Sam Quinones Character Analysis

In the months after Matt died, Paul and Ellen Schoonover were struck by all they didn’t know. First, the pills: Doctors prescribed them, so how could they lead to heroin and death? And what was black tar heroin? People who lived in tents under overpasses used heroin. Matt grew up in the best neighborhoods, attended a Christian private school and a prominent church. He’d admitted his addiction, sought help, and received the best residential drug treatment in Columbus. Why wasn’t that enough?

Like no other particle on earth, the morphine molecule seemed to possess heaven and hell. It allowed for modern surgery, saving and improving too many lives to count. It stunted and ended too many lives to count with addiction and overdose. Discussing it, you could invoke some of humankind’s greatest cultural creations and deepest questions: Faust, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, discussions of the fundamental nature of man and human behavior, of free will and slavery, of God and evolution. Studying the molecule you naturally wandered into questions like, Can mankind achieve happiness without pain? Would that happiness even be worth it? Can we have it all?

In heroin addicts, I have seen the debasement that comes from the loss of free will and enslavement to what amounts to an idea: permanent pleasure, numbness, and the avoidance of pain. But man’s decay has always begun as soon as he has it all, and is free of friction, pain, and the deprivation that temper his behavior.

All these guys running around Denver selling black tar heroin are from this town of Xalisco, or a few small villages near there, the informant told Chavez. Their success is based on a system they’ve learned. It’s a system for selling heroin retail. Their system is a simple thing, really, and relies on cheap, illegal Mexican labor, just the way any fast-food joint does.

But heroin was never about the romantic subversion of societal norms. It was instead about the squarest of American things: business—dull, cold commerce. Heroin lent itself to structured underworld businesses. Addicts had no free will to choose one day not to buy the product. They were slaves to a take-no-prisoners molecule. Dealers could thus organize heroin distribution almost according to principles taught in business schools, providing they didn’t use the product. And providing they marketed.

Novocain, invented in 1905, avoided the need for addictive cocaine in dentistry. Why not a morphine substitute? Such a drug could cleanse doctors’ image as clueless dealers of dangerous drugs that they’d earned by widely prescribing heroin in the early 1900s. Academics, meanwhile, hoped for a new era of modern scientific research applied to medicinal drugs. Law enforcement hoped a nonaddictive pain reliever would lessen the fallout from its attempts to rid the country of opium. Researchers called this drug the Holy Grail and the search for it would take the rest of the century and beyond.

The new discipline gave Russell Portenoy “the talking points I needed to mold my work life,” he once wrote. As an emerging discipline, palliative care appealed to the bright young doctor interested in staking out his own ideas. Comforting the seriously ill and dying touched on the altruistic reasons why anyone would enter medical school in the first place. […] Watching people struggle with pain, and talking to families who faced the loss of a loved one, gave Portenoy a touch of idealism, a bit of the crusader pushing up against conventional wisdom.

The new pain movement pushed past these doubts. It acquired a quasi-religious fervor among people seared by the nontreatment of pain of years past. A pendulum began to swing. The cruelty of earlier times discredited those who might question the emerging doctrine of opiates for chronic pain. Pain specialists working toward a new day felt gratitude to pharmaceutical companies for developing the drugs and devices that made possible the humane treatment of pain.

“We realized this is corporate,” Stone said. “These are company cars, company apartments, company phones. And it all gets handed to the next guy when they move on.”

“We can get away from these silly elixirs and cocktails into tablets that people take once or twice a day, and we’re into a revolutionary field of pain management…It was the drug-delivery service that changed, not the drug, and with that the whole mentality, ‘Well now that we have this drug, we can treat pain.’ Really extraordinary.”

Some Purdue reps—particularly in southern Ohio, eastern Kentucky, and other areas first afflicted with rampant Oxy addiction—were reported to have made as much as a hundred thousand dollars in bonuses in one quarter during these years. Those were unlike any bonuses ever paid in the U.S. pharmaceutical industry. […] Whatever the case, the bonuses to Purdue salespeople in these regions had little relation to those paid at most U.S. drug companies. They bore instead a striking similarity to the kinds of profits made in the drug underworld.

