The first time I saw a caravan
of sheriffs going out on a
bust, I had no idea what it was. I was headed into town early because
I'd had
little sleep the night before. The August full moon had made me
restless.
"Are there
Jewish werewolves?" I asked Kiki once. "I'm always so
irritable and
restless at the full moon. I wonder if I'm turning into one."
"A Moonie?"
"No, a
werewolf."
"There
is no such thing as a Jewish werewolf," she said with conviction.
"It's
not kosher. Back when all the Jews were following the dietary laws
very
carefully, what few there were got wiped out from starvation."
It sounded right
to me, so I stopped worrying about my moon madness. Maybe men
have cycles too. Why should women get to grab all the good reasons
to be
excused from things like gym, and work, and world leadership?
So anyway, here
I was, trucking down the Briceland Road about 7:30 A.M. heading
for Garberville and breakfast. Sometimes I just can't face my campstove,
let
alone eat the messes it makes. As I slowed down for a bitch of a
curve, I met a
line of vehicles the likes of which I hadn't seen before on these
county
roads. It reminded me of a World War Two movie I saw once, where
the ragtag
ends of the Army, Navy and what-have-you, commandeer a wild mix
of trucks,
buses, taxis and so on, to go wipe out the Nazis.
But come to
find out later at the Woodrose, these guys were not after
Nazis...what they wanted was dope growers. And dope growers' chain
saws and
mowers and CB's and pumps. And maybe a nice little stash of 'Humboldt
Gold'
for a bonus.
Pete the Meat
was having his breakfast before going on duty at the hospital, so
I joined him in the back booth. A little later a few members of
the 'Family
Stone' Commune crowded in with us. It was their neighborhood that
caravan had
been headed toward. So most of the family had split for town, leaving
a couple
of men behind to hide in the woods and spy on the raiders. To see
just what
loot was taken.
I was a greenhorn
then. It was before the bust on our road, so I questioned
their certainty that a lot of their farm equipment would be missing...and
not
necessarily listed as part of the "seized property inventory,
either.
The "Family
Stone" property is actually in Mendocino County but is so remote
that the raiders had to make a big circle up through Humboldt County
to get
back across the line. So they try to get enough vehicles and men
together to
make it worth the extra time and travel.
There aren't
enough sheriffs in Mendocino County (or Humboldt County either)
to
conduct a full scale raid and take care of regular business too.
So they
"deputize" a whole bunch of guys who happen to be out
of work or on vacation to
carry out the raid. They might also drag along some California Department
of
Forestry repre\=sentatives, some Highway Patrol\=men, Dogcatcher,
County
Sani\=tarians, and brothers-in-law with bad backs to act as support
troops. It's worse than a B-movie posse. But here, they haven't
hanged
anybody. Yet.
Since that morning
when I watched that raggle-taggle bunch go down the road
I've talked to some of the guys on the side of law and order, or
who profess to
be. The Fibbles have guys like that over to drink beer and barbeque
venison. They're the 'good old boys', California style. Some of
them I
like. They fish and hunt, drive 4 by 4's, screw pretty girls, get
drunk. As
American as apple pie. Quite a few of them smoke dope, too. But
they never tell
their folks about that.
For example,
I met this one guy...I'll call him "Luke," because he
seemed to be
trying hard to imitate Cool Hand Luke all the time. He also tried
to be a good
son to his folks who had 6 or 7000 acres of ranch. He was a graduate
of South
Fork High, a good ole boy, and he had a couple of hundred plants
stashed here
and there all over his folks' land.
Unlike the Fibbles,
they were not into growing and didn't know their son
was. Like a lot of the ranchers, they even took out ads in the Redwood
Record,
promising dire consequences if anyone tried to grow marijuana on
their
acres. One year, Luke's dad stumbled over one of his patches. He
ripped up the
plants with a vengeance. Then he made Luke take them into the sheriff
in the
back of his pickup. They were beauties, too. Luke had a green thumb.
He also had
a congenitally empty wallet. And a young wife, a couple of kids
in
as many years, and a yen for a new truck. So he "grew"
the truck, then a
remodel job on the kitchen, and so on. The whole operation made
him
miserable. Basically, he was his dad's son, and thought dope growing
was
wrong. Sure, he smoked it, but that didn't make it right. So he
agonized and
sweated through every growing season.
One year, he
even joined up with the sheriff's posse. He ripped off so much
stuff on the raids that the regular deputies began to get embarrassed.
He
didn't get invited back. Still, I like the guy. He helps me understand
where
these bozo raider types are coming from.
So what's it
like when one of these Mickey Mouse law caravans comes up your
drive? First of all, you can kiss the U.S. Constitution goodbye.
And that goes
for the more organized and Federally funded 'CAMP' operations, too.
None of
them seem overly concerned with making a good case that would make
a conviction
easy. I think they're counting on the level of feeling being so
high, that even
a shaky bust will result in a conviction. In fact, from what I've
heard, the
sheriff's might even be less grabby than the 'CAMPers'. They might
leave you
some stuff to get going with the next year. After all, it ain't
good sense to
chop down the tree that bears so many apples.
But sheriffs
or CAMP, they sure have one hell of a good time, making like
gangbusters all over the place. Playing "Cops and Robbers",
"Cowboys and
Indians" or "Vietnam", depending on their orien\=tation.
They get to mess up
houses without having to clean up after themselves, and "seize"
anything that
looks like it might have been used in the commission of a felony.
I wonder why
they decided so many cameras and binoculars were used in the com\=mission
of
the crime of dope growing?
And there is
the ongoing accusation coming from the growers that the raiders
always grab some of the dope for themselves. I've heard it often
enough now to
believe it. But what grower is going to complain to the judge, "I
had 50
pounds, your honor, but they ripped off ten." No way.
"You could
have just called him 'Cool,' Kiki commented, reading the above.
"Or
even 'Hand.' but you have to be obvious. Luke, hmph. You're sure
less than
original sometimes."
"I'm not
trying to be original. I'm trying to tell it like it is. Besides,
if I
called him 'Cool' or 'Hand', he'd sound like a weirdo. Nobody's
named Cool,
except maybe in a rock band."
"How can
you like a guy like that?" Kiki went on. "He's the kind
who grows up
to cut down virgin trees, and let his stock overgraze the countryside."
I was on the
defensive now, one of Kiki's favorite places for me. "How do
you
know what he'll do? Some of these Rednecks can surprise you..."
"Just so
they don't surprise me on a lonely road. I don't trust a one of
them."
"Is there
a man on this earth that you do trust? Level with me, you don't
even
really trust me, do you?"
"Why should
I?" Kiki looked truly puzzled.
"Just because
Rain's dad deserted you in your hour of need is no reason to be
suspicious of every man from there to the end of the earth. It's
not fair..."
"I think
it's a very good reason, myself. And it wasn't my hour of need,
it was
more like months. In case you didn't know, it takes nine months
to grow a
baby."
"I know
how long it takes. I was a baby once myself. But why do we fight
over
the damdest things? This is ridiculous."
She smiled a
melting smile. "I didn't know we were fighting. In my family,
this
is what passed for dinner conversation."
Poor Kiki. What
a life. I would have pursued the point, but by that time, she
was peeling her clothes off. I decided silence was a virtue. I'm
not a complete
fool.
