http://espn.go.com/nfl/story/_/id/15472532/how-reche-caldwell-googled-way-patriots-prison
THE FIRST LESSON Reche Caldwell learned in prison is that no one escapes on a Tuesday. Here in Montgomery, Alabama, Tuesday is movie night, and anyone who went on the lam last week, for instance, would have missed Morgan Freeman's timeless tour de force Lean on Me. Caldwell, the leading receiver on the 2006 Patriots, might be the most inept criminal the NFL has ever produced, but give him credit for this: He was clever enough to get locked up at FPC Montgomery, a waterfront minimum security prison "fenced" inside the Maxwell Air Force Base by nothing more than a row of meticulously manicured crimson crepe myrtles. For inmates, the only real threat of bodily harm comes from the tee box of the Cypress Tree par 5 that runs down the length of the camp's west side. For visitors, the only disconcerting moment is at the security entrance, checking in while prisoners stroll past unfettered and headed toward the shimmering waters of Gun Island Chute, or perhaps the equestrian stables just across the road.
Caldwell arrived here at the beginning of 2015 after an epic crime spree that was eerily similar to his NFL career -- short-lived, unfocused and full of colossal blunders. His 10-month rager included two SWAT raids, four arrests, a half-eaten hoagie (we'll explain) and Maxwell House coffee tins stuffed with cash. He also faced a litany of charges for running a multimillion-dollar gambling house in West Tampa and then, after that operation got busted, attempting to import and distribute what he thought was more than 5½ pounds of pure Molly (MDMA).
Sentenced to 27 months in Montgomery, Caldwell went the first year without any visitors. But on the eve of Super Bowl 50, a game that featured his little brother, then-Broncos wideout Andre Caldwell, Reche crosses the prison (court)yard unescorted and enters the visiting area right on time. He looks well-fed and relaxed, his eyes calm and bright. Gone is the gaunt, bug-eyed visage from his mug shot and the disastrous 2006 AFC championship game with the Patriots.
He's dressed in standard military-issue forest green slacks and a matching short-sleeved shirt over a khaki brown T-shirt, sporting a shiny black watch, immaculate, untied Timberlands and just a hint of a supplicant's smile. He's got the thick neck and meaty forearms of a con who pumps iron twice a day, every day. For the first time, Caldwell has agreed to speak about his crimes and the Forrest Gump-like football life that led up to them. But when he sits down and begins to nervously pick at the faux wood laminate on the desk in front of him, the physical manifestations of his wild ride come into focus -- the premature specks of gray that dot the thinning hair on the crown of his head.
His head stays bowed like that for a long time, until he's asked to explain exactly how he went from the Patriots to prison, how he transitioned from being the best receiver in New England to the worst drug kingpin in Tampa. Finally, Caldwell lifts his head and a wry smile unfurls across his face. That's easy, he roars.
"I Googled it, baby!"
IT ALL STARTED with Caldwell flat on his back inside the Buccaneers' stadium in Tampa, staring into the sun.
At age 8, Reche (pronounced: REE-shay) brought home his first athletic permission slip. "I asked my husband, 'Do you think he can do it?'" recalls Reche's mother, Deborah Caldwell, who has worked with the Florida Department of Juvenile Justice for 26 years. "Ever since then, we have been a sports family." With rare speed and the preternatural chill that is shared by the greats but often mistaken for aloofness, Reche developed into the best all-around athlete Jefferson High in West Tampa ever produced. And so in 1997, as a prep All-America quarterback and a soon-to-be draft pick of the Cincinnati Reds, he had a decision to make. Stretching before a high school showcase game inside the stadium, he closed his eyes and, as the sun warmed his face, realized his dream was to return to this field one day as an NFL player. The choice set Caldwell on an accidental odyssey through the highest levels of football, torturously close but always on the periphery of some of the biggest names and greatest games in the sport.
