-Caveat Lector-

an excerpt from:
Every Secret Thing
Patricia Hearst©1982
w/ Alvin MoscowDoubleday & Company, Inc.
Garden City, N.Y.
I hated the idea of having to reveal myself to these unknown doctors, who
would probe my mind impersonally, stripping me of the last shreds of privacy.
Cinque had done that to me in the SLA interrogations, and now I had to submit
to basically the same thing at the hands of psychiatrists. My fear, no doubt,
was based upon my family's disdain of psychiatry to resolve personal
problems. My sisters and I had been brought up to believe that we were
responsible for what we did and could not blame our transgressions on
something being wrong inside our heads. I had joined the SLA because if I
didn't they would have killed me. And I remained with them because I truly
believed that the FBI would kill me if they could, and if not, the SLA would.
In my mind now, I was a "bad girl" for doing all that and now would have to
be punished.

When the first of the psychiatrists came to see me on September 30, just
eleven days after my arrest, I simply crumpled under his scrutiny. I cried,
murmuring and mumbling out replies that were not answers to his questions. He
thought I was refusing to cooperate with him. This was Dr. Louis Joloyn West,
Chairman of the Department of Psychiatry at UCLA, Director of the
Neuropsychiatric Institute, Psychiatrist-in-Chief of UCLA Hospitals, a
licensed MD., Chairman of the Council on Research and Development of the
American Psychiatric Association, psychiatric consultant to the Air Force,
author of books and studies on prisoners of war, an internationally
recognized expert in his field. I thought he had a creepy hypnotic voice. A
tall, heavy-set man who appeared to be kindly, I suspected "Jolly" of being
too smooth, too soothing to be trusted.

After trying to deal with me for about an hour and a half, Dr. West left the
consulting room, where we were meeting, and complained to Al Johnson about my
refusing to cooperate fully with him. Al came in and spoke to me and after
lunch Dr. West and I went at it for another two hours. He tried to be gentle
and kind, I suppose, but his questions became more intimate and personal. It
was one thing to explain things to the lawyers: their questions were for the
most part factual and relatively superficial. I could answer them with a
word, a short sentence, a nod of my head. But with Dr. West, and the other
psychiatrists who followed him, the questions probed areas which brought me
back to that closet and the abuse my comrades had meted out to me. It was
astonishing how much had receded from my memory and how much of my ordeal had
been altered by my acceptance of the SLA version of my status as a prisoner
of war. But when Dr. West probed, I was forced to relive those moments again
as they had happened. He would not allow me to gloss over events and repress
my emotions any further. And each time, I would break down in tears. I wept
in these sessions almost as much as I had wept in the SLA closet It was the
first time since the closet that I had wept like that, the first time since
then that I allowed myself to truly feel. Dr. West, I thought, was
inordinately interested in the sex that went on within the SLA, particularly
in the lesbian relationships. He seemed to think free sex was an integral
part of the cell and I could sense that he simply did not believe me when I
told him the comrades were more devoted to combat drills and training for the
revolution than to sex. But then, even eminent psychiatrists have been
conditioned to certain stereotypes which they take for granted.

Despite all this and despite my own depression, Dr. West did get through to
me in time and I tried to tell him of Cinque's interrogations, the threats,
the metallic clicking of the rifles when I thought they were going to kill
me, the sex forced upon me in the closet, the offer to join them or to die,
the bank robbery, the criticism/self-criticism meetings, the weapons, the
combat drills, the political indoctrination, my fears, my desire not to anger
them, and my subsequent inability to escape or even to telephone anyone for

All of this, or most of it, was extracted from me by the doctor very slowly
and painfully. I was amazed at how much I had repressed of those early days
of torture and torment. Ile mind, it seems, obliterates the memory of pain.
But I also suffered losses of memory of some periods of time before my
kidnapping. I could not recall, for instance, a single course I had been
taking at Berkeley at the time I was kid-napped, or where my sisters had gone
to school, or where I had spent my last Christmas before the kidnapping. Dr.
West, as he would later tell the court, spent some thirty hours drawing out
from me the infor-mation he needed for his psychiatric report.

