In Honor of 4/20, Here’s What It’s Like to Get Arrested for Pot
In September of 2018, I was arrested for possession of marijuana while driving through Texas to my dream job in Florida.
What follows is the entire encounter, exactly as I remember it. It’s not meant to demean Texas or law officers. But people are still getting arrested for marijuana possession, and it’s not okay.
So here a first-person story on what it’s like to get arrested for marijuana.
We’re Stoners, But We’re Good People Too
My boyfriend of two years (at the time, going on 4 now) and I were from Colorado traveling to Florida in our 1997 converted van. We’d been living the vanlife in Colorado all summer.
We looked like stoners — cheap, well-worn clothes, a little dirty, living in a van that did not live up to the Instagram hype. And yeah, we smoked pot almost daily.
But we’re quiet, peaceful people too. We like to keep to ourselves. I like to volunteer. We’re hard workers, and we’re never stoned during the job. As a rule, we never drive high.
Smoking weed was just something we do after work to relax.
When we drove through Texas, we had a lot of weed with us. We knew in Florida the closest dispensary was in Washington D.C. We also knew we didn’t want to quit smoking, so we stocked up before we left Colorado.
We had probably $400 worth of products with us, in THC vape cartridges, chocolate bars, and marijuana bud.
We also had a pipe that we had since we started dating two years earlier. We had another pipe that was a gift from my sister and her fiance. We had an old cigar box where we kept them we picked up from a thrift store. It was a non-profit thrift store that donated proceeds directly to the animal shelter.
We bought everything legally at cannabis retailers in Colorado where we lived. We paid taxes on them. We both turned 21 after marijuana was legalized in Colorado, and we didn’t smoke as teens, so we never bought pot illegally.
We never planned to sell it either. Our stash was just for us. It was enough to last several months. We just wanted to keep smoking when there weren’t dispensaries around.
We Never Wanted to Buy Illegal Weed
Part of the reason we stocked up before we left is we didn’t want to have to learn how to buy weed illegally.
I know I have an addictive nature. I didn’t want to find a weed dealer and have them try to sell me ecstasy or LSD or something else I would be interested in trying, but might get hooked.
We also didn’t want to risk that our weed might be laced with anything. We wanted to smoke pot, and only pot.
I’ve read about dealers that spray their weed with aerosols that make the buds heavier — so they cost more. But when smoked, the aerosols can cause cancer or kill you.
We wanted to know our products were safe, that’s why we bout them at a dispensary.
So that’s why we drove through Texas with about $400 worth of weed and THC products.
We Moved to Florida so I Could Pursue My Dream Job
I got my dream job working with a company I followed for years. I never told them about my arrest, so out of respect for the company, I’m not going to name them.
But I was thrilled. It was my first office job — my first job better than being a waitress. It was with a promising company that did something I knew mattered, something I could stand behind and help people.
So I got hired, put in my two weeks at my waitressing job in Colorado, and hit the road. We didn’t even have an apartment lined up. We didn’t know anyone in Florida.
I had a job and that was it and we were moving halfway across the country for a chance at a better life.
Here’s Where the Arrest Story Starts
It was night when we got pulled over. We were about an hour outside of Dallas, where we planned to spend the night with my boyfriend’s grandmother.
We saw a police car pull behind the van, and I slowed down. I wasn’t speeding in the first place, and I wanted the officer to pass. Instead, they pulled us over.
“Your license plate light is out,” they told us.
That was it. That was all they needed, a broken license plate light.
We weren’t speeding, swerving, driving recklessly, drunk or high. We just had a broken license plate bulb.
I know people who think they’re fine driving high. I don’t tolerate it. I’ve been in a couple of minor car wrecks where I was distracted by fiddling with the radio, or I was in too big of a hurry.
So as a policy, I never drive high. I once sat in a parking lot watching Hulu on my phone for three hours waiting for a high to wear off before I would drive.
We gave the officers license and registration. There were two cops, a younger man, maybe in his thirties and an older man who I thought was close to sixty. He was morbidly obese. I later learned he was only 42.
They asked where we were going, where we were coming from. I told them I was moving to Florida for my dream job.
The younger officer came to the driver’s side. He told me he was nervous standing so close to traffic, so would I mind stepping out? Of course I didn’t. I had nothing to fear, right?
He asked me about my job, what I did. He really seemed to want the details, so I told him. I later learned this was a tactic officers use to get people comfortable talking to them, maybe they’ll let something slip.
