Besides when they stopped you for having the headlight burned out or for going 45 in a 25 mph zone? Have you ever flagged one down and said, "Hey, Officer, how 'bout chewing the rag about the drug war over a cup of coffee?

"Okay, so 'coffee' was a bad choice. How 'bout over a cup of tea? Hmm. Not so good. A milk shake, how 'bout over a milk shake?"

Ever tried that?

Well don't. They never call back. They're never home. They don't have that information right now. They can't talk about that case because it's still open, they're being sued, the judge put a gag order on them, they just don't have the time.

We know they don't have the time. We know they're busy because we know they've been putting in a lot of overtime. So much so it makes the papers.

But the drug war doesn't make the papers. At least not for long. The editor doesn't know anybody being busted for marijuana, ergo it's not news. If it's not news, nobody hears about it. If nobody hears about it, nobody gets upset. If we just don't make a big stink about people being busted for what is a basic human right, nothing will happen to rock one of America's great growth industry: prisons. From cops to judges to lawyers to prison guards to building contractors to suppliers to court reporters to secretaries to bailiffs to maintenance people to uniform and arms manufactures to auto makers to architects to psychologists to forensics experts—and that's not the half of it—a lot of people are depending on a lot of other people going to jail for their choice of social drugs.

Ask John Sajo or Beau Markham. Heck, they weren't even looking for a social drug, they were looking for relief. They were looking for medicine. That's why there was a grow-operation at the modest two-story house in Milwaukie when the Portland police came knocking. Not only were they growing marijuana for medicine, they could prove it. They had the cards to prove it. Kelly Paige, manager of the state medical marijuana program could prove it. In fact, Kelly Paige did prove it. Prior to the raid—as is custom now-a-days—the police called Kelly and said they were going to raid the Milwaukie house. Did Kelly know anything about it? Sure, said Kelly, I know all about it. Talked with them just today, as a matter of fact. All above board and legal (albeit transitional).

Thanks, said the police, but we've heard they've got 70 plants growing out there. We're going in. Four hours later, oodles of information and files in hand, they departed. Sans plants. Plants are doing just fine, thank you. (Can you imagine what would happen if we were all required to make our own aspirin? But whatever you do, don't sell it!) John Sajo, the only one home when the police arrived, was left behind as well. To date no charges have been filed. It's "under investigation." In the meantime, no harm no foul, right?

Not so right, say Beau Markham. Now John Sajo is a bulldog. With the body of a high school wrestler, John looks as if he can keep doing pushups until way past the dinner bell. Bo, on the other hand is a Saint Bernard of a guy who looks as he'd just as soon ride out the storm in front of the fire.

Beau showed up in the middle of the raid, and when he asked what was going on, the police grabbed him by the arms and escorted him from the property. Only they broke his arm in the process. Beau's now suing the police (one of the reasons they can't discuss the case) but he still can't figure out why a patient coming to his medicine supplier should have had his arm broken by the protectors of the peace? He is, understandably, concerned about the levels of protection he's receiving. With his broken arm he's wondering "but who will protect me from the police?"

Now, of course, you might jump to the conclusion that, because John is a driving force behind Voter Power, one of the more active and successful groups advocating marijuana reform in the state, that there might be some political motivation in this raid. All we can do is speculate, of course, because the door to the police is closed. No one's home. Loyalists claim the police would never act in such a rash manner. the loyal opposition is less sanguine.

The unanswered question is: who are these people? Not John and Beau—the police? They look like Portland police, they smell like Portland police, they certainly act like Portland police, but are they? Really? Who pays them? Who says go forth onto the streets and arrest those pipe dreamers? From where do they get their mandate? Did we say to Kroeker and company, hit it, boys, drag in those miscreants? Did we say we want the government prying into and regulating our private lives? Did we hand our front door keys to the police and say, please save us from pot smokers?

I don't think so. I don't think we've said anything of the sort. I think it was the federal government who said go get 'em. I think it was federal anti-drug (and that's a laugh and a half) money that came in and got the marijuana task force going, and I think it's federal money that sustains it. 'Course I don't know for sure because no one's talking. If no one's talking, no one has to say yes or no. It's easier that way. But I suspect that when the Portland police raid a house in Milwaukie (don't they have cops of their own?) that's it's not the people of Portland or even the people of Oregon speaking but rather the conservative Christian coalition which has a stranglehold on the moralists of Washington, DC. You know, the ones who sleep with a forked tongue. That's a very scary thought.

But we may never know because in this land of the free—where we have nothing to hide and, good God, if you can't trust the cop on the beat, who can you trust— the police aren't talking. They're busy now. He's on vacation. Don't worry, I'll get someone to return your call.

Later, that same month, I begin to wonder, is someone really going to call back?

If they won't come in a emergency, you sure can't expect them to call back a guy who wants to from where they get there money. Don't be ridiculous.

So, next time the cops are breaking down your door looking for your medicine cabinet, politely say to them: "Hey, how 'bout you and I sitting down over a cup of—oops—over a milk shake and talk about who pays your salary?" Tell 'em you're buying. See what they say.

Where will it end?