Commentary: How I became an unwitting witness to a drug deal

It all happened so quickly.

One minute I was talking to a friend of mine out in front of a convenience store in Costa Mesa. We were chatting near the entrance of the building.

The next minute I found myself positioned at the center of a drug deal.

How could things transition so easily from a mundane conversation to a potentially dangerous criminal transaction? As I thought about it, the scene unfolded in slow motion.

First of all, my friend wasn’t a friend really. That would be an exaggeration.

The truth is that I knew him from the streets. I guess you could say he was more of an acquaintance.

Well, he wasn’t simply an acquaintance either. A few minutes earlier, he trusted me enough to hand me his booking paperwork, after someone recognized him from a distance and came over to say hello.

The man asked where he’d been recently. He said he had spent time in jail. At that moment, the writer in me couldn’t resist asking for further details — my first mistake.

I guess he figured it was easier to hand over the papers, rather than entertain a barrage of questions, especially when each answer provoked further inquiry. He knew me that well at least.

“Here – you keep it,” he said.

I thanked him and stuffed the document in my backpack.

While we were talking, my friendly acquaintance flagged down a man who was riding by on a bicycle. The man appeared to be restless and agitated. It was hot outside, and the two of them discussed a mutual desire to drink. The problem was that they didn’t have any alcohol or any money to buy it.

The bicyclist circled around the building a few times, as though he were looking for something, to no avail. Then he tried hitting up random people for money. That didn’t seem to be going so well.

He returned to us, glanced at my backpack for a moment and turned away.

“Does anybody have any money?” he asked, knowing that our mutual friend did not.

I lied and said I didn’t.

Tucked right there inside my wallet was an ATM card and $100 in cash. My mind began to race. Was I convincing enough? Did he believe me? Would he try to rob me? Would my friendly acquaintance protect me or join him?

I started to feel scared and wanted to leave, but didn’t quite know how to exit without being conspicuous. I decided to wait for the right moment.

That’s when everything happened. It played out like a well-choreographed dance, except I didn’t recognize the rhythm or the movement at first.

A female customer approached the store front from a distance. As she crossed the parking lot, I saw her look at my two companions. Something seemed strange.

She went into the store briefly and emerged with her purchase. Instead of going back the way she came, she turned and slowly crossed directly in front of our path, once again looking at the two men.

Something about them caught her interest, and she appeared to be cautiously sizing them up. As she walked by, the bicycle man broke the silence by asking her for a cigarette. The tenor changed. She turned around and the two stared at each other for a fleeting moment. A pregnant pause.

Then she began digging in her purse. At first, I thought she was innocently looking for the cigarette. Instead, she responded to his request by saying she had a “20,” and wanted to know how much she could get for it. I was bewildered.

What did I just miss? Why didn’t I recognize the signals?

Where there is drug activity, there will inevitably be police activity, in this town anyway. That was the dilemma.

The usual locations for conducting business were “too hot” because of the strong police presence in the area lately. The two men quickly explained that they didn’t have anything “on them,” but could get whatever she needed by making a few phone calls.

She dug further and pulled out the money from the bottom of her purse. Without hesitation, she handed them a $20 bill. One of the men reached for his phone. That’s when I clumsily made a joke about not wanting to end up on some surveillance video somewhere and promptly fled the situation.

A week or so later, I ran into the bicyclist again. He looked different.

His bike was missing, and he was traveling with a new companion. Gone were the restlessness and agitation and sense of urgency. This time he appeared relaxed and friendly, but had absolutely no idea who I was.

I brought up our mutual friend and the pending drug sale. After much prompting, he vaguely recalled our introduction, but didn’t remember anything about what transpired relative to the drugs.

With a twinkle in his eye, he laughed and said, “So how did I do? Did it [the drug deal] go through O.K.?”

I told him I didn’t know because I walked the other way. Maybe next time, I’ll walk down a different street. We all have to take responsibility for our own actions.

Writer KATHY CLINKENBEARD lives in Costa Mesa.