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Jeremy Grove Shares His Reentry Journey After Serving Over 4 years for a Nonviolent Cannabis Offense

Mikelina Belaineh • June 14, 2023

Jeremy Grove was released from prison in January of 2023 after serving 4 years for a nonviolent cannabis offense. Before his sentence, Jeremy spent 3 years pre-trial waiting for his case to be resolved. For this interview, Jeremy joined LPP Director of Impact, Mikelina Belaineh, via Zoom from his home in South Carolina, where he is working to rebuild his life and reconnect with his loved ones. Parts of this interview have been edited for length and clarity, and have been reviewed and approved by Jeremy.

 


MB: Tell me your story of cannabis criminalization, how did you get to be here with me today doing this interview?

 

JG: In 2013, I was living in South Carolina working as a bartender, and I was planning to move to Los Angeles to get into the cannabis industry with a friend of mine. The week I was supposed to move, I ended up meeting my daughter’s mother. Long story short, I decided to stay in South Carolina so we could try to make it work. My friend went ahead with the move and got into the California industry. Once he was out there, he hit me up and asked if I’d be interested in selling some of his product in South Carolina. It was simple, he would send me a pound of product, I would get rid of it, and then send him the money back. That was it. I sold weed because I really love it and I wanted to get involved in the legal industry. I was 19 in college when I first smoked weed. I was a baseball player and had never done drugs, didn’t drink alcohol. One day I had an anxiety attack on the field one day, in tears, full panic, in a complete mental breakdown. After that, I couldn't even throw the ball back to the pitcher, I was emotionally messed up. That summer, I smoked weed for the first time. It changed everything for me, I was able to relax and calm my emotions. Because of my case, I haven’t been able to smoke, but I’m able to take the mindset cannabis gave me access to and use it to self-regulate and keep calm.

 

JG: In the summer of 2016, I was pulled over by State police. They found .1g of cannabis and arrested me for simple possession. But it was never about simple possession. A detective showed up and told me that earlier that day, the police had pulled over a woman who was leaving my house and found drugs on her. The drugs they found had nothing to do with me though, they were drugs that had been prescribed to her but were not in the original bottle. However, because two cars leaving my residence were found with drugs, the detective said they had probable cause to search my home. I was booked into the jail and bail was set at $15,000. I was able to bail out and get a lawyer. My lawyer told me that even though my case was with the State, the Feds had taken an interest in it and wanted to talk to me. I didn’t want to talk to them though. After my first arrest, the Feds started sending target letters to my daughter’s Mom and other folks in my personal life. Target letters are letters from the Feds that say, “Hey if you don’t talk to us, we’ll arrest you too.” It’s pure intimidation. So, my daughter’s mother and I talked about it. One of us needed to be there for our daughter, we couldn’t risk both of us getting arrested. So, she went in and told the Feds everything she knew.

 

JG: In March of 2017 (a year after my simple possession arrest) the Feds came to arrest me for the same case. They put on a whole show, even though they knew I wasn’t selling weed anymore. They knew I had my State case pending. When the Feds arrested me, they busted through my door early in the morning with multiple officers, guns up. I remember flashlights coming through my window, and loud pounding on my door. My daughter was about 18 months at the time and was sleeping next to me in bed. They put me in handcuffs in the kitchen as she watched in tears. They called my sister to come and pick her up.

 

JG: I couldn’t understand why they busted in the way that they did. The state had put my case on the back burner because they knew the Feds were going to get involved. My lawyer had talked to the prosecutors, and we had come to an agreement that the Feds would let me know when I was indicted, and then I would self-surrender (turn myself in). Instead, they treated me like a dangerous criminal and subjected me and my daughter to unnecessary trauma. I know a lot of people on the outside think drug dealing means you’re dealing with guns. But honestly, the only time I ever encountered a gun is when “the good guys” had a gun to my face. I think they were punishing me because I refused to talk and cooperate with them. They put me through that embarrassment in the hopes that I’d get scared and start working with them. They made sure to book me into jail on a Friday, which meant I had to spend the weekend locked up. I bailed out the following Tuesday and had spent 2 years pre-trial waiting for my case to reach disposition.

