BY ALLESSANDRA INZINNA
While her husband sat in jail, Loriel Alegrete stepped in as both mother and father to their sons. She was the provider, she was the nurturer, she was the cheerleader.
She was tired.
It seemed to her that every time she and her husband, Anthony, had a baby, he went to jail. He spent years ripped away from his family for nonviolent cannabis offenses. He and his long-time friend, Corvain Cooper, supported their families with their business practices.
“Everything was good until it wasn’t good,” Alegrete said.
Anthony served years for his crimes. A light sentence compared to Cooper, who was sentenced to life for a nonviolent conspiracy to ship cannabis from Los Angeles to North Carolina and a money laundering conspiracy. Even the judge voiced his discomfort on the decision, but a three strikes policy tied his hands. Cooper was just 34 with a family back home.
Alegrete maintains that repaying a debt to society after committing a crime makes sense, however, it’s the crushing severity of the sentences handed down that spurred her to found 40tons, a social impact brand focused on freeing prisoners of cannabis-related offenses. The vertically integrated brand also hosts conferences and supports women in the same position as she once was.
Tens of thousands of prisoners sit behind bars because of a plant that inflates the economy and its lucky, legal participants by billions. Alegrete set off to become a voice for those behind bars and those left behind.
A Legacy Industry
Federal restrictions on the use and sale of the plant date back to 1937, but weed obviously didn’t disappear after laws became progressively stricter. For as long as it’s been unlawful, people have moved it throughout communities. The legacy industry, or the illegal sellers and manufacturers in the cannabis industry, has been around much longer than the friendly neighborhood dispensaries popping up legal markets.
Participating in the legacy market has always had its consequences.
The unforgiving hand of law comes down hard on families, communities and individuals who depend on illegally selling. More than 40,000 inmates are jailed for cannabis-related offenses, according to the Last Prisoner Project. In 2018, 40% of drug related arrests were related to the plant.
People deal for a variety of reasons. Some have little to no choice. Some want to feel powerful or thrilled. Anthony wanted to heal his community and feed his family while doing it. So, despite his wife’s hesitance, he moved forward with it. He felt his work innovative, rebellious, akin to the bootleggers of the Prohibition Era.
“People wanted it, they needed it, for whatever reasons, and he was going to supply it,” Alegrete said. “He was going to provide it for them, he was going to come and help save them, whatever that meant.”
But once that market switches to legal, that black market must fade into oblivion… right?
Wrong. In fact, according to Rutgers Center for Alcohol and Substance Abuse, the black market is alive and thriving. In some cases, it’s better than ever.
“Folks who are in that legacy market, they may have some, some real fears of coming to the legal cannabis space, because of all the regulations and all the taxes and all of the red tape that has been set forth by the government,” Alegrete said.
In California, arrests for cannabis related offenses have risen by 166% since legalization in 1996. There’s a few reasons for this. Most of it comes back to money.
On the street, weed is much cheaper. State governments tax the sale and manufacturing of the plant to high heaven. Colorado taxes both cultivators and consumers 15%. Oregon goes even higher, taxing consumers a whopping 17%. Washington takes it a little too far, charging a mindblowing 37% tax on all sales for recreational weed.
Your local curb surfer would never. Although legal dispensaries might be more convenient for the average consumer, legacy dealers sell their product at more affordable prices.
Roadblocks for legacy folks to transition to legal seem to take up the whole highway. There’s the time consuming and frankly daunting process of obtaining permits, licenses, and capital. There’s predatory lenders who drive newly licensed owners into closing their doors.
“I’ve seen someone spend millions of dollars on licenses, build out permits,” Alegrete said. “It just seems like there’s predators everywhere.”
Abinette Chandler runs JACKFO, or ‘Just a Couple Kids from Oakland,’ with her husband. It’s another vertically-integrated social equity cannabis company. The couple waited four years in the process of obtaining licensing in dispensary, manufacturing, distribution and delivery.
The couple even purchased a warehouse for cultivation and were unable to legally operate it for 26 months. It just sat there, bleeding money.
Not everyone can put aside two years worth of rent on a brick and mortar storefront or cultivation center. Part of what makes staying legacy so attractive is that lack of red tape and exorbitant expenses.
“It does start to feel like, ‘why are we doing this?’” Chandler said. “[But] you don’t want to be looking over your shoulder all the time.”
It’s worth it, both Alegrete and Chandler agree. Anyone with a car knows that speeding may get you to your destination faster, unless you get caught. Or worse.
“Staying legacy, you’re still running this risk that you are going to go to jail eventually, right?” Alegrete said. “It’s just a matter of time.”
Risk is everywhere, Alegrete said, the question remains if the reward outweighs it.
