Criminal That I Am by Jennifer Ridha Page A

medication?”
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œH ey, 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.
    â€œI got one,” he says. “An antidepressant.”
    â€œThey didn’t give you your antianxiety meds?”
    â€œNo,” 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.
    â€œLook 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.
    â€œDo you know why he hasn’t gotten his medicine?” he asks.
    â€œYou still haven’t gotten it?” I ask Cameron.
    â€œClearly he hasn’t,” the psychiatrist answers for him.
    â€œI’ll follow up,” I say.
    I brace myself for a journey into cowboy country.
    I t 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?”
    â€œBecause it was photocopied.”
    I close my eyes but continue to speak. “Do you mean because it was faxed to you?”
    â€œLet me look. Yes, it was faxed.”
    â€œSo is it that you need a prescription with an original signature?”
    â€œYes. 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.
    I t’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?”
    â€œYes,” I say. “Is Cameron okay?”
    â€œYeah, I’m gonna need you to bring Cameron’s transcripts the next time you come here.”
    â€œHis what?”
    â€œHis 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.
    â€œHe’s not a cooperator,” I finally say.
    â€œYeah, so you say. Let’s see the transcripts.”
    â€œLook, I’m his lawyer, I would know.”
    â€œSo 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?
    â€œWhere is Cameron right now?” I ask.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhere is Cameron?”
    He pauses. “Why?”
    I