Sideswiped: Book One in the Matt Blake legal thriller series

by Russell Moran

  “So go ahead, Ben, ask me.”

  “How long have you been riding the White Horse, Matt?”

  Nothing like getting to the point I thought. My God, this guy is perceptive.

  “About three months.”

  “Want to fill me in on some details? Now remember, this is a friendly chat. You can tell me to fuck off and work on the Spellman case. It’s up to you.”

  “Actually, Ben, I do want to talk. Do you want to go have some lunch?”

  “Let’s call out for sandwiches. It’s more private here in your office.”

  “Back in February I spent a week with a college friend in Florida. He used to run a successful recording studio. The first night I was there he offered me a line of heroin. At first I refused because I never do drugs except for some pot occasionally, but then he convinced me that snorting heroin is not like mainlining it, and that it wasn’t habit forming.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “I think I wanted to believe him. I had already had a few Scotches, which is another thing I do, so I was feeling experimental.”

  “Matt, I notice that you said your friend ‘used to run’—past tense—a recording studio. Have you been in touch with him? It’s common for a new heroin user to contact the person who got him started.”

  “No, but I tried to call him recently. He died last month—of a heroin overdose.”

  “I’m glad we’re having this conversation, Matt.”

  ***

  “Your late friend, Jimmy, told you that heroin, when snorted, isn’t necessarily addictive. Well he was wrong, but only partly so. People are different, I’m sure you’ve noticed. Look at this picture of my wife.”

  “Wow, she’s pretty.”

  “Yes, and the slender lady you’re looking at can eat two large bowls of pasta and wash it down with a pint of ice cream—without gaining an ounce. Me, if I even look at a cupcake I have to let out my belt a couple of notches. And it’s the same thing with narcotics. Some people become dependent quickly, like you. Others may abuse drugs for decades before they get fucked up.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “Jimmy was convinced that he wasn’t hooked.”

  “Matt, give me two reasons why you snort heroin.”

  “That’s easy. Maggie, or rather my loss of Maggie, and my fucking leg. A line of white stuff makes the problems go away. Well, maybe two lines.”

  “Matt, I’m going to suggest something that may seem absurd. Here goes. You do not, I repeat, you do not use heroin because of Maggie or the pain in your leg. Rather, you use the memory of Maggie and the feeling in your leg to give you a logical reason to snort the drug. You use heroin because of the heroin, period. The euphoria is its own reward, and you don’t need an excuse to snort the shit, but you prefer to have an excuse. We human beings like to play games with our minds, and it’s a hell of a lot easier when you look yourself in the mirror to say that you’re not a junkie, you just ingest the drug to make yourself better. Don’t think you have a monkey on your back. Monkeys can be cute and friendly. Think of it as a rattlesnake up your ass. It gives you a more realistic perspective. Let Maggie rest in peace, Matt. She’s not reaching out from the grave to fuck up your life. That, my friend, is no bullshit.”

  “But what about my leg, Ben? After a couple of snorts it feels a lot better.”

  “Ever hear of Tylenol, dickhead?”

  I laughed. My father wasn’t kidding when he said that Bennie was a straight shooter.

  “Well, I have to admit, Tylenol does help.”

  “I’ve got something that helps even better. Are you willing to give it a try?”

  “Sure.”

  “Turn off your phone. I don’t want any interruptions. Close your eyes and take three deep breaths. Tell me how your leg feels right now, Matt.”

  “It hurts. Nothing I can’t stand, but a dull throbbing pain.”

  “Okay, tell me what color it is.”

  “What color what is?”

  “The color of the pain in your fucking leg. I thought lawyers were good at understanding the spoken word. Please, Matt, just work with me.”

  “Okay, it’s blue.”

  What shape is it?”

  “Like an engine block.”

  “How big is it?”

  “About four by four feet.”

  “Okay, now what color, shape, and size is it?”

  “Now it’s red, shaped like a basketball and three feet across.”

  Bennie went through this exercise with me about a dozen times, each time asking me to describe the current color, shape, and size of the pain in my leg.

