A few weeks later, I was living with an artist in northern California for a week or so, and I commuted back and forth to Los Angeles to stay with a drug dealer facing a prison term for selling cocaine to an undercover narcotics officer. My Beverly Hills attorney introduced Mike to an attorney who played golf with the judge assigned to the case. Mike was assured that he would beat the system if he could come up with the $10,000 retainer necessary to hire the attorney. Acting as banker, I threw an elegant gambling party to raise money for Mike's defense. The account of the party was thoroughly detailed in the Los Angeles Herald Examiner because the paper's editor attended the party as a guest.
The police busted the party by breaking down the door. Mike was seen stuffing his shirt with the cash from a blackjack table and making his escape. Other dealers helped themselves to the money. Someone said the bank had been about $100,000 ahead. Stoned on Angel Dust, I didn't really care about the $7500 I'd lost. As the police busted into the elegant marble foyer, drugs were tossed all over the house. Officers aiming their weapons surrounded us. One found my purse with a vial of cocaine inside. But I no longer resembled the picture of the innocent young housewife on my drivers' license. I was able to convince the handsome officer who questioned me that my name was Mary and that I had no idea that my friends were taking me to that kind of a party.
Disarmed by that tearful story, he let me go. I hurried past my handcuffed f riends and escaped in the first moving car I saw. The next day, Mike refused to talk with me about the money he pocketed. I talked to my Beverly Hills attorney and found that Mike had mysteriously come up with the large retainer needed to hire the attorney who was the judge's golf buddy.
However, both attorneys knew Mike had stolen the money from the party and wanted him to suffer for it. The lawyer spoke to his friend the judge, and Mike was sent to prison for seven years.
The police busted the party by breaking down the door. Mike was seen stuffing his shirt with the cash from a blackjack table and making his escape. Other dealers helped themselves to the money. Someone said the bank had been about $100,000 ahead. Stoned on Angel Dust, I didn't really care about the $7500 I'd lost. As the police busted into the elegant marble foyer, drugs were tossed all over the house. Officers aiming their weapons surrounded us. One found my purse with a vial of cocaine inside. But I no longer resembled the picture of the innocent young housewife on my drivers' license. I was able to convince the handsome officer who questioned me that my name was Mary and that I had no idea that my friends were taking me to that kind of a party.Disarmed by that tearful story, he let me go. I hurried past my handcuffed f riends and escaped in the first moving car I saw. The next day, Mike refused to talk with me about the money he pocketed. I talked to my Beverly Hills attorney and found that Mike had mysteriously come up with the large retainer needed to hire the attorney who was the judge's golf buddy.
However, both attorneys knew Mike had stolen the money from the party and wanted him to suffer for it. The lawyer spoke to his friend the judge, and Mike was sent to prison for seven years.
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