Cries for Carteret: My Shot at Redemption

By Chad Hollamon

Being investigated by the federal government for drug and money crimes didn't deter Chad from continuing his criminal enterprise. In fact, it emboldened him as he dared the DEA and FBI to catch him. Being arrested by those same federal agents didn't force Chad to slow his life down. And being sentenced to forty years in prison didn't humble him. Not one bit. From a jail cell, he continued selling narcotics and even smuggling drugs into one of the most secure federal penitentiaries.

For years, Chad's life spiraled out of control as he witnessed drug overdoses, nonsensical violence, suicides, and murders. His life seemed destined for a negative outcome, until one conversation with a mass murderer completely changed his outlook on life. That singular conversation set off a chain of events that would ultimately lead Chad to a lifetime of atonement and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885054157

Book preview

Prologue

Summer of 2003

I lay there on the king-size mattress, almost lifeless, when a ringing cell phone startled me out of whatever dream I found myself in. It rang a few more times before I finally picked it off the nightstand. With the bright July morning sun beaming into my bedroom, I glanced at the caller ID, telling me that the other person on the other end was calling from a 305 area code. I quickly sat up, realizing it was Atari, my Ecstasy supplier from Miami, Florida.

I hit the green Talk button. Before I could get a word out, Atari spoke in his Middle Eastern accent. Chaddy Boy. Good morning to you, my brother.

Atari, I answered. Then I asked, Got any good news?

Without wasting my time or his own, Atari spoke in a code we had adopted while conducting business. The car is gassed up and ready to go. See ya at the third spot. The third spot represented a Hooters restaurant in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. The car being gassed up meant he had the fifty thousand Ecstasy pills I intended to purchase from him.

Good to hear. When should I be there?

More code found its way into the conversation. I have to walk the dog first. How about right after that? We used types of animals for more secrecy in case one of our phones was tapped. The first letter of dog is D. D is the fourth letter of the alphabet. So this meant to be at the arranged meeting spot at four o’clock.

See you then, man, I replied before hanging up.

After struggling to get out of bed and shaking off the remnants of sleep, I put the rest of my clothes on and made way to the kitchen at 308 Loder Avenue in Wilmington, North Carolina. Ingesting coffee would allow me to get my bearings straight. Having the ability to think more clearly would be priority number one before the day went any further.

After a few gulps of coffee, the drowsy effects from the night’s sleep began to dissipate. I then went to several stash positions within the one-story home until $250,000 was procured. Next, I counted, recounted, ironed, and stacked the money in $10,000 increments on my bed. Once that task completed, I crammed the $250,000 in a shopping bag that brandished the logo of a local store.

A daily morning ritual of mine consisted of eating at the Sawmill restaurant near my home in Monkey Junction. That summer day would be no different. After calling an associate to meet me there, I grabbed my keys and took the short five-minute drive in my silver Dodge Viper. By the time I arrived at the eatery, it would be empty except my associate already seated at our usual booth. The associate was an old friend of mine that happened to be a county sheriff deputy that moonlighted as a spotter/lookout for me while I continued with my criminal enterprise during my drug transactions.

After sitting across from my associate, Charles, the restaurant’s owner greeted us and took our food order. When Charles departed for the kitchen, my associate and I set up a plan for that day. Details were important for the trip to Myrtle Beach. Contingency plans were always made in case things went wrong. We went back and forth, coming up with what if scenarios. Finally, we agreed to meet at a local mall around 3:00 p.m., where I kept a rental car parked for such occasions. From the mall, he would follow me to the Hooters restaurant. From Hooters, everything would be predicated on Atari’s actions and demands. Atari never kept the Ecstasy pills on him. He stashed them nearby and would only tell me where they were in person after I gave him the money.

A waitress dropped off our food, departing as quick as she had arrived. We had a few hours to spare so we were not in a rush to leave. We sat there talking about current news and other happenings in our geographical area. After our meeting, I returned home with some time to kill before I had to get on the road. I checked all my turn signals and lights on another vehicle to make sure they were in working order. I also recounted the stacks of money. At that time, I always wore a bandana on top of my head. However, when I drove with large amounts of money or drugs, I usually cleaned up to make it look like I was some college kid or young professional instead of the drug dealer that I was. I departed 308 Loder Avenue around 2:00 p.m., with the $250,000 resting on the passenger seat. The mall was only a fifteen-minute drive.