Then he asked if we had marijuana in the car.
“Marijuana possession is a non-arrestable offense,” the officers told us, more than once. “We’ll just write you a ticket and you’ll be on your way.”
I believed them. I grew up in a white middle-class family. I was told that officers were there to protect me.
So we told them the truth. We even told them where to find it.
Then they put us in handcuffs and put us in their car.
We didn’t protest or try to fight, or anything. C’mon, do I want to get beat by a cop on the side of the road? Do I really think I would have any chance of running?
Plus my two rescue dogs were still in the van. There’s no way I could ever leave them.
More Officers Arrived on the Scene
We didn’t have any other drugs in the car. We didn’t have weapons. It was only our private stash we hoped would last us a few months.
One of the other arriving officers came up to the window. I asked if he could give water to my dogs. We gave our dogs water anytime we stopped, but they didn’t have access to it while we were driving. It had been a few hours since the last time we stopped and I figured they might be thirsty.
“I don’t have any water,” the officer said. He wore a big white Stetson hat. His tone was the same a bully would use on the playground, like he was saying, “I don’t have your homework” when my homework was clearly right there in his hands.
I pointed to the water bottle at my feet. He ignored me and moved on. I think about six officers in total showed up. We could hear them laughing.
I kept asking where they would take our dogs. What would happen to my dogs?
Aubrey was a rescue mutt who was badly abused before she came to me. I was scared what going back into a cage without me would do to her.
We got Sirius as a puppy. When he was just a few months old, I was pulled over for a broken tail light. I asked the officer at that time to pet him to help me socialize him. I remember back then I told the officer I would hate for my dog to grow up and not trust people in uniform.
I Watched My Entire Home Get Towed Away
They called a tow truck to take our van. Our dogs rode inside the van on the truck to an animal shelter where they were put outside in a pen. I asked the officers to give them kibble from their food container and some water. Finally, someone did so.
They kept saying things like, “See if you’re nice to us, we’ll be nice to you.”
They also kept saying things like, “You’ll be back on the road in by tomorrow.”
Then we drove to the jail. We talked with the officers.
I learned that the older one had been in Texas for 42 years. I asked him what he did before that, and he said that was his whole life. I honestly thought the man was 20 years older than his actual age.
He also coached second-grade football. They both agreed that the best thing in Texas was BBQ.
When we got to the jail, they told us that my boyfriend and I wouldn’t be able to talk to each other again once we went in, so we should say our goodbyes. One of them said, “Give him some sugar.”
We didn’t get booked right away. We did some paperwork, but no mug shots. They asked if we were on drugs, asked if I was pregnant. I told them I wasn’t, but I had a miscarriage a few months earlier. They continued without comment.
They asked if either of us had depression. My boyfriend does. He has had it his whole life.
As I was waiting for a pat-down, I sat wrestling with my handcuffs. They were starting to hurt my shoulder, the one that always acts up when I work too long or get too stressed. I get a bad stress knot there sometimes that causes really sharp flare-ups.
The older cop who arrested us saw me struggling. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I told him.
“Scared?” he asked.
“My shoulder hurts,” I told him.
“You can’t be bringing that stuff into Texas,” he told me. I just looked at him, met his eyes. It didn’t take long for him to look away.
Uniforms Are Horrid, Food Is Inedible, and There Are No Books to Read - Not Even a Bible
We were given scratchy black and white uniforms. I thought they would be orange, but they looked exactly the same as they did in old western movies.
They gave us uncomfortable shoes with one thick strap over the top. I still see people wear them on the street, and I forever think of them as “jail shoes.”
This next part keeps me up at night. All of it keeps me up at night, but this next part makes me want to vanish and disappear forever.
Throughout this entire time, I only saw male cops. As a woman, I started to get really uncomfortable about pat-downs, but finally, a woman officer arrived. She sent me to change, then explained that I had to strip naked, bend over and cough to make sure I hadn’t stashed anything in any cavities.
I had been nothing but totally, self-destructively honest to this point. Now I had to strip before a total stranger and let them look up my ass.
It was the most degrading, humiliating thing I’ve ever experienced. Sometimes when I think about it I just want to crawl out of my own skin. Writing it out now makes me shake, makes me want to curl up in a blanket and cry.
