by Colleen McClintock
On Saturday, August 24th I was enjoying a relaxed day at home. It was sweltering hot at my home in El Dorado Hills, California and I woke up later than normal after a long work week in the Bay Area. I noticed that I had missed several international calls on my cell phone and thought that perhaps my boss, who was vacationing at his home in France was trying to reach me. Only the number was not from France so I was somewhat confused. But who else could be trying to reach me from an international number?
A few hours later, my phone rang again and it was from the same international number. I couldn’t believe it was Carey! I was shocked because it had been several months since I’d last spoken to her and I was not expecting to hear from her at all. On May 16, 2008 Carey cut the ankle bracelet that was monitored by the base station of the home detention unit that was keeping her at my Father’s home while she awaited her trial and she ran. Carey was facing a drug conspiracy charge and had been released from prison at his request to attend a drug rehabilitation program and then stay at his house until her trial date, scheduled for August 2008.
Carey was not a drug dealer in the typical sense that we often imagine drug dealers. She did not drive a flashy car or have a body guard. Carey sold drugs out of necessity to support her meth addiction. Selling drugs for Carey was a way to make money so she could buy the drugs that had taken over her life. Her main supplier had been sentenced to Federal Prison for 25 years several months earlier and had turned her in, in hopes of reducing his sentence.
Drug conspiracy charges are subject to mandatory minimum sentences based on the amount of drugs involved. In 1986 Congress passed the Anti Drug Abuse Act of 1986 prescribing mandatory minimum sentences to encourage the government to prosecute high level drug offenders. The amounts that result in a substantial 5-10 year sentence are in fact, much lower than a high level trafficker would be dealing in. Things got worse in 1988 when Congress passed an amendment to the Anti Drug Abuse Act which applied the mandatory sentences of 1986, intended for high-level traffickers, to anyone who was a member of a drug trafficking conspiracy. The effect of this amendment was to make everyone in a conspiracy liable for every act of the conspiracy.
The only way out of the mandatory sentences is when a drug offender gives “substantial assistance” that results in the prosecution of another drug offender. As a result, low-level traffickers, like Carey, can get very long sentences. They can also be the victims of exaggerations and outright lies by those facing trial who have figured out how to cut a deal to manipulate the sentencing laws to their advantage. Ironically, the top organizers are in the best position to offer “substantial assistance” and get a low sentence. ( For more background and perspective see http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/snitch/primer/ .)
When Carey learned that she was facing 10+ years in a federal prison with no parole, she lost all hope. Previously, I had little understanding of the injustice of the drug laws and the so called “War on Drugs”. What I learned through Carey left me feeling helpless and frustrated against an unjust system against which I had virtually no power. Carey never gave up. She spent countless hours pouring over federal criminal law books and surfing the internet to better understand and prepare to defend herself. When it became clear to her that there was no hope of a reasonable sentence she decided to flee.
I remember clearly the morning my Father called me crying saying Carey had left in the middle of the night. During the months following rehab they had reunited after a long absence caused by drugs. Carey simply couldn’t cope with the idea of being in prison until she was nearly 50, only to be released as a felon. I never got to see Carey before she left. I had scheduled a trip to Texas in June so I could spend time with her at my Father’s house before she was sentenced. But by the time I got to Texas, Carey had already left. I learned from my Father that neither the Federal Marshall responsible for Carey, nor her parole officer, nor anyone else ever asked a question about where she might have gone or the circumstances of her departure. They simply came and picked up the home detention unit.
It seemed no one was looking for Carey. I was deeply disappointed that I didn’t get to see her before she left. Still, I wanted her to succeed. I imagined her in Mexico or Central America where she would live in a resort town working as a waitress and rebuilding her life. I envisioned myself going to visit her in a few years, hearing of all her adventures, and meeting her new friends. I was proud of her for not giving in. I wanted her to be free and to have the chance to start over with her new life, free of drugs.
Hearing her voice on August 24 nearly broke my heart. She started crying when told me how much she missed everyone and how alone she felt there. I told her not to cry- she had to be strong. I learned that she was in a hotel in Juarez, Mexico. An old friend of hers, who was dating a prominent criminal defense lawyer from El Paso, had helped her get to Juarez. After her friend had set her up in the hotel, Carey and her friend had had a falling out and she had contacted her friend’s boyfriend, the attorney, to see if he would help. She said he was paying for her hotel bills and planning to help her set up a new life. Only Carey hadn’t heard from her friend or the attorney in the last three weeks. They had stopped returning her calls.
She was desperate and asked me for help. We agreed that she should talk to a bellboy she had befriended at the hotel to find out how much it would cost to get some form of false identification so she could leave Juarez. She called back a few hours later and said, “You’re not going to believe this but the attorney was just here and everything is ok. He’s going to help me!” She sounded bright and hopeful and talked about some business idea she had that the attorney would help her establish. She said that everything was ok now but that she did need some money to pay for the calls she had made from the hotel. She was afraid since she had promised both her friend and the attorney that she would never contact anyone except them while she was in Juarez. I agreed to send her $100 via Western Union so that the charges for her phone calls could be erased from the hotel bill the attorney would later see.
I warned her that she could not trust the attorney. I said, “Have him get you an I.D.. Leave Juarez and go to a resort town. Get a job as a waitress and live a simple life. Try to pay the attorney back for the help he has given you and call me again in a year so I can come see you. You have to make it, Carey!” I told her that I missed her and loved her and hung up. That was the last time I spoke to her.
Carey Marcella McClintock 