There is a popular internet meme that is often attributed to actor Robert Downey, Jr., although I can’t figure out when and if he actually said it and many 12-steppers claim it originated in the rooms.
“I don’t drink these days. I’m allergic to alcohol and narcotics. I break out in handcuffs.”
Not long into the start of my Dallas party days and after my first of two failures of the Texas bar exam, I broke out in handcuffs.
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August 8, 1992. Booze and blow are my way of coping with the pain of marital and bar
exam failure and the accompanying evisceration of self-worth. I’m getting drunk on giant beers and peach sweet cider ale. I am also taking regular trips to the bathroom with my newly purchased cocaine “one hitter.” Finally, around 1 a.m., the cocaine is gone after I accidently drop the one-hitter in the toilet while snorting. My mood darkens, I start to feel sorry for myself, and I head home.
Soon I’m flying up the Dallas North Tollway at about 75 mph. The cocaine has me on edge, but I’m not edgy enough to notice the state trooper parked on the side of the highway. I know immediately that he’s on me, and sure enough the lights come on. He pulls me over within walking distance of my house. He asks, “How many have you had tonight?” I give the answer given by thousands of intoxicated individuals across the country right before they are arrested. “Just a couple, officer.” After the roadside tests, which in my intoxicated state, I believe I execute perfectly, he tells me I’m being arrested on suspicion of DWI. As he slaps the cuffs on me, I blurt out, “I passed those tests, why are you arresting me?” He smiles, shakes his head, and guides me into the back of his cruiser.
The trooper is a nice older guy who even pulls over to loosen my cuffs when I tell him they’re cutting into my wrists. We carry on a pleasant conversation the entire trip to the Lew Sterrett jail, which is the main jail and holding facility for the city of Dallas. I ask him if he’d take me back to my car when I blow under .10 (the legal limit in 1992). He laughs and says that he doesn’t think that’s going to be the case, but promises if I’m not booked, they will get me back.
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He’s right. I blow a .11 on the Breathalyzer. I fail to follow the legal advice I gave time and time again. Don’t blow. But like any drunk, I’ve convinced myself I’m not drunk.
Being handcuffed on the side of a public highway was humiliating. It was nothing, however, compared to the assembly line booking process staffed by Dallas County deputy sheriffs. Rightfully so. I’ve earned the verbal abuse. It’s open season. One of the deputy sheriffs leans across the table, sees my fake diamond stud earring in my left ear, places his face inches from my nose, and starts yelling for all to hear: “YOU’RE A STINKING LAWYER? ONE THING IS FOR SURE. YOU DO STINK! YOU’RE A DISGRACE TO THE LEGAL PROFESSION! I HOPE THEY KICK YOU OUT!”
I agree with him. I don’t say a word. It’s at this point that I realize my job and legal future might be at risk. Then I’m put in a large holding cell (otherwise known as “the drunk tank”) that smells of puke, urine, and the stench of the non-showered. Men, some much younger than me, dressed in their hip night club shirts and alligator shoes are crying uncontrollably in shame and uncertainty for their futures. They’re beneath me, I think at first. I’m a lawyer! But then, after a few minutes sitting on a concrete floor, I realize they are me. I am them.
I stand close to the phone in the drunk tank waiting for the shirtless tattooed dude to finish using it. He’s screaming into the phone in Spanish and gesticulating wildly. Then he slams the phone down so hard, it draws the attention of the guard, who silently stares the tattooed guy back into his spot on the concrete floor. Only outbound collect calls are permitted. Who will I call? Family is out. I’m too ashamed to let either of my brothers know. Will anyone even pick up the phone for a collect call at 2 a.m.? After several failed calls, my best friend John finally answers. A wave of calm momentarily washes over me when he promises to immediately head to the jail to post bond and take me home.
Arraignment time. I’m sitting with a bunch of drunks in a room looking at a television monitor. A guard suddenly calls my name. My heart begins racing. What did I do wrong (beyond the obvious)? I slouch back in my seat in relief when he simply tells me that my bail has been posted. Not everyone in the room is calm. Especially a guy in the back. “This place sucks! The cops suck! Fuck all of you!”
The deputy sheriff responds. “Sir, if you don’t shut up and calm down, we’re going to put you back in the tank, and you’ll have to wait for the next arraignment. Keep quiet!”
Uncomfortable pause. He’s contemplating. Heads turn in anticipation. “Fuck you! You all suck!” Two burly deputy sheriffs are on him. He’s in a bear hug, and then in handcuffs. Then he’s gone. He won’t be going home today. I chuckle to myself. Hey, someone has less sense than I do.
About 10 hours after my arrest, I’m released. John drives me home. My first call is to my father. I cry uncontrollably in shame and fear of the unknown consequences to come. My life is over. I vow to him and myself that “I’ll never drink again.” My next call is to my brother Jeff. He’s circumspect. “Yeah, you fucked up. Deal with it. Learn from it. Get a good lawyer.” My last call is to another friend to take me to the tow yard to get my car. Standing in the “line of shame,” I notice another guy who was in the drunk tank with me there to get his car. I don’t feel so bad. Misery loves company. I didn’t learn from it. I was not ready. I was an alcoholic. My choice of recovery would not happen for another 15 years.
The White House has declared December as “National Impaired Driving Prevention Month.” On average, a drunk driver will drive 80 times under the influence before the first arrest. How many times have you? I am very lucky I didn’t kill or seriously injure someone else or myself. Don’t wait for the odds to catch up. One is one too many. Be the sober one tonight. Then try it again tomorrow. Tell someone else how good it feels. If you can’t manage that, it’s time to talk to people who can help you lay a path to recovery. They are waiting to help.
- http://www.americanbar.org/groups/lawyer_assistance.html
- http://collegiaterecovery.org/programs/
- http://www.aa.org/
- http://www.smartrecovery.org/
- http://www.celebraterecovery.com/
Brian Cuban (@bcuban) is The Addicted Lawyer. A graduate of the University of Pittsburgh School of Law, he somehow made it through as an alcoholic then added cocaine to his résumé as a practicing attorney. He went into recovery April 8, 2007. He left the practice of law and now writes and speaks on recovery topics, not only for the legal profession, but on recovery in general. He can be reached at [email protected].