Pac Rat Jones: Makin it Rain

Crazy is actually too nice an adjective for Adam Back Pack Jones.

Allegedly fiendish, Unmistakably stupid, and reportedly moronic seem more appropriate to me.

That doesn’t matter to sponge head square Pac. He sees the world through the eyes of a pampered athlete who has always felt a sense of entitlement. Because he runs fast and can lay the wood on the football field, because he can run back punts to pay dirt and snatch balls out of the air on Sunday afternoons, he is revered by mindless throngs and forgiven his sins regardless of what he does.

Why am I writing about Rat Pack Jones? Because of a startling ESPN report that shows him showering strippers with thousands and thousands of dollars. It’s a bizarre concept known in the inner circle of stripping and meteorology as ‘MAKING IT RAIN.”

I found Packing tape Jones to be a foul mouthed and ill mannered human. I found him to be barely able to complete a thought without littering the air with expletives. He was a bundle of anger that didn’t seem to logically process information.

He made me think of a pit bull with a large bony head and a wiry, but muscular body. Had he attacked, I wonder if he has one of those jaws that lock, and only a vet can remove him.

The video is graphic, even though it is obscured with pixels. The ESPN anchor warns us not once, but twice that the video is not suitable for children.

She’s right, it’s not appropriate, but it gives you a crystal clear view into the world of a delusional man who thinks that laws apply to other people.

The ESPN report talks about the triple shooting outside the Vegas Club in a special Outside the Lines report. According to ESPN, Mr. Jones told cops he had close to $100,000 dollars on him when he arrived at the Vegas gentleman’s club around 2am. The report indicates he had forty thousand dollars in one dollar bills in a small Louis Vitton bag. That’s unbelievable in its own right, but there’s more. The video shows him wearing a hood and a large gold pac man chain, gyrating around and tossing dollar bills insouciantly into the air. Girls with no tops, some with no bottoms, have abandoned stripping and are bent over picking up the cash by the bucket load.

But the ESPN video indicates that the Pac Posse was upset that strippers were picking up money and not dancing. Court documents says Adam Jones was enraged and he allegedly grabbed a dancer by the hair, hitting her in the face as many as three times. The ESPN reporter says, Pac Man denies this allegation claiming he was attacked by bouncers.

The story goes on to describe the Pac – entourage leaving the club and then a lone gunman firing and injuring a club employee who is left paralyzed from the waist down.

What role did Pac Head Square Pants play in this very disturbing incident? That’s debatable. He was charged with felony coercion. This was reduced to a misdemeanor when he showed his true colors and decided to cut a deal with prosecutors to save his own ass. That trial is scheduled to start in February. Pac Rat Jones’ attorney says his client has tried to stay out of the news, focusing on supporting his family and getting back to the only thing he knows; Playing football.

And that is the sad part of this tawdry tale. Pac Rat Jones is a limited capacity individual with one identifiable skill set. He runs fast and has a nose for the football. He is an NFL defensive back, and if he only worked harder at it, could be one of the better DB’s in the leeg. Right now he’s out of jail and unemployed. Both these stations in life could change any time because of the very nature of who this young athlete is.

I am sure that some sad ass team will give him a 4th chance and invite this man of questionable morals to training camp. If he makes an NFL team, even at the veteran minimum, it will be like the NFL is making it rain for Pac Man. He won’t have to strip or even bend over. All he has to do is do what he has done all his life. Run fast. Intercept passes. Trip up a ball carrier periodically. Sadly, Pac Rat will be rewarded for being a cretin of humanity who has athletic skills. He will be given a modest contract by NFL standards, but a monsoon of a monetary reward for people who work hard for a living, who fight to pay their mortgage and put food on their table and dress their kids.

I didn’t have any opinion on Jones prior to meeting him. Now I could care less what happens to him. My prediction is a limited NFL career and a prolonged stay in the grey bar hotel.

I wrote a story published in the NASHVILLE SCENE a few years ago about the crazy day Sad Sack Jones and I met in his driveway. I have put it here for your amusement.

by Andy Cordan

Now the part of the story you never heard.

I had been picking up vibes for weeks from multiple sources that there was a big drug deal that was about to bust wide open. Normally that would be big enough news on my radar screen, but this was more noteworthy than most because the name Adam Pacman Jones kept surfacing.
Nobody ever told me that the Titan was directly involved in the drug transaction, but the theme was consistent: there was some sort of connection. As I dug deeper, another name surfaced: Darryl Jerome Moore. Police and criminal background checks revealed Moore had recently been popped for a drug arrest, but the warrants were thin and police weren’t saying much on the record.

