Chapter 3
Over the next few days, Abbey met with various people at the prison.
She had a physical exam by the medical staff. 'Well, that's what they called it,' Abbey thought. She had done a more thorough in her first year of medical school. The only problem that was noted was her high blood pressure. The same drug that she had been on for years was prescribed. She would have to come to the infirmary each day so the nurse could prove that she swallowed it and wasn't developing a stash. Just another one of the lack of trust issues that she would have to face over the next ten years.
She met with a psychologist who put her through a battery of tests. She tried not to second guess her examiner, but it was hard when she had given the tests herself during her psychiatric rotation.
Then she met with the vocational consultant who tried to find out what prison job she was best suited for. She couldn't do hard physical labor and her medical training was of no use here. Finally, the consultant thought she might do well in the prison kitchen.
Another abrupt change in her life. Now she would be cooking for over a hundred people each day instead of deciding menus and the appropriate wine for each course for dinners of two hundred and fifty people in the East Room.
Finally, she met with the warden.
Handcuffed, Abbey was ushered into his office and pushed down into a chair facing the warden's desk. Abbey didn't like the way the man looked at her. He looked her all over and then smiled. Or was it the same smirk the DA had had during the trial?
"Well, Abigail Bartlet." The sneer was quite evident in his voice. "Welcome to your home for the next ten years. You like your accommodations? I know you're used to the finest sheets and the classiest accommodations but this is the best you'll going to get. It's not the White House, is it? In fact, it's about as far removed from the White House as one can get."
Abbey tried to keep her anger under the surface and didn't respond to his bait.
The lack of response only seemed to anger the warden. "Well, let me tell you something, MRS. Bartlet, you're here because you murdered your husband. Yeah, that's what the court says. You murdered the President of the United States. Now, I didn't ever vote for him, but that doesn't matter. Justice has spoken and now you're here for ten years. Ten whole years. Do you realize how long that is? Do you realize how many things will happen without you?"
Abbey gripped her fingers, trying not to lash out at this man who dared talk to her in this manner.
"Well, you won't get any special privileges here. You won't get your gowns, your quality cuisine, your every wish. You're in prison lady, because you committed murder. And you will stay here until you serve every last day of your sentence. I will make very sure of that. You'll do whatever is asked of you, no matter how repulsive you might find it. And you know, I don't think you'll be well liked among the population. But that's not my worry. Let me give you one piece of advice: do whatever you are asked to do and you'll survive. Otherwise, your children should go ahead and plan your funeral."
Abbey was shocked at the rawness of this conversation. She had never experienced such a blunt discussion. But then, she had never been in prison before, either.
The warden motioned to the guard that the conversation was over. Abbey was pulled out of the chair and taken back to her cell. Her handcuffs were removed and the metal door clanged shut once more. Abbey still had not gotten used to the sound and shuddered as the door closed. She was fed supper in her cell, still not mixing with the other prisoners. But that would change in the morning. Reality for the next ten years would begin at six am. She only hoped she was strong enough for it.
