Lakota Perspectives
Chapter 11 (?)
When I returned home from a cook
sale in Pine Ridge, I noticed a pick up backed up to my door. I figured someone was breaking and
entering. I turned around and drove back
to my neighbor’s place to call the police.
When I returned, my yard was full of cars. Louise was standing there waving her arms and
proclaiming that I was now evicted and she was claiming my house. I rushed past her. All the doors were standing wide open. The padlock hasps had been pried off and the
door jambs were broken. I rushed inside
the cabin to call the police, only to find the phone gone! And everything else gone! My beautiful house that I had been building
for the past 8 years, now violated. I
rushed past her and into the cabin. A
lot of things were gone! The computer
was gone!
I rushed outside to find some things
were put in my pickup box and in the cab.
I saw the computer sitting there in the front seat. Louise Big Boy was standing there in the yard,
along with her son Robert Montileaux, shouting,
“You’re evicted!” Apparently the
goon squad had been hauling my things out all day, stealing my property.
I ran back past Louise and her goon
squad, jumped in my Bronco, and drove off to a neighbor’s house to call the
police. I told the police that some
people had broken into my house, and were stealing my things, that I would meet
them at my house. They said they would
be right out.
I was driving slowly back to my cabin,
when the police pulled up behind me and motioned for me to stop. The police officer told me that I better
follow him to the police station. That
didn’t make any sense. A pit of fear
gripped my stomach, as I drove along.
Instead, of following, I pulled into Karen’s again. I raced up the steps and knocked on the door.
The police officer followed me and told
me that I was under arrest. He even read me the Miranda rights. Karen asked him for his court order or
warrant. If he had one, I didn’t see it
nor was I presented with one. I said I
was going to use the phone. He said if I
did, I would be charged with resisting arrest.
Good, god! They were really going
to take me away. And I had to let
someone know that. “I have a right to
make a phone call,” I said, my hands
shaking as I dialed the number of my best friend, Lucy Bull Bear. Karen was arguing with the police officer,
asking where was his court order. I don’t know if he had a court order or a
warrant. I never saw one.
The police told me I was under
arrest, but he wouldn’t tell me what for.
He ordered me to put down the phone or he would add more charges.
“What charges?” I was dumbfounded! This was insane! Unreal!
He wouldn’t tell me what I was charged with, nor did he show me a
warrant. He just insisted that I hang up
the phone. Lucy answered the
phone. I told her to listen very
carefully. Karen started arguing with
the police officer about not having a warrant, which was good. That way, the officer couldn’t prevent me
from making the phone call, and he couldn’t listen in. “I am being arrested, and they are going to
put me in a squad car and take me to jail.
Please meet me at the Kyle jail….I don’t know why…. I don’t know what’s
going on, but if you don’t meet me at
the police station, you may never see me
again! And I don’t have time to explain.”
The Tribal police officer said, “
Come with me.” I put down the phone. He was actually going to put me in the squad
car, and take me away! He told me not to
resist, or he would have to handcuff me.
Somehow, I managed not to faint.
He put me in the squad car, closed the door, and off we went towards
Kyle, nine miles away.
I asked,
“What about the people who have broken and entered my house and are
stealing my things? What are all those
people doing in my yard with boxes?”
He said, “I’m just following orders.” I was to hear that a lot, I’m just following
orders.
We were rounding the hill heading into Kyle
when the officer got a phone call. He turned
around. I asked where we were
going. He said he was to meet someone in
Porcupine. I asked the officer, “ What about my house and my things?” He didn’t have any answers.
We passed 3 Mile Creek, and were
heading towards Sharps Corner. About
half way, we were met by another squad car.
The officer got out, and the two of them talked for awhile. Then, he got back in, turning at Sharps
Corner, and heading south. The other
officer was following. There was some
more talking on the radio. The officer
stopped, turned around, and started heading back towards Sharps Corner. Some more talking, then he stopped, turned
around, and headed back towards Porcupine.
The hardest thing was not knowing what was
going on. What is going to happen to
me? Every time I was transferred to
another car, I asked someone to safeguard my house and belongings. This was never done. Apparently, no one had orders to protect my
property and apprehend the thieves who were stealing my things. This gave rise
to a more frightening thought. No paper
work, no warrant, no court order, and the police not investigating the theft,
it all added up to that they wanted to get rid of me. I couldn’t contemplate any further than that.
