An opinion please.

[Trebor]

I started writing this earlier today and would very much appreciate whatever help you feel I could use. So please, enjoy, but be honest.




Foreword

When one is about to meet a man who has transported and sold more marijuana then the could be consumed by the whole world , one can be left feeling slightly cautious of how they want to portray such a man through an open media outlet. So naturally, when I received the call to do this interview, I was sceptical. Why would a drug dealer want me to write about him? What had I done to be so special? And of course, would I make it back to tell the tale?
It came as an even greater shock to me that I would be conducting this interview over a six-month period. Meaning I would be accompanying him to various parts of the world, staying in the finest hotels, being driven in the finest cars and, if I wanted, smoking the finest weed.
It all began on a bench in Hyde Park in 1983. The weather was warm although not particularly exotic, but what else was to be expected from London? Children played while mother’s gossiped businessmen had lunch and the birds were singing. One thing caught my eye however. There were two gentlemen, sitting on two benches, each to the other’s back. I could do little but observe them. I watched as one handed the other a little bag, the contents of which the recipient began to smoke after rolling them. By the time he had finished he had stood up and shook the hand of a man whom I would later recognise from a front-page article in The Times.
The man who received the bag was a youth, no older then twenty, despite his age, he was dressed meticulously well. He was tall, although, considering his expensive attire, not the most attractive man I had ever seen. I watched him walk away, the supplier of the bag was then approached by another man, again, well-dressed but carrying a briefcase which was handed over to him as both men said good bye and proceeded to a nearby taxi.
Who knew that the next time I saw this man would be staring out at me from the front page of a major broadsheet, grinning and shaking hands after conducting a successful business merger? There was something about his grin that suggested to me that I would see this man quite a lot from here on.

Chapter 1

I always thought that, twenty years after graduating college I would have more accomplished. My friends and I would always imagine that we’d be the ones to expose some major company polluting a town’s water supply or covering peace talks in Palestine. Instead we were either mothers or two-bit journalists for the local tribune.
It came to pass that after graduating, I interned at the BBC for a while but never made any headway. I never reached an office higher then copy girl. After that came “The Sun“. The tabloid of the masses. There I was hired not as a journalist but as a glamour model. Surprisingly I was quite happy there but had to quit when my father got wind of it and forced me to move back to my home village where I got a “proper” job as my father would say in the local press covering local news. There I remained for fifteen years. Writing about who was in the courts and whose child came where in the school art competition.
My first “big” break was when a youth was caught dealing some cannabis resin. I had experimented with cannabis during my London years but stopped early after graduating. But for a village in which I grew up, this boy may as well have been Pablo Escobar caught with an articulated lorry of heroin. The town judge’s biggest case until this was one that involved two men and a wandering cow.
Mother’s were hysterical with the fear that their sons or daughters could addict to this “devil’s leaf” or even be in debt to pushers. So this boy’s trial which I along with my peers from neighbouring villages covered was quite a big deal. The witnesses ranged from the boy’s principal to the local vicar to a doctor who was claiming all sorts of things about cannabis. Accusations were made from all angles.
“He’s an addict.” Was the principal’s reaction. “His schoolwork has been deteriorating since he was fourteen and I blame this drug.”
“He’s a boy who has succumbed to a path of sin after being misguided by these new pop stars.” Was the Vicars opinion.
The one that actually caused me to laugh hysterically in the courtroom was the doctor.
“This drug is responsible for several murders in Britain and has detrimental and irreversible affects on the mind and body such as insanity and a permanent feeling of lethargy.”
It reminded me a lot of a video we were shown in college called “Reefer Madness”. I was fortunate to have had experience in classes on propaganda that dealt with movies like this so I was able to laugh it of.
I was however, drawn to one man who sat in the witness box to testify. I had seen him before although I couldn’t put my finger on it. He was a short slim man with a large nose and was impeccably dressed. His black hair receding at a rate at which I’m sure he would have preferred not to think about. I felt it brave of him to be willing to sit in front of a town like mine and argue against its feelings. He was first attacked by the prosecution. I saved the transcripts so I’ll publish them here:

Prosecution: You believe that that boy over there was not actually breaking the law but rather, distributing a “beneficial herb” as you call it?
Witness: I do. Cannabis is a natural flower that is used the world over in ceremonies that cater for the health of the mind, body and soul. It has been used for thousands of years in these ceremonies and, when we consider it’s age, it has only lately been made illegal. In the early 1900’s I believe.
Prosecution: So, you do not believe that this drug is responsible for any of the ill’s we have in society at all?
Witness: I believe that it is not this drug that is responsible for society’s ill’s but rather the law of society. The laws that are based mainly around moral thought rather then rational. The laws we have come mainly from a Judeo-Christian belief. The majority of prisoners in this country’s jails are in them for minor drug offences, most of these cases are people who were arrested for possessing just enough for themselves.

