DdC

JAX FEST: HUNTED IN FLORIDA
By Christopher Largen

I sit on a beachside bench next to my friend and coauthor George McMahon, one of five patients with the legal right to smoke federally grown cannabis in every state of the union. We've just driven over 1000 miles in two days, from our homes in northern Texas to Jacksonville, Florida. We've passed through plains, forests, and swamps, but we haven't left Bush country.

We're in Florida for the first time ever, attending the Sixth Annual Jacksonville Hempfest at the Seawalk Pavilion in Jacksonville Beach. George and I are scheduled to speak along with Fat Freddy, Kevin Aplin (President of the Board of Florida Cannabis Action Network), Jodi James (Executive Director of Florida CAN), Heath Wintz of Students for Sensible Drug Policy, Doug Klippel of the Libertarian Party, Ken Hurley of the American Civil Liberties Union, and The Reverend Roland A. Duby. We've been told to expect a crowd of 10,000 throughout the day.

Our fellow speaker and friend Fat Freddy (a.k.a. Jess Williams) sits in a folding chair across the sidewalk. He's an American icon, a real-life comic book character in existence for more than thirty years. I've read his comics since I was five years old. Even now children think he's Santa
Clause. Freddy claims to take his marching orders directly from God. I believe he means it.

Marijuana Man sits in a booth across the sidewalk from us. His legal name is Ronnie Smith, but most people know him as The Reverend Roland A. Duby. He is a consummate comedian known for his hilarious rewrites of songs like "Proud Mary" (Proud Mary Jane), and "Secret Agent Man" (Marijuana Man). The Reverend is shiny bald, and his huge belly is matched only by the size of his heart and smile. He's a gentle giant with a razor intellect. He's been trucking with Freddy for several weeks.

It feels good to be with this motley band of friends. We each have unique paths, but the same ultimate goals to educate and liberate. A gentle wind tempers the blistering sun. It's a perfect day for teaching.

*****
A young well-dressed lady approaches me and asks if I know where to obtain LSD. I tell her I haven't dropped acid in twelve years. She tells me that she's been homeless for three weeks. That's funny. Her hair, fingernails and clothes are perfectly clean. She asks if she can come to my motel for a shower. I tell her I'm traveling with a federal marijuana patient who is especially cautious about strangers. I say I'm sorry, but I won't be able to help her. She disappears in the crowd, disappointed. But not deterred.

*****
Sometimes when things go wrong, you never see it coming.

It's around 4pm. A big bald man with earrings in both ears and a Tasmanian devil tattoo approaches the booth where Roland A. Duby quietly sits behind a table. The man points toward Roland several times. Strange. A few moments later a male and female uniformed officer approach Roland A. Duby, who sits at a booth behind a table. As they hover over him, the female officer asks what he's holding. Roland says it's a tobacco box. She asks to look inside. He refuses. She says he should show it to her immediately. Roland asks to see a warrant, and states that he won't consent to searches without one. The male officer claims they don't need a
warrant. The female officer threatens Roland with arrest if he doesn't open the tin. Roland says it sounds like she wants to arrest him no matter what, and then asks for a moment to think about it. The male officer reaches for his cuffs, telling Roland he can think while he rides to jail.

Roland is trembling (is it anger or fear?) and sweating profusely as he rocks slightly back and forth. He looks up into my eyes for a second, and I can see the wheels grinding in his mind. Then he stands up and throws his Bugler box into a trashcan on the nearby sidewalk.

All hell breaks loose.

Two uniformed officers push in on Roland, without stating that he's under arrest. Roland backs up and the cops tackle him from behind using a chokehold. He sputters as he tries to pull the choking arm away from his neck and restore his airflow. He is thrown to the ground and begins
screaming, "Oh my God! You've broken my leg!"

The tattooed bald man steps forward and reaches in front of Roland's face, holding a small plastic looking device that appears to be a digital camera. The device makes a hissing noise and mace is sprayed at his face (despite the gusting wind that sweeps through the crowded walkways). Roland's glasses block a direct shot, and he tightens his eyes. His glasses are lifted and his eyes are directly blasted with mace.

A patient named Patty, who survived six stomach surgeries, stands a few feet behind Roland when the mace is sprayed. She receives chemical burns to her arms. She doesn't cry out. Pain is already an intimate part of her daily life.

A young girl freezes in place near the assault, watching the incident with frightened eyes as Roland's shrieks fill the air. I'm grateful my young son and daughter aren't here to witness this brutality. I guess I won't be taking them to Disney World anytime soon.

