“What career?” I replied.
I still loved my job, but I knew I was just about maxed out at the Post, a fact that was oddly empowering. And the newspaper industry as a whole was imploding. Newspapers throughout the country were folding, and many of those that were left standing were laying off tens of thousands of journalists a year. Career-wise, I realized, I had nothing to lose.
I met with the president of the county police union and called a Prince George’s white shirt I was friendly with. I told them I was writing about being a crack addict while covering the police beat in D.C.
“I know a lot of officers don’t like me, and I expect some of them will attack me,” I said. “That’s fine—I’m putting myself out there, so I’ll be fair game. But they need to keep it legal.”
I told the union chief and the white shirt about the e-mail that referred to my L.A. detention. “If any cop goes there, well, I know the number to the U.S. Attorney’s Office,” I said. “How long would it take the FBI to figure out which police computer was used to look up my name?”
The article was published on December 30, 2007. The issue’s cover featured a cartoon of Paris Hilton wearing a tiara and a sash emblazoned with “2007.” The cartoon character was carrying a Chihuahua. The cover went with a year-in-review piece by humorist Dave Barry. My story was anything but humorous: I described my encounter with Big Man, how I picked up female addicts to make crack buys in exchange for sex, my forays on S Street, and my stint in rehab.
I woke up before dawn, retrieved the newspaper from outside my building, read the article, and braced for the blowback.
There was none. In the ensuing days, more than six dozen readers sent e-mails saying they had a loved one who was struggling with addiction. The article gave them hope, they wrote. Some friends whom I hadn’t tipped off called to congratulate me—for getting clean and for the piece. Later that week, Greg Shipley, a Maryland State Police spokesman, looked at me after he completed a press statement about a prison inmate who’d been taken to a hospital for treatment of chest pains and had escaped.
With a handful of fellow journalists looking on, Shipley asked if I was the reporter who wrote the magazine article.
I felt my neck muscles tense.
“Yes,” I said.
“Man,” Shipley said. “You are tough.”
The day after the story was published, I wandered into the main Post newsroom downtown to pick up a couple of additional copies of the magazine. Publisher Don Graham spotted me a few feet from the elevator and walked over.
“Glad you made it,” he said as he patted my shoulder.
There were no taunting e-mails or phone calls from Prince George’s County police officers.
Just like old times, I pulled up in front of the hulking bakery on S Street. The slingers quickly surrounded my car. I made the buy and drove through the alley behind the church that looked like a castle. Minutes later, I was back at my old apartment on 10th Street Northwest. Quickly, greedily, I loaded half the chunk of crack into the end of my pipe and lit up. The rock crackled and hissed. Trembling, I closed my eyes and brought the pipe to my lips …
I woke up in a panic. The nightmare was so realistic, so detailed, it took me a few terrifying seconds to realize it was just a bad dream. It was August 2008, eight months after I’d come out in the magazine as a crack addict.
The publication of the story didn’t change my day-to-day routine. My friends remained my friends. My sources continued to provide tips. The judges, lawyers, clerks, and security officers at the state and federal courthouses didn’t treat me any differently.
In January 2008, a few days after the article was published, I received a breezy congratulatory e-mail from Mark, a former Herald Examiner colleague. We’d been out of touch for eighteen years, ever since I’d left Los Angeles. I quickly wrote back, saying I needed to talk to him to make amends and asking for his phone number. He was part of the wreckage of my past, and I needed to clean it up.
When Mark and I had worked together at the Herald Examiner, in the late eighties, we were seemingly barreling toward doom on parallel tracks. Everyone knew that I drank hard, but Mark was considered the real wild man of the paper. It was common knowledge that he indulged in marijuana, cocaine, and maybe other drugs. He often dragged himself into the newsroom around noon, his eyes bloodshot.
Mark was a few years older than me. I was introverted and had a small number of friends, mostly Herald Examiner colleagues. Mark was gregarious and charming and had a large circle of friends inside and outside the newsroom. Six feet tall and lean, with angular features, thick black hair sprinkled with gray, and eyes that often seemed to be twinkling in bemusement, he was as handsome as some of the TV and movie stars he covered as a feature writer in the Style section. He seemed never to lack for female companionship.
A few months before I left L.A. for Washington, someone organized an office Fourth of July picnic. A sign-up sheet was posted on the bulletin board in the middle of the newsroom. Staffers wrote down their names and what they would bring to the party: potato salad, hot dogs, hamburgers, soda. When no one was looking, I forged Mark’s name and printed a single word: “narcotics.”
It was completely juvenile and thoughtless, but I meant no malice. Mark had always been friendly to me. One night when I was at Corky’s, drowning my sorrows over my latest ruined romance, he had hung out with me, listened, and gently counseled me about the temporary nature of setbacks and victories alike. I felt better.
From my desk I watched as a handful of people read the list and snickered or chuckled when they got to Mark’s name. But when Mark wandered over and saw it, his face went dark.
He sputtered, “If I ever find out who wrote this …”
Then he tore the list off the wall, flung it into the nearest trash can, and stormed away. I figured it was better to let my authorship of the gag remain a mystery.
