Jail, Part 2

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Doing Time in Des Moines, Part 2 by Steve Clemens. June 28, 2014

Judge William Price bragged about the new, “at least 3 star”, jail that Polk County, Iowa runs. He smiles and exchanges pleasantries with us and our lawyers as the deputies are collecting the paperwork to haul us off to his self-described plush accommodations. Obviously he has never entered as a “paying customer”! I’d love to see if he has the cojones to spend 2-3 days inside, incognito, before he sends anyone else to that jail. Same for the Prosecutor (although, in fairness, he only recommended a fine for our conviction on trespass) as well as all the COs (Corrections Officers) and staff at Polk County’s “finest”.

I write about my jail experience to demystify it, hoping to embolden others to consider civil disobedience and jail witness as another tool in their repertoire of working for peace and justice. 

After 20 hours in the “cooler” (I understand more clearly the street slang for prison/jail after my first frigid stops within the jail), I was handcuffed and chained again to be moved to “BarneyLand”, the euphemism given to another holding way-station in the jail before entering general population (referred to as a “pod”). The name came from its early days when the TV there only played PBS and because of the prevalence of cartoon character shows like the purple dinosaur, Barney, the name stuck; even the guards use it. It has 2-person cells on the upper level and more on the lower level which also includes 3-4 single person cells. My cell had a rolled steel bunk with mattresses on each bed with a built-in pillow device – a great improvement from laying directly on cement! Don’t get too excited – its not a posturepedic or any other chiropractic-approved bedding! The toilet and sink are separate and porcelain. A stainless steel 18”x18” shelf serves as a desk/table with a stool bolted in front. A stainless steel “mirror” completes the ensemble. The cell door has a clear window so I can see the clock outside the COs station, located between two identical “BarneyLand” units.

I am assigned a lower bunk (hallelujah!) and after unpacking the “bedroll” I received before entering the unit, I begin to arrange my new residence by placing my nearly threadbare sheets and blanket on the mattress. I also now possess a towel, washcloth, a plastic cup and a spork. I had asked the night before and again for a Bible but I am told “you have to wait until you get to a pod before you can have one.” After being told by others that you could be in BarneyLand for up to 24 hours, I figured I’d probably remain there to finish my sentence. Of course not. After getting close to 2 hours of needed rest on my bunk (since we were locked in the cells), the CO yells to us, calling us by last name to “come down and get your uniforms – you are going to a pod tonight after dinner.”

I am issued 2 sets of two-toned green pants and shirts, another T-shirt and boxers, and another pair of socks. We are told to change out of the orange jumpsuit and return it to the laundry workers who gave us the clothes. We are again unlocked to come to the main level for dinner to eat at the stainless steel tables and stools bolted to the floor. A ham bologna slice with bread is complemented with cooked carrots, Frito-like corn chips, canned pineapple, blueberry pie, and milk – served on the same molded plastic trays.

By 6:30 we are assembled again, re-handcuffed and chained for the march to our respective pods. I’m assigned to a lower bunk, 630, in North 6. It holds about 60 inmates in 4-man, 2-bunk bays on two levels. Each bay has 3 walls with the front completely open, facing the day room. At the end of the bays on both levels are 4 toilets and 4 sinks on each level. Opposite the bay area are showers and a TV room with hard plastic chairs designed to look like cushioned, living-room-type chairs. The CO has his desk on that wall opposite the bays directly in the middle. In the day area are both phones for expensive calls and video screens for visits. I wasn’t there long enough to see how they work but with others milling about, it didn’t seem to afford any privacy except over the handset.

After I made up my bunk, I took a stroll around to see my new digs. Four guys sitting together at one table ask if I’m in for DWI. Another laughs and said, “I recognize you” and points to a picture of the hefty banker with a mustache on the Monopoly Board Game. When I tell them about drones, only two of the four have ever heard of them and they didn’t see them as a necessary problem. As I explain about my friends in Afghanistan and my friend in Pakistan and their experiences, you can see a light go on in their imagination. When I tell them I chose to go to jail instead of paying the $100 fine (I put it, “I chose to do the time instead of paying the fine”), they each gave me a fist bump and said, “Alright!”

In traversing the pod, I see one guy open a cabinet door and start rifling through paperback books. When he is done, I quickly check to see if there is anything I’d like to read since I’m sure I won’t sleep soundly on my steel bunk – even with a mattress. I find a copy of Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried and even though I read it years ago, it is well worth and read. Christine and I had just seen a play at the History Theater based on it a month or two ago.

One guy approaches me and offers some instant coffee – a generous offer here since coffee is only available from the commissary in a cost-cutting effort by the jail. I’ve never been to a jail or prison where coffee hasn’t been a staple of the inmate diet! Other ways of taking it out on the vulnerable are evident with the posted notice that any visit to the nurse will incur a charge of $5, to the Doctor $10, Mental Health visit $10, as well as charges for any prescriptions. The big surprise awaits check-out time.

They say necessity is the mother of invention. I was pleased to see the guys had rolled one of the large Brute trash receptacles right in front of the toilet closest to the COs desk. If you need to take a dump, roll the trash can between you and anyone walking by; at least a modicum of privacy. If you want more, wait until after lights out at 10:30 PM and before 5-5:30 AM when they are back on for breakfast. At night only lights at both far ends of the pod are lit. Or, after breakfast and cleanup, most of the guys go back to sleep for several hours so there is less traffic by the toilets.

There are no windows to the outside in the entire prison except two louvered ones about 15’ high on the outside wall of an enclosed rec room. The room itself consists of cement block walls, several Plexiglas windows on the side facing the CO desk, and a cement floor. Some guys use the area for walking exercise but unless you buy some shoes at commissary, walking in the shower shoes is not the best experience. The windows in our rec room are obscured, one louver open in a way you can tell if it is daytime or night but not the weather. But Mother Nature has its own way: early in the morning a loud boom of thunder erupted and I could hear the driving rain. Later in the early afternoon, the thunderstorms returned during time for commissary and a nearby lightning strike darkened the entire prison for about 5 seconds. Several inmates yelled, “jail break!” and the two women distributing commissary got up to run out of the pod – reacting much quicker than the CO. We laughed when the lights came back on as they sighed with relief.  With only the two obscured windows at the end of the pod, it was very dark!

Although the Judge’s order stated I was to be jailed from 4 PM until 4 PM two days later, 4 o’clock came and went. I had all my stuff packed, ready to go since 3, thinking I should walk out the door in my street clothes at 4 and it would take some time to check out of this bed and breakfast. Finally, as the clock ticked on, at 4:08 the phone rang and the CO yelled out, “Clemens”. He patted me down and took me to the pod door where I was once again handcuffed and chained for the march back to the release area. We stopped en route for Eddie to join me and then had to sign to get our property and clothes back. We put on our street clothes and then Michele and Ruth arrived as well. I was asked to sign a form which acknowledged I received my invoice for room and board charges - $195! I told them there was no way I was going to pay such an absurd bill and I’d refuse to sign it. They said, “We’ll bill you anyway.” So, go figure – go to jail for two days because you won’t pay a $100 fine for reason of conscience only to be issued a bill for $95 more than that amount to undergo such indignities.

What do you expect from an empire in the throes of decline and desperation?

My Day-To-Day Report on My Time in Jail

Report From Inmate # 00712398 by Steve Clemens. June 26-July 2, 2012

(Note: this is written stream-of-consciousness style each day from my cell)

Day 1, Tuesday (June 26, 2012) Cell number 165 on the first level of A Unit at the Hennepin County “Workhouse” (technically the Adult Corrections Facility but I’m not sure how much “correcting” they plan for me) is smaller than what I remember from my sojourn here 10 years ago. This cell is only 6’ wide and just less than 8’ long with a stainless steel toilet (sans a seat) and a porcelain sink mounted to the wall that diminishes some of the precious floor space. The wall-mounted “table” and “seat” are really just 12” wide shelves that also jut into the space not taken up by the metal bunk.

Each cell has a 3’ fluorescent light mounted against the wall and ceiling opposite the bars and sliding door and there are two settings: bright for reading and a dimmer setting on all through the night which is also the default setting when the bright function isn’t activated. Two sheets, 2 blankets, and a pillow case were issued by the dressing officer along with a “hygiene bag” of small bottles of shampoo, deodorant, a plastic razor, comb, cheap flimsy toothbrush and toothpaste. Someone has a sense of humor: the brand of shampoo and deodorant is “Maximum Security”. My cell overlooks an 8’ wide walkway with a view of 2 blocked up window openings. (When I’m able to get out of the cell the next day, I discover that the windows on the second and third tier above me are obscured glass so you can at least see if it is daylight or not if you are on those levels.)

The dressing officer would not let me keep my Bible since it is hard-cover “and could be thrown from the 3^rd tier and injure someone” – even though my cell assignment clearly shows my cell to be on the first tier/floor. I was able to convince him to allow me to keep two pencils and some sheets of paper – provided I rip them out of the tablet. My stick pens, toothbrush, and my sneaker-type shoes are not allowed despite the sign which says “ask if your shoes can be worn inside” on the wall of the holding area outside the dressing room. (I later discover many inmates have their own shoes – not significantly different than mine. The officer didn’t even look at mine before saying “no”.

The dressing room officer was in a hurry since he told us a “big group” was arriving soon so I assume that is why David and I didn’t have to take a shower and undergo a strip search like everyone else does. David had to undress in front of the officer; he didn’t even look at me while trying to rush through the process. After telling me I couldn’t keep my own shoes, I am issued sneakers with absolutely no arch or support whatsoever. I now have a one-piece jump suit with metal snaps and AFC stenciled on the back and stretched out underwear briefs and socks. 

Although I have a letter from my primary care physician documenting my need for ibuprofen for back pain, the tablets I brought were placed in my property bag with my street clothes and Bible and I was told that the doctor’s papers would be sent to the medical office – but they had not arrived down the 60’ hallway during the hour I sat outside that office awaiting my “physical”. It consists of height, weight, blood pressure, pulse and oxygen level, and a TB skin test since I will be there for 7 days or longer. Questions to be sure I’m not suicidal are asked – better asking me now rather than after a few mostly sleepless nights!

Since my Bible has been deemed verboten, I write down all the names of my Iraqi and Afghan friends that I could remember for my prayer list for the week. (I had written them in my Bible so I wouldn’t inadvertently leave someone out.)

