Page 2 of In Death, Love Survives

ONE

Nova, Present

“We have a prisoner transfer coming in this afternoon,” Tim says with a heavy sigh.

“Hopefully, the rain stops long enough for it,” I answer.

“It’ll happen either way.”

“But wouldn’t it be nice for everyone involved if it weren’t?”

Tim shrugs as he continues focusing on the paperwork he’s been reading at one of the tables in the employee lounge.

It bothers me more than it should when he shows such indifference to the prisoners here. Given his profession, I would have hoped he would be more empathetic than he usually is in situations like this.

Instead of dwelling on Tim’s indifference, I turn my attention back to pouring coffee from the burnt, lukewarm coffee pot. We’re both among the first to arrive, yet the day-shift coffee always tastes like it’s been sitting overnight, when I know it hasn’t.

It’s one of the downsides of working at Roper State Penitentiary that employees just have to accept. We’re never going to get the funding to replace the basic necessities, never mind the employee coffee machine.

Whoever swaps the coffee out during the shift change clearly doesn’t ever partake in any.

Who am I to really complain? It does the job, and that’s all I can ask for these days—a slight caffeine fix to start my morning.

Anything to get a spark of energy during a dreary day like this one. It’s been raining on and off for the past few days, which makes it less than ideal conditions for the latest transfer this morning.

Today is one of my least favorite days as a prison psychiatrist for selfish reasons.

Due to the new prisoners arriving this morning, today is one of the days when I’ll be staying much later than I usually do.

The prisoners who identify as needing mental health support ahead of arrival are sent to my wing for evaluation.

It’s an intake process that I try to put my utmost care into doing correctly. The problem with transfer days is that the medical wing of Roper State is understaffed. I don’t really mind the late hours, but it adds so much more to our plates.

I’ll see each of them today and then, over the next three or four days, have a more in-depth sit-down to review their medical histories and determine patient care.

Since Roper State Penitentiary has limited staff, it means that on a good day, it’s just my staff psychologist Tim, our assistant Jessica, and me to help the hundreds of prisoners who need our support. When we have to add more patients to the mix, it only increases the stress.

Not every day looks the same for us. On the positive, some days, we get additional psychologists to assist, who are on rotation among all state prisons.

I shouldn’t be complaining though. I know this is my calling.

The dreary day, mixed with poor sleep, has me feeling sorry for myself when it’s the patients I should be concerned about. They’ll need me to be more positive than this.

“I’m heading to my office,” I call out with my cup of coffee in tow.

Tim gives me a slight nod as he keeps his focus on the paperwork.

To him, these prisoners all could have the same number and diagnosis.

It’s disheartening to see the way he moves about them like they are just a number.

I’ve tried talking to him multiple times about it and how we all need to give each patient the specialized care they deserve, but it doesn’t seem to make much of a difference.

To be honest, sometimes I do understand why he’s gotten like this.

It’s a lot for an understaffed team of medical experts to handle.

If only we had a larger team, we could dedicate more of our attention to specialized care throughout the entire medical team, not just the mental health portion I manage.

I take a deep breath, trying to stay positive.

I hope to hire one more full-time, permanent psychologist onto the team soon, since the budget has finally been approved for it. Ryan, the prison’s medical director, has also signed off on it. It’s Crawley, our warden, who is dragging this process out.

Crawley is tough, even when it comes to the way he works with his staff. I know Ryan has spoken to him about it before, and yet I still can’t officially start the hiring process.

Ryan and I are meeting with him next week about the whole situation. Ryan has stressed to Crawley the importance of giving the highest quality in-house medical treatment possible to the prisoners we see.

If Crawley respects anyone on his staff, thankfully, it’s Ryan. Crawley has an old-school mentality that I hate having to deal with, but Ryan easily navigates it.

Some days, I don’t know what I’d do without Ryan here. He doesn’t view the prisoners as numbers; it’s a quality I value and respect. When you work in an atmosphere like this, it’s tough to know who to trust and feel supported by.

