Mark Rubinstein's Blog - Posts Tagged "guards"

It looked like something out of a nightmare—the Fishkill Correctional Facility at Beacon, NY. It was a huge, rambling series of buildings surrounded by chain link fences and concertina wire. I shivered at the thought of spending twenty years in this hellhole—amid society’s castaways, extruded from the world. It reminded me of the ninth level of Dante’s inferno.

I was patted down and wanded. I walked through a metal detector. I removed my shoes, which were examined. I was led by a guard down a long corridor.

Walking deeper into the belly of the beast, the guard and I passed through a series of electronically controlled doors that slid open and shut behind us. Gray cinderblock walls and cement floors added to the sense of dislocation and otherworldliness.

As a forensic psychiatrist, I was asked to evaluate an inmate in the Maximum Security Block. He was doing 25 years for armed robbery. Acting as his own attorney, he’d lodged a civil suit against the State of New York. His legal papers (all hand-written in block print) alleged the prison air contained toxic particulates causing breathing problems. Prison doctors thought he might be clinging to a delusional belief, in addition to being a convicted felon. They also wanted to know if he was competent to represent himself as a pro se plaintiff in a civil lawsuit. Even though he was a prisoner of the state, he was exercising his constitutional right to file a suit in a court of law.

In the Medical Unit—behind a series of more sliding doors and bars, I was escorted to a small room with a table and two chairs. The guard left to bring the plaintiff/inmate for his examination.

Sam, the inmate, was a short, wiry, 30 year old black man. I’d read through his records and legal filings. It was obvious he was your proverbial jailhouse lawyer. He greeted me with a firm handshake. Sitting across the narrow table, he smiled readily, and spoke intelligently. I asked about his breathing; his prison time; his thoughts; feelings; and about prison life. He spoke of the brutality of his childhood days in a series of foster homes, and his later life of crime. He was articulate and obviously intelligent.

His words were spoken in logical, sequential order, and made complete sense. He wasn’t hallucinating. Nor did he think the state was poisoning him, or pumping toxic fumes into his cell. In other words, his lawsuit wasn’t based on some delusional belief. He was perfectly sane and quite able to represent himself in court.

He knew I was interviewing him for the state. Yet, he didn’t relate to me as an adversary. He was an affable guy, and I liked him. And he liked me. He even asked about my life. Though he knew I’d prepare a report about his mental capacity, he talked with me as though I was just another inmate.

At the end of the examination, he said, “So, Doc, what’s your diagnosis? Am I crazy?”

“You know I’m not allowed to divulge my findings.”

“I know. I’m just testin’ ya, Doc. You’re a good guy. I like you.”

“I like you, too.”

“Don’t worry Doc, when this goes to trial, I’ll go easy on cross-examination.”

We both smiled as I gathered my papers. Then I pressed the call-button on the battery-operated unit attached to my belt. A guard appeared, and I was escorted out.

Heading toward my car, I realized if Sam had a different upbringing, he could have become an attorney or an accomplished professional.

Though the case never came to trial—it probably settled out of court—I still think about Sam and the wasted life he was living.