It’s 2:30 p.m. and Walters and I are sitting in a cab as it pulls out of the Aphria compound. (We signed out, of course). During the 40-minute drive to Windsor International Airport, Walters debriefs: the place was impressive, the location is perfect, they’ve got a good team, the call centre could use some work.
We’re running late, but Walters stays calm, showing me photos on his phone and sharing stories as we cruise along rural roads lined with more greenhouses. When we finally arrive at the airport, no more than a half-hour before his plane is scheduled to lift off, he promptly bolts out of the taxi and slings his messenger bag—in it, two containers of weed, a grinder, some files and a water bottle—over his shoulder.
He checks in, throws the bag into an X-ray machine and walks through a metal detector. On the other side, a security guard asks him the dreaded question: “Sir, is this your bag?” The guard opens its flap, unceremoniously confiscates Walters’s water bottle, and sends him on his way.
