Wrestling with the Devil

by Lex Luger

  I remember feeling hot, sweaty, and dehydrated.

  After a few minutes, the same police officer came back. “Lex, we can’t let you back inside, so let me take you down to the station where it’s air-conditioned and I can get you something cool to drink. You don’t need to be sitting here in front of all these people.” It was turning into a real mob scene around me.

  “When we get to the station, we’ll go over what happened. It’s all standard procedure.”

  At the Marietta police station, the detective and I went over the series of events that led up to the 911 call. Then we took a break.

  When the detective came back into the room, he said, “I wanted to let you know that the medical examiner’s preliminary findings indicate that Elizabeth died from an accidental overdose. We’re pretty much done here, Lex. Who can I call to come pick you up?”

  I gave him the name and number of a friend.

  “Okay. I’ll be back,” he said, leaving again.

  It seemed like a long period of time passed before the detective returned.

  “Has my friend arrived?” I asked.

  “Yes, he’s waiting outside.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “I have a few more questions to ask you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Lex, sometimes these situations can take a twist and a turn.”

  I looked at him, thinking, What does he mean by that?

  “Is there anything in your town house that you can think of that shouldn’t be there?”

  “No, not that I can think of.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Lex, I want you to think about this carefully.”

  My mind was racing, but I couldn’t think of anything illegal back in the town house. What could they have found? Where’s he going with this?

  “Lex, the guys on the scene did find something. Do you have any idea what that might be?”

  I was honestly drawing a blank. “No, I don’t.”

  “Lex, we found a considerable amount of anabolic steroids on the premises.”

  “That’s news to me,” I replied. “I have testosterone and human growth hormone at home, but I have legal prescriptions for those.”

  “That’s not what I mean. We did a thorough search of your town house and found steroids.”

  “Where did you find that?”

  “I really can’t elaborate at this point. Unfortunately, here’s the next step. The guys who conducted the search are here, and they’re going to have to take you to the Cobb County Jail and book you on drug charges.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I’m sorry. I wish I was.”

  Two detectives from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation (GBI) escorted me to their car. Ironically, both of them happened to be regulars at my gym. As we rode from the Marietta police station to the Cobb County Jail, they told me that the steroids had been found in a black gym bag in an upstairs bedroom closet; the vials were wrapped in electrical tape, unopened. The spare bedroom! That’s when it hit me. Back in 1998 when I started going on the testosterone and the HGH therapy prescribed by my endocrinologist, I had stopped using anabolic steroids. But at the time, I had just received a shipment of them from Europe. Since I wasn’t using them anymore, I threw the heavily taped package into a zippered pocket in a gym bag, instead of throwing it away. Everything in that spare bedroom closet had been shipped over from Sugarloaf, and I hadn’t had time to go through it yet. How ironic that I was being arrested for possessing steroids that I hadn’t used for years.

  By the time we arrived at the jail, I was sleep deprived, exhausted, and totally drained. I was in complete shock—physically, mentally, and emotionally spent—when they locked me up.

  I felt a sense of darkness and despair surrounding me in that cell, something that I had never experienced before. My entire world had come crashing down around me.

  Before that moment, I’d always wondered how people could ever think about killing themselves.

  But now I knew exactly how someone could get to that point. I felt totally alone, nearly smothered by a sense of utter hopelessness. I remember looking around and seeing the privacy wall separating the toilet from the rest of the cell and contemplating how I could end it all. Maybe if I climb up on that wall and fall face-first with my hands behind my back, I could smash my skull and kill myself. Then I realized, Maybe the wall isn’t high enough for me to finish the job.

  Fortunately, my lawyer, John, quickly bonded me out of jail and checked me into a nearby hotel, away from the media storm that had camped outside my town house.

  He instructed me that it would be best to stay at the hotel for the next couple of weeks and keep a low profile.

  It rained for the next two weeks. The miserable weather reflected my mood. I had been at the hotel a few days when I started going a little stir-crazy, so one evening I decided to walk downstairs to the lobby. As I passed the bar, I glanced at one of the television screens and did a double take. It was footage of me; I was still a headline story being covered on the local news. I turned around, went back to my room, and locked the door, never venturing out again for the remainder of my stay.

  I didn’t have to worry about getting drugs and alcohol; a friend would periodically drop them off, keeping me well supplied. I stayed high and intoxicated for the next two weeks.

  During this time, I completely shut myself off from everyone, with two exceptions—my lawyer, John, and Sting. The day I called Sting, I’m pretty sure I was high because I don’t remember anything I said to him. I didn’t talk to any of my family; I just wanted everyone—and everything—to go away. I didn’t read any newspapers or watch any of the local or national news shows.

  As the two weeks came to an end, I made it clear to John that I didn’t want to go back to the town house. He had been talking with some friends of mine from the gym, and everyone agreed that it was best for me not to. Instead, they found me a condo in Buckhead that I could move into when I left the hotel.

  John apprised me of everything that was happening with my case. I was being charged with multiple counts of felony drug possession, but it was going to be a while before this went to trial.

