For years, Heartland’s founder, Dave Padden, urged me to become a more vocal proponent of drug legalization. I begged off: It’s too controversial, it splits the conservative-libertarian alliance we’re trying to build, it’s too emotionally charged. Recent events, which you may already have heard about through other channels, have convinced me I was wrong.
Airport Security
Diane dropped me off at O’Hare International Airport on Thursday, March 15, at 5:30 p.m. to fly to Boston to attend an American Legislative Exchange Council conference. The metal detector buzzed as I walked through. I backed up, fished some loose change from my pocket, and walked through again. No problemo.
A security officer, roused by the buzzer, seemed to think otherwise, though, and asked if he could inspect my canvas tote bag. Sure, I said.
He asked me to remove some magazines, books, and a note pad. “What’s in the plastic bag?” he asked. What plastic bag? “Remove it from the tote bag, please.” I don’t remember bringing anything in a plastic bag. I have no idea where this little bag came from. What is it, sugar? Oh shit.
The security officer must have gestured to someone, because four more officers now formed a little circle around me and this mysterious little zip-lock baggie. One of them said, “Will you please come with us, sir?”
The Arrest
Somebody must have dropped the methamphetamine in my bag when I wasn’t looking. It could have happened when I set the bag down for a minute while I stood in line to use the cash machine, in C concourse. It could have happened then.
Why? I don’t know why. Maybe someone thought he could use me to transport his stash through security, and planned to steal the bag on the plane or when I got to Boston. Maybe somebody wants to hurt my reputation or the reputation of the organization I work for.
“Who do you work for?” A think tank called The Heartland Institute. Yes, we occasionally address criminal issues. The War on Drugs? Funny you should ask.
No, I never have. No, not to my knowledge. A little marijuana when I was in college, but it’s been 20 years or more. Sure, I’ll pee in a cup.
I’m not a drug user. I didn’t buy this stuff from anyone. Why don’t you believe me? You’ve been questioning me for four hours. Am I under arrest? I’m not going to answer any more questions until I can get some legal advice. I want to call my wife.
The Phone Call
Hi, Diane. No, I never made it to Boston. Can you call them in the morning and tell them I’m not going to be able to speak on the panel? I was arrested at O’Hare for possession of an illegal substance. No, I’m not kidding. That’s what I told them. They don’t believe me.
I want you to call directory assistance and get a home phone number for Lew Shapiro, Heartland’s legal counsel. No, I don’t remember where he lives. How about Dan Hales or Paul Fisher; they’re lawyers and Board members. No, I don’t know where they live either. Where does Joe Morris live?
Tell you what, try getting into the office early tomorrow and call them at their work numbers. I’ll call you later in the morning. No, they won’t give me a number you can reach me at. I don’t know where they’re taking me, downtown probably. I’ll call you in the morning.
Oh, come on, don’t cry. I’m innocent. I’ll probably be home in time for dinner tomorrow.
Justice Is Swift
At 10:00 a.m. I meet Philip Felstein, my lawyer. I don’t think he’s even 30 years old, but he seems to have handled a lot of cases like mine. We talked for 30 minutes, then the guard came to take me to court. Phil said he’d meet me there.
My first time in handcuffs. A three-hour wait in Holding Room C. No talking, nothing to read, my back is killing me from sitting too long, and my brain is begging for caffeine and nicotine. Finally I’m led into court. Phil meets me in front of Judge Harold Friedman’s desk. “Remember what we talked about.”
It’s over in about 2 minutes. The charge is possession with intent to distribute 20 grams of meth (five-year minimum sentence), plus criminal conspiracy for refusing to identify my supplier (five more years).
I plead not guilty. The prosecutor says I’m a flight risk and “work for an organization that advocates the use of illegal drugs.” Phil objects but the judge is staring at me like he believes it. I’m wishing I didn’t have this beard. Bail is set for $750,000. Bang. Next.
Phil says posting bond will be easy. (I don’t understand how, since this is about 10 times the equity we have in our condo, but he says not to worry.) He said I could be out before the end of the day.
The next time I see Phil is 3:00 p.m. Saturday. Bond has been posted. Diane is with him to take me home. We hug and, yes, this time I cry a little with her.
We climb into Phil’s car. I ask Diane, why didn’t you drive? “They took our van.” She starts to cry again. Can they do that? Phil and I argue about it all the way to Palatine.
Search and Seizure
We spent the rest of the weekend calling and taking calls from family and friends. On Monday morning we took the train to work as usual. Four police cars were parked in front of our office building. Craig the doorman points to us as we enter the lobby (“that’s them,” he mumbles to the policeman standing next to him). The officer steps in front of us. “You are not allowed to enter the premise.” Why not? He won’t tell us.
Diane uses the cell phone to reach Phil, who arrives in just a few minutes. He talks to the officer, who uses his cell phone to talk to his superior, and in a few more minutes we’re all riding the elevator to the ninth floor.
It’s an amazing scene. Two dozen guys in FBI jackets are loading the contents of file cabinets and desk drawers into cardboard boxes, taping them shut, and wheeling them to the freight elevator at the back of our office. I’m not allowed past the reception area.
Diane is, though, and returns in a few minutes. She says virtually all the files in my office (donor correspondence, mostly) have been boxed up and are heading down the elevator. My computer and phones are gone, even the pictures that were on the walls. They are “interviewing” Toria, my assistant, in the conference room.
Where it Stands Now
The Board of Directors of The Heartland Institute has asked me to take a leave of absence until the charges against me are resolved. Robert Russell, a member of Heartland’s Board of Directors with a long and impressive record of management and fundraising for conservative causes, is serving as interim president. Bob was kind enough to give me this opportunity to explain my situation to Heartland’s members, donors, and allies.
For the record, I have never used meth, had never even seen the stuff until last week, and certainly don’t advocate its use. I am innocent of the charges against me and hope to be cleared soon, perhaps by the time you receive this newsletter. Phil is less optimistic, and says letters testifying to my good character are sometimes valuable in this process.
I deeply regret the negative consequences this incident has had for The Heartland Institute. I also regret not acting on Dave Padden’s past advice. I guess I always knew there were victims of the War on Drugs. I just never thought I would be one of them.
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Actually, this month’s President’s Letter by Joseph Bast is an April Fool’s Day joke. He was not arrested, Heartland’s offices were not searched, and (best of all!) you don’t need to write letters testifying to his good character.
Seriously, though, we’re trying to decide whether to be more vocal in our opposition to the War on Drugs. You probably already know most of the arguments.
