Friday, May 19, 2023
Thursday, May 18, 2023
Monday, April 3, 2023
SATURDAY NITE SPECIAL
SATURDAY NITE SPECIALIt was mid-afternoon on Christmas eve, and I found myself engulfed in a haze of despair. The weight of grief hung heavy in the air as I desperately sought solace in unhealthy coping mechanisms. Throughout the day, I had been snorting lines of crushed OxyContin, its numbing effect offered temporary relief from the pain that consumed me. Tomorrow would mark the first holiday without my beloved wife, Michelle, and the mere thought of the day without her was unbearable.
As I struggled to distract myself from the impending emptiness, my mind turned to the looming challenges that awaited me in the new year. The Court had scheduled two of my high-profile cases for trial, one after the other at the beginning of the year. The gravity of these cases was not lost on me. I knew they would demand both my complete attention and full dedication.
To maintain a semblance of normalcy, I deliberately set meetings with the clients criminally charged in these matters for today. They were well aware of their cases' urgency, which is why they had agreed to pay cash. By securing their retainers now, I hoped to alleviate some of the mounting financial burdens accompanying the holiday season. These included paying my employees their holiday bonuses and taking care of some of my other financial responsibilities, including buying presents for Anthony and Kyera. Michelle and I loved to spoil our children. However, until today, I could buy a single gift for one of them without Michelle by my side. I hoped limiting my time for shopping to my way home would assure I would get it all done.
There was no doubt Michelle was my perfect match. Living seemed worthless without her. The thought of doing so haunted me, making the temptation to retrieve my .380 semi-automatic pistol seem natural and not merely a fantasy. So much so I could almost feel the way the gun pinched my spine when I carried it tucked tightly between my belt and lower back. From there, it was one swift loop around my body with my right hand to draw the weapon to my temple, squeeze the trigger, and watch everything go black as I followed Michelle into the abyss.
Nevertheless, there was much more than myself to consider. The responsibility of making baby Anthony and his 8-year-old sister Kyera orphans was something I could never do. Allowing my legacy to go from provider and protector to executioner stopped this sick fantasy.
I wiped the glass clean of OxyContin residue using my index finger and rubbed it across my gums. Then I slid the mirror back into the top drawer of my desk and crossed the room to the window, looking down on Merrimack Street. There, I caught sight of my next client leaving Bank of America. Halfway across the street, he lost his footing and almost fell. At the last second, he caught his balance, looked up, spotted me in the second-story window, and waved. I returned the gesture and headed to the reception area to greet him.
My initial reaction was to give him the benefit of the doubt for his near fall. He had slipped on some black ice in the crosswalk for all I knew. I was familiar with what it was like to have a substance abuse issue after they prescribed me painkillers following my first near-fatal accident. I needed to explore the facts closer before I offered him consideration one way or the other. Like any other client, he would get my best representation regardless of what I felt about his guilt or innocence. That's what I did; I won cases. The beauty of our legal system is that the government must prove every element of every offense. To the best of my ability, I raise reasonable doubt against the details of those charges within the boundaries of ethics. The government proves its case beyond a reasonable doubt, or it does not. In the latter case, my client, a free man or woman, goes home.
Approximately a minute later, I greeted my client at the front door and escorted him to my office. Once we'd sat on either side of my desk, he handed me a bank envelope marked "$7,500.00," which I placed in my top desk drawer. There was no need to count its contents; I was confident it held every dollar he owed on the flat fee we'd agreed upon. Up to this point in the day, nothing remarkable had happened, a fact that, before the day's end, would change drastically.
Ordinarily, I would never work the day before Christmas. This year I was trying to keep my mind and thoughts occupied, and let's face it; nothing was ordinary about a year that you wake Father's Day morning to find your previously healthy 28-year-old wife lying next to you having suffered a sudden brain aneurysm that sent blood streaming from her nose and ear, soaking the sheets inches away.
In 1999, I had never heard of OxyContin. By 2003, the media was calling it "Hillbilly Heroin," and it was fast becoming an epidemic. I had never heard of a cerebral aneurysm either. Now every person who'd learned Michelle's cause of death either professed to be an expert on the subject or knew half a dozen people who had suffered the same fate. The irony was my doctors were certain I would not survive being ejected from my truck into oncoming traffic and struck by a passing vehicle when I tried to stand up. For seven months Michelle nursed me back to health before God made the decision he needed her in heaven more than we did on earth. My parents raised me to have strong religious and spiritual beliefs. However, after Father's Day 2002, the almighty began to mean less to me than Sant Claus.
“How are the kids doing" my client commented towards the picture of Kyera holding baby Anthony on the wall to his left. "How are they doing now that their mother is dead," is what he meant. "Good. My family is an enormous help; that picture was from last year," I said before turning around the 8 x 10 frame on the desk and telling him, “This one is more recent.” “Wow, they're getting big,” he responded before lowering his gaze to the inscription and mouthing the words: "World's Best Daddy."
