Dare To Be Successful

by John Barrett Hawkins

  Chapter 3: Blockbuster Bandits

  Matt Maroki started shoplifting in junior high school. In the beginning, he stole candy from 7-11 and other convenience stores because he liked the excitement and thrill of doing something illegal. He got away with it every time. In high school, Matt shoplifted from clothing stores. It was easy; he would simply walk into a store wearing baggy clothes, select several outfits, and head for the changing room. Matt would try on all the different clothes and interact with the store’s staff. He asked for their opinion regarding which outfit looked the best on him. When he exited the changing room, he wore the items he planned to steal under his baggy clothes. To divert attention, Matt always purchased something inexpensive, such as a pair of socks. He never got caught. Matt did not once consider the potential consequences of his shoplifting or the fact that he was planting dark seeds that would grow dangerously out of control.

  The flashpoint in Matt’s criminality was marijuana. One evening when Matt was 15 years old, he got stoned at the home of his neighbor, Cody Smith. Cody’s 6’10” height and full beard gave one the impression he was a grown man. He wasn’t. Cody was a 17-year-old high school senior. He was the center on the school’s basketball team. Also present at Cody’s house was Tony Barnes, a mischievous hillbilly from the Appalachian Mountains in eastern Kentucky. Everybody on the basketball team called Tony “Wildcat” because he was constantly yapping about the Kentucky Wildcats college basketball team. Wildcat was an 18-year-old senior point guard. Matt was the team’s equipment manager and statistician. He hero-worshiped the two seniors and did whatever they asked him to do.

  “Dude, this is some killer weed,” Cody said. “Where’d you score it?”

  “I stole it from a Bigfoot,” the wisecracking Wildcat replied as he blew smoke rings into the air. “You want it back?”

  “I got your Bigfoot right here, numbnuts,” Cody fired back as he grabbed his crotch.

  “Your momma’s a Bigfoot. Your daddy’s a Bigfoot. And that ugly sister of yours with the bushy unibrow across her forehead is definitely a Bigfoot. If any one of ya’ll was caught rummaging through the garbage for food back home, you’d get shot. Ya’ll are lucky you live in California where Bigfoots are on the endangered species list.”

  “This coming from the inbred, incestuous love child of a mother and father who are first cousins.” Cody laughed.

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with cousins gittin’ married,” Wildcat teased. “The first time I had sex was with my stepsister.”

  “Hillbilly trailer trash!” Cody howled, and the room filled with marijuana induced laughter.

  Matt loved the infantile, fun-loving interplay between the two older boys. He loved smoking pot and hanging out with his friends.

  “Dude, I got fired from my job at the liquor store,” Cody said.

  “What happened?” Matt questioned.

  “It was totally bogus. They accused me of stealing a case of vodka.”

  “Did you steal it?”

  “Fuck no. I think it was that Indian turd, Deepak. He’s the owner’s precious son. Fucking asshole. I needed that job. My car needs new tires and new brakes and the insurance is already through the roof. When my parents find out, they’ll take the car away.”

  “That’s not going to work,” Wildcat said. “It’s a crappy Toyota, but we gotta have transportation. Are you sure Bigfoots need insurance?”

  “Fucking Indian turds, they did me wrong, dude. I have the combination to the safe at the liquor store. I’d like to steal them blind.”

  “Maybe you should,” Wildcat encouraged. “How much do you think is in the safe?”

  “I’m not going to rip them off. I was just talking smack.”

  “Why not?” Wildcat pressed. “They screwed you over. They got it coming. I’ll help you do it.”

  “I will, too,” Matt joined the conversation. “Seriously, how much do you think is in the safe?”

  “Quite a bit if we did it on a Sunday night. The owner puts the sales receipts from Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in the safe and doesn’t go to the bank until Monday morning. There’s at least $3,000 a day.”

  “Do you think it would be difficult to break in?” Wildcat continued to press for details. He was into using drugs and always short of cash.

  “I don’t think so. There are two back doors. One is just a screen gate. The other one is weak, but it has a metal latch with a lock on the inside. It might take some work, but I think we could get it open with some bolt cutters. The good thing is the entire back area is completely cut off and hidden by seven-foot-high brick walls.”

  Wildcat took control of the planning. It was decided that Cody and Matt would handle the break in. They would dress in black clothes and wear ski masks, because the liquor store had a security camera. They would purchase irregular sized shoes in case they left any shoe prints. Wildcat would be the getaway driver. He would remain in the car, which would be parked a block away.

