All the experiences throughout this crazy life render me prone to forget that what I find normal can be shocking to others. There is a level of violence, the world over, that an average civilian might find pretty unreal. As much as some might not want to believe this level of drama can exist outside of movies, I am here to tell you that it does. The following is a depiction of real-life events. It hails from this violent world juxtaposed with that 9-5 that so many grind through on a daily basis. It is a story to be told with no restraint, so strap in and prepare to not only be shocked but maybe even offended at the raw details here to follow.
Picture a short, heavily tattooed individual, who used to be stocky until sickness and sloth shriveled him up. We will call this person Bill Smith because names will be changed to protect the identities of all guilty parties. The sickness suffered is addiction: methadone clinic in the morning and still capable of shooting around $100 worth of heroin before the day’s end type of addiction. So many burnt bridges that no one cared he was sleeping in his vehicle, winter fast approaching and a rear door window broken out because of having once locked the keys inside.
It was early October when I told Bill to come stay in one of my extra rooms, providing a bit more barrier against the cold than a piece of cardboard and tape. Fortunate to be paying $650 a month in a neighborhood where all the other renters were paying $1200-$1500 for similar arrangements, I didn’t ask Bill for anything at first.
Being a professional robber who also middle-manned drug deals, collected debts, and even sometimes robbed dealers was the mode of my survival. Although it did not make me anything resembling well-to-do, I got by. Bill was much worse off than I would ever be. Every coin scrounged would go straight to the monster that had a hold on him; I knew this, and it was why I gave Bill a break. For over a month he had a warm place, with electricity and running water, to lie around and shoot up—even food to eat—but this was not good enough.
That monster that had a hold of Bill has the tendency to take those in its clutches into a place so dark that even Jesus won’t go there; Bill had no problem eventually wanting into my pocket for a fix. Politely I refused to “lend” him any money, but the addiction controlling his behavior would not allow for it to end there. I underwent an onslaught of persistence, although a healthy fear of me kept him from becoming aggressive.
Not really nasty about wanting to “borrow” money, just sneaky. And so fucking whiny about how physically painful it was sobering up! Sure, I thought about kicking him out, but we had grown up together and the guy was like a brother to me. I felt sorry for him, is what it was, remembering the real badass he once was and then witnessing this pathetic junkie that badass had become. It was sad! I remember when someone once approached him pointing a gun, and he actually grabbed the gun, slapped the person, and took it. Now he was in tears over not being able to put poison in his arm at that precise moment.
It was disgusting.
Eventually, I had my fill of this: “Hey, motherfucker, I’m not gonna start buying your fucking heroin for you, dude!” I told him. Yet, there had formed an idea as to what I was willing to do; a way for Bill to even possibly pay me back a little. “But I’ll tell you what,” my voice calming and taking a reasonable tone, “if you can think of someone to rob, I’ll get you your shit and keep the money.” I was hoping for what they call “pager-dope,” but it was obvious, by the look forming on Bill’s face, that he did not like this idea.
“It’s not a bad deal. Bill. Look, man, you’re dope sick—I get it—but I’m healthy and willing to put in the work to get you well again. If I keep the money for doing this, you can’t fault me for that. Plus, I haven’t asked you for shit, dude. I should be allowed simply for hospitality.” My eyes narrowed and hardened and a certain evil settled in the room. “That’s all I’m willing to do, bro.” My voice had become low and sinister. “I’m not giving you my money, motherfucker.”
Bill recoiled as if I had slapped him. Nauseous and sweaty from the oncoming effects of withdrawal, the gears in his head were turning, trying to come up with an idea to get that fix that would consist of the same ole scheming that had burnt all those bridges. He knew to be careful treading on me because of my potential for violence.
Not willing to give up any pager-dope, there dawned on me the thought of an alternative.
There is an area of downtown Denver where small-time dealers sling different mind-altering agents for more successful figures in the trade. It’s the Escalade-driving, burner-phone toting, pounds of product and thousand-dollar knot peeling, pager-dope slinging individuals who supply these hustlers. Bill ended up with a few of these more elite distributors’ numbers simply because his insatiable hunger caught someone’s attention, but when they don’t answer his calls or he already owes them money, and only has enough to “get well” on, it’s the small-time hustlers who can still come in handy. In this case, the street corner dealer was a better bridge to burn. I was not all that happy with a smaller score, but it was something. Always keeping one round in the chamber, leaving nine in the magazine, I readied my P-11, 9mm and took hold of the extra 10-round and 32-round magazines for backup.
