Trap House Economics Part One(a)
"My life in the rearview..."
Living my life in the rearview
And I'm haunted by
My past and sometimes I just wanna die
I need to change my ways
Momma, I'm gonna try
But that's a lie 'cause you heard me say that a thousand times
I say Lord please help me
'Cause I've been living unhealthy
And the life that I've been living, Lord
Can I really be forgiven for?
—The great poet Jelly Roll
In the back seat of a red Dodge Neon, passing the liquor store at 26th and Chestnut. A warm sunny December day that only happen in Kentucky. We just came from picking up our fix for the day. We’d tried the trap this morning, but they were shutdown. Something that rarely happened.
Heather says, “Did you hear? They busted the trap this morning. They arrested Steven and Stephanie, everybody!” It hadn’t made the news yet, but being an active Facebook user, she was able to see this on her timeline.
It was the first I’d heard, I’d find out more in time. The thought of it caused a sinking in my heart. Part of me thought it might never happen, but the reasonable part knew they’d had so many close calls, it was bound to happen.
Angela said, “It serves them right. All the grimy shit they did. They took advantage of our addiction.”
I seen it differently and I voiced this.
“Angie, he’s the same age as me. While that trap house was reliably there for us for five years he had two children.
“He’s never gonna see his children grow up. Ernie and Jenny are gonna miss out on their grandkids growing up. He’s gonna miss his children growing up. At least a really important part of their life. They’re gonna grow up with no father. And the last I checked we took advantage of them at every opportunity.”
Angie softened a bit but not too much, “I didn’t really think about it like that.” She pivots, “We got robbed in that house! We got robbed for them. We could’ve died.” She loved to tell this story. Even though I was there with her.
Steven Cockerell did get 20 years. His father, Ernie, is now passed away. I believe the other 28 people arrested in connection to this operation are out now. Steven and Stephanie Cockerell, twin siblings, got the brunt of the deal, or at least they’re the only cases that went Federal. Steven got 20, Stephanie got 5.
I’m gonna do my best to tell this story. From my perspective.
Steven came into the game from humble beginnings. Starting out buying a gram and selling 10, one-tenths of the gram, called a “Point” for “point” one (.1) on the scale.
When the FEDs finally decided they had accumulated enough evidence to bust him, his little operation was pulling in a minimum $1.2 million dollars a year, pure profit. No weight, all in small sales, broken down to whatever, however, and whenever you wanted. He operated 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. What I would call today a carefully managed “open air” drug market.
The Cold-Hard Economics of Cold-Hard Cash
Steven would buy a kilogram (2.2lbs or 1000 grams) of pure, uncut heroin for $100,000. He would then (add) cut (to) it 100%. Cut is a filler to increase the mass of the product to produce more profit. Every dealer does this. Back then the idea was to cut it using something as unnoticeable as possible. Today they want it to be noticeable. By cutting their product with things like fentanyl to, instead of dilution, they get concentration, making the product more powerful instead of less powerful, using cut that’s stronger than the actual drug they’re cutting. This creates the epidemic of overdoses we’ve seen in the last decade. No one ever od’d on Steven’s dope. No one.
Steven would buy a thousand (1,000) grams for $100,000 dollars. He would cut it into 2,000 grams. Making it worth $200,000 dollars and he would sell it for same price he got it, which breaks down to $10 a point. Which would make it $100 dollars a gram.
A thousand of those hundreds equal out to the hundred-thousand dollars he spent buying the product. What was left was a thousand grams, all profit!
And at a time that the cheapest *point (0.1 tenth of a gram) you could get was for $15-20, you had to wait on them, they might not answer. Steven’s business never missed a call. Steven quickly became the biggest heroin dealer in the city of Louisville, KY, dealing to the streets. There were bigger dealers who would supply other dealers, but people came from all over to get “Steven’s $10 point.” And his *ice sold for $5 a point. It was rumored that according to the FBI he had over 860 daily customers and his operation worked out of seven houses within that block. I, of course, knew this.
His family owned that block and if the trap wasn’t located in a relative’s home, it was one of the houses he was rebuilding/remodeling for the block with some of his profits. He also, vacationed all over the world and posted about it on social media, but we’ll save that for another day.