As my client turned in his seat to survey the room, he said, "God bless them ... well, I have to say, the office looks great. I had forgotten the last time he was here, we’d finished renovations, and Michelle was decorating. “Yes, it does, I replied. Then, while he turned back, I noticed him look towards the bar we’d set up in the corner for post-trial victory celebrations. Offering him a drink never entered my mind. His case was nearly a vehicular homicide where the young couple in the other car ended up in intensive care. A “No Vacancy” sign flashed over my conscience; the last thing this fucking guy needed was a drink, I told myself. With the faint odor of an alcoholic beverage having drifted my way the entire time we spoke, I felt safe assuming there was no black ice across the street, or at least it was not the sole cause of his near fall.
During the next hour and fifteen minutes, we reviewed his case and set a time to meet again with his witnesses before the trial. Then he departed, but not before he gazed over at the bar again. This time I completely ignored his silent plea. I knew exactly how he felt, but at this point, I needed to get myself ready to meet my last client of the day.
After licking off the green time-release coating, I dried the now-white pill with an unused Dunkin' Donut napkin. I then sifted the tablet back and forth into a fine powder between my thumb and a screen tea bag strainer. This was my preferred method of pulverization. Next, I pulled out my ID and stretched the pile into one long line on the mirror before blasting half up each nostril with a snipped plastic straw. Sinking back in my leather chair, I tilted my head back, allowing the OxyContin to drip down my throat and take hold. While waiting, I picked up the envelope and thumbed through its contents while thinking: The last client of the day would arrive any minute with his father and an additional $25K retainer.
I had counted ruffly halfway through the stack when a knock came at the front door. This was surprising because clients knew I had an open-door policy during office hours. Quickly I returned the envelope to my desk and hurried out front. After pulling open the door I was caught off guard by a man who extended right his hand and introduced himself as John Sullivan. "I hope this isn't a bad time," he began, “but I have a criminal case charging me with second offense OUI that I would like to retain you on." Giving John the once over, I was shocked by the fact that it was only his second.
I put Mr. Sullivan somewhere around age fifty, slim, balding, with a ruddy complexion. His navy blue parka ripped Levis, and Converse sneakers were worn but not excessively, and still, he looked "skeevy," a result made inescapable by the mishmash of rotting, jagged teeth and bleeding gums that filled his mouth. I concluded at some point in the previous twelve hours, John consumed alcohol, crack cocaine or meth, heroin, and possibly all of the above. Because of his appearance, I thought of shoving him straight back out the door from whence he came, but my eyes were drawn To the Bank of America envelope he held in his left hand.
"If the case is in Lowell District Court, I'll need a retainer before I can file an appearance," I informed John in an apologetic tone that I’m sure sounded as if I already assumed he could not afford my services. To my surprise John burst into a vulgar grin stating; "Will two thousand get us started?" He said; While raising the envelope for added emphasis. Hiding my surprise behind a grin of my own I offered him an outstretched arm leading the way up to my office.
John's demeanor was astonishing. Not only did he speak with remarkable speed and clarity, but there was an undeniable surge of energy emanating from what I assumed was Rip Van Winkle-like amounts of rest or copious amounts of amphetamines. It was as if his nerves were on fire, fueling endless enthusiasm. After all, it was Christmas Eve, just after 4:00 PM, and here he was, standing right in front of me without an appointment. It didn't only feel wrong; it was an unexpected deviation from the norm, an intrusion into a time of year when the world would usually slow down and breathe. Even more so this year because December 25th, 2002, fell on a Wednesday, making it an unofficial extra-extra-long weekend.
When I asked John for his arraignment date, he gave me a date for the second week in January without being specific. I did not let on how suspicious this was. If he had a date for arraignment, he would have come in with the paperwork or the date committed to memory, for only then would I know if I had a conflict or if I had to move another client’s case to accommodate him into my schedule. Still, he honestly may not have remembered the date for several reasons, and it was easy enough to get with one phone call. Still, I filed it as another reason to be cautious of him. The more things that presented themselves from John that didn’t add up, the more difficult it was to shake the feeling that his being here now was significant for some undisclosed reason.
The final thing about John that was unsettling was I was almost certain I had seen him somewhere before. He looked remarkably familiar to me but I could not put my finger on where or when I had previously seen him. Perhaps it was around town or in the courthouse. I may have even prosecuted him when I worked in the District Attorney's office. Wait… was that where I’d seen him? Rounding my desk, I sat in my chair. On the other side, John remained standing. Before I could offer him a seat, he reached into his jacket and in one smooth motion, drew a revolver from his breast pocket down to the bridge of my nose: "Give me the fucking money! All of it! Now!"
My bottom jaw dropped opened like a broken nutcracker, and my Bobblehead shook involuntarily as if I didn't know what he was talking about. "Cut the shit!" he continued, "I was behind a guy at the bank who took out seven and a half thousand dollars. Then,entered this building. On his way over I even saw him waive to you up in the window. I'm guessing he had an appointment and that money was to pay you! I waited in an alley across the street for him to leave and then I came straight here."