  The caper was planned for 3:00 a.m. The kids drove past the liquor store, which was located in San Fernando Valley. The street wasn’t busy with traffic during the day, and in the middle of the night it was a ghost town. Their timing seemed to be perfect.

  Cody and Matt made their way to the secluded area behind the store. They busted through the mesh screen door without difficulty. The main door was made out of metal, but it was flimsy and weak. The boys snipped away at it with the bolt cutters and bent the metal back with the crowbar until the inside latch was visible. They broke the inside latch with the bolt cutters. They threw their shoulders into the door and crashed through it. An alarm sounded off like the siren of a fire engine.

  “Run!” Matt shrieked.

  The two kids sprinted to the getaway car. Wildcat was disappointed. He needed the money to settle his drug debts. When they were halfway home, he decided to turn around.

  The kids drove past the liquor store. The alarm was still ringing, but it wasn’t very loud. They drove to the gas station across the street. While they were pumping gas, the alarm stopped. They waited another 10 minutes, but the police never arrived.

  The boys decided to proceed with their plan to rob the liquor store; however, this time Wildcat decided to park close enough so that he could see the front door and honk three short beeps if the cops showed up.

  Cody and Matt hopped the back wall and went in through the wide open door. Matt filled a backpack with bottles of booze while Cody opened the safe. He took all of the cash and two pistols, a snub-nose 38 Special and chrome 357 Magnum. They were in and out in a flash.

  The take from the liquor store burglary was $12,000, which the teenagers split evenly. Matt had his own money for the first time in his life. He enjoyed buying gifts for his siblings and girls he wanted to impress. He went to nightclubs, slipping the bouncers a $100 bill to allow him and his young friends entry. He partied all of the loot away in just five weeks.

  When the money ran out, the three juvenile delinquents made the decision to commit an armed robbery. Wildcat’s older brother worked at a Blockbuster movie rental store. Wildcat pressed him with questions concerning the store’s management procedures, daily receipts, alarms, and safes. Then he formulated a step-by-step plan for the robbery. Wildcat was the mastermind and the getaway driver. Matt and Cody would execute the plan.

  Blockbuster closed at 10:00 p.m. It took approximately 30 minutes for the store manager to tally the day’s sales, which were kept in a safe in the back office. An additional employee vacuumed the floor and cleaned up. After completing their duties, the manager turned on the alarm. The two employees exited through the store’s front door.

  It was at this precise moment Cody and Matt arrived on the scene, wearing their black robbery clothes and ski masks.

  “Get back in the store,” Cody demanded as he pointed the 38 Special at the two employees.

  “Oh my God!” exclaimed the store manager. She was a voluptuous, beautiful young woman with whi
te-blonde hair and brilliant, aqua-colored eyes. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “We are not going to hurt you,” Cody replied, waving the pistol in the direction of the manager’s office. “We just want the money.”

  “Do you want me to frisk her?” Matt questioned with a husky voice, suddenly inspired by the manager’s extraordinary good looks.

  “Shut up, perve,” Cody barked. “Stick to the plan.”

  The other employee was an overweight teenage boy with long hair and terrible acne. Matt thought he recognized the kid from school. “Let’s go, fart-breath,” Matt snarled. “Over there, in the aisle. Give me your car keys and your cell phone. Sit down and don’t say anything.” Matt saw the terror that registered in the young man’s face. Holding the 357 Magnum, Matt felt powerful and in complete command of the situation. He wasn’t the least bit afraid.

  Cody took the manager to the office. “First, turn off the alarm.”

  The woman was so frightened that she got the code wrong three times before she was able to turn off the alarm.

  “Now the safe,” Cody ordered. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Cody towered over the woman as she worked the combination lock back and forth. Her hands were trembling.

  “Take a deep breath. It’s going to be okay. I promise we won’t hurt you,” Cody reassured her.

  Click. The safe opened.

  “Put the money in this bag.” He pulled out a black plastic garbage bag.

  The manager quickly stuffed the money into the bag. Cody then brought her back to the front of the store and sat her next to the other employee.

  “Did you get her cell phone and car keys?” Matt asked.

  “I forgot.”

  “Get them while I go back in the office and cut the phone line.”

