Quick Hits (page 5)
Searches Without Warrant Clarified
By: David Kravets (AP)
SAN FRANCISCO -- Police may conduct warrantless searches on adult convicts only if authorities know in advance that their subjects are on parole or probation, the California Supreme Court has ruled.
The 6-1 decision, in overturning two Kern County drug convictions, gives guidance to California officers on when they may search adult convicts without a warrant.
The case focuses solely on searches targeting adult parolees released early from custody and probationers convicted of crimes but not sentenced to incarceration.
As a general condition of avoiding custody or being released early, these convicts are required to waive their Fourth Amendment right to be free from warrantless searches and seizure for months or years.
The justices ruled that while officers can undertake warrantless searches on known probationers and parolees, such searches are illegal if officers learn of the convict's status only after the search.
"The admission of evidence obtained during a search of a residence that the officer had no reason to believe was lawful merely because it later was discovered the suspect was subject to a search condition would legitimize unlawful police conduct," Justice Carlos Moreno wrote for the majority.
The case concerns Arlene Sanders and Kenton McDaniel, who pleaded guilty to possessing a small quantity of cocaine after police searched the Bakersfield apartment they shared. Authorities responded to the apartment when a neighbor alerted them that the pair was fighting in April 1999.
After handcuffing them, police illegally searched the apartment and found cocaine. The two appealed their guilty pleas, asserting that the cocaine could not be introduced in court because authorities searched the apartment and seized the drugs without a warrant.
Bakersfield authorities, only after discovering the contraband, realized McDaniel was on parole and subject to warrantless searches. Among other things, the police asserted that McDaniel's parole status was grounds for the warrantless search.
The Supreme Court's opinion, however, concerned only adult convicts.
Growin' Our Own (page 5)
Cinder-Fella
By: Rodger Beasley
No intelligent living individuals are represented in this writing.
After waking up from a couple of hours of much needed sleep he glanced at the clock. It was noon. Damn graveyard shifts at the oil refinery were kicking his ass. He picked up the phone and dialed. "Shake?"
"Yeah, pop."
"Let's meet at the route eight tavern for a sandwich and a couple of cold ones."
Shake looked at the sky and knew he would get caught in an afternoon shower before getting back home. "No problem pop. I'll see you there in about an hour." His Harley started on the first kick. He pulled into light traffic and headed up route eight.
His old man bought the sandwiches and beer. They shot a couple of games of pool and argued about the same old things, the Viet Nam war, drug use and his lifestyle. "Shake you have to put some of this shit you are into behind you. I can get you on over at the refinery."
"Pop, you know damn well that you don't want me in there."
"Yeah, but I worry about you. How are those boots working out?"
Shake looked down at the black carolinas with the silver buckles. "Real nice boots pop. Thanks again." His old man had given him the boots a couple of months back.
"The refinery gives me two boot allotments a year. That is one pair more than I need."
When he got ready to leave his old man came out to watch him kick the panhead over and putt down the road. A gleam came into his eyes every time he saw the bike. "Ride safe."
"Take care pop."
On the way home, it began to rain.
Shake pulled into the garage and affectionately wiped the mud and rain splatters from the bike. There wasn't anything special about the appearance of the bike, a 1951 Harley Davidson hydra glide panhead.
He had removed the dresser equipment and replaced the saddle seat with a new low slung seat, which hugged the rigid frame. He had stripped the old paint and repainted with a three step buzz bomb kit. The first step was a silver primer base coat. The second step was a bright candy apple red. When he was satisfied, that there weren't any pits, blemishes or runs in those coatings, he applied the final clear coat. The paint job reflected the care with which it had been applied. He had removed and rebuilt the top end. Mechanically the bike was sound and trustworthy.
Melvin McGeorge, a ridge runner, had sold him the bike for two hundred dollars. Melvin used the two hundred dollars for a down payment on a brand new 1971 dresser with a cigarette lighter and built in radio. Melvin, dresser rider true to the corps, was really impressed with the built in cigarette lighter.
He laid the towel down looked at his boots and stepped into the house. Candy was stepping out of the shower. "You had better get cleaned up. I need a ride. The battery is dead on that damn Corvair. I'll wear my jeans and take a bag."
Candy was fifteen when they met. They were married the week before her seventeenth birthday. There had been a lot of good times in the past five years along with a few bad times. Their relationship was one of commitment and friendship, learning and growing together. He had noticed a radiance to her lately, but couldn't quite figure it out.
