  医療カナビス |
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In 1991, some months before my 22nd birthday, I arrived on the Greek island of Corfu with my brother, Shaun,just before the start of the tourist season. Back then, I was just like your average Kiwi kid, venturing out into the wider world for the first time on the big OE: overseas experience. Shaun had been to the island the previous year and I was right into martial arts, so we soon found work as bouncers in a local tourist bar. One night after work, Shaun and I accepted a lift in the back of a ute (utility vehicle, or pickup truck) driven by one of our Greek mates and we stretched out in the back gazing at the stars. On the way, the vehicle skidded on gravel, spun out of control and hit a retaining wall, catapulting us into the dirt. Shaun escaped with a broken hand, but my neck was broken. I couldn't move or feel my limbs and supposed I was going to die there in the dust of a foreign country, on the far side of the world from home. In fact, an initial x-ray showed a compression fracture of the sixth vertebra (C6) and a further x-ray showed anterior wedging of the C6 vertebra and that the body of C7 was vertically compressed. Consequently, I am classified as a C6 tetraplegic, effectively paralysed om the neck down. I can bend one wrist and both arms at the elbow and I can lift one arm above my shoulder, but I cannot feel a thing in my body, except for phantom pain: a sharp tingling sensation that shoots up my legs; a pins and needles sensation that feels more like being scraped along gravel. This doesn't mean that I am totally dependent and I can and do drive a modified car, a classic Chevrolet that is my pride and joy, but I am confined to a wheelchair and require assistance to wash, dress and go to the toilet. With spinal injuries, the higher the break, the less support your spine is able to give your body. Since my back is broken so close to the top of my spine, I have very little trunk support and am therefore prone to falling from my wheelchair. All of which means that I require almost constant supervision from a team of registered care givers. After the accident, when I was eventually flown home via London, I spent four months in the Otara Spinal Injuries unit of Auckland Hospital. This was where I first learned from other patients about the value of cannabis as a medicine to control the muscle spasm, or spasticity that is characteristic of tetraplegia, which in my case is further complicated by a condition called autonomic hyper-reflexia. It is potentially so serious that I could suffer a stroke. The conventional treatment for hyper-reflexia relies upon two drugs, which unfortunately caused me to suffer severe side effects, including, but not limited to, raging headaches, dizziness and depression. The pills turn you into a zombie. It's like you're dragging around a corpse. However, cannabis had a dramatic effect on all my symptoms. It proved invaluable in alleviating the muscle spasms and relieved the pain from which I constantly suffer and enables me to enjoy a decent night's sleep. I find that all my various conditions are controlled by using about one gram of cannabis per day, or an ounce to two ounces per month, depending upon the method of administration. I prefer to inhale from a vaporiser, which is the cleanest and most efficient way to take my medicine. Alternatively, or in addition, I will crumble the buds into food, which is an effective way of providing physiological relief without getting too stoned to function. I do not generally use any other drugs, not even the legal social drugs, alcohol and tobacco. For me, the alternative to using cannabis is to swallow around two hundred prescription pills per month, which have such serious and inescapable side effects as an unpleasant tingling sensation in my legs, loss of appetite, shortness of breath, weakness, a lowered pain threshold, psychiatric manifestations, severe dizziness, depression, and an inability to achieve an erection. This last is particularly significant to my quality of life, since I need to achieve an erection every morning in order to properly fit the urea dome that I wear over my penis in order to control my urinary function. Since I've been using cannabis, I have ceased to use any other medication. hen I the3l doctors this, they often find it hard to believe that I can function without any prescribed medication, such as muscular relaxants, tranquillisers or painkillers, but this is the case. Cannabis enables me to enjoy a reasonable quality of life without recourse to pharmaceutical drugs, with their unacceptable side effects. However, because cannabis is illegal and its medicinal use is not officially recognised, either I must grow my own supply or buy cannabis from the black market. Since I subsist on a disability allowance, I really have no choice but to grow my own medicine. I started growing cannabis in 1993 and hadn't been going a year before I was