It was wonderful to have a group of 30 friends in a circle together to bless David and me before we walked to the front of the jail to report in by 11 AM. We had first gathered at a remaining ATK site in Plymouth for a half hour before driving to the Workhouse. We had our community circle for singing and sharing at both locations. Roger brought his fiddle and Sr. Jane played “the only song she knows” on the harmonica as we sing along. Susu lit some sage and each person had an opportunity to say something before David and I stepped into the center of the circle for our traditional singing of “Rainbow Person” followed by a song Tom and Pepperwolf learned in Columbia where peace and justice advocates sing, “Courage brothers, you do not walk alone; We will walk with you and sing your Spirit home.” If only all prisoners were so blessed with a group of friends and supporters before walking into jail or prison!

I’m so grateful that Christine and Zaq were able to be part of this send-off. (I feel greedy in that I already had a blessing/send-off from my faith community, The Community of St. Martin, at the end of worship on Sunday evening.) Another long-time peace activist I lived with in Georgia more than 35 years ago called me from a speaking trip in California last night hoping to catch me before jail and wish me well.

We were given a bag lunch of an apple and two white bread sandwiches with meat and cheese while awaiting the dressing officer. Supper is delivered to my cell: canned green beans, 3 small biscuits, 2 scoops of mashed potatoes with tiny pieces of chicken in a gravy, a half of a canned pear and two cups of Kool Aide-type fruit “juice”.

The jail has a for-profit medical service named Corizon. One of their staff – likely a nurse but I hadn’t seen her before – goes by about 10 PM to ask if we are “alright” and to deliver meds to those on this tier. I should ask for earplugs (although I know the request would be useless) because the talking between cells is incessant. It makes it a real challenge to think, read, meditate or pray. The talking is loud because all cells face the outside brick wall and the sounds just reverberate from them.

I’ve felt chilled ever since David and I checked in at 11 – so cold I had put on my long-sleeved shirt before I had to surrender it to the dressing officer. The air conditioning must be set for the comfort of the guards and staff who obviously have clothing better suited than us. I thought when I was issued 2 “blankets” that at least one could help bulk up the pathetic excuse for a “pillow” or could be used to brace the small of my back while sleeping but I think I’d need at least one to rap around me even while sitting in my cell to keep from getting really cold. The “blankets” are more the consistency of flannel sheets than a real blanket that I had been issued in other jails and prisons.

Here is another new wrinkle: at the booking desk after my photo and electronic scan of my fingertips, I’m told there is a $30 “booking charge that comes out first of any inmate funds on the books.” I had brought in $40 so I might be able to buy some candy bars at commissary to give to other guys as a thank you for a kindness or other courtesies. (I learn the next day that all “canteen” requests must be made on Sundays for a Tuesday or Wednesday delivery so I couldn’t buy anything anyway.) Seems our society finds ways to “nickel and dime” inmates wherever possible. I’m told that any medications are charged to the inmate as well as anytime one requests to see the doctor. Next time I’ll have to consider getting locked up in a nation which has universal health care coverage!

Since I have nothing to read I called out to some inmates (aka “residents”) who walked by my cell with some books on top of a vacuum-like device, asking them if I could get me a book or two. One of them handed me a James Patterson novel from the Women’s Murder Club series so I spent most of the evening alternating between reading and napping. (I have no idea what time it is since I can’t see a clock but I discover if I look out my bars on an angle, I can see an opaque window down the cellblock to see if it is dark yet.

I continued reading in the middle of the night when my sore back wouldn’t let me sleep until a guard came by at what I guessed to be 2:30 AM with an armful of books and said, “These were dropped off for you last week [by the librarian] and I’m glad to get these off my desk.” What a treasure trove: A Testament of Hope and A Call To Conscience by Martin Luther King, Jr., Pillar of Fire and At Canaan’s Edge by Taylor Branch, and Master of the Senate by Robert Caro. All together, a stack of books nearly a foot high!

Day 2, Wednesday. Breakfast in my cell consists of 3 slices of white bread toast, about 2 tablespoons of peanut butter, golden graham cereal and 8 ounces of 2% milk. I pass two of the pieces of bread to cell 164 after asking him if he wanted it. [I later learned his name and he told me he’d gladly take any extra food since he wanted to put on some weight.]

The CO (Corrections Officer or guard) tells me I must be here on this tier for a minimum of 36 hours and “clear medical” before being moved “upstairs” into general population. We are told we will also be able to get a towel and take a shower by 1:30 PM. Orientation upstairs is conducted for 6 of us who came in yesterday and on our tier. (David and the other guy we were booked with aren’t in our group). Different staff go over some rules and regulations, give us a reading comprehension test; we meet a Chaplain, Chemical Dependency person, etc. Most of the programs they offer won’t apply to me because it takes over a week to get put on the list to participate. I would have tried to attend one of the Bible study groups just to see what it is like but apparently you can’t do that if you are here only 7 days. (How will I ever be “corrected” if I’m not here long enough to be part of their “programs”?) The automatic “good time” for 10 days limits my stay to 7 days unless I’m “written up” by a staff member for rule infractions like more than 5 books or magazines, more than the allotted clothes, sheets, towels, excessive cursing (never enforced while I’m around!), food in your room from the dinning area, …

Lunch in my cell (room service!) consists of cup of vegetable soup (with only 2-3 small pieces of actual vegetables, 2 packs of saltines, some cucumber slices in a dressing, a 5” pizza, and ½ pt. of milk. We are let out of our cells for 45 minutes to get a shower at the end of the tier (right in front of the guard station), a change of clothes, walk in the hallway, and/or make collect phone calls from the 3 phones on the wall. I am able to get a T-shirt and that really helps keep me warmer.

Supper is 2 hot dogs in rolls, baked beans, ½ of canned peach, and 2 cups of Kool Aide.  I finish A Call to Conscience, a collection of MLK’s speeches and continue with my other books about and by King. The story behind “Letter from Birmingham City Jail” is fascinating. It was almost totally ignored in the mainstream media until a month or two later when the school children starting filling up the jails in that Alabama city. When Sheriff Bull Connor released attack dogs and water cannon on grade school and high school children, finally some press started to pay some attention. I sleep only intermittently my second night.

Day 3, Thursday. Breakfast is a reprise of golden graham cereal with ½ pt. of milk, a bagel (not NY style!) with jelly (not fruit preserves) and a canned plum. I’m hoping there is a little more nutrition once we hit general population today. Last night was another rough night. When I begin to drift off to sleep, the inmate from a cell or two down from me (it’s hard to tell) starts singing – first a Bee Gees song, followed by several others by Paul Simon, and other artists I don’t know. Not too bad in quality but I really hadn’t decided to attend a concert that evening. Another inmate several cells in the other direction screams “Shut the fuck up!” several times during each number. After the concert petered out, someone started yelling for a hammer. (Was he off his meds?) It took about an hour or more for the yelling back and forth to subside.

The nurse handing out meds said she’d be back before she got to my cell but then didn’t return. The nurse this AM told me he knew I had an order for ibuprofen but only gave me 400 mg and said I could keep it for tonight. I doubt that ½ my normal dose will help very much. The 1 ½” plastic mattress and the pathetic pillow (1” x 8” x14”?) don’t cushion the steel bunk very much so I double the mattress by my head and use one of the blankets to wedge against the small of my back to ease the pain. As it is, I get no more than 15 minutes before I need to turn to another position. Every couple of hours I sit up or get up and pace the cell (3 steps, turn, 3 steps) to loosen my back and leg muscles. At least about 7 AM I’m able to have my first, partial bowel movement on the cold stainless-steel toilet – first in 47 hours. I feel like I’ve accomplished something. (Jail expectations aren’t very high.)

I wish I had tried to bring in my Muslim prayer beads that I bought in Baghdad in December 2002. I used them after the war started 3 months later when I went to pray for an hour every weekday in Senator Coleman’s office as I fasted for the first 35 days of the war. Somehow the tangible beads gives me a better connection with the Iraqis  (and Afghans) I pray for. I doubt the guards would allow me to bring them in but I should have at least tried.

I’m waiting for our cellblock officer to tell us we will be moving to general population this morning. If I get to the second or third tier I might be able to see if it is daylight outside or maybe see the clock which is visible from about 4 of the 16 cells on the two upper tiers.

Reading Pillar of Fire, I’m reminded how easy I’ve had it with all my arrests. Other than handcuffs too tight, pepper spray in the air, or trying to get in and out of the narrow space (for me) of a cop car or paddy wagon while handcuffed from behind, I at least have not yet been clubbed, bitten by K-9 dogs, or had my life threatened by angry mobs. Well, I was concerned when “trained” security guards pointed their automatic weapons at me and screamed to stop in Texas 31 years ago. It gives me all the more respect for the courage of Bob Moses, Diane Nash, James Bevel and the thousands who joined them in the deep South, Chicago, LA, and other battlegrounds for civil rights.

I wouldn’t call being in here “suffering” per se. The feeling is more discomfort and definitely being out of “control” of one’s own schedule, meals, dress, and even movement. It is the sense of uncertainty, the unknown, being at the mercy of others – be it orders from the guards or the inability to remove oneself from the idiosyncrasies of other inmates. Clearly some here have mental health issues and regulating medications becomes more complex here with new charges to see a doctor or nurse practitioner as well as charges for medication. Certainly mental health concerns are exacerbated in here. The Native American a couple of cells west of me was grunting and screaming about 6 AM giving orders to someone else (maybe there was a medical person with him or he was just hallucinating) yelling for a sledgehammer. I think the calls last for a hammer (non-sledge?) last night were from a cell in the other direction. But who knows? Maybe my own ability to discern directions (or reality?) is hampered in here.

The concert from the next cell continues. Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone; followed by Slip Slidin’ Away, Ventura Highway. The singer is cell 164, an African-American I finally met when we got out for a shower; the guy who asked for my extra toast yesterday. Lunch is ¼ baked chicken, white rice with gravy, cooked broccoli, 3 slices of white bread and ½ pt. of milk. I was hoping this meal would be in the dining hall but I haven’t been moved yet.

