by Tony D'Souza
He nodded. "Things are changing. If they legalize, we'll have a few more things to figure out. But figuring things out is the nature of the business. There are always problems cropping up that need to be solved." He patted the place beneath his jacket where I knew he wore his gun. "In fact, I just had to figure something out over in Humboldt. Those inbreds over there can be such thieving idiots sometimes. Now I'll be heading back to Chiang Rai for a while, up in northern Thailand. I've got land there, too. I'm putting in a working organic farm, sustainable agriculture, doing my part to solve the world's problems. I'd do it here, but it's too expensive. You can't beat the cost of that cheap Thai labor.
"So I've got my dreams," Darren said, "and unlike you right now, I also have the means to pursue them."
I let the comment roll off me. After all, things really were like that. Then I said, "Remember when I asked you how much a guy would have to pay for a pound of Siskiyou weed?"
"I remember I told you if the guy was a friend, he could get it for two and a half."
"How would he have to pay for it?"
"In cash, like everyone else."
"No advances for a pal?"
He patted the place where he kept his gun. "There aren't any pals like that at my level of the business, James."
I worried my beard patches. I said, "Kate and I have been talking about going to Florida; there's a guy in Texas I've been thinking of taking some to if we do. He's got the money waiting for me there. So I'd have to write you a check."
Darren squinted hard at me as if trying to figure something out. He said, "A check'll work this one time. After that, it's cash. Are you sure you can trust your guy in Texas to pay you when you get there? Things can get messy in a hurry if you're not careful. This business isn't as easy as people think. Not just anyone in the world can be successful at it. But if you can, it can reward you like you wouldn't fucking believe. Think you can handle stress? Hold yourself together under pressure? If you have that in you, you can completely change your life." He grinned at me. "It seems like you're under a lot of pressure already."
I hadn't shaved in a few days; I knew he could see my beard patches. I dropped my hand away from my face.
"There's another thing about it, James. Once you start, it's hard to stop. You sure you want to mess around with this?"
The MetLife checks arrived in our PO box in town; Kate didn't see them. Then we spent a night at the Mount Shasta medical center, because she had mastitis in both breasts. The doctor put her on an antibiotic drip, and that was the end of the breastfeeding. When she asked the doctor what she did wrong, he said things like that just happened sometimes.
Romana was on formula now, so I had more time with her. When she'd cry in the night, I'd warm a bottle on the stove and feed her while Kate went on sleeping. That life could be as simple and satisfying as this, I'd never known. But there were other parts to life, too.
When we'd talk about it, Kate would say, "Who knows? Maybe we'll find work out there in Florida." I'd tell her back, "We're going to have to live with my mother, you know."
We didn't have Internet at the cabin; I started spending afternoons on the one working computer at the tiny Dunsmuir library. I was Googling "drug trafficking" and "interstate drug trafficking." I was reading about the marijuana laws and the protocols for highway stops and searches. I soon learned all about the Fourth Amendment: that you should never leave anything in plain sight in the car that would give the police a "reasonable suspicion" to search it; that if you were pulled over, you should never consent to a search; that you had a legal right to refuse, and if you did refuse, the clock was ticking on them and they could not detain you for more than twenty minutes without a stated reason. On the drive home from the library, I'd sit in the car and talk myself through a stop.
"Sir, I pulled you over for speeding. Will you let me search your car?"
"I'm sorry I was speeding, officer. Please write me a ticket, but I do not consent to a search. If I am not under arrest, I would like to go on my way."
"Sir, if you're not breaking any laws, why won't you consent to a search?"
"Because I believe in my right to privacy under the Fourth Amendment. If you're not going to write me a ticket, may I please go?"
If the officer asked me to step out of the car, I should lock it and put my keys in my pocket. At no time should I answer any questions. The police would have to prove "reasonable suspicion" to a judge in order to justify a search. If they went ahead and searched without it, a good lawyer could get my charges dismissed.