apprehended by the authorities and routinely prosecuted for it. Two days before Christmas, at Otahuhu District Court, in South Auckland, I picked up my first conviction for cultivating cannabis, and was sentenced to six months 'supervision'. Over the intervening years, I have been convicted on numerous charges and have even been sent to prison for growing cannabis, which is the only medicine I find useful to alleviate the symptoms of my permanent medical condition. Within the legislation that prohibits cannabis in New Zealand, the Misuse of Drugs Act, 19TT5, a provision exists for individuals to be granted immunity from prosecution for using cannabis on medicinal grounds, providing that use is part of a properly controlled research study. However, no such exemption from the blanket ban on cannabis has ever been granted and no approved research has been carried out in New Zealand into the medicinal uses of cannabis. Soon after I was first prosecuted, I made an application to the Ministry of Health for permission to continue using cannabis therapeutically, but although my case appeared to meet all the criteria that the Department had set and was supported by two doctors, my application was rejected in November 1994. Following this decision, in July 1995, further submissions about the medical use of cannabis were made to the Therapeutics Manager at the Ministry of Health and my Orthopaedic Consultant, Mr O.R. Nicholson, endorsed these submissions. Mr Nicholson had been closely involved with the treatment of spinal injuries for some forty years, over which period he had experience of over one thousand cases. Until his retirement, Mr Nicholson was the pre-eminent authority on the treatment of spinal injury in New Zealand. Over the years, he had on many occasions discussed with patients the effects of their use of cannabis and a number of them had reported that they found that cannabis, properly used, left them with no significant after effects which interfered with their functioning on the following day and that their spasms were much improved. Although Mr Nicholson stated that he was opposed to the use of cannabis by patients while they were in the Spinal Unit, his extensive experience had led him to the view that "the careful use of the drug by these people in the community is appropriate". In response, the Ministry replied: "requests for approval to be supplied or to supply cannabis need only be considered by the Ministry if they are part of a properly established clinical trial and even then the approval of other control agencies must be sought and their views considered".These agencies include the National Drug Intelligence Bureau, informed by the Commissioner of Police and the Comptroller of Customs who, according to the Minister of Health in 1994,"did not support the use of cannabis for medical reasons and considered that further research was required before such a request could be considered in depth". So it was that I discovered, to my immense disappointment, that in New Zealand the considered opinion of experienced doctors on medical matters could be flatly contradicted by policemen who have no medical qualifications. In 1999, as a result of my continued use of cannabis without authorisation, I was incarcerated for twelve days in prison, which caused a furore in the press and led to questions being asked in Parliament: what was the Department of Corrections' policy with regard to the imprisonment of people with severe disabilities; why was I initially sent to a prison with inadequate facilities; what is the cost of keeping a tetraplegic person in prison? Following my release, I was invited to meet the Minister of Health to discuss how a further application for an exemption from the prohibition of cannabis should be prepared. I pointed out that I had already obtained the sup- port of doctors who had been directly involved with my case, including the country's leading specialist in spinal injury, but that their recommendations had been dismissed. I asked the Minister to supply me with a list of medical specialists whose opinion her department would be prepared to accept, but I've never been given this information. In .March 1995, again appearing at Otahuhu District Court, I received my . second conviction for cultivating and possessing cannabis and was fined. The Judge was told about my application to the Minister of Health to receive cannabis on prescription, but treated me just like any one of the other 23,000 people who were prosecuted in New Zealand that year for using cannabis. The judge warned me that I would be sentenced to a period of imprisonment if I came before the courts again and so I told the Judge that I would refuse to pay the fine and was prepared to be incarcerated over this unjust law. Subsequently, in May 1995, these fines, plus court costs, were remitted by another judge, who appeared more sympathetic to my circumstances but was nonetheless criticised in the press by supposedly 