Coloring with the Catholics: My Story of Criminal Mental Health Care and Higher Ed Gaslighting in Larry Nassar’s Michigan (New Part Thirteen), In The Big House, Only Because I Was Poor and Could Not Afford Bail

by Gina Fournier

UNDER CONSTRUCTION. THANK YOU!

I’m still editing after initial construction in spring 2019. In order to polish a piece, I need to edit a lot and still need an outside editor. I publish while still under construction because I need accumulating actual mental torture to stop.

This defense attempts to correct the record. It requires an elaborate time structure (which requires an extra amount of very painful editing). And documentation when one is falsely accused of delusion, hallucination and psychosis. This is not a memoir. This is me still trying to save my life from retaliatory criminal (not forensic) psychiatry.

Since the spring and summer of 2019, when I first drafted this website, I’ve been filing rounds of Michigan Civil Rights complaints in response to current retaliation and harassment from my many attackers (school, police, Catholics, state of Michigan), as well as surviving. My complaints have been accepted and are still under investigation, delayed due to COVID. They are means toward possible legal redress, as I understand it.

New Part Thirteen Chapter Titles:

• To the Big House
• In the Big House Only Because I Was Poor and Could Not Afford Bail
• Yes, My Court Appointed Lawyer Sucked

Chapter: To The Big House

That summer after the PPO hearing, May 8, 2017, was compromised.

Doomed.

Summer is my favorite season.

August is my birth month.

They put me in jail for my birthday, August 30.

It felt inevitable, like the forces of gravity.

Inescapable.

~ * ~

The date I was arrested, August 25, 2017, according to the records I’ve seen was arbitrary, and I believe manipulated.

Because no one stalks cop.

I was set up.

I was targeted for silencing.

~ * ~

At one point that summer, I posted one of my many panic videos to Youtube about my terror regarding the fear of being jailed on my birthday.

I was afraid of being jailed regarding my plumbing.

Not for stalking.

~ * ~

Instead, the locals jailed me for my birthday, after Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2 and his wife harassed me, August 12, for stalking them, allegedly, which I did not do.

The Land of Motown Community College Lying Cops harassed me, I called the cops, then before the end of the month, in retaliation, I think it is fair to deduce, I was arrested.

Those two were never afraid of me.

They just wanted me gone.

~ * ~

Madness as means.

Madness as a weapon.

I assume no one believes me.

It hurts so much.

~ * ~

That summer, my bike stopped running, but I liked to look at it.

I tried to sell it.

I almost did sell it, but the deal fell through when the prospective buyer sobered up.

I really did not see a future with summer daisies year after year ahead.

I was really depressed and afraid.

I still am.

~ * ~

Over the previous winter, I retouched and repainted two identical farm signs for one of the adult children of Jeaneatte, the women with the well.

A potato farmer.

I finished the paintings, and they were picked up not longer after the PPO hearing.

I spent well over 80 hours on the project.

I was given a 100 bucks for my work.

I felt ripped off, but I had no recourse.

~ * ~

They, the big THEY, were watching me closely, ready to pounce, not to help end the witchhunt, but to silence me.

~ * ~

The Michigan State Police sent Norma Naylor to harass me in Foster’s grocery story parking lot when I was waiting for a MOTA bus home after I used the Evart library to post a panic video, on June 20, 2017.

I just re-watched and then turned off the video on Youtube.

I turned it off because it contained a shot of the neighbor’s house in the background.

I said through cries I was not suicidal, but I worried that I would need to become suicidal to escape the pain and the invisible jail of mind rape.

~ * ~

I wish the authorities would finally acknowledge that it is impossible to deal with the fallout and pain of criminal mental health care and suicide swatting like I’ve endured, over years, involving the state attorney general and state police, but on the wrong side of the story, without using the word “suicide” or feeling like one will only be able to escape, ironically, through suicide.

I am not suicidal, god damn it.

I never have been.

I have been set up and tortured.

The pain minus acknowledgement and justice is excruciating. Plus, I can’t support myself.

What the fuck am I supposed to do and say to end this hell?

Someone tell me.

Please.

~ * ~

The locals continued to terrorize me, like it was nothing to them, like I was nothing at all.

~ * ~

When they threaten you with two reasons for jail, uncivil shitting or stalking a cop, both nonsense charges, the message is clear.

We’re after you.

When they are following you on Facebook, but cherry picking, avoiding your full story, on purpose, you know you’re in trouble.

I knew I was in big trouble.

~ * ~

Like my social media now, still, in which I regularly edit and delete, I have over the years turned Youtube panic videos on and then off, and occasionally back on.

Generally, my pattern has become that I turn off most panic attack videos a few days after posting them.

Because I know. I know. I know.

People who witness my panic will say I am crazy.

~ * ~

I have accumulated too many panic videos, dozens, which I retain as documentation of my suffering, the result of unchecked runaway mental torture, not my natural self.

I recorded and uploaded a lot of panic videos up north that summer.

But I don’t leave most of the videos turned on for enemies to use against me or regular people to see and too quickly misread.

Social media: dairy, therapy, strategy.

Documentation of my losing fight to SAVE MY LIFE.

~ * ~

Never underestimate the cruelty still operating among human kind.

~ * ~

I knew on a few levels that locals would not be satisfied until they locked me up again.

They were going to lock me up one way or another, if not again unnecessarily in a looney bin, then in jail, as action videotaped plus documentation I’ve gathered through FOIA proves up to this point in my too long story.

The local Trump Lock Her Up authorities and Bill Schuette supporters would find a reason and create whatever cover was needed.

And I knew it.

In my cells and blood, in every part of my body, even if I found a way to fool my mind temporarily.

All signs, no matter my protest signs, pointed in the direction of second detainment.

~ * ~

The District Health Department #10 moved in closer, condemning the house in June, threatening me with jail, part of poverty’s flush.

I spent a lot of time seeking information, talking to officials, fighting my way to the library, fruitlessly asking for mercy.

Trying to survive.

~ * ~

That summer, Someone showed a brave strong supportive face, as Someone was raised to do, and I thank Someone again.

But I sensed the pressure negatively affecting our relationship.

I did not ask Someone to testify to my character in Judge Booher’s courtroom. so that I could save Someone from saying no.

I needed Someone to give me rides and money.

Someone’s full person suggested asking was not a good idea. Someone loved an old lawyer show on cable. Someone would have volunteered to attest to my character, if Someone wanted to.

Someone may have felt compromised in this regard.

~ * ~

I tried to remain active, as positive as possible, moving forward toward freedom and justice, best I could, but I could not ignore the signs, as much as people did ignore my civil rights protest signs, except to steal or destroy them.

Desperately, in vain, I wrote letters and Tweeted to the current administration running Michigan.

I sent futile communication to the governor, the attorney general, the speaker of the house said to be concerned about quality mental health care.

