B42) THE BRIDGE BUILDER

THE BRIDGE BUILDER

An old man, going a lone highway
Came at the evening, cold and gray
To a chasm vast and deep and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.
The old man crossed in the twilight dim,
The sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned when safe on the other side
And built a bridge to span the tide.
"Old Man," said a fellow pilgrim near,
"You are wasting your strength building here;

Your journey will end with the ending day,

You never again will pass this way;
You've crossed the chasm deep and wide,
Why build you this bridge at evening tide?"
The builder lifted his old gray head,
"Good friend, in the path I've come," he said,
"There followeth after me today,
A youth whose feet must pass this way;
This chasm that has been naught to me,
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be;
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim -
Good friend, I'm building this bridge for him."

B41) A conversation with God (part 1)

Four fucking years in this god forsaken shit hole with these god forsaken people. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take this god damn heat anymore. The heat, the food, the people and the place have collectively pushed me to the brink of insanity.

Put a fork in me. ---------------------------------------------------------------- I’m done

Soon I’ll need to be put in a straight jacket then taken to a padded cell. From there I’ll be put on an IV with a thorazine drip. I will stay there for the remainder of my sentence. This is the future I feel destine for.

It was phone call day. I called my daughter. Four years I’ve been gone now. She remembers nothing about me. I’m a name. I’m a picture. I’m a theory. Bottom line, I am a horrible father. Why should she remember? Why should she even be talking to me?

During our conversation my daughter referred to me as “Chip” then referred to my ex-wife’s new boyfriend as “dad”.

Goodbye sanity

It felt like I took a shotgun blast to my mid section. Massive trauma. My guts spilled out onto the ground.

I'm dying.

I want to die.

I remember thinking I officially lost it all. This is my proverbial "rock bottom". They can’t take anything else. Now I have nothing else to lose.

I do not recall much of the conversation after hearing those words, “Chip”and “Dad” not being synonymous. I hung the phone up and staggered out to the recreation field. I remember struggling to breath struggling to think and walk.

It was monsoon season. A storm had been brewing all morning and it began to unleash its fury on us. I needed the storm. The sounds of the storm would be needed to drown out the guttural hatred I was getting ready to spew.

I remember thinking it’s time for a reckoning between me and God.

The screaming erupted like projectile vomiting; it was both ugly and disgusting. There was rage. There was hysteria. And there was more rage. As I released my rage on God it began to rain. As I hurled expletive filled rage at God the storm grew in intensity. There was more wind. More thunder and lightening. And more rain.

As I raged at God I began blaming my life and my life choices on God. The words sputtered out. Probably incoherent should anyone be listening.

“You mother fucker. I hate you” I screamed this at the top of my lungs.

“You are a fucking nightmare of a God" came out with a hysterical scream.

"This world is a nightmare of your creation"

It got ugly. Lots of blaming. Lots of denial.

As the rage came out it mirrored the storm. As I intensified the storm intensified. This gave me the feeling I was somehow connected to the weather.

After the blaming came the questions:

“Why me"?

Why are you doing this to me”?

Haven't I suffered enogh?

Lightening began to crack like a bullwhip all around me

“Do it” I said.

“Please do it”

I was daring God to strike me down with a bolt of lightening. I wanted to die.

“Do it you motherfucker”

When those words came out a bolt of lightening cracked to my right. It produced a shockwave that knocked me to the ground. It felt as if I’d been slapped by the hand of God. It knocked the wind out of me and freaked me out but it did not stop my tirade.

I was flat on my back. Laying there I looked up to the storm and I continue with more of the same.

"Fuck you this”

“Fuck you that”

"You, you, you. ........”

As I continue with the rhetoric I try to get back up. I want to stand again. I want to raise my hands and start swinging. I want to physcially get my hand on the motherfucker responsible for my life.

I feel stuck there on my back. It felt as if I was magnetically stuck to the earth. Either I lost all my strength or the laws of gravity changed for the finite space surrounding me. whatever it was I was unable to defeat it.

I struggled to move and ended up rolling over onto my belly. From there I pushed up with all my might and got to my knees. That was as far as I was going. I simply lacked the strength for anything else.

Then, as if right on cue, God stepped in and said two simple words.

“Say it”

I understand it seems crazy but amidst this raging and violent storm I heard a soft but clear whisper in my ear. It could not have been any clearer. Someone or something said:  “Say it”.