'Christian' anti-drugs campaigners. I had moved to the Coromandel from South Auckland in 1994 to get away from the local hooligans, who had been attracted by the publicity about my cannabis use and were hanging around my house, causing trouble. But I couldn't escape the Police. Over the year following the remittal of my fines, Police came through my home on three occasions and they busted me every time. The first bust came as the result of someone in Holland sending some cannabis seeds in the post. I have no idea who this person was, or how they came to hear about me, but can only assume that they saw an item about me in the media and took it upon themselves to send me some seeds and a growers' manual. Customs officers intercepted the package and visited my home, bringing officers of the Criminal Investigation Bureau with them. Of course, they found that I was growing cannabis. While awaiting trial on this charge, plus charges of possessing the seeds and 'utensils' for smoking cannabis - that's how they described the pipes that I use, lacking sufficient manual dexterity to roll cigarettes - I was busted again. On January 9, 1996, two policemen came to the house. They didn't bother to knock on the front door, but opened the gate and came round the side, where they found me tending a mature cannabis plant on the back porch. Constable C677, Andrews, said they'd come to see me in relation to a traffic offence, but he couldn't say when this offence was supposed to have occurred- The officers seized the plant and went on to search the house. Luckily - I first thought - they failed to look in the laundry room, where there was a grow light chamber containing cannabis seedlings. Constable Andrews said he knew that I was already facing charges of cultivating cannabis and so, I reckon, he'd decided to see if he could catch me at it again. Which he did- I explained to Andrews about the medicinal use of cannabis and his response was that there are alternative drugs that I could use, like morphine. Once again, a policeman with no medical qualifications was pat- ronising me by telling me which drugs I should or should not take. I asked Constable Andrews to put himself in my position and consider what he would do if faced with the choice between taking an addictive opiate or using a small amount of a natural herb? All the policeman could say was, " Well, that's your problem". Constable Andrews' having skipped the laundry room turned out to be a curse when police officers returned to the house a month later, on February 6, to seize what Andrews had left behind. This time, they had a warrant and performed a thorough search. So it was, through repeated police harassment, that I collected my third, fourth and fifth convictions for cultivating cannabis and was duly sentenced on May 5, 1996, at Waihi District Court to six months imprisonment. At the time of the trial, I developed a blood clot in my thigh. My disability is complicated by para-articular ossification, affecting my left hip. This, essentially, is bone formation in the muscle overlying the left hip joint. I had an operation to remove the bone, which was technically successful, but the hip remains very painful and the morbidity in my legs means that thromboses are liable to form. I suppose that the judge didn't want to send me to prison in case, through inadequate supervision, the thrombosis might have travelled to my lungs and Wed me. Locking up a man in wheelchair is one thing, but having him die in prison might look bad. So, the six-month prison sentence was suspended for nine months. No doubt Constable Andrews and his fellow police officers felt truly proud of themselves that day for having apprehended such a persistent criminal and seeing me punished. As if it isn't bad enough being persecuted by the police, the prohibition of cannabis means that I am offered no protection under the law from unscrupulous criminals who are attracted to cannabis because of the money they can make from selling it, indiscriminately, to recreational users. Perhaps it is not so surprising, then, that over seven years from 1993, and seven prosecutions for growing my own medicine, I have also been robbed seven times by criminals who have invaded my home in order to steal my medicinal cannabis. On May 20, 1999, at about 11pm, I lay helpless in bed at home, yelling"Get out of my house!" for fifteen or twenty minutes while two people - both of whom are known to me - ransacked my grow room. These two guys were brothers called Brendan and Casey; they were the former tenants of a man I thought was a friend, called Bill, and I used to live at his place. When at last I shouted,"I know who you are," they fled. A few weeks later, after I had told Bill about this incident, Bill went to see Brendan and Casey on June 10th to collect some money they owed him for rent arrears. The next night, Bill kidnapped me and threatened to shoot me. Bill knows my routine and so he turned up at my house around 