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'OK. Wait here,' I say as I run out to my beat-up black
4-by-4 Subaru and grab my well-traveled duffel bag. Paranoia creeps into
my mind as I sling the bag over my shoulder and enter the middle-class,
split-level house my friend’s family resides in. The house is nestled
comfortably in the heart of suburbia, Fairfax, Virginia. What a perfect
cover, I think.
Reconvening in my sidekick's room, I unzip the duffle
bag and empty the contents onto dude's bed.
'Damn, dude. We got smoke! We got smoke!' My friend
beams, grinning widely.
'Kind bud too,' I reply, smiling back.
'How much you got here dude?' dude asks.
'Twenty pounds, bro. Now get the motherfucking
triple-beam, we have to break this up before your mom gets home.' We weigh
the marijuana out in ounces, the bags look fat, and the sweet smell of
weed permeates the air.
'Dude, get the tokemaster. We have to try out the
merchandise.' I say as I start making a list in my head of whom I want to
sell the bud to.
'Hey-call up Chris and John. Tell them to come over.'
My Partner-in-crime hands me the tokemaster and dials the phone. I Fill up
the water bong, pack the bowl, and hit it hard, smoke fills my lungs as I
dream of the marijuana yet to be smoked and the money I will turn on this
little venture. Images of cash and green bud filter through my head.
A few minutes later the doorbell rings and Chris
shuffles up the stairs.
'What’s up, dudes?' He inquires with a
smile. As smoke slowly slips from my mouth, I say, 'Free enterprise, bro.'
My buddies laugh as I cough up my guts, the smoke bursting from my lungs.
They readily reach for the bong as I desperately try to
pass it to them despite my fits of coughing.
At 6:27 in the morning of October 2, 1993,
the US Marshall’s bust into my Econo Lodge room, Beretta nine
millimeters pointed at my face. I was scared-but not really, I was in
shock. It was like a dream sequence. Like a TV show, Cops or something. It
didn't seem like it could really be happening to me. But then
again, reality sucks; I was handcuffed, read my rights, and taken to jail.
The US Marshall’s mocked me. They made fun of me.
They wanted my autograph, on my wanted poster no doubt. They told me I was
on the US Marshall’s Top 15 most wanted list. I couldn't believe it. All
I did was sell some marijuana and acid (and fake my suicide, and trick the
US Attorney's office) but it's not like I killed anyone or anything. I
mean Top 15 US Marshall’s list. They were fucking crazy.
The Marshalls told me I was facing 30 years in prison.
Thirty years I thought, what the fuck? They must be nuts, Right? Then they
stuck me in a holding cell as I awaited the transfer to the local county
jail.
I couldn't believe it. I was in a county jail. I was
from the suburbs, All-American, what was I doing in jail with a plastic mattress, no pillow, no
sheets, no nothing? I was in an orange jumpsuit with K-Mart special
slip-on shoes. I lay on the plastic mattress and stared at the stainless
steel bathroom set. The walls of my cell closed in.
I remember crying in disbelief, in frustration. How
could they put me here? I'm not a criminal. I just sold marijuana and
acid. I'm a businessman. Free enterprise, right? I was still in jail
though.
To the guards I wasn't even a person, wasn't even
human, in fact I was an oddity, a supposed escape risk. They all wanted to
see this Top 15 fugitive. I was a sideshow, but I got no special
treatment. They didn't care that I didn't like the food. They didn't care
that I didn't have any sheets or toilet paper, or that I only had one pair
of underwear and no socks, or that I wanted to take a shower. They didn't
want to hear it. But this was only the beginning.
'You got the kind dude?'
'You know it bro.' I replied happily as everyone
welcomed me to the party. The scene was beautiful- girls, dudes, music,
beers, all being enjoyed in the confines of somebody’s parents house who
weren't there of course. I spotted the hostess.
'So Steph- Where’s the folks.' I inquired
'They're at the beach house all weekend.' She beamed.
Good I thought, a place to party all weekend.
'Dude,' screamed a drunk. 'You’re finally fucking
here, break it out, break it out, break it out,' he sung. Obliging my bro
I did break it out, a Cheech and Chong sized joint, which left everyone
gaping.
