How Much Dose a Fair Trial Cost?

By Brice Knight

This isn’t easy to share, but I think people should know what it’s actually like when you get pulled into the system — especially when you’ve done your best to follow the rules.

On March 27, 2025, I was working for HAZY DAZE TX LLC, a registered retail business in Galveston, Texas. My role was strictly creative and technical—I handled marketing, social media, graphics, and digital content for the company and a few nearby businesses. That afternoon, I was at the Strand Street location, seated at my makeshift workstation made from two wooden TV tray tables and the cardboard box my monitor came in. My elderly dog was resting quietly beside me. Without warning, a group of officers entered the building with rifles drawn. One of them casually said “search warrant” as he walked into my office, and another stepped in and took the phone from my hand. Little did I know, that would be my last day working there.

I was never told I was under arrest. I was unarmed, cooperative, and clearly engaged in work-related activities.

Officers asked if I had a leash for my dog, which I pointed out. They leashed her and handcuffed me at the front—accommodating my ability to hold onto her. I, along with the other employees, was escorted to the front of the store. Multiple officers were present, along with individuals identified as District Attorneys by their jackets and other suited officials.

I was placed inside a black SUV for questioning. I answered all inquiries truthfully, described my job duties, and affirmed that I had no knowledge of illegal activities at Hazy Daze. I voluntarily disclosed a legally owned Ruger LCP handgun secured in my backpack—a precaution I had taken for personal safety. I previously held a concealed carry license, which I allowed to expire after Texas passed constitutional carry legislation.

After the interview, I was told I was free to leave. However, my personal belongings—keys, phone, and wallet—were still inside the premises. I crossed the street to check on my dog, who was at C-Level Surf & Resort Wear, our neighbor’s store, where I had asked the manager to watch her while everything was unfolding. After about 45 minutes of uncertainty—and hearing a news story about the raid as it was happening (which felt suspicious)—I approached an officer to ask for my keys. Instead of helping, they handcuffed me again, took my dog back across the street, and transported me to Galveston County Jail, where I was charged with Unlawful Carrying of a Weapon (UCW).

At no point during the initial detainment or transport was I read my Miranda rights. I had always understood that being read your rights signals a formal arrest, but in this case, I didn’t hear them until I was being booked at Galveston County Jail. That added to the confusion, since I thought I had simply been detained for questioning.

I maintain that this charge is questionable under Texas’s constitutional carry protections. I was cooperative, the gun was stored in a bag, and I disclosed it voluntarily.

I was booked and placed in a crowded holding pod until I was bonded out by Mike Mejia, the owner of Hazy Daze. I later learned he bonded out all the employees and eventually turned himself in. Upon my release, I was told my wallet and belt had been misplaced. I had to cancel all my bank cards and order replacements. Though the wallet and belt were eventually returned, law enforcement still has several of my personal devices: three iPhones and a MacBook Air, all of which I can verify ownership of with purchase receipts. These include my main phone, a backup phone, and a third phone my employer gave me to use as a livestream relay camera.

Later, I shared a public statement about the arrest—how I had cooperated fully, how my personal property had been mishandled, and how I’d been charged for a legally owned firearm I voluntarily disclosed. When I arrived at the jail, I still had my wallet and belt with me. While I waited during intake, an officer brought my phone—taken from me at HAZY DAZE—to the jail in a separate trip, supposedly to be added to my personal property. That was the last time I ever saw it. The next day, I received a call saying the jail had “found” my wallet and belt about an hour after I’d been released. I returned to pick them up.

The post I made gained some attention. Shortly afterward—and without any formal explanation—the UCW charge quietly disappeared from the system. But before I took down the post, a second arrest occurred.

