My Gay Meth Addict Deal with the D.E.A.

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 7 Part 3

On a chilly, blustery April morning, we stood, silent, waiting. I tried to keep my hands warm by shoving them in my jean jacket pockets, but it wasn’t working.

Jackson and Richard had been arrested a little over a week before, Richard having been released on his own recognizance.

And we had run out of Tina two days prior.

Richard and I waited on the corner of 17th Street and 10th Avenue, an abandoned, forgotten part of town. The elevated tracks of the unused and rusted highline jutted up behind us like a petrified centipede, flowering weeds sprouting on its back and peaking over the sides. Sprigs of life on a dead creature.

I turned and looked over the desolate block toward 18th street and the Roxy nightclub. I’d only been to the Roxy once. There’s something weird about seeing a place of such nighttime life during the day. It’s like seeing a vampire sleeping in his coffin.

I looked across the avenue at the dilapidated apartment buildings. The Irish Pub on the corner, as dead as the Roxy, had more ghosts at the bar than the living. This was old New York, a rough history, not quite dead but waiting to die.

I noticed a security camera outside the pub. I found it odd because it looked hefty, new even. Its thick white metal clashed with the aging browns and greens of the building it was attached to. It seemed overkill for a run down pub.

Then I noticed another one about ten feet away from the first. Then another on a street lamp. Then another, and another. I counted 12 cameras along the street, the last couple covering the underground garage entrance to the 10 story sand-yellow building that towered over us and the west side desolation. It was an odd brick of a building. Very few windows, and those windows were small and slender.

On the corner it shared with the West Side Highway was a big lit up sign advertising Manhattan Mini Storage. Up until that morning I always thought that’s all the building was.

I was quite surprised to learn it housed the Manhattan office of the Drug Enforcement Administration.

A few days prior, Richard was on the phone with the lawyer he’d retained for a butt-clenching $5000.

I stood across the room, frozen, a fresh but forgotten slam in my hand, straining to hear the voice coming out of Richard’s phone.

“First of all, I’m not his lawyer. I’m your lawyer. Second, just because he hasn’t been arrested doesn’t mean he’s not going to be arrested.”

I had settled into the idea that the police didn’t want me. They didn’t need me. The only reason they had to come for me would be to get to my suppliers and, well, they already had them.

But I still had a big problem. I had an entire second bedroom full of problems. The way I saw it, since I left my apartment before my roommate and supplier Jackson had been arrested, everything in his bedroom was clearly his. But if I returned before allowing some authority in there first, it could be argued that anything and everything drug related could have been placed there by me. I had no earthly idea what the lines of communication were like between state and federal agencies, but I had every reason to believe Bergen County authorities had my address in New York.

I stood frozen, still holding the slam, suddenly afraid all over again that the apartment door would burst open and I would be cuffed and hauled away.

I don’t remember if it was Richard’s idea or his lawyer’s, but someone had brought up reaching out to the DEA.

The garage door on the sand-yellow building opened. Out drove a boat of a car, maybe a Cadillac, dirt brown body with a white top. It seemed unremarkable… until it pulled up right in front of us.

“Get in,” said the man in the passenger seat

My throat closed. I stood frozen for a second.

Richard walked around the back of the car and opened the rear door.

“John.” He nodded toward my door. I was annoyed by his enthusiasm. To him, this deal was about showing how cooperative he was being in the hope for leniency. This was a win for him.

But I was scared. I might have started crying if I hadn’t been so terrified. Would I be getting out of the car again or was I actually turning myself in and shutting the door on my freedom?

Finally, I opened the door, took a seat in the back, and shut the door again.

The two men turned around and faced us.

“I’m Agent Mike. This is Agent Robert”

I barely squeaked out a “hello.”

They both had thick mustaches on scruffy faces. Their clothes were drab and pedestrian. I guessed they worked undercover when not hosting scared tweekers in their back seat. Of course, they might have just been straight.

For the better part of an hour I answered their questions. What’s the layout of the apartment? Of Jackson’s room? What drugs had I seen in his room? Had I seen cash in his room? Had I witnessed any drug deals?

They asked about pieces of paraphernalia.

“Have you seen syringes?”

“Yes.”

“Little jars?”

“Yes.”

“Alcohol wipes?”

“Yes.”

“Little baggies?”

“Yes.”

“Big baggies?”

“Um, no.”

No? No?! The fuck are you doing, John? Of course you’ve seen big baggies. Why are you lying? Why are you lying about such a stupid detail? Fuck! Isn’t it a crime to lie to a federal officer? Fuck!

I held the panic in as best as I could, dumbfounded about why I would lie about such a stupid thing. I kept answering their questions, too terrified to go back and correct myself.

Agent Mike asked, “Do you give us permission to enter your home?”

“… Yes.”

“Ok, give me your keys. You’ll be contacted once we’re finished.”

“I’ll get to work on the warrant,” said Agent Robert.

“Warrant?”

“Yes. We need a warrant to enter his room.”

I was surprised by this. I had thought, since I was the only one on the lease, my permission to enter my apartment went for the entire apartment. It gave me a bit of comfort that they needed a warrant to enter his room. To me that meant everything in his space was clearly his and not mine.

That didn’t stop me from worrying, however. Though I had taken all my Tina with me, there was still plenty of paraphernalia of my own in my top dresser drawer. Did permission to enter give them permission to search? I didn’t fucking know.

Back on the sidewalk, we watched the car descend back down into the garage.

I worried.

Had I made the right choice?

Or was I living my last hours of freedom?

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