Oh my God. Oh my God! That rat-bastard, Garnett. That stupid son-of-a-bitch. What the hell am I going to do? I can’t let them search. I’d have to be out of my fucking mind to consent to a warrantless search, even if the house was clean. No, they can’t search the house! For Christ’s sake, what am I going to do? What am I going to say?
“I’m sorry, I can’t let you search without a warrant.” I was scared shitless and I was going to pieces in my head, but I held my façade. I sat with my legs crossed, looking, I hoped, like a polite, concerned, responsible citizen who was simply asserting her fourth amendment rights.
“Ma’am, we can get a warrant if we need to, but we’d rather take care of this now. Just get it out of the way so we can let the concerned party know that there’s nothing to worry about. Will you let us take a quick look around?”
“I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t, in good consciousness, allow you to search without a warrant.”
The officers looked at one another, shifted their weight from foot to foot and cleared their throats.
“Ma’am,” the taller officer started again, “if we can do a quick search, just have a look around, it’ll only take a minute. We need to be able to let this party know that we checked out the situation and there’s nothing to worry about.”
Jesus, God! Get out! Get out of my house. I can’t keep this calm front much longer. Does this look like a meth lab? Do you see any glass containers in here or outside? Any tubing? Do you smell an odor that makes you suspect that what Crazy-boy has told you is true? NO! So quit bugging me and go away!
“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head, “I’m really not trying to make things difficult for you.”
“Ma’am, there have been three different complaints about a lab being run out of this domicile. We need to know that this isn’t the case.”
“Officer, I think I know what’s going on here. There’s a man, someone I used to be friends with, who’s been stalking me, and this is exactly something he would do. He was arrested last year for multiple counts of malicious stalking and harassment of his ex-wife, they got back together and now, apparently, I’m his new target. Can you tell me if all three reports were made by the same person?”
The second officer, who’d been quiet throughout the exchange, leafed through the papers in the file and said, in a low voice, to his partner, “It does look like all three of these...” I couldn’t hear the rest of what he said.
The one I’d been speaking with pushed the file closed, pulled himself to his full height and spoke to me in his OFFICIAL POLICE OFFICER VOICE. “Ma’am, there have been several reports of suspicious drug activity and, specifically, reports of a meth lab being run out of these premises and we need to search your house.”
I was terrified. Knowing you have rights is one thing. Asserting your rights is another. Asserting your rights when you are sitting in a house full of enough evidence for multiple felony convictions is an out of body experience. I felt as though I were watching myself on television. Shocked by what was happening and scared for the woman in the situation, I was in awe of her indignation. It was reality TV at its most base, and because it was happening to me I couldn’t turn the channel.
“Will you give us permission to search?”
“Officer,” You stupid dumb-fuck! How many times do you want me to tell you no? “Like I said, I’m really not trying to make things difficult.” (Uncross and re-cross legs) “I know you’re only doing your job, and you have no way of knowing who we are or what this is all about.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe! Jesus Christ, when the fuck are they going to leave? How long is this going to go on? What are they trying to do? Wear me down? Do you guys really think I’m going to change my mind?
It was then that Allan spoke up. “Kim, maybe we should let them...” and as I turned my head toward him, I knew from his abrupt silence that the expression on my face was the one I’d intended for him. I turned my attention back to the two policemen who were towering over Allan, my son and me as we sat on the couch in the living room. The sensation I had of slipping in and out of my own body/reality made me feel like I was going to vomit.
“Ma’am, you should listen to your husband. Just let us...”
“He’s not my husband.” Quit calling me ma’am, asshole! (Smile still in place? Check. Re-cross legs.) “I’m sorry. Unless you have a warrant, I can’t allow you to search.” Leave, leave, leave! Don’t you guys have any criminals to chase?
“But if we had a warrant, you would allow us to search, right?”
What am I? New?
“I don’t think I’d have a choice then, would I?”
They were there more then half an hour, rephrasing the question, trying to convince me to consent to a warrantless search. The more they pressed, the more indignant I felt. In my mind, the closet full of felonies no longer mattered. I was fighting the good fight. I was struggling to preserve my constitutional right as an American citizen to freedom from search and seizure. I was righteous.
If I was shaky when they were gone, Allan was epileptic. “Jesus, Kim! How did you do that? I can’t believe that! I can’t believe that happened. I can’t believe you did that. How did you do that?”
“Allan, calm down. I’m as freaked out as you are.”
“Yeah, but you stood up to them. Holy shit.”
“Well? Fuck. How stupid would I have to be to allow a search without a warrant?”
“I don’t think I could have done what you did.”
“Yes,” I said, “I noticed.”
“Sorry.”
After Andy was asleep, we talked about what happened and about the previous flyer incident.
“Kim, Garnett’s not going to stop and this is getting dangerous.”
“I know. I’m sorry about all this.”
“Don’t be sorry. I know it’s not your fault he’s crazy, but you have to do something. You have to stop.” He looked at me. “Or find a way to be more careful. It’s a good thing you didn’t have anything here today. Well, other than probably your personal stash, right?” I didn’t answer. “Right?” I gave him a look with my head cocked to one side that said, don’t be so naïve. “What the fuck? What do you have? What’s here?”