On the night of April 9, masked officers arrived at my apartment around 11:30 PM. Reviewing footage from my security cameras, I later saw officers hiding in the bushes, pointing handguns into my apartment. One masked man pointed to the word “Sheriff” on his chest and said, “You know who we are.” At the time, I wasn’t sure what was happening. I asked if we could talk, but he replied, “We’re not going to give you a chance to do anything.” When he added, “We’re done talking,” I said, “Fine, hold on—I’ll come out. Don’t break my door.” From the time they parked to when I was in their vehicle, the entire encounter lasted less than seven minutes.

I was taken to what looked like an interrogation facility in League City. No one questioned me right away. After I sat down, I asked, “So why am I here?” One of them answered: “Engaging in Organized Criminal Activity.” I remember saying, “Whoa,” because it made no sense to me. Then they handed me a printed copy of the Miranda rights and had me read them out loud. When I got to the part about the right to an attorney, I said, “That sounds like a good idea — I’d like a lawyer.” They told me I had “terminated the interview,” which struck me as odd—I didn’t think asking for a lawyer meant ending the conversation entirely. I assumed it meant someone would bring me one, and we’d talk with them present. But that was it. I was then transported to Galveston County Jail and held overnight in the general holding area—this time not in a pod like before. Bond was set at $150,000. The whole thing felt surreal and way out of proportion, considering my role at Hazy Daze was limited to marketing, promotions, and digital content.

It was only after facing this first-degree felony that I removed my original post—not just because lawyers advised me to stay quiet, but because the situation had taken a terrifying turn. The timeline speaks for itself: I spoke up, the original charge vanished, and the next charge was much more serious.

To make matters worse, I was denied a truly free court-appointed attorney. I’m told by the court coordinator and my bail bondsman that I need to contact private attorneys for retainer quotes in order to qualify for a court-appointed lawyer. I reach out to 14 firms, already knowing I’m broke and drained of resources—I’m only doing this because it’s required to get help. The lowest retainer I find is $3,500 just to start—completely out of reach for me. Still, the judge says I don’t qualify for a free court-appointed attorney because I have $1,300 in savings. I’m assigned a lawyer “in the interest of justice,” but I’m expected to reimburse the court. It doesn’t feel like help—it feels like a penalty for being poor and being associated with Hazy Daze. I’m new to all of this, trying to follow instructions, trying to do what’s right—and somehow that’s counted against me.

While I was working at HAZY DAZE, I asked for a raise and was told it wouldn’t happen until the adult novelties website started making money—which it never did. I was living paycheck to paycheck, draining my savings, and trying to find a better job. After the raid, my now-former boss suggested I apply for unemployment. I did, and I’ve received a few weeks of payments—but they’re about half of what I used to earn. Losing my income so suddenly made it impossible to keep up with rent. After what happened during the second arrest, I didn’t feel safe in my apartment. My dad offered to help, and I’ve been staying at his place ever since.

Ironically, the state’s unemployment system recognizes my financial need and offers assistance. The court system, looking at the same facts, says I don’t qualify for a lawyer. That contradiction isn’t just frustrating—it feels like a failure of justice.

The local newspaper (The Daily News) ran an article titled “Hazy Daze employees clearly knew their wares, police say,” painting all employees as knowingly selling illegal drugs. I was lumped in with people I never met, activities I never witnessed, and claims I had no connection to. I wasn’t interviewed, contacted, or given a chance to explain my side. That kind of reporting makes it even harder for people like me to be seen as human beings caught in a complicated situation.

Let me be clear: I’m not asking for sympathy. I’m asking for fairness. They say justice is for everyone, but I was told I didn’t qualify for a free lawyer because I had $1,300 in savings—not even enough to hire the cheapest attorney I could find. So what does justice cost now? Because I’m afraid I can’t afford it.

I’m sharing this now because the public has a right to understand how the system operates—not just in theory, but in practice. I haven’t been convicted of anything, the way I’ve been processed and sidelined feels less like justice and more like a system designed to manage people, not serve them. What I’ve experienced is not accountability—it’s automation, where appearances matter more than facts, and access to defense depends on your bank balance.

—Brice Knight