 

JG: I knew I was going to go to prison. As soon as the Feds are involved, there’s no getting out of their sights. If they want you, they got you. I was living like a normal person, working two jobs, paying bills, and paying rent. I obviously couldn’t sell weed because of my case, so I was doing whatever else I had to do to get by. I did this for 3 years, knowing that I had a prison sentence hanging over my head. People think that those of us who sell cannabis have never had other jobs. I’ve worked multiple jobs my whole life, selling cannabis is just something I did to help support my livelihood. For the 3-years pre-trial, I couldn’t make any plans for my future. I couldn’t accept any kind of advancement opportunities, I couldn’t really date, because I knew I was going to prison for a significant amount of time. So, the 4-year prison sentence I served has been more like 7 years of punishment. Once I was incarcerated, despite the circumstances, I felt like I could finally start moving on with my life.

 


MB: Can you tell me about your incarceration experience?

 

JG: I feel lucky that I got to spend most of my sentence at a camp, which is a minimum-security facility. Depending on what level of facility you’re at makes a big difference in what kind of experience you have. I did have to spend 14 months in the SHU (“Special Housing Units” though, which is its own hell. The SHU is the Fed's version of solitary confinement. You do have a cellmate… but it was like living in a bathroom with another person for 14 months. When I got sent to the SHU, Covid hit right after, so we were stuck in there. It was terrible, but I still think it was better than being in the medium and high-security penitentiaries. We were stuck in the SHU for all of Covid lockdown. We had no sense of what was going on in the outside world. Some days we weren’t sure if staff were even going to come to work, or whether anyone would be there to run the facility. I relied on my sister who would print news articles and send them to me in the mail. She was a godsend; she wrote me every single day. The relationship that we developed through writing kept me sane. The prison wouldn’t let us have access to newspapers or magazines or anything to help us keep up with the outside world.

 

JG: I was lucky that on my very first day in prison, I met a guy, his name was G. Meeting him changed my life for the better. He explained to me that you can view prison as negative, take it as punishment, and hate it every single day. Or I could use it to spend 4 years trying to better myself for when I get out. So, most of the time I was there, I viewed my experience as an opportunity to work on myself. It made my experience better and gave me an attitude I didn't have for those 3 years leading up to prison. I started writing, wrote my first novel while incarcerated, and now have a blog with a lot of readers. My book is titled Legalized and is a fiction novel exploring the lives of characters living in a world where drugs have been legalized. I am grateful for my editor who supported me while I was incarcerated and encouraged me to write no matter what circumstances I was dealing with. I would send her my writings and then she would transcribe them to be organized for the blog and book.


MB: How has it been navigating Re-entry and life after incarceration?

 

JG: I am very lucky to have a community that supports me. My mom had bought me a car before I got out to help me with transportation, and I got a job working as the operations manager for my friend's moving company, so I haven’t had to go and apply for jobs and deal with rejection because of a felony record. My daughter's mom was also a huge support. She kept me and my daughter in contact while I was incarcerated, answered the phone every day so I could talk to her for 15 min. She even let me use her address to get released to Charleston so that I could be close to my daughter when I got out. Last Prisoner Project gave me a re-entry grant which helped get me on my feet. I don’t know how I would have been able to get housing without that. I was lucky enough to meet someone who had a room they were willing to rent to me, which isn’t easy as a felon. Because I had the grant money I could zelle her right away and had a place to live right after being released. Also, I want to share that I was inspired by the Last Prisoner Projects writing program. Random strangers all over the country were sending me letters. Like, guys in prison do not get mail like I got mail. Every time I would get a letter from someone saying, “Hey, I've read your story and we support you. We believe in cannabis that way. You know we're fighting for you”—it meant a lot. It’s hard in there. Freedom Grow is another cannabis advocacy organization that has been a huge support to me throughout my journey.

 

JG: My biggest struggle since getting out is just people can’t see past my felony record. People google my name, and then automatically want nothing to do with me. They don’t care what my story is and aren’t willing to see me for who I am. They just see me as the felon I am on paper. Google makes life really difficult. People think I’m a “money launderer” because of my cannabis charge and how it is portrayed when they look me up. What they don’t understand is there's no way to sell weed without technically laundering money. Because you can't claim what you're buying, because it’s illegal at the federal level. I can’t put money in a bank account to pay for the weed that the guy had sent me.  The Feds attach money laundering to drug charges, especially in weak cases, so that if weed becomes legal, they can keep you incarcerated on the money laundering charge. They do that with guns too, they love to attach a gun enhancement. People don't realize that they don't even have to find a gun. They can say somebody saw you with a gun and they’ll add the 2-point enhancement to your sentence. When I explain how the Feds work to people, they just don't believe me. They can charge you for drugs they never found and will “project” the amount you had based on your bank records. That's what people in the Feds like to call “ghost dope”.

