It’s only a matter of time before it all goes bad. You know that going in. The odds are stacked against you from the start. And if you think you’ve got a friend in this world, they’d better be family—and even then, you better watch your back.
This time, I was trading eight pounds of weed and $8,000 cash for a kilo of coke. Not to flip. Not to stash. This one was for me. I was addicted. Deep. I was doing at least two 8-balls a week, and I wasn’t leaving the house without coke in my pocket. It wasn’t a party anymore—it was survival. Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
I had a bad feeling before I went. But then again, I’d had bad feelings for twenty years. You learn to ignore them. You learn to push through. You learn to trust the rhythm of the game.
But this time, the rhythm was off.
As soon as I got to the meeting place, they came from everywhere. Lights. Sirens. Guns. Voices shouting. My great life—the one I’d built from the streets, the bar, the deals, the loyalty—was over. Just like that.
My luck had finally run out.
I was busted. And this time, there was no walking away. No technicality. No quiet favor. This was the end of the line. The setup was clean. The trap was tight. And I was caught.
Life was never going to be the same.
The worst part? Two out of the three things I was doing wrong are legal now. Gambling? Legal. Weed? Legal. And coke? Hell, it used to be in soda. How big of a criminal am I, really?
I wasn’t running guns. I wasn’t hurting people. I was chasing a high, flipping a product, and living a life that—ironically—is now half-legit.
But none of that mattered in that moment. What mattered was the cuffs. The headlines. The silence that followed.
This was the final setup. The last chapter of the hustle. And the beginning of something else.
All the years of fun didn’t seem so exciting anymore—not after the trap was set. The adrenaline, the girls, the deals, the bar nights—they all lost their shine the moment the cuffs clicked. It was like someone flipped a switch and the whole ride went dark.
The clown who set me up had been working with the police for years. A professional snitch. These guys get to run wild—sell drugs, make deals, live the life—just as long as they turn in a few names every now and then. That’s the game. That’s why snitches get stitches.
It never entered my mind to turn anybody in. Not once. Sure, I could’ve walked. All I had to do was give up my pride, point a few fingers, and play ball. But that’s not who I am. I was staring down 5 to 15 years, and I still didn’t flinch.
I got lucky.
The sister of a judge in St. Charles was a regular at my bar. I told her what happened, laid it out straight. That night, she called her brother—the judge. He told her, “Tell him not to worry. Have him go see my son. He’s an attorney in St. Charles.”
I called a couple lawyers before that. They wanted $20,000 up front just to talk. Twenty grand, today. No guarantees. Just a retainer.
But this judge’s son? He sat me down, listened, and said, “Let me see what I can do.” I still figured I’d be doing a couple years. Best-case scenario.
I left his office that Monday and he told me, “You might not have to do any time.”
That’s when it hit me: it’s not what you know. It’s who you know.
The bottom line? My life of crime came to an end. The setup worked. The trap was tight. The game was over.
But I didn’t go to jail.
I got five years probation. No cell. No jumpsuit. No bars.
Luck of the Irish again.
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