I had to kill those suspicions.
“Carrie cops rock for me on S Street,” I said. “Check my shirt pocket.”
As he kept the gun pointed at my head, Big Man released his left hand and reached into my pocket. He fished out my crack pipe, held it close to his face, and eyeballed the gray residue caked inside the cylindrical stem. The res was confirmation of previous use. Crackhead credibility.
His face relaxed. Casually, he stuck the pipe behind his ear. He kept the gun pointed at my face. He needed a nudge.
“I’ve got money,” I said. “You can have it.”
Big Man nodded.
Slowly, I pulled out my wallet and opened it. He removed the two $20 bills inside, stepped back, lowered the gun, and pointed it at the door.
I was turning to leave when Big Man said something that stopped me cold.
“Say, you have a car?”
Without thinking, I nodded. Nice response. Here comes the carjacking.
“I know a place we can score good weight, but I got no way to get there. If you give me a ride, I’ll split it with you.”
It was an absurd invitation. For a heartbeat, I considered it.
“No, thanks,” I said.
I pivoted and raced down the stairs. By the time I hit the ignition and roared away from the curb, terror was morphing into elation.
The worst was over. It had to be. I was done with crack. I would stay away from it—and S Street—for good.
I stayed away from S Street for two days after my run-in with Big Man.
The Friday after Thanksgiving was the beginning of my weekend. By midafternoon I’d knocked back four rum and Cokes. I stood at my bay window and watched a gentle snowfall. I had $20 in my wallet. I was determined to make it last the entire weekend.
But I was drunk, on autopilot. I put on my coat and drove straight to S Street. The slingers were out in force, undeterred by the snow. I didn’t bother to check the street for cops. I lowered my window and made the buy from the first dealer to reach my car.
I’d met with my employee-assistance program counselor for the first time the day after Phil and Milton confronted me, a couple of weeks earlier. The counselor, a kindly middle-aged woman, had handed me a pamphlet with a list of support-group meetings throughout the Washington area.
I needed to attend the meetings; it was the only way to get sober, she said. Any further drinking or cocaine use would risk disaster.
“You’ve been going to meetings?” she asked when we met a week later.
“Yes,” I lied.
“That’s excellent, Ruben!” the counselor said. She seemed genuinely pleased. “And how are you doing with the drinking and the cocaine?”
“I haven’t had any cocaine for nearly two weeks. I did have one drink a few nights ago, a rum and Coke.”
Her face registered alarm. I wondered how she’d react if I told her the truth: Three nights earlier, I’d gotten drunk and picked up Champagne. We’d split three rocks. It wasn’t even about sex anymore; I was just chasing a high I could no longer capture.
“Slips like that are common,” she said. “Do you feel you’re on solid ground now?”
“Yes. I don’t have any desire to drink or use cocaine right now.” A lie, in essence: I didn’t want to light up or drink at that moment, in the counselor’s office, but I couldn’t imagine stopping and staying stopped.
“Good,” she said warily. She was clearly bothered by my “slip.” She said I should tell her right away if I slipped again. I wasn’t sure she bought my assertion that I didn’t want to use cocaine or drink anymore. I wouldn’t have if I were her.
“You have a lot to live for. You’re healthy, intelligent. You have a good job,” she said. “See you next week.”
Big Man had taken my crack pipe, but that wasn’t going to stop me. When I got back home from making my solo buy on S Street, I snapped off a six-inch piece of metal from an umbrella handle. It was a trick Champagne had shown me. I went into the bathroom, where I stuffed some copper mesh into one end of the metal tube, loaded it with the entire rock, and lit up. I smoked the crack in less than a minute. It barely registered.
I walked to the mirror and stared at my face. My eyes were bloodshot, my forehead sweaty. I’d never uttered the A-word to Phil or Milton or my EAP counselor, but now, as I stared at the anguish in my eyes, there was no denying it.
I’m an addict.
This thing has got me.
I’m looking at a dead man.
Three weeks crawled by.
Every night felt like an eternity. On weekends, I got drunk, drove to S Street, bought a couple of rocks, and lit up by myself, to little effect.
On work nights, I battled the urge to keep smoking. Each shooting announced on the police scanner provided a tiny reprieve. Saddling up and racing to a crime scene kept me focused and occupied, more or less, for an hour or so.
I continued lying to my EAP counselor. I told her I was going to support-group meetings and staying clean. I felt bad deceiving her, but admitting that I was lighting up every weekend and that I’d almost gotten shot while trying to meet a strawberry didn’t seem like the way to go. Our sessions were supposed to be confidential, though I wasn’t sure whether that covered illegal activity, such as crack possession. Of course, the counselor was not there to bust me; the confidentiality I had with her was as sacrosanct in that regard as a doctor-patient relationship, I would realize later. But at the time, all the crack I’d ingested made me paranoid, even on days when I wasn’t using.
Five nights before Christmas, Phil wandered to my desk shortly after I settled in for my shift and sized me up.
My eyes were bloodshot and glazed. My clothes were wrinkled and disheveled. My face was covered with a full day’s worth of stubble. My breath reeked of alcohol. That afternoon, I’d run into Champagne as I was walking home from my noontime pickup basketball game at the downtown YMCA. At my apartment, we split three rocks from S Street.
