Pubdate: Fri, 05 Nov 2010
Source: Montana Kaimin (U of MT Edu)
Copyright: 2010 Montana Kaimin
Contact:  http://www.montanakaimin.com/
Details: http://www.mapinc.org/media/1387
Author: Jayme Fraser

CHASING CHRIST

IT'S KARMA - not coincidence - that Montana's medical marijuana
registry leaped from 4,000 patients in September 2009 to more than
23,000 patients today.

It's not because of a federal memo released a year ago that said the
U.S. Justice Department did not intend to interfere with state medical
marijuana laws. Or because of a growing national awareness of
marijuana as medicine and a new wave of synthetic pot pills.

It's because Jason Christ's time had come.

Since the time I met Jason in September 2009, he has become an icon in
the state medical marijuana community, heavily criticized or highly
celebrated depending on whom you ask.

He is best known for having invented roaming medical marijuana
clinics. Nicknamed "cannabis caravans," crowds of Montanans - and some
crafty out-of-staters - got their "green cards" after paying a small
fee to his business, Montana Caregivers Network. They waited for hours
in hotel conference rooms for a 5 to 10 minute consultation with a MCN
doctor who could approve them for the medical use of marijuana.
Jason's crew now offers the same services seven days a week using the
free online teleconferencing service Skype. MCN, and consequently
Jason, earned $1.22 million the past year.

Jason is also well known for smoking his medicine in public from a
two-foot long pipe and for a string of court cases, including a
hearing Thursday afternoon. In August, three former MCN employees
alleged wrongful discharge and accused Jason of forcing them to
illegally forge doctor approval forms for people who were, in fact,
not approved at the traveling clinics.

But in September 2009, Jason was just excited about the volume of
interest in his work and the free or cheap help he found to run the
fledgling business.

HE FIRST KNEW he was starting something big more than a year ago when
I visited his office, which was literally under Missoula's Scott
Street Bridge.

The windows and door of the suite were covered with white cloth. I
walked in, and the floors, too, were white, carpeted with thousands of
pieces of paper organized in haphazard piles and rising precariously
from cardboard boxes. Jason hadn't shaved his stubble, but his head
was smooth under the black cap with "Rx" embossed over a pot leaf. He
sat cross-legged near the far wall in a ribbed grey pullover
sweatshirt and faded jeans. It was the same outfit he was wearing each
time I visited that week.

"We registered 461 people for their cards in three days," he said as
he filed the associated paperwork. He told me Dr. Patricia Cole
interviewed one person every five minutes and took a 15-minute break
every five hours - if she took breaks at all.

"That's a lot of people," I said.

"Our limit is the doctor," he said. "We need an army of
people."

Back then, Montana Caregivers Network included Jason, Cole and two
college-aged girls hired off of Craigslist.

"Our call center gets a call every two minutes," he added, pointing to
an adjoining room.

Around the corner I saw his assistant Brooke, 19, in the office's only
chair, answering questions about the law for a combat veteran with
chronic pain. Brooke said she struggled during her first year at The
University of Montana because of chronic pain from a severe accident
years ago. She avoided giving details about how it happened, but said
that she has 16 screws in her jaw. She was excited to get her card in
the mail soon so that she can work longer days at the call center and
maybe someday go back to school. But there's no hurry. She's helped
people heal - at least for the few months she worked with Jason.

Jason stopped shuffling papers and showed me his new vaporizer,
pulling the black base of "The Volcano" out from its box. The white
price sticker read $669.99. He turned to grab a plastic cylinder on a
short wood shelf, loaded a bowl and twisted the cap shut. I expected
him to offer me a pull from the balloon-like bag that deflated as he
inhaled between answers, but he never did.

IT'S THE SAME vaporizer that Mike, a doctor (of philosophy), filled a
year later in the new MCN office at the corner of Orange and Front
streets. I was back again to interview Jason about the boom in
business since September 2009. Mike told me any visitors with a card
are invited to use the vaporizer with a bowl of free medicine.

I missed out on the goodwill because my only chronic condition,
insomnia, is not covered by Montana's law. He instead offered me a
seat in the lobby on one of the brown patio chairs for waiting guests.
Ange, behind a short-walled cubicle, said she couldn't find my
appointment in the books, so I explained that Jason e-mailed me to
drop by Sunday afternoon. Mike looked at Ange and said he'd check with
Jason as he walked into the corner office. I sat back and waited once
again.

