I did not take life seriously in my first forty-three years. I screwed off, worked the angles, and did just enough to get by while still making it to the next party. I was a “slacker” who took perverse pride in seeing how little effort I could expend and still end up a success. Stand-up comic, morning radio contributor, internet broadcaster, “half-asser.” Something had to give.
In fall, 2009 my Mother was diagnosed with lung cancer and had a two month bout with it before passing on. We were very close, and I did not deal with this period well. There was always a surplus of painkillers, a lot of which went to medicate me, and I became addicted.
I subsequently lived in a pill haze—-even further beyond my means—- and ran up a significant credit card debt. Unfortunately, instead of getting a second job, reigning in my expenses, and kicking the pills, I took an easier route: dealing drugs.
It started with pot, mailed to me from California, a pound or less, for distribution locally and also at “jam band” concerts here and there. This was quite profitable, and allowed me to travel and live it up while supporting my addiction.
Running in the circles I did, it was inevitable that other opportunities arose, and indeed they did. I eventually found MDMA (a/k/a/”molly”) by the ounce, which upped the legal ante considerably. The profit margins were impossible for me to turn down, however, and I started living something resembling the high life.
So I was in business —sustaining my habit, just killing my credit card debt, and staying in nice hotels. Like any responsible drug dealer, I also had an exit strategy; a set figure of saved money at which point I would stop and go legitimate. The Wright brothers had longer flights than my plan.
My downfall came from being a nice guy. To further rationalize, I was being a sweetheart while vending the two recreational drugs that bring a lot joy while doing minimal harm: weed and ecstasy. I never considered selling ugly stuff like heroin, cocaine, or Oxycontin. This is not to whine, just things I told myself that kept me from feeling like a horrible person.
A Reunion
I was in Atlanta the first weekend of April doing some “business” around the Fox Theater, where the latest incarnation of the Grateful Dead was playing. I ran into my old friend Joseph Warren Jones , from my days seeing Phish concerts back in the nineties.
I hadn’t seen him in over a decade. He was also an addict—less functioning, as it turned out—and had the down-on-his-luck story to match. He professed that he was recovering and simply needed a helping hand, so why not?
To this point I had always kept my business close to the vest, within a circle of trusted friends. I had a good instinct for this and maintained things quite well. In this case, however, I let my guard down and trusted someone who I thought I knew well. Ultimately I didn’t know him at all.
Joe needed some money to get over some “hump,” so I offered to have him join me in North Carolina the following weekend, April 8th, 2011, to work a Widespread Panic concert run. Besides selling drugs to begin with, this was literally the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life.
When I was vending drugs at these “traveling circus” type of shows, I spent my time discreetly in a “friendly” place, theoretically light on police presence. Gathering spots like a pizza place, or in hotels, where it’s easy to detect groups arriving for the concerts.
“You’re in room 318, the elevators are just around the corner there, and the guy wearing the Phish hat has a full selection of mind-expanding chemicals for the weekend. Enjoy your stay at the Asheville Renaissance!”
This method is clean and relatively risk-free, but I failed to instruct Joe to employ it. While he was a veteran at this, I still should have confirmed it with him during out three-hour drive. Instead, we got caught up listening to some killer Phish shows from ’10 instead. Blame it on a simple twist of fate.
So instead of higher-end hotels, Joe went off to work the area around the concert venue, soliciting “hip” passersby. I enjoyed a typical pre-show sales session at a pizza joint a friend of mine managed. After a while, however, something seemed off because I hadn’t heard from Joe and he was not responding to calls or texts. For some reason this omen didn’t send me into shutdown mode; I just kept going like everything was cool.
Later I was in the concert venue, now really wondering what the hell happened. Did this guy skip town or something, burning me for the money? Finally, I got a text from Joe, asking where the stash was so he could re-up, and claiming to have girls back at the room who wanted to party.
Somehow even this didn’t alert me, because Joe knew where the stash was. Also, when you have enough molly to fire up a cheerleading squad, the dance team, and the majorettes, women looking to party just kind of materialize. And what about the fucking concert? I sure didn’t recall Joe being this stupid.
I was starting to catch a good buzz by this point, so even though Joe made no sense, I was just glad to hear from him. What I didn’t know was the cops were texting on his phone, getting me to incriminate myself and trying to lure me back to the hotel. I went on to enjoy the show, not realizing I had been sold out by my friend.