It's hard for Roland to breathe with the chokehold. The mace is gagging him and his nose begins running. The cops cuff him so tight his wrist bone might crack. Random citizens in the crowd call for an ambulance.

Randy Cheatham of Florida CAN approaches the bald, tattooed, man, taps him on the shoulder and pleads, "Hey, what are you doing to him? Who are you? Leave him alone."

The man responds like a Sumo wrestler on amphetamines. He spins around and yells, "I'm a cop!"
Randy says, "Well, I don't see a badge."

The man frantically tears at his own shirt, whips out a badge, and spits in Randy's face as he screams, "Get back! Get back! I'm a cop!"

The huddled officers block my view, so I move around the side of the booth to find Roland sitting on the ground, handcuffed. He's grimacing and his face is inflamed, wrinkled, and covered with tears and mucous. He cries out, "I want my mommy!"

I want to sob and vomit at the same time.

A guy standing right behind me barks, "Move out of the way!"

I snap back, "I'm not moving. He's my friend!" I turn and notice the guy is clutching a video camera. I pull away quickly. After all, right now this man is probably one of Roland's best friends. Oops. I move around the front of the table and squat down to ask Roland the obvious. "Are you okay?94

True to his comedic instinct, he stoically states, "No, I'm not okay. My eyes are burning and I have snot running down my nose."

Randy Cheatham sweeps by me clutching a t-shirt and moves toward Roland. An officer extends his arm forward and shouts "Don't touch his eyes!"

Randy says, "I just want to get the snot off his lip, man." Randy wipes at Roland's nose as the officer lunges for him and misses.

The officer shouts "Leave, now!"

Randy wipes once more and quickly moves out of the booth while muttering "Nazi pigs."

My mind flashes to the laughs Roland has given me during the short time I've known him. I look directly at the bald undercover officer and yell, "He's not an animal! He's a human being!" I somehow manage to sound like John Merrick, the elephant man.

The female uniformed officer tilts her head, shrugs her arms, and says, "Why do you think we are activating a medical response team?"

I know why. They are activating a medical response team because one of their fellow officers sprayed chemicals on an unarmed, nonviolent comedic performer at a permit-approved public festival, in full view of local beachgoers, tourists, attorneys, politicians, journalists, artists, authors, public speakers, children, and patients. It doesn't look great on the evening news, if you know what I mean.

Scott Bledsoe, the chief organizer of the festival, ascends the stage and announces the arrest. Agitated patrons move toward the area of Roland's tent. The crowd is swelling by the second. Random shouts fill the hot, humid air. I try to hold my tongue, I really do. I don't want to witness a riot and all the suffering that goes with it. Traveling with George McMahon, I've learned to keep a level head in desperate situations. Yet I cannot remain silent now. My silence would imply a passive acceptance of barbarism. These officers need to understand that feral behavior by public servants is not acceptable to American citizens. Like George always says, one breath one choice. My lips tremble as I rise up and shout, "This is America? Congratulations! You just made national media!"

I move through the crowd, weaving like a snake, pacing like a bear. It's hard to distinguish my own voice from others in the throng. "Go after the terrorists! Go home! This was a peaceful rally! We just went from cannabis to pepper spray? I feel safer already!"

I approach the female officer and say, "Roland was a scheduled act at this festival. Did you know that a federally-authorized marijuana patient was scheduled to speak today?"

The officer's face turns white as her mouth drops open. She points over her shoulder at Roland and asks, "Is that him?"

I let her off the hook and say, "No, but did you bother to ask him if he was a patient before you swarmed him? Many sick and disabled citizens are attending this event today. If one of them is smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, are you going to target and tackle them? What if a diabetic
needs to inject their medicine? Do patients have to be afraid to attend this festival?"

The officer says, "Okay, move back."

The emergency medical team pushes a stretcher to the booth. I push through the crowd and make my way to the stage. I'm supposed to speak in a few minutes. If I can pull my heavy heart and head together, that is. I look up to see Fat Freddy poised on stage grasping a microphone, railing against the injustice. He angrily shakes his finger and spits as he speaks in support of our wounded friend. The acoustics where I'm standing are terrible, and he's shouting so fast I can only make out the word "police " and "rights". He's the real Fat Freddy, still trucking after all these years.

Fat Freddy counts down to 4:20, then lights up in disrespect of the officers that brutalized his friend and ignored his human rights.

*****
Scott Bledsoe introduces me as I walk on stage and grab the mike. In spite of my shock and rage, I try to keep my cool.

"Thank you85Aside from the pepper spray, it sure looks beautiful out there.