The days of walking into the office just to chat were over. I had
spent the last four weeks trying to reach Jason. First, I called
Jason's cell phone and asked if he would speak with me for a profile I
hoped to write. He agreed but said he'd be out of town hosting
caregiver conventions for a few days. After that, he didn't return my
calls. Then his cell phone was disconnected. One of those expos was
being hosted at the Broadway Inn in Missoula a few days ago, so I
dropped by while running errands with my boyfriend, Brandon.

I almost collided with Jason as I entered the door.

"Hi Jason!" I said.

He looked at me. I don't know if he was still shocked from nearly
walking into me or didn't speak because he didn't recognize me.

"It's Jayme. I'm glad you're. . . "

"Good to see you. Gotta go," he said as he leaned forward, hugged me
and sidestepped through the door. He smelled like the medication for
his chronic gut pain.

"Good seein' you guys again," he told my boyfriend as he embraced him
on the way to a white suburban parked just outside.

"You... too..." Brandon mumbled back. My boyfriend had never met Jason
before. He turned to watch Jason exit the lot and disappear into
Mullan Road traffic.

I DIDN'T TALK TO Jason again until he returned an e-mail a couple of
nights later. I had just finished reading a Missoulian story about the
businessman's lengthy legal history when I was startled by the ding of
my Gmail notifier. Jason said he, too, had read the critical portrait
just after it was published online at 10 p.m.

The story highlighted Jason's legal troubles including everything from
alleged website hijacking and a lease dispute to a reported bomb
threat, and alleged stalking and death threats. During their divorce,
his wife twice sought and received restraining orders.

Maybe Jason hoped I could help set the record straight when he invited
me to interview him the next morning.

As I waited in the lobby, I wrote out questions for Jason that I hoped
would fill in the gaps of news reports during the past year.

In 2009, Jason was the first to apply for a Missoula business license
for a medical marijuana company. It was the first of many bold public
moves. Others followed suit.

Grow supply shops and caregiver storefronts popped up everywhere. Some
cities responded with emergency ordinances. Some citizens retaliated
with broken windows and Molotov cocktails.

The sudden boom in applications five years into the state's medical
marijuana program intrigued writers of blogs like TokeoftheTown as
much as reporters for regional news outlets and a documentary crew
from New York. Dr. Cole was fined by the Montana Board of Medical
Examiners for pushing the boundaries of a bona fide doctor-patient
relationship, and another MCN physician was warned. Jason smoked in
public to "test the waters with police" and MCN earned more than $1
million in a year as his employees helped register thousands of
Montana's sick and stoners. He bought darker blue jeans, some dress
shirts and a leather belt to wear for work each day.

Nearly all of the other caregivers, doctors, patients and advocates I
interviewed outside of MCN over the past year were nervous about
Jason. Some instantly ended our talks when I asked about him because
they wanted no association with Jason - even to discredit him or
provide off-the-record background information. Others insisted on
anonymity when describing personal threats he made toward them. Most
were cautiously fascinated by the college drop-out who compared
himself to civil rights leaders like Rosa Parks, earned a quick
fortune, and cited self-education in law, medicine and web design.

These concerns, questions and peculiarities were what led me to wait
in the MCN lobby. I was just too curious about what made him tick. But
I should have realized that my questions were pointless. Jason only
told me snippets of what I asked and promoted his personal vision with
every response.

JASON SHOOK MY hand when I entered his office then typed some final
lines of code for a web post as I sat down. His first Montana business
was one of many web developing and consulting firms he had created and
managed since high school. He started as a tech support representative
in one of Dell's first call centers. It wasn't long before he took
those skills and opened his own Texas company to compete against his
old employer.

"Was that your plan with MCN? To connect everything with technology
since your background's in technology?" I asked.

"No," he replied, leaning back in the chair toward the arc of windows
behind him. "I evolved. Because I observed with a clear vision how
things are and how they need to change."

I asked if that's how he knew to take advantage of the opening created
by the federal memo a year ago. He shook his head, so I suggested that
maybe his company's timing with the clinics had something to do with
the state's boom, too.

