LIFE AS A DRUG WAR PRISONER
by Pete Brady
Journalists seldom have the opportunity to write about a news story in
which
the journalist himself is the topic. Now that I am the subject of news
rather than just a reporter of it, I realize more than ever how
important it
is to accurately depict reality.
My reality, which involves drug charges that could land me in prison for
four or more years, began in 1991 when I suffered a severe workplace
injury.
My HMO doctor prescribed bucketfuls of narcotics, explaining that
although
he preferred to do expensive tests on my injured spine, he was prevented
from doing so by HMO cost-cutting policies.
I became addicted to prescription drugs, mired in an abyss of despair
and
dependency. By the time the accountants allowed doctors to run those
expensive tests, all they could do was confirm that my injury required
immediate surgery, but the hastily-arranged operation did more harm than
good.
More drugs, more surgery were the unwelcome options offered. I tried to
return to work, but was unable to fulfill my duties. I reluctantly
surrendered to my disability in 1994, and began searching for ways to
save
my life.
I studied anatomy, physiology, anthropology, psychology. I began healing
myself with yoga, physical therapy, diet, and prayer. I also discovered
medical marijuana, used for centuries as a pain reliever, muscle
relaxant,
anti-depressant, and anti-inflammatory.
Cannabis helped me escape the spiral of depression and injury. I moved
to
Chico to begin graduate school, and started growing my own medicine
rather
than go through the risk and expense of finding it in a town where I
knew
nobody.
My long-time partner and I settled in a middle-class East Chico neighborhood. We were the most pleasant neighbors anybody could want. We babysat for the busy couple next door, spent most of our time studying, attending classes or exercising, never had visitors or parties.
I loved my marijuana plants because they helped save my life. I bred
special
genetic strains, carefully documenting how each affected me.
Sometimes, I put my plants outside so they could breathe clean air and
bask
in real sun. Somebody saw them and reported me to the Narcotics Task
Force.
In December, 1994, my fragile rehabilitation came crashing down along
with
the front door to my home, when a dozen police officers threw me to the
floor and put guns to my head. I'd never been arrested; their search and
interrogation techniques trashed my home and scarred my soul. I didn't
just
lose medicine, property and money that day, I also lost faith in
America.
Charged with multiple felonies and deprived of my herbal medicine, I
again
began taking toxic prescription drugs. After 18 months of despondency,
anxiety and confusing legal proceedings, during which I realized that
everything I'd believed about the justice system was a naïve fiction, I
was
forced to plead guilty to one count of cultivating marijuana.
Prosecutor Teresa Kludt wanted me condemned to state prison. Superior
Court
Judge Anne Rutherford considered the fact that I had just completed,
with
honors, an interdisciplinary masters degree. She looked at my medical
records and community service. Showing compassion and wisdom, she
sentenced
me to unsupervised probation.
I had begun writing about marijuana in 1995. Pro-marijuana High Times magazine began publishing my work. I've since reported on the drug war, ecology, social justice, health, and spirituality for many prestigious publications, including the Chico News and Review.
When voters passed the medical marijuana law (Proposition 215) in 1996,
I
already had a doctors recommendation for marijuana, and believed the new
law
allowed my medical use.
Whenever my health permitted it, I did adventurous journalism
assignments. I
rode with an anti-marijuana helicopter crew. I interviewed smugglers,
growers, Nobel Prize winners, activists like Julia Butterfly Hill,
Dennis
Peron and Jack Herer.
In early 1999, I interviewed Libertarian Party candidate for governor
Steve
Kubby, a cancer survivor and medical marijuana politician who grows his
own
medicine. Surveillance police were peering into his house the day I
visited. They saw me taking pictures of his pot plant, and assumed I was
part of a criminal conspiracy.
On January 21, two days after Kubby and his wife were arrested for
growing
pot, the Butte County Sheriffs Marijuana Eradication Unit visited my
house.
Officers found a meager amount of dried marijuana. They also allege to
have
found "illegal cactus." I was charged with probation violation, felony
cactus and possession of marijuana.
I later discovered that the main purpose of my arrest was to pressure me into implicating Kubby in an alleged conspiracy. But the candidate and I engaged in no criminal activity, unless journalism itself is a crime.
Innocence doesn’t matter- the system inexorably has commenced ripping me
to
pieces. I've already lost $1200 posting bail. Dogged by headaches and
musculoskeletal pain, I cant sleep. Every time a car pulls up in front
of my
house, I brace for another house-trashing, another interrogation.
Deputy District Attorney Clare Keithley said that if I use my medicine
she’
she'll have me thrown in jail. A federal misdemeanor probation arising
from
my 1994 arrest which expired the very day I was arrested this year, has
also
been violated; I now face federal and state prison sentences. Taxpayers
will
spend $25,000 a year to cage me like an animal.
I wish I could feel legitimate guilt, but loving plants and writing
about
them and people who love them is nothing I can apologize for. Simply
put,
our government is spending billions of your tax dollars every year to
harm
people who have harmed no one, not even themselves. My neighbors, even
the
ultra-conservative ones, love me. Further, they oppose most aspects of
the
drug war, especially the war against marijuana and the persecution of
people
like me. They know I am no criminal; the worst I can be accused of is
being
a crippled, struggling man plagued by his own fallibility and the
vicissitudes of injustice.
Beyond all the obvious horrors of the war on plants- its shattered lives
and
wasted money, its propagation of brutality and dismantling of the
Constitution- are wounded souls like me who seek natural medicine and
just
enough freedom to save our lives.
These days, I spend much time in prayer, beseeching God's spirit to
change
the hearts of the prosecutors and police. I also ask God to free me from
physical pain, from anger and fear, from the unavoidable realization
that my
own country wants to kill me and other medical marijuana users.
For a few precious seconds, a touch of grace releases me from the bonds
of
worry. It's springtime, I realize. I could be out in the park with my
lover,
enjoying the flowers and butterflies. Instead, I'm an endless casualty,
already a prisoner of the drug war.