by Mia Flores
“Hello? Oh, God, it’s you, thank God. Are you okay?”
“Is it Peter?” I asked.
Junior waved his arms at me to be quiet, then started to nod his head.
Peter was alive.
“Okay, okay. I’ll give them whatever they want. I just want you out of there.” He snapped his phone shut as he reached for his coat.
“I have to hand over $500,000 and one hundred kilos,” he said. “They’ve got Peter, and I think Sergio Gomez is behind it. Sergio has to be the one who kidnapped him; word on the street is that he’s got a crew of cops, and they’ve been kidnapping guys for work. Sergio’s been reselling it all back on the streets. They’re all in it together, Liv.”
He kissed me on the forehead and walked out the door.
Sergio Gomez, I thought. Goddamn Sergio and some dirty cops.
Mia
I didn’t see Peter from the time he found out about the pregnancy till after his daughter, Sophia, was born in mid-2003. I was proud he wanted to be a good dad. My biological father hadn’t been present in my life, so I knew that Peter being there was the best thing he could have done. The last thing he needed was to live with regret.
I was devastated about us going our separate ways, though. It would have been easy to say goodbye to him if he wasn’t this perfect person to me, but I missed him so much. It didn’t matter what I was doing or where I was, my thoughts always came back to him. On my way home from work I would drive down the street near my house hoping I’d see him. He and Junior owned this really successful barbershop called Millennium Cuts, where people would stand in line for two hours waiting to get in, and I’d always pass by, expecting to catch him mingling outside.
After Sophia was born, he called me from time to time. He told me things weren’t great with his girlfriend, but he was head-over-heels in love with Sophia. I was genuinely happy for him. Even though I missed Peter, I ignored my feelings because being distant was what I wanted.
We remained friends and even saw each other a few times, once at a dinner where I met Junior’s girlfriend, Olivia. She was older than me, and she’d had a lot more experience in pretty much everything, which showed. I remember thinking, Who is this girl? She is so unlike me. The thought passed quickly. I was more focused on Peter, and I couldn’t stop asking myself: Why am I not with him? I’ve stayed in relationships for all the wrong reasons, but being a father isn’t wrong.
But I just couldn’t do it. I’d made up my mind.
We had many of the same friends, and I often heard about him through them. One night, I went to dinner with one of them, somebody who worked for him. Her face was practically white when she sat down at our table.
“Mia, I don’t want you to be scared, but I need to tell you something. Peter’s been kidnapped.”
I think I stopped breathing. Kidnapped? I only saw shit like that on TV, but it didn’t happen where I came from. I’m not even sure what I said next.
“We think it was the cops,” she added.
My dad is a cop, and he’s the most honest man I know. I grew up with the CPD. I saw what they went through, going into war zones every day just to put food on the table for their kids. They were constantly disrespected by the people they were trying to protect. Why? Because Chicago police had been getting themselves into corruption scandals since the days of Al Capone. Right then, the bigger part of me was terrified for Peter, but another part was just pissed off.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “What’s happening? Where is he?”
“His brother is working it out. He’ll be home soon.”
After dinner, all I could do was think about Peter. If something were to happen to him, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I worried about him all night, thinking, I’ll never get the chance to tell him how I really feel about him and how much I know we belong together.
Peter’s worst nightmare—and mine—had come true.
Olivia
I’d known Sergio Gomez since I was a kid, and he’d always been bad news. Once K had caught him creeping through our alley and circling the block. When he’d stopped him and dragged him out of the car, the only thing that saved Sergio was the fact that a cop passed by. I knew what he was up to, though. He was staking our house out, plotting to kidnap K and hold him for ransom, just like he’d been doing to other drug dealers all over the city.
Now he’d gotten Peter.
But where did the cops fit in? After Junior had paid the ransom, which was almost $3 million in money and drugs, they’d let Peter go. Junior told me the whole story, and it was just about the worst thing I’d heard in my life up to that point.
Peter was behind their building, just a few blocks from Midway Airport, when he saw an unmarked police car. Oh, shit, he thought when two cops jumped out and started moving toward him. He’d never been arrested in his life. He didn’t have anything on him, but when you’re a drug dealer, cops freak you out.
One of the police officers told him to turn around. He did, and the officer handcuffed him, read him his rights, and shoved him in the backseat of the car.
“What am I being charged with?” he asked, but neither answered. Instead, the other cop jumped in the back with him, tied his feet together, and put a bag over his face. When they got to the Park & Go by Midway, they took him out and threw him in the back of a white van.
That’s when he knew he was in deep shit.
They took him to a tri-level house and tossed him into the basement. When they lifted the blindfold, he saw someone who looked like a fireman standing in front of him. Except this was no fireman. He was wearing a Hazmat suit, a facemask, and rubber boots. The walls and the floor were completely covered in plastic, with duct tape holding the sides down.
The guy in the suit started beating him, and he didn’t fucking stop till the phone rang.