  “Now tell me how your leg feels, Matt.”

  “Holy shit. I cannot believe this. There’s no pain at all. Are you a shrink or a magician?”

  “What you just did, my friend, is completely experience something unpleasant in your life— the pain in your leg. You gave it color, shape, and size. You made it real, you made it a thing. And you robbed the fucker of the control it exerted over you. I just saved you some money on Tylenol. Now, if you let me, maybe I can save you a few bucks on heroin. Right now, Matt, do you feel like having a snort?”

  “Oh my God, yes. You’re right, my leg feels fine, so I don’t want the horse to deaden the pain. I just want the horse.”

  “You crave it, yes?”

  “Better believe it Ben. I crave it big time.”

  “Okay, so let’s play our little game. You’re going to simply give color, shape, and size the craving you’re having right now. Close your eyes again.”

  “It’s bright green, shaped like a bath tub and is 10 feet by 20.”

  “And now?”

  We continued this routine of questioning about a dozen times, just as we did with my leg pain. I have no idea how he knew it was time to ask, but he did.

  “And now how’s your craving?”

  “All I want is a cup of coffee. Would you like to join me? You’re a fucking miracle worker, Ben.”

  “I’m no miracle worker, I just know what works. But here’s the bad news. This little game does work, but it’s limited, according to my experience and research. After a while, and it may be days or weeks, you’ll start to look at the color, shape, size game as a bother. There will come a point where your mind will seize control. You’ll start to think to yourself, ‘How can my craving have a color? Who knows what shape and size it is?’ No Matt, this wasn’t a parlor game; it was real, but it’s not a prescription for any long term cure. You’ve been doing this shit for only three months, which is great news. You’re only a rookie addict. Physically and psychologically you’re not in too deep—yet.”

  “What are you suggesting, Bennie?”

  “A reality check, my friend. You’ve become dependent on a powerful narcotic. It’s time for combat. I’ve checked out your experiences in Iraq. You’ve got more decorations than the next 10 Marines in a row. You are one tough, courageous, son of a bitch, Matt. It’s time to lock and load. The enemy is out there gunning for you, and he’s hiding in a bag of white powder. I’m suggesting some intense therapy. You may be repulsed by the word ‘rehab,’ but that’s exactly what I’m recommending. A good friend of mine, Jake Monahan, runs what is, in my opinion, the best rehabilitation institute in the country. It’s in Milwaukee, only about an hour and a half from here. The place is called the Monahan Institute.”

  “How the hell can I explain that to my father?”

  “How about you and I sit down with him. We’ll explain that you got hooked because of the pain in your leg, which is somewhat true. He won’t be the first proud father of a war hero whose kid developed a dependency problem. The minimum treatment lasts a month, and after that you can go for weekend refresher sessions. I’m going to suggest that you elect the in-house residency program, rather than out-patient. It’s far more effective.”

  “But it will have to wait for a while,” I said. “We have a lot of work to do on the Spellman case.”

  “On the contrary, Matt, the timing couldn’t be
better. I’m just here to go over the preliminary investigation with you and Woody, and then I return to New York. I understand that your client, Ms. Spellman, is still in Scotland with her folks, and then she’s going to some academic conference in California. So it will be more than a month before you interview her. I suggest you enter the Monahan Institute next week. Jake is a good friend and owes me some favors. He’ll get you in.”

  Chapter 19

  Bennie was right. My father and Bill Randolph were completely supportive. I’m not sure they ever really bought my bullshit over why I got that case dismissed. They both thought that something odd was going on with me.

  Bennie was also right about my need to go into rehab. I hated the idea. It seems every time you turn on the TV you’re seeing a story about some young rock and roller checking in once again for rehab. But there’s a difference, as Bennie pointed out. I’m not checking in as a settlement of some court order. I’m going to the Monahan Institute because I want to get over this goddam relationship I have with heroin, not to mention booze. Ben suggested that every time I think negatively about rehab, I should think about the time I nodded off in my car, then fell into a mud puddle, and got a case dismissed. Or the time I woke up in my car in a strange park. Between snorts, when my head cleared a bit, I realized that I was on a downhill ride to hell. I didn’t need Bennie to tell me that it was a never-ending journey, but it helped to hear it from such a smart guy. I had to be willing to trade the euphoria of heroin and booze for a life, while I still had a life.