There were 2 police cars waiting at the Big
Foot pull over. The officer and other
police got out. Six officers were
outside of their cars, talking. After
they conversed for awhile, the officer told me to get out of the car. My heart was racing. I said nothing, but did as I was told. My
heart dropped to my feet, as I was escorted into another squad car. I was afraid I was about to take the Anna Mae
ride. For the first time, one of the
officers spoke, and told me this was going to be the last transfer, that they
would take me straight to Pine Ridge and put me in jail!
I said, “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”
“You are Janis Schmidt, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s no mistake. We are just following the Judge Cook’s
Order.”
“What Order? How can there be an Order without a hearing?”
But they didn’t want to answer
questions, and furthermore, felt they didn’t have to.
It was still light out when the
police drove the squad car into the Pine Ridge jail. How very strange, after all these years, of
coming into Pine Ridge, now to be looking at it from the back of a police car. Stranger still was like I was being chauffeured
to the police station with the car stopping on an unloading cement slab. A strange reality set in when two officers
took me into a U shaped desk area, with a windowed office behind it, with lots
of screens and computers. A woman behind
the counter told me to empty my pockets.
She told me to count my money.
She called another police officer, and they both marveled at my pocket
knife, like it was some kind of weapon,
passing it around, marveling at it.
I had just used it that very morning to scrape the posts on my
battery. I said, “That’s not a weapon; it’s a tool.” I was asked a bunch of questions which they
wrote down. I was taken back and put
into the women’s cell. My god, I was
thinking, I’m going to be put in jail. Never in my whole born days had I even
been close to a jail! They told me to
take off my shoes. They gave me some
kind of mat and a blanket. I was told
to follow an officer down a hallway. The
officer stopped in front of a metal door.
He unlocked a heavy metal door, and I entered a world where there is no
freedom. Girls dressed in orange suits
asked me, "What are you in
for?”
“Political prisoner,” I said. They really liked that. “I’m the one who has been writing the Arlo
Looking Cloud stories.” The girls laughed,
and motioned a place for me on the cement floor against the wall. I had developed a following ever since I
started writing about Arlo Looking Cloud in the Anna Mae Pictou Aquash murder
trial. We talked, passed the time. Finally the jailer came for me. The girls said goodbye and told me to remember
them in my writing. I said I would. They were calling out their names to me as I
was going out the door.
I was taken to the booking area where the
Sheriff was waiting. The tribal police
processed me back out and returned my shoes and my pocket knife, which they
marveled at, even showing it to the Sheriff.
A tribal captain gave me a detailed explanation of how they were
following the law, which, of course, explained absolutely nothing. I felt this explanation was more for the
sheriff than for myself. The sheriff was
standing by the exit hallway. I was glad
to see him. Now, I might find out what
was going on. The sheriff told me he was
taking me to Pennington County Jail.
“For what reason?” I asked.
In a loud and booming voice, the
sheriff announced, “For trespassing on
Indian trust land.”
I said to the Sheriff, “This is a false arrest. I was served no court order of eviction. There hasn’t even been a hearing on this, or
not one that has been authorized by the BIA who are still investigating the
status of the land in question.”
The Sheriff said, “I have a court order here that says you
were evicted for trespassing on tribal land.”
But he didn’t show me the court order, nor did he show me a warrant.
“How can you have a court order if I
never had a hearing?”
“A hearing was held for you, but you
chose not to go to it.”
I said, “ I was never served notice
of an eviction hearing. Therefore the eviction is illegal and you are
helping to carry out a false arrest.
What about my property? Why
aren’t you arresting the ones who broke and entered my house, and are stealing
my things?
“Just following orders,” he said.
“I thought your job was to protect
people’s property and ensure their safety,” I said.
“Those questions are for the court
to decide,” he said.
“How come you never came when I
called you. I was always told it was a
civil matter and you couldn’t get involved, that you only came for criminal
matters. Isn’t breaking and entering and
stealing a criminal matter?”
This was so strange and terrifying
that I felt myself separating from reality.
I was told to sign a paper stating I received my belongings. The sheriff
was tired of answering questions he
didn’t want to answer. He
marched me off to the sheriff’s van.
