by Damon West
This was the most he had spoken to me since he moved in. Austin woke up from the floor to see who was in our house, excited by the sound of Grayson’s voice.
I tried to question him about the “come-down” and his current lack of energy.
“Dude, you have to understand, I’ve been on this stuff for a long time. Now that I’m dependent on it, my body craves the meth. It was my energy. Not only that, it helped me keep my weight in check. Have you noticed that I eat everything in sight?”
I had noticed it. “Grayson, I’ve been doing blow for about seven years now. Every time I come off it, I am ravenous, for a meal or two. You have been eating every second you have been awake. Which, honestly, has not been that much. You eat a bunch of crap.” I told him if he was genuinely concerned about his weight, then he was going to have to find some cleaner fuel to put into his body or he’d be a blimp.
He suggested he could find a new dope supplier to regulate his weight.
I launched into a tirade. “Grayson, if you think for one second you’re going to come here and smoke some white-trash drug, then you have another think coming. Mom and Dad told me they were going to throw you out of their home because you were always screwing up. I’m giving you the same ultimatum. You’re going to clean your act up, bro. You’re going to hold down a job, get into college, and begin being a responsible adult.”
“Like you?” he said with a smirk. “You do blow all the time and drink like a fish. How is your drug any different than mine? You call it a white-trash drug, but it is anything but that. Meth costs more per gram than coke.”
I couldn’t believe our conversation had devolved into a debate about whose drug of choice was better. All I had ever heard of meth was that it was cheap and dirty. Admittedly, I had never tried it, but I didn’t need to try it when coke did the trick. To the outside, sober observer, this would appear to be a parallel universe. Who argues about drug efficiency? To the addict, however, this is normal. This is the addict’s wheelhouse, the drug of choice. This is Monday.
“Whatever,” I said, exhausted with his position. “Bottom line is that this is my place, and I am declaring it a meth-free zone. We’ll have coke, booze, pot, and even some pills. No meth! And no GHB, by the way. That stuff is dangerous, Grayson.”
Ground rules laid out, it was time to get life going for both of us. I took it upon myself to wake him up every morning when I got up. We would do chores around the house on the weekends, usually on Sunday evenings after forty-eight straight hours of partying, mostly poolside.
He took equal ownership of Austin, who was adorable, and we both loved him. Odd, when you think about it, how two addicts in the throes of their diseases could have such love for each other and their dog, yet they could not love themselves.
My love for Grayson was real. However, I was not capable of loving him and being the big brother I should have because I had no spiritual foundation guiding my life. I had pushed God out long ago and had been traveling down that wrong road since I first took that fork in the road. In hindsight, Grayson would have been better off with my parents.
When not drinking and partying, my life was consumed by politics and fundraising. Garry and I buried ourselves into Gephardt’s presidential run. We raised money all over the state, competing against four other serious nomination contenders for the same dollars. When we plateaued in Texas, Garry sent me into Oklahoma to raise money from major donors and trial lawyers there. The lifestyle was perfect for me. Lots of travel, and lots of meeting new people who were influential in the Democratic Party. I am extroverted by nature, so it was natural for me to cultivate these relationships. Garry counted on me doing that. The long game demanded I form these bonds.
One of the donors and big fundraisers I met was a jovial man from Houston named Arthur Schechter. Arthur was Bill Clinton’s ambassador to the Bahamas, a posh posting reserved for those who either performed some big duty for the president or was a close friend of the president. Arthur Schechter was both to Clinton.
Arthur and I hit it off immediately. He and his wife, Joyce, would take me out to dinner when I was in Houston, and let me have the run of their River Oaks home. I had a key, took their dog Joey out for walks, and was friends with the staff who worked there. These were great people. Arthur agreed to mentor me. I was growing my base.
Meanwhile, back in Austin, Grayson’s life was not going as he had planned. We got rid of that Mustang, replacing it with a maroon Honda Civic. He joked that he could now make drug runs to Beaumont and back without the fear of being pulled over. My only concern with his statement was what type of drugs. I still enforced a prohibition on meth and GHB. He said he was kidding, so I never thought twice about it.
He lost his job at the restaurant fairly quickly. It’s hard to maintain employment when you do not show up for work. Austin Community College, however, was working out for him, and he was pursuing a degree in criminal justice. He put on weight, but he got past the lethargic state he had been in when he first arrived. He got a job through a staffing agency. This position was for a subcontractor who ran some of Dell’s call centers. It was a nowhere job, but he did not have the luxury of looking for a career.
When I was at home, my life revolved around my nightly plans. I was making pretty serious money on the campaign, and I was spending it just as quickly. More money, more problems. I fell in with a crowd who was deep into the whole cocaine scene. It was so close to home, I found some people in our apartment complex who sold it. I couldn’t say no. My addiction had control of me.
A few of my friends and fraternity brothers from Dallas came in on some weekends to hang out. Other times I would take off and go to Dallas for the weekend. Most of these friends were in the cocaine scene, too. One of my fraternity brothers was becoming a pretty well-known coke dealer in Dallas.