2pm, an hour after my carer usually leaves. Bill knows Weimaraner guard dogs and has their trust, so he was able to lure Bella and Chester into a car and lock them in, preventing them om defending their master. Bill sat down at the kitchen table. He picked up my cell phone and placed it out of my reach. Bill seemed pretty mad. He said that Brendan and Casey had sent him to get me and to take me, using whatever force was necessary. He said they'd told him that I had been bad-mouthing him and, in reprisal, he was going to take me to Hastings and kill me. Bill threatened "Either way, conscious or unconscious, you are getting in that car and I am taking you back to Hastings. We have a hole already dug and we're going to throw you in it and shoot you." Bill further declared that, because his relationship often years with the mother of his children had just ended, he was so emotionally unstable that he would have no qualms about killing me and disappearing to Australia. The whole time this was happen- ing, my cell phone was ringing and Bill found it highly amusing that my girlfriend would be worrying why I couldn't get to the 'phone. Bill stood over me while I dragged myself into the car. All the time, I was scared that I might be hit at any moment. Leaving the doors of my house wide open, Bill told me that, if I did ever make it home again, I would find my two dogs dead, my house ransacked, and my classic car stolen. Bill took me to Casey's partner's house, where Brendan and Casey con- fronted me with the story they'd made up about the "lack of respect" I'd shown for Bill and how I'd been bad-mouthing him- Bill said that this lack of respect warranted execution! He became increasingly aggressive as I tried to defend myself against the lies that were being told. Bill stood over me and shouted,"Shut the fuck up, or I will kick you out of your chair and piss on you".This violence and intimidation went on for at least three hours, into the night, during which time I was prevented from leaving and continuously harassed. Finally, they took me outside and threw me into the car, almost literally. I had difficulty getting back into the car because the ground was so uneven and had to sort of haul myself into the passenger seat. I was driven around for a few hours more, expecting at any moment for Bill to pull over and execute his threat. Finally at around 1.15am, the car pulled into the diner area of a gas station and Bill removed the key and took my cell phone. He went to the diner and returned with two bags containing sausage rolls and a couple of bottles of Coke. He gave one bag and one drink to me and quipped,"I always feed my kidnap victims". That glimmer of humour made me think for the first time that perhaps Bill might not carry out his threats in full. Eventually, at between 3am and 4am on the morning after this night of terror, Bill brought me back home, where he informed me that he was going to take my Mazda Familia as payment for the so-called 'slander' I had supposedly spread about Bill's character. He also took a sleeping bag, a pair of expensive Oakley sun glasses, and stole 14 ounces from my supply of medicinal cannabis; half of all I had. A week later, on June l, 1999, acting on information received, Police again executed a search warrant on my house. Perhaps Bill and his mates, having reflected on what they'd done, decided to turn me over to the law before I got around to making a complaint against them? Whatever, the police came round again, they searched and they found six plants being grown hydroponically under artificial lighting in the wardrobe of a spare room. So that was cultivation charge number six for me. Located in the garage were a number of buckets, assorted adaptors and leads, fertilizer, plastic wall lining and other paraphernalia that the Police said was associated with the hydroponic growing of cannabis. Located in the compost heap at the rear of the section were a number of pots containing the remnants of cannabis stalks. Two of these were up to one inch in diameter. They constituted grounds for the seventh conviction for cultivating cannabis in my illustrious career as a guy in a wheelchair who happens to grow his own medicine. This time, I was determined to plead not guilty to the charges and to have my day in court, when I could argue my case before a jury. But, at Waihi District Court on July 16, I succumbed to overwhelming feelings off frustration and despair. Instead of pleading my innocence, as planned, I admitted the 'offence' of growing six plants for my personal use, but told the Judge that I refused to accept a fine, or do periodic detention, or community service. If the Judge was determined to punish me, he was going to have to send me to prison. The Judge tried to postpone sentencing, pending reports, but I insisted on being sentenced on the spot. If I was sent to prison, so be it. The way I was thinking at that time, as an innocent civilian in the War on Drugs, caught