After years of rattling cages for a living, I knew I’d hit a raw nerve on this one, because suddenly official sources inside the narcotics unit were calling me and trying to downplay the allegations.

Off the record, my sources kept pushing me to stay on track, to eschew the company B.S., and to look again for the Jones-Moore connection.

Working with that tip and a reporter’s hunch, I went to the Delmas Avenue home of Moore, where his father told me flatly that his son had been arrested and that Moore and Jones were friends. So far my sources’ information was accurate. The real question was what was the extent of this relationship?

To offer an idea of the scope of this story, a few days later police held a press conference and announced that Moore was part of a group of men arrested in what Metro vice called one of the biggest drug busts in Nashville history. During that press conference, investigators paraded out the goods: 1,653 pounds of marijuana, 128 pounds of cocaine (in brick form), $608,284 cash, more than 20 vehicles, studio-quality recording equipment, electronics and various home furnishings. They also showcased high-end sports cars the task force had seized: several Corvettes and a red Cadillac with seats embroidered with Pacman symbols in the headrests.
The other news crews went crazy. Suddenly it was a feeding frenzy.

But I’m ahead of myself. Back to my investigative search: based on my sources’ information, the father’s statement that Moore and Jones were friends and my own gut, I decided to drive to Pacman’s house and see what the Titan might have to say about this alleged association.
On April 12, I pulled into a circular driveway accessible from Woodmont (where Jones lived), and went up to the keypad box in front of the electric security fence that kept me from entering private property.

Obviously, I didn’t know the number and, to be honest, I wasn’t sure exactly how to proceed. I didn’t know whether Jones was home. Since he wasn’t officially charged with anything, I was hesitant to pester him even by knocking on his door. All these thoughts were going through my mind as I pulled into a little turnout, still very much in the public area accessible by the street.

As fate would have it, I heard the roar of an engine behind me and saw the front grill of a very big vehicle. The image of black and chrome filled my rear view mirror. Even though I was well to the right in the public turnout, the vehicle, a Hummer, couldn’t get by me. I was in no rush, so I decided to pull around the horseshoe driveway to allow the much bigger vehicle to enter the complex.

Now 180 degrees from where I had just been, I suddenly saw a man coming toward me, so I rolled down my window. It was Jones. I got out of the car, and he wanted to know immediately why I was there.

I told him my name and where I worked.

At first, he was civil. We were just two men talking. I even left my camera in the car, because I had nothing more than innuendo and unsubstantiated allegations involving the Titan, and I felt it would be more appropriate to talk to him rather than to spring out of the car and ambush him with a camera.

I told him point blank that I was picking up vibes about a major drug deal, his red Cadillac and an acquaintance of his named Darryl Moore. Without saying another thing, Jones volunteered that he and Moore were friends, that he had loaned the Cadillac to Moore for a rap video and that he had no idea about anything else that might have happened. He said he had no involvement with any drugs.

This is where the story took a bizarre turn. I asked Jones if he would like to say this on camera. He responded that I heard what he said and should simply report it. I told him it would be much better for him to say it for himself.

Then the Titan snapped, becoming irate and accusing me of trespassing, alluding to some ‘no trespassing’ sign that was nowhere in sight. The expletives were flying, and he accused me of being out to get him. If that were true, I asked him, then why didn’t I pull out my camera?

He didn’t care. He told me that our conversation was over, and he asked me to leave.
I said OK and began to move toward my SUV.

That’s when Jones raced by me and slammed his hand on my driver’s door forcefully.

“No way,” he said. “You ain’t going anywhere, not ’til you get cited for trespassing.”

“You asked me to leave, and now you are preventing me from leaving,” I said.

He pulled out his Blackberry and dialed 911, describing me to dispatchers and saying I needed to be arrested. He asked my name several times. I told him repeatedly, but for some reason he had to keep asking.

By this time, another man, who had been in the Hummer with Jones, joined us. He didn’t say anything.

I kept telling Jones that I wanted to leave and he needed to allow me to get in my car. He defiantly kept the full weight of his body pressed against the door as he continued to talk to 911.
At this point, I decided that I was outmatched and outnumbered and, if this thing was going to go bad, I needed some realistic account of what was being said and what was going on. I wanted to leave, but this 187-pound NFL player wouldn’t let me.

I walked around to the passenger side of the vehicle and pulled out my camera. I pushed the record button and placed the camera at my feet. This of course incensed my antagonist. I only wanted to document the situation, and I didn’t raise the camera into the young man’s face.

