Chancers

by Susan Stellin

  I deflate the bed and shove it back in the closet, put the kettle on to make myself a cup of tea. Joe’s apartment is on one of the top floors of the projects, and some days I’ll spend hours looking out the window—south to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, west to the Statue of Liberty, down to the streets below. People call it getting “stuck,” when you just can’t move, having too many thoughts or none at all.

  That’s sort of where my head is at right now: either a torrent of worries, anxieties, and fears, or nothing, just completely numb. Not capable of thinking beyond the moment. Maybe that’s fear, too. Fear of how much my life has spun out of control.

  —

  SO THE DAY I’m arrested—May 7, 2010—is typical in the sense that my life has narrowed to the same routine: get up, get straight, get to a point where I don’t have to think too much. But I’m still dimly aware of how fucked up it is that all this has started to feel normal. Like it doesn’t faze me when my friend Kia calls and asks if she can bring a trick over to Joe’s place.

  “Just for five or ten minutes,” she promises. “That’s all it takes when I’m on a roll.”

  I’ve known Kia for years and most of the time she’s looked out for me—made sure I didn’t get dope sick, let me stay with her when the cops were looking for me at my house. But now she’s homeless because her boyfriend OD’d and she got kicked out of their apartment, so she’s crashing on friends’ couches and floors.

  Most people would dismiss her as a crackhead, oblivious to all the shit she’s lived through—with no welfare, no housing, no food stamps, and no options. But I’ve gotten to know her as someone who manages to stay upbeat despite the crap cards she’s been dealt, which is one of the reasons we get along.

  “As long as you’re quick,” I tell her. “Joe’s going to be back soon and you know he’ll go ballistic if you’re here with a date.”

  I moved in with Joe after I sold my house last year, but it’s not my apartment and he doesn’t like it if anyone comes over while he’s out. He’s older than me, and fiercely protective, so his place was sort of a refuge after everything I’d lost.

  “I’m on my way,” Kia says. “He’s not gonna catch me. I promise I’ll bounce the minute I’m done.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she shows up with a middle-aged white guy who looks freaked out that he’s in the projects. Kia introduces him to me as if we just met in a bar. I shake his hand and they disappear into the bedroom—probably not what he pictured when he arranged this sexual encounter. There’s a disheveled bed with clothes scattered around the linoleum floor, a TV hooked up to someone else’s cable, and a dresser with broken drawers.

  It must be my day to help women looking for a favor because while I’m waiting for Kia to finish, my ex-girlfriend Tracy calls. At first I don’t pick up, but after she calls three more times I answer, already knowing what she wants.

  “Please, Graham. I’m really dope sick. I just need a couple of bags to get straight—I’ll meet you anywhere.”

  My relationship with Tracy had been brutal. Whenever she lost it, she was confrontational and volatile, so I’m trying to keep away from her, but she’s painfully persistent. It’s easier to say yes than put up with her calling every two minutes—or worse, coming over here and banging on the door.

  “Alright, but you’ve got to stop calling me,” I tell her, already pissed off. “This is the last time I’m helping you out. Meet me at Starbucks in half an hour—and don’t look obvious.”

  As soon as the trick leaves, Kia spends all the money she just made on crack, easy to score from the kids who sell drugs in the stairwells and halls. We both take a couple of hits before she walks out with me, hassling me for agreeing to meet Tracy.

  “The more you do for her, the more she’s going to keep coming back,” Kia says, shaking her head. “She’s like a bad habit—without the high.”

  “Listen, if I don’t do this she’s just gonna show up here, making a fucking scene. Then someone is going to call the cops to get rid of her, and I really don’t need that right now.”

  Kia just rolls her eyes. “I wish someone would call the cops on her and get that bitch locked up.”

  She isn’t the only person who can’t stand Tracy, which is partly why I don’t want her coming over here. Tracy’s belligerent attitude doesn’t go down well with dealers, and I don’t want to be searching for a new connect ’cause she’s gotten me caught up in her drama. It was enough of a nightmare getting her out of my house when I was trying to sell it—she kept threatening to call the cops on me, and actually did a few times.