"Well," he said, leaning forward. "That was the timing. I mean, there
were other people who were kind of sticking their toe in but we
decided just to jump in. Kind of the 'Fuck it!' attitude, ya know?

"From a personal perspective, I grew up in this country. I grew up in
America, on planet Earth, watching humans. And, after a period of time
the scientist that I am sees some common things and forms some ideas
about how things are and what I see is that there is suffering
everywhere. Seeking after existence is suffering. I mean, I cannot
escape that."

Jason's responses are long and detailed, but rarely answer the
original question. It's frustrating and it's intriguing.

But in the more than six hours of our conversations, I found a few
telling details and a few understandable - but sometimes dubious -
explanations.

Jason's eyes never left mine and he smiled often. His constant stare
and some of his grins made me feel uncomfortable. When he asked if I
had Native American heritage, I was surprised by the conversation
change. I wasn't surprised that he said my ki, or life energy in
Chinese tradition, spoke to him about my great-great grandmother's
spirit. Jason made every interaction casual and personal. It made me
uneasy at times, and likely motivated, in part, the lawsuit filed
against him in August. I asked him several times why he thinks so many
people openly dislike him. Jason said he didn't know why, admitted he
never fit in and suggested greed probably had something to do with
it.

He said others were jealous of his business success, but he didn't
create MCN to become rich.

Jason said he founded MCN to help make medical marijuana a more
approachable solution after he discovered its therapeutic properties
against his chronic gut pain. He originally told me in 2009 that it
was caused by Crohn's disease, genetically passed down in his family,
but he now has said the pain is from celiac disease, the inability to
process gluten. In a Missoulian interview, he also said he has stage
four hemorrhoids. I asked him to clarify. He said he does have all
three conditions.

His vision for his personal life and the marijuana business stems from
his progress down the path to enlightenment. Since discovering
traditional Chinese medicine, Buddhism, Taoism, and medical marijuana,
Jason said he spends at least an hour each day meditating and thinking
about just himself. Not MCN. Not the upcoming state legislative
session. Only looking inward.

He mulls over memories. Memories of his father, a correctional
officer, teaching him the world's only truth: The Bible. Bizarre
stories of strange places and scary people shared by a grandfather who
retired from the CIA. Moving out when he was 17. Feeling limited by
his studies at the University of Arkansas and colleges in Austin,
Tex.; Portland, Ore.; California and somewhere else he can't quite
remember. Being homeless in Austin and serving food in the shelter as
work for his lodging. Eight years attending Narcotics Anonymous
meetings and analyzing the people around him. An ill uncle who died
just before Jason discovered the healing power of pot. A DNA test that
confirmed he has a 16-year-old son that the state of California and
his ex-wife won't let him meet. He says he meditates and then releases
the anxiety from all these experiences.

Sounds of a sitar and a vibrating phone rose from his top desk drawer.
Jason opened it, read the name of an MCN doctor and answered it.

"Hey there," he said.

I flipped the pages in my notebook back to my list of questions. Jason
chuckled loudly and swiveled his chair toward the keyboard. I crossed
out the topics we had covered while Jason talked for 15 more minutes.

"Okay, where were we?" he asked.

"I'm not sure, but we've covered everything I had listed," I
replied.

"But it was fun while it lasted," he said. Jason gave me a hug and
walked me to the door.

I RETURNED A MONTH later for one final interview with a photographer.
Steel and I sat on the sidewalk next to a silver Toyota with rusted
rims late afternoon Wednesday.

Jason was medicating with Carl DeBelly, a registered patient and
criminal defense lawyer from Billings. Jason had a hearing for a civil
lawsuit the next day and was asking Carl for advice. Carl, a tanned
and lean man in a Hawaiin shirt, rolled down the passenger-side window
so we could talk to Jason.

"This is where the true meetings take place," Jason explained. "They
take place in cars like this because you can't smoke inside."

I introduced myself to Carl as a reporter. Steel did the
same.

Silence.

So I asked an obvious question.

"Are you preparing for court tomorrow?"

Carl instantly clarified that he was not representing Jason - the
businessman always did that himself. He was just general counsel,
helping Jason prepare.

Jason smoked from his long pipe. It was almost too long to use in the
front seat of the compact Japanese import car. Insulation was missing
from the ceiling, but some scratches remained. Dark blue Velcro hung
from the cracked dashboard, it's glue dried to unbinding powder, and a
lone black cotton glove sat above the steering wheel.

