Darkness to Light, page 17
I had arranged for two strippers to meet me there for an indefinite stay. I reached out to my drug contact and had a nice little stash of weed that would last me a few days. When the girls showed up, they had their own supply, so we laid everything out on a coffee table in neat little piles. Meanwhile, Khloé was frantically calling and texting me. She saw the charge and had a pretty good hunch what I was doing. I wasn’t yet hip to her new sleuthing method, so the idea of her finding me was the last thing on my mind.
The girls called other girls to come over to do blow and fuck, and I didn’t mind at all. Around midnight I heard a pounding on the door. I got up and looked through the peephole, shocked to see Khloé, Kris Jenner, and their security team in the hallway. They had asked the front desk what room I was in because that information didn’t show up on the credit card statement. The front desk gave them a key card to my room. There were naked girls everywhere. Khloé opened the door and pounced on the first girl she saw. That’s when her security bulldozed the door and rushed into my den of iniquity. Try to imagine the scene: Khloé’s beating the shit out of one of the girls who tried to protest. She’s dropping vicious blows all over the top of this girl’s head. Kris is screaming and her security guard jumps in and pulls Khloé off the beaten stripper. Khloé tells me to gather up my things, and the guards quickly remove all traces of the drugs. We sneak out of a back door of the Roosevelt and disappear into the night.
I first met Jamie Sangouthai at Christ the King. We were in the same grade, and he even had a stint on the end of the bench on the basketball team. He was quick with a joke and had that trademark Queens edge to him, and even though we weren’t that close in high school, I always liked him. I had rarely seen him since we graduated high school in 1997, but when the Heat advanced to the playoffs in 2004, my first time in the postseason, I wanted to celebrate by flying in my old friends from Queens. He had gone to school to study information technology and ended up working on Wall Street for a while.
Jamie was an Italian kid from Queens who may not have been long on talent, but he had a good heart and I trusted him. He had dreams of making it in Hollywood as a record producer, and it felt good to reconnect with him.
In 2008, during my time with the Lakers, Jamie moved out to Los Angeles to follow his show business dreams. I put him up in a two-thousand-square-foot loft next door to mine at the Roosevelt Lofts, four blocks from Staples Center. And I got him a nice car, which didn’t go over well with a lot of my friends who had been out here with me since the early Clippers days. It was understandable that guys might be a little territorial, but I just wanted everyone to get along and enjoy the ride we were on.
Jamie ended up starring on Khloé & Lamar as my best friend. My boys were pissed about that because he had just showed up. They knew he wasn’t my best friend, but the producers needed someone who was white. My longtime black friends hated that, while I just went along with it.
Another reason his presence didn’t go over well was because it quickly became apparent that Jamie had a penchant for hard drugs, which was a no-no with my immediate crew. I already had extensive experience with cocaine, but none of my friends knew about it at that point. And Jamie was hard-core. He used needles and was constantly on the lookout for heroin.
Even though he didn’t have much Hollywood know-how, he was ambitious, and I wanted to help. He had an idea for an upscale menswear clothing line called Take Out. I connected him with a few folks in fashion, and he networked as best he could. Several people told me not to go into business with him, but if I didn’t help him, who would?
I was also hell-bent on starting a record label, and thought Jamie, with his charm, street sense, and bravado, was the perfect fit to run it.
In November 2008, I had gone to the GQ Men of the Year party at the famed Chateau Marmont on Sunset Boulevard. It was a black-tie who’s who of famous faces all sipping drinks and nibbling on finger snacks on the garden terrace beneath the stars. I stood in a tight circle with Justin Timberlake, the rapper T.I., and Jay-Z as we made small talk and discussed what upcoming projects we had in the works.
“I got an idea for a record label I’m about to start up,” I told Jay-Z excitedly. He shook his head.
“Don’t do it,” he warned. “Put your money in real estate. All the money is taken here.”
T.I. started to laugh. “He ain’t lying, LO.”
I thought Jay was trying to play me because he didn’t want me creeping into his lane. New Yorkers were supposed to be supportive of one another, but Jay was dismissive. He wasn’t rude about it, but he was far from encouraging and didn’t offer any advice or connects.
I decided to go ahead with the project under my fledgling brand, Rich Soil, which I first started as a T-shirt line that represented growth and prosperity. I put Jamie in charge of the label, and he got to work right away. He hired a small staff, began meeting with A&R people, created marketing campaigns, and searched for unsigned acts online and in studios around town.
From the outside, things looked like a well-oiled burgeoning enterprise. But looks can be deceiving. I spent $500,000 on a Rich Soil promotional event in Miami on Memorial Day weekend before we had signed a single artist. We were booking first-class tickets and five-room suites in whatever city we visited.
If the record label wasn’t hemorrhaging money, it was burning it. And whatever was left was flushed down the toilet. All told, I lost nearly $8 million without putting out so much as a single album. Soon after, Take Out went under because we couldn’t secure outside funding. Ultimately, Jamie was in over his head. It was my mistake to put someone in charge of a record label and fashion line who had no experience running either.
