When Detectives Came Knocking...

Flashback to when my case began.  March 1, 2007.

I was 18 years old. I had called off from work that day to stay home with the baby my son's father had with another woman.  He had been living with her when he met me the year before.  Later, I'd learn he was still living with her at that time.  My son's father had called me one time and said he was making a drug sale.  I asked him where the baby was and he said he had left him at home by himself.  When he went back to the house, the baby was crying hysterically.  That child wasn't even four months old.  From then on, anytime he'd ask, I'd babysit.

A few days before that, he had beat me up.  The baby's mother and him had gotten into an argument over me, I assume, because in between punching me in my face and kicking me, he'd yell, "You ungrateful bitches!!... You know she flushed my shit?!"  From that, I knew he'd move his drugs somewhere else.

When the detectives knocked at my door, they told me they were there to discuss my friend's sister, a minor who had run away from home.  When we found where she was, I was the one who went to pick her up.  The detectives asked to come inside so we could speak privately and I let them. 

As soon as I sat down, they informed me they were also investigating a Silent Observer tip that I was running a meth lab from my home.  One of them said he could already tell that wasn't true but wanted to know if there were any other drugs in the house.  My heart dropped to my stomach.  I knew my son's father had moved his drugs and it was very likely he had moved them into my apartment.  The detectives asked to search my apartment.  I said no and asked them to leave.  The other one said, "We can do this the easy way and you let us take a look around or we'll leave and come right back to kick your door down, call CPS to take that baby and take you to jail." 

I asked them to leave at least three or four times and they refused.  I was so afraid I began to cry.  I didn't know what to do.  My son's father was calling my phone back to back.  He knew they were there.  I was afraid to answer but the detectives knew it was him calling.  I ended up answering once and he told me to tell them to get out.  I did again but they still wouldn't go.  They asked me to agree to a "walk through" where they wouldn't touch anything, just walk through the house and leave.  I just wanted them to go.  I said yes and they immediately began opening up cabinets and searching drawers.

The detectives found money, a scale, ripped baggies in the garbage can and close to 4.5 oz of crack cocaine.  They put it all in a grocery bag and told me not to tell anyone they were there but that if they found my finger prints on any of those things, I would be going to jail.  Before they left, they asked me to call my son's father and say "Why'd you leave drugs in my house?" so they could record it for evidence that the drugs were his.  I refused.  They asked me if I was afraid of him.  At that point I was crying so hard I couldn't speak anymore.  I shook my head no and they left saying they'd be in touch soon.

Over the next few months, they introduced me to the DEA and attempted to federally indict me on a conspiracy charge in connection with another investigation they had going on with a drug dealer who was affiliated with my son's father.  I worked at Target at that time and the detective would come while I was at work and just stand there watching me.  They followed me several times, trying to get me to make a statement against my son's father.  I refused every time.  They threatened me with federal indictments.  It scared the hell out of me but for whatever reason, I never even thought to cooperate.  At that time, I saw law enforcement as my enemy.  They had turned my life into a living hell.  Popping up at my job, calling my phone all hours of the day, pounding on the windows of my apartment to get me to answer the door.  That went on for almost two months, then I rarely ever heard from the DEA or those detectives.