Mongoose Distro

The U.S. Supreme Court has held that reasonable doubt is a fundamental requirement of due process.¹ And it is reasonable to believe that there is a universal consensus here. But many courts, for a variety of reasons, declare that reasonable doubt should not be defined.² One judge in fact said to the jury, “who are we to tell you what is reasonable and what is not? That is wholely within your purview.”³ In 1881, and again in 1887, the Supreme Court offered, that reasonable doubt “may be, and often is, rendered obscure by attempts at definition, which serve to create doubts instead of removing them,”⁴ but, at the same time, the High Court avers that it “has never held that the concept of reasonable doubt is undefinable, or that trial courts should not, as a matter of course, provide a definition.”⁵ According to the late Justice Ginsberg, “the words ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ are not self-defining to jurors,”⁶ and she then goes on to state that “(s)everal studies of jury behavior have concluded that ‘jurors are often confused about the meaning of reasonable doubt’ when the term is left undefined.”⁷ And being in apparent agreement with Second Circuit Chief Judge Jon O. Newman, she invites us to consider his words: “’I find it rather unsettling that we are using a formulation that we believe will become less clear the more we explain it’”⁸ And for this part, Justice Blackmun offered the following: “To be a meaningful safeguard, the reasonable doubt standard must have a tangible meaning that is capable of being understood by those who are required to apply it. It must be stated accurately and with the precision owed to those whose liberty or life is at risk.”

So there we have it, straight fro, the lips of Justice Blackmun of the U.S. Supreme Court, the reasonable doubt standard of proof, because it does not have a tangible meaning, because it is not capable of being understood by those who are required to apply it, and because it has not been accurately stated, with precision, is not a meaningful safeguard against the State illegitimately depriving one of life or liberty.

Steven McCain 2096064
PO Box 660500
Dallas, TX 75266

1Miller v. Shealy, Jr. “A Reasonable Doubt About ‘Reasonable Doubt’”, 65 Okla L. Rev. 225, 227-228 (2023)

2Daniel Pi, Francesco Parisi, and Barbara Luppi, “Quantifying Reasonable Doubt”, 72 Rutgers U. L. Rev. 455, 455 (2020)

3Wansing v. Hargett, 341 F.3d 1207, 1214 (10^th Cir. 2003)

4Victor v. Neb., 511 U.S. 1 (1994) (Ginsberg, J., concurring) (quoting Miles v. United States, 193 U.S. 304, 312, 26 L.Ed 481 (1881); Hopt v. Utah, 120 U.S. 430, 440-441, 30 L.Ed 707, 7 S.Ct. 614 (1887))

5511 U.S. 1 at 26

6Id.

7Id. (citing Henry A. Diamond, “Defining Reasonable Doubt”, 90 Colum. L. Rev. 1716, 1723 (1990). This article is mistitled in this cite. The actual title of the article is “Reasonable Doubt: To Define, or Not to Define.” (citing studies)

8Id. (citing Jon O. Newman, “Beyond ‘Reasonable Doubt’”, N.Y.U. L. Rev [979, 984 (1993)]. This cite contains a correction. In the Lexis database, Victor v. Neb., at 25, has a hyperlink whose text shows, “68 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 201, 204 (1994)”, but this link takes the user to an article by 19 Authors, “The Law of Prime Numbers”, 68 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 185 (1993). Justice Ginsberg, on page 26 of Victor, references back to Jon O. Newman, Beyond ‘Reasonable Doubt’”, placing it at ¢* N.Y.U. L. Rev. 205-206, but following this address leads the user to Robert L. Carter, “Thurgood Marshall”, 68 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 205 1993).

One key element to understanding what a nefarious actor is truly up to is motivation: why the hell did you do that? Why would an entity, be it a person or a government agency and the henchmen therein, go to what sometimes amounts to extraordinary lengths to obliterate liberty? Why would they bend the rules to the breaking point just so that one of their fellow human beings, once tumbled into a legal oubliette, might never again see the light of day?

Well obviously, for the money.

Setting aside the tired old trope about it being the root of all evil – which I’m the last one to dispute – money does crop up in my research as a baseline motivation for many actions I consider deviant or abhorrent. And to be clear, I mean the motivation for state-sponsored actors, not the individuals who run afoul of their paper tyranny. While often anything but angels, a single individual would have to strive long and hard to replicate even a fraction of the avalanche of misery and injustice inflicted by the American legal machine. It’s a prodigious beast, and the fuel it guzzles to sate its unquenchable thirst is money – cash, dollars, greenbacks, samolians.

But vengeance makes a good cover story. Avenging evil deeds, protecting the common good, and striking terror in the heart of evildoers packs a mighty emotional wallop that punches the audience deep down into their feelings, far distant from any inconvenient critical thinking abilities. By inciting onlookers to wrath, a proper instigator can bypass any number of pesky moral quandaries and get right down to the good stuff – all in the name of plain old greed. Selfishness. Stinginess. It’s-mine-screw-you-ishness.

So let’s talk about one such supposed menace to society who must be locked away in service to the almighty dollar. Rather than getting mad1¹, though, let’s retain our brains so that we can do more than gnash our teeth and surrender our agency to the first string-puller who happens by.

In 1998 – twenty seven years ago at the time of this writing – a woman was arrested for the crime of ‘tampering’ in the State of Missouri.

” Tampering in the First Degree: a person commits the offense of tampering in the first degree when they knowingly receive, possess, sell, or unlawfully operate an automobile, airplane, motorcycle, motorboat, or other motor-propelled vehicle without the consent of the owner thereof.”

The horror! This woman, let’s call her Joan, stole a car. She was arrested. In 1999, she pleaded ‘not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect’ [in other words, ‘not guilty by reason of insanity’ or NGRI] to the charge of tampering.