Michigan was run by Republicans, full house domination.

One Republican, Bill Schuette, the attorney general, had denied equal protection October 7, 2015, and attacked me with retaliation using the Michigan State Police on November 19, 2015.

The Republicans were never going to help me.

~ * ~

I fought to stay alive, at least in my own mind.

But I knew I was losing.

~ * ~

In July, the 49th Disrict Court, same court that allowed the Land of Motown Community College Lying Cops to lie and take away my liberty, denied a Michigan Civil Rights Commission complaint appeal based on some unnamed technicality.

I am currently working with the Michigan Civil Rights Commission again, which is operating in more citizen friendly way under state Democratic leadership.

Currently, as of October 2019, eight officially recognized complaints are heading out to key agencies in Michigan: Michigan State Police, the attorney general’s office, the Michigan Department of Health and Human Services, multiple police agencies who’ve been sucked into this mess, plus major players Livonia Police, St. Mary Merciless and Land of Motown Community College. Look for updates in the final section.

Cross your fingers.

~ * ~

Also that month, in July, I went to the Osceola County fair with Someone, like everything was normal, okay.

I was acting.

Someone may have been acting, too.

~ * ~

That summer, sitting on the back porch, looking out at Lake Miramichi, I finished reading Harry and Ethel’s WWII love letters, which was a great diversion.

~ * ~

All lives are compromised.

~ * ~

Harry remained stateside until after the United States bombed Japan, then the poor guy was sent to Japan, then the letters ended, in 1945.

Stateside, Harry was scuttled all around the country.

He came home to visit once. Ethel traveled to meet him twice, which meant disobeying her husband when obeying one’s husband was still required.

Harry didn’t want her spending the money to travel, plus he knew he could be moved out again at any time.

Ethel knew it could be too late at any time.

~ * ~

The visits were wanted by both, but not easy.

Their war time life was not easy, despite the way nostalgia exudes beauty and encourages one to over simplify and glorify the unknown past.

~ * ~

Their exchange of letters was not easy to read, either, but I felt it was my duty, especially since I held the letters and cards in my possession.

Another uncomfortable situation with no clear answers.

What to do with them now?

I still don’t know.

I’m open to suggestions.

I’ll give them to the family, the broken remains, when I have made good.

That’s been my plan.

~ * ~

I could only find superficial evidence of liberty, which I clung to for hope.

The statue of liberty has become my go to symbol to express freedom.

~ * ~

On August 3, I posted this video plea for peace when I was not having a panic attack and wanted to document my signs.

FYI. For any eyes who may have watched that entire video, I repainted my pope sign.

I edited my anger as I transmuted it, just like I do by turning on and off my panic videos and panic social media entries.

Part of my homemade therapy, so I don’t explode.

My pope sign morphed from something like ‘Why don’t you get raped in the ass with a crucifix?’ to more greeting card-like and family friendly, presentable fare.

~ * ~

It burns my DNA and lights my fire in all the wrong ways to see and hear the Catholic Church accepted as if it weren’t a sexist disingenuous operation that ruins lives.

The Catholic Church is able to hold it’s head up in public, while I know that the Catholics will never do the right thing by me voluntarily.

~ * ~

Your savior raped my life unlivable, which is a real problem for me.

~ ~

I had no idea a body could contain so much pain and not die from pain.

Since this time, I’ve accumulated two more years of pain, and my position is no better.

But I’m still fighting mentally abuse and fighting a good fight trying to SAVE MY LIFE.

~ * ~

On a MOTA bus ride home from the Mecosta County Building, August 11, 2017, after the kangaroo court District Health Department #10 appeals hearing about my plumbing and poop habits, the strangest thing happened.

I swear one minute I was kicked off my main Facebook page, the next the MOTA bus hit a bump, then a new Facebook page opportunity opened on up my cellphone.

I have no idea why or how, but I went with it.

~ * ~

For a chunk of time I operated two accounts with the same name and same password, which makes no sense at all.

One account always seemed to be closed by troll attack, so I would use the other.

But trying to log onto to two accounts, at various libraries, occasionally around the lake connecting on my free welfare cellphone, overwhelmed the system.

Sometimes I simply could not get on Facebook at all, which terrified me.

~ * ~

I am a still terrified of being kicked off all social media by trolls for good and losing my lifeline to the world.

This month, in October 2019, as if I have some sort of social leprosy, my Twitter account was suspended, I assume by trolls waiting to pounce.

I had posted the publicly available Google search that matched lying wife to the phone number that called the police Labor Day Weekend, in 2016, as listed on the 911 Meceola Dispatch report under name “anon,” next to a non- existent street address.

Even masking out lying wife’s name on the publicly available Google search was enough to suspend my account, all appeals rejected.

According to Wikipedia, trolls can suspend Twitter accounts.

It hurts so much.

Donald Trump can ruin the world on Twitter, but I can’t try and SAVE MY LIFE.

~ * ~

Then the day after the sham hearing at the Mecosta County building, August 11, 2017, about my plumbing and where I did and did not shit, the Land of Motown Community College Lying Cops, husband and wife, struck again, in the most baseless way, showing their true natures.

The Land of Motown Community College Lying Cops harassed me on August 12, 2017.

This is the dialogue I recall, as close as possible to actual words: ‘Gina, you killed your husband! Gina, you poisoned your husband, didn’t you!?’

I was minding my own business, painting my civil rights protest signs.

I had moved into wider territory and in my burgeoning artwork criticized Bad King Trump, a favorite among back woods locals.

~ * ~

No, I had not killed or poisoned my husband, almost six years earlier.

Christopher Allen Wysocki died December 26, 2012, in the Garden City Hospital, under the less than stellar care of third string staff.

His doctor ran the hospital and appeared on television commercials, but his doctor was out of town for the holidays.

For months, Chris felt he was really going to die, and by the end of the year, though his doctor said he was stable, he did die.

His death certificate cause of death reads multiple pulmonary embolisms, blood clots to the lungs.

He had an un-diagnosed blood disease, un-diagnosed since it was discovered in 2010, when one of his engorged kidneys, which filled with blood, was removed.

The last time we saw each other was November 1, 2012, in Wayne County Probate court, where the judge did grant my request for PPO against him, and did not grant his retaliatory request against me.

My main goal was stop him from talking to William MacQueen.

~ * ~

William MacQueen did talk to my mother, she reported to me while incarcerated.

The same Wayne County Probate Court had denied my requested PPO against my mother, unfortunately.

I really did not want my estranged Catholic mother talking to William MacQueen, but she says she did, without any acknowledgment that adult parents are not suppose to talk to hostile employers on the phone.

~ * ~

At his insistence, all of a sudden, when it was clear I would lost my job– and because Chris was panicked and actually dying–we played the nasty divorce game.

