The first thing Robert Swift remembers is the police loudspeaker. Though, in his haze, he wondered if he’d dreamed it. Then it blared again, and he envisioned the bomb squad and the rifles and he knew what awaited.
Swift wasn’t the target at 6 a.m. that Saturday, in October 2014, when a SWAT team descended on a one-story house in Kirkland, a suburb northeast of Seattle. No, Trygve (Trigg) Bjorkstam was the one dealing the heroin and meth, the one who’d attracted the junkies and whores to the four-bedroom house on a leafy street, less than a block from an elementary school. He was the one who always carried a loaded pistol in a shoulder holster, even in the house; who cut the meth with Coca-Cola to increase volume; who was so paranoid about being ripped off that, according to court records, police discovered 26 firearms on the property, including a grenade launcher.
But Swift was the one who woke up first. He was in a bad way, having just crashed after three days without sleep, fueled by his usual mix of heroin and meth. As he stumbled toward Trigg’s room, past tables littered with used needles and shreds of burned tinfoil, Swift felt fear but also relief. His job was to protect Trigg’s stuff and clean up the place. In return, he got the back bedroom and a steady supply of little, clear packets of heroin, enough to ward off the dry heaves and crushing headaches of withdrawal. Swift had long since surrendered to the drug’s undertow. He had no phone, no money, no ambitions. He hadn’t seen his son in two years; hadn’t spoken to his parents in longer. A year earlier he had been evicted for squatting in his own foreclosed million-dollar home. Part of him thought he’d die here, in this filthy house, and maybe that was O.K. He was sick of trying.
Now, as he followed Trigg out into the predawn darkness, hands raised, Swift noticed a cop staring at him, putting two and two together. After all, there are only so many 7'1", tattooed redheads walking this planet, and only one who was a lottery pick for the Seattle SuperSonics, chosen straight out of high school in 2004. Swift might have looked different now—he bordered on skeletal, and his thick, unwashed hair clung to his forehead—but there was no mistaking him. This was the kid once compared with Bill Walton; the guy who played against Dwight Howard in the McDonald’s All-American game; a young man Jack Nicholson once stopped after a timeout to say, “Do me a favor and take it easy on my Lakers—you’re killing them right now.”
That was a lifetime ago, though. Swift may have only been 28 but he couldn’t have been further from his NBA days, and in the hours to come his image would spread across the Internet as sites covered the sad, sordid case of the millionaire athlete hitting rock bottom, alternately delighting in and puzzling at his decline, publicly freezing his life in its lowest moment.
For the moment, though, Swift was cuffed and lowered to the curb, where he waited, head down, as the police searched the home. Eventually, a cop approached. You know everyone coming into this house has a rap sheet? he said. You know this isn’t a life you want.
And then the detective asked the question so many wanted answered: What happened to you?