DRUG COURT: IT'S TURNING DAMAGED LIVES AROUND

A bit of booze from a caretaker to calm her 3-year-old nerves foreshadowed
life for Vickie Macababbad.

By 13, she was hooked on the drugs she got from a family member. One night
that year, she blacked out and awoke with crudely carved tattoos on her
forehead and right hand. The next day, four friends scraped most of the
indigo ink off with salt, a washrag and "plenty of beer."

By 40, she was the mother of three kids who lived with other people,
selling her body to maintain her addiction and fighting off the men who
beat her.

Then, a little over a year ago, she took on a lifetime of addiction in drug
court.

"I'm not doing it just because they want," said the petite 42-year-old,
clenching a hardback of her new means of escape -- a fantasy love story.
"I'm doing it because I want my life."

King County Drug Diversion Court is among a dozen such court-ordered
treatment and supervision programs in Washington. Politicians, prosecutors
and police groups want to see a lot more people in drug courts instead of
jail, expanding the alternative to relatively small-scale dealers.

They say the state would save lives and money if tax dollars now spent
locking up such dealers were used instead to help them kick their
addictions. Drug court clients must take random drug tests, attend support
meetings and appear in court regularly, or else face sanctions such as jail.

Drug courts like King County's are the focus of legislative negotiations to
dramatically change state drug-sentencing policy. State lawmakers are
considering a proposal, similar to one that failed last year, to reduce
sentences for some dealers and funnel savings into treatment. But this
year, it has won the backing of a broad range of lobbyists and politicians,
from law-and-order Republicans to Seattle liberals.

Thurston County Superior Court Judge Richard Strophy says that for the same
amount of money it costs to lock addicts up for 45 days in prison or 65
days in county jail, government can pay for up to 18 months of
community-based treatment.

Fifteen percent of Washington's prison inmates were convicted of
non-violent drug crimes, according to the state Department of Corrections.
Each prisoner costs the state $24,700 a year.

And when addicts restore their lives, it saves countless tax dollars for
foster care, emergency room care, welfare and Medicaid, said Sarajane
Siegfriedt, director of the Association of Alcoholism and Addiction Programs.

"They probably could have saved a lot of money on me if they had paid for
treatment 20 years ago," said David Hanson, a 40-year-old auto mechanic
from West Seattle who graduated from King County's drug court in May 2000.

He's been clean since, he said, and now has his own apartment, a couple of
cars and a 2000 Suzuki Intruder 1500cc motorcycle.

By the time he was busted for heroin possession in the spring of 1999,
Hanson had spent 11 1/2 years behind bars and racked up 13 felonies -- each
time stealing money for drugs, he said. He'd started experimenting with
drugs by age 11 and graduated to intravenous drugs by 16.

"That kind of stuff intrigued me, I guess. I was one of the cool guys with
long hair and platform shoes," he said. "I was a 'What do you got?' kind of
guy."

In years past, Hanson said he reached out for treatment with little
success. He made too much money as a mechanic to be eligible for treatment
programs subsidized for the poor, he said. "But, then, I was still a junkie
so I never could put enough money away."

He even called 911 and claimed to be suicidal, hoping the hospital would
put him in a lockdown long enough to kick his habit.

Things changed for Hanson the day he was accepted into drug court. He was
told to sit in the empty jury box and watch other addicts report to the judge.

"I sat there listening to these people time after time tell these lies," he
said of excuses from "my sister stole my car" to a lost bus pass. "The
longer I sat there ... the more I realized it was the same kind of stories
that I had been telling my whole life."

Now, politicians want to expand that drug court alternative to addicts who
sell to fuel their habit.

House Bill 2338 would cut prison sentences for some drug offenses and send
the savings to local governments for programs such as drug courts. For
example, manufacturing heroin or cocaine, delivering it or possessing it
with intent to deliver typically brings first-time offenders a penalty of
21 to 27 months. Under the bill, the sentence would drop to 15 to 20 months.

The dealers targeted by the proposal aren't violent or for-profit sellers,
said King County Superior Court Judge Michael Trickey. They aren't driving
BMWs and living in fancy condos, Trickey said. Most are homeless,
unemployed and "every dime they have goes back to feed their own habit," he
said.