On average Steven would have to *re-up once a month, meaning he made a hundred-thousand dollars in profit and sometimes the trap would be so busy he would have to re-up several times a month. This means he would sell a minimum of two thousand grams a month.
Making millions as a “street dealer” was unheard of. Only the cartels transporting and serving to the street dealers would be raking in that kind of doe, but no doubt he was.
Steven said to me one time, “I don’t know why they haven’t gotten me yet.”
It was clear at times by the comments Steven made that this thing had gotten way bigger than he ever intended. Halfway into it his entire family was totally dependent on his income, and income it continued to do.
*Ice-Methamphetamine in crystal form. It looks like chunks of ice.
*Re-up- The act of replenishing an exhausted drug supply
*Hood Novel- A genre of books that tell stories about life in the inner city. I.E. The “Cartel Series”, “Murderville”, books by Rashida Clark or Ashley & JaQuavis.
In The Beginning…
So, we’re gonna tell this story. In pieces of course. Otherwise, we’re looking at a book. Maybe a *hood novel, non-fiction of course, but let’s start from the beginning.
Heroin was starting to become a thing here in Louisville, KY, late in the year of 2011, but it was slow to come in the beginning. Every dealer that we would go to for crack or tabs I would first ask for “H”, which it was called back then. If they could get it, they wouldn’t touch less than a $50, and I never had $50.
I worked a job through a day labor company called Labor Works. Which means they pay you daily instead of a normal job where you would get a weekly paycheck. I would get a daily check of $53.44, for my shift. Monday through Friday.
By the time I ate, bought cigarettes and bus fare I would make it home with about $30 to get high on. No dealer would fool with me, not for H, with only $30.
When I met Steven, Angie had been getting tabs from his twin sister, Stephanie, and weed for her daughter. I had been asking around adamantly looking for heroin. I liked the tabs but, I was addicted to the needle and wanted something I could shoot up.
I hadn’t asked Stephanie, but somehow, she’d heard that I was asking around. It was strange. Being that at this time I was pretty disconnected from this group. That wouldn’t be for long. Stephanie contacted us and said to Angie, “my brother has the other stuff.” Although we weren’t positive what the other stuff was, we knew we wanted it. She gave us his number.
The next day after I picked up my check at Labor Works and got it cashed at Ali’s next door, an Arabic shop that would cash any check, ID be damned, I headed to the bus stop. Once on the bus I gave him a call and told him we’d be by.
When we got down there we went to three different houses before getting the right one. I said, “He said to meet us at this one.”
Angie said, “no, we’re supposed to go to his sisters.” It quickly became clear to me that every house on this block, Bank St. between 29th and 30th, was connected to this family.
Meeting Steve was cool. He was a nice guy, talked to you like he was level with you. Drug dealers are bad about presenting themselves like they are kings, and you are this unworthy peon, Steven wasn’t like that. He treated you like a friend.
We found him in a single-wide trailer, with a chain link fence around it and toys in the yard. The yard left the impression that there was a big dog nearby. I was instantly anxious, not knowing where he was. Angie was dangerously fearless, especially of dogs, and walked right in before I could protest, and I followed along, like a fool. Stephanie was there, she met us at the door, finally the right door, and brought us in to introduce us to Steven. He was sitting at a kitchen table, chair turned sideways to face away from the table.
He was a big guy. Maybe 300lbs, and 6 foot something, jet black hair, very short fade.
He asked, “What is it y’all need?”
I said, “We have $40 dollars.”
He said, “How much will you pay for a point.”
I said, “I’ll give you $25.”
He said, “And you have $40?
I nodded, “Yes.”
He said, “Okay,” and turned around and started bagging it up.
I was excited we’d found a connect we could walk to who’d sell to us like this, so naturally I started yapping, I said, “Man, you don’t know how hard it’s been trying to find someone who’ll sell us less than $50.”
He said, “I’ll sell you any amount. You can come with $5 dollars. I’ll sell you $5 dollars’ worth.”
I didn’t know at the time I’d put my foot in my mouth. Everyone else was getting points from him for $15 dollars. I’d just turned his hundred-dollar gram he had bought to resale into $250 dollars. Those were the days, though. I’d come by every day after work, buy a point for $25. Angie and I would split it twice. Once when we got home, and the rest the next morning before work. I would be good until I got off work 10 hours later.