Dr. West also ordered a complete physical checkup for me at Stanford
University Hospital. I was physically, as well as mentally, in pretty sad
shape. For the trip outside the jail, I had to submit to a "patdown!' by a
young novice U.S. marshal named Janey Jimenez. She told me right off that
there were certain prescribed routines that had to be followed, such as the
pat-down, and that she had her job to do. I could make things easy or
difficult depending on my cooperation, but I had to be moved at all times
under maximum security. So I was waist chained and handcuffed and transported
as a dangerous criminal to Stanford Hospital. In a small examining room, I
was kept anxiously waiting for well over an hour for the examining doctors. I
was refused permission to go to the bathroom and handed a bedpan. Janey, not
allowed to leave me alone in the room, was obliged to use the same bedpan. It
was the start of a rather special friendship between prisoner and guard.

When the examinations did begin, the doctors poked and probed and X-rayed
with no concern for my personal feelings or any explanation of what they were
doing. The gynecological examination was positively brutal and by the end of
it I was in hysterics, sobbing, as I writhed in pain. When they led me to
another room and attempted to sedate me in order to shove some electrodes up
my nose for an electroencephalogram, fear overwhelmed me. I did not know what
they were trying to do. I feared electric-shock treatment. I feared
everything and everyone; I was helpless. But as if I were fighting for my
life, I absolutely refused this test, screaming for my lawyers. It was put
off and I was hustled back to jail.

Dr. West also called for a complete battery of psychological testing for me
and brought in Dr. Margaret Singer, a renowned and respected clinical
psychologist from UC-Berkeley, and she spent, according to her own
calculations, some twenty hours with me, talking and testing. I was so
apathetic it was difficult for her to get information out of me. But she was
dauntless in giving me eight different psychological tests and several of
them were a complex series of questionnaires within one test.* My ability to
concentrate was so impaired that some of the tests had to be administered by
flash cards. [*The tests were: the Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale for my
IQ, the Rhode Sentence Completion Test, the Draw-a-Person Test, the Gough
Adjeotive Checklist, the Murray Thematic Apperception Test (administered
twice), the Sargent Insight Test, the Rorschach Procedure, and the lengthy
Minnesota Multiphasic Personality inventory (administered twice).]

I was quizzed and questioned by two other court-appointed psychiatrists, Dr.
Donald T. Lunde and Dr. Seymour Pollack, and out of all this came the
consensus that I was not insane or psychotic, that I was mentally capable, in
the legal sense of knowing right from wrong, of standing trial, but that I
was indeed "emotionally and mentally impaired to a significant degree."

Dr. Singer's testing showed that my cumulative 10 score had fallen from 130
at Santa Catalina School to 109, with the worst of the tests showing an IQ of
90. A variance of plus or minus 10 points on an IQ test is an acceptable
result. However, a 20- to 40-point variance indicates that serious change has
taken place. The other tests revealed me as "sad, hopeless . . . withdrawn,
emotionally distressed and expressing a silent cry for help."

Dr. West, as the senior member of the team, diagnosed my condition as a
"traumatic neurosis with dissociative features," which meant simply that I
had been frightened out of my wits by the SLA, "subjected to powerfully
effective coercive manipulation by her captors," and that I would need three
or four months of psychiatric treatment before I would be "able with full
competence to aid and assist counsel in her own defense." He recommended
private, individual psychotherapy, preferably in a hospital setting and out
of prison, to restore my mental health.

My trial was rescheduled to begin three months hence, on January 26, 1976,
and I was allowed my own private therapist, but, because of government
objections, my therapy would have to be conducted in jail, not in a hospital.
Dr. West and Dr. Singer, who agreed to testify on my behalf at the trial,
continued to work with me, but less intensively than before.

One day Dr. Singer said she wanted me to see another doctor. Since I had
little choice in the matter, I was visited by a rather heavyset man who spoke
in a thick Viennese accent straight out of Freud. This was Dr. Martin Orne,
who was a psychiatrist and a psychologist, from the University of
Pennsylvania. For hours over two separate visits I went over my whole story
again for him, except that Dr. Orne frequently seemed to misunderstand me. He
would leap to conclusions or suggest events that had not happened, and I
would have to correct him. I thought him very strange. Some of his questions
were most extraordinary. He acted or commented as though he was not believing
a word I was saying, and at the same time he seemed unable to comprehend what
I was trying to tell him in response to his questions.

