It’s usually never a good sign when a correctional officer shows up at your office with a mental health referral slip in his hand and an apologetic look on his face, just when you’re about to eat your lunch.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said.  “But I’ve got an inmate outside who I think may need to be seen.”  The C.O. then went on to explain that he noticed this particular inmate (a twenty-year-old who happened to be on my caseload) trying to leave the yard in sweats and no ducat.  The facility policy is that all inmates leaving the yard must be appropriately dressed in their state-issued blue pants and blue shirts that clearly designate their status from the rest of the staff.  Additionally, they should have a ducat or pass indicating that they are due for an appointment or some sort of work or school assignment.  This particular inmate had no paperwork to prove that he was supposed to be anywhere, and he acted lost and confused when the C.O. questioned him.

I was familiar with this kid through previous encounters.  Even though he was twenty years old, he had a history of impulsive behaviors and the emotional maturity of a nine-year-old.  Hell, even my nine-year-old nephew had better insight and judgment.

“Bring him in,” I said, putting my lunch bag away and cursing the poor timing of events.

The youngster was escorted in and left alone with me.  I got right to the point.  “What’s going on?  The C.O. told me you were trying to leave the yard and go out into the plaza.”

“Aww, I’m just tired.  Tired of being in prison.  I just want to get out.”

“So you were trying to leave?”

He didn’t answer, but everything about his demeanor said yes, that’s exactly what he’d been trying to do.  I asked him a few more questions, and he was vague with his answers.  I also noticed a few little things about his mannerisms that made me suspect he’d been using drugs, and not any that were officially prescribed to him.  My gut feeling told me that he needed to be referred to the crisis bed, officially known as the Correctional Treatment Center, which is basically the prison’s inpatient psychiatric hospital.

I explained to him that I had some concerns and would have him evaluated by somebody from the CTC.  I had him wait on the bench outside the sergeant’s office.  I let the sergeant know what was going on, and then I called the crisis screener.  She showed up in about fifteen minutes.

“What’s the crisis?  Is he saying he’s going to hurt himself?”

“No,” I said.  “He’s denying it, but I think he’s minimizing his symptoms.”  I explained that he had tried to leave the yard and seemed to have a plan to walk out of the prison.

“So?  It’s not like he would have gone anywhere.  They would have stopped him.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but he doesn’t seem to care what happens to him.  It’s like that suicide-by-cop mentality.”

She said a few more things that gave me the feeling that she didn’t trust my judgment or believe that this situation warranted an admission into the crisis bed.  But she went off to interview him, and I went back to my office.  Half an hour later, I had to go to the sergeant’s office on unrelated business and ran into her.  She was finishing up her paperwork.

“I’m having him admitted,” she said, “and I’m ordering a drug screen.  I’d be surprised if it turns out that he’s not on drugs.  But he’s not safe to go back to the yard.”

I wanted to say, “Of course!  I told you so!”  But I didn’t, even though she’d been so dismissive of me earlier.  Instead, I took comfort in the knowledge that I was right and anyway, what was most important was that this kid would be getting the help that he needed.

I hadn’t been inside the prison since last week Wednesday, so when I returned to my office this morning, it was with some dread.  The thing about being gone for a week is that the work just accumulates until I get back.  There are always emails to answer, phone calls to return, and inmate requests to triage.  The inmate requests are usually placed in business envelopes and delivered to my mailbox.  Because they’ve led to bad experiences in the past, I am now averse to opening these envelopes.  Naturally, having been gone a week, I returned to find one of those business envelopes addressed to me and sitting in my mailbox.

In one of my earlier posts, I wrote about Mr. X.  He was what we call a Third-Strike Lifer.  In 1998, he’d been “struck out” under the California Three Strikes Law and sentenced to 27 years to life for possession of a controlled substance.  In 2012, the majority of voters in California voted in favor of Proposition 36, allowing the Three Strikes Law to be revised so that a life sentence can only be imposed when the new felony conviction is a serious or violent offense.  Under Prop 36, Mr. X became eligible for re-sentencing.  He had already been incarcerated for over 17 years.  The court finally reviewed his case this year, and last Friday he was released from prison.

I opened that business envelope addressed to me and discovered that it was a letter from Mr. X, sending a “note of gratitude.”  He wrote, “I hope to be able to do good by you and everyone else who has helped me along the way.”  This is an individual who was going to serve a minimum of 27 years in prison for possession of a controlled substance before he would be eligible for a suitability hearing with the parole board, if not for Prop 36.  I know a lot of people believe that there is no point to voting, but know that it can make a difference.  It did for this man.