by Damon West
The method was simple and involved a slim flathead screwdriver, which would create a small hole at the top of the deadbolt between the door and the lock. Once the small screwdriver was between the lock and the door, it took seconds to find the lever mechanism in the deadbolt and slide it over to the side, releasing the “throw” that went into the doorframe. The hole was barely noticeable to the casual observer, allowing access for longer periods of time inside a residence.
Preparing for the burglaries, we used great caution to make sure none of our victims were ever home. For about twenty-five dollars, we each bought a reverse peephole viewer, which allowed us to see into the living area of a home from outside the door. We had a wireless camera receiver, which could pick up any wireless camera transmissions in the area. A parabolic microphone also came in handy, to hear if anyone was inside the home.
As our meth consumption increased, so too did our frequency of burglaries. The more we committed, the more confidence we built up. We brought other fiends into our crimes, who were all too willing to score some dope. In all, there were a dozen other meth addicts involved in the Uptown burglaries. Men and women, young and old, black, white, Hispanic, and Asian. Drugs do not discriminate; they don’t care about race, gender, ethnicity, or socio-economic class.
And while the drugs did not discriminate, neither did we discriminate on whose residence we would break into to get our drugs.
For residential camouflage, we looked like the neighborhoods in which we were targeting. For example, if I was going to be hitting a condo or residence in a building that was very high-end, I would don one of the many suits I still owned from my days of working in politics and finance. Or if I was going into an area that housed young doctors, nurses, or medical workers, I would wear hospital scrubs I picked up along the way. Most of Uptown was the typical fashion of the day, which I would re-up on anytime I broke into the home of a male that was close to my size.
This life of sin and debauchery would not be complete without the basic instinct of sex. Many women in the world of meth and drugs used their bodies to pay for their habits, and many disgusting men took advantage of this. I am ashamed and remorseful to admit that I was one of those men. This facet of my life disturbs me still because of the humiliating and dehumanizing ways it destroys women. One of these women I met in this seedy underworld was a stripper named Gwyn. She had two kids and lived in the Dallas suburb of Carrollton. Our relationship was co-dependent on vices. She offered me sex and companionship and I offered her drugs, money, and stolen goods for her family. We both were sick and deep into our addictions.
Since I was staying at Gwyn’s apartment often, the burglaries branched further into North Dallas and beyond. Los Colinas, Plano, Frisco, Addison, and the Galleria area were also places we would go to steal for meth, leaving victims from multiple cities and counties in our wake. In May of 2007 I was arrested in the parking garage of one of the apartments in Addison Circle. I was charged with burglary of a building and possession of meth. Bonding out of jail quickly, this setback was only temporary. I knew a lawyer, Randall Cory, who could kick the can down the road on those charges, and he did.
The burglaries continued.
On one of these outings, I broke into a luxury car that had the key to another luxury car in the glove box. Curious, I began pressing the button on the key fob to see if the vehicle was in the garage. Sure enough, it was. That day, I drove home in a fifty-thousand-dollar car, one on which I would change the VIN number on the dash and the license plates frequently. It would be used on dozens of other burglaries. My camouflage was complete.
A white, well-dressed and groomed, unremarkable, professional-looking male in a luxury car could gain access to any place in the Metroplex. Frequently, I made conversation with other residents of these buildings. They often opened the gates for me because there is no way a guy looking like me could possibly be a threat. I was “one of them.” More than once, I conned my way into the gates of these guarded communities with a dog leash, pleading that my girlfriend’s dog got away and I needed to get back in to tell her. This con worked 100 percent of the time. Preying on people’s sensitivities meant nothing to me when I needed my drugs.
