Forced drugging of pretrial women prisoners: Interviews with some California Institution for Women Inmates

FORCED DRUGGING OF PRETRIAL WOMEN PRISONERS: Interviews with some California Institution for Women Inmates

Introduction to the prison

When we imagine U.S. prisons, our thoughts automatically turn to men, to their gangs and tight hierarchies, to drug dealing, rape and other violence, to situational homosexuality and other long-term concessions in the service of promoting safety and combatting loneliness. We visualize teardrop tattoos near the eyes; rough teal skull tattoos on bulky, sinewy arms; homemade knives and other weapons; the shadow-adults grown up from male children who were victimized and traumatized in unbearable home situations; skin predominantly darker than euro-American: society's "unredeemable."

When we imagine the U.S. prison system, we contemplate AIDS, tuberculosis, and other illnesses, poor living conditions, uncaring counselors, inadequate educational and vocational programs, guard sadism, and accruing prisoner paranoia. We consider images of barbed wire, hidden cameras, heavy metal doors clanging shut; gruelly, gray meals; the inescapable, oppressive sameness of time. We don't think of women dressed in street clothing, congregating socially, making and keeping friends, agitating on behalf of themselves and their sister inmates when they believe that injustices have been done.

We don't think of lifer and other long-term women prisoners caring for themselves, learning legalspeak and mental health methods in order to protest what they allege has happened to them: being given excessive, involuntary, illegal doses of unnecessary psychiatric medications pretrial, for the deliberate purpose of diminishing their abilities to defend themselves in court, with the ultimate intention of enhancing conviction rates.

My first contact with a group of remarkable women and their stories came through a query written to me in November, 1992. From a woman named Lori Bartz, the hand-written letter asked whether I would be interested in meeting with her, even formally interviewing her, so that I could write about what she alleged had happened to her. She indicated that she was a prisoner at the California Institute for Women, and that she had been given psychiatric medications, against her will and (she believed) unnecessarily, prior to her trial, and that her performance at the trial had faltered as a result. By return mail, I answered her, telling her of my interest, asking from where she'd gotten my name, asking if we could talk on the phone.

In the dozens of letters which ensued, I learned that Lori lived east of Los Angeles, in a town, Frontera, not listed on any map, because it hosted only the prison. I learned that Lori had read my byline in one of the feminist newspapers/magazines in which my writing is regularly published. I learned that she could call me, collect and unmonitored, for 10 minutes at a time, and that longer calls (also collect) would be monitored. By return mail, I answered. Clearly, meeting in person seemed like a good idea.

Over the next months, I received, from her, the names of several other women convicts who wanted to meet with me. Lori sent me instructions on whom to contact, at the prison, in order to be granted admittance and clearance to do the interview.

I learned to recognize Lori's block-print addressed envelopes, the slanted script that she used for writing the body of her letters. The sprightly bird and animal stickers on the outside of the envelopes, the pastel envelope colors, contrasted sharply with the pre-printed return address labels; I was forced to ponder the meaning and reality of a 48-year sentence, of a 5-digit assigned prison number. (I subsequently learned that the name following the prison number referred to the assigned prison living quarters, and that the 3-digit number following that was the room number; "L" or "U" meant, simply, lower or upper bunk).

Like other pen pals, Lori expressed eagerness to meet me, enthusiasm at the hopefully-upcoming interview date, pleasure that her story would be told. What struck me most was the volume of separate letters that she sent to me, each containing some new legal update about her case, or the most current position papers about the drugging issue, or new, local articles about the drugging - representing progress with the media. All of Lori's letters brimmed with near-desperation, as if, treated casually, I might slip through her fingers and, with me, her contact with the power of the press, her connection with a sister in the outside world.

During the intervening months, I spoke repeatedly with multiple prison administrators, with prison lieutenants, checking, cross-checking, and double-checking dates, times, and plans. My authenticity as a writer having been demonstrated by written affidavits, final interview coordinates were set. I was instructed not to wear jeans or shorts to the prison (I might otherwise be confused with an inmate). I was cautioned to bring neither weapons nor contraband to the prison. I was warned that, despite my meticulous advance preparations, there might be delays at the gate, or last-minute changes-of-plan. I found myself looking forward, with curiosity and interest, to meeting with Lori and the other women.

