Criminal That I Am by Jennifer Ridha Page B

feel myself start to panic. “Just, where is he right now? I’d like to speak with him.”
    â€œAre you going to bring the transcripts?”
    â€œAre you going to tell me where Cameron is?”
    â€œAre you going to bring the transcripts?”
    â€œAre you going to let me speak to Cameron?”
    â€œAre you going to bring the transcripts?”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œHey, Cameron!”
    I hear what I think is his voice, far in the distance. I can’t make out what he is saying.
    â€œIs 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.
    â€œYeah, he’s fine. Friends fight, you know. He’ll be better when you bring me those transcripts.”
    He hangs up.
    M y 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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWell, whatever you said, it worked.”
    â€œFor now, anyway.”
    He nods, but says nothing. I look at his arms, red with hives.
    â€œStill no meds?” I ask.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI’ll try again tomorrow.”
    B ut try as I might, without much explanation, MCC will not dispense Cameron his medication. And I am hearing about it every week.
    â€œDid Cameron get his meds?” his mother asks me in one of her regular phone calls.
    â€œNo, not yet,” I say.
    Then I call MCC. Then nothing happens.
    T he psychiatrist calls about an unrelated matter. “By the way,” he says. “It looks like they haven’t given Cameron his meds yet.”
    â€œStill? Okay, I am going to follow up.”
    Then I call MCC. Then nothing happens.
    â€œW hy hasn’t Cameron gotten his meds yet?” Cameron’s mother calls again, this time agitated. “I just