Goodrum was sent away. He was, in effect, denied treatment.
"I acknowledge that my direction was misunderstood," Stevens testified at the hearing. "I acknowledge that he was turned away."
First Lt. Jullian Goodrum could be court-martialed because he did not request leave before checking into a psychiatric hospital during a mental breakdown.
(Preston Keres -- The Washington Post)
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MacLean, Goodrum's lawyer, shot back, "I guess now he [Goodrum] knows that being treated like dirt is better than not being treated at all."
Every Day a New Trial
"Getting up is the hardest part." Just getting out of bed each morning is a challenge.
"If you get up, brush your teeth and get dressed, you're on a roll." Goodrum chuckles. Not because it's funny, but because he remembers how hard it was for him, a few months ago, just to greet the day.
He's been living at Walter Reed since Feb. 9 -- first on the psychiatric ward, then as a psychiatric outpatient housed in a dormitory-style room in Mologne House on the Walter Reed grounds.
Vijay Jethanandani, Goodrum's civilian psychiatrist from St. Mary's in Knoxville, treated him as long as he could. But by the end of last year, when Goodrum's medical benefits had been cut off because of his AWOL status, Goodrum began to consider other options.
He felt he could not return to Fort Knox. Jethanandani agreed. They decided Goodrum should present himself to a different Army medical facility for help, and Walter Reed emerged as the right choice. Jethanandani wrote a letter for Goodrum to carry with him, explaining his condition, his medications, and urging Walter Reed not to send him back to Fort Knox.
McGill drove him to the District. He arrived at the Walter Reed hospital emergency room, in full Class A dress, and presented himself as a sick, AWOL soldier in need of help.
As is normal for newly admitted psychiatric patients, Goodrum was confined to Walter Reed's psychiatric ward, Ward 54 -- a secure ward where patients aren't free to come and go. Goodrum progressed well on that ward. On Feb. 19, he was scheduled to be moved to the less secure Ward 53, according to his patient records.
But Stevens's intervention was not over. On Feb. 18, Stevens spoke to Walter Reed officials, according to testimony both from Stevens and from Nam, as well as Goodrum's patient records. It is not clear what Stevens told Walter Reed's doctors that they did not already know. After Stevens's intervention, Nam's staff decided not to move Goodrum.
He was held an additional two weeks on Ward 54, colloquially called the lockdown ward, due to what doctors variously called "legal/admin concerns" or "recent admin developments," the records show. Nam, in his testimony, also explained the prolonged Ward 54 stay in terms of the alternatives: Goodrum's AWOL status could even have landed him in jail, or gotten him hauled back to Fort Knox.
Normally, though, Ward 54 would be used for patients considered a threat to themselves or others. Goodrum, according to his records, was considered neither.
On March 2, after the UPI reported on Goodrum's confinement, he finally was released from Ward 54 and moved to 53 as originally planned. Then, he was downgraded further, to outpatient status, living on his own at Mologne House while continuing therapy.
Life, now, is waiting. He goes to counseling both at Walter Reed and at a Veterans Administration Center in Silver Spring. In counseling, he returns again and again to Sgt. Harris, to the circumstances of his death.
He spends lots of time with Steve Robinson, executive director of the Silver Spring-based National Gulf War Resource Center, who has become his close friend and advocate. It's not just Robinson who helps him, but Robinson's bulldog Bluto. Goodrum loves dogs, and is away from his own back home.
Most days, Goodrum tries to just fly "under the radar," as he puts it, trying to stay away from the "stressors" that can set off his panic, his flashbacks, his racing thoughts. He's on several medications, still.
Movie theaters are a good place to hide, he's found. In two months, he's seen 20 films. It's best to go to early matinees on the weekdays, when there are no crowds, no jostling.
He tries to avoid loud people, loud noises. Horns, shouts, a slamming door all can take his breath away, cause his head to race. Driving in Washington is harrowing; people here love to honk, he says.
But riding the bus is problematic, since the smell of diesel triggers flashbacks to the convoys in Iraqi, to his fear on the "suicide missions."
And both the bus and the subway present a special problem. The hands. He's got to see them. He's got to feel assured that no one's carrying a weapon. He's got to know there is no finger on the trigger.
In his room at Mologne, he is lonely but relatively safe. Before bed, he says, "I search my room for bugs." He does not mean insects.
"I'm paranoid, but I have good reason," he says.
News on his possible court-martial could come any day.