I pondered for a moment the possibilities and wonder, did I just experienced a complete psychotic break. Have I finally lost my mind? No need to wonder if I really heard the voice and the words because I heard it again. This time it’s different. This time the words have a commanding sound. Authortative. Insistant.

“Say it”

I have a concise and articulate response to the voice.

“Fuck you”

Again, one more time I hear.

“Say it”

But this time when the words came I felt the strength and power of the universe attached to them. I felt the ground shake beneath me as it would in an earthquake. I felt the presence of something more powerful than I've ever experienced.

Even though it's happening to me I'm doubting my experience. This cannot be happening. In my own mind this whole scene is completely impossible. Part of me is thinking, this is not happening. None of this is possible. I have lost my mind.

As I knelt there in the rain with the storm raging I speak the words requested.

“Alright motherfucker, You want to hear it?

You need to hear me say it?

You need to hear me admit to it?

Ok”.

The admission came from deep inside. The words needed to be forced out. I did not want to say it or admit to it. I did not want to speak whose words.

“I did this".

Is that what you want to hear"?

I began sobbing like a baby.

"I did this"

"This is all my fault"

"This is my creation"

"I have no one to blame but myself"

"I am so ashamed”

After releasing those words I began crying harded. The word and or thought shame unleashed all my tears. Everyone single one of them. It physically hurt, the pain surrounding my hearing my daughter refer to someone else as Dad. If physically hurt when I thought about my shame. this admission had been building for a long time. 
  

"Please forgive me”


When the realization came, I was just like my dad, it hit me like a freight train. My dad left me when I was ten. I left Brittany when she was three. I'd become just like my father, the one person in the world I did not want to emulate. I did not want to be like my dad. I became just like my dad. 

“I did this. I have no one to blame but myself. I am so ashamed”

The words kept reverberating through my mind along with the apology:

“I’m sorry”. This message intended for my daughter and to God. I'm so very sorry I let you down.  

What kind of a person blames God for their choices and actions? Not me. Not anymore. That train departed and left the station never to be seen or heard from again.

It may seem incomprehensible but until that moment I denied responsibility for ending up in prison. Four years I lived in denial about why I was there. I thought I was in prison because others betrayed me.

“I did this” would become my new mantra".

“I did this and I have no one to blame but myself”. A simple but startling revelation.

It's torturous to have family and loved ones on the outside.

It was a time for change. I am going to stop living with my heart on the outside of the prison walls with my body in the inside of the walls. Living that duality for the past four years brought nothing but pain. It was time to be here. It was time to be now.

As I accepted responsibility for my actions I would become present in my own life.

An announcement over the PA systems declares the yard was locked down.

“Return to your dorms and prepare for count”

B40) “Catholic Priest on the cell block”

1996. Back to court on appeal (Maricopa County, Madison Street Jail).

This particular jail has pods not cell blocks. A pod is much smaller than a cell block, maybe twenty to thirty inmates (easy to manage) where a cell block can have a hundred or more inmates (difficult to manage). The pod has only two floors where a cell block can have more than two floors.

In total I probably spent twelve months in that jail. That jail is hard time.

Properly stated: “Catholic Priest on the pod” but it doesn’t sound right.

After arriving to the pod I was quick to find out about the old man in the pod, he was a Catholic priest. It’s amazing how fast information moves through a prison or jail. The old man was using a walker to get around. I’d never seen someone with a walker in jail or in prison before so he was hard to miss. The Catholic Priest looked to be in his sixties. He was quiet and kept to himself.

Normally they run sex offenders off. I think this guy got a pass because of his age and health. No one was willing to beat him up because he looked so frail. If you punch him and he dies that is manslaughter.

(Side Note)

The average sentence for manslaughter in America is five years. I got ten years for possession of marijuana. It’s a painful reality; you can kill someone and get less time in America than some involved with a victimless and non violent crime (possessing marijuana). This is proof of the irrationality of our drug policy and that mindless slaves taking part in it and those guilty of perpetuating it.

Anyway:

After pleading guilty to eight counts of child molestation the catholic priest was give probation.

(When I heard that my head literally exploded. Just like in the cartoons)

Unfucking believable.  Eight counts of raping little boys and the mother fucker got probation. This is one aspect of life in America that makes me want to puke!