Back out on the loading dock, the sheriff told me to hold out my hands. He handcuffed me. He told me not to talk to say anything or he
would handcuff me behind my back and put me in back with the ballot boxes. He opened the back door, and I got in. I was
totally stunned, like I had just fallen through the rabbit hole. There was another woman sitting on the other
side, and a woman was sitting in the front seat with the sheriff. They were vote watchers, catching a ride with
the sheriff, back to Hot Springs. I was
some kind of criminal also catching a ride with the sheriff. Amazing!
For the next 12 days, I would live in a state of shock, fearful of what would happen to me, my
property, my means of survival gone. I
think I am one of the few self sufficient people left in America. I cut my own wood, built my own house, plant
a large garden, sell the produce, can for the winter storage. All these things I do to keep my living
expenses low. It all started out because
I needed a place to paint. I have been
an artist all my life. I have been
building now for 8 years, almost finished, only to have Louise Big Boy, the one
who told me I could live and build my house on her land, that no one would
bother me, and no one wanted to live there.
Well, at least, not until the house was finished.
It was a long two and a half hour drive
to Hot Springs. I sat behind the
sheriff, my knees up against the seat, my wrists hurting from the handcuffs,
and the seat strap biting into my arms.
It was quite dark out now. As we
drove along, the sheriff and the women conversed pleasantly about normal social
things. In a perverse moment, I considered
joining in the conversation except the sheriff had told me to shut up or he
would put me in back.
The moon was up and shining brightly as full
moons do. My god! I can’t believe
this! Is this real? I began thinking about Arlo, and the long
ordeal he went through, how it must have been for him 10 years ago, when he was
first picked up and questioned, taken all over from Alaska to Florida, not
knowing what it was all about. The
closest thing I had ever been to a jail was Pennington County Jail, when I went
to see Arlo. I was getting a firsthand lesson in what it
means to be Indian. Suddenly a warm comfort overcame me. I was stiff from being bound, my wrists hurt
from the handcuffs, and my knees ached from being crammed against the front
seat, but I felt no longer afraid. And I
no longer thought about my hurting wrists and knees. I
thought about others who had it much worse than me: Arlo Looking Cloud and Leonard Peltier. They were both sitting in prison, falsely
accused. And I thought of Anna Mae, who
was murdered for what she knew about the Movement and standing up for Indian
rights. Without any clear idea of the
outcome of this, I knew I had it better than Arlo or Leonard or Anna Mae. And I prayed for them. I prayed for the Iraqi prisoners of Abu
Graib, who had it much worse than me. I
thanked God that my life was spared, but
for what purpose? I prayed, ‘Stand by me, give me the words, give me the wisdom and courage, and show me
the way.’ I felt comforted, and I also felt chosen, like I was supposed
to experience this so I would come to a deeper understanding. Living with the Indians, I learned to
communicate directly with God, and to listen to the birds and animal, who carried
messages from God all the time. If
someone is doing something evil, I don’t own it. That was hard for me. I didn’t learn all this in a day. When Ermine and her daughters continuously
called me a whore, and spread all kinds of pornographic stories about me, I was
consumed with hatred towards them. Leroy
told me to let it go; it belongs to them, not me. I lived with Leroy for over 10 years before I
really came to understand what he was talking about. I am
not being punished for something I did or didn’t do. I do not have to be laden with sin to come to
God. So many times, I ran to Tony Black Feather to
tell him about the latest escapades of Ermine and her daughters, who listened,
and then went into a conversation that seemed to be totally unrelated. It wasn’t;
I just didn’t have the mind to understand what he was saying at the
time. He was revealing to me who the
real Indian was, and how he viewed the world.
He frequently told me that my union with Leroy was like a cat and a dog,
and here was me, trying to make it work. He explained to me than Indians don’t
sin. ‘They do bad things, and things
that are harmful, but they don’t sin. Only
white people do that.’
‘Well, how can that be?’ I wanted to know.
‘Because Jesus tells you your sins
are forgiven, so you go ahead and sin all you want.’
‘What do you call all the bad things
that Indians do?’
‘Bad things.’
‘And these bad things aren’t sins?’
‘No, they are only bad things.’
