Law and Addiction

by Mike Papantonio

  to their feed. But if it’s important to you, I can make a call and

  find out.”

  Deke did his best to hide his impatience: “Please.”

  The producer took a few steps away, turned his back to Deke, and

  then made a call. From what Deke could gather, Carl was talking to

  another field producer. The two men exchanged some small talk,

  and then Carl asked his question.

  “Really?” Deke heard him say.

  Whatever the man on the other line was saying evoked some

  incredulous laughter. “No,” Carl said, and was treated to more

  details. That prompted him to laugh and say, “Tell me, why is it

  that those who try to come off as Boy Scouts always end up being

  scumbags?”

  Carl would have talked longer, save for Deke’s sharp cough.

  “Hey, I got to run,” he said. Clicking off, he turned back to Deke. “Long story short,” he said, “they arrested a drug dealer today,

  a Mexican national named Guillermo Flores. Anyway, this dealer decided to make a full confession, and said for the past year he’s

  been supplying drugs to your friend.”

  “What?” In Deke’s one word there was more than skepticism;

  there was complete disbelief. “This drug dealer identified Jake as a

  client?”

  Carl nodded. “He said that he’s been supplying Jake with opioids

  and black tar heroin for almost the entire time he’s been in the U.S.” “That’s a lie.”

  Carl shrugged. “Law enforcement evidently doesn’t think so.

  Their theory is that the pressure got to Jake, and that he was so worried about his secret coming out that he fled the area.”

  Deke cursed under his breath before saying, “The dealer is probably trying to cut a deal by making up a story.”

  “From what I was told, law enforcement was adamant about

  no deal having been made.” Carl shrugged again. “I guess it makes

  sense, when you think about it. It’s always the closeted politician

  going on about the sins of homosexuality, and the sanctimonious

  preacher preying on the underage girls in his flock.”

  “You don’t know Jake,” Deke said angrily.

  Carl narrowed his eyes. “Do you? During the press conference

  they said Jake’s twin brother died of an opioid overdose. They also

  said his new girlfriend is an addict. I didn’t know about that.” “She’s in recovery,” said Deke. “She credited Jake for helping to

  get her clean.”

  “Is she here?”

  He sounded hopeful, which prompted Deke to lie. “No, she’s not.” Deke was fuming. This assassination of Jake’s character would

  likely throw a huge monkey wrench into their efforts. By tomorrow

  morning, most West Virginians would believe that the reason Jake

  Rutledge had gone missing was because he was a drug addict. No

  one would care about finding him.

  “Your reporter said you’d be doing a story from here,” said Deke.

  “I’d like to be interviewed for that story. I want to talk about the Jake

  Rutledge I know, an honorable young man who took on a crusade

  against opioids because he knew firsthand how devastating they

  were, having had to bury his own twin brother. Jake saw the consequences of opioids; there’s no way he became victim to them.” Carl looked unimpressed, but he said, “That sounds good. Why

  don’t you give us two minutes to prepare?”

  Deke nodded. He would use the time to consider how to best

  refute whatever claims this drug dealer had made about Jake being

  an addict. Realistically, though, the damage had already been done.

  It hadn’t been that long ago when Deke’s own enemies had set him

  up. Even though he’d proved his innocence in court, he knew there

  were plenty of people who still believed he was a cold-blooded

  criminal. Even now, he heard the ugly whispers. “You know that

  Deketomis? He got away with murder.” It was easier to think the

  worst about someone than the best. Why that was, Deke didn’t

  know. Maybe it was human nature. Maybe most people knew it was

  easier to capitulate than to take a stand.

  Jake wasn’t around to defend himself, but Deke was, and he sure

  as hell wasn’t going to let the slings that were now being unleashed

  upon his friend and comrade go unanswered.

  26

  THE LOTUS-EATER

  In the time since his lone encounter with Screech, Jake had kept revisiting the episode. Sometimes it felt like a dream. The whole thing had certainly been strange enough.