Once I gained access to these residences, I would begin casing them. Checking their security was a priority. Rarely did I ever find a building that could keep us out. Cameras were only useful if someone was watching the monitors, and about 80 percent of the time, the cameras were wired to go to a DVR somewhere in the building, usually on the ground floor by the offices. When we found that vital room, office, or closet, it was a simple task of unhooking all the incoming camera cables from the DVR, leaving the cameras in the hallways and doorways transmitting to absolutely nothing at all. Sometimes we would pluck the useless cameras off the wall if there was a request by another dope dealer for high-end security cameras. After throwing the DVR in the trunk of my stolen luxury car, the building was defenseless.
Once certain the building was compromised, we either called in the other dope fiends or took care of burglarizing individual residences ourselves. At times there would be as many as half a dozen men and women in some of these residences.
If we could gain knowledge that these victims were out of town (through the mailrooms, notes left behind for whoever was looking after their places, or a few other ways) we would spend hours inside these residences. Selfish to the extreme, we added insult to injury by eating some of our victims’ food while there. Moreover, we would leave these places a mess.
There is no way to sugarcoat how detestable we were. We were real-life nightmares, selfish and vile. While we saw only potential for getting high through looting others’ belongings, our victims likely saw the evaporation of a life’s worth of memories and dreams. It is impossible to calculate the number of victims left in our wake. None of those people deserved what we did to them.
Steven and I took more from these people than just the items in their homes. Some of the victims left their vehicles behind because a friend, cab, or other transportation took them to the airport or wherever they traveled. We helped ourselves to their high-end vehicles left behind in the parking garages of the buildings we terrorized. We would take these vehicles and either trade them for dope of leave them in areas of town where we would prefer the police look for their suspects. A few of the vehicles we each kept, brazenly driving them around as if they were our own. Looking back, it is hard to imagine dumber or more arrogant criminals.
The theft of these material possessions paled in comparison to the fact that we robbed them of their sense of security. Almost universally, victims of burglaries feel violated by the illegal entry of an addict like me into their homes, the most sacred of places, where their families sleep. At my trial I learned about the pain, hurt, suffering, and loss I caused so many. There were dozens of other victims, whom I equally hurt, who were not there to testify against me. I am not sure some of them will ever regain that sense of security.
The cars would be our downfall and were how we eventually were caught. One day, late in February of 2008, Steven called me in a panic. I was at one of our storage units where we kept stolen property when I answered his frantic call.
“Oh, my God!” he screamed. “I am so screwed!”
“Slow down, man,” I urged him. People on meth usually spoke really, really fast, making it difficult to understand them.
He said he was in his apartment, looking out at the parking lot at a tow truck taking his car away. He could see the tow truck driver hooking his car up on the truck. I knew what car he was talking about. It was an expensive sports car he had kept from one of the burglaries.
“What’s in that car, Steven?” I asked, suddenly very concerned.
“It’s bad, Damon. So bad.” He was almost in tears. “Everything is in that car. My burglary bag with all my tools. And, my gun.”
Not good. Steven loved guns. I never felt he was a threat or anything lik
e that, but he loved to shoot them. It didn’t matter to him that as a convicted felon, he was not allowed to have a firearm. This gun he was talking about was a 9-mm taken during one of the burglaries. His burglary tools consisted of gloves, screwdrivers, lock picks, reverse peephole viewers, and the like. His fingerprints (and mine) were all over the car.
I asked him calmly if the cops were out in the parking lot with the tow truck.
He laughed hysterically and said the guy with the tow truck driver was wearing blue jeans, a sports coat, and a cowboy hat. He looked to Steven like an undercover cop.
This threw me for a loop. Why wouldn’t the law enforcement agency identify themselves? Who was he with?
“Damon, I’ve got an awful feeling about this,” he said.
I urged Steven to calm down and not jump to conclusions. I told him to get the name and number of the tow truck company off the side of their vehicle. It was imperative that we find out where that car was being taken, which we learned was a tow lot in Haltom City, not too far from his crappy apartment in Hurst. I told him to give it about an hour and call the towing yard. We needed to find out why the car was towed and if we could get it out. I still could not fathom how the car came to be towed. Steven was understandably panicked, as was I. He told me he would call me back once he had more information.
