However high the cost of justice, the cost of injustice is greater still. Who says “American Exceptionalism” is dead? Not when it comes to incarceration. Nowhere on Earth -- except the USA -- does a country put more of its citizens in prison. And, increasingly, those citizens are female. In 1980, before the War on Drugs became big
business and prison corporations were allowed to regain a toehold,
there were 12,300 women incarcerated in the United States. By 2008, that
number had grown to 207,700. The rate of increase between 1995 and 2008
alone was a staggering 203%. The $9 million dollars it cost to
incarcerate female offenders in 1980 has now ballooned to over $68.7
billion. Who are these women, and how did they come to be caught in the web of the prison-growth industry? By and large, these are young
women who have less than a high-school education, have a history of
being battered and/or sexually abused, and, with that, a resultant
history of drug abuse. They are more likely to be HIV positive or
infected with Hepatitis C, have either symptoms or a diagnosis of mental
illness, and prior to incarceration were unemployed. While young
African American women are the fastest growing incarcerated population,
roughly 49% of women in prison are white, 28% are African American, and
almost 17% are Latina. More than two-thirds are incarcerated for drug,
property, or public order offenses. And the vast majority are mothers of
minor children. Here’s one such story. How do you tell your children you are going to prison? How do you prepare for this? ~Patricia Spottedcrow On New Year’s Eve 2009, in rural Kingfisher
County, Oklahoma, Patricia Spottedcrow, a 24-year-old Cheyenne mother
of four, and her mother, Delita Starr, sold a “dime bag” of marijuana
out of Starr’s house for eleven dollars. Two weeks later, the person who
sought them out for the first buy came back for a twenty-dollar bag.
The buyer turned out to be a police informant. Spottedcrow and Starr were charged with
distribution and possession of a dangerous controlled substance in the
presence of a minor, and were offered a plea deal of two years in
prison. Having no priors, meaning they’d never been in trouble with the
law, and having been busted for such a small amount, they turned the
deal down. Both women pled guilty, thinking they’d get “community
service and a slap on the wrist.” Unfortunately, as is too often the case, it
didn’t play out that way. Though it was a piddling amount of money and a
first offense, in the eyes of Kingfisher County Judge Susie Pritchett,
because Spottedcrow’s mother made the actual sale of the “dime bag,” and
Spottedcrow’s nine-year-old son made change, Spottedcrow had involved
three generations in a “criminal enterprise.” Seeking to teach her a
lesson for selling thirty-one dollars’ worth of marijuana (and showing
up for sentencing with traces of marijuana in a coat pocket), Judge
Pritchett gave the young mother twelve years in prison -- ten years for
distribution and two years for possession -- to run concurrently, with
no probation. In addition, she fined Spottedcrow $4,077.89. Starr was given a thirty-year sentence,
suspended so she could care for her grandchildren. She was also saddled
with five years of drug and alcohol “assessments,” plus $8,591.91 in
court fees and fines. At $50 a month, she’s now paid off $600 of it. Her
monthly income is $800. ![]() Patricia Spottedcrow carries her bedroll at Dr. Eddie Warrior Correctional Center in this photo by Adam Wisneski for Tulsa World. Believing she would be released on probation, Spottedcrow made no preparations for her incarceration. When her sentence was handed down, she was taken into custody without having a chance to say goodbye to her children, shackled, and transported three hours away to Dr. Eddie Warrior Correctional Center, where she became a minimum security prisoner at a cost to Oklahoma taxpayers of $40.43 a day -- ten dollars more per day than the total cost of marijuana sold in two separate incidents combined, and $25 more per day than it would have cost the state to provide drug treatment, were that available in Kingfisher County. Eddie Warrior, a state-run facility that
opened its doors in 1989, was built to house fifty women to a dorm, one
or two to a cubicle. Just six years later it was at capacity. In the
four-part documentary, Women in Prison, Eddie
Warrior case manager Teri Davis states that shortly thereafter, with
the facility already full, “they started hauling people in.” Now there
are a hundred-and-twenty inmates to a dorm, some with serious
communicable diseases, living in rows of bunks four feet apart. “The inmates don’t like it,” says Davis.