  It was possible that Screech had been playing him—with that thick accent and his cryptic remarks—but it hadn’t felt that way. Strange as it seemed, the man had acted as if he were looking after Jake’s best interests. Screech had referenced orders to have Jake put away “a while.” It was unclear who’d given those orders, but it was helpful information. Screech and his group weren’t running the show, and communication with whoever had hired them had broken down, leaving Jake in a strange state of limbo. Luckily, Screech had continued to see to his care. Jake hadn’t even been aware of his last two visits. He only knew Screech had been there because his waste bucket had been empty and there were new supplies.

  Jake had heard there were more churches per capita in West Virginia than anywhere else in the country. He didn’t know if that was true, but having grown up in the Mountain State, he did know that faith was a bedrock for most citizens. Screech seemed to be a believer—Jake recalled him saying something about having

  208 his reward on earth. But he’d also kept saying the solution was the solution. And hadn’t he said something about a seven-percent solution?

  That jarred a distant memory. Jake had once seen a Sherlock Holmes movie called The Seven Percent Solution. Through various stratagems, Watson had managed to get Holmes to see Sigmund Freud so that the psychiatrist could treat his friend’s cocaine addiction. Even the great Sherlock Holmes was no match for cocaine; addiction had made him experience debilitating hallucinations.

  Screech had told Jake he was already “with the solution,” but he hadn’t seemed to be referring to only what was in the syringe. He’d also referenced Jake’s “thirst.” All these connections were making everything clearer in Jake’s mind, but that didn’t mean he was feeling any better.

  If anything, he was feeling worse.

  Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, Jake thought. The book was a first-person account written in the early nineteenth century by Thomas De Quincey. Jake had read the book, and scores of others like it, as preparation for the trial. He had wanted to know about addiction.

  But he hadn’t wanted to live it. Now, Jake realized, that was what he was doing.

  That sudden awareness—I’m an addict—caused an alarmed intake of breath. He felt like a secondary observer making notes on his own symptomology: the dry mouth and dry nose, his constipation, his sometimes-blurry vision, and the shortness of breath he occasionally experienced. There was a part of him that was shocked, that reacted with numb disbelief, but there was another internal measurement that said this was no revelation at all. His subconscious had been well aware of what he was doing every time he reached for the bug juice: feeding his dependency.

  210 / L A W A N D A D D I C T I O N Jake let out the pent-up air. Physically and mentally, it felt as if the floodgates had opened. Screech had referenced the low toss several times during their conversation. But he hadn’t been talking about baseball. Low toss didn’t mean an error or a passed ball or a throw down at the shoestrings. Someone in Appalachia had remembered their Homer. Low toss was the hill pronunciation of lotus: another nickname for Hillbill
y Heroin.

  Jake did his best to recall what Homer had written in The Odyssey about the lotus-eaters. In their own way, they’d posed a bigger threat to Odysseus than the Sirens or the Cyclops or even the storm sent by Poseidon. After several of his men ate the lotus leaves, a blissful forgetfulness came over them. They didn’t want to go back to the ship, nor did they have any desire to return home. Odysseus had been forced to chain to the ship those who’d eaten of the lotus; given any opportunity, the lotus-eaters would have returned to their idylls of pleasure.

  Screech had recognized Jake’s panic at being separated from the drugs; his jailer, clearly an addict himself, was voicing his own anxiety at that prospect. Jake had long suspected that the bug juice, with its sickly sweet flavor and astringent aftertaste, was drugged, but he’d assumed it was just sleeping pills meant to keep him compliant. Now he saw how naive he’d been. The juice had been filled with crushed opioids. They’d intended to turn him into an addict.

  No one can blame me, Jake thought, tamping down panic. His very survival had required him to drink. And he hadn’t known for sure his drink was drugged, even though he might have had his suspicions.

  But was that just denial? The justification of an addict? “But I’m the victim here,” Jake whispered.

