JOINT EFFORT

"Aging Hippies" Team With The Desperately Ill And One Lawmaker To Fight For
Medical Marijuana In Texas. Is That Just A Smoke Screen?

The winds are changing, and George McMahon can feel it in his bones.

His ashen face takes on a pained expression as he peers out the window of
his Lake Palestine home, watching the tops of the tall pines bend to the
bluster of an approaching rainstorm.

It's not as though he needs confirmation this February morning.

His body is a barometer of pain, a crippled marker of a lifetime of
missteps by a medical establishment that was trying to figure out what the
hell was wrong with him. "Today is a bad day because of the weather," he
says, his voice resounding with sandpaper huskiness. "I am having spasms on
my left side, and I am feeling a little nauseous." McMahon remains cheery
but grows uncomfortable in his chair, repositioning himself as he reaches
for his medicine. "Do you mind if I smoke?" he asks, hanging a rolled joint
between his lips and bringing a lighter to his face. He waits for the
go-ahead and then proceeds to inhale, but not the deep-in-your-lungs,
hold-it-till-your-eyes-bug toke of a recreational pot user. He draws in
short, shallow drags, more akin to a tobacco smoker.

To do otherwise might increase the risk of lung damage, particularly since
he smokes 10 joints a day. As the cloyingly sweet smell of marijuana
permeates his living room, McMahon can feel the pot's effects--a tingling
rush, a mild euphoria, though he doesn't turn giddy or profound or race to
the refrigerator, a victim of a compulsive case of the munchies. He also
has none of the paranoia of some long-term users, no fear that the feds are
going to bust down his door and cart him off to jail for simple possession.
That's because the United States government has been his supplier--his
dealer, as strange as it sounds--for the past 11 years. McMahon is one of
eight remaining patients in the federal government's "compassionate use"
program, which provides marijuana for medicinal purposes, free of charge.

The cannabis comes from the government's pot farm at the University of
Mississippi, which at one time supplied as many as 15 patients for ailments
ranging from glaucoma to multiple sclerosis to rare genetic disorders like
McMahon's. Some found it eased the nausea from chemotherapy, some used it
to enhance their appetite when wasting away from AIDS, and others
discovered it reduced muscular spasms or intractable pain. But the Bush
administration closed the program in 1992, fearful in part that AIDS
patients would overrun the program.

The government, however, was compassionate enough to continue to supply
those like McMahon who had already been approved.

On the table beside him sits a large tin can freshly packed with 300
cigarettes of the government's low-grade red Mexican sativa. Typed across
the can is his IND (investigational new drug) number and what essentially
amounts to prescription for his illness: "Smoke up to 10 cigarettes a day."
It's only lunchtime and McMahon is smoking his fourth dose of the day. He
holds the joint between his fingers, which offer the first indication of
his rare genetic disorder: Nail Patella Syndrome. He has few nail beds, and
those nails that he can grow are fractured and chipped. His elbows and
knees are deformed, his bones a brittle bag of pain. His illness went
undiagnosed until he was 38, and before that, he overcompensated
physically--digging ditches, riding motorcycles, breaking horses and bones,
often with twig-snapping ease. It took 19 surgeries, a battle with
tuberculosis, and near-death reactions to numerous prescription drugs
before he realized that only smoked marijuana made him comfortable in his
own skin. In 1988, an Iowa doctor agreed with him, and after two years of
dealing with the Department of Health and Human Services, the National
Institute on Drug Abuse, and the Drug Enforcement Administration, McMahon
was finally approved for medical marijuana.

Although the life expectancy for those afflicted with Nail Patella Syndrome
is around 40 (McMahon turned 50 in July), he couldn't content himself to
live in relative seclusion, ameliorating his anguish with his chosen drug.
"I never decided that I was going to be a spokesman for this issue," he
says, "but I never had any choice." In 1991, he and his wife, Margaret,
began traveling the country in a motor home, speaking at colleges and
statehouses, Rotary and Kiwanis clubs, any place where they could gather a
crowd.