We made a hell of a splash, threw great parties, and looked every bit the part. We just never made any music. I should have listened to Jay-Z. Here I thought he was trying to play me, and he was really trying to help me.
I regularly did hard drugs with Jamie back in Miami. That’s how Scott Storch and I crossed paths. I didn’t want to admit it, but I kept Jamie around because he was my go-to enabler. He had easy access to crack and heroin and was always finding harder drugs to try. Having him tucked away downtown where none of my friends lived or interacted with him helped me cover my tracks.
While I was on one bender or another, Jamie was doing the same. By 2015, no longer a reality TV star, he was strung out, desperate, and broke. And on June 14, he died before he wanted to.
A bacterial skin infection crept into his body and killed him. It was from his heroin addiction. Another light that went out.
28
I had been texting and talking with Khloé all day. But by September 2015, we were in the middle of a divorce. Sometimes the conversation was civil, at others, it was tense. Then there were the calls where we just screamed at each other. Crying, yelling, cussing. There was so much anger. We were looking for a love that had long passed and was never coming back. We were chasing something that no longer existed. I was renting a house in Las Vegas in order to get back in shape, and it was as hot as you want it to be in September. Liza and the kids were still in New York, and I rarely saw them during my marriage to Khloe.
I wanted one last run at the NBA. I had lost thirty pounds, and even though my body was getting stronger, I still felt like I was losing control. My mind was fragile. My confidence was low, and I didn’t feel like myself. People told me I looked good, but I didn’t take it as a compliment. It just felt like pity.
With each call or text from Khloé, I felt like I was starting to unravel a little more. I tried to unwind by hitting one of my favorite spots, a restaurant called Cleo at the SLS Las Vegas, to let off some steam with my friends. I took a table in a dark corner at the back of the restaurant and ordered a cognac. Khloé hadn’t texted for an hour, and I tried not to think about it as I savored my drink. I wanted my mind to be anywhere but on what caused me the most pain at the moment.
I thought about my sophomore year at Christ the King. I had thirty-six points in the City Title game. That was the first time anyone ever heard of Lamar Odom.
I thought about Mildred Mercer. I still can’t believe God blessed me with a grandmother with such grace, beauty, and strength. She took me from a boy to a man. I owed my life to her. When I was twelve she said something that I carry with me to this day. I didn’t understand it then, but it has come to define my life.
“What you do in the darkness comes out in the light.”
From the darkness to the light.
In the back of the dark restaurant my phone buzzed and glowed. It was Khloé. I knew if I answered, it would lead to another fight. I felt like our entire relationship was hanging in the balance. I had hurt her and I was hurt, but I felt betrayed more than anything. The people I loved had thrown me away. I know I wasn’t perfect. Far from it. I had a hand in this mess, too. It’s not easy to be with someone with habits like mine. I told my friends in that restaurant how I would do anything for that family. Not just for Khloé but for Kris, Rob, Caitlyn, Kim, Kourtney, Kendall, and Kylie. Now they didn’t want me around. Well, mostly Kris. So, Khloé by extension. Kris was only interested in protecting the Kardashian brand, which was an international phenomenon. She was the matriarch and guardian of a massive empire and the hundreds of millions of dollars it generated. It was always about her brand. I was nothing to her.
Kris called me later that night to tell me that Khloé wanted to speak to me in person the next day in LA. Khloé had gone dark after her last text, an hour or so before, so I assumed she had fallen asleep. I hadn’t seen her for a couple weeks, so I didn’t hesitate to go to Los Angeles. Actually, I couldn’t wait, so I left in the middle of the night. I didn’t even pack a change of clothes. I called my driver, George, and we headed down the I-15 freeway from Vegas for the three-and-a-half-hour drive to Los Angeles.
I was high on cocaine, weed, and alcohol. I was dead tired and wired all at once. I tried to sleep but I couldn’t. We did ninety miles an hour all the way, yet it felt like the drive took forever. But it still wasn’t enough time to find the right words to say to Khloé. I searched all night for the perfect words and they never came. I hated her and loved her all at once. I could kiss her and curse her in the same breath. But I was desperate to talk to her. I knew this was my last chance.
Kris said Khloé would be at SoulCycle in Beverly Hills at 6 AM, and she was right on time. As she walked down the sidewalk dressed in her workout clothes, I jogged across the street to say hello.
“Khloé,” I called out.
She stopped in her tracks. Right away I knew something wasn’t right.
“What are you doing here, Lamar?” she asked with a stunned expression. “I don’t want to see you.”
“I just drove all the way from fucking Vegas like you said. What are you talking about?”
She sidestepped me, and I stopped in front of her, begging to talk. I instinctively reached out to grab her arm. She pulled back quickly.
I was completely confused. I wasn’t even high anymore. I was anxious and agitated, but I had come down from the high. It all felt like a movie I didn’t want to be in.
What the fuck is going on? I thought to myself. Then I saw the first camera. Then another. Still more.
As much as the paparazzi followed me around, invaded my privacy, and made my life a living hell, I was certain of one thing: there was no way they could have known I was going to be at SoulCycle in Beverly Hills at six o’clock in the morning on a Saturday.
Well, actually, there was one way. Laugh out loud.