  The irony wasn’t lost on him. He had imagined himself a great

  reformer, ridding the world of the opioid scourge. Now he was just another junkie. Whoever had wanted to ruin him, destroy his case, couldn’t have plotted better. If he’d been murdered, his memory would have only helped the cause. Junkie Jake would be of no use to anyone—of no credibility to anyone—even himself.

  For a moment, Jake contemplated simply giving up, proclaiming that nothing could be done, sinking back into the haze that a part of him had welcomed during these past weeks. Blissful forgetfulness. His choice was to either stay in the land of the lotus-eaters, or to try and get away. He thought of Anna and the agony he’d watched her go through. He didn’t know if he had her strength. Few people succeeded at going cold turkey. Jake wondered if Blake had tried to kick his habit. His brother must have felt as alone as Jake was feeling at that moment.

  Something caught his eye from between the folds of fabric concealing his cage. It was just the wind moving through the trees that he’d practiced his opening arguments to earlier. But above the droning of the wind and the rustling of leaves, Jake heard a voice speak as clearly as though it were there in the cage with him.

  “I’ve got your back, brother,” it said.

  27

  LET ME COUNT THE WAYS

  Deke knew the fix was in, or more likely, multiple fixes. The damage to Jake Rutledge’s reputation was immense. Over the course of a day, he’d gone from being thought of as a courageous crusader to what many now believed was just another drug addict. The life and death of his brother was being rehashed; Anna, Jake’s “addict” girlfriend, was being subjected to character assassination.

  From experience, Deke knew the wisdom of the old adage that a lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes. Despite that, he had taken it on himself to try and set the record straight, giving as many electronic and print interviews as possible. While the lie was circulating, Deke was trying to put the shoes of truth on his friend’s feet. Sometimes the race didn’t always go to the swift, so Deke would focus on being relentless.

  The conspiracy against Jake’s name hadn’t spontaneously occurred. What had proved the most damning was the statement issued by Guillermo Flores that he’d been supplying the young lawyer drugs. From the first, Deke had asked, “Who the hell is this Guillermo Flores? And who the hell set him up to say what he did about Jake?”

  212 It was fortunate that Carol Morris and Bennie Stokes were already beating the bushes in West Virginia working on Jake’s disappearance. The two of them had been making calls most of the night trying to get answers to Deke’s questions.

  The three of them huddled over coffee a day and a half after the vigil. “Guillermo Flores is what they call a Jalisco boy,” said Carol. “You know what that is?”

  Deke nodded. “The cartels take clean-cut farm boys from the middle of Mexico, and they set them up all over the U.S. to sell their product.”

  “The Jalisco boys came in and filled the void left when the opioid pill mills closed shop and left town,” said Bennie. “The pill mills got out while the going was good, avoiding oversight and potential prosecution. What’s that old line about nature abhorring a vacuum? Into that vacuum came the Jalisco boys and black tar heroin, which users seem to feel is most comparable to the opioid pills they were used to taking.”

  “Opium by any other name,” said Deke, “but still kills the same.”

  “Guillermo Flores has been in West Virginia for the last thirteen months,” said Carol. “We’ve determined that he has lots of clientele in Oakley. If Jake were going through a dealer, the odds are that it would be Flores.”

  “Has one credible person surfaced who claims Jake was using drugs?” asked Deke.

  Carol and Bennie both shook their heads.

  “Is there any truth to the rumor that Flores was also Blake Rutledge’s dealer?” asked Deke.

  “No truth whatsoever,” said Carol. “Blake’s dealer was widely fingered as a man named Derek Parsons. He died of an overdose just a week after Blake did.”

  214 / L A W A N D A D D I C T I O N “The Jalisco boys have put many of the local dealers out of business,” said Bennie. “They operate like a pizza-delivery chain. Call comes in and the drugs go out. The dealers don’t consume their own product. They stay clean, don’t sport any ink, and they do everything they can to stay out of the limelight.”

  “If that’s the case,” asked Deke, “then why did Guillermo Flores volunteer to drop a dime on Jake Rutledge?”

