The judge was thrown by my intention to plead not guilty. He had gotten the impression from the CleanCut Sheriff that we would be willing to pay a fine and plead guilty. I explained to him that I could not in good faith plead guilty when I was not. I explained to him that we were on a long drive, and that the plants were merely an interesting roadside distraction, a way to break up the monotony.

"Well," the judge said sarcastically, "A lot of people seem to take in "interest" in our county's marijuana plants around this time of year.

Outraged and insulted, I suggested to the judge that I was innocent until proven guilty, and that with all due respect he ought to treat me that way. The prosecuting attorney, a short young man with a shaved widow's peak and a yellow complexion, backed away from me and stood a little closer to the judge.

I gestured at the portrait of George Washington behind the judge. "Why, George Washington himself grew hemp for its fiber value," I said. "We were interested in seeing the plants because they are part of history," I went on. "Aren't they left over from the war effort in the 40s, when all the rope was needed abroad?"

"From the Civil War days, actually," the Judge advised. I looked back at Raoul, to get his reaction, and was startled to see the scarred guys sitting just in front of him. Were they here to testify against me?

I felt paranoid and disoriented. It was like being arrested for shoplifting before you'd had a chance to bring the goods to the register and pay. I wanted to ask the judge if he'd seen the pot where I came from, Cannabis Indica, and why he thought a couple of guys from San Francisco would take any interest at all in some God-forsaken headache weed in a ditch other than as an historical curiosity.

But what good would it have done? These people just obviously didn't get it. Or they did get it and they didn't care because it was the only thing bringing money into their God-forsaken county.

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