McMahon presented himself as living proof: Not only did marijuana have
therapeutic value, but the federal government essentially admitted as much
by supplying him with the very pot it so railed against in its virulent
drug war. He became part of a grassroots movement for medical marijuana, a
proposal that gained legitimacy in 1996 after voters in California passed a
medical marijuana ballot initiative despite continuing federal
intransigence and litigation. Armed with a 5,000-year history of medicinal
use, strong scientific evidence showing the therapeutic benefits of
marijuana, and more than 60 years of government distortion regarding its
harm, the movement began as a ragtag rebellion of patients and doctors,
stoners and straights, academics and libertarians. Political operatives and
wealthy businessmen have since taken up the cause, organizing support in
the eight states that have adopted medical marijuana laws. When McMahon
moved to Lake Palestine in 1998 to be closer to his elderly mother, he
immediately joined the campaign for medical marijuana in Texas, such as it
was. In this legislative session, Republican State Rep. Terry Keel, a
former prosecutor and sheriff in Travis County, has surprisingly sponsored
a bill that recognizes medical necessity as a legal defense to a charge of
marijuana possession. The most ardent supporters of medical marijuana
insist theirs is a one-issue cause, which must not be confused with
marijuana legalization. Their appeal is one of compassion: To deny the
seriously ill medicine, which might alleviate their pain, seems as
hypocritical as it does inhumane.

Yet the federal government, many social and religious conservatives, and
those who think the drug war is worth waging are mounting a backlash.

These drug warriors--the soldiers in the war on drugs--dispute the medical
efficacy of marijuana; they claim it is harmful, even addictive.

They worry that legalizing marijuana, even for medical purposes, is sending
a mixed message to teen-agers. They call on parents once again to rise up
in defense of their children, just like they did in the Nixon and Reagan years.

Theirs is a moral crusade, the same cultural war they have been fighting
since the '60s. Scratch below the surface of a medical marijuana activist,
they say, and you'll find an aging hippie.

Someone who is anti-establishment and anti-government, someone who
considers the drug war as unwinnable as the Vietnam War, someone who has
found himself a sympathetic issue to get across his hidden agenda:
legalization of some or all street drugs.

The truth is, these drug warriors are dead wrong: The agenda for many drug
reformers isn't that hidden at all. It may just be a coincidence that the
February meeting of the Texas NORML (National Organization for the Reform
of Marijuana Laws) is being held at a North Dallas all-you-can-eat pizza
joint, but it's a humorous bit of chance that is lost on Rick Day, the
state chapter's executive director.

Day is just too damn busy getting his chapter jump-started again after
decades of having no presence in this state. He needs marchers and
letter-writers, boycotters and Web designers, those who are willing to put
themselves in harm's way if necessary. Marijuana activists were caught by
surprise when Keel introduced his medical marijuana bill in January. "It's
one of the few times I can remember when the politicians were ahead of the
people," says Day, a genial guy who towers at 6 feet 8 inches. "We didn't
expect a sudden burst of sanity coming from the Texas Legislature, at least
not in this session." Activists didn't even know if they could trust Keel,
much less support him--a "dedicated drug warrior" himself.

Still, medical marijuana has been on the agenda of national NORML almost
since its inception in 1971--along with legalization of marijuana for all
pot consumers.

Another bill before the Texas Legislature this session deals with
decriminalizing small amounts of marijuana to a Class C
misdemeanor--essentially a traffic ticket--and Day has no intention of
neglecting one bill at the expense of the other.

He asks the 30 or so members who have heeded his call to arms to pretend
they are holding a wooden match, and in the time it takes for the flame to
go out, to explain just what motivated them to attend tonight.