‘That you approve of?’
‘That is like saying you only approve
of the day, but not the night.’
‘That’s different.’
‘You say that because you have been
trained to think in parts, never getting the whole picture. You have to first understand that we are all
related; that everything has a purpose and order in the universe. Mitakuye Oyasin. Good and evil are part of the same coin.’
‘As a white person, we should shun
evil, that choosing evil is choosing the devil.’
‘In Christian way of thinking, no
one is capable of being all good. So
you’re all going to hell.’
‘That doesn’t make sense. I was taught that we should be individual and
independent, that communal living is bad, that socialism is bad, and that Jesus
will decide who goes to heaven and who doesn’t.
To be good means we must surrender our will to Jesus.’
‘No, it doesn’t make sense. That’s because everything is a competition
with you. You have a heaven up in the
sky somewhere, where no one qualifies to go to.
You have a hell down below, which is where you bury your dead, so they
can be a little closer to hell. You have
God and Satan competing for your soul, and the Devil always scores big on your
priest’s uneven playing field.’
It was easy to laugh and laugh at
Tony’s unique analogies, only because they were too true when looked at in a
different light. ‘We have survival of
the fittest, with the fittest tearing the weak and poor to shreds.’
‘A botanist in the field of science
told you this, and you swallowed it hook, line, and sinker, because it
justifies the fact that America has a lot of Indian blood on its hands. And if this theory were really true to life,
you would have never survived in America; you would be extinct because Columbus
discovered the most fit people that ever peopled this earth; strong in both mind and body. Columbus came with a cross of gold in one
hand and a sword in the other. America
was founded on murder and theft of Indian land.’
‘And Columbus attempted to convert
the Indians to Christianity. And when
they refused to convert, he decided to force them to work in gold mines. I’ve read the Columbus diaries. But what I would like to know is how to you
look at good and evil.’
‘It’s like catching a cold. You have that runny nose and you sneeze. That doesn’t mean you should cut off your
nose for being evil.’
‘What about cancer?’
‘A long time ago, a medicine man
could cure all our ailments, because they were natural. The plants grew wild that contained the
medicine. Nowadays, many of the diseases
are manmade especially for a chemical cure with expensive drugs.’
‘Then what about behavior, when some
ruling faction decides to conduct germ warfare on civilian populations, and the
first to be stricken are the very young and the old. Isn’t that evil?’
‘Not all manmade things are
evil. A bird can built a better
nest; a beaver can build a better dam. At one time, people used to build their own
houses. All are good. The beaver’s dam does not take away anything
from nature. Capitalists decide that a
person’s home should yield a profit on the Market, so they sell the home to you
at an exorbitant, inflated price, who then sell your mortgage to an investment
bank. You never really ever own your
house, and you can be evicted at will.
At the same time, America says it was founded upon freedom, equality,
and the guaranteed protection of life, liberty, and property for its citizens. The coyote kills the rabbit because he is
hungry and meat is his food, but the coyote doesn’t chase the rabbit out of its
home for sport or profit or the fun of killing.
Americans have always looked to find something for nothing. Sitting Bull said that white man has many laws
to govern the poor, which do not govern the rich. Capitalism is the seed of
injustice. Injustice is a form of evil.’
I
believe every word Tony ever spoke to be to be some sort of universal
truth. Just now, I am just beginning to
understand what he meant.
After what seemed to be 3 hour ride,
we finally arrived in Hot Springs. I
think the sheriff was driving very slowly because he was flirting with the
woman in the front seat. And she was a
willing receptacle. He dropped the women
off, the back seat woman first. Then, of
course, it was my turn. The sheriff
drove into a compound, and opened the door. He did not tell me anything, nor did he show
me a warrant or court order. My hands
and arms were aching from being handcuffed for over 3 hours. I was taken
inside, still handcuffed. I was brought
into a booking area and told to sit on a metal folding chair. The sheriff did not remove the handcuffs, he
just walked out the door.
The wait was interminable. I must have sat there for at least half an
hour. Finally the sheriff returned, and told me I
would be processed into jail, and left me sitting on the chair, still
handcuffed. I waited another 15 or twenty minutes. There was no explanation or any information
on what I could expect. Finally a jailer
appeared, and told me I would be processed into jail. I insisted on making a phone call. He told me I could make my phone call
later. Right now, they were going to ask
me some questions for the record. The
record! My record! Name.