'Fucking hell dude, is that all weed?' I nodded as I
lit up the stogie, which smoked mightily as the weed burned. The smell of
kind bud filled the air as NWA continued to blare out of the stereo
speakers. As the joint was passed around everyone chanted along to the
song, jumping up and down in a stoned, drunken frenzy, feeling alive.
'FUCK THE POLICE'
'FUCK THE POLICE.'
I remember calling my Mother after I had been caught.
It was an emotional phone call. I hadn't talked to her for almost 2 years.
She knew I was a fugitive. The US Marshall’s had hassled her on numerous
occasions during my absence. Threatening her, trying to get her to give
information about my whereabouts. Information she didn't have.
I remember her crying. Telling me she loved me. Telling
me everything would be OK. She would get me a lawyer. We would fight the
charges. We could fight it. It was nice to talk to her again. To hear her
voice. To know that she supported me.
I remember as I hung up the phone I felt tears, running
down my face.
'You don't think that five-o saw the joint?'
'I don't know; just keep driving,' I tell my nervous
girlfriend as I look back towards the police cruiser we passed on the
entrance ramp.
'Just drive normal. Don't get nervous. It's not like
were doing anything wrong,' I say trying to reassure her.
'What about the weed in your bag?' She cries on the
edge of panic.
'Remember, just think of white light. Only white light,
it will make us seem innocent.' I look at her as she fumbles with the
joint, thrusting it into the ashtray, and switches to the slow lane,
keeping the car moving at a steady 65.
'Are you thinking of white light?' I ask as I scope the
cop right behind us. She sees him in the rearview mirror and asks what the
speed limit is.
'I don't know, but don't worry. Think of white
light, he is right behind us. Be cool. Just blend in. We're nice suburban
kids anyhow. He won't pull us over.' The five-o flashes his lights and
momentarily we are gripped with panic, but the cruiser switches to the
fast lane and rockets past us.
'Damn,' my girlfriend says as relief fills her. She
grabs the joint out of the ashtray and lights it, taking a toke. She
passes it to me as I look at the bag in the back seat with 25 pounds of
kind bud in it and say to myself, 'That was close, too close. This is some
good weed though.' I hit the joint another time before passing it back to
my now relieved girlfriend who is humming along happily to the REM tape
she just turned back up.
I was extradicted back to Virginia and brought before
the judge. My chubby lawyer asked me if I felt lucky. What the hell does
luck have to do with it I thought? The prosecutor went on and on about how
I was a machine-gun-toting-skinhead-LSD-marijuana freak who corrupted
society and deserved to go to prison for life.
My lawyer told the judge how I was a drug-addict-mixed
up kid-who-fell-in-with-the-wrong-crowd, but really was a good person at
heart who wanted to change for the better. Neither the prosecutor nor my
lawyer was right, but at this point I don't think it really mattered.
The judge listened to all this while not trying to fall
asleep. Finally he says, 'By consulting the sentencing guidelines and
calculating the mitigating factors involved I have come up with your
criminal history category at level I. In conjunction with the Mandatory
Minimums and your charge you’re sentencing level can be deduced at level
42 by cross referencing these numbers I have come to find that your
sentence shall be,' he momentarily shuffles his papers and makes his
calculations, '304 months.' Three - hundred-and- four months, I think,
that isn't too bad. Wait, I think. How long is 304 months? It clicked.
Twenty-five mother fucking years! For selling pot and LSD? You must be out
of your mind. I couldn't believe it. The courtroom was silent as it hit me
like a steel door slamming on your fingers. I was going to prison for
twenty-five motherfucking years.
'You got the trips bro?'
'Fuck yeah, I got them dude. You know what that means?'
I ask.
'Trip party,' he screams in hysterical glee. To get
ready for the nights events we have to make several preparations. My bro's
parents are at the cabin so we're cool.
'We have to move all the furniture upstairs bro and
seal off the stairs so your parents shit doesn't get fucked up. We need
some help. Call up the dudes.'
My friend commences to dialing as I take a hit of acid.
'Already dude?' He asks referring to the acid.
'Might as well, here.' I give him one too, then as our
buddies arrive I dose all of them also. We don't get much work done fucked
up as we are but we call a lot of people and by nightfall the house is
full of tripping teenagers.
The Stone Roses blare in the background as everyone
dances, drinks, and cavorts. Furniture gets broken, but not much, nothing
my bro can't explain away to his parents.