I could whine about how he broke the rules of “the game”—-which he did—-but the bottom line is it’s all on me. I should not have put myself in this situation to begin with, under any circumstances. All I can do is think it happened for a good reason.
After the show I decided to grab some barbecue at a street stand and go back to the room. (Fine Joe, are you happy now?) There was an odd silence in the room before I swiped the card, and learned why the hard way.
The Music Stops
I opened the door and four cops grabbed me, screaming that I was under arrest. Before I knew it, I was shoved face down on the bed, and my wrists were not-so-gently cuffed behind my back.
Although my wrists were yelping in pain, I recall counting my blessings at that moment. If I must be pummeled into submission by burly law enforcement, after all, a pillow top mattress was a pretty good place to suffer the indignity.
The other thing I’ll never forget about that moment is my main emotion was of relief. Of all the things. The stress from the life I was living was gone. Regardless of whether my new circumstances would prove to be any better, at least they would be defined and honest.
As my Mom might say: if I wasn’t going to stop myself, the universe would do it for me. Also, at least I was arrested “early” in my career, before I was really big time, and subject to a much more severe punishment. More importantly, at that moment anyway, I didn’t spill my barbecue.
The scene was hectic only for a moment, until it was clear that I wasn’t going to resist or otherwise be a problem. The four local cops were dismissed by the plain clothes NC Alcohol Law Enforcement officer running the bust, then it was just three of us, including his flunky sidekick.
I must admit I was happy to hear apologies and thanks to the uniformed cops for waiting “all night” for my arrival. Perhaps I saved a few of my concert-going brethren from getting busted in the process.
My arresting officer was a nice guy, and I suppose he felt likewise, because he showed some leniency. After first refusing to let me eat my barbecue I kept asking, and he finally relented. While I had to remain loosely cuffed, I could still reach the chow, which I devoured. I also managed to get him to pull a bottle of water out of my cooler for me.
“Hey, thanks again from letting me eat. And listen, is there any chance you’d grab me one of those waters over there?”
e looked at my incredulously, saying: “Now you’re really pushing it!,” as he stepped over to fish out the bottle.
A few minutes later the cop lost his patience, probably because I was simply finding new ways to say “I want my attorney,” and giving him nothing resembling a confession. He and his sidekick whisked me out the door before I completely finished my food. “We’ve been here for six hours.” he explained. “We need our own fucking food.”
After my hands were cuffed behind me again, I noticed the cops failed to find all of the molly I had on me when they frisked me. On the way to the station it was just me and the plain clothes in an SUV, me riding shotgun. Despite being cuffed, I was able to fish out multiple packets of powder from my back pockets and stuff them into the seat crack, undetected.
It turned out off-loading that nearly four grams of the powder didn’t matter in the long run, but it helped me feel like I accomplished something, but only for a while. The cops that frisked me at the jail also skipped my back pockets, so I could’ve taken the damned things right back out the door with me when I got sprung.
Jail And All Its Charms
So into the clink I went — -and into the modern hell of trying to remember a phone number, thanks to cell phones. The cops take them immediately, and they don’t read off numbers for you, either. The pressure was on, for sure. I had two numbers for my lawyer memorized, but he didn’t answer either time, and he couldn’t call back because the jail numbers were blocked.
The cops were impatient and adversarial, and I had to practically beg for one more try. I was flustered, and the countdown was on prior to moving to a space with possibly no phones. I was mixing up friend’s numbers that were similar and recalling old home numbers for people, but none of them worked.
Obviously this was extremely frustrating, but it was also borderline terrifying. What if I could never get in touch with anyone, and how long until someone figured out where I was? And what about my car and all of my stuff in my hotel room? As if being on the back end of a ecstasy trip wasn’t disorienting enough…
Besides simply wanting to get sprung quickly, there was $6,5000 in cash, stashed in my car. At the time I didn’t know the cops never bothered searching the vehicle, let alone impounding it. Perhaps they felt they had enough to nail me to the wall already. Or they were simply lazy and looking forward to a dozen Krispy Kremes.
Soon I was moved to the next stage of booking, and a crucial number dawned on me: an Atlanta restaurant owned by my good friend Tad. Thanks to once working there, I remembered the number and, as luck would have it, Tad was a guy who would bail me out.
