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Armed drug trafficking is defined in Florida statute , Florida's drug abuse prevention and control statute. Reading the statute on drug trafficking is both difficult and confusing. Begin your understanding of drug trafficking by referring to Florida criminal jury instructions section 25 and its sub parts, which define violations, purchase sale delivery and trafficking in controlled substances. Florida criminal statutes identify certain drugs and chemicals substances as either controlled substances or non-controlled substances. The chemical identifies for controlled substances appear in the statutes as category one or category two controlled substances. A basic understanding of trafficking charges begins by understanding the statutory structure of Florida's criminal statutes for drug trafficking. In its most simplified form the legislature created three categories for substance-abuse and possession of controlled substance criminal violations. Simple possession, a third-degree felony, addresses personal use amounts of controlled substances. Think of simple possession charges as appropriate for the substance abusers who possess personal-use amounts, but are not in the 'business' of buying or selling cocaine, marijuana, oxycodone and the most common 'designer' drugs. If you are in possession of more than a personal use amount and are entering into a transaction to either give or sell or transfer a controlled substance, the criminal category is called delivery. Possession of cocaine is a third-degree felony in Florida: that carries a maximum five-year prison term. Delivery of cocaine, or delivery of any controlled substance in Florida, carries a 15 year maximum prison term. The trafficking statutes contemplate persons who are buying and selling substantial amounts of controlled substances such as cocaine, oxycodone, marijuana, and other cocaine distillates and heroin and its various synthetic forms. Trafficking amounts vary by substance and type: either by weight, or by a pill counts. Begin your understanding of cocaine trafficking and trafficking in controlled substances by reading Florida jury instructions 25 through Florida criminal jury instructions can be found by searching online or by an Internet search of Florida statutes and jury instructions which can be found on the Florida Supreme Court website. The significant distinction between trafficking and armed trafficking is the element of a weapon which is used or carried during the commission of a drug trafficking offense. A weapon can be something as simple as a rock or a stick. The armed drug trafficking statute makes it a life offense if during the course of or in the commission of a drug trafficking offense a person uses or possesses a firearm. Florida also has a kingpin armed drug trafficking sentence, which if one is convicted of Karen invoke a death sentence. Please do not include any confidential or sensitive information in a contact form, text message, or voicemail. The contact form sends information by non-encrypted email, which is not secure. Submitting a contact form, sending a text message, making a phone call, or leaving a voicemail does not create an attorney-client relationship. Protecting The Innocent. Practice Areas. Drug Crimes. Armed Drug Trafficking. Armed Drug Trafficking Armed drug trafficking is defined in Florida statute , Florida's drug abuse prevention and control statute. Ralph Behr. Submit a Law Firm Client Review. Justia Law Firm Website Design.

Drug Conspiracy

Coral Bay buying Heroin

In February, , I stepped off a plane in Tampa, drunk and dope-sick. I was twenty-four, and for the past eight years I had been shooting up heroin, cocaine, and all manner of pills: Dilaudid, Opana, OxyContin, Desoxyn, Ritalin. Now I was on my way to River Oaks, an addiction-treatment center, where I would spend the next forty-five days. River Oaks was on a gated campus, surrounded by a small forest with trails running through it. I was withdrawing from heroin and benzodiazepines at the time, and mornings were the worst: I woke in the dark at 6 A. I promised anyone who met me that I would die, simply die, of withdrawal; when, on day twenty-three, I had a seizure, I thought, Yes, I am really dying, but then I lived. We had access to dietitians and personal trainers, yoga sessions and intravenous vitamin therapy; pharmacogenetic testing determined which medications worked best with our DNA. When it was time to leave, I had become so comfortable that I walked the grounds barefoot, making laps around the Serenity Trail, feeding apples to the horses by the stables where we met for equine therapy, on Wednesdays. I made a few friends there, but we soon dispersed, some to Baltimore, others to New Jersey, one to wake up in the morning to find that his girlfriend had died beside him in the night, high on heroin, having aspirated her vomit. The rest of us—those without jobs, school, or families calling us home—moved into sober homes in South Florida. South Florida—the densely populated area comprising Palm Beach, Broward, and Miami-Dade counties—has four hundred and seventy-eight licensed facilities for drug treatment. There are more treatment centers than public elementary schools. For the next few months, I moved between recovery and relapse, cycling through the Twelve Steps, then going off in search of drugs. I would walk out of group therapy in a huff and then, days later, check into another detox for whatever length of time insurance would cover. I spent the month of May in Delray Beach, in an antebellum-style mansion with Spanish moss hanging from the