When I told him, he was pissed. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about, Allan. This isn’t news to you.”
“Yeah, but Kim, a quarter pound of meth? Why so much?”
“What are you talking about?”
“What the hell are you doing with that much meth?”
I shook my head, blinked and closed my gaping mouth before speaking again. “Allan, how much do you think I go through?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I guess now you have some idea.”
“You’re selling a quarter pound of meth a month?”
At first I though he was being deliberately obtuse, and it pissed me off, but I realized we hadn’t discussed the technical aspects of my business since he’d quit using, and that was a while ago.
“A month? Allan, look around you. How do you think I pay for all this? The house, the utilities and groceries. How do you think I paid your back child support and your delinquent medical bills from that emergency you had in California when you were still driving? How do you think I paid your outstanding tickets in Oregon and California and the fees to reinstate your license? Where do you think the money came from to bail you out of jail and hire Larry to represent you?”
I fell silent. I hadn’t meant to unleash on him like that, but once I started, it was hard to stop myself. He was quiet, too, but not because he felt bad, which is what I expected, but because he was mad.
“What the hell? How much do I owe you? Have you been keeping track?”
I wished I could take it all back. I didn’t want to go into everything. Not then. Not ever, if I could avoid it. I wanted money to be a non-issue. I wanted to take care of the man I loved until he was able to take care of us, and as far as I
was concerned, that was inherent in our relationship. At least it was in my sick, needy, addict mind. The truth was, I wanted him to depend on me so that he would need me, but I didn’t want to be taken advantage of.
I don’t know what I wanted.
“Yes. You told me to, remember?”
And I had been since that day back at my apartment when he told me to start keeping track of what I was sending with him on the road. And again, when I put up the earnest money for the house...and the bail...and the attorney...
He asked me to write it all down because he said that one day he’d pay me back for everything: MORTGAGE. ELECTRIC. GAS. BONDS. LEGAL. MISC. MEDICAL. HOME IMPROVEMENT. WATER/SEWER/TRASH. Everything was listed by date in its specified column in a separate ledger.
“Yeah, I remember. So how much is it?”
Oh, God. No, no. I don’t want to go here now. Can’t we just watch a movie and have sex and not think about the money? Let’s get high and everything will be okay.
“I don’t know right off the top of my head.”
“Well, go get your ledger.”
“Allan, I don’t want to do this right now. Let’s just go to bed, okay?”
“I’m not mad. I just want to know.”
No, Allan. You don’t.
But he said he did, so I told him. I was right. He didn’t want to know, because at that time, he owed me close to ten thousand dollars.
“How the hell do I owe you ten grand?”
“Allan...”
“That’s impossible. There’s no way it’s that much.”
I felt like a greedy bitch. I felt guilty that he owed me so much money. At the same time, I was mad at him for allowing the whole thing to happen and then ignore it until I brought it up. None of it made sense to me and I wished the subject had never come up. More than that, I wished the whole money issue would just go away. I was confused and hurt and mad.
“Here, look at the ledger. I kept track, just like you told me to. If there’s something you don’t agree with, I have no problem...”
“I don’t want to look at it.”
He walked out of the room and didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night. The next day, he acted as if nothing had happened, so I let it go.
He paid some of the money back. There were small payments here and there, between fifty and two-fifty. Since we moved in together, he’d paid sixteen hundred dollars toward his tab. The problem was that the tab kept growing.
It was clear to me that something needed to change. Too many things were happening and I was beginning to get nervous. Allan and Kilo had both been arrested for drug charges, and Garnett was involved in legal issues of his own. I knew enough to know that when people start going down, others follow like dominos. I was associated with all three men and one of them was playing a dangerous game using law enforcement to destroy his opponent: me.
Allan and I talked the day after the police came to the house and I decided that dramatic steps were needed to put an end to the crazy turn our lives were taking. There was only one thing I could think of to do. I had to get the drugs out of our home.
I needed an office.
Chapter 16
I found one downtown on the third floor of a lovely historic building. When the management asked what line of work I was in, I told them I was starting a gift basket business. I don’t remember exactly why, other than I’d been passing time in craft stores and floral shops spending money on pretty things that I didn’t need.
I had a theory that hiding in plain sight was the best way to go about the business of selling drugs, and in a building filled with four floors of offices for small businesses and lawyers, I felt safe. The Idaho A.C.L.U. was one door away from mine. Maintaining the appearance of a legitimate gift basket business was easy. With all the drug money coming in, I kept UPS busy delivering baskets, shredded paper, ribbon, dried flowers, greenery, bath products, gourmet chocolates and exotic foods from a dozen wholesale companies I set up accounts with. I hung a sign on the door beneath a hand-made wreath, lush with eucalyptus, cinnamon pinecones and dried roses.
One of my customers, a man who worked at Hewlett-Packard, had a three hundred dollar a week meth habit that he hid from his wife. After normal business hours, he brought me stacks of brand new ink cartridges that I listed and sold on E-Bay. That was how he covered his tab. Shipping out the cartridges put the finishing touch I was looking for on the gift basket business, so it worked out nicely for us both.
