Doing Time: Time to Go a’ Courtin’
By Coral Ceiley
facebook.com/coral.ceiley.33
My court date was about four months away. In the meantime, Loverboy and I were expected on a grow site in northern California near Dorris, the last town in Cali before you hit the Oregon border. As a matter of fact, if you stepped over the barbed-wire fence on our property, you were in Oregon. I was far, far away from Shasta County, and didn’t have a care in the world.
The property in Dorris was two and a half acres full of ponderosa and lodgepole pines. The elevation was four-thousand feet, which made for a shorter growing season. There were large holes already dug in the garden and all we had to do was amend the soil. Greg brought us clones and by the time we were done planting, we had a garden of fifty-two; thirty “three kings,” a dozen “Godzilla,” and the rest Blackberry Kush.
Being prepared to face the music, I made arrangements for travel down to Redding for my approaching court date. I appeared on a Friday morning at eight AM, was not approached or called by a public pretender, and was the first case called by the prosecutor. I stood alone. Loverboy was there for moral support but appeared to be sleeping in a comfortably upholstered chair.
The prosecutor started rattling off his suggested sentence: forty eight hours mandatory incarceration, one hundred county supervised work hours, three years probation, and a five thousand dollar fine. This sounded a little extreme to me, but I had no one to advise me. I glanced at Loverboy who seemed to be wiping the drool from his chin, but he was of no help. This visibly irritated the judge who asked me if I accepted the terms. Wanting to be done with the whole thing, I asked if I could complete all these tasks in Siskiyou County where I currently resided. I was told sure, by two women who appeared to be county clerks. Seriously doubting if I should, I said I agreed and before the judge’s gavel hit the desk, the prosecutor added on a six month suspended sentence! My mouth dropped open. Was I in America? Where was my legal process? Where was my public defender? The whole thing took less than five minutes. The gavel went down and I was ushered off by Thing One and Thing Two, the county clerks, to sign a multitude of papers.
I signed my life away that morning, simply wanting to get out of there to have a stiff drink and smoke a fatty. Nothing will turn you into an alcoholic like the California Department of Justice. I agreed to register for probation within three days. The terms of probation went on for pages and pages. I was not allowed to drink alcohol for three years! I agreed to pay the whopping fine of five thousand dollars with interest in a lump sum at the end of growing season. I agreed to register for the county work program by Monday morning. I would dress in an orange vest and pick up trash on the side of the highway for one hundred hours. Also I would make arrangements to spend forty-eight hours in jail. This was my first DUI. Everyone told me this sentence was unusually harsh. I cried the rest of the day.
But the real problem was that I was returning home to Dorris that afternoon, having plants that needed tending. I later learned that I could actually fulfill NONE of these requirements. Uh, oh! What do I do now? On Monday morning I phoned the Shasta County Probation Department. That office does not accept phone calls nor take messages. If you want to talk to them, you must do it in person. I then called the number for the work program. I spoke to a nice officer there. She said I could not complete the requirements from Siskiyou County, a hundred and twenty miles away, and proudly informed me that people commuted from out of state to fulfill their hours in Redding. I wondered how they did this without a driver’s license but didn’t bother to ask.
Officer Friendly told me she would issue a warrant for my arrest if I did not report to her office within three days. I hung up the phone and fought back the tears. I would have a warrant issued for my arrest by the end of the week. I was a fugitive for the first time in my life. Welcome to my life of crime. The courts and officers of Shasta County had just created a criminal.
We pulled off a successful grow in spite of unforeseen circumstances. After getting all our plants in the ground, Loverboy drove our truck into a culvert on the side of the highway. We both received major injuries. I was in ICU for two days in a morphine-induced coma.
Loverboy was released the next day and called my son in for back-up. Greg drove up to water plants and take care of Loverboy and the dogs. I was hospitalized in Oregon with every rib in my body broken and a broken pelvis. I was not able to walk. After a week I was taught how to walk with a walker by the hospital staff and was finally released on Fourth of July weekend. I had never been so happy to get out of a place in my life!