Only at the end of the last session with him did the, doctor reveal his
thoughts. The doctor smiled at me in avuncular fashion, patted my hand, and
said, "Miss Hearst, you really shouldn't feel embarrassed. Stronger men than
you have cracked and cooperated with the enemy under less torturous
conditions. The only thing surprising about all this is that you are here
with us today. You suffered severe sensory deprivation being tied up and
blindfolded in that closet for so long. Other people subjected to such
sensory deprivation would have given up the will to live. They just curl up
and die, deprived of their senses for so long. You survived and that is
remarkable in itself. You are a survivor."

Dr. Orne's strange, off-center questioning was explained to me several days
later. His particular field of expertise was lie detection and deception and
he had been called in for his expert opinion on whether or not I was faking
all or any part of my story. His questions had been designed to lead me into
lying or into making my story more plausible than it actually was. Dr. Singer
and Dr. West were happy to tell me that I had passed Dr. Orne's scrutiny with
flying colors. In court, Dr. Orne would testify as to how he tested my
truthfulness and reached his conclusion: "It was really quite remarkable.
Miss Hearst simply did not lie." The prosecution objected vehemently to that!
Judge Carter was obliged to instruct the jury that they and only they had to
decide upon my credibility.

As the days in jail crept by, I grew more accustomed to this new environment
which was a hundred times better for me than my days with the SLA. After a
month, my solitary confinement ended and I was allowed to take my meals in
the dining room with the other women inmates. I grew accustomed to the
screams from the "drunk tank" and the steady banging on the door of the
"padded cell" opposite my cell. Saturday nights were wild, with screaming,
intoxicated women, some dressed in evening gowns, thrown into the drunk tank.
Nights of the full moon were the wildest. Unfailingly, the crazies came out
in force and the two drunk tanks were filled to overflowing.

I took up crocheting, puttered around the little cell, living in limbo,
waiting. But the deputies and jail guards did not come to beat or torture me
in the dead of night. As time went on they became more and more friendly.
Nevertheless, there was no mistaking my condition: I was a prisoner again,
helpless, undergoing repeated interrogations. I saw my family only during
regular visiting hours, a half hour on Thursday and on Saturday, and then
only through the bulletproof glass partition which separated us. We couldn't
touch each other, and we could hardly communicate beyond superficialities,
for we now knew the authorities were tape-recording everything We said over
the telephones on either side of the glass partition. My mother anxiously
wanted to know what she could do for me, what she could bring me, but she was
not allowed to bring anything; my father tried to cheer me up with his wry
jokes and funny stories, but I found it difficult to laugh. From the very
start, they both firmly reassured me. "Hell, we knew those weren't your words
or your thinking," my father said. "If you really wanted to give it to us,
you would have been much more sarcastic. Don't forget, we know you, Pat. We
knew you were being, forced to say those things. Only the dumb public
believed that garbage. People seemed to always forget that you'd been
kidnapped. We were always happy to get those tapes and hear your voice.
That's the only way we knew you were still alive. Believe me, we were
relieved every time a new tape showed up."

The love and special knowledge we had of each other were still there. I felt
that. But we were separated and kept apart by a wall of glass. And worse,
despite their reassurances that they had not believed a word of the tapes, I
was still not convinced that I had not hurt them terribly and that there was
not some awful weakness in my character causing me to break under the strain
of the SLA's people's prison.

My best moments in that jail, perhaps the only times I enjoyed a sense of
normalcy in those surroundings, came with the regular pastoral visits of Ted
Dumke. Ted was an old friend, albeit a casual one, from my pre-kidnap days at
Berkeley, where he had been studying at a theological seminary. Now, as an
Episcopal priest, he could make unlimited visits to me under prison
regulations, which he did almost every day. He did no preaching, advising, or
questioning of my motives and yet he was my greatest comfort at the time. We
would sit for an hour or so in the attorneys' conference room, making small
talk, playing cards, and just being with one another as friends.