trees in the front yard, spiral staircases indoors, and large white vitrified tiles in the dining room. This was a partial-hospitalization program, where people are sent after they detox from a relapse. We recited the Serenity Prayer before we ate, pleased by the way we felt ourselves rising to the occasion. Many of us were not yet twenty-five, but we had lived in a disorderly way, and because of that we felt ancient, as if we had survived something, which we had. It was only honorable that we should try to live well. In June, I found myself living, for the second time, in an old residential motel in Boca Raton, which had been converted into apartments for drug addicts and alcoholics passing between rehab and polite society. The apartments were on a street called West Camino Real; nearby, houses sell for about a million dollars and even the grocery store offers valet parking. My building was tiny, spare, and utilitarian. Each day, we were required to attend four hours of group therapy; each week, we had our urine tested for drugs. Both of these services were billable to insurance. In our spare time, in the desolating heat, we would sit at a picnic table in the parking lot to chain-smoke and drink Red Bull and play spades or poker. I smoked forty cigarettes a day—Marlboro Red s, the long ones. It was easy to get lost, to lose track, to lose time between the weeks and days and palm-tree afternoons. News of relapses, of overdoses and deaths, was always breaking, and so the emergencies that one day held us rapt were soon supplanted by new ones. We spoke about emotions, trauma, illness, about whether we had succumbed to influences, experiments, pressures—or whether we had been born this way. Perhaps the source of our addiction lay deep in our genes, beyond poppies or cartels or Big Pharma. Or perhaps we had simply made bad choices. Some names have been changed. She moved to South Florida the week after I did, at the age of nineteen, after twelve trips to detox in the previous five months. Now she says that she left her sober housing the night before, with her boyfriend, Dylan, and that since then they have been shooting heroin in his car, where, she supposes, they live now. But the dope was so good, she says, that she had to use only a quarter of her usual dose to wreck herself. She reminds me that I wish I were on drugs right now. This community began to take shape in the late sixties, when a doctor, a pharmacist, and a police officer—Frank Kucera, Bill Plum, and Bill Cochran—assembled the Drug Abuse Foundation, a small group of volunteers concerned with drug-use-prevention efforts. In the following years, the main substances abused were alcohol, cocaine, barbiturates, and amphetamines—Quaaludes, Miltown, Dexamyl, Dexedrine. Several new halfway houses opened, funded by the county, but many of their rehabilitation methods were experimental, such as forcing residents to wear a sign around their neck if they broke a house rule. Still, South Florida appealed to private residential-rehab facilities, which developed outpatient treatment plans of their own. Those meeting rooms were filled with individuals who were coming from all over the world to live in recovery residences, and it flourished—it just grew—and people were doing really well. This method, which came to be called the Florida Model, offered a cheaper alternative to residential rehab programs—such as Silver Hill Hospital, in Connecticut, or Betty Ford Center Drug Rehab, in California—where patients lived on large campuses. In the Florida Model, after detox and inpatient rehab, clients would move into recovery residences, or sober homes, and attend outpatient therapy. Sober living presented an appealing option for young people in recovery, who might have criminal records or bad credit and could not afford, or manage, to live alone. These were people for whom structure and a community of peers meant the possibility of a home. Though each house had its own rules and standards, the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous were universal. And so it went, for some thirty years, that parents would send their prodigal sons or daughters—whenever their lives had become untethered in New Jersey or Philadelphia or Ohio—to Florida, first to dry out in treatment, and then to live in a sober home. They would make new friends; find low-stress recovery jobs, waiting tables in diners, folding jeans at the mall, or answering phones at a call center; and subscribe to the Twelve Steps. Eventually, having survived their addictions into adulthood, many of them would return home. Others would remain in Florida and open sober homes of their own. I came to Florida after a long stretch of lunacy in Brooklyn, where I was living in a building beside the J train, its tracks parallel to my window. I would sit on my air mattress with my heart gone arrhythmic and look at the trains going by. The mattress, my only furniture, was held together with electrical tape, which covered the perforations made by syringes and corkscrews and smoldering cigarettes that often fell into bed with me. Every day, I injected at least a bundle of heroin—ten bags, each weighing around a tenth of a gram. If the dope was cut with fentanyl, I might overdose after two bags. I woke up in the hospital, pulled the I. I started smoking crack cocaine to save money, although it never quite worked out that way, and soon I was dissolving it in vinegar and injecting it as well. There was something sacramental about preparing a shot and hitting a vein, then pulling the plunger back to catch a plume of blood blooming into clouds of crimson. Cocaine psychosis led me