“A Tale of an American Political Prisoner”
Part 18.5: The DC Gulag; Washington, DC
–Life in the Gulag Supermax Part 5–
by: Jessica Watkins (X: @J6ssicaWatkins)
A True Story; 100% verifiable with BodyCam Footage, CCTV Surveillance Camera Footage, and Testimony.
The first hints that the Bureau of Prisons (BoP) was about to take me into custody came from Angel Harrelson. She reached out to me to let me know that the BoP had classified me as a male; which typically meant that they intended to house me amongst them. It was the first time in 20+ years that ANYONE had used the “M” classification on my paperwork. My Birth Certificate, Drivers Licenses (from half a dozen states), Social Security information… you name it. I was always an “F”. I had changed my name legally in 2005. By 2007 I had a surgery downstairs. Let’s just say that I was freaking right the hell out. The Judge, Prosecution, and my Attorney had all agreed 100% that I belonged in a women’s prison. If you’ve seen me, there’s no doubt in your mind that’s who and what I am. I look, sound, act, and behave like any other woman. For all intents and purposes, I am. Most people, including doctors, have no clue that I’ve been anything else. So when I heard from Angel that the BoP intended to essentially detransition me, I frantically called my attorney in an attempt to reverse the decision. Not only was this inappropriate, but unfair. I had been living in a Women’s Unit for well over a year by that point; and had never caused any problems. I felt like the BoP was detransitioning me against my will, and I was VERY upset about it. I went on Twitter and started a campaign to have folks make calls to the BoP; to have me reclassified with the proper gender – the one I had lived for my entire adult life. I had first taken hormones when I was 16 years old (over the counter, in secret). I was 20 years old when I started my fulltime transition. Now, I was a mere 2 weeks away from turning 41 years old. I was in a full panic. I had my husband pull photos of me and circulate them; in an attempt to show the world that I was indeed a woman, that I did NOT belong in a men’s prison. I was terrified; I was certain that I was being sentenced to nearly a decade of sexual assault. It wasn’t the Judge’s fault. It wasn’t the DOJ/Prosecution’s fault either. This was from the BoP; and I could only assume from a high office in the Biden Regime. I put out the call to action; to have people call the US Marshals and the Bureau of Prisons Headquarters; to have YOU beg them to have me reclassified properly. (you did a great job, btw! <3)
I went back and forth with Don and Donna from @CowboyLogic and they helped me confirm… when your BoP Number is generated, that a transfer into BoP custody was imminent. Soon, my tenure as Political Prisoner #376520 was about to end, and a new life as Political Prisoner #26050-509 was about to begin. Four days before my birthday, on Sunday 12 August 2023, the jail staff sent up a nurse to take my temperature. When they “Temp Check” a prisoner (they were still checking for COVID) that means that the next day, the Marshals were going to pick you up and you would leave the jail. I freaked right out. I packed all my stuff. I mailed some things like artwork, grievance forms, pictures of my family/pets (well, the ones that the CO’s didn’t take/destroy anyway), and gave away pretty much everything else. I gave almost EVERYTHING to Tori. I gave my Magic Cards and dice to Frenchie. I gave lots of books to Aisha. I called Montana in a panic, and was breaking down crying. I was so scared. The Marshals had cancelled a skin-cancer biopsy and a necessary surgery in order to send me to the BoP, and I was NOT happy about that. To this day, neither the biopsy nor the surgery have been conducted. Both would have been done nearly 9 months ago now. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I cleaned out my cell as best I could, and got ready for the inevitable. At 4am, Mrs. Palmer came up to my door and opened it. I tried to hold my head high with dignity and prepare to face the future. When the door opened and the transport Officer walked in, I wasn’t the least bit shocked to see that it was Corporal Pryor. Off to ensure I was gone for good, no doubt. I didn’t say a word to her. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t be hateful. Better to keep my mouth shut.
I was brought down to R & D (Release and Discharge) on the CDF side, and processed out. It didn’t take too long. On the other side of the wall, I heard familiar voices: Peter Stager and Kyle Fitsimmons, two other J6er’s who were being put into BoP custody. After the Marshals stripped out the boys and pulled them out in cuffs, they came for me. I was shackled at the wrist, waist and ankles and brought out to the front desk for out-processing. Peter and Kyle both looked to be in good spirits, both of whom would be home far sooner than I. After we were all in line, we were brought out through the doors to the Marshal’s van that awaited. It was reminiscent of the time we were brought in. I felt the sunlight on my face, and the warm breeze of the wind and thought back to when I had first been brought into that hellhole. I remember telling the transport guards that I didn’t do anything violent, to keep the engine running because I would be leaving soon. That this place, this terrible place, would be nothing more than a bus stop. If only. It was a hell that I will never forget. When I climbed into that van, I felt relief that cannot be described. I was free. I was put into the women’s side of the van, and my heart surged with hope. It meant that perhaps the mistake had been clarified and then fixed. Or maybe it just meant the Marshals didn’t want anything to happen, and to subsequently get sued. The latter would prove to be true. I talked with Stager as the van weaved through the city, past the Capitol Building for the last time, and out to the airport. I chatted with Peter about all the events, all the political happenings. Kyle kept silent; he had nothing to say. I’ll never know why, but I didn’t care. His issues were his own.
Once we arrived at the airport, the boys were loaded onto a bus and taken away. The US Marshals prowled nearby with assault rifles, as they guarded the plane as it was prepared for takeoff. I was loaded onto Con-Air and was seated with the women. The anxiety in my chest relaxed a bit, and soon enough we airborne. After an excruciating flight, we finally landed in Oklahoma City and I was taken into BoP custody. As I sat at the row of benches with the other girls, a BoP Guard approached, pulled me out of the line for processing. I was taken to a special “cell” that was just a cage that had enough room to stand or sit. There was no room to move. I would spend several mind-numbing hours in there. It was small enough to have been a fat persons coffin. I was locked in, and told to fill out paperwork. Once the CO came to get me, he brought me to the booking area. My mugshot was taken, and I was informed that I was designated to a prison called Elkton, in Ohio. I asked “…uh, is it a MEN’S facility?” The guard looked at me calmly and stated, “Yep. Sure is”. My heart sunk in my chest as I was taken out of cuffs and told to dress in the new prison uniform. I broke down sobbing. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Another CO approached and “stripped me out”. I have no doubt he noticed that “something was missing” Something that male inmates have. Something pretty important. But it didn’t seem to matter. I cried until my makeup was running down my face. He said “Don’t let them see you crying Watkins, wipe your face” I composed myself as best I could, and he then told me “Do you know that you are classified as a Terrorist? You’re going to have to be put into the SHU (Special Housing Unit).” I was shocked. “What?! I don’t even have any violent charges! Why?!” He looked at me confused and said “Well, what are you here for?” … “January 6th… you know the Capitol riot. But I don’t have violent charges” … “Ah, yeah. That comes straight from the top. All you people are designated terrorists and put into the SHU. It’s just the way it is.” I shook my head in frustration, and said loudly “LET’S GO BRANDON”. The CO smirked at me, winked and said “Yep. Let’s Go Brandon. Now turn around so I can put these cuffs on you.”
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