Because I had switched from meth that made me seem more “visibly” on drugs to heroin, which I could hide better, people at my work would say, “Jordan, you’re doing so good. We’re so proud of you.” I didn’t have the heart to tell them, “I’m not doing better, I just switched up.”
Unfortunately, that never lasts.
Three Years Later
The day had started like any day back then. Sick. Looking for the next fix. I hate the word “fix”, honestly, because nothing was ever fixed. “Fixed” assumes it won’t be broken again in 4-6 hours.
I had a piece left from the night before to get me out of the bed but needed more. A friend of mine from work, Jeff, a diabetic, gives me a box of a hundred needles, minus the 20 he needs, every two weeks. I was close with him and his son to the point that he felt like he was, kind of a father figure to me. I felt the same of him. He was an older guy who had been around the block a time or two, and was full of advice. He knew I shot up and nothing would stop me, so instead of trying to convince me he’d give me these needles so that I wouldn’t reuse or share tools with anyone. Unfortunately, I’d single-use ninety rigs in a week, then start reusing the ones in the best shape.
I needed to get over there to pick those up. The *rig I was using felt like I was hammering a 20-penny nail into my arm and was starting to clog up.
I needed to figure out my hustle today. It’s 1:15 PM EST, if I was gonna get any business, I would’ve gotten a call by now. If only someone would call needing a “fix” my problems would be solved. I look over at Angie, sawing logs, if she gets a call we’ll be up and away! But it’s Sunday Morning and they’re always the worst.
I have a thought, an idea, but it’s a bit more of a longshot than I’m used to taking. The last few times I’ve been to the trap there was people hanging out next to the window selling rigs for two dollars apiece, and I wonder if Steve will let me do this. He’s been against it in the past due to people being snatched up by the FEDs leaving the alley to the back of the house, and he thinks it’s better to just have dope that maybe you can drop, than to have a needle that’s harder to dispose of.
He even tried, at one point, to make a rule that you had to do it before you left, but that didn’t work out too well for people who need it to get up for work the next day.
Steven had a rotation in his management of this “situation.” Shit would happen; he’d come up with rules to counter, then soften up on them pretty quickly.
I’d have ninety rigs, and apparently, he’d let up on the “no side hustles at my trap” rule so I shoot him a text:
Steven it’s Jordan. I’ve got a bunch needles and no way to get any $ today. Can I post up behind the trap and try to sell some, I promise I won’t cause any trouble. If not, that’s cool, lmk.
Honestly, I hope he says, “No.” I don’t have a good feeling about it, and I’m not great with approaching people. I tried to sell weed this way when I was seventeen. It turned out I didn’t have the guts or the gall to approach other people and the ones that spoke to me first rarely need anything, but I feel like I could pull it off today. It’s not like I’d be confronting strangers. I’d be talking to people just like me. Most of them I know. Inflicted with the same afflictions on them as I. So, it will be nothing like circling a project housing neighborhood looking for someone to sell drugs to. This will be my people. And they’re there to get drugs anyways.
The phone vibrates, a message, simple, sweet and to the point. It read:
Go ahead.
I nudge Angie, oblivious in her slumber. I tell her, “Hey, I’m running down to get those rigs from Jeff, then going to sell some behind the trap. Call me whenever you get up.”
She said, “Okay.” Then went right back to slumber land.
I hop on my bike to pedal up 26th Street. Jeff lives next to the liquor store on 26th street at Chestnut Street. Yep, the same one from the beginning of this story.
Jeff is in a sober living house behind the liquor store. Great location for sobriety, right? It’s a beautiful autumn day, I don’t remember which one. I know it was a nice day because 26th Street was jumping. People were out. I’m pedaling away on Angie’s daughter Heather's boyfriend Darryl’s 20” BMX bike. Not exactly good for travel, but it’s doing the trick. I’m riding with a smallish yellow backpack on my back. Which I plan to conceal the box of “tools” in. I stop pedaling right before Chestnut to send a follow-up text to Steve and let Jeff know I’m here. I tell Steven:
“Hey bro, I’m on my way down to Bank Street, had to make a pit stop.”
