avatarJohn Cormier

Summary

The author recounts the harrowing experience of accompanying his meth-dealer friend Richard to his arraignment, reflecting on the guilt and fear of being part of the drug scene, especially when witnessing a young man named Walt being charged.

Abstract

The narrative describes the morning after a drug bust where the author's roommate and friend were arrested for dealing meth. Despite their own involvement in drug use, the author and Richard attend the arraignment at the courthouse, where they encounter a somber scene of individuals facing legal consequences. The author, amidst a personal crisis, observes the judicial process with a sense of detachment and guilt, particularly when he recognizes Walt, a young man, being charged. The experience leaves the author with a profound sense of his own culpability and the realization of the harsh realities faced by those entangled in the criminal justice system.

Opinions

  • The author conveys a deep sense of guilt and complicity in the drug scene, particularly in abandoning his friend Jackson by not making eye contact during the arraignment.
  • There is a palpable sense of disconnect between the routineness of the legal proceedings and the gravity of the personal crises unfolding for the individuals involved.
  • The author seems to question the fairness and appropriateness of the justice system, especially in the case of Walt, who is portrayed as an innocent victim of circumstance.
  • The experience appears to have a significant emotional impact on the author, leading to introspection about his own actions and the consequences for himself and others.
  • The author's description of the courtroom atmosphere and the demeanor of the judge suggests a critical view of how the legal system processes defendants, likened to a "cattle auctioneer."

That Day I Went to Court, a Scared Gay Meth Addict

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 7 Part 2

Photo by wavebreakmedia via Shutterstock

The morning after I learned my meth-dealer roommate Jackson, along with my sometimes lover, sometimes meth-dealer Richard, had been arrested, I accompanied Richard to his arraignment.

We hadn’t slept.

After Richard and I both calmed down from the shock, we slammed to escape our terrifying reality. Thankfully, we not only had my remaining stash, but when Richard told the cops his meth was in the hallway safe, he failed to mention the 8-ball of kick-ass pure “Ice” hidden in his bedroom mini fridge.

We blinked against the harsh morning sun as we got out of his car at the courthouse and made our way inside. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I had been out among the living at this time of day. I had left anything and everything drug related back at Richard’s, but that didn’t stop me from having a mini panic attack, checking all my pockets to make sure I didn’t have anything illegal.

We shuffled through security as lawyers and other court professionals in with suits, ties and briefcases, made their way through the metal detectors with an ease of just another day at the office.

Then there were the rest of us.

And none of us were having a good day.

A line of citizens, faces tired and worried, sent their belongings through the x-ray machine. The metal detector sounded indifferent alarm while a person searched for a ring or a belt or the keys still in their pocket. Some men were in borrowed, baggy, ill-fitting suits. A few women wore blouses and sun dresses hastily pulled from a forgotten dresser drawer or the back of a closet. Bespectacled mothers, mouths clenched, clung to their purses. Downcast fathers stood deflated, powerless to protect their children.

Security led into a hallway as tall and cavernous as a cathedral, which was fitting as I felt three feet tall if I was an inch, sinner that I was. We sat and waited on hard wooden pews that lined mural covered walls.

As the morning court session approached, officers led a line of men in orange jumpsuits down the hallway, chained together at the waists and ankles, a real life “walk of shame.”

Jackson was fifth in line.

Gone were his eclectic clothes, his aviators, his bubbly confidence. He shuffled along, chains ringing, as the line made its way into the courtroom.

As expansive as the hallway was, the courtroom was practically a closet. It was standing room only by the time all the defendants, family, and two frightened tweakers made their way inside. There weren’t enough seats. There wasn’t enough air to breath. The room was so tight the judge’s bench was built into a corner.

First up were the orange jumpsuits.

One by one, they got up and made their plea. As tense and anxious as the gallery was, the judge was just going through his normal morning routine. He didn’t speak to the defendants so much as recite at them, plowing through a prepared script he had clearly read thousands of times. He sounded less like a judge and more like a cattle auctioneer. Even in my tweaked state, I wondered how the stenographer got it all down.

While Jackson waited his turn, he kept turning around trying to catch our eyes. I have no idea if Richard noticed this, but I kept my eyes glued on the auctioneer judge. I wanted to look at him, but I didn’t know what to say with that look. “I’m sorry? Are you ok? What can I do?”

Jackson looked back at us, then forward, looked back another time before looking forward again, slumping down, giving up. On top of the crush of the courtroom, I felt even smaller. I felt like I was abandoning a friend, like I was betraying him. Guilt was added to the pile of emotions in the blender of my mind.

“Walter Peterson, you are charged with…”

Wait, what?

“…how do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

Walt?!

Richard had told me about Jackson, but he hadn’t said anything about Walt. But there he was, a skinny blond child in orange standing before the judge. I watched in horror as they led this acne-riddled kid away through a door to where I couldn’t even imagine.

I couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t fair.

I deserved to be heading down that scary hallway a hell of a lot more than he did.

He’s just a kid!

I was so fixated on Jackson before, I hadn’t noticed Walt was also on the chain gang. Now I stared at the door through which Walt had disappeared. My head buzzed with the shock of it as, one by one, each orange jumpsuit followed after, disappearing though the same door.

There was a shift in energy as the court’s attention turned to the defendants sitting in the gallery. It nudged me out of my shock and I realized Jackson was gone. Guilt weighed even heavier on me. Not only did I feel like I had abandoned a friend, I couldn’t be counted on to pay attention long enough to witness the fate I’d abandoned him to.

The court moved on: small possession charges, destruction of property, etc. it took the better part of an hour to get to Richard.

He got up, pleaded not guilty, and the judge continued his release on his own recognizance.

We practically ran to his car, desperate to get home so we could slam again.

But Walt. Why Walt? What had his crime really been? Wanting to be friends with the wrong person?

If that were true, then…

What about me?

What did I deserve?

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