The wait continues. We are able to sweep and mop our cell during our 1-hour shower/rec time. We are able to get a change of clothes as well. Supper is chicken salad with 5 slices of white bread (as usual I pass virtually all my bread to my musical friend), a tiny salad with a piece of lettuce and 3 cuke slices, cherry Kool Aide and ½ of a canned peach. We also got a new batch of inmates for this “holding” area which one of the officers describes as a “48 hour hold”. Since it is now 6 PM, it is going on 55 hours for me. The CO did confirm that my “out date” is July 2. The new guys always seem to be excessively loud – and the loudest group is now next-door in cells 166,7, and 8, I think. I wish medical handed out earplugs but I did score two more ibuprofen which I save for tonight.  

People whose personalities are annoying on the outside are downright obnoxious and aggravating in here. I’ve heard enough talk of “bitches” and my Baby Mama” to last me a lifetime and they’ve only been in this cellblock for an hour or so. The noise level is painful – several decibels louder than the first two nights in this slammer. I’m hoping for a visit so I can get a respite. It is difficult to read because of the continuous rapping and yelling.

Day 4, Friday. A relatively decent sleep last night – must have been the ibuprofen I got yesterday. After the shouted trivia game ended (about 11 PM?), things quieted down considerably and except for the guards walking up and down the hallway on a regular basis and going in and out of the door to this unit, it was calm enough to try to sleep. It is quite disorienting to never know what time it is but looking out the bars on a severe angle I can see it is finally daylight outside. It could be 5:30 or 7AM. I haven’t had breakfast delivered yet and I think that happens about 7:30 or 8. Hope (again) to get moved today but I’ll just have to wait and see. Part of the jail experience is to remind you who is in control – and it’s not me.

A guard threatened the 3-4 new guys who were rapping at such an awful loud rate that they needed to shut up or they would be shipped to segregation because the guys on tiers 2 and 3 were workers and needed their sleep. So I had about ½ hour of relative calm before that trivia questions started – and, of course, the only way to be heard was to shout out one’s answer or question. Since none of us can see each other and we’re spread over a cellblock about 100’ long, shouting seems to be the preferred form of communication when not face-to-face.

A paper was put on the bars of my cell overnight which informs me that I won’t be classified (for approved work inside or out) because my sentence is too short. You need to be classified Level I to work outside the jail or Levels II or III to get a job inside here or on the immediate grounds. Most guys who work outside are kept in Unit A because it is supposed to be quieter. I’m hoping if I’m moved that I’ll stay in this unit but, again, I’ll have to wait and see.

Typical prison bureaucracy: nurse told me today I had no “order” for ibuprofen and refused to give me any despite that fact that 3 others had already done so. Breakfast is 3 slices of white toast, 2 tablespoons of peanut butter, ¾ cup of rice krispies, ½ pt. of milk, and 3 halves of canned apricots. Hopefully those who work get more sustenance than we get.

Moving day! Finally! I moved across the big central hallway to cell 464 on the B Unit. I’m still on the first tier and still on the south side of the building. My mattress looks relatively new (a full 2”?) and my seat-less toilet is a Kohler porcelain model. My cell is the same size with a mirrored image of my first one with the steel bunk on the west side and the shelf-like seat and table on the east. There are opaque windows outside my cell so I’ll be able to tell daylight from night without getting out of my bunk. The noise level is definitely louder during the day since most of the workers are in the other unit. There is an older African-American in the next cell who is already counseling one of the younger inmates next to him. It is 11 AM and I’m more than half way through my stay here.

The announcements over the loudspeaker are loud and too garbled for me to understand. Someone said something about “personal time” but if it is already 11, I doubt if we’ll get out before lunch. I’m hoping to find a pencil sharpener. Well, something new (for me). I thought getting into general population would mean getting (better) meals in the dining hall but carts just rolled by with what looks to be our lunch. They are pushed by the same inmates who gave us meals in our holding cells. Now, 5 minutes later, they go by in the other direction and out into the main hallway. I don’t have any idea of what to expect. [Later I learn there are a few guys with disabilities on our unit who must get meals delivered to them.]

Don’t judge your mattress by its cover. It looks newer and better but actually has less cushioning than my previous one in 165. And the guy next door snores when he sleeps. It reminds me of the night I spent in the Columbus, GA jail after my School of the Americas bust in 2005. Sam Foster had the loudest snore I’d ever heard. We didn’t get to our big cell area until after 11 PM and by midnight he had everyone awake and complaining about the noise he made in his sleep. Only tonight will tell if #463 can compete with Sam. So far, it seems the noisiest guys are at the west end of the cellblock and I’m the 5^th cell from the east end. Time will tell. (Although I won’t know what “time” it is with no clock in sight.)

12:15 PM (according to the clock in the dining room) – a hot lunch! Eaten out of the cell. On a tray rather than with a paper plate and with a red spork rather than the flimsy white one. We have chow mien with noodles, white rice, cottage cheese, canned pears, 3 slices of white bread, and milk. Looking at other trays when I sit down at the tables in the dining area, I notice I didn’t get any of the cooked veggies – carrots, broccoli, and cauliflower. I missed the guy who was slopping it on the trays so I’ll pay better attention next time. You just hold your tray under a glass which serves as a type of sneeze-guard and a kitchen inmate worker slops it on your tray. Once you leave the serving line, you can’t go back for something you missed and there is at least one guard supervising the servers to make sure they don’t sneak extra to their buddies. I sat by myself, waiting to get the lay of the land – see if there is some kind of territorial or pecking order established. Looking around the room, I’d estimate that B unit appears to be roughly 70% black, 15% Native American, Asian, or Latino, and 15% white. The noise level really starts to build as most inmates finish eating. We have 30-40 minutes to get our food and eat it so you don’t want to delay getting out of your cell and walking down the main hallway to the dining area.

I’m spoiled already. It is 3 PM and I’ve been out of my cell twice already: lunch and now, “personal time” where I can shower, use the payphones, or hang out in the mess hall where some of the guys play a very animated game of cards. Others just sit and talk. I ask a guard if the library is open but I am told it is not “at this time”.

Supper was beef and macaroni casserole, coleslaw, grape Kool Aide, canned yellow beans, and 3 pieces of white bread. I was surprised to see St. Clair, a guy David and I met in the dressing room when we were processed on Tuesday, who thought he was to get out on work release but the paperwork was wrong and he got locked up in the same holding area as me. He tells me he did get out later on Tuesday to correct the mistake and by Wednesday he was able to work outside at his existing job. Unlike me, he told me he has slept well here – luckily he remains in Unit A where it is definitely quieter. I was in Unit A for my whole week 10 years ago but it is hard to remember how I felt then.

We get out for “recreation” tonight but someone told me that inmates can’t go outside to the rec yard on Friday nights so we are released to the dining area where the round stools fastened to the tables like in grade schools are not very comfortable. I’m told the library will open “soon” but 15 minutes later I’m told it won’t be open tonight. I watch a re-run movie on TV that has closed-captioning and do some walking between commercials. By 9:50 PM we are ordered back to our cells for the 10 PM “count” and remain there for the rest of the night.

Day 5, Saturday. Last night was a so-so night. I had 2 ibuprofen left that I took at 10 and they helped for the first half of the night. I got up as soon as daylight appears and it is still nice and quiet. I’m pleasantly surprised to see two envelopes with their stamps torn off placed on my cell bars. I can tell by the writing without even looking at the return addresses that they are from Christine and my friends June and Carolyn. What a wonderful gift! Christine’s writing is on a card that our Iraqi & American Reconciliation Project sells to support the work of Sami Rasouli and the Muslim Peacemaker Team in Iraq. It is so appropriate since I’ve taken time each day to pray for my friends in Iraq and Afghanistan. She tells me she arrived to visit me on Wednesday only to be told that I couldn’t have visits “for the first 7 days”. It just figures – during the time when a visit is probably the most important, one’s first days of adjustment, - these bureaucratic bastards need to flex their muscles all the more to make sure we are “punished for our crimes.”

June has typed her letter on her old typewriter. She and Carolyn are the thriftiest people I know – she’s typed it on some recycled paper that is dated January 2004 on the backside. She describes (among other things) that they went to a gathering sponsored by The Center For Victims of Torture (CVT) on June 26^th to stand in solidarity with their clients on the International Day to recognize those who have been tortured. Thank God for their healing work; now can we have political leaders push for holding those who ordered and allowed it to be held accountable?

It is really striking to notice the differences between the guards with even such short exposure so far. Some are helpful and considerate (even if firm) while others display open contempt or hostility. I’m not here long enough to get to know any of them but it is clear that there is little consistency on which rules will be enforced and which ones can be openly ignored. A number of inmates are wearing their own sneakers yet my dressing officer said it was out of the question. You can buy stick pens in the canteen/commissary yet my officer told me “no pens are allowed”. My hard-cover Bible was forbidden yet in the chapel area was a large print Bible you could take to your cell – it was hard-covered and 4 of the 5 books I got from the librarian are hard-cover and all but one are bigger than my Bible.

I just saw my 4^th female guard in here – at least I wasn’t sitting on the toilet like I was when the first woman guard came by for “count” yesterday. A clock or watch would be helpful for those important decisions of when to go to the bathroom with at least a little privacy. As it is, I just turn my cell light to the dim setting when on the can. From my many other jail experiences, it is the inconsistencies between staff members that is the most difficult. For example: when one nurse says, “I’ll give you a couple of ibuprofen even though it isn’t on your chart” but the next one is cold and legalistic, you project ill-will on the second even though she is just following protocol.

Reading Pillar of Fire has been a great choice in here because I am so inspired by the civil rights pioneers who blazed a path for many of us. Even though I am only reading about the period of 1963-65 in this book, it gives me all the more admiration for the gift that my friend Marv Davidov was for us in the Twin Cities. “Blessed solidarity” was the phrase he’d say to me about his experience in the notorious Parchman Penitentiary Farm in Mississippi where he landed because of the 1961 Freedom Rides. If only this book had been written before my own experiences in Mississippi during the summer of 1974, I would have certainly had a better clue about some of the people I met/encountered (from both sides of the freedom struggle). I was fortunate to be a late and very small part of that important history. When I traveled to Philadelphia, MS to help rebuild a 3-time fire-bombed Mennonite church building, I was surprised to learn that members surmised that this time it was over their advocacy and partnerships with local Indians rather than blacks that made them a target. 

