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with Berner and Last Prisoner Project (LPP) in a relentless pursuit: the release of her father, incarcerated due to outdated cannabis-related laws.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.


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 .

75 Years for Cannabis: The Story of Julian Andrade

By Mary Bailey • May 4, 2026
75 Years for Cannabis: The Story of Julian Andrade Julian Andrade is 22 years old. He was born and raised in Fort Worth, Texas, and he has now spent three of those years inside a prison cell, serving a 75-year sentence for a nonviolent cannabis charge. He also received concurrent terms of 50 and 10 years. No one was hurt. No violence was involved. Just a young man from Fort Worth, still maturing, whose life was upended by a system that chose punishment over proportion. Julian is a father. His son was born while he was incarcerated, a milestone he could not share, a childhood he cannot witness in person. His aunt stands firmly by his side, advocating for him and helping make sure his story gets told. Together, they are determined that what happened to Julian will not stay silent. This is his story, in his own words. A Fast Life and Bigger Dreams Before his arrest, Julian was someone who poured his time into the people he loved. "Before incarceration, I would spend any and all time that I could with my family and loved ones," he says. Underneath that, he carried real ambition. His goals were not small. He wanted to open businesses and bring others along with him, to create something and share it. "The path I thought I was on at 19 was a fast life that I did not know how to get out of." It's a sentence worth sitting with. A teenager who wanted to build something, who wanted to lift people up, caught in circumstances he didn't yet have the tools to escape. That kind of nuance rarely makes it into a courtroom. Shock, Confusion, and a Quiet Resolve When the verdict came down, Julian didn't rage. He went quiet. "I was in shock, loss of words, hurt, but mainly confused. I didn't hurt anyone. It was only cannabis." The confusion is understandable. Cannabis is now legal or decriminalized in the majority of U.S. states. The substance at the center of Julian's case is sold openly in dispensaries across the country. And yet, in Texas, a 19-year-old received a sentence longer than most people's entire lives. Julian has refused to let that sentence hollow him out. Since coming to prison, he says he has grown closer to God and encourages others to do the same. He uses the time to mature and to become a better man, not just for the people waiting for him on the outside, but for himself. "Since receiving my time, my perspective has changed completely. I now use this time to mature, grow, and become a better man for my family, friends, and my release, but most importantly myself." A Father Behind Bars Julian's son came into the world while Julian was incarcerated. There was no hospital room, no first cry he could hear, no hand to hold. There is only the wondering. "I miss my son daily. It hurts me knowing I can't help or even watch him grow up. I'm always wondering what he is doing, what kind of kid he is, and what he likes. Hoping one day I can do the same things with him that my grandpa did with me." That last line carries everything. A grandfather's love, passed down through memory, now at risk of being cut off by a sentence for a plant. Julian's son is growing up without his father. Julian is getting older without being able to watch his child grow. "My child means the world to me." The Daily Weight Ask Julian what his hardest challenges are, and his answers are not about prison conditions or legal policy in the abstract. They are deeply personal. "The biggest challenge I face daily is missing home. Hoping I'm free before my grandpa or mom passes. Being able to still be in my child's younger years. And enjoying life in the free world while I'm still young." He is racing against time on every front, against grief, against his son's fleeting childhood, against his own youth passing inside a cell. And yet something keeps him going. "The world is changing. But mainly dreaming about the things I will do and the life I want to live upon my release." He means it literally, too. Julian says he looks forward to pumping gas, walking through a grocery store, and one day helping others who find themselves in situations like his. The smallest freedoms, the ones most people never think about, are the ones he dreams about most. What Julian Wants You to Know If Julian could speak to lawmakers, advocates, and everyday people, he would not ask for sympathy. He would ask for honesty. "I know what I did. I broke the law. But I don't think people like myself or others should be serving long sentences, especially for something nonviolent or accepted in more than half of America and other parts of the world. I was still a kid when I came to prison. I was still growing up and maturing, and still am today. I didn't hurt anyone, never did, and never will. I don't deserve all this time. I understand I and others have broken the law, but we should not be doing more than 5 years for a plant." His aunt echoes that call. She has stood by Julian since the beginning, advocating loudly and consistently, refusing to let the system's silence become the final word on her nephew's life. Her support is a reminder that behind every incarcerated person is a family fighting to bring them home. Julian hopes that one day he will be able to share his testimony from the outside, to stand in front of others who are struggling and tell them there is a way through. That vision is part of what keeps him moving forward. The Door to Clemency Is Almost Sealed Shut Julian would like to pursue a sentence commutation, but Texas makes that road extraordinarily difficult. And even the path to clemency is nearly out of reach. Texas requires a written recommendation from a majority of the current trial officials, the present prosecuting attorney, the judge, and the sheriff or chief of police of the arresting agency from the county and court of offense, conviction, and release, along with full compliance with the board rules governing commutation of sentence, just to be eligible to apply. The very system that locked Julian up is the same one he'd need permission from to get out. His aunt has stood by him every step of the way, fighting to make sure his story is heard. Now we're helping make sure it is. A System Out of Step Julian's case is a stark illustration of how dramatically cannabis sentencing diverges across state lines. In one state, a person can legally purchase the same substance that earned Julian 75 years in Texas. That disparity is not justice. It is geography. Julian did not commit a violent crime. He was a teenager from Fort Worth who made choices in a life he didn't yet know how to navigate. He is now 22, a man and a father, spending what should be some of the freest years of his life behind bars. The question is not whether Julian broke a law. The question is whether this punishment fits any honest definition of justice. We believe it does not. "I hope what happened to me and others like me stops happening." So do we, Julian. Julian Andrade is a constituent represented by the Last Prisoner Project. If his story moved you, please take action. Contact your representatives, support cannabis sentencing reform, and consider donating to Last Prisoner Project so that we can continue to fight for the freedom of cannabis prisoners like Julian.