Until that point so much had gone on that the OxyContin hitting me in its usual manner had been delayed. But now, with John yelling and the barrel of the .38 inches from my forehead, the adrenaline surged into my bloodstream, joining the opiates to create a speedball that would have made John Belushi envious. My pulse raced, every hair stood on end, I felt completely out of my mind, and that’s when I realized something strange. I was not frozen out of fear but surprise at the gun’s striking resemblance to my father’s snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 Chief's Special.
“Come on, hurry up!” Spit flew off John's impatient, cracked lips as the gun shook in his hand. Although it was not long enough to actually “waive”. Independent of his hand it was only about five and a half inches long. I knew the weapon well; heavy enough to carry a threat; light enough for a grade-schooler to handle with ease.
Growing up, I left No square inch of our family home unexplored. The second my babysitter put me down for a nap and settled in to watch her daily dose of all my Children, I was off to the races. I would drag my mother's gold vanity chair across my parent's chocolate brown bedroom carpet, climb up to pull open my father's top Bureau drawer, grab the side arm, and return everything as it were.
It became apparent to me from the very first time I’d found his .38 that my father did not make use of gun safes or trigger locks. No, Dad's idea of firearm safety was keeping the five live rounds loose inside the blue and silver Smith & Wesson box the revolver came in.
Back in my room, I'd marvel at the cold steel in my hands. Pointing the gun made my little heart race. Peeking around corners to synchronize my mischief between television commercials was half the fun. And when the coast was clear, I’d take not only mock target practice but innocent hostages during bank stickups, armored car robberies, and stagecoach heists.
In First Grade, I brought a single bullet wrapped in a white handkerchief to school in my pant pocket. By this point, I’d found more ammunition and a cleaning kit in my father's closet next to his shine box. That summer between first and second grade I graduated to sneaking the banger into our neighborhood to play. While other kids were armed with their impotent toy guns I ran around in the clouds, Intoxicated by my powerful secret.
One day in fifth grade, I took the .38 to school to impress Diana Shaw. I carried it around all day in a black dress sock inside my book bag. Then I got after-school detention and showed it to no one. Everything turned out great regardless because Diana made out with me in a secret place I learned about from a kid who had transferred to a different school. I explained the location to Diana, and we rendezvoused there after detention. She thought it was romantic and dubbed it: “Our Spot” because she assumed I found it just for us. I didn’t care what she thought; It thrilled me to make out with a girl for the first time.
Of course, I had to be extra careful with the weapon and get it back without incident or even a scratch. But beyond the practical matters, I fully understood that it would ruin my life if I got caught. I loved to watch gangster movies growing up, and if I learned anything from them, it was that a secret was only safe if one person knew about it. So if taking a loaded gun to school posed such a risk, why do it? The answer was simple; I was constantly bullied.
In the same drawer, my Father kept his .38 handgun. Also held a new box of Marlboro Red cigarettes that he never opened. When I was young I will never forget there was about a month when Dad got bronchitis and could not smoke. He would be up coughing half the night for most of that time. When he finally recovered, he decided never to return to smoking and kept his word. Yet for over 40 years, the unopened box of Marlboro cigarettes sat in that drawer until the day he died. When asked why he did not throw them away, my Dad answered that he felt better having them there than not.
At one point in grammar school, my family moved to a larger house, and I moved to a different school. Being an awkward kid in a new school with no friends, was the recipe for getting bullied. On any day, Mark Rose, or Ed Curly, could be found pinning my shoulders to the dirt or cement and repeatedly
punching or slapping me in front of the other kids, who looked on and did nothing. I thank God that none of the beatings were so bad that I couldn't take them, and I would usually get up when a teacher came in the vicinity, brushed myself off, and actted like nothing was happening. Eventually, I was not the new kid anymore and learned to handle myself. But being bullied is terrible, and now I donate my time to speak to kids about it as much as possible. But as crazy as it may sound, that .38 became my trusted best friend. Luckily I never had to act on my fantasies but on days the bullying was extra hurtful, physically,mentally, or both I could always smile inside knowing, like my Dad, I'd rather have what I didn't need than need what I didn't have.
“Hurry up with the cash!” John's hysteria brought reality crashing straight back down on me. And the truth was he could have shot me, on purpose, or by mistake, at any second. Part of me was terrified while the rest of me knew that if I open the drawer and handed him the envelope he would likely leave. The wild card came when I saw that at some point John had flipped off the safety, pulled back the hammer, and placed his index finger over the trigger. Add to that his near-epileptic shaking, and my comfort level plummeted.
"Okay, man, take it easy. I don't know what you think you saw, but there's no money here. If there was, you could have it. I don't need any trouble." The jackhammer in my chest and the OxyContin surging through my veins drove me to my feet. "Listen, you're not going to shoot; we both know that. Pull the trigger, and you're getting nothing. It's Christmas Eve, for Christ's sake. The jewelry store downstairs is packed. Fire and so many people will converge upon this office to investigate that you'll never reach the street. But listen, I think I can make it worth your while. Why don't you sell me the gun?"