in the crossfire between the cops and the Criminals, I could not prevail against the system\ I felt beaten. I just wanted the minimum jail term possible and for it all to be over with. Judge Callander obliged by hand- ing down a sentence of 2l days. I was despatched into custody at Hamilton police station and was thrown into the van, where I fell on my side. Then I was expected to sit on a slippery bench that I was physically incapable of remaining upright upon. When I complained, I was told "You're in the Justice System now." At Hamilton, I was violently-strip searched and subjected to abuse before being locked in a cell with a hard padded bed that offered inadequate pressure relief and only two blankets. The morbidity of my limbs restricts my blood circulation and, consequently, I easily catch cold. My wheelchair wouldn't go through doors at the police station so, after bashing the chair against door frames to try and force it through, the officers finally had to take the wheels off and carry me to the cell. The following day, I was transferred to Waikeria, again in an inadequate vehicle. When it went round a corner, I fell onto my folded-up chair and the guards laughed at me. aikeria Prison was not prepared for me and the gaolers had not been given any details of my condition, but had only been told that I was in a wheelchair- During the night, while attempting to change my urine bag, I was seized by a muscle spasm and fell to the floor. I lay there for at least two hours, until around 4am, when a guard shone a light through the cell door and asked,"Are you alright?" As he turned to leave, I said,"Do I look alright?".The guard replied that some people sleep on the floor. Then he disappeared for ten minutes to get help. From Friday, when I was sentenced, until Tuesday morning, I had no access to a toilet. I wasn't willing to eat until I knew I had a commode that would enable me to defecate into a toilet, but it took four days for one to be provided. Finally, and humiliatingly, I shat my pants in front of other prisoners. After that, the gaolers suggested that they should give me a suppository so that my bowels would move while I was in bed and they would clean me up afterwards. I wasn't willing to go along with that suggestion. On Tuesday, July 21, I was transferred to Mount Eden Prison in Auckland, where I was put in the infirmary. By this time, I believe I was on the verge of a breakdown. The previous day, while being showered, I lost my temper and told one of the gaolers,"Fuck you." The Prison Warder charged me with misconduct for using abusive language. Things were little better at Mount Eden, where the gaolers continued to treat me as an animal, or some kind of deranged drug addict. They put me in a cell with a sex offender, who was supposed to help me dress and change the urea dome for which, as mentioned, I need to achieve an erection. By that time, the press had got hold of my story and my case was taken up by the Green party, whose leader came to see me in prison. After that, my living conditions improved somewhat over the final week or so that I spent in prison, being punished like a common criminal for the victimless crime of growing my own medicine. I may be disabled, but I'm not stupid. The sole reason why I persist in grow- ing cannabis, despite repeated interference from the authorities and from unscrupulous criminals, is simply because I need it. I'm not addicted to cannabis, but find that it is the only substance that can relieve the pain and suffering that my disability brings every day. A small amount of cannabis, taken every day, enables me to live a tolerably comfortable life. I am far from being the only patient to use cannabis in this way. Many, if not most people with spinal injuries do so, too. I hadn't smoked pot much before I was injured, but started using cannabis because other patients with similar injuries recommended it as being the most effective medicine for people like us. In my experience,just about everybody I've met with a similar injury uses cannabis to some extent. Obviously, they are more discreet about it, or have had less bad luck with the law. Most people just want to get on with their lives and people with spinal injuries find that cannabis enables them to do that and to enjoy a reason- able quality of life. The fact that cannabis is illegal in New Zealand simply means that they keep quiet about it and are reluctant to come forward, or fight for their right to use cannabis medicinally. Who can blame them when my campaigning activities, and the publicity generated by my repeated run- ins with the law, has led to a situation in which, not only do police officers come round and harass me at their whim, but so do heartless criminal scum, for whom stealing pot from the physically handicapped is like taking candy from a baby? I may not be stupid, but I suppose you could accuse me of naivety. When I got out of prison, Bill came to see me, apologising profusely for