NGRI pleas are often portrayed as a get out of jail free card, ‘getting away with it by playing crazy.’ Let’s be clear that this is absolutely not the case; the bar to actually prove you are NGRI is astronomically high. Even if you succeed, you only ‘get out of jail free’ in order to be locked up in a state psychiatric hospital instead. For those of you who don’t know, take it from the ones that do – there’s nothing free about a place like that except the meds you’ll be taking, whether you want them or not.

We have a decent grasp on psychiatry in this country, though. If the function of a so-called forensic hospital falls in line with their mission statements, people should get helped, healed, and discharged from there. Since successful NGRI pleas make up such a small number of convictions as to be effectively negligible, over time most state forensic hospitals ought to be emptying out rather than filling up.

Why, then, are they all stuffed to the padded rafters with alleged loons?

Spoiler warning: it’s not because most people under involuntary civil commitments in secure treatment facilities are foaming at the mouth and itching to wreak havoc upon polite society. They are not rabid, raving lunatics – so why are they there, for years and years?

Money. More specifically: state and federal social security and disability benefits, because in the ravenous grab for dollars there is no lower limit on the level to which a state-sanctioned hand will not stoop to scoop up a few easy bucks.

Here is Joan’s story in her own words:

“I did something stupid 25 years ago. It was a cry for help. The owner of a vehicle left his keys in his car and I took it. Now I’m in here with murderers and rapists, being warehoused. We are supposed to have rights but they routinely violate them and falsify records. The Missouri Protection and Advocacy Services [the entity responsible for representing the clients of the state mental health system and ensuring that their civil liberties are not chucked under the bus] rubber stamp anything this place [Southeast Missouri Mental Health Center, AKA SeMo] does. For example both I and the psychologist I had in the community were denied the right to be present at my conditional release revocation hearing, as well as the hearing to forcibly medicate me.

My conditional release was revoked because Lightning, my service dog, was attacked. I used all my money and resources to move to the Eugene Fields Apartment Complex. To make a long story short, Lightning was mauled right in front of me by a German Shepherd/Rottweiler mixed breed dog. Lightning is a miniature American Eskimo dog, much smaller. She had to have two surgeries and took two full months to heal.

Animal control had the vicious dog removed from the premises. The dog’s owner, and her friends, then started to harass me. This went on for over a year. Another tenant threatened to kill me and Lightning with a switchblade, but MACO, the apartment management company, refused to give me her name so I couldn’t get an order of protection.

Then Lightning was attacked again by another dog. When I complained that I kept Lightning on a lead but other tenants let their dogs out of their control, MACO gave me notice that Lightning had to go. So, I packed up all my things and started looking for a place to live.

That brings me to my ‘crime’: I took Lightning to Columbia, MO to be evaluated by a dog trainer. I failed to call my forensic case manager Justin H– prior to leaving Park Hills, MO. In retrospect my psychologist and I should have called before I went to the bus station, but I already had an oral agreement with Justin that I was going to take Lightning to the trainer. I did notify him I was in Columbia within 48 hours of arriving, but they revoked my conditional release anyway and sent me to SeMo.

I lost everything – my apartment, furniture, belongings, clothes, Christmas ornaments and knick knacks that have sentimental value. Thank God good friends are taking care of Lightning. She’s all I have left. I’ve done a little over two years [as of April 2024] for this.

I also have a financial issue when I get out. The owner of the vicious dog only paid $50 towards a vet bill of $800. Then MACO says I owe them $600 after they let the other tenants take my belongings. I’m below the federal poverty level, but SeMo also says I owe the $3,200 for services. And my social security disability was not discontinued, so this place took another $3,200 and made me use it on clothes and more services here. I can’t save anything or stop incurring costs and they won’t release me.

It’s frustrating here. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do but they won’t even give me more privileges, let alone let me out. I’ve asked the nurses what else I need to do but they only say ‘keep on doing what you’re supposed to.’ They just warehouse people. Then if you fight them in court they say you’re a mental patient and the judge takes the psychiatrist’s side over yours.

I’d like to get my freedom so Lightning and I can live in a single-family unit or house in a nice quiet area. I want to be gainfully employed at least part time and work from home. I have an Associate’s degree with honors in Law Enforcement and a Bachelor’s degree in Urban Affairs as well as Criminal Justice. I’m certified as a paralegal and also have taken classes in: business management, animal care, constitutional law, fitness, nutrition, psychology, and social work.”

Joan was involuntarily committed following her NGRI plea in 1999. She obtained conditional release in 2005 and spent an unspecified amount of time living under supervision in the community before having her release revoked. She obtained conditional release again in 2015, and in 2022 she was again returned to custody because she called her case manager after she got on a bus rather than before.

Tampering in the first degree is a Class D felony in the State of Missouri, punishable by a maximum sentence of 7 years in the state penitentiary. However, the court has the discretion to sentence the person instead to one year in the county jail in lieu of any prison time at all. After release, the person is subject to a conditional release [parole] period of one third of their prison sentence, meaning the most someone could possibly be punished for the crime Joan plead NGRI to is 7 years in prison followed by 2 and one-third years on supervised release.

Yet Joan is still entangled, 27 years later, in the state hospital system. That is three times longer than even the most hard-assed judge could possibly sentence a fully competent, fully liable convict to serve.

But if she’d gone to prison, the court couldn’t have made her a ward of the state. And if the state hospital hadn’t become her conservator, they couldn’t collect her disability checks on her behalf for as long as she remains under their dutiful care. And if SeMo couldn’t bank their clients’ checks, they couldn’t use that sweet government money to pay themselves for doing such a bang-up job providing mental health care to the people the court orders into their secure facility – all while ensuring they don’t do quite a good enough job that they accidentally help someone get well enough to get out, and take their government benefits with them.

