Page 10 of In Death, Love Survives
“Mr. Quail, I’m Dr. Fletcher. Please have a seat,” I say, gesturing at the open seat.
Correctional Officer Walls steps back, allowing the prisoner to take his seat.
“Walls, please leave the room.”
“Dr. Fletcher, Dr. Owens has said—” Walls starts.
I hold up a hand to stop him from going on this rant again.
“Officer Walls, this is a private session, as are all my sessions. If Dr. Owens has a problem with it, he can talk to me about it, like he does with every other situation.”
Walls gives me a curt nod before leaving the room. I know he’ll remain stationed outside it just in case of an emergency.
In some ways, Officer Walls is a friend of mine. Not fully, but I know he cares about my well-being. That, coupled with Ryan’s warning to watch over me, makes him sometimes feel like a personal officer instead.
If there was a patient I didn’t feel safe around, as there always will be, I would have Tim work with that person or ask for CO support directly.
Focusing my attention back to the current patient in my room, Mr. Quail, I give him a small smile as I adjust in my chair.
“My apologies, Mr. Quail.”
The man looks surprised by the altercation.
“As I’m sure you understand, given the nature of this session, it will be recorded and kept in safekeeping. A medical staff team member or I will be the ones with access to these records. They are all for the benefit of your treatment. Do I have your consent to record?”
“Yes.”
“Good, then let’s get started.”
I flip through his file with my notes attached.
“Can you please share your history with depression?” I ask.
“Isn’t it all there?”
“It is, but I’d like to hear it from you directly.”
“Oh, well, okay then,” he stammers.
Mr. Rod Quail, seventy-three years old, is a felon who has been in and out of the justice system his entire life. His latest armed robbery conviction is what brought him here to Roper State.
I shut his file and patiently listen to him share his backstory—it’s just one of the many I plan to hear today.
One by one, each of the thirteen prisoners comes into my office, and I follow the same routine. Each of them is shocked that I’m listening rather than just going over their prior treatment plans.
Every time I go through this process, it’s just as jarring. It’s one aspect of this job that I’ll never get used to. All the patients I see are surprised that I’m treating them in this manner. That I want to help.
“Knock, knock,” Ryan says as he leans against the doorframe. He’s holding onto a file in the air, and I assume it’s Wolfe Walker’s file.
He’s the last one I need to see today.
“Walker’s file?” I ask.
“Yep,” he answers with a pop of the p.
Ryan gives it a small shake before bringing it down toward his waist as he approaches my desk. I stay seated since, frankly, I’m still a little annoyed by what’s happened.
Throughout the day, I’ve had time to really think about the situation with Wolfe Walker and how Ryan didn’t tell me. I understand there are some aspects to his role I’m not privy to, but he shouldn’t give me the whole “we’re a team” speech when he doesn’t mean it.