My dying husband verbally abused me right out the door in the middle of the night, in the middle of October 2012.

My nemesis, my Larry Nassar, William MacQueen encouraged divorce games when he struck in April 2012.

~ * ~

But Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop, like his despicable behavior did during the PPO hearing, was not happy to let the dead rest.

Or stop harassing me.

“Gina, you killed your husband!’

When I heard those ridiculous words, I turned, saw the Land of Motown Community College Lying Cops, husband and wife, standing in their driveway, shouting at me.

I was standing in front of my own home, not theirs.

I did not engage them.

They engaged me.

The Land of Motown Lying Cops lied to the police.

~ * ~

I was not really surprised at their depravity at that point.

The wife was holding a cellphone camera, taking my picture again, it looked like.

The wife was initiating harassment, again.

The husband was initiating harassment, again, like he did with his bad faith PPO request.

~ * ~

In response, I turned to my power song, John Lennon, “Power to the People,” and began singing.

~ * ~

I debated but decided to call the cops, despite the dangerous oddness of the situation and my lack of witnesses.

The cop who came out was a nice guy.

We talked and joked.

He told me about going downstate to see the Detroit Tiger’s play.

I suggested that cops and me should put on a charity talent show and recreate the Officer Krupke scene from West Side Story, because of his last name.

Officer Koepke was very good at diffusing tension.

Thank you.

He suggested that he not confront the Land of Motown Lying Cops, and I took his suggestion, though he wrote in his report later that I asked him not to speak to them, which is not how I recall events.

Now I wish he would have confronted them and asked to see what was on the wive’s camera.

The footage taken by the wife was used by Michigan State Police, in the arrest report, to say I was stalking the Land of Motown Community College Lying cops near their house and yelling, which I was not.

These assholes got me arrested through under-hand means! (edit later)

~ * ~

It hurts so much still.

~ * ~

The blood boiling that has fueled wars since man, ever since Man, boils in me.

~ * ~

How dare you?

How do you dare?

~ * ~

Okay. Here it is.

My arrest.

~ * ~

Readers of previous sections know I was hassled by a contingency of Mecosta County cops and DHHS agents from Big Rapids who descended around noon on August 25, 2017, for no reason.

For no honestly stated reason.

The message delivered, that my welfare benefits had been extended early, could have and should have been delivered through the mail.

I think the locals were planning on taking me to a looney bin that day, if they could.

~ * ~

The first round of heat left.

I walked the dog around the kidney-shaped lake to the other side of the bean, a shoreline not seen from the shores of Chez Wysocki.

I took this picture even though the light was nothing special.

I remember feeling solemn, calm, trapped and doomed.

I remember wanting to record the moment and the day.

I did not consciously imagine being arrested in just a few of hours.

I was able to upload this image to Facebook by piggy backing on a neighbor’s wireless internet access.

~ * ~

Valiant Hunter dog and I walked back home to the lakehouse cabin.

Eventually, that late afternoon, I cut the lawn with a borrowed lawn mower.

Afterward, I sat on the porch.

I had coffee.

Before I had a beer, my life ended.

~ ~

It was a beautiful late August evening.

I was sitting with my dog and bird on the back porch, the best room in the cabin. 

I can’t speak for the animals, but I was watching the sun illuminate fuzzies and bugs, as it set slowly and sloppily. 

The back porch faced west looking over the lake between pine trees which were planted by Harry as seedlings, perhaps based on the mountain scenery he loved in Idaho, which he encountered in the service and sketched on an envelope. 

Thinking back at the light, I’m reminded of dripping fake maple syrup stuck on a racist sexist plastic decanter. 

I am sure that’s just me. 

But there’s a reason! 

I am not crazy! 

My dead husband preferred Aunt Jemima over Log Cabin, which must have been his father’s choice in fake maple syrup. 

I found an entire case of empty log cabin bottles hidden in the attic of the Garden City house, for safe keeping in case they became valuable decades ahead.

But I know Chris preferred Aunt Jemima in plastic.

He insisted on eating no other brand.

~ * ~

You know how kids are. 

Always rebelling.

~ * ~

I can’t believe I lost both houses Harry and Chris worked so hard to buy and to hold. 

I loved the men, even the one I did not meet, and their houses, so much.

I loved the house in Garden City downstate so much more than the house in which I grew up, not too many miles away from the Garden City house, in my shithole hometown, Livonia, Michigan.

~ * ~

Of course, I’m delaying again.

~ * ~

A wondrous Lake Miramichi moment was marked and shattered. 

Three Michigan State Police troopers rounded the corner of the house. 

I was murdered a second time by the negative effects of criminal and abusive mental health care. 

I was handcuffed, again, and put in a police cruiser, again. 

~ * ~

We drove by Someone’s house on the way to the Osceola County Jail, which is not the way most cops out of Mount Pleasant would drive.

Someone’s spouse just happened to be standing on the front lawn, in my memory almost as if Someone’s spouse was waiting.

Someone’s spouse saw us drive by, I could tell. 

I couldn’t wave due to handcuffs.

~ * ~

Not too long after, Someone went to the lakehouse and got the dog and bird.

The story I got later was that the neighbor, Jim, came to Someone’s house and asked Someone if Someone could take care of my animals, since I had just been arrested.

But, frankly, I must wonder.

Did Jim know Someone and where Someone lived?

Was Someone and Someone’s spouse secretly in the loop about what was going on without need for Jim’s heads up?

It’s possible.

I wish I could say more.

~ * ~

I wish I didn’t have reason to be thankful and suspicious.

~ * ~

This time, sitting captive in a police cruiser against me will, I did not revel in the circus of life.

I did not sing and entertain while the cops drove me to jail, like I did when Livonia Police officer Owen Keaton drove me to the St Mary Merciless looney bin years before, still within the wide span of these hell years, instigated by my nemesis. 

This time, I was an alleged perpetrator, but I was not shoved, like Livonia Police Officer Owen Keaton shoved me into St. Mary Merciless looney bin. 

But, I did shout in the police cruiser on my way to Osceola County Jail.

I did not entertain Michigan State Police Brittany Campbell driving, or the young guy in the back, like I entertained Livonia cop Owen Keaton.

But I did offer to buy Jesus rapes for all.

~ * ~

In God We Fuck?  Sure, for a buck!

Lock her up!

~ * ~

The point was to silence and crush me.

~ * ~

I did not stalk a cop. 

Nobody stalks a cop.

Chapter: In the Big House, Only Because I Was Poor and Could Not Afford Bail

I spent 35 days in the Osceola County jail, located in Reed City, Michigan, childhood home of my adopted literary parent, writer Jim Harrison, writer of the novella collection, “The Legends of the Fall.” 

The movie adaptation starred Brad Pitt, Anthony Hopkins and Aidan Quinn, who all circled Julia Ormond. 