When I called Mark a couple of days after our e-mail exchange, he quickly made me laugh: “So, where’s Carrie now?”
We talked easily about our respective misadventures. Mark told me he’d been clean for a few years, said he got tired of the chaotic drug life and simply quit. He was working at a newspaper in Florida, living in an apartment near a bay where he had a boat. Mark and I had both tumbled into the hellhole of crack addiction, and, improbably, we’d both climbed back out, more or less intact.
Mark said he was curious—why did I have to make amends with him? What had I done to harm him? I told him about my dumb prank and recalled how upset it had made him at the time.
For a couple of beats, Mark said nothing. I braced for his angry rebuke. Then he laughed.
“I don’t remember,” he said. “You’re forgiven.”
Mark had relatives in the D.C. area. We made plans to have lunch or dinner the next time he was in town.
It seemed we were on our way to forging a new friendship based on our shared escape from addiction.
Less than two weeks later, Mark was dead.
I learned about his death when I signed on to a website that covered the journalism industry. The site had a brief item describing how Mark hadn’t shown up for work one day, prompting worried co-workers to go to his apartment, where they found his body. There was no evidence of trauma or foul play, the story said. An autopsy would determine the cause of death. But I already knew.
A few weeks later, a mutual friend confirmed it: Mark had died of a drug overdose.
Mark’s death reminded me that, no matter how well I thought I was doing, I was always one drink or hit away from a nasty end. Some people can get clean for a few months, or even years, relapse, then start over. I knew I wasn’t like that. I had no margin for error. The monster that was awakened when I relapsed after I got out of rehab in 1992 would be exponentially more powerful now. It was inside me, waiting patiently for the smallest of opportunities.
The crack dreams crept back into my sleep that spring. My nighttime teeth grinding and wrist snapping intensified. I
chomped through another mouth guard. I had my dentist make me one double the usual thickness. For my wrist, I upgraded from a soft brace to one outfitted with a steel spine.
I knew, though, that I was just treating the symptoms.
And I worried that the nightmares weren’t just an expression of my subconscious fears, but a harbinger. Mark had had everything going for him. He was smart, charismatic, talented, and handsome. In the weeks after his death, his family posted a page online where people could share their recollections about Mark. Relatives and friends posted messages making it clear that Mark was beloved. In the years since I quit using, I’d reestablished ties with my family, made some lasting friendships, and written stories that changed a police department with a legacy of brutality.
Did any of it matter? I kept up with my program of recovery, but if someone like Mark could fall, what chance did I have in the long run? I had no problem being around people who drank. How would I respond if I was offered a hit of crack? Suppose the offer came from an alluring young woman?
On a warm, sunny September day in 2008, much like the one on which I first drove to S Street with Champagne, I went back to the neighborhood where I’d made hundreds of crack buys.
I hadn’t been on the block since I’d gotten clean, sixteen years earlier. I wondered whether the street was still dominated by slingers. It was a whim. I wanted to know if I could be near them without making a buy. I felt the need to test myself.
It was Sunday. Traffic was light. I turned right onto S Street, parked, and took in the block.
The abandoned bakery remained derelict, the windows boarded up, the big doors padlocked. But there were no slingers in sight on either side of the block. The street was quiet.
John’s Place was gone. Instead of the low-slung concrete nightclub, a gorgeous three-story brick apartment building anchored the corner. A sign on the ground floor, which had large glass curtain walls, touted a day care and learning center.
New Community Church looked the same. How had it survived? Maybe there was a story there.
I slipped a notebook and pen into the back pocket of my jeans, hopped out of the car, and wandered over. It was midafternoon. A sign in the front yard said Sunday services were held from 11:00 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. The worshippers were long gone. But maybe I’d luck out and find the pastor or a church worker.
A stout, middle-aged black man answered my knock on a side door. He wore glasses and had graying, close-cropped hair. The man was holding a broom.
“Hi, my name’s Ruben Castaneda,” I said. “I work for the Washington Post. I’m a reporter on the local staff. I remember what this block was like in the late eighties and early nineties, and I’ve always wondered how a church could survive in the middle of a crack zone. I was hoping I could talk to someone about how the church got by during that time.”
The man motioned me inside and introduced himself: Billy Hart. He talked as he resumed sweeping.
“We were fine because of Baldie. He looked out for the church,” the man said.
“Okay. Who’s Baldie?”
“He was a drug dealer. He lived next door. He pretty much ran the block.” Goose bumps from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. A great story if it checked out. I casually pulled out my notebook and pen.
“What did Baldie do?”
Billy told me about the time he summoned Baldie to deal with the three intruders who were stealing items meant for the kids in the after-school program. I slipped in a few questions and wrote it all down, trying not to look too anxious.
“How else did Baldie help the church?” I asked.
“You should talk to Pastor Jim,” Billy said. He pulled out a cell phone and punched in a number.
“Jim, some guy’s here. Says he’s from the newspaper. He wants to talk to someone about how Baldie protected the church,” Billy said. “Uh-huh.”
Billy handed me the phone. I introduced myself.