  The teenagers ran out of the store and found Wildcat, who was parked a block away. They drove to Cody’s house and went down to the basement to count the money.

  “That was the craziest fucking thing I ever did in my life.” Cody exclaimed. “I’m still shaking.”

  “You should have seen how fine the store manager was,” Matt added. “She looked like a movie star.”

  “Numbnuts here asked if he could frisk her. What a pervert!”

  Wildcat didn’t hear a word they were saying. He was focused on counting the money. When he finished, he whistled loudly. “Are you ready for this? We got $24,925! Hell, yeah!”

  Over the next four months the teenagers, who became known as the “Blockbuster Bandits,” robbed six more Blockbuster movie rental shops all over the San Fernando Valley. The robberies were executed to perfection.

  Everything went well with the robbery of the eighth Blockbuster store; however, when they were sprinting away from the store Matt and Cody were still wearing their ski masks and carrying their pistols. They ran directly past a police car driving in the opposite direction.

  The cop slammed on the brakes. He exited his vehicle, pulled out his gun, and yelled, “Get on the ground, mother-fuckers!”

  The kids kept running down the sidewalk. Then the cop screamed the words that stopped them cold: “Freeze…or I’ll shoot!”

  Cody and Matt were merely 50 yards away from the cop. The kids put down their weapons and sprawled flat on the pavement. Six additional police cars arrived moments later. The teenagers were handcuffed and taken to separate squad cars.

  Wildcat was sitting in his car just 20 yards away. The cops pointed their guns and ordered him to get out of the car. For some unknown reason, Wildcat yelled, “I’m with them.”

  Later that night at the Sheriff’s station, the boys confessed to all eight robberies of the Blockbuster stores. The next morning the boys were separated. Matt was taken to Juvenile Hall, where his personal nightmare began.

  Matt soon discovered that Juvenile Hall is a violent place. During the first two days he was held in a single cell for observation. A 17-year-old Mexican gang member named Demon came to Matt’s cell and asked, “Who you running with?”

  Matt studied Demon with the cautious curiosity of an astronaut who had just landed on a hostile, distant planet. Demon was short, but powerfully built. He was covered with sadistic tattoos. He had a spider-web tattoo on his neck, two teardrops below his eyes, the word “Fuck” on one eyelid and “Y.A.” (Youth Authority) on the other. He exuded a menacing aura of danger. To Matt, Demon was an alien life form. He wanted nothing to do with him.

  “I’m not running with anybody, I just got here.”

  “I know that, dickwad. What race are you?”

  “I’m Persian.”

  “Persian, what the fuck is a Persian?”

  “I was born in Afghanistan, but raised in California. My family is Christian.”

  “I didn’t ask for your fucking sad sack life story. Are you running with us or the Maiate?”

  “What’s a Maiate?”

  “You some kind of fucking moron? A Maiate is a nigger.”

  “I’m defiantly not with the Blacks.” Matt’s father was a racist who hated black people. He wasn’t allowed to have black friends.

  “Good. Then you’ll run with us.”

  “Who is us?” Matt had no idea what the kid was talking about.

  “You’re a smart-ass punk. I’m going to kick your fucking ass the first night you get in the dorm,” Demon steamed. He walked away from the cell.

  Demon was true to his word. The first night after Matt was transferred from the observation cell to the general population, 96-man dorm, Demon attacked him while he was asleep. Demon cracked Matt in the head with a sock loaded with bars of soap.

  Matt leaped out of his bunk, dazed and disoriented. He put up his fists, ready to fight. Before he could throw a punch, Demon took his legs out from under him with a sweeping leg kick. Demon took Matt to the ground, and pummeled him with a barrage of punches to the face. Matt tried to fight back, to get up, to get away, but he could not escape. Demon overpowered him and beat him unmercifully.

  “Gimme your shoes, Camel Jockey,” Demon snarled.

  “My shoes?” Matt was confused. “Why?”

  “Because I said, so punk.” Demon punched Matt in the mouth and raise his fists to swing again.

  “You can have the damn shoes,” Matt said weakly. “I give up.”

  Matt removed his $150 Nike tennis shoes and handed them to the menacing gang member. Only then did he realize that 30 other Mexican kids were grouped around him.

  “You’re my bitch now, Camel Jockey,” Demon said, laughing. He and his homeboys dispersed, leaving Matt battered and frightened.

