SOMETIMES GRADUATION IS A MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH

Judge Richard Thorpe starts with the good news.

In Snohomish County drug treatment court last week, participants who had
dropped off clean drug-screening tests or finished a phase of the program
basked in Thorpe's warm praise.

The Superior Court judge then moves on to not-so-good news.

In his black robe, Thorpe was all authority as he told a woman the court
was "concerned, real concerned" over evidence she was "doing some
drug-seeking." Like a firm parent, he ordered her to jail the next day.

On Thursday, there was good news, bad news and miraculous news.

Meet Cierra.

The bright-eyed baby girl was born Jan. 6 to Michele Campbell, former
methamphetamine user and brand-new graduate of drug treatment court. Cierra
was born clean, drug-free. She's living proof that the year-and-a-half-old
program works.

It works because it requires intensive outpatient treatment, attendance at
Narcotics Anonymous or Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, payment of $50 a
month, mandatory drug tests, stiff sanctions for infractions, and weekly
court appearances.

It works because participants, accused of nonviolent drug offenses, are
diverted from the criminal loop to the treatment loop. Facing felony
charges, they avoid a conviction if they successfully complete the program,
which takes at least a year.

It works, too, because of human kindness.

Peers in drug court applaud each other's successes. If someone stumbles,
encouragement is loudly voiced. Thorpe, with his inquiries about how people
are feeling and how they're doing, is no small part of that human element.

The judge treats those many would look at and call losers as people worthy
of respect.

"He's like a dad to all of us. He can be really hard. In court, we'll sit
there and think, 'Is he going to throw that person in jail?' But he wants
what's best for us," Campbell said.

Coral Christenson, Snohomish County Human Services drug court coordinator,
was in the birthing room with Campbell.

The judge, Christenson said, "had told me to call him the minute that baby
was born." She called so quickly "that when he asked how big Cierra was, I
said, 'I don't know, she hasn't been weighed yet.' "

I met Campbell, her baby, and her 15-year-old daughter, Tara, at Catholic
Community Services in Everett prior to drug court graduation. As a Herald
photographer took their picture, Campbell joked about needing "5-by-7
glossies," including "one for Judge Thorpe."

It said a lot about the gratitude this 38-year-old woman feels for a system
that gave her back a life, and a clean record. Campbell said "it's scary"
to think of where she'd been headed.

The methamphetamine use started after a divorce and continued on and off
for years, she said. Daughter Tara remembers the worst of it.

"When the house was like that, you never knew who was there, or where she
was. You never knew the people," the teen-ager said, cradling her little
sister in her arms. "Now it's weird to see her get up and actually get my
brother up and get him to school."

Mother and daughter both started to cry as Campbell told Tara, "I never
knew you felt that way."

When she was arrested by Marysville police, Campbell had her children taken
away and placed with relatives. They are now being returned to her. The
father of Cierra and 4-year-old Cody has been through drug treatment and is
still part of Campbell's life.

"We're proud of you," Christenson told Campbell the afternoon we met.

"The children are her main focus. She was always a good mother,"
Christenson said.

Mary Dissin, who worked with Campbell as a case manager at Catholic
Community Services, said some people opt for drug court "just to get by."
When she met Campbell, she knew here was a client "who was done" with drugs.

Campbell, Dissin said, called in every day for 13 months, never had a dirty
drug test and "never complained." Add to that the monumental task of
beating addiction.

"They work so hard," Christenson said. "My addiction is sugar, and I can't
kick that."

Think about it.

Thorpe has.

"I have so much respect for these people," the judge said. "Remember 'Just
Say No?' People who don't know any better think that's all an addict has to do.

"As I tell these people when they first sign up, they've got to remake
their life, find a whole new set of friends, find whole new ways of having
fun. When you consider your own daily life, what does that mean? It means
everything," Thorpe said.

In 25 years of practicing law and more than a dozen years on the bench,
"this is the most worthwhile work I have ever done," he said.

I'll get calls from folks angry about letting criminals off the hook. To
them, I'll suggest an afternoon at drug treatment court.

When Campbell now sees friends she knew before she ever touched meth, they
tell her, "It was like you had died, Michele."

This smiling redhead is alive again and blessed with a healthy new life in
Cierra.

I didn't cry at my own child's high school graduation this month, but I
cried at Michele's.