to Bellevue, then to a homeless shelter, then to begging on the street in Greenwich Village. I felt wretched for implicating my mother in my situation. What had she done to deserve this? My life scared me; it scared me to death. But, even then, I knew that it is useless to talk about rock bottom so early in recovery: no matter how bad things get, they might well get worse. And then they get better, and then worse again, and I seemed to have a high tolerance for suffering. There was the week I spent on dialysis, the eight times I went to rehab, the spring I got some reading done in solitary confinement, and all the times I almost died on the street. As the biracial child of a single mother, I was an anomaly in the suburbs of Raleigh, North Carolina. We were, for a long time, one of the only families of color in the area that we knew of. My mother conceived me when she was thirty-eight, using sperm from an anonymous donor. My mother, who is black, chose a donor who was white—Italian and Irish, according to documents—and so my childhood seemed to evolve from an odd genetic question. I was often lonely and alone and filled with hate. Nothing gratified me. There was always this matter of time happening, this question of how to spend it. On weekends, when my mother was not at work, she lay in bed in the dark, exhausted, in her fifties, raising a teen-age boy. In another room, I, too, lay in the dark. That was my impression of family life and of adulthood; I supposed that, in the future, instead of going to school, I would have some sort of job, and on the weekend I would sleep. My outlook was myopic, given the example my mother had set. When she was in graduate school, in the early eighties, a teacher told her, with racial condescension, that she might find doctoral work too rigorous. She was the only black student in her classes, and she ultimately earned a Ph. She had lived fully, embracing a life of work in public education, and of great love. She had dimensions, I see now—but I did not see them then. My mother lamented my not having a male influence, and so forced me to play soccer and baseball and basketball. I sang soprano in the Raleigh Boychoir, until my voice changed. I had friends, even best friends, at times. But the feeling with which I returned home, always, was of being alone. I took what felt like every medication for A. In high school, I was not a nerd and I was not a jock, and although I was a junkie, I was not quite a burnout—I did not smoke pot or even cigarettes. I played the clarinet in the school band, but I was too lazy to march at football games. I was openly gay, often pugnaciously so, and my failure to make an earnest bid for acceptance only alienated me from my peers. The first time I did heroin I was sixteen. My friend Rebecca, a senior at a nearby high school, came over to my house. After getting into college, Rebecca had started using heroin every day. I was a sophomore and already taking amphetamines and cocaine; wiry and enervated, I was ready to come down. One Friday afternoon in the spring, she brought over some dope. Rebecca shot up. Taking a syringe from a bundle of about thirty held together with rubber bands, she gripped the rig between her teeth and untied a blue ribbon from her hair. After wrapping the ribbon around her bicep, she pulled it taut, and, holding the syringe like a pencil, she lowered it into a vein in the crook of her elbow. I was squatting on the floor, staring up at her; as the sun came through the bay window behind her, illuminating dust, she looked beautiful. During my senior year, I worked at a bar downtown, to afford the heroin that I used every day. I made about two hundred dollars a night and spent it all on dope. By the time I got to college, in New York, my drug use had escaped control. Only by dint of her emphatic competence was I able to access the kind of help I needed. We had our differences, my mother and I. We were both only children, raised by single mothers. We were both alone in the world, it sometimes seemed, but we were doing it together, whatever it was. For the first eight months that I lived in Florida, as I hopped from one detox clinic or sober home to another, I had no notion of the industry in which I was enmeshed. In , there were approximately seven thousand treatment facilities for substance abuse in the U. The Affordable Care Act, which became law in , has changed the landscape of addiction treatment, requiring that insurance companies cover services for substance-use disorders. Roughly sixty-two million people received new access to mental-health and behavioral care. Relapses are common among addicts, even when things seem to be going well, and treatment is expensive. A month of inpatient rehab can cost tens of thousands of dollars; in the past, this kind of treatment was mostly limited to the wealthy. The A. Because there is no federal licensing framework for addiction-treatment centers, insurance companies trust the facilities to abide by state regulations. But little in medicine is as ill defined or as anecdotal as addiction treatment. Most rehab centers are not hospitals. The counsellors are often not psychologists. The medical directors can submit instructions from a distance. A few years ago, as the opioid crisis became the heroin crisis—now we keep it simple by calling it the overdose crisis—a variety of fentanyl analogues, with names like carfentanil and acetylfentanyl, began augmenting heroin to poisonous degrees. The elevated potency of street drugs meant that relapses were frequently deadly. In , seventeen thousand Americans died from drug overdoses. In , more than seventy