order to make sure objectives got finished, not dropped mid-way. 

On Capitol Hill, Congress made glorious pronouncements, in grand speeches and press conferences, that I would receive spectacular rewards for my work on Lockerbie, arranging the hand over of the two Libyans for the Lockerbie Trial— Indeed, I qualified for a number of rewards— for 9/11, the U.S.S. Cole, the 1993 World Trade Center Attack, and my contributions to antiterrorism overall. 

Only the TV cameras had packed up. What did promises matter? Didn’t I understand those speeches on Capitol Hill were only to glorify themselves?

Promise of leadership support for anti-terrorism had nothing to do with me, after all. 

Hearing the FBI agent’s whisper as I got shackled to go back to my cell, I saw with clarity that Dr. Fuisz was afraid of a Trial, too. He probably told his spymasters at CIA that I never requested payment for my work—so he could keep all that operations money for himself. Which is what he did. After 9/11, Congress appropriated a special “black budget” for the 9/11 investigation. Dr. Fuisz got to draw $13 million. And rightfully so, if he had applied the federal monies to our field work. 

Only he didn’t. He built a mansion, instead. 

Richard Fuisz was a creature of the Black Budgets alright, and he kept the whole pot of gold for himself. He hoarded American tax dollars like a miser. 

I saw none of it. 

My Iraqi source in Baghdad, ready to identify terrorists playing hide and seek in Iraq—worth a King’s ransom for what he could do for us— got none of that money, either— though let’s face it, the success of the 9/11 investigation depended on us—not our money managers in Washington. 

In all other ways, Dr. Fuisz functioned as an outstanding handler. Alas, that one black mark on our relationship brought us to a tragic crossroads. Dr. Fuisz’s unwillingness to hand over any of that money forced me to improvise in Baghdad to arrange payment for my friend. 

And I got thrown in jail for it—though my crime turned out to be practicing extreme resourcefulness in the face of extreme deprivation. It breaks my heart even now. 

That’s what I thought about on lock downs at M.C.C. 

At the beginning, Hoven and Dr. Fuisz tried to claim me. 

Within weeks of my arrest, a freelance journalist for the New York Times Magazine, David Samuels, interviewed both men for a profile about me. 

Samuels called me all excited. Both men freely volunteered my bona fides, including my team’s 9/11 warnings— 

Think what that meant. The New York Times had confirmation from CIA and Defense Intelligences sources about our team’s 9/11 warnings six (6) months before the 9/11 Commission published its findings. 

It was David Samuels again, who told me that Hoven and Fuisz denied receiving advance warning of my arrest. Samuels said both men got very angry at me. But the strike surprised them. 

Finally, according to Samuels, Hoven and Fuisz quickly rushed to grab me back, so the intelligence community could correct the mistake made by the Justice Department. 

The New York Times had an exclusive alright. 

But they declined to print the story. They fudged the details for reasons that nobody outside that newsroom could understand. 

If the New York Times had acted as a watch dog, on behalf of its readers, the spooks could have moved swiftly to kill the whole indictment. Very likely, they would have forced me to accept a hefty nondisclosure agreement as part of the deal. The CIA would have come out on top, no question. 

Instead, the New York Times Magazine published an amateurish profile on my life and legal tribulations, on par with high school journalism. Strangest of all, the article sidestepped any explanation of my work as a long-time Intelligence Asset! 

The only conclusion was that David Samuels was too young and inexperienced to handle such a sensitive assignment. Unhappily for me, it exceeded his reach. Friends griped at me for choosing an ingénue journalist, who botched it. I would have to agree. 

By example, Samuels telephoned a few days before publication to say Dr. Fuisz got quite distressed after talking to fact checkers at the Magazine. Dr. Fuisz wanted to change his quote —which surprised me. Immediately after the interview, Samuels told me that Fuisz described me as “one of the top Assets in the 1990s.” 

According to Samuels, Fuisz said I was “uncanny in my level of perception and accuracy in my forecasting.” I was quote, “the smartest, smartest, smartest woman he’d ever met.” Fuisz called me a “genius dealing with the Arabs.” 

Heavens I loved those quotes! How marvelous! Before publication, I imagined any quote by Dr. Fuisz and Hoven would be stellar. 

I was shocked when I read the article! 

Other friends told me Samuels cobbled together obscure statements from their interviews, and twisted them out of context, drawing conclusions that were not discussed. 

So much for the New York Times throwing sunlight onto the situation. 

This was sort of an intelligence war, and they played right into it. But I wasn’t the only casualty. The Intelligence Community got smashed pretty hard by Republican leaders. Ironically, the bloodbath to punish opposition to its War Policy gutted the intelligence community to the lasting detriment of national security and terrorism policy. 

Vice President Cheney wasn’t the only wrecking ball, either. The Republican leadership as a whole demanded that intelligence reporting must reflect the GOP message. Congress wanted to pick and choose truth, and hide unhappy intelligence, so as to make their leadership appear more successful in the public’s eye. 

