“Where in the world did he come from?” I blurted out.
“No idea,” said Elliot.
We pulled immediately over to the curb. I intended to stuff the baggies into my sock, but two officers yanked open our doors and ripped us out of the truck before Elliot could put the vehicle in park. At the very last second, as my door was flung open, I tossed the drugs under my seat.
The officer threw me against the side of the vehicle, body brace and all. As I was held there, his companion began searching the vehicle. He looked under the driver’s seat, he went through the compartments in the door, and he checked in the glove compartment. Elliot and I were thinking, Here it is—Possession with Intent to Distribute.
What would my sentence look like? I had a clean record and came from a good family, but I’d still be looking at several years. I could cut the sentence down by flipping on some of our suppliers, of course. And never live in New Orleans again. I thought about my parents. They believed I was at home laid up in bed right now.
Suddenly, without more than a quick thought, I lifted my shirt and showed where I’d had surgery. “Please don’t hurt me,” I shouted. “I’ve just had surgery, I’m in the midst of a lawsuit, and my friend here is taking me home.”
The officer walked up to me, looked me over carefully, nodded, and said, “You guys can go.”
What? It worked?
We nodded, climbed back into the truck, and watched the unmarked car pull around us and drive away. I took a deep breath, but neither of us could speak for a few minutes. We were trembling. I looked at my feet and saw the drugs poking out beneath the seat, in plain sight. How could an experienced officer miss them?
“Elliot. Look at my feet.”
He gawked for a second, his mouth wide, and punched me in the shoulder. “You idiot!” he said. He used more colorful terminology. “Why didn’t you put it in your sock?”
“I couldn’t. I didn’t have a chance.”
He just stared at me, but his anger quickly receded. “Well, I can’t get mad at you,” he said. “Because I ought to mention—I don’t have a driver’s license.”
I glared back at him. “You idiot!” And I punched him in the shoulder.
“I’m driving on a traffic ticket,” he explained. “They took my license in New Mexico for possession of marijuana.”
How did they not check his license? It’s Traffic Stop 101, Police Academy, first year. If they’d just done that, we’d have both gone to the station. Then, after a more thorough search, we’d have been locked up for a long time.
They’d missed the license. Then they’d missed the drugs. What are the chances of both happening?
Even the way I was, even with my epic ignorance, I had a stray thought. Somebody’s watching out for me. There’s no other way to explain it.
Then the thought escaped me. I snorted another line.
Chapter 12
Made New
One step forward, two steps back.
After several months of being clean and healthy, I was back on drugs and in way over my head. But this time there was a new twist—I was financed by a legal settlement. At the worst possible time, I was getting monthly checks that required nothing from me but retrieving and endorsing them. So I had all the money I needed and a terrible way to make it vanish.
This went on from March to October of 2002. I was miserable. Meanwhile, I had a vague awareness that our nation wasn’t doing too well, either. The USA was coming to terms with a brand-new kind of war: one against terrorism. We were gearing up for war. The stock market took a roller coaster ride.
For a while there, I’d been in Mobile, quietly rebuilding my life. But I picked up right where I’d left off in New Orleans. I worked in my dad’s shop and did my best impression of a drug-free personality. I could be pretty convincing; I’d learned how to live two lives.
One Thursday night I was on the way home after playing pool with a few buddies at Buffalo’s Billiards. With me in the car was a nice supply of coke I’d scored at the pool hall.
The night was dark and quiet. I had a normal route I used for driving home, making a turn onto a side street to beat the traffic light. I’d gone that way hundreds of times since I was sixteen. As I took a left, I caught a glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, of a guy in the grass. My vague impression was that he was probably homeless, the type you’d see out late at night wandering around town. I recall there were papers in his hand.
Suddenly he moved sharply into my field of vision, onto my right front fender. He had to have moved pretty quickly to get there. I didn’t feel any real impact, but I could see that his papers shot straight up in the air while he fell to the ground. I braked quickly as I watched the final page drifting to the pavement.
I pulled up a few feet, opened my door, and stuck my head out to see if he was okay. The man scampered up and let out a torrent of cursing and fist shaking in my direction, but he didn’t look injured in any way—at least not judging from his movements.
The right thing to do was to call the police and report it. Then I thought about the cocaine in my car. I closed my door and stomped on the gas pedal to get out of there.
I was thinking there was no way this wasn’t a setup. He’d been standing there by the curb, waiting for me to pass by, and at the very last
