Cookies Dispensary Owner Alicia Deals Fights to Free Her Father Robert Deals, Serving 18-Year Sentence For Cannabis

Stephen Post • January 3, 2024

Learn more and take action to help #FREEROBERTDEALS here.


Alicia Deals is a trailblazer in Arizona's cannabis industry and a driving force behind the movement for business success and social justice reform. As a partner with Berner in Arizona's first Cookies dispensary, Alicia embodies the entrepreneurial spirit reshaping the cannabis landscape. However, her journey is not solely defined by business accomplishments; it intertwines with a profound personal mission.


Alicia stands at the forefront of advocacy, collaborating with Berner and Last Prisoner Project (LPP) in a relentless pursuit: the release of her father, incarcerated due to outdated cannabis-related laws. Her dedication extends beyond entrepreneurship; it embodies a strong belief in correcting injustices and championing reform within an industry she passionately serves.


In this conversation, we discuss Alicia's dynamic role as an entrepreneur, advocate, and catalyst for change. Her partnership with Berner and LPP underscores her commitment to the larger societal impact of cannabis laws, striving to right the wrongs and pave a path toward justice.  Alicia shares her experiences, motivations, and the compelling intersections between entrepreneurship, advocacy, and family-driven activism in the area of cannabis reform.


Thank you, Alicia, for taking the time to speak with us and sharing your fascinating journey. Your advocacy for cannabis justice reform has been such an inspiration. Could you introduce yourself and share the personal story behind your passion to enact change within the cannabis justice space? 


My name is Alicia Deals. I'm from Phoenix, Arizona. I'm a cannabis entrepreneur and came into the industry in 2022 as a social equity license holder and winner.


How has your experience been since entering the legal cannabis space as the first Black woman to own an Arizona dispensary?


Like all things in life, it has its positive points, its setbacks, and drawbacks, but it has been a wonderful journey.


With the success of your Cookies location, the legal cannabis industry has been good to you and has been a blessing to you in so many ways. For anyone on the outside looking in, your story sounds like a dream. With such a wonderful journey, lets get into why we are speaking today. 


As it has been a blessing, it also has been my family's biggest burden. My father, Robert Deals, was given 18 years in prison for a cannabis charge. He's in the 12th year of that prison sentence. I have been advocating for him since day one through the grace of a turn of events in life, I've been using my growing voice to continue to advocate for him on a bigger platform. Cannabis, as I said, has been a burden and a blessing, and I'm duly set with a motive and intention to bridge the gap between those who have suffered and those who have benefited based on cannabis.


Can you tell us just a little bit about what happened with your dad?


He was here in Arizona in 2011, roughly a year or so before legalization came out, and it seemed to be a heavy push to incarcerate as many people as possible behind the plant, so he was "wrong place, wrong time”. Someone was trying to buy cannabis; someone turned out to be the police. So the police show up, and they charge him, the man sitting on the couch, with everything they charged the owner of the home with. He filed for malicious prosecution, and it snowballed. It got real-real, real quick, and it put us in the biggest battle of our lives with numerous attorneys. None of the charges were pled down. He had many mitigating factors. He's a tenure Air Force veteran, a husband of over 30 years, a father, a grandfather, a community advocate, and a leader in many ways, and they showed no grace or remorse in any way, shape, or form. They gave him multiple enhancements. Essentially, he tried to plead out. They gave him flat time. No back time. So, as it stands, he's done 12 years, but only 10 of those years count. They did not accredit him a single day in 22 months in the county. He fought the case for almost two years from the county, and they did not accredit him a single day. Many of the factors, even when I say them back, are just so unbelievable, so harsh. It's a complete injustice, but he never stopped fighting. I mean, to get that amount of time is devastating, and a lot of people give up. But through the grace of God, he never stopped fighting. We have made it back in court with some newly discovered evidence. He filed a post-conviction relief petition; we're waiting on the State's response. So, by the grace of God, we do believe this 12-round, heavyweight fight will end here. We are heavyweight champions, 12 rounds! So we're fighting, and I'm so grateful.


Something I think a lot of people get wrong is about who is in prison, why they're in prison, and what type of people go to prison. Even though you were still a very young woman when your dad was incarcerated, you were about 22, you were fortunate to have been able to spend your childhood with him. Can you share a little bit about Robert Deals as a man and as a father?


