This seems to calm her down. The phone is silent, and I take this to mean that Cameron Douglas’s father has calmed down, too.
I’m anxious to get out of the room. I quickly try to tie any loose ends. I ask Cameron Douglas’s mother if there is anything she’d like me to relay to Cameron. She asks for a piece of paper and begins writing him a letter.
The phone is still silent, and so I ask the same of Cameron Douglas’s father. He doesn’t respond right away. It takes me a moment to realize that this is because he is crying.
“Please send him my love,” he manages.
Between the chain of events of the last twenty-four hours and my lack of sleep, I quite frankly want to join him. Instead, I promise that I will update everyone on how Cameron is doing.
As she gets up to leave, Cameron Douglas’s mother grabs my hand with both of hers, possibly compensating for the lack of her hand at the start of the meeting. She is thanking me profusely, but my mind is on what’s to come. You know your case has taken a turn for the worse when your most immediate task is to make sure your client doesn’t have a breakdown and you’ve just made both of his parents cry.
I begin my marathon session at MCC the next day around noon and end up staying until ten p.m. I am ready: I have brought twenty-five crisp single-dollar bills for the vending machine. Since we will be locked into the attorney room for the duration, I purchase most of its contents and place them on the table in the attorney room in a sort of prison picnic.
When Cameron arrives, he is still upset about what has happened. He also has a severe cold, owing to the fact that it is the middle of winter and the SHU is not properly heated. But he is certainly communicative, and after some time passes even relaxes a bit. He manages a laugh when I note that the orange shade of his jumpsuit so resembles the color of the nacho cheese Doritos we are sharing that he can just wipe the crumbs on his sleeve.
There are no legal issues on the table, at least not imminent ones, and so I am really there to kill time. We play a series of games, classics such as hangman and tic-tac-toe, and a new one I invent that I call Who Would You Rather Punch? It is both cathartic and educational and invariably involves employees of the federal government.
When I leave Cameron at the end of the day, he seems to be in decent spirits. We agree that I will return the next day for more of the same.
In the cab home, I note that my head is heavy with congestion. In the dry air of the attorney room, I think I’ve caught Cameron’s cold. Still, the day went smoothly. Cameron seems to be doing well enough that I wonder if the psychiatrist has possibly exaggerated his condition.
But the next day, things have changed.
When Cameron is brought into the attorney room, his skin is covered in deep red welts. He scratches these as he slumps into the chair across from mine. He looks at the floor and says nothing.
“I’m back,” I say cheerfully.
He barely looks up.
I try for some chitchat, and while he does engage with me, I can tell that it’s a struggle. I relay to him a series of messages from friends and family and ladies of the gaggle in the hopes that these might lift his spirits.
They don’t. Instead, he begins to cry.
I have had clients break down on me before, and so I know to remain silent and supportive. After a moment, I say, “Cameron, you’re going to get through this.”
He tries to bring himself back to the conversation, but seemingly can’t. The more that he tries to control his emotions, the less he is able to. He begins to breathe deeply. And then it seems as though he can’t catch his breath.
“Cameron, just try to calm down and breathe.”
That’s when I notice that he isn’t having trouble breathing because he is overcome with emotion. He is having trouble breathing because he is hyperventilating.
He has pushed his chair away from the table so that he is turned away from me. He claws the hives on his arms, the skin scratched raw. I can also hear him struggling to breathe, his breaths becoming quicker, almost urgent.
My own heartbeat rushes as I watch this unfold. This situation calls for something far different from legal assistance.
“Cameron, I am going to ask the CO to get a medic.”
“No,” he says. “Please, I just need you to go.”
“Cameron, I am not going to go when you are like this.”
“Please, Jen.”
“I’m not going.” I know I am not helpful to the situation, but I am also not about to leave him while he appears to be coming apart.
He looks at me and sees that I have no intention of leaving. He turns back to the wall. We sit in silence, the only sound is his breath. I watch his shoulders rise and fall in short, rapid movements. After a few minutes, they start to slow.
I think it is all over and feel a wave of relief pass over me. “Do you want me to get you some water?” I offer.
“No, I’m all right.” He is still facing the wall.
“Okay, well, let me know. We can just sit here if you want.”
The calm is short-lived. In a moment, the hyperventilating returns. The attack is apparently not over.
“Please,” he says in between gasps, “I’m begging you to just leave.”
“I can’t leave you like this.”
“Just go. Please. PLEASE.”
His shouting is disturbing enough that I feel my only choice is to go. I jump up from the table and pull at the door, only to remember that I’m locked in. The fact that my departure is stalled only causes him more distress. I begin pounding on the door to get the corrections officer’s attention on the other side of the lobby. When the door is finally opened, I burst out of it.
I leave Cameron in this state of unhinge. I try to catch his eye as the corrections officer locks him in, but he is still facing the wall. As I wait for the elevator, I crane my head to see if he might look up. He doesn’t. All I can see is a glimpse of the back of his nacho cheese jumpsuit. It rises and falls, up and down, with no end in sight.
When business resumes after the holiday weekend, MCC determines that it is safe for Cameron to return to his unit.
He’s pleased by this development. He doesn’t make mention of his anxiety attack. And although I describe the incident to the psychiatrist, I don’t bring it up with Cameron.
The following week we appear back in front of the trial judge. He takes the bench and issues his ruling:
First of all, I think the submissions here have been exemplary, strong submissions, both in the papers and in the testimony, and certainly heartfelt.
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.
Not 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, s
o 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.
“Hey, 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.
It 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.
It’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.
My 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.”
&nb
sp; “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
But 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.
The 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.
“Why 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.
One 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.”
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