“– How odd that it should end this way for us, after so many stimulating encounters. I almost regret it. Where shall I find a new adversary so close to  my own level?

– Try the local sewer.”

–Raiders of the Lost  Ark (1981)

My sojourn in a New York State prison was instructive in so many ways it defies description. But I try. As the pundits consider awarding Trump prison time — which will never happen — they’ve commented that even with 34 felonies (I beat him by 10) the D.A. and judge have the option to sentence no jail time. Unjfortunately, in my case, having exposed corruption in the Town of Southampton and District Attorney’s office they couldn’t wait to ship me off to prison. But, since I was not being sent to a Federal Camp where Bannon, Manaforte, Cohen or other non-violent and dubiously guilty white collar guys went and go and where Piper Kierman did a few months before making millions with Orange is the new Black — I was kept in State prison. Even the D.A. himself, Thomas Spota got a camp plus 5 years for his crimes — after destroying my family for exposing him.

Real medical or mental health treatment does not exist in the State prison system.

A-Fib and Multiple Myeloma plus Civil Death were my gifts from the State.

_____________________________________________________________________________

April 9th, 2015

“Dr. Kasulke will be with you in a minute,” said the nurse. I woke up at 3:30 am after 4 hours of sleep. I was a wreck. I went back into the Infirmary waiting room where there were at least 15 guys sitting  waiting.  In addition to them, there were cops escorting several others into the bathroom and going with them, wearing plastic gloves and holding specimen cups. One cop knocked on the bathroom door,  since there was only one for the usual pit stops, testing, and any other uses, and before the guy was finished he opened the door — just as the guy was apparently wiping his ass and had  barely enough time to grab  his pants. He came out with unbuckled pants, looking sour faced but could say nothing to the huge, brawny, 300  pound cop who  had a cup in one hand and was waving to an inmate with cuffs  and shackles on his feet into the toilet.

It was mayhem. My  heart  was  pounding  with anxiety, stress and lack of sleep.

Along another wall were about 20 guys waiting for their urine tests since one of the dorms had  been busted this morning.

On top of that, Plowman, the C.O. was eating his sausage sandwich. He barked at anyone who talked or did not follow any rule he’d thought up at that particular time in the morning. I hid on a far bench by the soda machine that was only there for cops and civilians. A constant presence of food and sodas that inmates couldn’t have.

In the midst of this they would be taking my blood pressure.

“MacPherson,” called the nurse. “The reading was 163 over 93.” The doctor had come into the room and since I liked him, I felt comfortable talking to him with the nurse in the room.

“Your blood pressure^’s high.”

“It’s the the lower number I’m concerned about. Have any idea why it goes up like that?” 

I looked at him. Was  he kidding? Was he serious? 

I bet the  passengers on the Titanic were probably wondering if the ship was sinking as the water rushed in, but, then, there WAS this iceberg. Was the doctor not looking around? Was he suffering from dementia?

“Maybe it has something to do with being in prison?” I said, with a straight face, as the nurse looked on.

“Yeah, I suppose so, but, I’m here too,” he offered with a hint of humor. “When are you getting  out?”

“I have a Merit Board and a Work Release application going in next month.”

“How are YOU?” I said, remembering his aneurysm.

“Oh, I’m okay right now, except for the fact that when I  touch the top of my head it feels like I’m gripping a bowling ball,” he said, raising his hand over his head to put three of his fingers with a bowling ball grip and inserting them into the top of his head. It was bizarre. They had drilled into his brain to repair the  damage.

I laughed. Then he waxed  philosophical  after writing a new prescription for a different medication. 

“You familiar with Henry the Eighth? There’s a great show right now at the Metropolitan  Museum of Art?” he said.

That was good to know.

“Well, actually, I can’t catch that right now,” I said, smiling, “and my tastes run more to Larry David instead.” I left out George Carlin and Lenny Bruce.

The nurse burst out laughing. The doctor was confused. 

He continued looking for the right holes on his head for his fingers to prove he’d had the surgery.

“I guess you’re familiar with Curb Your Enthusiasm?” I said to the nurse. She nodded.

“What  do  you like  about HIM,” said  Kasulke, smiling. 

“Oh, I guess it’s the sarcastic humor. Not that I’d ever display that here, of course.”

I’d hoped he would eventually find the right fit for his fingers as he continued to grope the dome of his head.

He was a little confused. But, since his “event” he did get confused at times. He was a General in the Reserves and now, after having had the aneurysm, he always had a nurse in the room with him. It was not a gynecological  exam, but one would hope that he knew WHICH medication he was prescribing. 

“Are there any side effects from this medication?”  I  asked.

“No, just a little cough, if that. Otherwise, it’s completely benign.“

What were the chances, as he was poking himself  in the head, looking for holes that he chose the right medication for me? 

He continued groping his scalp with one hand and wrote a prescription with the other.

“Well, a little cough wouldn’t bother me.” I said, and then thought, as long as I don’t blow a lung out at people through my nostril.

I remembered how F.X. Doyle, the sentencing judge who refused to allow any delays – forced me to remove the heart monitor I was wearing to detect the cause of my arrhythmia. 

It didn’t matter that I was here for exposing corruption or that none of my crimes weren’t actually crimes. Once you took a plea, you were guilty. You were definitely fucked. There was no going back in the New York State criminal justice system. That’s why bribery, extortion, intimidation, financial destruction, threats and defamation are used to extract a plea from you. One there’s a plea, innocence is irrelevant.

As it turned out I’d had atrial fibrillation and nearly had a stroke due to this little medical oversight – which they knew about but ignored. And, the lack of feeling in my lower extremities caused no questions to be asked. The fact that the prison was located in a cancer cluster and that Agent Orange still infected our water was ignored. However, the judge lectured me that the medical treatment in the New York State prison system was quite adequate. 

For him. Not me.

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