In the Republican mindset, intelligence exists to protect politicians from criticism for their mistakes. It must shield them from responsibility to the people. 

That’s anathema to intelligence field work, which exists to protect the people and the community of the nation before all else. And it’s grievously offensive to the principles of democracy, which we serve. Nobody reputable does intelligence work to protect political figureheads, or shield leaders from accountability. That’s genuinely despised. By attacking me so viciously, these Republicans —like John McCain and Trent Lott, and their cohorts on Capitol Hill— exposed something very ugly about their position.

Despite all the tough talk at election time, Congress really doesn’t understand how antiterrorism gets done in the field. They don’t recognize it when they see it. And they don’t appreciate the men and women who do it. 

Quite the contrary, they blame and bully us. They arrest us when our knowledge threatens the story they want to invent for the people. 

Any politician in Washington claiming otherwise would be lying. 

CONCEALING A DEFENDANT’S 

INNOCENCE ON THE PATRIOT ACT 

Many times I have been asked why, if my Asset work was authentic, the FBI did not discover as much during its investigation. 

Ah but who says they didn’t? 

Chalk it up to the Patriot Act. 

My indictment was loaded up with all the bells and whistles of that atrocious law. I tripped all the wires. For openers, I’d been subjected to at least two “warrantless searches” before my arrest. The first time federal agents ransacked my home office, they broke a filing cabinet. The second time, the Feds broke my front door. 

They got zilch. Nothing to show the grand jury. The Prosecution was left with three lunch receipts totaling $92.92, suggesting I ate a cheeseburger with an Iraqi diplomat after 9/11. 540 Plus video from a hidden camera at the Al Rashid Hotel in Baghdad a year before the Invasion, 541 on the last day of my trip to Iraq. The video captured my meeting with a senior Iraqi official— and, most critically, my friend in the Mukhabarat who was going to help the FBI Task Force identify terrorists playing hide and seek with Iraqi intelligence. 

The video was red hot alright—just not the way my Prosecutor wished to claim. I could hardly wink at the camera: (It was their camera, after all.) However the tape provided startling evidence of the success of our peace framework, including Iraq’s cooperation with anti-terrorism efforts, and the ability of U.S. corporations to return to Baghdad in key sectors, post-sanctions. 542 It was awesome! 

I recognized at once the CIA could never play that tape to a jury. The House of Cards to justify this dreadful war would fall in a day. 

And so a conspiracy was born to throw the brakes on my demand for a trial. 

Under the Patriot Act, the US Attorneys Office, the FBI and the Bureau of Prisons made a decision, individually and collectively, to deny my status as an Asset. They simply declared the facts of my life “classified” information, when challenged by Ted Lindauer and Shaughnessy, who were highly aggressive on my behalf. 

In regular court proceedings, that’s called “withholding exculpatory knowledge.” A prosecutor could face disciplinary action, even disbarment from the legal profession, because it’s so grossly unethical and dishonest. 

That’s the Patriot Act for you. 

Welcome to the New America. Franz Kafka would be appalled. 

Oh yes, I was fighting for my life. 

AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL MOMENT: 

They might have succeeded, if not for the unflagging perseverance of JB Fields and civil rights activist and radio journalist, Janet Phelan, now living in Toronto. 

One morning at M.C.C, a few weeks after the hearing on forcible drugging, I was unexpectedly roused by guards at 5:30 a.m. for an unscheduled court appearance. Inmates going to Court have extra time for a shower and breakfast. It took my by surprise. I had no idea why Judge Mukasey had called us, and I feared the worst. 

In my cell, I wept inconsolably, believing the Judge was about to issue his decision on forcible drugging.. I’d been forewarned that I would get seized by U.S. Marshals and forced back to Carswell right away. A few days before, my cellmate caught a six year sentence for heroin trafficking from Brazil. That morning she was left to comfort me. I was in worst shape than she was. 

When I got to the holding cage outside the courtroom, my attorney rushed in. 

I was prepared for anything except what he came to say! 

“Somebody has started a blog on your case, Susan! They’re running your story on internet radio. People are writing the Judge!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YOU ARE BREAKING THE LAW!” 

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

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

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

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

They didn’t count on JB and Janet! 

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

The blogs are the best hope to save our democracy! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LIFE AT M.C.C. 

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

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

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

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

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

Prison food was ghastly. Cells were overcrowded. Pages of the law books were torn out or crumpled—and urgently needed to be replaced, since all the inmates were either pre-trial or awaiting sentences. 
Outdoor recreation was limited to the roof-top for one hour every other day. There were volley ball nets, basketball hoops, and a hand ball court— very much appreciated. But mostly we walked laps around the rooftop. Male prisoners might have enjoyed more recreation time and library access, because of the criteria for gender segregation. It’s impossible to put male and female prisoners together. Really though, women inmates need to go outside every day, too. It makes a huge difference to emotional strength, coping with the pressures of trials and sentencing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It should never have been possible. 