John's expression of awe at my suggestion was unforgettable. "Well, it fires, doesn't it?" I continued, “And it's not registered to you, right?" As I reached into my breast pocket, John yelled: “Don't fucking move!” Swinging his other hand up to the grip and widening his stance to show he meant business. I ignored him, pulled out my wallet, and started thumbing through the contents: “It looks in decent condition,” I said, “What do you want for it? I have eighty bucks here.”
You can never count on anyone arriving on time for an appointment but you would think things would proceed as planned when your life depended on it. Patiently, I had been waiting for my last client to arrive, and finally, he did. He was in his mid-twenties, a computer programmer who had gotten in over his head dealing weed with some Asian gang members. He arrived with his father, a heavy-set, black-haired, loud-mouthed Armenian guy. " Holy shit, there's nowhere to park!” I heard the father yell from the reception area. “I had my wife drop us off, I hope you’ll validate our parking ticket Tamagini!”
John who clearly thought office hours were over, mounted the front of my desk to stay out of their sight. I tried to grab hold of him but he stuffed the piece in his waistband and spun away from my grasp, and back out towards reception. He moved so fast that I never got a good look at him again. Near the door, my client was left standing next to his dad, who looked so much like Fred Flintstone that I caught my internal voice laughing to myself: “yabba dabba doo” at the sight of him!
Though my heart still pounded, I felt higher than ever. I knew I had to pull myself together; I did not want this client or his father to be scared away by John’s behavior and get the impression that this was the wrong area of town in case the client wanted to attend future meetings on his own. Then the father handed me a bank envelope, stating:“ That madman dropped this as he ran past me.” I took it, leaving the impression I would return it to John even though I was confident it contained nothing but scrap paper.
A review of my client and his Asian co-defendant’s case followed, but not before the father provided me with a larger manila envelope that I put aside for the moment. Then later, useing the money counter in the conference room I determine the retainer of $25,000 was accurately contained within as we had agreed.
We received a call from the client's mother during our case review. She wondered how our preparation was going and wanted to know if we would be much longer. She had just finished Christmas shopping and decided to park in front of my office instead of looking for a space in the garage. After spending over an hour preparing, we checked our calendars and decided when to meet next to prepare for the motion to suppress. After doing this, I wished everyone a happy holiday while walking my client and his father out to the reception area to see them off. Along the way, I assured them that I thought we had a good chance of prevailing on our motion to suppress the 700 lbs of marijuana seized on Co-defendant's cigarette boat, potentially removing the need for a trial.
With the work day officially over, I locked each door, turned off every light, and activated the security system before leaving the office. I would not be truthful if I didn’t acknowledge that John Sullivan was on my mind during this time. I chose to go down to the basement and out the back because this was the longest route to where my car was parked, also making it the least expected and safest route.
Often I pondered what John thought of my offer. I hope he understood that I was not just stalling but was genuinely interested in buying the gun. Unfortunately, my firearm were confiscated by the authorities during my arrest, and I was warned that possessing a firearm as a felon could result in a sentence of 25 years to life. If I had known this earlier, I would have been more persistent in acquiring John Sullivan’s unregistered handgun.
I also wondered how things would have turned out that day if I hadn't been so high. I even convinced myself things turned out well because I was. This way of thinking spread to other areas of my life, and before long, the kids always seemed happy, the cases kept coming back as wins, and the money was piling up, so I kept my dopamine receptors so polluted with narcotics there was no room for mourning or doubt. But who was I kidding? Could being doped up like a frigging elf make me a better father or a more cunning attorney? Could being high on OxyContin create a braver hostage and robbery victim? Or were John Sullivan And I both addicts wasted on the same drug that none of us can kick: Greed?
When I was first prescribed opiates, they were almost magic. They calmed my pain and quelled my anxiety. I would have stopped using them if I had performed terribly, but it was quite the opposite. I won cases no one, including myself, thought were possible to win. it would be a long difficult road before I would learn that it was actually insane to believe recreational drugs enhanced my daily life.
Later, it became just as easy to fool myself into believing that all the terrible things that happened to me were because of the drugs but none of that was true either. Greed Can actually be traced back to every poor decision and bad outcome that happened to me or I was involved in.
But where did the greed come from? After working so hard in school, at work, and on my relationships, I finally had what I felt was the perfect life. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was taken from me again, and it became just as easy to fool myself into thinking that all the terrible things that happened to me were because of drugs. But again, this was not true. The horrible things that happened came from choices I made. And the choices I made led to issues of entitlement and super optimism. And when all the things I had gained through hard work were taken, I was under the delusion that I could take them back by any means necessary and that it was all right to do so. But it wasn't. I'd come full circle because I was thinking like a criminal again. The difference is this time, I had been to prison, and now I had the skills I learned in the Residential Addiction Program (RDAP) to get my life back.