Address. Address is your home,
isn’t it? Did I still have a home? Phone number.
My god! My phone is gone, but I
still have a phone number. I answered
the questions, like this was the Mad Hatter and all was normal. I was still in handcuffs. Finally, I asked, “Are you going to remove these handcuffs?”
The jailer, a soft spoken man
answered, “Normally we don’t remove hand
cuffs during the booking in process.”
“We are in the jail,” I said.
The door is closed. Locked, I
presume. Do you have visions of me
escaping?”
“I am just following procedure.”
“Do you plan on ever removing these
handcuffs? I have been handcuffed for
over 3 hours, now. These cuffs are
biting into my wrists, cutting off my circulation. And I am diabetic, as you discovered from one
of the questions you asked.”
“Do you promise not to escape?” the jailer asked.
My heavy set person looked around at
my surroundings, and blinked my eyes rapidly at the utter absurdity of the
question, pondering what words to use that wouldn’t betray my thoughts. Appearing a little dazed and dimwitted,
which I probably was, I asked, “Where do
you think I’m going to escape to?”
The jailer very reluctantly removed
the handcuffs. He slowly moved through
the questions at a snail’s pace.
“What am I being charged with?” I asked.
“Failure to vacate,” he answered.
But he didn’t explain, nor did he cite any statute. This was very confusing to me because it was not
clear if he was going by tribal law or state law. Either way, it didn’t seem like a jailable
offense. I was in no position to argue
with him, and it wouldn’t have done any good anyway. What little information I received, just made
the whole situation stranger and stranger.
He took his time, talkative about the process.
I asked, “How long does it normally take you to
process in a prisoner?”
“About 20 minutes.”
“When do I get to call my lawyer?”
“As soon as we are done, you can
make your phone call.”
I made no comment on the fact that
it was taking over an hour to process me in, and we still weren’t through. Or that I was being charged with something
that was outside the state’s jurisdiction.
Or that I had not seen a warrant or court order. The jailer wanted to know my medical history,
and if I was taking any drugs. I told
him I was diabetic, and that I was taken without my medications. That didn’t seem to interest him as much as
getting the names of the medications.
Either way, I was being denied access to my medications. He was just so talkative. He said we had now come to the finger
printing. “Have you ever been finger printed?” he wanted to know.
“No.”
“Well, they take ink up each finger
and roll it over a sheet of paper. You
just let your hand relax.” He explained
that several times. He was very good at
explaining prisoner procedures, and prided himself on it. And he told me what a model prisoner I was,
how cooperative. What choice did I
have? He said he was going to get the printer,
and told me not to go anywhere. He
looked at me like maybe he shouldn’t leave me alone.
“Where do you think I’d be
going?” I asked.
“We don’t want to be looking for
you.”
And he left me alone. Once again, I waited a long time for him to
return.
He returned with someone. I was
fingerprinted, mug shot taken. The
officer told me that bail of $250 had been placed on me. He asked if I wanted to post bond. I didn’t have any kind of money like
that. So he said I would be placed in
jail. I was told to remove the contents
of my pockets, and remove my shoes. I
was given slippers. I asked to make a phone
call. It was now late, after midnight. They asked for the number, and had to get my
billfold because I constantly carried Bernie Boondoggle’s phone numbers with
me. They got the phone number, told me
to sit on this chair, in front of a little door, like a urine specimen
door. Another door opened on the other side,
and a phone receiver slid into the little compartment. It was now after midnight. I would not be able to talk to Bernie in
person, and the record could show that I was not incarcerated until the 2nd
of June. I got Bernie’s answering machine, left a message. That was my one phone call.
I was shut in a cement cell with a little
window. I was locked up in solitary
confinement. There was a cement slab for
a bed, and a metal toilet in the corner.
The new reality.
The crazy thing was, I did not know
what I was being charged with, why I was there, and who was charging me. And I had no access to find out anything.
The next morning, the guard told me
that they don’t know if I would even go to arraignment today. If not, I must wait a week to see the
judge. What about my property and
phone? What is Louise doing with that? Are she and Robert allowed to do as they
please with my things? This is nothing
short of legalized thievery.
