Criminal That I Am (9 page)

It's not a great sign when a judge begins a ruling with what sounds like the lead-in to a breakup. The judge confirms this moments later, stating that he will not award bail. But he is sympathetic to Cameron's medical condition:

I would be happy to sign an order and to make a recommendation based on medical advice, so that's something for you to consider. [ . . . ] In particular, I think medication, but if there is anything more specific that you all want me to include in that, I would certainly be happy to do that.

The judge also suggests that Cameron's sentencing be expedited—scheduled in forty-five days rather than ninety—so he can be moved to a facility with improved medical and rehab facilities as soon as possible.

It's not what was hoped for, but there is solace to be had. While Cameron will not be released, he will finally be treated for his condition. And his stay at MCC is soon coming to an end. Relief is on the way, for Cameron and also for me.

N
ot long after the hearing, the psychiatrist calls me. In light of the judge's decision, he would like to prescribe medication for Cameron and wants to know what the procedure is.

After some digging, I tell him that in order to prescribe medications to an inmate, the pills and dosages must appear on the Bureau of Prisons formulary. I ask him what medications he had in mind, so I can check them against the formulary. He names a medication he would like to prescribe Cameron.

“What category of medication is that?” I ask.

“It's an antidepressant.”

I thumb through the formulary, but the name of the medicine does not appear. “He can't have that,” I say. I read to him the name of the antidepressant that does appear on the formulary.

“That's fine, I'll prescribe that.”

In addition, he would like to prescribe Klonopin.

“What category of medication?”

“It's an antianxiety medication. It's basically Xanax.”

I look at the formulary, and the medicine appears. “Yes,” I say. “He can have that.”

The psychiatrist says that he will write the prescriptions and give these to us to forward along. The prescriptions are faxed to MCC later that day.

“H
ey, did you get your meds?” I ask this of Cameron several days later, when I am visiting him to discuss the details of his sentencing papers.

“I got one,” he says. “An antidepressant.”

“They didn't give you your antianxiety meds?”

“No,” he says.

I don't think much of it. “Well, I'm sure they will.”

A
week later, I arrive at MCC to find Cameron in the attorney room with the psychiatrist. They invite me into their meeting.

“Look at this,” the psychiatrist says, pointing to Cameron.

I look over. His neck and arms are covered in welts. He continually leans over to scratch his legs, which are splotched with hives.

“Do you know why he hasn't gotten his medicine?” he asks.

“You still haven't gotten it?” I ask Cameron.

“Clearly he hasn't,” the psychiatrist answers for him.

“I'll follow up,” I say.

I brace myself for a journey into cowboy country.

I
t takes several days, numerous calls per day, to finally get a human being on the phone who can actually find out why Cameron has not received his antianxiety medication.

It takes another two days to receive an answer. “We didn't fill the prescription,” the gentleman tells me. “We frankly thought it looked fake.”

I don't understand. “How did the prescription look fake?”

“Because it was photocopied.”

I close my eyes but continue to speak. “Do you mean because it was faxed to you?”

“Let me look. Yes, it was faxed.”

“So is it that you need a prescription with an original signature?”

“Yes. You'd better use the mail.”

I want to ask: Is there a reason that you didn't just call us to request an original? But I know there's no place for such questions in cowboy country.

I get the mailing information and call the psychiatrist, who sends over new prescriptions to be mailed out later that day. I begin to turn my attention to something else but then am struck with a thought.

If they thought the prescriptions were fake, why did they fill one of them?

Here is MCC in a nutshell. “Fucking cowboy country,” I grumble to no one.

I
t's Saturday afternoon, about a week later. I'm spending the day in my apartment, reveling in an MCC-free day relaxing on my couch.

My cell phone rings. I recognize it to be a call from MCC. I'm assuming it's Cameron calling.

But the call is not from Cameron. The recording announces another man's name, one that I recognize as being a friend of Cameron's.

I accept the call, and a man's voice appears on the line. “Hello, is this Jen? Cameron's lawyer?”

“Yes,” I say. “Is Cameron okay?”

“Yeah, I'm gonna need you to bring Cameron's transcripts the next time you come here.”

“His what?”

“His court transcripts. Cameron says he isn't a rat. And if that's true, let's see the transcripts.”

I hold my hand over the receiver and take in a breath.

“He's not a cooperator,” I finally say.

“Yeah, so you say. Let's see the transcripts.”

“Look, I'm his lawyer, I would know.”

“So then it should be no problem to bring the transcripts. Right?”

He sort of has me there.

I find it odd that he is calling for this in the middle of a Saturday. What is the urgency?

“Where is Cameron right now?” I ask.

“What?”

“Where is Cameron?”

He pauses. “Why?”

I feel myself start to panic. “Just, where is he right now? I'd like to speak with him.”

“Are you going to bring the transcripts?”

“Are you going to tell me where Cameron is?”

“Are you going to bring the transcripts?”

“Are you going to let me speak to Cameron?”

“Are you going to bring the transcripts?”

“Yes, I will bring the transcripts!” I yell. “Now please, where is Cameron?”

The voice yells out into the distance. “Hey, Cameron. Say something so she knows it's you.”

Silence.

I press my ear to the phone.

“Hey, Cameron!”

I hear what I think is his voice, far in the distance. I can't make out what he is saying.

“Is he all right?” I ask. It is a stupid question to ask of this person, who clearly does not have Cameron's best interests at heart. But I ask him at any rate.

“Yeah, he's fine. Friends fight, you know. He'll be better when you bring me those transcripts.”

He hangs up.

M
y mind races as to what to do next. I consider the possibility of alerting the legal team so that the government can step in. But then what? All roads lead back to the SHU. I decide that the best way of dealing with this hostage-taker is to meet his demands.