The Story of Cannabis Prisoner, Yasquasia Delcarmen

By Mary Bailey • May 4, 2026
Yasquasia Delcarmen is 29 years old. She is a mother, a musician, and an aspiring screenwriter. She was building a life — pursuing a creative career, studying communications and journalism, and raising her infant son — when a federal sentence of 8 years, followed by 3 years of probation, brought everything to a halt. She has now served 16 months. No one was hurt. No violence was involved. Her charges were for cannabis — a plant medicine that brings quality of life to millions of people — now legal or decriminalized across most of the country, yet still capable of costing a young woman nearly a decade of her life and separating a mother from her child. Yasquasia is telling her story because she hopes it will make a difference. She hopes it will matter soon. This is her story, in her own words. A Creative Life, Cut Short Before her arrest, Yasquasia was in motion. She had been pursuing a career as a music artist for years — real opportunities, real momentum — and studying communications and journalism because writing had always been a passion. She describes herself as someone who had talent and possibility right in front of her, but who hadn't yet slowed down enough to fully embrace it. "I had a lot of opportunities to really make something of that. I feel like I just didn't slow down long enough to embrace the talents I had in front of me." She has not let go of those dreams. From inside, she has decided to pick up her writing again and pursue screenwriting. The artist is still very much alive. She is just working under very different circumstances. A Crashing Wave When the sentence came down, Yasquasia nearly collapsed. "Receiving a 96-month sentence hit me like a crashing wave. It was a lot. It devastated my family. A moment I'll never forget. I almost passed out, to be honest." She was remanded into custody the same day. No goodbye on her own terms. No transition. Just a courtroom and then a cell, and a son who was 11 months old waiting on the other side of a door she could no longer open. Sixteen months in, the weight of that sentence hasn't disappeared. But Yasquasia has found a way to carry it. She has realized how important it is to stay uplifted and productive, and she takes it one day at a time. Her perspective has shifted — not because the sentence feels any more just, but because she has chosen, deliberately, not to be hollowed out by it. A Mother Behind Bars If there is one thread that runs through everything Yasquasia shares, it is her son. He was 11 months old when she was taken into custody. He is now two. In the months between, she has missed his first steps, his first Christmas, and his first birthday. "It's tough. But it's important to stay uplifted — so I focus on the positives. He is well taken care of. I have an amazing support system. He's happy, healthy, and safe, and knowing that puts my heart at so much ease." She is clear about accountability. She does not excuse the choices that led her here. She has had to forgive herself — genuinely forgive herself — and make the daily decision to get up and become the best version of herself she can be, so that when she comes home, she can give her son everything he needs and more. "My son definitely means the world to me. I messed up putting myself in this situation to be away from him, but I've had to forgive myself and get up every day to work on being the best version of myself I can be so I can come home to him." Her son is growing up without her there. She is getting older without being able to watch him grow. That is the sentence within the sentence. Just Being Here When asked about her greatest daily challenges, Yasquasia's answer is simple and total: just being here. Being away from home, away from comfort, away from family, away from her own life. What keeps her going is faith and purpose. She describes keeping close to God and locking in on things that contribute to her growth as the fuel that keeps her hopeful. In a