Walking back to my office in the medical unit, I find myself stuck in this funk that I need to snap out of. Maybe I need an appointment with my own therapist to figure out what’s happening with me as of late. This isn’t the first time this week I’ve felt this way.

Getting to my office, I quickly shut the door to give myself a chance to get settled in without any distractions.

I have limited time to review the files of the prisoners who need mental health services before they start arriving for evaluation.

I need to be on top of it all to show them that we do care here and know what we’re doing.

The prison system has been under scrutiny lately due to the lack of in-house medical care. Often, prisoners are sent to neighboring hospitals for both mental and physical care.

Under Ryan’s direction, we’re trying to make Roper State the best that it can be. I have faith in him that we’ll get there. I have no choice but to trust that what he says he wants is the truth.

After I review the patients who need to receive care today, I’ll then move on to the other prisoners who have not requested mental health care.

In some scenarios, it’s possible that the stigma around mental health care could prevent someone from requesting these services.

That’s why I like to review the past history and files of everyone new to Roper State to see if there is anything I should be aware of.

I won’t force anyone to receive care, but I have connected with a few prisoners about it before.

One of the initiatives that I’ve implemented at Roper State is creating a group therapy option. No one is required to participate in it, and usually, the only ones who do are the people who share their medical history with me from the start.

I get started reviewing the thirteen patients I’ll be initially focusing on. Each of them has a different backstory and history that I’ll need to study in detail. These files are just the start of the reasons why they need support and why they’ve come to be here at Roper State.

It’s not my job to judge but to offer treatment plans. It’s my duty as their doctor to focus on how to help them. I am only human, so sometimes it’s more difficult to do, but I try as best as I can.

Like right now, as I stare at the file of a convicted murderer, my primary focus is on his prescriptions. The dosage seems high, and I will have to figure out why it’s higher than usual for that medication.

Moving on to the next prisoner, I scan his file to see he’s being treated for two different disorders, one being dissociative identity disorder, more commonly known outside the medical field as multiple personality disorder.

One by one, I continue to go through each of the prisoners’ files, taking notes on their records.

Some time passes, and I feel accomplished. I’m almost done.

“Dr. Fletcher,” Jessica says with a slight knock on my ajar office door.

“Yes?” I perk up from the file I’m working on.

“The new prisoners are arriving momentarily.”

“Thank you. I’ll be just a minute then.”

I bob my head up and down as I return my focus to the file. Thankfully, Jessica had printed and organized these documents into individual folders for me to use this morning. She knows I prefer it over staring at them on a computer screen.

“Do you need anything else?” she asks.

“This should be it. Thank you for getting these ready last night.” I don’t look up as I focus on finishing highlighting this one line.

“Of course.”

The clack of her heels as she leaves my office and returns to her desk gives me the distraction needed to finally stop working on the file.

I managed to get through all of them, right on time.

I gather the file folders together and quickly head out of my office, shutting the door behind me. I don’t want to give anyone the opportunity to slip in and look through my paperwork.

As I adjust my charcoal-colored pencil skirt and white button-up shirt to ensure everything is in the correct place, I hear a familiar set of steps approaching.

I smile as I finish the final adjustment of my top.

“Everything okay, Dr. Fletcher?” Ryan asks. His voice is smooth and deep, like a fine whiskey settling my nerves.

Looking up, I see two deep-brown eyes focused on me with concern.

“Just fine, Dr. Owens. I’m about to head over and see the latest prisoners arriving.”

“Me as well.”

“Oh, really?” I ask, surprised.

“Purely for observation. They’ll be taken back to the medical quarters after, like usual,” he starts.

Ryan pauses as he gives me a knowing glance. I smile shyly in response.

“Same as you, I suspect.”

“You know I like to see them all when they aren’t with a doctor . It changes our dynamic when they know who I am and what I’m trying to do.”

Ryan gestures for us to start walking. My high heels click on the ground and echo through the bleak hallway.

“I do. It’s a shame, but I do.” Ryan sighs, almost as if he’s having a rough start to his day as well.

As I stare at my colleague, I notice he looks more tired than usual. I can’t remember another time Ryan has looked worn out like this.