I asked the officer if we would get creature comforts like toothpaste or deodorant. I recently switched to a paraben and aluminum-free natural deodorant. It worked great — for about three hours. Then I needed another coat.
And after driving for two days straight in an old van with no A/C, I could smell my own B.O. The officer told me we would get these things. We never did.
The men and women were held in different group holding cells. There were a lot of men. One of them looked like a frat boy, with a long strong chin and thick wavy hair. He gave me a nod and a smirk that told me he was checking me out.
Later, my boyfriend told me that this particular guy had beat another guy nearly to death. The other guy was in the hospital, and honestly no one knew if he would make it. This guy’s bail was the exact same as my boyfriend’s and mine.
The Men's Cell Was Crowded, But There Were Only Two Other Women
It was about midnight by now, and we first got pulled over close to ten. Both the women were asleep. I hit the call box and asked if I could have something to read. They told me something like reading was only allowed on Sunday.
For a while I sat on the bench, watching the happenings around the jail. There were only a few people working. Every fifteen minutes a loud siren blared, and someone came around and made a mark on the clipboard to note that everyone was still breathing, I guess.
Since my boyfriend has depression, they were supposed to pay close attention, make sure he was mentally stable and okay. They didn’t. They didn’t really look at you when they came around to mark the clipboards.
Most of the officers didn’t look happy. All of them were really overweight except for the woman cop who talked to me. There was one who had to weigh at least 300 pounds and he was only a few inches taller than me. I’m only 5'2" for the record.
Either his shoes were worn weird or his gait was off, or his feet didn’t line up right, because his shoes were like worn down pancakes and he seemed to walk on the outside edge of his feet as he waddled around.
We Didn’t Get Booked Until 3 AM
Eventually, I lay down and tried to sleep. I woke from deep REM sleep to someone saying my last name. It must have been the second or third time he said it that woke me. I remember waking disgruntled and confused.
It was the cop with the pancake shoes who was saying my name. He held the door open, and he must have been waiting for me for a minute or two. I was half asleep still, but I followed him out. He took my fingerprints, grabbing my hand and rolling each individual finger.
I didn’t like that he was touching me. I kept thinking under any other circumstance ever, he would never touch me, that I had a right to my own body, and I shouldn’t have to let other people I didn’t know, like, or trust touch me.
None of this is meant to be a commentary on officers. I want only to express my experience in the most accurate way I can recall it. The officer was not being rude or inappropriate or anything of the sort. But the fact that I couldn’t refuse to let him touch me, even in this procedural way, made me feel subhuman.
Next, he took my mugshot. When I first got arrested, I imagined having a mugshot where I make funny faces, or end up in an article of world’s sexiest mug shots. That’s not what came out. If you, for any reason, look up my mug shot from that night, I look exactly like a druggy criminal.
But imagine where I came from. I’ve been driving for two days straight to get halfway across the country for my dream job. I haven’t showered in just as long, and I’ve been sweating in a car without A/C the entire time. So my hair is greasy, it’s wind-whipped and tangled. And it’s 3 AM. I just woke up from a deep sleep and I’m not awake.
Of course my mugshot looks like a dirty, tired druggie. Anyone under those circumstances does.
After mugshots, he finally, at 3 AM, let me call home. I didn’t get an answer. With the time zone difference, it was four a.m. back home in Montana where I called my dad. He doesn’t answer phone calls he doesn’t recognize either, so I called him twice, of course to no avail.
I left a voice message saying I was in jail, and if he could bail me out. I tried to get enough information to him that he would at least be able to find me, and I told him I was sorry.
I am so fortunate that my boyfriend and I have an amazing family support network. We never would have survived this without all of them.
I hung up the phone and went back to sleep.
Daylight Wasn’t Any Better
I woke up pretty early the next morning. I tried treating the experience like Hemingway in jail, that this would be a great experience for my writing career. I should try to observe the situation around me, maybe do some push-ups or meditate.
After all, I thought, my family would have me bailed out in a couple hours.
Sometime during the night, one of the girls left and was replaced by a new one. They were both about my age, one a few years older, the other a few years younger.
As it turns out, they had both originally been arrested for meth but were here now because they were drinking on probation. One of them was missing her son’s second birthday.
They both told me the only way to get through being in jail was to sleep. I combed my hair with my fingers. It was wind-whipped and a bit knotty, and it took a while to get the knots out. I pulled out loose hair along the way. When I had the knots out, I balled up the loose hair into a pile the size of a fat hamster and kicked it under the bench.