Don’t miss: “How Writing Changed My Life,” also by TommyLee Dean
Setting out, it was by coincidence that another friend, John Smith (no relation to Bill), was pulling up to the curb in front of my house. He asked what we were up to, and I gave him the details.
“Well, fuck,” said John, always down for a little action, as a war veteran bored with civilian life. “I was looking to hang with you anyway, so why don’t I drive and give you two a running car to get away, instead of having to run to and restart a parked vehicle?”
John had a point. Plus, I always did like running around with this crazy-ass Marine. The present escapade would not be the first time we did something like this together; I could fill a book with our exploits but would do so under the guise of “fiction” so as not to incriminate myself with all the serious crap I have not been caught for.
* * *
When Bill and I climbed out of John’s car, I left the 32-round magazine because it was just too long and heavy to try to conceal. My semiautomatic came equipped with a clip built into its framework that allowed me to fasten it snuggly in my waistband; my denim jacket covering it as well as giving refuge to the extra 10-round magazine secured in one of the breast pockets.
In this area of town, it doesn’t take long for someone to hit up a couple like Bill and me and ask if we are looking to score. We followed this dealer into an alley as his companion took a sentry position on the street to watch us from a short distance away.
Bill said: “Necesito mucho bianco y negro. Todos, por favor.”
The hustler’s response was to spit out a handful of little dark and light-colored packages.
The plan was to get him to spit the whole stash into his hand because it’s all wrapped in balloons to be swallowed when the police swoop in or a couple of dirtbags try to rob him. Bill made eye contact with me and then motioned towards the handful of product with a slight facial expression. Producing the gun and waving it through the air, so that there would be no mistaking what was in my hand, I demanded, “dale a la mi compa!” I pointed the lethal end at its intended target.
This crazy motherfucker’s response was to smile and shake his head.
Questioning if my Spanish was that bad, I switched to English and crooked my head towards Bill: “Give that shit to him, pinche cabroni.” This person not following directions now closes his hand around the balloons while looking at me like I’m the stupid one.
Anger is a secondary emotion that usually manifests from something else; in this case, that would be a flash of frustration morphing into a tidal wave of anger. Who the fuck did this clown think he was? I am pointing a loaded gun directly at him and he is going to refuse to follow my directions?! What is this guy thinking?
That I was playing? Would not actually shoot him? Embarrassment and humiliation, these are also a couple of feelings not as easy to understand as is the comfort of anger. This prick didn’t think I had the balls. I wanted to tell him how stupid he was being, but it would not have done any good. It all led to the inevitable.
The gun was held high, at a level plane with my shoulder. This individual mocking me was maybe five feet away; him being around the same height as I meant that anywhere between his forehead and diaphragm was targeted.
I have been told that I display all the attitude of an alpha male. I have also read that alpha males are very insecure, which is what leads to this attitude.
Frustration set in—that we were approaching a situation where I could be embarrassed and humiliated.
I didn’t have the balls?!?!
The cracking sound a bullet makes when escaping the muzzle, propelled by the expanding gases, breaks the sound barrier. The look in someone’s eyes when they catch that projectile in their chest, only five feet from where it launched, is void of any emotion for a brief moment. What’s happening is that their brain is trying to deny what just happened to them: Maybe it was only a blank? A misfire? He missed me?
But then there comes a realization that sets in. Many will tell you that being shot produces a burning sensation, which is true when the body’s shock wears off and allows for a victim to physically feel again, but the initial feeling is a slight pressure at best.
It is this lack of pain that the brain is trying to decipher. When it does finally decode what is happening—granted everybody’s chemistry is different—this is the point when the burning sensation might present itself. It was at this point that his eyes became wild with the realization that he really had been shot. It was at this instant the surrounding shadows seemed to get heavier, as though to foretell the arrival of a grim reaper with scythe raised high. I do not recall if the handful of balloons was dropped or not, but a part of me wants to say they were. A more certain memory is that of Bill not being so dope sick after all. He took off in such a quick sprint that there was a puff of cloud, shaped like him, left where he had been standing.