Many of these methods—premiums, trips, giveaways—were time-tested strategies that grew from the revolution Arthur Sackler began and were refined over time by many pharmaceutical companies. Only this time, the pill being marketed contained a large whack of a drug virtually identical to heroin.

In Portsmouth, it began with what came to be called pill mills, a business model invented in town, but growing from the aggressive nationwide prescribing of opiates, particularly OxyContin. A pill mill was a pain-management clinic, staffed by a doctor with little more than a prescription pad. A pill mill became a virtual ATM for dope as the doctor issued prescriptions to hundreds of people a day.

As the pain revolution was taking hold across the country, however, Procter and his physician progeny showed a beat-down region a brand-new business model. Before long some of the first locally owned businesses in years opened in Portsmouth, known to folks in town as the “pain managements.”

“It was not only okay, but it was our holy mission, to cure the world of its pain by waking people up to the fact that opiates were safe. All those rumors of addiction were misguided. The solution was a poppy plant. It was there all along. The only reason we didn’t use it was stigma and prejudice.”

Amid this madness, the sons and daughters of Portsmouth’s business owners, the children of sheriff’s captains and doctors and lawyers, saw a future in OxyContin. Some regarded pills as a grassroots response to economic catastrophe—the way some poor Mexican villagers view drug trafficking. Dealers who could not have found a legitimate job in moribund Portsmouth bartered pills to support themselves and feed their kids.

They were dope traffickers for a new age when marketing is king and even people are brands. Purdue branded OxyContin as the convenient solution to disruptive chronic-pain patients. The Xalisco Boys branded their system: the safe and reliable delivery of balloons containing heroin of standardized weight and potency. The addict’s convenient everyday solution. The one to start with and stay with.

“Nobody thinks those things are of value. Talk therapy is reimbursed at fifteen dollars an hour,” Cahana said. “But for me to stick a needle in you I can get eight hundred to five thousand dollars. The system values things that aren’t only not helpful but sometimes hurtful to patients. Science has shown things to have worked and the insurance companies won’t pay for them.”

The signature location of this drug scourge, meanwhile, was not the teeming, public crack houses. It was, instead, kids’ private suburban bedrooms and cars—the products of American prosperity. The bedroom was the addict’s sanctuary, the shrine to the self-involvement dope provokes. It was their own little dreamland, though quite the opposite of Portsmouth’s legendary community pool, where kids grew up in public and under a hundred watchful eyes. Each suburban middle-class kid had a private bedroom and the new addicts retreaded to them to dope up and die.

Most of these parents were products, as I am, of the 1970s, when heroin was considered the most vile, back-alley drug. How could they now tell their neighbors that the child to whom they had given everything was a prostitute who expired while shooting up in a car outside a Burger King? Shamed and horrified by the stigma, many could not, and did not.

Katz admired Portenoy, who, he said, had spent a career searching for better ways to relieve his patients’ real and considerable pain. Portenoy had helped make pain a topic of research. Moreover, Portenoy was always clear that pain treatment needed balance and time; doctors needed to be selective in the patients who received this treatment. But “people want simple solutions,” Katz said. “People didn’t want to hear that and the commercial interests didn’t want to emphasize that.”

So the battered old town had hung on. It was, somehow, a beacon embracing shivering and hollow-eyed junkies, letting them know that all was not lost. That at the bottom of the rubble was a place just like them, kicked and buried but surviving. A place that had, like them, shredded and lost so much that was precious but was nurturing it again. Though they were adrift, they, too, could begin to find their way back. Back to that place called Dreamland.

We wound up dangerously separate from each other—whether in poverty or in affluence. Kids no longer play in the street. Parks are underused. Dreamland lies buried beneath a strip mall. Why then do we wonder that heroin is everywhere? In our isolation, heroin thrives; that’s its natural habitat.