I had to walk on a walker for eight weeks and was not allowed to carry anything. So it was up to Loverboy to take care of the garden. In the heat of the summer, I would have to nag and nag him to water the plants. He just wanted to let them die and crawl into a bottle. But I would not let him give up. He carried quite a bit of guilt over almost killing me. By the end of the grow, we yielded about twenty pounds.
Doing Time: Nobody Loves You When You’re Down and Out
So by November of 2015, I’m all healed up and feel like a schoolgirl again. Loverboy and I have a new vehicle and are partying it up in Reddog City. We spend money on hotel rooms, clothes, and good meals. These were good days, but karma would once again rear its ugly head.
In February of 2016 my leg was chewed off by a pit bull. I was attacked by a pit bull while standing in a friend’s garage at an apartment complex. The dog came rushing in from the parking lot. It belonged to a guest of a resident two doors down. Doctors performed emergency surgery at Shasta Regional Medical Center to save my leg. I am very grateful to the staff on duty that day. I left the hospital on crutches with a cast on my left leg to protect the injury.
Loverboy picked me up from the hospital and paid for a week at a hotel with our grow money. It was a sleazy place with a refrigerator and a microwave. He bought me a week’s worth of food and then disappeared with our car. When my week was up, I was broke and on the street on crutches with a dog. I went to the Rescue Mission. I passed my poodle off as a service dog, but knew this would not last for long, and like the song says, nobody loves you when you’re down and out.
Now you might be asking yourself what’s a good pot-grower like you doing in a place like this? To which I would reply, “I had a squatter on my property who was armed with an AK-47.” His name was Brandon. Brandon owned the property I grew on in Dorris. We had tried to do a tax-free 1031 property exchange when the outdoor growing ban took effect in Shasta. We traded properties and then the deal fell through. So I couldn’t sell his property, and he wouldn’t leave my property. All the evidence pointed to the fact that Brandon was on meth and could not be reasoned with.
During my time as a resident of the streets of Redding, I had contact with the cops three days in a row. Now, I don’t look like Charles Manson! At least not the last time I looked in the mirror. What was the issue? Why was I targeted? I will never know, but I think the RPD actually wastes time harassing harmless people like me instead of taking down violent, scary people. Please, arrest some meth dealers and some rapists. Leave me alone!
So, I’m hanging out with a nice guy named Lou. He was an artist, a veteran, and was on the streets due to a broken heart. The love of his life, his wife of twenty years, had recently died of cancer. He was a broken man: a broken man with a storage unit, a large tent, and a monthly check – a friend indeed!
Day One
I no longer have a cast on my leg and the stitches have all been removed, but it is still healing and I can’t walk on it for long. People on the streets try to stick together because there is security in numbers. But, this day, Lou had to go to the bank a few miles away. He set me up in a secluded place, under some trees, with my leg elevated. I had a book to read, a bowl of chronic, and a quart of beer to drink out of a paper cup. He’d been gone about 20 minutes when the first police car arrived.
As the middle-aged, husky officer sauntered over from his car, moving slowly in case I pulled a weapon and went postal on his ass, he asked the usual question, “How are you doing today?” Well I was doing great until I saw you, to tell the truth.
“Okay,” I replied, wondering what reason he had for stopping here. Was it illegal to read in Shasta County? The week before I had been cited for having no dog license on my poodle, and when they ran my name for warrants, I came up clean. So maybe I would be okay. I certainly couldn’t run!
“The tire store called cuz you were back here. They don’t like people back here.” Huh, I was pretty sure this was public property. “You got an I.D on ya?”
While I’m handing him my I.D., car number two comes squealing up. And I mean squealing. He pulled up like a bank robbery was in progress. Did Deputy Dog need backup! I’m still kind of laying down resting my injured leg which is elevated on some pillows, and I feel a little vulnerable. I say, “I’m not scared of you, but I’m scared of him.”