That would just be fucking crazy.

https://roningrey.substack.com

roningreyauthor@gmail.com

TERHUNE AD0786
CTFN PO BOX 705
SOLEDAD CA 93960

1. I promise you, I’ll be enraged enough for all of us – I always am!”

I received 44 years to life for several attempted murders I did not commit. I was just 16 years old when I went to adult court. One thing that stood out was the word NIGGER in my trial.

The one word that is so controversial was how I was identified. I mean, the main and only evidence that tied me to the crime was identification by one person Marvin Kelley, who supposedly circled my picture during a 6 person line-up. He denied ever identifying me when forced to get on the stand, so they played the 9-1-1 tape. On the 9-1-1 call, Marvin told the 9-1-1 operator, “I just seen these niggaz”.

No ER, but the district attorney, Jacob Glucksman’s closing argument during my trial. I was called a nigger by Jacob. He said, “You heard the 9-1-1 tape. Marvin Kelly said I just seen this nigger!”. Wow.

Last year one of my “friends”, so I thought, said during our conversation when he was visiting Texas that out in their home town they called a certain area “Nigger Hill”. As soon as he said that it reminded me of trial. Just as in trial, I couldn’t believe my ears. My “friend” was white, by the way. So now I’m trying to file paperwork in court out here in California to get a retrial for prosecutorial misconduct and the California Racial Justice Act, which just was passed. I will be publishing a book called N-Word Hill about my journey through the prison system from the age of 16 till now at the age of 32 and how the n-word caged me and freed me. Amen.

Joadanus Olivas AE9727
CHCF-Stocktown B4B-108
Stockton, CA 95213

Kristopher Storey 26731-018
Federal Medical Center
PO Box 14500
Lexington, KY 40512

I’m grateful there’s people out there like mongoose, I dug and reached and succeeded in finding something I longed for in prison. Companionship. Its just not the same talking to prisoners all the time. You have a high volume of mental illness in prison, so seeking good conversation is iffy at best. I’ve once spoken to a man who was very attentive and looked as if he was paying attention to all the conversation I was dumping on him. He smiled and shook his head, until he excused himself, said he had to make a phone call.

I was like go for it, but soon after, an inmate comes up to say,” You know he’s not all there right? Uh uh, I wasn’t aware, Anne said look at him. The man was having a full blown conversation on the phone, so I was confused, so i said “so?” There’s nobody on the other line dude.

C’mon man are you serious?

Yeah, watch.

Sure enough, the man says his goodbyes to his imaginary friends and proceeds to dial a number, but its not making sense, he’s starting to talk without missing a beat, prison phones are like a serious pain in the ass, you have to do voice verification, punch in your identification number, then the Phone number, its a fucken three ring circus, there’s no way anyone picked up right after dialing a number.

Well, lesson learned, don’t believe everything you hear and only half of what you see!! There’s a term for people like that,” psych patient!!”

TDCJ doesn’t send them to psyche hospital, they put them in general population to be harmed, in any way you can imagine, in fact if you’re reading this, its happening right now.

What’s wrong with our criminal justice system? I’ve seen stuff you would feel sick to see. Officers bullying borderline mentally retarded inmates for fun, send them down the rabbit hole of administrative segregation, its sad, many of them are pushed to suicide themselves this way. I’m not the smartest man,but if I had trouble coping with the ad seg PTSD,can you imagine someone with cognitive deficiency?

Its cruel and highly unusual. I found an identity in prison, its activist.

I refused to allow the policy to shape my mind or ideology.

I refused and resisted, and even though I’m paying a high price for what I have, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Solidarity Forever.

For as long as I can remember America has had a fixation – bordering on a compulsive obsession – with what television, the media, politicians, and other similarly situated loud, influential, profit-oriented voices call ‘justice.’

JUSTICE: the quality of being just, impartial, or fair; the principle or ideal of just dealings and right action.

JUST: conforming to truth, fact, or reason.

The purpose of justice in a society is to maintain order and civility, so that a community of human beings might be forestalled from descending into an orgy of barbarism when the inevitable conflicts that arise from gathering too many freethinking individuals together threaten to supplant reason with emotions. Simply put, mob rule is a coup by feelings that topples logic, an anathema to anything civil.

Justice, in a society that actually practices it, serves as the release valve for the tension that comes when things get, as the Grinch says, too ‘peoply.’ Justice allows the wheels to turn and life as folks have become accustomed to it to continue without everybody freaking the fuck out because they can’t reconcile their feelings with the circumstances surrounding them. Justice balances the iconic scales, and balances out emotional reactions with rational contemplation.

Unfortunately, we don’t practice justice in this country.

VENGEANCE: punishment inflicted in retaliation for an injury or offense.

When someone hurts us our knee-jerk reaction is to hurt them back. This is not rational; it is an emotional response, a reflex, a little kid-ism that if indulged becomes a real nasty habit. We didn’t heed the warning label, so now we need to break this habit before its toxic byproducts deliver to our society an ugly, painful, premature death.

There’s no patch, or pill, or 12 step crutch for kicking vengeance but that doesn’t mean we’re helpless.

There may not be any methadone-esque substitutes for brutally excoriating those fellow citizens whose actions run counter to what has been quite literally by hook or by crook established as the baseline of what our society deems acceptable, but there’s something better than any synthetic skag or going cold turkey: forgiveness.

There are few more misappropriated, misused, or misunderstood concepts in our modern lexicon than forgiveness, but much of that confusion is manufactured and disseminated by the same aforementioned hooks and crooks who prodded us into this mess to begin with. Rather than quibble over rhetoric let’s stick with the old wordbook:

FORGIVENESS: to cease to feel resentment against.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean excusing a wrong or permitting its commitment. It doesn’t even mean not punishing someone. It’s just about accepting the past – which cannot be changed – and moving forward without holding a grudge. It is, in short, about justice.