On the website of the Office of National Drug Control Policy, I read about the High Intensity Drug Trafficking Area program in force on certain highways, and studied pdf's of police manuals on how to profile drug couriers. I learned that empty fast-food wrappers in the car were a sign of someone traveling across the country quickly, that a windshield splattered with bugs was a sign, that maps were a sign. That transporting pounds of drugs was called "muling," "moving," or "carrying weight." That the average smuggler was a thirty-two-year-old male, unemployed, often with license and registration conflicts, driving a vehicle that didn't belong to him. That when questioned, the courier usually told a confusing story about his route and reason for traveling. That any perfume or other odor in the car was a sign of a smuggler masking the scent of weed. That most smugglers were high and nervous.
But I understood the drug interdiction police would not be looking for me; they were out there profiling blacks and Hispanics, especially non-English-speaking Hispanics. Just being white would be my best protection. The fact that I'd be driving my own car would help if I was pulled over. That I was articulate, with no criminal history and a perfect diving record, would help even more.
Still, there were the drug dogs. If I got pulled over and refused a search, the cops would try to get a K-9 unit to the location as quickly as possible, run the dog around the car. If the dog barked or scratched or indicated drugs in any way, it would give the police the reasonable suspicion they needed to search. It was clear from my reading there was no way to beat a dog. Dogs could smell drugs buried in coffee grounds, in grease, in gas tanks, anything. Even if the dog didn't indicate drugs, the handler could jerk the leash in a secret way to make the dog do it. The dogs were so infallible, their searches always stood up in court. If they ran a dog on you, you were done.
I plotted the route to Austin, Googled each stretch of highway for interdiction activity. The NORML website had a detailed interdiction map, and I saw I would have to avoid all of the I-10 along the Mexican border, where the Border Patrol operated checkpoints and the Fourth Amendment didn't seem to apply. I saw, too, that the I-40 through Flagstaff was a High Intensity Drug Trafficking Area, as was the Texas-Oklahoma border.
I read stories about people who'd been busted. I learned never to drive at night, to check that all my lights were working every time I stopped for gas, to stay with the flow of traffic. If a cop started to tail me, I would have to be cool. If I got pulled over, I'd have to control any nervous tics. And the punishments? If caught with a pound in Arizona, I'd face a year and a half behind bars and a $150,000 fine. In New Mexico, eighteen months; in Texas, two years. I'd have a felony on my record and mountainous legal expenses. Forever after, I'd have trouble getting any kind of legitimate work. At the same time, there wasn't any kind of legitimate work to get right now, was there?
The one thing I shouldn't have watched was the videos on YouTube of the police making highway busts. The cops popped the trunk, saw the bales of weed, pulled their guns, tackled the drivers to the pavement. Then they posed with the captured dope like hunters with their deer. But I wouldn't get caught, I'd tell myself on the drive back to the cabin; I'd be just another car on the highway like thousands and thousands of others. It would work best if I forgot I had the weed with me. Even the police websites admitted they barely caught anyone. My one pound would be hidden in the fifty-billion-dollar annual U.S. pot trade. And if I did get caught, I'd explain to the judge that we'd lost our jobs,
I couldn't find work, we had a new baby, I'd done it for the money. Not a single thing I'd tell him wouldn't be the truth.
Darren Rudd drove up in a silver Malibu the day before Christmas while Kate was at her folks' with the baby. He was grinning when he met me on the porch; under his arm was a Christmas present. He handed it to me, and it was lighter than I'd imagined it would be, the length of two footballs wrapped end to end. I gave him the MetLife check. He put it in his pocket without looking at it. Then my heart began racing.
"You want to weigh it?" he asked me.
"I have to trust you," I told him.
"What you have to do is drive fast and swerve a lot."
Drive fast and swerve a lot? After everything I'd read?
As he turned to leave, Darren said, "Take it easy, James. It's just a thing we say around here when we're wishing each other luck."
