You may think this sounds like fiction, but it’s not.
On 22 July, 2022, my husband and I were living quiet, insignificant lives (or so we then believed), as we’d done since 2001 at our home in Kapolei, Hawai’i, on the island of O’ahu. My husband had driven to work as usual that morning. I was planning to go out and get dinner from our favourite local restaurant for his birthday . . . which it was. Then, basically, all hell broke loose.
I answered a knock at the door to discover two very unexpected guests . . . a man and woman who announced themselves as agents of the FBI and called me by a name other than my own. ‘You’re looking for WHO?’ I responded. Of course the half-dozen fellows wearing masks and standing about with assault rifles in my front garden were there to make sure I invited this duo in.
Call me crazy, but I won’t refuse entry to ANY group of firearm-toting strangers clad in masks and body armour, so I consented to this merry band of misfits taking over my house. The heavily armed rank-and-file began to filter through the rooms where I wasn’t; I informed them my two male rabbits (separated by a screendoor-type barrier) could not be in the same space, because they would fight. I then asked to be allowed to put on a brassiere. (Not yet dressed to go out, I had answered the door apparelled in a T-shirt and hastily-donned shorts. I am fairly well-endowed, and felt far from comfortable in this miasma of testosterone and weaponry without an appropriate foundation garment, so I sensibly requested one.)
I entered the hallway to discover that OF COURSE the screen had been taken down. In the bedroom, my smaller (but fiercer) male rabbit had cornered the slightly larger (but less pugilistic) one behind the door. (Yes, both had been neutered years before, but this in no way affected the determination of my tiny warrior to assert his dominance.) Immediately I ushered my fearsome 4-pound ‘attack rabbit’ out, restored the barrier, and (once again) admonished the rifle-bearers that THESE TWO RABBITS MUST BE SEPARATED, OR THEY WILL FIGHT. (I’m not afraid to face down heavy weaponry for the sake of my companion animals!) I was then permitted to retrieve and put on a bra (in the lavatory, under the watchful eye of the female FBI agent).
The male agent decided that we should ‘sit and talk’ on the rear lanai . . . but first I was instructed to remove my plain gold wedding-band and leave it on the table. It’s been missing ever since.
The moment our kitchen door was opened, the only one of my three ‘indoor-outdoor’ cats inside at the time took off for tall timber . . . never to be seen again. (My two ‘strictly indoor’ cats had previously retreated beneath the loungeroom furniture.)
I was invited to tell the agents my life story, but then immediately read my rights and placed under arrest (still in a name not my own). I declined to share ANY information without the presence of an attorney. (As we’d never led a criminal lifestyle, my husband and I didn’t HAVE an attorney.)
I spent a good half hour explaining preferred distribution of our pets. (‘This is our cats’ primary vet. Our rabbits go to either of these two clinics. Please see if anyone at Hawai’i Cat Care can take either or both of our two “strictly indoor” cats. They can go separately or together. Also contact the rabbits’ primary vet., and ask if anyone at either of his clinics can find a place for our small brown-and-white male and our white female . . . together . . . or the black-and-white male on his own. If you have no joy there, this is a couple we know in Kailua Town. They have both cats and rabbits, keeping them separated . . . as we do. If Suzette and Bully can’t take our animals, AS A LAST RESORT they can go to O’ahu SPCA. It’s no-kill. DO NOT give them to the Humane Society. It’s better than it used to be, but it is NOT a no-kill facility.’)
The FBI agents retrieved my inhaler (I have respiratory issues.), and refused to allow me extra Sudafed (which I take 2-3 times daily, on average, and have done since I was 15 years old). Then I was told to put on a pair of shoes (Not knowing how much walking I might be doing, I chose my SAS black sandals, the most comfortable . . . not to mention priciest . . . footwear I owned.), and got slapped into handcuffs. (These were by no means tight, and I could have easily escaped them, but did not . . . so as to avoid alarming my captors.)
I was given leave to take with me one pair of spectacles; agents advised these should be my prescription glasses with clear lenses. Foolishly, I listened. I am photophobic, and cannot see in bright light. (Lesson #1 . . . Any person of similar disability being packed away by authority figures to places unknown should bring his/her PRESCRIPTION DARK GLASSES. After a year, any prisoner/detainee will be GIVEN a pair of clear-lensed prescription spectacles. No prescription sunnies will EVER be issued.) Blind in the sunshine, wearing my prescription clear lenses, I was led from my house to a car, and bundled inside. (I have had no access to my Hawai’ian homestead at any time since. Nor have I been given back ANY original means of identification.)
The agents drove me to FBI headquarters (built on the former Barber’s Point Naval Station) in Kapolei, where I was ushered into a room, fingerprinted, provided a chair, and handcuffed to a railing. Several minutes later, my husband was escorted in, also shown to a chair, and handcuffed to the same rail. He looked shellshocked but determined. He observed that my wrists had been deeply marked by the handcuffs. I assured him they weren’t even tight . . . but I have unusually sensitive skin, and assumed I would end up with bruises (as, indeed, I did).
