Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, August 7, 1994 TAG: 9408080048
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: E-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: By DIANE STRUZZI STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Moore's office travels with him: a cellular telephone, scanner and a highlighted map are his bare essentials.
As a drug agent for the state police, he doesn't stray far from his boyhood roots. Reared among the tobacco fields of Pittsylvania County, he returns each year with dozens of other police officers. Together, they comb the woods and hollows of these parts, searching for marijuana plants and those who harvest them.
Where tobacco was once king, marijuana has gained a foothold.
Cruising down a country back road, his car window rolled down, he takes in a breath and says, "Smell that? Smells like there's pot somewhere in that field."
Some say the fanfare surrounding the state police-managed program exceeds its effectiveness. They question whether the money spent produces any significant reduction in the availability of pot.
But after all the rhetoric settles, one fact remains, says Moore: Pot is illegal.
In rural southern Virginia, marijuana grows plentifully. The trees and cornfields can easily camouflage small patches. The region's humid days and cooler nights perfectly cultivate the weed.
Franklin, Patrick, Pittsylvania and Henry counties have traditionally been the top-ranked areas for pot seizures in the state.
A mark of summer is the annual hovering of low-flying helicopters tracked by a train of vehicles that snake along rural roads. No one really looks twice as they pass them. They just drive by slowly, and sometimes wave.
There are a few complaints, usually from farmers who say the helicopter noise stresses their livestock; stops their chickens from laying eggs or their pigs from eating.
For the most part, though, the annual hunt for marijuana has become commonplace.
The federally funded program began in 1983. As part of the national war on drugs, it was a way to get a grip on a burgeoning marijuana crop.
In Virginia, the program is supported financially by a grant from the federal Drug Enforcement Administration, and otherwise through helicopters and manpower lent by the National Guard. The ground crew is beefed up with help from local sheriff's offices and the Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control.
After 11 years, the operation's strategy has changed from a search-and-destroy mission aimed at pot plants to one aimed at apprehending the grower.
"If we just seize the crop and don't get the grower to go with it, we're not completing the entire mission," said Michael Counts, deputy assistant director of special investigations, who coordinates the effort for the state police.
The new game plan has been working, say officials. This year, nine growers in the state were arrested; charges against seven others are pending.
And the program is expanding. Recently, Virginia officials joined with those in Kentucky and West Virginia to run Operation Triple Play, a three-state effort that concentrates on marijuana growing in the shared border counties.
Critics of the annual marijuana hunt, many of whom support legalization of pot, argue that the national assault on the plant largely has been a publicity stunt for the federal government's war on drugs. They question the cost-effectiveness of the program. And they ask if there's still a need for such a large-scale effort.
When the eradication program began, growers still were laying out their marijuana plants in rows, and most were not worried about aerial detection, said Al Byrne, secretary of the Washington-based National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws, or NORML.
"But now, [growers] are doing guerrilla farming, with a plot here and a plot there," he said. "So, even if they have one crop destroyed, they have others."
Serious, commercial growers have moved indoors, constructing elaborate hothouses in basements and barns. In the man-made environment, they can control the climate and nurture a more robust and hearty plant, Byrne said.
NORML members contend that marijuana growers are unfairly targeted by the police because the plant is easier to detect than harder drugs, such as cocaine or heroin.
Marijuana is generally a nonviolent black-market industry, said Jon Gettman, a former policy analyst at NORML. A pot grower doesn't conjure the image of a machine gun-toting drug dealer, he said.
While violence is not the norm for the industry, it does happen, state police say. Animal traps are often placed around patches to ward off intruders. This year, about 30 such traps were confiscated.
And in two incidents during the operation in Western Virginia, guns were pointed at helicopters. No one was injured, and police made an arrest in each case.
Despite the efforts of the nationwide operation, marijuana continues to be one of the largest cash crops in the country, Byrne said. In Virginia, NORML estimates the crop was valued at $317 million in 1992, more than hay, tobacco and peanuts.
"It's the weed that won't go away," Gettman said. "It has staying power."
On land not far from his childhood home, Moore has pulled on his fatigues and state police-issued work boots to scrounge around in the pot fields.
The hunt begins this steamy July day just after lunch. Fog grounded the helicopters earlier but, now, the sun peeks from behind the clouds.
Just outside of Gretna in northern Pittsylvania County, the air crew sees a "bingo," a marijuana patch. From the air, the plant has a bluish-green tint and there's a hint of gloss on the leaves.
Where agents once spent hours cutting down a patch of 1,000 or 2,000 plants, they now spend most of their time searching for the weed, scattered around the forest in small plots.
"The growers just plant it everywhere now and hope we miss it," Moore said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "They'll have a certain amount of loss, but they'll also have some gain."
Down a dusty road, in a thickly wooded area, law enforcement agents ride in a caravan of cars and four-wheel-drive vehicles to find their cache of the day.
They roll past a shed shielding rusted farm equipment. Some leave their cars behind and hop into a couple of pickup trucks. They finally stop in a grassy field. In all directions there are woods.
An air spotter says the plants are several hundred yards away. Then he alerts them about a moonshine still just across the open field - a bonus for local officials.
They jump from the trucks, machetes in hand, and begin cutting through the overgrowth. They spot three marijuana plants growing among the tall weeds.
Farther along, through a creek and up an embankment to a clearing, sit nearly 50 marijuana plants. Some have reached maturity, standing nearly 9 feet tall. Others barely poke through the soil.
Surrounding the patch is a thin wire attached to a six-volt battery. A swift kick from one of the agents snaps the wire and clears access to the plants.
In the distance are thumping sounds - police are breaking apart the one-pot still. Some of the cherries used to make the brandy still hug the bottom of the pot.
As the officers make their way back to the vehicles, Moore takes out a small notepad and writes down the numbers. His team's find of the afternoon: Just about 50 plants; no arrests.
The same day, on the other side of the county, another team nets 307 pot plants and makes no arrests.
Moore and his crew are realistic. They know they get only a small portion of the pot crop. And they know that making an arrest is difficult.
This year, in their division, they estimate they confiscated about one-third of what they normally do. And only two people were arrested on drug charges.
In recent years, Franklin County has been the No. 1 area for pot seizures, usually culling several thousand plants. But this time around, 992 plants were pulled from the ground.
In Patrick County, 272 plants were found. And in Henry County, the air crew and the operation were hampered by rain.
Only in Pittsylvania County did the pot seizures come near last year's figures. On three days, police took 1,634 plants, about 300 less than they did in 1993.
"I'd like to think they didn't plant as much this year," said Houston E. McNeal, who supervised the program in the four traditionally top-ranked counties, "but that's not the case. It's that we're not as equipped with the aircraft. One person spotting as opposed to four spotters in two [larger] helicopters - I think that might have something to do with it."
While the DEA increased its grant to the Virginia State Police this year to $100,000, about $10,000 more than in 1993, the National Guard slashed its funding. The cuts reduced flying time over the state by half. And a smaller helicopter was put in the air for the first time, reducing the number of air spotters.
It left down hours for Moore's team. They'd park the caravan along the side of the road or under a canopy of trees. And they'd wait.
On one of these afternoons, outside his car, Moore reaches into his pocket for his stash of cigarettes.
No word from the air crew yet.
Moore isn't easily discouraged by the setbacks. These parts have always been good for marijuana. And that's not likely to change anytime soon. It's out there, he says.
Over the scanner, the air crew says they've found a "bingo." Within minutes, the caravan rolls out, winding its way down another rural road.
by CNB