EASY TARGETS: THE DRUG WAR TEARS THROUGH A SMALL TEXAS TOWN

In the early morning hours of July 23, 1999, Swisher County police raided
trailers and public housing units here, arresting residents accused of
selling cocaine to an undercover mole. The culmination of an 18-month
sting operation in conjunction with the Panhandle Narcotics Task Force,
police arrested 43 people, 40 of whom were black -- more than 10 percent of
the town's black community.

Local newspapers quickly set about congratulating the operation. One
editorial excoriated the "scumbag dealers" and likened them to a "cancer"
deserving a "major dose of chemotherapy behind bars." The undercover police
officer was later named "Lawman of the Year" by the Texas Department of
Public Safety.

But the newspapers and accolades consistently failed to mention that no
drugs, weapons nor assets were seized during the surprise morning
raid. Indeed, residents insist they never saw evidence of the expensive
type of drugs poor locals were accused and convicted of selling. In the
nearly two years since the bust, the racial disparity of the arrests and
the dubious testimony of the undercover agent has led to national press
attention, lawsuits from the NAACP and ACLU and an investigation by the
Justice Department.

Tulia is a scrappy town of 5,000 surrounded by fields of cotton, located
between Lubbock and Amarillo. Faced with few opportunities besides manual
labor jobs at the local livestock auctioning barn, the mostly black, idle
and disillusioned kids who couldn't afford to escape after graduation
became easy fodder for Texas police departments earning their bread and
butter fighting the drug war.

This type of operation is common throughout the state. Narcotics task
forces depend on high body counts to keep the federal funds flowing.
Devastated by a shrinking rural economy throughout this part of the
country, blacks are those least able to seek their fortunes elsewhere.
Hence, if a task force wants convictions, its best bet is to focus its
investigations across the tracks. Statistics compiled by the Justice Policy
Institute show that in Texas blacks are incarcerated at a rate seven times
higher than whites. This is nearly 63 percent higher than the national
average. Robertson County District Attorney John Paschall, former head of
the South Central Texas Task Force, says the number of black men arrested
is so high because "they're the easiest ones to get because they're selling
on the street."

But Gary Buchanan, police chief of the east Texas town of Brenham and
director of the Independence Narcotics Task Force, says task forces have
lost sight of their goal and are more focused on catching easy targets
rather than stemming the flow of drugs. "It's a numbers game," Buchanan
says. "We're fighting the same battles as 10 years ago. Heroin is coming
back. LSD is back. You don't have to show any impact, just numbers."

In Tulia, blacks experienced firsthand the dubious methods available to
task forces that wish to artificially boost their statistics. The black
community knew something had gone awry when they learned people were being
indicted for selling powder cocaine. Police charged them with delivering
"eight balls" -- an eighth of an ounce of cocaine, which at $ 180 a pop is
significantly more expensive than the small bags of marijuana and cheap
rocks of crack cocaine usually found in this depressed rural
community. "Ain't nobody got powder in this town," says Sam Barrow, a
Tulia resident who had four relatives caught in the sting. "A $ 10 rock,
OK. But they were accusing people of carrying an eight ball in their
pockets, and you know just the other day he tried to get $ 5 off of you for
gas."

Most of those arrested agreed to plea bargains with prosecutors. For those
suspects whose cases went to trial, part-time cotton farmer and full-time
civil libertarian Gary Gardner was skeptical they could receive a fair
hearing in Tulia, because he felt the city had an interest in whipping up
drug hysteria. He urged the defendants to request a change of venue. The
requests were denied for all but two white defendants, and the court
quickly began dispensing its own version of justice -- multiple life
sentences for several deliveries of cocaine and 20 years for a single
delivery with no prior convictions. Additional felony charges were tacked
onto the cases because the agent claimed the deals had occurred in a public
park. In all, 22 of those arrested were sent to prison.

The stiff sentences were made possible by a series of laws then Gov. George
W. Bush signed in 1997 as part of his "get tough on crime" platform. A
first-offense cocaine charge, which had previously been a misdemeanor
punished with mandatory probation, was upgraded to a felony. He also
created "drug-free zones" around schools and parks, in which any drug
activity was automatically a felony charge.

Even more disturbing was the incredibly low standard of evidence needed for
a conviction. All of the indictments centered around the uncorroborated
testimony of Tom Coleman, the undercover agent planted by the Panhandle
Regional Task Force. The sole witness against the defendants, Coleman's
police reports never amounted to more than a couple of paragraphs, and he
frequently presented conflicting testimony while on the stand.

