Chapter 4 - Emerald Triangle

An art student joins the veiled culture of San Francisco's Street Artists Program, only to later obsess over a coworker's death while conducting his own murder investigation.

Halfway through his second decade as a street artist, Thomas Mathews had begun to supplement his income by growing pot, just three hours north of San Francisco in a region nicknamed The Emerald Triangle, due to its high concentration of underground marijuana growers. Thomas' sales of weed were so significant that they quickly surpassed the money that he made selling handmade candles as a street artist. In fact, sales were so good he was now taking on a new employee, Brian Reed, to help out on his small pot farm.

The sun burned brightly on a warm June morning as Thomas' insect-green Chevy van, dented with its rust-holes painted with primer, took the two men northward on their way to Thomas' country property. After first crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, they drove through Marin County and still further north. Having been on the road now for over an hour, Thomas began to describe his small farm to Brian.

"My setup's small," said Thomas, "compared to many operations in the county. On some farms, a handful of guys will partner up and buy over a hundred acres, then divide it up into separate gardens, one for each partner."

Puzzled, Brian spoke. "I don't get it. If the whole idea of having a pot farm is to become more independent and drop out of the rat-race -- why'd they want to work in a group, and maybe have lots of arguments and fights?"

"Well, there's lots of hidden things you gotta do in this business. You constantly need to buy supplies -- fertilizer, plumbing equipment for irrigation, digging tools, and more. And most of all, you need to protect your crop from poachers -- guys who'll come on your land and steal your plants in the middle of the night."

"S**t, really? Thought you just had to bury the seeds and water the plants. Being it's so isolated up there, how do the poachers even know how to get to your property, and then find your gardens?"

"Oh, they figure it out. Poaching's a big business, especially when you consider that a full-grown pot plant might be worth over five-thousand dollars on the street. Most of the time, poachers are experienced campers who know how to backpack through your property, after parking their cars way off at a distance. Even just filling one knapsack with mature buds can be worth eight thousand dollars on the street. But on a big farm with lots of partners, the growers can pool their resources and hire guards who'll walk around with rifles, even during the night, and protect the gardens."

"Sounds crazy! Never realized the scene was that heavy up there. But you don't have any partners, do you, who'll hang around and protect your harvest?"

"No, but I do have twenty acres, put my gardens in the center of my land, and have some dogs that patrol the area. And my old lady, Carol, stays up there full-time to deal with the situation. But we don't have any rifles or anything. If poachers ever do come out on our land, they'd probably be armed, and we don't want to get into a shootout, just over money. Let'em take the f****n plants -- better to have your health."

"Carol? I thought your girlfriend's name was Suzanne something?"

"No. That was a long time ago. It's Carol who's up on my property. You'll like her."

"So..." continued Brian, "you've been doing this for years, and you've not had any trouble with poachers? How common are they?"

"Poachers are always around, but they're not usually a problem if your land is hard to find from a county road. But for the big farms, they're a constant concern -- those guys don't wanna lose a single harvest, so they have guards walking around with rifles every night. You know that street artist guy, Ryan? He works on one of those big operations, and he always carries a semiautomatic rifle when he's out walking around on his land." He chuckled. "And they say he's usually naked when he's doing his patrols."

"F**k, that's a surprise. Ryan always seemed like a nice guy when I talked to him. Can't really picture him walking around with a rifle. And his girlfriend, Jill, seems so sweet."

"Yeah, that's his cover, a nice guy. Not that many people know he's a big-time grower. Doesn't even sell any weed on the street -- just does big deals through some connections in the city. But he's a tough guy, make no mistake about it. Once saw him break up a fight on Beach Street that started with a couple of head-knockers who wanted to clobber an obnoxious street artist. One of them was picking up George by his throat and then comes Ryan, casually stepping in. He says to the head-knocker, 'There's not gonna be any fighting out here tonight.' And then that bone-crusher guy who's got George around the throat looks at him, hesitates, and slowly puts George back down on the ground. I couldn't f****n believe it. Thought there was gonna be a brawl out there, but something about the tone of Ryan's voice scared that guy."

"Damn, wish I could have seen it. Still can't picture Ryan as a hard-a*s -- he's always been mellow around me."

"Well, just get on his nerves, and you'll see a whole different side to Ryan; believe me. Oh, and make sure you don't let on that you know he's a grower -- it's supposed to be a big secret. Everyone thinks he supports himself on his little spoon-ring jewelry gig. Just an easygoing hippie, out making a little cash on the sidewalk."

After driving for another hour, they exited the main highway and worked their way along an empty two-lane blacktop, bringing them nearer to Thomas' property, just outside of Willits. Suddenly they heard a loud bang and knew by the flip-flop sound that one of the tires had gone flat.

"S**t, a blowout!" said Thomas. "Knew I should've replaced the rear tires this spring."

Brian said, "Well, guess we're just gonna have to put on the spare tire."