Dr. West assured me that with some psychotherapeutic help I would make a
complete recovery, finding my way back to the life I had known before. I had
suffered a trauma, starting with my kidnapping, he told me, but I was not in
any way chronically ill. To speed my recovery along, I agreed to see a
therapist recommended by him and by Dr. Singer. Through their efforts, Dr.
Elizabeth Richards, a psychiatrist in private practice in Palo Alto, came to
see me for an hour, two times a week, on a regular basis. Through her, I came
to understand my feelings of guilt and inadequacy over having been
brainwashed and manipulated by the SLA, and we worked hard together on some
of my newly developed phobias, such as my fear and inability to use the
telephone for anything other than legal calls.

Not being psychologically oriented, I resisted for quite a while the
explanations of brainwashing made by Dr. West and others. But in time, I came
to understand brainwashing as an inexact, popular term for what psychologists
have long known as coercive persuasion. In other words, anyone could be
coerced to say or do anything by torture, beatings, abuse, and threats of
death. In modem times, however, the Communists discovered that you did not
have to put a man on a rack, twist his thumbs, or lash him to make him
confess. The more sophisticated method was to weaken your prisoner gradually
by depriving him of proper food, sleep, exercise, and then browbeating him
through continual, unrelenting questioning until he agreed to what you wanted
him to say or do and had, in fact, come to believe it himself.

In the 1930's the Western world was astonished when several of the top
dissident leaders in the Soviet Union stood up in open court, without a mark
of physical abuse on them, and confessed (apparently voluntarily) to crimes
against the state and, in effect, condemned themselves to execution or exile
in Siberia. In these famous purge trials, the condemned even accepted and
agreed to their punishments as just.

In the cold war of the 1950's, Cardinal Mindzenty of Hungary, after only
thirty-five days of imprisonment by the Communist regime, signed a written
confession and admitted in open court, with impartial observers in
attendance, to spying for the West and to various criminal acts against the
state. People in the West were perplexed and confounded by such admissions
from a cardinal of the Church. During the Korean War, not one of our
servicemen who had been taken prisoner of war had tried to escape from the
Communist Chinese prison camps; hundreds of our officers and enlisted men had
appeared on Chinese television confessing to war crimes, condemning the
United States, and some even embracing Communism. When the war ended, several
of our men refused to return home, preferring to remain for years with the
Chinese Communists. It had been a scandal of major proportions at the time,
an embarrassment to American patriotism, and only after that had our Defense
Department engaged psychologists to study the phenomenon of brainwashing.

During the Vietnam War, the same thing happened again: more televised false
confessions by servicemen taken prisoner of war. This time, the Army hired
Dr. West, Dr. Orne, and others to set up a program to train our pilots and
soldiers in resisting the coercive persuasion of the Communist North
Vietnamese. Dr. Orne organized an experiment in the Arizona desert in which
one team of Air Force pilots acted as prisoners of war, with instructions on
how to resist revealing the game's military secrets; the other team was
instructed on how to coerce those simulated secrets out of their prisoners.
The experiment was to last two weeks and it was expected that perhaps 6 or 8
percent of the simulated prisoners would break down, confess, and reveal
secrets. These were officers, trained combat pilots, and all the instructions
and training given to them beforehand did not help. Held prisoner in caged
traps, yelled at in a phony gibberish language, and interrogated unceasingly,
more than 25 percent of the prisoners broke down in three days. They not only
confessed their simulated secrets, they spilled out every bit of confidential
information they possessed. The other prisoners were in such bad shape the
whole experiment was called off after three days. The results and the
percentage of breakdowns were classified Top Secret.

In explaining all this, Dr. West repeatedly tried to reassure me that I had
no reason to feel guilty or humiliated. No one, including himself, Dr. West
said, could know beforehand whether they could withstand coercive persuasion.
It depended upon how effective and adept the captors were and how resistant
the prisoner might be. Cinque and the others had used a rather coarse,
haphazard method, but then I had been an easy subject for them. Because I was
so young and apolitical, I had no background experience or training with
which to resist their persuasion. Nevertheless, whether or not they knew
really what they were doing, they did employ the classic Maoist formula for
thought reform on me, which Dr. West called the three D's—Debility,
Dependency, and Dread.

        I had been effectively weakened by my confinement in that closet,
deprived of sight, decent food, regular sleep and exercise, with a radio
blaring at me most of the time. I had grown fully dependent upon them for the
necessities of life as well as all the information I would receive about the
outside world. I could communicate with no one beyond their own little group.
And, finally, I certainly had learned to dread them because of their own
threats to kill me and their warnings that the FBI would kill me if the
agents could find me.