An hour later, around 5 p.m., he called back.
“Dude! Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” he kept repeating.
“Steven, calm down. What did the tow yard say?” I asked, fearing the imminent bad news.
“Damon, the tow yard didn’t say anything. The cop told me that ‘the car is the property of the authorities who are going to arrest you now,’ and hung up on me.”
This was way worse than I could have imagined. Some law enforcement agency had the evidence that could put us both away for a long time. We needed to get into that car to get that burglary bag.
“Steven, we’ve got to figure this out, bro. Don’t fall apart on me now. It is imperative we get that bag out of the car. What do you know about that tow yard in Haltom City?” I asked.
Unfortunately, Steven knew absolutely nothing except where Haltom City was. It was a small town about twenty miles away.
“Dude, I’m so screwed. I’m so sorry, Damon.”
I felt awful for him. More to the point, I felt awful for me. My fate was tied to this guy not getting caught. When they got to him, it would be only a matter of time before I was in handcuffs.
I tried to calm Steven down long enough to come up with a plan. Since it was the end of the day, we probably had the night to figure this out. I was banking on the detective going home for the day. I told him with as much positivity in my voice that I could muster, “Stay where you are. I’m coming your way as soon as rush hour traffic dies down. Please hold it together. Our fates are tied to this night.”
Pacing around my apartment with a bong in one hand and a lighter in the other, I thought of all possible options. The fact that I was on meth did not mean I could not think. No matter how far gone you are in life, you will always possess a preservation of life instinct.
My options for survival were not good. Breaking into a police impound did not sound like a good career move. The odds were that I would get caught, compounding the original problem of the contents of the car. However, if I did not break in, I was sure to be caught. My freedom could be measured in days if this detective got into that car. At a minimum I had to get that bag and try to rub off as many prints as I could from the inside, especially on the passenger side where I usually rode. If I had my wishes, I would steal the entire car out of there. With my mind made up, and artificial courage being inhaled into my lungs, I resolved myself to go on this potential suicide mission.
Having never seen this impound yard, I formed a plan in my head. Dressed in darker, casual clothes, I gathered the tools I thought I would need for this existential undertaking. Headlamp, penlight, gloves, screwdriver, night vision goggles, my meth pipe I traveled with, plenty of meth, and a set of lock picks. I was going to find a home, hopefully one where no one lived, close by to the impound yard, break in, and make it my base of operation. This would allow me to park my car there. The chances of getting into a foot chase with the cops seemed pretty likely, so this would give me some distance and provide cover. Having already outrun several cops on foot in Plano back in October of 2007, I felt confident that I had a 50-50 chance in a flat-out race. Carrying that burglary bag would be the wild card. It’s tough to run without your arms.
Leaving the apartment, I explained everything to Wendy. She understood the score, but did not like the plan. After resisting her pleas to let Steven handle this, I gave her about a thousand dollars in cash. Money for my bail. If arrested, I was going to need her to act quickly to get me out, otherwise a bond would be unlikely. I was off to face my fears and step into the lion’s den.
On the way to Steven’s, I called him to better understand how this all happened. Once he told me the story, I was furious. Apparently he had decided to enhance the stolen car he was driving, adding new mufflers that made the car louder. This sounded ridiculous on its face because it would draw more attention to a car that was not even street legal. While at the shop getting the cosmetic work done to the car, he answered all the questions on their paperwork and gave his real name and address. What the hell was he thinking?
At some stage in this process, the body shop submitted the VIN number and his information to a computer the State of Texas looks at for stolen vehicles. Once that hit, the authorities had their first real clue about the Uptown burglaries. The authorities were called in and went to Steven’s address to pick up the car. Right where his own handwriting told them it would be. At that point, I lost the few reservations I had about getting into Steven’s car. The clock, I now knew, was ticking on us.