I call Jeff to tell him, “Hey buddy, it’s Jordan. I’m outside.”
He says, “I’ll be right there.”
So, I pedal on around the corner and stopped on the sidewalk in front of the steps leading up to this very large sober living house. Located extraordinarily close to a liquor store. He walked out, and handed me a grocery bag, the box of needles inside. Jeff was considerably tall compared to me at a towering 6’ 3”. He worked with me at Accu-tec, his son Evan was one of my best friends and lived with me from time to time. Jeff was what some call “goofy,” I call humorously adept. He could wear cargo shorts in a snowstorm, being from Michigan.
I had he talked in a really low voice that I couldn’t hear. From what I could make out he said, “Be careful out here, they just got somebody in this parking lot earlier. They’re sitting out watching for people.” I assumed he meant police but in retrospect, I think maybe not.
I said, “I will, I’m headed back to the house.” This was partly true but I’m not sure which part. I turned the bike around and gave it one long pedal, around the corner onto 26th Street, back towards Portland, home base.
“Boost” Me Not
I don’t know who needs to know this, but the wave-downs are the “Enemy of the People.”
What do I mean by this? You’re in motion and someone waves you down because they want to “ask you something” and I promise it’s never to your benefit. That’s why being on foot is dangerous. There’s no escape. Regular people will simply wave and say, “‘Sup bro” and you might reply counter-salutations just the same. Something to that effect, I like to say, “How’re you doing brother.” Simple small talk that gestures to the other person, “I am friend, not foe,” but the wave-downs are more persistent, almost expressing desperation and if you’re on foot and you see one of them coming, maybe go a block out of your way to avoid them, and if you’re lucky enough to be on something with wheels, you should tuck-tail and get the fuck outta there.
I did not do that this day.
I’d already had it in my mind that maybe I could sell some of these rigs down here, seeing everybody out and such, but I wouldn’t have struck up conversation to ask. I’m much too shy for that.
I get waved down just a block past Chestnut by a guy on the other side of the street, younger black man, maybe in his 30’s, around my height, back kinda hunched like he’s been walking a long time, in a white tee and black jean shorts. Instead of waving back and pedaling faster, away into the distance, like a dupe, I stopped.
He said, “Roll over here.” So I did.
He asked, “What d’you do?”
Understanding the question, I said, “Ice and H.”
He said, “Do you boost?”
I said, “Not really, I got like 60 needles I’m trying to sell if you know anyone.”
He said, “I know a girl around the corner, I could take you to her, but right now I got a point of *Hank, I need someone to boost some Glade Air Fresheners. I’ve done been up there too many times. I got someone buying them for $8 a piece. I’ll give you this point if you grab me a couple.”
We’re now walking, I’m pushing my bike. I run this through my head, I am so not a booster. I get too nervous. I’ve never been into stealing, but maybe that point he’s got is really good. Maybe it’s better than Steven's. I could get home, split it with Angie, maybe it’s so good we won’t have to do anything else tonight.
I say, “I’ll try.”
He says, “Don’t try, you just put ‘em in your pocket and walk out.”
I say, “Okay, I’ll do it.”
In my mind, I’m thinking, I’ll get in there, if it doesn’t feel right, I’ll get out and tell him “nevermind” and get my ass back to Portland. I feel real unsure about this now. Then he does the unthinkable.
He says, “Go ahead and take this, so you know I’m not bullshittin’ you.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out the point of dope and hands it to me. It’s folded up in a piece of paper, I squeeze the paper to make sure I feel a bulge in it. I do, so I put it in my pocket.
By now we’re in Kroger parking lot, and he says, “I’ll be right down here.”
He gestures towards the end of the building. I continue walking towards the entrance.
Looking at the store from the outside, I see they have actual security guards in uniform. I see like 20 of them. Now super nervous. I walk on in.
I’m in Kroger now, looking for the air freshener aisle. I see it and walk back there. I realize, I’m in basketball shorts and a tee shirt. Where am I gonna put these things? They’re kinda fucking big. And what in the world do they want with these things?! There’s no way I’ll get outta here with these things.