“Jim Dickerson. I’m the pastor,” the man on the other end of the line said. The name was vaguely familiar. Had I read about him? Something about affordable housing?
“I’ve been around long enough to remember what the street was like fifteen, twenty years ago,” I said. “I remember when S Street was a 24-7 crack zone. Mr. Hart said the church was protected by a drug dealer named Baldie. I’d like to talk to you about it.”
“We’ve had reporters come around now and then,” Jim said. “Not all of them have been trustworthy. I suppose we could talk.” He sounded guarded.
Jim gave me his cell phone number. Adrenaline whooshed through me as I walked back to my car. I could barely believe the story that I’d stumbled on. I hadn’t given much thought to where my money went after I made all those crack buys. Now I had a name—and, better still, the broad outlines of a terrific narrative. I wanted to know more.
I decided to call Jim as soon as I could to set up an interview.
Guilt and fear held me back. September, October, and November passed without my following up with Jim.
I thought about it. I kept his number on my nightstand. I even picked up the phone and began dialing a few times. But I never finished.
It was a great story, no doubt. But on the day I met Billy and talked to Jim, I hadn’t thought the whole thing through. In our brief discussion, Jim had given no indication he’d read my Sunday magazine article. Most of the response to the story had been positive. But the people who’d given me a thumbs-up weren’t directly impacted by my addiction. I’d contributed to the pathology that had affected the people of the church, as well as the people who lived around it.
I would have felt dishonest interviewing Jim without disclosing my role in making S Street a combat zone. And I wasn’t sure he’d want to talk about his connection to the neighborhood crack dealer anyway. I understood immediately why a pastor would reach an accommodation with such a character. The late eighties and early nineties were a lawless time in dozens of D.C. neighborhoods. I could see how, in the midst of chaos, a pastor might make nice with the local drug peddler. But people who hadn’t been near the drug markets may not understand. They might see any accord with a dealer as collaboration with the enemy.
Christmas and New Year’s Day slipped away, and I still hadn’t gotten in touch with Jim. But I couldn’t get the story out of my mind. Finally, in early January, I called him.
“Did you happen to read an article I wrote for the Post Magazine, published about a year ago? It described why I was so familiar with the way S Street used to be.”
Jim said he hadn’t.
“I think it would be helpful if you read it first. It would give you an idea of where I’m coming from, why I’m so interested in S Street.”
“Fine,” Jim said. “You can bring the article to the church. If no one’s there, just drop it in the mail slot at the front door.”
The next day, I made a copy of the story and took it to the church. No one answered at either the front or the side door, so I slid it through the mail slot.
I hoped for the best.
I waited a few days, then called Jim again.
“I read the article,” he said. He didn’t sound guarded anymore. He sounded enthusiastic. “When do you want to meet?”
“I was worried you wouldn’t want to talk to me after reading the article,” I said. “I was part of the problem back then.”
“The fact you went through that gives you more credibility with us,” Jim said. “Everybody’s in recovery from something.”
For the next three months, we met weekly at the church, usually for an hour at a time. Jim was completely open and forthcoming about his friendship with Baldie. He described his efforts to reach out to the kingpin and his slingers and recounted his own life story and how he had come to establish the church on S Street.
Jim was generous with his time. There were no conditions on any of our interviews.
About two months into our talks, Jim invited me to attend a service at New Community. “You’re welcome to come anytime,�
� he said.
“Thanks. I’ll think about it,” I replied. Jim didn’t put on a hard sell, and he didn’t attach his cooperation to my church participation. That was appealing. So was Jim’s notion of Christianity, which seemed very different from the fire-and-brimstone brand of Catholicism I was brought up in as a boy. The Catholic Church of my youth taught that following God, as specifically defined by the church, was the only way to avoid eternal damnation.
Jim, on the other hand, spoke often about the impact the “healing power of God’s love” had had on his life. And he was clearly dedicated to helping poor people in the neighborhood and throughout the city.
But I wasn’t looking for religion. I was looking for a story.
Six days before Easter, I was in the parking lot of the Prince George’s County Courthouse when my cell phone rang. I checked the number—it was Jim.
“Hello, Jim.”
“Hello, Ruben. I was wondering, would you be willing to come to church next Sunday to tell your story to the congregation?”
“I’ve never spoken at a church,” I said, surprised. “What would I talk about?”
“Just tell your story.”
“Next Sunday is Easter.”
“Yes. It’s the perfect Easter story. It’s about redemption and rebirth.”
I hesitated. I hadn’t done much public speaking—just a few journalism classes here, a couple of awards banquets there. And some members of Jim’s congregation lived on or near S Street. I’d helped make their neighborhood a combat zone. Would they be as understanding and forgiving as Jim?
But my recovery program called for making amends to all those I’d harmed, unless doing so would cause more damage. The response wouldn’t always be positive, but that wasn’t the point. Making a sincere effort to own up to my past transgressions was what mattered.
“I’ll do it. How long do I have to speak?”
“Ten minutes. I’ll let you know when your time is up.”
“Ten minutes—that’s a long time.”
S Street Rising Page 29