Now it was pushing 3:00 am, but it was a Friday night, so the place wasn’t quite closed. I knew that sometimes they picked up the phone when it rang this late, sometimes they don’t. My window to reach someone there was quickly closing, if it had not already — -time was of the essence.
I asked the booking officer if I could use the phone across the room. “After I’m done booking you in you can.”, came the mumble. Suddenly minutes seemed like hours as I pictured the restaurant manager killing the lights and locking up.
I finally got to the phone and placed the collect call. The instructions were to speak your name at the tone, so I said: “Tad’s friend Garrett,” in case someone who didn’t know me anwered. A lot of time elapsed, until finally a voice came over the line: “Garrett, it’s Lauren.” Cue the angelic chorus.
Most of the managers at this place knew me, but Lauren I know the best. She’s very tight with Tad, and would get in touch with him to bail me out, no questions asked. Knowing Tad, one of the world’s great go-getters, it wouldn’t be long until I was out.
I was then shuffled into a holding tank, a/k/a “the cooler”, which is an apt name, because by design they keep it cold as the goodbye from of a cheap hooker. As the hours wore on with my teeth chattering, t-shirt pulled over my knees, I began to wonder what the delay was for springing me—-I had no way of knowing.
I learned of a lot of dark places my mind can go at a time like this, and suicide was most certainly one of them. How disappointed would my loved ones would be? Had one of my best friends had forsaken me? Would Widespread Panic go their whole existence with the worst drummer ever?
I had assumed a bail bondsman would accept a credit card, and I’d be out in an hour or two. Unbeknownst to me, when the detainee is from out of state, with serious charges like mine, the full bail was required. All that stood between me and freedom was $33,000 and a non-refundable fee of roughly $3,700. No wonder it was taking so long.
Tad was stymied because the bail bondsman did not accept AmEx, and his other cards lacked that kind of limit. Long story short, he worked some kind of magic, and actually convinced the bondsman to spring me, basically promising the check was in the mail. Like I said: Tad is resourceful, as well as one helluva salesman.
Before the bail finally came through, however, I logged nearly a whole day in this county lockup. I was not assigned a cellmate, which was nice, but that was about the only thing that went right. Also, amazingly, the jailers placed both Joe — -my rat — -and me in the same cell block.
I’m not sure which one of us was more surprised by this when I encountered the shithead munching away at breakfast. I do know, however, who was more terrified: Joe. I was so astounded that I didn’t even run up and slap him, but then I’m not a violent guy to begin with.
He saw me, dropped his plastic spork in shock, got up and went straight back to his cell, leaving his tray sitting there. I just watched him slip away like the vermin he is, and I must admit it was oddly entertaining.
I got sprung about twenty hours after my arrest, which seemed more like twenty days. Amazingly, my hotel room was still under my name, despite the whole “multiple felonies committed here yesterday” thing. All of my non-illegal possessions were still there, too. I especially enjoyed sleeping on the pillow-top that night, wrecked life or not.
Picking Up The Pieces
The next day I bought a new phone and headed back to Atlanta for the day, trying to find a attorney referral and contemplating my situation in general. Listening to music or anything frivolous was out of the question; I was in a slow, surreal freak out the whole time. When I got home I rid my apartment of any additional evidence on the off chance the case went federal and I got raided.
At court the next day I encountered some of my former jail mates, including Joe, who stayed off in the corner, as a rat would. He would not look my way no matter what. I asked him if he had the ten bucks I lent him, because I could’ve actually used it, but of course he didn’t.
I added something like “thanks for ruining my life,” and left him to wallow in his guilt. That was the extent of our conversation. His ultimate punishment for betraying me is that he has be him the rest of his life, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
I also encountered someone of hopefully higher moral standing, my well-recommended counsel Sean Deveraux. He was around fifty and came across as very sharp and likable. I had a good feeling about him, although my cash flow decidedly did not. He had to head out of town for a court appearance, however, so he passed me off to his partner for the short arraignment procedure and my subsequent debriefing.
Andrew Banzhoff, a no-nonsense guy of about forty, entered a plea of not guilty and then we repaired to a nearby penthouse office to assess my ruins. I explained to him that although I didn’t babble to the cops and incriminate myself following my arrest, they still had me dead to rights; my fingerprints were all over everything.