Howard, a retired Michigan police detective wearing a T-shirt that says,
"Ask Me Why Cops Say Legalize Pot," says, "I am sick and tired of wasting
valuable police resources on something that shouldn't be a criminal problem
in the first place." Lisa, who wears her hair pink, which can't help but
attract law enforcement attention, says, "I am tired of seeing my friends
getting busted for what is essentially a lifestyle choice." "My name is
Ann, and I am bulimic, and the only way I can eat is with pot." "My name is
Jeff, and I am motivated by a hatred for the drug war. Also I want to be
able to smoke a big fat one and not worry about the police." A man in his
mid-50s, Bob, seems to have trouble limiting his reasons. "The drug war is
racist. Three-fourths of the people who go to jail are black...We need to
get government off our backs.... Medical marijuana is a private matter
between a doctor and his patient." When the eclectic group turns its
attention back to its leader, Day, his comments are brief: "I have a
daughter 24, a son 17, and two grandchildren," he says. "I am in this war
because of them." No way he could tell his story in the length of time it
took to burn a match. "Mine was a 25-year affair with marijuana," he says
later.

He was a tobacco smoker, a beer drinker, and "in 1976, I bought my first
bag for $10." He felt disillusioned at the time, unhappy in marriage,
living in Mesquite. Why not try it? "It was the Carter years, and everyone
thought marijuana was about to be decriminalized anyway." Gone were the
days when marijuana was demonized as the "devil weed" by moralizing
government types like Federal Bureau of Narcotics Commissioner Harry
Anslinger. Even though cannabis was widely used by doctors as medicine, his
successful campaign to outlaw marijuana in the 1930s appealed strongly to
racial prejudice.

He told Congress that marijuana caused its users to murder and go insane;
also it made "colored students" gain the sympathy of "female students
[white]"--with pregnancy the result.

The original drug warrior himself, President Richard Nixon, must have felt
betrayed after he impaneled a hard-line commission to study marijuana and
what he supposed were its tendencies to make college kids rabidly
anti-establishment. What the 1972 Shafer Commission reported instead was
that marijuana smoking was less harmful than alcohol and its personal use
should no longer be a crime. Although Nixon rejected the report, 11 states
would reduce the punishment for marijuana possession to traffic-ticket
status; in the mid-'70s, even Texas had decriminalized possession of less
than 4 ounces from a felony to a misdemeanor. Carter himself did nothing to
change the law, in part, because prominent members of his administration
became ensnared in their own drug scandals.

Day, like many of the millions of Americans who smoked pot by the late
'70s, didn't care about marijuana politics.

What he cared about was the high. "At that point, marijuana was just the
thing to do. I got up, smoked a joint so I could put up with my day. I
thought life was just more enjoyable on pot." The Mesquite police couldn't
have disagreed with him more. In 1978, a loud party brought the cops to his
door. They searched his home, his guests, his person--and charged him with
felony possession: over 4 ounces.

But the police didn't have a warrant, and the case was thrown out of court.

By the time the case was over, so was his marriage. He began a downward
spiral, entering the "gray world of the black market," he says, which took
him to cocaine, speed, prescription drug abuse. However, he didn't like the
way they made him feel, "So I always came back to pot." When it became
Ronald Reagan's turn to set drug policy, he launched a full-scale frontal
assault against drugs.