Caldwell attended Florida, where, after converting to wideout, he starred in the final incarnation of Steve Spurrier's Fun 'n' Gun offense. That led to the 2002 NFL draft, in which the Chargers selected him in the second round using a pick from a 2001 trade that sent the No. 1 choice to the Falcons, who selected Michael Vick. After four seasons in San Diego plagued by injuries, undisciplined routes and wildly inconsistent hands, Caldwell signed with New England, where at midseason -- and to his great surprise -- he was elevated to Tom Brady's primary target after Deion Branch was dealt to Seattle. The plan worked fine, at first. Caldwell led the team's patchwork receiving corps with 61 catches for 760 yards and four TDs in the regular season. In the divisional playoffs in San Diego, he recovered a fumbled interception late in the fourth quarter and, five plays later, hauled in a TD pass that led to a 24-21 win. "No one remembers that game," he says. "Only the next."
The next week, in the third quarter of the AFC championship game in Indianapolis, a perfectly placed go-ahead touchdown throw from Brady bounced violently off Caldwell's outstretched hands in the back corner of the end zone. Then, in the fourth, on first-and-15 at the Colts' 18, with the score tied at 24, Caldwell trotted away from the huddle and took a wide split, almost to the Patriots' sideline, when he realized there wasn't a defender within 12 yards. After the snap, Caldwell slid downfield, waving his arms at Brady, who again delivered the ball right on target. But when Caldwell pivoted upfield with nothing but grass between himself and the Super Bowl, his momentum caused the ball to squirt out of his grasp and flutter down to the turf.
As he walked back to the huddle in a daze, commentators roared in disbelief while network cameras zoomed in. Caldwell appeared to be channeling Gollum, repeatedly bulging his eyeballs as if trying to violently pop his pupils -- and the vision of that costly drop -- out of his skull like two champagne corks. The image stuck with the Patriots for more than a year, but it has haunted Caldwell for the better part of a decade. "He heard all the jokes and criticisms," says Andre, who is now with the Lions. "And it broke his heart."
New England dumped Caldwell after the season and rebuilt around Randy Moss. Teammates turned on him as well, whispering that he was "allergic to work." The next season, Caldwell played in Washington, where he fulfilled his dream of returning to play the Bucs at home, but he accomplished little else. He lasted through training camp with the 2008 Rams but in the end couldn't escape his Indy indiscretions. It stained his rep as a free agent and eroded his confidence and his love of the game.
Hardly a week goes by, still, when Caldwell isn't reminded of a single dropped pass that has come to define 20 years of his life. When he met with law enforcement after his Molly arrest, Caldwell recognized the FBI agent's Boston accent and sat back and waited. "You're that guy who cost Tommy anudda Soupa Bowl," he howled. Caldwell bit his tongue. "What else can I do?" he says. "It's not like I was trying to drop those passes." But Andre is convinced that what happened in Indy tortured and then transformed Reche. "The way the game kicked him to the curb like an unwanted stepchild hurt him mentally and haunted him," Andre says. "Reche got a little bit of a selfish attitude out of it, like, 'Forget everybody else, I'm gonna start worrying about me.'"
USING HIS NFL money, including the $1 million he received for his 15-catch contribution to the 2007 Washington team, Reche helped relocate his family to a gated community near Cory Lake on the northeast side of Tampa. Just a semester shy of a degree in leisure services management, Caldwell had opened a short-lived event planning company, Adore and Decor, in 2005. He trained a few athletes, worked as a volunteer coach and thought about opening a car lot. But nothing came close to filling the football-shaped hole in his life. "Reche was ill-equipped to handle life outside the NFL," says his attorney, Nicholas Matassini. "He was jobless, he was bored, he had a bunch of money, and he didn't know what to do with himself."
By early 2013, his grandfather was sick, his marriage had begun to disintegrate and his kid brother had finally surpassed him on the football field. A restless Reche, family members say, started making a daily 45-minute commute from the suburbs to his old West Tampa haunt, 10 blocks from downtown and 10 years back in time. He might have been a laughingstock in the NFL, but in West Tampa, Reche was still royalty.
Most days he hung out in a tiny, dilapidated brick building tucked in the shadow of I-275 between a boarded-up factory and an empty, overgrown lot. A barbershop occupies the east end of the building, and a car-detailing business, a billiards room and a storefront area, featuring three ticket windows, fill the other side. Police say with Caldwell's bankroll and the help of several associates, the corner transformed into a wildly popular homegrown gambling parlor. And Caldwell didn't keep a low profile -- his bright red Jeep parked out front was like a neon OTB sign. He says he liked to gamble, especially on football. But what he really loved was feeling as if his experience and expertise about the game were back in high demand. "He was just a happy-go-lucky guy who liked to smoke pot, gamble, hang out and talk about sports," Matassini says, "and that's it."
