27 Years in Prison for Cannabis: A Prisoner’s Perspective

July 5, 2026
By Edwin Rubis

This article was first shared in the Prisoners edition of Fat Nugs Magazine, published in Feburary 2025.

A Prisoner’s Perspective

September 1999, in Houston, Texas, I sat all alone. I was without shoes or underwear and dressed in a paper hospital gown. The walls of the jail cell felt claustrophobic. The cold and dampness went unnoticed.

All I could think about was the crying agony of my mother when the judge struck the gavel and said, “I hereby sentence you to 40 years”; the look on my wife Sara’s face, as if she was a statue, holding baby Austin in her arms, and our three-year-old son, Keanu, standing aside her, rubbing his eyes with both hands, utterly confused about the court proceedings.

For hours I had been pacing back and forth inside the cell, muttering deliriously “Forget about your family!” “You are going to die behind bars!” “You’re not getting out of this!”

Following the sentencing hearing, I told my court-appointed attorney standing next to me, “I am going to kill myself” in a low voice. Unfortunately, he alerted the U.S. Marshals and the Harris County deputies, and the result was immediate. I was placed in isolation under a prolonged suicide watch (the second time since my arrest on May 27, 1998).

Days later I’d acquiesce, relent, and agree to not harm myself. Then I was released back into the jail’s general population.

Paying the Price for Cannabis

Ever since the day of my arrest, and now conviction and sentence, I had tried to comprehend the federal charges for conspiracy to distribute marijuana. “No guns, no money, no drugs,” I had argued with my court-appointed attorney.

“The government can prove conspiracy through hearsay testimony from the snitches,” he had said right before we proceeded to trial, a little bit too late by then. More than a few snitches testified against me (including the leaders of the conspiracy) to obtain a reduced sentence for their misdeeds. On the other hand, my attorney failed to call any witnesses – not my family, not even me.

I spent a year and a half at the Harris County jail after my arrest. Then, I was transferred to a federal maximum-security prison in Beaumont, Texas. It had earned the name “Bloody Beaumont”. The violence was savage and often unexpected. No hand-to-hand fighting – arguments and disagreements were settled with homemade shanks. Gang members tried to keep a handle on the facility through prison politics. It worked some of the time. Mostly it ended with someone getting stabbed, often resulting in death. Then there were the money extortions. The rapes of the weak and vulnerable. The heroin overdoses. The torture of the inmates housed in the Special Housing Unit (“the hole”). And of course, the long-term lockdowns in our prison cells.

The Years Behind Bars Begin to Go By

I continued to suffer from depression and anxiety. I earned more than one disciplinary infraction for not following the rules, and for getting high on drugs. I couldn’t seem to adapt. I couldn’t face the grim reality that I was going to serve decades in prison. I began to trade my food trays for sleeping pills so I could sleep all day and night – ineffective ways to numb the pain of being away from my wife and sons and try to escape the hopelessness of my dismal situation. I didn’t cut my hair or shave or iron my prison greys. The other prisoners and gang members left me alone. They thought I was losing my mind. Even my cellmate just let me be.

Shortly thereafter I was diagnosed with a thyroid condition. They sent me out to the community hospital for surgery. When I was brought back to prison, I was denied medication for more than three weeks. I almost died.

Weeks and months came and went. Every day I woke up to the same prison reality: violence, tasteless and inedible food, missing my wife and children, indefinite lockdowns, and the constant psychological torture doled out by my captors. The reality was made worse by the fact that I had lost my visits and phone privileges for a year – due to disciplinary write-ups and incident reports. Penned letters to my children and wife became hard to write because of the way I was feeling; because of the demons of depression.

Finding Strength in Faith

Then one day I was reminded of the faith I once professed. The higher power I turned to after I was released from suicide watch in the county jail. A faith that wavered when I’d think of my sentence and the financial difficulties my wife was facing out in the streets.

But despite my wavering and doubting faith, it was faith that lifted me out of the pit of desperation and hopelessness. It was faith that delivered me from a depressive state of mind I wore like a dirty cloak threaded with doubt and despair. It was this same faith that comforted and carried me when my wife left me after five years of incarceration. I cried, no doubt. Not because she left, but because the system destroyed our marriage, and severed the relationship I had with my three sons; a broken relationship that continues today. I’ve never had the opportunity to meet the eldest of my sons in person. The youngest one, Austin, struggles with mental instability and roams the streets without any direction.

Year after year I have experienced loss, violence, psychological turmoil, and trauma. I’ve missed many of my sons’ birthdays and all their graduations. I’ve spent every holiday and waking moment in a place of solitude, darkness, and negativity. The punishment I received for a non-violent marijuana crime was constantly hanging over my head. I’ve asked for clemency, no doubt. But at this stage, it doesn’t really matter. Four presidents have denied me mercy. Bush, Obama, Trump, and now Biden have all said “We deny you reprieve.”

Now it’s 2025. I’ve been in prison for 27 years – and counting. Faith is the mechanism keeping me alive. Without it, I’d have taken my own life long ago. Others have done it. Hanging a sheet over the sprinkler rail, shooting up an overdose of heroin mixed with fentanyl, and slitting a wrist with a razor blade. Faith is what’s compelling me to not go out like a victim, to not allow this prison experience to define me for what it is worth.

Plus, it’s a little bit late to surrender. I’ve already carried the heaviest load. A few more summers and winters and I’ll be home. A few more years to the finish line and I’ll earn my crown for not giving up; for not breaking. For not accepting the words of the prosecutor when I refused to snitch, “I am going to bury you alive!”

Prosecutor, you did not win. You lost. Forty years have taught me resilience. Forty years has given me the freedom to choose how to respond to what happens to me at any given moment – even if that moment is about to reach 10,000 days in prison.

About the Author

Edwin Rubis is a non-violent cannabis prisoner serving 40 years in federal prison. He has been in prison since 1998. You can help Edwin obtain his freedom: tinyurl.com/FreeEdwinRubis

You can send Edwin a personal text message through corrlinks: (256) 770-4280

You can also support Edwin by buying his book “Unlocking Potential: Life Tips To Finding Your Greatness” on Amazon.