thousand did—a death count exceeding that of the height of the AIDS crisis. People who had come to South Florida for recovery were suddenly dying en masse. Like any industry in a period of explosive growth, addiction treatment attracted wrongdoers. Insurance fraud became rampant. Traditionally, urinalysis has been performed using test strips; a typical dipstick test, which changes color to reflect a positive or negative reading, costs some five dollars and can be done anywhere. Sending urine to a laboratory, which uses gas or liquid chromatography to render results more accurately, can cost thousands of dollars. In , Frank Cid, an owner of high-end treatment programs in South Florida, opened his own lab. He recruited detox centers to send him urine—they would be reimbursed by insurance companies for collecting it, and he would bill the companies for testing it. The deal ultimately fell through. Soon, many of the facilities that had been sending urine to Cid began to open labs of their own. Sober-home owners quickly followed suit. It was an extraordinarily lucrative business. A patient tested three times a week could generate twenty thousand dollars a month. According to an indictment, Kenneth Bailynson, the owner of Good Decisions, had opened his own lab and taken over the sprawling Green Terrace Condominiums, where he housed dozens of recovering addicts; he used the clubhouse by the pool as a collection site for urine. His lawyer declined to comment. As the urinalysis business grew, owners of sober-living facilities started competing with one another for patients. They began to lure addicts with incentives: an iPhone, perhaps, or a gift card for groceries every week, or reduced or free rent. Brochures touted properties on the Intracoastal Waterway. The kids who arrived for treatment soon saw that their insurance policies could be used as expense accounts for detox or sober living. Depending on the number of paid referrals, patient-brokering can be a first-degree felony in Florida, resulting in a sentence of up to thirty years in prison. But the practice remains common. Many patient-brokers pick up young drug users from the street. The castaways of treatment centers are easy to spot as they walk around, their bedrolls wrapped in black garbage bags, wild and disconsolate from loitering all day in the heat. Last August, Haley went missing. I had met her in , during Hurricane Irma. The owner of our sober home had moved us to an empty house, on a golf course in Coral Springs, which was supposed to be weatherproof. As the palm fronds lashed in the wind, we became friends. Haley was tall and blond, and had voted for Donald Trump in , but the MeToo movement caused her to consider feminism. When she disappeared, she had been dating a patient-broker named Greg. She lived with him in a sober home in West Palm Beach. In practice, it was a flophouse, with seven rooms housing twenty people. The landlord worked at a treatment center nearby, where he sent tenants who relapsed—this happened all the time, because he funded much of their drug use. Haley would tag along with Greg until 7 A. Haley described how Greg and other patient-brokers would entice addicts. She trundled through strange neighborhoods, smoking crack and seeing stars amid the slums of Boynton Beach, and we all wondered where she was. The Americans with Disabilities Act treats those enrolled in recovery programs as a protected class, and the Fair Housing Act mandates that neighborhoods make accommodations for people in recovery who want to live together. This makes it difficult to regulate sober homes. The Florida Association of Recovery Residences, a nonprofit, is the only organization that is designated by the D. Yet FARR has only four field assessors. Federal authorities charged a hundred and twenty-four people in South Florida alone, and dozens of sober homes were shut down. No facilities certified by FARR were implicated in the crackdown. In , Kenny Chatman, who ran several treatment centers and sober homes, went on trial for money laundering, sex trafficking, and insurance fraud. He pleaded guilty, after evidence surfaced that he had held female clients hostage for sex work. I thought I was going to die there. Chatman, who was sentenced to twenty-seven years in prison, owes millions of dollars in damages to thirty-two insurance companies, including eight million dollars to Blue Cross Blue Shield. There are signs that the local and federal crackdowns have had some effect. Between and , opioid deaths in Palm Beach County fell by forty per cent, and the number of reported overdoses in Delray Beach have fallen to an average of seventeen a month. According to Woods, about half the sober homes in Delray Beach have closed. In April, the managers of the facilities where I stayed in Delray Beach and Boca Raton were arrested on charges of patient-brokering, and both residences have since closed. But, as the treatment industry has retreated in Florida, it has expanded in other states. California, home to the so-called Rehab Riviera, around Los Angeles, is estimated to have at least two thousand sober homes. The Florida Shuffle is not just about moving from one bad place to another; it is about doing so without aim or sense of place. It is about people who, at the end of a twenty-eight-day course of rehab, or a stint at detox, find that they have nowhere to go. It is about never growing up. The Florida Shuffle becomes a way of moving through life, and the only lens through which one understands it. Last winter, I was living in a sober home on the border of Pompano Beach and Deerfield Beach—a few streets down from the