I have to go bathroom, but a man is
being processed into jail. He is right in
line with the little window in the door.
I go sit back down on the
cement. I am afraid. What is going on? How am I to make necessary phone calls? How
am I to receive necessary phone calls? Most
of all, what is happening with my things? Who knows where I am? And what’s going to happen? Wait, wait, waiting. Why am I not going to court today to be
arraigned? I am told I cannot make any
phone calls, that I was allowed one, and I already made that one.
Time drags on. It is now past noon. They have brought me breakfast and
lunch. Too much carbohydrates.
I
did not have my medications, and I am diabetic.
All of the fear, stress, and anxiety was like a shot of sugar to my
blood stream. I began running in
place—one hundred, two hundred, three hundred steps in place. The kind of food one gets in jail is starch
and sugar. I can’t eat that If I do, my blood sugar level will rise to
dangerous levels. And if I don’t eat, my
blood sugar will drop too low, which could cause coma or even death.
As an artist, I have known things
all my life. I don’t know how I know
what I know, but I do. This all had to
have a reason. I believed that, but I
couldn’t see what it was. Time drags on.
No information. No way to get
information. Nothing to do but think. And write.
I asked for paper and pen or pencil.
At least I could write down what was happening. I suppose they figured no harm in that.
I heard them talking when I was
being processed. They were going to
check my record. What record? I have never been in jail in my whole born
days. There is no police or criminal
record. But now I have a record, don’t I?
It is very odd timing. I am sending out letters to Amnesty
International to ask them to investigate prison abuse and interrogation methods
used on Native Americans, specifically Arlo Looking Cloud. At the same time, Louise is really acting up,
emboldened to use illegal methods to get rid of me, with the help of the BIA,
who does not want anyone looking at their records, and Judge Lisa Cook, who
carried out the plan, by fabricating a court hearing, without the BIA calling
for this hearing, using false and one-sided evidence to write a decision,
ordering the Tribal police to carry out a false arrest, based on false charges,
and making sure I never got a copy of it, if indeed it did exist. They kept talking about this court Order, but
I never saw it. Why didn’t they show it
to me?
They take me from the holding
cell. I ask to see the judge. No answer.
Who is calling the shots? Doesn’t look like I will be arraigned
today. I make an application for a court
appointed attorney. My god! I think of Arlo Looking Cloud, and he had so
much stacked against him. What an
elaborate plan to pin the murder of Anna Mae on Arlo! Now I understand how that can be done. Once a person is incarcerated, one is totally
helpless. Authorities can do anything
they want. It doesn’t have to be legally
done. They can just do it.
Every time a jailer goes by I ask, why
am I not simply arraigned? What about my
belongings and valuables? What is going
on? They tell me that only the sheriff
can answer that question. I ask to see
the sheriff. The jailers claim they gave
the message to the sheriff, but he never talks to me. I keep asking, with never any answer. When you don’t know what is going on, it is
easy to believe that no one cares, or that no one is doing anything for
you. From the time I was arrested, I
immediately lost my rights and freedom. It is easy to become paranoid. You don’t even have a right to an answer to a
simple question, like, why was I here?
Eventually, the jailer came with an
orange jump suit, and told to remove my clothes and put this on. I was placed in the women’s cell with 2
others. The 2 women were talking to each
other, making phone calls with an expensive phone card, the only kind you can
get if you were lucky enough to have money when you were arrested. It costs 50 cents a minute. Good thing I got one before I was put in the
cell because I found out later that one can only get these cards on certain
days at certain times.
I was assigned a top bunk. Before I even get in the cell, the older
woman, Deb, suggested I be given the lower bunk. “How is she going to get up there?” Deb asked.
The jailer cooperated and gave me the lower bunk. Upon examination, I discover the only way up
to the upper bunk is to climb up the toilet seat, step up on the sink which is
located on top of the tank, then climb up on the bunk. I thanked Deb for her thoughtfulness.
I discovered that the younger woman,
a girl actually, Tess, is Deb’s daughter-in-law. The son is also in jail. Apparently a violent and abusive son-in-law
had falsely accused Tess of theft, then he got a restraining order against
them. They drove down the street, and he
had them arrested.
