CULTIVATING CHANGE

Who goes down when grow-ops get busted - regular folks or organized crime?

It has been in all the papers lately, so it must be true: B.C. is under
attack by mobsters.

According to police rhetoric, marijuana cultivation has evolved into the
kind of criminal industry that would make Al Capone weep, with an estimated
10,000 grow operations - run predominately by vicious bikers and Vietnamese
gangs - generating more than $4 billion in the province annually.

Constantly retelling the stories of B.C. Bud fetching prices as high as
$6000 U.S. per pound and being traded kilo-for-kilo for cocaine, the police
have carefully crafted the public image of "the grower" as the community
threat du jour, the neighbourhood menace who lowers property values, preys
on your children and threatens the fabric of society. But the problem with
this rhetoric is that it leaves no room for individual cases - it says
nothing about who the grower is, why they're growing, what they plan to do
with it or how much cash their crop will actually reap, assuming it even
makes it to harvest. So who's really growing all that pot? The odds are
good it's someone you already know.

"If it wasn't for marijuana, I wouldn't be alive," Jack says.

I'm sitting in a cafe with him and his wife Sheila, two growers with a
hillside plantation. Though they've been cultivating marijuana for personal
use since 1997, their crime is anything but organized. They lost their
first crop to a police raid two years ago - netting Jack his first criminal
charge at age 61 - but decided it was a medical necessity to rebuild the
crop. Jack and Sheila have been stricken with liver disease and arthritis,
and to prove it, they show me their medical records. They grow and smoke
their own marijuana to ward off the pain.

Scared, nervous, both with failing health, they're hesitant to talk to the
media - I'm their first contact. "Please don't use our names," says Sheila
with tired eyes. "If we get busted, fine. Then I want you to use our real
names. But not now."

They've heard second-hand that a neighbour is planning to turn them in, but
it's not only the police they fear. Some plants were lost to a crop raider
a few months back, which means someone else now knows about their
operation. With their outdoor harvest just a month away, it's a risky time.

"I'm an old man, I'm sick and I won't live much longer." Waggling a finger
at me, Jack continues. "If they want to bust me again, fine, but I'll start
growing again, even if I have to use only one light."

Marijuana means life to Jack and Sheila, but a life of freedom, not
imprisonment. Freedom from pain, freedom from debt, freedom from a medical
system that they say refuses to help them. If they didn't grow pot, they
would have to buy it; instead, they break the law and sell to other
medicinal users through the Vancouver Island Compassion Society (see story
on page 8).

"We've set a reduced price for sick people," Sheila explains. "But if
they're really sick," Jack says, "we just give it to them. I've been there,
I know what it's like."

On a police report their operation would certainly sound organized:
hundreds of plants, four greenhouses, indoor grow rooms, outdoor fields,
and equipment for drying cloning, and budding the plants. In reality
however, it's a bit of a mess. Blackberry and broom choke the fields, their
house needs serious repairs, and the only thing new I see is the equipment
they've had to replace after the 1997 bust. There's no way these people are
growing for cash. Living on welfare benefits of around $800 each a month,
they're just trying to survive.

Jack and Sheila are far from being a blight on their community. Judging
from the way people treat them at the cafe, they're well-liked, and
considered good folks.

"Anyone who knows us is behind us - including straight people who do
nothing illegal," Jack insists. "This community is behind us, we're
well-respected people here. Hell, even the cops who busted us didn't want
to be doing it."

If they succeed in bringing in their crop, accounts at local stores would
be paid off, sick people would feel better, and Jack and Sheila could get
off welfare. But if they get busted again, only debt, sorrow, illness and
still more hatred of the federal government would result - and their
physically ill clients would be forced to buy off the street.

Jack and Sheila are adamant about growing their pot organically, which the
compassion society requires. But that adds to the cost, and the
risk: organic plants don't yield as much marijuana, are more likely to be
infected by mites, and require expensive nutrients like a $175-per-gallon
kelp and nettle mixture.

When I asked how she feels about the common perception of pot growers,
Sheila sighs and shakes her head. "Lots of growers refuse to sell to anyone
involved with organized crime. I really don't believe the majority of
growers are into that. Marijuana was put here on earth to help people, not
harm them."

Twenty-four people got arrested for cultivation offenses in Victoria in
1999. Exact numbers for grow-ops in Victoria are hard to come by, but given
the approximately 7,000 in Vancouver, the police estimate that there could
be several hundred here.

Victoria police chief Paul Battershill toes the official line. "Grow
operations [are] very expensive, dangerous operations that bring organized
crime into communities," he says. "And you're starting to see homicides,
guard dogs, gang activity, and electrical fires occurring in neighbourhoods
where grow operations have proliferated."

Of course, such things also occur in places where there are no grow
operations - and if cultivation of pot wasn't illegal, then anyone could
grow it on their back porch, and the commercial demand, along with the
surrounding crime, would largely disappear.

Steve, another grower who agrees to talk with me on the condition of
anonymity, disputes Battershill's blanket condemnation of growers. At 38,
he's got a communications degree and a good job. He's never been on
welfare, he says, and he's always been a good renter and gets references
from landlords. "We're good tenants," he says. "Growers are good community
citizens."

Steve grew pot for 10 years before he got busted in Victoria in 1999. After
he'd lost an eye in an accident, Steve also lost his business and started
growing to make ends meet while on a disability pension. "Like most people,
I started out as a 'mortgage burner' in Vancouver," he tells me over tea,
"someone with a basement set-up. You grow to help pay the bills, to not
have to buy your pot." Although he only had a small setup, it was still
three years before he began making more than his expenses-at which point he
decided to move to Victoria and go pro. Soon he was renting two houses and
running 21 lights, producing 10 to 12 pounds a month. "But it was costing
me $3,000 to $4,000 in expenses every month: rents, hydro, equipment,
supplies, living expenses. People think you put a lot of money into it and
you just get rich, but success is hard."

Steve brings up the issue of organized crime. "There are ruthless players
out there, no question, but when the police lump you in there with everyone
else it's risky. There are a number of groups producing large quantities
and the police don't know who to stop, so they sweep down on those they
can. Mostly they get the two-three light basement operations, but in
nailing the small-timers, the police essentially give control over to
organized crime-the only ones who can afford to hide really well, who can
afford to rebuild if they do get nabbed."

Steve estimates his bust cost him $25,000 in equipment, up to $40,000 in
product and 515,000 in cash, plus an assortment of jewelry and tools that
"disappeared" during the arrest. Thanks to a lenient judge, he was
sentenced to 75 hours of community service, served at the volunteer agency
where he was already working. But he also lost his marriage. "Our dreams
were wiped out. The pressure was too much."

The air is sweet and thick with the smell of marijuana as I stand in Jack
and Sheila's field of dreams.

On all sides I'm surrounded by lush, green plants taller than me; brushing
through them, my hands come back sticky with resin. Up ahead, Jack is
inspecting some plants for slug damage. Just another farmer worried about
his crop.

Sheila lingers with me, tired from all the talking but happy with how the
day has gone. "You see, we're nice, quiet people. We just want the cops to
back off."

I hope that they will. They have to. Things have to change.