Kevin Shird - Lessons of Redemption: A Story of Drugs, Guns, Violence and Prison

First published in 2015 by Maverick House Publishers,
47 Harrington Street,
Dublin 8,
Ireland.

www.maverickhouse.com
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Copyright Kevin Shird. The author has asserted his moral rights.
Copyright for type setting, editing, layout, design Maverick House Publishers.

All rights reserved.No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a newspaper, magazine or broadcast.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

For my Daughter,
Brooke London Shird

The names of the main characters in this book have been changed to protect their privacy.

Contents

Introduction

Spring 1992

THE DOORKNOB was loose and hung off the old door. The paint on the windowsills was cracked and peeling, and the porch was slowly decaying. No 501 Normandy Avenue sat on the corner of my drug-dealing patch. Its proximity to the illegal activities of this failing section of Edmondson Village made it the perfect place to test our product.

The constant footfall of the many drug addicts had taken its toll on this dilapidated enclave of Baltimore. The front door of No 501 was freshly scarred from the police battering ram used in the most recent search of the house. The neighborhood shooting gallery was one unsavory sight.

When I walked inside the house, Uncle Rob was standing in the middle of the living room floor, with a syringe sticking into his neck. My stomach churned at the sight of this awkward demonstration. His hands trembled as he slowly pushed the plunger in, causing the cloudy substance from the needle to flow into the veins of his neck. He then drew back the needle and let his hand drop. Uncle Rob had just injected himself with two bags of heroin that my Diamond in the Raw Crew had given to him.

Most of the veins in his arms and legs had already collapsed as a result of his intravenous drug use. There were only two places remaining on his body where he could find a vein: one was his neck; the other is too nauseating to name.

This was a man ravished by the disease of drug addiction, teetering on the brink of self-annihilation. Uncle Rob had been entrenched in this dreadful underworld for decades. When I needed a new product tested before it hit the streets, Uncle Rob was the man to consult. I could tell if he liked the package without asking him a single questionjust watching his face was enough.

Okay okay, he mumbled, just seconds after the stuff entered his bloodstream.

Anthonymy confidante and mentor in the businesshad schooled me thoroughly. He taught me to mix just enough quinine and bonita with raw heroin to give it a nice hefty boost.

Slowly, and with extra caution, Uncle Rob began to walk forward, holding the syringe close. He wobbled a bit at first, but quickly righted himself. I stood, waiting and watching. And then it started, Uncle Robs slow scratch.

His trademark itch was caused by quinine, an important ingredient in the pharmaceutical mix. His eyes began to flicker and his head began to nod. Then, his mouth opened and he began to drool. He loved it. When I saw Uncle Robs scratch, I knew the package was good, and the mix right.

There were two more heroin addicts in the lobby of the shooting gallery that day. They had paid their $10 and waited impatiently to be served. Uncle Rob was like the neighborhood handyman, only his fix was not the kind that would unclog your sink. I watched him fix Duke, the next in line.

First, he disinfected his tools with bleach. Being a heroin addict was fine in his book, but he didnt want to transmit HIV to anyone.

Then, from an old but clean teacup, he drew 50mls of water into the syringe and squirted it into a beer-bottle cap filled with dope. 50 units of water wasnt much, but Duke liked his stuff strong.

Uncle Rob held a match to the bottom of the cap and dissolved the heroin in the water. He then placed a small piece of cotton inside the cap to act as a filter. When the cotton absorbed the solution, only then was the syringe was inserted. Uncle Rob pulled back the plunger and sucked the valuable commodity into the syringe.

Uncle Rob then wrapped a belt tight around Dukes left arm, bringing his veins into plain view. You could see the anxiety in Dukes face as he awaited his rendezvous with the Asian persuasion. He was ready to be stimulated by his $10 worth of euphoria in a glassine bag.

Like a surgeon, Uncle Rob poked and prodded, looking for the perfect place to inject. Once he found a vein and the needle was firmly inserted into Dukes left arm, Dr Rob pushed the plunger slowly, sending the contents coursing into the patients blood stream. For several seconds the room was silent. Then suddenly Dukes eyes began to roll as he dazzled in the moment.

Goddamn, this shit is serious, he whispered with a barely intelligible slur. His hands began to quiver and his legs to jerk as he reacted to the prohibited cocktail. Then came an uncontrolled nod, almost tumbling Duke out of the chair. Seconds later, the room filled with a pungent smell as he vomited and I suddenly felt a need for some fresh air.

Chapter 1

Where It All Began

EDMONDSON VILLAGE was not just a neglected section of southwest Baltimore; it was a tough place to grow up for a tall skinny kid. Our house was no different than the others you would find on Baltimores landscape.

I was the youngest of Brenda and Charles Shirds four children: I had two sistersKaren and Wandaand an older brother named Karl. According to Karen, being the youngest kind of meant that I had more privileges than my other siblings. Both of my parents had what could be described as conservative values, but continued dysfunction and the lack of finances meant there was a lot of room for errors and oversight. Being church-going people of the Christian faith, the entire family made the regular Sunday morning pilgrimage. Just hours later many of those who had listened to the scriptures and chanted hallelujah were back to their worldly sins, only to be back for the next Sunday morning Mass and to be chided again. For my parents it was a constant struggle just to eat, drink, and provide shelter for us all. At the time I didnt know what underprivileged meant but we were the epitome of it. Even back then I knew money was an issue for us as I watched my parents juggle the available cash, taking what was meant for Peter in order to pay Paul.