HIGH ABOVE THE LAW

She has cerebral palsy, four kids and loads of debt. Meet the
unofficial spokeswoman for marijuana legalization

Hearing Room No. 7, in the basement of the Missouri Capitol, is
beige. The walls, the floors, even most of the suits worn by the
state representatives in the front of the room are beige. Then comes
Jacqueline Patterson.

She wears a pink blazer, fishnet stockings and a pleated black skirt
that looks more like a slip. Pink stripes line her hair. Somebody in
the front of the room calls her name. She hobbles up to a microphone
at a beige desk.

"My name is, umm. My name is, umm, Jacqueline Patterson. I am,
ahhh-umm, from Kansas City, Missouri. I have a severe st-st-stutter."

So far, the representatives at this early morning hearing in April
have looked uninterested by the parade of oddballs. A severely obese
guy came up to the microphone in a special wheelchair that looked to
be made out of roll bars and ATV tires. Some kid who sounded stoned
babbled about his sick uncle. A Navy vet strung together unrelated
sentences. These speakers were supposed to convince the
representatives that marijuana is medicine. A couple of reps started
reading the paper. One munched on an egg sandwich. Another went
outside to take a call.

Now, every one of them has looked up to see 27-year-old Patterson
struggle to speak.

"I came here today to ummmm, to ummm, to ummm, to ask you to put
yourself in my shoes," she says, reading from a speech scribbled the
day before in a spiral notebook. She asks the representatives to
imagine growing up with cerebral palsy and being made fun of for
having a limp, a right hand that doesn't work and a stutter. Even
without the stutter, her voice sounds on the verge of tears or panic.
Her nervousness aggravates the stutter.

She stops for a moment. She often gets hung up on words that begin
with vowels. They get stuck in the back of her throat, and her face
contorts, as though she has just tasted something awful. The state
reps gawk as she struggles to expel a one-letter word.

"I -- I -- I smoked cannabis for the first time when I was 14," she
says. "For the first time, my muscles were not tense. And words slid
from my mouth, from gggghhh -- from me at a fluid pace instead of
sssss-stuck on my tongue like a g-ghh -- like a train wreck."

Pot was the only thing that made her feel normal. But getting it, she
says, meant hanging out with seedy people she didn't trust. She felt
like a criminal.

Patterson takes them through the horrific details of her adult life.
The rape. The time she broke her neck. Her husband's suicide. She's
now a widowed mother of four. The politicians have put down their
newspapers. The one with the breakfast sandwich listens intently. A
woman in the gallery cries quietly.

Then things turn. Patterson launches into a tangent about her broken
neck and how doctors had to drill holes in her skull. She follows
that with a diatribe about the inconsistent quality of cannabis. At
least a couple of the reps look disgusted as she describes the time
she begged a friend to let her smoke a bowl with him while she was
eight months pregnant.

She's lost all of them.

Even the committee chairman, Rep. Wayne Cooper, a physician from
Camdenton who has sounded pro-medical marijuana all day, looks
aghast. When Patterson finishes, Cooper quickly dismisses her by
saying: "OK, thank you."

Patterson comes back to join her oldest son, 9-year-old Tristan, in
the second row. "Oh," she says, "that didn't go so well."

The hearing on House Bill 1831, which would legalize medical
marijuana in Missouri, ends with no discussion from the representatives.

The hearing has made it clear that those who would benefit most from
legalized pot aren't the best at speaking to conservative lawmakers.
They're the fringe of society, suffering from chronic pain or
post-traumatic stress. They're weakened cancer or AIDS patients,
strengthened by pot's ability to make them hungry. They're not the
type who can connect with the beige representatives. If the
pro-marijuana cause is to get a legitimate debate in Missouri, those
who claim to smoke weed for their health need a lot of polishing.

After the hearing, Patterson takes her son to the Capitol rotunda for
a tour. School kids on field trips turn to stare at her as she limps
up five flights of stairs. She can't get her mind off the idea that she failed.

