Doc: A Memoir

by Dwight Gooden

  When I got back east, I immediately checked into the Evergreen Substance Abuse and Addiction Treatment Program at the Bergen Regional Medical Center in Paramus, New Jersey. It was only a twenty-minute drive from my house. Dr. Sharp made the arrangements. He said I should think of Evergreen as a job. I went there three days a week and stayed for hours every time. The program was a lot like Celebrity Rehab—minus the cameras, the California sunshine, and the drama queens. We had group therapy meetings, one-on-one counseling sessions, and the same in-your-face confrontation. The one big difference was we got to go home at night.

  When I wasn’t at Evergreen, I attended twelve-step meetings at AA or NA, going to one or the other almost every day. Gerry Cooney, the former professional boxer, agreed to be my sponsor. His toughest fights, Gerry made clear to me, were not against Jimmy Young, Ron Lyle, or Larry Holmes—but in the ring with heavyweight brawlers like cocaine and alcohol. It was crucial for me to hear about the efforts of others, realizing that in this battle I was far from alone.

  Getting back to my daily life in New Jersey wasn’t easy. I knew I couldn’t call my drug-using friends or the guys I used to hang out with in bars. My marriage to Monique had pretty much fallen apart. Without the rush of drugs, I worried that my days and nights would sometimes feel mundane, like I’d lost a friend who had been there for me. A very high-maintenance friend. But a friend I had counted on for company, for fun, for protection, against some of the hard things in life. Isn’t that a bizarre way of thinking—that my biggest enemy was my friend? That’s how drug addicts think.

  I just tried to stay as busy as I could. Besides the day program at Evergreen, my manager, Ron, arranged some public events for me—autograph signings and speeches and sports banquets. It felt so great knowing people still wanted to see me. The people were always encouraging. “You look good,” they’d say. “Hang in there, Doc. We’re pulling for you.” Celebrity Rehab wasn’t airing until the end of June. But there’d been a few more stories in the papers and on the Internet saying I’d been there.

  I did notice people checking me out, staring in my eyes to see if they were bloodshot. Gauging my focus. Did I seem distant or confused? Looking for a sign, any sign, of how I was doing off drugs. “Is he okay?” But I didn’t get the sense they wanted me to fail. They were hoping, praying, and keeping their fingers crossed that I’d be able to rebuild my life. That was great to know. I really did get strength from the encouragement of others.

  I kept getting regular calls from Bob Forrest. Just as he had promised, he was checking in on me.

  “How you doin’?” he asked.

  Nothing formal. Nothing pushy. Listening for trouble spots.

  “Strange being out without the drugs?”

  Bob understood what that was like.

  “You talk to your mom? How’s Dwight Junior? How are Dylan and Milan? You been going to the meetings at the day program? Staying busy?”

  “I’m doing good, I think,” I told him, trying to give him an honest assessment. “I think I am.”

  Clearly, this was not going to be easy.

  I had to get used to leaving clean in a world where drugs and alcohol were always available. That’s a big challenge for any addict. There are temptations everywhere. Living in North Jersey, where I knew lots of people, I felt a lot more temptation than I had being sealed inside a treatment center three thousand miles from home, watched by counselors and cameras twenty-four hours a day.

  The fight to stay sober was constant. The lure of slipping back into the comfort of drugs or drinking was everywhere. Even with the full schedule of day treatment. Even with Ron’s events. I knew that boredom was a big reason addicts often relapse. I didn’t want to take any chances getting bored.

  I dove back into the lives of my kids. I made a point of staying in extra-close contact with my mom. I had neglected her in that period after the accident. I didn’t want to do that again. She was one of the main reasons I had for staying clean and sober, not disappointing her. I figured the more I stayed in touch with her, the more powerful my motivation would be.