 

JG: My daughter has friends whose parents don’t want me around their kids, which impacts my ability to spend time with her. I worry about how she may come to perceive me because of the adults. It’s also made dating and social life difficult. Dealing with the stigma is frustrating. I’m in South Carolina, so everybody here who smokes is doing it illegally, but they see me as a bad person because of my felony.  People say, “It’s different because I just smoke.” I’m like, but who sells it to you like? They’ll say, “Just my friend.” I am that friend. They don’t see how it’s politically relevant to their lives. People need to understand how the people who are providing you weed are risking their lives for you every single day. We’re front-line workers.

 

JG: In this country, we talk so much about like hate and animosity, but I've never sat in a room and smoked a blunt with a bunch of people, and everyone's not getting along. I think that's one of the reasons the government doesn't want people to have free access to it. It brings people together and it creates a bond that they don't want people to have. They want us to stay fighting so they can keep power. That's somewhat of a realization I've had. They have statistics saying an overwhelming majority of U.S. adults think cannabis should be legalized right? (88%, see data.) What else do an overwhelming majority of Americans agree on? I can't think of anything, certainly not a presidential candidate. But, despite this rare area of public consensus, Cannabis is something our government is still not sure about. They’re like “We need a little more data before we figure it out, before we can decide.” This isn’t about a bunch of potheads wanting to smoke to get high, that’s just the story and stigma that’s been created. 


MB: How are you healing from your experience of cannabis criminalization?

 

JG: In stressful situations, I can always just think, “Well, at least I’m free” you know? It helps make everything else feel like not as big of a deal as it may be for other people. It's become my way of dealing with adversity.

