 It's one thing to read from my memoir that I talk about things I did, but it's a little weird to read my memoir in front of people who lived this with me. And there's some people here. I'm not going to point them out in the room, but there's people here who actually lived this with me. So if I get a little feclumped, that's what it's about, you know. I'm just going to start at the beginning, which we all should do. Last day, San Francisco, June 25, 1997. First of the door frame, fly through the air and fall either side of me. I stand there, immobile. A hundred cops outside, some in uniform, some not. Guns drawn, faces some body's tense. A tall, heavy-set, blonde police officer steps forward through the doorway and smacks me in the face with a butt-averse shotgun as more cops push past her into the apartment. I lie on the floor, a foot across my throat, a knee in my groin, a shotgun at a nine-millimeter leveled at my head. A plainclothes policeman shouts, where are the guns, motherfucker? His badge hanging loosely on a chain around his neck swings back and forth over my face. Are you alone, asked another? Before I can reply, I hear Jenny, oblivious, slurring her words, wanting what all the noise is about. A finger to his lips, the plainclothes cop points towards the bedroom. My stomach tightens as I fear what the cops will do to Jenny if I don't try and make her understand what is happening. I put up my hand, palm out, motion for him to stop. Jenny, Jenny, I shout, can you come out here? What for, she asks, and then there's a crash of breaking glass, furniture being shoved, voices shouting for her to get down on the floor. They must be coming in through the window. Then someone's turning me over, handcuffing me on my arms behind my back, and I'm being lifted, half carried, half dragged out into the daylight. On the street in front of my apartment building are a dozen police cars, lights flashing, radios blaring, a small group of my neighbors watches from down the block, a few pointing at me. I'm dragged to the nearest patrol car, and over my shoulder I can see my friend Dolan, spread eagle being searched on the hood of another car. Tossed in the back seat, I try to sit up and ask the nearest cop for a cigarette. He slams the door in my face. A minute later, a man in a suit walks up, opens the door, introduces himself as a detective, and apologizes for the cop's behavior. Then he calls me by my name, says he's been watching me for some time now. I'll see you down at the station later on tonight, Mr. O'Neill, he says, and then he shuts the door, tells the driver to take me downtown, and stands there staring at me through the window as we drive away. I keep thinking that this isn't real, that none of this is happening, that the cop who's driving the car will pull over to the curb and unlock the handcuffs and set me free. Every turn of the wheel makes me lose my balance, and I push up off the seat with my elbows to keep myself upright. The cuffs dig into my skin. The monotone of the police dispatcher's voice coming out of the radio is the only sound piercing the oppressive atmosphere in the car. My heart pounds, the motor accelerates, and abrupt stop sends me crashing into the metal cage that separates the back from the front. I feel helpless, I feel like screaming, I feel like crying, only I don't know how. I want a cigarette so bad I can't think of anything else. I start to get angry. I start yelling. I call the cop a motherfucker. I tell him this is all a mistake, I haven't done anything, and I kick the cage and tell him he's got to believe me. San Francisco passes by, the ferry building, the waterfront, Bay Bridge, Harrison Street. We arrive at a parking lot behind the Hall of Justice and pull into a space marked official vehicles only. The cop opens my door and I feel the cool air against my naked chest. Without saying a word, he grabs my arms and drags me out onto the ground. And two more cops walk up and there's a kick to the ribs, a sharp pain in my shoulders, I'm raised off the ground and my feet and shoved towards a large metal door. One cop pushes the intercom button and waves to the camera above our heads. The other presses my face against the coarse stucco wall, his gloved hand firmly on the back of my head. With a mechanized hiss, the Sally Port slides open, the smell of jail hits me. Dirty feet, unwashed bodies, rancid food, exhaust fumes and human shit. Pushed along by hand on my shoulders, I stumbled down a hall lined with empty holding cells. The cop signs a couple of forms of the booking desk before handing me