I had a state seller’s permit and a tax I.D. number. I filed and paid taxes each month on nonexistent sales for the gift basket business. Paying some taxes made me feel more like a decent citizen. Again, there were times when the line between the legitimate and illegitimate would blur and I would forget that it was all a front for what I was really doing, which was selling meth. I did actually make some baskets for friends. I was good at it and enjoyed making them, but the money was nowhere near what I was already making. Once in awhile, I’d think how nice it would be if Allan were able to take care of us long enough for me to really give it a shot making baskets, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen.
The office was five hundred square feet and housed my computer, a desk and two long tables laden with basket making supplies. Foam, paper shred, glue guns, basket sticks, glue dots, tags and ribbon were strewn about giving the place a busy and productive ambiance. The office smelled heavenly thanks to the flowers, candles, potpourri and cinnamon scented pine cones, so I had no worries about smoking meth there. But just in case, I had an air purifier that ran constantly, and I would blow the smoke into it so it wouldn’t drift through the air ducts. The only windows I had in my third floor office were directly across from the elevator overlooking the arboretum in the center of the building. I kept the blinds partially open to maintain an appearance of normalcy; the worktables, boxes and baskets strategically placed to allow me the privacy I needed to smoke.
Sometimes, during the day, I would allow my boys to visit me there and pick up what they needed with the caveat that they be nicely dressed and didn’t look all twacked out. Most of the time, if I wasn’t visiting them at their home, as I did with Shadoe, I met them in bars. There was one bar in particular, different from the one my brother and I played the machines at, where I’d been spending more time. I knew the staff and most of the regulars so I felt safe there. They opened at eleven a.m., and had free pool until two ‘o clock. Two or three days a week, I’d be there when they opened, playing pool by myself in the back corner, receiving visitors and trading cigarette packs for money, just as I’d done in Jackpot.
The downtown office became my home away from home. I was comfortable with the nightly cleaning service because I kept everything in the locked drawers of my desk: meth and sometimes pot, baggies for packaging, paraphernalia, my ledgers, a pocket scale for weighing up to an ounce and an electronic postal scale for everything else. I had everything I needed.
Craig called one afternoon from Mexico. I hadn’t seen him or been able to get in touch with him for a few days, so I was relieved to hear his voice. Something happened, he told me, and he’d fled to where he had family deep in the heart of the country. He wasn’t clear about the details of the situation except to say that I was safe. He hadn’t mentioned anyone else and the police hadn’t asked, so my name never came up. There was no link between Craig and myself.
He was calling, he said, because he always told me he’d take care of me if anything happened to him, and he intended to make good on that promise. He wanted to make certain that this was something I wanted to do before he set up the meeting.
“Of course,” I said. “I trust you.” He said he’d call back in a couple of days.
The meeting was arranged, and I met Craig’s connection, Mario, at a Mexican restaurant. I didn’t expect to be as nervous as I was, but as I approached the table, I could feel my pulse quicken. This was as big as it would ever get for me. I knew that at the time. Craig told me very little, but I knew enough to know how deep
I was about to go. Mario’s translator stood and motioned for me to slide into the booth next to him. He blocked my exit when he sat and it was as if the door between the rest of the world and me closed for good.
Until then, everyone I’d worked with, each step of the way was someone I knew. I didn’t know either of these men and the one I would be dealing with spoke no English.
They were already eating and I declined their offer of lunch. I sipped water while they quietly finished their meal, conversing with each other in Spanish. When the plates were cleared, I watched Mario as he spoke to the man sitting next to me.
He was extremely handsome: smaller in stature than American men, as Mexicans tend to be, impeccably groomed, well dressed in a crew neck sweater and slacks. The only jewelry he wore was a simple gold chain of tasteful proportion. No rings, no bling, no flash. He was unassuming, polite and had devastating chocolate eyes. I thought he must be quite the ladies man.
The meeting was brief. Mario made little eye contact with me and his translator asked only a few generic conversational questions before bringing up the subject of the money I owed Craig.
“It’s fifteen hundred. He and I talked about it and I’ll be sending him money through Western Union whenever he asks me to until I’ve paid that balance.”
He spoke with Mario and then to me. “We need you to pay money now. To Mario. He’ll make sure Craig gets it.”
I hesitated only a moment before asking how much they wanted. I assumed they were somehow testing me. Craig trusted Mario with his life, and I trusted Craig. He’d set up the meeting and I knew he’d take responsibility if anything went wrong.
They walked me to my car, I gave them three hundred and fifty dollars, the translator told me they would be in touch and that was it. I didn’t know if I’d fucked up, if they’d ripped me off or if they simply didn’t like me. I had no way of knowing what was going on until Craig called again from Mexico.
Andy’s school called again. And again. And again. He began having accidents more than his usual couple of times per school year, and before long, they were happening at least once a week. I talked to his teacher who said she had no clue what was going on. On the off chance that the accidents were intentional so he could stay home and watch movies or play Mario, I grounded Andy from those on the days I had to pick him up. His teacher and I set up a schedule for him to go to the bathroom every two hours. Nothing helped.
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