“And who would? Crammed up with another inmate in your face, coughing
because she’s sick, coughing all over you . . . packed in like sardines
in a can, with no amenities.” Perhaps most disturbing about conditions at
Eddie Warrior is that they are not unusual. Lurking behind the
injustice of Spottedcrow’s harsh sentence is a darker story of human
rights violations in America’s female prisons. In Inside This Place, Not of It: Narratives from Women’s Prisons,
compiled and edited by Robin Levi and Ayelet Waldman, female inmates
speak of atrocities “ranging from forced sterilization and shackling
during childbirth, to physical and sexual abuse by prison staff.”
Describing their lives as harrowing and rife with misogyny, author Peggy
Orenstein declares their treatment “utterly unacceptable in a country
that values human rights.” For the privilege of living in these
deplorable conditions, Spottedcrow’s sentence means a burden to
taxpayers of nearly $150,000 in incarceration costs alone. This is the
price to an already strapped society for a person’s having sold 0.105821
ounces of an herb that is considered harmless on the one hand, and
highly beneficial on the other. Multiply that by the thousands
incarcerated in Oklahoma, and then multiply that by the other forty-nine
states. In fact, Oklahoma attorney Josh Welch, who is working for
Spottedcrow’s release, predicts that if Oklahoma continues its current
practice of incarcerating “anybody who comes before a judge” for
drug-related offenses, even for a first offense, “it will bankrupt the
state.” However high the cost of justice, the cost of injustice is greater still. I’m just a human being trying to make it in a world that is very rapidly losing its understanding of being human. ~ John Trudell, a “blue Indian” A growing civil rights movement in Oklahoma
is demanding Spottedcrow’s release. The Society to Preserve Indigenous
Rights and Indigenous Traditions (SPIRIT) got involved in Spottedcrow’s
case “because she is Native American, poor, and a minority,” says Brenda
Golden of SPIRIT. “We are not pro-marijuana and do not advocate
breaking the law. But we do believe Patricia's sentence is way too harsh
for the crime she committed and is indicative of the treatment we
receive in Oklahoma…. We are committed to continuing the fight to get
this sentence reduced so Ms. Spottedcrow can be reunited with her four
small children.” Trial Attorney Josh Welch took her case pro bono.
Calling it an “abuse of judicial authority,” he filed a motion in
Kingfisher County to modify her sentence, saying, “A judge’s
responsibility is to help people, not just punish them.” On Monday,
October 3, Mr. Welch received an Order from Associate District Judge
Robert Davis modifying Spottedcrow's sentence from the original twelve
years to eight years in prison with four years’ probation. Welch says
he’s happy the sentence was modified, but not happy that only four years
were removed. "The new judge didn’t back off the first sentence. He
said the reduction was because she had done well while incarcerated. We
disagree with the sentence. She shouldn’t even be in jail.” “This may not be easy,” Welch told SPIRIT’s
Brenda Golden in an email, “but we will not stop until she's released.”
Welch plans to file an Application for Post-Conviction Relief.
