PREMATURE PROSECUTION

I don't know if you've heard, but I'm considering taking a
much-deserved vacation. My first choice, of course, is Cancun, where
the tequila flows like manna from heaven and you only get kidnapped if
you look like you have money.

Bakersfield looks nice as well. And it might fall within my price
range, assuming I hitchhike and find someone willing to put me up for
the night. And maybe buy me a nice dinner. Really, it's the least you
can do. I've been sitting in the same swivel chair, slaving away over
a keyboard, for so long that my assprint will still be here thousands
of years from now. Archaeologists will examine these prints to unlock
key clues about how humans lived in the 21st century. And it won't be
pretty.

From what I understand, I'm not the only worker bee in need of a
vacay. SLO police department officer and NTF agent Jason Dickel-as a
testament to my state of creative exhaustion, I'll forego the handful
of limericks that would typically be forthcoming-is so tired from
running around chasing bad guys that he's planning a little getaway of
his own. I suppose that statement could be a little more precise. Not
"chasing" so much as ambushing them unexpectedly at their homes. And
not "bad guys" so much as business owners and families.

But let's not tell Dickel that. If he wants to play the hero and throw
parents into jail for growing pot for sick people, well, who are we to
stand in his way?

The DA's Office apparently contacted the defense attorney to ask if
the first of the Doobie Dozen defendants wouldn't mind postponing his
trial until the fall. They gave several pseudo-legitimate reasons for
the request. Something about being really booked with priority trials
for people stewing in jail. And then something about Dickel wanting to
go on vacation. You can't blame the guy for wanting to wallow in a
sand pit somewhere, sucking down cosmos and scanning the beach for
signs of nefarious behavior. A guy with a "legalize it" shirt? Well,
he's just begging for a bruising from Dickel, aka Captain Justice, who
fights for truth, justice, and stringent enforcement of really
confusing laws that no one really knows how to interpret. Give that
man a beret and a French accent and he'd be a dead ringer for Javert.

For some petty reason, Miller refused to push his trial back so that
one of the people responsible for raiding his home, seizing his
property, and publicly presenting him as a shitbag drug dealer could
wiggle his little piggies in pristine white sand. Petty behavior on
Miller's part, if you ask me. Sure, his life's on hold. Sure, he's
waiting for the nightmare to end so he can get his stuff back and
reclaim some measure of normalcy. For me, it's a bathtub full of
Cheetos and a stack of Harlequin romance novels. ... I know what
you're thinking, but I read for the articles, pervert!

For a second there, it looked like Miller's case might get dismissed
altogether-not for lack of trying, mind you. The DA's hammering away
at Miller like, well, like a good ol' boy trying to save face for his
buddies at the NTF. And he's having a tough time of it.

First, there's a last-minute judge swap. Estrada-Mullaney's out and
Barry LaBarbera's in. LaBarbera was the former head honcho DA,
pre-Gerry Shea. Which sounds great for the DA, right? Apparently not.
See, LaBarbera's one of those common sensical type people. He doesn't
seem to have much patience for the fact that nobody-DA included-has
any idea how the hell they're supposed to be interpreting medical
marijuana laws. This judge, it seems, is not going to play ball with
the DA. Not kickball. Not handball. I don't know how he feels about
racquetball, but I'm guessing that's gonna be a big fat no as well.

So, the DA's office argued that only a patient's primary caregiver
could sell medical marijuana. Miller never claimed to be a primary
caregiver, but the operator of a collective. Barbie pointed to the
amended version of the law from 2003, which expands that
responsibility to members of a collective. With this decision, the
DA's office went back to the drawing board, and it looked like they'd
simply declare they couldn't proceed, then appeal Barbie's decision
in the District Appellate Court in Ventura, a process that would drag
these shenanigans out for several more years. All the while, the cops
would be allowed to hold onto the defendant's property. Think: "Dad,
Mom said the medical marijuana defense is valid, but I don't really
have any other argument. Will you tell Mom to go to go to hell?"

Only in this version, appealing to Dad costs tens of thousands of
dollars and requires several year's time.

Meanwhile, Assistant DA Sandy Mitchell, who looked like she was about
to begin smacking her head against a wall, was ordered by her
higher-ups to see if she could salvage some sort of trial.

Think: "Your honor, while we were following the defendant in a
desperate bid for some real evidence, our crack team witnessed him
eating a Hot Pocket this morning. And as everyone knows, your honor,
Hot Pockets are stoner food."

With a deadline of 4:45 p.m., Mitchell returned to the courtroom at
4:43 and declared she initially believed she would be unable to
proceed, but "at the last minute-literally a few minutes ago" she
received new evidence from an NTF investigator. Eat your heart out,
Law and Order!

And way to fly by the seat of your pants, Mitchell! I always admire
those studious college kids who have a paper due at 9 a.m., pop some
Adderall at 3 a.m., and start banging away at the keyboard. I mean,
they've only had six months to prepare for this trial.

Next week I'll be writing about the DA's attempt to use Bobo, the
singing and tap-dancing monkey, to convey their message that pot is
evil and Miller is really Satan incarnate. Godspeed, Bobo.