Happy Birthday, Agent Smith

July 7, 2010

Today is the birthday of someone you have probably never heard of. The name he goes by—Jack Smith—is as humdrum and unremarkable as is his stated profession—a color corrector at a digital imaging company in Los Angeles, IMAGIC.

Smith lives in a two story condo on a quiet street in W. Hollywood at 7911 W. Norton. It is an attractive, older Spanish-type building. At last report, he was driving an older Taurus. But Smith is hardly your everyday techie. Smith is in reality an agent for one of the alphabet soup intelligence agencies and his job at IMAGIC, which according to a Department of Defense source, handles DOD projects, is only one of his professions. He also sets people up to be killed.

I was first approached by Jack Smith back in October of 2000, when he answered my personal ad which ran in the LA Weekly. I was forty eight, divorced and looking for something really special. What I didn't expect was for a killer to show up on my doorstep.

On the surface, Smith seemed to fit the bill. Forty-six, smart as a whip, and though certainly not drop dead gorgeous, he still possessed a certain confident charisma. And, as he said in his response, he enjoyed many of the things I did—theatre, ballet, left wing politics—and lo and behold! Came from the same Anglo-Jewish mix as I did. The fact that Smith was tailoring his response to my profile never occurred to me. Yes, I was a journalist but I was on disability, wasn't working at that time and had not been involved in political reporting up to that point. I was a threat to no one. Yes, my father, James Phelan, who died in 1997, was a prominent investigative reporter who had been a thorn in the side of the establishment for decades. But what did that have to do with me?

I was slow in getting back to Smith and didn't call him until February of 2001. In the meantime, something strange had happened. Driving home late one night I was broadsided by a Volvo, which took off from the scene, leaving me and my car smashed up in an intersection. A Good Samaritan called the police, who rushed to the scene......and left. I had gone into the windshield and told the responding officers that I was too injured to get out of the car. They took my license, went back to the squad car to confer lengthily and then told me that this must have been my fault and took off into the night, leaving me injured and without aid.

I was shocked. Only two blocks from my home, I somehow managed to stumble back to my apartment and collapse. That night, I had a dream—that an earthquake had hit me. My second floor apartment had sunk below ground and I was barely able to get out alive. In the dream, I knew that my mother's home had also been hit. Upon awakening, nearly delirious with what was to be diagnosed later as a concussion, I actually called my mother in Riverside County to see if she was all right. And then, realizing the extent of my injuries, I called a friend who took me to the Emergency Room where I was diagnosed with the concussion.

It was a couple of months later that I decided to call Smith. I was still pretty wobbly from the accident but -hey, he sounded nice and I was up for something besides sitting on my rear end waiting for my concussed brains to come back to life. We arranged to have dinner and I met him at a Thai restaurant in East Long Beach.

In all honesty, I didn't find him very interesting. He went on and on about Sudanese politics and I just didn't feel any connection at all. But then he kept calling. I turned him down on a couple of offers— including to go to a party hosted by someone working for CNN.... that sounded up my alley but I wasn't eager to spend more time with Jack. But he kept on calling. Eventually, we hooked up again. He dropped the politically astute persona, played classical guitar for me and showed me his collection of photographs. He really was quite gifted, I thought. I began to reassess my original perception of him.

To make a long story shorter, I moved in with Jack Smith at his Norton street condo in the summer of 2001. Peculiarly, my landlady had started insisting I move out soon after Jack and I started seeing each other seriously. I couldn't figure it out. I hadn't caused any problems but she was leaning on me pretty heavily. I looked and looked and -once again, peculiarly—couldn't get a bite on another place. Jack and I were getting along famously at that point, so I broached the topic of my moving in for awhile. He was quite agreeable.

What happened to my life and to my mother's life from that point on belongs in the annals of James Bond meets The Bates Motel. But first, I must provide a bit of history here. My mother, Dr. Amalie Phelan, had been residing in Temecula since my parents moved there in 1990. When they moved from Long Beach, my sister, Judith Phelan, moved with them. Judith had had a breakdown of sorts back in Long Beach and had moved back in with Mom and Dad to recover. She never left. She and my father were at loggerheads for most of that time—Judith was very bright and seemed to think that the world—or my parents—owed her the life she had dreamed of having. Two husbands had left her and while she had an LCSW in Psychiatric Social Work, she was unable to hold a job after her breakdown. She didn't accommodate well to living with my parents nor did she accommodate well to living on a disability allowance. She wanted to get her hair done every week, she wanted brand new clothes from Talbot`s and became increasingly demanding. When Dad passed away of lung cancer in 1997, Judith started stealing from us. She began a check fraud scam, not to be discovered until years later, whereby she would ask Mom for "checks for Janet." She would then take the checks, forge my endorsement on them, and deposit them into her own Wells Fargo account. How Wells Fargo allowed her to do this is unclear to me, but the evidence is available online. Go to elderabusehelp.org and click on the Open Letter from Janet Phelan. The checks are deep in the documentation attached to the report. At this writing, Judith resides in Oakland, California.