That is a very unfair stigmatization. We shouldn't say that everyone in jail is a bad person and that they belong there, and it's not to say everyone is innocent, but there are a lot of people doing a lot more time than they should do, especially based on cannabis. Robert Deals is a great man. He's been a wonderful father to me. He's been there for me from day one. I have one younger sister. We were the center of his life. He's always been a protector and a provider. He had some issues when my grandmother died. It just left him in a different place, but he continued to want to provide in any way that he could. I think that's what led to him being around certain people he should not have been, but still, they were buying cannabis. It doesn't justify him being there or what they were doing, but it was just cannabis.


Robert Joseph is a wonderful man. He's also a minister. He's been a licensed minister for over 20 years. He does Bible studies and youth mentoring while serving his time. He just recently sent me all of his certificates. We were preparing his clemency package, and it was just amazing to see all that he has achieved; he has about two hundred certificates. He's a good man with a good heart who would help anyone and deserves to be home.


You have three children, 10, 13, and 15. Have they been able to form a proper bond with their Grandfather with him being incarcerated for most, if not all, of their lives?


My son has never seen his Grandfather outside of a visitation room or an orange jumpsuit. My daughters were much too young to even recall. That's another sad part of it all: not having those memories. When people were asking me for pictures of my father, and of me with him, we don't have any pictures in the last decade. Arizona DOC does not have picture day, or when you go for a visit, we can't take pictures, so we literally have no pictures of him over the last decade. My children don't know him outside of a prison visitation room. People need to realize that's no way to serve society. I know some people don't agree with bringing children to prison visitations, but that is just another hard choice I had to make. I heard and saw an ad that said, "When you go to prison, everyone you love goes to prison." and it is literally as such, and that's how we've been living over the last decade.


That is such a great point. I try to stress often to people that it's not just the person incarcerated behind bars. The holidays are difficult for everyone. Just because you're home, it's still not the same because your loved one is incarcerated. When you look at the impact that your father, being incarcerated for all these years, has had on you, him, your family, your kids, what would you want people to know is the most harmful part about that?


It's a definite ripple effect. As you say, it affects us all, and in different ways, and from the head down. The most difficult part about it is the injustice of it all. Not everyone is innocent, he's not completely innocent, but the crime doesn't fit the time. It just does not fit. And in his case, where everyone else that was in the house is home…they've been home! All of his co-defendants have been home for 5+ years, and he's still there. It's that part when you know it's just not right, and it's time that you can never get back. You don't get back those holidays. You don't get back those anniversaries. It's the time, and we know our time on this earth is the most valuable thing, it truly is. People get up every day, trading 8 hours a day for whatever menial amount of money. It's time that matters, and we can never get it back.


Now that you are in the cannabis space, what does your dad think about it? 


It's more than irony, right? It is the most divine opportunity. How it came together for us is just an undeniable factor that we are here to bring change and awareness for all in this situation or in similar situations. When we were awarded the license, my dad was in the 11th year of his prison sentence, they chose us as Number 11. We founded Life Changers on 11/11/21, so those will be my forever lottery numbers.  This is a divine opportunity that we will bring to the forefront. I've come into the industry, and I just continue to be amazed. Not only was I the first woman of color to open a dispensary in Arizona, but the first to bring the large Cookies brand to Arizona. I didn't know at the time that the founder of Cookies, Berner, had a miraculous story of his own with the Number 1111 that tied to his mother. Everything in life runs full circle, and when things like that align and match, it just gives me the strength and the courage to continue going. I knew I was on the right path, doing the right thing, and it's only going to get better. He's gonna come home, and we're gonna help many, many others come home as well.


As a successful person in the cannabis space, who is still being negatively impacted by cannabis criminalization, what does cannabis reform look like to you? What would you see as the first step to righting the wrongs done by cannabis prohibition?