  I went back and forth on the phone with Monique, who was still living in Maryland. Those calls were always tense. We talked about whether I should move down there when I was finished with Evergreen so at least I’d be closer to Dylan and Milan. Or maybe she should move back to New Jersey with the kids. Or maybe we should just stay apart. I still loved Monique, but nothing was ever easy with her. Being available to my kids was hugely important to me, and I knew I had to find a way. I had been so neglectful of my older children when they were growing up. That was one mistake I definitely did not want to repeat sober.

  And the criminal case was still waiting for me. If the judge decided to send me off to prison for the Ambien accident, as he had every right to, I knew that could sidetrack my whole recovery.

  I was totally willing to admit what I had done. I hadn’t meant to put anyone in danger. I certainly didn’t mean to put Dylan’s safety at risk. I didn’t try to hit that man’s Mercedes. But I had done all those things—I couldn’t deny it. I had used the cocaine, which sent me to the Ambien, which left me dozing behind the wheel. I was ready to accept responsibility. If not me, who else could I blame? I felt like I was on a positive track now. The accident seemed so long ago, like that was almost another person at another place and time. But I knew it was me. I just wanted to put it all behind me and move on.

  After months of negotiations, my lawyer, Neal Frank, worked out a deal with the prosecutors. I would plead guilty to one count of child endangerment. In exchange, the prosecutors would drop all the other counts against me. Frank said he thought Judge Venezia would probably give me probation. But there was no guarantee. My sentence was up to the judge. And no one knew what the prosecutors might say against me in court. We knew they’d opposed the idea of Celebrity Rehab. That could come up again. Even with a guilty plea, Judge Venezia could still send me to a New Jersey state prison for up to three years. Since I’d already done jail time in Florida after blowing probation down there, my lawyer warned me: prison was a genuine possibility.

  I truly didn’t know if I could handle that.

  25

  Judgment Day

  ON THE MORNING OF April 15, 2011, I walked up the front steps of the Bergen County courthouse in Hackensack, New Jersey. The courthouse was a huge gray building with a large dome on top. I thought: Nothing good can possibly happen in here.

  Given what was scheduled at 9:30 in room 311, I didn’t want any of my family coming along. Five years earlier, when my mom heard that Florida judge say “a year and a day,” I didn’t know if she would ever climb out of her seat again. Now I was facing up to three years behind bars. I couldn’t drag her up to New Jersey for that.

  I stared straight ahead as I waited for my name to be called. My lawyer, Neal Frank, was sitting to the right of me. Ron was on my left. State Superior Court Judge Donald Venezia was coming onto the bench. The clerk called out, “State versus Gooden.” My lawyer and I walked to the front. Bergen County Assistant Prosecutor Kenneth Ralph was already there.

  It’s funny what can pop into your head at times of huge pressure. What I noticed, as my whole future hung in the air, was that both lawyers had last names that sounded like first names. This would be a legal battle between Mr. Frank and Mr. Ralph.

  Before anything got started, the judge made me raise my right hand and swear to tell the truth. He asked “was I under the influence of any narcotics, prescription medicine, or alcohol at this time?”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  Given what I was charged with, I could understand why he might want to ask.

  It had been more than a year since I’d climbed behind the wheel of that black SUV, groggy from Ambien with traces of cocaine in my blood, five-year-old Dylan in the back. I thanked God for the favor I didn’t deserve, that no one was hurt that morning as I careened off the road near our house. Now, before Judge Venezia would decide my sentence, the prosecutor and the de
fense lawyers would both get a chance to be heard. My lawyer went first.

  He began by telling the judge I had been doing great in treatment. I had successfully completed an inpatient program at the Pasadena Recovery Center in California. In the three weeks I’d been back in New Jersey, he said, I’d been attending the Evergreen Substance Abuse and Addiction Treatment Program at Bergen Regional Medical Center, where I’d been drug tested several times a week. He told the judge I’d passed every one.

  That all sounded good, I thought.

  Instead of giving me prison time, Frank argued, Judge Venezia should sentence me to special probation under the state’s drug-dependency law. That meant probation with extra conditions attached, one of which was that I continue with my treatment.

