DRUG COURT A PATH OUT OF TROUBLE

DeKalb County Drug Court was a way out of jail for Tyrone Walker, but it
wasn't a free pass.

Facing a felony charge for repeated shoplifting, Walker agreed to an
intensive schedule: group treatment six hours a day, four days a week;
mandatory attendance at Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous or a
similar group on the other three days a week; job counseling once a week;
random drug tests at least once a week; and a visit to Drug Court every Friday.

Like many Drug Court offenders, he also entered a "recovery residence" with
curfews and tight rules.

"It's a heavy hand in your life," Walker said.

He was constantly in the company of counselors and legal officials:
"They're nosy, they're in your business, they're confrontational."

Not that he's complaining. He hasn't used drugs in more than seven months
and credits Drug Court with helping him turn around his life and avoid up
to 10 years in prison for felony shoplifting.

Rehabilitation-oriented drug courts are a hot trend. They made their debut
in 1989, and now there are nearly 1,200 nationwide, according to the
National Association of Drug Court Professionals.

DeKalb's court started last July; Cobb County followed in December. Hall
County's began in 2001. Fulton County's Drug Court was launched about six
years ago. The drug courts try to replace incarceration with intensive
supervision and counseling to get at the root of what led to the
participants' crime: drug addiction.

The federal government encourages the idea and offers money, but local
courts make their own decisions on what kind of offenders to accept and how
to provide their treatment.

The drug court advocacy group points to statistics showing substantial
drops in drug use while offenders are in such programs. But many of the
courts are new, and long-term studies will be needed to see how graduates
fare in the years after leaving the programs.

For now, those who launched DeKalb's Drug Court are fueled by short-term
success stories such as Walker and the emotional rewards of working in a
court where verbal combat is replaced by an all-for-one approach to get
people off drugs. The Drug Court defendant knew he was in trouble.

He had missed a group counseling session, an offense that can be a ticket
to jail even though he spent the time arranging to live in a recovery
residence run by a religious organization.

Standing before Superior Court Judge Robert J. Castellani, the man's head
dropped in relief when the judge told him his punishment would be community
service. But he wasn't out of the woods. Castellani wanted to know: Would
his most recent drug test come back from the lab clean? Yes, he said.

Then the assistant district attorney, Anne Long, weighed in. She held thumb
and forefinger an inch apart: "You were this close." Don't miss another
session, she said.

After the hearing Long hugged him.

Such a scene can be startling for Drug Court defendants who have had
experience with prosecutors doing their best to put them in jail, Long
acknowledged afterward. "It's hard for them to understand that a prosecutor
would care about them, would reach out to them," she said.

Somebody cared

Most of the offenders in Drug Court say "it's the first time somebody cared
about them," said Castellani.

The judge was instrumental in starting DeKalb's court and is its only judge.

He, the public defenders, prosecutors, police and pre-trial services
representatives work for the Drug Court in addition to their regular
duties. The only person paid to work in Drug Court is Andy Cummings, the
court administrator.

The daily drug treatment program is provided under contract by the DeKalb
Community Service Board. It costs about $19 per day for each of the 31
participants.

Participants are expected to begin paying small fees after they find jobs.
The judge notes it takes about $50 a day to keep someone in prison.

Ninety-four percent of the Drug Court participants were assessed as having
severe addictions . "We have made a conscious decision in our program to
take the difficult cases," Castellani said.

Violent offenders and drug dealers are turned down.

Some eligible offenders say no thanks to Drug Court, said Long. "Some folks
don't want that kind of intensive involvement," she said. And they don't
really plan to quit using, so random drug testing at least once a week
doesn't suit them, even if the alternative is time in jail followed by
conventional probation.

Once enrolled, 81 percent thus far have stayed in DeKalb's program.
Cummings notes that only 20 percent of crack cocaine addicts who walk into
community programs stay in treatment. Problems with family, work and
education have to be solved to prevent relapses, said Claudia Saari,
DeKalb's chief trial assistant public defender. "The jail may get them off
drugs. It does not address their underlying problems," she said.

The Drug Court team of judge, attorneys, police and court officials meets
weekly to review every participant's progress.

Finding ways for offenders to get along financially during and after
treatment is a frequent topic. Some participants received six months' rent
in recovery residences under a now-expired grant, and Cummings said other
sources are being sought to revive that option.

Participants are expected to stay in the program 18 months to two years.
They move through three phases, with treatment time reduced in exchange for
long periods of sobriety and other compliance.

First to enter

Walker and four other people this month became the first to enter Drug
Court's "Phase 3." They have been drug-free for at least six months and
satisfied court officials that they are on track to recovery.

Their counseling sessions have been trimmed to two evenings a week to allow
more time for jobs, though they still will attend a substance abuse meeting
every day they are not in Drug Court treatment.

The five have gotten to know each other intimately in the months of group
therapy. They have a lot in common. All attended college and had jobs. None
committed violent crimes. All would appear to be good candidates to conceal
their drug use, to keep it under control. It didn't work that way.

Walker, 34, is the son of two pastors. "I've been getting high since I was
8," he said. He liked the "adventure" as a child and was addicted by adulthood.

Natalie DeVergee, 44, started smoking marijuana in college. She moved on to
harder drugs while working as a flight attendant.

Cheryl D. Lewis, 36, also started using in college. She later worked in a
bank. Both DeVergee and Lewis did time in prison. Both have children.

As a mother, Lewis said, "I was there, but I wasn't there. Now I'm fully
there."

De'Borrah Cheek, 43, "stole to support my habit." Her recovery began in the
STOP program offered drug users in the DeKalb County Jail. Long, the
assistant district attorney, visited her in jail to talk about another case
and suggested Drug Court. "It was the best thing that could have happened
to me," Cheek said.

Asked how he got to Drug Court, Stanley Witcher, 40, said, "I feel it's
God's will." The group nodded and murmured agreement. He included them in
his assessment of why Drug Court has worked so far for him: "I've got
friends who helped me turn my whole life around."

In court at 8:30 a.m.

Every Friday, every Drug Court participant not yet in Phase 3 is in
Castellani's courtroom at 8:30 a.m.

At a recent session, most could easily have been mistaken for courthouse
employees in office-casual attire. The judge opened with a story about his
attempt at high-wire walking. His point was that recovering drug addicts
are a bit like rookie high-wire artists.

"You're doing things you've never done before." Heads nodded around the
courtroom. "It's new, it's different, it's a little bit intimidating," he
said. And like high-wire walkers who often carry a pole for balance, he
said, they should lean on each other, spouses and the court.

Castellani dispensed encouragement while calling up each participant for
one-on-one chats. Some were doing well, such as the woman who said, "I got
five months today" of sobriety. The group applauded.

Recovery is rockier for others. One woman wanted to move to the next phase
of the program. Not yet, the judge said. "You've got to have patience. You
don't want to do anything crazy or rash."

The judge talked a lot about jobs and pointedly told one man he wasn't
trying hard enough to find work. "It's not hard to do. I know you can do it."

The judge asked several people, "What is the most important thing in your
life right now?" The only right answer: "Recovery."

Recovery never ends

Recovery never ends, the Phase 3 participants realize. They are confident,
though. And they are positive that Drug Court is more likely to work than
prison.

Walker calls prison "Street University," where criminal skills are taught.

Witcher said his new outlook on life doesn't include crime. "Breaking the
law doesn't even pass my mind. . . . I just want to go out, go to work and
live like normal people do."