  Carol gave him a significant look. “The deputy sheriff who made the arrest claims that Flores tried to bargain down his charges with the information on Jake.”

  Deke could tell she wasn’t buying it. “So,” he asked, “what’s wrong with that story?”

  “Let me count the ways,” she said, but not in an Elizabeth Barrett Browning manner. “Everything about this case is hinky. The Jalisco boys know the cartel insists they keep a low profile. All the time they’re in the U.S., they pretty much work and sleep. They make about ten times what they would working on the farms they come from, but the cartels use their families back home as leverage to ensure they never get out of line. If they’re arrested, they know the cartel will supply them with a lawyer. If they have to spend any time in jail, the cartel will make sure their family back home gets rewarded. Because of that, they know to never talk, and that if they do talk, serious harm will come to their families. So why didn’t Guillermo Flores follow the usual script?”

  “Why?” asked Deke.

  Carol and Bennie exchanged glances, and then he spoke for them: “Sheriff’s deputy Edward Dunn.”

  Deke furrowed his eyebrows. “Like Dunn-Edwards paint?” he asked.

  “Paint happens to be one of his nicknames,” said Bennie. “Anna said Jake called him Whitewash.”

  “Whitewash as in a covered-up investigation?”

  “Bingo,” said Bennie. “We found it interesting that Flores, as well as the other Jalisco boys, essentially operated with impunity in Dunn’s jurisdiction until his recent arrest. And then, lo and behold, Flores confessed to being Jake’s dealer.”

  “What Bennie didn’t mention,” said Carol, “is that our friend Whitewash happens to be the same deputy who paid an official visit to Anna Fowler’s father telling him his property was going to auction.”

  “Curious and curiouser,” said Deke.

  “It’s clear the cartel must have some arrangement with Dunn,” said Carol, “or whoever Dunn answers to, or both. For all of Flores’s cooperation, the charges against him were not reduced. In fact, they’ve accelerated his extradition—he’s scheduled to be returned to Mexico tomorrow.”

 
“You’re kidding me,” Deke said.

  “I wish I was.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s convenient for a whole lot of people, but not for Jake.” He pursed his lips, giving some thought as to what he should do. “You know where Flores is being held?” he asked.

  “They’ve processed him locally,” said Bennie. “He’s in a cell in the town of Melton.”

  “I think the three of us need to take a drive,” said Deke. “I’ll be behind the wheel, while the two of you find out anything else you can about Guillermo Flores.”

  “And what do we do once we get to Melton?” asked Carol.

  “At that time,” said Deke, “Mr. Flores will meet his new legal counsel.”

  28

  LOST AND FOUND IN TRANSLATION

  Carol and Bennie divided up their duties and worked their phones all during the drive to Melton. Getting information on a Mexican national, especially one who had avoided being included in any data banks, wasn’t easy. Luckily for them, Carol had contacts high up in the PF, the Policia Federal, better known by their nickname: the Federales.

  They determined early on that Flores had no criminal record. In first-world countries, you can find lots of information on the citizenry; at the Flores farm, there was apparently no home phone, nor had Guillermo ever received a Mexico driver’s license.

  Carol’s contacts at the Secretariat of the Interior, the agency that governed the Federales, put in calls to police officers with jurisdiction over where Flores lived. Those cops weren’t personally familiar with Flores, but they made their own calls and talked to a few people who knew the family.

  Guillermo—or “Guillo,” as he was known—had grown up on a small corn farm. By all accounts, he was a hard worker and a good man. Like so many of his countrymen, he’d made the trip north in order to make money. There was no stigma attached to his livelihood; if anything, what he did was considered his familial duty. By

  216

  working for the cartel in a foreign land, he could ease his family’s financial burdens. It took Carol a good part of their drive before answers started coming in. After finishing with one call, she said, “Guillo has a fiancée. She’s named Isabella, but he calls her ‘Bella,’ which you probably know in Spanish means ‘beautiful.’”