It's ironic that we are talking about a plant, but my answer is to get to the root of the issue. The demonization and criminalization of the plant in the first place, this is the issue. We have to start by decriminalizing the plant as a whole. There are still states where it's completely illegal, which is completely absurd. We're on the right track, and we're getting there, but it needs to move much faster and go straight to the root of the problem. Cannabis has been a Schedule One drug for far too long. It's absurd when half of the country is operating delivery services. Obviously, immediate release for those who are still incarcerated. As you said, your eyes have been opened going through this journey, it opened my eyes to how many people are truly suffering, and as you know, there are people with even worse stories than ours. Get to the root of it. Decriminalize, Decarcerate, and then start expunging records. Help those that are incarcerated and those that have obtained records from the plant and move forward with a true and positive approach to the plant. This is truly a medicinal plant, and the criminalization and demonization of it came from the supposed war on drugs. I feel a lot of it is rooted in targeting communities of color. Many of these extreme sentences, I feel are based on color. Someone can have 10 pounds and get probation, but I could be sitting on the couch when they were supposed to come with it, and you give me 18 years. It's the absurdity and hypocrisy of it all. The national average for manslaughter is only 10 years. Let's be fair across the board, and let's just be real and transparent about it. Cannabis has caused harm to no one. Right now, it may be a crime to have a joint in your pocket in a particular state, but who and what in the world are you harming? No one and nothing. It's crime equals capital. If they can demonize the plant and demonize you, the prison is a new plantation. The change must come from the top down. Decriminalization is the very, very first step, and it has to be done.


So what action do you want to see people take in terms of supporting your father in his release efforts? What can those who read your words and hear your story do to make their voices heard, to let those in power know that we don't want Robert Deals in jail for cannabis or anyone else for that matter?


We have a change.org petition. We also have a call to action campaign through you, Last Prisoner Project: #FREE ROBERT DEALS. We're calling for clemency. People can send a letter directly to the Governor's office by going to the LPP website Take Action page. And just saying his name. We have initiated Freedom Fridays. Unfortunately, especially as people of color, many of us know someone who is in jail, who is going to jail, who may have just come home from jail...support them. The littlest things matter, like you said, the holidays can be so depressing. Just a letter, even from someone you don't know, can help. That's why the LPP Holiday Letter-Writing drive is so important. It will take all of us caring about those incarcerated. If you know someone incarcerated, saying their name on Freedom Fridays is a push for change. We're also initiating Life Changers Law Firm, which will assist in the fight. First and foremost, we have to mount a strong defense to stop our people from going to prison in the unfortunate event. If they do end up there, support them and give them a bridge when they come home and it will bring true change. 


You are surely going to be on the right side of things when it is said and done. Your father, as well as the other tens of thousands of people incarcerated for cannabis, are blessed to have someone like yourself, Berner, and other people in the industry who care and are willing to continue to speak out until change happens. What would you like to impress upon our readers as the most important takeaway from this conversation? 


Not having your dad around for some of the most important times in your life, like the birth of your children, and the opening of your store, are milestone events that he unfortunately had to miss, and those are the things that people really need to understand this is a negative ripple effect on our communities and this country as a whole. Veterans Day was particularly hard this year. Too many veterans are punished for cannabis. No one who has served this country should be sitting in prison for cannabis.


Does that make you feel like, "No, those in power don't care about veterans”?


Very much so. Who Robert Deals was as a man was never even considered, or spoken of. The judge didn't even read his provided character letters at sentencing. My father even asked "Well, my God, judge, did you even read my character letters?" to which his reply was "Oh, no." before quickly thumbing through them. There was no care, no concern, no sympathy of any kind, no respect in any regard. Yes, he's a 10+ year Air Force veteran from Illinois. That's how we even came to the valley. He was stationed in Arizona, and my parents had me and my sister. He served his country, his community, and his family, he deserves to be home.

 

As thrilled as I am to see individuals walk out of those gates, one person at a time is not enough.  Of course,  when your father comes home, it will feel great, but it’s a drop in this big bucket, and that's why mass releases are crucial. 


It's unexplainable. It doesn't add up in any reference. It can't be justified on any day, and there's no way we should have to keep fighting this battle, but I believe we're coming to an end.



One last question from one Daddy's Girl to another... Do you believe your dad is proud of you? 


Yes, yes he is. Opening Cookies was not only a win, but a vindication. It was a way to send my dad the message that 'God had not forgotten us. God's not mad about cannabis, Dad, you don't deserve this. This is wrong, and we're going to fix it and help so many others in the process". You have to take some bitter with the sweet. My dad always says "We haven't just survived this...We've thrived in this!" He's elated about it all, and I know it gives him hope in and of itself, that he's coming home and knowing he's not a bad person, and he didn't deserve this. Our love as a family has grown so much stronger. When you don't have anybody but each other, those who really love you, are going to prison with you. Some had forgotten us, had mocked us, but now stand in awe.