Roots of Resilience: African American Contributions to the Cannabis Movement

By Stephanie Shepard • February 20, 2025
Roots of Resilience: African American Contributions to the Cannabis Movement Cannabis has deep historical roots, stretching back thousands of years across various cultures, including Africa, where it was used for medicinal and spiritual purposes. In pre-20th century America, hemp was cultivated primarily for fiber, but there is evidence of its use within some African American communities as well. These early connections laid a foundation for a complex relationship between African Americans and cannabis, one shaped by cultural significance, criminalization, activism, and entrepreneurship. This journey reveals a narrative of resilience and influence, showcasing the integral role African Americans have played in the evolution of cannabis culture and policy in the United States. The 1930s marked a pivotal shift with the enactment of the “Marihuana Tax Act” of 1937, which effectively criminalized cannabis. This legislation was rooted in racial undertones, strategically associating cannabis use with marginalized communities, particularly African Americans and Mexican immigrants. This racialized narrative was fueled by propaganda that painted cannabis users as violent and dangerous, reinforcing stereotypes that justified harsh legal consequences. The demonization of cannabis laid the groundwork for decades of systemic discrimination and criminalization that would disproportionately impact African American communities. Despite these challenges, African American cultural icons began to reshape the narrative around cannabis during the early 20th century. Louis Armstrong, an iconic jazz musician, openly discussed his cannabis use in interviews. His candor helped normalize its use within African American culture, particularly within the jazz scene, where cannabis became associated with creativity and artistic expression. Armstrong's influence extended beyond his music; he challenged societal norms by embracing cannabis as a tool for relaxation and inspiration, subtly defying the negative stereotypes perpetuated by mainstream society. His legacy continues to inspire artists who view cannabis as an integral part of creative expression and cultural identity. During the 1960s, amid the Civil Rights Movement, cannabis use emerged as a form of counterculture expression among Black Americans in urban areas. The plant became a symbol of resistance and freedom, aligning with the broader struggle against racial oppression. Yet, this association with rebellion also made cannabis a target of political agendas. In the 1970s, the Nixon Administration launched the “War on Drugs,” a policy initiative that disproportionately targeted Black communities. The criminalization of cannabis escalated, leading to skyrocketing arrest rates and significant incarceration disparities. Nixon's advisor, John Ehrlichman, later admitted that the policy aimed to disrupt Black communities and antiwar activists, revealing the racially motivated underpinnings of the drug war. The impact of the War on Drugs intensified during the 1980s under the Reagan Administration, which implemented even harsher drug laws, including mandatory minimum sentences for cannabis offenses. This era further stigmatized cannabis, exacerbating mass incarceration rates among African Americans. The resulting social and economic consequences devastated countless Black families and communities. However, even amid this adversity, resilience emerged. As the criminal justice system disproportionately targeted Black Americans, leaders and activists within these communities began organizing and advocating for change. By the 1990s, discussions around drug reform started gaining momentum, and African American activists played crucial roles in these conversations. They highlighted the racial disparities in drug enforcement and advocated for decriminalization and legalization of cannabis. This period marked the beginning of a shift in public perception, as activists linked cannabis reform to broader social justice issues. This became especially common in rap and hip-hop where many Black artists are advocates still today. In the early 2000s, the push for medical cannabis legalization gained traction in several states. African American activists were instrumental in these movements, advocating for patient rights and access to cannabis as medicine. By the following decade, significant progress was made as more states legalized cannabis for recreational use. This new landscape allowed Black Americans to participate in the industry as advocates and entrepreneurs. Yet, systemic barriers persisted, preventing equitable access to business opportunities. Wanda James emerged as a trailblazer during this time, becoming the first African American woman to own a dispensary in Colorado. Her business, Simply Pure, symbolizes resistance against the racial discrimination historically tied to cannabis prohibition. Wanda’s advocacy extends beyond entrepreneurship—she works tirelessly to influence cannabis legislation and ensure communities affected by criminalization benefit from legalization. Her leadership challenges the status quo and paves the way for a more inclusive industry. Meanwhile, Calvin Johnson, a former NFL superstar, co-founded Primitiv cannabis to highlight the therapeutic benefits of cannabis as a safer alternative to opioids commonly used by athletes. His advocacy challenges the stigma surrounding cannabis use in professional sports and emphasizes the need for reparative justice in communities disproportionately affected by past drug policies. Now in the present, the 2020s represent a pivotal moment in the cannabis movement, as legalization continues to expand and discussions about equity and justice gain momentum. States have implemented measures to address the injustices faced by Black Americans during the War on Drugs, including expungement of records and support for minority-owned cannabis businesses. Donte West is at the forefront of this movement, leveraging his experiences with cannabis criminalization to advocate for equity and systemic change. Through his work with the Last Prisoner Project, Donte inspires others to participate in the cannabis industry and advocate for justice. We have seen a surge of African American entrepreneurs who are redefining the cannabis industry. Jesce Horton, the founder of Lowd and Grand National, is committed to creating opportunities for historically excluded communities while influencing cannabis legislation to promote equitable access. Roger “Ganja Guru” Sterling uses his platform to uplift communities of color and challenge societal narratives around cannabis, while Gibran Washington, CEO of Ethos Cannabis, advocates for inclusivity and justice within the legal cannabis market. Their leadership reflects a new chapter of empowerment and success, breaking down barriers and ensuring diverse voices shape the industry's future, though there is plenty of work still needed to balance the scales of cannabis ownership. Organizations like The Hood Incubator and Free My Weedman are also crucial in paving the way for a more inclusive cannabis space. By supporting Black and Brown entrepreneurs, advocating for equitable policies, and raising awareness about unjust incarcerations, these initiatives work to rectify historical injustices and promote social equity. Kristal Bush, founder of Free My Weedman, combines her entrepreneurial spirit with community advocacy, influencing cannabis policies and empowering marginalized communities. As we honor the contributions of Black individuals and organizations during Black History Month, it is essential to recognize the ongoing struggle of those disproportionately criminalized for daring to be involved with cannabis. From Louis Armstrong’s cultural influence to modern-day entrepreneurs and activists, African Americans have shaped the cannabis movement at every turn. Their resilience and leadership challenge systemic injustice, demand equity, and celebrate cultural identity, paving the way for a better industry for all. To continue supporting this legacy, we can engage in conversations about equity, support Black-owned cannabis businesses, and advocate for policies that promote justice. By acknowledging the past and celebrating the strides of the present, we can build a future that honors the roots of resilience within the cannabis movement.

What President Trump's Private Prison and Death Penalty Executive Orders Tell Us About Criminal Justice Reform to Come