I had the opportunity to speak to an inmate chained to the priest while in court. That’s how it goes for inmates going to court from the jail. They’re handcuffed together as many as ten to twelve inmates and they are seated in the jury box in the courtroom while waiting for the bailiff to call their case.

No privacy.

Apparently the priest plead guilty to molesting eight boys. The judge gave him a suspended sentence  which means probation. Within six months the priest molested another boy. The new charge violated his probation agreement and the judge gave him eight ten year sentences.

Who does this make sense to? (Maybe this is where all the "religious" people chime in to affirm the logic)

This really is a crazy world.

When I did get resentenced the judge knocked off one year from my sentence. I went from ten and a half years to nine and a half years. Nine and one half years on a non violent and victimless crime. That would get me out nine months sooner.

B39) Brittany’s birth - August 27th 1989

We lived at 11900 Mandarin Lane, Tucson Arizona. 1989

It ‘s very hot and very humid. Not the best time to be pregnant and three weeks late with your first child. Brittany would be delivered at TMC, Tucson Medical Center.

Three weeks overdue then three days of labor.

Labor Day one:
The contractions began. We timed them. We call the doctor and are told to wait. The contractions are too far apart. The pain begs to differ. The pain demands attention. We eventually go to the hospital but they sent us home. Not far enough along, contractions or dilation.

Labor Day Two:
We go back to the hospital and again they send us home.

The more Karen screams the more I want to run and hide under the bed like a five year old. It was embarrassing. There were good intentions but the stress of that situation pushed me beyond my limits. Thankfully I wasn’t really needed at the scene. When it came time to have a baby the room would be filled with skilled and dedicated professionals.

Labor Day Three:
We go back to the hospital one more time. Third times a charm. They finally admit Karen. She literally had no sleep during those first two days. She looked physically and mentally drained of energy yet she had a measured look of concern in her eyes.

Once Karen was admitted the anesthesiologist moved in to do his part, the epidural. The anesthesiologist allowed me to watch up close. He explained everything he was doing as if I was a student and he a teacher. Minutes after the epidural took affect  Karen was asleep. She literally fell asleep in the middle of a sentence. As soon as the pain from the contractions was taken away she fell fast asleep. It was her first sleep in forty eight hours.

Now she sleeps with machines and monitors attached to her. The nurse comes in every few minutes and monitors the monitors. Sometimes the doctor come in with the nurse. Sometimes there is a quick physical exam. Sometimes not. Then the nurse and/or doctor leave.

Nothing wakes her.

She sleeps now gaining the critical strength needed for the actual delivery she is destine for.

At one point they broke Karen's water. I think they did this in order to gain more information about the baby. With the baby's scalp exposed the doctor then scratched it and a few drops of blood retrieved. These drops of blood would be analyzed for a number of things I think, one of which was the PH level. This is done every hour or so. Maybe it was every couple of hours.

Time lost all meaning after three days of Karen with contractions. Day. Night. Night. Day. They blended in to each other without notice.

The PH level began to dip. This is a minor issue warranting no action so everyone settled back down for more of the waiting game.

Uneventful hours pass. Karen slept. I slept on a chair next to her.

Then there’s an issue with meconium. This particular situation was considered minor so we all settle back down to wait some more but that’s two minor events.

More time passes. Hour after hour. Karen drifts in and out of sleep. She would wake and smiles but it's a gratuitous smile. The smile is for our benefit. That's how kind she can be. In pain and exhausted she is thinking about the concerns of others.

Nearing seventy two hours of Karen's labor the babies heartbeat changed. It began to drop. It didn't stop, it slowed down. The heart rate was dropping at a slow but steady pace. This issue was strike three and with this information the doctor commanded: 

“We are taking this baby right now”

The doctor started barking orders and everyone began to move with great urgency.

All I wanted to do was cry. I was struggling to stand. I felt incapable of being part of the process. I can not handle this.

Karen's eyes are searching for mine. I am in fear she will see the terror in my eyes and that will not help.

I feel completely fucking useless because I am so scared.

"Please God"

"Please"

Nurses grabbed the bed Karen was in and rolled it out of the room we were in out into the hall. Then she was rolled down to the operating room. It was  just down the hall. By the time Karen was prepped and ready for the C Section the surgeons walked in. They looked incredibly calm and radiated confidence. This is what I needed to see. 

