Who's Guilty? (part 1)

Who’s the Victim?

Marcia grinned at herself as she realized that, once again, she was staring at the computer. She knew that usually the problem was just getting started. “First things first, and first is, do no harm,” she said out loud. She tried not to let people see her talking to herself. It was always thought that you had to be crazy to be a psychiatrist anyway, it didn’t help if you let them see you talking to yourself. Marcia knew that the best way to stop circular thinking was to put her thoughts in order, so she began typing, “Inmate Jeremy Cabot (93527) is dealing with his solitary confinement acceptably well. He understands that he over-reacted when he saw Officer James reading his notebook, and he now claims that he had no real intention of harming the officer in anyway. I recommend that Cabot continue his 30 days in solitary and then be allowed to return to general population.” She copied the report to the officer in charge of the segregation unit, closed that program, and opened another window which contained her notes on inmate treatment. Rolling her chair away from the computer, she picked up the pages that were sitting in Cabot’s open file.  They began with an email that she had printed from Officer James.

Ms. Marcia Stanton,

I wanted to send you the pages that I copied out of inmate Cabot’s (93527) notebook. He walked in as I was finishing searching his cell search. He reacted strongly when he saw me with his notebook in my hands. He didn’t actually touch me but he did threaten me with physical harm. I didn’t take his threats seriously, but he has been remanded to segregation for thirty days. I was not overly surprised by Cabot’s reaction, but I was curious. So while Officer Winter and I were packing his things up to transfer them, I looked at the notebook and it was entirely filled with letters to “Joe.” I looked up Cabot’s case, and when I realized who Joe might be I thought it was important to apprise you. Forgive the lack of order to the letters, I sorted through and made a few random copies, but there was an entire notebook full. There are no dates on any of the letters, so I can’t tell if this is still ongoing issue or not.

Marcia put the email aside and glanced at the copies. She thought that it would have been nice to get the whole notebook, but as a psychiatrist in prison working with officers and inmates and she knew that she was lucky to have received anything. She could request the notebook out of storage before the inmate got released from segregation, but she already felt as if she was betraying Cabot’s confidence. Marcia decided that she would wait until after reading the letters to determine if any further action was necessary. There were about ten pages that Officer James had copied over. Glancing through, she saw that many of the pages had multiple letters written on them. As she scanned through the pile, she saw that the first few letters had terribly shaky handwriting compared to those that were lower in the stack. She recalled that Cabot had been on pretty heavy antidepressants when he first came to see her, so that would explain the handwriting. The letters at the bottom of the pile showed how neat Cabot’s handwriting really was. Marcia began reading;

Joe,

        Dang it Joe. I don’t know what I am doing. This is stupid!!! I can’t write you! You’re dead! I fucking killed you! Now I’m writing you a fucking love letter? Like that’s going to make everything ok!  I wish I was dead! This is just stupid!!

Joe,

I don’t know how to do this but something tells me I have to keep trying. I miss you. We grew up together. You were always there, but now you're the last thing that I want to think about, but I can’t stop it. Fuck this shit!

Joe,

       Prison sucks! I guess that isn’t earth shattering news, but it’s true. It’s kinda like living with your parents, if they had no respect for you, and you had nothing. Oh yeah, and your mom can’t cook too! I mean we’ve seen jail cells on tv and stuff, but it’s different when you live in one. Not only do we sleep on bunk beds like twelve year olds, but the toilet is just feet away, and I get to share the shower with 53 other guys. I can’t get a job because I’m new and guys that are down for a few years get jobs over guys like me (A.K.A. fish). I got money from mom and dad for a television but it’s only got a 13 inch screen and you have to wear headphones so as not to disturb your cellie. Let me say it again PRISON SUCKS!!!

Marcia looked over this first page. She felt as though this was probably the first page in Jeremy’s notebook. She could barely make out the handwriting on the first letter. She could tell his hands had been shaky, and some of the words had been retraced so many times that it had worn a hole through the page in places. She took out her own notebook and made some notes. MEDICATED, she’d look up the actual prescription later. ANGRY, STRUGGLING, EVASIVE, DISJOINTED, LOST.

Joe,

        I guess I keep writing because I need someone to talk to. I live in my head way too much and that is the scariest place on earth right now. When I put things on paper, they seem easier to deal with.  Since they sent me to prison they’ve been giving me pills, but the pills just numb everything. It’s okay, ‘cause I think I like being screwy. Screwy people get good drugs.  I can sleep about twelve hours a day which is just fine with me.  The more I sleep the less I have to think. Mom and dad have been here maybe four times so far. I think that’s the worst. I mean I make sure I’m showered and shaved and put on a happy face, but mom is always biting her lip and holding dad’s hand.  I know no matter what I say she worries about me. I hate that I make them feel like that. I hate that they even have to see me here. I want to tell them not to, but I am too selfish for that. Even if mom sheds a tear now and then I just want to see her.

                                                                                            Cuckoo Cabot

Joe,

Like I said, they’ve been giving me pills since I arrived. I guess they were prescribed to me shortly after everything, I don’t really remember much of that. I think there’s about three months that’s kind of blurry. I really don’t want to remember. I hope they don’t make me give them up entirely, because I’m pretty sure they’re what’s keeping me alive. I guess that’s what you call this. I think that a sharp pain might make me feel alive. Instead I live in a world of sleep, haze, and dull ache.  I can’t believe that I’m saying this, but I want to think.  The problem is, I’m going to have to go see the shrink to get my medication reduced. Having to “talk to someone” is almost enough to make me live with things like they are. I mean I hate having to listen to myself. I’m afraid that if I start talking I won’t be able to stop.

                                                        Out of control Cabot

Marcia returned to her notes and wrote ANGRY, FRIGHTENED, WANTS LESS MEDICATION, HIDING FROM THE PAST, MAYBE A TURNING POINT.