  The next morning Matt was cornered by a gargantuan black kid named “Knockout.” The guy was 6’5” tall and 270 pounds of rippling muscle. Knockout was the dorm’s Tyrannosaurus Rex; the undisputed alpha male. He had the heart of a bully and a thug’s mentality.

  “Why’d you let them Mexicans punk you for your shoes?”

  Matt didn’t know what to say to the giant black kid.

  “What did they call you? Camel Jockey? You some kind of Arab?”

  Matt found his voice. “I’m Persian. I’m not Arab, I’m a Christian. I was raised in the San Fernando Valley.”

  “That makes you an Other,” Knockout explained. “The Others run with the Blacks.”

  “I’m not allowed to hang out with black kids. My father won’t let me.”

  Matt knew he had just made a monumental mistake by the look on Knockout’s face. His eyes smoldered with satanic fury.

  “Racist!” Knockout yelled. He delivered a thunderous, open-handed blow to the side of Matt’s head. The haymaker punch that followed crashed into Matt’s face with the force of a sledgehammer. His nose exploded with blood as he crumbled to the ground.

  Later that day, Matt watched as the Black and Mexican gangs faced off over whose bitch Matt would be. Matt’s $150 Nike tennis shoes suggested that he had money, which both gangs sought to control. The Blacks and Others had assem
bled on one side of the dorm, while the Mexicans and Whites gathered on the other. Knockout and Demon were arguing in between. Their poisonous hatred toward one another permeated the air. The atmosphere in the dormitory was electric.

  Demon turned to his homeboys and said something in Spanish. The Mexican gang members circled like a pack of coyotes. Knockout threw the first punch; a glancing blow that sent Demon reeling. The Blacks and Others charged and the dorm room erupted in pandemonium. Matt’s eyes were riveted on the race riot that was playing out before him.

  “Get down!” a counselor screamed over the loudspeaker.

  The brawl continued. Matt noticed what appeared to be the barrel of a gun pointing through one of the holes in the Plexiglas window of the observation room. Boom! A loud explosion was followed by hundreds of rubber bullets whizzing in all directions. Matt was hit three times before he realized that he needed to lie flat on the ground to avoid the ricocheting bullets. The bullets stung like the sting of a wasp and left huge welts on his skin. They also brought a swift conclusion to the race riot.

  In the aftermath, Knockout and Demon reached a truce. They decided to split Matt’s canteen money fifty-fifty. The youngsters were allowed to receive $40 per week from their visitors, which they could spend at the commissary or in vending machines. Matt allowed the gang members to extort him for one month. When Demon was transferred to the Y.A., Matt decided to make a stand. He returned from a visit and told Knockout and Gordo, Demon’s replacement as shotcaller for the Mexicans, that his parents had cut him off financially. The gang leaders were not pleased with this new development.

  “Then you no longer have protection,” Gordo said. “Tonight after count time, your ass is mine.” Gordo was eager to establish himself as top dog in the dorm. Matt would be an easy target.

  Following the 10:00 p.m. count, the bunks in the back of the dorm were moved around to set up a small area where the boys would fight. The other kids moved to spots where they could watch the action.

  Gordo equaled Matt’s 5’7” height, but out-weighted him by more than 100 pounds. Gordo was fat, but he was also muscular and strong. Matt feared the 17-year-old gang member and didn’t want to fight him. He wanted to run into the counselor’s office and beg for help, but Matt did not choose that course of action. During his month-long stay in the dorm, Matt had learned that whatever happened in Juvenile Hall would follow him to the Y.A., which was where he would be sent following his court conviction and sentencing. Matt was determined not to be labeled a “rat” or a “coward.” Matt was trembling all over as he clenched his fists and squared off with Gordo.

  The Mexican kid threw the first punch. Matt blocked it and surprised everyone in the dorm, including himself, by throwing a counter-punch that landed squarely on Gordo’s jaw. A collective, “Ohhh!” rippled through the dorm.

