Criminal That I Am by Jennifer Ridha

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.
    â€œNo, I’m all right.” He is still facing the wall.
    â€œOkay, 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.
    â€œPlease,” he says in between gasps, “I’m begging you to just leave.”
    â€œI can’t leave you like this.”
    â€œJust 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.
    W hen 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.
    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.
    â€œWhat category of medication is that?” I ask.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œThat’s fine, I’ll prescribe that.”
    In addition, he would like to prescribe Klonopin.
    â€œWhat category of