At some point, they brought us breakfast. The choices were horrendous, and I’m not a picky eater. I’m an obsessive calorie counter, so I can tell you exactly what I ate that day: Three peanut butter crackers. I can’t remember the other options. I remember something with thick bologna type deli meat on white bread, maybe with mustard.
So I didn’t eat. I paced for a while, watching the clock tick. As night shift switched to day shift, the people seemed happier, more put together and more vibrant.
I started getting antsy and frustrated. I figured my family would have me out by now. I figured we’d be able to see a judge by now. One of the girls called her mom. I didn’t have a code, so I couldn't call anyone.
Talking to a Judge Was a Joke
We didn’t get called to see the judge until nearly one o’clock.
Back in high school, I was cited with an MIP while attending a party, despite the fact I had no alcohol, wasn’t holding any alcohol, and I blew zeros. Back then, I went into a courtroom and stood before a judge with black robes. He dismissed my case immediately.
I thought this might be something similar, where one by one we’re called into a courtroom to talk with a judge or an advisor. Instead, the entire group was led out of the cell to stand before a receptionist's desk.
I kept looking for the judge. As it turns out, he was the man in the baseball cap and button-up flannel t-shirt. I was shocked, nothing was going the way I expected it too.
The marijuana was no big deal, that was a misdemeanor level of possession. The THC products — my chocolate bars and vape pens — on the other hand, were treated like meth and cocaine. I was charged with a first-degree felony for possession of controlled substances.
Merian Webster defines a felony as “a crime, typically one involving violence, regarded as more serious than a misdemeanor, and usually punishable by imprisonment for more than one year or by death.”
I didn’t know it at the time. I didn’t even look it up until long after the dust was settled. But according to law, the recommended sentence for what I was charged with, was 25 years to life.
All for driving through Texas with THC chocolate bars and a busted license plate light.
Every Officer Lied to Us
The officers the night before had said possession of marijuana was a non-arrestable offense. When I asked, he said that was, “more of a myth.” And here I was with a felony in my lap.
They said we would be back on the road in no time, and now it was after noon the following day and I didn’t know if there was anyone on the outside world who was trying to help me.
They promised I could at least get some deodorant and brush my teeth. That never happened.
The one sweet relief of getting to see the judge is I also got to see my boyfriend. I was so worried his depression and anxiety were eating him.
But he seemed okay. He seemed to be laughing with some of the other men in the holding cell. They seemed to be joking around. He was wearing the itchy worn wool blankets like a poncho. He was alright, and for now, that was all that mattered to me.
They Threatened to Put Me in Solitary
We went back to the holding cells. I asked for a code so I could call my family. They said they would give out codes after the cases had been processed.
I waited an hour and then hit the call button, asking for my code so I could call my family. They said they still had to process the cases.
So I waited another hour. I knew it was an hour because I could see the clock on the wall. And then I called again. After all, the squeaky wheel is the one that gets the grease right?
“If you call again, we’ll put you in solitary,” they told me. I didn’t dare call again.
Listen, this is a point I want to make. I only wanted a code so I could talk to my family and make sure they were helping me get out. I was not being violent, or rude, or obnoxious.
But to the system, wanting to talk to my family was worthy of being put in solitary confinement.
Eventually someone opened the door, or I somehow got someone’s attention — a real person and not a voice over the call box. I think it was close to four by now. They gave me a code, and I finally got a hold of my family.
My dad and his new wife were on the phone. They had been in contact with my boyfriend’s family too, and together they were all trying to get us out.
We didn’t have a lot of resources. Neither of our families are rich. But I knew we could go through a bail bondsman and at least get out for a fraction of bail.
That’s when dad’s wife dropped the bomb on me. “Honey, your bail is $12,000.”
“Yeah, but then with a bondsman, it’s only 10% of that.”
“No, because you don’t have a physical address, that’s what the bondsman is asking.”
It was going to be $12,000 each for the both of us to get out. They told me they were still working on it, but it might be another night. And I started crying.
I kept trying to sleep. I would count my breath up to ten and start over, hoping to keep my mind empty so I could fall asleep.
An hour or two later, the second girl was released. I hoped it was going to be me. The other girl hoped it would be her. It was neither of us.
Writing Finally Helped
There was a pen in the holding room. It didn’t have a case, it was just the ink cartridge and the tip. But I had my brown paper lunch sack so I tore a page and started to write.
