LET'S HEAR IT FOR THE EX-DRUG OFFENDERS!

Success In This Court Program Earns Applause

It was Crystal's first time in a prison.

"I looked around," she remembered, "and I just started crying, saying, 'How
the hell did you end up here?' "

She ended up there, in January 1998, because she had sold cocaine to an
undercover cop.

Crystal, who didn't want her last name used, had become a sad
contradiction: a hard-working woman with a master's degree and a
middle-class background who was addicted to crack.

"I knew I was in trouble then," she said of that first day in jail. "I knew
it was over then."

Because Crystal was a first-time, nonviolent drug offender, she was
eligible for a court-sponsored drug rehabilitation program. It saved her
from jail.

Officially the program is called Philadelphia Treatment Court. Unofficially
it's "Clapping Court" - the only place in the Criminal Justice Center that
witnesses regular personal victories, and rewards them with heart-warming
applause.

Treatment Court, presided over by Municipal Court President Judge Louis J.
Presenza, began in 1997. Modeled after the nation's first drug court in
Miami, Philadelphia's court now serves as a mentor program for other
treatment courts in the United States.

The United States now has more than 750 operating drug courts. The programs
have been so successful in rehabilitating drug offenders that another
400-500 drug courts are being planned, Presenza said.

To enter Philadelphia Treatment Court, nonviolent, first-time offenders
must waive their rights and plead guilty or no-contest to their crimes.
They must participate in the drug and alcohol rehabilitation ordered for
them by the court - either in-patient or out-patient - for at least one
year, attend required court appearances and submit to frequent drug tests.

Completion of the program results in dismissal of the drug charges. Those
who stay drug- and conviction-free for one year after graduation have their
records expunged.

Those who flunk go to jail.

Since its debut, 904 offenders have been enrolled in the program, said
coordinator Linda DeGregorio: 405 of those have completed the program's
four phases and 308 are going through them; 78 have been unsuccessful; 30
have withdrawn for reasons such as mental-health problems or legal issues
and their cases have been moved to a trial list, and 83 are fugitives.

There are no studies comparing crime rates of defendants who have completed
Philadelphia Treatment Court and their counterparts who did not
participate. But one study of recidivism among participants of another city
drug program, the Philadelphia Forensic Intensive Recovery Program (FIR),
showed the benefit of rehab.

Of 474 inmates paroled from prison into the FIR program in 1995, only 11.8
percent were convicted of a new crime. That figure represented a 66 percent
decrease in convictions among addicts with at least six months of drug and
alcohol treatment.

Of the drug addicts who did not receive any treatment, 34.7 percent were
convicted of new crimes after their release from prison.

In Treatment Court, only 5 percent have gone on to commit new crimes.

A caring courtroom Philadelphia's Criminal Justice Center contains 63
courtrooms. Each serves as a harsh, often unyielding stage for the city's
most horrifying tales.

Except courtroom 1006.

In 1006, there is an uncommon tenderness. The only harshness comes from
Presenza, who dishes it out to "clients" who use drugs or fail to attend
counseling sessions. But his punishments - "sanctions" ranging from a
written essay to a weekend in jail - are administered in the way a loving
father doles out a grounding to an adolescent.

And they're often similarly received: with excuses, grumbling and sarcasm.
But when it's over, most of Presenza's "children" grow up.

"I thank Judge Presenza for staying on my back," one successful participant
said during his graduation speech last week. "You know, he really got me
through the program, sanctioned me a couple times and taught me a couple
lessons."

One graduate, Paul Lassiter, did not make it to last week's ceremony.
Lassiter, who the judge said was doing well in the program, was shot to
death near his home in South Philadelphia in early December. His aunt, Mary
Faustino, attended graduation in his place.

Presenza isn't the only one teaching lessons in 1006. During each court
appearance, defendants are encouraged and scolded by public defender Erica
Bartlett, Assistant District Attorney Stacey Conroy, members of the court
staff and case managers.

When Crystal first came to room 1006, she didn't buy the whole atmosphere.

"At first, I looked around and I felt that, well, how real is this? People
are just coming here because they have to. Is this really going to help
people?" she said. "As I sat and just listened, I realized the statistics
are going to be the same as when I was in rehab. Some people are going to
do it and some people aren't."

She still wasn't crazy about Presenza.

"At first, I was terrified of Judge Presenza," she said. "He reminded me of
Donald Sutherland. In a way, he reminded me of my dad, too: real stern,
really military, and his eyes were, like, piercing. At first, I was
actually terrified. I actually stuttered in front of him.

"Now, I just love him."

At first, skepticism The program was a hard sell even for lawyers.

Public defender Mary DeFusco, who helped plan and implement Treatment
Court, was dubious about the concept when she first witnessed it during a
visit to Miami's drug court.

She remembered watching some of Miami's participants shuffle into the
courtroom in shackles - a chain gang of drug addicts who had waived their
rights in order to enter the program. She listened in horror as the Florida
judge told the defendants that he would punish their failures with "two
weeks in my hotel," jail.

"I'm thinking, where's the defense attorney?" DeFusco recalled.

Then, one of the women in the program stood up and told the judge she
wanted to give him a present.

"I'm thinking, what kind of court is this where they give judges presents?"
DeFusco said. "Then, [the woman] starts singing, 'You Can't Hurry God,' and
the guys in the jury box are singing harmony. Everybody in the room, all
these lawyers and judges from all over the country, were crying."

"I thought, man, if I could get that for my clients, I'd be willing to put
up with a lot."

She's gotten that.

"I love Treatment Court," she said. "It's probably one of the few places in
the system that I can say that."

George Mosee, deputy district attorney for the narcotics division, said the
court reduces drug-related crime.

"We know that the only way to win the so-called war on drugs is to reduce
demand," said Mosee, who served on the court's planning committee and was
its first DA. "It reduces the demand of the addicts who participate in the
program."

The most remarkable aspect of the court, DeFusco said, is how tenderly,
almost lovingly, defendants are treated.

"It's the emphasis on the humanity of the individual," she said. "Everybody
in that room can sense that, the judge wants me to succeed. Even the
prosecutor wants me to succeed."

Success is not cheap though.

The annual cost to run treatment court is about $2.5 million, said Barry
Savitz, assistant health commissioner. Finding money to treat offenders
with and without medical insurance is a constant struggle.

Most of the court's funding comes from the Philadelphia Behavioral Health
System, formerly part of the city's health department. The court, which has
contracts with 25 health-care providers, also receives yearly funding from
a local law-enforcement block grant.

The program is expensive but still cheaper than jail, Savitz said.

Treatment Court costs $4,500 per client. The cost to house that defendant
in a Philadelphia prison is $28,500 a year. Most defendants enrolled in
Treatment Court face sentences of 11 1/2-23 months in prison.

Raymond Harris, a former football star at Frankford High School and
offensive lineman at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, was headed for
prison when he was diverted into Treatment Court a year ago.

During his graduation last week, Harris, 24, autographed the back of his
diploma and gave it to one of the men who helped him get it: former drug
counselor Eric Harris. The two are not related.

"This plaque means a lot to me and it means a lot for me, personally," said
Raymond Harris, who is heading back to Indiana University. "I've got big
dreams. Big plans. Big plans." *