A DECADE LATER, SOME STILL GRAPPLING WITH HEROIN'S EFFECTS

Third Of Three Parts

Ten years ago, heroin hit Plano like a deadly tornado, spawning
addiction and destroying lives in its path.

A spate of fatal heroin overdoses – at least 20 over three years
beginning in 1996 – sounded the alarm and thrust the assumed "safe"
suburb with its low crime rate, big houses and excellent schools into
the national spotlight.

Although a decade has passed, scores of people are still dealing with
the repercussions, the damage done in heroin's wake. Here's a brief
look at a few and how they are faring.
A recovering addict

Broke and desperate, Andrew Cox needed a few bucks for another quick fix.

Trolling a department store's parking lot for an easy mark, the
teen's eyes locked on a woman's purse in a shopping cart. Andrew
grabbed it and ran.

He landed in the Collin County Jail. That was nearly 10 years ago.

Mr. Cox, now 27 – a homeowner, restaurant manager and bass guitarist
– says he's alive to tell about it because of what happened next.

The young junkie called his dad from jail to bail him out. His
father's calm response stunned him: "I'm glad to know you're safe.
We'll get through this. ... We love you. Goodbye."

In retrospect, Mr. Cox said, his dad was smart. But while enduring
heroin withdrawal, he didn't appreciate being in that stark jail cell
for two months.

"It was the toughest thing we ever had to do," said his mom, Sandy
Cox. "He was totally out of control."

The younger Mr. Cox, the son of a schoolteacher and child
psychologist, said he grew up in a loving and supportive Plano home.
Good grades came easy. And though he had friends in various school
cliques, he never felt like he fit in or belonged.

Not until he started using drugs. Then he had an instant group of
buddies. At 13, he was smoking pot. By 17, he was shooting up heroin
every day.

Heroin gripped Mr. Cox's body in a way that nothing else had. The
excruciating pain of withdrawal, coupled with an intense fixation on
getting high, made him believe he would die without it.

"I didn't know how to stop," he said.

By the time his parents caught on, it was too late.

Early attempts at drug rehab failed. He was arrested about a month
after he turned 18, but the charges were dropped on the condition he
clean up. He went to Hazelden, an inpatient drug treatment center in
Minnesota, and went on to graduate from the University of Minnesota.

Older and wiser, Mr. Cox said, he loves his life now. The Minnesota
resident said he has no time or desire for drugs. And no interest in
returning to Plano, where old acquaintances are buried and his bad
habits began.

"It was luck or coincidence or God," he said of his redemption. "Call
it what you will."
A recreational user

Jason Bland snorted black tar heroin at a party one night in 1997.
Nine years later, he's still paying for that teenage high.

Jason, then a senior at Plano Senior High School, wound up in a coma
at Medical Center of Plano. He escaped death but awoke with brain damage.

The heroin slowed everything down, including his body's ability to
get oxygen to his brain.

Today, Mr. Bland's mind is quick. But his 6-foot-2-inch body has been
held in a wheelchair for nearly a decade.

Through will and daily arm and leg strengthening exercises, Mr. Bland
can use a walker and ride a three-wheeled reclining bicycle. He hopes
to someday walk on his own.

At 27, he has studied management information systems at Collin County
Community College, but he is still dependent on his parents. "I
regret that I'm in this chair," Mr. Bland said, his speech halting,
almost robotic, another side effect of his overdose.

Before self pity sets in, his father interjects: "Who can change that?"

"Me," Jason responds brightly.

He then kicks away his wheelchair's metal footrests.

His father leans over, grabs his son's thick waist and pulls him to a
standing position. The two men are facing each other. The younger
man's hands grip his father's shoulders for support. Then he
struggles to walk forward, putting one leaden foot in front of the
other, while his dad walks backward – a defiant slow dance against
Jason Bland's disability.
The parents

Lowell and Andrea Hill became reluctant symbols for grief-stricken
Plano parents after their son, Rob, died Aug. 20, 1997.

A popular athlete and college-bound Plano East High School graduate,
18-year-old Rob inhaled heroin while partying with friends. The Hills
sought the harshest penalties for the drug dealers.

