Tales From The DJ Booth: How I Became A Felon

I pulled out of the Bada Bing* parking lot, heading west on Barbur Blvd toward Tigard. The police car that had been parked across the street, in an unused church parking lot, pulled out at rapid speed. A second car appeared out of nowhere, remaining next to the first cruiser, as it tailgated my vehicle. "Weird," I thought. "They must just think I’m another bar customer. Glad I haven’t been drinking."

Rolling about a mile or two under the posted speed limit, I did not expect to see the flashing lights that came on behind me, within seconds of me noticing the police car they were attached to— barely a quarter-mile from the parking lot I had pulled out of. I pulled over, expecting a routine, "How much have you had to drink?" Instead, two offcers approached each side of my vehicle (a total of four, for those of you too slow to add). Out of each pair, one was shining a flashlight into each side of my backseat, while the others each approached a window. With cops in stereo, the one on the passenger side spoke at (not to) me. "Umm...so, you made an illegal turn back there. Do you have any drugs on you?"

Okay, first of all, there is no such thing as an illegal turn from a parking lot that borders a street, save for erratic driving. I had stopped and signaled (I mean, I saw the fucking cop) and prepped for the upcoming 40mph-to-35mph slowdown that borders Tigard. Second, why ask about drugs? Anyhow, I was honest.

"Yeah, this is Oregon and I do have marijuana on me. But, other than that..."

The cop interrupted. "What else?"

I was taken by surprise, replying, "What do you mean? I don’t touch Oregon coke and wouldn’t know where to buy anything else."

"Get out of the car," the cop instructed— it wasn’t a request, it was a demand.

I got out of the car and said, "There’s weed in the center console and some in the backseat," motioning to the devil’s lettuce that these aspiring Feds were apparently wasting two cars’ worth of tax money looking for.

The cop I’d been speaking to put me in handcuffs and placed me in the back of his car. Again, this for an "illegal turn" and some weed (just over an ounce...some of you see where this is going). From the back of the cop car, I watched the three other cops tear through my Blazer like they were looking for the Declaration Of Independence or gold or some shit. What the offcers weren’t bothered with, though, was the pot. I mean, my weed was visible from the street. At the time, it was a $500 ticket for anything under an ounce. Sadly, I had just over that, but the cops wouldn’t toss a felony at a strip club DJ for weed, would they? They appeared to not even care about the pot in the first place.

My vehicle remained on 99W, while the first cop (who had approached me) drove us both downtown. On the way, we had an interesting conversation.

"What kind of music do you like?" the cop asked.

"Political talk radio," I answered with the tone of an autistic robot on Methadone.

"Will rock work?"

"Yeah, leave it here. Sabbath rules. Did you know this song is about weed? Would you arrest Ozzy?"

The cop didn’t even bother with a good heroin joke, continuing, "Okay, dude, you seem like a smart guy. When are you going to own up to the meth? I mean, I know who you sold it to." Okay, let me get as transparent as I can— I’m talking Chunk from The Goonies, in that scene where he spilled the guts to his captors. I tried every drug under the sun in high school, short of shooting up heroin or smoking PCP without weed. I stole two nugs of pot from one of my stepdads, I’ve driven drunk a few times without realizing it, I almost cheated on my middle-school girlfriend Tricia with the chick from art class, but I have never, ever sold, consumed or otherwise endorsed fucking methamphetamine— not as an adult. Sure, I flipped a few teeners in public school...but, who hasn’t? Those were pager and pay phone days—the arrest I’m describing here occurred in 2007.

"Dude, I haven’t even seen meth since I lived in Salem over a decade ago," I told the cop.

"That’s bullshit. We just popped Steve* and he told us everything."

Fuck.

Steve was this tweaker regular at the club, who would come in and make several dancers happy, without ever tipping a dollar. Being a baby strip club DJ (this was my first year as a disc jockey), I didn’t put two and two together and just trusted the guy. One evening, I was leaving the club through the back parking lot, when Steve approached my window, telling me one of those long-winded tweaker stories about this and that.