I comb through the transcripts of Cameron's various court appearances. Most contain references that a seasoned inmate would know refer to cooperation. But the most recent transcript is clean. I print it out and make several copies.

On Monday evenings I teach a class at my old law school that runs until eight p.m. Due to the exigency of getting the transcripts to Cameron, I cut class short so as not to miss MCC visiting hours. The class—a delightful group of first-year students—is outwardly elated at the reprieve. Their reaction makes me smile. I want to be a student again, and not have to confront whatever is waiting for me at MCC.

When Cameron arrives in the attorney room he looks awful. He also doesn't mince words. “Please tell me you have the transcripts.”

“I do,” I say, passing them over. “What happened?”

Cameron recounts what happened: he was confronted in his cell by a group of his friends about being a cooperator. After backing Cameron into a corner, the men decided that all of this could be verified through his transcripts. That's when someone decided to call me. The rest of the group was keeping their collective eye on Cameron while the phone call was made, which is why his voice sounded so distant—he was calling out from his cell, unable to get close to the phone.

When I confirmed that transcripts would be provided, the group of men disbanded. Afterward, they individually apologized to Cameron for joining the fray, each blaming someone else in the group for getting everyone worked up. Apparently snitches can be found in groups that are in hot pursuit of snitches.

I shake my head at all of it. “You scared the shit out of me. I wasn't even sure what to do.”

“Well, whatever you said, it worked.”

“For now, anyway.”

He nods, but says nothing. I look at his arms, red with hives.

“Still no meds?” I ask.

“No.”

“I'll try again tomorrow.”

B
ut try as I might, without much explanation, MCC will not dispense Cameron his medication. And I am hearing about it every week.

“Did Cameron get his meds?” his mother asks me in one of her regular phone calls.

“No, not yet,” I say.

Then I call MCC. Then nothing happens.

T
he psychiatrist calls about an unrelated matter. “By the way,” he says. “It looks like they haven't given Cameron his meds yet.”

“Still? Okay, I am going to follow up.”

Then I call MCC. Then nothing happens.

“W
hy hasn't Cameron gotten his meds yet?” Cameron's mother calls again, this time agitated. “I just went to see him, and he's a mess. He hasn't slept in days.”

“I'm really not sure. I keep calling and everyone promises that they will follow up on it, and then they don't.”

“Is it that they don't have any in stock? Can we just supply it to MCC so they can dispense it to him?”

“I don't think that's the issue. I am pretty sure they stock it, because it's on the formulary.”

“Well, then, why don't they give it to him?”

“I really don't know. I'll follow up tomorrow.”

Then I call MCC. Then nothing happens.

O
ne day, I run into the psychiatrist in the halls of MCC on my way up to see Cameron.

“Still no meds, I see,” he says.

“I honestly don't know what the problem is,” I say.

We agree that Cameron is in the very position we hoped he wouldn't be. With his upcoming sentencing, there have been regular press articles about his case, many of which discuss his possible cooperation. Rather than become increasingly immune to the allegations, Cameron seems to take each installment with more difficulty.

He says he's noticed that Cameron is particularly reliant on me. I agree. I tell the psychiatrist that I now visit him every other day, that if I wait any longer than that he becomes unsettled.

The psychiatrist puts his hand on my shoulder. “It is good that he has you,” he says. “You are saving his life. You really are.”

“I wish there was more that I could do,” I say.

“Just keep doing what you're doing,” he encourages.

The exchange gives me a headache. As I wait for Cameron to arrive, I realize that I can no longer see the line between his interests and my
own. When tragedy befalls Cameron, it also befalls me. His suffering is my suffering. I feel as though I am unraveling alongside of him.

You are saving his life.

There is a gentle tap on the attorney room door. There stands a corrections officer, looking at me with sympathy. “Are you all right?” he asks through the door.

I have apparently been staring out into space with tears in my eyes. I quickly wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket.

“Yes, thank you,” I say. “I'm fine.”

I
am finally put through to someone of stature in the mental health department at MCC in April, a few weeks before Cameron's sentencing. I explain to her that we have been trying for over two months to have his prescription filled. I also describe what I observe in my meetings with him: emotional outbursts, hives, and his anxiety attack.

The MCC doctor—I assume she is a doctor of some kind—seems to be writing all this down. “That sounds awful,” she says with perfect bedside manner.

“It is,” I say.

She says that she would like to meet with Cameron herself to make her own assessment of his needs. She says that if she observes what I describe, she will see to it that he receives his medication.

“Either way,” she says, “we will get him the help he needs.”

I breathe a huge sigh of relief. “I can't thank you enough,” I say. “This has been ongoing for months, and he is truly in a bad way.”

“It's not a problem,” she reassures me. “I'll let you know how it goes.”

I
relay the good news to Cameron about his appointment. He says that the MCC doctor has already scheduled an appointment to see him later in the week. His relief is my relief.

A few days later, I receive a call from Cameron's unit manager. She is following up with me about a separate matter. I am surprised when she asks me whether Cameron has met with the MCC doctor.

“I think he did,” I say. “Did his meds finally get administered?”

“Oh, I don't know about that. I just wondered because I overheard some people talking about him.”

“You mean the fact that he saw the doctor?”

“No,” she says. “About things that Cameron told her.”

I am silent.

“You have to be careful who you talk to here, you know. Everyone talks. Cameron is too trusting.”

I can feel the blood rushing to my face in anger. But there is no reason to discuss this further. “Thank you for letting me know,” I tell her.

After I get off the phone, I shake my head at my own gullibility. How naïve I am to think that sincere steps would be taken to alleviate this problem. How stupid I was to think that there could be anything other than this in cowboy country.