I ended up writing a love note to my boyfriend. I wrote everything I was thinking at the time, and how much he mattered to me. How in three to five years, this would all be over. That it sounds like a long time, but when we have at least sixty years left to live, it would be just a blip on our lifeline.
Writing felt horribly criminal. Anytime someone passed by, I tucked the note and my pen under my sleeping mat. It felt like I was in adult time out, and if I was caught playing or having fun, who knows, they might honestly send me to solitary.
I Cried When I Posted Bail
Then someone came in with paperwork for me to sign. “You’ve posted bail.” I started crying again. I was so relieved and happy I could leave. I asked about my boyfriend, and his family had come through for him too. We were both getting out.
It was still three hours later before I got my clothes, finished the paperwork, and finally walked out. My boyfriend got out before me, so I watched him go and felt relieved he was free, like an anvil lifted off my chest.
I tried being patient, but after a while, I started getting antsy again. It was really cold in the holding cell, and the girl I was with asked if I would leave my blanket for her, then went back to sleep.
I draped my blanket over her and tried to make sure it covered her entirely. I wanted to tuck her in, give her some comfort in that sense, but we didn’t know each other that well, and I didn’t want her to take it wrong.
When I finally — finally — left the holding cell, the lady officer seemed surprised that I didn’t have a blanket. I didn’t dare lie — I’m a bad liar. I told her it was cold, so I left it behind for the other girl. The officer didn’t say anything, but I still wonder if they let her keep it.
Our Bail Bondsman Was The Kindest Person to Ever Live
After getting out, my boyfriend and I hugged for a long time. Outside, there was a woman we’d never met before named Lindsey.
She worked for the bail company that worked with our families to help post bail. They managed to come to a deal where bail was $2250 each, and honestly, I’m still not sure where our families got the money.
She was frustrated with the jail for keeping her waiting for three hours after bail posted. I don’t know what took so long.
She drove us back to her office where we did more paperwork. She was so kind, the kindest person I think on the face of the planet. She was comforting and reassuring.
She talked about what a traumatizing experience it is to be arrested, how sometimes when people get out, they’ll cry and it’s okay. She was there to support us, and I’ve never been more grateful to have such an amazing person at that point in my life.
She drove us to go get our van and waited to make sure we were safe before she left again.
Thus Started an Enormous Financial Trainwreck
It was $500 to get our van out of holding, for one night in the impound. Fortunately, my boyfriend and I are both savers, and we had the money.
But that was just the start of our financial trouble from the “Texas situation.”
The animal shelter was closed for the night, so we couldn’t go get our dogs until the following morning. We drove to Walmart parking lot to spend the night.
I’m not going to pretend the van was clean when we left it. We’d been driving for two days straight, and the cumulative snack trash and moving had shaken up our possessions.
But the van was a complete trainwreck when we got back. During their search, the officers knocked caramel corn all over my winter coat where it stuck in a sticky conglomeration.
They spilled paint on our clothes — my boyfriend is an artist, so we had a lot of art supplies in the car. Everything was scattered everywhere.
And even with all the mess, they didn’t find everything. There was one, small perfect bud of marijuana right on the dash, and a collapsible pipe that was lost under the driver’s seat.
We cleaned up and tried to start to put our life back together.
The next morning, we got our dogs back from the shelter. They seemed to be fine and they were excited to see us, and we hit the road again.
The Very Same Day, a Total Stranger Gave Us Hard Drugs
We stopped in Dallas to get gas. It didn’t seem like a bad neighborhood. There was an organic deli I thought might be a good spot to stop for lunch right across the street.
That very day, the very next day after we bailed out of jail for marijuana possession, a strange man walked up to us in a gas station parking lot.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said and reached out to shake my boyfriend’s hand. He gave us drugs, fine small crystals that were probably bath salts, or maybe meth, from what Google could tell me. “I’ll be around.”
We immediately threw them out and got straight back on the road.
The Arrest Isolated Me at My New Job — So I Started Drinking Heavily
I never told my new employers or my coworkers about my arrest. I was a small town mountain girl moving to the big city. I was in over my head and didn’t relate to my coworkers, even without the arrest.
I can’t blame our struggles in Florida on what happened in Texas, but the arrest certainly didn’t help.
For starters, I developed a drinking problem. I’d been a daily pot smoker since I turned 21, but I still get to read, write, hike, and enjoy my hobbies when I’m high.
