12/16/23
Newsletter #530
The Crack of Dawn
Back in the days when I drank – a lot – my former landlord (I have since purchased the house) pulled up in my driveway towing a trailer behind his car. On the trailer were twelve, 16-inch in diameter plastic pots each containing a three-foot-tall marijuana plant. My landlord’s nephew had been growing them in his mother’s house, without her permission and against her wishes. Thus, they had been confiscated by his concerned uncle and brought to my house. I no doubt had my vodka on the rocks in my hand and said, “But I’m on probation for growing weed (with an expired medical marijuana license), as well as violating probation with a DUI.” My former landlord said, “But you have a valid medical marijuana license, right?” I did. He said, “It’ll be OK.” And with my help, we unloaded the twelve plants into my backyard.
Then some blurry, drunken, alcohol-infused, amount of time later — a week, a month, three months; I really have no idea — I was sitting on my spot on the couch drunk as shit, when three cars pulled up in front of my house, stopping in a row along the street, then turning off their lights and just sitting there. What was this? Somehow, though, I knew it was the cops. Finally, two guys got out of each car, thus equaling six, half of whom were heavily built. They all had beards and hats, were wearing sweatshirts and work boots, and all of them had pistols in holsters around their thighs or calves. Since the whole front of my house is composed of windows, I saw their whole approach and stop and sit there for fifteen minutes. Now they came across my lawn and pounded on my front door.
These were my township’s undercover narcs. They were all some spin on Serpico, and clearly shitkickers in their own minds. I answered the door, and all six of them barged right in. One of them demanded in an accusing tone, “Have you got any marijuana plants in this residence?” I said, “Yes, I have twelve plants in the backyard. But I have a medical marijuana license. I’ll get it.” One fat bearded fuck said, “Oh, yeah? Show it to the judge.” Then these guys went through my house to the backyard and physically tore the plants out of the pots. They made as big of a mess as they possibly could taking the plants, then the pots, across my reasonably clean kitchen and living room, leaving a trail of dirt, sticks and leaves. I simply continued to drink vodka. I said, “Don’t I get any paperwork?” One guy took a yellow piece of paper out of his pocket that said, “Seizure,” though nobody had filled it out or signed it and dropped it on the table. As they left one of them said, “You’ll be hearing from us.”
Months went by. Then one day in the mail there was that disheartening, and unmistakable (once you know it) multi-colored postcard, that is a court summons. My girlfriend at the time, Lisa, who is a lawyer, represented me. She is a contract and tax lawyer, not a criminal attorney, but she was doing me a favor. As we entered the Oakland County courthouse (just a mile up Telegraph Road), Lisa removed her regular shoes and replaced them with extremely high-heeled, snakeskin pumps designed by Carlos Santana’s wife. She said, “These are my killer heels.” She could barely walk upright as we entered the courtroom. We were in front of a 70ish, white, conservative, black-robed judge. Lisa arose unsteadily on her ridiculously high heels, stepping up to the podium. She clearly pled my case.
This old, white-haired judge looked honestly confused. He asked Lisa, “Are you saying that he has a valid medical marijuana license?” Lisa said, “Yes.” The judge said to me something along the lines of, “Do you want a retrial, with a jury?” and I said, “I don’t understand.” The judge turned to the prosecutor, a dapper young man in his 30s, and asked, “Does he really have a valid license?” The prosecutor went through a file, looked up and said, “Yes, he does.” The judge shook his head, waved his hands helplessly — indicating, I’m surrounded by idiots — then said, “What are we doing here? Case dismissed.”
As we exited the courtroom, Lisa gave me a chest bump, saying, “Who’s the best criminal attorney in Oakland County?” I said, “You are!” She then hastily removed the Santana “Killer Heels.” They worked, but they were very painful.
Why I was ever in that courtroom in the first place is the question. What the fuck were those fat hairy renegade narcs doing anyway?
It’s not the crack of dawn in my time zone, but it certainly is somewhere.