They entered the bar together. Candy walked slowly toward the small stage in the far corner. He began to check out the crowd, feeling for the mood. The usual amount of biker boys stood by the stage waiting for Candy to start dancing. They would hoot and holler fighting among themselves, not bothering anyone who didn't bother them. There were a few one percent men and their women at the side tables. They nodded, Shake returned the acknowledgments. A few of them were as close to friends as any he knew.
A group of straights, drinking and hoping to forget, lined the bar. They were left over from the day shift at the steel mills. Times were tough -- with more mill closures every day. Those men lived in constant fear of the pink slip. Men who define who they are by how hard they work need to work.
A few hippies were gathered next to the pinball machines, close to the sound to light translator. The music and the blinking lights attracted them like moths to light bulbs. They were usually too stoned to cause any trouble. He thought, "must be the LSD," and let them have their place.
A glance at the pool table told a story of its own. There wouldn't be any trouble around the table tonight. Junkie John and his partner Big Jim were in control of the action. They would hustle the unwary all evening. John could hold the table on eight ball three out of five times when he was high and four out of five if he needed to score to feed the monkeys he and Jim carried on their backs. Jim would make sure the hustled paid up.
He had helped Big Jim bring John back from the edge of a self induced, drug overdosed, never never land early one morning. The awakening took ice and ice cold water. It was fast and effective, but not pretty.
John was calling a shot. These men had learned how to look out for each other. They had picked up their habit from morphine kits, "good morning Viet Nam." They were good men who had been caught by a bad circumstance. The Viet Nam War, either enlist or be drafted. They had seen nightmares become realities. did anyone really have the right to judge the personal activities of these men?
Candy was almost through the second set of a three set evening. With her tall body and long legs, dancing came naturally to her. She moved sensuously and erotically. She was aware of her effect on the men and used the gift wisely. The biker boys, a few straights and a couple of strangers lined the stage, excitedly waving bills in the air, hoping for Candy's attention. She had a knack for finding the big spenders. The ones who, for a rub or a feel, would stick the fives or tens in her G string. It was playing out to be a good night for her. The bouncers had her covered. No one would dare to pass the limits Candy imposed.
Shake glanced toward the door as it opened with a bang. An instant of insight told him trouble had just walked in. The smaller of the two men was about his size, but a little heavier and slightly stockier. He had a pony tail down to his waist, beautiful hair all in all. The bigger of the two was over six foot and two hundred and fifty pounds. They stayed away from the pool table, the bikers and the working men. The bothered the slumming party people and the hippies for a little sport. It was nothing serious. they took a drink or two from a few of the weaker souls and threatened a few others into buying rounds for them. Shake knew it would not be long until they sought him out.
Candy had finished the second set. "Taking Care of Business" by Bachman Turner was playing on the juke box. He was wearing a slight buzz, but nothing heavy. They came his way prancing, strutting, pushing and shoving, in a fashion reserved for men. They were not interested in Candy. They were trying to intimidate him, but it wasn't working. He ignored them, knowing they would not stop until he danced with them.
Pony tail approached him. "You got anything good for sale?"
"I don't believe I know you."
"I'm not asking you for a date, dude. I'm trying to score."
"Sorry, you got the wrong man."
"Man? I don't see a man here." Shake saw the mug coming and ducked. The beer ran down his face. The bouncers were on it at once. They looked to him for a sign. He shook his head and wiped the beer from his face. The bouncers, without hurting them, escorted pony tail and his friend out the door. Pony tail stood in front of the door taunting him to come out. The big man was out of sight to the right of the door. The bar fell silent. All were waiting for his reaction. Candy looked at him, with concern and worry. She turned the music up and took the stage for her final set of the evening.
"Please Shake, don't go out there."
He had been asked to dance. He could not refuse. On his way to the door, he reached behind the bar and picked up a short night stick. Pony tail saw it laughed and switched a six inch blade into the light.