He enlisted the army for interdiction, Congress to stiffen drug penalties
with mandatory-minimum sentences, and law enforcement with cash incentives
to forfeit the assets of those who had, even unwittingly, allowed their
property--cars, planes, houses, farms--to be involved in drug trafficking
or possession. A burgeoning parents' movement gained political muscle with
Congress. The War on Drugs took on a moral crusade as the nation's youth
were encouraged to turn to their drug-peddling peers and "Just Say No." "I
guess I have Nancy Reagan to thank for getting me started," Day says. "The
government cranked up its propaganda machine telling us any use was abuse,
that marijuana was addictive, that you will never meet your potential on
pot. The more lies I heard, the more I realized I needed to be part of the
solution." The federal government tried to prove that it was pot smokers
like Day who were wrong. "The National Institute on Drug Abuse funds 80
percent of the studies on marijuana, and it is only interested in funding
those that show the harm of the drug," says Dr. John P. Morgan, professor
of pharmacology at the City of New York Medical School and co-author of
Marijuana Myths, Marijuana Facts. "It doesn't like to fund studies that
seek to demonstrate the drug's benefits." Beginning in the late '70s,
government reports claimed that marijuana, among other things, killed brain
cells, damaged chromosomes, caused infertility, destroyed motivation, and
caused men to grow breasts--though these conclusions were often based on
"bad science or animal studies that had never been replicated with humans,"
Morgan says. Not surprisingly, use among teen-agers declined during the
Reagan-Bush years.

At the same time, marijuana was gaining at least a modicum of legitimacy in
legal circles.

In the mid-'70s, Bob Randall, a former Washington, D.C., cab driver was
diagnosed with glaucoma and was going blind from the disease.

None of the traditional glaucoma drugs reduced the tremendous pressure
within his eyes. He noticed, however, that by smoking marijuana almost
daily, his eye pain was alleviated and his eyesight stopped deteriorating.
When he was busted for marijuana cultivation, his lawyers pleaded that his
use was a necessary choice between evils: violating the law or going blind.

Although this may have been the first time the defense of medical necessity
was pleaded in a marijuana case, Randall was acquitted anyway.

The result forced the federal government to provide him with marijuana, and
it set up the compassionate use program, with Randall as its first patient
(McMahon was the fifth). NORML filed a lawsuit in 1972, hoping to convince
the DEA to reclassify marijuana under the federal Controlled Substances
Act. Cannabis had been placed in Schedule I (drugs having no currently
acceptable medical use, a high potential for abuse, unsafe: heroin, LSD).
NORML fought to make it a Schedule II drug (available by prescription only:
morphine, cocaine). The argument seemed to have merit: If marijuana were
made legal for medical purposes, it would simply be elevated to the status
of morphine and cocaine. It took 16 years of court battles, but in 1988,
Francis Young, the DEA's chief administrative law judge, held the
following: "Marijuana in its natural form is one of the safest,
therapeutically active substances known to man." Although he ordered the
DEA to reschedule the drug, the agency refused, and NORML lost a subsequent
lawsuit to force the DEA to abide by Young's decision.

The legal setback didn't stem the groundswell of popular support for making
marijuana available to seriously ill patients.

Thousands of patients across the country were medicating themselves with a
weed that grows wild just about anywhere and seemed good for what ailed
them. A 1990 survey of oncologists found that 44 percent had already broken
the law by suggesting to at least one patient that he obtain marijuana
illegally. Public opinion polls in the early '90s repeatedly showed that
between 60 to 80 percent of Americans supported making marijuana available
for medicinal purposes. By 1997, Day had cut his hair, become a successful
barbecue caterer, and joined the drug-reform movement.

He began the North Texas chapter of the Drug Policy Forum of Texas, a
Houston-based reform group, which sought to discuss alternatives to current
drug policy including "regulation" of all drugs.

Seeking to redefine the debate, the organization wanted drugs treated as a
medical issue, not a criminal one. "In the drug-reform movement, we rarely
use the word 'legalize,'" Day says. "We call it the dreaded 'L' word
because to be branded a 'legalizer' by the other side is to be dismissed as
just another '60s pothead." For Day, it seemed as though all of his years
of repressed anti-drug war fervor could no longer be contained.

In November 1998, he and a handful of protesters crashed an Arlington high
school drug forum and engaged in a shouting match with a DEA agent and parents.