Kate and I had lopped the top off a fir tree below the Castle Crags the week before, our first real outing with the baby. We'd set it in a stand in the corner of the cabin. It was the prettiest tree of my life. Under it were our few Christmas presents: a bronzed pinecone ornament I'd bought for Kate as a memento of our time in the mountains, things from our parents for the baby. In an envelope was an airplane ticket, our decision made at last, Kate and the baby's one-way trip to Florida, our savings spent again. The girls were leaving on New Year's Day; I'd be following behind in the car. Now I'd have a pound of weed with me. I hid Darren's present among the boxes.
I cracked my knuckles, cracked my neck, went outside and smoked. Long icicles hung from the eaves over the porch, and suddenly I was more worried. I didn't really know Darren, did I? What if he'd ripped me off? I couldn't help myself: I hurried inside, peeled the tape, opened the present. It was a thick, vacuum-packed plastic bag stuffed with weed. The ends of the bag were mechanically sealed, the buds inside as dense as cattails, hairy with threads, covered with crystals like they'd been dusted with sugar. I quickly wrapped it up. It was obviously incredible weed.
When Kate came home, I took the baby from her, pointed under the tree at the present. She made a face, went and picked it up, carried it to the table.
"Where did you get this, James?" she said quietly when she opened it.
"Darren brought it up."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"I'm dropping it off at Mason's on my way to Florida."
Kate touched the bag with her finger as if trying to understand what it meant. Then she sat on the couch and stared at the fire dancing in the stove.
"How was it at your parents'?" I asked, just to say something.
"You know my parents were drunk."
"Did you get anything to eat over there?"
"I drank a little wine with them."
I sat down beside her. Romana was swaddled and sleeping in my arms. The cabin was quiet around us with the crackling of the fire. The tinsel-covered tree was a festive thing. Kate said, "What gave you the idea to do this?"
"Do you even have to ask?"
"What do we do if you get caught?"
I shook my head at her. "I've got it all mapped out. I'm not going to get caught."
Kate said, "Couldn't you have bothered to tell me first?"
"I knew you'd say no."
"I asked you never to lie to me."
"I had to do this, Kate."
We went to bed with our backs turned; neither one of us was sleeping. At midnight Romana cried and I got up and fed her. When I finished, Kate was standing behind me in the firelight.
"How much are you going to make?"
"Twenty-five hundred dollars."
"Where'd you get the money to pay for it?"
"I used the baby's money."
She nodded. The bag had been on the table all of that time, and now we approached it like sleepwalkers. Kate broke a hole in it and the stink immediately filled the room. She fished out a bud with her finger, held it up in the firelight for me to see. She said softly, "See how it's white where it's been cut? That means it's organic. Lots of growers use chemicals; they show up as dark rings in the stem. This bud's all natural. Darren's done a really good job with it."
She broke off a piece, crumbled it on a blunt wrapper, rolled and licked the wrapper shut. Then we went out onto the porch in our coats. There were stars in the sky, the moon on the snow. I knew that soon we'd be giving these things up. When Kate was halfway through her smoke, I asked her, "Is any it good?" She said, "It's a fantastic body high."
"I'm sorry I didn't ask you first."
"What do we have left if we don't have trust?"
We went inside and looked at Romana in her crib, our beautiful sleeping baby. Just before we turned to sleep, Kate said, "I knew I shouldn't have let you get involved with Darren."
Kate told me, "You have to call me from every stop, and you can't take any chances. You drive the speed limit and stick to your plan. You stop at night and get enough rest, and then you come home to your wife and daughter."
I promised her all of those things.
"You make Mason pay you what you guys agreed. Don't let him change the deal once you get there, you hear me?"
"Yes, Kate."
"You want to know something, James?"
"What?"
"I've never seen so much weed in my life."
I took the girls to the Redding airport the next day, New Year's 2008, said goodbye to them for the very first time. Kate held up the baby and I kissed them both through the security glass. Then their flight was called.
Up at the cabin, I dismantled the crib, put the pieces in the back of the car. There were bags of clothes to pack as well, the diaper pail. I thought about leaving the spare tire behind, hiding the weed in the wheel well. But that would be the first place the cops would look. I sealed the package with clear packing tape, left it wrapped as a present in the back window.