I purposely parked on the opposite side of the shopping center of where the rental car sat. The intent or theory was to thwart anyone from following me. After shutting down my personal car, I grabbed the shopping bag of money and walked through the entrance of the mall. I zigzagged to the opposite exit, where a Lincoln Navigator sat in the parking lot. I stepped in while my associate’s gold Honda Accord parked beside me. For $300 an hour, his job started at that point. After pulling out of the mall, he drove a few car lengths behind me. In minutes, we made way across the old Wilmington Bridge and onto Highway 17 north, a direct route to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

The one-hour commute proved to be as boring as previous drug runs. That relieved me because I knew the federal government had assigned a task force to watch me, so I had to be extra cautious. With meticulous planning I wanted to outsmart them. Midway, I looked up to see if there were any helicopters flying overhead. Nothing. Ten minutes before 4:00 p.m. we trekked across the North Carolina-South Carolina border. We were going to be on time. I always proved to be punctual and not once deviated from the original plan. Getting closer to the Hooters restaurant, I phoned my associate, instructing him to drive ahead of me, where I told him to circle the parking lot in search of anything amiss. No matter how many times I had done this, it never got less frantic. I learned to keep my guard up when a large amount of money was involved.

After all was clear, I pulled the Lincoln Navigator into the parking lot, where I stopped. I said a half-ass prayer that all would go well. Meanwhile, the spotter parked a few places down to watch the money while I met with Atari. Next, I strolled inside where I passed female employees wearing the signature orange shorts and white midriff shirt. Soon thereafter, Atari noticed me. He stood up from a nearby table and waved me over. I ambled over to him, where he greeted me in his thick accent.

Chaddy Boy, so good to see you.

We shook hands. I replied, Good to see you too.

Both Atari and I had only known one another for about a year at that point, but we acted as if we were old friends. After pleasantries we found our seats and ordered food and beer from one of the waitresses. Next, we proceeded to make small talk that warmed us up to business. Usually we spoke of our families, cars, or even the stock market. In my opinion, we didn’t care about either topic. We simply did this to take the edge off what we were about to do. Getting arrested in a substantial drug transaction would put us in prison for many, many years.

The food eventually made it to our table, but we only ate a few bites. Between more lighthearted conversation, Atari took the next step. He slid a piece of paper across the table he had in his hand. He added, Chaddy Boy, in that paper is the key along with the name of the hotel. In room number 312 you will find some blue dolphin souvenirs under the couch. You will satisfy many people.

Taking the hint, I placed both key and paper in my pocket and then put a $100 bill on the table to cover the costs of food and beer. Next, we stood, making way for the exits. Outside, the heat reflected off the cement. My vision and hearing seemed to be keener than ever. Guess when high stakes are involved, senses are put on high alert. Both eyes swept the parking lot, in search for anything out of place. Everything appeared to be ordinary as we stepped closer to the parked Lincoln Navigator. I opened the door and reached across the seat for the sporting goods bag. I handed it over to Atari with a big smile.

I commented, Two dollars and fifty cents, counted and recounted.

He took it from my grasp and said, Thank you, Chaddy Boy. Say hello to Wendy and the new baby for me. I’ll see you in a week or two.

After patting me on the shoulder, Atari disappeared behind some cars. The job of the associate was to follow the money in case the pills were not where they were supposed to be. My job now was to get to that hotel room quick as possible. I never had an issue with Atari ripping me off, but all it would take was one time to set me back hundreds of thousands of dollars.

I drove as fast as I possibly could down Highway 17 south. The hotel had a prominent name, so I knew exactly where it was located. My emotions were a roller coaster. Anxious, worried, ecstatic, concerned, and a bit nervous. One of three things were about to happen. Number one: the drugs not being there. Number two: getting arrested. Number three: getting this off without a hitch and profiting over $100,000 in just a few short days. I was hoping for the latter. Either scenario, I parked the Navigator and beelined for the closest elevator.