  Gordo made a bull-like charge that drove Matt into the cinder-block wall. The fighters tumbled to the ground. Matt attempted to get up, but Gordo grabbed the back of his hair and pulled him to the floor. Gordo wrestled Matt into a corner and began to pound him on the head. Matt slipped away and finally made it to his feet. Gordo got up and the two boys squared off like boxers once again. Their tennis shoes squeaked as the boys circled one another and threw wild punches. Gordo rushed Matt once again, using his immense hulk to take him to the ground for the second time. Gordo put Matt in a headlock with his left arm and hit him in the face repeatedly with his right fist. Matt was powerless against the bigger kid. On instinct, Matt reached up and clawed at Gordo’s face. When Matt’s thumb poked Gordo in the eye, the fat kid screamed out and released him. Matt scrambled to his feet again. Gordo’s vision was blurred. Matt seized the moment; he threw a left-right-left combination and all three punches landed squarely in Gordo’s face.

  “Kick his fucking ass, Camel Jockey!” Knockout screamed, unable to contain himself. Knockout hated Mexicans.

  Gordo was exhausted and gasping for breath. Matt hit him three more times before Gordo made another bull-rush. He lunged for Matt’s legs but dove too low. Matt side stepped the rush. Gordo stumbled and smacked his head into the wall. He rolled onto his back. Matt jumped on top of him, fists flailing wildly at Gordo’s face.

  Seconds later Matt was cracked on the back of the head by one of the other Mexican kids. The Mexican gang members descended on Matt like a storm of locusts. The onslaught was beyond belief. Matt curled into a fetal position with his arms wrapped around his head as the gangsters kicked him savagely. It was a brutal beat-down.

  Boom!

  A gunshot exploded in the dorm room, and the rubber bullets zinged around the room. All the juvenile delinquents hit the deck.

  A Mexican kid who was on the ground next to Matt said, “Fight one bean, you gotta fight the whole burrito. You ain’t never gonna win a fight against one of the homies.”

  Matt was confined to the Juvenile Hall dormitory for 16-months while his attorneys attempted to negotiate a plea bargain. During that time he was engaged in more than a dozen fist fights. Whenever a new kid came into the dorm, no matter what race he was, Matt was forced to fight with the kid. If Matt got the upper hand in the fight, a beat-down on Matt ensued. Matt’s lone wolf status did not earn him any respect with the other teenagers.

  The first plea bargain “deal” Matt was offered by the Los Angeles County prosecutor’s office was 22 years. His attorney was ultimately able to negotiate a 13-year sentence, of which Matt would be required to serve 85 percent — 11 years. The kicker was that Matt agreed to two strikes, meaning that he would be facing a mandatory sentence of 25 years to life if he was ever convicted of another felony under the Three Strikes law. Cody was also sentenced to 13 years. Wildcat was only sentenced to five years because he didn’t have a gun during the robberies.

  Following his sentencing, Matt was transferred to the Y.A. detention facility where he would remain until the age of 18. At that time he would become an adult and would be moved to the state prison system for the remainder of his sentence.

  Shortly after arriving at Y.A., Matt heard someone yell, “Camel Jockey!” His heart sank into his stomach when he saw the face of his Juvenile Hall nemesis, Demon, glaring at him.

  “Come here, Camel Jockey. I want to introduce you to someone.”

  Matt walked over to Demon, who was standing with five other Mexican gang members.

  “This is Anaconda Jones,” Demon said.

  A tall, lanky kid of Cuban descent extended an inviting hand. Matt shook his hand. Jones squeezed it tightly, then jerked Matt toward him, wrapped his other arm around Matt’s body, and held him against his chest. Matt struggled to get away as Jones whispered in his ear, “Chu wanna be my girlfriend?”

  “Fuck you,” Matt said as he pulled away.

  “What do you think, Jones?” Demon asked.

  “She’s pretty. I want her.”

  “Fuck you,” Matt repeated. “I ain’t nobody’s bitch.

  “She’s all yours.” Demon said, laughing.

  “Chu wanna be my girlfriend?” Jones asked again, this time with an exaggerated wink.

  The gang kids busted up laughing.

  “You come anywhere near me and I will slit your throat.” As the words escaped Matt’s mouth, he couldn’t believe what he had just said or the fact that he meant every word.

  Matt’s response caused even more laughter.

  Matt turned to walk away, but Jones grabbed his arm. “I’ll stop by your cell after evening count. Make sure your cellie is gone so we can have some quality time together.”

  Matt pulled away and went directly to his cell. He busted open a razor and melted the two blades to a plastic spoon, fashioning a deadly weapon. His mind raced and anxiety filled his soul as Matt nervously awaited his confrontation with Anaconda Jones.

