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Runner: The Chris Heifner Story

“You are here because you are stupid,” was scribbled in pencil on the holding-cell wall – no doubt by a previous guest of the lovely accommodations. While I never met the author of the statement, he sure knew what the hell he was talking about because that’s exactly what I was thinking (along with a few more colorful adjectives thrown in for good measure).

On July 17, 2000, 27-year-old I was pulled over by Texas State Troopers in Potter County, Texas, just outside of Amarillo. I wasn't speeding, nor was there anything wrong with the brand new Buick Century I was driving. However, on that Texas interstate, solo Caucasian motorists operating rental cars are more suspicious than African-Americans driving beater cars in Beverly Hills after midnight. As it turns out, the officers’ suspicions were correct, for the trunk of my car contained 300 pounds of top-grade Mexican marijuana with a street value of $300,000. The car and drugs were seized; I was placed under arrest and taken to jail.

In the beginning, my reasons for traveling down the wrong path were almost noble...with emphasis on the almost part; the result of pressing familial obligations and a self-deduced failure to provide. I really had no choice; we were gonna be evicted and it was Christmas – what’s a husband and father to do? But once I got in the ‘business’ and got a taste of the money and adventure—both of which came far too easy—the 'Disease of More’ took hold and I was unable to shake its lamprey-like grasp. This was one of the smaller loads that I ferried during my ill-fated drug-running career and I was facing a maximum 20-year sentence for trafficking illegal narcotics. But this was my first brush with the law and my absence of a police record paid dividends. My sentence was eventually suspended, however federal charges were still looming large as the prosecutors gathered more evidence to bolster the case. The D.A. knew that I was just a small piece of the puzzle, low on their priority list, and they sincerely hoped I would turn on the dealer that I muled for and assist them in their legal efforts.

But I was no snitch. I kept my mouth shut and warned my boss and former best friend that a major case was building against the illegal trafficking operation. But when I asked if he could expect anything in the way of assistance—financial, legal or otherwise (a standard favor)—I received a much unexpected response: death threats, against me & my family. He even went so far as to introduce me to the hit-man that would do the job of killing me, my wife, or my kids.

The reality of what he had become hit me full-force. For the first time, I thought about how I’d feel if my own children got hooked on the poison I had profited from. And I thought about the potential dangers I had exposed my innocent family members to. Right then and there, I knew I needed to take responsibility for my actions and fix the problem once and for all. And so, I made the toughest decision any person in that predicament could possibly make: I opted to put my life on the line and go to work as confidential informant for the DEA.

My name is Chris Heifner and this is my story.

Runner: The Chris Heifner Story

...I really shouldn't be writing this. Not because the subject matter is top secret or taboo, nothing that cool. No, I shouldn't be writing this simply because I shouldn't be around to write it. Brain processing, heart beating, lungs filling with air, not to mention FREE,…the little aspects of life we all routinely take for granted. Hell, guys with my history, there's usually only a few paths we wind up traveling. And penning a manuscript of my dealings and misadventures most definitely isn't one of them.

Some get a new name, a new face and swift relocation to a cheap prefab dwelling in an anonymous, oh-so-boring little Ville via the Witness Protection Program. Severed from their family and friends for the rest of their days, they're now the property of a federal prosecutor with a political agenda, on perpetual standby, ready to bark on command like a trained lapdog. And when the master eventually grows tired of his new pet's well-rehearsed tricks, the only treat is condemnation to a life of humdrum monotony, a far cry from the action and excitement that landed them in that predicament. It's almost funny—those are the lucky ones.

Others get to keep their true identity, to divulge if they so desire, but they're also given a complimentary new designation—a prisoner number. Relocation is also part of the package. Only instead of the bland pre-fab from which they can come and go at will, they receive an eight-by-nine-foot cell with austere walls, a cold floor and a small metal toilet with a short supply of toilet paper and not an ounce of privacy. They also get an unwanted roommate who intends to rape them the moment the lights go out or stuff a homemade shiv in their gut just for glancing in the wrong direction. In all probability, they'll deal with the fear and boredom for a decade or so before escaping their confines once and for all via an insincere prayer and a tightly knotted bed-sheet.

But for the vast majority, the outcome is decidedly more abrupt. It kicks off with a stress-induced bleeding ulcer, which is ultimately remedied by any number of cures, the most common being a bullet in the head. A hasty dismemberment will most likely follow, leading to a short, ceremony-free burial in an unmarked grave.

Pretty glamorous, huh? Yeah, right. A far cry from what Hollywood makes being a member of $25 million/year drug cartel out to be. Amazingly, I got out. All the way, free and clear, with the opportunity to start over again. And yet, I wouldn't trade my experiences—my memories—for anything. Right or wrong, they've made me who I am, shaped my future. But more importantly, they've made me appreciate life on a much greater scale. It's actually hard to put that into words, but I'm sure as hell gonna try. If for no other reason, I want to give anyone thinking of following in my footsteps a little taste of what to expect. Just remember, I beat the odds. Chances are, you won't...