Before getting on, two elderly couples holding tennis rackets beat me inside. I got on after them, exchanging greetings. The number 4 button was lit up so naturally I took it to be their floor. I hit number 3 button. The door closed as we stood in an uncomfortable silence. A sense of claustrophobia took over me. I half expected the grandparents to pull guns out on me, telling me I was under arrest. Nervously, I smiled while checking out my own reflection on the stainless steel door. After an eternity, the elevator stopped, and the door opened. Quickly I made way for room 312.

Tunnel vision succumbed, and everything turned into a blur. This was it. Moment of truth. With deep breaths, I slowly placed the key in its slot. The locking mechanism clicked. I slowly opened the door, exposing me to whoever or whatever was inside. No cops, no gunshots. Just an empty hotel room. Scurrying to the couch, I lifted it with one arm and instantly used my other hand to reach for the contents of a bag. I felt it and snatched it out while setting the couch back down. Inside the bag were fifty thousand blue dolphin Ecstasy pills. Street value of just under $2,000,000. This was going to put a shitload of money in my dealer’s pockets. I had already counted my profit.

I reached for my cell phone and called my associate. After answering, he’s told, Meet me at the Hampton Inn of Kings Highway. All is good this way.

I darted out of the room, taking the stairs this time. I wasn’t in any mood to have a conversation with grandparents playing tennis. Taking three or four stairs at a time, I jumped in the Navigator and made way for the Hampton Inn. Ten minutes later, I pulled in the hotel with my associate leaning on his car. I got out, and we both smiled ear to ear. The hard part done, we now had to make our way safely back to Wilmington. This time I were to follow him in case of any roadblocks were ahead. For safety measures, I checked all my lights and turn signals. I’d hate to get pulled over because of a busted taillight or something to that nature.

Both of our vehicles pulled out onto the Grand Strand Highway. Neither of us were aware of the federal agents watching us from cars and by helicopter. As we blended in with the heavy traffic, the federal government rode in front of us, behind us, and over us. We were being photographed and recorded. Still, we crossed the border and inched closer to Wilmington.

Inside my own vehicle I carried on with a little tradition. I ingested two of the pills to test their authenticity. In just a few short minutes, the effects of the Ecstasy began to creep up on me. I suddenly developed goose bumps and that first euphoric feeling that comes with the intent of the drug overwhelmed me. Everything became crystal clear, who would get what and how many. What I didn’t know was the extent of the federal government’s investigation and the case they were building against me. I had no clue to the conspiracy laws the federal government went by. I knew they were on me, but I didn’t know the extent of the trouble in front of me. Boy, was I in for a surprise. Chaddy Boy’s days of freedom were numbered.

Chapter 1

2004

Chained and shackled, I stood beside my attorney in the middle of a crowded federal courtroom. Wearing a hideous orange-and-white striped jumpsuit, I felt more like a circus clown rather than a defendant facing a possible life sentence. Twenty feet in front of me, Judge Terrance Boyle spoke legal mumbo jumbo from his pulpit. I couldn’t really interpret what was being said. I only knew my fate had been sealed. My twenty-six-year-old self would be spending decades in a federal prison. I just wanted this charade to end. I couldn’t take back all the things I did. I couldn’t apologize for every single law I broke. I only knew a long road of consequences lay ahead and had, in essence, fucked up my life.

Judge Boyle continued the formality of due process I’m given as an inmate. I didn’t care about all that. Every other right was stripped from me, so why in the world were the courts obligated to sentence me justly? The only silver lining of this day was being afforded the opportunity to step outside my small cell for a few hours. And the only difference between yesterday and this day was that the US marshals were going to take custody of me from the county jails. The DEA, FBI, and other government agencies made sure that I would be going to federal prison for a long time. I had done too much and gotten away time and time again. In their eyes maximum punishment is the preferred and only outcome.

Something about a federal courtroom being intimidating as any endeavor I ever experienced. As my head swiveled side to side to observe my surroundings, for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why I was so nervous. I had been in multiple high-speed chases, been shot at, and did large-scale drug deals with unsavory characters and never remember being nervous as I was in that federal courtroom. Quite possibly before incarceration, I had this false sense of security whereas in that courtroom, I had zero control of any circumstance. Judge Boyle would be the butcher, leaving me to be the docile cow awaiting to be slaughtered. My sentencing guidelines were between thirty years and life in prison. At that time, it was all the same. Bring it on. I just wanted it to be over with as fast as possible.