This will be my last breakfast here. On Sunday there is only a brunch and supper. Today we had a warm bagel with strawberry jam, a package of cereal (we had a pick of 3 different kinds!) with a ½ pt. of milk, an orange, and coffee. Coffee is only available at breakfast here and it is interesting to see how much sugar some of the guys dump into theirs. The dramatic rise of the noise level after the guys are finished eating continues to amaze me. One of many things I’m curious about: each cell has an electrical outlet but there are no items for sale from the canteen that has a power cord. It is possible that the outlet might be needed for maintenance if they have to plug in a power drain opener to unclog a sink or toilet. I guess I’d have to stay longer to find out; I’m content not to know under those circumstances.

We got to file out of our cells to exchange our sheets and pillowcase although I discover one of my “clean” sheets is pretty threadbare making me wonder how it will hold up for two more nights of tossing and turning. When I see the knots in the ends of one of the sheets, I remember the old prison trick of creating a “fitted” sheet to be used on the bottom. I use a technique I first learned in 1981 in the Potter County Jail in Amarillo, TX: fold the top edge of your pitiful mattress back on itself to double as a pillow; your feet don’t need the cushioning as much as your upper body. I alternate reading and napping until lunch. For lunch we are served a hamburger patty with cooked onions, mashed potatoes with gravy, cooked carrots, milk, and 3 slices of bread. This is the first time I can choose between white and wheat bread although it is NOT whole wheat.  

Saturday afternoon is visiting time again and I can only sit and hope someone is allowed to visit me even though I now have only 41 hours until release time.

Hallelujah! It is a great afternoon. At lunch they posted the cell numbers for the 10 or so who had visits that began at 12:30 and number 464 was not on that list. After returning to my cell, an officer came by and told me to report to medical- no explanation given. When I got there, the nurse told me I needed to get a physical. After checking my blood pressure, height, weight, and pulse/ox, the doctor told me to come into his exam room. I told him I had just had my annual physical last month and I would be released by 6 AM Monday morning. He still checked my eyes, listened to my heart and lungs, and asked me some health history questions. I told the doc about my back pain at night and that I had submitted a letter from Kevin Kelly, my primary care physician about my need for ibuprofen. He scoffed at the mention of the letter and told me “You can buy it from the canteen.” I explained that I couldn’t since canteen orders had to be placed on Sunday for pick-up on Tuesday and I was leaving on Monday. Graciously he ordered the nurse to give me 12 tablets to last me until release – great!

As I returned to the cellblock, the CO told me it was rec time for B block and I could just turn around and go outside. I asked but told I couldn’t go back to my cell first to get my book. My toes have been rubbing in my flimsy sneakers so I didn’t want to walk too much so I just sit at one of the 10 picnic tables which overlook the 12 payphones, 3 horseshoe pits, a volleyball court, and a basketball court where immediately two half-court games start up. This area, roughly 80’ x 140’ is enclosed on two sides by the prison building and a 12’ high chain-link fence topped with concertina/razor wire on the other two sides. The sun is out with a vengeance and I risk sunburn since there is no shade at this hour and no hats – but the heat and light of the sun feels terrific. I’m only out 15 minutes or so before the loudspeaker announces a visit for 464 and several other cells.

After waiting about 5-10 minutes for a visiting space to open, I’m assigned phone #15 and Christine comes and sits opposite me, divided by panes of plexiglas. We are supposed to have 30 minutes but due to the number of visitors we only got about 20 before the CO announces our time is up after a 2-minute warning. I’m so glad she is able to visit and had the gumption to call yesterday to verify that her previous message was true that I couldn’t have visitors for 7 days and was told I could now have visits. Zaq would have come with her but scored free Twins tickets just before leaving so Christine dropped him off at the ballpark en route to the Workhouse. She told me briefly that David Harris had sent out an email account of his two days’ experience so we’ll have to get together to compare notes when I get out. The visit is brief and I have less (none) physical contact than I had with a 6-month sentence back in 1981 – but at least I wasn’t strip-searched after this visit. In 2006 in the Federal prison in Duluth, I only got an aggressive “pat-down” after a visit. Here, because there is no contact, one just walks back to the cellblock, or in my case, back to the rec yard. I only have another 15 minutes or so outside before the time is up but I feel blessed. Now, after being locked up again for maybe ½ hour, the bars open again and we’re told we can take a shower. It is likely there was a “count” between the two activities – it would be nice to have a printed schedule but I guess you learn it after a few weeks. We were supposed to be issue a “blue book” at orientation but are told they are out of them “for now”.

The old-timer in the next cell tells me we’ll be locked in for the night after our supper. Hopefully my supper of 2 small beef burritos, Spanish rice with some type of “gravy”, coleslaw, jello with pieces of canned fruit, and a cup of some fruit juice (or juice-like drink) will last me until “brunch” tomorrow. He tells me we’ll eat about noon and (hopefully) get out for rec and a shower in the afternoon. (Rec time is always alternated with Unit A so we’re never out at the same time.) I’ll have to make the most of my last full day. This evening I finish Pillar of Fire and commence On Canaan’s Edge about America in the King Years, 1965-1968. Even though I know how the story ends on that late afternoon in April in Memphis, the stories are riveting and inspiring, although many are depressing as well. It reminds me how little my political awareness was in my early teenage years.

It’s Saturday night and the natives are restless. For the past hour or so there is loud shouting, arguing back and forth emanating from the west end of the cellblock. I have no idea what the argument is about – just that the yelling is so vociferous that either the CO has earplugs, a turned-off hearing aid, or is in a different part of the building. So now guys on my end of the block are screaming, “Shut the fuck up!!!!” and liberally using the n-word to describe the guys who appear to be leading the verbal barrage. Since we don’t eat until late tomorrow, I wonder how long the noisy ones will be up tonight. I’m trying to read about the Selma to Montgomery march but it is hard to focus with all the commotion.

Day 6, Sunday. Another fitful night. My back, neck, shoulders, and leg hurt lying in the steel bunk so I might as well get up since it is light outside. I have no idea of the time but a guard just walks by and tells me it is 10 before 7 when I ask him. They won’t talk to you if it is during “count”. I had gotten up in the middle of the night to take some more ibuprofen and then write a short essay for my blog while it is quiet and I could think. Actually the middle of the night is the best time in jail because it is quiet. I wonder if Dr. King had to wait until the wee hours to scribble in the margins of the smuggled-in newspaper on which he composed his “Letter From Birmingham City Jail”? I know he polished up the essay a little after he was released but I wish I could write so lucidly even when I’m not locked up.

In the quiet of the middle of the nights here I often sing to myself some of the Bread For the Journey songs my friends Brett, Ray, Linda, Tom and Mary have taught me over the years. In Sunday night’s worship a week ago, Mary led us with one of Brett’s songs which goes “Listen, listen, be open oh my heart” and repeats several times. It becomes a mantra to help focus on why I am here and helps me to remember to bring my Afghan and Iraqi friends to the front of my thoughts and prayers. But I also pray in gratitude for the many friends and mentors who have blessed me on this somewhat unusual journey.

I’m moved by the stories of courage and tenacity shown by the many unnamed hundreds and thousands who marched in Selma, AL in March 1965. I was only 14 at the time and have no recollection whatsoever of the titanic struggle going on for the hearts and minds of America over the plight of “negroes” and voting rights. However I do remember one of the other battles that Dr. King was opposing: the escalating involvement militarily in Vietnam and I’m ashamed that I found myself on the wrong side of history back then when I remember debating Dave Bicking in junior high school on why we should be fighting in Vietnam. I had gotten all my “facts” from US News and World Report and other conservative sources in my parents’ home that led me to believe we had to protect Christian missionaries from being overrun and killed by godless communists.

Reading Taylor Branch’s trilogy gives me a much clearer understanding of the agony President Johnson went through in wrestling with Vietnam, civil rights, and poverty issues and his tragic choices. I’m so glad I’ve had these books delivered to me, as the library has not been open whenever I’ve been let out for recreation or personal time yet.

The bars just rolled open for “church services only”. The announcement over the loudspeaker was so garbled that I had to ask the guy next door what they said. I didn’t have enough time to seriously consider it before the bars closed again. So I guess I’ll just meditate with St. Martin again. (The Community of St. Martin was named after several Martins, Dr. King being one of the 5.) Besides, I’m at the part of At Canaan’s Edge where King is marching arm-in-arm with Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel over the Pettus Bridge in Selma and I’m with them in Spirit.

At orientation on Wednesday I was told they were out of “the blue booklet” which I think contains a list of schedules and programs run in this prison. We were told that chapel, meaning Christian, specifically Protestant, worship was the only “program” you didn’t need to be on a call-out sheet to attend. And it takes a week after you put in a request to get on the list for other “programs”. Tough luck at least for the first week if you are Muslim, Jewish, Catholic, or practice Native spirituality – all of which are scheduled on other days.

It is now 10:15 and I’m back from brunch with my pencils sharpened. A slice of ham, 4 baked chicken wings, a cereal-bowl-sized salad with dressing and imitation bacon bits, a semi-ripe banana, ½ grapefruit, milk, and 3 slices of bread. There is a lot of bartering going on – primarily to get chicken wings. A guy wants 2 wings for a salad but my new friend from the holding cell days holds out for only 1 wing and is successful in getting a second salad. He trades another wing for 2 bananas. Since the bananas are somewhat green, he is going to hide them in his cell until they are riper. He offers me his grapefruit since he doesn’t like them as much as bananas and can’t transport a juicy grapefruit cut in half as easily as a banana or bread. So I give him my banana even though he hasn’t demanded it in trade. I always give him my extra bread since he told me he wants to try to bulk up since he has a fast metabolism. Turns out he was the guy with the good singing voice from my first two nights in the holding area!

I recommend that you read the Branch trilogy alongside a copy of Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches of MLK. Branch lays out the context and tenor of the speech with a few highlights but you’ll also want to read the entire speeches as well. At least I do.

I passed on my unused razor, shampoo, deodorant, paper cups, and unlined paper to the guy in the next cell since I’ll be leaving early tomorrow. He’s been around for a while so he can pass these items on to others who may need them more than he does. I’m only holding on to my pencils, toothbrush, and toothpaste and I’ll try to leave the latter on my way out tomorrow. Because the time is so short, I’m skipping over Parts II and III of At Canaan’s Edge to make sure I have enough time to read Part IV which features the “Beyond Vietnam” speech at Riverside Church and the Memphis campaign in support of the sanitation workers. This book has given me a lot of insight not only into King but also LBJ, J. Edgar Hoover, Stokley Carmichael, James Bevel and many others.