Which reminds me, I was wrong when I told you I had never seen John Sullivan again after Christmas Eve 2002, when he ran out of my office. Before I worked so hard to help others including myself get clean and maintain sobriety and stop this criminal thinking, actually I would catch a glimpse of John every now and then when I’d least expect it, looking back at me in the mirror.
To maintain a semblance of normalcy, I deliberately set meetings with the clients criminally charged in these matters for today. They were well aware of their cases' urgency, which is why they had agreed to pay cash. By securing their retainers now, I hoped to alleviate some of the mounting financial burdens accompanying the holiday season. These included paying my employees their holiday bonuses and taking care of some of my other financial responsibilities, including buying presents for Anthony and Kyera. Michelle and I loved to spoil our children. However, until today, I could buy a single gift for one of them without Michelle by my side. I hoped limiting my time for shopping to my way home would assure I would get it all done.
There was no doubt Michelle was my perfect match. Living seemed worthless without her. The thought of doing so haunted me, making the temptation to retrieve my .380 semi-automatic pistol seem natural and not merely a fantasy. So much so I could almost feel the way the gun pinched my spine when I carried it tucked tightly between my belt and lower back. From there, it was one swift loop around my body with my right hand to draw the weapon to my temple, squeeze the trigger, and watch everything go black as I followed Michelle into the abyss.
Nevertheless, there was much more than myself to consider. The responsibility of making baby Anthony and his 8-year-old sister Kyera orphans was something I could never do. Allowing my legacy to go from provider and protector to executioner stopped this sick fantasy.
I wiped the glass clean of OxyContin residue using my index finger and rubbed it across my gums. Then I slid the mirror back into the top drawer of my desk and crossed the room to the window, looking down on Merrimack Street. There, I caught sight of my next client leaving Bank of America. Halfway across the street, he lost his footing and almost fell. At the last second, he caught his balance, looked up, spotted me in the second-story window, and waved. I returned the gesture and headed to the reception area to greet him.
My initial reaction was to give him the benefit of the doubt for his near fall. He had slipped on some black ice in the crosswalk for all I knew. I was familiar with what it was like to have a substance abuse issue after they prescribed me painkillers following my first near-fatal accident. I needed to explore the facts closer before I offered him consideration one way or the other. Like any other client, he would get my best representation regardless of what I felt about his guilt or innocence. That's what I did; I won cases. The beauty of our legal system is that the government must prove every element of every offense. To the best of my ability, I raise reasonable doubt against the details of those charges within the boundaries of ethics. The government proves its case beyond a reasonable doubt, or it does not. In the latter case, my client, a free man or woman, goes home.
Approximately a minute later, I greeted my client at the front door and escorted him to my office. Once we'd sat on either side of my desk, he handed me a bank envelope marked "$7,500.00," which I placed in my top desk drawer. There was no need to count its contents; I was confident it held every dollar he owed on the flat fee we'd agreed upon. Up to this point in the day, nothing remarkable had happened, a fact that, before the day's end, would change drastically.
Ordinarily, I would never work the day before Christmas. This year I was trying to keep my mind and thoughts occupied, and let's face it; nothing was ordinary about a year that you wake Father's Day morning to find your previously healthy 28-year-old wife lying next to you having suffered a sudden brain aneurysm that sent blood streaming from her nose and ear, soaking the sheets inches away.
In 1999, I had never heard of OxyContin. By 2003, the media was calling it "Hillbilly Heroin," and it was fast becoming an epidemic. I had never heard of a cerebral aneurysm either. Now every person who'd learned Michelle's cause of death either professed to be an expert on the subject or knew half a dozen people who had suffered the same fate. The irony was my doctors were certain I would not survive being ejected from my truck into oncoming traffic and struck by a passing vehicle when I tried to stand up. For seven months Michelle nursed me back to health before God made the decision he needed her in heaven more than we did on earth. My parents raised me to have strong religious and spiritual beliefs. However, after Father's Day 2002, the almighty began to mean less to me than Sant Claus.
“How are the kids doing" my client commented towards the picture of Kyera holding baby Anthony on the wall to his left. "How are they doing now that their mother is dead," is what he meant. "Good. My family is an enormous help; that picture was from last year," I said before turning around the 8 x 10 frame on the desk and telling him, “This one is more recent.” “Wow, they're getting big,” he responded before lowering his gaze to the inscription and mouthing the words: "World's Best Daddy."
As my client turned in his seat to survey the room, he said, "God bless them ... well, I have to say, the office looks great. I had forgotten the last time he was here, we’d finished renovations, and Michelle was decorating. “Yes, it does, I replied. Then, while he turned back, I noticed him look towards the bar we’d set up in the corner for post-trial victory celebrations. Offering him a drink never entered my mind. His case was nearly a vehicular homicide where the young couple in the other car ended up in intensive care. A “No Vacancy” sign flashed over my conscience; the last thing this fucking guy needed was a drink, I told myself. With the faint odor of an alcoholic beverage having drifted my way the entire time we spoke, I felt safe assuming there was no black ice across the street, or at least it was not the sole cause of his near fall.