what had happened and swearing on his children's' lives that my arrest had nothing to do with him; it was all the fault of the other guys, Brendan and Casey. They were the wicked ones, Bill said, he had never meant any harm. He told me that he had sunk so low since his wife left him, taking their kids to New Plymouth, that he was living in his car, at the beach. It was such a convincing performance that I took pity on him and, foolishly, allowed Bill back into my life. Incapacitated as I am, I need able-bodied help to manage an indoor cannabis crop and Bill was able to help me with the plants. I told bill of my ambition to start a medical marijuana co-operative, along the lines of those operating in the United States, to supply other patients who might benefit from using cannabis and to teach them to grow their own supply- Bill agreed to help, so long as he could sell his share of the crop and so long as we moved to New Plymouth to grow it, so Bill could be near his estranged wife and children. I moved to New Plymouth in September 2000, and Bill lived with me as my registered carer. However, once the cannabis crop was ready to harvest,just before Christmas, Bill cut the whole lot down and stole it all for himself. Cursing myself for having allowed Bill to deceive me again, I set about raising another batch of hydroponic cannabis. It takes about twelve weeks, under lights, to produce .mature flowering plants As the weeks went by, I became increasingly worried that Bill was watching the house, monitoring the progress of the crop and preparing to pounce once it bore fruit. finally, I could stand it no longer. With the plants at ten weeks old, I noticed a prowler in the yard on two successive nights and become so worried that I would again be the victim of an aggressive burglary that, on the morning of Wednesday, February 21, I cut down three plants and loaded them into a black rubbish sack which I placed on the passenger seat of my other car, a white hatchback. My precious Chevvy had been damaged in a crash, through the careless driving of another person I had misguidedly trusted as a friend, and this unrelated incident no doubt contributed to my agitated state of mind. I can't say exactly where I thought I was going when I loaded my pot and my dogs into the car and hit the road. I just wanted to escape from New Plymouth and om Bill. I drove up Highway 3 toward Hamilton, as far as Te Awamutu, which is where I was pulled over by the Police, ostensibly for a vehicle licence check. The officer immediately smelled cannabis and found the three flesh and uncured plants that I had cut down that morning in the car. I estimate that these plants should have yielded 24 ounces of good quality cannabis buds, enough to supply me for a year. In fact, the police declared the dry weight of the cannabis to be 805 grams - 28 and three quarter ounces - which is not so far off my estimate (and we don't know how thoroughly the police dried and manicured the buds). A month later, on March 21, my Dad phoned in a panic. His property at Miranda in South Auckland, some 300 km north of New Plymouth, had been raided and the police had found some cannabis plants growing there. Since these plants were intended as my reserve supply, I told my Dad to say they were mine. To save my father the stress of being dragged through the courts, I accepted responsibility for these plants, even though that meant an eighth conviction for cultivating cannabis and my twelfth cannabis-related conviction, overall. Since I had twice in the past been sentenced to imprisonment for growing medicinal cannabis, I could have gone to jail again and had resigned myself to that possibility. In New Plymouth on April 24, 2001, I pleaded guilty to possessing 805 gm of herbal cannabis and cultivating 14 female cannabis plants and was duly convicted and remanded on bail for sentencing on May 10. However, that first hearing, on April 24, was complicated by my arrest upon arrival at the court on a burglary charge! This bizarre twist in the tale came about because of the on-going situation with regard to Bill whom, I had found out, was now shacked up with my former girlfriend, Lisa, at his old place Whiritoa. I drove all the way over there with a couple of friends to confront them and to get back some of the possessions that they'd taken om me, between them, over the years. Bill and Lisa weren't there and so I entered the house and made a phone call to Lisa at her work place before leaving. I admit that, but I didn't take anything. The police had searched my home and found nothing. I had subsequently moved to a house that was better adapted to my needs, with ramps and a customised bathroom. In the week before the court hearing, I received a Trespass Order banning me from Lisa's address for a period of two years. My current girlfriend, Coral, got one too, even though she's never met Lisa! Bill had been harassing Coral: he'd left a threatening message on her answering machine