I said, sighing, ‘We know the protocol’ . . . meaning that the confining of two previously separated persons in a room together presages the expectation that deep dark secrets will be suddenly revealed. I wondered what was going on, for the FBI to break out its big guns in arresting . . . US? (A somewhat irregular incident had occurred decades earlier, when we’d been much younger and slightly more adventurous, but surely THAT was nothing to bring down upon us the ire of the U.S. government, all this time later!) We’d been conscientious good citizens; my husband had proudly served 22 years in the Coast Guard, and after retirement accepted employment as a military contractor. Never had we anything to do with illegal drugs or illicit weaponry, or exploiting any living creature (animal or human) in any way. To put it succinctly, we were harming no-one, and threatening no person, group, or institution, public or private.
My husband noted that he’d been repeatedly questioned regarding trips he’d taken with the Coast Guard, as well as places he and I had gone together. A holiday embarked on fairly early in our marriage, to the Bahamas, provoked deep scrutiny. More recently, a 1-day layover in Amsterdam, en route to the U.K., drew considerable interest, though prospective final locations in England, Ireland, and Wales went without mention. (My husband had been asked, at one point, to ‘Just tell us why!’ Lacking a further referent, he’d responded, ‘I don’t know . . . For fun?’)
Events of the day provoked in us a shared reaction of ‘What the hell?’ until we twigged it . . . ‘Oh! These idiots for some reason think we’re spies!’ (I believe I said it first.)
We conversed for possibly three-quarters of an hour, before being (separately) conveyed to FDC (Federal Detention Centre) Honolulu.
I was tested for pregnancy, drugs, and tuberculosis (all negative), denied access to my inhaler (and indeed ANY form of allergy medicine), then required to strip fully and redress in an ill-fitting prison costume . . . under the watchful eyes of a female guard. (Junior high school gymroom showers came to mind.) Asked what size bra I wear, I responded ‘36C’ . . . but this was a sports bra. Having never owned one, I had NO idea . . . and experienced some confusion simply figuring out how to put the thing on. (Normal bra, obvious . . . straps over shoulders, cups in place, hook-and-eye fasteners in back. Strangely shaped slingshot of undifferentiated material . . . who even knows? [I’m not sporty, and I freely admit it.]) The garment was stretched out, and by no means supportive . . . tending to ride up ABOVE my breasts. (Later, in my room, I took it off and did without, remaining . . . thankfully . . . firm enough to go bouncily ‘commando’ up top [as I have never borne or suckled children . . . nor have I experienced at any point in my life the slightest desire to do so].)
The beige undershirt and green overshirt fit well enough; the matching green trousers produced a regrettably ‘high water’ profile over my rather long legs. The white socks were . . . well, socks. The length seemed somewhere between crew and knee-high, functioning acceptably as neither.
Queried as to shoe size, I said ‘8½ D or 8E’ (American sizes), whereupon I was given, frankly, clown shoes. (I was only much later to discover that, in prison, all footwear come solely in MEN’S sizes.)
Clad in my non-bra, clam-digger trousers, dangerously oversized shoes, and other elements of FDC garb, I was photographed for posterity against a chart that confirms I am 5’4”. In that Portrait of Dorian Gray, I appear raddled and perplexed.
This picture of disorientation went to illustrate a laminated card I was supposed to carry with me at all times (but, in reality, hardly ever did). It bore an eight-digit number, and the name the government had decided to call me. I proudly used the number. The erroneous name was a different matter altogether.
Prison (the female pod, anyway) is like a girls’ school. Standard form of address is one’s surname . . . whatever the U.S. government wants that to be. I refused to identify myself with the one I had been given. I was forced to answer to it, and during the frequent daily inspections I would dutifully read it off the card . . . but made it clear that THIS WAS NOT MY NAME. I was allowed to correspond with my next of kin . . . my eldest sister (and closest friend, but for my husband) . . . and write grievances ONLY in that inapplicable name. It became my ‘slave name’ (no longer Kunta Kinte, as Massa had renamed me Toby), then my ‘deadname’ . . . and so the legally incorrect moniker remained. I hated it, but was obliged (upon occasion) to make use of it.
In most of the country (even Hawai’i), the worst of CoViD was deemed over by summer 2022, and regulations had relaxed. Not so at FDC! Everyone was constantly being yelled at to wear a mask, though I never saw any concern with social distancing. The most pervasive worry seemed to be any possible physical expression of sexuality.