During the next hour and fifteen minutes, we reviewed his case and set a time to meet again with his witnesses before the trial. Then he departed, but not before he gazed over at the bar again. This time I completely ignored his silent plea. I knew exactly how he felt, but at this point, I needed to get myself ready to meet my last client of the day.
After licking off the green time-release coating, I dried the now-white pill with an unused Dunkin' Donut napkin. I then sifted the tablet back and forth into a fine powder between my thumb and a screen tea bag strainer. This was my preferred method of pulverization. Next, I pulled out my ID and stretched the pile into one long line on the mirror before blasting half up each nostril with a snipped plastic straw. Sinking back in my leather chair, I tilted my head back, allowing the OxyContin to drip down my throat and take hold. While waiting, I picked up the envelope and thumbed through its contents while thinking: The last client of the day would arrive any minute with his father and an additional $25K retainer.
I had counted ruffly halfway through the stack when a knock came at the front door. This was surprising because clients knew I had an open-door policy during office hours. Quickly I returned the envelope to my desk and hurried out front. After pulling open the door I was caught off guard by a man who extended right his hand and introduced himself as John Sullivan. "I hope this isn't a bad time," he began, “but I have a criminal case charging me with second offense OUI that I would like to retain you on." Giving John the once over, I was shocked by the fact that it was only his second.
I put Mr. Sullivan somewhere around age fifty, slim, balding, with a ruddy complexion. His navy blue parka ripped Levis, and Converse sneakers were worn but not excessively, and still, he looked "skeevy," a result made inescapable by the mishmash of rotting, jagged teeth and bleeding gums that filled his mouth. I concluded at some point in the previous twelve hours, John consumed alcohol, crack cocaine or meth, heroin, and possibly all of the above. Because of his appearance, I thought of shoving him straight back out the door from whence he came, but my eyes were drawn To the Bank of America envelope he held in his left hand.
"If the case is in Lowell District Court, I'll need a retainer before I can file an appearance," I informed John in an apologetic tone that I’m sure sounded as if I already assumed he could not afford my services. To my surprise John burst into a vulgar grin stating; "Will two thousand get us started?" He said; While raising the envelope for added emphasis. Hiding my surprise behind a grin of my own I offered him an outstretched arm leading the way up to my office.
John's demeanor was astonishing. Not only did he speak with remarkable speed and clarity, but there was an undeniable surge of energy emanating from what I assumed was Rip Van Winkle-like amounts of rest or copious amounts of amphetamines. It was as if his nerves were on fire, fueling endless enthusiasm. After all, it was Christmas Eve, just after 4:00 PM, and here he was, standing right in front of me without an appointment. It didn't only feel wrong; it was an unexpected deviation from the norm, an intrusion into a time of year when the world would usually slow down and breathe. Even more so this year because December 25th, 2002, fell on a Wednesday, making it an unofficial extra-extra-long weekend.
When I asked John for his arraignment date, he gave me a date for the second week in January without being specific. I did not let on how suspicious this was. If he had a date for arraignment, he would have come in with the paperwork or the date committed to memory, for only then would I know if I had a conflict or if I had to move another client’s case to accommodate him into my schedule. Still, he honestly may not have remembered the date for several reasons, and it was easy enough to get with one phone call. Still, I filed it as another reason to be cautious of him. The more things that presented themselves from John that didn’t add up, the more difficult it was to shake the feeling that his being here now was significant for some undisclosed reason.
The final thing about John that was unsettling was I was almost certain I had seen him somewhere before. He looked remarkably familiar to me but I could not put my finger on where or when I had previously seen him. Perhaps it was around town or in the courthouse. I may have even prosecuted him when I worked in the District Attorney's office. Wait… was that where I’d seen him? Rounding my desk, I sat in my chair. On the other side, John remained standing. Before I could offer him a seat, he reached into his jacket and in one smooth motion, drew a revolver from his breast pocket down to the bridge of my nose: "Give me the fucking money! All of it! Now!"
My bottom jaw dropped opened like a broken nutcracker, and my Bobblehead shook involuntarily as if I didn't know what he was talking about. "Cut the shit!" he continued, "I was behind a guy at the bank who took out seven and a half thousand dollars. Then,entered this building. On his way over I even saw him waive to you up in the window. I'm guessing he had an appointment and that money was to pay you! I waited in an alley across the street for him to leave and then I came straight here."
Until that point so much had gone on that the OxyContin hitting me in its usual manner had been delayed. But now, with John yelling and the barrel of the .38 inches from my forehead, the adrenaline surged into my bloodstream, joining the opiates to create a speedball that would have made John Belushi envious. My pulse raced, every hair stood on end, I felt completely out of my mind, and that’s when I realized something strange. I was not frozen out of fear but surprise at the gun’s striking resemblance to my father’s snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 Chief's Special.
