“A Tale of an American Political Prisoner”

Part 3.1: Butler County Jail; Cincinnati, Ohio

A True Story; 100% verifiable with Text Messages, Emails, Video/Audio, Court Documents and Testimony.

It was dark when the FBI transferred me into the custody of the US Marshalls. I turned in my Commissary items, dressed back into civilian clothes, my waist handcuffed to my good arm and I was taken outside to the transport van. The air was cold. Crisp. Grey. A light flurry of snowflakes dusted my shoulders as I breathed deep enjoying every minute of it; glad to be free of the oppressive jail environment as I stood and waited to be loaded into the the prisoner transport. Hours later, I found myself being unloaded into the Butler County Jail in Cincinnati, Ohio. The booking area for Butler County Jail was extremely cold, but was far cleaner than the Montgomery County Jail holding cells; those were filthy, had black mold, and were covered in body fluids and badly etched graffiti of gang tags and poor attempts to mimic pornography. The Butler County Jail was in stark contrast; it was well painted in a sharp blue, clean, better maintained, and far less disgusting. The room was a long hallway type room, with glass holding cells on the left, and a long running desk bustling with Sheriffs on the right. I was fingerprinted and had my picture taken again. After being cycled to and fro from inprocessing stations and issued my jail uniform, I was finally taken to my cell. While everyone else was taken to their General Population (GenPop) Units, I was assigned to a place called AdSeg (Additional Segregation). It was a special Solitary Confinement known as “The Hole”. Soon I’d be missing the Montgomery County jail, with it’s disgusting cells and respectful CO’s (Corrections Officers) saluting me in the hallways. I wouldn’t be a celebrity in the Butler County Jail. This was to be my own personal Abu Gharib, and I would soon be treated like a member of Al Qaeda.

Unlike in the Montgomery County Jail cell which was a mere 80 square foot (which was cramped by a desk, bunk bed, sink and toilet), the cell in Butler County Jail was massive; roughly 400 square foot, almost all of which was empty space. There was no bed; I would be forced to sleep on the floor. There was a 1’x1′ stainless steel table with a steel stool in the corner. There was a stainless steel toilet/sink combo diagonal from that. The massive cell could have comfortably held 20 standing inmates, but I was alone. The room was silent and empty, and every sound I made echoed ominously. After an hour or two of mind numbing boredom, I was finally given a 5 minute phone call to Montana. I updated him briefly on things, told him I loved him, and I was taken back to my cell. I wouldn’t talk to him again for nearly a week. I was thoroughly exhausted, so I eased my broken body to the floor, and curled up under the thin pathetic blanket and fell asleep cradling my broken arm and trying not to roll over onto my broken ribs. Sometime before dawn break, the door slot opened and my food tray was tossed through onto the floor. I took one bite of the cold, flavorless, inedible mush and I spat it back out. The video camera mounted in the corner had been watching, and the loudspeaker on the wall said “What’s the problem?” Groggy, I replied, “That’s not food”, and promptly went back to sleep. I awoke when daylight shone through the frosted glass of the window slit. Minutes became hours and boredom ate at my mind. Eventually, I was seen by the Medic Supervisor. This hateful woman kept glaring at me during my physical. In hindsight, I assume it was due to a number of things. Maybe she hated me because I was transgendered? Maybe it was due to my charge of “Conspiracy to Assault and Maim Police Officers”? Or maybe she’s a Liberal? Maybe a combination of these. Whatever it was, her hate was palpable and unwarranted. I had been respectful and didn’t do or say anything to provoke my mistreatment.

She pulled me out of my cell and checked my vitals. Then took the ACE wrap off my broken arm. I assumed she was going splint it, but no such luck. She looked at my arm, pinched the skin and told me “I am taking this wrap from you. You don’t need it.” Stunned, I told her, “MY ARM IS BROKEN! I need a CAST! I was an EMT in the Fire Dept. for YEARS! All you did is check my skin perfusion and capillary refill. That doesn’t mean my arm is fine! It just means that blood is flowing and delivering oxygen to the extremity.” That should have been a wakeup call that I knew what I was talking about. Nope. She said, “Well, I am taking it. I don’t think you don’t need it” and put me back in my cell. I was left cradling my (now) completely unprotected broken arm. I spent those 2 days in complete agony. Every movement caused my arm to shift, placing pressure on the break. The constant throbbing pain was virtually unbearable. Sleeping on the hard floor was precarious, and I woke up frequently; both from my arm coming out of alignment and from my broken ribs being pressed against the concrete floor. To compound that, I was never given Recreation. I was never given another phone call. I was never given a shower. There wasn’t even anything to look at. Outside my door slit was a concrete wall. The other window was frosted and I couldn’t see out. The food was inedible. All I had was a small Gideon New Testament to read, which was difficult to read in the poor lighting of the cell. I started getting pissed off. I decided then, if I spent another day without proper medical attention, that I would take matters into my own hands. The next day, they took me out of my cell so the inmate orderlies could clean my cell. While I stood there cradling my broken arm, the Medical Supervisor stared at me with that pure hate again, evil pouring from her soul into mine. Only now, I embraced it. Fed off it. After days of isolation, boredom, cold, and severe pain from HER deliberate medical neglect, I was at my breaking point. This was the first human contact since my medical exam, and again I was met with unprovoked hatred.

She saw me staring at her and asked me, “What are you looking at, b****? Do you want your f***ing cell cleaned or what?” That pushed me over the edge, it was the last straw. I was tired of being alone. I was tired of being in pain. I was tired of being tired. The isolation and boredom ate at me like a cancer. Now I was being cussed out for no reason. I had enough, and I snapped. I told her “Whatever, lady. You’ve treated me like s*** since I got here. You don’t give two f***s about my ‘health and welfare’. If you did, you would fix my broken f***ing arm or give me a f***ing shower”. She was waiting for something like this and quickly rose to the challenge. “Fine then, go back in your f***ing cell.” I gave her the middle finger with my good hand, did a sharp military right face, and did as I was told. Rather than ending the confrontation, she decided to follow me into my cell. I spun on her, making it clear in no uncertain terms, “If you don’t fix my broken f***ing arm, I am going on a Hunger Strike. Period.” She smiled her evil little smile, staring into my eyes with a grin and said “That’s it, I got your f***ing number now, b****. I’m putting you on watch”. Minutes later she came back with a male guard the size of a linebacker. He stared down at me with arms crossed, but I wasn’t the least bit intimidated. My nerves were too frayed for that. These bullies had pushed me to the brink. He stared down at me, placed his hand on the can of mace on his belt and said “Strip!”. The threat wasn’t even thinly veiled; Comply or I will gas you with caustic chemicals. Cradling my broken arm, I looked up into his face and said, “Or what, huh? What the f*** are you going to do, eh? Beat me? Mace me? F*** you, dude! Do your worst motherf***er.” He glared down at me and replied, “If you don’t strip, then I WILL strip you myself”.