In the months after Matt died, Paul and Ellen Schoonover were struck by all they didn’t know. First, the pills: Doctors prescribed them, so how could they lead to heroin and death? And what was black tar heroin? People who lived in tents under overpasses used heroin. Matt grew up in the best neighborhoods, attended a Christian private school and a prominent church. He’d admitted his addiction, sought help, and received the best residential drug treatment in Columbus. Why wasn’t that enough?

Like no other particle on earth, the morphine molecule seemed to possess heaven and hell. It allowed for modern surgery, saving and improving too many lives to count. It stunted and ended too many lives to count with addiction and overdose. Discussing it, you could invoke some of humankind’s greatest cultural creations and deepest questions: Faust, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, discussions of the fundamental nature of man and human behavior, of free will and slavery, of God and evolution. Studying the molecule you naturally wandered into questions like, Can mankind achieve happiness without pain? Would that happiness even be worth it? Can we have it all?

In heroin addicts, I have seen the debasement that comes from the loss of free will and enslavement to what amounts to an idea: permanent pleasure, numbness, and the avoidance of pain. But man’s decay has always begun as soon as he has it all, and is free of friction, pain, and the deprivation that temper his behavior.

All these guys running around Denver selling black tar heroin are from this town of Xalisco, or a few small villages near there, the informant told Chavez. Their success is based on a system they’ve learned. It’s a system for selling heroin retail. Their system is a simple thing, really, and relies on cheap, illegal Mexican labor, just the way any fast-food joint does.

But heroin was never about the romantic subversion of societal norms. It was instead about the squarest of American things: business—dull, cold commerce. Heroin lent itself to structured underworld businesses. Addicts had no free will to choose one day not to buy the product. They were slaves to a take-no-prisoners molecule. Dealers could thus organize heroin distribution almost according to principles taught in business schools, providing they didn’t use the product. And providing they marketed.

Novocain, invented in 1905, avoided the need for addictive cocaine in dentistry. Why not a morphine substitute? Such a drug could cleanse doctors’ image as clueless dealers of dangerous drugs that they’d earned by widely prescribing heroin in the early 1900s. Academics, meanwhile, hoped for a new era of modern scientific research applied to medicinal drugs. Law enforcement hoped a nonaddictive pain reliever would lessen the fallout from its attempts to rid the country of opium. Researchers called this drug the Holy Grail and the search for it would take the rest of the century and beyond.

The new discipline gave Russell Portenoy “the talking points I needed to mold my work life,” he once wrote. As an emerging discipline, palliative care appealed to the bright young doctor interested in staking out his own ideas. Comforting the seriously ill and dying touched on the altruistic reasons why anyone would enter medical school in the first place. […] Watching people struggle with pain, and talking to families who faced the loss of a loved one, gave Portenoy a touch of idealism, a bit of the crusader pushing up against conventional wisdom.

The new pain movement pushed past these doubts. It acquired a quasi-religious fervor among people seared by the nontreatment of pain of years past. A pendulum began to swing. The cruelty of earlier times discredited those who might question the emerging doctrine of opiates for chronic pain. Pain specialists working toward a new day felt gratitude to pharmaceutical companies for developing the drugs and devices that made possible the humane treatment of pain.

“We realized this is corporate,” Stone said. “These are company cars, company apartments, company phones. And it all gets handed to the next guy when they move on.”

“We can get away from these silly elixirs and cocktails into tablets that people take once or twice a day, and we’re into a revolutionary field of pain management…It was the drug-delivery service that changed, not the drug, and with that the whole mentality, ‘Well now that we have this drug, we can treat pain.’ Really extraordinary.”

Some Purdue reps—particularly in southern Ohio, eastern Kentucky, and other areas first afflicted with rampant Oxy addiction—were reported to have made as much as a hundred thousand dollars in bonuses in one quarter during these years. Those were unlike any bonuses ever paid in the U.S. pharmaceutical industry. […] Whatever the case, the bonuses to Purdue salespeople in these regions had little relation to those paid at most U.S. drug companies. They bore instead a striking similarity to the kinds of profits made in the drug underworld.