“Come on, hurry up!” Spit flew off John's impatient, cracked lips as the gun shook in his hand. Although it was not long enough to actually “waive”. Independent of his hand it was only about five and a half inches long. I knew the weapon well; heavy enough to carry a threat; light enough for a grade-schooler to handle with ease.
Growing up, I left No square inch of our family home unexplored. The second my babysitter put me down for a nap and settled in to watch her daily dose of all my Children, I was off to the races. I would drag my mother's gold vanity chair across my parent's chocolate brown bedroom carpet, climb up to pull open my father's top Bureau drawer, grab the side arm, and return everything as it were.
It became apparent to me from the very first time I’d found his .38 that my father did not make use of gun safes or trigger locks. No, Dad's idea of firearm safety was keeping the five live rounds loose inside the blue and silver Smith & Wesson box the revolver came in.
Back in my room, I'd marvel at the cold steel in my hands. Pointing the gun made my little heart race. Peeking around corners to synchronize my mischief between television commercials was half the fun. And when the coast was clear, I’d take not only mock target practice but innocent hostages during bank stickups, armored car robberies, and stagecoach heists.
In First Grade, I brought a single bullet wrapped in a white handkerchief to school in my pant pocket. By this point, I’d found more ammunition and a cleaning kit in my father's closet next to his shine box. That summer between first and second grade I graduated to sneaking the banger into our neighborhood to play. While other kids were armed with their impotent toy guns I ran around in the clouds, Intoxicated by my powerful secret.
One day in fifth grade, I took the .38 to school to impress Diana Shaw. I carried it around all day in a black dress sock inside my book bag. Then I got after-school detention and showed it to no one. Everything turned out great regardless because Diana made out with me in a secret place I learned about from a kid who had transferred to a different school. I explained the location to Diana, and we rendezvoused there after detention. She thought it was romantic and dubbed it: “Our Spot” because she assumed I found it just for us. I didn’t care what she thought; It thrilled me to make out with a girl for the first time.
Of course, I had to be extra careful with the weapon and get it back without incident or even a scratch. But beyond the practical matters, I fully understood that it would ruin my life if I got caught. I loved to watch gangster movies growing up, and if I learned anything from them, it was that a secret was only safe if one person knew about it. So if taking a loaded gun to school posed such a risk, why do it? The answer was simple; I was constantly bullied.
In the same drawer, my Father kept his .38 handgun. Also held a new box of Marlboro Red cigarettes that he never opened. When I was young I will never forget there was about a month when Dad got bronchitis and could not smoke. He would be up coughing half the night for most of that time. When he finally recovered, he decided never to return to smoking and kept his word. Yet for over 40 years, the unopened box of Marlboro cigarettes sat in that drawer until the day he died. When asked why he did not throw them away, my Dad answered that he felt better having them there than not.
At one point in grammar school, my family moved to a larger house, and I moved to a different school. Being an awkward kid in a new school with no friends, was the recipe for getting bullied. On any day, Mark Rose, or Ed Curly, could be found pinning my shoulders to the dirt or cement and repeatedly
punching or slapping me in front of the other kids, who looked on and did nothing. I thank God that none of the beatings were so bad that I couldn't take them, and I would usually get up when a teacher came in the vicinity, brushed myself off, and actted like nothing was happening. Eventually, I was not the new kid anymore and learned to handle myself. But being bullied is terrible, and now I donate my time to speak to kids about it as much as possible. But as crazy as it may sound, that .38 became my trusted best friend. Luckily I never had to act on my fantasies but on days the bullying was extra hurtful, physically,mentally, or both I could always smile inside knowing, like my Dad, I'd rather have what I didn't need than need what I didn't have.
“Hurry up with the cash!” John's hysteria brought reality crashing straight back down on me. And the truth was he could have shot me, on purpose, or by mistake, at any second. Part of me was terrified while the rest of me knew that if I open the drawer and handed him the envelope he would likely leave. The wild card came when I saw that at some point John had flipped off the safety, pulled back the hammer, and placed his index finger over the trigger. Add to that his near-epileptic shaking, and my comfort level plummeted.
"Okay, man, take it easy. I don't know what you think you saw, but there's no money here. If there was, you could have it. I don't need any trouble." The jackhammer in my chest and the OxyContin surging through my veins drove me to my feet. "Listen, you're not going to shoot; we both know that. Pull the trigger, and you're getting nothing. It's Christmas Eve, for Christ's sake. The jewelry store downstairs is packed. Fire and so many people will converge upon this office to investigate that you'll never reach the street. But listen, I think I can make it worth your while. Why don't you sell me the gun?"