Sixteen Years and Counting: The Story of Parker Coleman

By Stephanie Shepard • October 26, 2026
Parker Coleman should be thinking about what comes next. He should have been thinking about how he would celebrate his recent 41st birthday, spending time with his family, building a career, falling in love, making plans, and living the life that so many of us take for granted. Instead, Parker is still in prison. He has spent nearly his entire adult life behind bars, serving a 60-year federal sentence for a nonviolent cannabis conspiracy. He was in his early twenties when his life changed forever. Today, the plant at the center of his case is legal or decriminalized in much of the country, and a multibillion-dollar cannabis industry has grown around it. But Parker is still serving 60 years. And perhaps the hardest part is that every one of his codefendants has gone home. His codefendant, Corvain Cooper, received a pardon from President Trump in January 2021 after serving a life sentence. Another codefendant, Clyde "Monroe" Wilburn, spent 14 years as a fugitive before turning himself in. Within days, prosecutors moved to dismiss his indictment, and the same judge who sentenced Parker released Wilburn. Parker remains in prison. Still waiting. The Day Everything Changed Parker remembers the day his life changed with extraordinary clarity. He was at a car dealership picking up his car after repairs when federal agents came after him. "They jumped on the hood of my vehicle with guns," Parker recalled. "My mouth was busted from slamming against the steering wheel. I thought it was a robbery at first." When he tried to run, an ICE agent who had arrested him two weeks earlier on the same charges tripped him. The agent told him that if he made a phone call and cooperated, he would not have to go to prison. Parker refused. That decision, made in the back of a car behind a cafeteria off Independence Boulevard, would shape the next sixteen years of his life. A Family That Never Stopped Standing With Him For Parker, incarceration has never been something that affected only him. As his case moved forward, his codefendants began cooperating with prosecutors, including making statements about his younger sister and wearing a wire on his mother. At one point, Parker was faced with the possibility that his own mother could be indicted as prosecutors tried to pressure him into cooperating. He remembers telling her the news while he was being held at the Mecklenburg County Jail in Charlotte, North Carolina. Her response is something Parker has carried with him ever since. "Son, you know I love you to death," she told him. "Fight for your life. We're here with you. But what we will not support is you telling on others to get out of prison on account of my name. You choose to live a certain way. So you take what comes with that." It was one of the hardest conversations of his life. And it says a lot about the family Parker comes from. "I couldn't imagine the woman who birthed me sending me letters from prison to prison over ghost weed," he said. "That's just unfathomable." Sixteen Years of Moments He Can't Get Back The true cost of Parker's sentence is not measured in years alone. It is measured in birthdays. In family dinners missed. In relationships that never had the chance to grow. In watching the people you love get older through letters, phone calls, and photographs instead of being there beside them. Parker hasn't seen his parents in more than a decade because of their health issues. The last time he saw his niece, she was three years old. She turns thirteen next month. He has watched from behind prison walls as his parents moved through their forties and into their sixties. His grandmother, who he says wants nothing more than to see him have a child of his own, will turn 81 this year. And then there are the people he will never get back. Parker lost his Nana, an uncle, and an aunt while incarcerated. They were people who helped raise him while his father served overseas in the Marines. Those are the losses that don't show up on a sentencing document. When Parker was asked what prison has taken from him, his answer was simple: "Time and opportunity to be successful." He talked about the relationships he never had the chance to build: romantic relationships, business relationships, friendships. A life interrupted before it had a chance to fully begin. He Doesn't Call It Hope When asked how he has held onto hope after sixteen years in prison, Parker offered an answer that sounds surprising at first. "I hate hope," he said. "I don't hope for anything." For Parker, hope can feel like waiting for someone else to decide when your life gets to begin again. "Hope is cruel, basically pacifying an issue you know is not going to be okay," he explained. "In my reality, I know I'll be out soon. So I move with conviction toward that goal." That conviction has carried him through a level 7 maximum-security prison without allowing incarceration to