High Above the Law

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.