At 5:45 we go to supper. 2 sloppy joes, a bowl of chicken noodle soup, 2 saltine crackers, carrot and celery sticks, a square if ice cream, and milk. At 6:30 we are allowed to go outside for what turns out to be 1 hour of recreation. At 7:30 we are locked back up but hopefully we’ll get out again for showers since the guys who played basketball are pretty sweaty. At 8:50 we are let out for showers and a clothes exchange and then we can go into the mess hall. After my shower I discover the library is open for the first time in 6 days and even though we are told we must leave after 30 minutes, I enjoy every minute of it. The most comfortable chairs that I’ve seen in the jail are there as well as tables to write at; lots of books and magazines are there although the magazines are dated for the most part. I tell my friend that he should request 2 books from the librarian next Tuesday: Michele Alexander’s The New Jim Crow and Marv Davidov and Carol Masters’ You Can’t Do That. Hopefully he can get both before he is released in mid-July.

At 10 PM I note that I have only 8 hours remaining in what my friend Tom refers to as “a real shithole”. I can’t say I’ll miss the noise in here! I suspect they will remain boisterous for the next hour or two so maybe I’ll have my book finished by the time they are quiet enough for me to try to sleep.

Day 7, Monday. At 4:30 AM a CO comes by my cell and tells me to get up and put my sheets and blankets in a pillowcase and dump them in the blue bin down the hall by the guard station. I return my last book to the book drop outside the library and then go to the dressing room to reclaim my street clothes, Bible, pens and other items I wasn’t allowed to bring inside. There are 15 other guys waiting to be called one-by-one to hand in our photo IDs from the prison in exchange for my drivers license, watch, and the $10 that remains from my commissary money after the $30 booking fee was seized. I’m out the door before 5:30 and get the “Huber bus”, a yellow school bus which will take me downtown to the Government Center which arrives at 5:45. After a stop by the Women’s prison next door, I arrive downtown and catch the light rail to Franklin Ave. and the #9 bus to a block from my house.

As Dr. King said so well, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty we are free at last!” If anyone asks, I don’t think paying $30 for that “bed-n-breakfast” is a great bargain. But maybe if more of us are willing to go to the “iron bars motel”, change might come quicker than just voting for candidates who promise “hope and change”.  

[Thanks to Tom Bottolene for the photos]

Reading Martin Luther King in Jail

Reading ML King, Jr in Jail: Inmate 00712398, Hennepin County ACF. By Steve Clemens. July 1, 2012

Because of my previous 10-day jail sentence for civil disobedience 10 years ago for protesting illegal indiscriminate weapons used in the early days of our (continuing) war on Afghanistan, I had some familiarity with the Hennepin County Adult Corrections Facility (AKA “The Workhouse”) in Plymouth, MN. Knowing the jail had a library serviced by our county library system, I went to my local East Lake Library branch and made a request to a librarian several weeks before I was scheduled to report for my latest arrest for nonviolent civil resistance at Alliant Techsystems [former] headquarters.

I asked the local librarian if she would forward a request to the librarian who supplies books to the Workhouse so I could have something meaningful to read while locked up – knowing the jail only allows one to bring in a Bible. I gave her a list of books I was interested in which could last me for my 7 days. (With “good time” credit for 1/3 of my sentence, my 10 days would mean I could be released as early as 7 days.) Normally one makes a request from the jail library and the books are delivered the following week on the Tuesday when the librarian is present.

Since I was turning myself in on a Tuesday, knowing that the intake procedure might delay me from entering “general population” that same day, and would be released before the following Tuesday, I wrote down a list of books I thought would be germane to my stay: books by or about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. While I already own 2 of the 3 large volumes of Taylor Branch’s Pulitzer Prize-winning trilogy on America in the King years, Parting The Waters, Pillar of Fire, and At Canaan’s Edge, I had only listened to abridged versions as audio books and wanted to take the time to delve deeper into the life and witness of one of America’s great, if flawed, prophets.

I have always been moved by MLK’s powerful “Letter From Birmingham City Jail” and have read and listened to his “Beyond Vietnam” and “I’ve Been To the Mountaintop” speeches (also known as “A Time To Break Silence” [1967] and “I See the Promised Land [1968]) many times yet continue to learn from them each time. What better material to read in jail other than the Letters of the Apostle Paul and other books of the Bible also written in jail, in exile, or on-the-run from the authorities?

So I was very pleased to have a guard awaken me from a very fitful sleep at 2:30 AM my first night with a stack of books: the final 2 volumes of Branch’s trilogy and two books of King’s writings, speeches, and interviews. Great timing since the jailers would not allow me to bring in my Bible since it was hard-covered! Go figure – all of the books the librarian had delivered to my cell, except one, were hard-covered and 3 of them were larger than my Bible. (The dressing room guard had told me I couldn’t have the Bible since it could be thrown off the third tier of the cellblock and injure someone. And I ended up on the first floor my whole stay.)

I don’t sleep well in jail – the noise, a bad back, and a terrible mattress on an unforgiving steel bunk all conspire together – so I was overjoyed that at least one public servant lived up to his job description and came through for this tax-payer. I dove into “Letter From Birmingham City Jail” [1963] first, but, as with all of King’s writings, it is better understood in its historical context. That is where Taylor Branch is so helpful. Reading about the Birmingham campaign and the sense of desperation, depression, and loneliness King felt by the lack of support from so many in America’s churches and synagogues gives me a better vantage point from which to read. His brilliant essay was virtually ignored until 5 or so months later when 4 young black girls were killed in the racist bombing of a Birmingham church.

But then to read in Branch’s final volume, At Canaan’s Edge, about how in the Selma campaign, two years later, clergy and other people of faith answered King’s plea to come to Selma in central Alabama in the aftermath of the bloody beating voting rights marchers received the day before gives one hope that the faith community is capable of responding. As Branch points out, you can’t tell the Dr. King story without also telling the stories of his compatriots (and they numbered in the thousands), his adversaries (many, many more), and the politicians, sheriffs, judges, and especially the despicable, duplicitous J. Edgar Hoover and most of his FBI.

The books are long and detailed – but they are best read not only in their historical context but also behind bars in a nation which still needs to confront what Dr. King called “the giant triplets of racism, materialism, and militarism.” As King so powerfully wrote in his Birmingham letter to clergy who criticized him for pushing “too fast”: “… direct action, whereby we would present our very bodies as a means of laying our case before the conscience of the local and national community” and “… staying in jail to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice” reminds me of the important continuing work my friends in the Occupy Homes MN group are doing right now to stand in solidarity with people losing homes through foreclosure to greedy banks.

There is room at the Workhouse for a lot more voices of conscience. Lord knows we need those voices and bodies now.

Choosing Jail: Experimenting With Redemptive Suffering

Experimenting With Redemptive Suffering by Steve Clemens. June 11, 2012

It was in reading Mohandas Gandhi that I first learned about his “experiments with truth” – a term he used in perfecting the tactics of nonviolent resistance to the apartheid regime in South Africa and the British colonial occupation of his homeland of India. Martin Luther King Jr. took lessons from Gandhi’s campaigns in designing his own strategies to throw off the shackles of racial prejudice and legal discrimination. King used the term “redemptive suffering” drawing from his training as a Baptist minister and his understanding of the nonviolent response of Jesus to persecuting authorities.

Even though I’m now on the far side of 60, I feel I’m just a novice when it comes to creative nonviolence when I read the accounts of Gandhi, King, Dorothy Day, Daniel Berrigan, and many others. I’ve been arrested now more than 30 times; jailed more than 10 (for periods of a few hours up to six months). Some trials were before just a Judge, other times with a jury; some acquittals but more convictions. All of them learning experiences but I find each time I enter the courtroom, I find I have fewer expectations of “justice” from an entrenched system to is clearly in service to empire.

While the option of doing community service is definitely preferable to incarceration for most crimes that don’t involve violence, (especially having seen first-hand the dehumanization of most jails and prisons, even the “minimum security” Federal prison “camps”), it struck me that, for me – this time, I could experiment again by choosing the more difficult option.

To choose suffering over against retaliation or violence is what Martin King, Ralph Abernathy, and thousands of others (including my friend Marv Davidov) did during the Civil Rights struggle. While suffering in itself might be efficacious, publicly choosing to do so can hopefully encourage others to join the struggle. Thus, from King’s choice to remain in jail rather than seek to be released on bail, we were blessed with arguably one of the best treatises on nonviolent action in the form of King’s powerful “Letter From the Birmingham Jail.” King’s choice to suffer in jail lent moral credibility to his letter to his critics – especially those who also wore clerical garb but chose a “go slow” strategy when it came to human rights for people of color. King not only chose suffering over retaliation but also over comfort and convenience. His friends argued that “you could do a lot more for the cause on the ‘outside’ rather than rotting in jail” but King understood the power of redemptive suffering as a way to move others.

So, it got me thinking as I prepared once again for trial on the charge of criminal trespass at Alliant Techsystems (ATK) – purveyor of death and destruction for corporate profit by making and selling landmines, cluster bombs, and depleted uranium munitions among other products designed to kill, maim, and dominate. Although I would defend our nonviolent actions on the basis of International Laws and Treaties, I knew there was a good chance our legal arguments would fall on deaf ears. If found guilty, should I request the likely consequence, community service, a “penalty” already offered us by the Prosecutor in exchange for giving up our rights to a jury trial and pleading “guilty” – or should I choose a path which might embrace some discomfort and suffering?  

My friends on the receiving end of ATK’s lethal products take daily risks. My friend and fellow peacemaker, Sami Rasouli, now back in his homeland of Iraq, has to ask whether or not to risk having another child with his wife Suaad, knowing that the contamination of Iraq by depleted uranium has caused birth defects and cancers to rise precipitously since 1991. How can I stand in solidarity with him?

My friend and member of the Afghan Youth Peace Volunteers, Ali, must take risks every time he leads his donkeys into the mountainsides of the Bamiyan Province of Afghanistan to earn his living carrying water and firewood back to the village. He risks death or dismemberment from landmines, cluster bombs, or attacks from Apache helicopters or unmanned drones. How can I stand in solidarity with him?