"I hate my speech so much," she says near the top of the Capitol. "I
drrr- ... I dr- ... I drove my husband to suicide, you know."

Patterson remembers the night she first smoked weed the way others
remember the loss of their virginity. She was 14 and living in Texas,
where her mom had moved from Kansas City after divorcing her father.
A friend named Tim asked if she wanted to go for a walk in the woods.
Tim was four years older. It was late, maybe 10 or so. He pulled out
a small metal pipe.

"Hey, do you want to smoke this?" he asked.

"All right," she quickly agreed.

Afterward, they sprawled out in a clearing to gaze up at the sky. It
was a cool summer night. At some point in the conversation, she
realized how easy the words were coming out. And her muscles, which
normally felt cramped and pained, were loose. She'd never felt so
comfortable with herself. "It was a release from the disease and from
the emotional trauma," she recalls.

Her parents had divorced when Patterson was young, and she and her
mother had moved around a lot. That meant Patterson didn't know many
people to get high with. She did it only a few times as a teenager.
She quit when the babies came.

The first was Tristan, whose father she met at a haunted house when
she was in high school. She moved out of her mother's place, and not
long after she graduated high school, her roommate raped her. She
later gave birth to a boy she put up for adoption. (The rapist,
Michael Scott Parker, is serving a 15-year sentence.) She had a
short-lived marriage that produced a daughter, Jane, who's now 6.

In 1998, she enrolled at Northern Iowa Area Community College and
later transferred to the University of Northern Iowa. Misfortune
followed her there, too, when she flipped her Geo Tracker and broke
her neck. She spent a week and a half in the hospital, much of it
with metal screws drilled into her head to help heal her rebuilt spine.

In 2000, she was living with her two kids in a dorm when her future
husband knocked on the door. There was something about Travis
Patterson that made her think she knew him already, and she invited
him in. It took a few minutes before she realized he was there to
sell her magazines. He asked her out to a movie. She was a divorced
mother of two who couldn't afford a baby-sitter, so no, she said, she
wouldn't be going out to a movie. He came back that night with a DVD
of The Green Mile.

They shared stories of rough childhoods. Her stories were full of
alienation, kids making fun of her stutter. His were about abuses
that came back in recurring dreams. To forget his childhood, Travis
smoked pot. So they shared that, too.

The couple moved to Kansas City in 2001, and Travis got a
construction job. They had two kids: Ulysses, who's now 4, and Fiona,
2. Jacqueline took classes at the University of Missouri-Kansas City,
and eventually her father let them stay in the two-story Grandview
house where her family had lived before her parents' divorce.

At UMKC, Patterson met Elise Max, a fellow student and an active
proponent of legalizing pot.

The summer after high school, Max was busted with two roaches, and
the judge sent her to rehab with hardcore addicts. She says the
experience convinced her that pot users shouldn't be punished
alongside hardened criminals. So she founded a local chapter of the
National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws. Once Max got
involved in the movement, she realized that few marijuana users
participate in marches or rallies for fear of being stigmatized as pot smokers.

"It's just like when people talked about the abolition of slavery,"
says Max, who graduated this spring from UMKC. "It was taboo then,
just like it's taboo now to talk about legalizing marijuana."

After Max got her involved, Patterson discovered a talent that made
her a celebrity in the pro-pot movement. Many activists who claim
that marijuana benefits them medically can't easily prove the point,
but Patterson can do it by puffing on a joint and speaking more
clearly as she gets high.

That's evident one afternoon at the small south Kansas City home that
she rents from her brother. Patterson pulls a glass bowl out of a
desk in the living room. She holds it deftly in her weakened right
hand, her twisted index finger capping a hole in the side of the
pipe. She uses her left hand to light it and takes her finger off the
carburetor. She inhales deeply, holding in the smoke for a while. Her
two oldest children are at school, her second-youngest is napping and
the little one is eating a biscuit in a highchair.