system designed to strip agency, she is carving out space for growth every single day. What Yasquasia Wants You to Know If Yasquasia could speak directly to lawmakers, judges, prosecutors, and advocates, she would not ask for pity. She would ask them to think harder about what punishment is actually supposed to accomplish. "It didn't take giving me 96 months for me to understand where I went wrong. Sitting here for years for my first legal mistake is not beneficial to me or my child." She takes full accountability. But she challenges the assumption that years of incarceration are necessary — or effective — to change someone's behavior. What people in the system sometimes need most, she says, is something that is in short supply: empathy. She also speaks to the mechanics of the federal system itself — the way cooperation with prosecutors can dramatically reduce a sentence, while refusing to cooperate means the full weight of the law comes down regardless of the underlying conduct. She finds that dynamic troubling and hard to reconcile with any straightforward idea of justice. "If my crime is bad and you want to punish me for it — unless I give you what you want — is it really that bad? A lot of stuff just doesn't make sense." And then there is the disparity she lives alongside every day: marijuana charges, in a federal facility, serving as much time or more than people convicted of trafficking cocaine or methamphetamine — and when she does get out, three more years of probation will follow. Cannabis is now legal or decriminalized in the majority of U.S. states. The substance at the center of Yasquasia's case is sold openly in dispensaries across the country. And yet, in the federal system, she is doing eight years for it, with years of supervised release still ahead. "I can only hope and pray that things change — and soon." A System Out of Step Yasquasia's case reflects a broader reality: federal cannabis sentencing has not kept pace with the dramatic shift in how this country views and treats marijuana. In one state, a person can walk into a store and legally purchase the same substance that cost Yasquasia eight years of her life and her son's earliest years without his mother. That is not justice. It is geography. Yasquasia did not commit a violent crime. She was a young mother and creative woman who made a mistake in circumstances she was still navigating. She is now 16 months into an 8-year sentence, with 3 years of probation to follow, watching her son grow up through a distance no family should have to endure. The question is not whether Yasquasia broke a law. The question is whether this punishment fits any honest definition of justice. We believe it does not. "I hope what I'm going through, and what others like me are going through, stops happening." Last Prisoner Project is working to match Yasquasia with a pro bono attorney to file her clemency petition. She is also enrolled in our letter-writing program — because no one fighting this hard should feel forgotten. Call To Action Please consider sending Yasquasia a letter of solidarity and to remind her she hasn’t been forgotten. You can write to her directly or send your letter through the Last Prisoner Project website, and we will print and mail it on your behalf. Write to her directly: Yasquasia Delcarmen # 09823-511 FPC Alderson GLEN RAY RD. BOX A ALDERSON, WV 24910 Or send a letter through our website : https://www.lastprisonerproject.org/letter-writing Let her know she has not been forgotten. Yasquasia's story is one of thousands. The Last Prisoner Project's pro bono attorney matching, clemency advocacy, and letter writing programs exist because of donors like you. These programs are the difference between someone like Yasquasia having a fighting chance at freedom — and being left behind. If her story moved you, please consider making a donation to Last Prisoner Project today at lastprisonerproject.org/individuals. Your support keeps these programs alive and ensures that no cannabis prisoner has to fight alone.