"Have you ever imagined what would happen if our nation declared a war on junk food? I can just hear it now85The Surgeon General has declared our nation is facing an epidemic of obesity. Thousands of junk food junkies are dropping dead from diet-related illness! Something must be done! Our newly formed Food Enforcement Administration will conduct residential refrigerator searches. Snickers wrappers and barbeque grills will now be considered paraphernalia. Police in possession of donuts will face federal corruption charges. Our military forces will be dispatched to eradicate cocoa fields used in chocolate production. To dissuade newly formed gangs like the Ice Cream Crew and the Praline Posse, officials will post Neighborhood Weight-Watch signs in your area. If your neighbor is gaining a few pounds, you can phone the confidential hotline and turn them in. Dare to keep kids off coca-cola, and just say no to Cracker Jacks!

"But seriously, war is hell. Our casualty list is a poignant reflection of our national diversity. We are sick and dying patients denied access to medical cannabis while we wither away. We are children caught in the crossfire of black market mobsters and police. We are innocent citizens
shot to death in our own homes during botched drug raids. We are police officers tortured and murdered over illegal drug profits. We are Christian missionaries shot down from the sky in "suspected" drug planes. We are addicts who die in jail because our government spends more on prison than treatment. After thirty years of escalating penalties, we've lost more of our citizens and civil liberties than we did in Iraq. Despite this carnage, drugs are still readily available on street corners across America. When will our government implement policies that heal people rather than destroying lives? We the people hold the answer in the voices we raise, and the ballots we cast."

I walk off the stage to cheers. A uniformed officer I haven't seen before steps right up to me, looks me in the eye, nods his head in approval, shakes my hand, and walks away without saying a single word. I could be wrong, but I think I just converted a cop. I can't stop grinning.

*****
I stroll to the beach to meditate for a moment. I notice two uniformed officers following about thirty feet behind me. I stop walking and gaze at the flock of gulls descending on the sand - the cops stop walking and gaze at me. I walk back to the pavilion, followed by the two officers. I immediately turn and walk back to the beach. The officers follow me again.

I'm amazed. Do these cops really think I'm going to jump offstage to smoke a joint on a public beach, in the middle of a hemp festival? I'm not an activist. I'm a citizen who wants some privacy to reflect on the beautiful Atlantic. Doesn't look like I'm going to get it, though.

I turn from the sand and head back to the pavilion once more. The officers march right behind me. I feel like a mother hen.

I'm a little worried. I'm not doing anything illegal, but after seeing what happened to Roland, I know that innocence won't protect an American citizen from being harassed, assaulted, and arrested.

I decide to take a long walk around the perimeter of the pavilion. The officers are behind me every step of the way. I stop. They stop. I walk. They walk. I wonder if I could get them to dance the Congo with me. One officer comes so close he almost steps on my heel. My adrenaline
is rising.

Jodi James, the Executive Director of Florida CAN, approaches me and says, "Do you know you're being followed?" I smile and nod. "Sure, they've been on me for ten minutes now." "We have people videotaping it right now, okay?"

"No problem. I'll keep walking until they get tired."

I have no idea if these officers just intend to track me85or set me up. A few minutes later, the cops are gone. Like they were never there.

*****
George and I enter our motel room late, to rest our weary feet. George immediately lights a joint.

George can give a speech even when he's in tremendous pain. Right now I'm his only audience. "You know, most men fight fair. Very few will kick a man when he is down. These officers came to this festival as an armed gang looking for trouble. To them, everyone who came to the beach that day was a potentially dangerous criminal. I sat in the heat for six hours, exhausted and in pain, but I couldn't even smoke my legal medicine for fear I would be harassed or beaten. And my health is so fragile that one good push, let alone a violent assault, could mean my death. I guess none of the other patients at this community function could take their medicine, so I didn't feel so alone in my suffering."

Suddenly we hear a knock on our door. I wonder who could be coming by at one o'clock in the morning. George opens the door, and I hear a female voice say, "Uh, hello. Is that guy here?"

George raises his eyebrows and looks at me. "You mean Christopher?"

I stand up and cross to the door. It's the "homeless" lady from the beach. How the hell did she know where to find us? I had never told her where we were staying.

I step outside and she says, "Hey, I was wondering85you said you couldn't get acid. But do you think you could get some pot?"

Before I wasn't sure. Now I'm fairly certain this lady is a police officer.

"It's late. This motel doesn't allow visitors. I'm not trying to be rude, but I need to get some sleep." She looks at me and says, "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to get you in trouble."

I think to myself, "Yes you were. I just wouldn't let you."

