Chapter 1: Constantine

Connie---Everyone should remember me. I am the long-haired student of Dr. Ricardo Cortes. I helped in the development of his ‘special sauce’, as he calls it.

It was just luck that I was in his class. I was studying Horticulture not Animal Science, but I had to have three credits in that field of study. When I was given a choice of classes I said “Whatever” and was assigned to one of his classes. It worked out well as you know. I got an ‘A’ for helping him. It was a couple of semesters later that the shit hit the fan between Dr. Cortes and the university. (Read ‘The Death Penalty’). I thought the good doctor got a raw deal. They always shoot the messenger, right?

I talked to him before he left for South America and told him to keep in touch and if he never needed any advice about the “sauce” to give me a call.

Strange how things work out sometimes. It was a Thursday morning when I opened an email from him. He was having a problem with his ‘sauce’. It seems the second year his ‘ingredients’ were not as ‘strong’ as they should be. He wanted to know if I could help. He offered a nice ‘consulting fee’ which included a trip to see his operation in South America. I told him to give me a few days to think about it and I would get back to him. It is Sunday and I still have not contacted him. Why?

A little explanation is in order.

Let’s start with my family. My siblings and I are third generation Italians. I am the sixth of seven kids. My parents own what is known as a ‘truck farm’, meaning we grow vegetables and truck them into a big city market three or four times a week. It is hard work and sometimes it pays well. But most times we just make a living. My older brothers and sisters have all moved off the farm and taken up other professions. My momma (Poppa died a few years ago) has two sons that are engineers, another who is an IT specialist. One daughter is a personal assistant for the CEO of a big company and the other is a high school science teacher. These careers are not in my future. You see my little brother Marcus and I have other ideas. We are going to grow and sell the best Marijuana in the state!

In fact, we have already started on our project. With the help of his wife, Maria, (another Italian) we have planted a thousand plants of high-grade ganja and are about ready to harvest. We’ll make a fortune! That’s the plan.

Sunday morning, after Mass, momma announced that her brother, Uncle Tommy, was coming to Sunday dinner. Uncle Tommy is a deputy sheriff. He knows nothing about our business.

We had just finished eating Momma’s homemade ravioli when she asked her brother if he was working on anything interesting. That’s a very strange question coming from Momma. She never asks about his work.

“The fact is, I am. This past week I was assigned to a special task force with the feds. They are looking into the increase in drug activity in the county.”

Both Marcus and Marie are staring at their wine glasses.

“You know the state stopped the flights with the airplanes looking for drugs planted in the fields last year?”

“Yes, I heard that. Something about the cost? Right?”

“That was the official word. But the reality is that now with satellite technology we don’t need those airplanes anymore. The satellite passes over and sends back pictures. A computer somewhere analyzes what it sees and points out the marijuana.”