So I went to the DEA office in Oakland this morning to pick up the rest of the things that they stole from me. I wore a Tainted shirt, partially to make a statement, partially because that is what I wanted to wear to work today. I walk in, as I am flashing back to the horrific aftermath of their assault on me and my family. I ring the bell (like in a short order cook's window...bing). A nice enough woman answers the door and asks, "May I help you." My mind draws a blank (Marinol coma) and I say, "I am looking for agent Woo or Choo or something." She looks puzzled. She says, "Ua? (Pronounced Wa), and I remember. "Yes. Sam Wa." She looked at me interested, but not annoyed.

From the back comes Special Agent Ua, a shorter asian fellow. He had told me on the phone to bring boxes or something to put stuff in. I had none. He looked at me puzzled and said, "I told you to bring some boxes or something. Do you have someone to help you?" I told him, "Yeah. I did not have anything." Not that I didn't own any boxes, but who the fuck are they to tell me what to bring? He was a bit disturbed and unsure of how he was going to give me 7 boxes full of documents, scales, and indicia from my raid with me having nothing to put it all in. I assured him I could make several trips. More puzzled and disturbed looks. I said, "Well, you guys had to put it all in something to take it from my house." 

Another agent then had joined the party. A taller skinny white fellow in his early forties, probably a marine at one time or another. He informs me that they do not give away DEA evidence boxes or bags. I asked him what he wanted me to do. I offered to roll the boxes and cart downstairs and unload them and bring the cart and boxes back up. They were both kind of frustrated at this point and the white fellow tried to get me to walk to Walgreen's to get trash bags. They said, "hold on a minute" and walked behind the door.

I hear another voice say, "For what case?" 

A reply of "Michael Martin"

The unknown voice says, "The candy guy?"

The agent says, "Yeah. He is wearing a Tainted shirt right now," as if I would have thrown them all out or something.

I chuckle a bit and continue to wait for them to sort things out. Finally they appear with a cart full of boxes and four industrial white woven bags that were about 3 feet long each. Another agent joined them. They tore open each evidence bag and box individually. They made me sign off on them, and proceeded to dump everything into the large bags with no care about how they landed whatsoever. I would have been upset, but it was funny watching three dudes who obviously did not want to be doing this work sit there gritting their teeth and trying their best to get through the seemingly endless pile of my "cannabis indicia." 

I watched as they poured what was once my life into bag after bag and I shuddered at seeing my personal stuff brought out of a strange box, by strange men, and dumped into a odd white bag. If I did not know that they were more miserable than me I would have been furious, but none of us wanted to be there performing this bureaucratic and mind numbing task and i was probably going to throw most of the stuff away anyhow.

As they packed I noticed that the plaques of George Bush, Karen Tandy (former DEA director), and John Walters (former Drug Czar) were all gone from my previous trips to retrieve property they stole. In their place were big screw holes that did not get patched. About 8 of them. Hanging in the middle was a plaque with a picture sleeve on the front containing a crooked and beat up picture of Barck Obama. It was surrounded by the holes in the drywall. I commented, "What is up with the picture of Obama? Looks like bullet holes around it." I was making a digging comment and attempting to bring some levity to this awkward moment in history.

Agent Taller White Dude stated without hesitation, "Oh. He is not that bad," somewhat half jokingly and somewhat edgy. Pretty disrespectful to his new boss either way.

I thought, "What a dick."

As we were set to part ways, the agents said, "Well that is it, except for the wallet of someone named Kevin." Kevin and I are working on a project together so he happened to be in the truck waiting for me. I said, "He is downstairs. Want me to take it to him?" They told me he had to come and get it himself. I said, "Well, the last time he saw you guys wasn't so great for him so I am not sure if he will want to come up, but I will ask. He may have some PTSD going on with all of that."

I carried my bags of my life down to the car and told Kevin about his wallet. He came up to get it, like a soldier and made the agents give him one of the history magazines in their lobby as a parting gift. We laughed about this surreal experience down the elevator, into the truck and on to the road back to work. I thought deeply about the anger that I had felt from the situation and just knew that when it was all said and done, I had gotten the better of them and not the other way around. They still remembered who I was and I could give a shit less about who any of them ever would be. I am so much better than everyone of those yes-men, gun-toting motherfuckers and I was proud that I had overcome their horrendous bullshit. 

After my stomach quit churning I reflected on the closure of the morning and was glad that I was me and not them. I would rather be "the candy guy," than the group of idiots that thought I was worth their precious time and spent two years of their lives following me and innumerable resources in bringing me to justice. Yeah. House arrest sucks, but those guys have to work for the government everyday for the rest of their lives and call their boss "Sarge," and do shit that even they deep down inside know is complete bullshit. At least I can look myself in the mirror of my home prison every morning and know I did the right thing. Can they? I doubt it.