I close the door behind me, drop down in bed, and try to rest without any further harassment.

*****
George and I pull over at a Florida rest stop near the state line. I love driving his all-white car, equipped with a CB. It looks like a police vehicle. We're almost out of the woods.

As George and I return from the restroom we notice a silver sedan parked behind George's car. A man steps out and we both recognize him from the Jacksonville festival. He pulls out a camera and begins videotaping us climbing into the car and driving off. Let him.

George lights a joint as we cross the state line into Alabama, and I inhale a deep breath of sweet-scented air.

* Preliminary reports indicate that Roland A. Duby was illegally interrogated and threatened in the ambulance en route to the hospital, where it was determined that officers had injured Roland's left knee, his throat, and his face. The following afternoon, Roland A. Duby appeared in court on crutches. Randy Cheatham generously put up his house for collateral on Roland's $15,000 bail. Roland has since returned to his hometown in Warsaw, Kentucky, where he is a recurring candidate for sheriff. He plans to consult a specialist forhis injuries.ACLU representatives were present during Roland's assault. They plan to assign an attorney to help Roland and Jacksonville Hempfest sue the city of Jacksonville Beach. Roland states, "I treated my kidnapping as if I were a prisoner of war. I was courteous and responsive to all commands. I thank God for my eventual release into the America he blessed, and ask him to forgive my kidnapper custodians, for they knew not what they were doing."

JAX FEST: HUNTED IN FLORIDA
Date: Thu, 05 Jun 2003
From: "D. Paul Stanford" stanford@crrh.org

<a href="http://www.angelfire.com/wa/fatfreddy" target="_blank">A WAR LIKE NO OTHER WAR</a>



<a href="http://www.trvnet.net/~mmcmahon" target="_blank">Welc ome to George McMahon's Home Page</a>

<a href="http://jug-or-not.com/jaxcan" target="_blank">MAY 31, 2003 6TH ANNUAL JACKSONVILLE HEMPFEST</a>

<a href="http://www.jug-or-not.com/hempfest/jaxbeachnarcs.html" target="_blank">JACK SONVILLE BEACH UNDERCOVER NARCS REVEALED!</a>

<a href="http://www.jug-or-not.com/hempfest/picture1.gif" target="_blank">FREE SPEECH PREVAILS DESPITE POLICE BRUT</a>

<a href="http://jaxhempfest.com" target="_blank">Jax Hemp Fest</a>

<a href="http://www.iamm.com/image8IA.JPG" target="_blank">B&W Poster</a>

<a href="http://www.cherniak.com/default.htm" target="_blank">Cher niak.com</a>

<a href="http://www.cherniak.com/FatFreddyImages/FFPosterComicCoverVe r6.jpg" target="_blank">Fat Freddy Poster</a>

<a href="http://www.angelfire.com/wa/fatfreddy/tommy.html" target="_blank">Fat Freddy and Friends</a>

<a href="http://www.angelfire.com/wa/fatfreddy/Thor.jpg" target="_blank">Rola nd A. Duby/Tommy Chong</a>

Email: fatfreddy@cherniak.c om

<a href="http://jug-or-not.com/jaxcan" target="_blank">JAX FEST Pictures</a>
<a href="http://www.jug-or-not.com/hempfest/BUST7.jpg" target="_blank">Ille gal Search of Roland A. Duby's Personal Belongings</a> (note cop 11 female cop)
<a href="http://www.jug-or-not.com/hempfest/BUST3.jpg" target="_blank">Po lice Skinhead Jerry Dearing</a>

"Marijuana Man", Roland A. Duby, and Fat Freddy before the assault

__________________

BUDFORCE

now thats scarry...

BUDFORCE

I 100 percent agree! Christopher Largen has written a vivid account of this horrible event. That was one of the things going through my mind when I read this.

C0lt45 WGH

A REAL STONER WOULD NEVER TAKE THE TIME TO READ THAT MUCH!!

__________________
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W1th b00z3 y0u l0s3. W1th d0p3 th3r3s h0p3!
If tHe tEnTs sMoKeN. wE JuSt tOkEn!
some ppl like harry potter.....
well, i like hairy pot.....

Sag Man

DdC,

That was a GREAT post! I hope the City of Jacksonville, and for that matter Florida in general, comes under severe scrutiny for this! I hate to see this kinda of crap happen but I am just glad that enough people saw it that it might make a difference.

I just want to thank you for having the diligence and tenacity to keep researching and posting. I don't always have the time to read all of the way through but even just picking out the smaller chunks has provided a wealth of knowledge.

Keep up the great work regardless of what any of the naysayers think!