The first novella (long short story, short novel) in the collection of the same name is called “Revenge,” which was also adapted into a movie, with Kevin Costner and Anthony Quinn, twisting and turning around Madeline Stowe.

The novella “Revenge” begins with the Old Sicilian adage, “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

~ * ~

One way I survived, after I settled into my new reality, was pacing the room along with other jailbirds who paced to pass the time.

Sometime, while circling the room in the flow with the other jailbird pacers, which usually included the thin drug user who looked liked the poor woman in the famous photograph of a migrant mother by Dorothea Lange, I practiced positive affirmations.

I repeated silently to myself an uplifting mantra as prayer.

“I will get out,” I said over and over, as I circled the room.

And I will fight back.

~ * ~

Jail is death.

Jail is waiting.

I was arrested on a Friday evening, so I could sit all weekend waiting to be charged.

I was incarcerated in a large dormitory style room, with about six bunk beds, two central tables designed with attached cold, round, hard steel seats, a simple white basic sink and bathroom without a door.

~ * ~

The door to the dormitory contained a window that looked out into the hallway.

The jail did contain traditional jail cells, as one would imagine, with bars, but thankfully, I was not housed in one.

~ * ~

Cinder block walls came halfway up the wall around the toilet to provide limited privacy.

The shower was powerful and warm.

I had not taken a shower in years.

I had been washing with a wash cloth for a long time at the lakehouse cabin without indoor plumbing.

I took a very long shower nightly after most of the jailbirds settled down to watch television for the night after dinner.

~ * ~

The room received some natural light, muted, that came in through thickly opaque glass, on one wall of the rectangular shaped room, positioned higher than head level.

The windows were cut like noncommittal eyes on a blank face.

The windows seemed to face east or south east.

From August 25, 2017 to September 28, 2018, the windows lit up in the first part of the day and unplugged the second part of the day.

~ * ~

Most jailbirds wanted lower bunks, I guess to have a space into which other jailbirds could be invited to sit.

Also, to have a space above the head on which to attach pictures from home.

I took an upper bunk.

I did not want to feel an extra roof over my head holding me down.

~ * ~

I established a routine.

Jailbirds were expected to clean the jail room dormitory daily when lights came on brighter at 6:00 am.

The lights in jail stay on all night, which is perhaps intended to address security, but acts as physical antagonism: the police state versus jailbird.

Most jailbirds stayed in bed when the lights brightened annoyingly, marking another day in hell.

I sprang up like a dutiful slave.

When the guards opened the door to leave a bucket and mop inside the room, I began cleaning, daily.

I did this so I could control the television channel changer in order to watch news while the jailbird who appointed herself in charge of the room pretended to sleep.

I don’t recall her doing much cleaning.

~ * ~

The rest of the day and night, the jailbirds avoided reality coverage, except for reality television shows, particularly shows about cops, which I thought was very strange, and Say Yes to the Dress, the show about brides shopping for gowns, which I knew was delusional.

~ * ~

Orange is one of my favorite colors.

I did not mind wearing orange.

The problem with jail is not the attire. 

The problem with jail is the locked doors and lack of fresh air, like St. Mary Merciless human trafficking criminal looney bin in Livonia.

~ * ~

On some but not all days, we were allowed time, twenty to thirty minutes, in the jail’s over-sized chicken coop recreation area, which had open air near the roof slats.

Again, jailbirds walked in a circle around the space, which contained four pieces of exercise equipment.

In jail, I gave away my sweet deserts and exercised every time we were allowed.

I looked up to the sky and absorbed as much natural light as possible.

The leaves on a maple tree in the distance were turning from green to yellow and orange.

Once or twice wild life wondered into the space: sparrow, grasshopper, feather.

Signs of life.

~ * ~ 

I watched tv footage of the state attorney general, Bill Schuette, who had set the scene for my incarceration through clear and documented misuse of his office, announce his campaign for governor while I was wearing prisoner orange in jail. 

I felt he knew–and journalists knew, because of 2015 Fox News coverage of my Garden City Jesus Raped Me civil protest–that I was watching him seek to rise up, over my suffering.

And that he was enjoying my pain.

~ * ~

Thankfully, after he became the Republican nominee but never received the endorsement of Republican outgoing governor Rick Snyder, Bill Shuette lost his bid for governor of the state of Michigan to Democrat Gretchen Whitmer.

Recently, a year after his loss, Bill Schuette told Bridge Magazine, a Republican alternative press, that he will not run for a Michigan Supreme Court opening being vacated by a retiring Republican, despite speculation.

The story was published October 2, 2019, while I was posting the Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2 bogus PPO hearing transcripts online.

I have the audacity to hope that my efforts to SAVE MY LIFE and hold my attackers responsible may be gaining traction, though hope is dangerous, almost delusional.

I think Bill Schuette would run for the Michigan Supreme Court, if he thought he could get away with running.

But he must know that I would publicly pounce on him like Christine Blasey Ford upheld her civic duty to publicly share her story about U.S. Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanuagh.

Thank you, eternally.

Yesterday, I received word that the Michigan Judicial Tenure Commission received my request to investigate Judge Booher.

If they do elect to investigate, the Michigan Supreme Court decides the outcome. That’s my understanding.

If the Michigan Judicial Tenure Commission does investigate, action would likely wrap up before the 2020 election, but transpire during the campaign for a seat on the Michigan Supreme Court.

I named Bill Schuette in the PPO transcripts possibly under review along with Booher’s handling of the PPO hearing. (double check; get page)

~ * ~ 

This is just a preview of my month in a county jail.

There is much more to say, more than I will take the time to commit to words now.

The clock is running fast on my dwindling bank account and my time under shelter, with internet connection.

~ * ~ 

I could and should write an essay about just the books I read in jail, from re-reading “The Great Gatsby” (Maureen Corrigan, commentator on Fresh Air, is right; it does not hold up) to Rick Warren’s the Purpose Driven Life expanded edition, called ironically, “What on Earth Am I Here For?”

~ * ~

Going to bible study and Baptist church services equaled passes out the jail room bunk house for gals.   

~ * ~

I recorded the list of books I read with my responses in a composition notebook I was given by Bible Ladies who visited the jail once a week.

They did not know it, I don’t think, but the Bible Ladies gave me on my birthday, August 30, something in which to write and a pencil, which are like gold in jail, where nothing is free, not underwear, socks, paper, pencil or tampons.

Jailbirds are charged for their stay, charged for their court appointed attorney, and charged for being charged with a crime and booked.

I had stopped having my period the year before.

After I liberated images from some beat up magazines found on the carts of books stored in a jail hallway that comprised the jail library, I was told that I could have been thrown in solitary confinement again, for defiling jail property.

~ * ~

Going to bible study was a way out of the jail room dormitory, so I went.

