Reply I.D. - Blog 4HR

Topic: Prisoner Abuse
Type: Essay, Autobiographical

My Last Stand and Trippy Trip
by Nate A. Lindell
6 January 2014

I left wearing a pair of orange pants, orange canvas shoes and two two t-shirts. No, I was not about to go deer hunting in the Everglades. I was on my way into the federal prison system.

The scanty attire was my fault, mostly, as two days prior I'd broke the brass nozzle off my in-cell sink and used it to smash out the window at the back of my seg. cell, along with knocking some chunks of concrete out of the walls and desk. I wanted to bust the cell up more, bust some cinder blocks out of the walls, go into my neighbors' cells and bust up those cells, too, but the inevitable happened: some inmate dry-snitched on me, got the guards prowling, looking for the source of the banging. A guard saw me just as I swung the nozzle, tied to the end of my pillowcase, at my cell's steel intercom plate, which I needed in order to dig the mortar from between the cinder blocks and pry 'em out.

"What're you doing in there?"

"Nothing," hands behind y back, blank look on my face.

The guard paused, grinned, probed with his eyes, "Back up a bit."

I backed up.

"What ya got in your hands?"

"Ohp, gotta go!" I turned and began smashing the window, busting chunks out of the poured-concrete desk under the window when the nozzle bounced down off the window and onto the desk.

It happened fast. A couple [of] times, the nozzle cracked me in my forehead and smashed the knuckle of my right middle finger. Fuck it.

Then, it was over. The effing nozzle busted off of my pillowcase, skittered across the floor... somewhere. In my agitated state, amid the dust glass, paint and whatnot, I couldn't find the nozzle.

"What are you doing in there?!" the third-shift Sgt. asked.

"Saying goodbye."

"Are you done?!"

I looked around again, "Fuck!... Yeah. I can't find it."

The window could only be repaired from the outside, where, I'd noticed, the security screws holding the now shattered panes in place were thickly painted over. As my cell was two-stories up and it was prickly cold outside, I figured I put that cell outta commission for at least a week. Some s.o.b. at W.C.I. couldn't be put in that cell after I left.

I spent the next 16 or so hours in a cold cell with only a pair of socks and underwear to keep me... warm (?!), after staff cut off clothing and C.O. Cushing cupped my nuts, grabbed my penis and spread apart my buttocks, even though I was perfectly calm and offered to comply with a strip search. I just wanted to demolish cells.

"I'm going to punish one of you for this. There's no need to cut my clothes off or feel my genitals and buttocks. It does't matter who, but one of you will pay."

"Don't threaten my staff--" the Lieutenant supervising this said.

"Fuck you, faggot."

Cuffed behind my back, shackled to a door, surrounded by 5-7 guards who were all much bulkier than my seg. stick self (see accompanying post about overuse of seg.) -- that was not the time to punish those pieces of shit.

At least I didn't care catch a finger up my butt, as others had (see my previous post, "Ongoing Abuse of Prisoners in W.C.I.'s Seg. Complex").

Shortly after being given clothing and bedding again, I tried to bust the nozzle off the sink in my new cell -- it had four windows, big ones. =) Alas, I was caught on camera and soon again was naked and cold.

The next day, I was given a t-shirt, underwear, orange shoes and orange pants -- no orange uniform top. Lt. Schneider and Brian Greff, the two main administrators in seg. -- escorted me off the unit, insulting, threatening and mocking me along the way. While I awaited my carriage, a guard gave me another t-shirt.

W.C.I. staff were in awe of the whole event, as were the two prisoners who observed the fatigue wearing, "Federal Transportation Service" characters who came to pick me up. Their Southern accents were almost as thick as the bold, capital white letters on their black coats. The leader, called, "Captain," insinuated I'd be duct taped if I became a problem.

It'd been two days since I'd slept. It'd be three more before I'd sleep, sorta.

I felt like I was in an episode of, "The Twilight Zone," or, "The Gitmo Zone."

The WI D.O.C.'s decision to switch me into federal custody was wholly unusual. 99.9% [of] WI prisoners who'd been put into federal custody had been recalled, even Christopher Scarver, the guy who'd killed Jeffrey Dahlmer (and Jesse Anderson), although Scarver was later returned to fed. custody. Only six days after the P.R.C. "hearing" where I was told I was going into fed. custody (that "hearing" took place at 3:45 P.M., far later than was normal), I was on my way gone.

I hadn't killed anyone, hadn't battered nor assaulted staff for about a year, hadn't battered a prisoner for around 11 years. The spree of assaults on staff that got me kicked outta the WI stupormax (see my post, "How I Escaped from WI's Supermax," posted about Feb. 2013) was old news and no blood was drawn (though staff surely deserved to be bled).

Before being kicked outta WI's stupidmax, I wrote and filed two suits against the joint, described in prior posts. After I arrived at W.C.I., I filed one more suit against a sadistic stupidmax supervisor and one suit against W.C.I. staff for their malicious destruction of my property (books and art). I'd also drafted multiple suits for other prisoners and criminal complaints for prisoners who'd been sexually and physically assaulted by staff at W.C.I. and elsewhere. I was struggling to, with my bare resources, help seriously mentally ill prisoners exhaust the prisoner-grievance process so we could file a class-motion about the horrible conditions in W.C.I.'s seg. complex, where many prisoners cut, bit, hung and defecated on themselves, if not worse.

My transfer to the B.O.P. mooted much of my litigation and, as egotistical as it may sound, leaves a lot of prisoners there unable to get their valid cases in court.

Is that the reason for the sudden transfer, entirely out of state custody?

On the way here, I froze. I was poisoned with fast food, which was so salty that my hands and feet swelled up. I was only given 20-40 ozs. of water a day. One insane transporter kicked and effed up my left ankle, ligating me with the shackle, an old W.C.I. trick.

Met a couple [of] pretty girls on the bus, whom I recited poetry to and stared into the pretty eyes of, yet assured I wasn't seeking any romance from, despite my hunger for such. [I] saw a jailer in Kentucky, where we lodged for a couple [of] days of rest (and I tore apart the bathroom of, without being caught =)), with beautiful gray/green eyes and curly burgundy hair. [I] met a cool dude from Texas, Chris Girard, whom I shot the shot with. And, of course, I hyped my blog.

"Hi!" to any of you who were on that ride with me and actually looked up my blog. No, Chris -- I'm not in a federal facility for the study of the criminally insane. It's just a U.S.P. In fact, despite me stopping by the Psych. dept. twice and e-mailing them, they still haven't scheduled an appointment with me. Crazy, huh?

I guess the question is, "What's the wisest move for me now?"

Nate