After getting quickly situated I recall the surgeon saying:

“We’ll have the baby out in five minutes from now” and he made an incision into Karen’s abdomen.

Before I knew it the surgeon was offering to hand me the scissors for which to cut the umbilical cord and he said:

“Would you like the honor”?

Up to that point I’d been strictly an observer and delighted in that role. The instant the doctor tried to hand me the scissors everything changed. I went from observer to participant. It was at this point my knees began to buckle and I felt faint.

“No doc. Sorry. Can’t”


My hand went up and I waved him off as I was forced to turn and walk away.

I stepped back and composed myself.

Nurses took the baby and cleaned her up. Scored her then swaddled her.

There it is, I thought, the miracle of birth. It happened right in front of me. Right before my very eyes.

Suddenly I’m astonished at this miracle and begin to tear up. Who can witness this and doubt the existence of God? This miracle happens day in and day out all across our globe yet the masses are clamoring, almost starving for miracles. Here it is. The miracle of birth.

People claim to see Jesus or the virgin marry in the shape of tomato or potato. These stories make on the tv all the time. I ALWAYS and I mean ALWAYS view this as stupidity personified. The fact these stories make news is all the proof one needs to claim we still live in a very dark age.

You want to know what separates us from the real dark ages, penicillin. It’s a sad but true commentary about life on planet earth in 2012. Not very evolved.

Is it not easier to see the hand of God in the birth of a child than it is to see Jesus Christ is a potato? What is wrong with people. If you really want to see God’s handy work watch the birth of a child.

The masses seem to need something tangible from their God. They seem to need "evidence" they can hold in your hand while claiming they have proof of God. How much more tangible can you get than a child? ………………………………….It’s a rhetorical question.

I think if people began to view each other as sacred souls on a sacred journey there would be less violence in the world. As long as people are going to see Jesus in the most idiotic of places what hope do we have in reducing the violence and killing going on.

If people would see the hand of God in the birth of a child instead of seeing the virgin mary in some ink splot I believe we would have fewer wars and less killing. As long as  people are going to see God's handy work in a potato and not in each other we are destine for more of the same. A violent and cruel world.

After watching the birth of my child I not only want to believe in God, I need to believe in God. I need God now, more than ever before. I need God to watch over my child when I cannot.

They brought her to me. She was swaddled up and wearing a cap.

She quieted down as soon as I started talking. I think she recognizes my voice.

Not really sure what to say so I took this opportunity to introduce myself.

“Hi Sweetie. I’m your dad”  and the thought hits me, I'm someone dad now.

It’s more than I can take. More tears. I feel a stronger sense of love than I have ever felt all my life. It felt like an explosion of Love. An eruption. It was Cataclysmic. Profound, to say the least. I wanted to hug everybody in the room and tell them I Love them. I wanted everyone to know how much I Love them. This event bonded us. I felt us bonded in Love. It was extraordinary. It was an extraordinary experience. They were extraordinary people. My wife was extraordinary. Most of all, I now have an extraordinary child.

With my daughter in my arms I closed my eyes and began to pray to a God I now need. 

“Please God, please watch out over her. Please keep her safe when I cannot. I would gladly sacrifice any and all Love and Light you have for me if you would only give that Love and Light to my daughter. Turn your back on me. It's OK. I'm prepared to go it alone from now on".

This is the easiest decision I ever made.

I get it. I'm not a complete idiot. It’s no longer about me. From now on it’s about her.

"Please God, keep her safe when I cannot.

Please God.

Please”

While in prayer one of the nurses asked for my daughter.

“Why. What do you have to do”?

I wanted to keep her in my arms. I wanted to keep staring at her. I had this odd concern they would switch her with another baby. I remember thinking, worrying, if she leaves without me right now and switched with another baby I do not know if I would recognize her.

I’m not letting her go.

“No. I’m not letting my daughter out of my sight right now.”

I want this face to burn deep into my mind.

The nurse instructed the need to take her to her next destination. It’s all part of the process.

“Lead the way”. I said.

“I will follow with my daughter in my arms.”

My gaze convinced her I was one hundred percent serious.

The nurse nodded and said with a smile:

“Follow me Dad”

They took us to another room where Brittany was weighed and measured. I can’t recall her birth weight, I think it was eight pounds seven ounces. She was nineteen inches long and had mild jaundice. After weighing and measuring they put my daughter in some sort of incubator because of the jaundice. I think they had a special light in the incubator to help remedy this.

