Raoul snatched off the top few leaves of one plant, smelled it and handed it to me. "By golly," I said. "looks like pot to me." I had, in the meantime, plucked a leaf of my own, which I was rolling between my fingers in order to feel the hemp fibers.
"Crouch down there and get behind the plant so it'll stand out against your T-shirt," Raoul directed. I complied, and did my best evil drug fiend expression as he clicked off a shot. Then it was my turn to play photog.
We were in the process of trading places when I became aware that a police car had stopped, probably to be sure that we were not broken down or in need of other assistance. I absently tossed the leaves aside as I walked toward the officers to greet them and assure them that everything was okay.
The deputy sherrif was a short, stocky red-faced kid with the sleeves torn off a pinstriped white button down. He had on filthy denim pants, a baseball cap and a badly scuffed pair of cowboy boots. He walked over and picked up the leaves with an inside-out plastic bag. Then he directed me to turn around and put my hands on the car. "You got those handcuffs, Norman?" he asked.
© 1997,98 Henry Kingman