Jesce Horton is an engineer who’s worked internationally. Massive weed fan. Growing up around the Southeast, he found his world rocked by misdemeanor arrests three times. Today the 39-year-old sells pot that he grows legally. That Horton’s plying his craft in breathtakingly white Oregon makes him an almost literal one-of-one.
Though Smith’s and Horton’s trips through criminalized cannabis come about a dozen years apart, her past and his future illuminate the relationship between expungement and business equity on the road to cannabis fairness.
Smith had been so certain she was going home on that day in 1991 that she didn’t even let her mother know about that day in court. The way her life had been working before that game-changing night in Gardena: Smith would leave her trainee desk at the Hall of Records downtown and light out for wherever discerning smokers congregated: Malibu. Orange County. The Valley.
“We’d go to Ontario, in the Inland Empire, to a party. I’d barely be in the door before I heard, ‘Hey, Ondria’s got some good weed!’”
She would sell out. Three, four, five hundred late-20th-century dollars’ worth would be gone by the time she would split. With that one traffic stop, everything changed.
In 1990 there was no Cash App through which to hit up Smith. Most of her business got done in bills and after dark.
No Instagram assistance, but she did keep a 9mm gun in her purse. And when that Gardena cop stopped her—she…
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Jesce Horton is an engineer who’s worked internationally. Massive weed fan. Growing up around the Southeast, he found his world rocked by misdemeanor arrests three times. Today the 39-year-old sells pot that he grows legally. That Horton’s plying his craft in breathtakingly white Oregon makes him an almost literal one-of-one.
Though Smith’s and Horton’s trips through criminalized cannabis come about a dozen years apart, her past and his future illuminate the relationship between expungement and business equity on the road to cannabis fairness.
Smith had been so certain she was going home on that day in 1991 that she didn’t even let her mother know about that day in court. The way her life had been working before that game-changing night in Gardena: Smith would leave her trainee desk at the Hall of Records downtown and light out for wherever discerning smokers congregated: Malibu. Orange County. The Valley.
“We’d go to Ontario, in the Inland Empire, to a party. I’d barely be in the door before I heard, ‘Hey, Ondria’s got some good weed!’”
She would sell out. Three, four, five hundred late-20th-century dollars’ worth would be gone by the time she would split. With that one traffic stop, everything changed.
In 1990 there was no Cash App through which to hit up Smith. Most of her business got done in bills and after dark.
No Instagram assistance, but she did keep a 9mm gun in her purse. And when that Gardena cop stopped her—she…