  As my lawyer got rolling, I wondered how he would deal with my long list of past screwups. He addressed that directly. I’d been in rehab before and blown it, he told the judge. But this time would be different, he said. Never before had I been so motivated—for my own sake and for the sake of my family.

  “It’s the first time that Mr. Gooden has really had this level of commitment and the opportunities that he’s had,” Frank said, saying I knew how much was at stake here. “He comes up with one dirty test, he violates probation. He comes before Your Honor. The plea agreement goes out the window.”

  I was not a perfect risk, Frank admitted. But I was a risk worth taking, he said. “I don’t see that anybody loses by the court taking that chance,” he argued. “Sure, you’re going out on a limb. But I ask the court to do that because I also suggest that Mr. Gooden has gone out on a limb in his life to do what he’s never ever really done before.”

  I believed that. But would the judge?

  “To some degree, he’s a changed man,” my lawyer concluded. “He’s forty-six. He’s been fortunate thus far. I hope that the court will go along with the request that I’m making because I think it’s well-founded in the evidence.”

  Judge Venezia seemed to listen carefully. But damned if I could figure out what he was really thinking as my lawyer talked. I had no idea.

  The judge asked if I had anything I wanted to say before the prosecutor spoke. I didn’t want to say much. I thought my lawyer had covered most of it. It was a little strange, my sitting in the courtroom and hearing him discussing my life. But with so much at stake, I did want Judge Venezia to hear in my voice how serious I was about my future.

  “Your Honor,” I said, “I’ve been really trying hard this time around. As my attorney mentioned, I’ve been in treatment before. But this is the first time I’ve really dedicated myself to it. I really did some soul-searching on the things I need as far as opening up and sharing stuff with the counselors, things that happened in my life and the reason why I kept going back out using drugs and alcohol. I’m trying to correct that problem going forward.”

  And it won’t stop with this case. “Even when I’m done here,” I told the judge, “I’ll continue the rest of my life. I have a lifetime commitment that I continue to be involved with aftercare, even though it’s a day-to-day process.”

  “About time, right?” the judge said when I finished.

  “Yes, sir.”

  It certainly was.

  I couldn’t tell if my words had touched the judge at all. But I know I said what I was thinking, and I was glad I did.

  Then, it was time for the prosecutor to talk. The difference was night and day. Bergen County Assistant Prosecutor Kenneth Ralph stood up with a stack of papers and a sad expression. He didn’t seem to be buying anything my lawyer or I had said. He certainly wasn’t in favor of probation. Given my history, he said, “the court has to have some pause.”

  His office, he said, was recommending three years in prison.

  “Mr. Gooden has been through treatment before,” he reminded Judge Venezia. “Mr. Gooden has been in treatment over a period of more than twenty years.” Then the prosecutor started ticking off the painful particulars. Smithers, Betty Ford, Health Care Connection—it was like a whole resume of my failures. “So it can’t be said that Mr. Gooden has never had a chance. He has had a chance. And in this instance, he’s found himself in a situation where his conduct, his abuse of drugs, put other people at risk. Fortunately, he didn’t cause harm. He put his own child at risk. He put other motorists on the street at risk. And it’s time to be held accountable for what he’s done.”

  Right there, I could feel my hopeful future slipping away. It made me sound awful. And the worst part was, I couldn’t really claim any of his facts were wrong.

  “The Pasadena Recovery, by all intents and purposes, is a legitimate treatment center,” he said. “But it’s also the setting for a reality TV show called Celebrity Rehab, and that’s what Mr. Gooden went to do. So he somehow turned around this tragic and disastrous situation to something he could exploit for his benefit by continuing to promote his celebrity.”

  Now he was making me sound like Amy Fisher, Bai Ling, and Sean Young.

  “I saw Mr. Gooden basically using this case to promote himself and apparently make money going on a Celebrity Rehab TV show,” the prosecutor said. Whatever the ultimate sentence, I think the court should consider a fine so that there’s not a benefit from the involvement in the criminal justice process in this case,” the prosecutor said.

