At first, when I heard about the NSA tracking our phone calls, I didn't see the big deal. If you're innocent -- which I am -- what's there to worry about? I actually found it amusing that the government would be paying someone to data-mine through all the conversations I have with my mom about whether or not I'm going to get skin cancer. In fact, I'd be happy to forward those calls directly to the NSA if it would help speed up the process.
Yet on further thought, I had a gross realization about my own criminal liability. Terrorist or not, my record was not so squeaky clean.
First of all, while typically the only people who call me are my parents, I'm currently writing an article about this new documentary film called How to Make Money Selling Drugs, and consequently, one of the last few people who've called my phone is Freeway Ricky Ross. Yeah, the real one.
For those unfamiliar with Ross or who think he's an obese rapper, I've created a brief timeline to explain why him calling me is a really bad thing:
- In 1979, Freeway Ricky Ross, 19, was first introduced to crack. Around that time, he started casually dealing cocaine in South Central Los Angeles. He also played a lot of tennis.
- In 1980, Ross connected with Danilo Blandón, a large-scale drug trafficker from Nicaragua, and alleged link between the CIA and Contras during the Iran-Contra affair.
- In 1981, Ross and Blandón revolutionalized the crack market by developing a technique that would produce the largest amount of dope with the cheapest overhead costs. I know this because, in 2010, I was bored at work and read a book.
- In 1984, Ross and Blandón moved three million doses of crack a week in L.A. alone, raking in millions of dollars. Ross started investing in real estate. He also bought designer clothes, boats, cars, ski trips, Lakers' tickets, and a hotel called the Freeway Motor Inn; hence, his nickname and the general plot of all modern rap songs. This was the year I was born.
- In 1985, Ross spread his business spread across the country. His income increased by a hundred million.
- In 1986, Blandón was arrested by the FBI, and sentenced to 24 months in federal prison. He became a snitch, no surprise.
- In 1989, Ross was finally caught by the feds, and pled guilty to all charges. He was sentenced to 10 years in prison. Meanwhile, I graduated kindergarten with flying colors.
- In 1993, Ross testified in a federal case, and was released thereafter. His freedom was short-lived however, as Blandón, under the DEA, tricked Ross into another drug deal, and Ross went back to prison for a year.
- In 1995, Ross turned to Blandón again, and was busted trying to move 100 kilos of blow. He was sentenced to life in prison. Lesson learned: do not trust Nicaraguan drug traffickers who only serve two years in prison after supplying you with million of dollars worth of cocaine on a daily basis.
- In 2009, Ross was released from prison for good behavior and became a motivational speaker. He also started playing tennis again (actually, I'm kidding, I don't know if he got back into recreational sports).
- In 2010, Ross sued rapper Rick Ross for stealing his identity.
- In May, Ross challenged the rapper to a boxing match, and subsequently called him fat.
- In June, I emailed Ross about the new documentary.
- On Tuesday, at 1:42pm, Ross called me and I answered the phone.
- On Tuesday, at 2:15pm, I Instagrammed my call log because I thought I was really cool. See here → [EVIDENCE].
- On Wednesday, a report broke in The Guardian that the NSA was spying on our phone calls and emails and basically everything.
- On Thursday, I realized I was fucked.
Obviously, I can't take the Instagram post down now, as that would be an admission of guilt, but what a sloppy move on my part. The number one rule of the game is to not create a paper trail, and there I was, dropping crumbs left and right across the virtual highway.
According to news reports, the NSA probe investigates patterns of calls, which is problematic considering Ross and I scheduled a second phone conversation exactly one week from our first. That's two mobile exchanges in a recurring period between a notorious drug kingpin and myself, and my only explanation is that I'm discussing a movie on how to hustle contraband.
Oh, and the fact my last name is Garcia isn't helping the situation either. Hello, Mexican drug cartel. The NSA claims these procedures are limited to terrorist activities, but there's no way they're going to turn a blind eye to Ross' involvement with a potential Latina narcotics distributor. They've already admitted to intercepting information of innocent Americans not linked to terrorism. Ross should be as worried as I am.
So, with Pandora's box busted open all over me, I've realized there are additional red flags on my record, which I should take into consideration as well. Like how my dad's positive our relatives in Pennsylvania are tied to the mob, and even if he's wrong, our entire family loves The Godfather. At least half the emails my dad and I have sent each other since he discovered the Internet two years ago have been about mafia busts.
Also, when the recent terrorist attacks hit, I went on this insane googling spree with no regard for the repercussions. I googled how-to-make-bomb videos, and I googled the al-Qaida newspaper or whatever they call it, and I googled Chechnya. I'm sure it's all in my NSA file now.
And then -- unrelated to anything but still suspicious -- last year, I did some work for my friend's dad, and he wired me money from Bulgaria. Twice. What's that about, you know? The shit they've got on me is mounting by the minute.
Now, am I naïve enough to believe the government hasn't being spying on us all this time? No, that's ridiculous. Am I still really mad that it's official? Yes. It's like when your significant other admits to cheating on you even though you already presumed it was the case. No one responds, "Yeah, I figured." You demand answers. You never feel assured. And you start to think of ways to protect yourself, like by using a pay phone.
That's my new plan. I'm reverting to old school methodology, and I predict a major comeback of all machines pre-Applemania.
I'll leave the data-miners to my Mom.