off to the sheriffs who run the jail. My anxiety has been holding the heroin in check, but now the pills I also took are starting to kick in and I'm fading. Slurring, I mumble my name, address, social security numbers, a woman in uniform types it all into a computer. Hurting through a maze of desks and filing cabinets, I lose my bearings. An older deputy, balled with glasses, tells me it's almost over and I wonder just what he means. One of the sheriffs grabs hold of my fingers if they want to attach to me and shoves them in black ink, pressing the tips to a sheet of paper leaving smudged imprints on the appropriate squares. Someone hands me a brown paper towel and I try and wipe the blackness from my fingertips. My surroundings are becoming more and more in focus, the meaning of what is going on increasingly vague. A deputy gives me a shirt with frayed cuffs and I open my eyes and a flashball erupts, temporarily blinding me. I'm turned to my left, profile shot. Metal hitting metal, the sound of a door closing, the constant roar of jail decreasing to a low growl. Excuse me. Half crouched and half in my back against the wall, I feel a surface and collapse. Exhausted, I nod off into a dream about a large Siamese cat that rubs against my body, her fur soft on my skin. She tells me she's been starved for days and stands on my chest screaming for me to feed her. Our protruding ribcage is meshed together, her paws in bed themselves on my skin. I'm confused as to why she doesn't just turn and run away when she has the chance. I reach to pet her and feel my own cold skin taught against my bones. Running my fingers along my ribs, I press the bottom of my sternum and hear it click. I try to light a cigarette with the cat's face. Its claws tear my arms and I start to bleed. With a jolt I wake up freezing on a cement slab that sticks out of the wall forming a bench. I look for the cat but she's gone. Drill runs down the side of my face and my mouth tastes metallic, bad as the air I'm breathing. It takes a minute for me to realize where I am. I want a cigarette really bad. I want to go back to sleep. I want to be anywhere but on this bench in this fucking holding cell. Sitting up I rub my eyes and I look out through the wire mesh to reinforce windows. I can see Dolan in a cell across the hall. He flashes me a weak smile. I can tell from his eyes these words as I am. Twelve years younger than me, less experienced but as I kept him from driving the getaway car for most of my recent hold-ups. Sitting upright makes my head hurt and I want a cigarette. I think about Jenny. I wonder where she is and she's okay. Last I saw she was in handcuffs being led to a cop car. I could see her head moving probably giving the cops the air full of shit. The cell door opens. O'Neill yells a gruff looking deputy with a clipboard in his hand and I look up. Where am I going? I ask. It really doesn't matter. And the look on the deputy's face tells me he doesn't care either. We walk down the corridor to an unmarked elevator against the wall he commands. I turn, face the wall, raise my arms. Take my right hand, he circles the handcuffed around my wrist, pulls the other down, cuffs it too. The elevator door opens. It's dirty inside. It smells like piss. The deputy motions for me to enter. When I hesitate he pushes me in against the back wall. I hear the door close. I feel the elevator cars start to rise. You a tough guy taunts the deputy. I stare at the wall saying nothing. There's no point getting in with this guy. I'm handcuffed. He's not. I'm under arrest. He's an officer of the law. And I'm not a tough guy. Never said I was. The elevator shutters to a stop and he pulls me onto a corridor, hand-clanter on the back of my neck. He leads me through a door with robbery detail written across it in black letters with gold trim. Inside there are four or five empty desks. A man at a computer, his shirt sleeves rolled up to elbow, looks over as he continues to type. Put him there, he says, pointing to a chair by a desk in the middle of the room. I'm suddenly very tired. I can feel that familiar emptiness creeping in. It's not the drugs have worn off yet. It's more like my anxiety has kicked in full force. I can't count the number of nights when I'd be asleep at home then suddenly so gripped with fear of this exact moment I'd all of a sudden be awake sitting up in one motion holding my chest, my heart fought to burst through my rib cage. Somewhere deep down, whether I wanted it or not, I knew all this was coming. I knew someday I'd be sitting here in handcuffs. Thank you.