Ha! Who was he all of a sudden politicized out of his privilege to lecture her? As if she didn’t have a clue about the scope of the problem. She’d lived it. Grown up with it! She was still seeing and feeling the fallout. What was he doing? Sitting in his fancy new office distorting his brain with “progressive solutions.” What the hell would he know? He never had to worry about crippling student loans. Had he gone completely crazy? Or had she raised a monster? He might as well be setting her business up for a drug raid. What next? Open a café with free wireless for the dealers?
She’d taken twenty years to alleviate the revulsion she felt for certain aspects of her neighborhood. She’d only moved back because she figured she had more skills now. Tools to make things better, make a difference, and her tool kit certainly did not include ensuring the neighbors got high or hauled away and thrown into the black hole of the justice system. If she wasn’t thinking about it the right way as her son kept insisting, well maybe thinking wasn’t what the problem required. Maybe turning her back and shutting the door was the best call. And as for economics, she was doing her part. She was one of only a very few African-American business owners in the district. She was already giving at the office! He had some nerve.
After hanging up on her son two more times, and on his third try hearing the remorse in his voice mixed with panic, she softened. A little. Eventually he owned up to his conniving. He’d told his bosses about her because he thought it would help him get ahead. And of course they’d been impressed. Charmed. Why wouldn’t they? Alice was a community star. But all the righteous justifications and politics he’d come up with were an afterthought, though he did learn a few things about marijuana. The truth was, he didn’t really care all that much about it one way or the other. Even if the arguments were valid, he was sorry. Really, really sorry. Everybody at the firm was hyped about the application. There were millions of dollars in the offing. He’d found it all exciting at first but then kind of disgusting. Greedy speculation had engulfed everyone. Luther, the junior partner, had told him if it all worked out he was looking forward to retiring before he was forty-five and he’d settle for nothing less than a sixty-foot yacht to go with his gabled mansion.
Alice frowned as she listened to her son. Zack sounded exhausted. But he told his mom he’d have the firm take her name off the application. And before he hung up, he told her again he was really, really sorry.
Alice felt sad for him. On a whim she decided to spend her Sunday at the university library making use of their online resources and checking out a few old medical and pharmaceutical journals.
That night she called Zack. “Not so fast,” she said.
Chapter 6
Lydia’s little team, and Luther in particular, were very busy. Between the grins and snickers about it all, completing the application was designated an outside activity, but as the deadline drew closer it turned into a 24/7 all-hands-on-deck work binge, with a freelance writer, a security consultant and an engineer in tow. And of course Caldwell was not to be left out of any detail. He came barreling into meetings and late-night sessions demanding that some item be changed because it was “obvious something like that could never fly!” What were they thinking?
The Department of Health was demanding business plans, building designs and security provisions. They wanted to see guaranteed access or outright ownership of suitably situated properties. And they wanted appropriate manufacturing and agriculture practices. Even waste management was not to be trivialized, and innovation in this regard could win extra points. And the state wanted to see a lot of money: a $30,000 nonrefundable application fee and the immediate remittance of a substantial six-figure administrative fee upon the application’s success. All requirements designed to discourage the small-time players, the old black-market growers, the amateurs or anybody who might not take the state extremely seriously.
Lydia’s team took the state very seriously. And also took her funds to purchase a building close to Hullbrooke, a characterless twenty-five-thousand-square-foot industrial structure built circa 1980 that had flourished in the early days of the tech boom but was then repurposed as a warehouse and trucking company depot. It was abandoned like everything else in recent years as companies merged and downsized and work got outsourced. Lydia already owned commercial buildings in the city, and a storefront just recently vacated in the upscale downtown area would be the perfect location for a dispensary. They also took out a lease on some mall space in Lyston for the same purpose.
Collecting the right people to form the medical cannabis company was crucial for the application, which was why Alice was so enthusiastically welcomed by the team. She was listed as the director of sales and dispensaries. Next they found a horticulture expert, a businessman who owned and operated greenhouses that supplied a chain of garden centers. Security would be a big issue too, so Cyrus suggested they retain the consultant who was already working on the application. So Greg Tiller, the retired police officer who’d even done a brief stint in the FBI in his younger days, was happy to oblige. Luther was listed as legal counsel and CEO. One of the associates in Malcolm’s financial firm gleefully took on the position of CFO. And Lydia was the silent president. It was perfect. Lydia wasn’t aware of the money set aside by Jordan in a moment of levity as he thumbed his nose at the IRS. And she was hardly one to keep track. If the project took flight, the prominent individuals in both firms stood to benefit handsomely. Jordan had been both generous and clever with incentives.
Caldwell was miffed. Not because he was overlooked as an executive and left off the organizational chart. Actually he was pleased about this. The fewer some people knew his whereabouts the better. No, Caldwell was miffed because he had not been consulted on either the building purchase or most of the people hired. In particular he felt he should have been asked to vet the sales director. The dispensary outlets needed careful planning to serve their market effectively and gain a competitive edge. And why did they insist on a cultivation expert who’d possibly never even grown a marijuana plant in his life let alone brought a crop to flower? That was utter stupidity. Sometimes, in spite of the encouraging salary they doled out to him, Caldwell suspected Lydia’s little team was intent on stealing the project out from under him.