My attorney seemed troubled, especially when I completely ruled out giving up my suppliers to get my charges reduced or dropped. I explained that a rat was what got me there in the first place, and that wasn’t a exactly a favor worthy of paying forward.
On the plus side, Banzhoff saw a possibility the “notorious cowboy” who made the arrest entered my hotel room before getting a search warrant, to confirm Joe’s story first. The counselor explained that, while a long shot, he and Mr. Deveraux had previously beaten similar charges with this tactic.
Unfortunately, this investigation and the additional legwork would cost me another ten grand, which I simply didn’t have. I had only recently ratcheted up my business, and had yet to put away any money of consequence to finance a washer and dryer, let alone a fancy legal defense.
Even worse, the anti-drug crusading District Attorney had a real personal problem with guys like me. So much of an issue, in fact, that he often personally joins teams to bust my ilk when concerts come to town. I guess it was easy for a guy who looked like an especially dim former offensive lineman to blend in.
Since I was caught red-handed, my only realistic legal strategy was also what I needed to do anyway: get into a long-term drug treatment program. Perhaps a display of contrition and addressing my chemical issues would gain sympathy, and convince the D.A. to prosecute a lesser amount of MDMA than demands a mandatory minimum sentence.
I went to the rehab, and benefited greatly. I also voluntarily entered a halfway house for over five months, and documented going to ninety twelve-step meetings in ninety days in the process. While this helped me personally, the D.A. couldn’t have cared less—-I might as well have used that money on a Vegas bender.
I was charged with felony marijuana possession with of intent to distribute, felony possession and trafficking of MDMA, and various other redundant raps. At least my lawyer made a plea deal that consolidated eight charges into one, (scroll down on the linked page) and got a flat thirty-five months with no post-release/probation.
Starting Recovery
Despite not swaying the D.A., getting treatment for the cloud that hovered over me proved to be a great choice. My lifestyle had weighed on me both physically and spiritually for quite some time, and finally addressing my addiction was a huge help and relief.
No matter, the depression of a life in tatters and its logistical problems started settling in. Getting sent to prison is nothing if not a giant pain-in-the-ass. Luckily an old friend let me store my belongings throughout the ordeal. Also, a group of friends took an interest in my plight and set up a dreaded fund-raising site, as legal fees and rehab costs broke me. Sadly, however, the bankruptcy filing I’d always refused to consider became inevitable.
I tried to keep myself busy—-to stay distracted—-but I was broken, and with a three year prison sentence hanging over me there was nowhere to hide. Though hardly logical, I even wondered if I would have been better off just staying in jail to begin with, starting to do my time and get it over with.
I always figured I could do time if it came down to it—-I could adjust to life on the inside. What I never expected came with it, though, was the grueling time in limbo between an arrest and learning my fate. Every laugh I had was tempered, and myriad regrets and worry were always near the surface.
I let down all who have believed in me or perhaps looked up to me, and that was tough to live with. But it’s times like these that bring blessings and silver linings where one least expects them. The support I received from my friends and family was remarkable, and this lent me fortitude that helped me weather my sentence and still emerge sane.
Some have suggested it’s outrageous for me to get three years in prison for a first offense dealing drugs. While this may be true, I believe my true crime was grand theft: I never earned “the good life,” I stole it. I needed this kick in the ass from the universe, and my comeuppance was just desserts for being a slacker my whole life.
Besides the wake-up call, I was presented with a new occupation: an embedded reporter at various minimum security prisons in North Carolina. I kept copious journals documenting this peculiar world that has somehow gone under-reported until now, and it will jump start a writing career.
Prison was like sailing on a dry, gastronomic disaster of an all-inclusive cruise that was adrift, my fellow passengers males from the green room at the Jerry Springer Show. It is quite different from the place depicted on “Oz” or other hard core facilities; here the only real danger was being fascinated by humorous human behavior until your head exploded. The writing fodder was extraordinary.
The result of my first-of-its-kind anthropological study will be the sardonic Lookout for Shorts (A Drug War Casualty’s Prison Memoir.) Select draft excerpts will be posted here on Medium en route to being published in book form. Please follow its progress here and at my Twitter account. Thanks for reading!