The crack didn’t get me high, but it made me wired, edgy, sweaty. To even myself out before going to work, I knocked back two rum and Cokes and chomped a pack of breath mints. I thought I could get through my shift.
As he stood by my desk, Phil made no effort to hide his disappointment. It was written on his face with all the subtlety of a front-page banner headline. Later I learned that a news aide who was worried about me had alerted Phil to my condition.
“You’re in no shape to work, Ruben.”
“I’m all right,” I protested. “I can work.”
“I can’t let you work.”
“I’m fine, really.”
Phil shook his head.
“What if you have to go out on a story? I can’t let you check out a company car. Not tonight.”
He was right. I was in no condition to drive. I looked straight down at my desk, humiliated.
“What now?” I said, my eyes on the Formica desktop.
“Take the night off. Go home. Get a good night’s rest and we’ll regroup tomorrow.”
I straggled home, thinking, If I can just stay clean for a week or so …
The following night, Milton made for my desk the moment I sat down. “Come with me,” he said as he led me toward the stairs.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to see your EAP counselor.”
She was standing behind her desk, waiting. Milton closed the door behind us. The counselor got to it: “We’ve made arrangements for you to be admitted to the rehabilitation unit of Suburban Hospital. There’s a bed waiting for you now. Milton will take you and make sure you check in.”
I looked at Milton, stunned. His expression was neutral. He was focused on the EAP woman. He was deferring to her. I turned back to the counselor.
“Why do I have to go to a hospital? Can’t I do an outpatient program?”
“That won’t be enough,” she said. “Your behavior right now is unpredictable and dangerous. You don’t know when or where you’re going to use or where
it may lead you.”
Everything she said was true, and she didn’t even know about my Big Man encounter and my strawberry habit.
“You’re addicted at the cellular level,” she continued. “You can’t help but drink and use. And there’s no telling what might happen the next time you go out drinking or using.”
I looked at Milton, hoping for support. He was looking at the counselor, nodding in agreement. They were putting me away.
“How long will I be in for?” I asked.
“Three weeks,” the counselor said. “It’s an excellent program. I’ve worked with a number of people who have gone through there and gotten sober.”
I didn’t ask what happened to the ones who failed. I didn’t want to know. “What now?” I asked.
“Milton will take you to your home so you can get your toothbrush and some clothes. Then he’ll drive you to the hospital.”
I sat dumbstruck in Milton’s black Toyota SUV, staring out the window at the patches of snow on the ground as my boss drove north on Connecticut Avenue toward the hospital in Bethesda.
I had no idea what rehab was, other than expensive. A strange thought popped into my head: This can’t be good for my career.
As we approached the hospital, I asked Milton who would cover my shift.
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “We’ll get volunteers.”
“Will people know that I’m in rehab?”
“Absolutely not. That’s nobody’s business.”
“How much will this cost?” I fretted.
A three-week stay clocked in at about twenty grand, Milton said. Before my heart could stop, he added, “Don’t worry about it. The Post’s insurance has got this. Just focus on getting better.”
We pulled into the hospital parking lot. Milton walked me to the front desk, made sure I signed in, and shook my hand.
“Good luck,” he said. He looked as though he couldn’t wait to get out of there.
I couldn’t blame him.
Chapter 7
The Least and the Lost
One afternoon in the summer of 1991, Billy Hart was sweeping the kitchen floor inside New Community. Billy was the resident manager at the church. The Sunday service had ended a couple of hours earlier, and Jim and the congregation were long gone.
Billy heard a loud bump upstairs. It sounded as if it was coming from the room used for the after-school program. Billy leaned the broom against a table and walked upstairs to check. He wasn’t alarmed. Probably a stray cat, he thought.
He stepped into the classroom. Three men were loading boxes of crackers, cartons of juice, and bags of cookies into cardboard boxes. They were dressed in jeans or shorts and Tshirts. The invaders looked surprised to see him.
“What’re you doing?” Billy challenged.
The men looked at him, then at one another.
“White man told us to come by and pick this stuff up,” one of the men said.
The ringleader, Billy thought.
The white man would be Jim. He was well known in the neighborhood as the pastor. But Jim hadn’t told Billy anything about three guys coming by to raid the after-school program’s supplies. How dumb did these mopes think he was?
“He didn’t tell me,” Billy said.
The ringleader squared his shoulders.
“You get the fuck out of here,” he snarled. “I told you what we’re doing.”
Billy began to curl his right hand into a fist. He was no Bambi: He’d done a few years in jail and prison for nonviolent offenses before he got his life together and met Jim, who hired him as New Community’s resident manager in the late eighties.
Billy made the three raiders as junkies looking to swipe anything they could sell or trade to finance their next hits. He took a deep breath and did the math. Billy was five-eight, 170 pounds, in his late thirties. Each of the men was about his size and age, give or take a few pounds or years. Billy reckoned he could take any one of the three individually. But three on one?
This was no time to be a hero. Billy uncurled his fingers and backed out of the room.
“That’s right, get on out of here,” the ringleader taunted.
