Many THC drinks have few or no calories; some include ostensibly healthy extras such as plant extracts. Makers boast that they do not cause hangovers. Some restaurants have even started to offer them, noticing a rise in “cocktail culture”. thc drinks come in a variety of strengths, so pay careful attention to the dosage: consuming 25mg rather than 2.5mg can lead to several deeply unpleasant hours. According to the Hemp Beverage Alliance, a trade group, in 2025 the number of distribution points more than doubled (from 133,500 to 306,000), as did the sales by volume (from about 700,000 case equivalents to 1.6m), from a year earlier. The Brightfield Group, a cannabis consultancy, predicts that revenue from THC drinks could exceed $4.4bn by the end of the decade, up from less than $200m in 2020. Total Wine, America’s biggest wine retailer, sells them in 22 states (there are 24 where cannabis is illegal). Their rise is owed partly to the morass of legislation governing American agriculture, known as the farm bill. Its most recent version lets farmers grow hemp with a THC content of no more than 0.3% by dry weight; anything stronger is classified as marijuana and remains illegal under federal law. But manufacturers can extract THC from large quantities of legal hemp and use it to make drinks containing intoxicating doses. Anti-cannabis lawmakers have noticed: last year Congress passed legislation that would limit THC to 0.4mg per container, in effect killing the hemp- drinks sector. But the Senate recently voted to briefly postpone the crackdown, and on August 10th a bipartisan bill was introduced that would exempt THC drinks from the restrictions and regulate them like alcohol. Its sponsors do not want to kill a golden, if slightly stoned, goose. This would open the federal government to charges of hypocrisy for approving one form of hemp while outlawing another. But it would also boost businesses and protect a steady stream of tax revenue. The industry is already high. Whether it becomes mighty—or goes up in smoke—will depend on lawmakers. ■ This article was downloaded by zlibrary from https://www.economist.com/culture/2026/08/27/americas-cannabis-drinks-market-is- booming-and-imperilled
Economic data, commodities and markets
Economic & financial indicators | Indicators Economic data, commodities and markets Aug 27th 2026
This article was downloaded by zlibrary from https://www.economist.com/economic-and-financial-indicators/2026/08/27/economic- data-commodities-and-markets
Frank Smith never managed to prove he was innocent The longest-serving prisoner in American history died on June 27th, aged
Aug 27th 2026 You could say it was not a bad place, 60 West. A nursing home for prisoners in Rocky Hill, Connecticut. Single-storey, red-brick, with lawns in front and the Stars and Stripes flying. A care home or a prison, what was the difference? Since he was an old guy, close to 100, hardly any. Corridors to shuffle round with his stick. A big window to stare out of, and a patio outside where he could sit and watch birds. When he was in Osborn prison decades before he used to stuff his baggy clothes with bread for them. Now he didn’t trouble.
In fact Frank Smith didn’t sit on his patio at all. His head was elsewhere. It was almost constantly in the courtroom and offices, mostly in his native Connecticut, where his case had been decided. At his trial in 1950, at 25, he had been convicted of first-degree murder. Four years later, in the pardons office, his sentence had been commuted. First-degree carried the death penalty, the electric chair. Second-degree meant imprisonment for life. In his case, as it turned out, that meant more than 70 years. People said this made him the longest-serving prisoner in American history. What very few considered was whether even that lesser penalty should have been imposed on him. The case concerned the killing of Grover Hart, night watchman at the Indian Harbor Yacht Club in Greenwich. Obviously a swank sort of place. In the very early morning of July 23rd 1949 two young men robbed it. The haul wasn’t much, mostly ties, tie-clips and the manager’s hat. But Hart disturbed them at it, so both of them shot him. He had just enough life left in him to tell police that one of the men was small and wore a bandanna round his face. The cops already knew him for that. And, true, he was very small. Now, after 70 years, he was almost a wisp. Incriminating evidence was then piled higher. He had form, from petty larceny to car theft, starting from the age of ten. Plus four years in state prison, just ended, for assault. The yacht-club swag was found in a stolen grey Cadillac he had recently been driving round. Also in the Cadillac was one of the murder weapons, a Colt automatic pistol, and a shirt with the name “Smith” on it. He had run away, and was found hiding in the woods in possession of a bottle of hair dye. He also gave a false name and alibi to the police. No surprise that they assumed he was the killer. George Lowden, a companion in crime, had certainly been at the yacht club too, but said it was Smith who fired the fatal shot. He himself just fired in the air. In return for co-operating, Lowden got second-degree and escaped the chair. He, “Smitty” to the Death Row guards, did not. Eight times his execution was scheduled, and the tray containing his final meal was set down in front of him. The last time this happened, in 1954 with only two hours to go, his head had already been shaved to take the electrodes. (He swore his crown was bald from that time onwards.) But the switch was never pulled. Instead, they reduced his sentence. By that time Lowden had changed his testimony,
and the officer who had first interrogated him told the Board of Pardons he was “positive” Smith hadn’t done it. Indeed, he doubted he was even at the scene. In 1953 a sometime prison acquaintance had emerged from an Alabama jail to say that he himself, along with Lowden, had killed Hart, and that Smith had earlier pulled out of the plan. That story was dismissed, but too many doubts now hung around the case. The upshot was that Frank Smith was no longer undeniably guilty. But no second trial had declared him innocent, as he insisted he was. This was what he spent the rest of his long life doing. He could think, and talk, of nothing else. A property agent called Aaron Cohen, an anti-death- penalty campaigner, had encouraged him to send letters and telegrams to stop his last execution. But that couldn’t be the end. He stole law books from the prison library and studied them to launch his appeals. He also wrote 259 longhand pages petitioning for habeas corpus, which contained a list of 221 instances when his rights had been violated. The US Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit threw it out. Most of the defence witnesses who had emerged were called not credible or worse. As the world grew dimmer to him, his legal battles stood out clearer than ever. He remembered every detail. And he never forgot the terror of the chair. After an execution the body was so hot that guards couldn’t touch it. It was cooked, from the brain down. Few people shared these thoughts with him. He kept to himself. His family —parents, two brothers, three sisters—who had come to his trial and for his last scheduled execution, gradually stopped visiting. For whatever reason. At one point he had no visitors for five years. If any came, he was gruff and rude. The exception was Annalisa Quinn of the Boston Globe, who wrote a profile of him in 2023 when everyone else had long forgotten him. He enjoyed her visits. She was pretty, even though she asked about too many things, like childhood and regrets, that he simply didn’t think about. Didn’t want to think about. Freedom was another thing. He did escape occasionally. In 1967, when he was in minimum-security and being a pretty good car mechanic, he stole a truck and got as far as Winthrop, Massachusetts. Twelve days on the open road. In 1975 he was granted parole, but within ten months he had been arrested for petty larceny and possession of a weapon. So he was back
inside. His original sentence included the possibility of parole and an assessment every few years, but after that unlucky spell he did not ask for it again. He told Ms Quinn it was baloney that he didn’t want it, but then seemed less sure. He had been allowed home for Christmas in 1974, but was back before the day was out. Prison was safe and routine. Freedom was difficult, and perhaps he had lost the habit of it. Perhaps he no longer envied the birds who, once filled with his dining-room bread, flew away again. ■ This article was downloaded by zlibrary from https://www.economist.com/obituary/2026/08/27/frank-smith-never-managed-to-prove- he-was-innocent
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