  After unlocking my bike from the scaffolding outside the building, Kia and I walk the block between the Wyckoff and Gowanus projects. I’ve been arrested near here and stopped and searched too many times, but that doesn’t concern me. It’s the quickest route to where I want to go.

  I stop at a deli to buy a new lighter while Kia waits outside with my bike. As I’m paying, she ducks her head in to tell me not to come out, there are undercover cops around. I’ve missed a few court dates for a previous charge, so I’ve been dodging the warrant squad for months.

  I buy a cup of coffee and drink it too quickly, then get restless lingering in the store. The guy behind the counter is eyeing me suspiciously. Through the window, I can’t see Kia or anyone else outside so I decide, Fuck it—I’ll be fine.

  As soon as I step out and grab my bike, I can see Kia across the street, mouthing something to me. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but there’s a guy walking toward me, fast. I can tell he’s an undercover cop—too clean, too healthy, too determined for this part of Brooklyn. Just as he approaches, an unmarked car pulls up and a few more undercovers jump out.

  They flash their badges, surrounding me with a flurry of questions: “Where are you going?…Where have you been?…Where did you get that bike?”

  Everything is happening fast, but I’m trying to stay calm. If I act like this is all some kind of mistake they might just tell me to move along. Then one of them looks at my sneakers and sees a small spot of blood.

  “Why is there blood on your sneakers?” he asks. I don’t answer right away so he repeats his question a couple more times.

  I’m starting to panic, the crack in my system is making me paranoid, and now they’re all fixated on my feet. This is crazy, I’m thinking. Don’t these assholes have anything better to do? But I can hardly tell them that the blood came from shooting up that morning.

  I blurt out something about cutting myself shaving. Instantly, all the cops look up and scour my face. One of them grabs my chin, moving in for a closer look.

  “I don’t see any cuts,” he says. At this point, I know I’m fucked.

  Kia is still on the other side of the street, shouting something I can’t understand. One of the cops notices when I look her way.

  “How do you know her?” he asks.

  “She’s a friend of mine.”

  “A friend?” he scoffs. “You know she’s a prostitute, don’t you?”

  I’m not sure what he expects me to say, but there’s no point arguing with him so I let it go.

  They ask to see ID, which I don’t have on me. I know they’re going to take me to the precinct to run my name, but I’m still trying to think of a way out.

  That hope dies when they start searching me and find a crack pipe hidden in my sock. I’m standing in the street, arms out, legs spread, and a crowd is starting to gather. The cops call in my details and find out the warrant squad has been after me for months.

  “What else have you got on you?” one of them asks. “Any weapons? Anything that can stick me? Any drugs?”

  I shake my head, picturing the dope stuffed in my underwear as I’m getting patted down. They don’t find it—the glassine envelopes are thin and easy to hide. Then I’m shoved against the car and the cuffs are on me—too tight, as always. Someone reads me my rights and tells me they’re taking me in.

  I’ve been through this routine too many times, so I alrea
dy know what’s ahead: the precinct, central booking, court, then released on bail if I get lucky. But this time I know that’s a long shot. Now that I’ve got a warrant for missed court dates, I’m pretty sure I’m headed for Rikers.

  As it all starts to sink in, I fixate on Tracy—I wouldn’t have left the apartment if she hadn’t called. Kia was right, I should have just told her to fuck off.

  I wish I could go back to Joe’s place and get high, safe in my own little world. Instead, I’m gonna go through the system dope sick, and there’s nothing I can do to avoid what I know is coming.

  —

  AT THE 76TH Precinct, my name and arrest info are entered into a big worn-out logbook—slowly, by hand—and I’m taken to the back room and locked up in a cell. It’s a relief to get the cuffs off, but what comes next is worse: the humiliation of getting strip-searched by two grown men wearing rubber gloves.