But Lydia’s team had simply been observant. They were looking to invest the least amount of time and resources. They paid attention like good hunters and pragmatists.
“I’ve been traveling around this country for the last three months,” Caldwell told them. “Been up to Canada too. The state outfits are all amateur. Putting out tons of substandard product! Why do you think black-market marijuana still thrives? The medical growers don’t have a clue. They don’t even know what good marijuana is.”
That Caldwell should know what constituted “good” marijuana was well remarked by the team. And they’d also noted his lack of a solid business plan. Malcolm was particularly unimpressed. “His financial reasoning,” the accountant observed dryly, “is absurd. No wonder the man hasn’t ever had a pot to piss in.”
A few of the claims on Caldwell’s resumé didn’t add up either. Caldwell’s only real competence appeared to be hoodwinking of one form or another and leaving a trail of stranded investors. “Strictly small-time though,” the financial investigator said. “He’s more of a one-man band. Maybe a bit of a clown act too! You have to laugh or you’d cry about how gullible people can be.”
The team had debated Caldwell’s suitability, but Caldwell presented well: a tall, dashing figure in line with an aging matinee idol. And however much his pitches might resemble those of a snake-oil salesman, he was talented at cloaking dubious arguments in authoritative jargon and vernacular as required. And he was certainly busy doing the legwork. But his real knack was his keen and fervent belief in his ideas. Whether they were the result of his own curious thought processes or something he’d grabbed from whatever flotsam and jetsam he took a shine to was irrelevant. Belief was the key. They’d found a serviceable front man. H
e fooled some of the people most of the time. That he occasionally had a short fuse would simply require more perseverance and agility in the handling.
“You’re intentionally excluding me!” he cried at one point. “What kind of a relationship is this? Business is built on trust. Everyone knows that.”
The team suppressed their amusement. Even though Lydia wasn’t sharing her bed with Caldwell anymore — it had been three months now — she made a placating move, hosting a little dinner party and weekend retreat at Rosefields. The purpose was to come up with the all-important name of the company and settle on the branding before the application was due. Luther, Malcolm, Cyrus and their respective wives, and of course Caldwell, were all in attendance. Alice couldn’t make it, so she sent suggestions: “Keep the name neutral and remember the target market at this point is not the public. It’s the DOH.”
The weekend was peppered with touchy moments. Caldwell found the team’s approach overly cautious. And they were trying to quash his creativity. He was sure of it. They didn’t have any themselves, so they weren’t going to let him have any either. He’d devised catchy company names like Inhealth, Cannhavitall, Eufloria, Apothecann, Cannatose, and Bhanga Lux. The team chuckled dismissively and moved on to lackluster monikers of their own. Caldwell only begrudgingly took his seat at the table again after Lydia pulled him aside and whispered something in his ear.
The team finally settled on the name CannRose-Medi because it was in no way suggestive of the black market, as per state requirements, and it referenced Rosemore in honor of Lydia’s enabling contribution. To Caldwell, the name was just plain lame. Nothing to grab the attention. It didn’t roll off the tongue. No pizzazz. No guts. No glory. The company was sinking into obscurity before it had begun!
Lydia was very sympathetic to Caldwell regardless of the state of their relationship, so much so that when shares got sorted, she transferred most of hers to Caldwell. The lawyers and Malcolm were unanimously horrified. They modified and mitigated the transfer in every way available to them. But in spite of all their efforts, it did give Caldwell a measure of control.
This added thermite to Caldwell’s burning ambition. In his mind’s eye he went years into the future and saw it was bright. Very bright. The building in Hullbrooke would expand not just by thousands of square feet but by acres. And it wouldn’t be for just any marijuana. Only the best. He saw dispensaries multiplying across the nation as the regulations changed. They’d go international. Laws were changing worldwide. Curiosity, the Mars rover, was making the news too, and Caldwell envisioned he’d even put dispensaries on another planet someday.
He was so caught up with his narrative of the future, he was certain Lydia’s team had embraced it too, along with the fact that only he would be able to oversee the renovations for the cultivation facility. He’d employ the most sophisticated technology and implement advanced growing methods. Drying and curing were an art form, and they’d be industry leaders. He’d settle for nothing less than producing the finest cannabis in America.
“This is how you make medicine,” he announced, “with impeccable standards and impeccable intentions. It will change lives!”
The team smiled again.
When the application was finally hand delivered to the Department of Health on the midnight deadline, most of the people involved heaved sighs of relief. They could get back to life as normal. But not Caldwell. He was wired. He didn’t sleep. He could overlook a dreary brand name now. Maybe he could even make magic with it. Whoever thought Microsoft would be a hit? He’d left the t-crossing and i-dotting to the dullards. He was meant for bigger things. He was taking the lead now. His mind was racing with all the components of the business and how they would come together. It was electrifying. He’d never felt so alive.