When someone does wrong, an emotional response calls for wrong to be done back to them – an eye for an eye. Retribution. Vengeance. Yet once we take off the blinders that being led around by the nose care of our feelings put on us, the logical mind recognizes that answering harm with more harm only leaves us with a collective that has suffered twice. We can’t heal harm with more harm any more than a doctor can beat broken bones back whole.

That we still try to do just that speaks volumes about the insanity of building an orderly society then surrendering its maintenance and care to the emotional whims of the aggrieved heart and the offended sensibility.

Speaking of insanity, let’s talk about Wanda Mercer. More specifically, let’s decide whether our system for determining where a person is ‘insane and dangerous’ is itself insane and dangerous. If we find that it is, hopefully we can then agree that to consign anyone to it, regardless of their past, would be an act of vengeance that flies in the face of any true justice, and is therefore in nobody’s best interest save for the fear mongers and string pullers.

I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sick of them running the show.

The following tale is not pleasant and doesn’t have a happy ending. I don’t ask you to reserve your judgements, only to be aware of them and to consider whether they are at their core an emotional reaction or the product of rational, objective consideration.

Wanda Mercer dedicated her life to serving others. She was a mother, a homemaker, a United States Army veteran, a law student, an artist, and a poet. She was also a strong, intelligent, outspoken, ambitious individual who rarely sat idle and never played a passive role in her own life.

Yet life pulled no punches when it came to Wanda. After struggling in silence for many years she sought help from a professional to get out from under the crushing emotional burden brought on by an abusive marriage and contentious custody battles. The doctor prescribed an antidepressant to her and she believed that she would soon feel less stressed and sad.

But Wanda’s struggles were only beginning. Over the next sixteen years the doctors she trusted prescribed her more psychiatric medication to combat the problems in her life that only seemed to grow more intractable as her dosages crept ever upward. Eventually Wanda experienced a rarely discussed but frighteningly common reaction to her mind-altering regimen: instead of helping her through her most difficult times, she became delusional. As she withdrew further and the medication’s hold on her senses became total, Wanda tumbled into a bottomless hole of social and existential isolation, psychotic, paranoid, and completely separated from the people in her life who might have recognized she was in crisis.

In the depths of this darkness she then did something so shocking to the conscience that it threatens to cloud an outsider’s reason as thoroughly as the meds clouded hers: Wanda took the life of her beloved daughter, then attempted to kilI herself as well. She did not act with malice, but out of a love expressed through the warped lens the meds had imprinted on her mind. She believed her child was in imminent danger of being kidnapped by Satanists hellbent on consigning her to a brutal life of exploitation and damning her eternal soul. So, she did the only thing she could think of to spare her daughter.

Wanda was arrested. She spent days in the hospital recovering from the wounds she had inflicted upon herself, then she went to jail. After two years the court found her Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity. Despite no longer being acutely psychotic, the crime which came to define her life stood too large in the public attention for forgiveness to even be considered. With the media fanning the flames, justice was abandoned in favor of vengeance. Instead of asking how a person who had fallen so far but survived such an ordeal might be made able to grieve her devastating loss and become once more whole, Wanda was thrown away into the forensic hospital system.

The purpose of involuntarily committing someone to a state psychiatric hospital is ostensibly to administer treatment to the individual so that they might record from the disorder or disease which rendered them ‘insane and dangerous,’ the prerequisite for confinement under her state’s NGRI laws.

Yet Wanda had been dangerous only because she was psychotic, and psychotic only because she’d been prescribed an irresponsible cocktail of psychotropics and left to her own devices until she imploded. Once the medication no longer polluted her mind she was neither.

But ‘justice’ – vengeance – must be served, and her time within the state hospital designated to heal her saw only harm piled atop harm as the doctors tried to beat her broken psyche back to wholeness.

Wanda was assaulted over 90 times by other patients over the next dozen years. She had her hair pulled out by the fistful, she was beaten, kicked, clubbed, stabbed, and attacked with a chair resulting in five bulging discs in her neck. Her attackers were sometimes psychotic, egged on by malicious staff members. Other times those who assaulted Wanda did so in exchange for favors, treats, or privileges from the nurses and technicians in charge of the facility.

These same staff members also took a more direct role in her torment: during the same twelve years, Wanda was verbally, physically, and sexually abused by hospital employees. They also violated her sense of safety with intrusive searches at all hours, cavity searches to humiliate her, and sleep deprivation to ratchet up her stress until she developed PTSD. Some even encouraged her to kilI herself and one went so far as to provide her a plastic bag and instruct her to wrap it over her head so she could suffocate.

Still – Wanda had never been a pushover. She weathered years of abuse, refused to take the medications which had led her into this nightmare to begin with, and petitioned for discharge in order to return home and care for her dying father. Despite being neither psychotic or dangerous she was denied. In a moment of despair she attempted to end her own life by taking pills, but she only became ill. The next day she self-reported her suicide attempt but did not require any medical attention.

Two years later Wanda petitioned for a conditional release again. This time the judge recognized that due to the longstanding antagonistic relationship between Wanda and the head psychiatrist, she could never receive effective mental health care while confined to the state hospital. The judge believed her to have a personality disorder, to be ‘difficult, disagreeable, and narcissistic’ as well as ‘unlikeable,’ but to neither be psychotic nor dangerous, so the judge – the same one who presided over her original trial years before – ordered her to be conditionally released pursuant to a five year plan the thrust of which was that Wanda would live in her own apartment in the community rather than at the hospital and would receive ongoing mental health treatment from a private psychologist who in turn would promptly report any violations of the many conditions of Wanda’s release should they come to pass, much the same way a parole agent would.

Wanda was released. The irresponsible hacks at the local newspapers whipped the public into a frenzy, rehashing the gory details of Wanda’s crime and warning that a ‘throat-slashing psycho mom’ was coming to a suburb near you. This inflammatory rhetoric brought immense scrutiny and backlash – emotional firestorms, just as the papers intended by dropping such incendiaries.