Speaking from prison, the most animated Caldwell gets is when talking about gathering around his parlor's makeshift bank of TVs to watch the end of seemingly meaningless games, like Northern Illinois -- Ball State in 2013. Ball State had the ball with 46 seconds left to play and NIU leading 41-27. Caldwell was silently celebrating because he had failed to control just how much money was placed on the 72.5-point over. But then the Huskies' Joe Windsor picked off a pass at midfield and returned it all the way for six. The tiny space exploded in celebration, bills fluttering like ticker tape, everybody chest-bumping and high-stepping out into the street, and Caldwell was right there with them. He couldn't have cared less about the money. "It was about the excitement and the connection to football," he says. "Is that what I missed? Is that what I was trying to make up for? Maybe so. We did well, and it kept me busy. I enjoyed it. Probably too much."
Before long, Caldwell was doing almost $225,000 in wagers each month. He didn't like banks, so cash would be crammed into Maxwell House coffee tins and piled up everywhere, in the microwave and in crooked, Dr. Seuss -- like stacks that stretched to the ceiling. What had been a sleepy little mom-and-pop car-detailing shop was overrun by as many as 40 cars and nonstop foot traffic from Friday through Monday -- changes that were hard to conceal, seeing as how there was an elementary school across the street. "I see now, yup, not the greatest location for that kind of thing," Caldwell says with a chuckle. "Too big, too fast. I laugh at my stuff too. What else can you do? I have to laugh. I really thought I was some kind of a criminal? All I know is, everyone kept telling me, 'The police don't care about this stuff, you'll never get caught,' and the next thing I know I'm headed to prison, saying goodbye to my kids, wondering: 'What happened to me?'"
The NFL was curious as well, according to Matassini. Off-book gambling was a low priority with the Tampa police, he says, until NFL security asked them to look into rumors of former players involved in illegal gambling rings. The NFL declined to comment, and the Tampa police don't recall the investigation starting that way, but by November 2013, Caldwell's customer base included several undercover informants. Then on wild-card weekend in early 2014, Caldwell was at a desk in the secured back office of the betting parlor, enjoying a late-afternoon snack while watching his old team, the Chargers, dominate the Bengals. Caldwell was so oblivious to any threat from law enforcement that when the first police flash grenade shook the building, he took another few bites of his sandwich and turned up the volume on the game. "Then -- boom -- another one went off," he says, "so I get up and walk out, and there's like 50 police and tanks ramming the door and guys screaming and swarming in from everywhere, helicopters and sirens and smoke, total chaos, and it's still not registering."
Unaware and a bit annoyed, he says, Caldwell walked right into the haze, coughing and waving the smoke away from his face. Swarmed by SWAT members, on his way to the ground, a still exasperated Caldwell yelled, "Damn, man, you blasted the door with a tank? Why didn't ya just knock? I woulda let y'all in."
ARRESTED AND CHARGED with bookmaking and running a gambling house, Caldwell posted a $4,000 bond the next morning and was back out partying with his crew. While spending time in Tampa-area clubs, Caldwell noticed a demand for the energy- and sensory-boosting party drug MDMA, aka Molly/Ecstasy. "People were constantly asking me if I knew where to get it," he says.
Had he acted immediately on his hunch, Caldwell would have remained on the right side of the law, at least initially. In March 2014, a synthetic type of MDMA, ethylone, was still legal in Florida. But by early May, when Caldwell finally got around to doing some research on his girlfriend's computer, the DEA had made the drug illegal, and MDMA confiscations by U.S. Customs had risen 1,335 percent since 2008. Caldwell says that on May 8 he simply opened up Google, typed in MDMA-Molly-China and watched as dozens of websites popped up offering to sell the drug and ship it right to his front door. (Challenged on this, Caldwell says, "You got your phone on you? Try it. It's easy." He is, in fact, correct.) Caldwell did the math: An investment of less than $2,000 could net as much as $180,000 on the street. Three taps of the mouse, a trip to Western Union and "the stuff was on its way," he says. "So easy and out in the open, I kinda did it just to see if it was a scam."