Facing a 10-day isolation period (lest I be a carrier of CoViD), I was escorted to an upstairs cell, locked in, and left alone . . . with nothing to read or do. (Aha! I thought cleverly to myself, They’re trying to BORE me to death! [I’ve always been happily hyperactive . . . not attention-deficit; simply hyperactive . . . which means that boredom is anathema.]) I had noted, in films and on telly, that anyone taken into custody is always granted one ’phone call. I’d asked for mine (planning to ring our cats’ veterinary surgeon, as I’d been arrested on a Friday, and one of our indoor-only moggies was slated for an operation [to close a small slit in the roof of her mouth] on Monday [I wanted to give the clinic a heads-up that we might or might not be there for the procedure . . . having no idea how long suspected spies could be held without evidence.]). No, I was told, the ‘one free ’phone call’ is an invention of fiction. (Lesson #2 . . .)
My clothing I’d worn on intake, I was informed (including a good bra, and my hideously expensive SAS sandals), would be mailed to my house. ‘But there’s nobody there to take them inside for me!’ I (truthfully) protested. No-one cared. Needless to say, I never saw any of these items of apparel again.
The room I was assigned to held a bunkbed, a metal desk, a sink, and a toilet, all fixed in place. Also supplied were a moveable chair, two sheets, one thin blanket, a pillowcase (though no pillow), a small comb, a tiny toothbrush, a face flannel, a bar of soap, and a lavatory roll swaddled in floral onionskin paper. I could just see a large wall-clock on the lower level. My door was metal, with a 4”x2’ plexiglass window. A similar window, this one 4”x5’, offered a lovely view of the airport. The whole prison was kept freezing cold at all times. Fortunately, not much of the outside atmosphere ever filtered in, so I was not overly impacted by pollen once my Sudafed wore off. The air was constantly recycled, however, through ducts that were never cleaned. A vast colony of dirt and mould presented its own allergy problems.
That evening’s supper (the first meal I was served at FDC) was delivered through a slot in the door which was momentarily unlocked and opened. Sadly, this repast consisted, in its entirety, of NOTHING I COULD EAT. (I have a vast array of food allergies and intolerances [probably 80% or so of all foods in existence].) I tried a bite of the weird chicken glop (the entrée . . . and most promising-looking item on my tray). My mouth immediately went numb, and I began to choke. (This reaction indicates the dish contains onion, garlic, or peppers. Continued consumption will cause my throat to swell shut so that I can neither breathe nor swallow . . . ‘anaphylactic shock’, a Tripler ER doctor diagnosed it years ago.) Of course I straightway stopped eating, and gave the tray back (when it was collected, approximately 30 minutes later) substantially untouched. This prompted an interesting conversation with the guard (a fairly nice fellow I got to know reasonably well over my two and a third years of incarceration).
Guard: ‘You didn’t eat your dinner.’
Me: ‘I CAN’T eat my dinner.’ (I went on explaining my adverse reactions to many common foods.)
The guard gave me a long sheet of yellow legal paper, and a well-sharpened golf pencil. ‘Write down everything you can’t eat, for Food Services,’ he told me. I filled the paper.
Finished with this, I immediately began a letter to my sister, using the stubby rubberless pencil and the paper wrapping from my loo roll. (Ever resourceful in avoiding boredom . . . That’s me! [The U.S. Bureau of Prisons WEAPONISES tedium.]) I explained to Kalina what was going on, expressing confusion and indignation at the proceedings.
By 10.30 p.m., I actually felt ready to sleep. I pulled down the otherwise useless top-bunk mattress, laid it atop the bottom one, and folded both over so as to elevate my lower legs and feet. (I have chronic leg and foot cramps; sleeping with lower extremities raised somewhat ameliorates this condition.) I then stuffed my pillowcase with one sheet and my ill-fitting sports bra, cleaned my teeth (using the tiny toothbrush and water from the sink), washed my face (employing the flannel as a towel), turned off the light, took off my clown shoes, cocooned myself in the one remaining sheet and blanket, and lay down fully clothed upon the bare mattress, makeshift pillow beneath my head. Surprisingly, I fell quickly and deeply asleep.
I was awake by 5.30 a.m.; 6.00 a.m. brought breakfast, most of which appeared potentially edible. I wasn’t particularly hungry, so I ate an orange, in halves (Disgustingly sweet [I much prefer SOUR fruit.]!), and tucked away for later a muffin and what seemed likely to be a cupful of cornflakes. A plastic spoon in polythene was likewise squirrelled away. Two packets each of powdered milk and artificial sweeteners were returned with the tray . . . and the long list of foods I cannot eat.
Lesson #3 . . . There is no cane sugar in prison. It’s inevitably the fake variety, every iteration of which (Surprise!) adversely affects my ridiculously picky digestive system . . . along with beet sugar, invert sugar, and high fructose corn syrup. (Regular corn syrup I’m fine with!)