Which is when I was given and was asked to read the Rick Warren book.

For bible study homework.

I was honest and polite about my disbelief.

I don’t think I told the Bible Ladies about “Jesus Raped Me,” so that I could continue leaving the jail room dormitory, but I did summarize my experience more blandly.

~ * ~

My biggest gripe with the Bible Ladies was that they really did not seem to comprehend that most people are not sentenced to the Osceola County jail, but housed due to poverty before, without or despite this elusive myth called “justice.”

Bible Ladies told us jailbirds that we were in jail because we did something wrong and did not follow Jesus.

You would not believe how well behaved I remained while hearing that crap.

~ * ~

To get to the Bible Study room, jailbirds were escorted passed traditional jail cells, where the men deemed more dangerous where incarcerated.

In the Bible Study room, to me Saturday Night Live-inspired Christian Baptist services were also held.

I don’t know which team was more comical: The Metaphorically Blind Boys of The Mitten Bible Belt or the former jailbird, rumored to be a child molester, and his mother.

~ * ~

In the bible study room, in one corner, there was a window that opened to the outside world.

I took every opportunity to go to that room, even though it meant nonsense and for me ironic Jesus talk.

I sat as close to that open window as often as possible.

~ * ~

One of the white men of white Jesus who ran us jailbirds through some old time hymns mansplained in one sermon that the world’s Jews were really close to excepting Jesus as god.

I laughed like a school girl forced to sit in the pew at St. Michael’s Church in Livonia, Michigan.

~ * ~

I really wanted to steal one of the Baptist hymnals for documentation, but I didn’t.

~ * ~

Making my body language clear, during church services, so unlike the Catholic Mass, which I have long disliked, I would turn away from the pulpit and stare out the window.

The small patch of deciduous tree and glimpses of natural light helped me to gather fuel.

~ * ~

Sarcastically, acting nicer than I felt, I challenged the white men who ran church services with my eyes and words as much as I thought I could get away with–without losing the privilege of sitting near that open window.

After services (thank you, white man, thank you, you are just as great you think you are), I asked the Baptist mansplainer what evidence he had for the claim that Jews were going to end Judaism and accept Jesus as savior.

He began babbling, and I turned away.

At that moment, rather than listen to Baptist bloviating, I did wish to return to my jail cell with the other jailbirds, but the moment passed quickly.

My time in the Osceola County Jail made me a more avowed anti-Christian.

Other jailbirds claimed to find Jesus, but they weren’t very convincing.

~ * ~

The most memorable line was hurled at me by the jailbird in charge, with whom I did not get along. 

She ruled the television channel changer, so she could watch all weekend long, back to back nonstop episodes of The Walking Dead on AMC.

I’m not into horror or science fiction.

Horror and science fiction were watched regularly.

It made me nauseous to watch The Walking Dead while incarcerated.

I was mad at every parent and teacher for not better teaching the other jailbirds to recognize and deconstruct parables and metaphors they were exposed to in life.

~ * ~ 

The jailbird in charge objected to my crying when I arrived, which got me a few hours in solitary confinement. 

“Do you need a band aid for your vagina?” 

~ * ~

Being taken to jail after the loony bin while my attackers were freely attacking me made me shake, scream and cry.

~ * ~

That first night, I was booked, I was held in a small room, I was stripped, I was given orange duds, I was deposited in the dormitory, where I sat on the floor with my back up against the far wall.

I may have wailed.

I wailed.

I was removed and taken to a very small room with a metal bed and no window.

Solitary confinement.

I continued to scream and cry.

If I could have, I would have killed myself screaming and crying.

~ * ~

Being jailed is just as bad as you fear and far, far, far worse.

I was let out of solitary confinement and returned to the main dormitory after a few hours, perhaps after lights dimmed at 11:00 pm, and the television was turned off by invisible hand.

~ * ~

I am having a panic attack now just thinking about my descent into the Osceola County Jail.

Pain talk: I want everyone hard-motherfucked without mercy in my hell.

Just for a day.

(My version of “walk in my shoes.”)

People of the state of Michigan: You had no god damn right to murder and torture me all these years, first in a looney bin, then in jail, both bogus incarcerations.

Catholic Jesus rape you, too, without end, in hell on earth, upon all your flesh.

For a week, like me, and see how you do.

I’m talking to you, America.

I know. I know. I know. No one wants to hear a woman’s anger.

Anger must be transmuted.

How many are willing to watch Ava Duvernay’s documentary 13th instead of listening to me moan?

About the connection between slavery and mass incarceration.

About the rise in the American prison industrial complex.

The prison industrial complex: I am now a part of the resulting human debris.

~ * ~

Someone visited me in jail and deposited money in my jailbird commissary account, more than once.

Thank you, eternally.

Someone sent me a birthday card and regular mail, too.

Thank you, eternally.

We no longer speak.

I wish things were very, very different.

~ * ~

Phone calls on the old fashioned pay phone to my court appointed attorney were not free either.

Using the old fashion pay phone successfully required know how, patience and strategy, which time in jail afforded.

~ * ~

I used money sent to me mysteriously by someone, someone else, on the outside, who used a pseudonym, to start my own jailhouse gang, so I could be left alone to read and write. 

~ * ~

Every day, I sat at the table closest to the window on my adopted hard cold steel seat.

I faced away from the television.

I faced the opaque window like glowing eyes closed shut.

When I felt overcome, to seek calm, I faced the window and looked to the light.

~ * ~

I took a few naps, too.

I would lie down on my bunk and touch the cool cinder block wall for something to steady myself.

~ * ~

But I spent most of my time reading and writing, as I always planned to do if I ever found myself in jail.

~ * ~

I do not know a Julie Brown, from upstate New York, but I do know, or used to know, a Megan Schanstra.

I assume my old roommate and pal used the fake name to send me money.

Thanks and more are due.

Why the lack of transparency?

Afraid Jesus rape is catchy?

How did this person find out about me in jail in mid Michigan?

I have not spoken to her.

But I assume she talked to my mother, my Catholic mother who did not like Megan, a heathen (not my mother’s actual word).

Megan, like most of my old friends, did not like my mother, either.

And for good reasons.

~ * ~

To be treated like I have by old friends and family, like I should be some sort ward of the state of Michigan, makes me very, very angry.

While I don’t feel comfortable outing and naming people, I also feel like citizens not raped by Jesus owe me.

I am fighting for my life.

~ * ~

With the money sent to me, I temporarily stole the comprised and limited affections of the sometimes second in charge, the jailbird lieutenant you could say, of the meanest jailbird, who ruled the television with horrible taste.

I did so by buying her right-hand woman tampons from the commissary. 

Without tampons, jailbirds needed to make pads out of toilet paper.

~ * ~

I also splurged on things like socks, underwear and peanut butter and cheese cracker snacks.