define who he is. He has watched people around him lose themselves to the trauma of prison. "A lot of people, under my circumstances, have given up," he said. "They might be physically here, but they're gone mentally," Parker says he has fought to remain himself. "My mental strength hasn't allowed me to succumb to the trauma we see on an everyday basis. My morals and principles are still the same as before incarceration." A World That Changed Without Him Perhaps one of the most painful parts of Parker's story is the world he has watched change from inside his cell. The same cannabis plant that became the foundation of his sentence has become a legitimate business, a source of jobs, investment, and wealth. Companies built around cannabis are publicly traded. Entrepreneurs are building careers and businesses around an industry that did not exist in its current form when Parker was sentenced. He knows that world could have been his, too. "I probably would've been a part of one of those billion-dollar companies if I were free," Parker said. "I was doing my research thoroughly on government taxes and the parameters of the legal weed business before incarceration." Instead, he is still serving a 60-year sentence. And to people who legally purchase cannabis today, Parker has a message: "They could've been me at any given time, depending on their location in the United States." That is the part of Parker's story that is easy to miss when we talk about cannabis legalization only in terms of laws, markets, and tax revenue. There are people whose lives were permanently changed by the same prohibition that the country is now moving away from. Parker is one of them. What Parker Wants Us to Remember Parker has thought about what he would say to the judge who sentenced him. His words are not complicated. "All of us make mistakes. I haven't made 60 years' worth of mistakes." Then he asks a question that has stayed with him for years: "I could've been your son or grandson, and the chances you give your family, the amount of time you gave me, are a little close to none. So what did I do for you to throw away my life when violent offenders come in and out of prison every day, even for rape and senseless killings? What justifies my sentence?" It is a question about proportionality. But it is also a question about whether a person should be defined forever by the worst thing they have been convicted of. Parker does not believe his life should end where his sentence began. Parker Still Believes His Story Is Not Over After sixteen years, Parker could understandably believe that his story has already been written. He doesn't. He looks at what happened to his codefendants and sees evidence that change is possible. "I have full faith my story is by far not over," he said. When Parker comes home, his dreams are not extravagant. He wants to see his family. He wants the opportunity to build a life. He wants to be "the voice for people who can't speak for themselves." And he wants to take the support he has received from people who never stopped believing in him and pay it forward. "Freedom will mean everything to me," Parker said. "My whole existence is based on freedom, not a cage. I can't accomplish any of my dreams in a small bathroom known as a cell." After sixteen years, Parker is still waiting to find out what the rest of his life can look like. Parker's Story Is Not Over Parker's case is a reminder that the end of cannabis prohibition does not automatically mean freedom for the people who were imprisoned under it. His codefendants have been released or had their sentences changed. Parker remains behind bars, serving a 60-year sentence for a nonviolent cannabis offense. The world around him has changed dramatically. He has not. He is still a son. Still a grandson. Still an uncle. Still the person his family has loved all these years. Still someone with dreams for what his life could become. And still someone waiting for the opportunity to come home. Why This Work Matters Parker's story is why Last Prisoner Project exists. Our work is about people, not statistics. It is about knowing the names behind these sentences and refusing to let them disappear simply because the laws around cannabis have changed. It means working case by case to pursue clemency, commutations, compassionate release, and other pathways to freedom. It means supporting people and their families while they are incarcerated and helping people rebuild their lives when they come home. And it means continuing to tell these stories, not because Parker is a statistic, but because he is a person whose life is still unfolding. Every letter written, every petition filed, every law passed, every record cleared, and every person who stands with this work can move someone closer to freedom. Parker has spent sixteen years waiting. His story is far from over.  Help Last Prisoner Project free every last cannabis prisoner. Learn more and support the work at Last Prisoner Project .