Many of these methods—premiums, trips, giveaways—were time-tested strategies that grew from the revolution Arthur Sackler began and were refined over time by many pharmaceutical companies. Only this time, the pill being marketed contained a large whack of a drug virtually identical to heroin.

In Portsmouth, it began with what came to be called pill mills, a business model invented in town, but growing from the aggressive nationwide prescribing of opiates, particularly OxyContin. A pill mill was a pain-management clinic, staffed by a doctor with little more than a prescription pad. A pill mill became a virtual ATM for dope as the doctor issued prescriptions to hundreds of people a day.

As the pain revolution was taking hold across the country, however, Procter and his physician progeny showed a beat-down region a brand-new business model. Before long some of the first locally owned businesses in years opened in Portsmouth, known to folks in town as the “pain managements.”

“It was not only okay, but it was our holy mission, to cure the world of its pain by waking people up to the fact that opiates were safe. All those rumors of addiction were misguided. The solution was a poppy plant. It was there all along. The only reason we didn’t use it was stigma and prejudice.”

Amid this madness, the sons and daughters of Portsmouth’s business owners, the children of sheriff’s captains and doctors and lawyers, saw a future in OxyContin. Some regarded pills as a grassroots response to economic catastrophe—the way some poor Mexican villagers view drug trafficking. Dealers who could not have found a legitimate job in moribund Portsmouth bartered pills to support themselves and feed their kids.

They were dope traffickers for a new age when marketing is king and even people are brands. Purdue branded OxyContin as the convenient solution to disruptive chronic-pain patients. The Xalisco Boys branded their system: the safe and reliable delivery of balloons containing heroin of standardized weight and potency. The addict’s convenient everyday solution. The one to start with and stay with.

“Nobody thinks those things are of value. Talk therapy is reimbursed at fifteen dollars an hour,” Cahana said. “But for me to stick a needle in you I can get eight hundred to five thousand dollars. The system values things that aren’t only not helpful but sometimes hurtful to patients. Science has shown things to have worked and the insurance companies won’t pay for them.”

The signature location of this drug scourge, meanwhile, was not the teeming, public crack houses. It was, instead, kids’ private suburban bedrooms and cars—the products of American prosperity. The bedroom was the addict’s sanctuary, the shrine to the self-involvement dope provokes. It was their own little dreamland, though quite the opposite of Portsmouth’s legendary community pool, where kids grew up in public and under a hundred watchful eyes. Each suburban middle-class kid had a private bedroom and the new addicts retreaded to them to dope up and die.

Most of these parents were products, as I am, of the 1970s, when heroin was considered the most vile, back-alley drug. How could they now tell their neighbors that the child to whom they had given everything was a prostitute who expired while shooting up in a car outside a Burger King? Shamed and horrified by the stigma, many could not, and did not.

Katz admired Portenoy, who, he said, had spent a career searching for better ways to relieve his patients’ real and considerable pain. Portenoy had helped make pain a topic of research. Moreover, Portenoy was always clear that pain treatment needed balance and time; doctors needed to be selective in the patients who received this treatment. But “people want simple solutions,” Katz said. “People didn’t want to hear that and the commercial interests didn’t want to emphasize that.”

So the battered old town had hung on. It was, somehow, a beacon embracing shivering and hollow-eyed junkies, letting them know that all was not lost. That at the bottom of the rubble was a place just like them, kicked and buried but surviving. A place that had, like them, shredded and lost so much that was precious but was nurturing it again. Though they were adrift, they, too, could begin to find their way back. Back to that place called Dreamland.

We wound up dangerously separate from each other—whether in poverty or in affluence. Kids no longer play in the street. Parks are underused. Dreamland lies buried beneath a strip mall. Why then do we wonder that heroin is everywhere? In our isolation, heroin thrives; that’s its natural habitat.