The food served was okay, considering the setting, but not plentiful.

And I bought coffee.

The jailhouse coffee, out of South Easton, Massachusetts, was like no coffee I’ve ever had on the outside.

I swear, it was more like cocaine, which I only did once or twice in the 1980s.

It’s unbelievable how wired this coffee made you, and the fact that it was served in jail.

Jailbirds would play party-time pumped on this stuff, which literally made the pacers like me fly around the room.

I joked to myself that Massachusetts’ notorious gangster Whitey Bulger, brother of a politician William Bulger, marketed this coffee, for all his friends in jail.

~ * ~

I wrote and mailed letters to Julie Brown using legal pad paper, pencils, envelopes and stamps her money helped me buy.

I did not receive a reply.

For one thing, because the letters never reached her due to the bogus address attached to her bogus name.

The return envelopes I received during mail call were empty, letters confiscated.

I wonder who, if anyone, read my droll sarcasm not intended for their eyes with humor not likely appreciated by any authority in the area.

~ * ~

I wrote many letters, in duplicate, to retain a copy.

~ * ~

Time in jail forced me to call on breathing methods learned through yoga and meditation to hold on through every relentless second I was detained.

~ * ~

Jail is death.

~ * ~

I used the Julie Brown’s UPS envelope to hold my accumulated mass of duplicate letters, letters sent mostly to my court appointed lawyer, but also to the Detroit Free Press, the warden, the judge and even my former publisher.

~ * ~

Even after being put in solitary confinement, on the first night, I had panic attacks in jail.

I decided to use the video camera hanging from the ceiling near the door, like I use social media, to document.

When I was overcome, I wrote signs and stood in front of the camera holding them up.

The jailbirds thought I was nutz, but who cares.

~ * ~

By far the worst part of jail was asking my estranged disturbed Catholic mother, Eugenia Jeanne Dugas Fournier Grzywacz, for bail money.

~ * ~

I had stopped dealing with her, back in 2012, because I knew she couldn’t handle word of William MacQueen’s attack, and I couldn’t handle them both together.

~ * ~

We spoke on the old fashion jail pay phone.

I called her.

~ * ~

Of course I called her.

She was the only person in the world I knew with money and a phone number I had memorized.

~ * ~

It was the first time we had spoken since two major things happened at once, like the explosion that gives birth to or ends worlds: William MacQueen attacked and my grandmother, my mom’s mother died, at age 102, on grounds with the Jesus Bitch Felician nuns’ motherhouse and St. Mary Merciless criminal Catholic looney bin, in the spring of 2012.

My mom had mother issues, which she passed to me seemingly without any consideration, which is startling.

~ * ~

I remembered my mother’s phone number, the phone number I grew up memorizing, using, sharing with friends, of course.

Some things you can’t forget.

~ * ~

I never shared the phone number with a boyfriend because I did not have a boyfriend until I moved to California at ago 20.

I was a good girl who did what I was told, no matter how ridiculous.

Growing up, as a teenager, I was sexist Catholic-separated from the opposite sex.

My only sibling, a brother, was younger, with younger male friends, and female friends, since he was not forced to attend an all male Catholic school, like I was forced to attend an all girl Catholic school.

My main after school activity was ballet.

~ * ~

It took a while to get an answer out of my mother.

It was maddening: waiting for an answer in jail about hopefully getting out of jail due to your mother’s maybe doubtful mercy.

~ * ~

I can’t forget one line I heard my mother’s voice say on that Osceola County Jail old fashion pay phone.

Nagging voice I knew to well: “Yes, the family is Catholic!”

Never trust the fucking Catholics with your life is what I’ve learned.

~ * ~

Eugenia eventually turned me down after consulting with my brother, Rodney Rouelle Fournier.

I realized she wasn’t going to bail me out at that point, when Eugenia shared her confusion and said she needed to ask my younger brother first.

~ * ~

My brother was born cheap because his father, my dad, Ronald Rouelle Fournier, loved me more and did not love him.

~ * ~

My sexist Catholic mother loved her male and female child in distinct ways.

~ * ~

All lives are comprised.

~ * ~

Over the old fashion jail pay phone, my mother turned me down for, I’ll need to double check, but I think for effectively about $7, 500.00 in bond money, which she likely had to give, if she felt it was important to get me out of jail, which she did not feel.

Over video connection, my bond amount was set for $75,000.00.

When and who added and hand wrote in the words “GPS tether”?

I could not get my court appointed attorney to really listen to me about anything, including this talk of tethering me, upon release.

This document is labeled “Pretrial Release Order” and dated August 28, 2017.

Pretty well hidden amid the crammed layout is a court appearance for a Probable Cause hearing for September 7, 2017.

It seemed the court made no attempt to honestly schedule court dates.

~ * ~

Is there any chance that my attorney was in on the fix?

In small town mid Michigan, with no one busting white collar crime?

We could barely look at each other by the end.

He could not hide his contempt.

I registered his demeanor but could not fully examine it at the time.

~ * ~

One time, when he came to visit me in jail, I asked my court appointed attorney, to test his loyalties, if the prosecuting attorney was a Democrat or Republican.

Maybe our relationship started to break at that point.

My court appointed attorney claimed to not know, which is amazing.

And then, annoyed, he guessed wrong.

He guessed “Democrat” with a questioning pose.

Was he acting?

A lawyer who does not give the right answer to this question is likely either, or both, incompetent or open to bribery of some sort.

The chances the Osceola County prosecutor would be a Democrat are about equal to Jews becoming Christian.

The area has Republican clubs, but no Democratic clubs, listed in the phone book.

According to MLive, out of eighty-two counties in the state, Osceola County is the second most Republican county in Michigan, with Republicans outpacing Democrats by 37 percentile points.

~ * ~

The prosecutor attorney for Osceola County, and the prosecuting attorney for sister Mecosta County, both appeared on a list of prosecuting attorneys who supported Bill Schuette for governor, which I later read, while out on bond or probation.

~ * ~

My probable cause hearing was delayed a few times I think.

In any case, I never appeared in court for a probable cause hearing.

Is that common?

It does not sound fair.

Sounds like guilty without consideration.

~ * ~

It seemed the court, which housed both circuit an district court, wanted prisoners to be confused about bond release terms, and later probation conditions, as well as required court appearances, in order to facilitate a return to jail.

I did not filter these documents on purpose in order to share how difficult to read they are.

The most important court notices were printed using the most outdated computer techniques, in the most unreadable fashion.

~ * ~

I still don’t know how bond works, because I did not post bond.

Eugenia turned me down over the phone and in a maddening letter, which was delayed and held up by the court.

~ * ~

This is not doxing.

Get over it.

I’m just saving people a few clicks.

Her whereabouts can be found through my whereabouts.

All average people can be found online.