Deb was so kind and thoughtful
toward me, yet clearly I could see she was having a difficult time trying to
raise $30,000 bail money. No would put
up any title for the bond. Notes were
being passed from the men’s to the women’s cell so that Tess could communicate
with her fiancé. No one seemed to want
to help. Yet with all her trouble, Deb
thought to comfort and aid me as best she could. Most of all, she had information on what to
expect and what to do. The few people I
met in jail appeared to be victims of their charges, innocent victims of the
real criminals, their accusers.
Strange. And even stranger is
that the system upholds this kind of lawlessness with the standard
response, “I’m just doing my job.”
I used my phone card to call
Lucy. I could hardly wait to talk to
her. I talked to her once, and told her
where I was. Thereafter, her brother
always answered the phone, telling me that she went to the store, or she was in
the shower. It didn’t take long to use
up all the minutes on the $20 phone card.
Deb got bonded out, but promised she
would work on getting Tess out, even before she got out her own son, because
she knew Tess couldn’t handle jail. Tess
wrapped herself in a blanket and was sitting against the wall, so alone,
frightened to death with tears rolling down her cheeks.
I felt so moved. I told her,
“I know this might not be too much consolation. But try to look at the bigger picture. Look at what is really going on, and that you
are a part of it. Too many laws destroy
freedom. Change takes time. Change doesn’t take place in the court
room. No, it doesn’t. Change begins in the heart of someone who has
been wronged, who has the courage to stand up and say, ‘you can’t do that to me
and get by with it without a fight.’
Change begins in a jail cell when someone has been denied their basic
rights and freedom. Change then spills
out in the streets to the people who carry the taste of freedom into a movement
which gains its strength from the love and care that people have for each other. Change begins with one person who dares to
stand up to the system and say no, who then becomes part of a larger process
that keeps moving along, gaining momentum as more people join in. The last mile is the most memorable, when the
cause becomes a revolution. Then laws
are changed or abolished. It isn’t laws
that keep people safe or guarantee their freedom. It is the loving concern and
good will that people have for one another that keeps them safe and free. No bully can stop the will of the people to
be free when they join together. We
didn’t just have civil rights in the 60’s. No, we didn’t. People have forgotten the lessons of the
sixties. The weapons of choice today are the laws that
are used to allow criminal activities and protect the abusers of civil rights
and freedom. Poor people and minorities
are over-regulated, while the elite, the bullies, are under-regulated. Ultimately, there is only one freedom, that
begins with the truth, and ends with the people.”
Tess got up from the floor and sat
on the bunk. She read several
letters. I could tell a change was
taking place in that one frightened heart of hearts. Later, we talked. I think Tess is going to be ok.
I finally asked a new jailer about
why I had not been arraigned. He asked
what the charge was. I told him, failure
to vacate. He said, “That’s a very minor charge, like
jaywalking. I’m surprised you are in
jail over it. Usually you just pay a
fine, like a traffic ticket. But don’t
tell anyone I told you, or I could lose my job.” I promised not to.
A change had taken place with the
jailers. I was treated with a great deal
of courtesy and respect. I was even allowed
a phone call from Bernie Boondoggle, who told me he was putting up the money to
bond me out. I asked Tess if I could use
her phone card to call bondsman. She was
kind enough to allow me to do so. The
bondman came, and I filled out the papers.
I asked Tess one more time if I could use her phone card to call someone
who would come and get me. I should have
called Leroy in the first place. Thank
god he was home. He never sounded
surprised or nothing. He said he would
be there. He must have jumped in his
pick up and came right away to Hot Springs, because I could hear him talking to
the jailer. The jailer told him he
needed $250 before he could release me.
Leroy was trying to get the jailer to accept title to his pickup, but
the jailer wouldn’t accept it. After
awhile another jailer came by with the food trays. I told her I wanted to talk to Leroy. She said that wasn’t permitted, unless it was
visiting hours, which it wasn’t.
Wait, wait, wait. I had learned at 7:00am that I was being
bonded out. It was now 2:00pm. Is Leroy still here? I had no way of knowing. Finally at about 3:30, I was released. I was given a court appearance date, to
appear before a state judge in Hot Springs.