Mia
Peter told me later that it was Sergio Gomez on the other end of the line. And even though Sergio was known for torturing people, he told the guy in the Hazmat suit to take mercy on him.
“Peter’s not a violent guy,” Sergio said, “so take it easy on him.”
The “fireman” then tied Peter to a chair and left him there for twenty-four hours without food or water. His only company was a parrot who’d been trained by one of the kidnappers. He squawked, “Fuck you!” all night long.
Olivia
Junior came through with the ransom, over one hundred kilos of cocaine and some cash, as quickly as possible. But it was shitty cocaine, and Sergio was furious. After teaching Peter a lesson, he had him call Junior.
“Junior, you pissed them off by giving them that garbage,” Peter said, sounding frantic. “Just give them whatever the fuck they want, or they’re going to kill me.”
Junior came through with another hundred kilos, this time the good stuff.
The kidnappers then gave Peter a cell phone and kicked him out at the Home Depot by Riverside, a suburb outside of Chicago. He called his brother, and when Junior showed up to get him, he said Peter just looked different. He was pale, tired, and dirty. He didn’t want to be around anybody. He’d been in the back of a van or in a basement, bloody and beaten, for three long days, and part of him had changed forever.
Mia
Peter left Chicago and went to Mexico for a month, just to get away from everything. I was so worried about him, but I figured he had to do what he had to do. He needed room to breathe and space to recover.
He decided he wasn’t going to go after the guys who kidnapped him. That’s the type of guy Peter was. All that mattered was that Junior had paid the ransom, and Peter was safe. Besides, he was a drug trafficker, so what was he going to do, go to the police to say that one of their own had arranged his kidnapping? He also knew that Sergio was a paid informant and was always looking for a quick come up. Peter had no choice; he had to move on.
But given what he did for a living, and given what people were capable of doing to him, I started to wonder: Should I move on?
Olivia
I was having misgivings about being with Junior, too. When he handed over almost $3 million in drugs and cash like it was nothing, it stopped me in my tracks. I remember thinking, Oh, shit. This guy is in it bigger than I ever thought. I knew Junior had supplied K, and I knew he had the money to afford the kinds of fancy cars he drove. Taking losses was the cost of doing business. But losing $3 million? That put him on a whole different level.
I started to feel really conflicted. I thought, This is not what I want. I don’t want to go back to this life again. I’ve never been one to hold anything back, so I told him.
“Junior, I’m scared for you. I don’t want to lose you to jail or see you get hurt. I’m afraid you’re going to get kidnapped like Peter or murdered like K. You’re better than this. If you want to change your life, we can do this together. I love you, and I don’t want to lose you.”
“I love you, Liv,” he answered calmly, but firmly. “I know you’ve been through so much. I promise I’ll make it right, so please just be patient.”
I paused and starting thinking. If I’ve changed so much over the last few years, he can, too.
With all my heart, I believed him, and I believed in him, so I stayed.
Mia
Peter came back from Mexico after a month, and I was the first person he got in touch with. Oh, thank God, I said to myself when he called and said he wanted to come over to my parents’ house. I was so relieved to hear from him. We hadn’t talked when he was gone, and I’d missed him terribly.
“Mia,” he said when he showed up that night, “I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t stay away. I can’t stop thinking about you. Every thought just comes back to you and me. My happiest moments are when we’re together, and I need you in my life.” He paused and held both my hands tight. “You can trust me; your heart’s safe with me.”
Oh, man, I thought. It’s decision time. Either I say goodbye to him forever, or I jump right in.
I’d spent hours and hours going through our situation while he was gone, and I’d realized I could live with being a stepmom. But could I be in a relationship with a drug dealer? And could I—the daughter of a cop—willingly enter a life built on crime?
Peter was everything I’d wanted in a person and everything I thought a man should be—minus what he did for a living. But life without him felt hollow. I hurt without him around. I took about thirty seconds to remember how I’d ached when he’d been away, experienced it all over again, and made my decision: I wanted to be with the drug dealer with a heart of gold. I loved Peter for all the goodness and kindness I saw inside him, and I’d choose to let the rest slide.
“Peter, I trust you,” I said. “Just, please, don’t break my heart.”
“I promise I won’t,” he answered.
From that moment on, I was a part of his world. I didn’t see everything—in fact, he wanted to protect me, so most of what he and Junior did was out of earshot or behind closed doors—but I knew it was there. I justified it, too. I’d think, He’s never known another life, and he’s doing this because he needs to take care of his family. He had dozens and dozens of hardworking people under him—mothers and fathers who depend on him to help put food on the table. These people would be working at McDonald’s if it wasn’t for him and Junior. It was true; his employees made more in a week than people working minimum wage made in a year, and they were decent people just trying to give their families a better life.