When I asked my lousy court appointed attorney why the hold up in delivery, why the Circuit Court clerk held this mail from my mother for nearly a week, he gave me a no-answer blow off, which had become his modus operandi with me.

~ * ~

I would like to say there is no amount of money that would be worth seeing my mom’s familiar teacher’s handwriting addressing me in jail.

But go ahead and make my day.

Try me.

~ * ~

Eugenia told me I was better off in jail, twice, verbally over the old fashion pay phone and in writing.

I was sorry I ever asked.

~ * ~

What a dumb broad.

“Dumb broad” is one my dad’s terms.

It’s sexist, I know, but it’s also one of the few things I have from my dad.

I should add that he never spoke in anger.

He spoke softly and with a genuine smile, or caring frown.

He could not get angry.

My mom could and did often.

I can get angry.

No one is better off in jail.

Of course, I haven’t been homeless yet to compare firsthand the two.

I hope I don’t find out.

~ * ~

My mother blocked my phone calls, I found out on my birthday, five days into my stay, an anniversary which I did not make known to the other jailbirds.

~ * ~

I did speak with other jailbirds, because it was necessary to do, at least to some degree.

But I did not leave with any phone numbers of other jailbirds.

I did not pretend that any friendships were made.

~ * ~

I dreaded running into former cellmates in town, which happened.

Thankfully, I ran into a woman originally from downstate, with whom I was able to converse, to a point, until she shut down due to apparent deep depression, which is completely understandable and reasonable in jail.

She was from Oakland County.

~ * ~

I asked my mom for bail money because I calculated that she definitely owed me, for raising me Catholic but not defending me against Catholic crime.

I needed my mother to advocate for me, so others would advocate for me.

Her lack of support has hurt my standing tremendously, which I doubt she is capable of grasping.

~ * ~

Even though we were estranged, even though I posted my anger about my mother online for the world to see, I needed to ask her for her help, because I was certainly not better off in jail.

She was very very very wrong about her delusional view of jail and her delusional view of me, apparently, and I needed to tell her.

~ * ~

I did not sign on for her.

She did sign on for me.

She owed me.

She still owes me.

I don’t expect her to make good.

~ * ~

I pretty much forgave her prior to jail.

I haven’t yet forgiven her since.

I’m still in too much danger as a result of Catholic crime at St. Mary Merciless looney bin.

~ * ~

Here’s the letter I found inside the envelope, on the day before I was released, it turned out.

Reading in jail this letter, in which my 80 year old mother talked about a guy she divorced in the 1970s, as her “forever” husband, like some sort of immature sixteen year old, was sobering.

~ * ~

I wrote and rewrote my response, addressing her points paragraph by paragraph, but I never mailed a final copy.

~ * ~

I had not ask my brother for a thing.

My brother joked as he confirmed to me directly over the phone pretty much the last time we spoke, back in about 2013, that he had used the William MacQueen playbook during his divorce and actually tried to have his now ex-wife locked up in a looney bin, to better control the division of their assets.

~ * ~

I had suggested I pay my mother back bail money by giving her half ownership of the lakehouse, which I had re-roofed in 2013, after fixing the porch before Chris died in 2012, which sold a year later, in 2018, for $70,0000.

~ * ~

Unlike the house downstate in Garden City, the lakehouse cabin at Lake Miramichi was paid off.

~ * ~

Oh yeah, the plumbing.

~ * ~

In exchange for bail and back taxes, of about $7,500.00, I was willing to share my future with this woman, who I hated with the passion of my own sixteen year old self.

I was willing to share with my estranged disturbed Catholic mother, solely in order to get out of jail.

Under my proposed deal, getting out of jail was certainly not free, unlike the Monopoly board game card.

Now, I’m very glad she said no.

Here’s the envelope I never bothered to mail with my reply.

About the stamp.

Someone introduced me to barn swallows, which in the summer evenings deftly dive-bombed to feed on bugs above Lake Miramichi, and at times looked purple as they flew before the setting sun.

No doubt barn swallows were feeding the August evening I was arrested.

~ * ~

To my happy surprise, I was sprung the day after I was finally given Eugenia’s hate mail.

What she calls loves is NOT love.

I am the black sheep in my large Catholic family on Eugenia’s side, the only female in Michigan to not follow the Catholic mother playbook established by Hilda, Marie, Yola, Eugenia and Milton Jr’s wife, Diane.

~ * ~

I was released on September 28, 2017, on what they call a “PR” bond, which stands for “personal recognizance” bond.

The court decided it had punished me enough and let me out.

They knew I had no way to leave the state for Canada.

This is the bond agreement I signed on the afternoon of September 28, 2017

~ * ~

Go ahead and judge me.

Go ahead and call me a crazy bitch.

Since this time, I have publicly wished my estranged disturbed and disturbing Catholic mother dead, to end the pain of her existence for me.

To stop her from saying anything else stupid and painful.

Clearly, I have not wished her gone from this earth for a cut of the inheritance.

During attacks of extreme pain, I have searched Google for her obituary, hoping.

~ * ~

In short, jail was the worst pajama party ever, even worse than the looney bin.

If my one-time, very temporary, sarcastically appointed second in command ever reads this, she would say I stole her line.

I had already thought the same thing.

~ * ~

There is a lot more to say about a month-long stay in a rural county jail.

~ * ~  

I was appointed a lawyer by the court, a white guy, middle age, one stereo-typically not good, I feared, when I saw his oddly beaten-up fingernails and noted a facial tic. 

~ * ~

I know. 

I should be careful.

I should beware of using against others unfairly the tools of cheap psychology used unfairly against me. 

~ * ~

At first I was hopeful about the guy, but hope was replaced with reality.  

I feared rightly. 

I would say my court appointed lawyer was fairly bad, and in fact sucked. 

~ * ~

Chapter: Yes, My Court Appointed Lawyer Sucked

I’ve had time to reflect and review.   

Incarcerated, I had time to hand write a second copy of all letters I wrote and mailed from jail. 

I tried to tell my very complicated back story to my court appointed lawyer through difficult to read letters handwritten in pencil.

The first letter of at least ten letters I wrote to my court appointed attorney.

I wrote twice on September 11, regarding separate concerns, the police report I’d just received and the threat of a tether on bond.

I first wrote my court appointed attorney on my birthday, after the Bible Ladies gave me the means.

~ * ~

My lawyer did not listen to me or defend me. 

And I’m sure he did not read my letters.

He never asked me any questions.

~ * ~

When I was sprung from the Big House, on September 28, 2017, on a surprise PR bond, I had prepared a statement to read to the judge.

I had figured wrongly I would talk to a judge before I got out of jail.

~ * ~

Lawyers are horrible teachers.

~ * ~

To be housed in county jail on criminal charges is to die and wait without information in purgatory.