"Dude, great job tonight, thanks for playing Rob Zombie, does Cat still work here? Tell her I said hi, and I’ve got this high-def television I wanna sell, if you see her. Say, do you need a bus pass? Bro, the new tacos you guys have aren’t that good.

"Okay, Steve, take care," I said, as I always did. This particular afternoon, however, the cop had been watching Steve from across the street. Apparently, he (the cop) did a stop-and-search with Steve, after I had pulled out of the club (the first time). Steve had meth. Surprise. He told the cop that he got it from the DJ. Surprise. Then, the Portland Police began a six-month stakeout for a single bag of tweak...which is actually surprising.

Apparently, my old Blazer is on a list somewhere, of vehicles belonging to probable drug dealers. These cops had been staking out the club for months, and my car, a 1996 Chevy Blazer with 250,000 miles on it, supposedly belonged to a drug kingpin.

Flash forward a few hours, and I’m sitting at the police station, talking with Rookie Supreme (this guy belonged in an ‘80s cop drama). I’m trying to explain to the guy that I don’t use or sell meth. I have a beer gut, breasts and an insatiable appetite for bar food. My teeth, as smoke-stained as they are, are healthy.

My car was a mess. I know of not one, single, solitary scrap metal buyer. How did any of this add up?

"We don’t care about the pot. I’m just going to be honest, though. We have you on tape selling meth to Steve."

"No, you don’t," I replied, while thanking the lord I was born white. "Let’s see the tape."

The cop replied, "We can get it from the bar. I know for a fact that you sold Steve that bag."

"How? What bag?"

"He told me. Meth."

"I’m finishing up a Master’s Degree at Portland State, and you’re going to take the word of Tweaker Steve, who always smells like paint thinner and cigarette butts?"

The cop paused, almost as if he realized what he was wasting his Friday evening on. "Look, just be honest with me."

And, I was. I told him that I had weed. I told him it was for personal and medical use. I told him that I did not have an updated medical marijuana card, but that I’d be willing to show him records. And, then, I fucked up and accidentally mentioned that I left a nug for my friend at the club (which I did, as a tip). I wasn’t even working that night—just rolling by to say hi to the dancers and talk shit with the DJ.

"Possession and distribution of a controlled narcotic, felony."

Those were the words I stared at on the paperwork left behind, as the cop who interviewed me left the room to speak with the other offcers who had been present during the arrest. All I heard was, "...nope, nothing." All I saw was the shaking of heads. Then, I was introduced to the whole team. The main cop let me know, without buttering anything up, that they’d been watching the club, looking for meth, figured I was a dealer and had popped me. They had torn my Blazer apart, from carpet to ceiling, convinced I was sitting on a few pounds of crank.

Knowing this was totally illegal, I asked for my ticket (ya know, the one I was supposed to be given when pulled over).

"45 in a 40, huh?"

"Yeah," the cop responded to my query, "...we said it was a 40, not a 35, to save you some money in court."

Fucking dickhead—he had told me "illegal turn" and I was going 40.

Flash forward one night in jail and I showed up to work the next day. And, guess who else showed up? Steve.

"Bro, did you tell the fucking cops I sold you meth? Because, I will stab you right now."

Steve replied, "What cops? Oh, the jerks who park across the way? Nah, dude, I don’t even know your name."

I realized that, all this time, Tweaker Steve had been referring to me as "The DJ." So, I contacted other DJs, asking them if they sold drugs. Nope. They were just as broke as I was. I spoke with every stripper, bartender and even the manager. No meth, all broke. Of the tweaker customers, all had their own meth dealers, all of whom they were willing to throw under the bus, but none of them got it from the club. We were a sketchy spot, but if the strippers were drug dealers, they were sure as hell bad ones— they were all semi-broke, working-class dancers, with $500 cars.