The women

At 8:00am, on Monday, August 16, 1993, having navigated the fragrant cow-stench of the flat San Bernadino Valley farmland, I was cleared through prison security, the bag containing my notes and tape recorder cursorily inspected. The waiting room, stark, institutional in furnishing and decor, was the first stop along the way where I was grateful for the shared observations and compared insights of my companion, videographer Judith Avery.

After ample opportunity to collect our thoughts, we were ushered through a set of locking double doors, and introduced to the guard who would accompany Judith and me through the interviews. Officer Lynn Hollis, a would-be actor and former Olympic track competitor, proved to be a worthy host, providing annotation on the history and structure of the facility and editorial commentary about specific inmates. Lynn also demonstrated surprising concern, offering repeated empathic head-shakings, continued acute attention, and unwavering respectful attitude to the women with whom we spoke. Lynn's own story, though different in nature and tone from those of the women we set out to interview, would make another good article.

After being guided outside, Judith and I were introduced to three women: Lori, Linda Ricchio, and Daisy Benson. The meeting felt awkward, as if we all were lacking in certainty about what social protocols to follow. (Consider how one would customarily greet a woman with whom one had corresponded, relatively intimately, for 9 months. Compare that with how one might expect to greet an interview subject, a stranger. Then, superimpose that upon constraints of prison encounters, considering imagined and/or real consequences to those that we knew would have to remain behind when we left).

The six of us traipsed through the prison grounds, from building to building, picking up the other designated women enroute. There were a couple of last-minute substitutions, one due to the group's decision that a particular inmate did not represent their cause honestly, the other due to 11th-hour cold feet on the part of the inmate herself.

As we walked, we spontaneously grouped and regrouped. Like their peers, Norma, Beverly, and Nicki seemed relaxed, yet reserved, checking us out. Judith and I saw no weapons, few other guards. We felt none of the fear that we had anticipated from our recollections of the Attica riots of the 60s, in which inmates took non-inmates as hostages. More recent fear-inducing images had included murders of guests and staff at Rikers Island, sweltering heat at Vacaville, threatened breakouts, heavy doors clanging shut, locking outsiders in with convicts, indiscriminate tear gassings. After all, we didn't know the prison workings; we didn't know of what crimes these women had been accused, and convicted.

We were allowed to wander, seemingly without much guidance or surveillance. Lynn sauntered up front or in back; without censorship, the rest of us chatted about clothing, relationships, weather, saving the drugging topic for the formal interview.

The group interview

Our first taste of a women's maximum security facility of the California state corrections system felt something like a women's music festival, with seeming freedom, with clearly visible signs of personal identity on many of the women we passed. There was a definite sense of no hurry, in some loitering women, mingling with purposefulness in other, uniformed, female convicts headed for their prison jobs, just as counterpart festie-goers, on the outside, might be heading for a workshift, or workshop.

The morning was spent in a private room. The women showed us where to plug in the video camera. They fidgeted and whispered among themselves. The nine of us sat and rearranged ourselves several times, experimenting with the available light. We ended up in the displeasingly polarized configuration of Judith and me on one side of a long table, the six inmates on the other side, Lynn at the end.

Once Judith was finally satisfied with the trajectory of the camera's focus, and with the microphone's reach, we began. Rather, they began. At Nicki's suggestion, the six women joined hands and prayed. Over the next several hours, with little prompting from me, the six women told their stories. Some recounted their crimes in detail, others focused on the subsequent legal proceedings. More than a few mentions were made of sexual assaults within the prison confines, of excessive physical force, of actual cruelty. Each woman spoke with minimal interruption from the others, until the very end, when some crosstalk erupted, as the tension was mounting, and attention waning.