After a couple of hits, the stutter nearly disappears. "People who
have disabilities are ignored," she says. "The civil rights movement
is not over."

When Patterson first got involved, there wasn't much of a pro-pot
lobby in Missouri. Lawmakers with little influence in Jefferson City
had introduced bills that quickly died without the first step of a
committee hearing.

In 2004, however, the movement got a boost when two pro-pot city
ordinances appeared on the ballot in Columbia. The first proposed
allowing those who benefit medically from marijuana to possess up to
35 grams, about 20 joints. The second stripped police of the power to
arrest somebody for that same amount; instead, those caught with
small amounts would get a ticket similar to an open-container
violation and face no jail time, just a fine and community service.
The measures passed resoundingly.

In a practical sense, they haven't had much effect. Nobody has used
the medical marijuana defense, says Capt. Mike Martin of the Columbia
Police Department. The changes have simply reduced most possession
charges to nothing more than a beer ticket.

The victory in Columbia motivated the pro-pot lobby to try for a
statewide change. And they've picked up some unlikely allies,
potentially leading to a legitimate statewide debate about medical marijuana.

Earlier this year, state Rep. Tom Villa of St. Louis agreed to
sponsor House Bill 1831 -- the proposed law for which Patterson
testified. It would have allowed patients who have a doctor's
prescription for pot to receive a special license from the state to
grow up to three marijuana plants and possess up to 3 ounces of
processed weed. Villa, who works at his family's business
distributing light bulbs, is anything but a pothead. When asked
whether he partakes, he points to his round belly and then to his
bald head. "Do I look like I do?" he quips. "I'm 61. I'm pretty
boring, I guess. I have no experience with it at all."

It was a sense of compassion that moved him to sponsor the
legislation, Villa says. Besides, Villa is a former majority whip and
has served eight terms as a Democrat from liberal south St. Louis, so
he doesn't fear conservatives attacking him for a pro-pot stance.

Wayne Cooper, the chair of the House's Health Care Policy Committee,
seemed receptive to the medical marijuana bill during the hearing in
April. He's a Republican and a former Christian missionary to the
Philippines -- not exactly the type to favor medical marijuana. But
advocates often find allies among physicians, who know that weed is
beneficial to glaucoma and cancer patients.

Cooper was alone in voicing his support during the April hearing.
Most of the other 10 representatives looked as disinterested as Rep.
Kathy Chinn, a 52-year-old pork farmer from Clarence. Chinn says
she's against legalizing any drug. "I thought she had things she
needed to express," Chinn said when the Pitch asked what she thought
of Patterson's testimony. "I do not judge her. That is not what I do."

Cooper had scheduled the hearing with only two weeks left in the
legislative session, meaning there wasn't enough time for the bill to
get a full vote from the House. But getting a hearing is something,
Villa says. "There is some light at the end of the tunnel," he says.
"Just not this year."

This summer, proponents will hone the bill's language in hopes that
the committee might send it on to the House for debate.

And a debate over medical marijuana on the House floor of a state
controlled by conservatives would get the movement some needed
attention, says Dan Viets, a 54-year-old lawyer from Columbia. Viets
has spent 20 years defending kids busted with small amounts of dope
and is one of the state's most active pro-pot lobbyists. It's
unlikely that Missouri will soon join the other 12 states with some
form of medical marijuana law, but Viets hopes to at least send a
message. "Why in the world would we not trust our doctors with
marijuana when we trust them with morphine, codeine and amphetamines?" he says.

Patterson has already experienced what it's like to smoke medical
marijuana legally. In April, while traveling to California for a
conference put on by Patients Out of Time, she visited the office of
a Bay Area doctor who's known for prescribing cannabis. She smoked a
joint with him in his office. She says the doctor estimated that her
speech improved by 75 percent.

