WRITING CAN BE DANGEROUS WORK

WRITING CAN BE DANGEROUS WORK

The new reality is a little white cell, with cement barriers all around for a place to sit or lie down. A dark gray stainless steel toilet is located near the back of the little room. A metal door is always locked behind me. It has a small window located at eye level. There is a little sliding door that can be opened from the outside. I go to the bathroom in an open room with an open window in the door. Immediate loss of privacy for one’s own immediate personal needs. Constant anxiety over what is happening. Never told what is going on. That’s the new reality.

I never know what is going on. Why am I here? What’s going to happen to me? Why am I always in the dark, but the lights are always on? And I have a strong mind. What happens to those who have a psychologically abused mind?

As some of you might know, I am the one who has been writing in defense of Arlo Looking Cloud. In fact, I had just sent off a letter to Amnesty International to investigate the mistreatment he has received. I also sent off a letter to the area BIA director to ask him to investigate some land fraud. Interesting timing. I can still hardly believe what happened next. Someone really wants to silence me, and make it extremely difficult for me to testify against the criminal actions taken against me.

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. My beautiful house that I had been building for the past 8 years, now violated. I rushed past her and into the house. 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. I would discover much later that many of my things were stolen that day while I was gone. All accomplished with a court order through the Tribal Court by Lisa Cook. Louise was standing there in the yard, along with her son Robert Montileaux, stating that I had been evicted. Apparently they had been hauling my things out all day, stealing my property aided and abetted by the Tribal Court. Is this the eviction procedure according to CFR guidelines?

I drove back out. On the road, I met the police. I flagged him down. He said, “Could you follow me to town?” I said, “I’m going over to my neighbor’s house to call.”

He followed me over. I went into Karen’s house. 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. So I called anyway. Karen was arguing with him, asking where was his court order. I don’t know if he had a court order or a warrant. I never saw one. I had called the police because someone, Robert Montileaux and Louise Big Boy, had broken and entered my house, the one I built, and were stealing my things. The police come and arrest me. The only answer I have received to this is that Louise is a member of the Oglala Sioux Tribe and has an inherent right whatever she wants, whereas I, a nonmember, have no rights, not even a right to my property.

Then the Tribal police officer said, “ Come with me,” and he put me in the squad car. I asked, “What about Louise and Robert 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 headed toward Kyle. We were almost there when the officer turned around. I asked where we were going. He said he was to meet someone in Porcupine. I told him I needed to stop by my car and pick up my check book. He allowed me to do that. 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.

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 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 still light out when the police drove the squad car into the Pine Ridge jail. 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! I was taken through a cement corridor to a booking area. I was processed into the Pine Ridge jail. I was told to empty the contents of my pockets. They really looked at that 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.

They gave me some kind of mat and a blanket, 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.” 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. They processed me back out and returned my shoes and my knife, which they marveled at, showing the Sheriff. 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, “You are trespassing on Tribal trust land, and I have a court order to arrest you for failure to vacate.”

“What about my property?” I asked. “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?”

He said something about Judge Lisa Cook’s court order. I said that whatever her decision was, I was never served notice of it. “Therefore the eviction is illegal and you are helping to carry out a false arrest. What about my property? While I am sitting in jail, I am being robbed.”

He marched me off to the squad car. I was handcuffed and told not to make a disturbance or talk to anyone or he would handcuff me with my hands behind my back and put me back with the ballot boxes. What I did not realize at the time is that Judge Lisa Cook had issued a Order which stated “her subsequent threat to public safety of tribal members and their property.” In her order, Judge Cook ordered the Police to “forcibly eject” me from my home, and from the Reservation as well. After issuing an order like that, I can understand why she wouldn’t want me to come back to ask any troubling questions. Maybe that is why, after giving my house to Louise, she made no provision in her decision as to how I am to retrieve my belongings and a time line to do it in.

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. The moon was out. My god! I can’t believe it! I start 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 prayed for Arlo who is having it much worse than me. I prayed for the Iraqi prisoners of Abu Graib.

The sheriff opened the door at when we reached the jail. I was taken inside, still handcuffed. I was brought into a booking area and told to sit on a metal folding chair. I was still handcuffed. I must have sat there for at least half an hour. Finally someone came. They started asking me some questions for the record. My record. I asked the man if he would remove the handcuffs.

He looked like maybe he shouldn’t. I said, “And where do you think I will go?”

So, he removed them. I was fingerprinted, mug shot taken, and questioned. 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 late. I called a friend and left a message. That was my one phone call. I was shut in a cement cell with a little window. 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 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. 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? 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. 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 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? If you want to check my real record, go to the Internet and type in words like Janis Schmidt, Arlo Looking Cloud, http://www.lakotaperspectives.com justice, art. There you will find a record of accomplishments.

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.

Odd timing. Now I am isolated and alienated. What other kinds of charges are they looking for? What is this? New rules? Something to do with Patriot Act? Maybe I urged Indians to stop their bickering and unite. Maybe I accused the Feds of obstructing justice. Maybe I did all these things. What is happening?

They take me from the holding cell. I ask about seeing the judge. 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.

Why am I not simply arraigned? What about my belongings and valuables? What is going on? 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.

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 am assigned a top bunk. Before I even get in the cell, the older woman, Deb, suggests I be given the lower bunk. “How is she going to get up there?” Deb asks. The jailer cooperates. 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 thank 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 fiance. No one seems 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.”

Deb got bonded out, but promised she would work on getting Tess out, even before she got out her own son. Tess wrapped herself in a blanket and was sitting there 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. It began several hundred years ago. Too many laws destroy freedom. 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.

A change had taken place with the jailers. I was treated with a great deal of courtesy and respect. I was allowed a phone call from a kind hearted person who told me he was putting up the money to bond me out. Two days later, I was on my way back to Pine Ridge. From an undisclosed location, I called my true friend. 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.”

“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 I didn’t have time to think. The news was so shocking that I didn’t understand what my true friend was telling me. Instead, I doubted his sincerity. I had just gone through the ordeal of my life, frightened, but I found I had the courage to stand and fight. To do anything less seemed cowardly to me. Because I was so involved, so on the front line, I failed to appreciate the truth my true friend 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. That I had been banned from the reservation Louise and her gang had played their hand. If I was off the Reservation, I wouldn’t be able to bring charges, nothing. This is what they were banking on. And Louise didn’t just think of this by herself. The order had to come from high up. How can these thugs be allowed to get by with something like this? They were very serious about wanting to get rid of me. Like my friend said, they thought of everything. Except for what to do if I returned, which I did.

What are a colonized people to do? Their culture is being decimated, and they are paid to carry out their own destruction. Anyone who objects is jailed, or loses their job, or their job is made so miserable that they quit. The laws and justice system are designed to lead to lawlessness. What are the answers? What are people supposed to do, once they have been so brutalized? It seems to me that the U.S. government wants to have the Lakotas, all Native Americans, to self destruct. The only way to fight back is to start practicing your traditions, start living your virtues and values. Stop being immoral. Start respecting yourself. Learn how to be self-sufficient. Learn how to repair something rather than mindlessly destroy something. Most of all, stand together and object to injustice, to yourself, to others. This incredible story to be continued.

Hard to reach me these days, since I have been made homeless, but you can call these two numbers. My e-mail remains the same. 605-867-2413 or 605-455-1138 jlschmidt [at] gwtc.net http://www.lakotaperspectives.com