Howard Marks' Book of Dope Stories (45 page)

This, of course, meant that ZWITTERION had to leave too, since even if he and I weren’t the same person (and we were), he wouldn’t have anyone to pick on anymore (didn’t you notice that ZWITTERION only seemed to try out the things that eleusis posted?). As a side note, if you find it hard to swallow that ZWIT and eleusis were the same individual because of the wild difference in writing styles, keep in mind that I
am
an English major.

So what happened to ‘eleusis’ after that?

I packed up my lab in a blind paranoid fury. I canceled my icubed e-mail account. I encrypted and compressed every computer file, e-mail, etc., that was even remotely related to drug chemistry. I woke up every morning before 5.00 a.m., rumored to be the time the DEA would strike if they came a-knockin’. But I also knew that the paper trail was immense, that even if there wasn’t anything left in my apartment when the DEA came crashing in that I would still have a lot of explaining to do. Then there was the realization that if I was under surveillance that they would already know where I put everything. I struggled to wipe my fingerprints from everything I had ever touched, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw away nearly $12,000 in glassware, chemicals and equipment. I just couldn’t
destroy
everything, though I
knew
that I should. Besides, how does one get rid of 11kg of safrole or 201 of THF? I’m no tree-hugger, but I’m not so environmentally unconscious that I’d pour shit like that down the drain or onto the ground.

Months went by with no sign of the DEA. Slowly but surely my co-conspirator convinced me to start up again. She used the very persuasive argument that since I had started manufacturing, no one would buy anything else (I was fanatic about quality, I never cut my MDMA, and I made sure that every dose was 100-110mg for the best possible experience). It really didn’t take much convincing, though, because once you start, I don’t believe you can stop until you are caught. It is too seductive, way too seductive. Viddy well, little brothers, viddy well (cf.
A Clockwork Orange
).

So I started up again, but I tried to make the lab as spartan as possible – no unrelated chemicals on the premises, no massive quantities of class-1 precursors, and definitely no product for any longer than the time it took to dry. It was futile, of course, and as I came to realize that, I took the attitude of ‘fuck it’. I cranked out a 2,000-dose batch of 2-CB and gave it all away. I mustered up a 16g batch of mescaline and gave that away too. TMA, DMT, 4-Methylaminorex, et al., just to know that I could and to see what they were like.

On June 23, at around 5 p.m., the phone rang. It was Special Agent Higgins of the DEA. He was at my parents’ house and wanted to ask me a few questions about all the chemicals I had purchased. I told him I would be right over, hung up, then looked at my apartment. Chemicals everywhere, glassware everywhere. There was no way to destroy enough of it to matter in the time frame allotted. I did destroy the twin lOOg batches of MDP-2-P that were just starting (literally fifteen minutes prior) and dump out 500g of methylamine HCI (yes, made by decomposing hexamine), but nothing else. I just hoped that I would be able to smoothly talk my way out of the problem – at least for long enough to be able to destroy everything else.

When I arrived at my parents’ house there were a dozen agents wandering around with guns, bulletproof vests, the whole enchilada. They were sorting through my old room and found maybe two documents related to chemistry and, unfortunately, a bottle of sodium in petroleum ether that I had long ago forgotten. They told me that they had all of my receipts from a certain chemical company that I used quite often and asked what I did with all of those chemicals. Well, I felt pretty confident then because I never ordered anything listed or even terribly suspicious from that company – I synthesized all of the naughty precursors myself – so I calmly answered, ‘I make photographic developers with them.’

They then asked, ‘Are you saying you never made crystal meth, crank, methamphetamine, whatever you want to call it, with these chemicals?’ and I easily said, ‘No,’ followed by, ‘I don’t think any of those chemicals are used to make meth, otherwise how would I have been able to purchase them?’

They didn’t like that one bit. No siree. Not one bit. That’s when they pulled out the big guns (metaphorically) and asked if I knew anyone in Houston. The sweat started to pour. I knew what they were after. I said, ‘Yes, I have a friend out there.’ They asked what I thought had happened when the box I shipped never made it and I said, ‘I figured UPS confiscated it for improper packaging but when I called about it they said they had no record of the shipment so then I figured it was just lost.’ Then they asked the killer question, the one that made me give up because I knew I was busted.

