May you find in these pages not only a wild but true story of adventure and redemption, of victory and freedom, of death and life, but also provocative insight and answers to your own life questions. As you embark on this journey with me remember one thing: those people locked in the vise grip of addiction are still just that: people. Please be good to one another.
Prologue
I am hiding from detectives in my parents’ basement. It’s not the first time. Sometimes my mom finds me and kicks me out, other times she just says something like, “You better not let Dad find you here.” Sometimes she immediately calls my dad, but I leave before he picks up the phone. His wrath is even worse than hers.
As usual, I arrived early in the morning with a backpack to fill with as much food as I could without arousing too much suspicion, and then snuck into their basement to lounge around for the day. Besides obtaining weed and doing heroin, and of course selling too, I don’t have much of a schedule to speak of. You’ve got to make a buck when you can. Downstairs I sneak tokes of weed out of a small one-hitter and blow the smoke through a makeshift “sploof”—a device to exhale into. Mine is packed full with dryer sheets to mask the smell of smoke. It’s best to enjoy weed while playing video games or watching TV, preferably porn. Man, it’s sad to think about how much of a loser I’ve become.
While smoking, I begin to consider making plans for the day. I will reach out to various dealers to see if they have any real dope, the good kind. I’m dead broke and can’t afford food let alone rent, but I still can’t help but conjure up ways to score some smack. My plan is to find a source and then send out a mass text to other addicts and ask them if they want some of the really good stuff. When they say yes, I will tell them I have to charge a finder’s fee and an additional fee for doing the pickup. Then I’ll go get the stuff. I’ll steal a bit before handing it to its new owner and making some cash. This will be one of my days with a schedule.
Before going into the basement, I ran face-to-face into Judy, our cleaning lady of many years. I’d forgotten she would be there that day, even though she’s always there on Wednesdays, going on about twenty years now. Without me even having to ask, Judy assured me that she wouldn’t tell my parents she’d seen me. Loyal Judy. I muttered an “uh, okay thanks,” ever so eloquently. I’m not the best at showing appreciation. She then gave me a head’s up that she would be cleaning the basement around noon, so after I finished filling my backpack with food, I also made myself a plate of leftovers from the fridge—macaroni and cheese and green beans—and warmed it in the microwave. I already had a ravenous appetite worked up from smoking all morning and I knew I’d be starving after taking a few tokes in the basement.
In the basement, I’m about to get to work on the macaroni (see, a packed day) when Judy opens the door at the top of the steps and calls down into the dark basement that there is someone at the door for me. This isn’t good. No one besides Judy should know I’m here. For at least a few hours, this should have been a safe space. I set down my plate of food, only two bites in, and try to gather my thoughts and calm myself. I don’t want my mind to race, but as I start up the steps I realize that this could be it. I try to consider my options, but this time I don’t have any. There is no way out. Judy goes back to her job before I can even ask who’s at the door. The way the house is laid out, I can’t peer over to see who’s at the door without being noticed by the visitor. There’s also no escape; every exit is blocked. What a shitty house design in the event of an intruder. To get out a back door to the deck or garage, I’d have to scamper by the front door. I’d be seen this way too. I have to face the situation head on.
In all honesty, as I walk toward my unknown fate, the fear is moderated by a bit of relief. I am so tired of running; it has been months of playing cat and mouse. Could it be that the man has finally caught up to me? I am ready for it to end, but too scared to face what comes next. As I reach the top of the steps, I take a deep breath and turn the corner to find two men waiting outside the open door. Both stand tall and have mustaches. Everything about them says don’t mess with me. One guy I don’t know, but the other is the city’s lead detective. I recognize him immediately and remember him well. He cornered me at my probation officer’s office about six months before. I know he’s about to take me in. As I slowly walk to the door, his partner pushes his jacket back and puts his hand on his weapon.
I want these guys to know that I’m not trying to run from them. I also want them to think I’m not afraid of them in any way, which is totally untrue. I swagger up and give them a blank stare. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s playing nonchalant.
“Nicholas Bush?”
“Yeah, you found me alright.” I turn toward the lead detective. “I remember you.”
My tolerance for weed is such that I don’t really get super stoned anymore, at least not for more than forty-five minutes or so. Usually I just feel, well, kind of tired and numb. But now I’m wide awake and tracking every detail of the conversation.
“Come to the station with us so we can have a chat. We aren’t going away, bud.”
“Can’t we talk here?” I ask, knowing that if they could take me in, they would.
“We want everything recorded, you know how it is, so why don’t you tell me a time that works for you and we can discuss your options at your convenience.” They’re playing good cop-good cop at this point. I’m relieved, but confused.
“I’m not going to make an appointment that I have no intention of keeping, officer, so we can talk right here or not at all.”
The lead detective looks over his shoulder at his partner and gives him a slight nod. His partner pulls a flip phone out of his pocket and hits a button; I assume it’s to record.
“Since we last spoke, at your probation officer’s office, we’ve been forced to gather as much evidence as we could. And you know what? We’ve got everything we need.”
Time stops as he speaks and I feel the tables turn on me. I hear my own voice in my head let out an Oh, fuck . . . as my thoughts begin to race, my legs and arms start to tingle, and my knees grow weak, getting worse by the second. I suddenly start to feel dizzy, so I put a hand on the wall for support. It hits me that this isn’t a game anymore. These guys aren’t hounding me because they hope I’ll confess. They’ll nail me even if I don’t. Six months earlier, I’d rolled my eyes at the detective and told him, “Maybe a jury would believe your accusations, but I sure won’t agree with them.” Now it seems that my words have come back to bite me. They only had circumstantial evidence at the time, but maybe they have more now. I can already picture the grand jury.
One of the cops has a folder in his hand. He looks down at it, and then, as if to confirm the point, he says, “We’ve got everything we need.” Before I know it, I’m inviting them into my parents’ house. I cock my head toward the inside of the house.
“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
We walk into the kitchen, where they decline to take a seat at the table. Instead the sergeant slaps the folder onto the counter and opens it, sliding photos and copies of witness testimonies toward me. They really do have everything they need. He has photos of me, photos of stolen property, photos of me buying and selling drugs, photos of me shaking hands and inviting in friends of mine who became informants