Never in all my years of interviewing have I witnessed people open up, display emotion, and tell such intense, wrenching stories so quickly and completely. Maybe prison does that to one; forces the grabbing of moments of opportunity. Maybe the women were all lying.

Yet, Judith and I felt ourselves respond emotionally. We identified: that could have been me, trying to commit suicide, accidentally killing my significant other when the gun was diverted. That could have been me, trying to escape from an abusive date, who wound up killing a third party. The hardest part was imagining us with the weapons involved.

Judith and I also felt ourselves responding with empathic anger at the idea of being silenced with drugs, of women being silenced at all. We wanted to believe them; we told ourselves that they couldn't have all been lying so convincingly, and for so long. (The video of the women telling their stories is available for purchase, with proceeds to benefit their legal cause; see below; see and hear for yourselves).

In several instances, we didn't hear the entire story until afterwards, when letters filled in a few remaining untold details. Another letter, which arrived after the interviews, told of horrific homophobic treatment.

Women prisoners convicted by drugging

In all instances, the women insisted that they were innocent of the murder charges, insisted that they deserved a lesser sentence than life imprisonment (some without possibility of parole), or whatever stiff sentence had been meted out to them while they were drugged. All of the women expressed gratitude for each others' support, understanding, and collaboration, since 1990, when they first recognized that their pretrial courses were similar, and founded "Women Prisoners Convicted by Drugging," or WPCD, which currently boasts 40+ members.

To varying degrees, all the women took responsibility for their behavior, although denying intention and forethought. Each expressed regret at the outcomes of their actions; many had actually been the one to phone for help, awaiting emergency medical teams, after realizing what they had done. None seemed presently dangerous to Judith and me, on the basis of poor insight, defective judgment, or erratic, impulsive gestures.

All of the women emphasized that their trial performance, that their level of awareness and ability to assist meaningfully in their own defense, had been impaired by psychoactive drugs that they had been given to them, in county jails all across California. All stressed that, conditioned, as females, to be passive, they had unquestioningly accepted the initial pills in a cup; with resultant reduced assertiveness and intellectual acuity, being offered subsequent pills had evoked even less resistance.

All of the women argued that, unaware of their rights in regard to forced/involuntary drugging, they were deprived of those rights; none reported having signed informed consent for the medications administered. All of the women denied alcoholism, addiction, or previous mental illness requiring psychiatric medications/care, or any recent/current psychiatric medications.

There was a logical time to break for lunch, after the six stories. It felt easy to banter casually, among the nine of us, about the green bologna of lunchtime prison food. Judith and I went off to clear our minds, and some of the inmates agreed to meet with Judith and me, an hour later, in order for Judith and me to see their individual rooms and to speak with each of the women privately.

The prison interior: lunch

During lunch, Judith and I encountered some of the male guards, who seemed less friendly or respectful than Lynn. We sat, for a while, awaiting food which never materialized, in the kitchen (the site, we were told, of many convict crimes, due to the availability of utensil-weapons). Eventually, we hung out with Lynn and other female officers, one of whom ordered us excellent burritos from the neighborhood taqueria, which, conveniently, and surprisingly, delivered to the backdoor of the prison. We drank beverages from machines; we sat while the guards smoked and told us more about the convicts, their sentences and reputations. The topic of convict lesbianism came up: delicately, we judged.

After eating, Judith and I returned to one of the buildings where we'd earlier met up with the three women with whom we'd started the day. Lori, Linda, and Daisy were waiting for us. There was an instant of unselfconscious, mutual friendship when I asked the women their ages, they asked us ours, and we all answered. It was evident that, at 33, I fell between Lori and Linda; Judith, at 49, was closer to Daisy. Recognition of common age-related agendas bubbled to the surface, unspoken, then the self-consciousness roles resumed. Traces of thoughts about facing a prison future remained with me for the rest of the visit.

After insisting that we take some still photos of them in various convivial poses, Lori, Daisy and Linda were eager to show us their rooms. It felt like visiting friends at camp, except for the barred doors, which, the women showed us, slid into compartments during the day, to be sealed, at night, after count, leaving two women locked down, alone together, in each cell.