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

It was New York City in 2006. And I was petrified. 

CHAPTER 29: 

THE LAST MAN 

“One man with Courage makes a majority.” 

–Thomas Jefferson 

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

I was the nation’s scapegoat. 

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

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

to be continued..2418

notes
Chapter 27
508. Court Transcript. Hearing on Forcible Drugging. Judge Mukasey, May 4, 2006. 
509. Federal Statute. U.S. Patriot Act. 
510. Ibid. Federal Statute. U.S. Patriot Act. 
511. Ibid. Classified Non Disclosure Agreement. Signed by Sam Talkin. Feb 10, 2005 
512. Ibid. Psychiatric Report. Dr. Stuart Kleinman. February 28, 2005. 
513. Ibid. Federal Indictment U.S. vs. Lindauer 
514. Ibid. Patriot Act. The whole premise of the Prosecution argument hinged on that denial. With admission, the charges would have been dismissed, and the Justice Department could never have argued for forcible drugging to cure me of what the FBI, the U.S. Attorney’s Office and the Bureau of Prisons all recognized was truthful. 
515. Ibid. Statutory Requirements under U.S. Patriot Act. 
516. Ibid. Statutory Requirements under U.S. Patriot Act. 
517. Courtroom Testimony of Dr. Collin Vas, Staff Psychiatrist. Carswell Federal Medical Center. Before Judge Michael B. Mukasey. U.S. vs. Lindauer. May 4, 2006. 
518. Ibid. Courtroom Testimony of Dr. Vas. Carswell U.S. vs. Lindauer, May 4, 2006. 
519. Ibid. Courtroom Testimony of Dr. Vas. Carswell U.S. vs. Lindauer, May 4, 2006. 
520. Ibid. Decision on Internal Medication Hearing. December 28, 2005. 
521. Ibid. Courtroom Testimony of Dr. Vas. Carswell U.S. vs. Lindauer, May 4, 2006. 
522. Ibid. Decision on Internal Medication Hearing. December 28, 2005. 
523. Court Decision on Forcible Drugging by Judge Mukasey. Ruling for the Defense, U.S. vs. Lindauer, September 8, 2006. 
524. Ibid. Decision on Forcible Drugging by Judge Mukasey. U.S. vs. Lindauer Sept 8, 2006. 
525. Ibid. Courtroom Testimony of Dr. Vas. Carswell U.S. vs. Lindauer, May 4, 2006. 
526. Ibid. Compilation of Observation Notes by M-1 Staff. Submitted as Court evidence, Hearing on Forcible Drugging. U.S. vs. Lindauer. May 4, 2006. 
527. Ibid. Courtroom Testimony of Dr. Vas. Carswell U.S. vs. Lindauer, May 4, 2006. 
528. Ibid. Monthly Observation Reports. Carswell Prison. Oct, 2005 through April, 2006 
529. Ibid. Compilation of M-1 staff notes, Carswell Prison. Oct 2005 through April, 2006 
530. Ibid. Courtroom Testimony of Dr. Vas, Carswell, U.S. vs. Lindauer. May 4, 2006 
531. Courtroom Testimony of Dr. Robert L. Goldstein, a Professor of Clinical Psychiatry at Columbia University. U.S. vs. Lindauer, May 9, 2006 
532. Ibid. Courtroom Testimony of Dr. Robert L. Goldstein. May 9, 2006. 
533. Ibid. Courtroom Testimony. Psychiatric Opinion of Dr. Goldstein. May 9, 2006. 
534. FBI Evidence Summary for Defense. U.S. vs. Lindauer 
535. Ibid. Courtroom Testimony. Psychiatric Opinion of Dr. Goldstein. U.S. vs. Lindauer May 9, 2006 

CHAPTER 28 
536. Three Days of the Condor., Directed by Sydney Pollack, 1975. 
537. Court Papers. Copies of my letters to Judge Mukasey requesting a competency hearing got forwarded to my attorney. February, 2006 through June, 2006. 
538. Ibid. Court Papers. Copies of my letters to Judge Mukasey asking to call Paul Hoven for closed testimony. May, 2006. 
539. Ibid. Psychiatry Report by Dr. Stuart Kleinman. Sept 17, 2005. U.S. vs. Lindauer 
540. FBI Evidence. Restaurant Receipts from Viand in New York City. September, 2001. 
541. FBI Evidence. Video by Iraqi Intelligence Service. Al Rashid Hotel. March 7, 2002. U.S. vs. Lindauer 
542. Ibid. FBI Evidence. Video by Iraqi Intelligence Service. Al Rashid Hotel. March 7, 2002. 
543. Court Transcript. Judge Mukasey demand for explanation on Discrepancies in Psych June, 2006 
544. Ibid. Court Transcript. Judge Mukasey demand for explanation on Discrepancies in Psych Reports. June, 2006