THE FIRST LESSON Reche Caldwell learned in prison is that no one escapes on a Tuesday. Here in Montgomery, Alabama, Tuesday is movie night, and anyone who went on the lam last week, for instance, would have missed Morgan Freeman's timeless tour de force Lean on Me. Caldwell, the leading receiver on the 2006 Patriots, might be the most inept criminal the NFL has ever produced, but give him credit for this: He was clever enough to get locked up at FPC Montgomery, a waterfront minimum security prison "fenced" inside the Maxwell Air Force Base by nothing more than a row of meticulously manicured crimson crepe myrtles. For inmates, the only real threat of bodily harm comes from the tee box of the Cypress Tree par 5 that runs down the length of the camp's west side. For visitors, the only disconcerting moment is at the security entrance, checking in while prisoners stroll past unfettered and headed toward the shimmering waters of Gun Island Chute, or perhaps the equestrian stables just across the road.
Caldwell arrived here at the beginning of 2015 after an epic crime spree that was eerily similar to his NFL career -- short-lived, unfocused and full of colossal blunders. His 10-month rager included two SWAT raids, four arrests, a half-eaten hoagie (we'll explain) and Maxwell House coffee tins stuffed with cash. He also faced a litany of charges for running a multimillion-dollar gambling house in West Tampa and then, after that operation got busted, attempting to import and distribute what he thought was more than 5½ pounds of pure Molly (MDMA).
Sentenced to 27 months in Montgomery, Caldwell went the first year without any visitors. But on the eve of Super Bowl 50, a game that featured his little brother, then-Broncos wideout Andre Caldwell, Reche crosses the prison (court)yard unescorted and enters the visiting area right on time. He looks well-fed and relaxed, his eyes calm and bright. Gone is the gaunt, bug-eyed visage from his mug shot and the disastrous 2006 AFC championship game with the Patriots.
He's dressed in standard military-issue forest green slacks and a matching short-sleeved shirt over a khaki brown T-shirt, sporting a shiny black watch, immaculate, untied Timberlands and just a hint of a supplicant's smile. He's got the thick neck and meaty forearms of a con who pumps iron twice a day, every day. For the first time, Caldwell has agreed to speak about his crimes and the Forrest Gump-like football life that led up to them. But when he sits down and begins to nervously pick at the faux wood laminate on the desk in front of him, the physical manifestations of his wild ride come into focus -- the premature specks of gray that dot the thinning hair on the crown of his head.
His head stays bowed like that for a long time, until he's asked to explain exactly how he went from the Patriots to prison, how he transitioned from being the best receiver in New England to the worst drug kingpin in Tampa. Finally, Caldwell lifts his head and a wry smile unfurls across his face. That's easy, he roars.
"I Googled it, baby!"
IT ALL STARTED with Caldwell flat on his back inside the Buccaneers' stadium in Tampa, staring into the sun.
At age 8, Reche (pronounced: REE-shay) brought home his first athletic permission slip. "I asked my husband, 'Do you think he can do it?'" recalls Reche's mother, Deborah Caldwell, who has worked with the Florida Department of Juvenile Justice for 26 years. "Ever since then, we have been a sports family." With rare speed and the preternatural chill that is shared by the greats but often mistaken for aloofness, Reche developed into the best all-around athlete Jefferson High in West Tampa ever produced. And so in 1997, as a prep All-America quarterback and a soon-to-be draft pick of the Cincinnati Reds, he had a decision to make. Stretching before a high school showcase game inside the stadium, he closed his eyes and, as the sun warmed his face, realized his dream was to return to this field one day as an NFL player. The choice set Caldwell on an accidental odyssey through the highest levels of football, torturously close but always on the periphery of some of the biggest names and greatest games in the sport.
