Prisoner of the System

By Louis Que

Jake Carpenter was lucky to be alive. After a serious car accident that left him with a rare-form epilepsy, he climbs his way back into the ring of life. Follow him through the world of Mental Health to bouts with the CIA, to the steps of the White House, and eventually, into the lap of the most powerful man on earth. Watch as he battles with governmental forces on his way to predicting the second coming of Jesus. Based on a true story

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479791989

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Louis Que.

ISBN:      Softcover   978-1-4797-9197-2

                 Ebook        978-1-4797-9198-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 04/01/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

10 years later…

The Seventeenth Letter

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

For All My Friends:

Gary Anania

Mattie O’Hanlon

Kevin Maddog Lynch

Murph

Richie McFadden

Donnie Graham (shempster)

Barb Solene D’Amico

Especially

Christopher Tandle

Karen Bimbo

Maureen Hueling

Special Thanks To

Paula Bucklin, Dorothy Densk, Pro Quest, Encyclopedia Britannica Inc.

And, Marian L. Goldberg for permission to include original pieces

from her Chapbook Lake Music and other writing:

pgs 169, 170, 171, 174 and 183-191

And all my friends and enemies

I’ll pray for you.

Introduction

Jake Carpenter was lucky to be alive. After a serious car accident that left him with a rare-form epilepsy, he climbs his way back into the ring of life. Follow him through the world of Mental Health to bouts with the CIA, to the steps of the White House, and eventually, into the lap of the most powerful man on earth. Watch as he battles with governmental forces on his way to predicting the second coming of Jesus. Based on a true story…

Prisoner

   of

      the

         System

Chapter 1

Christmas Day 1982

When Jake Carpenter was awarded twelve and a half million dollars, he thought all would be just a breeze — nice cars, beautiful homes, lavish vacations, gorgeous women and an attitude that would carry him past the crippling effects of a traumatic head injury.

The cold winter wind reminded him of the cruel and unusual circumstances that had brought him from a world of opulence and wealth to the degrading and hellish confines of one of the most desolate institutions in New York State.

Looking out of the steel screened windows, he could hear the sounds of the wind howling through the pines as it rumbled off the half-frozen lake and ricocheted between the walls of the massive brick prison. The inner sounds of the ward had no bearing on Jake’s thoughts as he tuned out the horrid sounds of the other patients and their abnormalities that reminded him of the freedom he once had.

Medication, came the call from the head nurse, and Jake turned from his sanctum of solitude and slowly walked toward the nurse’s station. The line had started to form as it had thousands of times before, and the helpless herd of humanity took turns getting the daily dosages of remedy and keeping the system in order.

Even though Jake had been a prisoner at the Willard Psychiatric Center for seven long months, he still felt a twinge of pain when being rounded up to be subdued by the powerful numbing effect of the neuroleptic drug prescribed by the evil doctor Céta, a psychiatrist of Indian decent, complete with the caste mark in the middle of his forehead that stuck out like a third eye —an eye that was all-knowing, all-powerful.

Hello Mr. Carpenter. How are you today? said the nurse.

Jake did not answer. He just stuck his hand out and waited for his dose.

I have a surprise for you, Jake. Dr. Céta has increased the dosage of your Haloperidol to 300 milligrams. Isn’t that nice?"

Why didn’t he tell me about it? Jake responded.

Now be a good boy and take your medication or you know what will happen.

You little cunt. Just wait until I get out of here. I’ll fix your little ass, Jake thought to himself, being very careful not to express any of his aversion for this controlling bitch.

Jake extended his right hand, and the nurse emptied a small cup of three green pills into Jake’s sweaty palm. Is something wrong? she asked as Jake swallowed the awful drug.

No, no. I just love to take this stuff —about as much as I love you!

Oh yeah, I have another surprise for you. Your parents are coming to visit you today. Isn’t that nice? Merry Christmas!

Jake left the nurse’s station and strolled back to the window for some more reminiscing. He was deep in thought when he was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.

Excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the nurse. It was Alex, the new patient. What happens if you don’t take the medication?

Jake turned and looked sadly at Alex. Follow me. I’ll show you. Jake led him to the end of the hall, where a high steel door framed the dimly lit portion of the ward.

They put you in here, Jake said, pointing through a small window. "They tie you up in a straight-jacket, inject you with the proper medication, and keep you here for hours to let you think about not taking the medication the proper way."

That’s terrible! Did it ever happen to you, Jake?

Jake just nodded slowly and walked back to the window.

The air quality on the ward was stale with the lingering smell of antiseptic. It was a unique odor known only to those who are privileged to stay in this god-forsaken place. Jake could only visualize scenes from semi-horror films depicting the harsh treatment and agnostic conditions in the treatment of the mentally ill. Like a manifestation out of the 1930s, the state did little to make life comfortable for those inflicted with any kind of disorder or malady. The walls were chipped and worn. The furniture was old and dirty. Desolation cried out from the walls of the ward hallways where hundreds of patients have paced in an effort to overcome the effects of being overmedicated. It was all part of the nightmare of Willard Psychiatric Center.

Jake turned and looked down the dimly lit corridor and wondered how long he had been placed with these unfortunate souls —or how long he’d stay.

Every door was locked, every window had a steel mesh screen. Architects who designed this hell-hole had a design on the putrification of the human spirit. It seemed to trickle down to every aspect of the Center, from the horrid color of the paint on the walls to the attitudes and mentalities of the people who worked there. They, like the atmosphere, were the most repulsive creatures to be selected by the state to care for the poor unfortunates. The orderlies were strong and ugly, the nurses were obese and homely, and the doctors? Oh, those men of medicine—foreigners, the majority of them, whose use of the English language rivals their handwriting. Jake had come to the conclusion that the reason the state hires foreign doctors is that they are inferior sorts, much like those they treat. Put them all in a hell-hole and only the strong will survive—natural selection.

It was nearly four o’clock, time for the second shift and more malformed orderlies—Mental Health Therapy Aides or M.H.T.A.s as their name plates suggest. It was the highlight of the day—new faces, same mentalities.

A burly pock-faced T.A. approached Jake and extended his usual greeting. Hi, Carpenter. Gittin’ tired of this place yet?

Real funny Carl. What do you want now?

You got visitors. It’s your parents I think.

My parents? They disowned me years ago. What do they want?

They want to see their little rich son who’s a little cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo… . Now follow me! ordered the homely giant.

He grabbed Jake by the arm and led him to another wing of the Center where Jake’s parents sat and waited for their oldest son. Unlocking the door, the T.A. chuckled and left Jake in the room with his mom and dad. They hadn’t spoken in over two years, and Jake wondered why they came—or if they even cared anymore.

Hi son, Mr. Carpenter said.

Jake hugged his Mom and paid no attention to his father’s greeting. Tears streamed down Jake’s face as the realization of how much he had missed his mother gripped him.

Here honey. Merry Christmas. She gave him a small white package, and he opened it without looking at his father. It was an electric razor. Heaven forbid they should allow blades in a mental hospital!

Dad picked it out, she said, rubbing his bearded face. Looks like you could use it, son.

Thanks Dad.

It was the first time in years that they were together. Ever since the aborted assassination attempt on the Secretary of State, Alexander Haig, Jake had been expelled from their household, without a familiar face to turn to. Jake had brought shame and embarrassment to the Carpenter name, and now he wondered why they came to visit him.

I want to come home, Mom.

Well, that’s up to you and your doctor. You have to get better first.

You know there’s nothing wrong with me!

No Jake, you just take your medicine like a man and you’ll be out of here in no time, Mr. Carpenter interrupted.

But Daa… ad, I don’t like it here. I want to come home.

The conversation between the three lasted well over an hour, with the focus being Jake’s willingness to admit his wrongdoing and ask forgiveness.