The prosecutor took his turn speaking. The man said so many damn unflattering things about me and my codefendants I started agreeing that I should never get out. He laid it on thick, making me seem more devious to the judge and anyone listening for that matter. The prosecutor even paused for good effect after each accusation, allowing the silence to linger in the air a few seconds. I’ll admit half of it was true. The other half concocted or embellished by the federal government. I did everything I could to bite my lip. Oh, I would have my turn to screw things up in a minute. But right at that moment, I had to hear a barrage of attacks on my character without saying a word.

To make matters worse, my family sat somewhere in the aisles behind me. Mom, Dad, brother, cousin, Grandmother, the mother of my child, Wendy, and my six-month old daughter named Zoey were there to support me. Each one heard terrible things said about me. I didn’t want them to be there. Sure, I wanted their support, but deep down, I knew this to be a shitshow to the highest degree. I was a piñata, and the prosecutor whacked me time after time. My family were innocent bystanders to this party gone wrong.

My lawyer took the floor. With everyone’s attention, he attempted to defend me. I hadn’t given him much ammunition in terms of making me look good. Maybe I gave him a bunch of money but no ammunition. He told the courts I graduated high school. I did. However, I had two senior years and graduated 254 out of a possible 254. My lawyer went on to say I attended college. True too, but I only went so I could sell more drugs. He also added that I was a small business owner. Yes, only to hide the proceeds of my illegal money. Damn! Maybe the prosecutor was right. Chad Hollamon proved to be a bane to society. I contributed absolutely nothing to my community. At that point I just wanted to crawl in a hole and never come out.

Suddenly, my lawyer stated that I wanted to address the courtroom. I did write a heartfelt speech the night before and intended to read it aloud. Now, I wasn’t sure it to be a great idea. I unfolded the scrap piece of paper and tried to address the court. I say tried because nothing but gibberish came out of my mouth. It was almost as if my mind was under the influence of the drugs I once sold. I could barely form a word much less a sentence. Nervousness constricted my airways and thoughts. Sweat ran down my arms profusely, thanks to the cheap roll-on deodorant the county jail sold me. Now, looking back, I was a handcuffed clown wearing an orange-and-white striped jumpsuit, sweating, and talking in tongues. Does it get lower than that?

The judge tore my speech to pieces by calling me out on my bullshit. He even began to ask me questions. Don’t think my answers did any good because the next words he bellowed out were, You got 480 months to humble yourself!

The courtroom gasped. Most drug dealers get five, ten, or even fifteen years in prison. Even the drug kingpins extradited from other countries usually only received thirty years. Not me. I quickly pulled out my mental calculator: 480 months divided by 12 equals forty years! I had to do forty years. I’d be sixty-six when I got out. Every single one of my charges were nonviolent, but still the judge gave me more prison time than many murderers or rapists. My future probation officer hadn’t even been born yet. And I’d have great-grandchildren by the time I got out in forty years.

I looked over at my attorney. I wondered if it was a bad time to ask for a partial refund. I then glanced over at the prosecution table. The agents grinned; they had their man. The head DEA agent gave me a little goodbye wave. Seeing the damage already done, my old temper visited the courtroom and went on display for everyone. I screamed something incoherently while attempting to charge in the agent’s direction. I made it all of two feet before the shackles hindered any progress, giving the US marshals time to tackle me. I was now convicted and had nothing to lose. At that point in my life, I had done everything else wrong. Why not make myself look like a complete ass? The result of me screaming and charging brought forth a result that would be no surprise.

To sum it up, chaos ensued. While being swarmed by the US marshals, my family began cursing at the prosecutor and agents. Papers and chairs strewn about. The judge looked on in awe at another mess I had created. The prosecutor lying on me didn’t bother me too much. Me getting a forty-year sentence didn’t get a reaction out of me. But what set me off was the head agent giving me a little wave. That shit pissed me off so bad. I struggled to get out of the marshals’ hold, kicking and screaming. Proved to be no use. They had me literally and figuratively. Not only did I lose my freedom that day, but I also lost my pride, my self-respect, and any dignity I had remaining. My life was an epic failure.