The prosecutor filed an appeal, citing that there existed ‘no clear and convincing evidence that [Wanda] would not reasonably be expected to inflict serious harm upon herself or others,’ should she be allowed out of the secured environment of the state hospital. The keystone that his entire argument rested upon was none other than Wanda’s self-reported suicide attempt from years before.

After less than two weeks living in her own apartment on conditional release, the courts agreed with the prosecutor that Wanda could possibly still be a threat to public safety despite the overwhelming lack of evidence; in over 90 instances she was assaulted yet she never once even defended herself, and in all this time the only person she’d ever harmed, once, was herself. She was ordered back into the hospital’s custody and she turned herself in.

She remains there to this day. Her prospects for ever earning a release seem grim. Because of the court’s ruling, the burden of proof for Wanda – and anyone else seeking release from her state’s hospital system – has been shifted to the petitioner. Meaning: in order to be released, Wanda must prove while she is in custody that she will never harm herself or anyone else were she not in custody.

Our legal system rests upon a foundation of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ precisely because of the inherent impossibility of proving a negative. In this instance, while locked up Wanda cannot demonstrate how she would behave in the free world, yet she cannot re-enter the free world until she demonstrates how she would behave there. Thus she twists in the wind, condemned by her past mistakes to have no future.

Were she to have been found guilty in court as a criminal and sent to the penitentiary, whatever the penalty, we could debate the fairness and justness of the sentence. Yet she was found not guilty, and sent to the hospital for treatment. She fulfilled her responsibilities by returning to sanity and no longer being dangerous, but because of the nature of her reason for being there and the inflammatory rhetoric used by the prosecutor and the media she was painted as such a monster that the courts felt justified in creating a new cage in which to keep her. They let their emotions reign, and changed the rules. They piled harm on top of harm for the sake of sating the mob’s thirst for blood.

Is that justice, or just vengeance?

~

Beyond The Ninth Wave Journalism Project

Roningreyauthor@Gmail.Com

Https://Roningrey.Substack.Com

Or Contact Direct:

Terhune AD0786
CTFN
PO Box 705
Soledad, Ca 93960

To surmount the situation of oppression, people must first critically recognize its causes,so that through transforming action they can create a new situation,one which makes possible the pursuit of a Fuller humanity. — Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire

I had been B-Line for months now, and people would come visit me and field ministers would come pray and play music for us, and one of them I knew really well. The man would minister to me and we would have these conversations about the resistance and unionization, and how impactful its been for the unit as a whole. On this day,he’d told me a field minister died. The man was a father of three, married and was about to get sent somewhere to begin his journey of field minister job. However, something had happened to one of the Providers on the unit, who was known for denying all medical needs to inmates.

This man had been diagnosed with H-pylori bacteria, and they told him there was nothing they can do about it. Well, I tell the guy, why didn’t you tell me sooner, that’s bullshit they can’t do nothing about this. His response was, he didn’t want them to retaliate on him and take his visitation or something. Anyway, I was like don’t worry about it I’m going to show you its bullshit. The next day I put in to get checked for H-pylori and they drew blood from me within the week. Nothing happened, it took them a couple of months to give me my results, but someone in that medical department was holding the results hostage.

I don’t who or how, but it ended up in the mail, absent right to my cell, lo and behold I was positive and on the high side of infection. Well, I get the results and walk them to my visit, and the nurse had said I was going to see a provider, and she asked me why I was there. I said I’m positive for H-pylori, and she said how do you know? I flipped the blood test results out and she panicked, she went straight to the nurses and began bombarding them with questions as to how I received my results. After this she prescribed three different antibiotics, some generic pepto bismol pills and sent me on my way.

The following weekend the field minister comes to me, and I show him the meds and my results. He was in tears. He couldn’t believe his friend was left to do for nothing, just because the provider was trying to save money for the state. The story was that after that, he was told there was nothing they can do for him, he began to waste away, and within 3 months he was pale and skinny ,and walked into the medical department and begged them to please help him, he couldn’t take it anymore. They said he was rushed to the emergency room where he died of cancer caused by the H-pylori infection, and its intentional neglect by the staff there at Darrington Unit.

This was of course my next campaign, with help from certain people, we told the entire unit what they did. We asked them all to get tested, and it began a slow movement, for months people were getting checked, and coming out positive for the bacteria. TDCJ was overwhelmed immediately and began trying to cover it up, getting rid of medical records and handing out antibiotics to just about anyone who was asking for them, no questions asked, the lastime I saw the man who I spoke to about this, all I could say was I’m sorry about your friend, but like I said, it was bullshit they fed him. He was lied to, and you guys bought it.

I just showed you what this agency is about, never forget it. Just because they’re in authority is the red flag, always question their motive, and if in doubt, get the outside to call in and question it.

Julio A. Zuniga 1961551
PO Box 660400
Dallas, TX 75266

Brian “Hakiym” Simpson is a Black father, firefighter, community leader, and poet who was imprisoned in Oregon for defending himself against a racist attack. Hakiym is fighting for his freedom –– join him!

Hakiym welcomes all correspondence from supporters! Address envelopes to:

Brian Simpson* #27433390
Snake River Correctional Institution
777 Stanton Boulevard
Ontario, Oregon 97914-8335

To put money on his commissary, venmo @siskiyoumutualaid with “Justice 4 Hakiym” in the description.

Hakiym also wants to encourage folks to check out a hip hop / spoken word track he released during the George Floyd Uprisings, titled “Old News”: https://youtu.be/NHBASipyR0ATo support Hakiym, visit @justiceforhakyim on IG.