Without pot, I turned to alcohol, the cheapest stuff I could get my hands on, usually a handle of Smirnoff for $16 and off-brand diet root beer as a chaser.
Every single night when I would usually get stoned, I started getting wasted. And like I said before, I have an addictive personality. I don’t casually drink. I drink until I’m drunk and crying in the shower.
I got into the habit of drunk dialing my mom and riding my bike around the apartment complex. I fell off and skinned my hands a few times. Mostly, I needed an escape.
I’ve never been the type of person to need an escape. I smoked because I enjoyed it. It made me happy and made me feel creative.
I drank because I didn’t want to be there anymore. I didn’t want to deal with our neighbors that constantly screamed and threw glass at each other.
I didn’t want to think about the cops in Texas, how my trusting spirit landed me with a felony.
For the first time in my life, I was feeling depressed.
I Don’t Feel Guilty
Listen, you probably notice that this article doesn’t contain a sense of remorse. That’s because I don’t feel remorseful.
I don’t believe the law is always right. I wasn’t hurting anyone, nor encouraging or enabling anyone to hurt themselves. I can think of no good reason why THC and marijuana should be illegal, much less criminalized.
Everything we had, we bought legally. We just drove through a state that looked at the industry very differently.
And even still, it was so easy to find a dealer in Florida, we really didn’t have to try. We bought from him once, but smoking in our complex — even though it constantly smelled like weed from our neighbors — made us nervous. So I stuck to binge drinking.
While in Florida, we were robbed three times. Once, our bikes were stolen right off our patio while we were inside. Another time, we let a homeless lady come get a drink of water, and she stole about $80 worth of change we spent months saving.
The third time I was at work at a waitress job I took after my day job was over. Two teens came in and ran off with my tip jar. There was only about $15 in it, and my employer reimbursed me, but it didn’t make me feel safe.
But after a drive-by shooting killed someone in our complex, we decided to go back home. My boyfriend saw the shooting, though at the time he didn’t know anyone had been hurt. Still, when he called the cops, they didn’t follow up with him on it.
Six months later, the company I moved halfway across the country for laid off half their staff. I didn’t have any friends or support group, and I definitely wasn’t safe.
We Wouldn’t Be Okay If It Weren’t For Family
So what happened next? How is it now a year later and I’m not in jail?
My boyfriend and I are fortunate to have an amazing support network in lower-middle-class families with halfway decent credit scores.
We managed to hire a lawyer who got it so after 18 months on probation if we didn’t get in trouble, the felony would be forgotten, and we would only have a misdemeanor on our records.
No jail time, but lots and lots of debt.
If we didn’t have our families and a lawyer, we would be facing life sentences for a couple of THC-infused chocolate bars.
Here’s How Much it Costs to Get Arrested With Pot
As I said before, we’re both pretty good with money. Neither of us had student loan debt. Our ’97 van was paid for in full and neither of us had any car loans. I had four credit cards, two of which were pretty full to maxed out, the other two didn’t carry a balance.
But between the two of us, counting all debts, we only had about $2500 worth of debt.
But after Texas? All that changed. Let’s go over a financial breakdown of what it’s like to get arrested.
$2250 each — Bail x 2
$500 — Towing and storage
$276 each — Possession of paraphernalia fine x 2
$1500 each — community service fees x 2
$1260 each — regular reporting fees x 2
$364 each — misdemeanor fees x 2
$50 each — community watch program x 2
$8,000 — lawyer
$229 each — mandatory drug class x 2
So let’s do the math together. We went from about $2500 of debt to $20,358 in expenses related only to our arrest and the fallout.
That’s $20,358 we should be using to build our futures together. That’s money we should be putting towards retirement funds, investments, college tuition or a down payment for a house.
We were lucky enough to be able to afford a lawyer who would cover both of our cases for a discount. To cover it, I maxed out a credit card, my dad took out a loan, and my boyfriend’s dad took out a loan.
But I honestly believe without our lawyer, I would be writing this from prison.
I’m Lucky to Be Okay
Getting arrested didn’t ruin my life. I’m too resilient for that.
But I’m also lucky. If the circumstances in my life weren’t just right, and the people in my life didn’t have my back, I wouldn't be so lucky.
Marijuana prohibition does ruin lives. It puts people in financial ruin and sends perfectly good, kind, innocent people to jail.
This has to end.
