1 Cannabis Conviction, 100 Collateral Consequences
Photo courtesy of Richeda and Richardo Ashmeade and the Last Prisoner Project
I spoke with Richeda Ashmeade, a brilliant law school student, during one of the least convenient windows in her schedule: midterms week. She made our conversation a priority because the woman is mission-driven.
She wants to see her father free.
The feds incarcerated the 26-year-old’s dad, Richardo Ashmeade, when she was in sixth grade. Richeda’s story gives us a window into the painful experience of detained people’s children, the most vulnerable victims of the war on drugs.
The War on Cannabis is a War on Families
“Life before incarceration was not perfect by a far stretch, but it was my life,” Richardo reflected.
“I was surrounded by love from my mother, my children, and my significant other at the time. I was in a space of love, peace, and contentment. I was the hub of the wheel, the hero my family depended on, a role I fully embraced.”
Richardo was the neighborhood dad. He was the one kids came to for encouragement, laughs, and real-talk. But most of all, he was (and is) Richeda’s hero.
“He is 110% my support system – the person I rely on for everything. I won't make a move without asking my dad first,” Richeda said. “When I first started dating boys and had my first kiss, I told my dad.”
“He’s probably the most intelligent person I've ever had a conversation with,” she continued. “When I asked him how to increase my credit score, he sent me six books.”
Richardo’s body may not be in the room, but he shows up for his daughter. Still, the system is doing its damnedest to destroy his family.
“I haven't seen my dad in five years,” Richeda explained. “His facility's always locked down during quarantine. They went from 15 to now 10-minute phone calls.”
“My dad's getting older,” she said, her voice breaking with emotion.
“It's super scary because he has severe health conditions. We've tried to appeal based on his health, but the court denied it, saying that he ‘failed to present extraordinary and compelling reasons.’”
Is this justice? Is this familial separation a proportionate response to cannabis possession? Must a human being’s health be “extraordinarily” diminished for the government to consider prescribing freedom?
Our legal system insists on punishing children for their parents' mistakes, a cruel irony since those “mistakes” are generating billions of regulated dollars today.
Legal Cannabis is Worth Billions. What About Richardo Ashmeade’s Life?
Richardo has been in prison for 13 years with at least nine more to go, although the scope of his cannabis activities is minuscule compared to the US-regulated cannabis industry.
Richardo pleaded guilty to a “conspiracy with intent to distribute” charge, believing that this was the safest course to take. Given this country’s systemic bias against Black men (especially related to cannabis), he thought he’d lose in court.
What he didn’t realize was that his plea was strike three. It triggered a mandatory 22-year minimum sentence. Richardo reached time served six and a half years ago, but because of the mandatory minimum, he can’t leave until he’s completed the entire 22-year term.
Within the first five years of Richardo’s confinement, Rhode Island, New Mexico, Michigan, Massachusetts, and New Jersey made legislative moves toward legalizing cannabis for medical use.
About ten years into Richardo’s sentence, the Justice Department softened its approach toward cannabis, discouraging law enforcement officers from pursuing federal prohibition in states that opted to legalize medical marijuana.
Two years ago, states across the country classified cannabis businesses as “essential” during COVID-related lockdowns. Meanwhile, Richardo spent his fifteenth year incarcerated for a non-violent cannabis offense now decriminalized in most of the US.
Today, the U.S. regulated cannabis industry is worth $61 billion. However, in states like Florida, people with cannabis-related felonies are prohibited from obtaining licenses. Cannabis ex-felons created today’s multi-billion dollar market, but the only “cut” they get is a criminal record and its cascade of negative collateral consequences.
Richardo’s crimes did not create actual harm, but the law’s response did. Every day that Richardo remains imprisoned, the law inflicts economic and psychological trauma on Richardo, his family, and his community.
Cannabis Prohibition is Far More Dangerous Than Cannabis
Richardo has maintained a rich internal life despite the external injustices forced on him.
“My hobbies include playing soccer, exercising, and reading,” he told me. “I keep up with real estate trends, the new technology used to navigate the sector, and the new capital gains and cash flow strategies.”
“I love a good book, especially self-help and personal change books. I recommend the timeless 7 Habits of Highly Effective People by Stephen R. Covey.”
When I asked Richardo if the prison system has been rehabilitative or helpful, he responded with this quote from Fyodor Dostoevsky:
"The degree of civilization in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.”
If that’s true, the United States’ model of civilization is medieval:
1 in 4 people who go to jail will be arrested again.
Most people in jail are there because they can’t pay bail.
Jailed and imprisoned people make under $4 an hour for prison jobs.
Correctional officers habitually use excessive force to intimidate incarcerated people.
“I'm in an environment where the guards and the federal employees operate outside the parameters of ethics, morals, and the law,” Richardo said.
“They carry themselves with an air of impunity that comes from working in an environment where abusing disempowered and disadvantaged people is the air they breathe.”
Richardo has a family who loves him, a voracious appetite for learning, and the desire to contribute to society meaningfully. Cannabis prohibition has robbed him of the opportunity to engage in life fully and exposed him to violence hidden from society’s view.
“I’ve lived in uninhabitable, toxic conditions,” he said. “I have been stripped of agency over my life, medically neglected, and ineffectually educated.”
“Through it all, I have managed to maintain my humanity and character. I can’t force someone to care, but I can at least try to inspire those who do to force change.”
Forcing Change: 3 Actions Allies Can Take Right Now
If you’re here, you’re an ally. Here’s how you can make an impact:
Share this article.
Read and sign the Last Prisoner Project’s petition for mass cannabis clemency.
Call your legislators and tell them about Richardo and Richeda.
Richardo is looking at five more years in prison. The actions above will take 15-minutes.
“If someone doesn't say something, if no one advocates, if legislation doesn't change, five years is a long time,” Richeda said. “I’ll be in my mid-30s. My dad could have grandchildren by then.”
“I think of my elderly mother and pray that I make it back to society before (God-forbid), she succumbs to any age-related health issues,” Richardo wrote.
If you reach the right eyes and ears, you might save the Ashmeades from losing more time to a system doing what its architects built it to do – keep power away from people who need it.
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