S Street Rising
Page 30
“You’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” I said. “What should I wear?”
Jim laughed.
“Be yourself,” he said. “Just keep it real.”
I smiled at the sandwich board set on the sidewalk outside the entrance to the church: NEW COMMUNITY CHURCH. WORSHIP 11 A.M. BELOVED SINNERS WELCOME. THERE IS ALWAYS ROOM FOR ONE MORE.
Brightly colored balloons bumped up against the high ceiling of the sanctuary. Fifty or so worshippers, a full house, sat in chairs and pews. I hadn’t known what to expect, but I was surprised.
Washington, like many cities, is starkly segregated on Sunday mornings. There are black churches, white churches, Latino and Asian churches. I’d never seen or even heard of a truly integrated church. But the worshippers on hand were almost evenly split between black and white. There were young people, middle-aged women in their best dresses, and a handful of older congregants, including a woman in a wheelchair.
After an abbreviated sermon, Jim introduced me as a guest speaker and motioned me to the middle of the room, directly in front of the crucifix constructed from bricks donated by Baldie.
Jim took a seat. I faced the congregation, my pulse racing. My story wasn’t what I would have thought of as sermon material. I’d written down some talking points, which I pulled out of my pants pocket.
I introduced myself and gestured to my right, toward the large bay windows that provided a view of S Street and the bakery. In my mind’s eye, I saw the slingers surrounding Champagne moments after she’d hopped out of my Escort, saw her calmly making the buy before slipping back into the car.
Turning back to my audience, I slowly scanned the faces of the worshippers, left to right. For the first time, I noticed several young children in the congregation, a few young enough to sit in the laps of their mothers and fathers, some a bit older, up to about age ten. I’d have to go with a G-rated version—I wouldn’t mention Champagne or Carrie or how we’d used each other.
I described how S Street used to be a nonstop crack zone, paused, and looked at my shoes.
It was one thing to write about what I’d gone through and what I’d done. Writing was at the same time emotionally intimate and removed. Writing the magazine article, revealing myself as a junkie who had fed D.C. pathology during the crack era, had been exhausting. True, reaction to the story had been generally positive. But I hadn’t been in the room with the people who’d read my article.
Now I was standing right in front of some of those whom I had harmed by making hundreds of buys in the combat zone in which they lived. I wouldn’t have blamed any of the people who lived on or near S Street during that time if they were angry with me. And I would have to suffer their wrath, face-to-face.
I glanced at Jim. He nodded in encouragement. I remembered what he had said: “Just tell your story.”
So I did. I talked about how I’d started using crack in L.A. and begun making buys on S Street when I moved to D.C.
As I spoke, I scanned the congregation again, left to right, then back. The worshippers were listening; they were with me. The sanctuary was dead quiet.
Something inside me changed. It felt like a small bit of healing.
I recounted my awful spiral, my encounter with Big Man, how my boss drove me to rehab just before Christmas 1991.
Some of the middle-aged and older women in the crowd were glassy-eyed, near tears. I wondered: Had they lost someone, a family member or a close friend, to addiction?
Jim pointed to his watch. I was almost out of time.
I looked straight at two of the older black women sitting in the back of the sanctuary. There were virtually no white residents in the neighborhood during the crack era, and the younger people would be too young to remember the combat-zone years. But it was quite possible that these women had lived through them.
“For those of you who lived in the neighborhood during that time, I want to say I am sorry. By buying drugs, I contributed to the pathology and crime you had to endure. I know I bear some responsibility for the chaos, and I am truly sorry.”
Jim stood up, came to my side, and put his arm around my shoulders. I let out a deep breath. I was emotionally spent.
“Thank you, Ruben, for that powerful story,” Jim said. “It’s appropriate for this joyful season of redemption and reconciliation.”
Jim led the congregation in a closing prayer.
When the prayer was over, more than a dozen worshippers, black and white, surrounded me. They were smiling. A middle-aged woman gently clasped my shoulder. In that moment, whatever remnants of anxiety I’d been carrying vanished.
Another woman, one of the ones I had been looking at when I apologized for contributing to the chaos on S Street, hugged me.
“Thank you for sharing your story,” she said. “I remember how it was—it was bad, just like you said. We’re glad that you’re here.”
No admonishments. No accusations. Just acceptance and encouragement.
Jim took me aside and put his hands on my shoulders.
“Thank you again for speaking. Remember, you are welcome here anytime.”