Caldwell attended Florida, where, after converting to wideout, he starred in the final incarnation of Steve Spurrier's Fun 'n' Gun offense. That led to the 2002 NFL draft, in which the Chargers selected him in the second round using a pick from a 2001 trade that sent the No. 1 choice to the Falcons, who selected Michael Vick. After four seasons in San Diego plagued by injuries, undisciplined routes and wildly inconsistent hands, Caldwell signed with New England, where at midseason -- and to his great surprise -- he was elevated to Tom Brady's primary target after Deion Branch was dealt to Seattle. The plan worked fine, at first. Caldwell led the team's patchwork receiving corps with 61 catches for 760 yards and four TDs in the regular season. In the divisional playoffs in San Diego, he recovered a fumbled interception late in the fourth quarter and, five plays later, hauled in a TD pass that led to a 24-21 win. "No one remembers that game," he says. "Only the next."
The next week, in the third quarter of the AFC championship game in Indianapolis, a perfectly placed go-ahead touchdown throw from Brady bounced violently off Caldwell's outstretched hands in the back corner of the end zone. Then, in the fourth, on first-and-15 at the Colts' 18, with the score tied at 24, Caldwell trotted away from the huddle and took a wide split, almost to the Patriots' sideline, when he realized there wasn't a defender within 12 yards. After the snap, Caldwell slid downfield, waving his arms at Brady, who again delivered the ball right on target. But when Caldwell pivoted upfield with nothing but grass between himself and the Super Bowl, his momentum caused the ball to squirt out of his grasp and flutter down to the turf.
As he walked back to the huddle in a daze, commentators roared in disbelief while network cameras zoomed in. Caldwell appeared to be channeling Gollum, repeatedly bulging his eyeballs as if trying to violently pop his pupils -- and the vision of that costly drop -- out of his skull like two champagne corks. The image stuck with the Patriots for more than a year, but it has haunted Caldwell for the better part of a decade. "He heard all the jokes and criticisms," says Andre, who is now with the Lions. "And it broke his heart."
New England dumped Caldwell after the season and rebuilt around Randy Moss. Teammates turned on him as well, whispering that he was "allergic to work." The next season, Caldwell played in Washington, where he fulfilled his dream of returning to play the Bucs at home, but he accomplished little else. He lasted through training camp with the 2008 Rams but in the end couldn't escape his Indy indiscretions. It stained his rep as a free agent and eroded his confidence and his love of the game.
Hardly a week goes by, still, when Caldwell isn't reminded of a single dropped pass that has come to define 20 years of his life. When he met with law enforcement after his Molly arrest, Caldwell recognized the FBI agent's Boston accent and sat back and waited. "You're that guy who cost Tommy anudda Soupa Bowl," he howled. Caldwell bit his tongue. "What else can I do?" he says. "It's not like I was trying to drop those passes." But Andre is convinced that what happened in Indy tortured and then transformed Reche. "The way the game kicked him to the curb like an unwanted stepchild hurt him mentally and haunted him," Andre says. "Reche got a little bit of a selfish attitude out of it, like, 'Forget everybody else, I'm gonna start worrying about me.'"
USING HIS NFL money, including the $1 million he received for his 15-catch contribution to the 2007 Washington team, Reche helped relocate his family to a gated community near Cory Lake on the northeast side of Tampa. Just a semester shy of a degree in leisure services management, Caldwell had opened a short-lived event planning company, Adore and Decor, in 2005. He trained a few athletes, worked as a volunteer coach and thought about opening a car lot. But nothing came close to filling the football-shaped hole in his life. "Reche was ill-equipped to handle life outside the NFL," says his attorney, Nicholas Matassini. "He was jobless, he was bored, he had a bunch of money, and he didn't know what to do with himself."
By early 2013, his grandfather was sick, his marriage had begun to disintegrate and his kid brother had finally surpassed him on the football field. A restless Reche, family members say, started making a daily 45-minute commute from the suburbs to his old West Tampa haunt, 10 blocks from downtown and 10 years back in time. He might have been a laughingstock in the NFL, but in West Tampa, Reche was still royalty.
Most days he hung out in a tiny, dilapidated brick building tucked in the shadow of I-275 between a boarded-up factory and an empty, overgrown lot. A barbershop occupies the east end of the building, and a car-detailing business, a billiards room and a storefront area, featuring three ticket windows, fill the other side. Police say with Caldwell's bankroll and the help of several associates, the corner transformed into a wildly popular homegrown gambling parlor. And Caldwell didn't keep a low profile -- his bright red Jeep parked out front was like a neon OTB sign. He says he liked to gamble, especially on football. But what he really loved was feeling as if his experience and expertise about the game were back in high demand. "He was just a happy-go-lucky guy who liked to smoke pot, gamble, hang out and talk about sports," Matassini says, "and that's it."