I pick one up off the shelf and think long and hard about putting it in my pocket. And put it back on the shelf. I just can’t shake the idea of getting arrested for shoplifting. I have a warrant back in Larue County, so I’ll be in jail for at least a month. Fuck that, I can’t do it. I’ll give it back to him. I turn around and head back out the door. I passed fifteen security guards on my way back to the door. The guard lady at the exit door tells me, “Have a good day,” as I exit. No way she wouldn't of seen a giant air freshener package sticking out of my pocket. I was so glad I changed my mind. I get outside, look around, I don’t see him. In all of this, I keep feeling my phone vibrating but am actively ignoring it. I see him towards the corner of the parking lot. On the sidewalk about to cross Broadway to Dino’s, the chicken and gas station across the street.
I approach him and holler, “Hey!”
He turns to me and says, “What happened?”
I tell him, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t do it.” With my hand out trying to hand the drugs back to him. He made this face like he was disappointed in me and waved it away. He said, “I’m good, keep it. What was it you had?”
“Ummm… Needles.”
He said, “Oh, that’s right. Come back in…. like 10 minutes?”
This was becoming more and more confusing. I’m just trying to break away and get back to familiar ground. I say, “Yea, sure, back here?” We’re at the edge of Dino’s parking lot now.
He said, “Yep, right here.”
“Okay.” And I turn around and head back towards Chestnut, back on my bike now. I’m thinking fuck that! I might never come through here again. I see an alleyway ahead and decide to stop and check out that point he gave me and maybe do some before I go home. I’m now standing in the grass on the side of an alleyway, evening now, past dark, no streetlight, I pull out my phone to use the light to get a look at this point, I see I have missed calls, missed text messages. One from Angie, several from Steven, she woke up, I think, and called him looking for me. Further investigation reveals a message from Billy (Steven’s Brother-in-Law) too, I don’t know what is going on, but whatever it is can wait until I do this. I hold my phone screen down towards the unfolded paper, trying to block the wind. There isn’t very much there. I’m just gonna go ahead and do this, first, however, taste test, I stick my finger in it, I press it to get a bit to stick to my fingertip, then lick it off my fingertip, it tastes sweet. Almost like…Smarties. It is Smarties.
I’m pissed now. I think, that dirty motherfucker. What if I had stolen that shit for him. Or worse, what if I had tried and gotten arrested, for that!
I was gonna head back home, I was not gonna be back there in 10min. I kinda figured that was a move to shake me, now I see why. Because what he’d given me was fake. So, now I’m going back. Fuck that, he’s gonna know that I know. I turned the bike back around and headed back towards Broadway. When I get back to the edge of Dino’s, I see him. I’d went over in my head what I was gonna say. I was gonna real calmly inform him that what he’d given me was fake. He’s standing with three other men, but I’m not paying attention to them.
Stupidity on Display
Before I get a chance to confront him, he cuts me off with, “Hey, you still got those?”
I said, “Yea—.”
And one of the voices of the other two men cuts me off again, “Give ‘em to me. And get off the bike.”
I look over to see a barrel pointed right at my face. Not even ten feet away. My heart rate shoots through the moon. It’s a black gun, gleaming from the metal, and I can almost see the bullets with my name on them.
What the fuck was I thinking!
At this point, I am now moving more cautious than ever before. And I start going through my head, how did I get here. What am I doing. Am I about to get shot for some needles? I let the bike go, sliding it out from between my legs, he takes it by the front bar of the handlebars. Gun still trained on me, the man to his other side takes the bike from him, he waves his hand for more, I give up my backpack, with nothing in it except for the needles. I start backing away, taking as big a step as possible in reverse, looking at the ground, hoping he doesn’t decide I’ve gotten too good of a look at him and feel the need to get rid of the witness, me. When the gun is lowered a bit, I turn on one foot in the other direction and start speed walking away. As I walk, I start to think again, fuck, what am I doing here. What the fuck made me come down here. Now I’m going back home emptier than I started at the beginning. There was so many off roads I could’ve taken, but I kept going. How fucking stupid am I!
I feel a buzz in my pocket. My little Assurance Wireless is vibrating. Luckily, even the most depraved would never take that. I pull it out. It’s Steven, a text, “Come to the Trap, I need you to work for me.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
Thank you for reading. Part (b) will be out tomorrow.
Editor-in-Chief