In September 1999, when he marched on the capitol in Austin, it was Day at
the bullhorn, taunting former Gov. Bush outside his mansion: "George!
Twenty-five years ago you were just like us. We haven't changed; why have
you? Why do you want to put our children in prison for things you did
yourself?" The more academic Drug Policy Forum of Texas didn't embrace his
confrontational tactics, and he became less involved with the organization.
"I got tired of going on radio shows and hearing little old ladies ask me
if I wanted to legalize crack," he says. By August 2000, after Day became
the executive director of the Texas chapter of NORML, he had stopped
smoking pot. He was diagnosed with Hepatitis C, and his doctors say it is
slowly killing him. He has lost his appetite and more than 25 pounds.

He thinks "cannabis therapy" might help, but as long as he is the head of
an organization, he wants to speak from a position of strength, rather than
be branded one of those hippie "legalizers." Day says that as an activist,
his "bottom line" focus has always been on the millions of people who get
busted in this country "for choosing marijuana over alcohol or tobacco."
For him, medical marijuana was just a side issue.

Not so much anymore.

Dr. Al Robison, the executive director of the Drug Policy Forum of Texas,
is at once a drug warrior's worst nightmare and best weapon.

His credentials are impeccable: distinguished professor of pharmacology at
the University of Texas Heath Science Center in Houston and M.D. Anderson
Cancer Center, former chairman of the medical school's prestigious
pharmacology department for two decades, first recipient of the National
Academy of Science's award for scientific reviewing.

Yet the executive director of the Drug Policy Forum of Texas refuses to
content himself with a possible drug-reform victory for medical marijuana
in Texas. This tweedy academic is anything but an aging stoner. He is,
however, one of those "legalizers" who drug warriors like to rail against.

Like many drug reformers, Robison came to the issue through marijuana. At
Vanderbilt University in the late '60s, he participated in one of the first
government studies to determine the toxicity of the main psychoactive
ingredient in marijuana (tetrahydrocannabinol). "THC is the only drug I
have ever studied that no matter how much of it you inject into a mouse,
you can't kill the mouse," Robison says. "It's now well-known to scientists
that you can't kill anything with THC--it's one of the least toxic
substances there is." Of course, that doesn't mean that marijuana is a
harmless herb. Apart from altering perception, "it can impair short-term
memory, which is why it's not good for kids," Robison says. "Grades can
suffer and everything seems funny--a big joke. And that's not a good
attitude to have toward life." Cannabis, however, is no more addictive than
coffee or tea, he says. Because THC affects your psychomotor skills, it's a
dangerous idea to drive a car or operate heavy machinery while stoned.

The most well-documented harm that comes from smoking pot is lung damage--a
possible increase in respiratory disorders and changes in cells that are
potentially pre-cancerous. Recent clinical reports have raised concern
about a higher incidence of throat and neck cancer in young marijuana
users. "Any burning leaf is going to have these toxic carcinogens in it,"
Robison says. "No drug is completely safe. But there hasn't been a single
reported case in the medical literature that attributes lung cancer to
smoking marijuana." The real harm from marijuana--or so the drug-reform
mantra goes--is that it causes people to get arrested.

Since 1970, there have been more than 12 million marijuana arrests
(including sale, manufacture, and possession) in the United States. That's
what caused Robison to question drug policy when he was on the admissions
committee at UT. "Marijuana was still a felony here in 1972," he says.
"Students couldn't get into medical school and were being given long prison
sentences for something I knew was relatively safe." In 1995, Robison, now
retired, and Houston businessman Jerry Epstein began the Drug Policy Forum
of Texas, which currently numbers more than 1,000 members statewide.

The stated mission of the forum is a high-minded one: to spark intellectual
debate for the reform of our current drug policy.

Although Robison and his members speak at meetings and conferences across
the state, they have been unsuccessful at finding anyone willing to defend
our current drug policies in a debate. "The feds don't want to discuss it.
They have refused to debate us," Robison says. "That way, they can stifle
all meaningful discourse." Last year, as something of a publicity stunt,
the forum offered a $1,000 reward to anyone who would "argue in favor of
punishing possession of small amounts of drugs." No one has yet to collect
the reward.