During my sojourn at FDC, I submitted no fewer than a half-dozen requests for food I can EAT (plain rice or potatoes; unspiced meats, untreated with and unaccompanied by onion, garlic, or peppers; unsweetened citrus fruits or fruit salad; bread not baked with beet sugar or high fructose corn syrup . . . How hard can it be?) to both Food Services and Medical, and received absolutely NO relief. (In fact, foods I CAN digest tended to be gradually removed from the menu, or altered so as to become unacceptable to my poor sensitive stomach.)
Any road . . . within the hour following breakfast, the slot in my door was again opened, and a smallish white pill thrust through. Two unfamiliar men stood in the corridor outside my room. ‘What’s this?’ I enquired, hoping the tablet might be some odd version of Sudafed.
‘That’s Blahblahblah’ (For all I retain pharmaceutical names of things . . .), ‘your anti-depressant,’ said one of them.
‘I’ve never been depressed a day in my life,’ I told them, ‘and nor have I ever taken anti-depressive medication.’
‘Well . . . maybe we’ve got the wrong person.’
‘Gee . . . D’you think?’ I returned snappishly.
The strange men took their pill away.
Then I realised . . . Oh. The prison system wants me NOT IN MY RIGHT MIND. (I have weird reactions to many medications. Who knows what an anti-depressant may’ve done to me?)
Lunch was, again, inedible . . . except for a portion of (deliciously unsweetened) fruit salad. I ate that.
After lunch, doors were opened on the ‘quarantine’ cells and all (5-6) of us were let out for an hour. (At the same time, non-quarantined prisoners were locked in their cells downstairs.) Most of the quarantined detainees headed for the showers, while I went to explore, and discovered . . . pads of lined legal paper! Envelopes! More tiny golf pencils! A pencil-sharpener in the guard’s office! I availed myself of supplies, and asked if there was a library.
The guard unlocked an upstairs room containing three roughly 3’-square tables, 12 chairs, 2 bookshelves, various games, puzzles, and books (piled up or shelved randomly . . . lacking organisation by author, title, or subject [organisation of any sort AT ALL, actually])! As a former librarian (twice over), I was appalled . . . but managed to ferret out five volumes appearing of some interest. (Yes, I know, 5 is a lot . . . but I had no idea when I could access the library again, and I am something of a voracious reader.) At the end of my hour ‘out’, I was happy to be locked up with a fair assemblage of the raw materials I could use to stave off boredom for at least a day or two.
Armed with legal paper and several envelopes, I began writing my sister in earnest. The metal desk was outfitted with an attached round metal appendage which, pushed as far as it would go against an inbuilt metal cabinet, made an excellent small bookshelf. The moveable chair, softened with my ersatz pillow, fit beneath the desk and was reasonably comfortable. (My ‘bookshelf’, which I learnt was intended as a desk-chair, would’ve proved totally inadequate for this purpose [or maybe I’ve just got a fat backside].)
I informed Kalina that if I were to be incarcerated for any length of time, and she could get me a CARE package, I needed lemon juice, Listerine (as all other mouthwashes are disgustingly flavoured with artificial sweeteners), salt and baking soda so I could make tooth-powder (all commercial toothpastes sharing in the ‘mouthwash’ objection, above), unflavoured waxed dental tape, and some type of spray-on antiperspirant, as well as (predictably) a reasonable supply of Sudafed. (Lesson #4 . . . EVERY ONE of the items I thought of as a necessity is prohibited at FDC Honolulu! It’s Bureau of Prisons canon, apparently, that any detainee armed with lemon juice, Listerine, baking soda, dental tape, spray-on deodorant, and an effective upper respiratory decongestant would stand a reasonable chance of taking over the world. [And don’t get me started on scissors and sewing-needles as weapons of mass destruction! What are inmates expected to do with such contraband . . . give each other funny haircuts and construct voodoo dolls?])
An aside . . . I was informed (truthfully or not) that pillows are forbidden at FDC (except in the case of prisoners with broken necks, or in the last stages of congestive heart failure) to prevent convicts using them to smother unappreciated roommates in their sleep!
(Another totally random, this time non-prison-related aside . . . Why is it that manufacturers of dentifrices seem to believe that EVERYTHING needs to have a [most often cloyingly sweet] artificial flavour? IF I WANT A FLAVOUR, I’LL EAT FOOD!)
Back to the story (my sad, sad tale of inappropriate arrest and confinement in a federal prison, for the heinous crime of harming no-one and threatening nothing [in short, just living my life, married to my husband]) . . .
Supper the second night was surprisingly edible . . . 2 hot dogs, hot-dog buns, and tater tots. (People aware of my many food intolerances tend to express astonishment that I can eat hot dogs [though not with mustard; I’m allergic to mustard], but I [usually] can.) Well, I thought, perhaps my list of allergies and intolerances got through to Food Services! (No. No, it had not [and, so far as I can tell, it never did]. But I felt hopeful for a little while . . .)