All this was reinforced on a daily basis by our criticism/self-criticism
meetings, in which I was obliged to renounce my former bourgeois life, my
family and friends, and all the values with which I had grown up. All of
this, Dr. West said, was based on the psychological theories underlying
Chinese thought reform. Drawn from Pavlov's early experiments in behavior
modification, but much more sophisticated, Chinese thought reform holds that
if a person is forced to recite certain ideas, even without believing them at
first, he or she will come to in time. Psychologically, no one can long
believe one thing and say or do another. In time, such a conflict would
either make a person crack up or force him to adjust his actions to his
thoughts, or his thoughts to his actions. Thus did Mao Tse-tung reform the
thinking of hundreds of millions of Chinese who had lived their lives
according to Confucius until the revolution. Then Mao set up schools to teach
the children, meetings to instruct the adults, and in time when a whole
nation's people recited over and over the quotations from Chairman Mao
Tse-tung, the people came to believe what they had been reciting.

Thus did Cinque "reform" me into believing that a revolution was under way
which in time would overthrow the government. At first, I remembered, I
thought I was humoring Cin by telling him what he wanted to hear. But Cin had
really been humoring me. I thought at first that they all were stark raving
mad, crazy, out of their minds, but in time I came to accept what they
believed because of the repetition of those daily criticism/self-criticism
meetings. It is a difficult process to understand. We are raised to believe
we enjoy freedom of thought. Cinque and the others told me that the people in
America were all brainwashed in believing in bourgeois principles, ranging
from family and monogamy to capitalism and two big cars in the garage. Cinque
and the others were not alone in their beliefs. Many other radical groups of
various persuasions throughout the United States still believe that the
revolution is going on, a revolution which will in time topple bourgeois
America and give the power to the people. It was all a question of who was
brainwashing whom. But the single difference in my own case: I had been
persuaded coercively-by force; no one had forced the Harrises or the others
to adopt the SLA principles and Codes of War.

As the date of my trial approached, word came from F. Lee Bailey that I was
to see one more psychiatrist, who was the expert's expert on Chinese thought
reform and coercive persuasion used on prisoners of war in Korea, Communist
China, and North Vietnam. So, over a fourday period in the second week of
January, I spent fifteen hours going over my SLA experiences with Dr. Robert
Jay Lifton of Yale University.

Dr. Lifton, author of several books on coercive persuasion and thought
reform, and a consultant on the subjectsto the Air Force, after taking what
he called "a peek" at me, pronounced me a "classic case" which met all the
psychological criteria of a coerced prisoner of war.

He bemoaned the fact that he had not been able to see me during the first two
weeks of my arrest, for then he could have observed the all-important
transition from my coerced state of mind to my present state, when I had
already shucked off a good deal of the "gunk!' that had filled my mind.

The way I had acted immediately after my arrest-the clenched-fist salutes,
giving my occupation as "urban guerrilla," the sentiments I expressed to
Trish Tobin two days after my arrest-bolstered and confirmed his diagnosis of
coercive persuasion. One does not revert back with the snap of the fingers
upon being released. Dr. Lifton explained that many of the released POW's in
Korea "spouted Commu-nist gunk" for a full two weeks after being freed, until
it finally dawned on them that the coercive pressure was off. If I had
reacted differently, that would have been suspect, he said. In fact, he
added, I was a rare phenomenon for psychiatrists studying coercive persuasion
because I was the first and as far as he knew the only victim of a political
kidnapping in the United States.

In his judgment, I had been "compliant" in going along with the SLA demands,
but I had not been "converted" to their cause. Once freed from their power
and control, I was realizing that I no longer had to comply with their
thought reform and was, in fact, reverting to my former life and values. Dr.
Lifton said he would be happy to testify on MY behalf at the upcoming trial.

That was good news. However, if the defense used expert psychiatric
testimony, the government was entitled to put its own experts on the stand in
rebuttal. That meant that I would have to see two more doctors—for the
government's side.

The first was Dr. Harry Kozol, an elderly, stout man with a high, squeaky
voice and a strange accent. He was the Director of the Bridgewater,
Massachusetts, Center for Criminally Dangerous Sex Offenders. I had five
sessions with this man. At first, his questions were merely strange and
sexually oriented:

Was Cinque black? Black black or light black?