Speaking from prison, the most animated Caldwell gets is when talking about gathering around his parlor's makeshift bank of TVs to watch the end of seemingly meaningless games, like Northern Illinois -- Ball State in 2013. Ball State had the ball with 46 seconds left to play and NIU leading 41-27. Caldwell was silently celebrating because he had failed to control just how much money was placed on the 72.5-point over. But then the Huskies' Joe Windsor picked off a pass at midfield and returned it all the way for six. The tiny space exploded in celebration, bills fluttering like ticker tape, everybody chest-bumping and high-stepping out into the street, and Caldwell was right there with them. He couldn't have cared less about the money. "It was about the excitement and the connection to football," he says. "Is that what I missed? Is that what I was trying to make up for? Maybe so. We did well, and it kept me busy. I enjoyed it. Probably too much."
Before long, Caldwell was doing almost $225,000 in wagers each month. He didn't like banks, so cash would be crammed into Maxwell House coffee tins and piled up everywhere, in the microwave and in crooked, Dr. Seuss -- like stacks that stretched to the ceiling. What had been a sleepy little mom-and-pop car-detailing shop was overrun by as many as 40 cars and nonstop foot traffic from Friday through Monday -- changes that were hard to conceal, seeing as how there was an elementary school across the street. "I see now, yup, not the greatest location for that kind of thing," Caldwell says with a chuckle. "Too big, too fast. I laugh at my stuff too. What else can you do? I have to laugh. I really thought I was some kind of a criminal? All I know is, everyone kept telling me, 'The police don't care about this stuff, you'll never get caught,' and the next thing I know I'm headed to prison, saying goodbye to my kids, wondering: 'What happened to me?'"
The NFL was curious as well, according to Matassini. Off-book gambling was a low priority with the Tampa police, he says, until NFL security asked them to look into rumors of former players involved in illegal gambling rings. The NFL declined to comment, and the Tampa police don't recall the investigation starting that way, but by November 2013, Caldwell's customer base included several undercover informants. Then on wild-card weekend in early 2014, Caldwell was at a desk in the secured back office of the betting parlor, enjoying a late-afternoon snack while watching his old team, the Chargers, dominate the Bengals. Caldwell was so oblivious to any threat from law enforcement that when the first police flash grenade shook the building, he took another few bites of his sandwich and turned up the volume on the game. "Then -- boom -- another one went off," he says, "so I get up and walk out, and there's like 50 police and tanks ramming the door and guys screaming and swarming in from everywhere, helicopters and sirens and smoke, total chaos, and it's still not registering."
Unaware and a bit annoyed, he says, Caldwell walked right into the haze, coughing and waving the smoke away from his face. Swarmed by SWAT members, on his way to the ground, a still exasperated Caldwell yelled, "Damn, man, you blasted the door with a tank? Why didn't ya just knock? I woulda let y'all in."
ARRESTED AND CHARGED with bookmaking and running a gambling house, Caldwell posted a $4,000 bond the next morning and was back out partying with his crew. While spending time in Tampa-area clubs, Caldwell noticed a demand for the energy- and sensory-boosting party drug MDMA, aka Molly/Ecstasy. "People were constantly asking me if I knew where to get it," he says.
Had he acted immediately on his hunch, Caldwell would have remained on the right side of the law, at least initially. In March 2014, a synthetic type of MDMA, ethylone, was still legal in Florida. But by early May, when Caldwell finally got around to doing some research on his girlfriend's computer, the DEA had made the drug illegal, and MDMA confiscations by U.S. Customs had risen 1,335 percent since 2008. Caldwell says that on May 8 he simply opened up Google, typed in MDMA-Molly-China and watched as dozens of websites popped up offering to sell the drug and ship it right to his front door. (Challenged on this, Caldwell says, "You got your phone on you? Try it. It's easy." He is, in fact, correct.) Caldwell did the math: An investment of less than $2,000 could net as much as $180,000 on the street. Three taps of the mouse, a trip to Western Union and "the stuff was on its way," he says. "So easy and out in the open, I kinda did it just to see if it was a scam."