  “Time is on our side,” he kept reassuring me. “By the time this gets through the legal system and with you being a first-time offender, I’m optimistic that, in the end, it won’t turn out as badly as it seems.”

  He did have some bad, albeit not surprising, news. Peggy had filed for divorce soon after I moved to Buckhead. He promised to take care of everything with that, too.

  “Hang in there. Don’t worry about anything,” John said. “Start going back to the gym, take care of yourself, and keep a low profile.”

  I did start going to the gym again. But the rest of John’s advice? I let it go.

  Everyone thought this was going to be a wake-up call for me, but I went in the opposite direction.

  Buckhead was the happening place to be in Atlanta at the time. I had never been a part of the club scene in Atlanta before; I had specifically avoided that. But now my double life had been totally exposed. Why keep up the pretense? I began acting out—livin’ large—going to nightclubs and all the local hot spots in my flashy cars. I was the celebrity “bad boy” that our pop culture always embraces, the one everyone wants to hang out with.

  Our divorce was finalized in November 2003, a few weeks before our twenty-fourth anniversary.

  By the end of the year, I was getting tired of the partying crowd in the clubs. I came to the realization that those types of people are partying on you, not with you. They only like you because you give them access to VIP rooms and pick up the tab. So I began hanging out at the condo with friends, people that I thought really cared about me. Some certainly did—like my sister, Barbara. I would invite her and her family over for barbecues fairly often, since they lived nearby.

  After the divorce was finalized, I had hoped to reestablish a relat
ionship with Peggy and the kids, but understandably, they were extremely reluctant.

  The year 2004 became my year of the two-a-days. I started the routine of getting high in the morning before my pre-workout lunchtime meal. After that, I’d get caffeined up and go to the gym, and then get high again at night before a late evening meal.

  People who saw me at the gym probably thought I was doing fine. But my friends who were privy to my behavior on the weekends at the condo saw a different Lex. Most of them were getting high with me. I did have a couple of friends who were concerned enough about me that they’d wait for me to pass out, then pour my vodka down the sink and flush my pills down the toilet before they left. When that happened, I’d have to replenish my stash. It became a back-and-forth game for us. But sometimes it actually would slow down my intake—at least for a while.

  My family was very concerned. My mom called me regularly from Buffalo, and my sister called and visited. They knew I had a problem and did everything they could to help me. They were both my rocks that year.

  I did succeed in staying out of trouble, because I was mostly hanging out at the condo watching movies with my friends. We certainly weren’t hurting for movie choices. We had gone to the local Blockbuster, and I had practically bought out the entire store.

  But I felt like I was in limbo, just waiting for things to move forward in my life. Whenever I asked John if anything was happening on the legal front, he kept telling me to be patient, not get discouraged, and keep it together—easier said than done.

  My year of keeping it together was about to end.

  In January 2005, John called and said my legal case was finally going to be settled. We still didn’t know for certain what the judge’s final decision would be. I was excited but apprehensive at the same time. For two years, I had been carrying the weight of not knowing the outcome—would I be able to get back to my plan, or would I have to do jail time? In early February, the moment of truth arrived.

  The judge gave me a five-year sentence; I was now a convicted felon. The good news was that in the state of Georgia a nonviolent, first-time offender could be given probation—it was totally up to the judge. When the ruling was made and I heard the word probation, I was so relieved, like a grand piano had been lifted off my back. While I was on probation, I would be required to do community service.

  I was fired up. Now I could move forward with my life. It was time to hit the gym and get back to work.

  The following week, while I was going through my mail, I saw a letter from Cobb County that I had missed a court date for one of my many traffic violations that had accumulated over the past couple of years. My driver’s license was currently suspended, so I was hoping to clear this up and get it reinstated.

  I was told to report to the Cobb County Jail to take care of the violation; otherwise, they would issue a warrant for my arrest.

  I got a ride to the jail, and when I pulled out my credit card to pay the fine at the desk, the clerk kept typing on his computer. Then he said, “Do you have an outstanding warrant anywhere?”

  “Absolutely not!” I said confidently, thinking everything would be all right in a few minutes.

  “The computer says there’s an active warrant issued for you in Gwinnett County, Georgia. Sorry, Lex, we’re going to have to place you under arrest.”

  I couldn’t believe it. After all that time anticipating staying out of jail, here I was going to jail.

  The following day, my attorneys (John and a separate lawyer who had been handling all my traffic-related violations) explained to me what had happened. It had been a while since I had paid alimony and child support to Peggy and the kids. My plan was that once I got back to work, I would bring things up to speed. However, I hadn’t informed the judge in Gwinnett County of my intentions, and he had issued the warrant. My lack of communication was obviously a huge mistake. I would have to spend the following seven to ten days in lockup until I was placed on the docket at the Cobb County Courthouse to settle my traffic violation. Then I would be extradited to the Gwinnett County Jail immediately afterward to be held, without bond, until my court date for the charges related to the missed alimony and child support payments.