‘Do you know [blank]?’

I said, ‘Yes, she’s an ex-girlfriend of mine.’

‘Well, we have [blank] in custody right now.’

‘Oh.’

‘So I’ll repeat my earlier question, did you ever use this to make crystal, crank, meth, whatever?’

‘No, I never made crystal meth, I think it’s a horrible drug.’

‘Then what did you make with it, [blank] said, “⎯”’

‘Alright, alright. I made MDMA.’

Consent was then asked for to search my apartment, under the threat that I would be arrested if I said no and they would get a warrant anyway. I knew this would happen because of what POP-I had told me, so I signed my life away. Agents were standing by at my apartment and busted in the door as soon as my pen hit the paper. I was cuffed and taken to my apartment to identify the contents as mine (a formality) and then I was taken to DEA Holding. Apparently, seconds after I was taken away the reporters arrived. My driver’s license picture was on the six o’clock news. The entire block I lived on was evacuated. Rumors started flying and all of my friends, of which only a very few knew what I did, started calling each other.

To top it all off, my ulcer started giving me a real fit (the ulcer was a by-product of living two years in intense fear of that very moment).

At DEA Holding I received the good cop/bad cop treatment. It’s just like the movies, kids. Just like it. One was threatening to kick in my balls if I didn’t tell the truth, the other was saying ‘There, there, he’s
trying
to tell the truth, give him a chance.’ It was sickening. (Apparently, [blank] actually did get sick because they asked, ‘You’re not going to puke all over the floor like [blank], are you?’)

The interrogation was rather brief, consisting only of:

And that was pretty much it. I was then transported to the Orient Road Jail. On the way there I enjoyed a most memorable conversation with the agent:

‘So this is pretty much the end of the road for me, eh?’

‘No, Tim Allen from
Home Improvement
got busted for trafficking two keys of coke. He copped a plea, turned in a few people and look how well he’s done.’

‘Yeah, but Tim Allen was a dealer, and I’m a chemist. The buck pretty much stops here. I’m top of the food chain. There’s no further up you can go, there’s no bigger prize than busting someone like me.’

‘Good point.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

The worst thing about jail (so far) is it’s so fucking boring that someone like me would go insane within weeks. I was so bored I counted every tile on the walls of the various rooms I was shuffled between (1,240 in the ‘airblock’, 2,278 in my ‘pod’). Oh yes, and then there was the food – being that I am a vegetarian, it was completely inedible. Breakfast was gravy and an apple. Yes, gravy. My cellmate got a hellacious case of diarrhea from it – so bad he actually shit his britches.

The next morning I had my bond hearing in front of a federal magistrate. I was chained to two other people by the hands and feet. Reporters crowded the pews watching my every expression. My mother was there with one of her friends from work. At that moment I knew that I had truly fucked up big time; that I had let down everyone who said I was a genius that could have done anything I put my mind to. What did my clever brain get me? Shackled to a health-plan embezzler and an illegal-alien bank robber.

A private lawyer offered his services for free (my case was extremely novel – only the second MDMA manufacturer in that district of Florida). The prosecutor moved to have my bond denied and for me to be detained in Morgan Street Jail (which makes Orient Road look like a fucking resort, btw). My lawyer and I quickly consulted the federal statutes and found that what applies to methamphetamine does not apply to MDMA, so that got me out of that dire predicament. Bond was set for $75,000 and my mother put up her house to secure it. Had I not bonded out, I am quite certain I would not be alive to type this. I later received the background documentation on the DEA’s ‘setup’ of the sting against my co-conspirators and me. What was extremely interesting to note from this was that the DEA conducted ‘three trash pickups at [my parents’] residence and one trash pickup at [blank]’s.’ Of course they didn’t find anything because I didn’t live with my parents, but I always assumed that they would be able to tell that I didn’t live there. Funny thing is, they were limited to investigating ‘where the chemicals were actually sent.’

