Chapter 3: Mike’s Fate

September 2018. I’d grown close to a guy at the construction site—I called him Mike.

Mike could’ve shot the breeze with a lamppost and made it laugh—always quick with a joke, generous with his last smoke. We bonded over terrible cafeteria lunches and shared gripes about the foreman.

He wanted me to take him to the casino, just to see what it was like.

He swore he’d never been inside one before. He made it sound like a rite of passage, like eating gumbo for the first time in Louisiana. I hesitated, but he wore me down.

Honestly, I was reluctant, but he begged again and again, promising he wouldn’t gamble. I finally agreed.

I told myself I was just doing him a favor. One quick trip, then we’d both walk out with a story to tell.

A month later, I discovered Mike had become addicted. Every night, he’d sneak out to the casino.

I caught him slipping out after midnight, his excuses growing thinner. He started showing up to work late, eyes red, hands shaking. His smile faded. I saw what I’d looked like not so long ago.

The bones beneath the Red River are all that remain of those who once dreamed of ruling Shreveport.

Old-timers whispered about the river swallowing men whole. You could almost feel the weight of lost dreams in the mist rising off the water in the early morning.

Mike was no different.

He talked big about what he’d do with his winnings, how he’d buy his wife a house out in Bossier. But every payday, he left with less than he came in with. It was a slow, quiet unraveling.

While he was still dreaming of becoming king of Shreveport, his life ended at fifty-two.

The news hit the site hard. Someone passed around a collection jar. Nobody wanted to talk about how it happened, just that it was over too soon. I felt sick with guilt.

Every time I tried to sleep, I heard his laugh, and it twisted my stomach into knots.

But I never imagined his death would drag me into serious trouble—and change my fate in Shreveport forever.

Some people bring storms with them, even after they’re gone. I should’ve known better than to think my hands were clean.

One day in October 2018, I was in Baton Rouge picking up goods as usual. Just as I parked, two sheriff’s deputies came and arrested me on the spot.

It was broad daylight, and the deputies didn’t even bother with sirens. They cuffed me, read me my rights, and tossed me in the back seat like I was yesterday’s trash. I tried to keep calm, but my mind spun with panic.

At the station, I saw Mike’s family.

His wife wouldn’t look at me. His son just glared. I tried to say something, but my throat closed up. The whole thing felt unreal, like I was trapped in someone else’s nightmare.

I was made the scapegoat—the one who’d led Mike into the casino. I was detained for 24 days. Eventually, I contacted Derek, who bailed me out.

The cell was cold and smelled of bleach. Time crawled by, broken only by the sound of someone banging on the bars for attention. When Derek finally came through, I nearly wept with relief.

He told me he’d compensated Mike’s family with ten thousand US dollars—on my behalf.

He made it sound like it was no big deal, just money changing hands. I didn’t know whether to thank him or hate him.

In Louisiana, that’s all a life is worth.

The words stung. Ten grand for a husband, a father—a whole life, gone and bought off with a single check. I felt smaller than ever.

At that moment, I realized: nothing here is cheaper than human life.

I looked around at the peeling paint, the tired eyes of the other inmates, and understood how the system worked. Money talked. Everything else was background noise.

Derek said I couldn’t go back to the construction site, and asked what I planned to do next.

His tone was almost gentle, but I could hear the warning underneath. The site was off-limits now—time to move on or get swallowed up.

I told him my passport and ID card were still at the site.

Without those, I was stuck—no way to leave, no way to prove who I was. I felt like a ghost haunting my own life.

He said he’d help me get them back, but for now, I should stick with him and drive for him. Only then did I find out he didn’t run a diner at all—he ran a casino.

The truth hit me like a slap. All those late-night burgers and diner talk were just a smokescreen. I was in deeper than I’d realized.