  The cell doors at Y.A. had individual locks, and the inmates had their own keys. When the count cleared, Matt’s cellmate went to the day room area where the inmates watched TV and pl
ayed cards. Matt could have locked the door, but chose not to. He was ready to prove that he was not going to be anybody’s bitch.

  A few moments later, Jones was standing outside the door, peering through the bars. He looked both ways. Once he was certain that no counselors were watching, he entered Matt’s cell. Matt revealed his weapon. “I told you I was going to slit your throat. You ain’t gonna rape me.”

  Jones put both of his hands up. “It ain’t like that. I ain’t no faggot. That was just a joke.”

  “Then what the fuck are you doing in my cell?”

  “Demon told me that I had to beat you up. I don’t even want to fight you.”

  Matt stood at the back of the cell. Seven feet separated the two boys. “This ain’t going to be a fight. If you come one step closer, I’m going to cut you.”

  “Put the blade away, man. This is Kern County. If you cut me with that blade, the prosecutor’s office will file attempted murder charges. Nobody uses weapons here.”

  “Fuck you,” Matt said. “I’m doing what I have to do to protect myself. I know the law on self-defense. You are in my cell.”

  Jones backed out of the cell. He had no intention of getting cut by the crazy Camel Jockey kid.

  The next day the counselors searched Matt’s cell and found the make-shift weapon hidden in his mattress. Jones had snitched on him. Matt was taken to the hole, where he would be isolated from the general population for 30 days. The following morning he was taken to the counselor’s office.

  “Are you some kind of idiot?” asked counselor Ruiz, a conservative-looking, middle-aged Hispanic man with thick glasses. “Possession of a deadly weapon is a felony. If I submitted this to the D.A.’s office, they’d file charges against you in a heartbeat. That’s strike three. 25-to-life means life. You want to spend the rest of your life behind bars?”

  The impact of the counselor’s words hit Matt like a tsunami. He started crying. His body shook with huge, uncontrollable sobs. He missed his mother and father and the kindness of his sisters. The pain of losing his freedom and pent-up fear exploded out of him in torrents of emotion.

  “Look, Mathew,” Ruiz explained. “You get one pass with me. Only one. The Kern County D.A.’s office is serious about this Three Strikes law. None of my boys use weapons here. If you must handle your business, you do it with your fists. That’s how it is here. Jones wasn’t lying to you.”

  “Jones told?” Matt was shocked by the insinuation.

  “Yes, he told me what happened because he didn’t want to see you get a life sentence. Don’t look so surprised. That shit about the so-called convict’s code is a ridiculous fantasy. Somebody always tells. I know everything that goes on here. When you are released back into the general population, I don’t want to hear about you calling Jones a rat. That boy did you a favor by coming to me. Now stop crying. You can’t show these gang kids any weakness.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said ending the conversation.

  When Matt was released from the hole he entered “Gladiator School.” For 30 consecutive days he was forced to fight a different kid. Matt’s 18-month stay in Y.A. was even more violent than his time at Juvenile Hall.

  When Matt arrived at Donovan State Prison as a fresh-faced 18-year-old, he was fortunate in that some older cons took him under their wing. Matt’s counselor classified him as “White.” He learned that in the adult prisons the Whites do not run with the Mexicans. On the outside Matt had always hung out with white kids. The Whites embraced Matt and he gave up his lone-wolf status.

  As a new con on the yard, Matt was required to go on a mission shortly after his arrival. With two other convicts he was ordered to beat up a white man who had disrespected the Blacks by uttering the word “nigger” one too many times. Matt performed his mission admirably. Following a 30-day stint in the hole, Matt acclimated to life at Donovan. Unfortunately, Matt got too comfortable. He started purchasing large quantities of marijuana and getting stoned all the time.

  Matt Maroki did not learn his lesson, which was that he made poor choices whenever he got stoned. The decision to burglarize the liquor store, which started his crime spree, was made when Matt and his friends were stoned. The other important lesson to be learned from Matt’s story is that you must choose your friends wisely. If you choose to hang out with people who do drugs, commit crimes, or are involved in gangs, it can destroy your life. Matt’s so-called friend, Wildcat, was a drug addict and the instigator of the crimes they committed.

  Matt was recently moved to a lower level prison. He has five years remaining on his sentence. My fear for Matt is that he may never get out of prison, because he is unwilling to give up smoking pot. If he doesn’t get caught using marijuana, he may make another poor choice when he is under the influence and not thinking clearly.