The meeting was abruptly halted by the sound of keys in the locked door, and in walked the T.A. to tell them their time was up. Jake kissed them goodbye and promised he’d write. Then, escorted by his ugly T.A., Jake returned to the ward.

Seeing his parents made Jake long for his freedom, and now he was bound and determined to get back to his home in Geneva.

Chapter 2

When Jake awoke the following morning, he felt a new vigor, a new confidence that someday soon he would leave this place, rejoin his family, pick up the pieces of his broken life, and start life anew. Little did he know that forces beyond his control were plotting against him and any effort to become the charming, intelligent young man who was thrust into this unfortunate turn of events.

Smoking his allotted two menthol cigarettes, Jake took his seat at the table and waited. The routine was all too familiar to him—meetings, morning exercises, and the morning newscast on the television that only received four stations.

"And now for the weather. Clear and cold. High today will reach 21 26589.jpg .

Windchill factor will be 10, with the winds coming out of the east at 15 miles per hour. Sunset will be at 6:18. Tomorrow… ."

Through the northern entrance walked Céta, confident and arrogant in his stride. He said hello to most of the patients and proceeded to the nurse’s station. Medication would be in fifteen minutes.

Dr. Céta, could I talk to you? Jake asked as Céta passed by.

Céta never heard a word. He just walked on by.

Dr. Céta, why did you increase my medication?

Never mind. I will tell you later, Céta said, turning to face Jake before entering the station. There was a certain mysterious quality about the doctor that no one could figure.

The line started forming and the nurse bellowed her warning, Medication!

Jake took his place in line and waited for his Haloperidol. When he reached the front of the line, Dr. Céta stepped in front of the nurse, handed Jake a small cup of pills, then stood and grinned.

Jake looked in his hand. One, two, three, four—400 milligrams this time!

What the hell is this? Jake asked insistently.

Just take it! Céta said.

No way, you Indian cock-sucker! Jake reached for the doctor and threw the pills at the nurse, but he was soon restrained and dragged off to the isolation room by two T.A.s. I’ll kill you Céta! You’re dead meat!!

They threw Jake head first into the room. His whole right hand was swollen from a punch to the cement wall. His breath came in spurts as he sat on the floor and waited. He knew what was coming next. Ten minutes later the door flew open and three aides wrestled him helplessly to the floor. They ripped off his pants with a furor while applying pressure to vital areas. Jake was helpless to move.

Use the biggest diameter in the injection, ordered Céta, determined to teach all a lesson. Using the largest diameter of the needle inflicts the most pain into the subject as the medication flows thicker and faster into the muscle. 500 milligrams of Thorazine, nurse.

Yes doctor. The nurse stepped into the room, bent down, and harpooned Jake’s right hip with a mighty thrust.

A burst of white flame exploded in Jake’s brain and he could feel the hot liquid surge into his buttocks—slowly, painfully. She was quite skilled at inflicting pain with the simple push of her fingers. Time stood still as he wailed and screamed, foolishly objecting to the medical onslaught. What seemed like ten minutes was finally over as she withdrew the needle—slowly. The three T.A.s gave one final pressure point and in unison left Jake there—violated, raped, crying on the bare tile floor.

The Trial

Jake remembered that it was unseasonably hot and humid as the trial began. At eight o’clock he entered the court house from the front entrance, walked up three flights of stairs, and took a seat outside Supreme Court Room 314. It was there he was to meet his attorneys for the day’s proceedings. The halls of the great pyramid of justice echoed with the footsteps of lawyers as they made their way back and forth from the library located on the third floor. Jake walked around the building, admiring the huge murals on the wall, until he came upon the men’s room, where he spent most of his time preparing to impress the jury. Back at his seat, Jake noticed the council for the defense as he walked toward him. He was a short, fat man, with a small beard and piercing, beady little eyes. He walked past Jake without speaking and entered a chamber close to the main courtroom. From the elevator, Jake’s attorneys emerged, briefcases in hand, ready for the day’s proceedings. Edgar walked past Jake into the Judge’s Chamber, while his cohort sat and talked with Jake.