Flash forward a few months, and I have the world’s shittiest court-appointed attorney, facing a felony charge and ten years in prison. Ten. Fucking. Years. Over an ounce? Multiple bags? Decade in jail, even in Oregon (or, it was back then). The attorney tells me to plead guilty and I could whittle it down to three years in jail. For weed. You may as well bend me over and call me "Fish." Flash forward a year or so (thanks, judicial system), and I’m finally in court. The attorney next to me introduces himself. I remind him that I am his client. He responds, "You’re not a witness? Ooohhh, now I remember you." Fuck. My entire future was sitting in a manila envelope, being held shut by a rainbow-colored paperclip and the hands of a man who had likely never seen a law school text.

And, the next thing he said became my only saving grace.

"Hey, dude, the D.A. is gonna go on break soon. So, if this judge doesn’t get to your case by then, it’s gonna go to the new guy. Assisstant D.A." He emphasized the first part, as if it was a special type of bargain being offered during happy hour by a new bartender.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It’s good news for you," Attorney ‘R’ Us told me.

And, as predicted, the D.A. (old, wrinkly, full of hate) left the room and was replaced by a guy in his early 30s, who was dressed like he had just got done golfing. "Hey, your honor, I’m ready. Who we got?"

Not, "Who do we have next," or, "Which case is on the docket?" But, "Who we got?" I was already sold on this Assistant character.

"McMillin, Raymond."

I was called up front, with my "attorney" at my table, Assistant at his.

Assistant spoke first, "Mr. McMillin’s driving record is...surprisingly clean, for a man his age who works in bars." Then, Assistant winked at me. I kid you not, with everything I hold sacred, I swear to God, he winked at me— left eye, head tilted in. Also, my driving record, at the time, was fucked.

I was paying something like $195 a month, for liability coverage alone. Assistant continued, "By the looks of this case, the defendant is just barely over the legal limit for marijuana in Oregon and I don’t want to waste the court’s time—or, state resources—on a graduate student, who is clearly wrapped up with the wrong people."

YES! Yes, that! You rock, dude who should be throwing me in jail!

The judge looked to the guy in the Ross suit jacket to my left, asking, "Do you have anything to say on your client’s behalf? How does he plead?" "Well, according to the statistics, cannabis is an effective treatment for [INSERT HOUR-LONG RANT TAKEN DIRECTLY FROM NORML’S WEBSITE HERE] throughout time and continues to be re-evaluated from a legal standpoint. Mr. McLaughlin shows no signs of repeat offense. Guilty. Thank you."

I looked at Assistant, like, "Bruh."

Assistant piped back up. "Your honor, I see no reason not to dismiss the distribution charges and opt for probation instead of jail time." My "attorney" said nothing.

The judge gave me probation.

Sure, it was felony probation. I was now a felon, two terms shy of earning a graduate degree, that I would not be able to use until the word "felon" disappeared from my records (I eventually had it expunged, but not after years of being barred from legitimate jobs). My street cred didn’t budge, but the chicks loved it. Something about the phrase, "I have a felony," just makes the wrong (or, right, depending on your style) woman wet.

I worked at Bada Bing for another two years or so, before eventually moving up in the strip club scene and landing a writing gig for this magazine. Having a felony is nothing to laugh at, but in retrospect, I’ve learned a few things. First, don’t trust cops. White, black or otherwise—respect cops, but don’t trust them as a whole. Second, fuck a corporate job. Being fire-able at all times and not having a safety net means that I take my gigs more seriously. Third, ignore everything I’ve said. Secretly, I wish I could have beer with the sheriff and work at Intel, but I’m here over an ounce of pot and a turn signal. I gotta front, like it was meant to be this way.

But, if there’s one thing I want the readers to take from this story, it’s this: Assistant D.A. is the coolest dude alive. If you’re out there, bro...I owe you. Big time!