I walked out of the jail, wondering how I would find Leroy. But I didn’t have to wonder too long, because
there he was. We walked across the
street to his pickup. Off we went to a
restaurant.
Then I told Leroy we better stop
over and see my court appointed attorney.
Wait, wait, wait. Finally he said
to be in court on the 9th; there was nothing to talk about. I was quite disappointed. I thought I would finally gain some insight
as to what was going on. But no such luck.
Leroy, a full blood, told me I could store all my things at his
house. We both knew I would be living with him again. And he was very happy about that
arrangement. I told him in detail what
had happened. He told me it was common. He told me of the time he was in the Marines,
stationed in California, and that he had been rounded up and deported to
Mexico.
Three days after my ordeal, I was on
my way back to Pine Ridge. As soon as we
got back, I called Bernie Boondoggle
from Leroy’s phone. He told me that I
must get off the Reservation because Judge Lisa Cook had not only evicted me,
but had banned me from the Reservation.
I couldn’t believe it. “What
about my house, my property, and my belongings?”
He said, “Judge Cook gave your house to Louise Big
Boy. We can settle this all later, right
now, I want to know you are safe off the Reservation, so they cannot arrest you
and put you in jail again. Didn’t you
get a copy of Cook’s court order?”
“No. How did you get a copy of Cook’s court order?”
“I called Cook and asked her for a
copy of the court order.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t
talk to the judge.”
“I can’t talk to the judge when
there is an Action pending, but I am entitled to get a copy of her order. When I got your message that you were in
jail, I called the jail and discovered that Cook had issued an Order for your
arrest. I called the jail several times,
but I was not allowed to talk to you.
You would be better off to get the hell out of that cretin state. The state didn’t have jurisdiction, and acted
illegally. What a bunch of morons!”
“What kind of threat am I to
anyone?” I asked.
“Apparently, writing can be
dangerous work, and is threatening to some people,” he said.
“But I want you to get off the reservation. Unless people can get together and support
you, fight for you, I cannot see you taking all the heat for them. In the end, for speaking up for them, you
lose everything, are jailed, and kicked off the Reservation. If they can’t appreciate who you are, I would
say to go somewhere else and write and paint in peace, where someone
understands what you are doing.”
I promised, but not for one minute
did I believe my friends would abandon me.
Furthermore, I had no place to go.
Where was I going to go? The
news was so shocking that I didn’t understand what Bernie was telling me. Instead, I though he didn’t understand
Indians and the Indian’s problem. I heard what he said. Deep down, I knew it was true, but I couldn’t
face it. I had just gone through the
ordeal of my life, frightened, but I found I had the courage to stand and
fight. I believed these Indians just
needed someone to stand up for them. To
do anything less seemed cowardly to
me. Because I was so involved, so on the
front line, I failed to appreciate the truth Bernie was telling me and the
concern he had for my survival. Most of
all, I could not admit that the Lakota people whose rights I was fighting for,
would turn their back on me in my hour of need.
I had been banned from the
reservation. If I was off the
Reservation, I wouldn’t be able to bring charges, nothing. This is what they were banking on. And Louise and Judge Cook didn’t just think
of this by themselves. The order had to
come from high up. Someone who viewed
me as a threat. Someone with a lot of
power. They were very serious about wanting to get
rid of me. Like Bernie said, they
thought of everything. Except for what
to do if I returned, which I did.
I asked Leroy what he thought. He said if they came onto his land and in his
house to take me away he said he would shot them.
Now
I was beginning to understand what people had told me over and over, ‘This happens all the time to us. We get evicted just because someone doesn’t
like us, or someone in Housing wants to move one of their relatives into our
hour. Anyone who objects is jailed, or
loses their job, or their job is made so miserable that they quit. The laws are selectively applied, if at
all. The justice system is designed to
lead to cover up crime, and this leads to lawlessness. What are people supposed to do, once they
have been so brutalized? Indians fought
back in 1973, when they stood up to the corrupt tribal government with AIM at
Wounded Knee. To start shooting would be
to play right into their corrupt hand. They
could arrest me and put me in jail, when I had committed no violence or threats
against any member, what could they do to me if I started shooting? One has only to look what happened to Leonard
Peltier. No matter how I thought about
it, what happened wasn’t legal, and they weren’t going to get by with it.