The fact that this man would say such a thing in a village like mine was radical. I’m convinced he knew of the effect this would have on his argument. He must have known, otherwise why would he have said it?

Prosecution: I see, so, you see nothing wrong with this boy selling cannabis without any laws that could control who he’d sell it to or at what price?
Witness: Really you just answered your own question there. If there was legislation dealing with the sale of cannabis, it would be very difficult for children to obtain it, which they will in this current clime. And yes, the defendant could have charged what ever he wanted for it because, again, there is no legislation. But for me to answer your question, yes, I do but it is not his fault but the fault of the people who run this country.

The expression on the face of the prosecuting solicitor was priceless, he was speechless. This man absolutely made mincemeat of him. He quickly accepted his defeat and retired to his chair. The defendant and his solicitor were beaming.

Defending solicitor: No questions your lordship.

Priceless. Leaving the courthouse that day I saw the witness conversing on his phone while inside his Mercedes-Benz. I waited for him to hang up and proceeded over to tap on the window which he lowered.
“I’d like to congratulate you. What you did in there was very brave. Especially in this town.” I felt rather embarrassed after this.
“Thank you, I do this quite a lot.”
“So, you’re a professional witness?” I asked with intrigue.
“I advertise my services to solicitors who deal exclusively with drug cases.” There was something in he way that he said this that was secretive, as in he wasn’t telling the full story. Being a journalist I decided to try to get more out of him.
“Would you be willing to do an interview with me some time perhaps?
“I’d be delighted. Here’s my number.” He said while handing me a card on which was no more then his name and number, No description of a company he worked for or even a design. “Call it anytime within reason.” That was the last thing he said to me and then drove away leaving me holding his card and my bag.
I began doing research on this man and found he was featured in almost every major article to do with drug legislation in Europe and America and that his company, “Need 4 Weed LTD” had only two shareholders, himself, and a Mr. Adam Lane. I knew the name Adam Lane from the business section. In the last publication of the Sunday Times “Rich List” he was number three hundred and eleven and valued at five hundred and sixty seven million pounds. He made his money from being the sole owner of several shipping firms and properties around London and indeed, Britain. It was also rumoured that he had several business interests on the continent and Asia that were never disclosed. It was a picture of him that brought back the memory of Hyde Park. It was an old one in which he had just purchased a small company. He was shaking hands with the former owner as the photographers did their jobs. That buy-out should never even have made the business news was it not for the fact that Lane had just become Britain's youngest millionaire. It was the clothes he was wearing that sparked my memory. The same Armani jeans and Ralph Lauren jumper as the man in Hyde Park. For me it was too much of a coincidence that these three things were connectable. The same clothes he was wearing in that picture were the same clothes he was wearing in the park when he passed that bag on the same day he became Britain's youngest self-made millionaire and the fact that he would soon become affiliated to a company that fought exclusively for the legalisation of marijuana and for the people being prosecuted for it. I decided to call Mr. Hasal to arrange a meeting as soon as he could facilitate me.
That night, going to bed was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I kept seeing the face of Lane every time I closed my eyes. Always being drawn to his face, which seemed to have a glazed expression as he put his pen to paper.