~ * ~

At no time in my 34 or 35 days in jail did my lawyer give me an accurate picture of my case or keep me apprised about what might actually happen next.

~ * ~

The jailbird in charge was defended by my court appointed attorney, too.

She was serving a rare year’s sentence in county jail.

She had done time before and chose the Osceola County Jail over the women’s prison downstate.

~ * ~

To be fair, I did have the sense that for a jail, the Osceola County jail may be better than others.

The jailbirds said the food in the Mecosta County jail was much worse.

Someone was allowed to paint a mural in a main hallway of the Osceola County jail, and it was nicely executed.

Art on the walls.

Good.

~ * ~

Many jailbirds were frequent fliers.

For sure, I noted that once the system had you, they liked to keep you and bring you back to jail on probation violations.

My second in command was released from one county jail and immediately re-arrested and taken to another without warning.

~ * ~

Basically, everyone was poor, so everyone was assigned to one of two law firms as court appointed lawyer.

Consensus suggested I drew the short straw.

Consensus even among jailbirds was right.

~ * ~

Below is about the fifth draft of the statement I prepared to read to the judge that I did not see when I was sprung from jail on September 28.

I kept multiple copies on hand, for me, my lawyer and what the hell, the Detroit Free Press.

~ * ~

You can’t say I haven’t tried.

~ * ~

At one point, the September 21 draft to be exact, according to visible crease marks, I kept copies of my prepared statement, which I edited and tried to improve from draft to draft, folded in my orange shirt pocket.

In case I was pulled away to the courthouse on the spot, I wanted to be prepared to ask the judge myself directly to dismiss the charges against me.

I see I made a date mistake below, about the date on which Land of Motown Lying Cop #2 harassed me and I called the cops (on August 12, not August 22).

Don’t get me wrong.

I did not think that any judge or my court appointed attorney actually wanted to hear me read any statement.

Because jail is death, I wanted to demand the right to speak on record, if at all possible.

I told my court appointed attorney my plans.

He did not bother to tell me that I would not have the chance.

Had he told me, I could have written something else, in another form!

Manhandled by my own lawyer.

~ * ~

On the day I was arrested, when Michigan State Police Norma Naylor swung by the lakehouse cabin to lock me up, I had put my pot pipe in my pocket, at some point in the day, which I totally forgot, until Norma found it when I was booked.

To her credit, Nail-her seemed genuinely disappointed.

~ * ~

So they charged me with two crimes.

They dismissed the pot charge eventually.

~ * ~

It is worth noting:

1) I had an expired medical pot card (for my crooked, twisted sister frame), which I would have renewed had I not been crushed,

2) Michigan voters okay-ed recreational pot in 2018.

Plus, Chris grew pot.

We did not support outside drug crime networks.

~ * ~

I need to write down my experience with my court appointed lawyer.

At first, my court appointed told me that there was no case against me and that he expected to have the charges dismissed.

Then he changed his tune.

He told me the prosecutor was dragging his feet.

When I was given a copy of the police report, he said don’t worry. There’s nothing there.

Then he changed his tune.

Next he said he was working on plea deal.

Plea deal?

What about dismissing charges?

Then he changed his tune.

He stopped singing all together.

For a couple of weeks, I did not hear from him in jail at all.

I continued to write and mail letters, but not without specific distinct purpose.

~ * ~

I was terrified of being tethered upon release because I did not think I can handle the torture.

My court appointed attorney did not comment about my past illegally looney bin lock up, my greater story or my concerns about a tether.

He serviced my account but mostly ignored me.

One panic attack sign shared with the jail dormitory video camera concerned the threat of tether.

On the day I was released, my court appointed attorney ran away before I was released.

The tether guy wanted to tether me, but wanted to charge me hundreds of bucks for the torture first, which I could not pay.

I had to argue with the tether guy against a tether to complete my release from jail while wearing prisoner orange on my own.

Even if he was not in on the fix, my court appointed attorney sucked.

~ * ~

Here is the complaint against me which says “The People of the State of Michigan” locked me up on bogus stalking charges of just Land of Motown Community College Lying cop #2, a complete stranger to me, not his lying wife, the one who initiated harassment of me.

This same group, “The People of the State of Michigan,” previously illegally locked me up in St. Mary Merciless criminal human trafficking looney bin without need or evaluation.

You fuckers owe me! (edit later)

This paperwork I received and read in jail, as indicated by my pencil marks.

I did not receive this information until, it looks like, according to my letters to my court appointed attorney, September 11.

I never thought talking about my story on my social media pages using the phrase “lying cop” equaled me contacting or messaging the lying cop.

I still think a good lawyer could have sold my case to a jury, even a jury In mid Michigan.

Too great a percentage of people, I surmise, in the area, have found themselves or loved ones on the wrong side of laws and a system that don’t seem fair.

Also, I really did not think I needed to lay off lying wife, who did not ask for a PPO and who was not listed as victim on official paperwork.

I erased most of my panic comments on Twitter anyway, but not all.

My internet connection at the lake was very spotty.

Honestly, at this point, pain talk: I still want Jesus to rape Land of Motown Community College Lying Wife of Lying Cop #2, too, like me, as 1st Amendment civil protest redress the government for the lack of equal protection I endured February 22-28, 2013 at St. Mary Merciless.

I was only jailed because I was illegally locked up with the Catholics of my youth.

Others need not understand my personal motivation, but citizens and the state do owe me equal protection and my 1st Amendment rights to speak and redress the government for lack of equal protection February 22-28, 2013.

As a child, I was force fed the constant sight of a bloody white Jesus bleeding from what looked like his swaddled penis while hanging near dead on a cross.

I saw the movie The Exorcist, in which little Linda Blair is raped by a crucifix, while I was held captive in the Felician Nuns’ crappy Livonia Catholic schools.

Catholics drink God blood.

They run a horror show of a religion.

During vaginal rape, a woman is sliced against her will.

Jesus raped me, thanks ultimately to the People of Michigan, who had no right, who broke the law.

The phone number matches.

You must arrest for perjury.

The number the lying wife gave police is the number on the September 4, 2016 911 Mecoela Dispatch report, in direct contrast to the PPO hearing transcripts.

The behavior of the wife of Land of Motown Community College Lying College meets the legal requirements of perjury in Michigan.

I think the behavior of Land of Motown Community College Lying Cop #2 does too, but I’m not a Republican.

The Michigan State Police and the Osceola County prosecutor did not bother to verify the claims of Land of Motown Community College Lying cop #2 and his wife, or investigate my claims about their lies.

Furthermore, I bet the Michigan State Police and the Osceola County prosecutor probably realized they were lying, too.

As well as Judge Kimberly Booher.

Apologies. Link to next chapter under construction. Don’t use labeled link below. To continue reading, please go back to the list of sections and choose the next chapter. Thank you!

Read Part Ten