Another consequence of my arrest was that most of my possessions were seized on the premise that they were either paid for with drug-manufacturing profits or they were actually used to make drugs. I could merely rattle off a list of interesting (and pricey) items that would break a materialist’s heart, but the point here isn’t to impress you with what I owned, rather, to illustrate that there isn’t a lot of logic involved in the seizure process. Furthermore, when they do seize something you have to take them to court (in a separate civil action) to get the stuff back. This will cost you beaucoup bucks and you’ll probably lose anyway (this is what my lawyer said, and he specializes in federal criminal and civil cases). Fortunately, you can sometimes ‘ask’ for certain things back, and if you were cooperative, they will honor the requests. Other times they will just outright give you things back. For instance, they seized about $10,000 in electronic test equipment that had absolutely nothing to do with making drugs and, besides a $3,000 digital storage oscilloscope, wasn’t even paid for with drug profits. However, a 1991 Ducati 900SS motorcycle, an obvious
toy
that was paid for with drug profits, was given back to me for unknown reasons. (They initially seized it but later said to my lawyer, and I quote, ‘We want to give it back to him.’ My 1988 Mazda RX-7 they ignored, saying that it was ‘a piece of junk’ – this was where I typically kept the ‘Lonely Laptop on the Fringe’ as well as a few other neat toys. Had I known that they weren’t interested in ‘Junky’ cars (mine had some rust as well as 100k+ miles) then I would have stashed my money in it, instead of a fire safe that they naturally cracked open immediately.

Side comment: The DEA chemist said ‘this is the most technologically advanced lab I have ever seen.’ Well, that was something to be proud of, anyway.

A couple weeks after I was out on bond the DEA found out about the storage unit I used and which had been rented out by one of [blank]’s roommates for me. It was quite a coincidence because the day before I had told my lawyer about it and asked him what I should do. He said, ‘Do nothing and see if they find it.’ Well, find it they did. It took some fast talking on my part to keep [blank]’s roommate from getting arrested as well. Anyway, when they raided my apartment lab and found all of that electronic equipment they assumed I was a dangerous sonuvabitch who booby-trapped the storage unit. They called my lawyer and me to ask what was in it. I gave them very coy, circumspect answers, implying that it had been so long since I was out there that I couldn’t ‘exactly’ remember what was in it. This was a good move on my part because it heightened their suspicion it was booby-trapped to the point that they offered me immunity for the contents as long as I told them what was there. Suddenly my memory reappeared and I rattled off about a dozen items before they decided that HazMat needed to be called in and so the circus started anew. Good thing I got immunity because inside there was a complete portable lab (I called it S.C.R.A.P. for Self-Contained Reaction APparatus), a generator, a rotary evaporator, about 400 different chemicals and some small amounts of 2-CB and mescaline.

The legal morass surrounding a manufacturing case is unbelievable. I could go on for dozens of pages about it, but instead I will summarize using the advantage of hindsight.

There are many ways one can be prosecuted for suspected drug-manufacturing, and the safest route the prosecutor can take is to just stick you with the precursors unless you were caught actually making it and/or you had product on the premises. I was caught with nothing being made and nothing on site, but the prosecutor was greedy and charged [blank] and me with ‘Conspiracy to Manufacture MDMA, a Controlled Substance Analogue’ anyway. I waived my right to a grand jury to be nice, and because there was no point in being formally charged since they had enough evidence to convict me of
something
. I was then offered a plea agreement that, of course, gave me nothing except taking away my right to appeal. My lawyer advised me to plead guilty, but
not
to sign the plea agreement. This is known as ‘pleading open’ and shows that you accept responsibility for your actions without the potentially damning loss of your right to appeal an unfavorable sentence. I don’t regret this at all even though it royally pissed off the prosecutor because I still get the three-level reduction for pleading (more on this in a moment). However, my pleading open made the prosecutor so mad that he then filed a motion to have me detained prior to my sentencing (i.e. thrown back in jail). The detainment hearing was, fortunately, quite laughable because I had been complying with all of my pre-trial bond restrictions (no drugs in the urine, no arrests, I had a ‘real’ job and was enrolled in school), still, if the judge was in a bad mood that day it could have been a trip to nasty, razor-wire-engulfed Morgan Street for me.