Many of the cars in the lot had license plates from out of state, and payment was cash only—this place was definitely “out of network.” They didn’t even try to file insurance.
I sat smoking through a pack of cigarettes, waiting for three or four hours and checking my watch impatiently. This gave me time to think of ways to use my business expertise and come up with a way to avoid camping out in the waiting room.
Sure enough, the doctor owned a BMW that was all but totaled. “I think we can help each other,” I told her. “We’ll have Rocky fix your car at my dad’s shop without paying your deductible, and you let us go to the head of the line whenever we visit.”
When things couldn’t seem to get any “better” for me, I got even luckier. While Rocky was working on her car, he found a blank prescription pad in her trunk. There’s nothing more dangerous than a prescription pad that’s found its way into the hands of the wrong people.
“This is even better than going to the head of the line,” I said. “Can we just write our own prescriptions?”
“We’re gonna have to forge the doctor’s name,” said Rocky.
“That’s no problem. I used to forge my dad’s signature back in the day on most of my report cards in school. I can trace Casey’s writing and learn to imitate it perfectly. Not that anybody takes a second look. We just need to go back to the doc one more time, get her signature on a prescription, and we can go from there.”
In the present day, when we have data networks in the cloud, the various pharmacies and doctors keep tabs on people. They know who you are and what you’re taking, so this particular scam wouldn’t work. But in early 2000, we could get away with it. Double our drugs, double our funds. The typical prescription would cost me four hundred dollars to fill, and sell quickly on the street for fifteen hundred or so—a nice profit margin with no taxes involved.
Given my compulsive nature, of course, I’d often end up snorting the whole thing myself instead of selling any of it. Then there would be a week with empty medicine bottles before I could return to the office for another script.
I remember the moment I realized how close to the edge I was.
That day, I wrote myself a prescription on the pad and took it into a drugstore I’d never visited in the past. It looked safe enough. I walked up to the pharmacist’s counter and laid down the slip of paper. The man picked it up, looked up from it with a smile, and said, “Hi, Mr. Gallaty. Did you see the doctor today?”
“Yes, I did.” I tried to smile calmly, look him in the eye, and seem casual.
“This will take me about thirty minutes, okay?”
He carried the prescription around the corner, and I heard him pick up a phone. I realized he was going to verify that what he had was genuine. My heart began to beat rapidly. The pad, of course, came from the doctor who ran the pain clinic. I suddenly realized he just might be suspicious of Dr. Casey. A guy the pharmacist doesn’t know walks into his drugstore, he’s going to be a little more careful about filling a prescription for Oxys and the like. I hadn’t given that a thought; I’d just seen the pad and figured it was Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket.
I thought rapidly. Two options came to mind. One, I could jump the counter while the pharmacist was on hold, punch him in the face, and make a quick getaway. But this six-six guy would be IDed quickly and he’d go to jail for assault.
Two, I could roll the dice and see what happened. As I went back and forth, I heard the man say, “Okay, then. I’ll call back in a few.”
I thought about the pain management clinic and how much of a zoo it was. It was the kind of place where nothing happens quickly or efficiently, and suddenly I was thanking God for that fact. The delay was my grace period.
The pharmacist returned and said, “Your doctor’s a little busy, I’ll call back in—”
Before he could complete the sentence, I snatched the slip of paper out of his hand and said, “Thanks, I’ll just come back later!” And I hustled out the door as the pharmacist watched me in surprise. If he didn’t suspect something before, he would now. But I never intended to set foot in that drugstore again.
I called Rocky. “Abort the mission immediately.” If it happened to me, it would happen to him—then we’d both be in huge trouble.
Since the introduction of Oxycontin in the nineties, this had become a common crime and the penalties were strict. This was another wake-up call, but I wasn’t capable of waking up—not at that moment anyway. I was selling all kinds of drugs, and if I’d stopped selling, I wouldn’t be able to buy and use them. It’s a vicious cycle. I was known among my crowd as the MVP of the drug world. Friends couldn’t believe I’d gone from never trying a drug to full-blown addict in three months; I never went anywhere at half-speed.
Not long after that, Spring Break 2000 came around. In the past, I hadn’t necessarily been a big spring break guy, but now it had different meaning. College kids go to the beach and a certain number of them buy drugs. If you’re a dealer, it’s like fishing in a stocked pond, and all you have to do is get there and bait your hook.
On the beach in Panama City are the Moondrifter condos, and right next door is Club La Vela, supposedly the world’s largest nightclub. I was one of five guys heading to PCB to do business. Instead of