I wasn’t mad at this idiot I shot anymore because now my mind was occupied with Bill. If I felt anything, I would have to say it was disgust beyond endurance—and maybe a bit satisfied that the chest wound let someone know I had been serious all along. Hopefully he would realize that he did not handle the situation too well. Two holes in the dumbass were sure to alert the surrounding area that the pop was not a car backfiring, that it really had been an actual gunshot. I surely did not need that! Turning and walking away, I clipped the pistol back in my waistband for concealment. About twenty feet to go before finding an escape to a nearby street through a parking lot.
“Aayyyeeee, you killed me! Aaaayyeeee, you killed me! Aaayyeeeeeeee!”
I wanted to stop, turn, and shoot the moron again. Maybe it would shut him up? I needed to shut him up! Screaming that I killed him created quite the dilemma—was it worse than an additional gunshot or would the gunshot be a mistake? Speaking of making all the right choices in a very serious situation—what to do when the person who just shot you is walking away, leaving only one smoking hole in your body? Why not start screaming at the top of your lungs to antagonize them even further—maybe this time they will shoot you in your head that you’re not using anyway? Lucky for him I chose to speed my departure instead. I had to distance myself as soon as possible without drawing attention, so I walked fast and did not run. Yet, as careful as I thought to be, the escape still acquired an observer.
There was someone waiting to pick up his girlfriend from work.
I blundered when I traveled the same direction as traffic on the one-way street used for a getaway. This allowed the witness to follow me, in his car, and return, quickly, to the incident, where he jumped in the passenger seat of a cop car to lead them in the direction I went. Calling John to report my coordinates, I avoided being tailed.
“John. I’m traveling north on Lawrence, approaching nineteenth.”
“Nineteenth? You’re not on the mall?”
“What? The Sixteenth Street Mall?… No. No, bro. I’m heading north—the mall’s behind me.”
“You’re with Bill, aren’t you?”
“No–that fool ran as soon as I had to shoot that guy.”
“Well, I’m heading towards the Broadway turnaround for the mall’s shuttles, Tom.”
“Why?”
“That’s where Bill said you guys were going.”
“We’re not together! That chickenshit motherfucker—all hunched over with that ‘starving junkie stroll’—he had suddenly made a miraculous recovery and broke as soon as I blasted, dude!”
“Fuck, bro! Fuck!… Man, you’re the one with heat on you, too! Fuck! Lawrence?”
“Yeah, Lawrence.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m fucking sure!!”
“I’m turning around right now.”
“Well, hurry up, then.”
Our connection went dead.
I was standing in the opening of an alleyway, between Lawrence and Larimer, on 20th, when my phone rang.
“Tom. I’m on Lawrence but don’t see you.”
“I’m on twentieth—don’t pass me by.”
“Where on twentieth?”
I saw John’s car pull into the intersection and stop. Other vehicles blasted their horns as they went around him sitting in the center lane.
“West! Look west!! I see you—your car—I see your—”
“Gotcha.” His voice sounded relieved, but then took on a panicked slant when announcing, “fuck, here comes a cop!”
“What? Where?”
“Behind me! Go! Run!!!”
And then, just like that, the semblance of a prodigious and mechanical creature of predation came sliding to a stop in between John and me. Every bit of hope that had bloomed at the sight of John’s car now dwindled to zero, replaced by a feeling of doom dropping down on me like a bus falling from one of the surrounding buildings.
Calmly turning, I tried to secure the phone in my empty breast pocket, so there was no chance of dropping it as evidence, if I got away. Fumbling with the jacket’s button, I heard the motor rev and tires squawk behind me. Damned button! Brakes squealing to a halt so close I could feel the engine’s heat on my back—mechanical breath from the juggernaut creature. The button finally cooperated and fastened as the sound of at least one car door alerted me that confrontation was nigh. Should I run? The sound of a pump shotgun racking a round immediately after I heard that door communicated that they had the drop on me. How might I get my own gun out to turn around and shoot?
“Get down!! Hands where I can see ’em! Down!!!” His adrenaline was full-throttle.