They've since moved on, toward healing and peace.

Today, the Hills are a source of strength to others who have lost
children. They're volunteer grief counselors at their church, Christ
United Methodist in Plano. They also serve as facilitators at Journey
of Hope, comforting grieving parents who tap into the nonprofit Plano
group for support.

They say their daughter, who was away at college when Rob died,
helped pull them through.

The Tulsa, Okla., dentist gave birth 19 months ago to Kaylee, the
Hills' only grandchild. Preparing for a recent overnight stay, they
made a place for her.

The Hills converted Rob's bedroom – which had been off-limits – into
a little girl's room, complete with baby bed and stuffed animals.

Gone are his dusty trophies and team photos, the enshrined remnants
of a young man's years.

"There's no signs of Rob at all in that room," Mr. Hill said. "It's
real strange. It's just really hard to believe. ... But life goes on.
You lose one life, but a new life begins."
The detective

Detective Billy Meeks is a mountain of a man with a mop of
salt-and-pepper hair and a thick moustache. He's easy to spot and not
soon forgotten. As the lead overdose investigator for the Plano
Police Department in the mid- to late-1990s, he arrested many young
heroin users and dealers.

Many of the small-time dealers have served their prison time and been
released. Several are trying to turn their lives around. The
detective says he often runs into them at Collin Creek Mall, where he
works off duty. Some blame him for ruining their lives. Others thank
him for saving them. But all ask that he pretend that he doesn't know
them when their paths cross.

As long as they stay clean, he's happy to oblige.

Detective Meeks, part of a multiagency drug task force that tracked
heroin to the poppy fields in Mexico, said he, too, has changed. The
most personal being a divorce brought, in part, by the long hours he
spent working on those cases.

Aside from the hundreds of arrests and convictions, he sometimes
wonders what he accomplished during his five years on the drug task force.

"I was hoping to make a dent somewhere. ... But we never permanently
stopped the flow," he said. "There's still heroin out there. There's
still cocaine and meth. No matter how well we do our investigations.

"As long as you have someone who wants to use, there is going to be a
source. And there will always be users because they find it easier
than taking reality."
A dealer

Unable to change his heroin-dealing past, Jose Alberto Meza sits in a
federal prison, focused on the future and his 8-year-old daughter.

"I miss my family," he said in a recent telephone interview from an
east Arkansas penitentiary. "But I have to make the best of what I've got."

In 1999, Mr. Meza, then 21, received a 30-year sentence. Now 28, he
is the youngest of three Meza brothers serving time for their role in
a heroin and cocaine distribution ring that operated in Collin County
in the mid-1990s.

Day and night, scores of clean-cut-looking youths beat a path to a
little blue house on Plano's east side where police said Jose "Beefy"
Meza lived with one of his brothers and another dealer. Police seized
guns, drug paraphernalia and heroin at the site. Authorities dubbed
it an illicit warehouse for a business that targeted an
upper-middle-class market, gave free samples and then watched
indifferently as its addicted customers died.

The drugs Mr. Meza and 25 others sold were linked to the overdose
deaths of at least four young people with Plano ties.

Beyond admitting his own heroin addiction, Mr. Meza declined to
discuss or acknowledge any drug-trafficking involvement, citing
future appeals.

"I was partying," said Mr. Meza, who dropped out of school in ninth
grade but later earned a GED. "I was going out with friends, staying
out late at night, smoking weed. And all of the sudden, I don't
remember when, one of the guys said, 'Hey, look what I got.' And we
started doing heroin."

Mr. Meza completed a drug treatment program in prison. He teaches
basic education skills to other inmates. He's scheduled to be
released in 2027, if he stays out of trouble in prison.

"If I could do it all over again, heroin wouldn't be on my list or
agenda," he said.

Today, his child is the light of his life. He looks forward to her
visits, when they take pictures together and play hopscotch. When she
asks why he's in prison, he doesn't mention the heroin fatalities.

"I tell her it's because I did drugs," he said. "I remind her that
drugs are not good. I tell her to be strong. ... Dad's got to be away for now."