Shake walked slowly and purposefully toward the door. His military police training ran through his mind. Never hit anyone on the head or in the face - the slightest miscalculation and you could easily kill or maim someone. Shake stepped out of the door. He brought the stick down sharply and directly on the top of Pony tail's head. The drop was instantaneous, the knife fell from a limp hand. Pony tail was down and out. He would be out for quite awhile. There wasn't time to reflect. The big man had grabbed the nightstick. He stood grinning with a solid grip on the business end of the billy pulling with all of his strength. Shake knew the dance steps all too well. He almost felt sorry as he pushed with the big mans pull, directing the club into the man's face. He saw an instant of fear and recognition flash through the man's eyes. With the full force of both of them behind it, the night stick went straight into the the man's grin. Shake could feel the man's teeth breaking. The grin was gone forever. He fell against the building, moaning in agony, leaving a trail of smeared blood along the yellow brick as he slid to the ground.
Shake walked back into the bar and put the nightstick away. Candy glanced at him as she danced. Tonight she would take extra care to treat him tenderly. She would try to help him, knowing that it would not be enough. She knew he had sensed her glow, but did he understand it?
They rode home in silence. He spent an hour or so with her, dressed, pulled his boots on and went out. She heard the one kick that brought the Harley to life.
Shake rode out into the darkness of the approaching dawn. From eight miles away, he could see the burning flame of the refinery cracking tower. He rode past, thinking of his old man inside the fence, jumping over the tar spills, walking around the spilled caustic sodas, dancing through the place, ever mindful to make his boots do the work of two pair.
He looked down at his carolinas. The cracking tower flame was reflecting in the buckles. He reached to the tank, shifted to fourth gear and took the freeway north. He rode through the factory district, past the steel mills. Melvin was in there, somewhere, dancing past the molten slag, dodging the overhead cranes, worrying about the Harley payment and the pink slip.
He rode toward the lake. The warm wind felt good. It refreshed him. the Harley was performing its magic. He was in that place that cannot be explained to outsiders. How do you explain to anyone that without Harleys there would be one less reason for dancing?
There was a slight knock on the door. He looked up as it opened. A blonde haired woman entered. "You are wanted on the phone. It is the call you have been waiting on. Your son in law is on the line."
It brought his thoughts back to the present. He looked at the bike a 2003 softail custom, professional paint, powder coated frame and shop built engine. He put the polish on the shelf, laid the towel down, looked down at his new two hundred dollar boots, walked into the house and picked up the phone.
"Shake, you are a grandfather. You have a brand new grandson, eight pounds and ten ounces, with all of his fingers and toes."
"Thanks, you kids take care. I'll get over there in a few days."
He was dancing to a different song. He was riding a different bike. Many years had passed and much had changed. The Harley magic had not changed. He walked back out to his shop, picked up the polishing towel, knelt next to the orange and black softail and lived happily ever after.
Take care my friends, Blade 1% Madman MC,
Montana.
Pipeline (page 5)
A New Hard-Liner at the DEA
By: Jason Vest
Though the Republican Party prides itself on being a champion of state sovereignty, one need only mention phrases like "medical marijuana" or "drug law reform" to see how quickly the Administration of George W. Bush becomes hostile to the notion of the autonomy of states. The latest--and perhaps most egregious--example of this enmity is about to become manifest via a new appointment: that of veteran Justice Department official Karen Tandy, soon to be new chief of the Drug Enforcement Administration.
Already approved by the Senate Judiciary Committee after an all but unnoticed, if not farcical, confirmation hearing, the Administration evidently hopes Tandy's nomination will next clear the full Senate with as little attention or debate as possible. Lost in the shuffle has been any meaningful examination of dubious policy initiatives and prosecutions Tandy has been involved in over the past twenty years.
According to drug-reform activists, the nomination of Tandy--a career Justice Department prosecutor and administrator whose most recent assignments have included busting mail-order bong sellers and those involved in Oregon and California's state-sanctioned medical marijuana programs--is a clear signal from the Administration that it will give no quarter on any aspect of marijuana policy. This view is also echoed by veteran defense attorneys who have tangled with Tandy; they marvel at the lack of scrutiny her nomination has received, both in the press and on Capitol Hill. Though nary a critical question or ill word was uttered to Tandy at her hearing, a preliminary Nation investigation has found numerous instances of prosecutorial overzealousness on Tandy's part that don't lend themselves to a rubber-stamp confirmation:
While coordinating the grand jury investigation of major marijuana traffickers Christopher and Robert Reckmeyer in the Eastern District of Virginia in 1984, Tandy and two federal agents were "disqualified and prohibited from directly or indirectly participating" in the investigation by Judge Albert Bryan Jr. because they read documents the court had ruled were protected by attorney-client privilege. On an arcane point of procedure, an appellate court reluctantly reversed Bryan's decision, noting that it was finding for Tandy "with admitted discomfort" that "the government shall have been able to violate both court decrees and adjudicated rights without any accountability in this proceeding."