  I know they’ll probably find the two bags of heroin hidden in my underwear, but I’m hoping I can sneak at least one out and use it to delay the withdrawal. No such luck. Strip, squat, cough. While I’m standing there naked, the cops are going through my clothes and out fall the two dime bags of dope.

  “I thought you said you didn’t have any drugs on you?” one of them says, waving the baggies. “You know this is going to be another charge.”

  “I forgot about that,” I mumble, not even trying to be convincing.

  I’ve been in this situation when a cop with heart will know you’re gonna get sick and slip you a bag, but not these guys. They’re threatening to give me a cavity search. I don’t really care—I’m already starting to feel like shit and it’s only going to get worse. After they give me my clothes back (minus my shoelaces and belt), I lie down on a bench in the cell and fall asleep.

  With no watch and no clock, I only have a vague sense of time, but as the day wears on the cells start to fill up. Some of the young guys are treating it like a joke, rapping and fronting and hollering at people in other cells. They’ve been picked up in some stop-and-frisk—they know they’ll be back on the street by morning. But the noise is grating on me, and the waste of everyone’s time is depressing.

  At this point, everything is annoying: people shouting, keys jangling, doors banging. Even when I manage to nod off, I’m woken up for the slow-moving machinery of the booking process. Posing for yet another mug shot, getting more fingerprints taken—now with a digital scanner that freezes constantly. And every time there’s a shift change, answering the same questions over and over. “What’s your name? What were you arrested for?” As if they don’t already know.

  I have to sign a voucher listing all the property I had on me when I was picked up: 1 Mac laptop, 1 gray bike, 2 cameras, 4 pairs of sunglasses, 2 watches, 1 cellphone, 2 batteries, 1 iPod, 7 rolls of film, and 8 keys on a ring. It looks like I’ve just robbed a pawnshop, but I couldn’t leave anything that might be traded for drugs at Joe’s place so I dragged it all around in my backpack whenever I left the apartment. The form says it’s being held for “safekeeping,” but I’m not sure it’s any safer with the police than it is in the projects.

  Another voucher lists a “black switch blade knife” that’s checked off as arrest evidence. It’s a small penknife on a key ring that I bought in a shoe store—hardly a weapon. But there’s no point arguing. If it shows up as a charge it’ll probably get dropped.

  One of the cops asks for the password for my computer. At first I refuse to give it to him, but he says if I don’t they’ll assume it’s stolen property. I reluctantly tell him—to prove that it’s mine.

  “You’re not from here, are you?” he asks.

  “I’ve lived in Brooklyn for almost twenty years.”

  “But you’re not American, are you?”

  “I’m Scottish—but I’ve got a green card.”

  I wonder if he thinks I’m here illegally but he doesn’t say anything. He just hands me a copy of the property voucher and locks me back up in a cell.

  —

  BY THE TIME we get lined up for transfer to central booking the next morning, I’m dope sick—not really bad, but getting there. The precinct is in the middle of a residential neighborhood, so it’s humiliating to be escorted to a police van in handcuffs as parents are taking their kids to school. I used to be one of those parents, walking with Liam. He’s away at college, so we haven’t talked in a while. I mostly check his Facebook page to see what he’s up to, but it’s too painful to think about him right now. I look at the floor, and that fucking spot of blood on my sneaker, wishing I’d never left Joe’s.

  Once we get to the jail opposite the courthouse in downtown Brooklyn, it takes ages to see a judge. For some reason, they cram us all into a few holding cells—elbows touching, legs cramped—when there are plenty of empty cells all around. Some people know each other, but most don’t. I notice a Puerto Rican guy I’ve met a few times. He tells me he’s in for crack possession, I tell him I got busted for dope. Everyone seems to be in for something related to drugs.