After being fully subdued, the marshals carried me toward the exits. Before going headfirst through the double doors, I took one last look at my family. Mom being corralled by agents. My cousin made to calm down. My brother frisked by the FBI and my eighty-year-old grandmother escorted out of the building by the US marshals. My heart sank. Due to my actions, my family would be hurt again. They were there to witness that bottom that I was now part of. I wanted desperately for that day to be a dream. But no, it was as real as real could be. The pied piper was being paid. The fat lady had sung. This cat’s nine lives were truly over. This clown banned from the circus. The next chapter of my life would be brimming full of consequences.

Two months later

February 13, 2005

Shackled waist down, with my hands constricted to rest on my stomach, I sat alone on a federal prison bus that resembled a Greyhound bus on the exterior. The interior, however, would be a far cry from any public transportation I had ever ridden in. Cages, bars, and security contraptions made it a prison on wheels. Two guards sat up front, separated by their own cage. Meanwhile, a third guard sat in his own enclosure toward the rear, holding a shotgun. There would be no mistaking this for a Greyhound bus ride by me or any of the other inmates on board.

The other inmates riding seemed content with their lot in life. Where they appeared confident and at ease, I was tense as could be. There was just this trepidation about the new world I was about to enter. All this anxiety built up. Two words kept on echoing in the back of my head: forty years. I had to endure forty years of imprisonment. I hadn’t even made it to prison, yet self-defeating thoughts consumed my consciousness. I didn’t know exactly what lay ahead of me. Only a long, arduous journey was in store mentally and physically.

When watching the news or movies before this negative predicament I found myself in, I had only heard about club fed or the comforts of a federal prison. Those days might have existed in the 1970s and 1980s, but those days were long gone. The federal inmate population exploded in the late 1990s, going from less than sixty thousand inmates to more than two hundred thousand in just a few short years, making most federal prisons overcrowded and improperly ran. Federal prisons also had different classifications. You had your camps, which consisted of inmates having cushy jobs on the outside of prison, with many privileges and educational opportunities. Inmates designated to camps tended to be sentenced to five years or less. All those places were a walk in the park.

A little higher up were your low-security prisons. The Bureau of Prisons (BOP) usually housed nonviolent criminals in lows with less than ten years remaining on their sentence. You couldn’t have a job outside the prison, but these facilities were usually cushy, and one wouldn’t see much violence there. Above that was your medium-security prisons. They were a mix of white-collar criminals, sex offenders, and some nonactive gang members. They could be dangerous but not on a large scale. Me, I was designated to a USP (United States Penitentiary). USP Big Sandy to be exact. Big Sandy at that time was the newest level 5 security prison in America, nestled in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky. USPs housed the worst of the worst and every violent gang one could think of. If one ever went to federal prison, they did not want to go to a USP anywhere. The volatility forced each administration to lock them down on a consistent basis. Violence was rampant.

Being designated to a USP represented more adversity for my not-so-certain future. Any comfort I had once known would be replaced by prison and whatever prison bred. The outcasts of society on that bus with me were now my peers. As the floor of the bus vibrated under my feet and the cold manacles dug into various parts of my skin, I viewed the snow-covered mountain landscape outside the bar-studded windows. I estimated that we were somewhere in Tennessee, traveling on Interstate 75 north. It would have been beautiful if it wasn’t for the fact that I was surrounded by hardened convicts and headed to a violent maximum-security federal prison. I studied each mountain as I thought about my family back home in North Carolina. They had no clue to where the BOP (Bureau of Prisons) transferred me to. I only found out myself early that morning when leaving the federal holdover in Atlanta. What lay in front of me would be something I had to face. I had to live or possibly die with the consequences.

It hit me that I had no identity. Not one soul on that bus knew me, nor did I know anyone occupying the seats. We were simply strangers sharing the same oxygen, wearing identical clothes, and riding on that miserable bus. I refrained from trying to be a social butterfly. Even though I had a million questions, I didn’t want to spark up a conversation with any of my new peers. And by the looks of all the hardened faces, I was sure any conversation would be futile. I’d have to figure everything out on my own. Another thought struck me. I wondered how old some of them were. Prison has a funny way of aging its denizens. One could appear to be twenty-five years old yet be fifty-five, while some twenty-five-year-olds looked fifty-five. I wondered how they perceived me. I had lost over thirty pounds in county jail due to my low-calorie diet, and my skin had paled from lack of vitamin D. And my hair unruly from the jailhouse haircuts. I must have looked like a man condemned to life in prison. Partly true.