Nervous? he asked.

No, not really Mr. Summersson.

Please call me Beam.

OK, Beam.

Here, I have something to show you. From a manilla envelope he produced a series of photographs taken at the scene of the accident.

Jake thumbed through them trying to remember details about that fateful night so long ago. They showed what was left of the car after it cut through the two telephone poles. Jake pushed them back into the envelope in disgust. Will I have to take the stand today?

Not today, Jake. We’re having the policeman who was at the scene and you’re principal from high school testify today.

Edgar popped his head through the chamber doorway and told his partner that they were ready to begin. Jake followed his go-between into the courtroom and sat at the bench in the corner of the room. His eyes were on the table directly in front of him as he watched his attorneys prepare for their opening statement.

The jury was escorted in by the court officer. In a monotonous voice, the Bailiff proclaimed his usual statements to the court: The Honorable Joseph P. Antinelli presiding. All Stand.

From behind the docket, Jake could see the judge as he came from his chamber. Dressed in a traditional black robe, he rose to his seat and tapped his gavel to begin the session. Edgar approached the jury to give his opening statement. It was a long declaration, but striking and to the point. What caught Jake’s ear was the mention of money. The defense’s opening was brief and subtle. It was his contention that Jake was a willing participant in the accident.

The first witness to be called was the policeman who was first to arrive at the scene. He produced the official police report stating that the defendant had been traveling in excess of ninety miles per hour and struck two telephone poles and a tree. The photographs of the demolished vehicle were then distributed to the jury for their inspection. Jake smiled as each juror looked at the pictures. By the reactions on their faces, he knew they were in control. The officer remained on the stand for the remainder of the morning, explaining in detail the events of the crash.

As they broke for lunch, Jake approached the table to talk with his two counselors. They seemed indifferent toward him now. He went with the younger of the two to the hotel for lunch and some comforting conversation.

Returning to the court house, Jake was greeted by a familiar face as he got off the elevator and took his seat outside the courtroom. It was his principal from high school—a man that Jake had really admired throughout the years. They sat and talked about the old school, how they were experiencing financial difficulties and about the school’s sports program. He was glad to hear that Jake had survived the accident and finished his studies at the university. Beam motioned to them that the jury was coming back into the courtroom.

Would you please state your name for the record?

Edward Tracy.

And, Mr. Tracy, would you please tell the court your occupation.

Yes. I am the principal of DeSales High School in Geneva, New York.

How long have you known Jake Carpenter?

For almost six years now.

In those six years have you ever known him to get into fights and have a temper?

Objection!

Your honor, I’ll rephrase the question. Would you please tell the jury of your relationship with Mr. Carpenter?

Other than my being his principal, he was a student in many of the religion classes I taught.

How would you describe him as a student?

He was one of my brightest students—always asking intelligent questions. He was an honor student all through high school.

Did he participate in any other activities while in high school?

Yes. He received ten varsity letters in interscholastic sports. He was Captain of the football team and Captain of the basketball team.

No further questions, Your Honor.

Jake began to smile as the defense counselor moved in for cross-examination.

Now, Mr. Tracy, were you aware of a fight that occurred between Mr. Carpenter and a certain member of the Bloomfield team that resulted in his suspension on November 16, 1967?

I’m just the principal. You’ll have to ask his coach about that.

The attorney for the defense turned and stalked back to his table, frustrated. Jake knew it would come out in court, but Mr. Tracy handled it well. You may step down now.

Mr. Tracy gave Jake a wink as he descended from the stand and took a seat next to him.

The trial had gotten off to a good start, Jake thought, but he pondered the day when he himself would take the stand. His mind was moving quickly as he envisioned himself sitting before the jury. No sweat. He loved the pressure.

η

The uncomfortable weather, combined with the extraordinary pressure in the courtroom, made Day Two seem unending. Jake’s employer was called in to testify, along with one of his professors at the university.

"Would