After placing Brittany into the incubator and told she would need to stay in her for a couple of hours I realized I'd completely forgotten about Karen. I wonder where Karen is? I wonder how she’s doing?

The last thing I saw the doctor doing to Karen was emptying big pictures filled with saline solution into her abdomen. They dumped it in then suck the fluid out with some sort of a vacuum. It was amazing.

I was turned around at that point not knowing where to go. I had to secure the aid of a nurse in order to find my wife.

I found Karen in the recovery room. She was recovering.

I don't know how much time passed, maybe a couple of hours. We were in the recovery room together when they brought Brittany in and put her in Karen's arms for the first time.

As Karen held Brittany I could not help from thinking about all the pain I witnessed. All those contractions. All those pain filled contractions hour after hour.

I felt compelled to ask Karen about the pain. Her response:

"It wasn't that bad"


It was as if having Brittany in her arms that made the memories of the pain fade away.

Remarkable.


TMC Tucson Medical Center. They had an amazing staff of truly wonderful people.

B38) Driving my first load of weed...

"They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." -- Benjamin Franklin, Historical Review of Pennsylvania (1759)


Salina Kansas: My first trip from Tucson to Chicago with a trunk full of weed. I was in a vehicle provided by a drive-away service, it was a Cutlass Supreme Brougham. I filled the trunk with one hundred fifty pounds of some high-grade Mexican sensomia and was bound for Chicago

Day one:
I got off to a late start and only made it to Durango Colorado where I got a room for the night.

When driving loads of weed the most advisable route was the northern route, up through Colorado then East to Chicago. The southern route took you through New Mexico and Texas. In those state the police could pull you over and search your vehicle if you fit a profile. Late model car, one driver, out of state plates. Something to that effect. If you drive through those states you stand the chance of hearing:

“Step out of the vehicle sir and Open the trunk”

Day two:

9:00pm. Sixty miles from Salina Kansas. The sun just went down. I’m tired. I’d been driving for twelve hours. I’ll be staying in Salina Kansas for the night.

Is there ever a good time for a flat tire? No and that’s what happened. The right rear tire flattened. I was able to get on the shoulder without incident.

Now there’s a problem, a real problem. I have no idea if there’s a spare tire. If there is a spare it’s in the trunk under the weed. I must have had a dozen bricks, all shapes and sizes in the truck, five pound bricks and twenty pound bricks. It was packed in the trunk like a puzzle.

It’s dark out and I have no flashlight. This is so unprofessional. It's like you don't know what you are doing and you want to get caught! 

I was standing next to the car thinking, should I or shouldn’t I?

Should I or shouldn't I? Should I pull the weed out of the trunk in an effort to get at the spare tire and jack?

“Yes, I should”

Once I decided to go for the tire and jack I began moving as quickly as possible. I pulled the bricks out and stacked them on the road next to the car. I pulled out the spare and jack. Then I loaded the bricks back into the trunk. As I closed the trunk a state trooper pulled up behind me.

OMG

when I saw the headlights I did an immediate about face. When I saw it was a state trooper I clasped my hand together as if in thanks and prayer.

Those big beautiful headlights made my day. Never mind the fact they are attached to a state troopers vehicle. I needed light. He brought the light.

I went immediately to the drivers window to speak to the trooper:

“Please don’t leave. I can’t see what I’m doing in the dark. Please don't leave”

I asked the officer.

“Can you please stay here until I get the tire changed. Please”?

He said he didn’t know if that was possible so I ran to my car and began changing the tire as fast as I could.  As I changed the tire I began thinking about what to do with the flat? I can't open the trunk with the trooper right behind me.

When I finished changing the tire I threw the flat and the jack into the backseat then went to thank the trooper for the use of his headlights.

After that he drove off. None the wiser. 

Whew…

"Note to self. When driving loads of marijuana always make sure you have a spare tire and access to it"

B37) Father's Day

Every Father's Day in prison was pure torment. That was the purpose for prison, torment. Or was it rehabilitation? I, myself, was never on the receiving end of any state sponsored "rehabilitation" nor did I see any state sponsored rehabilitation occurring. I saw people warehoused. I saw them treated without dignity and inhumanely. As a result of their environment I saw people degenerate to subhuman levels. The state calls it "Justice".

