I drove to a gravel road where I met up with her to drive
her in her car to the Government Center to have her monthly parole meeting.
When I parked in the lot, she looked around and grabbed a small bottle from her
purse. It was a 5-Hour Energy bottle that had been emptied, rinsed out, filled
with urine from a sober friend, and then carefully sealed with aluminum foil so
it could easily be pierced when the time came to pee. She placed that
contraption in her vagina, and I was very grateful at that moment that I didn’t
have to put one of those in my urethra. She walked in, and I never saw her
again. That was two years ago.
I waited in that parking lot for two hours before I mustered
the courage to leave with her car. We weren’t dating at the time, but she was
the closest thing I had to a girlfriend before I went to prison. When I drove
away, my nerves were shot. The paranoia involved with meth is incredible, and I
wondered if maybe she had told the cops that I had a bunch of meth with me,
which I did.
I drove around the corner and gathered my thoughts. I wanted
to snoop through her car to see if I could find anything incriminating, and the
plan would then be to drive it back to the station and abandon it. Well, that
didn’t quite work out.
What I did was drive about 20 miles back to where I had
parked my vehicle on the gravel road, drove up a little farther over the
horizon where I thought I couldn’t be seen, and parked. Rifling through shit is
a favorite pastime of many a meth addict. And this car was full of shit. I
really don’t know what it was that I was looking for, but I would never find
it. I dug through everything, and I had a blast doing it. I was there for an
hour before I gave up, and I hopped back in and drove away.
Less than a hundred feet into my journey, absolutely out of
nowhere, a Sherriff’s S.U.V. pulled up directly in front of me and twirled his
cherries. He blocked my way, so I was stuck. Only then did I realize I was
clutching a huge bag of meth in my hand. Slowly, oh so slowly, I hid the bag
under my leg. He was out of his vehicle and walking briskly toward me. I had no
idea what to do or say, but it would come to me.
He asked what I was up to and I explained that my girlfriend
never came out of her parole meeting and I was sober and was up here looking
for evidence that she had been using which would explain her disappearance, but
I didn’t find anything so I was leaving. He stared into my eyes, and for
whatever fucking reason, he seemed to buy what I was selling. He took my D.L.
and headed back to his truck.
I had been up for days. I had over an ounce of meth just out
of his sight, pills in my pocket, thousands in cash, and no insurance. But he
didn’t ask for insurance. I gave him no probable cause to ask me to get out of
the vehicle. And when he came back he told me that the girl had, in fact, been
taken into custody but he didn’t know why. And then he said those magical
words, “You’re free to go, Sir.”
I was prone to being stopped by the police when I was out
dealing drugs. Probably my odds were increased by the fact that I was out and
about most of every day and night. Also driving well over the posted speed
limit in cars that warranted attention even while sitting still got me pulled
over a few times. Yet every time I was questioned, I remained perfectly calm,
and I made no sudden movements. And each time I was let go without so much as a
ticket. I don’t know why I got so lucky for so long, but I’m glad I no longer
push it like I used to.