The prison on wheels unexpectedly exited the interstate, forcing us passengers to brace ourselves with our feet on the floor and shoulders against the seats. The driver proceeded to take a winding two-lane road faster than any legal limit. This resulted in the convicts’ yelling expletives at the driver and the other two guards. This would be my first taste of inmate camaraderie. The mindset was us/convicts against them/guards. The verbal banter brought a smile to my face, something of a rarity in those days. The guards ran our lives, but our meaningless threats against them gave us temporary relief on that bus ride.

The bus drove farther and farther from civilization and toward our destination. I began contemplating how to do my time in prison. From sitting in county jails the previous eighteen months, that time had left a dreadful indelible mark on my soul. I had purposely visited medical services several occasions with the intent of getting on medication that would make me sleep. I fabricated stories to obtain high dosages. With the help of Wellbutrin and Seroquel, I slept twenty hours a day. Nothing productive occurred during that time. Also, while in the county jails, I continued using drugs, once considered suicide, attempted an escape, and had been in countless fights with both inmates and staff members. I basically wasted my life away.

Now that I was headed to prison, I wanted to do my time differently. Maybe even try some positive things, like going to church or taking classes. Down deep I knew I had to make personal changes. Problem was, I had no one to confide in or nobody to ask for advice. It would be years before any serious transformation took place on my behalf, and it would take witnessing multiple acts of violence for a process to even start. At that very moment, I was angry, full of frustration, and downright mad at the world. I falsely assumed my situation was everyone else’s fault and not mine. This train of thought would all change later during my sentence but not at that moment.

An hour later a fortresslike structure with gun towers came into view on the right side of the bus. Each inmate in front of me craned their necks to see the intimidating facility. My new home sat high up on a mountaintop outside the prison bus windows. Days of dumb luck and escaping consequences were a thing of the past. This wasn’t what I had in mind when selling drugs, but for some reason, I had the foresight that this day would ultimately come. No, I didn’t die a literal death. But figuratively, the life I once had would be dead and gone. I was no longer the wild and free-spirited Chad Eric Hollamon that was fun to be around. I was now Chad Eric Hollamon, federal inmate number 24006-056, convicted of distribution of drugs and money laundering as well as a failure in life.

After being led off the bus one by one, there would be no doubt who the bosses were. Sure, most of the convicts could beat up the average guard in a fight, but the guards carried an arsenal of weapons to discourage or prevent any bad behavior. When I stepped off the bus, I was escorted by two guards. I looked up at the towers where guns pointed down at me. The leg irons made every step painful as I was about to enter the belly of the prison. My stride resembled an old man’s pace, back bent over and all. Once taken inside the prison, I was unshackled and forced to strip naked. When they had me in my birthday suit, I had to hold out my arms, open my mouth, and finally instructed to turn around to bend over and cough. It felt degrading and demoralizing, to say the least, almost personally violated on many levels. I was then tossed another set of clothes, which I quickly threw on, no matter if they weren’t my size.

Over the course of two hours, each inmate was put through a screening process that included being interviewed by the medical staff and counselors. In one interview they asked me if I wanted protective custody. This basically meant that if an inmate feared for his life or safety, that individual would be housed in the SHU (special housing unit) or hole for protection. At the time of my arrival, Big Sandy was going through a power struggle with different gangs wanting to run the yard. Rumor had it that stabbings occurred daily, and even a few murders were committed every few weeks. When the counselor asked me if I wanted protective custody, I entertained the thought for half a second. Sure, the violence worried me, but truthfully, the idea of being alone didn’t seem too bad. At least if I was in the SHU, I would only have to deal with my own problems instead of other inmates. Months before, an older convict explained to me that an inmate had three choices in any situation. Fight, fuck, or flee. Flee was to run. Fuck was self-explanatory. Fight was to face whatever was in front of them. I ultimately chose fight in not wanting protective