John's expression of awe at my suggestion was unforgettable. "Well, it fires, doesn't it?" I continued, “And it's not registered to you, right?" As I reached into my breast pocket, John yelled: “Don't fucking move!” Swinging his other hand up to the grip and widening his stance to show he meant business. I ignored him, pulled out my wallet, and started thumbing through the contents: “It looks in decent condition,” I said, “What do you want for it? I have eighty bucks here.”
You can never count on anyone arriving on time for an appointment but you would think things would proceed as planned when your life depended on it. Patiently, I had been waiting for my last client to arrive, and finally, he did. He was in his mid-twenties, a computer programmer who had gotten in over his head dealing weed with some Asian gang members. He arrived with his father, a heavy-set, black-haired, loud-mouthed Armenian guy. " Holy shit, there's nowhere to park!” I heard the father yell from the reception area. “I had my wife drop us off, I hope you’ll validate our parking ticket Tamagini!”
John who clearly thought office hours were over, mounted the front of my desk to stay out of their sight. I tried to grab hold of him but he stuffed the piece in his waistband and spun away from my grasp, and back out towards reception. He moved so fast that I never got a good look at him again. Near the door, my client was left standing next to his dad, who looked so much like Fred Flintstone that I caught my internal voice laughing to myself: “yabba dabba doo” at the sight of him!
Though my heart still pounded, I felt higher than ever. I knew I had to pull myself together; I did not want this client or his father to be scared away by John’s behavior and get the impression that this was the wrong area of town in case the client wanted to attend future meetings on his own. Then the father handed me a bank envelope, stating:“ That madman dropped this as he ran past me.” I took it, leaving the impression I would return it to John even though I was confident it contained nothing but scrap paper.
A review of my client and his Asian co-defendant’s case followed, but not before the father provided me with a larger manila envelope that I put aside for the moment. Then later, useing the money counter in the conference room I determine the retainer of $25,000 was accurately contained within as we had agreed.
We received a call from the client's mother during our case review. She wondered how our preparation was going and wanted to know if we would be much longer. She had just finished Christmas shopping and decided to park in front of my office instead of looking for a space in the garage. After spending over an hour preparing, we checked our calendars and decided when to meet next to prepare for the motion to suppress. After doing this, I wished everyone a happy holiday while walking my client and his father out to the reception area to see them off. Along the way, I assured them that I thought we had a good chance of prevailing on our motion to suppress the 700 lbs of marijuana seized on Co-defendant's cigarette boat, potentially removing the need for a trial.
With the work day officially over, I locked each door, turned off every light, and activated the security system before leaving the office. I would not be truthful if I didn’t acknowledge that John Sullivan was on my mind during this time. I chose to go down to the basement and out the back because this was the longest route to where my car was parked, also making it the least expected and safest route.
Often I pondered what John thought of my offer. I hope he understood that I was not just stalling but was genuinely interested in buying the gun. Unfortunately, my firearm were confiscated by the authorities during my arrest, and I was warned that possessing a firearm as a felon could result in a sentence of 25 years to life. If I had known this earlier, I would have been more persistent in acquiring John Sullivan’s unregistered handgun.
I also wondered how things would have turned out that day if I hadn't been so high. I even convinced myself things turned out well because I was. This way of thinking spread to other areas of my life, and before long, the kids always seemed happy, the cases kept coming back as wins, and the money was piling up, so I kept my dopamine receptors so polluted with narcotics there was no room for mourning or doubt. But who was I kidding? Could being doped up like a frigging elf make me a better father or a more cunning attorney? Could being high on OxyContin create a braver hostage and robbery victim? Or were John Sullivan And I both addicts wasted on the same drug that none of us can kick: Greed?
When I was first prescribed opiates, they were almost magic. They calmed my pain and quelled my anxiety. I would have stopped using them if I had performed terribly, but it was quite the opposite. I won cases no one, including myself, thought were possible to win. it would be a long difficult road before I would learn that it was actually insane to believe recreational drugs enhanced my daily life.
Later, it became just as easy to fool myself into believing that all the terrible things that happened to me were because of the drugs but none of that was true either. Greed Can actually be traced back to every poor decision and bad outcome that happened to me or I was involved in.
But where did the greed come from? After working so hard in school, at work, and on my relationships, I finally had what I felt was the perfect life. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was taken from me again, and it became just as easy to fool myself into thinking that all the terrible things that happened to me were because of drugs. But again, this was not true. The horrible things that happened came from choices I made. And the choices I made led to issues of entitlement and super optimism. And when all the things I had gained through hard work were taken, I was under the delusion that I could take them back by any means necessary and that it was all right to do so. But it wasn't. I'd come full circle because I was thinking like a criminal again. The difference is this time, I had been to prison, and now I had the skills I learned in the Residential Addiction Program (RDAP) to get my life back.
Which reminds me, I was wrong when I told you I had never seen John Sullivan again after Christmas Eve 2002, when he ran out of my office. Before I worked so hard to help others including myself get clean and maintain sobriety and stop this criminal thinking, actually I would catch a glimpse of John every now and then when I’d least expect it, looking back at me in the mirror.