The second officer to respond is a younger guy, short hair, very cocky, looking to make a reputation on the streets. So now I’m talking to the two of them. I explain my situation; about having surgery and needing to rest my leg and waiting for my friend Lou, who had to run some errands.
Deputy Dog reaches over and picks up my paper cup. He smells it. “You been drinkin’,” he asks.
“Yeah, I had a beer,” I respond.
“I’m gonna have to ask you to pour that out. If you were a big woman, I’d let you finish it. But you’re petite. You’d probably be drunk by the time you finished drinking that.” I pour out the beer.
They call in my name and begin writing the citation for open container. Deputy Dog also tells me I have to move. I can’t stay there. I’m not sure why. Officer number two stands back observing the scene; a good distance away with his hands on his weapons in case I prove to be a Ninja in disguise.
I get up, limping, and start gathering my things. I am handed my citation. This is the second citation this week including the ticket for no dog license. Now I also have to appear in court for possession of an “open container.” Homeless people aren’t allowed to drink beer.
Day Two
The very next day, Lou and I are walking back from a guitar store. We cut across the parking lot of the Veteran’s Hospital. It’s a big parking lot and would save us a lot of time. Much to our surprise, we are approached by two police officers and detained. They ask for our identification. Even though this is the third time they’ve checked my name for warrants, I am still nervous and wishing I could get the hell out of there.
“Why are you walking through here?” we are asked.
Lou answers, “We’re just on our way back to Cypress Street and we cut across the parking lot.” The woman officer is using her radio to call our names in to dispatch.
The male officer says, “Either of you have any warrants or on probation?”
We both shake our heads and say no. The female quips, “Seems like everybody has a warrant for something these days.” Isn’t that the truth? If you guys keep writing tickets for things like no dog license everyone will have a warrant someday.
The male officer appears bored with us and informs us that we can’t walk through the V.A parking lot. It is federal property. Wow, this is the first I’ve heard of this. We will be detained if we cut across the parking lot again. Homeless people are not allowed to walk in parking lots.
Day Three
The unofficial campground for those lacking a roof or walls in Shasta is the dog park/ skate park/ disk golf course. I kid you not. The city of Redding has an unkempt area of about twenty acres bordering the Sacramento River. It is full of trails, tall weeds, and trees. It is also full of people at night trying to get some sleep. The city has the gall to call this area a dog park, a skate park (there are some old broken up areas of concrete), and a disk golf course that only Chuck Norris would utilize if he were in the mood to kick some homeless ass!
So, Lou, his buddy, and I are smoking some refer in his tent. It’s a Friday morning and a little rainy. Lou’s buddy is on a bicycle and has just stopped to hit the pipe with us. Suddenly I realize I am staring at two cops walking toward the tent rapidly. I toss the pipe to Lou, and they start yelling, “Oh, hide it! Hide it!” I’m thinking oh, shit!
A man and a woman walk up, hands on weapons, ready to disarm us and take us down. We are all calmly seated. We are instructed not to touch anything and keep our hands where they can be seen. “What are you doing here? Do you think it’s okay to set up a tent here?”
Lou laughs, “Well, we tried to get away with it, Officer.” We are once again asked for our I.D’s. I fork over my passport and listen as the female officer calls in our names. Day three and I’m sick of this. What the hell! This time the chatter on the radio sounds different and something in my gut says I’m going to jail.
When the female says to her partner, “Did you copy that?” My fears are confirmed.
“Ms. Ceiley will you please stand up slowly and place your hands behind your back. You are under arrest.” I do as asked, trying to be as cooperative as possible. I am not wearing shoes and have to get shoes on with my hands handcuffed behind my back. The male officer laughs and thinks this is funny. He asks, “Can’t you just slide them on your feet?” It doesn’t work and Lou kneels down and puts my shoes on for me. He also gives me a bus pass so that I can get back when I am released. The officers do not know why I am under arrest, but I have two warrants. The three of us are cited for illegal camping – the homeless are not allowed to sit in tents