At nine A.M. in the Correctional Training Facility’s Rainier building the buzzer blares for the hourly unlock. I meet a fit middle-aged man in the day room who isn’t shy about showing off his personal flair. Today Danny sports tailored blue jeans embellished with colorful beadwork that matches his hat. He smiles, then leads me to the oversized blue plastic security couches in the middle of the room. We sit, surrounded by the clamor of California prison inmates watching television, working out, showering, and playing dominoes. He looks at me.

“So, where do you want to start?”

I tell him, “From what I understand, you had a parole violation for smoking weed and somehow that turned into you being locked up in a state hospital.”

“Yeah! So, OK, this was after my second term. That was…” he thinks for a moment. “2003. 2002. Around then. I was on parole. I had this really cool parole officer. John B- He never tested me for drugs or alcohol, and he always used to drive me to my job interviews. Really nice guy.”

“So, one day I came home and my roommate said, ‘hey, your P. O. came by looking for you.’ And I said, ‘that’s weird. What did he want?’ And she said, ‘no, it was a female. She left a business card.’ And I saw this card said ‘Victoria W-‘ So I called her and she wanted me to come in right away, but the buses don’t run that late, so she said, ‘fine, first thing in the morning,’ and I told her the buses start at ten so I’ll be there at eleven.”

“Why were you supposed to see her and not John B-?”

“I had no idea. I didn’t know what was going on but I got there at eleven and she takes me into her office and she says, ‘OK, I’m your new P. O. and I need you to piss test for me right noW-‘ And I said, ‘no, I don’t do that.’ ‘So, you’re refusing?’ ‘Yeah, I’m refusing, because it’s not a condition of my parole. That means I don’t have to do it.’ And she says, ‘well, I was in your place and I saw these.’ And she goes to her desk and pulls out some photos and she says, ‘can you explain this?'”

“What were the photos?”

“She had a picture of my roommates, from Christmas. My one roommate is  quadriplegic, it was her and her boyfriend. I’m not even in the photo.”

“So what did she want you to explain?”

Danny chuckles. “Well I asked her. And she says, ‘this looks like a joint,’ and I’m staring at the photo where she’s pointing, where my roommate’s boyfriend is holding a cigarette for her and lighting it. So I told her, ‘she can’t use her arms or her legs. He’s helping her. Look. You can see the filter on the butt.’

“And she squints at it, then she says ‘OK fine, but what about this one?’ And she’s got another photo and I’m still not in it. So, we started arguing. It escalated. I’m getting loud, she’s shouting at me, and people are walking by and staring. Then she just stops. She takes a breath, then she smiles. ‘I just want to be honest with you, Daniel. Like I am with all my parolees. And I would like you to test as a new condition of your parole because I suspect you were smoking marijuana.’

“‘Shouldn’t we have your supervisor here for that or something?’ Because I’m not sure but I don’t think she can do that,” he tells me. “But she just shakes her head. ‘We don’t need the supervisor. Just be honest with me and tell me if you smoke weed.’

” and I’m thinking, OK, we got off on the wrong foot. She’s just doing her job, maybe she’ll be alright. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. So I told her, ‘OK, I did smoke weed once, on Christmas.’

“Did you take psych meds at the time?”

“No. OK, let me back up. That was after my second term. I got out in 2002. But during my first term, in ’96, when I was in reception I had a cellie who slept all day long. Seriously he only got up for breakfast and dinner. And I thought, wow, that’s a great way to do time. So I asked him what’s the deal, how come you sleep all the time? He told me the psych put him on pills because he told them he hears voices and sees things that aren’t there. And he said, ‘you can do it too, and they’ll put you on this shit and your time will go by so much faster.’ That’s what I wanted, so I put in to see the psych.”

“How did that go?”

“The psych asked me, ‘are you hearing voices? Seeing things?’ But I didn’t really want to lie so I said, ‘no, but I’m really depressed.’

‘Hmm. OK. Well, what do you like to do for hobbies?’

‘I’m an artist. I work with stained glass on the street. I see designs, patterns in things.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look, see that wall behind you?’ And it’s a cement wall full of cracks and blemishes. ‘I see a skull, right there. Don’t you?’

‘I don’t see anything, Daniel.’

So, I took a pen and I drew the skull the cracks in the wall formed. And he said, ‘oh, wow, that’s incredible!’ Then he put me on Zoloft.”

Danny has been quite animated as he tells me his story and his candor is refreshing. I chuckle, imagining the scene. “So what happens when you get to jail?”

“They held me on a violation. For the weed, for spitting on my P. O., that’s an assault. And one of the officers who tied me up said I kicked him. Which I didn’t. But, you knoW- So I had to wait to see the parole commissioner. And when I did she told me they weren’t going to charge me for the assault but they were going to violate me and send me back to prison for smoking weed. For nine months!”

“Whoa, that sounds excessive.”

“You think? I said, ‘nine months?! I didn’t even test positive! Why so long?’

‘Oh, it’s based on your conduct.’

‘My conduct? Fuck you, you skinny old bitch, and fuck your ‘conduct!’ And this was when you really had to kiss the commissioner’s ass but I cussed her out just like I did my P. O.

‘This is exactly what we’re talking about.’ And they came and grabbed me up, put the spit mask on me again, and threw me in a cell.”

“So, back to prison?”

“Yep. Three days later I was in Wasco [State Penitentiary]. I stayed there for six months, then they transferred me to Soledad [State Penitentiary]. And right before I was about to get out all of a sudden they want me to talk to these psychiatrists.”

“Did you take psych meds at the time?”

“No. OK, let me back up. That was after my second term. I got out in 2002. But during my first term, in ’96, when I was in reception I had a cellie who slept all day long. Seriously he only got up for breakfast and dinner. And I thought, wow, that’s a great way to do time. So I asked him what’s the deal, how come you sleep all the time? He told me the psych put him on pills because he told them he hears voices and sees things that aren’t there. And he said, ‘you can do it too, and they’ll put you on this shit and your time will go by so much faster.’ That’s what I wanted, so I put in to see the psych.”