Jim had told Billy that if he ever had any trouble when he was at the church by himself, he should not call the police—he should get Baldie. Billy raced down the stairs, zipped right past the phone in the hallway near the kitchen, stepped out into the sunshine, and made the short trip to Baldie’s house. The kingpin of S Street answered the door.
“Three guys are robbing the church,” Billy said. “They’re taking snacks from the after-school classroom.” Baldie didn’t say anything. He just nodded and followed Billy toward New Community.
Billy and Baldie were heading toward the side entrance when they saw the three men loading their loot into the back of a van parked in the alley behind the church.
Billy and Baldie walked toward them. The three bandits froze at the sight of Baldie. Two of them had boxes in their arms. The ringleader had already dumped his into the van. They knew who Baldie was. Everybody in the neighborhood knew who Baldie was.
“Hey, Baldie. What’s up?” the ringleader said, all friendly.
Baldie turned to Billy.
“That’s them,” Billy said.
The three men seemed to go pale. The ringleader put his palms up. “Our bad, Baldie. We didn’t know.”
Billy almost felt sorry for them. They had no idea Baldie had two little girls in the after-school program. They might as well have been walking up to Baldie’s kids and their little friends and taking their snacks away.
“Y’all need to take that shit back upstairs,” Baldie said evenly.
There was no argument. The three would-be thieves picked up the boxes and marched back into the church. Baldie gave Billy a little nod; he wanted Billy to keep an eye on them. Billy followed the three men into the church and upstairs.
The three men and Billy returned. Baldie was waiting for them near the van.
“All of it,” Baldie said.
The men picked up some more boxes from the van and carried them into the church. Billy followed, to keep an eye on the intruders.
Again the would-be bandits and Billy returned to the van.
“They bring back everything?” Baldie asked.
“Far as I can see, yeah,” Billy said.
Baldie turned to the three men.
“Now, y’all need to get out,” he said. “If I catch you in this neighborhood, me and my boys will break your fuckin’ backs.”
The men hustled into their van and zoomed off.
The following day, Billy ran it all down for Jim. Weeks passed. Jim heard rumors that Baldie and his boys had tracked down the intruders and inflicted an epic beat-down. Jim never asked Baldie about the rumor. If it was true, he would never admit it anyway.
The three men were never seen on S Street again.
After nearly a decade on S Street, Jim was comfortable coexisting with Baldie and his crew of slingers. He continued his ministry, preparing and delivering sermons, organizing and participating in mission groups, helping people get jobs and find affordable housing. Baldie doled out product to his slingers, paid them, and collected the profits. He kept sending his two young girls, Angie and Nicole, to the church’s after-school program. Every summer, it seemed, Baldie fired up the grill and threw a party for the neighborhood.
Jim saw Baldie yell at his wife more than a few times, usually when the drug dealer was drunk. But he never saw Baldie physically harm anyone, and the big man’s street slingers remained respectful of the church and its members.
Jim often talked to Baldie, trying to cajole him to change his life, to give up drug dealing, to come to church just once. Baldie never did. Nor did he refrain from violence entirely. One morning in 1993, Angie was outside the house waiting for her father to take her to swimming class. A man wandered by. Baldie started talking to him. From the conversation, she guessed that the man owed him some money.
The girl watched as her
father picked up a piece of lumber and whacked the man on the head, knocking him to the ground. Angie ran back into the house, crying.
“Baldie was a complicated person,” Jim said. “He believed in what we were doing. But I think he had no hope, that he couldn’t imagine having a different life.”
Most of Baldie’s slingers couldn’t, either. One Sunday morning, in the middle of a service, Jim answered a knock at the front door. A slinger held up a Styrofoam cup stuffed with cash—mostly ones, but also a couple of fives.
“This is for the church,” the slinger said.
“Thank you,” Jim replied. “Would you like to come in?”
The drug dealer waved him off and walked away.
Most of the slingers never accepted Jim’s standing invitation to attend a church service. But a couple did join some members of New Community on a weekend retreat to the Maryland countryside. And Jim managed to help some of the slingers leave the drug trade.
One afternoon around 1989, Jim went out to the street and summoned about a dozen S Street slingers. Some of them were dealing drugs primarily to support their own addictions, Jim suspected.
“How many of you would get off the street if you could get a real job?” he asked.
Eight hands shot up.
Jim made a few calls to his D.C. government contacts and got each of the slingers a job in the Department of Public Works as a temporary garbage collector or street sweeper. Some of the dealers stuck with the city jobs; some didn’t. But Jim didn’t see any of them return to S Street to sell drugs. Eventually, one of the former slingers rose to a high position in the department. Jim didn’t worry about offending Baldie, he didn’t tell him about his effort to get some of the slingers off the street. Jim had told Baldie he was there to try to change people’s lives. Besides, Baldie would have no problem finding replacements for street slingers.
It was part of the church’s mission to embrace the “least and the lost, those rejected by society,” Jim said. On S Street, that included not only Baldie’s slingers but also their customers.
Whenever he had the opportunity, Jim showed the neighborhood addicts that he believed they could turn their lives around—even though he knew most of them wouldn’t.
S Street Rising Page 12