'THE JOHNNY APPLESEED OF METH'

TALLADEGA, Ala. - Daryll Martin settled into a chair, one of those plastic,
institutional ones.

The man has morning-sky-blue eyes surrounded by a school-of-hard-knocks
face. He is 6-foot something, with gray-streaked hair tucked under a
prison-issued ball cap, and a two-year growth of beard that threatens to
annex the top button of his open-collar shirt. The shirt is camel-colored,
short-sleeve, with double breast pockets. A couple of hundred other men
wear the same style, all of them in the custody of the Federal Bureau of
Prisons.

This central Alabama town is known more for NASCAR racing at the
superspeedway six miles away than for being home to a federal correctional
institute, which is Martin's mailing address. He will be a resident there,
or some other federal prison, for some time to come.

According to the transcript of his trial and to lawmen who made the case
against him, this congenial man sitting at a table in the prison's visiting
room was one a handful of former Californians who moved to Tennessee in the
mid-1990s with methamphetamine on their minds.

In May 1998, Martin was found guilty of conspiring to manufacture and
distribute the highly addictive stimulant that is made in homemade labs. He
was sentenced to 20 years and six months. Under the federal system, parole
is not an option, but at the warden's discretion he could receive up to 52
days' credit a year for good behavior.

On optimistic days the 48-year-old man hopes to be out before he turns 62.

Martin was targeted for prosecution because he was a "cook," someone who
understood the often-volatile chemistry behind the production of the
illegal drug, also known as "poor man's cocaine." A user can get just as
high as with cocaine, at half the cost.

Martin also had another talent, said DEA Agent David Shelton, who
remembered the case well. The Fontana, Calif., native had a knack for
teaching others how to cook. For a fee, of course.

"In the early days it was like a biblical who-begat-whom. Until the meth
problem got so big, you'd arrest someone for cooking and when you'd ask
them where they learned, Daryll's name often came up," Shelton said.

"He was one of the first."

In the prosecution's closing argument at the trial, Assistant U.S. Attorney
Gregg Sullivan recapped evidence that proved Martin held "cooking" classes
for at least 10 people in Grundy, Marion, Franklin and Coffee counties.

Although authorities say the exponential rise in meth production and
accompanying addiction on the Cumberland Plateau in the past 51/2 years is
not due to Martin alone, the man played a significant role.

"He's the catalyst in terms of this chemical reaction that was going on in
Grundy County," Sullivan told the jury. "He's the guy that came from
California and showed everybody how to make it - the Johnny Appleseed of
meth, ladies and gentlemen, Daryll Martin."

A few hours later, the jury agreed.

Martin, 48, was born and raised in the Southern California town of Fontana.

"Sixty miles from Los Angeles, 12 miles from San Bernadino, eight from
Riverside," he said.

When he was growing up, Fontana was a steel-mill town. Later, Kaiser Steel
laid off hundreds, and the mill was torn down and replaced by another
famous NASCAR racetrack, California Speedway. But before the mill succumbed
to cheap steel imports, employees routinely worked overtime. Fontana was a
place where the men drank Budweiser off the job and used meth on the job to
keep their energy level high so they could make it through 50-hour weeks.

"Meth's been around a long time; it's not something that's come lately," he
said.

Martin began using the drug after high school, when he joined the Navy and
was stationed in Guam for three years. He was a mechanic and often worked
18-hour staggered shifts. After his tour ended, he moved into construction,
manhandling heavy equipment during the next 20 years on the West Coast and
in Alaska.

"I could run any piece of equipment in the company. I run it, broke it,
fixed it and ran it again," he said.

When the workdays were long, he would recharge with a bit of methamphetamine.

"I never used it recreationally, just for work. Now, I smoked marijuana for
recreation, but that's a different story," he said.

For several years, Martin went into business by himself, or tried. He would
buy broken-down bulldozers or other heavy equipment, persuading their
owners to let him pay in installments after he got the machines running
again. He said the owners would always repossess before he could get enough
construction jobs lined up to pay the monthly note.

Martin said friends suggested he make a fresh start in Tennessee.

"I wasn't making (meth) when I came here; they were. I had brought some
with me from California. When I got low, I started helping them and got
sucked into it.

"It seemed like everybody I ran into up there in Grundy and Marion County
was using meth. It kind of made me think of the days when it was moonshine
they were making instead of meth. I couldn't believe how many people on the
mountain were involved."

Drug agents testified in his trial that the Californians conspired to move
to Tennessee in order to produce and sell methamphetamine, an allegation
Martin continues to dispute. He does not deny, however, that soon after
arriving in Grundy County he was involved in the meth trade.

Testimony from numerous witnesses revealed that Martin took thousands in
cash, guns, even a truck as payment for a how-to session. He denies that
ever happened.

"I just helped some people so they wouldn't hurt themselves. These places
were chemical hazards about to happen. They had no ventilation, and acid
and stuff was lying around. I showed them how to ventilate. It was just
common sense. If you want to breathe, you've got to have air."

Martin acknowledged deciphering the process for one man who was trying to
follow directions in Secrets of Methamphetamine Manufacture, considered the
best "cookbook" on the subject. It's written by a Wisconsin chemical
engineer named Steve Preisler who uses the pen name of Uncle Fester and is
widely available on the Internet and in some bookstores.

"All I did was explain Uncle Fester's terminology and what it was saying.
He had everything right there, but he just couldn't read very well," the
inmate said.

"Basically, I yelled at people for breathing fumes and stuff. I tried to
help them stay safe and keep themselves from blowing the place up."

One lab did catch on fire when a pan of Coleman fuel ignited.

"He had a nice fire going on there. I grabbed the garden hose and it wasn't
easy to put out. Every time I put it out, it kept lighting back because
there was a pilot light on the stove and Coleman fuel was everywhere.
Jeeesh, that was one of the most stupid things I ever saw."

A t the Talladega prison, Martin runs the tool room in the vocational
training unit. He hands them out at the beginning of the day and stores
them at the end of the day. He likes his job because he's around tools.

"I'm mechanically inclined and, no matter where I am, I wind up with tools."

He has friends from Grundy County who are also serving time for
methamphetamine manufacture. They are among the more than two dozen from
the county who are now serving sentences at various federal penitentiaries
around the country.

One of them subscribes to the Grundy County Herald and they pass it around.
Although Martin is from California, he likes to read the paper from Tracy
City. He's amazed at the number of meth busts that make the news.

"I look at the (General) Sessions court report. Jeeesh, it seems nobody
gets pulled over for DUI anymore. It's all meth."

Does he regret having played a role, no matter how small or large, in
causing this transformation?

"Oh, yeah, I wished I had listened to a few people who tried to help me,
but I never paid attention. I don't know what I could say that would make
someone, especially the kids, not to follow my path. But if someone gets
something out of what I say, it'd be worth it to me."

The earliest he can expect to be released from prison is 2015, when he'll
turn 62. "I hope to make it, think I will," he said.

But his health is a concern. Martin has diabetes, a condition exacerbated
by prolonged drug use, and requires insulin injections twice a day.

Court documents revealed he has three children living with an ex-wife, a
fact he doesn't talk about. His children are in their early 20s and late
teens today. He doesn't know where they live. They don't know he's in jail.
No one does, he said.

"I didn't tell my mother. I've turned up missing before, but usually
called. I didn't call this time. Just didn't want to put that on her."

Even the Johnny Appleseed of meth loves his mom.