Why not? I thought as I smoked in the night. It's the gift-giving time of year. Who won't be traveling with gifts in their car? Who won't be on their way to visit people? By midnight I'd worked my way through a six-pack of stout; even then I couldn't calm my nerves. Why had we been so stupid as to open the package? I took it out of the car, smelled it; there wasn't any odor. Orion's belt was bright in the sky, the stars gleaming everywhere. I said out loud to them, "Am I going to get caught out there?" There was nothing but my breath in the air.
I went inside and sat by the fire and picked up my daughter's teddy bear. It was a small stuffed toy with an embroidered heart on the belly. When I pressed the heart, the electronic piece inside said, "I love you." Kate had handed it to me at the last moment at the airport; it was covered with the milky smell of my daughter. I smelled it now, pressed the heart, and the bear told me, "I love you."
I named the bear JoJo that night; I don't know why, I was drunk. I said to him, "Keep me safe, JoJo, and I'll bring you back to the baby. I know you know the baby loves you. I know you want to be with her again."
In the morning, I put the key under the mat on the porch, took a last look at the cabin. Despite everything, we'd been happy here. I stopped at Kate's folks' place for a final goodbye, then pulled onto the I-5. It felt like a cop was waiting behind every bend, and for the first fifty miles I drove in terror. But JoJo Bear sat in the passenger seat and kept me company, told me "I love you" every time I needed it. Down in the valley the traffic picked up, and I calmed down and got lost amid the cars.
Sacramento wasn't a long way from our cabin, about three and a half hours, but I'd started late because of everything I'd had to do. When I phoned Kate from a gas station just north of the city, she told me to call her friend Rita, ask if I could crash at her place for the night.
"We're at your mom's. We're missing you," Kate told me in her quiet voice. "Is everything going okay out there?"
"Don't worry, Kate. I'm being careful. Everything's going just fine."
Kate had worked at Macy's in Sacramento when she'd left the mountains after high school. She'd lived in an apartment downtow
n, near the nightlife; Rita had been her roommate. Now Rita lived on the south side of town, in a simple duplex in an urban neighborhood with her two young boys. She was attractive like Kate, still in retail. She gave me her couch while she put the boys to bed. When she came back downstairs, she asked if I wanted to smoke.
I tapped the bottle of Alleycat I'd brought in with me. "Haven't touched it since college. Never liked it. Now I know enough to stick to beer."
"Drinkers and smokers," she said and laughed. "Isn't that the way?"
Rita sat in an armchair, looking tired from work, rolling a joint on a little wooden cutting board on her lap and telling me about Kate in the old days. "So you married Kate Sisson? Isn't she so pretty? Man, all we ever did back then was spend our money. God, did we have some fun."
It was quiet, and I felt safe. The fear I'd had on the road was gone. I liked Rita, would have hit on her in my past life. Should I tell her about the weed? Should I not? What would she think of me if I did? At last I said, "Rita? Can you keep a big secret?"
She knitted her brow, looked at me suspiciously. Then she said softly, "Sure."
I hurried out to the parking lot, didn't want to leave the weed out there all night anyway—it was worth more than the car. I grabbed the package, brought it back to the house, unwrapped it on her kitchen table. The place was silent, the children asleep. Rita took one look at all that weed, covered her mouth with her hands, and said, "Man, are you totally insane?"
She immediately called her brother Henry, who came over with a friend, Jerome. Jerome had a digital scale. He zeroed a small Tupperware bowl on it, began fishing out big buds. Rita grabbed one, smelled it, passed it to Henry. They nodded their heads. I got nervous among those strangers, and said to Jerome, "How much are you taking out?"
"An ounce."
I mulled my lip. "How much does an ounce weigh?"
He shot me a confused look. He said, "Dude, do you even know what the fuck you're doing?"
They took turns running out to an ATM, bought three ounces, $1,200 cash. Not six hours into it, I'd already made half our money back. Rita wanted the biggest buds for herself, so did Henry and Jerome. When they passed around a bowl of it, Henry closed his eyes and said, "Chronic."