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D.C JAIL MENTAL HEALTH Unit
“If you want a Code Blue conflict in here or some fireworks and flavor, try sticking that needle in me. Violence, I don’t shy away from it,” David Thurman told the duty nurse.
During his intake health evaluation, clinicians informed Thurman that, according to test results, he was diabetic and that they would administer medication to treat the condition. Thurman had repeatedly denied having diabetes, refusing medication, and dared nursing staff to alert a squad of COs—known as a “code blue”—dedicated to restoring order about his defiance.
“Listen, just cooperate and avoid being physically restrained while we inject you,” the nurse suggested. Her tone exuded bleak enthusiasm. Nurse Terrano was tall. thirty-six-year-old, practitioner, who wore reading glasses, thick blond hair hanging off her tanned face, flashing a movie-star smile.
“We’ve been over that. Bring it on, bitch.”
“Remember that you asked for this,” Nurse Terrano replied, picking up a phone.
“Wait.” Urgent reconsideration.
“You’re willing to comply.” The only option.
“Maybe I need your help.”
“With?”
“Getting out of here.”
“As in helping you escape?”
“Don’t get all indignant on me. As long as they build prisons someone will try to escape from them. But I don’t want that. All I want is for you to call my lawyer and tell him to come here immediately. They’re going to kill me. I don’t have diabetes. I’m not crazy, either. Look at my face. They did this to me as an appetizer. Now they’ve locked me in a mental health unit to not be able to ask other inmates to help me. I’m not a killer. Please. Just call him, please.” The entree.
And I’d hate to see desert.
“I can’t do that.”
“Can you for twenty thousand dollars?”