Considering his attempts to block me from leaving (coupled with his rage and paranoia), I felt that would be like waving a red cape in front of a bull. Frankly, I’ve taken a punch or two in my day, but I didn’t feel like getting my ass kicked if I could help it.

Here are some choice excerpts from the tape:

PACMAN: Don’t turn it on. If you turn it on me, I’m going to snatch it.
CORDAN: I am more than willing to leave.
PACMAN: (To dispatcher) Excuse me, he has a camera. Can I snatch the camera?
CORDAN: I ‘d like to leave if I can.
PACMAN: I’m about to snatch his camera.
CORDAN: I’m going to record it if you don’t let me leave.
PACMAN: I don’t care what the f*** you do. You don’t have no proof of nothing…. This is private property. Private f***ing property. You have nothing to do but harass me.
CORDAN: That’s not what I was doing.

I decided to create a little space between us, so I picked up my camera and walked across the busy street. I called a cop buddy of mine so he could hear what was going and perhaps advise me.

Jones was pacing back and forth like an angry leopard. The Blackberry was stuck to his head, and he was waving his arms wildly, staring me down like a sniper waiting for the kill. I decided that if I was going to get my ass kicked, then we should get on with it. I walked back across the street.

CORDAN: Hey Mr. Jones. I told you I wasn’t gonna put this on the news.
PACMAN: You’re wrong, man. You are wrong. I can’t stop you from leaving. I just want your name and tag number. Can you write down this tag number?
CORDAN: No, you do it. I’m leaving.

I opened my door and got in, plopping the rolling camera on the seat next to me. I heard Jones shouting at me through the closed window, and I lowered the window.

PACMAN: I tell you, next time you trespass, I’m gonna bust your motherf***ing head. Write it down…. I don’t care who you tell it to or where you put it, you ole bitch-ass n****r.
CORDAN: Thanks, sir. Nice chatting with you.

I drove away.

I could have aired the story that night but decided to sit on it. Sure, I had a very sexy encounter caught on tape with a Tennessee Titan, but ultimately, I went there as part of a much bigger investigation. I still didn’t have much on the actual drug bust itself, though Jones did admit that he was friends with Moore, a man I suspected would be the king pin of the drug deal.
Somehow Titans Coach Jeff Fisher got wind of the exchange. I’ve always liked Fisher, and not just because we’re both USC alums. I think he’s a hands-on coach who wants all the information.

Fisher showed up at the station that evening. The vibe I got at first was that he thought I’d gone there to harass his troubled player. I led Fisher to an edit bay in the rear of the building and played the entire 10-minute piece. As Fisher watched, his body language changed. He saw a troubled young man who was paranoid that everyone was out to get him. He listened to his No. 1 draft pick curse me wildly and prevent me from leaving.

After the tape finished, Fisher shook my hand and thanked me for handling the situation the way I did. I told him that I only went there to talk to Pacman about something I had heard, and that I only grabbed the camera when it started going bad.

He asked me if the footage was going to air. That was a tougher question to answer. I told him that it wouldn’t air that night, but that depending on how the drug investigation went, it more than likely would. That’s when Fisher indicated that he too had heard rumblings about a major drug bust soon to be announced, and he too had heard whispers that his star cornerback was somehow in the mix. Hearing this from the coach bolstered my belief that I was on to a real story.

To make a long story short, on April 14 of that year, Metro Police held an outdoor news conference to showcase the extent of the bust in which Moore figured prominently. The media asked incessantly about the red Cadillac with the Pacman logos on the seats. The district attorney said the connection to Jones was unclear, given that the car seemed to be licensed to someone else in Nevada.

Police seized the car and sold it at auction. Guess who bought it? Jones.

Though Jones was never charged with anything, Police Chief Ronal Serpas essentially got on camera and told the Titan he better wake up and think about the choices he was making and the friends he was running with.

After the exclusive story aired, sports radio beat me up pretty good. They used phrases like “ambush journalism.” What pissed me off is that not one of the sports reporters on these radio talk shows called to ask me what happened. That’s pretty much journalistic rule No. 1: get both sides of the story.

The only reporter who did was the writer for the Tennessean who covers sports and television. He published my side in the Sunday paper.

And now you know the whole story.

Good luck Pac Rat. I hope you don’t mind being someone’s girlfriend in prison. You’ll make an excellent shower mate for some con who is way more Pac Man than you could ever imagine.