It had to be Kris. She must have called the paparazzi and arranged for them to be there, knowing Khloé would be caught off guard and react accordingly. Now here’s the kicker—and this will show you how devious Kris Jenner is—Khloé had no idea I was going to be there. She was frightened and jittery. From the outset it looked like I was ambushing her while she walked to her workout. We were on bad terms and she didn’t want me there. It all began to make sense.
When I realized what had happened, my rage started to boil. I was about to lose control. The cameras caught the entire encounter on tape. There had been a sliver of hope for us to reconcile. I wanted to get back together. Kris knew this was my last chance, but she didn’t want a drug addict in the family. It wasn’t good for business. Any chance I had left with Khloé exploded on the spot.
For some reason, as pissed off as I was at the paparazzi, I decided to give them an interview right there on the street. I even agreed to be miked up. I told you I wasn’t in my right mind. My head was cloudy as I rambled, angry and desperate. I was broken. I knew I was doing the wrong thing by talking, but I couldn’t stop myself.
I was sweating and pacing. I was still wearing the same black sweat suit from the night before. I said:
I don’t believe in what y’all do. I don’t believe in following people around. Even if half the things were true, people know who I am. And y’all have discredited me, beat me down, took my confidence, took everything away from me. You will not do it again.
I was one step closer to rock bottom. One step closer to death.
Two days later I returned to Las Vegas to get back to my workouts and get my mind off what happened with Khloé. I still wanted to play in the NBA, and my summer workouts were paying off. But the incident with Khloé had shaken me. My mind was swimming, and I needed the pain to go away. So, I did it the only way I knew how.
I decided to get away just for a weekend or so. My driver was in Los Angeles handling business. Greg was in Mexico on his honeymoon with his new wife, Eve. I was by myself. This made it easy for me to sneak off for a weekend getaway.
After all, I thought, I deserved it. I was doing well. I was working out. I was in the best shape since my playing days with the Lakers. And I was staying out of trouble with the law. Aside from the incident with Khloé, I had kept a low profile.
I decided to spend the weekend at the Love Ranch, a well-known desert brothel about ninety minutes from my house in Las Vegas. I packed an overnight bag and grabbed my American Express Black Card and a $25,000 wad of cash. The Ranch even sent me a driver.
As the car barreled down Interstate 160, bringing me closer to the end of my life, I thought about turning around. I looked out of the window as we got farther from the bright lights, and the barren, cold desert flew by. I had plenty of time to stop the car. To try to make things right. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
And this is the truly sad part. I was giving up. As we floated down that highway—a stranger from the Love Ranch behind the wheel—I was giving up on my NBA career. I regret it to this day. I turned my back on the only thing that ever gave me solace. Training camps had started two weeks ago, and nobody called me. I held out hope that someone would offer me a ten-day contract. While the rest of the league was going through conditioning drills, learning new defenses, and perfecting their footwork, I was destroying my mind and my body.
It’s funny how much of my trouble has come down to drugs and women. The number of days that blended into nights that I spent with a beautiful woman and a mound of drugs.
My getaway weekend would be no different.
We pulled off the highway and the driver steered the vehicle onto a dirt road that led to the brothel. The place didn’t look like much. There was almost nothing there. A dirt-rock desert, a couple power lines, and mountains off in the distance. You know you’re there when you see the crummy red-and-yellow sign leading up to the place boasting that they’re “Always Open” and “Always Tasty.” The bottom of the sign informs you “No Sex Required.”
The buildings are low-slung, one-story beige units that look like the world’s most isolated trailer park. I jumped out and headed for the compound’s main building, which had a bright red front door. I was greeted by the property manager.
I arrived on a Saturday night and was pretty loaded and needed to sleep it off. So the first night I just crashed. The next day I wanted to mingle. I walked through the complex and exchanged pleasantries with most of the staff and met the girls who worked there. The vibe was laid-back and welcoming. I already had my eye on who I wanted to entertain me that night, but the only thing I could think about was food. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate. I didn’t want to eat alone so I ordered $500 worth of Kentucky Fried Chicken for the whole place.
After lunch I went to the bar and ordered a bottle of cognac to loosen up. On Monday, my third day there, I needed to be alone. I slept most of the day and into the night.
About twelve hours later, on Tuesday morning, my body was convulsing.
I lay on the floor, dying.
I had finally killed myself.
Maybe I wanted this, but that wasn’t important. The women who kept me company screamed and called 911. No one was strong enough to pick me up. My face was pressed against the floor. Blood ran from my nose and mouth. I have little recollection of what happened that day because I had lost consciousness sometime that morning. I’ve had to rely on the accounts of friends and family and employees of the Love Ranch.
I was taken to the hospital and delivered to a bed in room 228 at Sunrise Hospital in Las Vegas. My heart had stopped twice. I had twelve seizures and six strokes. My lungs collapsed and my kidneys ruptured. There were tubes going every which way, and I was on life support. Everyone I’d ever loved was looking at me through bleary eyes. I wanted to touch them. Kiss them. I wanted to say I’m sorry.
But I couldn’t. Because I wasn’t alive.
