The Great Springdale Pot Bust 
                                 May 9, 1994 
                        Copyright 1994 by Dave Laird

In the Town of Springdale, like many towns nearby, its biggest source of
revenue is either welfare checks or pot, it would seem. Every month, the
welfare, SSI and disability checks arrive promptly on the first, which sets
off a buying spree that lasts for only a few days. The marijuana, however,
is either grown or used by a majority of the town's population and pot in
some cases, supplants or replaces money entirely as a method of commerce.

Each morning as the various political factions of Springdale gather in the
Springdale Cafe for coffee, the pot-growing community is well represented by
Bob Brogan and his bunch of ne'er-do-wells who discuss various things,
including their crops. This activity is tolerated by a majority of the
townspeople, since few if any of the elderly population feel brave enough to
disagree either with Brogan's politics or his lifestyle. The County
Sheriff's Department has tried repeatedly to arrest Bob on various charges,
including selling pot, but Brogan, who seemingly leads charmed life, slips
through their fingers every time. 

Brogan furthermore irritates sore spots by openly bragging about his growing
operations hidden away in the forests that surround the town, and defies
anyone to mess with him. 

Wallace Goldstar, the new Town Marshall, was well aware of Bob's covert
activities within days of taking office. For several months thereafter,
Goldstar maintained an ongoing vigilance of several Brogan's growing patches
while seeking out the high school kids in town, quietly asking them about
who, up at the school, was smoking pot. Finally, late one Friday afternoon,
he made a traffic stop that would change some of the commercial perplexities
of Springdale forever.

From the sources that Goldstar had so carefully cultivated at the County
Seat, he knew that the two young men in the car had outstanding traffic
tickets, which meant that could arrest them and take them Colville.
Furthermore, he knew from some of their friends up at the school that they
were pot smokers, and probably had some pot in the car with them. Instead of
immediately writing them a ticket for squealing their tires, Goldstar
described, in graphic detail, what spending a weekend in jail might like and
then brazenly played on their fear, which shone through their freckles like
beacons of light. 

"Why, there are certain to be a couple of sex perverts up there in the
County Jail, and I hate to say it, but one of them was just convicted of
messing with young boys about your ages," he said in a most nonchalant
manner. However, were they to tell him where they bought their pot, perhaps
sign statement or two, he certainly would be willing let them off easier,
perhaps even release them to their parents. 

In less time that it took for him to produce a pen and report form, they
were more than willing to tell Goldstar everything they knew about one of
Brogan's pot-growing operations on Fir Street, since that was where they had
purchased their dope earlier the day before. Later, Goldstar sighed
inwardly, as he read each of their statements. 

Although he had enough information to obtain a warrant for the occupants the
house on Fir Street, and although he knew that Brogan owned the house, he
didn't have enough evidence to arrest Brogan himself. However, he knew the
house on Fir Street altogether too well, as it was one the worst eyesores in
the town. The yard was nightmarish cornucopia, in a state of mechanical
stalemate, with vehicles of at least a dozen vintages some without tires or
windows, and greasy engine components that littered the entire front porch
of the house. 

Later that night, with the assistance the County Sheriff's Department,
Goldstar kicked in the door of the house on Fir Street, arresting Tommy
Hebert, one of Brogan's associates, for possession and sales of marijuana.
The minute Goldstar and the County Deputies entered the front door, they
could smell the pot like an earthy perfume, growing upstairs. Up the squeaky
set of wooden steps, in a room lined with halogen light fixtures, they found
over one hundred fifty marijuana plants, each neatly tucked into their
individual growing pot, with a state of the art humidifier sitting in the
corner, humming peacefully to itself.

By comparison, Hebert was a pitifully filthy man, with unclean hair and
beard. He had evidently been sleeping on a mattress on the floor, with piles
of fresh dog crap scarcely ten feet away from his head. There was no heat in
the old building, except for a dirty wood stove and the entire house reeked
with the sickening odor of dog crap and growing pot. An emaciated Irish
Setter puppy sat soberly in the corner of the room as Goldstar read Hebert
his rights. The dog never moved from his post the corner as his master was
handcuffed and hauled away by a Sheriff's Deputy.

After the pot plants were on their way to Colville as evidence, Goldstar
went outside to write his report by the light on the front porch, rather
than stay in the house one minute longer than he absolutely had to, for the
stench was overpowering. Across the street, he was astounded to see Bob
Brogan and several of his friends sitting in a car, watching. 

As soon as they saw that they had been noticed, being deliberately casual,
Brogan started the car and slowly drove on down Fir Street. Goldstar
chuckled to himself, and clearing off some of the junk from one corner of
the old porch, sat down and started writing his report as, all around him,
the Town of Springdale began talking.

By dawn there were at least a dozen different versions of what had
transpired that night, not one of which closely approximated the truth.
Wallace Goldstar had single-handedly put the drug dealers in town on notice,
and they would never be nearly so brash nor easy-going about their trade
again.