"Nobody Should Be Locked Up for a Plant": Kelly Barbieri's Story of Loss, Resilience, and Reform

By Mary Bailey • August 20, 2026
For Kelly Barbieri, incarceration for a cannabis offense in Georgia cost her far more than her freedom. It cost her time she can never get back with her family, time she needed most when tragedy struck at home. Her story is one of grief, community, and an unshakable belief that no one should ever go through what she and her family endured. A Family Rooted in Tradition Kelly and her husband, Dan, have been married for more than 30 years and have raised two sons together, the younger of whom is autistic. Kelly describes their household as very traditional: the couple made sure a parent was always home, even when that meant working separate shifts and sacrificing time together. Kelly eventually left her teaching job to homeschool her younger son. Family life centered on simple pleasures: cooking, watching old movies, spending time outdoors, caring for their dogs, cats, and chickens, and tending a garden of food, flowers, and medicinal plants. Everyone in the family is a devoted Grateful Dead fan, a shared love of music that has long been part of their household. How It Began In March 2018, the family's Georgia home was raided after Kelly provided cannabis to a friend whose mother had cancer. Unbeknownst to Kelly, that friend had become a confidential informant to help resolve his own drug charges; he later died of a fentanyl overdose. The case didn't go to trial until late August 2023, more than five years later. Kelly and Dan were convicted of manufacturing and distributing marijuana and sentenced to 10 years, with three to serve. The judge issued a modification order recommending early parole so the couple could return home to care for their special-needs son, but the parole board set Kelly's tentative parole date for October 2026, just two months before her maximum release date. A Hard Beginning Kelly's incarceration started with Diagnostics, an intake process she describes as the hardest part of her time inside. "We ate cold food out of Styrofoam trays, were often in lockdown, and it was just a gross place," she recalls. It was the only period, she says, when she felt genuinely unsafe. But even that hardship paled in comparison to what came next. An Unimaginable Loss While incarcerated, Kelly learned that her eldest son was sick. His health declined rapidly, and he died a week later. She was powerless to help. "If I had been home, I could have made him go to the doctor or hospital," she says. "That feeling of helplessness and being powerless was horrible." The loss shook her faith. "I think what helped me get through it the most was the other women in there with me who had been through similar experiences and supported me," Kelly says. "I don't know that it was any kind of faith that helped. If anything, I lost some faith in a higher power during that time." What carried her forward was her remaining son, and her determination to stay strong for him. Kelly recently attended her son's memorial, an experience she calls healing. "Seeing how many people loved him and came to honor him warmed my heart," she says. She still grieves every day, but has found grounding in nature, family, and keeping her son's memory alive. "I know the only way to get through this is to feel it, and remember that grief is the price we pay for love," she reflects. "I believe he would want me to live, and not just exist and survive." The Power of Community Even from behind bars, Kelly felt the support of people she'd never met. Letters from strangers reminded her she wasn't alone. "It's so nice to hear your name called at mail call, and then just hearing the validation from others that what I was going through was so ridiculous," she says. She saved every letter. "It still makes me feel good to know that there is a large community of people out there who want to help those in a similar situation to ours, and it definitely gives me hope." Last Prisoner Project's Role Kelly remembers the exact day she learned Last Prisoner Project would sponsor her case, a day that had started with the loss of her beloved dog. "I was so depressed, but then my son told me that y'all had accepted us to sponsor, and it really brightened my day," she says. The financial support meant she no longer had to rely on her sons to put money on her books, and a grant to her son eased the family's financial strain. "LPP was truly a blessing," she says. "It's easy to feel lost and alone while incarcerated, and knowing y'all were there helped so much." Reflecting on LPP's broader work, Kelly is direct: "Some organizations just pay a lot of lip service to cannabis policy change, while LPP is actually doing something to help, and that is huge." Looking Ahead Now home and back at work, Kelly is rebuilding the life she and Dan always envisioned, one centered on family, gardening, cooking, and caring for their special-needs son, while carrying the memory of the son they lost every day. But she's also clear-eyed about the work still ahead. "My husband and I should have never been sentenced like we were in the first place, and then for the parole board to keep us in there for so long, even months after our son died, was just unnecessary," she says. "Nobody should be locked up for a plant, period. No victim, no crime." Her call to action is simple: full decriminalization of cannabis at the national level, so state reform can follow. "Nobody stopped using cannabis because we were locked up," she says. "So the whole incarceration thing is pointless."  Kelly Barbieri is a Last Prisoner Project constituent. Her story is shared with her permission as part of LPP's ongoing work to end the incarceration of individuals for cannabis-related offenses and support their successful reentry.