Chapter 2

After our first meeting out side the courthouse, I had called Mr. Hasal at least twice a day trying to get an interview. It became more and more complicated as he was either “out of the country on business” or “with a client”. For three months this trend continued which for me, was three months too long.
It was a news article in the Daily Mail that caused me to decide to press even harder for an interview. The Mail reported that there was a direct link between cannabis use and schizophrenia that I felt to be total nonsense. Mr. Hasal was quoted in this article for saying “The fact that this study was funded by an organisation called EURAD has somehow managed to slip the minds of the media. It is because of the patrons of this experiment that I cannot, nor will not believe the results.” I had heard of EURAD as being a completely totalitarian ran organisation that based most of their ideas on moralism as opposed to rationalism.
Going by my instinct I felt it was now that I would have to interview Hasal before anyone else did. On a high of adrenaline I packed an overnight bag, my laptop and got into my beaten Ford Fiesta and headed towards London. During the three hour drive I kept asking questions I knew no one in this tiny car could answer. Questions like, what were Hasal’s ties with Lane? How is it that he was walking free despite being an open advocate and self-confessed smoker of cannabis? Had he ties to the underworld? These were questions that Hasal knew the answers to. And with that in mind, I floored the accelerator and sped towards London. After an uncomfortable night outside his office in Canary Wharf, I woke in time to see his Mercedes-Benz pull up and watched him get out. He was once again impeccably dressed wearing an Armani suit but this time he had grown a goatee. I enjoyed seeing this. The trademark of a stoner on the face of a suit was something I thought I’d never see.
I quickly got out of my tiny fiesta and approached him.
“Mr. Hasal.” I called before he went into his building. After a quick glance in my direction he continued to head inside.
London’s crowds are overwhelming. Especially to someone who has never left a village of more then two hundred people in fifteen years. I was quickly swept away but refused to let him escape me. Quickly I pushed through the crowd and made it to the doorway of a huge tower block on the outside of which was a humble plaque reading “Andrew Hasal. Solicitor” Again, yet another surprise. Nowhere I had read about Hasal had bothered to mention the fact that he was a solicitor. I passed through the mirrored glass revolving door to find myself in a lobby that looked as though it was built for Lorenzo DeMedici. Gold and marble dominated this lobby where people in suits walked as casually as though they were on a stroll through the countryside. There was no sense of urgency that one would expect to find in any other solicitor’s office. But of course, this wasn’t a typical solicitors office which I later found to be even more evident when I turned to see a young girl with an eager grin on her face asking me had I an appointment and if not would I like to make one? “I’d like to see Mr. Hasal.” I said while staring at the walls of this amazing lobby.
“Certainly. When would be convenient for you?”
“Am, as soon as possible please.”
“All right, just take a seat and I’ll see when he’s free.”
I took a seat on a tan coloured leather sofa where I was approached by yet another eager girl who asked if I would like anything while I waited. I declined. The girl who approached me at the door was on a phone in the corner by a newspaper stand that contained broadsheets form around the world. Opposite me was a young man of about twenty-three sporting long blonde dreadlocks and wearing a t-shirt with the face of Bob Marley smiling. Yet again I asked myself who was this man that he would allow someone like that into his office building. I looked back at the girl on the phone and saw that she was walking towards me.
“Mr. Hasal has agreed to see you. Would you like me to show you where he is?”
“Yes, please.”
“Follow me.” She seemed to have lost her eagerness.
As we ascended a flight of stairs, I saw that Hasal's name was in a mosaic on the marble floor. It seemed that the building became more and more decadent as we ascended. Eventually we reached a lift where I was handed a key to use.
“Just put the key in the slot and it’ll take you to Mr. Hasal’s floor.”
“Thank you for your help.” And with that she walked back down stairs.
I entered the lift, put the card in and found that there were no buttons. As soon as I realised this the lift doors closed and it began to ascend. When it opened again I had not expected to see that I was overlooking the Thames and that there was no where to exit from. That is, until I turned around and saw about a dozen secretaries running around copying papers and typing. I was greeted by a man I had seen in various papers. The only difference between him now and the last time I saw him was that this time he was wearing a Tommy Hilfiger suit. He took out a card similar to mine except it was gold. He inserted it into the slot and the doors closed as fast as they did for me. Lane was right there beside me and I let him walk away without a question. But I was here to interview Hasal, not him.

