Noah here, back again.
Back picking up from where I left off in Part One of our “Diving Deeper into my Why?” series that I wrote last time.
As Morgan mentioned to me, Part One was a lot to read and handle. And it was also hard to write.
And just like me, I can only guess (and from private stories being shared with us from these posts, we know) that there are a lot of people out there going down the same path as we sit here reading this today. And although my life grew very dark in these times, I can only assure you I am now in a good place now, physically and mentally. Sometimes it takes extreme conditions or situations to snap out of it and realize all that is around you. Everybody doesn’t have to go to prison, but you do have to ask for help.
…First came the raid sometime around April or May of 2011.
I remember sitting in my apartment downtown smoking crack in my boxer briefs, and it was about 1 pm.
I had hit an all time new low.
At the time I was expecting one of my co-defendants, who was on his way over, but the knock came a little faster then I expected and a little more aggressive. I was high, so I didn’t think anything of it. I was walking down the corridor to the front door, and the pounding came again, and I heard “Open up, its the police, we have a warrant,” as I took in a hit off my pipe.
I thought to myself....”not cool dude.”
The door flew open and it wasn’t my friend. It was 5-7 task force agents with weapons drawn, yelling for me to get on the ground. I was quickly thrown there before I could get there while exhaling a huge cloud of smoke.
To their amusement, I was doing the exact drug (or close to anyway) that they were raiding me for. After they force me down and handcuff me, they sweep the other rooms quick to find out I am alone.
They get me up and put me in a seat at my dining room table and proceed to tear my apartment apart while I’m sitting there. I remember thinking, “Well… this is where it ends, I’m busted, but thank GOD it’s over.”
But, I couldn’t have been further from the truth.
There wasn’t a crazy amount of drug found at the place. The only powder they actually confiscated turned out to be a bag of inositol (a dietary supplement from GNC that is commonly used to cut cocaine), some scales, a vacuum sealer, drug ledgers, three trac-phones, and $6,000 cash.
They even left the pipe I was smoking out of right on the kitchen floor along with whatever crack was left sitting on the living room table. It didn’t matter because what I didn’t know at the time was; it was all going to be consumed by my 5-kilogram cocaine indictment a year later.
So, here I am sitting at my table practically naked for about 30 minutes before the commanding officer tells one of his minions to put some clothes on me.
They are wondering what the 100 some canisters of CO2 are for that are scattered around the apartment floor, and I simply told them, “you’re the investigators, figure it out.”
Finally, after 5-10 minutes of racking his brain, he goes,
“How old are you?”
I say, “25.”
He says, “Aren’t you a little old to be doing whip-its?”
I said, “Ding-ding-ding we have a winner.”
FYI – this was not my proudest hour, but I thought I was pretty slick.
Over the next 90 minutes, I have two visitors come by who they searched and interrogated before letting them go. They even used one of my burner phones to lure one of them to the front door, pretending to be me via text message, not sure if that is legal, but it was effective.
Finally, they took me into my bedroom, put down a tape recorder, read me my rights, and I tell them I don’t want to answer any further questions, and I would like to get an attorney.
They then shut the tape recorder off and say, “off the record, we just want to talk to you, we know where you are getting the drugs, we know what you are doing with them, we just want one name.”
He said “… that I don’t seem like such a bad guy, don’t get me wrong you are fucked up on drugs, but I have seen people a lot worse off than you and you seem to have a head on your shoulders still…”
He goes on to say “…. that if I get on the team, we could take down some big guys.”
I replied with, “you want me on “the team,”
and he replied, “of course we do, we can take some guys down, and you can get your life back on track.”
I said, “Man, I have never been on a team before, can I be the captain?!”
Needless to say…they got to the point. Good cop was over, and the bad cop came back out. The officer standing behind good cop jumps in, “Fuck this guy, we got the dope, we got the money, we got everything we need to put him in prison.”
I said, “What dope?” Knowing the only powder they took wasn’t cocaine, and replied with, “the shit we just found on the table, it’s at least a quarter ounce.”
I said “taste that shit, it isn’t coke you moron,” and he replied, “I don’t taste shit I’m not a drug addict.”
At this point, I decided to stop talking and they took me downtown to book me.
When we got downtown and I was being processed I remember stepping on the scale, I was wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and sandals, but the scale read 168 pounds. I thought it was broken.
That was 50 pounds less then I am right now, and about 35 pounds less from where I was six months before the raid.
The drugs had taken control of my life, and I couldn’t stop. I needed help.
They then processed me and told me I was being released. I remember saying, “That can’t be right! They think they caught me with a quarter ounce, and I am being released?!!”
I was too busy worrying about what the guys who sold me the drugs were going to think… they’d think I agreed to cooperate if I got out this soon.
The bailiff said, “What the hell do you want me to do, are you telling me you want to stay in here?” And I realized how ridiculous I sounded, and I said “no.”
I walked out the front door and caught a cab and realized this was far from over, and that I needed help…