That leaves Lee in the center of a booming state industry. The number of patients who've received a medical marijuana ID card recently crested 5,000, twice what it was a year ago. And while it's hard to determine the absolute number of active dispensaries, there are at least two dozen, along with clinics dedicated to helping people obtain marijuana ID cards, lawyers and tax attorneys hanging shingles as authorities in pot law, even an ad hoc university churning out potential new dispensary owners and employees.

"In the last year, it is my understanding that the number of dispensaries in Colorado has grown from two to about thirty," says Keith Stroup, founder of the national pot lobbying group NORML. "Without question, there are more medical marijuana dispensaries in Colorado than in any state other than California."

But the cottage industry is fraught with problems. Many doctors refuse to recommend marijuana, in part because possessing and smoking pot is still a federal offense, while a bad few could be exploiting the medical marijuana laws for financial gain. As an unregulated and gray-area industry, there are also inconsistent practices, high prices, oversized egos, safety concerns and possible black-market involvement — not to mention disregard, if not outright hostility, from law enforcement and city officials.

A major change could be on the way. On March 18, the Colorado Board of Health — the advisory board for the Colorado Department of Public Health and Environment — will consider new medical marijuana regulations.

Along with expanding Medical Marijuana Registry application requirements, the proposal would require caregivers to offer additional services to their patients besides providing them with pot. Most significant would be the reinstatement of a five-patient-per-caregiver limit the state health board put in place after Amendment 20's passage, a restriction that deterred the growth of Colorado dispensaries until it was overturned in Denver District Court in 2007.

The new rules "could have an impact on the large-scale operations," says Ron Hyman, registrar of vital statistics for the CDPHE. "I would say it probably will."

The changes could make business more difficult for Lee — but by that point, he may have already moved on. When an anonymous caller threatened to kidnap his young son several months ago, it was one frustration too many. Lee moved his family, got a German shepherd to guard his son and started thinking about selling his dispensary.

"I'm done. I don't care anymore. I've seen a dark side to this," fumes Lee. "I clinically died. I demand life to be fair!" His face turns crimson and his temper bubbles to the surface. Exasperated, he decides to let off some steam. Excusing himself for a minute, he gestures to an employee to fetch him his foot-long Technicolor pipe.

"I'm gonna go medicate."

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For a bunch of supposedly lazy stoners, Colorado's marijuana activists are a committed bunch. At 9 a.m. on a recent Saturday, hundreds of people gathered at Regis University in northwest Denver for the Colorado Marijuana Reform Seminar and Activist Boot Camp.

"I think this speaks volumes about our movement," Brian Vicente, executive director of the drug-policy reform organization Sensible Colorado, told the group.

There were nicely dressed middle-aged folks, older couples in knitted sweaters and younger guys wearing backpacks decorated with Grateful Dead patches. A full day of activities lay ahead: sessions on lobbying strategies and media relations, plus panels featuring Denver City Councilman Chris Nevitt, Colorado State Representative Paul Weissmann and Colorado ACLU Legal Director Mark Silverstein. Lunch would feature sandwiches donated by Cheba Hut, a restaurant chain offering its signature "'Toasted' Subs" in Boulder and Fort Collins.

And just so everybody knows, Vicente reminded the group, "This is a non-smoking workshop. We are here to change the laws, not break the laws."

Vicente and his colleagues have big plans for Colorado, building on years of victories. In 2005, Denver became one of the first cities in the country to have its voters "decriminalize" marijuana by making it legal for people over 21 to possess up to an ounce of it. Two years later, the city's voters agreed that law enforcement should make adult marijuana possession its lowest priority. Part of the plan today is to strategize about ways to pass similar initiatives in other Colorado communities. While an attempt to pass a state law decriminalizing up to an ounce of marijuana failed in 2006, activists here believe it's only a matter of time before such legislation passes.

"This will be the nail in the coffin of the drug war," Vicente continued. "Colorado will be seen as the place that ended the government's ninety-year prohibition of marijuana."

It all started with Amendment 20. The law allows a person suffering from certain illnesses or that individual's caregiver to possess up to two ounces of marijuana or six marijuana plants, but it doesn't specify much about the relationship between patients and caregivers. To help fill in the holes, in 2004 the CDPHE developed a five-patient maximum for caregivers, says Hyman. "We were trying to determine how many patients a caregiver could provide for that would be significant and reasonable," he explains.

But when Chief Denver District Judge Larry Naves suspended that limit in 2007 because it lacked public input, caregivers were allowed to take on as many patients — and their marijuana quotients — as they liked, even make a business out of it.

Eisenbud's heard hard-luck stories like this before. "My feeling is that a large number of doctors in Colorado are open-minded, but they've been misinformed," he says later. Much of the confusion and apprehension in the medical community stems from the fact that after Amendment 20 passed, then-attorney general Ken Salazar warned doctors that they could face federal charges if they participated in the program. It doesn't help that the Colorado Medical Society hasn't taken a stance and that the American Medical Association has said it won't recognize the medical use of marijuana without further studies. (Other prominent medical groups, such as the American College of Physicians and the British Medical Association, have endorsed the idea of medical marijuana.)