I can choose to take a very modest amount of suffering and discomfort by going to jail in solidarity with them. Ten days of sleeping on a steel bunk with a pathetic 2” plastic-covered mattress and a clump of material called a pillow will be hard enough if I’m allowed a daily dose of ibuprofen to ease the aches but most jails deny the painkillers as a matter of course. Physical separation from friends and family, missing the physical comforts of home, forgoing the autonomy of being able to choose what and when you eat, the lack of quiet – all of these may cause some “suffering” but pale in the face of what my friends must encounter without a 10-day release promise. There is some risk of assault by guards or other inmates, the physical humiliation of the strip-search, the gratuitous orders from guards just to remind you that you are not in control anymore.

But Jesus tells us in the Gospels, “Be not afraid, I go before you”, and, he does. Besides, I have a community on the outside to support and advocate on my behalf – something very few other prisoners have. I only have 10 days; my friend Mark just was sentenced to 4 months and another friend Brian will likely get 6 months for a recent nonviolent protest against drones at Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri this spring. But we can offer up whatever we are able to risk and endure when we think of those on the receiving end of these illegal and indiscriminate weapons.

My suffering won’t in any way match theirs – but, when offered in solidarity, compassion, and hope, I pray it will help to begin the healing process that war is so bent on destroying. It’s been 10 years since my last incarceration at Hennepin County’s Adult Correction Facility, aka “the Workhouse”. It’s time to “experiment” again in the struggle for nonviolent change. I report to my jailers on June 26.

Adventure at the White House

Arrested at Obama's White House by Steve Clemens. January 28, 2010

We sat in a holding pen in our 4th jail since arrest at the White House the day before. As we awaited to go to court, I wondered aloud to Joe Palen, a Pax Christi Twin Cities Area board member and one of my fellow arrestees, whether we would need time to decompress from the psychic trauma we incurred by seeing the dehumanization of the fellow humans being processed and prodded alongside us in these warrens of Washington, DC, places that are usually excluded from the routine tourist sites of the nation’s capital. Did what we witnessed contribute to a kind of PTSD? Can the cumulative effect traumatize you even if the oppressive actions occur to others in your presence rather than directly to yourself? It seems especially cruel that most of the dehumanizing and over-zealous oppression we witnessed victimized people of color by their fellow African-American police officers and guards.

Admittedly, it was hard for me to distinguish between Secret Service, Park Police, DC Metro Police, US Marshalls, and Corrections Officers as we proceeded through the gauntlet precipitated by our arrest. So maybe it is best to start at the beginning.

My friend Kathy Kelly and her fellow co-coordinators at Voices for Creative Nonviolence (VCNV) shared their vision for a Peaceable Assembly Campaign with some of us in Minnesota last fall. They hoped to see groups of concerned citizens traveling to the nation's capital to call for an end to the wars and military occupations in Afghanistan and Iraq to coincide with the first anniversary of Obama's presidency, his State of the Union speech, and the unveiling of his proposed budget for fiscal year 2011 during the end of January.

A group of close to 25 Minnesotans decided to answer the call and scheduled a morning of vigil and demonstration in front of the White House on Tuesday, January 26th followed by visits to our Members of Congress and Senators. Although a lot of planning occurred back in Minnesota, the group hoped to fine-tune what the presence at the White House would include and how it would unfold with members of VCNV and others from around the nation who would be joining us that Tuesday. Unfortunately the logistics of getting everyone together for this last minute planning was made more difficult by the late arrival in Washington of some of the group.

We planned to symbolically "throw shoes at the occupation" in honor of the courageous Iraqi journalist who hurled his shoes at President Bush in Baghdad several years ago. Close to a dozen pairs of shoes had messages inscribed on the sides, bottoms, and insides of the shoes with bright-colored paint. A few of the shoes had been mailed to President Obama and although many of us are angry at the President for his continuation of these wars and occupation, we wanted this action in front of the White House to avoid threatening already nervous Secret Service agents by not "accidentally" hurling some of the shoes over the fence into the President's yard. Instead, we folded the large "End the Occupation Now!" banner so just the word "Occupation" was visible as the target for our messages on the shoes. Although the banner was in the middle of the street, the direction toward which our shoes were thrown was also toward the residence and office of the Commander-in-Chief.

The group also decided to remember the lives of Minnesotan soldiers killed in these wars by reading the names, age and hometown of soldiers and National Guard members who have fallen in Afghanistan and Iraq since the wars began in 2001. A Veterans for Peace member, Bill Habedank, brought the symbolic tombstones with those names inscribed which had previously been carried to the Republican National Convention in St. Paul a year and one-half ago. Opposition to war is not a partisan political affair but an overriding moral and practical necessity. We decided to ring a bell after the reading of each name as we together intoned, "We remember".

The more difficult task was deciding the timing of the civil disobedience action component for the morning. At least eight people had expressed the willingness to risk arrest by staging a "die-in" on the sidewalk immediately in front of the northern side of the White House. Ever since 2001, Secret Service and the Park Police have designated a 20 yard area there as a "no protest zone" where folks who remained stationary in that area were subject to arrest. Should we wait until the end of our vigil to do this or incorporate it as part of the reading the names of the dead? We decided to let a couple of the group organizers decide when it would occur so we could get down to the White House for our planned 10:30 AM start time for the vigil.

Soon after some of us arrived at the north side of the White House fence, we were approached by law enforcement personnel who asked who was "in charge". Because we had no official spokesperson, I volunteered to talk with the cops. It turned out they were Secret Service officers and I described what we intended to do, including the shoe throwing and the civil disobedience. They called in their commanding officer who wanted clarity on the shoe throwing plans. He was satisfied that we were not intending on throwing anything over the White House fence when I described the how and where of our scenario. We were told that the US Park Police would be involved in the arrest for any civil disobedience taking place on the sidewalk area. I was treated with respect and we shook hands and told them we would keep them informed as we proceeded. Our commitment to nonviolence also included an openness for what we planned to do so the officers would not be surprised.

Our group standing in the street in front of the White House grew to about 45 people as others from the VCNV Peaceable Assembly Campaign joined us. Most of the Minnesotans wore tee shirts with "Minnesotans for Peace" on the back and red handprints on the front as a reminder of the bloody results of war. There was a "Bring Them Home" banner to go along with the "End the Occupation Now" one. After vigiling for a time with signs reading "Healthcare Not Warfare", "End the US War in Pakistan", "End War Spending", and similar messages, the group lined up and began reading the names of the Minnesotans killed in the wars. We followed by the shoe throwing providing a good visual for the media who had arrived. It was suggested that we do the die-in action while the media was still engaged so around noon those risking arrest would begin to lay down on the sidewalk within the "no demonstration permitted" zone.

Marie Braun, one of our group's primary organizers, and I informed the Secret Service that we would be commencing the "die-in" action shortly. They asked us to talk directly to the Park Police and one of them asked me "How many want to get arrested?" I explained that we were not "wanting" to get arrested but we did plan on "risking arrest" by carrying our symbolic action as close to the White House as we could get without climbing the fence, knowing that arrest was very likely. (It is always best to remember that law enforcement also has a "choice" in what laws and how they are enforced.)

The Park Police commander joined the conversation and tried to discourage us from getting arrested. He told us the DC jail was a "bad place" - filled with murderers, rapists, and the like. "You can lay down on the sidewalk and we'll give you three warnings before you are arrested. You can leave at any time before that third warning and make your point. But if you do stay, you will be arrested." He told us that after the arrest you would be taken to the Anacostia Station to be processed and you probably will be released if you paid a $100 forfeitable bond. But there is no guarantee you'll get that. You might just get a citation with a future court date or they might lock you up overnight and see a judge the next morning. He told us he thought it was a 50/50 chance either way. He told us many groups make a pre-arrest "deal" with authorities before such an arrest to "negotiate" the terms of release. That is not the style of Voices or other, smaller grass-roots organizations.



The weather was in the 40s with a steady wind so when I laid on the sidewalk it was rather cold. Fortunately I had on my winter coat! As fellow protesters walked around us singing and reading, twelve others quickly joined me, including Father Bill Pickard from Scranton, PA who first "anointed the 'dead' with oil in the sign of the cross" on our foreheads before lying down himself. As the police read out the first and second warnings, all the others got behind the yellow tape "police line" barriers that were quickly unfurled. It was about 20-30 minutes before the arrests began and many of us were glad to be getting on our feet and handcuffed. We were cold and stiff.

Only one of us was younger than fifty with the majority of arrestees in their 60s and 70s with at least John Braun over 80. After our photo IDs were taken and we were photographed, we were stuffed 6 to a side in the police van with the 13th arrestee driven separately to the Anacostia Station. We were packed in like sardines into the narrow confines but most of us were still on an emotional high from the power of the witness and the encouragement of our friends.

After arriving at what was to become only our first stop, the police asked who in the group planned to "pay their way out" and did anyone else "want to be locked up?" Nine of the 13 stated they definitely wished to pay the $100 and be released. Three others of us said we were choosing not to pay. One was undecided at that point. Those who were going to "forfeit" were going to be processed first so they could be released. After the first of many, many "delays", we were all brought in to the same holding area and told by another officer of higher rank, "I have some 'good news' for you." He meant it to be ironic as his news was that the "pre-trial office downtown" would not allow anyone to pay and go. "All of you will spend the night in jail and see a judge in the morning." That was certainly a shock to some but everyone seemed to take the news in stride even if they weren't happy about it.

Soon after as we entered our first booking area we lost all sense of time since our watches and phones were placed in our "property bags" along with our shoelaces, belts, jewelry, pens, paper, books, ... - everything we carried with us. The one exception was the nitroglycerin pills carried by one of us for heart problems in the past. All our cash was placed in a separate bag. We had all pockets searched and were "patted down" and separated male and female into different holding pens. We were told we would be allowed to keep our jackets because we would likely be at a different facility after we were released and "it is cold out there and you won't have your property with you. You will have to come back here to pick it up."