Chapter 3
Can I help you?” Asked an elderly woman from behind her desk. Her grey hair neatly hung above her shoulders. From this it was clear that she was a respectable woman who probably resented her employers cause but was still willing to work for him.
“I’m here to see Mr. Hasal.”
“Of course, just wait there for a moment.” She pointed with her pen to a sofa of a slightly darker shade then the ones from downstairs. I sat there for a half-hour. From outside, one would have expected this building to have at least thirty floors. I was shocked to find it had just ten. Of course, from inside it was obvious. The lobby’s ceiling was nearly twenty metres from the floor.
“Ms. Joyce?” That voice caused me to jump. I had told nobody here my name or that I was coming. How did they find out I was here?
“Yes, that’s me.” I glanced at the man who had called my name. Hasal was standing in front of me jotting something and then handing it to a secretary.
“I believe you wish to see me? Please, come into my office.”
I followed him down the hall without speaking. We reached a double doored room when he said “Would you mind taking of your shoes?” I agreed neglecting to remember that I had just spent a night in a Fiesta. I stepped into this room which was more like a living room then an office. There were two large suede couches separated by a glass coffee table in the centre of the room on who’s wall’s were covered with mahogany bookcases all packed with carious books on law, drug policy and even some Graham Greene.
“Please, take a seat.” He gestured toward the sofas. I sat, still in a daze from this building that surprised me entirely. “Now, from our meeting at the courthouse I recall that you wanted an interview sometime. I presume that’s why you’re here. Shall we begin?”
Never had I expected him to be so willing to discuss topics that could land him in prison. I nodded and took a Dictaphone form my bag and placed it on the table. He immediately grabbed it and flung it out the window. “You’ll understand if I don’t want to be recorded. I can’t take the chance of any tapes falling into the wrong hands. “
“Of course. Now then, let’s begin. From research I have done on you, you seem to be a very private person. Why is that?”
“It is a matter of my interests that cause this. I much prefer to avoid large profile cases such as those of drug lords and instead try to focus my attentions on the ones of young people being persecuted. Which is why you and I met at that case. It was in a small tow and I thought that few people would have known me there. I was right.”
“I see, and how do you find out about these cases?”
“From local newspapers, I presume you noticed the news stand in the lobby?”
“Yes, I did. But why not the larger cases? Wouldn’t those help you receive more notoriety?
“Yes, and that’s exactly why I don’t do them. I much prefer helping the innocent few that are being persecuted for ridiculously small amounts. In the event of a larger dealer coming to me for help I’ll have one of my associates deal with his or her case.”
“Okay, but I saw you quoted in the Daily Mail yesterday and was wondering as to how you allowed yourself to be quoted there?”
“That was a prank. It’s an inside joke between me and a friend. Anybody with a gram of intelligence knows that the Daily Mail is a completely biased newspaper. It’s full of right wing propaganda.”
“You have an odd sense of humour but okay. As I stepped out of the lift I met Mr. Adam Lane, What is your connection with him?”
“That is of no business to you. I’d like to end this interview now. Also, I would like you to sign something that says you never met Mr. Lane here. I suggest you do as it would compromise the business of all three of us.” He stood up and went to his desk and took out a form and asked me to sign it. I consented but only so that I could perhaps win over this mans trust and get another interview.
“I’d like to leave my card. Please call me if you’d like to do another interview.”
“It’s not likely but leave it if you wish.”
With my card on his desk and a handshake goodbye, I left that office and headed back to my humble Fiesta with a sense of disappointment but an even greater sense of wonder.