  I can do this.

  I think.

  Chapter 20

  On Saturday I checked into the Monahan Institute in Milwaukee. Jake Monahan, the director and good friend of Bennie, greeted me in the lobby and led me to his office. At Bennie’s request, I had given him permission, actually a signed release, to divulge any and all information about me to Monahan. That eliminated a conversation that started, “So what are you doing here and what can we do for you.”

  Monahan was a tall guy, about 6’2,” with sandy blond hair and thick glasses. I figured he was about 45 years old or so. He had a face that was always ready to break into a smile. Within a few minutes, I felt comfortable with him.

  “Dr. Monahan...,” I said.

  “Call me Jake, Matt. You and I have work to do and we need to trust each other. No titles here.”

  “I guess Ben Weinberg told you all about me, as I asked him to do.”

  “Yes, he did. Bennie is quite fond of you, and he’s really happy that you’re here.”

  “Can I ask you a question, Jake? How did you get involved in this profession?” I guessed it wasn’t my place to ask questions, but the whole idea of rehab was weird to me, so I wanted to know some more about what I was getting myself into.

  “I had a daughter, who would be about your age now. She died of a heroin overdose when she was 17 years old. We found her body in the pool house, the worst experience of my life. It didn’t take me long to realize where my medical career would go. I’ve dedicated my life to helping people get theirs back.”

  “Now let me ask you a question, Matt. Do you have any doubts about being here? Do you think maybe you don’t need to go through this, that maybe you can handle it on your own?”

  I told Jake my story, my sad true story, about the time I got stoned, nodded off in my car, missed my court date, and walked into the judge’s chambers with mud all over my face and my suit. I also told him about Jimmy Escobedo, dead of a heroin overdose at the age of 32. I also told him about Maggie, although I’m sure Bennie had filled him in on that already.

  “Are you a religious man, Matt?”

  “Well, I’m a believer but not a heavy practitioner. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m going to suggest to you that you hold a story in your mind, and don’t let go of it. I want this story to become part of your conscious and subconscious mind. I want you to believe that your guardian angel put that icy mud puddle in front of you as a way to say hello. Maybe the angel’s name was Maggie.”

  I don’t like to cry in front of people, but the image that Jake created in my mind just grabbed me.

  “You know, Jake,” I said as I wiped tears from my face, “that’s exactly something that Maggie would have done. Maggie, my guardian angel. I like that.”

  “Before we show you to your room, I just want to ask you something. Can you tell me about your most serious occasion of withdrawal?”

  “Sure. My dealer got the flu, as I later learned. He was away from his normal location for five days, and I had no idea how to get in touch with him. I guess Bennie’s right. I’m a rookie. It never occurred to me to have a back-up dealer. So five days without a snort. I wasn’t in physical pain, just an upset stomach and muscle aches. I had a hard time concentrating on anything but my next hit.”

  “Would his name be Mike Jonas by any chance?”

  I guess Jake saw my eyes widen.

  “Look, Jake. I don’t want to divulge my dealer’s name. What he does is illegal, and every transaction I had with him was illegal, but I’d just like to keep his name confidential. How did you think of a particular guy, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Mike Jonas is a dealer to the white collar heroin clientele, so I thought he might be your guy. So you don’t have to admit it to me, but in case Mr. Jonas is your supplier, I should let you know that he’s in jail. It was his fourth offense so the judge hammered him with a $1 million dollar bail. I understand that he couldn’t make it, so he’s in jail until he goes to trial and then to prison.”

  I guessed that my face disclosed more than my mouth. Jake had a follow-up question.

  “How do you feel right now, Matt? Please be honest.”