  I can tell I’m not the only one going through withdrawal: Occasionally we catch each other’s eyes—we know. There’s no hiding the red-rimmed eyes, constant sniffle, and agitation caused by your body starting to panic, wondering why its regular dose of heroin was cut off. I wish I could just fall asleep and escape what’s happening, but there’s not enough room to lie down.

  I don’t really have a grasp on time over the next few hours, but at some point I get transferred from the holding pen to the courthouse through a tunnel that connects the buildings underground. There’s another set of cells, another group of mostly black and brown faces, and more waiting with nothing to do to pass the time.

  Finally, a court-appointed lawyer comes to meet with me, a trim, gray-haired guy in his fifties. He explains my charges and tells me it doesn’t look good: heroin possession, drug paraphernalia (the crack pipe), plus the warrants. He seems like a nice guy—genuinely concerned about me, which isn’t always the case with these lawyers. I’m not used to this kind of compassion, so for a moment it makes me feel hopeful.

  “Can you get me out of this?” I ask.

  He laughs, but it’s not malicious.

  “I can’t work miracles,” he tells me.

  “What about bail? I can get the money.” I’ve burned through a lot of the money I got from selling my house—mostly settling debts and paying back dealers—but I’ve still got some left in the bank.

  “You’ve been dodging a few warrants, so the judge isn’t going to give you bail.”

  “There’s got to be something you can do. How about a program? Or drug court?”

  He looks at me like he wishes he could help, but we both know I’ve run out of options. Other judges have given me a chance to get treatment, but I skipped the drug tests, blew off the counseling sessions, made excuses for why I didn’t show up. I always thought I could get clean on my own—when I was ready, not when I was forced.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to do some time,” he says. “But I’ll try to keep it as short as possible.”

  I knew that was likely, but hearing it out loud hits me hard. My gut is churning, I’m light-headed. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I want to tell him how not okay I am, how scared I am of the withdrawal that’s coming—and how I’m gonna deal with being locked up. But he looks worried and I don’t want to dump my problems on him, so I just nod.

  A few minutes later, I’m led into the courtroom for my arraignment, my hands cuffed behind my back. The judge hardly looks at me as he reads my charges, then shoots down any deal my lawyer tries to offer. It’s all over in a few minutes. Guilty, no bail—straight to Rikers. He orders me back to court in a few days for sentencing.

  I’m dazed looking around the courtroom, wondering if Susan has somehow gotten wind of this and turned up. But why would she? The last time I saw her was when I was selling my house, and then I cut her off—like everybody else. I’m su
re they’ve all given up on me by now.

  Then it’s back through the tunnel, back to the holding cell, and another eternity of waiting as other people are called into court. Some of them come back angry—they’re going to Rikers. Others don’t reappear—they’ve gotten released or bailed out. At least the cell is less crowded, but it’s filthy. The toilet stinks and there are half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches scattered all over the floor.

  I wish I could eat something to fill up the emptiness I’m feeling, but even thinking about food makes me nauseous. It’s been a day and a half since I last used, so I’m agitated and restless. I can’t concentrate. My thoughts are going off on tangents—imagining an escape, wondering what Liam is doing, half-listening to the conversations around me. The chemicals in my brain are going haywire, trying to figure out how to function without drugs.

  After the last person has seen the judge, we get cuffed to each other in pairs and file onto buses for the trip from the courthouse to Rikers. These Department of Correction buses always go fast—like they’ve got the right of way on the Brooklyn–Queens Expressway—so we’re sliding around and bumping into each other every time the bus changes lanes. I’m trying hard not to tug on the guy next to me, whose bicep is about the size of my leg.

  I don’t bother looking out the window—it’s too depressing to pass by familiar streets and not know when I’ll be free to walk down them. I just close my eyes and put my head on the back of the seat in front of me, cradling it in my one free arm.

  —

  AS WE CROSS over the bridge between Queens and Rikers Island, it’s dark out and the bus is quiet, the incessant talking reduced to the odd comment or murmur. I’ve been here for short spells and got along fine, but this time everything feels much more ominous.