What was the color of his eyes? The texture of his hair?

How did he caress you?

Tell me about the seduction. Did you kiss him?

Was he circumcised?

What did your friends do?

Tell me about your lover, William Wolfe . . .

The questions came at me like a full-scale cross-examination and I kept
having to deny that anyone was my "friend" or my "lover" or that I had
initiated any of the things that had been done to me. Then he began to ask me
about the Harrises and what part they had played in various crimes. I refused
point-blank to talk about the Harrises or anyone else still alive or say
anything that could be used against them by the government. I told him I was
still. in fear of them. But he kept insisting. His provocative questions were
beginning to make me ill, and within fifteen or twenty minutes he had me in
hysterics. I ran out of the room, crying, looking for Al Johnson, whom I
found standing by in another room. Then I came back and told Dr. Kozol that
my lawyer said I did not have to answer such questions. He kept on. I ran out
again. Came back. And on and on went those questions. In the end, Dr. Kozol
and Al Johnson got into a furious argument and Al ended up taking him back to
court for a hearing in an attempt to straighten out what the doctor could and
could not ask me under the court order.

I was frankly surprised when I met the government's second expert. He turned
out to be an M.D. and not a licensed psychiatrist at all. He was a bohemian
type with a shaven head, wearing a turtleneck shirt with strands of beads
around his neck. It seemed his specialty was treating runaway teenagers with
drug and behavior problems and he had testified at more than two hundred
trials in twenty-two states. This was Dr. Joel Fort, a "expert witness," who,
according to Al Johnson, had volunteered to testify for the defense and then
had gone over to the government's side when he was told that we could not use

Dr. Fort was easier on me than Dr. Kozol had been, but it was obvious that he
had already made up his mind. He kept asking questions trying to pin down the
notion that I had been a very unhappy girl before my kidnapping, that I was
ashamed of my family's wealth and position, and that I wanted to break away
from the family and be a rebel.

None of that was true, which I tried to tell. this doctor. My family life and
upbringing had been a happy one and, in fact, I had always been thankful
about the benefits and privileges of being a Hearst. But Dr. Fort clearly had
his own stereotyped image of children of wealth. In four separate sessions, I
went over the same story, the same facts of my childhood, the kidnapping, the
closet, the SLA, and the bank robbery. Again I refused to talk about the
Harrises or the others. The facts were the same but the interpretations of
those facts were different. Dr. Fort seemed to have made up his mind that I
had enjoyed being Tania, running around robbing banks and shooting up the
streets of Los Angeles.

He thought I adored being "Queen of the SLA!' (his phrase) and I could not
persuade him that he had it all wrong. Nor did I try very hard. I wanted to
get it over with, once and for all, and never talk of it again.

When F. Lee Bailey returned to the jail, shortly before the trial was to
begin, I pleaded with him to keep me off the witness stand. I did not think I
could bear to go over all of this one more time. I felt shattered by the
ceaseless questioning. He again promised to keep me off the stand.

MY defense would be two-pronged, Bailey told me. First of all, I had gone
into the Hibernia Bank under clear duress. That part should be easy. But the
government, in order to convict me, would have to show intent-that I had
joined in the robbery voluntarily because I had joined the SLA voluntarily.
To prove that, the government would bring in the shooting at Mel's and any
and all events after the Hibernia Bank robbery to try to prove that I had
joined the SLA and cooperated with them voluntarily. So our second line of
defense would be diminished capacity resulting from coercive persuasion-that
I had been abused, threatened, and scared out of my wits for so long that I
was no longer strong enough to resist. Legally, the defense would have to
prove, he said, that I had been reduced by the SLA to a state of diminished
capacity and had not been mentally capable of resisting the SLA or of
escaping. That was why the psychiatric testimony would be so important -to
link what had happened to me to what had happened to our POW's in the Korean
and Vietnam wars.

"If you were being tried in a military court, Patty," he told me, "I could
get you acquitted in one day."

Pps. 393-406
Aloha, He'Ping,
Om, Shalom, Salaam.
Em Hotep, Peace Be,
Omnia Bona Bonis,
All My Relations.
Adieu, Adios, Aloha.
Roads End

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