I felt contempt when the offer would come around for gifts and tokens to be sent to my kid via a  charity with good intentions. As kind as the offer was I never partook. It hurt too much. Instead of this being a kind a noble jesture (which it absolutely was), it felt like reality spitting in my face then kicking me in the balls.

"Get away from me"

I do not want nor do I need to be reminded I cannot provide for my child on this holiday.


After coming home from prison I thought creating a resume of respectability would help repair the damage I did by leaving my daughter. I thought if other respected me, maybe she would? I no longer think that. That was a false premise. My resume had nothing to do with it. I was covered with so much guilt, shame and contempt it was difficult to think straight. All my pain revolved around failing as a father and husband.

I have no fond memories of Father's Day. The whole of my life, not one memorable Father's Day. Whatever festivities I participated in for my father, my step father or as a father were gratuitous at best. My heart was never in it for all the obvious reasons.

What was there to honor about my dad? Nothing

What is there for my daughter to honor about me? Nothing.

Today I am reminded of my failure as a father. It’s not difficult to accept. It's not difficult to understand. This is the life I created.

I have no vocabulary for excuses.

It's simply not possible to spend six years in prison away from my daughter and expect to feel worthy of celebration on this day. No. This is a day to pass as quickly as possible without incident.

Same goes for my birthday. No a fucking word do I want uttered!

There are times I wish I had a father worthy of accolades on this day. I wish I had a father that inspired me in positive ways instead having a father that inspired me in negative ways. I wish I could have been the kind of son that when honored with accomplishments and awards, I would give a speech thanking my father for helping and leading me to become the man I am.

It's difficult to miss what you never knew or had. This notion have birth to Alfred Lord Tennyson's famous quote ...English poet (1809 - 1892)

"Tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all"

I am hopeful things will evolve to a more favorable and healthy outcome for all concerned.

Hope springs eternal...

B36) Marijuana trafficker busted with suitcase full of cocaine?

Atlanta Airport

Marijuana trafficker busted at airport with suitcase full of cocaine? 

Early on I had a cellmate that was a trafficker, like me. We were cellmates for only a couple of weeks. I think his name was Frank. Frank had an unusual story. He got busted in Atlanta, at the airport. He was flying from Florida to Atlanta with a suitcase full of weed.

While Frank was out on bond he was busted again in Arizona. In phoenix. Just like me.

After landing at the Atlanta Airport Frank headed to the luggage carousel like everyone else. Things looked OK but things did not feel OK. He felt eyes on him, like he was a target. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up. Something was not right. There was nothing overtly wrong or out of place but something was definitely amiss.

As he headed towards the luggage carousel Frank slowed his pace. Walking slower would give him more time. He wanted more time. He needed more time to figure this out.

Unfortunately he was out of time.

(Time to call an audible)

Frank stood there at the luggage carousel thinking. What should he do? Should he do an about face, march off and abandon his suitcase full of marijuana? No. He did not like that thought. He thought, what if there is nothing wrong and I'm just experiencing a severe case of paranoia? Is this possible? Am I just paranoid?

He was determined not to be scared off. Frank decided to accidental pick someone else's suitcase and attempt to leave. If he could get outside the airport with another suitcase that would mean all was well. He would go back in the airport and correct the "accidental" mistake.

Frank picked up another passenger's suitcase then began walking away. Before he could take two steps they grabbed him. Undercover cops. All the sudden police were everywhere. They grabbed him, cuffed him then took him and his suitcase to a holding room within the airport. Frank was arrested. 

It was not good. This was not a good situation. With someone another passenger's suit suitcase in their hands he was out of danger for the moment but his suitcase was still out there. He was certain his suitcase would eventually be retrieved and the situation would worse into his nightmare scenario.   

The cops opened the suitcase and what did they find? Dirty underwear? No. Did they find a shaving kit with supplies. No.

When the suitcase was opened they found twenty five pounds of cocaine inside.

WTF?

Talk about your bad days.

B35) Arriving with weed in my luggage

September 1984 Midnight

Sky Harbor International Airport. Flying from phoenix to Chicago with four suitcases full of marijuana. This is a nice flight to take. Leaving at midnight the plane is often sparsely populated. When arriving into chicago’s ohare airport (weather permitting) you can see the sunrise when landing. It’s beautiful.