Change.org has created a petition
to the Governor of Oklahoma requesting a pardon for Spottedcrow. As of
this writing, they’ve gathered almost 35,000 of the 50,000 signatures
needed. In the Women in Prison
documentary, Judge Susie Pritchett, who imposed the original sentence,
states that Spottedcrow “needed to learn that there were consequences to
this lifestyle she had chosen.” Tragically, and in direct opposition to
the sort of outcome the judge would seem to favor, Spottedcrow’s
lifestyle was indeed forever changed. Because of her conviction, she can
never again pursue her chosen field. Her “chosen lifestyle” was that of
a certified medical assistant employed by a nursing home. When the
economy tanked, not because of any choice Spottedcrow made, she lost her
job. In fact, almost half of all incarcerated women were unemployed in
the month before their arrest. Spottedcrow was not the first to look for
a way to make some “easy money” when things got tight. But as she
conceded in an interview with Ali Meyer of Oklahoma News Channel 4, “It
was a stupid mistake that I paid an awful lot for.” Speaking of consequences, however, what
about the consequences of Judge Pritchett’s actions? Seventy-five
percent of incarcerated women are mothers, most of them parents of
children under age eighteen. What happens when the state takes a mother
away from her children for an entire decade? Children do hard time for their parents’ crime ~ womenandprison.org Children of female inmates are at enormous risk to continue the cycle and end up in prison themselves, according to another Women in Prison
participant, Dr. Laura Pitman, Deputy Director of Female Offender
Operations for the Oklahoma Department of Corrections, who adds that
thirty percent of the female prison population had at least one
incarcerated parent themselves. African-American children are nine times
more likely than white children to have a parent in prison and Hispanic
children are three times more likely than white kids to have an
incarcerated parent. All told, a million and a half children in America
have a parent in state or federal prison, which, according to the Family and Corrections Network, “means a crisis for that child.” The
effect on Spottedcrow’s children has been devastating. Aged 1, 2, 4,
and 9 at the time of her arrest, all but the eldest are unable to
comprehend her disappearance. And because Spottedcrow is housed a full
three-hours’ drive from her mother’s home, her family is unable to
visit. As the youngest learns to talk, she knows her mother only as a
voice on the phone. Meanwhile, Starr tries to explain to her grandkids.
“It’s hard. The little girls do not understand why their mom’s gone….
The baby had a real hard time. We’ve spent nights crying. . . . She goes
to the bedroom door and knocks: ‘Mama! Mama!’ And we cry.” In Long Beach, California, when members of
The Human Solution learned of Spottedcrow’s plight, they took up a
collection and arranged for her children to receive new clothes to wear
on a trip to visit their mom. In return, the Oklahoma woman who helped
arrange the clothing donation made a cash contribution to The Human
Solution so people would have gas money for court support. Thus, the
movement to free prisoners of the drug war grows bigger and stronger. The Two Joes: “We’ll Do This My Way” It also grows louder. On Wednesday,
November 2, 2011, angry protesters screamed in frustration outside Long
Beach Courthouse, where former medical marijuana dispensary owners Joe
Grumbine and Joe Byron were quickly losing ground. In preparing for
their upcoming trial, Judge Charles D. Sheldon had eliminated as
“irrelevant” all medical evidence. “We’ll do this my
way,” he said, ruling out the two doctors who were prepared to testify
that the Joes were, at the very least, qualified medical-marijuana
patients. Having already been denied the right to defend themselves as
legally compliant dispensary owners, the Joes had retreated to their
fall-back position -- that of being patients first. But with his latest
decision, Judge Sheldon had taken that away, too. Protesters claimed the judge had denied the Joes their 14th
Amendment right to equal protection under the law. In two previous
California medical-marijuana cases, defendants had been allowed an
affirmative defense, meaning they were able to tell the jury they were
legally compliant dispensary owners, as well as qualified
medical-marijuana patients. In one such case, the defendant was found not guilty. In the other, the case was dismissed "in the interest of justice." Not so for the Joes. Kangaroo Court Like Patricia Spottedcrow, Grumbine and
Byron have turned down plea deals, choosing instead to exercise their
right to a jury trial. Motivated by the same do-good instincts that led