It is clear now that Smith first approached Judith and gained her cooperation, possibly by holding over her head the threat of prosecution for her extensive stealing. And possibly not. Judith had become very bitter and resentful of me over the years, and given the chance to make out like a bandit and have her sister and mother out of the way might very well have appealed to her.

So Smith started working me. The fact that money was hemorrhaging out of the accounts had not escaped my attention. Smith urged me to find someone to help out. He ended up steering me into the offices of attorney J. David Horspool, who introduced us to the infamous probate murderer Melodie Scott. Like lambs trotting into the slaughterhouse, we obediently took their direction and on December 2, 2001, my mother signed a nomination for conservatorship, overriding the will and trust and naming Scott as her conservator of person and estate.

I have written much about what happened to my mother at the hands of Melodie Scott. If you go to  http://www.cosmicpenguin.com/JanetPhelan/ you can scroll down to the section entitled ¨The Assault on Dr. Amalie Phelan by the State.¨ What I have not disclosed prior to this is Smith's part in all this—what this federal agent did to my vulnerable mother and to me.

Instigated by Agent Jack Smith, my mother nearly died at the hands of Melodie Scott and my sister, Judith Phelan and Scott aide Linda Garcia in June of 2002. After I rushed Mom to the hospital where emergency surgery was performed and her life was saved, I called my "boyfriend." He rushed to Temecula. I had already filed the police report but Smith tried to persuade me to leave behind the evidence, the full undispensed pill bottles--months of cardiac medicine never provided my mother, a heart patient.

Mom was never allowed to return home. Restraining Orders were levied against me by Melodie Scott and my attention increasingly focussed on the welfare of my mother, now virtually disappeared. Smith's behavior began to take an increasingly sinister turn. I discovered that he was in nearly constant covert contact with Melodie Scott.

I had become suspicious of Smith after a series of phone calls--over twenty in three weeks-- came in from Melodie Scott. Although the caller hung up on me when I answered the phone, I had *69'ed the calls to find them coming directly from her. Something was very wrong. The man I loved was in constant contact, it appeared, with my nemesis.

I left Smith in October of 2002. He had become increasingly irrational and threatening and on one occasion physically assaultive. I had confronted him about the phone calls from Scott and his response was denial and threats. I packed up and fled.

I filed a police report about Smith's assault. The police showed up and arrested him. Then they let him go. When I went to retrieve the report, things got stranger. The report, it appears, had no bearing on what I told the police actually happened. Gone was the death threat and gone was the assault. My report, according to the West Hollywood police, was about an argument over a cell phone. The police were adamant and refused to correct the report and prosecute Smith.

Smith was "arraigned" and all charges were dropped. A couple of months later, I was looking through some notebooks which I had retrieved from the condo on Norton when I left him. Among them was a notebook belonging to him, which I somehow ended up with. Inside were notes concerning some of his movements on a day in August of 2002, about two months before the breakup. He had dutifully noted a meeting with the very Assistant District Attorney who dropped the charges against him as well as with the head of the W. Hollywood police department, Lt. Goldman. He was apparently greasing the way for his exoneration of charges against him when he became violent and assaulted me. In retrospect, it is clear that the decision had been made to get me away from Smith and to "take care of me" when I was alone.

I left Smith and went to live alone in a small house in Long Beach. Almost immediately, I became the subject of a series of breakins, robberies and worse. My documents concerning the plight of my mother started disappearing out of my desk, as did expensive jewelery. My assets and documents were being stolen. And on several occasions, consuming opened food from my fridge necessitated a trip to the emergency room. The police started showing up nearly every day, barging in and making wild accusations. I began to appeal to the system for help. I filed reports with the Mayor of Long Beach, Beverly O´Neill, whom I had interviewed for a story I had written not too long before all this happened. I also contacted Juanita Millender-McDonald, the Long Beach District Attorney's office, Senators Dianne Feinstein and Boxer and others. My pleas for help went ignored.