The state would still lock up true menaces, said King County Prosecutor
Norm Maleng. But that approach doesn't work for most addicts.

"Almost all of the people that are going through the system (on dealing
charges) are drug-addicted," Maleng recently told lawmakers. "We're
recycling these people through and not a thing is happening."

The fate of the legislation rides on two issues: money and fear of
election-year rhetoric.

Some politicians, including Democratic Gov. Gary Locke, want to siphon off
any prison cost savings to pay for other parts of state government and help
fill a budget hole of more than $1 billion. But many of the folks who
support the proposal say they'd fight a plan to simply let dealers off more
easily.

"That is the worst thing that we could do," Maleng said in one of several
legislative hearings he's attended.Also, opponents say this is no time to
get softer on drug dealers. For example, Republican Rep. Clyde Ballard of
East Wenatchee said "no tolerance" is the only responsible policy for dealers.

And some of the proposal's backers fear that lawmakers will hesitate to
vote for it -- for fear of being labeled soft on crime during an election year.

"It's not going to be easy," said Mercer Island Republican Rep. Ida
Ballasiotes. Still, "this is something that I think is going to be done.

"I know treatment works. Drug courts have shown that."

After more than a year under the supervision of the King County drug court,
Macababbad is four clean drug tests away from "graduation."

In early 2001, Macababbad was caught with a "nickel piece" of crack
cocaine, not much by hard-core users' standards. She had two options: the
intensive and tightly scripted drug court or up to 90 days in jail.

She opted for more than a year in treatment.

Drug court was no instant cure for Macababbad, who lives in transitional
housing downtown. In fact, this is the sixth time she's been in such a
treatment program. But this time it seems to be working. If her tests are
clean, she'll likely graduate in March.

"I just got tired of being in jail, being homeless, being hungry, always
stressed over the next hit."

Over the years, her forehead scar from the scraped-off tattoo has faded and
the one on her hand looks more like a swirl of veins. A new peace of mind
brightens the circles under her eyes that mark decades of the abuse and
self-abuse that sometimes made her give up on herself.

"But God didn't. He never gave up on me. He always protected me," said
Macababbad, neatly dressed for one of her regular court appearances in
purple and pink, her sandy blond shoulder-length hair pulled back in a
pastel scarf. "There were lots of times when I should have been dead."

Macababbad attends five counseling sessions a week and plans to study for a
career making bridal gowns after graduation. She said drug court has helped
her overcome decades of addiction because of its one-hour-at-a-time,
one-day-at-a time simplicity.

"Learning how to deal with a less amount of time -- instead of forever and
always. Those are some pretty big words for a crack addict like myself."

Drug court clients sacrifice substantial rights, including the right to a
speedy trial. Often, their charges are reduced to a lesser offense. If they
graduate, the charge is dismissed. If they don't, they are usually
sentenced at the long end of the range.

Most offenders offered the drug court alternative decline and go to jail
instead. Most who opt into drug court fail. In King County, 1,763
defendants have entered treatment and 386 -- or nearly 22 percent -- have
graduated. Another 423 are still in the program. The rest have been
terminated. But studies have shown that only 9 percent of graduates had new
felony charges a year after graduation -- a fraction of the rate for
offenders who decline the alternative.

Drug court is all about increments and routine. Just showing up for drug
tests is important, even if the client is using. It's about getting in the
habit of being monitored.

That's what they told drug court newcomer Randolph Moore last week.

The homeless 31-year-old methamphetamine user said he'd give the program a
shot, "because it gets me out of prison."

"They said it would be tough. It's basically a part-time job," said the
squatter in a black quilted jacket and lots of rings. But, "being homeless
is a full-time job."

Moore, who has friends who joke about being "drug court flunkies," quit
using once for 35 days while in jail. The day he got out, he said, drugs
were "the first thing I grabbed -- before a cigarette."

Asked if he expected to succeed this time, Moore laughed and rolled his
eyes. "I'm going to have faith and say I will. It's going to be difficult
when you don't have a place to live."

He does want to be clean and live in his own apartment away from friends
who use, he said leaving the courthouse one day last week.

"I want a nice, secure building where nobody knows where I live," said
Moore, who planned to buy some meth to share with his fellow squatters
later that day.