motorcycle dealership where the rapper XXXTentacion was shot to death, the previous June. When I moved in, the oldest tenant in the house had lived there for six years, the house manager for two, another tenant for ten months. This stability is rare. But then, between August and March, twenty-one people passed through the house, settling in for a few days or weeks before they relapsed, or moved elsewhere, or died. My friend Brandon, who had moved into the house in August, left one night in February without telling anyone. He visited my room to ask for a cigarette before leaving, and I wonder now what was crossing his mind as he stood there, leaning against the doorframe. Later that night, I walked down the street to 7-Eleven to look for him. People often wound up there, by the dumpsters—always the dumpsters, an unofficial annex of the departed. None of my housemates would come with me; they sat looking at their phones, and then at the TV, sighing, having washed their hands of Brandon. Brandon was diabetic, and had never been able to manage his disease—that is, even when he could afford insulin, along with the ancillary drugs that he required for neuropathy. Around 1 A. He was drinking stolen red wine behind a Target, where he was planning to sleep before going to work at Panera Bread, in the morning. There was a spigot in the alley where the freight trucks dock, a benefit of choosing Target over Walmart. A few days later, Eddie, a housemate who had been clean since July, overdosed and died in a motel room in Deerfield Beach. He had left in frustration on a Saturday and was dead by Wednesday. I can still see him bounding around corners—his forehead framed in grease and dirt and sweat from the garage where he worked, his tattoos beginning in a sleeve around his neck and ending at his ankles. They had set him back something like twenty thousand dollars through the years, he said. It robs you of something, after a while, to see this sort of thing happen, over and over. I wonder, if I had the opportunity to look on my dead friends one last time—if I could see them as they were in the end, as pale bodies—whether that might startle me into something like closure. Instead, I see them on Facebook, the dead I have known and still know. I have become obsessed with death; I see it everywhere. He was heading to a liquor store that sold cheap margaritas on Fridays. He said he was going to San Diego soon, to live in a motel where the rooms cost twenty-seven dollars a night. The sky was orange and roseate as we parted. He declines, saying that he is coming up on a sobriety anniversary, of six months or whatever, and, after all, he is driving. I am aghast. Soon we are shooting up in the car, taking turns with the syringe. The tip is frayed and curling backward, so that it snags against the flesh; removing the needle reminds me of excising an ingrown hair. In my eight years of intravenous drug use, it is the first time I have shared a syringe. Never again, I tell myself, but, a few months later, I do. End-stage addiction forecloses novelty. Somehow, we are on the beach, and I wish we were young and fun, svelte and bronze, and maybe I even say this aloud. I wish I liked the beach. If we minded how we lived, the consideration was mild. If we worried that our sober home might evict us for using drugs, we also understood that we could fall back into detox, where we could watch Netflix over Gatorade and Valium, and then have chicken cordon bleu in bed. Then we could transfer to yet another treatment center or sober home. Beyond one place, another like it stood, and whether or not we said goodbye seemed not to matter—we trusted that we would meet again. So long as we were not dead, we were fine, there was hope—we would make it, after all. Save this story Save this story. Cartoon by George Booth. Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon. Link copied. Cartoon by Carolita Johnson. Cartoon by Harry Bliss. Colton Wooten is a writer living in Raleigh. This is his first piece for The New Yorker. More: Addiction Drugs Florida Rehab. Personal History. Notes on crack cocaine, commitment, Rick Ross, and my mother. By Mitchell S. A Reporter at Large. By Patrick Radden Keefe. Annals of Obsession. What's Behind the Crystal-Healing Phenomenon? Some might take them for a passing fad, but crystals have a deep history in religion and spirituality, as well as drawing our fascination. The Lede. Treating political violence as a contagion could help safeguard the future of American democracy. By Michael Luo. Annals of Psychology. By Eren Orbey. Letter from Pennsylvania. By Eyal Press. On the trail, Emhoff has made loving music, and his wife, look like a campaign in itself. By Sarah Larson. The Political Scene. Three months ago, the Vice-President was fighting for respect in Washington. Can she defy her doubters—and end the Trump era? By Evan Osnos. Outrage and Paranoia After Hurricane Helene. These are significant things in North Carolina, where Trump and Harris are within a point of each other. By Jessica Pishko. The Relentlessness of Florida Hurricane Season. For residents still picking through the destruction caused by Hurricane Helene, the arrival of Milton was met with anxiety, horror, and, in some cases, weary acceptance. By Carolyn Kormann. Don Luigi Ciotti leads an anti-Mafia organization, and for decades he has run a secret operation that liberates women from the criminal underworld. News Desk. The Pursuit of Gender Justice. For the first time, the International Criminal Court has concluded that an armed group specifically targeted women. By Jina Moore Ngarambe.

Coral Bay buying Heroin