After getting our thumbprints recorded on little cards and a small blue wristband which was numbered, we were eventually transferred to what we were told (after we asked) to the First District in SW Washington. We were also transferred from the Park Police custody to that of the DC Metropolitan Police. We are re-handcuffed for each trip, sometimes in front, sometimes behind but each time packed into a narrow van that is hard to maneuver into when you are my size or taller. At each stop we wait in the van (and in the cold) for a long period (once about 30 minutes, another longer than 45 minutes) before being allowed out and marched into the next jail or detention center. The handcuffs dig into your wrists and Joe Palen's carpal tunnel caused him quite a lot of pain and discomfort. Especially when we are handcuffed from behind and then have to get into and out of the van is very difficult, especially at our ages. It is getting dark outside as we arrive at our second jail so we guess that it is about 5:30 or 6 PM. Our arrests were completed about 12:30 - before we began this journey into several layers of Dante's inferno.

I don't remember much about stop #2 except that we get nothing to eat or drink other than the "faucet" on the back of our holding cell's stainless steel toilet/sink combo. We are "patted down" once again and placed in a holding area with not enough concrete seats or benches so some must sit on the concrete floor, maybe with a cinder block wall to lean on if the room is not too full. Men are called in and out, occasionally reporting to us what time it is if an officer tells them or they see a clock. What does stick in my mind is the stories you hear from the others as they are caged with us. The Latino man born in El Salvador who is locked up for driving with an expired license - even though in court last week he was told it had been reinstated after paying his speeding violation. I guess the paperwork hadn't filtered down to the cop who stopped him for a tail light violation. Normally you can just pay a fine - but not for him, even though his residency papers are in order. He was born two years after Romero's assassination but doesn't know much about him. We suggest he rent the movie about his life.

Two other African-American men tell us they got arrested by "bicycle cops" for drinking in public. They were sitting on the lawn in front of a friend's apartment when the officers rode by. They spotted a plastic cup of beer and asked whose it was. One man said it was his. The other had an empty cup in his pocket but both were arrested! They tell us such an offense is usually a $30. fine and they have the money to pay it but are hauled to jail instead. A rare white man comes in and tells us he got busted for selling prescription drugs through the mail. People come and go and we just guess at the time. Still no food. The clock on the wall reads 11:30 PM as we are cuffed again for our next destination.

We are told we are going to "C block" to be properly booked. Into the van again and this time the wait seems forever after we arrive at jail #3. We are jammed into this van; some are about to panic from claustrophobia, others need to pee, all of us need to stretch. The officer transporting us keeps the cage inside the open back door locked so we are cold and uncomfortable. But he "can't do nothin'" when we ask if we can get out. "Not until they are ready for you inside, you can't". It is the typical Nuremberg defense: "I'm only following orders". The seeming level of incompetence appears stunning. In an age of telephones and computers one would think these transfers could be coordinated better so there is not so much waiting in our sardine-can transport. But maybe it is not an accident but rather part of the pre-conviction punishment. There is nothing remotely humane about the way most of the guards treat us. But at least up to this point they haven't appeared to be verbally or physically abusive (at least in our presence). That will change at stop #4.

I am fortunate to be one of the first of two from our van to get out and begin processing. I don't know how long the others remain in the van, as I don't see them for a while. Two of us are photographed and fingerprinted and receive a second blue wristband, this time with our name, birth date, and color mug-shot photograph. On the way to my cell, an officer asks if I want a drink and a sandwich. The clock where I was fingerprinted read 1:30 AM so it had been 18 hours since I'd eaten and the two "sandwiches" and the Styrofoam cup of red "fruit drink" were gratefully received. I couldn't take the cup to my cell but could carry the sandwiches after I removed them from the zip-locked baggie.

As I walk down the cell-block, I hear someone say, "Hey, Steve. Good to see you!" The guard keeps me walking, pointing to the door to cell #17 which he unlocks. Low and behold, the cell door opens and Ward Brennan is lying on the bunk! Even though he is 77, he graciously offers me the lower bunk and tries to get into the upper one. He manages with some effort. (Later a guard helpfully tells him to stand on the stainless toilet then the sink part to complete this maneuver.) Joe Palen and Father Bill are in the cell next to ours. We don't know where Ceylon is because he is able to fall asleep in any of the places we visited and doesn't hear us calling his name. No one knows the whereabouts of John Braun, as he was not transported with us. We are all concerned about him and I say a quiet prayer for him and his well-being. I'm not sure I want to be caged up like this when I'm 81!

I ask Ward if he got any sandwiches or drink. He had not so I offered him one of mine. He told me he can't eat cheese so I offered the one that had two thin slices of bologna between two pieces of white "sponge" bread. We laugh about the claims that it is "enriched"! My remaining cheese sandwich is one slice of processed cheese food. I tell Ward that he probably could eat it- I doubt if there is any "real" cheese in it. After a short while, the officer comes to take Ward to the processing area and he tells me it is 2:20 AM when he returns. He got his drink of the "red fruit juice" and tells me it was "good" to have even though "the closest that drink got to fruit was if someone drove it past some on the way to the market."

Ward has a great sense of humor which if often on display when he is part of our AlliantACTION Circle vigil on Wednesday mornings back in the Twin Cities. We are both exhausted trying to sleep on a stainless bunk with no mattress -but with a 1 1/2 inch raised edge on the 3 sides away from the wall that adds to the discomfort whether one is sitting or trying to lay down. There are no pillows but at least we can try to use our jackets as a modified cushion. Ward has to use the sleeve of his jacket to block the light that is constantly on at the end of his upper bunk. He was wise enough to grab a couple paper towel/napkins when he got his sandwiches. I wasn't offered any but he shares his with me because none of the toilets we've seen so far have any toilet paper. He gives me his "cheese" sandwich and eats the bologna one so we've each had two. The white sponge "bread" feels like a lump in my stomach - but it is at least a semblance of food.

The tiny 5' x 7' stainless-walled cell is hot. The water coming from the inadequate faucet first spits out a short stream about 2 feet to get your face or the toilet wet and then quickly turns to a lukewarm trickle. At least it is wet and I'm able to stay hydrated. I take off my shirt to alleviate the heat and try to lay on my side with my jacket as a "pillow". Every time I turn over because my back is aching, the stainless slab makes a loud buckling noise that is heard up and down the cell-block. It startles me the first few times before I get used to it. I'm sure it keeps Ward awake - that, and the fact that every 15-20 minutes another inmate is yelling for the "CO", a corrections officer or guard that patrols the two cell blocks in our section.

Other inmates told us this jail is underground so there is no chance of seeing any daylight to give us an idea of the time. We both sleep fitfully for maybe 10-20 minute stretches and then sit up and chat. Ward jokes that this "hotel" doesn't have good accommodations but is "well-lit" and has "firm beds". I remarked that the sign outside probably read “Vagrancy”, not “Vacancy”! Then I remind him that he had already paid for his bed and breakfast for this night so "they better hold the breakfast for him after he is released." Little do we know that it won't be for another 8-12 hours.

At sometime in the morning an officer comes down the hall yelling for us to get ready to grab our breakfast. He comes by with a Styrofoam cup that is later filled with a white slush from a gallon jug labeled "Lemonade Flavored Drink". It is cold which helps us feel better about the fact that that drink wouldn't know what a lemon was if it passed it on the street - or so Ward imagined. We also got our requisite two sandwiches, same as our midnight snack hours before. We trade with each other but forgo the "generous offer" from Joe and Fr. Bill if either of us wants one of theirs. Ward only eats one of his. I combine the two pieces of "cheese" into one sandwich, not wanting another lump of sponge bread in my gut. I have no way of knowing that is the last food I'll get before being released after my court appearance at 4 PM.

Meanwhile we wait, hoping they'll come and get us to take us to court in the morning. Ward tells me this is his first overnight jail experience which he doesn't hope to repeat. But he adds that so far it has been a good, if difficult, learning experience. I tell him my strong conviction that every judge, prosecutor, police officer, and guard should have to undergo (incognito) a trip like we are experiencing before sending others into this zoo. Ward continues to joke about the dreadful food asking me who "recommended this restaurant?" Then he adds, "And to think they gave me three times to leave and I didn't get up and walk on the other side of that police tape!" We both laugh at what many people would surmise is our "stupidity". I told him earlier how a previous inmate I met in Federal Prison in 2006 told me I was "stuck on stupid" after I told him I had been in jail before for "protesting" and I had done it again.

After we are once again herded into our sardine can for a short trip to jail #4 under the Courthouse, we discover that it is after 11:00 AM. Some of us still hope we can see the judge before the lunch break but after we are patted down once again as well as going through a seated and standing metal detector, we are shuffled in another holding pen for "traffic" offenses. There is a black T written on our wristbands. One of the first persons I see (a white man stands out in this jail!) is John Braun and we all inquire how he is doing. He is clear that he doesn't suspect he'll "do this again" but does seem in good spirits. Our caged area has about 30 others in it with only enough seats for 5 or 6. Fortunately one opens up and Joe, John, Ward, and I take turns sharing it.

If you walk to a corner of this cage, you can read a clock on the wall. It doesn't help to make the time go faster. At some point we are told that "traffic cases" will be held at 3 PM. Then we are told that we will be divided into two groups: those with traffic offenses and those with the "failure to obey a lawful order" charge, namely the 6 of us. Later we are told the traffic cases will go first and will start at 2 PM, then 2:30. When they come to get us, the officer mistakenly takes the six of us first but doesn't want to send us back after he is told of his mistake.

Meanwhile, it is during this 4 hour period that we witness the increasing verbal and hints of physical abuse heaped on "us" by the guards. Some have US Marshall outfits. Others read Metropolitan Police. Some say PSA, others have signs or symbols I know not of. A few "suits" walk by and they seem to be lawyers, probably Public Defenders. Two officers in particular are increasing abusive and brutal - obviously playing for a bigger audience. After one inmate mouths off about not getting anything to eat, he is loudly cursed out by one of these officers. When he continues to complain, he is grabbed out of our cage by this officer and two or three others and slammed up against the wall. After being cuffed, he is hustled down the hallway, out of our sight and hearing, most likely to be "tuned up" by macho cops who want to release their extra testosterone. We never see him again before we are called out for our court time.

Joe notices one guard who is clearly different and respectful in his treatment of all the inmates. He calls him over to ask his name and thanks him for treating all of us decently. He asks me to memorize the guard's name, "Samuel Newman", so he can write a letter of commendation to the Court when we are released.