A Mother Still Behind Bars for Cannabis: The Story of Brandy Fisher

By Mary Bailey • May 18, 2026
A Mother Still Behind Bars for Cannabis: The Story of Brandy Fisher While legalization spreads across America, women like Brandy Fisher remain forgotten inside federal prison — serving out decade-long sentences for marijuana as the world outside changes without them. How It Began Brandy Fisher never imagined she would spend a decade in federal prison. Charged with distribution of 1,000 kilograms of marijuana, she became a target when family members and close friends she trusted were already working as federal informants — six of them. When agents approached her first and asked if she wanted to talk, she asked for a lawyer. That decision, the right one under any standard, did not protect her from what came next. “The 6 informants who were close family and whom I thought were best friends had turned federal agents,” Brandy recalls. She took a plea deal — ten years under Rule 11(c)(1)(C), a binding agreement that locks the sentence in place regardless of changes in law. And the law has changed dramatically. “Sitting back and watching the world change daily is amazing — how now the world can see that marijuana can be used to cure people of sicknesses.” — Brandy Fisher As state after state has legalized or decriminalized cannabis, and as federal reform conversations have grown louder, Brandy remains locked in. Her binding plea means no retroactive relief applies to her. She watches from inside, and she waits. While Brandy serves her sentence, her family carries the weight too. Her father has received a family support grant from the Last Prisoner Project to help offset the costs of caring for Brandy’s six-year-old son. And when Brandy is eventually released, she will be eligible for a Last Prisoner Project reentry grant — funding designed to help cannabis prisoners like her rebuild their lives from the ground up. Life at FCI Waseca Brandy first survived FCI Dublin — the California federal prison that became the subject of a federal investigation into widespread staff sexual abuse. She was transferred to FCI Waseca in Minnesota, which she describes as one of the worst women’s federal prisons in the country. The conditions she describes are a portrait of institutional neglect. The commissary is shut down for weeks at a time. The kitchen served her food with a live beetle on the tray — she no longer eats there. Women are denied body oils because, as Brandy recounts, the staff claim it draws unwanted attention from male officers. A captain reportedly declared that commissary soda was being removed because women there were overweight. Cleaning supplies — bleach, Ajax — are withheld, yet women are asked to clean bathrooms that handle used sanitary products, sometimes without gloves. An outbreak of H. pylori, a bacterial infection that can lead to stomach cancer if untreated, has affected a significant portion of the population. “They are trying to keep it on the low,” Brandy says. “We are run around by majority men officers — there are unpleasant comments made about women and their sexual body parts, comments about the way our clothes fit.” — Brandy Fisher The harassment, she says, is daily and institutional. The message from staff is clear: the needs and dignity of the women housed there are not a priority. Safety, Mental Health, and a Six-Year-Old Boy Brandy shares her room with three individuals convicted of serious child sex offenses carrying sentences of 25 or more years, as well as others convicted of drug offenses and one convicted of murder. The federal system houses people across these vastly different profiles together, and any refusal to comply with the arrangement risks placement in the Special Housing Unit — solitary confinement. For Brandy, the psychological weight is not abstract. She has a six-year-old son on the outside, being raised by his 80-year-old great-grandfather. Every night, she falls asleep thinking about child predators — the ones inside, and the ones who may be near her child. Mental health support at Waseca is, by her account, almost nonexistent. There is one mental health staff member. “I will not call her a doctor,” Brandy says, “because when she talks to you, she is angry herself and she doesn’t give good advice.” When Brandy first arrived at FCI Dublin, she was immediately stripped of all mental health medications she had been taking for four years. No taper. No transition. No plan. What Clemency Would Mean Brandy is currently pursuing clemency with legal support from the Last Prisoner Project. For her, release is not the end of the story — it is the beginning of one she has been carefully building in her mind, and on the page, for six years. She wants to return to real estate: flipping and staging homes, putting them back on the market. She is also planning a nonprofit bookstore dedicated to donating reading materials to federal prisons nationwide. Over the past year alone, she has read more than 200 books. It has changed her. “Reading gives me hope, and it makes my time fly by. I want to help feed the minds of others with learning materials, love stories, action-packed books — and let’s not forget the hood books that keep us all on edge.” — Brandy Fisher She points out that in six years, not a single author of the many book series her family has ordered for her has ever donated books to FCI Waseca or FCI Dublin. She intends to be the person who changes that. Brandy Fisher is not asking for pity. She is asking to be seen — and asking those with the power to grant clemency to consider what second chances are for, and who deserves them. Write to Brandy — Let Her Know She Hasn’t Been Forgotten One of the hardest parts of incarceration is feeling invisible. A letter from a stranger can be a lifeline. If Brandy’s story has moved you, take five minutes to write to her directly. Tell her you read her story. Tell her she matters. Tell her people on the outside are fighting for her. Brandy Fisher 47495-509 FCI Waseca P.O. Box 1731 Waseca, MN 56093 You also have the option to write your letter to Brandy on the Last Prisoner Project website, and we will print and mail it for you: https://www.lastprisonerproject.org/letter-writing Support the Last Prisoner Project Brandy’s family support grant, her legal advocacy, and her reentry grant when she is released — all of it is made possible by donors like you. Last Prisoner Project works every day to free cannabis prisoners, support their families while they are inside, and help them rebuild when they come home. To keep doing this work, we need your support. Donate here .