Chapter 4

Later that night, in his office, Andrew Hasal had just rolled a joint and dialled a number on a private phone known to two people. Himself and Adam Lane.
“What’s up?”
“I did an interview today. A woman from a small local paper from a town I was in three months back. She saw you leave earlier and wanted to know about our relationship.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing, I told her it was nothing to do with her and had her sign something that said she never saw you here.”
“Was she suspicious?”
“A little, but I’m sure nothing will come of it.”
“Invite her back for tomorrow. We’ll both be interviewed.”
“You sure Adam?”
“Positive.”
“All right, talk to you tomorrow.”
Hasal hung up and began rolling another joint while he called the number on the card.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Joyce, it’s Andrew Hasal. Would you be willing to do another interview tomorrow with Mr. Lane and myself?”
“I’d be delighted Mr. Hasal.”
“I think we’ve gone past that point. Call me Andrew. We’ll see you tomorrow here at my office at about noon. There’s an underground garage you can park in under the building. Goodbye.” At the same time 100 miles away on a yacht at the mouth of the Thames, Adam Lane was about to begin a business deal that would bring him around the world several times over.
Looking at his watch, Lane realised his associate to be three minutes late. This wasn’t like Rabbi. He was always early. What fears Lane had were gone when he saw the headlights on the dock that signalled Rabbi’s arrival.
“Head for the dock Sid.” Said Lane to the captain from his seat on the bridge. As the engines exploded Lane got up to get a bottle of Cristal to celebrate the success of the deal with Rabbi and Sid if he wanted. Within three minutes the yacht had reached land and the distinctive shape of Rabbi sitting on the bonnet of Lane’s Rolls Royce Phantom was visible.
“What did I tell you about sitting on the car?”
“Do it all I want so long as I have some good news?”
“Exactly.” Both men laughed they way they did when they were children. Lane, and Rabbi, whose real name was Steve Morrison grew up together in a little town near Liverpool. Together they both realised the money to be made in the shipping industry and combined their money and bought a small fishing boat which they converted to a miniature cargo ship. They would travel to the continent, buy whatever goods were going cheap that they felt they could profit from back in England. It wasn’t long until the each realised that even more money could be made from transporting cannabis into England form Rotterdam.
“So, what is the good news?
“Well, if we are able to move the books, we can have them for less the two million. If we did it by ship it could take a week. With a private plane, maybe fourteen hours. Song-Il is good to go whenever we are.”
“Great, take the plane to Bangkok after you stop over in Zurich, I'll have a car at the airport for you with a suitcase. Song-Il will send someone to pick you up. After the plane is loaded take a commercial flight back to Heathrow and wait until the plane gets here. When it does wait for customs to O.K. it before you claim its containments. I’ll send a truck for it and then we can begin distribution.”
“No problem, will I take the car to the airport?”
“Like fuck you will. I’ve to go home. Here’s money for a taxi.” Lane handed Rabbi a twenty-pound note and stepped out of the yacht and hugged his friend. “Good luck man.” And with that got into his car leaving Rabbi and Sid to sort out the boat and make their own ways home.
The thick carpet of the Rolls was exactly what Lane’s feet needed after a hard day at sea. He had been operating his business from international waters for quite awhile now. He liked the way that he could control his companies without intrusions from anybody. Occasionally some pleasure boaters would come close and photograph his seventy foot Catamaran. He never minded though. Nobody was ever visible during the day. Leaving London he dreaded facing the congestion charge the following morning. Maybe he’d take the helicopter to avoid it. Such luxuries were within his grasp after twenty years of successful activities best left unknown to the police.
With an interview the following morning with one of Britain's most prominent business men and a cannabis advocate, Kimberly Joyce decided it best to stay in a Travel Lodge motel on the M1 so as to be able to get there as fast as possible so as to give her interviewees less time to reconsider. Looking at her car from the top floor window of the Travel Lodge, she felt pathetic knowing that in a few hours she would be meeting a man who earned more money in a week then she would in a year. Still unsure of how this man would treat her, she was worried if he would laugh at her in her jeans and Nike t-shirt. Would it be better for her to quickly buy a suit from M&S or would that seem even more pathetic?
“No, to hell with what he thinks. Why should I care what a drug dealer thinks of me?” she exclaimed just before getting into bed.
For Andrew Hasal however, it was worrying him that his friend had decided to give an interview that could expose how he made his money. Hasal knew very little of his friend’s financial transactions only that they made him a lot of money and that the legitimacy of that money was questionable. It was agreed for both men that the less Hasal knew the better. Neither partner cared of how the other made his money provided that they never slipped on their own duties to each other.
Shortly after Lane began his shipping business, he was giving a talk on entrepreneurial skills in Oxford business school. It was here, after his talk, that he was approached by a young law student, dressed in a pair of tattered and faded jeans, sporting a Balliol blazer with a “The Who” t-shirt. Both men were intrigued by the other. After a lengthy conversation on business management, the topic of marijuana taking arose. It was here that Lane sampled his first joint of hashish.

[seeingred]

Swim likes this. Swim hasn't read through the whole thing but so far it's fairly intruiging. Swim has a question, where did SWIY get the creativity to write this from? Swim has been trying to write stories for a long time and nothing ever comes. Swim is dying to defeat swim's writer's block.

[Trebor]

Swim recently met Howard Marks and had an interesting chat with him.

[beentheredonethatagain]

i don't get it . is this a fiction story for entertainment ?

[D.U.M.B]

chapters are a bit short is all i can complain about. good job though!

[Perception Addict]

I really enjoyed this. You have an interesting style of narrative which I find very pleasing, and if this were published i'd buy/read it.

[Trebor]

Yes, this is a fiction story for entertainment.

Swim plans to make them longer but you get the general gist.

Thank you very much.

[Trebor]

Can a mod please delete all but one of the above posts and this one?