'Fuck dude I'm totally tripping, it's like the colors
are in my head, but they're floating, they're falling. I'm drowning in the
colors. They're everywhere. Don't you see them?' We all laugh as dude talks. Then I see her, the one I've been waiting for,
and that’s it for me really, as I take my party to the master bedroom.
They handcuffed me and put me in leg irons. They
pointed Mossberg 12 gauge riot-guns at my face and put me on a bus with
bars on the windows and an armed guard riding shotgun in the back. The
other prisoners leered at me, feeling me out, and as I tried to look tough
and not scared I noticed there weren't many white people and no one struck
me as a suburbanite.
The prison bus went to a prison airport that was
surrounded by a fence with razor wire. As they unloaded us from the bus
six guards formed a perimeter around the bus and plane. They held M-16
rifles threateningly; waving them in my face to make sure I didn't get out
of line (in my leg irons and handcuffs.) We were herded onto the DC-8
plane like cattle, struggling up the stairs and trying not to trip. After
being seated by the guard-flight attendants the DC-8 airplane took off. I
was at 40,000 feet in a DC-8 with handcuffs and leg irons- welcome to
Con-Air. What happens if the plane crashes I thought? What happens if I
have to go to the bathroom? No emergency exits were marked. There were no
oxygen masks, flotation devices, or barf bags, and the guard-flight
attendants were not serving drinks.
All this seemed as if it was a dream, like I was
sleepwalking through someone else’s life. I was still in major shock.
Everything was happening for real but it all seemed like a movie. It
wasn't me. I wasn't really there. It was a character I was playing, or at
least that is what I wished, because the cold reality was tragic.
If this wasn't enough, I got the special treatment: The
Black Box. This apparatus fits between your wrists holding the handcuffs
in place so no movement is possible. A chain is wrapped around your waist
and secured to the black box and your handcuffs. This special treatment
was due to my Top15 fugitive status and let me tell you it really sucked,
big time. The 'cuffs dug into my wrists and you have to try to eat in this
set-up. I did, but not very successfully. We were graced with the Con-Air
meal, a stale cheese sandwich, which the guard-flight attendant threw at
us.
The DC-8 finally set down and I was happy because in
the air I thought the plane might break apart. I don’t know what kind of
FAA approval the prison planes get but it must be lenient. Before they
took us new recruits off they brought on prisoners from the prison. These
guys were real convicts who had done hard time. I had only been in county
jail up to this point and I was not impressed with the occupants, but
these guys from the prison were another story. Huge, mean-looking blacks,
muscle- bound, tattoo-imprinted Latinos, and white guys that looked like
Hells Angels. The lot getting on the plane were what I envisioned convicts
looking like from movies and the like- and me, a 22-year-old-kid from the
suburbs was being taken to live with these Charles Manson wann-be's.
'Come here.'
'Where?'
'Back here to my room.' I told her as the party receded
into the background. Screams and laughter echoed as Alice-n-Chains pumped
from the stereo speakers. She stopped, playing hard to get.
'Are you trying to get me alone because I'm kind of drunk and I'm not
sure if I should be alone with you right now...' As she babbled on I
grabbed her by the hand and led her into my room locking the door.
'Why'd you’ lock the door? I'm not having sex with
you. Not yet at least. I mean I hardly know you.' This girl is a tease I
thought as I smiled at her reassuringly.
'What's the most money you ever saw.'
'Why does that matter? I mean I don't even know,' she
says as she looks at me quizzically. I open my closet and get out a
shoebox and throw it at her.
'Open it up. Go ahead.'
She glances at me questioning and opens up the shoebox.
Astonished, she looks up and asks, 'How much is it?'
'Around twenty-six grand last time I counted. Let's
count it again.'
We count out the money, placing the 20s, 50s, and 100s
in their appropriate piles in bunches of $1000. She handles the money like
a pro.
'Where did you get all this? I mean I heard about you,
but you can't believe everything people say, but then again I guess you
can.' She says as I push the money aside spreading it all over the bed and
kiss her.
Federal Correctional Institution. My new home for the
next 304 months. I had a lot to learn. I had mucho to adjust to. Talk
about culture shock. I was a spoiled-rich-kid. This was tragic. I was in
shock-still. Would it never end? I woke up one morning imagining myself
still in the real world, but then the reality of my surroundings closed in
on me.
