The lawyers’ eyes glaze over as the afternoon wears on and the judge trots out the tired old mantra that “denunciation and deterrence are the paramount factors in drug dealing sentences”.
The punter in the dock still pretends it’s all a surprise even though he’s been through this before. He lets a tear run down his cheek as he remembers his lawyer’s advice to keep his head down and to wring his hands.
But no amount of handwringing will change this sentence for dope growing and, following a dated Court of Appeal judgment, a sentence of two and a half years is handed down. There is a murmur from the back of the court. A cry of denunciation? Far from it. The denunciation from the judge has fallen on deaf ears. The gallery’s disagreement is murmured as loudly as they dare lest the judge gets angry and clears the court.
Denunciation is a joke when it comes to cannabis dealing or cultivation. Rather than being shamed, this defendant holds his head high when his sentence is passed. He feels no whakama. No more handwringing and cringing. He looks to his family who look back at him tearfully. He goes to jail a proud man – one who is esteemed by his community and whose mana is not diminished by the serving of porridge he’s just been given. He is not seen as a crim, just another fallen front line soldier in the failed War on Drugs.
And as for being deterred – well he was deterred from being caught after he was busted in 1984 and went to jail but he certainly wasn’t deterred from growing cannabis for he knows that it is jail that keeps the price of dope up and makes it profitable to grow and sell.
As he sits in the cells, he laughs about the time he and his lawyer were talking when another person had suggested cannabis be decriminalised. They’d both turned on the fool sharply asking him if he wanted to ruin their businesses, for not only is the dope grower dependent on the illegality of it for profit, but so of course is the lawyer. And the Police. And the Courts. And Probation. He laughs. We’d all be screwed if they legalised pot. Think of all those poor prison guards who’d be out of work!
As he waits for the bus to prison, he reads a bit of newspaper left in a cell below. Police are acknowledging that the war on P has not reduced prices nor availability. Despite the jailing of citizens – some for life – there is nothing to show for it. It’s the same for pot, he thinks. When he was busted 30 years ago it was for selling a $20 tinny to an undercover. Hell! He could buy a tank of gas for his Holden for $20 back then. In real terms cannabis has plunged in value as it has increased in availability and potency. What used to be an annual crop with annual shortages has been driven indoors or underground by drug laws. Stronger than ever, it’s now available fresh at a tinny shop near you for $20. Stronger, more available and a cheaper than ever in real terms, he laughs out loud. Discouraged? “I’ve been thoroughly encouraged!” he says.
Which isn’t to say, he admits to himself, that he’d been a bit too cocky. He knew it was bad karma to laugh at Bill who’d been busted selling a tinny – again to an undercover – at a local pub. He suspected that he might rue the day he’d laughed so hard at about Bill’s stupidity. “The cops to me are like the wolves are to the caribou herd. They pick off the lame and stupid, leaving me to go about my business.” But that was when times were better and he had the youth and energy to grow in remote places. Now a hard earlier life as a bushman and farm labourer meant his knees couldn’t handle the hills anymore and he’d grown in his attic. “All that sun available,” he laughs, ”and I had to grow indoors. Think of the cost to the poor bloody planet and my bloody carbon footprint.”
This new jail bird is nothing if not pragmatic and as he sits, shackled in the bus on the long ride to prison, he listens to a young fulla moaning about getting busted. It’s intruding on his quiet enjoyment of the ride as he tries to drift off into a trance, savouring the last words of his family, the last kiss of his wife, her smell, the coolness of her skin….”Holy shit – enough already!” he yells as the jailed teenager starts to cry. “Look boy,” he says “we are the cost of supply. Without us going to jail, no one would pay us for dak. They’d bloody grow it themselves. Get on with your lag and stop your complaining. Stop your snivelling and be grateful for the War on Drugs because it guarantees you a job and an income when you get out.”
Kelly Ellis, Whangarei Labour Candidate, former journalist and current lawyer grubs her living from the criminal justice coalface but dreams of being a better parent and more dutiful partner to her long-suffering family.
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