"Hmm... in theory, yes. But my spare isn't all that great."

After climbing into the back of the van, Thomas confirmed his spare tire was in tatters, not even having any air in it.

"Well, said Thomas, "just gonna have to call my friend Pete and have him drive out here, to help with the tire. Since we're in the middle of nowhere, it'd take forever to get a tow truck. Get comfortable -- it might take a while for Pete to get here."

Brian shrugged his shoulders as Thomas took out his phone, dialing his friend. Pete said he could come and help with the tire, but it might take a while to get there. After getting out of the Chevy van, the two sat down on the roadside and waited during the warm California afternoon.

 

About a half-hour had passed when another vehicle came down the lonely country road. A blue Dodge utility van carried five young men with long hair, wearing dirty t-shirts and turning their heads. As it approached, the van gradually slowed, coming to a stop.

 

In the van's passenger seat sat a muscular man with long hair, wearing a stained yellow t-shirt and nervously fiddling with his scraggly beard. He began to speak to Thomas and Brian:

"What are you all doing out here?" his eyes narrowing with suspicion and his tone anything but friendly.

 

Thomas, visibly nervous, rose to his feet and carefully chose his words. "I was just driving up to my place in Willits when I got a blowout. My spare tire's flat, so I'm waiting for my buddy to get here with another tire."

Thomas waited.

  

Gazing with suspicion and hostility, the Dodge van's other passengers sat motionless until one leaned forward and spoke loudly to his buddy in the passenger seat:

 

"Say, Frank, you ever see these guys before?"

"Why no, I haven't," said Frank.

 

Then Frank continued to question Thomas. "Okay, so who do you all know around here?"

Sensing the hostility of their questions, Brian was puzzled. Why would a bunch of hippies be so concerned about two guys with a flat tire in the middle of nowhere? Figuring it best to remain silent, Brian let Thomas do all the talking.

Thomas said, "Well, I'm good friends with Bob Olsen and Jack Spencer, but they're a lot farther north, up by Willits. Ever hear of them?"

Getting out of his van now, Frank said, "No, I haven't heard of them. You guys don't mind if we get out and stretch our legs? Who knows, we might even be able to help with that tire."

  

Then the side doors of the strangers' van opened, and two muscular men climbed out. As they did, the others in the vehicle began reaching under their seats, but neither Thomas nor Brian could see what it was that they might be grasping. Increasingly nervous, Thomas occasionally trembled. With a swagger, Frank slowly sauntered around Thomas' van and then abruptly opened his side doors.

 

Forceful and sarcastic, Frank said, "Hmm... let's just take a look at that spare tire, shall we?"

But before Thomas could reply, Frank had already begun searching the van. And as he rummaged about, the other two strangers stepped nearer, closing in on Thomas and Brian. Still not speaking, they only delivered menacing stares. Brian was bewildered: these guys were acting like a bunch of cops, but they sure didn't seem like the police, not even the undercover kind.

Speaking aloud as he searched the van, Frank described to his buddies what he found.

"Hmm...  fertilizer, new pipe fittings, new shovel, rubber hose. No camping supplies, no hiking boots. Okay, these guys look all right -- hell, they might even be in the same business we're in. But see here -- Thomas Mathews and Brian Reed -- now we know who you are. And if we ever find out you might be up here for the wrong reasons -- you following me? Well then, we'll find you. Capiche?"

Gradually beginning to relax, Thomas said, "Yeah, we hear ya. You can ask around -- we're cool."

After walking back to the Dodge van, Frank and his two muscular companions returned to their seats, silently glaring at Thomas and Brian while the Dodge van's engine began to start. As the strangers' blue van disappeared down the road, Thomas sighed with relief, saying, "F**k, that was close. We could've got the s**t kicked out of us, or even worse."

"What's the big deal? We're just a harmless pair of dudes with a flat tire?"

"Those guys probably grow weed, and might even be the night guards I told you about. They're super paranoid about poachers, and they think that any stranger in the area might be out to steal their harvest. Did you notice the way they wanted to search our van? If they'd found hiking supplies or tools to cut down plants -- they might've assumed we were poachers. Luckily, everything they saw told 'em that we were more likely to be growers."

"And if they did think we were poachers -- they've beat us up or something? Is that why you were so nervous?"

"Ahh... getting beat up might be the best-case scenario there. Last year the cops found a dead guy in a streambed. His hands were tied behind his back, and he'd been shot in the face with a shotgun -- that's the way they treat poachers in this county. Growing weed's a big business, and the guys who get hired to be guards aren't exactly the law-abiding type. Sometimes it seems like the Old West up here, here in The Emerald Triangle."

Brian began to wonder just what the hell he'd gotten himself into. Initially, it seemed he'd only be making some candles with Thomas, selling them as a street artist, and occasionally getting out of the city to tend Thomas' marijuana plants. But now the rural countryside was starting to seem as dangerous as some of San Francisco's most violent neighborhoods.