The meaning of the word ‘privilege’ in prison is a slippery one. Something I would consider a human right, others deem unfair privileges if granted to those who have been caught breaking laws. Today I’d like to look at an instance of Leopold getting sick and how it helps show the blurry line between privilege and rights in prison.
Leopold became ill on June 29th, 1934. He explained in a draft of his autobiography that this wasn’t the first time he’d been sick like this: “Two or three times before, over the years, I had contracted a severe sore throat. Always it was the right side of the throat that was affected.” With a 103-degree fever he checked into the prison’s hospital and was placed in a bed. But Leopold wasn’t alone; “Dick came up with me and kept me company until he had to go back to the cell house for count.” Leopold had his throat swabbed by an inmate nurse and once Loeb had gone back to the cell house for bed the nurse determined that Leopold had diphtheria: a rare contagious and sometimes deadly bacterial throat infection. Though the civilian Doctor Frank Chmelik doubted the diagnosis, he ordered a diphtheria vaccine from outside the prison, and vaccinated both Leopold and woke up Loeb to give him the vaccination as well.
By the next day Leopold was feeling better and a second throat swab (done by a doctor this time) confirmed that Leopold didn’t have diphtheria, and he was allowed to return to his cell the following day. Unfortunately, that coincided with a reaction to the diphtheria vaccine on his inoculation site: “Huge weals broke out on my buttock and it itched like fury. I could hardly restrain myself from gouging the flesh with my fingernails. On my bunk in the cell I lay with calamine lotion liberally doused over the affected part and fellows in relays fanning my fanny. That helped a little, but not very much. I’d never gone through such torture.” Luckily for Leopold this happened on a Sunday, when most inmates didn’t work, and he had an ample supply of fanny fanners to attend to him.
By this time news that Leopold was sick had gotten out to the press, and Dr. Robert Lennon, a civilian doctor who’d been treating Leopold released the statement: “He has a severe infection and his condition is serious, but barring unforeseen complications, I believe he will recover.” Two days later there was the small statement printed in a few newspapers that Warden Whipp had informed Leopold’s family that his fever had subsided and he was recovering. But it was not the end of Leopold’s saga.
Though Leopold had recovered for now, the continual reoccurrences of these attacks of throat infections made him want to get checked out by a specialist. Luckily for him, “One of our family friends happened to be a brilliant young nose and throat specialist in Chicago. Since outside specialists were sometimes invited to hold clinics at the institution, the folks arranged to have an invitation extended to Murph and he made the trip down and examined fifteen or twenty patients, of whom I was one. He diagnosed my trouble as an infected lingual tonsil…He advised surgical removal and the local throat specialist agreed to operate.”
“On the big day, I was seated in a metal examining chair in the operating room and Dr. Lennon sprayed cocaine into my throat. I don’t stand pain very well, and this was a long and bloody procedure. But my throat was anesthetized and I was doing fine. I was doing fine, that is, until he got the right tonsil out after about twenty-five minutes and stopped to rest a moment. Dick was standing behind me, watching the proceedings. During the rest period I made the mistake of looking around at him, He was a pale sea-green. Now I got sick. Dr. Lennon decided to leave the left tonsil, which had never bothered me anyhow, and remove it another time. I still have it and it seems likely that I’ll go to the grave with one lingual tonsil. But I never had a recurrence of the throat infection.”
Now that the story’s been told, I’d like to go back over it to analyze what privileges Leopold was afforded as a prisoner with connections and wealth, and what that actually means. The beginning of the story-Leopold going on sick call and being diagnosed-seems in line with the treatment any other prisoner would have been able to access. Loeb tagging along may have been unusual, depending on the laxity of the guards during this time period. As it was 1934, a notoriously lax time for the prison’s security, prisoners visiting each other in the hospital was likely not unheard of and going to work wasn’t strictly enforced, so not even that would have been a barrier.
Next, Leopold was misdiagnosed by a self-taught inmate and vaccinated for a rare disease (a newspaper article confirms that part of Leopold’s story) and sent back to his cell. His access to calamine lotion and a steady stream of prisoners to attend to him was likely unusual, and I’d guess it had more to do with inmates looking for his favor or getting paid for their work rather than Leopold having a group of extremely ride or die friends.
Then we come to the meat of the ‘privilege’ on display in this story. As Leopold had recovered in the short-term, the prison doctors moved on to other patients and seemed to have no further plans to treat him, despite his concerns about these reoccurrences. In order to get a diagnosis, as Leopold says, “the folks arranged to have an invitation extended to Murph and he made the trip down and examined fifteen or twenty patients, of whom I was one.” First, he had to be family friends with ‘Murph,’ real name Leopold Benno Bernheimer (I have no idea where the nickname came from), who had graduated with a medical degree in 1921 from the University of Illinois and become an ear, nose and throat specialist at Michael Reese Hospital. ‘Murph’ had been close to the Leopolds for his entire life, being tangentially related to the family through the Austrians, and he was interviewed by defense psychiatrists in 1924 about the talks he’d had with Leopold over the years. But a connection to a prominent specialist in the field wasn’t enough.
As Leopold said, he had his family arrange for an invitation to be sent to ‘Murph’ asking that he give a clinic at the prison. Leopold doesn’t explain any part of this process: who had to be convinced and how? The prison doctors? The Warden? Was it a simple matter of a letter suggesting that perhaps the prisoners may benefit from a specialist coming in? Perhaps Leopold furnished them with the names of several prisoners with ear, nose and throat concerns who could benefit from the help of a specialist, or maybe the family would have given a gift or donation to the prison in order to facilitate this. Whatever was necessary, this is what it took for Leopold to get diagnosed, and once he was, then the prison doctor carried out the operation.
As ‘privilege’ means having access to something that others don’t, it’s clear that Leopold’s wealth and connections granted him privileges unattainable to other prisoners. But to me that just seems to highlight the brokenness of the prison system more than it does Leopold abusing the system. Leopold’s reoccurring throat problems were treated in the short-term, but there was no long-term connection made. He was misdiagnosed by someone who wasn’t a doctor and given a vaccination he didn’t need which caused a bad side effect that he then had to deal with without medical aid. When he suspected there was something more wrong with his throat, he had to use his family’s help and connections to get a specialist to the prison who was able to properly diagnose him before he could finally have the surgery that he needed to solve the problem.
For a prisoner without Leopold’s resources, they would have had to simply wait for a specialist to come by the prison, which assumedly didn’t happen often, or content themselves with getting substandard and patchwork medical care to address the immediate symptoms instead of the actual cause of the problem. And this isn’t a slight against the prison doctors themselves. There were only a handful of civilian staff who had to take care of over 5,000 inmates, so they would have triaged to sort out those with immediate life or death medical concerns, and those who could wait, passing the rest along to either the dubiously trained staff of inmate nurses, or sending the sick prisoners back to their cells to hope they got better on their own.
And that’s with the understanding that prisoners have a right to medical care at all. What about the case of Joseph Coakley, who in 1931 asked for a doctor when he was in solitary confinement and was told he would have to wait until he was released from solitary to see someone. He died in his solitary cell without any medical aid. Did he have the right to care, or had he given it up when he broke the prison’s rules?
There will likely always be debates about what rights prisoners have, what it looks like to spoil or pamper a prisoner, or what level of deprivation is appropriate as a punishment for breaking the law. But I think it’s useful to keep in mind, when there are complaints about prison privileges, what that actually means, and if those so-called ‘privileges’ are actually rights that should be available to everyone.