By Adrian Rocha • February 7, 2025
o weeks into President Trump’s second term, cannabis has not surfaced as a leading issue in the early days of his new administration. However, several appointments and two executive orders signed during the first week of his second term will factor into the new administration’s drug and criminal justice policy approach. On his first day in office, President Trump signed an Executive Order (EO) rescinding a slew of EOs signed by former President Biden, including one effectively ending the use of private prisons to house federal prisoners . At the time President Biden signed the EO directing the Justice Department not to renew contracts with private prison firms, it was estimated that around 14,000 individuals incarcerated at the federal level were being held at private prisons. Additionally, President Trump signed another EO encouraging the Attorney General to “pursue the death penalty for all crimes of a severity demanding its use.” During his first term, President Trump voiced his support for seeking the death penalty for drug traffickers. This position was later formalized in a memo by then-Attorney General Jeff Sessions that encouraged federal prosecutors to seek the death penalty in cases involving large-scale drug traffickers. There were concerns at the time that the memo could be used to seek the death penalty for individuals involved in large-scale, state-legal cannabis operations; however, these fears never came to pass. The uncertainty around leadership further complicates the implementation and impact of these two executive orders. President Trump’s Attorney General nominee, Pam Bondi, who will oversee the Justice Department, was confirmed earlier this week. Additionally, the recent resignation of the Director of the Bureau of Prisons (BOP) has left the agency without a leader. During her confirmation hearing, Bonid reiterated her support for the continued implementation of the First Step Act, which could lead to additional releases from the BOP. In a letter to the newly minted Department of Government Efficiency, Senator Elizabeth Warren (D-MA) also encouraged the federal government to look at scaling back the enforcement of federal cannabis laws, broader legalization, and the BOP to pursue compassionate release at greater scale to reduce the size and cost of the federal prison population. In her letter, Senator Warren cites a potential cost savings of $881 million if the BOP were to more zealous seek the release of individuals over age 65, are classified as presenting a minimum or low risk of recidivism, and are found not to be a danger to the safety of any person or the community. LPP has successfully advocated for the release of constituents incarcerated for cannabis via commutations and compassionate release motions, including nine in the first Trump administration. If the goal of a second Trump administration is to divert resources away from government largesse, ending unnecessary cannabis enforcement and granting clemency to those still incarcerated for cannabis is a great way to start.

Maryland Must Build on Record Relief Progress with the Expungement Reform Act (SB 432)

By Adrian Rocha • February 4, 2025
At the Last Prisoner Project (LPP), we know that those burdened by past cannabis convictions deserve true justice by getting their criminal records fully expunged and allowing individuals to move forward without the lifelong barriers. In Maryland, where Governor Wes Moore made history last year by issuing the nation’s most sweeping cannabis pardon order, we are now calling on lawmakers to take the next step: passing SB 432, the Expungement Reform Act of 2025 . A criminal record—whether for a conviction or even just an arrest—can create lasting obstacles to employment, housing, education, and other opportunities. The impact is not just personal; according to research from the Center for Economic and Policy Research, the U.S. economy loses between $78 and $87 billion annually due to employment barriers faced by people with criminal records. These collateral consequences compound the injustices of the War on Drugs and disproportionately affect communities already marginalized by systemic inequities. SB 432 seeks to simplify the expungement process, removing unnecessary bureaucratic hurdles and making it easier for individuals to clear their records. The bill will help thousands of Marylanders—many of whom have already served their sentences—access new opportunities and contribute fully to their communities. In 2024, Governor Wes Moore demonstrated bold leadership by granting pardons to over 175,000 Marylanders with low-level cannabis convictions. This was a critical step toward undoing decades of harm caused by cannabis prohibition. However, the reality is that while a pardon provides some relief, it does not automatically erase a record. Individuals must still navigate complex legal procedures to have their records expunged—a process that can be costly, time-consuming, and confusing. LPP urges the Maryland General Assembly to amend SB 432 to ensure that individuals granted full and unconditional pardons can have their records expunged automatically. Without this critical update, many of those pardoned under Governor Moore’s order will still face barriers to jobs, housing, and other essential services, despite having been officially forgiven by the state. Adrian Rocha, LPP's Policy Director, was recently appointed to the governor's roundtable on expungement, where we hope to provide further expertise on how to fully effectuate cannabis justice through retroactive relief. Research shows that record clearance not only benefits individuals but also strengthens communities. A recent study found that five years after receiving expungement, individuals were less likely to engage in criminal conduct than members of the general public. By increasing access to jobs, housing, and educational opportunities, expungement promotes community reintegration and stability—key factors in public safety. Moreover, Maryland has the opportunity to join 12 other states that have implemented state-initiated expungement for certain offenses, recognizing that individuals should not be required to navigate complex legal systems to obtain relief they are already entitled to. Maryland has already taken significant steps toward cannabis justice, but the job is not done. Passing SB 432 and ensuring automatic expungement for those granted clemency will solidify the state’s commitment to meaningful criminal justice reform. LPP urges the General Assembly to pass SB 432 and amend it to ensure that those who have received full pardons under Governor Moore’s order do not have to wait or fight for the relief they were promised. This is about more than policy—it’s about restoring dignity, removing barriers, and allowing Marylanders to build better futures. The time for action is now. Maryland’s commitment to justice through record relief must extend beyond pardons. Let’s finish what we started. Read our full testimony below:
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