Grayson stayed behind in Austin, taking care of the dog and living in our apartment. I was incapable of seeing it at the time, but with sober eyes I now see he was becoming the more responsible one while I was slipping further and further into my diseases. Because I was advancing in my career and making great money, I figured I deserved to party and have a good time. No one but Grayson knew the extent of my cocaine habit.
As 2003 was coming to a close, I had all these fantasies about what 2004 would bring. The guy I worked for could potentially become president of the United States. The money I was making would only increase, and my relationship with Garry and Arthur would flourish, paving the way for a future in elected office in Texas. All I had to do was keep doing what I was doing. I was pretty good, if you asked me.
The Iowa caucus, held on January 19, 2004, was a rude reminder about how fast fortunes can change in politics. Gephardt, the congressman from Missouri, had once been the favorite to win the contest in this neighboring state. Instead, he was beat, finishing fourth, behind even Howard Dean from Vermont. As I watched the results come in, I remember thinking, “Holy crap. I don’t have a job anymore.” Once again, I did not have a Plan B. With no prospects and bills to pay, I began to question staying in politics. Fundraising is that rare campaign job that pays very well. You are literally funding your own salary when you receive contributions. But, no other campaign was hiring fundraisers.
I got stoned that night because, well, why not? Coming in late, I woke Grayson up, again. We had spoken earlier in the night about the new reality of me not having a job, and since I largely covered the expenses for our lives in Austin, this immediately concerned him. I assured him we would be fine.
When exploring my options, I considered first that I had amassed quite the book of contacts, raising money from wealthy donors. Certainly, I could find a new career which could enable me to expand upon those relationships. There was one obvious way. I could become a stockbroker. Why not try my hand in the finance industry? I had nothing to lose, and the potential to make some serious cash.
Through a contact of my father, I got a
job with one of the biggest banks in the world, UBS, the United Bank of Switzerland. Logistically this was an issue, as the position was in Dallas, three hours from Austin. At that time, I had been hanging out in Dallas so much that I was thrilled to be moving there. For Grayson, however, this was life altering. You see, I had not factored him in when I took the position in Dallas and picked out an apartment in Uptown Dallas. Nor had I factored in our dog, Austin.
Danielle, my childhood best friend, saved the day. She was dating a guy named Chance, who stayed most nights at her house, south of the city. This left Chance’s apartment mostly vacant. We worked the deal out quickly. Until Grayson finished his classes in May, he was going to crash on Chance’s couch. After that, Grayson could decide what he wanted to do.
Giving up our beautiful boxer, Austin, is one of those regrets that will haunt me the rest of my life. My new apartment in Dallas did not allow pets, nor did Grayson’s temporary apartment at Chance’s. No one responsible I knew was willing to take Austin. My parents couldn’t take him because they were already taking care of Grayson’s pet boxer Bogey that he left behind when he moved to Austin.
I must preface this part with the disclaimer about me being an addict, a selfish human being, and a coward.
On the road to Dallas one day, I called Grayson to tell him my plan for Austin. We would simply give him up. There was a boxer rescue club in the city of Austin that would take him. It was better than the pound. At least there, they wouldn’t kill him if no one claimed him. Grayson reluctantly agreed. Then, I hit Grayson with it.
“They are waiting on you to bring him today.”
He was stunned. “What are you talking about?”
This was going to be a tough sell. “You are going to have to drive him over to the rescue place today. They are expecting you.” I gave him the address and phone number.
Absolute silence. All I could hear was the hypnotizing drum of my tires driving on Interstate 35. I thought he had hung up on me until he spoke.
“Damon, don’t you want to tell him goodbye? I mean, you brought him here from Washington. He’s really your dog. How can you just get rid of him without telling him why, and maybe taking him for a walk?”
“I already told him goodbye this morning when I left. It was also our last walk together. Believe me, Grayson, I’m devastated by this, but there is no other way. You gotta take him there today or our window closes.”
“You son of a bitch,” he said. “You didn’t have the balls to do it yourself.”
“Whatever, Grayson. I’ve done plenty for you to be able to ask this favor.”
“That may be true, but you never asked me. Like everything else, you told me what I needed to do,” he said, and hung up.
Grayson didn’t speak to me for nearly a week after that. I felt a ton of guilt for putting him through it, but that obviously did nothing to help Grayson. He told me he cried his eyes out the entire trip to the boxer rescue place, all throughout the exchange, and on the drive home.
My days in Austin were winding down. Garry pleaded with me more than once to stay the course, to not go to Dallas. He said he did not have a good vibe about the Dallas deal, and that it would be impossible to mentor me from a few hundred miles away. On the cool, he was letting me know I was not holding up my end of the mentoring agreement. In return, I told Garry I had to have a career, had to make money, if I was going to run for office one day. In reality, no argument Garry crafted would have sufficed because my mind was already in Dallas, while my belongings and body were still in Austin. Cocaine was doing the thinking now.
Waiting for me in Dallas were drugs, women, and money—the things I worshipped.
In February of 2004, I once again loaded up a U-Haul, towed my used Ford Explorer, and ran away from Austin. I left behind a brother, a mentor, a career, my true best friend Danielle, my dog, and basically everything that a normal person would have held onto with both hands.