Many doctors play it safe by not dabbling in marijuana at all. At Denver Health Medical Center, physicians are allowed to write letters to help patients get registered, says hospital spokeswoman Dee Martinez. But patient Eric Easter counters that notion, saying his doctors refused to recommend him for the state registry: "They said they don't do this even if you were dying of AIDS."

"That's where we come in," says Paul Stanford, the Portland-based founder of the THC Foundation. "When we first moved into Colorado, in 2006, there were only 700 medical marijuana cards statewide." Now, three years later, the Wheat Ridge clinic sees about seventy new patients a week, says Scott Carr, the foundation's regional manager in Colorado. Carr also believes the foundation has helped the medical community warm up to medical marijuana. According to the state, more than 500 doctors have now signed for patients here, and some insurance carriers cover THC Foundation visits. "I've had HMO nurses call and ask what the best vaporizer is for patients to buy," says Carr. The clinic even has a competitor — an operation called CannaMed that opened in Denver offering similar services. CannaMed representatives did not return repeated phone calls seeking comment.

But the THC Foundation also has at least one critic: its former doctor on duty, Shawn Elke Glazer. "They're all about making as much money as possible until marijuana gets legalized," says Glazer, a former Libertarian candidate for state representative who now runs the Colorado Green Cross medical clinic in Wheat Ridge.

She believes the THC Foundation signs up as many people as possible so they'll fork over the $200 visit fee, whether they warrant medical marijuana or not. The fact that a marijuana dispensary now operates in the same building as the foundation raises red flags as well, since it could put the clinic in violation of a 2003 Supreme Court ruling saying that doctors can't assist patients in obtaining marijuana.

Stanford calls that nonsense, but Glazer isn't the only one who has questioned the foundation's motives. In 2005, the Oregon justice department began looking into the Portland-based nonprofit for potential IRS violations, such as a $100,000 reimbursement it made to Stanford. "It's an ongoing thing. It has caused a little extra scrutiny, but it hasn't caused any problems whatsoever," Stanford says.

Carr notes that the Wheat Ridge clinic only works with patients who have medical records proving they qualify for the state law and turns away those who don't. He also adamantly denies association with any dispensary, including the one that operates in the same building. The owners of that business, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, concur that there's no connection.

Sandra has no complaints about the THC Foundation, and she'll follow it when it relocates to bigger digs near Speer Boulevard and I-25. Yes, the cost of the visit on top of the $90 annual state registration fee isn't easy on her budget, especially since she spends about $300 a month on marijuana. Still, she's grateful for its existence: "Thank goodness the service is here and it's helping me. This place is safe."

In the past, she didn't feel so safe obtaining her medicine. In 2005, before the THC Foundation opened, she went to a Loveland doctor who charged her more than $400 for the service. Then, to get marijuana, she relied on an operation run out of a former Denver church called the Colorado Compassion Club. The club operated at night and had armed guards at the doors, Sandra says. "There were all these people, and I didn't feel safe at all. It was like being in a bread line."

After that, Sandra was referred to Ken Gorman, a well-known Denver pot activist and one-time write-in candidate for governor.

"I don't have my medical certification up to date," she remembers telling Gorman when she reached him by phone. "Are you sick?" he replied. "That's all I need to know."

"Here was someone I'd never met, and he was so kind to me," says Sandra, who decided to make him her caregiver. She never got a chance to follow through. That weekend, on February 17, 2007, Gorman was shot and killed in his home.

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Gorman's death, which is still unsolved, sent shockwaves through the medical marijuana community. It also created a vacuum that permanently changed the industry in Colorado.

Today there are storefront operations like Cannabis Medical, the Healing Center, North Reasonable Access Denver, Denver Patients Caregivers Cooperative and the Kind Room, and delivery services like Confidential Caregivers Unlimited and the Organic Medicine Club. Among them are settings to suit every taste, from dorm-room-like operations with mismatched thrift-store furniture and mega-sized posters of killer kind bud to dentist-office-like venues complete with cushy couches and bubbling aquariums.

Because state law doesn't explicitly sanction dispensaries, the businesses try to protect themselves by making sure that everyone involved is either a patient or a caregiver. "Most of their employees are patients themselves and are listed caregivers for some of these people," Edson says. "And most of the dispensary owners are listed as caregivers for some of the people. But the equivalent of a pharmacy just doesn't exist under the amendment." That's why dispensary owners typically consult with a cadre of lawyers, squirrel away documentation listing their patients and are reluctant to talk to the press.

"We hate to be this evasive," says Daniel Tsirlin, co-owner of Alternative Medicine of Southeast Denver, a newly opened dispensary. "Why not let people know? On the other hand, you don't want to be the first to do anything. Be the second."

That's a good approach, judging by the comments of Jeff Sweetin, special agent in charge of the Rocky Mountain field division of the Drug Enforcement Administration.