Of course, that hasn't stopped Robison from pushing his organization to
advocate an end to all drug prohibition. "Our drug war has created the
biggest black market in the history of man," he explains.

He blames untaxed black market billions, not drugs, for spawning violence
and corrupting everything it touches--users, businessmen, cops. "The drug
war fills our jails, and drugs are easier to get, cheaper, and purer than
ever. There is no way to win this goddamn war." Perhaps naively, Robison
envisions a world where marijuana would be taxed and government-regulated
in an adults-only quality-controlled marketplace, something akin to the
wine industry.

In this world, he wouldn't legalize heroin, he would "medicalize" it,
treating addicts by sending them through needle exchange, methadone, or
heroin maintenance programs (the government supplying the heroin). The
enormous savings from failed interdiction and law enforcement efforts would
be diverted to meaningful drug treatment and education. "Once you reduce
the harm the drug war has caused, " he says. "You can focus on the harm the
drugs themselves cause." That kind of talk makes drug warriors like retired
army Lt. Col. Bob Maginnis salivate.

An adviser to the conservative Family Research Council, Maginnis says he is
on a short list for the position of "drug czar" in the Bush administration.
"We have never fought a serious drug war in this country," he argues. "If
we want to get serious about drugs, we must enforce the laws that are on
the books." He believes that drug use among teen-agers is on the rise, in
part, because of a trend in many states toward more "liberal drug laws."
Ironically, Maginnis also has to battle a cadre of Reagan Republicans that
has shocked the conservative movement by voicing their own objections to
the drug war. National Review editor-at-large William F. Buckley Jr.,
economist Milton Friedman, and former Reagan Secretary of State George
Shultz have publicly branded the drug war as an abysmal failure: Too costly
(nearly $17.7 billion in 1999), too oppressive (our civil
liberties--privacy, due process--have been sacrificed, 400,000 prisoners
were behind bars for drug offenses in 1998), and too ineffective (a 1999
survey reported that 87.7 million Americans age 12 or over have used an
illicit drug at least once). In 1993, 50 senior federal judges (from both
political parties) refused to take new drug cases, a protest against the
mandatory-minimum sentences, which has helped ignite a prison population
explosion.

Wealthy businessmen such as global financier George Soros, Peter Lewis, CEO
of Progressive Insurance, and several Microsoft millionaires began pouring
money into what appeared to be the beginnings of a bona fide drug-reform
movement.

They have helped fund some of the 40 drug-reform organizations across the
nation (including the Drug Policy Forum of Texas), most with their own Web
site and e-mail following, which makes activism less costly and more immediate.

Much of this activism has been centered on medical marijuana--which until
recently, Robison had considered a peripheral issue. "No doubt it would be
a terrific boon to those patients who need it," he says. "But it would be a
setback to the drug-reform movement in general." Robison fears that
legalizing medical marijuana would remove much of the support that the
drug-reform movement has received of late. Lose the sympathy vote, and that
leaves you with those who want to legalize drugs for recreational use and
those who want to medicalize them for addicts.

Either one is a much harder sell. At the same time, Robison realizes that
the medical marijuana issue is a baby step that permits people to
comfortably debate current drug policy. "It's become a major flash point,"
says Dr. Harvey Ginsburg, a psychology professor at Southwest Texas State
University in San Marcos and medical marijuana activist. "It brings home so
profoundly the intolerance of zero tolerance." Which may be exactly why
drug warriors are fighting it so hard. Joe Ptak has good reason to fear the
San Marcos police department. Busted twice for possession of marijuana, he
continues to smoke pot when necessary for a birth defect that leaves him
lethargic and short of breath.

He has been the informal spokesman for a helter-skelter group of marijuana
activists who once turned this sleepy Hill Country town into a hotbed of
civil disobedience. In 1991, he was one of the "San Marcos 7": a protest in
which one person a day for seven days walked into the Hays County Jail
smoking a joint and asking to be arrested.