them to create a medical-marijuana collective in the first place, they
put their fate in the hands of a jury for the sake of all
medical-marijuana patients and caregivers. They hoped to
solidify the legal standing of their fellow patients and dispensary
owners, along with their own, in a precedent-setting case. They thought
the jury would hear all the facts. They were wrong. Instead, says
Grumbine, it’s “a steamroller to conviction.” Paranoia strikes deep Into your life it will creep It starts when you’re always afraid You step out of line, the man come and take you away ~ Buffalo Springfield, “For What It’s Worth” At a November 9 hearing -- their
twenty-second court appearance -- the Two Joes suffered yet another
defeat. Having filed a motion to quash the warrant that triggered a
massive tri-county raid
and turned their lives upside down, Grumbine and Byron had to appear
before Judge Judith L. Meyer, who signed the original warrant. She
denied the motion. After opining that the medical-marijuana-dispensary
thing “is all a sham,” Judge Meyer reminded the defendants that their
next court date with Judge Sheldon was on November 23 "in Department K,
as in Kangaroo.” To quote Dr. Hunter S. Thompson out of context once
again, “Jesus! How much more of this cheap-jack bullshit can we be
expected to take?” Kangaroo court, indeed. Don’t get out of jury duty, get into it! Grumbine and Byron have only one defense
left: the defense of last resort – Jury Nullification. Simply put, Jury
Nullification (or “Juror Nullification”) means a juror has the power –
nay, the awesome responsibility – to refuse to convict if they believe the law is corrupt or the proceedings have been compromised. The Fully Informed Jury Association
(FIJA) was created to inform American citizens that “juror veto – juror
nullification – is a peaceful way to protect human rights against
corrupt politicians and government tyranny.” With thousands of people in
the street, and Occupy Wall Street demonstrators getting arrested in
droves for rising up against government tyranny and abuse of power, the
time for J-Null may have come. Jurors Can Stop Government Tyranny by Refusing to Convict As a juror, your first and greatest duty is
to your fellow citizen. While jury duty may sometimes require you to
punish a fellow citizen for breaking the law, it may also, at times,
require you to protect your fellow citizen from tyrannical abuses of power by government officials. Jury convictions, right or wrong, just or
unjust, are almost never overturned. In a recent case in Georgia, Troy
Davis was executed even after many jurors, upon hearing new evidence,
tried to take back their guilty verdict. Imagine having to live with the
knowledge that you sent a man to his death, based on insufficient or
false evidence. In the case of Grumbine and Byron, there was no victim.
Both defendants were motivated by a desire to help end suffering by
providing patients legal access to a plant that helps and heals. For
this, each now faces up to seven years in the slammer. “Jurors cannot be required to check their
conscience at the courthouse door,” says FIJA. Rather, they are
empowered to use it in court, with absolutely no fear of retribution.
So, in the future, don’t get out of jury duty, get into it. The life you save could be Joe Grumbine’s. We’ll take a closer look at Jury Nullification in an upcoming post. In the meantime, FIJA has created a Juror’s Handbook
to help inform potential jurors of their legal authority to refuse to
enforce corrupt laws. “Short of being elected to office yourself,” says
FIJA, “you may never otherwise have a more powerful impact on the rules
we live by than you will as a trial juror.” ***** In 1995 Cynthia Johnston directed public relations for an online publication, Sources eJournal,
covering intelligence, espionage and terrorism. There, she wrote a
three-part series, “Confessions of a CIA Brat.” She also wrote a
business column, “In the Loop,” for an independent filmmaking web
publication and several pieces for Bay Area computer magazine Micro Times. After Sources
went down in the dot.com crash of the late Nineties, she took a leap of
faith, moved into a funky cab-over camper, and started living curbside
on the streets of San Francisco. She began her first blog before
blogging was a word. Her online journal earned her the opportunity to
write a piece, “Mobile Homeless,” for The San Francisco Chronicle. She’s been blogging ever since. Johnston
began writing about her experience as a medical marijuana patient as
soon as she “got legal.” She went public on behalf of legalization in
1980 with the California Marijuana Initiative and a headline: “Marijuana
Protester Busted at High Noon.” ***** Originally published November 18, 2011 at unitedstatesvmarijuana.blogspot.com |