Even more than helping to stop the stutter, pot does something else:
It helps her forget.

Tension between Jacqueline and Travis Patterson started building
during a long cold spell back in December 2004. Travis was working
construction, but the severe cold had kept his job site closed from
late November. Jacqueline was six months pregnant with their fourth
child, and the bills weren't getting paid.

On Christmas, the kids came downstairs to find a bunch of poorly
wrapped gifts under the tree. There was one for Jacqueline: gold
butterfly earrings with amethyst and peridot stones. Jacqueline knew
Travis had spent his last check on the presents. It was sweet, but it
was also the last of their money.

A couple of weeks passed before the fight broke out. Patterson
accused her husband of squandering money. Another couple was staying
with them at the time, so they tried to keep their shouts down to
keep their friends from hearing the argument. At some point,
Jacqueline took off her wedding ring and threw it at Travis. He
answered by making fun of her speech, something he hadn't done before.

"He stuttered the way I do," Patterson recalls. "As soon as the words
left his mouth, he looked like, 'I can't believe I just said that.'"

She didn't talk to him the rest of that night or the next morning. By
then, the cold weather was over, and he went to work. When he came
home that night, Patterson was cooking a boxed dinner, a Skillet
Sensation, with green beans on the side. Travis tried to apologize,
but she pushed him away. "It was just the sweetest apology in the
world, but I was too mad to accept it."

After dinner, Travis approached her again. She was in the kitchen
struggling to take off a necklace. She's stubborn about that sort of
thing. It'll take her 10 minutes to screw the cap on her youngest
child's bottle, but she keeps turning until she gets it on. As Travis
tried to help with the necklace, Patterson hit him with stinging
words. "I would rather be raped again, a thousand times over, than
get help from you."

Travis went into the basement, where their friends were staying. One
of them was packing a bowl of weed and offered some to Travis.
Instead, he went upstairs and locked himself in the bedroom.
Jacqueline stayed downstairs that night.

Travis didn't come down the next morning. When Jacqueline went
upstairs, she could hear a fan going inside the room, which was
strange, because he hated that fan. It was around 7:30 on January 7,
2005. Jacqueline tried the door and found it locked. So she crawled
out the bathroom window and shimmied along the roof outside.

She could see him from the window. "The first thing I thought was,
When did he get so good at doing costume makeup?"

His face was blue. His purple tongue dangled from his mouth. He had
taken off his wedding ring, placed it on a bedside table and used a
belt to hang himself from the frame around the bathroom door.

Jacqueline knew his upbringing had been tragic, but she says there's
no question that she was responsible for his suicide. "If I had gone
to him that night and taken his apology, he wouldn't have done it,"
she says. "You know, you only find the other half of you once. It
might be a fucked-up other half, but I can still feel the hole from
where he's not attached to me anymore."

Later on, she kept thinking about how their friends had asked Travis
to smoke a bowl with him. If he had stayed downstairs, if he had
gotten high, perhaps he would have calmed down.

It's not exactly an argument that would convince conservative
lawmakers to legalize pot. But it was Patterson's motivation to get
serious about the cause.

George McMahon plops himself down on the small stone wall that
outlines the grounds of the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. He folds a
rolling paper in half, takes a pill bottle out of his pocket and
pours some weed across the crease. As he runs his tongue lengthwise
along the joint, a wedding party strolls past. Bride, groom,
bridesmaids, dad, mom. They all stare, baffled.

"Oops," he says, giggling as he stuffs the pill bottle back in his
pants. He decides that he ought to go someplace less conspicuous. So
he walks across Oak Street and sits on the wall of Southmoreland
Park, a few yards away from the wedding party.

His reason for being so brash: Sitting on the wall next to him is a
tin canister that looks like a large can of tomatoes. Once a month,
the federal government sends him a canister stuffed with 300 joints,
along with directions that he should smoke 10 of them a day. He has
used the can to prove to cops that he can smoke legally.