The local sheriff was happy to oblige, telling the New York Times this was
just a bunch of "old hippies going through a change of life." Ptak thought
he missed the point. "Recreational use wasn't the issue," he says. "This
was an educational campaign to inform the public that marijuana has
medicinal and economic uses." (Meaning industrial hemp, a nonpsychoactive
strain of marijuana used to make paper and other products.) As punishment,
Ptak received probation and a fine. Zeal Stefanoff, a medical marijuana
user who had initiated the protest, was sentenced to six months in jail. He
went on a hunger strike that lasted more than a month and stirred his
sympathizers to camp out in front of the jail in what became known as Hemp
Town. Ptak won High Times magazine's "Freedom Fighter of the Month Award"
for his organizing efforts.

This dubious distinction didn't help his standing with local law
enforcement types, who busted him again in 1996 for possessing "1.5 grams
of marijuana," he says. Although there was no Texas statute on the books
covering medical necessity, he pleaded that people have a common law right
to medicate themselves as necessary.

A jury acquitted him of all charges in what he believes is the first
successful defense in Texas based on medical necessity. Stefanoff wouldn't
be so fortunate.

Last year, as a defense to a marijuana charge, Stefanoff claimed he had
been growing pot to alleviate the symptoms of the post-traumatic stress
disorder he suffered in the Vietnam War. His psychiatrist as well as
Robison testified on his behalf. However, Stefanoff was convicted, and his
case is now on appeal.

For medical marijuana activists, his conviction illustrated the need for
the legislature to speak to the issue, rather than rely on common law
precedent. Patients in other states, however, were having more luck,
particularly in California, which in 1996 passed Proposition 215, a vaguely
worded initiative that called for lifting drug penalties on doctors who
"recommend" marijuana and their patients who need it. Underground
pharmacies, however, such as the Oakland Cannabis Buyers' Cooperative, had
been supplying patients with marijuana illegally for several years.

With Proposition 215, more cannabis clubs began sprouting up in
California--though their legality remained in doubt.

Even after the passage of the California initiative, Clinton drug czar Gen.
Barry McCaffrey was unwilling to give up the fight.

Calling marijuana a "gateway" to harder drugs, he maintained, "there is not
a shred of scientific evidence that shows that marijuana is useful or needed.

This is not medical.

It's a cruel hoax." To prove his point, he threatened to revoke the license
and even arrest doctors who prescribed marijuana to their patients.

He also commissioned a study by the Institute of Medicine, a division of
the National Academy of Sciences, to settle the matter of marijuana's
medical efficacy. After an 18-month investigation, a panel of 36 scientific
experts issued a report in March 1999 that seemed to have something for
everyone. It found that marijuana was neither addictive nor a gateway drug
and concluded that, "There are some limited circumstances in which we
recommend smoking marijuana for medical uses"--primarily for the terminally
ill, "who suffer from severe pain, nausea, and appetite loss." The report
did not call for the legalization of medical marijuana.

Rather it recommended that clinical trials be allowed to study its safety
and effectiveness. It indicated that the future of marijuana was not in its
smoked form because users may face an increased risk of lung damage and cancer.

What was needed instead was the development of "a nonsmoked rapid onset
cannabinoid drug delivery system"--an inhaler or patch or suppository. Some
medical marijuana opponents feel that delivery system is already available
in the form of the FDA-approved pill Marinol, which contains synthetic THC.
But patients claim that Marinol takes too long to work, and when it does,
it comes on too strong.

With 60 different cannabinoids (including THC) in the marijuana plant,
there may be some combination of elements that is causing whatever good
patients derive from smoking it. "Marijuana advocates have dismissed the
most damaging conclusion in the report," Lt. Col. Maginnis says. "That
marijuana's future as medicine does not require smoking.