Playing innocent to hide my sizing up the chances of getting that gun out of my waistband, I turned to analyze the situation and yelled: “Woah, man! What’s your pro—”
“I’ll blow your mother fucking head off!!! I fucking mean it!!! Get the fuck down!!!”
“Hey, hey, hey, I’m not the—”
“Now!!!” Thrusting the tip of that shotgun at me, the barrel’s darkness looking as though a semi-truck could fit down it.
Fuck! Fuck!! Fuck!!! Now I was the idiot not following instructions dictated by someone pointing a gun at me. I wanted to shoot the prick in his snarling face, but how was I going to pull the pistol from my waist without catching a burst of lethality from him.
“Motherfucker, don’t play with me!!” he yelled.
I went as far down as kneeling; hands on head, strategizing and not wanting to prone out as he demanded. My halfhearted compliance did buy a little time, although this adversary was still going apeshit, screaming orders and thrusting that cannon in my direction. What to do?
He had me: proning out would make me totally vulnerable and if I jumped up, there was no doubt he would shoot me. More cop cars came into sight; aggressively swarming around corners and approaching. I felt so cowardly surrendering—I could not surrender, it made me feel small and insignificant. Why does anyone surrender, anyway? What for? A fucking uniform? A badge that these pigs boisterously proclaim as a shield? A shield? A fucking shield?!
No, no, no—what kind of Nazi propaganda…? It’s a goddamned pin fastened to a fricking article of clothing. They are no kind of special, they are human same as I; they eat and shit and sleep and bleed and die….
They bleed and die.
Fuck this!
Interviews with cops and civilian passengers claim that I jumped up, pulled the pistol, and spun around with malice. Though I do not recall, it does seem probable because I did plan to get a shot off and hopefully make him duck behind that cruiser between us. I would be left with eight bullets and a fresh 10-round magazine for backup. Would the eight allow me to clear a way into the car and peel off?
My plan was to come over the hood and empty those remaining bullets at or into a squatting figure waiting for an opening to pop up and shoot me. I would kick the passenger out, if he hadn’t already made a break for safety. But did I squeeze off that initial round? There is confusion about this moment, as well as different accounts planting false memories in my head. Why can I not recall this short burst of time, myself? Was it that point when my eyes went void of any emotion? Might it have been the portion of this incident when a brain registering only some slight pressure tried to deny what just happened to me?
I did jump up and do recall reaching for my firearm. Then the 12-gauge barked like a giant Saint Bernard, and I felt my jacket and shirt flail as though they took a quick blast from an air hose. No pain. No memory of drawing, pointing, and possibly firing my gun at that cop. I do recall feeling around my waistband for a lost pistol. What the fuck happened to my pistol?! It was gone!! Gone!!! Spinning around and looking at the ground, I could not see it anywhere. How could this have happened? There was that clip built into its framework. Surely it did not simply fall out of my clothing. Hands frantically felt around my midsection. Disbelief. The sound of that shotgun racking another live round. Disarmed and no other choice, I ran.
Making way down the mouth of that alley I had been standing in only a brief moment before, cracking and thundering, bees whizzing past my ears at Mach speed, debris from ricocheting rounds peppering my face. A cop car pulling across the passage ahead—I figured it was an attempt to block my getaway. When the driver leaned out the window, I thought they were pointing and yelling for me to surrender.
When reaching this obstacle, I dove and half slid, half rolled over its hood. The cop inside laid down across the center console and into the passenger seat; through the windshield I caught a glimpse of them curling into a ball for protection. I assumed they believed me still armed. No sooner had my feet touched asphalt than I was off running through the parking lot this vehicle pulled out of.
Reaching Lawrence again, I began to run north, away from the main battalion of police. The recent trauma inflicted on my body started taking its toll; slowing down, throat burning, chest tightening, and a headache from my eyes rolling up in their sockets. I made some sort of weird sound expelling my breath—almost a whinny—then they hit me hard from behind.
These individuals were mad and were going to make me pay for what I had done. Perhaps there was a misconception that I had shot one of their coworkers with so much confusion over who had been hit during the police-involved shooting? Maybe they were just so pumped up they wanted to beat the shit out of something? Whatever the case, clubs and boot tread came raining down. It didn’t hurt though, more so was the sensation of being jerked around the cab of a truck 4-wheeling over a bunch of big rocks and ruts.