The individual interviews

The women seemed even more open and trusting of us than before lunch. They plied us with gossip about other, more famous inmates, and more personal details of their own lives. One woman had become involved with, and subsequently married, a male prison officer (who had been transferred out of CIW). Their conjugal visits were private and lasted for 72 hours. Another woman told us about her kids, and her sadness that they visited her less and less frequently, as her years in prison accumulated.

Judith and I learned about an original WPCD member, dismissed from the group for dishonorably pursuing her own ends, who had also been transferred to Madera, a harsher women's state prison up north.

Judith and I witnessed the ingenuity of the women's homemade shelves in the assigned, regulation-issue vertical lockers. We were impressed with the resourcefulness in developing an authorization for release/request for information form which many of the WPCD women had used to obtain their own medical records from pretrial, pre-CIW detention centers.

We were stunned by the multitudes of files and file folders, by the questionnaires to identify potential new members of "Women Prisoners Convicted by Drugging," by the plethora of sensibly-arranged mental health resources, law references, relevant books, and future contact lists.

All of us compared techniques for folding jeans into the smallest possible space. As Judith and I were starting to connect personality aspects of the women with the photos, pictures, and objects decorating their small spaces, gearing up for the second session of the interviews, Judith and I were compelled to leave abruptly. Summoned with urgency by the otherwise laissez-faire Lynn, who had received a serious message on her radio, Judith and I walked quickly down the halls, the first fear of the day hitting us.

As Judith and I collected our cameras and notes, the inmates made decisions. Sheafs of their original, precious files were thrust at us from secret stashing places: irreplaceable records of medications received, of writs filed, of appeals pending. As Judith and I walked side-by-side with Lori, Linda, and Daisy, who escorted us to the front gate, I was aware of feeling pleased at being so trusted, sad at the untimely separation. I wondered when, if ever, we all would meet again. I sorted through thoughts about what it might be like to see any of these women on the outside, as equals; in later discussion, Judith and I agreed that we would both feel comfortable having any of the women we had met, that day, over for dinner.

Such internal speculative ramblings brought us again back to the assignment at hand, of these women's challenges to the correctional and penal systems, which might result in their convictions overturned, in their individual freedom. We considered that WPCD's stances certainly would lead to heightened awareness of forced drugging issues and, perhaps, to greater societal consciousness about gender inequity.

We said hurried farewells, with entreaties to keep in touch, promises thought but not spoken about visiting again. Without the doubt engendered by too much time, or too much preparation, we all sincerely, unreservedly, hugged good-bye.

The issues

I realized, on our flight back to northern California, that I now had in my possession hundreds of letters, from WPCD, to international agencies (Amnesty International), to politicians (California Governor, California Attorney-General, US Senator Dianne Feinstein), to big-time media(20/20), to lawyers, to ACT-UP, to the NAACP, to the Medical Board of California, to local and national Protection and Advocacy groups, to other inmates, at correctional institutions outside California, to anyone who might listen and might be able to help.

Though Lori had been the initial contact, most of the above correspondence was from Daisy, WPCD Chairperson, who, in addition to showing herself as a persuasive, charismatic speaker, manifested her energy and persistence in the countless letters that she has sent out, including follow-ups and re-requests when incomplete documentation arrives.

The next weeks were spent verifying info, corroborating details, piecing together the stories about forced drugging, attempting to construct an accurate and complete picture.

Most correspondence returned to the WPCD letters was form-style; some letters were more personal. Every source contacted by me proved to be genuine. Later discussion with the reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle (Suzanne Espinoza) who had written the first articles on WPCD, in early 1993, reinforced my impression that the documents were actual.

Nonetheless, it became apparent, early on, that significant obstacles faced by WPCD included apathy and disinterest. Millard Murphy, JD, of the Prison Law Office, stated that he was aware of WPCD's case, though uncertain about how to proceed in collecting evidence to support or refute the charges. "There's definitely a problem here. What we don't know is whether it's isolated or applies all over the state."

