Jessica Watkins: A Tale of an American Political Prisoner Part 5

Diesel Therapy – This is what moving inmates around is called. Bad for them as they are already traumatized enough. This is part 5. Apparently, there is not part 4.2. Pray for this amazing vet that is railroaded by this regime.

Gulag This! (02/18/2024)
“A Tale of an American Political Prisoner”
Part 5: Northern Neck Regional Jail; Northern Neck, Virginia

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

I thoroughly enjoyed the trip on Con-Air, despite the Black Box I was wearing once more. It was all ignored as I flew next to Black (sorry, I never caught his first name) as we travelled from from Oklahoma City to somewhere in Virginia (I think). It was a long flight, but we landed in the midday. Black and I wouldn’t be the only J6ers in that Transport van. We had Dan, an elderly gentleman (sorry I forget his name), Doug Jensen, and a few others who weren’t with us long. I think there were maybe a dozen of us. Maybe 10, most of whom ended up being short-timers in the DC Gulag. I am notoriously bad at remembering names. The Officers driving our transport van took us on an hours long road trip. They zipped through traffic dangerously, and cut people off in traffic. It was a kind of wild ride. But I got to meet my new J6 brothers, so it was cool. By sundown we arrived at the Northern Neck Regional Jail. They booked us, and the lady running the desk was super nice. She read people their charges. The only charge listed for me was “Knowingly Entering and Remaining on Restricted Grounds”. Trespassing. I don’t know what happened in her system, but that was the only charge listed to my name. I assumed the Grand Jury tossed out my charges, like they did when I was in Butler County. I was ELATED, and collapsed in relief. I told her, “The Grand Jury must have figured out I am innocent!” I cried with joy. My spirits were high, and suddenly ALL of this felt like a cruel sideshow. I felt like a million bucks.

Really, all of us J6 people were kind of having fun. There was strong and instant camaraderie between us. It helped that the staff were also professional, polite and helpful. It was like an adventure. We were going through the motions of being “in jail”, but it was almost like it all was beneath us. Almost. There were 2 non-J6 people with us. One was an African American gentleman, and I think he was kinda shocked how cool and awesome we were. He expected us to be a bunch of dumb racist rednecks. Instead, we treated him like he was one of us, and by the end of the day, he was laughing and joking with us. The other guy was some dude getting extradited back to Canada. He was pissed. He kept saying “I am so angry how your country is treating you. In Canada this does not happen. America is a bad place”. We had to convince him that it doesn’t happen HERE either, that this is the only time. We told him, “We still love America, bro. It’s just that they’re losing their minds with this one.” He understood our stance, but still refused to accept the way we were being treated. When the Jail booked us into our unit, we were separated into twos. Each of us was paired off and put into a cell. I was put into a cell with Canada. I was VERY uncomfortable with that arrangement. It was one thing to be housed with another transgirl. But here, I was housed with a MAN. Not a J6 man either. A stranger. It was not OK. After 12 hours or so, they must have realized their error and transferred me into a cell block on my own.

The cells were lined with bars. There was no privacy, just bars along a wall with a locking door. The entire cell block of entirely African American men stared in, and none of them would talk to me. It was so awkward. I was very uncomfortable. I hung my towel from the top bunk and curled up behind it and went to sleep. The next morning, they told me to pack up. I was glad, I desperately wanted to leave that place. We were leaving. When I was reunited with my J6 brothers, I felt much better seeing them again. In the short time we had gotten to know each other, it felt terrible to be split off from them. The jail out-processed us and loaded us back into the van. It was O-Dark-Thirty, and I tried to nap on the road to DC. But I couldn’t sleep. I was too excited to get to DC and put this nightmare behind me. I missed Montana terribly, and I wanted to get this over with. I had been through so much, and the sooner I got the DC, the sooner I could go home. The van weaved through traffic, and soon we crossed into the DC area. I don’t know if they drove us past it on purpose, but I can only assume so. Soon we were passing the Capitol Building. I jokingly told the guards “There she is, that big beautiful b****. She’s just like I left her – in PRISTINE condition.” National Guard patrols stalked the perimeter with rifles and K9 Units. unaware that a van of J6 Prisoners was passing mere feet from their checkpoint.

The trip stopped off at the Courthouse, dropping off Canada for his extradition hearing. After what felt like hours, the van continued toward the DC Jail; the DC Department of Corrections (DCDOC-CTF). As the van drove up the inclined driveway and through the fencing topped with Concertina (razor wire), the gates rolled ominously shut. I didn’t know it then, but I would remain behind those gates for the next 2.5 years. At this point, I was going off the assumption that the Northern Neck lady’s system was correct; the Grand Jury must have dropped all my charges except for Trespassing. I yelled up to the guards. “This place is just a bus stop for me. I only committed a misdemeanor, so I won’t be here long. I am trying to get back to Ohio before Last Call at the bar, so I’d appreciate it if you would keep the engine running.” Big laugh. As if. I wouldn’t see my husband or my home again until I was in trial; facing Life in prison for crimes I didn’t commit. As we shuffled into the doors for processing, we would receive our first experience in the DC Gulag. A new hell awaited within.