No more fight to give, I absorbed whatever was heaped upon me.
Then someone interrupted: “What are you doing?” The voice was forceful. “Fuck—he’s already been shot! Just cuff the asshole and call a bus!”
It must have been a field commander because the beating stopped, and the cuffs went on. Facedown on the sidewalk, hands bound behind my back and watching a puddle of my blood expand and grow larger by the second. It was weird, this expansion so quick when time seemed to grind to a complete stop—everything frozen in an eternity other than this growing puddle of blood.
Watching my life force swiftly drain away, I felt calm. Whatever god there might be was welcomed; if nothingness was that god, this, too, was welcomed. I was feeling more serene in this moment than ever before or since, my body growing cold as warmth flooded my soul.
The fate that welcomed me arrived in the form of a big, boxy vehicle with emergency lights flashing and a chorus of odd sounds announcing its presence. Inside of this monstrosity, my clothing was cut off and I was told that no one, in their care, was dying this day. At the hospital, I looked across the loading zone and saw the giant lens on some camera. I wondered if it was a news camera. What made me so special and newsworthy? I failed to realize that all police-involved shootings make the nightly news.
There had been fourteen that year and only two of us survived; Denver cops do aim to kill. Hunter S Thompson once wrote that they are a bunch of gunslinging cowboys hell-bent on confrontation.
Turned out that the officer who shot me with a sidearm never reported it to internal affairs nor surrendered the weapon used.
To get the staples taken out, I had to visit Denver Health from the county jail. The trauma doctor who went in and stopped my internal bleeding actually came to check on my well-being while I was there.
During our interactions, he revealed that three 9mm bullets were also removed and pointed out the tight grouping in my left abdominals. I argued that I only took a shotgun blast to the right flank, but this professional assured me that they were not mistaken—they remembered my tattoos, the case, and had removed plenty of bullets during their career.
If necessary, it was part of the position’s duties to sometimes testify, plus everything was always documented in hospital records. This seemed to really weigh in my favor, and my lawyer even considered what it might do if we could prove some kind of misconduct on the authority’s behalf. A wrongful shooting? If so, could it serve as a bargaining chip? It gave us hope, not following proper procedure after a shooting like this was a very serious no-no on the shooter’s behalf. Could it prove favorable to us even though it did not seem too counterintuitive of all that I was culpable? With how trigger-happy the press portrays the Denver Police, it just might have been worth a try.
Then, while going through the motions of putting together enough information to file a notice of intent to sue, my name ended up in the Denver Post again. It was in an article about the officer who used the shotgun on me. There was a brief mention that the shooting was still under scrutiny; mostly the story laid out details behind this officer being under an ongoing investigation for molesting his stepchildren. And according to what it reported, the investigation had been underway when he shot me.
Now he was dead. When there was finally enough to make an arrest, he broke away from officers, ran downstairs, and shot himself in the head. We filed our notice of intent within weeks of this suicide. Not long after that, the victim of my shooting was still found to be missing—he disappeared shortly after leaving Denver Health.
With their case totally falling apart, the county ended up offering me a 5-year sentence for reduced charges, but one of these charges would justify me being shot. Maybe the County of Denver simply did not want to take the chance that a child-molesting cop would become an ongoing news story if I was allowed to pursue the lawsuit, I am not sure. But said lawsuit was dead if I took this plea. I can only assume it was this suit behind them offering such little time, really, and am not too sure how correct such an assumption is. Honestly, I do not know why they had become so generous, but they had.
The conundrum, as I perceived it at the time, was to possibly win a lawsuit or possibly settle out of court and more than likely, lack of victim or not, end up convicted to around 100 years in prison with everything they had against me. They were threatening to run everything consecutive and that really added up. Attempted first-degree murder, first-degree assault with serious bodily injury, and first-degree assault on police with a weapon.
I could roll the dice and take my chances at winning $5 million or maybe settle for $1-3 million. Yet there was also a very good chance that I would not get anything at all. Considering the chain of events that led up to me being shot, I certainly deserved it, right? I know that I shot a guy for a lot less only three blocks before!
At best, even if I did win a suit or get an out-of-court settlement, it would have taken 15-20 years to get such a conviction overturned. Or I could take the 5 years and remain broke.
To this day, I am broke.
