Rep. Jasmine Crockett of Texas, a rising figure in progressive Democratic circles, is now facing renewed scrutiny over her past — not for her positions in Congress, but for her quiet, behind-the-scenes involvement in the legal marijuana industry and her courtroom work as a defense attorney before she entered federal office.
According to documents obtained by the Washington Free Beacon, Crockett was listed as a 20% owner and Chief Operations Officer of Black Diamond Investments, an LLC that submitted a 148-page application in 2018 to operate medical marijuana dispensaries in Ohio. The filing named Crockett as the primary contact, responsible for day-to-day compliance, staffing, and security planning — suggesting a far more involved role than that of a passive investor.
At the same time that Crockett was positioning herself to enter the regulated cannabis business, she was actively defending clients charged with violent crimes tied to the drug trade. Most notably, Crockett appeared in a Bowie County courtroom in 2018 to argue for reduced bail on behalf of Tyvon Montrel Gullatt, who would later be convicted of murder in what prosecutors called a “drug deal gone bad.”
“This is a ‘drug deal gone bad,’ that’s what it is,” said Assistant District Attorney Kelley Crisp during a bond hearing covered by Texarkana Today. Crockett, as defense counsel, fought for lower bail for Gullatt — who was ultimately convicted in the shooting death of Carlos Clark and sentenced to life in prison.
The optics of this timeline are difficult to ignore. While attempting to break into the legal, highly regulated side of the marijuana industry, Crockett was simultaneously defending a man accused — and later convicted — of murder during an illegal marijuana-related confrontation.
One could argue that these are two distinct professional tracks: one as a defense attorney performing a constitutional duty, and one as a businesswoman entering a legal market. But politically, the juxtaposition raises uncomfortable questions.
Now a sitting member of Congress, Crockett has thrown her support behind cannabis reform efforts, including cosponsoring the MORE Act, which would decriminalize marijuana at the federal level and direct funds toward communities disproportionately impacted by drug enforcement.
On its face, the bill aligns with Crockett’s apparent evolution toward reform. But in light of her past — especially her role as both a potential cannabis entrepreneur and criminal defense attorney in drug-related homicide cases — critics are likely to view her stance as more calculated than principled.
As marijuana reform continues to gain ground nationally, politicians with prior ties to the industry or its legal implications are bound to come under the microscope. For Crockett, the concern isn’t just that she once tried to open a dispensary or that she once defended an accused killer. It’s the timing, the duality, and the secrecy that make the story more than just a footnote.