"We are investigating some dispensaries throughout this region," Sweetin says, without giving specifics. "The DEA investigates large, well-organized, well-funded organizations. Some of these dispensaries rise to that level." Sweetin is concerned that elements of the medical marijuana scene are tied up with organized crime, in part because Amendment 20 doesn't include rules about where dispensaries can buy their pot.

Early last year, authorities busted a multimillion-dollar marijuana ring involving dozens of indoor grow operations in the north metro region — and Sweetin believes there's a connection to the medical marijuana scene. "It's the largest, most organized indoor grow operation I have ever seen," he says. "I don't believe that's coincidence. I believe they purposely moved that operation to Colorado."

For the most part, however, he says the dispensaries are the problem of local and state agencies — and so far, no one seems to know exactly what to do about them.

Police officers are frustrated by trying to differentiate between illegal drug users and state-certified patients and caregivers, says Captain William Nagle of Denver's Vice and Drug Control Bureau, especially since the only time state health employees can verify certifications is during weekday business hours — not the most conducive time for drug cops. When mistaken raids have occurred, judges have sometimes demanded that law enforcement return the confiscated marijuana and paraphernalia — though police say that by doing so, they could be breaking federal law themselves.

Dispensary owners have grievances, too. While they operate without problem in Denver, other cities haven't been as welcoming. Former Aurora dispensary owner John Chipman says he was hardly up and running before he was run out of town because a city ordinance there didn't allow businesses to operate in violation of federal law. "They said they don't have pit bulls, they don't have massage parlors and they don't want any dispensaries," he says.

Others have problems with crime. Last November, Fort Collins dispensary owner James Masters told reporters that his operation had been burglarized or vandalized nine times in a month. While Masters couldn't be reached for comment, several sources claim these crimes were part of a rash of medical marijuana robberies — including, according to Carr, an attempted break-in at the THC Foundation.

Patients have their own complaints, grumbling that the current business climate is filled with grandstanding and ego clashes, slapdash practices and exorbitant prices. There's no easy way for them to shop around to find better options, however, since they're required to designate only one caregiver.

Officials, law enforcement, caregivers and patients can agree on one thing: The industry should be regulated. They say they'd like to see consistent health standards and better communication between police, government agencies and medical marijuana operations, not to mention dispensary-specific rules and licenses. But since Amendment 20 is written into the Constitution, there's no easy way to tweak the law without a vote of the people, not to mention courting antagonism from either the state's growing medical marijuana community or the federal government.

"The reason you don't have clear and positive regulatory enforcement is that a lot of entities are afraid to piss off the feds by setting up any kind of regulatory environment," says Matthew Kumin, a San Francisco attorney who consults for numerous California dispensaries. "You have something that should be happening more but isn't because of fear."

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Michael Lee runs his soil-dusted hands under the faucet at Cannabis Therapeutics. He's spent the morning planting new strains of marijuana seedlings in a grow room, preparing for his next big endeavor. He just got a call finalizing his purchase of $20,000 worth of dirt that he'll use to fill a 30-foot-by-97-foot plot of land he's obtained at an undisclosed spot along the Front Range. Eventually, he says, he'll ask United States Department of Agriculture officials to inspect the site, since his plan is to grow certified organic marijuana.

That way, even if he does sell Cannabis Therapeutics, he'll still be involved with producing medicine for it and other dispensaries. He'll also continue to operate Genovations Laboratories, the research-and-development company for marijuana-infused products that he runs out of a secure warehouse space near Cannabis Therapeutics. There, thanks to an expensive extraction machine and a full-scale chemistry lab, he's pulling THC out of plants and inserting it into tinctures, foods, maybe someday into self-replicating yeast. "I can medicate your hot dogs," he says. "I can medicate your hamburgers."

And while Lee may shift his business focus away from his dispensary, he and other owners say the proposed new regulations won't go through without a fight.

"We're probably going to rent buses. We are going to try to get 1,000 patients there," says Edson of the March 18 Colorado Board of Health hearing. "I've been dealing with these [medical marijuana] folks for ten-plus years. I don't think the attorney general's office and the health department appreciates what is about to happen."

The health department's Hyman understands that the meeting will be "energetic." The point, he says, is to include as many people as possible in the process, which is what Judge Naves said the department didn't do when he struck down the five-person-per caregiver rule in 2007.

Lee believes it will take another vote to make changes to Amendment 20, and despite his talk of selling Cannabis Therapeutics, he has many more plans. A few doors down from the dispensary, he's opened a patient activity resource center, where, amid a pool table, a massage chair and a cappuccino machine, patients meet with caregivers and receive alternative treatments for their conditions.

"It can't just be about weed," he says. "You're going to see more places like this once the bar is set, because the state will say places like this can stay open while others have to close."

And he has even bigger dreams for the day marijuana becomes legal for everyone: A gentlemen's club, ready from day one, with prices starting at $500 an ounce. After all, he says with a grin as he reaches for his bowl, "Why shouldn't I be a household name?"