In drug circles, McMahon -- a 55-year-old former ditch digger -- is a
living legend. He's one of five Americans who receive dope directly
from the government. He takes part in a little-known Food and Drug
Administration program that started in 1978 but was discontinued in
1992; those already enrolled were allowed to continue. McMahon
credits the government-grown cannabis with helping him endure the
chronic pain caused by a genetic degenerative disease.

McMahon has come to Kansas City from his home in Iowa for this May 6
rally, where he'll give a speech in front of about 200 people
gathered on the lawn of Southmoreland Park. Headlining the event is Patterson.

Patterson talked him into coming by promising him gas money, but a
week ago, she called to tell him she was broke and couldn't come up
with it. McMahon drove down anyway.

Patterson is near financial disaster. Her first husband sends her
child support; the government sends her food stamps and a $900
disability check. But she owes her brother $500 in back rent. The
phone company recently cut off her service. She can't afford to
register her van. Even worse, she knows that at any moment, the
government could discover her role in these pro-pot activities and
take away her benefits.

"Can you believe a rapist or a child molester can get out of jail and
get benefits, but if they find me with pot, they will take my
benefits away?" she asks. But she believes that her dead husband is
watching over her. "I'm pretty sure Travis is going to keep me safe."

Besides, the rally is beginning, and thinking about finances is a
downer. "Hey, that's not sssss-something to worry about today," she
says, standing near tables full of pamphlets promoting legalization.
She takes the black wrapper off a peanut-butter-flavored marijuana
candy and plops it on her tongue.

"Please get wise and legalize!" the event's master of ceremonies says
over the PA system. He's wearing an Uncle Sam hat, a blue blazer with
white stars, and shorts and boots that look like they've been stolen
from a pro wrestler. He gives McMahon a quick introduction. "McMahon,
come fill some time."

As a speaker, McMahon rambles. "If humans don't have some of the
chemicals that are in cannabis in their body, guess what? They die,"
he says. Without pausing, he launches into a monologue on women being
more affected by weed because they have babies. As he speaks, some
people lounging on blankets share sandwiches they've grilled on a
camp stove. A few people collect stickers from the tables. Patterson
and her kids sit under a maple tree and dip bread into a jar of
peanut butter. Few in the audience clap when McMahon finishes.

Patterson is a reluctant public speaker, and the crowd's reaction to
the infamous McMahon makes her even more nervous. A punk band takes
over to warm up for her. She remembers her speech before the Missouri
House committee. "I did horribly bad. I really bombed," she says, the
words flowing easily now that she's stoned.

At 4:20 p.m. -- the international time for potheads to light up --
Uncle Sam introduces the headliner. "Jacqueline, get up here," he
says to sparse clapping.

Patterson wears a pair of cowboy boots that she inherited from a
grandmother. She made her skirt from a pair of Travis' jeans that she
cut up and paired with frilly pink material. Atop her blond,
pink-striped hair is a crown of plastic pot leaves.

She begins by reading from the spiral notebook. "'The way we treat
you is criminal.' That is the words uttered to me by aaaaa -- by aaaa
- -- by a committee member during a hearing for House Bill 1831." The
microphone is too tall for Patterson to read her speech while also
stretching up to speak.

She abandons the notebook. Unlike her stutter-filled diatribe in the
Capitol basement, Patterson ad-libs with clarity. She punches words
for emphasis. Soon, she has the crowd cheering with her.

She promises to get medical marijuana legalized.

"If we don't do it this year, we will do it next year!" she screams
into the microphone. The crowd reacts with loud approval. "We need
you guys to get fucking involved!"

"Yeah, Jacqueline!" somebody yells.

Uncle Sam introduces the next band. Patterson limps to the back of
the crowd to collect her kids. Along the way, she passes a
lonely-looking woman seated at a folding table. In front of her is a
stack of unsigned voter-registration cards.