Olivia
In Chicago, Peter and Junior were constantly busy. They had dozens of customers, and every time a shipment came in they had to know exactly which warehouse it was going to and who was unloading it. Then someone had to deliver the goods, collect the money, and count it. There was an unbelievable amount of money coming in, too: tens of millions, all stacked up in their stash houses.
Mia
Peter took me to a stash house once. We were driving through the West Loop, right near Oprah’s Harpo Studios, when he coasted his car toward the garage of a townhouse.
“Mia, this will only take a minute, I promise.”
“It’s beautiful over here,” I said, looking out my window.
“I know. That’s the whole point. Our stash houses are in upscale neighborhoods, where the cops won’t look.”
There were no cars around, and definitely no cops. Somebody could step out of a car and give somebody a bag, and it wouldn’t look suspicious. Back in Little Village there was a cop on every corner; if someone handed you a bag, you’d be cuffed in seconds.
The townhouse had to be worth at least $1 million, maybe $2 million. As we walked inside from the garage, I could see beautiful furniture—really high-end stuff that you’d never picture in a drug den. Peter moved toward a wall and pulled a handle, which popped the wall right open. It made that whoosh sound that hydraulics make and opened really smoothly, like it was floating. I took a peek and gazed upon more money than I’d ever seen in my life. When I walked into another room, I saw stacks of it. It was all banded together and scattered around, with two workers running the bills through several money counters. They’re going to be counting for a long time, I thought.
Olivia
One night, Junior left Hoops early to meet up with someone. I was with him, and on the way out, we bumped into R. Kelly, who he balled with practically every night.
“We’ll meet up tomorrow,” Junior hollered as we walked out. “Something came up.”
We got in Junior’s car and drove to one of his and Peter’s stash houses.
“Can you get the garage door opener?” Junior asked.
“Sure,” I said, grabbing a labeled opener from his bag. It was hard to figure out which one to pick since there were so many, and they all had code names. This looks pretty damn sophisticated, I thought to myself.
All of their stash houses had attached garages, so no one would see us or our car. Once I was inside, I met all the workers. They were dressed up, business casual. They weren’t allowed to wear flashy jewelry; they had to be clean-cut. You’d never know they were drug dealers or that they were carrying money. They were well spoken and didn’t look like they were from the streets.
Behind closed doors, I met their personal property manager, who they paid to secure all their stash houses and warehouses. She used to come up with fake papers—everything from credit reports to bank statements to IDs—and get condos at $7,000 or $8,000 a month in rent. She’d say something like, “I’m dating a politician, and I don’t want anyone to know, so I’ll just pay for the year upfront.” The landlords wouldn’t do background checks with that kind of money in their hands.
Mia
I didn’t ask any questions that day, but later on, I learned how the stash houses worked.
When money came into a house, workers would count it immediately. Each house never had more than $7 million in it, and counting a million dollars took each worker probably two hours. The stash houses that only held money were equipped with soundproof rooms, just like in a recording studio, because there were several counting machines going at the same time. The workers counted and packaged money in three shifts a day, each eight hours long.
Olivia
Different workers would pack up the drugs, and they’d do it really carefully, with cling wrap, vacuum bags, duct tape, and fabric softener sheets to minimize the scent so the cops and K-9 unit wouldn’t be able to detect it if one of their workers got pulled over.
Never, under any circumstances, did a crew member go to a house other than the one where he was stationed. If someone was working at a house, they stayed there; going in and out too often looked bad, and Peter and Junior trained their workers never to draw attention to themselves or what they were doing.
Their workers always kept the same responsibilities, too, never switching out. Peter and Junior’s first job had been at McDonald’s, where they’d learned this “every worker to one task” system. Every employee there did the same thing every single day: The fry guy dipped his basket int
o the bubbling oil. The girl at the drive-through handed you your order. Some other girl took your money. If you were only doing one task rather than ten different ones, it was harder to fuck something up. They built their whole infrastructure around this system. It was genius.
Mia
Peter had so many burner phones, one for each customer. At any given time, you could expect him to be hauling probably twenty phones around with him, and they rang constantly. He’d answer every single call. Then a few weeks later he’d toss the phone, get a new number, and start all over. I’ve never seen anyone multitask like that.
Olivia
Junior and Peter had dozens of cars and trucks and were constantly inventing new ways to move drugs around Chicago and beyond. They switched up vehicles like they switched up phones, buying the same model and same color cars so that neighbors wouldn’t realize that there were different workers coming in and out of the stash houses.
They also outfitted these cars with secret compartments; One could be opened with a foot pedal that you could activate only when you turned on the defroster and rolled down the windows. They’d moved way past hiding pot in gas tanks—that was the stuff they’d done for their dad when they were seven.
Mia
Most of the time, Peter and Junior thought they were flying under the radar. And except for Peter’s kidnapping, they were, at least initially.
By the middle of 2003, the Drug Enforcement Administration was on to them, and they had people on the ground in Milwaukee investigating them. Why Milwaukee? Because it was a major distribution area for them; they constantly sent drugs there through one of their many couriers.