I began to spend so much time on airplanes, once I heard the jet engines begin to howl and scream I fell into a trance and drifted off to sleep.

It didn’t take but a couple of months before I was trying to cram eighty pounds or more into my luggage. You need four suitcases for eighty pounds if you are lucky. That looks odd. One man checking four very heavy suitcases. I paid in cash which made it even odder. I was wearing a full length leather coat topped off with my Indiana Jones hat.

Did I look like a drug dealer or what?

In actuality I was the perfect passenger. I paid in cash and wanted nothing more than a calm quiet flight. I wanted to fit in. to be seen but not seen. To blend in. I did not want to be remembered for any reason. Eventually I began to dressed like a businessman and carried the wall street journal under my arm. If I didn't have the Wall Street Journal then I was a magazine, GQ or Esquire.

(On one flight I sat next to a federal judge and his wife. The judge and I had a nice conversation during the flight. He had his private pilots license. We chatted up a storm, I even bought him a drink.  After I found out the man was a Federal Judge I became aware I was wearing a nicer suit than he. My job paid better.

Reagan appointed this guy. A brilliant judicial mind so he was smart. But the judge was not smart enough to know not to stick his hand under a lawn mower while it was running. The brilliant legal mind was missing a few digits on his right hand (if memory serves). It looked painful)

After handing me a ticket with boarding pass I was told the sky cab would be needed to take my luggage to the gate. I missed the opportunity of checking my bag at the ticket counter. This never happened before.

Let this be reason number one to be on time!

A sky cab loaded my suitcases onto his cart and we proceeded to the boarding area. I had a smile painted on my face with a weighty look of concern in my eyes. This was going to be interesting.
At the gate a baggage handler would come get my bags and load them into the cargo hold. I felt trapped in the circumstance I so careless created. I had only one way to go and that was forward.

What worried me was the xray machine between us and the gate. They were going to xray my luggage.

At the security checkpoint my luggage was placed on the conveyer belt and fed into the xray machine. I took the opportunity to sidle up next to the robust woman staring at the monitor attached to the x-ray machine.

I needed to see it.

I wanted to see it.

What a grand opportunity to see what weed looks like in a suitcase with the aid of the xray machine. How often will this opportunity present itself?

As each suitcase passed through the machine it could not have been more obvious I had weed in my luggage. Weed or coke. Bale shaped objects. It was definitely something other than clothes. I stood there looking in disbelief. Why was she not sounding the alarm?

The security official could not have looked more disinterested. I loved her for that!

I think the Jedi mind trick I played on her worked to perfection.

“Everything looks fine”

“Have a nice flight sir”.

I do feel the force. Thank you obi wan Kenobi.

I don’t recall if I tipped the sky cab or not. I hope I did. Those fucking bags were heavy.
This experience put me off flying with weed. I never wanted to go through this again. I needed a car. It was time to start driving loads. From here on out I’m driving the loads.

It was a beautiful sunrise as we landed. Everything went fine when I arrived to Chicago. I hopped in a cab and headed for streamwood, IL. Three pieces of luggage in the taxi trunk and one in the backseat with me. 

I arrived to DT’s house in streamwood around 7:00am. We got all the suitcases in the house and started weighing the weed. I wanted to smoke a joint and DT had no rolling papers so we hopped in his car and headed to the seven eleven.

We were not gone long.
On our way back to DT’s house, when we turned the corner we saw four Streamwood police cars parked in front of his house. There were many uniformed officers on the lawn, walking around the house.

We pulled into a strangers driveway, backed out and went back to the 7-11 to call DT’s wife.
She answered the phone as if nothing was wrong because nothing was wrong.

How can that be?

DT told her to look out front. With eighty pounds spilled out all over DT’s living room floor his wife opened the front door and a cop was right there.

She stepped outside and asked the officer what was going on?

As it turned out the neighbors were robbed during the night. They woke up with their TV, stereo and a few other items gone. Someone broke in as robbed them as they slept. How wild is that?

The cops were outside looking for whatever? Footprints. Evidence of the theift.

Everything was fine. We went back to the house and back to bagging eighty pounds of weed into one pound  zip lock bags. The cops were right outside as we worked.

B34) August 1984 Tucson Int. AP

August 1984. Tucson International Airport
This was a time when you needed no ID to purchase an airline ticket.

