Sometimes I use this space to talk about the cover story. But this week, I want to tell you about the photos in the cover story, taken by staff photographer Michael T. Regan.
Or more specifically: the photos we didn't run.
Ideally, we like to send Mike out with our writers when they're reporting the story for a one-two-punch effect; the writer reports, and Mike snaps. Sometimes, like this week, it isn't possible. Writer David S. Barry spent months hanging out with cops and the affluent families of kids who have OD'd in Bucks County. The result is "Horse Country," a disturbing portrait that traces the trail of lethally potent heroin from drug corners in North Philly to the allegedly "safe" streets of bucolic Bucks County. It's not clear what's worse: the superpotent blend of heroin that high school kids are snorting instead of injecting, or the extreme denial of some parents and school officials, who seem to take a "what happens in North Philly stays in North Philly" attitude.
Mike wasn't able to tag along with Barry for his reporting, so he decided to chronicle one specific portion of the story: hanging out with a narc squad to watch suburban drug consumers make their way to the Badlands to score.
He spent Thursday night hanging out under the El along with the Philly PD's narc squad. And he wasn't disappointed. In the cover story, you'll see the surprised face of a guy who drove down to Somerset to score a little horse. On the cover, you can see the $10 bags of "Hellraiser" — the brand of that particular block — in a narc's hand.
There are some photos, however, we decided not to run. Not because we censored ourselves, but because they didn't fit in with Barry's story.
Still, they represent a story that needs to be told.
During the shoot, as dusk was falling on the river wards, Mike watched three people poke their way out of weeds and bushes near a Rite Aid parking lot. One was Kelly, a 21-year-old girl who said she was originally from Delaware County.
"How long you been using?" Mike asked her.
"A year and a half."
"Where do you live?"
"In the neighborhood."
The next day, Mike showed us the photos he'd taken of Kelly. At first glance you'd think: pretty girl. But the camera reveals the sad truth. Her face shows the abuse of her three-bag-a-day heroin habit. Her mouth is a graveyard. Her eyes, flat.
"You gotta quit," Mike told her.
"I know."
"You don't look good."
"Aw, really?" She seemed sad.
"You could be a pretty girl if you quit this shit."
"Well, yeah ..."
Kelly supports her $30-a-day habit any way she can. One of Kelly's friends — a former running back at a local high school — needs to come up with $70 a day just to feed his jones.
Why hang out near the El? It's a good spot strategically, the narc squad told Mike. Cops find you, you can race up the stairs, ditch the bag, maybe even hop a train if you're lucky.
Also, it's not far from an abandoned lot where Kelly and her friends shoot up. "There were bags and needles everywhere," says Mike. "I was wearing sneakers — but I should have been wearing combat boots. A pair of Adidas doesn't protect you. There were different bags everywhere — heroin, crack. Random pieces of furniture, like a table, which people would carve their names on. All of the aftermath of the deed."
You can see that photo, a grotesque parody of a middle-class family living room, at the top of this column. (Click on it to enlarge.)
We decided not to show you Kelly. She didn't belong with the cover, and Mike chose the shooting galley for his "Angle" column.
But Kelly's photo stayed with me all weekend, as my wife and I took the kids to — yeah, you guessed it — Bucks County to look at pumpkins and ride in the back of a hay truck. October stuff. You can wrap your arm around your kid, keep them safe from the cold, but you have to wonder: At what point do you risk losing them?
At what point did Kelly's parents lose her?
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