  He really wasn’t leaving anything out.

  He even scoffed at the credentials of Dr. Sharp, the psychiatrist from Harvard overseeing my followup treatment, making him sound like a lightweight. “Despite the fancy titles that are on those documents, you know, a doctor from Harvard Medical School, Pasadena Recovery Center is a TV show, for what that’s worth,” he said. “Suffice it to say, we stand here, Judge, I think with more questions than answers.”

  As prosecutor Ralph finished and sat down, Judge Venezia nodded politely, the same way he’d nodded after my lawyer and I had spoken. He gave absolutely no clue at all about his choice between probation and prison time.

  What was he thinking? What would he do?

  What he did was to look straight at me and start talking baseball.

  “You’re like a pitcher who’s gone through two innings, who’s gotten banged around,” the judge said. “By the third or fourth inning, you’re looking like you’re not going to get into the fifth. Very frankly, that’s where you are, okay? Because if you don’t get your life together now, I don’t think you’re finishing the game. You are, like Mr. Ralph indicated, on the brink of basically putting yourself either in jail or jeopardizing your own life and the safety of your family. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  Where was he going with this? Would he throw me out of the game or call me safe at home? These baseball stories can go either way.

  “I generally think you’re a decent guy,” the judge said. “I know who you are. But your celebrity is not the key. You’re not a bad person, but you’ve got an issue that you just keep avoiding. And the problem with it is how long you’re going to take to finally address the issue. And I think now you are at the crossroads.”

  Then he turned his attention to the accident.

  “It could have been a disaster,” he said. “I think you understand that.”

  He was happy I was in treatment. He said, “Hello! That’s exactly what it’s for! Those programs can help you, if God helps those who help themselves. I can almost hear my own mother, giving me the same advice.”

  I liked that he mentioned his mother. But he didn’t dwell on her. He continued with the pitcher-in-trouble idea.

  “I’m out of the dugout, and I’m the manager,” he said. “I’m looking at you, and I’m about to take the ball from you and say, ‘Into the showers you go, because you’re done.’ Okay?”

  I wasn’t about to interrupt this.

  “I think you understand,” he went on. “And the fact of the matter is you are finished if you don’t do everything I tell you to do, assuming I do put you on special probation. You’re not going to finish the
game of life. You’re going to end up putting yourself in the ground. You’ll die a young man or cause somebody else to get injured or both, or just disgrace yourself like some of your other brethren in other sports have done.”

  Wait, did he say “probation”? I thought he said probation. Probation sure sounded better than prison time. I’d never heard a judge talk the way this judge was talking. But he sounded like he was going to give me that one last chance.

  I glanced over at my lawyer, Frank. He had the tiniest hint of a smile. Ralph, the prosecutor, did not look happy.

  The judge went on a bit longer. He covered a lot of ground. He mentioned a football player he’d represented when he was a lawyer. “He was making the news lately,” the judge said. “He used to play for the Giants. I just can’t believe where the guy ended up from where he started out. You know who I’m talking about.” I think he meant linebacker Lawrence Taylor, my longtime friend whose troubles, like mine, included cocaine use and a hit-and-run driving case. “I don’t think he yet learned his lesson,” the judge said.

  The judge mentioned Lindsay Lohan. I’m not sure if he realized I’d just spent three weeks with her father in rehab. The judge said he wasn’t going to give me “Fifteen hundred breaks” like Lindsay got. “That’s up to whatever judge she’s before,” he said. “I’m not doing that with you.”

  Next, he mentioned my weight. He was hitting on all kinds of topics.

  “You lost weight, I see,” he told me. “That’s good, because you weren’t looking so good the first time I saw you in December. I think that’s an indication of what you’re going through. You’re killing yourself. You’ll die of a heart attack. We’ll read in the paper or get some ESPN blast that something happened to you. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”