I was on a flight bound for Phoenix then chicago. I often flew under the name Bill Church, it was my alias.  Why Bill Church? It's a great name on so many levels.

First off Bill. Bill is a great name. Bill is your friend. Bill is someone you want to know.  Bills are good, there are dollar bills and we all like those. It's a strong name but not too strong.

Bill
Billy boy
The Billster
Bill-o-matic
Mr. Bill

See what I mean.


Now for Church; What more can I say about this word and this name. POSITIVE connentations all over the place. I often told people my father was a preacher.

Bill Church is someone you want to trust.

Bill Church is someone you need to trust.

People always say "That Bill Church sure is a nice guy"

Thank you obi wan!

An announcement came over the PA system. They were calling me off the plane. I forgot who I was. It took several announcement before I realized they were talking about me. I was nervous and ennamered by the fact the U of A Hockey team was on board. It was kind of cool.

“Bill church please come to the front of the aircraft”

Sixty seconds later:

“Bill church please come to the front of the aircraft”

Sixty seconds later:

“Bill church, in seat 21C. please come to the front of the aircraft”

Sixty seconds later:

“Bill church, in seat 21C, gentleman wearing tan slacks and brown sport coast with a mustache. please come to the front of the aircraft”

The flight attendant was thinking

"Does this idiot not even know his own name"?

When it finally hit me they were calling for me I had to fight instant panic. Everyone was looking at me and looking annoyed for the lack of my response during numerous annoucements.

I was unable to explain I had forty pounds of weed in my luggage and was very nervous. Sorry, I forgot the fake name I was using. It wasn't something I could blurt out to everyone.

Situation: I’ve got forty pounds of weed in my luggage and I am being called off the plane.

This does not look good.

I got up and headed for the front of the plane where three flight attendants stood looking upset.

As I approached them I asked:

“Is there a problem”?

Apparently they took the incorrect portion of my ticket and needed to correct the error.

I went back to my seat and ordered a double vodka. This was going to be a long fucking flight.

B33) They got busted...

Streamwood, 1985

Behind my back packages were shipped. They were sent to DJ (Diamond Jim). I was cut out of the loop. Kicked out of the car. Betrayed. They sent three packages up from Tucson. One to DT’s townhouse, one to the office his wife worked at and one to the shipper’s family in Elgin.

As it turned out the girl that shipped the packages did something to bring suspicion upon the packages.

UPS delivered one of the package to DT’s home in Streamwood, IL. DT was home alone. First off there were two UPS men to deliver one package. And they were too chatty. And they looked nervous and fidgety. And they answered questions that were never asked. I wish I could get more people like that at my poker table.

Though suspicious DT signed and took the package.

The package looked odd. It looked as if it had been opened after having been taped shut. He picked up the phone and called Tucson. Questions needed to be answered.

It was not good news. Tucson confirmed there was a problem. Package was never reopened prior to sending. Sealed once with only one kind of tape.

DT hung the phone up.

Back in the mid eighties the Streamwood police department had the big RV they used on stakeouts parked out in front of the police station. The stakeout vehicle was on display for all to see. They broadcast their stakeout RV vehicles. Everyone that drove by knew that RV at the police station.

DT peeked through the front window and spotted the Streamwood police department’s RV at one end of the block. At the other end of the block were two unmarked cruisers.

OMG

They are sitting out there waiting for traffic to start showing up. Probably looking to bust people as they leave.

The situation was bad. The package had about twenty five pounds. DT had 40K or 50K in cash on hand and paperwork with names and numbers along with accounting details for his operation.

DT filled his brief case with paperwork and money. He carefully opened the window on the side of the house slid into the bushes. He belly crawled from the bushes along side the house to the bushes behind the house. From there he crawled down along the tracks then over the tracks and into a corn field. He disappeared into a Field of Dreams.

In short, he got away.

The cops wait about two hours before they did their big move and raided DT’s house.

Later DT admitted to regretting not going back for the weed. How I wish that would have happened. That would of really pissed them off. To deliver 25lbs of high quality mexician sinsemilla and loose it to the “perp”. That would have been perfect.
It’s true that DT eventually turned himself in after an arrest warrant was issued.

Had he gone back and grabbed the weed they would have dropped the case for lack of evidence. It sure would have been nice if the story ended that way.