Cracked

Big man didn't respond. The older man shuffled toward the desk.

My eyes swept the apartment. There was a large window directly behind the sofa. If I could get free, I could break for the window and . . . What? Bust through the glass and swan-dive three stories to the asphalt below?

The older man reached the desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a gun. It looked small, maybe a .22, I thought. He turned and stepped toward the big man.

I had to get away now. I rotated my right shoulder backward and wrested my right arm free. I balled my fist, reared back as best I could and slugged the big man squarely on his chin.

Big man took it like a pro. He didn't budge. He didn't blink.

Uh-oh.

My captor's beefy left hand went to my throat. His viselike grip said, "That's enough."

The old man placed the gun in the big man's right hand. The big man raised the gun and pointed it between my eyes, about two inches from my face.

I thought of my parents, and my sister and brothers, in California. What would they think when they got the news? I thought about the 2-year-old niece I'd never get to know. I wondered if one of the homicide detectives I knew would catch my case. I hoped that my editor would cover my death with a brief and let it go at that. What a stupid, pointless way to die, I thought.

"I want answers," the big man said.

In the moment, it didn't seem like the truth would help. The truth was that Carrie was my drug connection. She bought crack cocaine for me.

The encounter with the gunman wasn't the only scrape I had found myself in during that time. From 1989 to the end of 1991, while I worked the night shift covering the D.C. police and crime beat, I was an active crack addict and alcoholic. My use was not recreational. I was not a dilettante.