Last week, I said I was publishing the final portrait from my prison camp. It turns out there are still a few people I haven’t written about—people who remain part of the story, even if the impression they left was not a positive one.
DR. DEATH
Dr. Death—Deepak was his real name—was the name ascribed to him by the inmates. He was in his mid-sixties and originally from India. He had emigrated to the United States immediately after medical school. He was of average height, with a noticeable, ungainly paunch and a peculiar gait, seemingly caused by—or perhaps intended to maintain—an accentuated straight posture.
According to him, he had been a general practitioner in his prior life. After retiring, he worked part-time to help a colleague with his practice and became unfairly caught up in the colleague’s insurance fraud and prescription violations.
His quiet and unassuming persona belied the creepy and dishonest behavior that became evident over time. He constantly hounded other inmates for food and occasionally invaded the lockers of inmates who had befriended him. When challenged, he would apologize but argue that he thought he had permission.
Inmates sought him out when they were not feeling well. They were reluctant to request medical care from the staff because they might be sent to the SHU and quarantined from the camp population. Dr. Death was always responsive and offered medications he gathered from other inmates or obtained from the commissary.
But there was always a quid pro quo for his services. It wasn’t demonstrable or overt. He would wait until an inmate recovered—and then make his move.
We arrived during the same week, and at first we befriended each other. We were both from Connecticut, and I was comfortable with his professional background. We were also assigned to the kitchen. He was scheduled to be a dishwasher, but he finagled things so that I was assigned to the dishwasher position and he ended up with the “easier” job.
I didn’t mind. I wanted something that provided some form of exercise. But the episode was a revelation, and it certainly changed the dynamic between us.
He was incorrigible with the other kitchen workers, constantly vying for extra food—especially fruit and breakfast cakes. He always arrived early, probably to scout the menu, but also left early, leaving the others to finish the cleanup.
I don’t recall when he acquired the nickname Dr. Death. But over time, he simply became less and less to everyone. I don’t know any other way to put it.
When I was released, I didn’t even say goodbye.
Up Next on White Collar Journal:
Wednesday (Justice Notes): Criminal Justice Reform
Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections
Sunday (Prison Camp): More Stories from prison
If you’re new to White-Collar Journal, you can read earlier chapters and essays on incarceration, justice, and reentry at whitecollarjournal.com.
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