Imagine living in your bathroom, except that there is
no tub or shower. There's a metal-tiny-bunk-bed instead with a
dinky mattress and if you're lucky, a pillow. All your belonging must fit
inside a 3-foot-by-2-foot locker. You can go to the store once a week to
buy what you need. Not what you want, only what you need. And only once a
week. No exceptions. The store doesn't offer much. Junk food, gray sweat
suits, toothpaste. No pizza, no Slurpees, no Big Macs, no Nintendo, no
CDs, no nothing. I heard a lot about Club Fed, but this wasn’t it.
You can buy a radio, but you are in the middle of
nowhere, so no radio stations. I grew up in the suburbs and I was
beginning to realize that this was not the ideal suburban lifestyle. The
guards treat you like cattle, not human beings; to them you are just a
number. They justify taking the cookie from you that you brought from the
chow hall by saying they're just doing their job. You can't accomplish
anything because policy dictates this and policy dictates that. If you
have a problem you better deal with it yourself because the prison
officials will say they are here to help you, but if you ask for help,
they will direct you to so-and-so whose policy is not to help. It's all a
big run around really. A lie, a scam, a system of deceit within deceits.
When I lay in my cell at night listening to my cellie
snore, I wonder to myself, 'What was I thinking?'
'Fuck dude, I'm stoned. So motherfucking stoned. I
don't think anyone could possibly be more stoned then I am. I am baked.
That weed is so fucking good, it tastes like fruity-tooty gum. It’s the
crusher man. The motherfucking bomb.' My dude explained.
'So pass me the fucking bong then bro,' I say with a
hint of irritation in my voice.
'OK dude, chill out. Take it easy. I mean, fuck,
what’s wrong anyhow?' Ignoring my bro I pack the bong with the latest
kind from Kentucky and turn up the Yellowman blasting from the stereo so I
don't have to listen to my bro. I light the weed and hit the bong. The
long cylinder like chamber fills with thick-THC-laced smoke as I remove my
finger from the carb' and inhale. The smoke catapults into my lungs,
filling them as I try to hold all the smoke in.
I cough chaotically as I exhale passing the bong back
to my Bro.
'So dude, what are we gonna do anyway?' my bro asks.
'Get stoned,' I say and 'get stoned some more.',
Sometimes I think about suicide. I think about it a lot
really. I envision the different ways to hang myself; in the shower, over
the tier, from the air vent. There are not really that many places. These
new prisons are kind of suicide proof. I think about going crazy, creating
trouble, in the hopes that someone might stab me and put me out of my
misery. I mean is it all really worth it, 25 years is a lifetime. I think
about the waste my’ life is, the what-ifs, the could have beens. I think
of the disappointment my family feels. I realize that nothing is worth
this punishment. Is it fate I think? A punishment from a previous life?
Bad karma? I don't know for real and probably never will, but let me tell
you, prison really sucks.
'Look dude, this has all been radical. I mean we've
been styling, kind bud, money, and the like, but it can't last forever.
Anyhow, I have to go back to school in the fall. So, like, what are you
gonna do?'
'I don't know bro,' I say,' probably move some more bud
and trips, you know? Freelance and the like. I'm styling either way. Fuck
work and fuck school.'
'Dude, don't say that. You can't sell drugs for the
rest of your life. Get a real job. Chill out. You're high profile man.
Everybody knows about you. You're like a drug supermarket. You need to
chill out.'
'No way bro-this is my fucking life, man. I'm a drug
dealer, right? I'm pursuing the American Dream. Free Enterprise, you know?
I'm a businessman, dude. Weed dealer, Acid man, what more could I want?'
'I know dude, you're styling,
but look. You could get busted or something. You gotta stop, chill out for
at least a little bit. Take a vacation, buy a new car, do something. If
you keep going you're gonna get caught.'
‘No chance, bro. I'm too slick, too intelligent. Only
stupid people get busted anyhow: I'll never get caught.'
I was trying to pursue the American Dream. I thought I
could set my own rules. Thomas Jefferson did. Jerry Garcia did. Why
couldn't I? I was a businessman. Free enterprise, capitalism, you know?
Buy a product, sell it, and count the money all the way to the bank.
But it isn't like that. The politicians have enacted
strict Drug laws to save the country from itself. When I was growing up, I
thought America was the land of opportunity, the land of the free. But it
isn't. You play by the rules or you don't play at all for long.
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