Without question, the tension in the back of the van was palatable. Surrounded by police officers from the Deep East Texas Narcotics Task Force dressed in riot gear, I couldn’t help but be nervous. In a few minutes, I would follow these officers into a crack house, armed only with a camera.
I had joined the task force by invitation before on drug busts — before the courts intervened and changed state law limiting journalists from publishing pictures of police raids. In those days, the task force liked to bring a trusted member of the newspaper along to chronicle the event with a camera.
Also, they liked the idea of having the press along so that there was an unbiased view of the proceedings. Yet in other raids, we had only gone to the local street corner to make undercover buys. That is a long way from breaking down doors and invading a home. I’m no hero, and it is nerve racking to storm a drug haven where there could be automatic weapons and the like. And yes, I have repeatedly faced gun fire.
Each officer was hooded to protect their identity. In many instances, these officers work undercover and it is paramount to protect the investigator’s identity. Drug dealers usually won’t hesitate to put a bullet in a “narc.” It is dangerous business, and little is left to chance.
A few jokes helped break the tension as we headed for our destination. There were no windows in the van, and only a small light illuminated the locker room atmosphere.
Although it seemed like it took forever, we finally pulled up in front of the ramshackle shack where there was promise of illegal drug dealing.
Suddenly a voice that was familiar to me warned me to stay in the van until the location was secured. I was more than agreeable. As a journalist, I have never been one to want to impede a police investigation. I like to give officers the room they need to do their jobs.
With that, the officers piled out of the van, up the stairs and I could hear the loud knock on the door of the house. I peeked out the van door and could see the door crack. That was all the officers needed.
Training and skill took over.
The task force had a procedure they used to get the job done. It is a little frightening to watch, but it helps get the attention of addicts in a stoned stupor. Their loud voices and stern commands help establish an air of authority for the suspects.
Then my familiar voice — a dear friend who remains in law enforcement — came to the door of the van.
“Charles, you can come in now, but look, this is not a pretty scene,” he said.
“I understand.”
No matter how many years you work as a journalist, there are some things that happen in the course of your career that one can never forget. For me, this would prove just such a moment.
I entered the shanty, officers were cuffing suspects on the ground. The unmistakable smell of marijuana wafted through the air. To my right, there was an old couch with a coffee table. On the coffee table were several syringes and plastic bags containing a white powdery substance.
I didn’t give myself a chance to think about what was going on. Adrenalin took over and I just started shooting pictures.
That was my job.
The chaotic scene was shocking, but not unlike what I had seen previous raids.
I moved into the next room where a make-shift drug lab and been established. The drug of choice was “crystal,” a methamphetemine which requires highly volatile chemicals to create. A wrong move in such a lab could send the entire house sky-high. Even the fumes can be deadly, and now days, police use protective suits to clean up such labs.
The contents are mixed in garbage cans and cut with all manner of substances. It is dangerous to the makers, the users and even the neighbors, who in this instance were cooperating with the investigation — at great personal risk I might add.
Screams shrieked through the air and emanated from the back room of the house. When I made my way there, my heart simply sunk into my socks. There was a young woman — maybe 18 — probably younger. She was completely out of it, hopped up on the speed. She must have weighed 90 pounds soaking wet. Still, despite her infirmities, you could see she was a pretty girl. She was somebody’s daughter who had gone astray. She was rambling about her baby.
In the corner of the room was her child — about 18 months old. Naked, the child was surrounded by its own feces and was playing with a “glass pipe” used for smoking crack cocaine in lieu of toys. A female officer who was with us went and took the pipe away and picked up the child. The baby started crying. She was a sweet little thing, but disoriented and acting abnormally. Later I learned she was addicted to crack — probably since birth.
Her eyes were dialated and she was surrounded by filth — the worst kind of horror imaginable.
I was never blessed with biological children and sometimes I wonder why such unworthy people are gifted with children, yet I am barren. Don’t get me wrong, I cherish my step-kids — and my grandkids RULE — I just wish I could have had at least one child of my own, but I can live with the results, because it turned out well for me.
I just kept wondering to myself “how could a parent let this happen to their baby?”
It is a question I still can’t answer, and perhaps I just don’t want to do so.
I swallowed hard. We all swallowed hard. When it was over, we were back in the van, hoods off, and our heads in our hands. No one joked. No one felt great about putting a dent in the local drug trade. We just felt sick — all of us. None of us could stop thinking about that child.
When I was just a kid growing up in the 1960s, there were those who asserted that drugs were symbols of peace and love.
Today, we know they are the albatross of hate and anger.

———————

I am prone to nightmares. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night screaming.

Last night I woke up with a picture of that little girl in my mind.