When we are called out, we face the wall and are patted down again before being placed in leg irons, waist or belly chains, which are then attached to metal handcuffs. Up to this time we've only had hard plastic "flexicuffs". I don't have a strong preference for either and I always try to tell the officer I have carpal tunnel before they ratchet them down on my wrists. For the most part I fare better than Joe has as far as tightness of the cuffs cutting off circulation. Does anyone seriously think we'll try to escape after refusing to leave after three warnings before arrest? It appears everyone gets this treatment – even those with minor traffic violations. How demeaning!

Because the 9 of us from Minnesota were locked up for 28 hours, we missed the appointments we had made with our Member of Congress and our Senators. I told Ward that since we signed up for "Breakfast with Al", I was hoping Al Franken would deliver us a real breakfast in our cells. I told him how proud I was that our Congressman, Keith Ellison, had been arrested in the past year for civil disobedience in front of the Sudanese Embassy. He and other members of the Congressional Progressive Caucus arrested with him had paid a $100 forfeiture bond and were released right away. I really would like to see him tour the facilities we had experienced.

As we are about to be marched upstairs, we see our women co-defendants for the first time in at least 15 hours. They seem in good spirits and Marie beams when she spots her husband John in the cage with us. We ride up to the court level on separate elevators and then again are locked in separate holding cells making it difficult to hear one another.

After 28 straight hours in four different jails, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. We had been arrested the day before as part of a civil disobedience action against the wars in front of Obama's White House the day before his first State of the Union speech. I think all 13 of us who had been arrested had been traumatized by witnessing the continual crushing of the human spirit by the cruelly named "justice system."

So when I was led into the courtroom with leg irons, and a waist chain attached to the metal handcuffs, I looked like a hardened criminal facing murder or kidnapping charges. Was the overkill on the part of the Washington, DC Metro Police strategically designed to demoralize and denigrate the "criminals" caught in it's web or merely a bureaucracy gone amuck with no idea how to discriminate and apply sufficient restraints where needed?

Not having the time to strategize as a group nor having access to our volunteer attorney (who was on jury duty this week), we didn't know exactly what to expect when we faced the judge for our first appearance. We assumed we would have the charges read and then have an offer to "settle" the case by paying a forfeiture bond for $50 or $100 or say we want to be released on our own recognizance for a later court date/arraignment. It is possible that the charges could just be dismissed if I/we didn't pay the forfeiture with a "time served" sentence since we had already endured two days in the DC jails.

They called us into the courtroom in groups of five so the rest of us were kept in the dark as to what happened to those ahead or behind us. The 5 Minnesota women went in first and after about 20 minutes the guard then took four local women with traffic charges before calling my name along with two co-arrestee women from Massachusetts, Ceylon, a guy from Memphis, and Joe Palen.

Shuffling into the courtroom with our leg and hand shackles rattling about, we are able to see some of our friends in the back of the room. Our attorney is not in sight, just a man we've never met is introduced as "defense counsel". The Judge addresses all 5 of us stating that each of the previous five arrestees paid a forfeiture bond in exchange for having the charges dismissed. The city prosecutor was asking $150 in exchange for dropping the charges or we could go to trial on three charges: failure to obey a lawful order, unlawful assembly, and disorderly conduct! We certainly weren't disorderly at anytime during this whole ordeal so my tired, aching body and mind was swimming with this new information; it was hard to concentrate as the judge intoned from on high about the jail time and fines associated with each of those charges.

Then the prosecutor announced another bombshell: two of us would not qualify for release upon forfeiture but no reason was given. Immediately I assumed I was one of them - they probably had my prior arrest record even though I had not given my Social Security number during the booking procedure. But Joe had and it is likely that Lori Blanding had as well since they were the ones singled out as ineligible. When they asked "Why?” the prosecutor said it was due to their prior arrests in DC. I have two prior arrests here so this made no sense to me. They were told they had to return for trial since the appointed defense counsel had already entered "not guilty" pleas on our behalf without consulting with us first.

My initial plan was to enter a "Nolo Contendre" plea and ask for time served or community service - but that was before learning of the additional two charges. After that news, my first reaction was to ask Joe if he wanted me to come back and stand trial with him and Lori. He said he'd appreciate that. We tried to consult with the defense counsel but were told we'd have to consult with another lawyer for advice. The man who stepped forward was again someone unknown to us - and he was more interested in making sure I didn't get a conviction on my record by paying the fine than helping me figure out what was happening.

None of this was aided by Judge Richard Ringell who was bound and determined to rush this proceeding along. He made it very clear he was angry that these "out-of-towners" were taking up the court's time before he got to the traffic cases of local residents. So much for the notion of having one's "day in court". The judge was rushed and rude and insisted that I make the decision then and there or he'd send me back to the jail until the other 30+ local cases could be heard. Since it was after 4 PM already, that meant another night in that DC jail on a metal bunk with no mattress, pillow, or toothbrush and the requisite white bread "sandwiches" - if they were offered at all. Since that is all I had to eat for more than 30 hours, it was hard to clearly consider all the implications of which way to choose in response to the arrest and charges.

I was thinking: if I pled not guilty and returned for trial in May, it would cost at least $200 for a plane ticket and there was no guarantee the charges wouldn't be dropped the day of the trial after purchasing the ticket. Also, the environmental costs of another plane ride had to be considered. If I entered a nolo plea with the new charges and a clearly angry judge, there is no telling what I'd get. I wanted time to consult with my VCNV friends and others from our Minnesotans for Peace contingent but could not get the court's permission to do so. I asked if the government's offer of the fine in exchange of dropping the charges was available anytime prior to trial and was told it was "now or never".

The judge had also added another proviso at the prosecutor's request: until the case was resolved, we were banned from the entire area near the White House under threat of felony charges. If the fine was paid, the ban was lifted. If you go to trial, the ban remains in effect until a verdict. So, with a sense of regret, shame, and a sense of abandoning Joe, I chose the "easy way out" and agreed to the requested bribe. I was angry with both the prosecutor and the judge for their failure to see this case as one based on the principle of "peaceable assembly" guaranteed by the Bill of Rights. But then again, I have encountered very few judges or prosecutors in my illustrious criminal career who were so inclined.

Judge Ringell was the worst judge I've faced - and I've faced a few in my 43 years of peacemaking. He was not only rushed and rude but dismissive and contemptuous. Maybe he didn't mean to come off as such but that was the message I received. Remember the urban legend about your free phone call after you are arrested? We didn't see a phone or have an offered phone call during the entire time.

We wanted the focus of our action to be on the wars and occupation, not the quality of DC jails and "justice". But there is a connection. If our nation wasn't squandering billions, even trillions, on the so-called "war on terror", we wouldn't have to rob "the Commons" of the money and resources needed for our own quality of life. The courts, jails, and police wouldn't be strapped for time and funds; people desperate to survive would have a better shot at housing, food, and necessities if our nation's priorities weren't so skewed. Some turn to "crime" to survive and then are abused by the system determined to keep the poor "in their place."

As I walked out of the Courtroom, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. Most of the others were quickly trying to arrange rides in a taxi back to Anacostia to get their property and money before it closed at 5 PM. Joe was going to try to catch his scheduled 7 PM flight and others were leaving early the next morning. I called my son Micah (who is on Congressman Ellison's staff) and asked him if he could drive me down to get my stuff before he went to work the next day. When I asked him I had been told we couldn't get our cash returned after 2 PM so I didn't want to make two trips. He said he was almost finished at work so I told him I'd walk over to his office from the Courthouse. I had no keys to get into his apartment, no money to take the bus, and I needed the fresh air and the physical walk to begin to decompress. (Of course I had no shoelaces either so the walking was slower than usual.)

I felt a sense of regret and betrayal as I walked. I continued to process the options in my mind, regretting my hasty decision based on cost and expediency to not join Joe, Lori, and Father Bill in a May trial. (After I was finished with my appearance, I discovered that Fr. Bill was also prevented by the Prosecutor from being offered the cash release deal.) I had a really good sense of solidarity with both Joe and Bill. Once I got my bearings and realized the walk was more than twice the distance I thought it was, I arrived near the Capitol to discover the myriad of cops preparing for the State of the Union speech that would happen in the next 4 hours. A tan Hummer drives by with gun ports by its doors and windows. What a metaphor for a society drunk on "security" which, in turn, makes everyone else insecure.

It was much easier getting into the Longworth House Office Building to go to the congressman's office this time: I had no possessions to trigger the metal detector but I wondered if the building guards would notice the two flexicuffs still around my ankles where the guards had attached the metal leg irons because my ankles were swollen. When they removed the shackles in the courtroom, they left the flexicuffs on each ankle. Fortunately I passed without incident and Micah handed me a knife to cut them off. Most of the office staff was present, waiting to say farewell to a colleague who was leaving and Kari Moe, Ellison's Chief of Staff, greeted me warmly. Other staff members smiled and said they were glad to see me released and I apologized for the way I looked and smelled.

I just wanted to sit down and rest and decompress. Keith came by, shook my hand and told me to tell him about my experience. As I started to talk to him and Kari, my voice broke and tears started to well up in my eyes. It was so good to be out - but what about all those others I met these past hours who continue to be ground up by this system? Who will advocate for them? Who will greet them as a "hero" when they are released? Why am I so fortunate to have a family and friends who support (or at least tolerate) my "crazy" choices? It's embarrassing to cry in your Congressman's office, blubbering about your ordeal and hoping he can help make a difference - not only opposing these wars but also giving leadership to stopping the war against the poor. I know he has already led or supported others in these battles and for that I'm grateful.

I walked the 6 or so blocks with Micah back to his apartment. He gave me a glass of cold apple juice - heavenly! Then he cooked us supper as I enjoyed a shower and clean clothes! Afterwards I sat down to write. It becomes a sort of therapy to re-tell the stories, to remember. I want to share my experience with others to help de-mystify an arrest witness so others might be willing to join in next time. This time was harder than most. Maybe it's because I'm almost 60. Maybe it’s the cumulative impact of years of this work.

There is no guarantee that if we stop funding war and the illusions of "defense" that our government would also care for those left behind -but, if we continue to see the Pentagon's budget as sacrosanct, there will not be any money left. Dr. King reminded us during the Vietnam War buildup: "A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death." Spiritual and psychic death is what we encountered in our tour of the DC jails. We continue to sow death and reap the whirlwind.

Peacemaking is difficult at times and comes with a cost. Of course, the real easy way would be to remain silent in the face of war - but that is not an option I can live with. It is not an option our world can live with.