and sent various text messages to her mobile phone, advising her to dump me before she "gets hurt", or saying "Danuiel is evil" or asking, "why does Danuiel have a vendetta against me?" In the light of all this, I had thought this Trespass Order was just another one of Bill's paranoid stunts until I turned up at court that morning and was arrested for a burglary that was alleged to have taken place six weeks previously and five days before my Dad was busted. The Police Station in New Plymouth is directly across the road from the Court House, so no doubt it was convenient for the local cops to arrest me when they knew I would be there, but the timing of the police action seemed calculated to influence the judge and certainly confused the issue, even though it had nothing to do with it. Since the alleged burglary took place while I was on bail for cannabis possession, the Police prosecutor con- tended that I should be held in custody pending trial. He said that, since I had ten previous cannabis-related convictions, I must 'inevitably' be sentenced to a spell in prison and that, therefore, there was a chance that I could abscond. Thankfully, the judge wasn't convinced that there were grounds to refuse bail on the burglary charge and remarked that there remained a wide range of sentencing options in respect of the cannabis 'offences' to which I had confessed. On May 10, a small crowd of a dozen or fifteen supporters assembled outside the Court House in New Plymouth, carrying placards demanding that doc- tors, not policemen, should be allowed to make medical decisions; declaring that medicinal cannabis is a health issue, not a legal one; and imploring, 'Give Danuiel his Medicine.' Other choice slogans included, 'Stop Arresting Stoned People' and 'Cannabis Can Help Some People'! Protestors lined up on the pavement opposite the Police Station and waved their placards at passing cars, some of which honked their approval. TV3 news sent a reporter, as did the local Daily News, so there was quite a media buzz when I arrived to face the music. My lawyer was optimistic, saying that the pre-sentence report had been pre- pared by an exceptionally sympathetic probation officer and was one of the most exhaustive that he had ever read. It emphasised that the NZ Prison Service is not adequately equipped to cope with prisoners suffering from my level of disability, as had been demonstrated in 1999, and suggested that it would, therefore, be inhumane to sentence me to prison again. The lawyer was anxious about the Judge, though. There were two Judges sitting that day, one of whom had come up om Invercargill. As a rule of thumb, the further south you go in New Zealand, the stricter the Judges are. And you can't go much further south than Invercargill. As luck would have it, however, t was the local man who was to pass sentence upon me. My lawyer had already made extensive submissions to the court at the time of my conviction. He drew the Judge'5' attention to the content of the pre-sentencing report and asked if he was prepared to accept its recommendation of a Community Service order without further subrrssions being made. And the Judge said, quietly, "yes". There were sighs of relief all round. The Judge went into a lengthy summing up, during which I acknowledged my predicament and said that the court had "a degree of sympathy" with me. However, all cannabis use remained illegal and I was once again in breach of the law. The judge noted my previous cannabis-related convictions and said that, ordinarily, a prison sentence would be inevitable, but he said,"the realities of such a situation on someone like you cannot be ignored". In the light of the pre-sentencing report's remarks concerning the treatment I had received at the hands of the Prison Service in 1999, the Judge considered it would be inappropriate to send me to prison and, perhaps, inhumane. Other forms of punishment had their various limitations. Consequently, he decreed that I should serve two sentences of 100 hours Community Service in respect of each offence, the sentences to run concurrently. At least I am not in prison, but I am hardly bee to pursue a happy life with the assistance of cannabis. I need to consume a small quantity of cannabis every day in order to maintain a decent quality of life, but it seems that I can no longer secure my own supply. Whenever I grow a crop of cannabis, either it is seized by the Police, or it is stolen by unscrupulous thieves. In my dreams, I would like to be left alone to continue to grow my own medicine, but I realise that is no longer possible- It seems that there is some remote chance of a prescribable cannabis-based medicine being developed in the future, but I need it now. Wile my Government seems indifferent to my fate, at least this latest spot of bother with the law has helped me to make friends with sympathetic citizens in the area who can, perhaps, help me to score a bit of pot when I desperately need it. |