When I arrived at Steven’s ratty apartment, not exactly the kind of place you would park a luxury sports car, I found him on the couch smoking a bong. Grabbing the bong from him, I smoked as much as I could. I wanted to get jacked up before our mission.
He told me the place was called AA Wrecker Service, and then he gave me the address. He was thoughtful enough to pull the directions off the internet for me, too. What a pal. My plan conveyed to him, I grabbed the lonely key to his impounded, freshly enhanced stolen vehicle. He seemed thankful that I would stick my neck out like this for him.
“Steven,” I said, “this isn’t for you; it’s for me. In about twelve hours, both of us will either be in custody or we will be in ecstasy over this. To do nothing is suicide. Either way, we will remember this night forever.”
“Whatever your reason, Damon, thanks, brother. Good luck.”
With his last words, I was out the door, into the night, on a mission to steal a car from a police impound yard. To say I was frightened was an understatement. This was nuts. It was by far the dumbest and most dangerous thing I had ever done.
The Impound Yard
The impound yard was easy enough to find, on the corner of a busy road, close to the highway. The place was enormous, and nowhere on the grounds did it say, “police impound.” It had to be a place the entire city and the police used. Driving by, with a cursory glance, I could not spot Steven’s car. That was a long shot anyway. No way could it be that easy.
I needed a base to work from. Across the highway was a strip mall. Behind it there was a neighborhood. I drove around until I found a “For Sale” sign in the yard with the unmistakable look of a vacant house. Parking in front of the house, I went around to the back and broke in. Once inside, I made my way immediately for the garage and unlocked it. It would do just fine. I slipped out of the garage and got my gear from my car, leaving my wallet behind. With my night vision goggles tucked under my arm, I crossed the highway on foot and approached the impound lot.
With its nearly ten-foot high fencing, it looked like a fortress. The security, how
ever, did not match the foreboding look. All I could spot was a lone security guard in a guard shack with a dog. A dog. Damnit. Dogs were extremely difficult to beat, but it was a big lot. We hopefully would never meet. The outer perimeter had woods all around it and I was thankful I brought my night vision goggles. They weren’t top of the line, but they got me through when I needed them. Working my way around the lot from the outside, I would scale the fence wherever possible to try and look for the car. The fence concerned me; surely there was a perimeter beam somewhere on the inside of the lot. Most of those motion-sensing beams go out a few feet.
If the front gate of the place was home plate, then the tree I climbed would be in center field, right on the wall. In the tree, I figured I could get a better look at the lot. It was going to be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. It was just dumb luck that the car I was looking for was parked directly beneath it. Not believing my eyes, I sat in the tree for a bit to try and understand the situation better. There were thousands of vehicles on this lot, with a bunch in the middle and an outer ring of vehicles lining the fence. Fortuitously, Steven’s car was backed into a spot, as if it were ready to take off.
It looked as though they had two or three trucks bringing in cars on a constant rotation. Every time a tow truck brought its cargo in, the gate would open and close quickly. The trucks always went straight through the gate, down the first-base line, never deviating from the same path. Each time, the guard and the dog would appear briefly before heading back onto the little area off to the side of the gate. The positioning of the guard booth was terrible from a security standpoint because of the limited view, yet it was a bonus to me.
My addict brain always wanted more than what was mine. Instead of going for the burglary bag in the car beneath the tree I was in, I wanted the entire car. To me, this was the only way to be 100 percent sure I erased all evidence of our existence. Besides, I was not going to be on the street in this vehicle because I had an entire garage in which to park it and do my thing. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out Steven’s key fob and hit the button to unlock the car. The double beep of the car alarm disengaging sounded like a sonic boom in the silent night. Thinking the guard or dog may have heard it, I quickly dropped from my high tree limb into the impound yard. No turning back now. Hurriedly, I opened the door and got in, locking the doors manually from the inside. Just in time, too, because the dog was running over to the car, sniffing the air.