It's just bad medicine and bad policy...a red herring for those whose
agenda is legalization." Pharmacology professor Morgan finds the debate
over delivery systems more about policy than medicine. "It's like the
government is saying, 'You may take synthetic Vitamin C to prevent scurvy,
but you may not drink orange juice because it's against the law.'" With the
medical debate raging, the legal battle wasn't far behind.

In 1998, the California U.S. Attorney's Office sued the Oakland Cannabis
Buyers' Cooperative and convinced a federal judge to order it closed,
finding it violated the federal law prohibiting the sale and distribution
of the drug. The cooperative raised the defense of medical necessity on the
part of its members, and at one point, a federal appeals court agreed with
its position. After all, patients who could legally possess pot under
California law had to have some way of legally obtaining it. Not if it
violates federal law, argued the government, which succeeded in convincing
the Supreme Court to hear the case. "The constitutionality of the
California initiative is not an issue," argues Robert Raich, one of the
cooperative's attorneys. "The Supreme Court will only be ruling on whether
medical necessity is a valid defense to the distribution of marijuana under
federal law." Either way, Raich says, individual patients will still be
able to possess under state law. If the federal courts shut down the
cannabis clubs, patients will just be relegated to the black market to make
their purchases.

The threat of an adverse legal ruling has in no way chilled public
enthusiasm for medical marijuana.

Eight states have now adopted medical marijuana laws--all but Hawaii by
public initiative. Numerous states are now debating the issue.

In 1997, Ptak and his feisty band of San Marcos activists, attempted to
pass their own local initiative but were soundly thrashed at the polls.

Undaunted, Ptak and friends have lobbied the Texas legislature in each of
the last three sessions "trying to get people talking about medical
marijuana without giggling," Ptak says. Last session, legislators said that
nothing substantive would happen on medical marijuana--not with Bush
running for president.

But on the campaign trail, Bush told a California audience that the issue
was a matter best left to each individual state.

In this legislative session, however, something is different: A state rep
is sponsoring a bill on medical marijuana and hasn't committed political
suicide in the process.

On February 27, in a cramped chamber room of the Capitol building, the
House Criminal Jurisprudence committee meets to consider a bill to
establish a statutory defense of medical necessity in cases of marijuana
possession. All the usual suspects are there: McMahon, Day, Robison,
Stefanoff, Ginsburg--each eager to testify when called upon. It's a
deceptive crowd, because only a few plan to speak against the bill: a Texas
Department of Public Safety Narcotics chief who believes marijuana is a
gateway drug, and the Texas Eagle Forum, a conservative organization that
believes, according to spokesman Ryan Bangert, that marijuana is not
medicine and those who claim otherwise are really "holdovers from the '60s
making an ideological statement." Because the bill's author, Austin state
Rep. Keel, is a conservative Republican with a strong law enforcement
resume, he gives the legislation credibility it might not otherwise have.
"We have had a blanket prohibition on the use of the medicinal qualities of
marijuana in its form as a green leafy substance," he tells those
assembled. "Now it is time to revisit this. We need to have at our disposal
a full arsenal of every medicine available for ameliorating the pain of
people who are suffering illness." Some of those sufferers and their
families begin to tell their stories: a woman infected with HIV who had
wasted away to practically nothing before she started smoking marijuana; a
mother whose paraplegic son smokes to relieve his unbearable spasms; a
student who got his grandmother pot for the nausea caused by her chemo; an
old stoner who calls himself "Professor Hemp" has treated himself for
glaucoma and says he runs the "Medical Hemp University from my post office
box in Buda, Texas." Each marijuana activist or patient makes his or her
plea before the committee, which seems generally receptive, although some
members express concerns, including one who says simply, "Let's call a
spade a spade here...what you want is to completely legalize this stuff."
But even if the bill makes it out of committee and dies on the floor of the
House or Senate, for these Texas drug-reform activists, the day is worth
it. The debate they have long been gunning for has finally begun--and they
don't even have to ante up $1,000.