Spiritually, I was dead. Physically, I was in danger. Emotionally, I was unfeeling. This is the reality of living in your addiction.
In Dallas, Texas, I had a date with destiny.
CHAPTER 11
Fruit of the Poisonous Tree
Prison Diary
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Yesterday, my mother mailed a copy of my writ of habeas corpus, my final appeal, to Walter Umphrey, founder of Provost Umphrey Law Firm, right here in Beaumont. A letter from me was attached, asking Mr. Umphrey if he could have one of his lawyers review it so I could know what to expect from the Court of Criminal Appeals. Whatever the end results, I know I did the very best I could, and I have zero regrets. The process of writing that writ, which began a few months ago, was by far the most intellectually challenging thing I’ve ever attempted.
IT WAS IN LATE APRIL when I first darkened the doorway of the prison law library. I was in the market for a legal mind, ready to begin the process of mounting a challenge to my conviction. However, I was severely handicapped by a lack of funds to hire competent post-conviction counsel and a complete ignorance of the law. With no other options available to me, I sought guidance in the place where all inmates hope for a miracle: the law library.
While there that day, I decided to familiarize myself with the legal challenge I was mounting. The task was intimidating, as I had never been in a law library. Once pointed to the correct books, I began reading and learning.
That first visit intimidated and frightened me. I didn’t know anything about the law, so I didn’t even know if I was asking the right questions or if my questions were being answered truthfully.
I headed back to my pod to decompress all the legalese I’d uploaded into my brain and get some rest before last chow. If I thought I was going to relax, I was sorely mistaken. I noticed a few guys in my pod who didn’t even live on my side of the unit. They were “out of place.” Normally, when you spot people who are out of place on this building, the life sentence building, it is some sort of gang activity. A fight might be about to happen, or someone was trafficking and trading their contraband. That day, it was none of the above. These guys were here for other business. These guys were all jailhouse lawyers.
The word was out. West needs a lawyer.
I was bombarded. I hadn’t received that much attention since I was being recruited to play college football, before the colleges found out I was under six feet. The offers were often creative, but creativity does not make for a successful legal challenge. Facts and the law are the only two things I coveted. Each man was confident he could get me the outcome I was seeking. Guarantees were aplenty. Yet it was their guarantees that were the kiss of death to doing business with me. No legal person can ever guarantee a favorable outcome.
But, they can guarantee an unfavorable one.
One of the most peculiar creatures you’ll ever encounter in a prison or any jail environment are the ones known as “jailhouse lawyers” or “writ writers.” These fellow prisoners come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and backgrounds. A few are extremely adept at the law, for they have serious legal minds, and some have spent decades in a prison law library, reading and researching cases. These few can go toe to toe with most licensed attorneys. Most, however, ply their trade on the unknowing and desperate, selling hope to their fellow man as if it were a car. Hope, in their markets, can come in different models, styles, and colors. The more hope you seek, the more you must pay. Pretty standard sales model. And it is sales, because these guys compete with each other for business.
This scene would’ve been comical were it not my freedom on the line. Yet me simply telling you about their incompetence and hard-selling does it no justice. To truly give you a sense of this environment’s legal eagles, I’ll share an example of a “meeting” I had with a jailhouse lawyer.
I will call him “Andy.” Andy was an older, bald-headed white guy from Dallas. Not the skinhead type of bald, just old-age type of bal
d. He’d killed a cop in the ’70s, earning himself a capital life sentence, and had been in the penitentiary ever since. His old and faded tattoos revealed his time in prison. Although he’d been up for parole several times, he’d repeatedly been denied. After over thirty years in prison, it looked as though this would be his retirement home. Cop killers rarely get out.
The first thing Andy told me was that he was familiar with my case, with us both falling out of Dallas County. Not only that, but he told me he had been following my appeals process and was “going to be approaching” me very soon, when, voila, I just happened to poke my head into the law library that day.
Andy had the jailhouse lawyer “look.” His clothes were pressed, with sharp creases. It always cracked me up when I saw the guys with starched uniforms. We all wear the same white, duck-cloth uniforms, which look like a maternity outfit. He was trying to convey the air of a distinguished, well-to-do man about town. The guys with starched and pressed clothes paid someone in the unit laundry extra to have that done.
His shoes were shined and glossy. This was also meant to convey wealth because inmates did not have access to shoeshine. The shoeshine was meant for use by the bootblack guys, the inmates who worked in the administration building shining the boots and shoes of all the guards and administration, wardens and other TDCJ staff. The inmates with their shoes shined had paid someone an exorbitant amount of commissary. The person they purchased the shoeshine from took risks to steal it from Unit Supply, a giant warehouse that housed all the supplies, from paperclips to mops, that a prison needs.
I operated under the assumption that everybody I came into contact with was trying to run game.
“West, what you’ve got to understand is that your case is full of errors,” Andy said, continuing his pitch. “You got sixty-five years for a bunch of property crimes. Because of the area of Dallas you were burglarizing, they made an example out of you. This simply cannot stand. You can win this case. You can go home.”