“How did that go?”

“The psych asked me, ‘are you hearing voices? Seeing things?’ But I didn’t really want to lie so I said, ‘no, but I’m really depressed.’

‘Hmm. OK. Well, what do you like to do for hobbies?’

‘I’m an artist. I work with stained glass on the street. I see designs, patterns in things.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look, see that wall behind you?’ And it’s a cement wall full of cracks and blemishes. ‘I see a skull, right there. Don’t you?’

‘I don’t see anything, Daniel.’

So, I took a pen and I drew the skull the cracks in the wall formed. And he said, ‘oh, wow, that’s incredible!’ Then he put me on Zoloft.”

“How long did you take that?”

“While I was in reception. Six months. Then I went to prison and got off it. I was there for three more years. Then I got out, and I caught my second case for GBI [Great Bodily Injury] with a deadly weapon. I did that term and got out too, so I had been off of psych meds for over six years by the time the psychiatrists wanted to see me at Soledad.”

“So why were they talking to you?”

“That’s what I asked them, too. They told me, ‘you’re under MDO [Mentally Disordered Offender] criteria because of your past violent behavior and your psychiatric history.’

‘But I have no write ups. And I didn’t get any during my other terms either. I’m a programmer.’

‘You still fit the criteria, so we have to evaluate you to see if you’re an MDO.’

Two of them interviewed me, separately. One said yes, I am. The other said no. So they brought in a third psychiatrist and he said yes, too.”

“So what did that mean?”

“Nobody told me anything. A few days before I paroled they called me into the captain’s office. Him and a bunch of other bigwigs were there. They told me I was an MDO and I had to go in for a formal evaluation at the state hospital. I got really upset, because I thought I was getting out after this nine month bullshit violation for my parole officer tricking me. But on my parole date they transferred me to Atascadero [State Hospital].”

“What happened when you got there?”

“My first day there I saw a psychologist. He told me, ‘don’t worry. This is just for one year.’

‘A YEAR?! They told me it was only for ninety days!’

‘Whoever told you that, they lied.’

And I got really upset, and he said, ‘Hmm, Daniel, do you need some medication to help you relax?’

But meds got me into this mess, and I knew I had to get myself out, so I said no.”

“How did you set about getting yourself out?”

Danny sighed. “Well, I spent a year at Atascadero. And it sucked. My mom died during that year, and I got really depressed because I was stuck in that place and I couldn’t go see her. Still, I didn’t take any medication. I worked, and I did well, and I even became the representative for my building so I could help the other patients.”

“Help them how?”

“That place was bad. They abused the patients all the time. Physically, mentally… spiritually. I hated that. Half the staff was abusive. The other half were compassionate, but they didn’t say anything or stop the abuse. So, I said something. I told them, ‘you better cut that out right now or I’ll report you. Not to your supervisor, not to their supervisor, but to outside agencies. Think I won’t? Try me.”

“Did it work?”

“Sometimes. The staff didn’t like me there but they didn’t mess with me. I got treated with kid gloves.”

“So, what was your supposed diagnosis?”

“I think they said I was bipolar, but there was something else too.”

“Like borderline or antisocial personality disorder or something?”

Danny laughs. “Everybody gets that one. We’re all ‘antisocial.’ And they said I was ‘high functioning’ too. That’s important. All the guys who got out were high functioning.”

“How many people got out while you were there?”

“Of MDOs, maybe six per year. One every two months or so.”

“How many people were in Atascadero then?”

“About three thousand. But some of those were SVPs [Sexually Violent Predators]. Those guys never get out.”

“So after the year, what happened?”

“They didn’t let me out. So I decided, OK, I’m going to just kick ass here. I am going to do ALL their groups and everything else possible. Except take meds. I never took meds. So, I went to the groups. I saw the psychologists and talked to them. I did really good. I even helped staff when they were being attacked by other patients and got the staff to give me commendations.”

“So, after year two?”

Danny sighs. “After year THREE, finally I got to go to court for a hearing. I still hadn’t taken any meds, not even an aspirin, nothing. So, we were all sitting in court, me and a bunch of guys from the jail. And who walks in but my first public defender, from my first term. Total truck. Piece of shit lawyer. He calls some guy’s name, and the guy says, ‘here,’ and the judge says, ‘Mr. Royal is going to represent you.’ And after the lawyer left I told that guy, ‘you gotta fire that lawyer. He’s awful. He totally threw me under the bus and sent me to prison.’”

“Then Royal comes back in, and he calls my name. And I said, ‘what, are you going to tell me my lawyer is in the back?’

‘No, I’m your lawyer.’

‘No, you’re not. I want nothing to do with you.’

And he’s all confused. ‘You look familiar. Have we met?’

Then the judge, the same judge from my first term too, Judge Hammer, says ‘All rise.’ And they called me right away. ‘This is Mr. Royal. He’s going to be your public defender.’

‘No, sir. This man is the devil.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘He’s the devil and I don’t want him to be my lawyer.’

‘Well, he’s going to be.’

‘No, he’s not, he’s the devil and you’re the devil too, and my lawyer is Joe L-‘ I told him that, that I’m represented by Joe L- Every time the judge said anything I interrupted him. ‘JOE L- JOE L- IS MY LAWYER. JOE L- I WANT JOE L- I WANT MY LAWYER!’

‘Calm down!’

I started freaking out, I’m yelling it over and over, until finally Judge Hammer says, ‘court is in recess! I want Joe L- in here right now!'”

Danny grins, giving me a look like ‘what did you expect?’

“So I’m sitting there all by myself and they had to go get Joe L- from some other courtroom where he was in a hearing. But they brought him in and the judge asks, ‘do you know this guy?’

Joe says, ‘no.’

