By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
"Even then, he thought he could do it by himself. They'd make pacts with each other to stop. It was like, 'Me and so-and-so, we're gonna do this together.'" She laughs at the naivete. "Some of these kids, they honestly didn't know what it was when they started using. It was called chiva. It came in a capsule and you snorted it. They didn't know it was heroin." Nor did they know much about addiction. She recalls one kid telling her that he wasn't hooked because he "didn't have to snort it every day."
Like many kids who ended up addicted, Chris Cooper says he didn't know it was heroin. He does recall when he first tried it, though. It was the fall of 1996, just after dinner. A friend of his named Yasa had given him a couple of capsules. "The next day, I went and got some more," he recalls from his jail cell. "At first I used it every other day. Then every day. Then I got to where I was real careful to keep a little before I went to bed, so I had a bump when I woke up in the morning. I had to do it just to feel normal." Cooper turned to low-level dealing, taking other addicts to get heroin from his sources in exchange for the occasional free gram.
After her son told her about his addiction, Sheila Cooper urged him to get professional help. From her days in the newsroom, she'd seen many people dealing with substance abuse; she'd even helped nurse a close friend over cocaine addiction. But she also knew that effective treatment options were limited. Like too many middle-class parents, she didn't have insurance. Not that it would have helped much--virtually no insurer will cover more than a couple of weeks of residential treatment. The budget for methadone treatment, which the federal government bankrolled in an earlier era and which helped curb an earlier generation's rising use, was slashed in the early '80s. In the Dallas-Fort Worth region, there is one clinic that dispenses methadone, which addicts must pick up every day to fight withdrawal symptoms. These days, addicts are largely left to their own devices, fighting the cycle of too-short rehab and relapse, and trying to get clean on their own or with the help of a few privately funded charities. Sheila Cooper knew of one of these, and she urged her son to go to the House of Isiah, a faith-based long-term residential program run by former NFL star Isiah Robertson in tiny Mabank, Texas. Chris resisted, insisting he could lick this himself.
Sheila Cooper knew better, but she also knew that her son had to want to do it himself. "He had to be ready for treatment. So I tried to help him as best I could. And I prayed. And from June to November , every time the phone rang, I just knew it was going to be, 'He's dead.'"
"You've got to understand," says Chief Glasscock. "Pre-'97, the typical way law enforcement responded to an overdose [was]...to investigate it as [an accidental] death. The M.E. would make a ruling that the death was the result of an overdose. An accidental overdose. Case closed. Unfortunate set of circumstances. Right or wrong, that was the way."
It was certainly Plano's way until the day after Glasscock's confrontation with George Malina. No one had been prosecuted out of any heroin-related overdoses, but Glasscock knew his town was not going to reject more aggressive law enforcement. He ordered his staff to review the file, and on July 17, Plano police brass held a meeting about Milan Malina's death.
They decided to investigate Chris Cooper, and the file was given to Billy Meeks, a homicide detective newly assigned to narcotics duty. Meeks learned that Chris Cooper got his chiva from an older Plano High graduate named Ray Hancock, as well as from a young Plano teen named Yasa Khanbabaee who was said to have particularly potent stuff.
While the police were studying Cooper, another Plano youth died. Shortly after 3 a.m. on July 24, 1997, three teens dropped George Wesley Scott, 19, at the hospital emergency room then fled. As in the case of Malina, Scott had been dead for some time; as with Malina, the kids had shared drugs bought with pooled money. Once again, police were less concerned with who could have saved Scott than with determining who called the dealer, yet another Plano teenage addict supporting his habit by dealing rather than stealing.
Police also met with Scott's parents, who were specific about their wishes. "They requested that we not make criminals out of Wes' friends," Meeks wrote. "Instead, we should help them get into some kind of rehab--as opposed to some type of prison."
It was not to be. The law-enforcement machinery, though slow to crank up, was now lumbering forward.
In late July, Malina met with Julio Mercado.
"I still have George's pictures that he dropped off at the time," Mercado says, waving the pictures nearly two years later. "This is George's son. They're still here; I still have them. They stay on top of my desk all the time."