A probing defense attorney, Paul Holloway, discovered Coleman had been
described as a "compulsive liar" in court documents and had been arrested
during the sting operation for a string of unpaid debts in other
counties. He also discovered that Coleman's former boss, Cochran County
Sheriff Ken Burke, had filed a complaint with the Texas Commission of Law
Enforcement (TCLE), the state agency that licenses police officers, in
which he wrote: "Mr. Coleman should not be in law enforcement." The judge
denied the defense motion to introduce any of the evidence about Coleman's
past.

Further impugning Coleman's credibility was the case of Billy Wafer, who
was arrested and charged with arranging the delivery of 2.3 grams of
crack. Wafer was more than nine years into a 10-year probation, and faced
life in prison once charges of breaking probation and delivering drugs near
a "drug-free zone" were added. Yet timecards and his boss' testimony
proved Wafer was at work when the alleged sale occurred, so the charges
were dropped. But not before he spent two weeks in jail, lost his job and
was turned down for a home loan.

Holloway charges that local law enforcement officials worked in concert to
manufacture charges against Tulia's mostly indigent black community. Some
defendants did admit selling crack to Coleman, but Holloway speculates that
the cocaine found in the reported deliveries came from a single source that
Coleman himself spliced and mixed with the crack to upgrade the
charges. Holloway believes Coleman was charging the task force for
purchases of cocaine but buying crack. A chemist found that the amount of
cocaine in many of these baggies was not even enough to get high on and was
of poor quality. Yet due to a quirk in Texas drug law, an eight ball has
to contain only a trace of cocaine for the entire weight to be registered
as a cocaine delivery. The judge refused to provide funds for an outside
investigator and denied the request to run laboratory tests that could
prove Holloway's theories.

What most upsets Holloway is that the judge's obstinacy and the jury's
willingness to overlook Coleman's often conflicting testimony is perfectly
legal according to Texas judicial procedure. "It's a joke to do criminal
defense here," Holloway says. "If the jury wants to sit and watch a cop
lie, they can. These were marginal people on the stand and [the jury] just
decided to believe the cop."

William Harrell, head of the Texas ACLU, agrees and blames the Tulia
debacle on Texas' poor record of indigent defense. Texas, he says, is at
the "bottom of the barrel" when it comes to defending poor people. Although
statewide statistics are not available, a 1999 Houston Chronicle study of
1,800 first-offense cocaine charges found that 21 percent of defendants who
hired attorneys were sentenced to jail or prison time compared to 53
percent of defendants with court-appointed attorneys.

Judges in Texas are elected in a culture where "getting tough on crime"
enjoys bipartisan support and constitutional niceties are often ignored,
Harrell says. These same judges appoint defense attorneys and determine
their salaries. Critics say the current method of appointing lawyers
inherently discourages defense attorneys from mounting a zealous defense
and pressures lawyers to seek plea bargains. "It's an unconstitutional
system of criminal defense," Harrell says.

Holloway, who spent nearly 1,000 hours researching his defense, was
authorized to receive payment for only the first 10 hours he spent on a
case. "They didn't want me to defend this case," says Holloway, who ended
up accepting a plea bargain for his clients. "It was like making a deal
with the devil, I knew we couldn't win."

Yet as a result of the racial imbalance of the string's victims and shoddy
police work presented to the courts, the NAACP and the ACLU filed a lawsuit
and a complaint with the Justice Department, claiming that Coleman
conspired with the sheriff and the district attorney to deny local blacks
their civil rights. Prisoners report that FBI agents have interviewed them
about Coleman's behavior during the operation. County officials and
Coleman's supervisors refused to comment on the charges.

Sadly, this small town is not alone. Harrell says the ACLU is currently
investigating six "Tulias" around the state. "There's a pattern of
narcotics task forces operating on DEA funding, hiring the most amazingly
unscrupulous informants to hunt down suspects, 90 percent of whom end up
being black or Latino."

To protect Texans against the drug war, the ACLU and the NAACP have
proposed a series of laws they're calling the "Tulia Proposals," which
would require corroboration for testimony of undercover officers, limit the
authority of judges to exclude evidence pertaining to a person's innocence
and provide public access to TCLE records.

"Our system rests on the premise that the gatekeeper of evidence will act
justly," Holloway says. "Coleman could steamroll anyone because in a
swearing match between a cop and a citizen, the cop wins. From my
perspective it's a really scary world."