Inside a nerve-rattling trip to pay pot taxes
In the absence of a bank, Kiloh has become his own.
Twist and turn through a warren of rooms inside his shop, go through a door with a keypad lock, and you will come to a closet-like space that contains twin steel vaults, standing head-high. The walls around them are reinforced with steel.
Overhead, more than 50 cameras scan his offices and hallways and keep watch outside the building as well. An armed guard stands at the door to the sales floor. On a typical day, $15,000 can change hands in his dispensary, where a steady stream of customers pick from shelves stocked with 700 products, from fragrant buds and perfectly rolled joints to cannabisinfused lip balm and potent concentrates known as “shatter” that look like thin sheets of amber glass.
For Kiloh, the cash is a daily hassle. It needs to be counted repeatedly to safeguard against loss. State and local taxes must be set aside and stored, sometimes for a month or more. When vendors show up, they get paid in cash, too.
“When now everyone makes payments through their cellphone, it’s tough to see that I’m left to the archaic version of counting money,” he said.
With all the cash on hand — he grossed $4 million last year — crime is a gnawing fear. His dispensary on a bustling commercial strip has been robbed twice — once by thieves breaking in through the roof.
Last year, though, a dispensary owner shot and wounded two armed men during a holdup in the Los Angeles suburbs. And a security guard at a dispensary was killed in an attempted robbery in Aurora, Colorado, another one of the nine states to legalize recreational pot.
To keep criminals guessing, Kiloh avoids arriving at the same time each day and staggers the times he leaves. He goes in and out different doors.
Once a month, Kiloh telephones to make arrangements to drop off his tax payment at the city Finance Department, which gets 6 per cent of his gross revenue. They want to know he’s coming — it’s dangerous for them, too. The agency has seen bags of cash from pot businesses as large as $300,000 come through the door.
His journey to the tax office starts at a windowless back room at his shop, where stacks of $20 bills flip through the counting machine at his desk with the whir-slap-whir-slap of a weed-whacker.
He and his staff then wrap the bills into neat $2,000 bundles and wedge them into a long cardboard box, which is then covered in plain paper and stuffed into a shoulder bag that goes into the trunk.
From the moment he pulls out of his parking lot, he is watching, assessing.
“I find myself looking in my rear-view mirror hundreds of more times than I usually would in just normal traffic, making sure that I’m not being followed,” Kiloh said.
It was on Kiloh’s drive to City Hall in late June that he noticed the ominous-looking Chevy. He watched it intently, taking note of the man behind the wheel — glasses, mid-40s to 50s — as he leaned into the accelerator.
Eventually, the Chevy disappeared, but Kiloh wasn’t home free yet.
Exiting the freeway, he tried to enter a parking lot near City Hall but was turned away, forcing him farther down the block.
Once inside a garage, he looped around until he found a spot near a stairwell. Lifting his satchel from his trunk, he scurried toward the door.
“I try to not stay in confined places like an elevator, so I’d rather take the standard stairs, plus the standard stairs have video cameras,” he said.
The steps opened to a sun-soaked plaza teeming with people. With the cash over his shoulder, he made his way briskly toward City Hall, his head swiveling.
Kiloh spotted a police officer walking across the plaza — an instant source of comfort.
Finally at the granite-faced tower, Kiloh darted up the steps and slipped behind a pair of glass-and-wood doors. He emerged about 20 minutes later, his tax bill paid, and drew in a slow, deep breath.
“You just feel the relief,” he said, “to know that I don’t have to look over my shoulder.”