Two months later, The Incarceration of Godfrey Jackson opened the intellectually rigorous True/False Film Fest in Columbia, Missouri. After our screening, we were scheduled to speak on a panel of legal scholars including Alan Dershowitz, Cornel West, and Camille Paglia about state vs. federal law in the drive to reform marijuana legislation. The show sold out immediately. But I sensed trouble. In the intervening weeks since our independent film distribution grandstanding at Sundance, Jackson’s dedication to the master plan had begun to waver. For reasons I couldn’t yet grasp, Leona and the ever-pugnacious Munsey had been lobbying violently against me.
I’d been waiting in the lobby of the Holiday Inn for two hours when Jackson finally arrived with a motley group of newly minted sycophantic fans in tow, clamoring for an autograph and the chance to take a picture with him. Afterward, he walked over and sat down next to me, slouching into the couch cushions.
This time, I remained upright, stiff-backed, bracing myself. He apologized for being late and said he’d been busy doing a radio interview with Leona about his film and had lost track of time. Then he casually reached into his beaded suede Navajo notebook organizer and extracted a legal document.
“Before I forget,” he said, “Leona asked that you sign this before tonight’s screening. Otherwise we won’t be able to stick around for it.”
I stared at the ten-page document he held out in front of me.
“It’s just a formality,” Jackson added, reaching back into his notebook and taking out a pen as I scanned page after page of legal jargon about copyrights and distribution rights all belonging to him and Leona.
“It looks like more than a formality to me,” I responded. “It looks like you’re asking me to assign you all rights to my film.”
“Hey, mon, you did a great job. You made an amazing film. But it’s time to let your baby go and move on. We’ve got important work to do on our next film. Let’s let Leona take it from here.” Jackson picked up the pen and held it out toward me. I stared back into his beady, bloodshot eyes. I’d always suspected there might be a killer behind the mask of goofy, pot-induced innocence and benevolent idiocy, but now I realized it wasn’t about him being a killer and it wasn’t about him being good or evil. After all was said and done, Godfrey Jackson wasn’t the human embodiment of pot, he was the human embodiment of pussy-whipped.
Several weeks later, standing under the marquee of the Alamo Drafthouse in Austin, Texas, announcing the theatrical release of The Incarceration of Godfrey Jackson, a pleasant-looking man walked up to me and handed me an envelope. I opened it to read that I’d been served with a lawsuit. Jackson was claiming I had stolen the rights to his film and was demanding I give them back or pay him $500,000.
Even after the film’s failed initial theatrical run and the serving of the lawsuit, I continued to shill for The Cause, telling the world after each screening and during countless radio interviews that Godfrey Jackson was comedy’s equivalent to serious drama’s Marlon Brando, martyred by the US attorney’s office, a.k.a. the most onerous legal establishment since the Inquisition. All the while living through the unrelenting agony of an obstructionist lawsuit brought against me by the very person I’d fought on behalf of with unflinching love and loyalty. A bitter irony.
As the weeks wore on, my exhaustion intensified, and so with few options left and unable to defend myself in court any longer, I scraped together $10,000 to retain a bad-ass Hollywood litigator to step into the ring and brawl on my behalf. I felt a sudden swell of elation. Sure, I’d literally bought my way onto the corporate grid, which I despised, but maybe that’s what it took to survive in a fundamentally corrupt legal justice system. Yet my momentary happiness dissolved when the lawyer realized I had no resources beyond my retainer to pursue a $100,000 litigation and steered me straight into a binding settlement. By the end of the day, I agreed to a term of three months to either raise the money to pay Jackson off or give him and his wife (and Munsey) the rights to the film I’d made in his defense.
With the clock ticking and on the verge of a total physical and mental collapse, I threw a Hail Mary into the end zone and called Jack Herer, a man famous for writing a book called The Emperor Wears No Clothes, about the history of hemp in America. The book reminds readers that the cover of every wagon that crossed the plains was made of hemp, that the Mona Lisa was painted on a canvas made of hemp, that the sails of the Mayflower, along with its ropes and riggings, were all made of hemp, that the Constitution of the United States was drafted on paper made of hemp fiber! In many respects, the hysteria that led to Godfrey Jackson being dubbed an enemy combatant and deported to Guantánamo was the same hysteria that had helped underwrite the prohibition of hemp.
When I was making The Incarceration of Godfrey Jackson, I had visited Jack Herer in the Florida Everglades to interview him, but at this point in his life, his sole interest was in the psychoactive fungus, Amanita muscaria. (Through a series of academic texts and clues from the Vatican, Herer had become convinced that Jesus Christ was a mushroom, as were Santa Claus and the prophet Mohammad.)
Calling Herer again was grasping at straws, but as it turned out, my hunch was right. The day after I reached out to him, he called me back with a very powerful lead.
Graham DeLorme was a Vietnam vet who, soon after coming back to the US from his third tour of duty, had discovered that the Federal Reserve was burning its old currency. Millions and millions in paper currency was going up in smoke every few weeks in incinerators, only to be replaced by crisp new government-issue bills. Upon learning this surreal detail about America’s hair-raising banking system, DeLorme and several of his vet buddies from ’Nam had infiltrated the Federal Reserve’s currency incinerators and, in the most clownishly simple heist of all time, made off with close to half a billion dollars in old bills without a trace.
I called DeLorme at his home on a private island in the Caribbean. He listened intently as I reeled out my tale of woe. He chuckled the whole time, and then, with no hesitation, offered to send me $500,000—some of those dirty bills—in a shoe box. It would be his pleasure, he said, to see a naïve idiot like me win the day after all the hell I’d been through for thinking I could actually alter a broken and corrupt world with a puff piece about an opportunistic comedian.
And then, just as suddenly, he said, “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you move here with us? You can have a plot of land to build your own house with a view of the ocean and become a member of our small but growing utopian cooperative. Live off the grid, get laid, and frolic on the dunes where clothes are optional. The American judicial system is fucked and always will be. Maybe it’s time to take your endless idealism and hope for a better world and focus it on growing organic tomatoes.”
At the time, I was determined to get back on my corporate career path, not off it—way off of it—on some remote island in the Caribbean to live with a bunch of fruity utopian money launderers. And yet my calculated risk of choosing a life of creative self-direction and shortcuts to greatness hadn’t panned out. And in addition to everything else I was dealing with, I’d received numerous death threats and more than one brick through my living room window, so taking DeLorme up on his random generous offer was a calculated risk as well.
After abandoning my film to Jackson, Leona, and Munsey, I never looked back. I had done my work and made my statement about our crazy government. Recently, a friend called to tell me Pepperpot and Jackson were reunited and touring the globe making millions of dollars, in part due to the film I’d made about Jackson’s indictment, and I told him I was happy to hear it—but in truth, I couldn’t have cared less.