He wanted to keep moving forward. Cyrus and Malcolm encouraged this, especially since they could really be stuck with him now. They suggested Caldwell keep doing his research because if they did win the registration, they were going to have to move very quickly. He was given traveling expenses. Of course Lydia topped these up. He’d impressed upon her how important it was to look successful right from the get-go.
So Caldwell crisscrossed the country once again. He visited all the legal growers and producers that would let him in the door. He attended every conference on marijuana. Even the academic ones, where he barely understood a word. He went to Europe and Israel, where they’d been doing research on medical marijuana since the 1960s. Who said there was no research? The FDA was in denial. Caldwell also spent a lot of time in Colorado. He told Lydia he had friends in the know there. They’d be invaluable when it came time to actually growing the plants indoors and making products.
At about the same time he also brought Lazlo on board. Lazlo was one of the cousins Lydia had heard about and he lived less than an hour away from Rosefields. He had a contracting company and Caldwell informed Lydia that Lazlo was a smart businessman and he’d give them a better deal around here. You had to watch out; a lot of the local builders and contractors liked to take outsiders for a ride. With family handling the renovation, they wouldn’t have to worry, Caldwell explained.
Caldwell had plenty of other relatives too but he told her they wouldn’t be interested in the medical marijuana industry. They were conservative. He didn’t bother to mention they lived in a compound south of County Road 10 and were among the Guardians of Jude and Ezekiel. The group’s Bible-thumping had seen better days but they still maintained a vocal aversion to activities they perceived as morally loose. They preached the evil of all things mind-altering. They also had a deep and abiding mistrust of government and of nosy social workers with whom they’d had considerable contact over the last three decades. Lazlo’s and Caldwell’s fathers were rebellious brothers who had somehow extricated themselves from the Guardians in the late 1950s. The cousins were extremely grateful for this and for the fact that a hundred or more years of inbreeding had not landed either of them with deformed jaws or some other incapacity.
“Lydia. So very pleased to meet you finally.” Lazlo’s handshake was damp and soft. He had a puffy face with heavy-lidded watery eyes, and his hair was dark and thinning on top. He didn’t resemble Caldwell in the least and he often spoke in a quiet voice as if he didn’t want anyone to hear what he was saying. And when he smiled it made Lydia shudder ever so slightly but she couldn’t put her finger on what exactly bothered her about him. Caldwell reminded her that blood was thicker than the price of construction. So Lydia hired Lazlo’s firm to begin renovations.
The lack of a proper tender process irked Malcolm to no end. The accountant was on the board of this fledgling company, he reminded Lydia as they were sipping cocktails and munching oysters, and she should have run it by him. But Cyrus came to her defense and suggested with a somewhat measured cynicism that Malcolm might as well just let it slide. No matter the contractor, in Cyrus’s experience renovations usually ran anywhere from twenty-five percent to double the quote, so maybe it was better there was no quote in this case. And Malcolm should remember where the money was coming from, Cyrus said with a wink that Lydia didn’t see. And feeling a little tipsy, he hooted, a tad derisively, that this Lazlo probably wouldn’t be averse to a cash arrangement.
Lydia sat intently considering the remarks, and she imagined how Jordan might respond to her advisers. After a few seconds she said in a very steady, assured voice, “I’m not altogether happy with the fellow myself, but Caldwell finds him indispensable. An established bond potentially leads to faster results, no? I think despite misgivings we do need to support Caldwell. We want this venture to be successful. Is that not the case, gentlemen?”
Cyrus practically dropped his drink and Malcolm briefly choked on an oyster. They stared at her, spooked. Eventually they cleared their throats and said, “Of course. Absolutely.” Then they went on about an alternative plan for a microbrewery in the event of not making the application cut. They confessed they’d be more comfortable producing suds rather
than buds, and Lydia thought a microbrewery was a wonderful idea. She figured Caldwell wouldn’t be nearly as enthusiastic. But in either case, offices would be needed and so they all agreed Lazlo could start renovations for the administrative section of the building right away.
#
The work began. Caldwell insisted the place have a design that was striking. It didn’t matter an ounce to him that plans were already submitted to the state. It would be important for investors to see something impressive. Something they wouldn’t forget. This was fortuitous for Lazlo. He brought in a young aspiring architect who minced and raged with artistic sensibilities. He was the son of a previous client — Lazlo had botched work on a major downtown office building in Lyston, and the owner had been out for blood. But he was mollified by the prospect of his son making progress in his chosen career, and the lawsuit was dropped.
The young architect was impossible of course, completely impractical, but he had Caldwell firmly in his corner insisting on a vast array of expensive materials, finishes and detailing. Malcolm and Cyrus didn’t mind a bit. To them it was irrelevant. And for Lydia it was all very exciting, and they were pleased she was happy and not just blowing money on Caldwell for personal reasons.
Chapter 7
The three young men sat on a screened-in backyard veranda in their overcoats. Some old 2Pac, turned down low, rapped in the background. Large bottles of soft drinks sat at their feet. The air was pungent, smoky, and the three young devotees enthused about their future.
The Buds Are Calling Page 5