  For the first time, I was issued my very own Cobb County blue flannels and rubber sandals. I was placed in isolation for security reasons, due to my so-called celebrity status. When my day at Cobb County Court arrived, I was transported in my blue flannels, restrained with wrist and ankle shackles. Traffic court was packed. I was brought in from a side door and was marched out in full display in front of the judge and the courthouse audience. It was definitely not the type of entrance I wanted to be known for. I’ll never forget the looks of shock on everyone’s faces. It certainly made their day in traffic court a memorable occasion.

  I was taken back to Cobb County Jail, where I changed into my street clothes and waited to be picked up to go to Gwinnett County Jail. It was a Friday night when I arrived at Gwinnett, and the intake area was jammed—it was a full house. I spent the entire night in the holding area.

  I was finally brought into the processing room, stripped naked in front of several officers and inmates, sprayed down with lice disinfectant, rinsed off, then handed green flannels and rubber sandals. It was an extremely embarrassing and humiliating moment. I remember thinking, This is a long way from the VIP check-in at the Ritz-Carlton. For the first couple of days, I was in the infirmary, where they could monitor me for any withdrawal symptoms from drugs and alcohol. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel any major physical effects. I certainly craved them, but I didn’t go through the typical withdrawal that most addicts experience. It made me feel as though I wasn’t a true drug addict, that I was in control. Eventually, I was put in a small isolation cell for security reasons.

  A short time later, I sat down with one of the officers, who explained my three options: (1) I could be placed in a cell by myself—twenty-four hours a day—with no interaction with other inmates; (2) I could share a cell with one other inmate and have very limited interaction with other inmates in a common area; or (3) I could share a cell with three others and be placed in the general population, with the least restrictions of all for the common area.

  “What would you do?” I asked him.

  “To be honest,” he said, “twenty-four-hour isolation is rough, even for the most hardened criminals.” He thought that because of my celebrity status the second option would be the best, but I chose the third option—general population. I had never liked being confined in small spaces. I wanted to have as much freedom of movement as possible. “Suit yourself,” he said, “but be prepared. You’re going to get swarmed.”

  I quickly learned from my 180 fellow inmates on my pod how things worked, especially the “monetary” system. As with most jails, every inmate could have a bank account to draw from. Friends or family would deposit money in the account, which an inmate could then use to buy snacks like candy bars, chips, or even cigarettes. My sister, Barbara, would make a weekly deposit for me for the maximum amount permitted. All of us inmates had individual storage bins in our cells, where we would store our “money”—the snacks or items we had bought or traded for other items. The two most valued food commodities inside the Gwinnett County Jail were instant cups of soup and honey buns. They were like gold. I’d stock up on my snacks in my “bank,” first by purchasing them, then by working deals with other inmates who had run out of snacks for the week. We did what was called a two-for-one. For example, if you “borrowed” one from me one week, you’d “pay” me back with two the next week. My bin filled up fast.

  But what I needed more than snacks was real food. I was taught by a cellmate how to barter for extra meals. If an inmate owed me, I’d sit across from him at mealtime. When I was done with my tray, he’d slide me his. After a couple of weeks, I was eating two portions at every meal. It was a matter of survival for me; my body was used to consuming huge amounts of calories at home. I was trying to hold on to as much size as I could.


  I never had any problems with the other inmates. As my three other cellmates wisely told me at the outset, “Most of the guys in here just want to serve their time and get out. Just treat everyone with respect. If you mind your own business, they’ll mind theirs. That’s the best way to avoid being thrown in the ‘hole.’” The “hole” was isolation, where you were sent for disciplinary reasons. Understandably, I got peppered with questions from the inmates about pro wrestling, but it did help kill the time.

  Being incarcerated definitely makes you appreciate the simple things in life that most of us take for granted—like being able to do the things you want to do when you want to do them. Here, there was no such thing as privacy—everything was communal and out in the open, including going to the bathroom or taking a shower.

  When my release from jail was finally arranged, almost two months had passed. (I would eventually meet with a judge regarding my case.) I was finally free. I just wanted to go home, take a nice hot shower, get buzzed, and then eat a double Whopper with cheese and McDonald’s French fries.

  It was good to be home and back to my familiar routine. Not that I had started doing things in moderation. Since my release, I was throwing caution to the wind when it came to getting high. One night I stumbled and hit my head on the granite kitchen countertop, gashing my forehead open between my eyes. I woke up the next morning in a pool of blood on the carpet. It looked like a crime scene. I thought to myself, Wow, you must have really overdone it last night. A friend took me to the emergency room to get stitched up. Obviously it didn’t worry me too much, because I was right back at it that night.

  Another time, a short while later, I was riding shotgun in my friend’s pickup, on the way back from replenishing my supply of drugs and alcohol. I couldn’t wait until we got back to the condo, so I started popping pills and drinking on the way home. Talk about fast and furious! I got buzzed so quickly that when we arrived and I stepped out of the truck, I fell onto the concrete and split the back of my head wide open. I refused to go to the hospital. I sat in my recliner, and my friends kept wrapping my head in towels, trying to stem the flow of blood. It eventually stopped, although I had throbbing headaches for weeks afterward, probably the result of a concussion. Neither of these incidents, nor other similar ones, slowed down my escalating consumption of drugs and alcohol.