But I tell him ‘Your Honor, THAT’S my lawyer! There he is, Joe L-!’

The judge says, ‘I’ll give you a few minutes to talk.’

So Joe asks me, ‘do you know me?’

‘Yes, sir. You’re the one who is gonna get me out of here. I’ve heard nothing but great things about you.’

‘Well… I’m very expensive.’

I told him, ‘I got no money, I only get sixty dollars a month from my job, but I have so much faith in you to get me home.’

And he thought about it, then he tells the judge he’ll represent me. And he asks me, ‘how did you hear about me anyways?’

‘All the MDOs who go home had you as their lawyer. I asked them.’

“After that I gave him the whole run down of my situation. I told him I’ve never been in trouble, I do all my groups, I have staff to speak on my behalf, people on the street who support me, and I don’t take meds, not even a toe cream. And I told him about the public defender and the judge both being from my first term and how they threw me under the bus, and isn’t that a conflict of interest? Because they fucked me over before, and he said ‘it sounds like it could be. Let’s get your records and see what we can find.’

“When I got back from court I was going to the yard and I saw this cop I’d never gotten along with, Officer Penny. And she’s just smirking at me, and she says, ‘Oh, hi, Daniel. Gee, you’ll never guess who I had dinner with last night.’

‘Who, Satan?’

‘No, my brother in law-.. J- Hammer.’

And I just stared at her, because there was only one way she could know that was my judge. Then I gave her a big smile and I said, ‘thank you! You just did me a huge favor!’ And I didn’t even go to the yard, I ran back to my building and called Joe L- to tell him what she said.”

“So, we went back to court and right away Joe L- got me a new judge due to many, many conflicts of interest. Instead of Judge Hammer I got a judge who was about to retire, which my lawyer said was good. ‘He doesn’t give a shit anymore.'”

“That’s a good start. What happened at the hearing?”

“First the state put my psychiatrist on the stand, and Joe L- just shredded him. Like, ‘oh, Daniel is bipolar and he has a history of violence.’

‘Has Daniel been violent while he has been at Atascadero?’

‘No, but he argues with the other patients.’

‘Argues about what?’

‘Let me look at my notes. OK, he said the other patient hit him.’

‘So, Daniel was the victim?’

‘Um… he could have been.’

‘Well, the staff report that you’re referring to says Daniel was the victim of an assault. So?’

But that psychiatrist testified for two and a half hours, and the whole time he just smutted me up. He made me look horrible. We took a break and I went back to my room and I’m just thinking, I’m done, I’m fucked. They’re not going to let me out. I need a miracle. Then there’s a knock on my door … It was John B-!”

“Your first parole officer?”

“Yeah, the one from before that bitch set me up.”

“Out of nowhere?”

“Totally out of nowhere. He said, ‘I hope you remember me.’

‘Remember you? I miss you so much I want to give you a hug! But what are you doing here?’

‘I saw your name on some paperwork and I wanted to see you ASAP. I wanted to telk you I’m sorry. I read what Victoria W- did and I couldn’t believe it.’

‘But where did you go?’

‘My wife and son were killed in a car wreck and I just couldn’t deal with work, so I took some time off. But if there’s anything you need…’

‘Can you be my character witness?’

‘Sure, of course!’

“So, we went back to the hearing. Joe L- called him to the stand, and a psychologist, and an officer and a psych tech who were on my side. They all basically said I’m a model patient and a good guy, all that stuff. Joe L- wanted to call another psych tech but the judge stopped him. He said, ‘I’ve heard enough. From what I’ve heard from both sides, Daniel doesn’t meet the criteria for MDO. So I’ll release him from Atascadero. You’re free to go.’ Then he banged the gavel and walked out.”

“I turned to Joe L- ‘What did he just say?’

‘Daniel. You’re going home.’

‘What?’

‘I said you’re going home.’

‘What?’

‘Didn’t you hear me?’

‘Yes, I heard you twice, but I just want to hear it one more time because it sounds so awesome!’

“That must have been the best feeling in the world.”

“When I got back I was jumping in the hallways. I kept yelling, ‘I’m going home! I’m going home!’ And people I knew were saying, ‘awesome!’ But then Officer Penny stepped into the hall.

‘Why are you yelling, Daniel?’

‘I’m going home! Thank you!’

‘You’re not going home.’

‘Yes I am, and thank you so much!’

“Nobody on the unit knew what happened yet because all the staff who went to court took the rest of the day off, except I saw the psychiatrist who smutted me up, so I went up to him and I went like this.” Danny slumps, staring at the floor looking dejected.

“And he says, ‘oh, I’m so sorry, Daniel. Maybe if you take more groups and some more classes, maybe next year…’

Then I smiled. ‘Oh! I guess you haven’t heard. I’m going home!’

“And I saw him going through my chart, frowning and conferring with the other staff, so I went to the chow hall and I said, ‘cake and ice cream for everyone!’ See, I always bought this five gallon drum of ice cream and a cake for my unit on my birthday, so they’re like, ‘is it your birthday?’ ‘Nope! I’m going home!’

“It took three days to get discharged, but when I did I was off parole and everything. John B- showed up, and said goodbye. He told me, ‘you’re totally free, you can go anywhere, France, Mexico, anywhere in the world, Daniel.'”

“So, where did you go?”

“Some friends of mine picked me up. We got some beer and I moved into their house and the first thing we did was smoke a big ol’ joint.” Danny laughs. “But really, the MDO thing messed me up so bad I ended up going to school and becoming a paralegal especially for MDOs after I got out. So, you have my permission to write this. I want people to know my story.”

—————————————

RONIN GREY SUBSTACK: HTTPS://RONINGREY.SUBSTACK.COM — RONINGREYAUTHOR@GMAIL.COM

Mail: TERHUNE AD0786
CTFN PO BOX 705
SOLEDAD CA 93960