Shell from p 20 illustration of the primary concerns I have with the [state] rules as they currently stand,” Cool said. Also, the Social Partners contract lays out a hypothetical scenario if the license were sold. It says Piña’s son would receive his proportional share after the costs of the sale are paid. He would get $2.6 million in a $15 million sale, closer to 17 percent than the 51 percent he thought was his share. The implication from the two scenarios is clear: Take the buyout, or be left with nothing after the first year. New Times submitted a public records request for detailed application informa- tion on Piña’s son from the state in early January. The state has still not released the documents. In reply to New Times’ questions, Elliott, the DHS spokesperson, did not directly respond to a question asking whether the state was proactively review- ing the contracts given to applicants. Instead, he said the agency “investigates complaints alleging violations of regula- tions by a licensee” and would take enforcement action if necessary. But so far, he said, the state had not received any complaints. Jon Udell, political director of Arizona NORML and one of two primary cannabis attorneys with Rose Law Group, is listed on the contract as its author. Udell did not reply to multiple texts from New Times inquiring about his work on the contract or the identity of the investor. No company contacted for this story was willing to provide its own operating agreements. Devine, the Mohave founder, said that social equity applicants signed non-disclosure agreements, preventing the company from releasing specifics. The contract agreements, he said, were “in line with the intent of the program.” Still, even amid the sea of investor- backed applicants, there are some who embarked on the process alone. A Different Way In 1989, when Alexander Tam was 22, he was caught up in a marijuana drug bust. Undercover deputies with the Mari- copa County Sheriff’s Office had caught on Tom Carlson to some friends of Tam’s and began orches- trating a sale. It was, Tam recalls, “all talk.” He said no money or drugs were exchanged, which police reports confirm. Regardless, Tam was charged with felony drug possession for sale. He took a plea deal. “I didn’t know any better,” Tam, who is Asian and Latino, recalls now. “I was a kid.” The charge upended his life. His father owned a small restaurant in Scotts- dale, which Tam was poised to take over. After the conviction, his father sold it. Tam worked odd jobs over the years, in- stead — in trucking, in agriculture, in landscaping. With a felony on his record, entire career paths were suddenly closed off to him. “I still pay for it, to this day,” Tam said. Now, he is applying on his own for one of the state’s social equity licenses. He says he sees it as a chance for redemption. He had no financial backing — he charged the $4,000 fee to his credit card, he said, and prayed that the transaction wasn’t declined. He barely got his docu- ments together in time, submitting his application just minutes before the deadline. He had considered partnering with Jeffrey Nelson (left) with his cousins and partners Zach and Dillan Nelson. Nelson considered partnering with Copperstate but when he watched a training video on predatory investors “red flags started popping in my head.” well-funded investors but chose not to. What mattered to Tam was not the money that a marijuana dispensary promised. It was the ability to run it — to operate it, and use it to give back to his community. To create the legacy that a drug felony had denied him for decades. Tam said that he expected an investor to offer “a couple [of ] million bucks and a pat on the head. And that’s not a legacy. That’s a buyout.” Another social equity applicant, Jeffrey Nelson, said he had initially been courted by Copperstate Farms, after poking around to see if he qualified for the program. Nelson grew up in Maryvale and now lives in central Phoenix. Although he does not have a marijuana charge, his father did, qualifying him for the program. Initially, Nelson thought he would go forward with the partnership with Copperstate. But when he watched one of the state’s training videos on predatory investors and deals, he said, “red flags started popping in my head.” When he asked questions, he said, he was refused answers, “exactly” as the video had warned against. Nelson decided it was better to apply alone and partner with some of his cousins. “We’re going against big companies and we’re probably not going to get it,” Nelson said. “But I can’t live with the fact knowing that I could have applied and I didn’t.” For Tam, the suggestion that those who qualify as social equity applicants are in capable of going through the process alone is patronizing. “The big businesses are saying, we’re a necessary evil,” he said. “You need to use us because you don’t have the money, you don’t have the resources, you don’t have the know-how.” “I don’t believe that,” Tam said. Still, Labate, the pot industry’s hired gun, is skeptical. He said it would be diffi- cult for applicants to spearhead their own venture, even if they managed to make it through the application process without outside assistance. “Even a really intelligent, really experi- enced operator could absolutely be led to slaughter,” Labate said. “You’re going to have to go find money somewhere, sometime.” “If you’re truly qualified,” he said, “you don’t have the bandwidth to get your store up and operating.” The state’s income restrictions ensured this. A dispensary could bring in millions in revenue, he said — but it also has major upfront costs, in real estate, in legal fees. People like Nelson and Tam, Cool said, could pose the next legal challenge to the social equity program, if they decide to sue over companies diluting the application pool. Rodriguez said she and her colleagues at Acre 41 plan to lead further efforts to challenge the program. “Why should we expect anything more or less from a system that has been built by the people who benefit most from it?” Rodriguez said after the judge’s ruling dis- missing her original case. She was “disap- pointed,” she said, but vowed that she would “continue to fight for those who truly deserve and need social equity.” “We will be heard,” she said. 22 FEB 24TH– MARCH 2ND, 2022 PHOENIX NEW TIMES | MUSIC | CAFE | FILM | CULTURE | NIGHT+DAY | FEATURE | NEWS | OPINION | FEEDBACK | CONTENTS | phoenixnewtimes.com