Mr. Murphy reported that, at his instigation, a letter of inquiry had been sent to public defenders ("they represent a lot of people") in all the California counties. The overwhelming response was that there was no awareness of any illegal pretrial drugging going on.

Acknowledging that, "just because the lawyers aren't aware doesn't mean that there is a problem," also that the public defender response was poor, and that, perhaps, private lawyers should also be contacted, Mr. Murphy says that he has no specific plans for further investigation.

Other difficulties encountered by WPCD include incomplete recall by trial attorneys, and their powerlessness in the face of possibly misleading instructions to the jury about requirements for murder versus manslaughter convictions.

Stephen Tulanian, JD, who represented Daisy Benson, recalled one incident of "Daisy nodding off in court. I alerted the judge, who called a recess for the rest of the day." Though he believed that "justice was not done for Daisy," Mr. Tulanian stated that Daisy had been, on the stand, as during her interview with Judith and me, "a credible and convincing witness."

Daisy's positive influence on her attorney did not end there. Mr. Tulanian evinced hope that Daisy would, one day, get justice, and expressed "I would be happy if she were out." Nonetheless, a motion had been filed against Tulanian for having administered a pill or pills to his client, in the courtroom, during the trial. By contrast to Daisy Benson's broad paper trail, Lori Bartz's own files were sparse, though Lori had been the one to send me many of the related published articles. Most direct follow-up with Lori's public defenders was impossible due to their relocation. However, according to the chief of Detention Services, Forensic Mental Health Division, David M. Keenan, M.D., Lori did appear to have been psychiatrically mistreated, possibly given inappropriate and excessive dosages of unnecessary medications.

Dr. Keenan stated that Lori, first seen by mental health staff on August 10, 1987, at a San Diego Detention Center, was identified as having "symptoms of sleep disturbance, anxious and depressed moods, and thoughts of self-harm. The initial diagnosis was Adjustment Disorder [i.e. a reaction to a situation], subsequently changed to Dysthymic Disorder [i.e. minor depression]."

According to Dr. Keenan, the medications prescribed for Lori included Navane [an antipsychotic], Vistaril [a sedative like Benadryl], and Thorazine [another antipsychotic, usually not given in combination with Navane]. Neither of the aforementioned psychiatric diagnoses involves psychosis; neither would be appropriately medicated with Navane or with Thorazine, certainly not with both Navane and Thorazine together.

Similarly, Linda Ricchio's evidence, from an attorney who does not currently represent her, but who possesses her medical and legal records, indicates that, like Lori, Linda may have been administered multiple antipsychotic medications on the basis of diagnoses unrelated to psychosis.

The legal statutes applicable to the issue of forced drugging are complex, involving both federal and state court decisions: some in conflict with each other, some relevant to psychiatric patients, applicable only by extension to prisoners, or to pre-trial detainees.

Speaking with forensic psychiatrists, I have learned that it is commonplace, and relatively easy, also legal, for residents of state psychiatric hospitals, and other, more acute, mental health facilities, to be involuntarily medicated with psychoactive preparations. Parallel situations seem to occur in county jails, according to psychiatrists who have staffed those sites. Yet, the bottomline is clear: "giving antipsychotics to normals is torture; during the Cold War, we loudly condemned Russia for this practice," states Philip Kees, MD, a retired psychiatrist.

Kees goes on to emphasize that "Many of these major and minor tranquilizers are fat-soluble, and can quickly buildup and concentrate in the bodies of middle-aged women, requiring years of detoxification and producing additional years of extreme disorientation. The drug combinations you describe for Lori and Daisy amount to criminal polypharmacy and medical malpractice."

Kees, who has made extensive study of forced inmate drugging, points out that, in addition to pre-trial forced drugging, post-trial drugging "clearly easily could bar that person from their right to effectively participate in their appeal." In explaining how the women might have been convinced to take unnecessary psychiatric medications, in the first place, Kees emphasizes "the unlimited power of coercion available to jailers and psych technicians (in addition to force) to persuade subjects to consume drugs...California clearly has an administrative underground policy promulgating chemical restraints in violation of state constitution, statutes, and case law."