A grey SUV parked in front of the Toyota and a tall, muscled man in a
grey sweatshirt with dark, slicked-back hair stepped out. He walked
toward the driver's side door and handed papers through the window.

"Jason, you've been served."

He quickly walked back to the SUV and the tail-lights flickered red as
he drove away.

Jason laughed. He compared the moment to a scene in a movie when a cop
throws court papers at a character.

"I always thought it would happen to me and it just
did."

He and Carl discussed the papers associated with the next day's court
appearance. They ignored Steel and I except once when Carl said we
reporters must be "having a heyday" and Jason said his privacy rights
are "out the window."

Steel asked if he could take some photos of them working in the car.
They said sure. He did. We sat on the curb and waited for them to finish.

Carl rolled up the window. They continued talking.

Jason took notes on two white envelopes with a black ballpoint pen. He
separated the envelopes at the seams once he ran out of room and wrote
more notes on the new space.

Steel and I waited on the sidewalk next to the car for more than hour
while the two talked and smoked four more bowls of pot, coughing and
laughing occasionally.

Jason and Carl finally decided to leave the car and go
inside.

Jason talked briefly with an employee, mentioning that the court case
is good. It stirs things up and keeps the issues fresh in people's
minds, he said. Jason said he tries to keep ready at all times, his
nails sharpened and hair cut short like in the movie Fight Club. He
said he never knows when he has to be ready to fight.

THURSDAY AFTERNOON I saw Jason fight.

His brows were furrowed. His feet were planted wide. His fist was
pressed against his lips.

He paced while Chris Lindsey, a Billings attorney, cross-examined his
client John Phillips. Phillips and two other former employees of MCN
filed the wrongful discharge lawsuit against Jason after walking out
on the job June 18. They accused Jason of asking them to falsify
applications for medical marijuana and creating a hostile work
environment. Jason responded by filing a restraining order against
them and an injunction against their new caregiver auditing service.
He said they stole his proprietary business idea.

Missoula District Court Judge Dusty Deschamps used a break in the
questioning to address Jason, who was representing himself.

"Mr. Christ, you know you don't have to stand there?" he
said.

"I have a pain in my rear," Jason said.

"Okay," the judge said, suppressing a sudden grin. "I just wanted to
let you know it's unusual to have people stand during examination by
the opposing counsel."

Jason scribbled notes in a dark green notebook.

He began his own examination of Phillips and focused on the
non-compete, non-disclosure agreement his employees sign when they are
hired. One section said they could not work for, or begin, a competing
business within 500 miles.

"Why did you take the job then if you thought it was unreasonable?"
Jason asked.

"I didn't think it would ever affect me, that it would be an issue,"
Phillips said.

"You signed a non-compete, non-disclosure agreement and didn't think
it would affect you?" Christ asked. "Did you read the part that said
'500 miles?'"

"Yes."

"Five, zero, zero miles?"

"Yes."

"And you understood it as 500 miles?"

"Yes."

Much of Jason's questioning was interrupted by Lindsey's objections
and Deschamps' legal reminders. Jason tried to argue the whole case,
instead of the motion he filed that was the subject of the hearing. He
also asked if the plaintiffs were on welfare. He asked if they planned
to get married.

"Mr. Christ, what are you trying to do here?" Deschamps
said.

One of Jason's current employees twitched and fidgeted in the witness
chair. Jason referenced his laptop and his notebook. He continued his
largely nonsensical questioning.

Lindsey scoffed, accidentally, into the microphone.

Deschamps leaned back in his swivel chair and crossed his arms for a
moment. Until Jason needed help reading a legal citation he wanted in
the record.

"Frankly Mr. Christ, the most relevant evidence I've heard so far has
come from Mr. Lindsey in his cross examination," the judge said.

Jason explained he had spent the last six weeks studying the proper
legal procedures. He didn't say it, but he implied that he hoped for
the judge to understand.

"Well then maybe you should have hired a lawyer," Deschamps said.
"There's only so much I can do to help pro se litigants."

Jason pressed both his fists against the tops of two chairs. He
scratched his nose. He paced.

The hearing ended. Jason packed his laptop, notebook and papers into a
black satchel. He avoided eye contact with me as he quickly left the
courtroom.  
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