Before Leaving Miami on my first cocaine run, I stopped to visit my parents. While Mom prepared dinner, I slipped into my parents' bedroom. As memories of my mother praying so often in that room flooded my mind, I let down my guard and said in a hushed voice, "God, if you protect me in this deal that I'm about to do, I'm gonna buy a better house for my parents. God, please make sure that nothing happens to me. You know that I'm not hurting anyone, that the ones who buy this cocaine are rich people and movie stars, and that I'm not doing something immoral." I honestly thought that I was telling God the truth.

I went back to California and told Rick Sanders the deal was on. "Line up your people. We're bringing three kilos, and the price is $210,000. I want half the money up front, the minute the coke gets here. You can pay the other half in a day or so." Rick was ecstatic; his dream was coming true.

My nightmare was just beginning.

A few days later , Rick told me his people were ready. His partner, Joey, came over, showed me $75,000, and offered it up front as a token of confidence. We chose a Friday, around rush hour, for the delivery at the San Francisco airport. If all went as planned, I would never have to actually touch the cocaine: I would only pick up the money.

When the big day came I drove to San Francisco, checked in at a hotel, then picked up a rental car - a Chevy. No use being too conspicuous. As I drove to the airport, I kept worrying about what my mother would think of my new venture.

Juanito's flight was scheduled to arrive at five PM. I pulled into the airport loading area a few minutes early and left the motor running as I waited in the car. Juanito was to pick up the suitcase in the baggage claim area and bring it to the car; then we would drive to the hotel.

At least that was the plan.

I kept watching the clock. Well past five and still no sign of Juanito. Anxiously I left the car and walked inside the airport. The plane had arrived and passengers from his flight were already gathering at the baggage carousel, but Juanito was nowhere in sight.

I was really nervous now: ten minutes passed, fifteen minutes, and still no sign of my friend. Finally I saw Juanito, ashen-faced and sweating profusely, coming toward me. He told me he was afraid somebody was following him. He was so upset, I thought he was going to cry.

I tried to shock him back to his senses by growling quietly but intensely, "Juanito! We can't lose this cocaine!"

He was too frightened to care. "I'm not going to go pick up that suitcase, Jorge."

"What's the matter with you?" I responded. "We could get killed. How can I explain to these drug people that we abandoned their suitcase? I'd rather be arrested than have to face them."

"You go get it," Juanito said.

"All right, fine," I said. "Give me the claim ticket."

The suitcase, Juanito explained, was a black, hard-shell Samsonite. I hurried to the baggage claim area and crowded as close to the carousel as possible, scrutinizing each piece of luggage as it passed by on the conveyor belt. I looked around nervously, then froze. Somebody - airport security, FBI, DEA, CIA - might be watching and waiting to slap the cuffs on whoever picked up the suitcase. Motionless, I watched as the suitcase passed me by and continued on it's way back through the rubber flaps, behind the wall, then back outside again.

I stepped away, pretending I was going to use the phone, then returned to the carousel and waited again. The number of suitcases was quickly diminishing as passengers retrieved their luggage. When I saw the black Samsonite pop through the rubber flaps, making it's way toward me again, I said quietly, "God, help me this one time."

The case was now only a few feet away. I reached down, snatched it off the belt, and headed toward the exit.

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