I wandered up a path to another building, where I found some inmates who directed me to the Unit Manager’s office.  The prison seemed to be rather laid-back compared to what I had expected.  There were four or five inmates sitting at a metal picnic table, smoking cigarettes, and a few were off in the corner playing cards.  The temperature was a bit chilly to me, especially as I’d just spent the last 9 years living in Texas; the worn clothing I’d been given wasn’t helping matters either.  So I hurried inside to warm up and find this Unit Manager’s office.

The Unit Manager talked to me in his office for about two minutes.  He was an ex-Marine type, but seemed pretty straightforward.  His instructions were rather simple: follow the rules, stay the hell out of his way, behave myself, and if I had any questions I should direct them to his clerk (an inmate) first before I bothered him with anything.

“You’ll be able to pick it up as you go along.  The rules are rather simple.  Follow the lead of the people around you, but be careful who you associate with until you figure out the lay of the land.”

Apparently an orientation for new inmates had taken place a day or two earlier, and the next one wasn’t scheduled for two weeks.  But Mr. Faulkner, the Unit Manager, strongly suggested I take an abbreviated, ad-hoc version so I wouldn’t have to sit in my bunk for two weeks and could instead be assigned work right away.  Also, it seemed obvious that for me to refuse the “suggestion” would be causing him a minor headache, so of course I agreed.  I didn’t much want to spend my time sitting by myself doing nothing anyway; I had quickly realized that for me to make it through this sentence, the busier I could keep myself the better.  I hadn’t considered that I’d be assigned a job, so this was actually a pleasant surprise.  I just needed to go through a few 5-minute orientation meetings and get medical clearance.

The medical clearance part was my first hurdle, as I was quickly summoned to the medical department so I could meet Dr. Walker, the head Mental Health professional (and, as I learned soon after, the guy who ran the Residential Drug and Alcohol Program – RDAP for short).  Dr. Walker was troubled by two of the answers I had given on my forms in the R&D paperwork.  First, I’d answered “Yes” to whether I felt depressed, and second I’d marked “Yes” to whether I had ever experiences suicidal thoughts.

I couldn’t understand why the first answer was such a surprise to anyone, as I explained to Dr. Walker.  “Of course I’m depressed.  This is my first day in prison, and I’ve got a 46-month sentence!”  But he was quickly able to determine I was not a danger to myself or others, and that the suicidal thoughts were from years ago.  It was at this point, however, that I first learned of the complete disconnect between the outside world of criminal justice and true life under the jurisdiction of the Bureau of Prisons.

Let me go back a few months in the story.  After I had pled guilty in court, I had to undergo what is known as a Pre- Sentence Interview (PSI) with an appoint court official.  This interview, in conjunction with other material gathered from my Pre-Trial officer, my lawyer, my family, my prosecutor, and forms filled out when I was first arraigned, would be used to write up my PSI Report.  That report (barring any objections by my lawyer or the government) would be used to determine how long of a sentence I received, what security level facility I should be designated to (if space was available), and any other important information relevant to my time as an inmate.

When I went to have this PSI, my lawyer (a public defender) went with me in case they asked questions he didn’t think I should answer.  He told me the woman who would be conducting the interview was very professional and understanding, and that he’d worked with her on prior cases with no problem.

“Before we go in there,” he told me, “I need to explain something to you.  There is a Drug and Alcohol Program available in some Federal prisons, and it is entirely voluntary.  If you successfully complete the program, you are eligible to get some time off your sentence, from a few months to almost a year.  But here’s the deal: if you want to be eligible for this program, you need to tell this woman about your alcohol and drug use today.  Evidence of your problems needs to go into the PSI for you to be eligible.  The BOP doesn’t want inmates trying to qualify for the program after they get to prison and find out they might be able to get a few months off their sentence.  So you need to decide now whether you are interested.  There’s no answer you need to give today about whether to want to actually sign up, but if you want to be eligible at all, you need to go in there and be open about your past.  She won’t mention the RDAP program to you, but anything you say may affect your ability to qualify when the time comes.  Speak now or speak never, basically.”

So we went inside, and I figured, what the hell…I may as well tell her my whole life story.  And I did, at least in an abbreviated form, and as directed by the questions she asked.  I talked about my parents’ alcohol use, how I started drinking when I was ten, my drug use, my mother’s mental disorders, Mara and all the problems she’d been through (and the ones we went through together), my divorce, my depression, and anything else that came to mind.  I cried a bit, but that was to be expected, as I hadn’t talked to anyone about a lot of these things in years (if ever).

As we left the interview, my lawyer looked sort of pale.  “Did you make any of that up?” he asked me.  I told him that not only was it all true, but that there were plenty of details and stories I didn’t bring up wither because she didn’t ask or there wasn’t enough time.  “Wow,” he said.  “I had no idea.”

The next morning I got a call from my Pre-Trial Officer, asking me to come in for a meeting.  I arrived the next day, and he explained to me that the woman I had interviewed with was very concerned about my mental state and my overall well-being, and that she had requested that I be put into some kind of therapy or counseling immediately.

“Look,” the officer told me, “you’re going to be in prison in six weeks anyway.  By the time we get the paperwork done, find you some program to go to, and get the judge to approve it, you’ll have time for maybe one appointment.  Are you doing okay?  I think it’s best if we just wait until you get to whatever facility you are assigned to, and you can get counseling and treatment there.  Just tell them what you need; they have all kinds of programs for that.  Are you okay with that plan?”

It was all find with me, since I wasn’t feeling any worse than usual anyway.  The urgency was coming from the woman who gave me the PSI, not me.  So I waited.

Now jump back to my first day in prison.  After Dr. Walker was convinced that I was okay to join the general population, I briefly told him about my experience with the PSI, and how I had been told to make it a point to ask for counseling appointments or whatever other mental health support might be available for me.

All I got in return was a blank stare for a moment, and then a confused reply.  “We don’t have counseling or therapy or anything like that here.  There’s nothing we can do for you.  You can go back to the Unit now.”

I just shrugged my shoulders and left.  Welcome to the BOP!


(Watch for Part 3, sometime in the next week or so)