  “I will be honest, Jake. I feel like I need a snort or two. Or maybe three.”

  “Do you have much of a stash at home?”

  “About a week’s worth.”

  “Well, you’re in the right place, my friend. You suddenly have a supply problem with Jonas in jail.”

  This would be an interesting month, I thought.

  Chapter 21

  Before I checked into the Monahan Institute, I did some research on just what this rehab thing was all about. The general idea, I got from my reading, was that a good rehab facility doesn’t pick a one-size-fits-all approach, but tailors therapy depending on the individual.

  The first threshold was detox, something that’s not as scary as it sounds. Concerning my heroin problem, Jake Monahan strongly recommended against the use of methadone, a drug commonly used to wean addicts off the big stuff. Methadone doesn’t provide the high that heroin does, but it helps with the “sickness” that an addict feels when he’s been away from Mr. White Horse for a while. Because my junkie career had just gotten started, Jake suggested that I didn’t need to go through any detoxification at all for my drug problem. “Why substitute one addiction for another,” Jake said, noting that methadone is addictive in itself.

  Booze, on the other hand called for some detox. Obviously I wouldn’t drink while there, but I would take large doses of vitamin B12, and drink gallons of water.

  The whole idea behind detox is to physically rid your body of the stuff you were abusing. It had nothing to do with the psychological issues of addiction.

  Contrary to what I’ve read about other rehab facilities, the Monahan Institute did not use amateurs for helping its residents. Instead, there was a staff of professional psychotherapists, all trained by Jake Monahan himself. Yes, there were group sessions, where my fellow junkies and I would sit in a circle and, guided by one of the therapists or sometimes Jake himself, we would share our experiences. At first I hated the idea, but as the hours and days went by, I realized that these people were helping me, and I was helping them. I was amazed at my group session colleagues. I’d always had a picture of a heroin junkie as a messed up character you’d expect to see sleeping on a park bench. But these people were sharp business and professional types. One of them was a lawyer, like me. There was a stock
broker, a dentist, and even a physician.

  One guy, I’ll call him Phil—we all had to sign a document promising not to divulge anyone’s name—reminded me of myself. We hit it off, and after rehab was over we thanked each other for the mutual support. Phil, like me, was a combat veteran. He told me that he spent years convinced that he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder or PTSD. He also lost a girlfriend in an accident, just like I lost Maggie. Phil said that he’s convinced that his PTSD issue was really a convenient way to justify his heroin use. When life serves up one of its curve balls, it’s easy to blame it on your combat experience. PTSD is a real thing, and a lot of veterans suffer from it. But both Phil and I, looking at ourselves, realized that we used it as an excuse, something to blame, a convenient self-told story to justify a snort of heroin or a few drinks.

  ***

  The day I checked out of the institute, I felt like I had been there for a year, but it had only been a month, a very intensive month. Bennie was right. It was just what I needed. And I loved the idea that I could go back for weekend refreshers.

  Mr. White Horse and Mr. Johnnie Walker were dead. Well, at least they weren’t moving and appeared to be dead.

  And I was alive.

  Chapter 22

  In mid-June, I picked up Bennie at O’Hare Airport. He was scheduled to spend a week in Chicago to work with us on the Spellman case. Normally we would assign a clerk or paralegal to handle a chore such as an airport run, but I wanted to see Bennie before we got to the office. It had been a week since I left the Monahan Institute.

  “Great to see you, Matt. Before you say anything, I have a question. Did you recently get another academic degree that I’m not familiar with? Your email to me yesterday carried the letters “CAS” after you name. What’s that mean?”

  “That, my friend, means ‘Clean and Sober,’ my new accomplishment, thanks to you.”

  “Don’t thank me, kiddo, thank your parents for raising a tough guy like you. You had given me permission to discuss your situation with Jake Monahan, which I did. He really admires you, Matt. In his practice he’s seen his share of backsliders, but he’s confident as hell that you licked Mr. White Horse and Mr. Johnnie Walker too. After we’re done work for the day, we should go out and celebrate.”