WPCD's letters have elicited responses. Currently, WPCD's claim is being investigated by the FBI; Daisy reports that, as of several months ago, an FBI agent visited CIW, and obtained releases from 37 inmates to peruse their medical records.

In addition to instigating WPCD actions, the individual inmates have aimed at representing their own interests. Having petitioned for a writ of habeas corpus, Daisy has advanced her case through the California state courts and is currently at the federal appellate level. Lori has also filed federal charges. Supposedly, the civil judgment against Linda was reversed in October, 1992; of August, 1993, Linda says that she was awarded costs in her civil case and is currently attempting to collect those.

The best immediate chance at making history and attaining freedom seems to lie with Daisy, who has garnered the support of several psychiatrists on her behalf, including one who reviewed her pretrial medical records.

V. Meenakshi, M.D., states that "The combination of medications that Ms. Benson apparently received very likely significantly altered her state of consciousness. As a clinician, I am aware that Tylenol 3 [a narcotic painkiller] and Valium [an anti-anxiety tranquilizer] should not be prescribed concurrently because the two drugs in combination increase the likelihood that the patient will suffer depression of the central nervous system. Tylenol 3 and Vistaril [another anti-anxiety agent] have a similar negative interaction, as do Robaxin [another painkiller], Tylenol 3, and Valium" [all of which, he testifies, Daisy received concomitantly].

Kay C. Greene, PhD, to whom Daisy also wrote because of Dr. Greene's position with an eminent international mental health organization, proffered a more indirect support (Dr. Greene did not wish for me to mention the mental health organization, since her opinion was given as an independent practitioner, and not as an official representative of that organization).

According to Dr. Greene, the United Nations drafted a resolution, 46/119, in December, 1991. Resolution 46/119, "is not a law, but is a strong recommendation to the member nations of the UN, such as the United States. This Resolution was the result of many years of work, and began originally as an attempt to stop countries such as the Soviet Union from institutionalizing and medicating political dissidents to keep them from encouraging or instituting changes in political structure and policy Although much of the wording of the Resolution is about people who are mentally ill, the items that protect them would also protect anyone else."

In America, as throughout the world, women are political by our very existence, dangerous to the patriarchal status quo. Clearly, 46/119 has theoretical relevance to women, in general, and practical relevance to WPCD.

Ray Unziger, of the National Association of Psychiatric Survivors, though more familiar with the mental health system, agrees with WPCD that forced drugging is a real, monumental, and important issue. "We maintain a clear position on involuntary drugging. We're opposed to it in any case: pretrial, post-trial, outpatient."

The follow-up

Soon after Judith's and my visit to CIW, I received letters from Lori, Linda, and Daisy. Thanks for taking the time to visit, and for doing such comfortable, respectful interviews. Sorry you had to leave so suddenly (Daisy actually looked into it, and determined that our hasty forced departure had to do with an unexpected inmate death, with the notion of clearing the area of possible media leaks). How much Judith's and my visit meant to them (meant a lot to us, too).

More recent letters have come from Norma Jean and Beverly, with more information about themselves, their family lives, their specific drugging situations. Particularly eloquent was Beverly: "First I would like to add this: I was not born a convict, I am first of all a human being, someone's daughter, sister, mother, grandmother, and aunt. I worked in the community at a regular job, eight to five. I exercised my right to vote, paid taxes."Daisy's more recent letters have contained the address where she plans to live, if and when her case is overturned, and while she is awaiting a new trial. Unfortunately, California Governor Pete Wilson, responding to pressure not to sponsor a state prison system as negligently lenient as Florida's, has actively intervened not to release any lifer, or other long-term inmates, in the foreseeable future.

The theme of the most recent letters: the next time we visit them at CIW, do we want to hear about health issues?

Copyright Off Our Backs, Inc. May 1994
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