An April 9, 1985, Washington Post article reported that other underhanded Tandy actions in the Reckmeyer case--like waiting until only three days before trial before giving defense attorneys over 60,000 pages of critical documents, all unindexed--had made the US Attorney's office an object of scorn to the court and the defense bar. Robert Reckmeyer later revealed in an affidavit that after he agreed to aid the government in exchange for a lesser sentence, Tandy afforded him the highly unusual, if not dubious, privilege of lengthy private visits with his wife and family. "There came a time during my debriefings when Karen Tandy complained to me that I was 'not being cooperative,' " he wrote. "I interpreted this to mean that Ms. Tandy was upset because I was not saying what she wanted me to say. She told me that if I was not 'more cooperative' in the future, she would end my visits with my wife."
And even though Tandy's probe turned up no indication that the Reckmeyer brothers' father, William, had been involved in their criminal enterprise, Tandy ordered his property seized as well. "It cost me a lot of money, time and psychic energy in court to get my property back, but I did--the judge implicitly said her witnesses perjured themselves," recalls William Reckmeyer.
While negotiating a 1982 plea agreement in the Eastern District of Virginia with Michael Harvey, a first-time drug offender, Tandy changed the agreement's wording--without informing Harvey, his lawyer or the court of the change--in a way that successfully set Harvey up for another arrest, prosecution and conviction in a South Carolina federal court upon completion of his plea-bargained Virginia sentence. An appeals court later vacated Harvey's second sentence, finding Tandy's actions disingenuous; the plea bargain, the court concluded, was "intended to 'put behind him' all of Harvey's potential liability for all offense 'arising from' the general investigation underway, which everyone involved, including Ms. Tandy, knew included activity in South Carolina that was later charged to Harvey."
According to material submitted to the National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers in 1988, Tandy failed to turn over exculpatory evidence in the 1987 prosecution for cocaine distribution of Alfredo Arroyo. Though the allegedly withheld materials ultimately proved unnecessary--a jury acquitted Arroyo after concluding that he had been entrapped--defense attorney John Zwerling sent case materials to NACDL's Government Misconduct Committee, asking for advice on what action, if any, might be initiated against Tandy. Failing to receive any guidance from the committee, Zwerling reluctantly let the matter lie.
Despite an overall lack of evidence in a 1994 case against John Wheeler, a North Carolina small-businessman, Tandy ordered Wheeler's business and property seized. "It was an outrageous example of the government both overreaching and overcharging, and quite frankly trying to squeeze a legitimate businessman into saying things that weren't true to further cases against others," says Joshua Treem, Wheeler's attorney. "After two years of litigation, the government dismissed all the charges pending against Johnny. They had no evidence whatsoever. It was so bad that when they submitted the dismissal letter, the judge interlineated on the order, dismissing the charges with prejudice."
The Wheeler case and others took place back in the days of the draconian Comprehensive Asset Forfeiture Act [see Eric Blumenson and Eva Nilsen, "The Drug War's Hidden Economic Agenda," March 9, 1998], a Reagan-era initiative that Tandy literally wrote the book on for Justice Department prosecutors. Though some of the more excessive aspects of that law--which radically eroded not only the rights of suspects but of nonsuspects associated with federal investigations--were ameliorated thanks to a late 1990s bipartisan effort spearheaded by Congressman Henry Hyde and signed into law by Bill Clinton, drug-policy observers expect Tandy's DEA to use current asset forfeiture law as expansively as possible.
Though much about Tandy's career has gone unexamined (in addition to her Virginia days, she's done stints as a federal prosecutor in Washington State and asset forfeiture chief at Justice), few senators seem interested in her past or future. So far, only Senator Richard Durbin has gone on record as opposed to Tandy's nomination; in response to his written queries, not only did Tandy demonstrate ignorance of key policy studies but she "didn't back off an inch," as Durbin put it, from the view that the DEA should proceed apace with medical marijuana raids. California Democrat Dianne Feinstein has also expressed misgivings about Tandy, observing that the nominee "doesn't seem amenable to listening" to concerns about federal law enforcement and state-sanctioned medical marijuana.
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