“Thanks, Jim. Thank you for inviting me. This wasn’t what I expected.”
I stepped through the large double doors and paused on a set of steps above S Street. It was a crisp, clear day, and the sunshine felt good on my face.
Acknowledgments
This book was made possible by the sterling and resolute efforts of my agent, Bonnie Nadell. She worked with me on multiple versions of the book proposal until we got it right, and throughout the process provided indispensable guidance, encouragement, and, when I needed it, tough love.
I am grateful to Nancy Miller, editorial director at Bloomsbury, who took a chance on a first-time author with an unconventional and complex memoir.
A book like this is a collaborative effort, and I am indebted to the finest editors a writer could ever hope to work with. When I thought the narrative was as good as it could be, Bloomsbury’s Lea Beresford’s inspired and skillful edits made it better. Copy editor Will Palmer provided a sterling final polish.
Leonard Roberge’s brilliant edits helped me structure a complicated story in a way that was thematically and narratively cohesive. His instincts regarding which sections of the story required deeper reporting and better writing were unerring.
I am indebted to Lou Hennessy and Jim Dickerson, both of whom generously allowed me to interview them for countless hours, and who provided the kind of candor and insight that writers dream of. Thanks are due to Lou’s wife, Loraine, and Jim’s wife, Grace, both of whom provided terrific anecdotes and crucial perspective in multiple interviews. Rachel Dickerson shared her memories and several photos which can be seen at www.sstreetrising.com. Church members Billy Hart and Bernice Joseph graciously described what Jim, New Community Church, and Manna Inc. have meant to them.
Many current and former law enforcement officers shared their stories with me. They include FBI agents John David Kuchta and Mark Giuliano and some of Lou’s former MPD colleagues, including Bill Ritchie, Vernon Gudger, Donald Bell, Neil Trugman, Jeff Greene, and Anthony Brigidini. I owe profuse thanks to Sharon Weidenfeld for pointing me in the direction of police brutality in Prince George’s County.
Milton Coleman saved my life by taking me to rehab. My early recovery was fortified by the unwavering friendship of Phil Dixon and Courtland Milloy. Special thanks to Phil for his wise career advice.
I am grateful to my brother, Javier, and sister-in-law, Stephanie, for their forgiveness, and my sister, Laura, for her support and unconditional acceptance.
This book may never have been written if not for Tracey Reeves, who insisted that I had a story worth telling.
When I faced doubt or exhaustion, encouragement from a handful of close friends kept me going. They include Gordon Dillow, Betsy Bates Freed, Maria Verdugo, Kathy Culliton-Gonzalez, Anne Folan, JoAnn Goslin, Lisa Frazier Page, Joe Ottrando, Barbara Yuill, and, of course, Lou, Jim, and Phil. I thank
my cousin Horacio “Buddy” Rodriguez for his quiet and steadfast confidence in me.
I am indebted to the staff at Suburban Hospital, who gave me a fighting chance, and Tom, Godless John, Ned, Frank, and many other fellow alcoholics and addicts who showed me how to keep the monster within in check.
Finally, thank you, Roxanne, wherever you are, for nudging me away from the monster when it threatened to destroy me.
A Note on the Author
Ruben Castaneda worked for twenty-two years as a staff writer at the Washington Post. His Washington Post Sunday magazine piece on struggling with addiction while covering the police beat won first place in feature writing from the Washington-Baltimore Newspaper Guild’s Front Page Awards. He is the recipient of numerous other journalism awards. He lives in Washington, D.C.
Copyright © 2014 by Ruben Castaneda
All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce, or otherwise make
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and civil claims for damages. For information address Bloomsbury USA, 1385 Broadway,
New York, NY 10018.
Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York
Bloomsbury is a trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Castaneda, Ruben.
S street rising : crack, murder, and redemption in D.C. / Ruben Castaneda.—
First U.S. edition.
pages cm
eISBN 978-1-62040-005-0
1. Castaneda, Ruben. 2. Journalists—Drug use—Washington (D.C.) 3. Reporters and
reporting—Washington (D.C.) 4. Crack (Drug)—Washington (D.C.) 5. Drug traffic—
Washington (D.C.) 6. Crime—Washington (D.C.) I. Title.
PN4874.C316A3 2014
070.92—dc23
[B]
2014003414
First U.S. edition 2014
This electronic edition published in July 2014
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