In late fall my home started to burn down as I slept. I awoke in time and called the Fire department. On another occasion, I came home from a two-day trip to Riverside where I was attempting to get help for my mother to find drugs-- little pink pills-- strewn all over my floor. While in the process of my cleaning up the mess, the cops showed up, banging on the door and demanding entry. Inside, behind pulled curtains, I froze. When I did not answer the door they left.

And on January 3, 2003, after a series of nightmarish incidents, I walked into the Long Beach Police Department around 10 p.m. In desperation, I appealed to them for help. I was met in the lobby by an Officer Loren Dawson, who cuffed me and put me in his squad car. He informed me that this was my final ride. Some negotiation went on between us as to how I was going to die. We agreed on a drug overdose. He was dead set on murder and I was terrified and didn't want any more pain.

He took me to a small room which is underneath Harbor General Hospital. It is akin to a cell, with a barred and enclosed room and an anteroom. There were five or six other people there, awaiting us. I asked several of them if they were police officers and they replied affirmatively. Dawson said he was operating under "Protection of the President" and the intended lethal dose was administered by another man, Asian or Filipino, in his thirties, about five foot seven. I collapsed like a sawdust doll.

When I woke up several days later, I was in a Long Beach hospital on a heart monitor. They apparently got the dose wrong.

I am not going to regale those reading this with how difficult things have been for me since then. I have found myself a magnet now for federally-funded assassins and wannabees, including Ted Gunderson, David Moreno, Tim White and others. I have survived chemical assassination attempts, I have been shot at, stabbed, poisoned and more.

Mom died in May of 2004, following a complicated set -up which should have resulted in a false arrest/another chance for the police to finish the mssion. I have developed a keen sense of impending attack now and was able to make a detour around the scheme. Mom, who had been sequestered away as a virtual prisoner in a private home in Loma Linda, died within a few days, a victim of circumstances which wreak of murder. I was not informed she was dead until weeks after she was buried.

I did ultimately have a private investigator research Jack Smith. It appears Jack Smith never existed before around 1990. He apparently dropped out of the sky into that condo on Norton. The PI could find no prior addresses or financial or work records and reported back to me that my ex-boyfriend did indeed fit the profile of a spook. In addition, the PI dug up some hefty financial transactions which were time-linked to the attacks on Mom and me, and which appeared to be pay-offs for Smith.

I was living with Jack Smith on September 11, 2001. He was asleep when the phone rang and I picked it up. An anonymous voice said, "Tell Jack they hit the World Trade Center." I woke him up and he shot out of bed and ran downstairs. Together, we watched the events of that dark day unfold. It only took me about twenty minutes to get suspicious that something was amiss with the reporting of the WTC attacks. I remember turning to him and saying, "Something is wrong here. The Bin Laden bio (which had just flashed up on the screen, as the media attempted to dupe us into accepting the false perpetrator) was canned, Jack." I remember him looking at me, saying nothing. All day he sat in front of the television set with a funny kind of half smile. Looking back, I can see there were so many clues.

I write this now from Merida, in the Yucatan. I left the US in 2008, after more entrapment and aggression by the police. I do not believe it safe for me to return to my country. After what happened to Mom and me at the hands of Smith and his ilk , I made a decision to dedicate my life and my work to reporting on what faces us, as a nation which has been hijacked by eugenicists who prey on our innocence and trust in the American dream—"liberty and justice for all." It is a sham and a lie. We need to set aside our erroneous beliefs and fearlessly face reality. We have been duped. Our hopes and dreams, the promise of America, will not serve to protect us in the face of the duplicity, double dealing and face it—murderous intent of those who have taken over our country.

I have worked to the best of my ability to expose the probate murders, the water weapon, the attacks on other whistlebowers, the degradation of the legal system and more. Along the way, I hosted radio shows on RBN and Liberty News Radio, and worked for a stint as a reporter at The American's Bulletin.

Today is the birthday of the man who opened my eyes by trying to destroy me. While I am grateful for the opportunity to serve the truth, I remain horrified that the USA is using taxpayer dollars to fund ruthless men like Smith, whose sole purpose seems to be to lure innocent citizens to their death. Due to my unwillingness to draw even more attention to myself coupled with the personal trauma associated with the circumstances detailed herein, I have up until now largely refrained from disclosing the above. In an effort to reveal the truth about our country, I have decided it is time to bring to light these personal and painful facts.

But isn't it funny how things work out—if this were indeed a preemptive strike, Smith only created what he was attempting to stop. God works in mysterious ways.

Janet Phelan
Merida, MX