'DRUG COURT' BRINGS NEW BRAND OF JUSTICE

King County System Offers Alternative

Just outside the courtroom door, Karl slumps on a wooden bench and fidgets
while he's grilled by his public defender.

"Well, when's the last time you drank?" the P.D. demands.

Karl shifts his eyes to the floor. He mumbles. You're probably going to
jail, the lawyer says, for violating probation.

Karl's wife interjects. "He needs treatment," Christina pleads. "He doesn't
need jail."

In a few minutes, Judge Michael Trickey will decide he needs jail.
Christina, so hopeful only a moment ago, sobs as two officers apply the
cuffs and escort her husband to the door.

"What am I supposed to do now?" she wails to a stranger. "I've got four
kids and a job."

Karl raises his voice for a parting shot, ladled with sarcasm: "Thank you,
your honor. Have a nice Christmas."

The judge ignores him.

Welcome to Room 739 West at the King County Courthouse, otherwise known as
drug court. Today's docket is thinner than usual, but the faces are always
the same.

Overwhelmingly, they're the faces of the urban poor. Among them are the
beaten, the downtrodden, the homeless, the destitute. Of the 30 cases
Trickey will call this morning, only one defendant appears with a private
attorney. All others are represented by public defenders.

One man wobbles on crutches, flashing Charlie Manson eyes. Another tells
the judge he's crashing at a shelter, while another says he's still waiting
for a shelter bed.

True, the yuppie crowd uses drugs too, as do cops, school teachers,
doctors, and, for that matter, newspaper people. But they're not the ones
getting busted, not usually.

A street junkie, the kind that hang near 2nd and Pike, has a much better
chance of a police encounter and a subsequent search. That's all it takes
to go up on a charge of felony possession. Same goes for the marginally
poor who score their drugs on the street, only to learn their dealer is a cop.

King County Drug Court is relatively old, dating to 1994. Today, drug
courts are the darlings of the criminal justice system. From a handful in
the early '90s, more than 700 now operate across the country.

None of the defendants in Trickey's court are dealers, per se, although
low-level dealing can be part and parcel of an addict's life. Drug court is
meant for users; those caught with dealer quantities go through Superior Court.

Next on Trickey's docket is a young woman who strides confidently to the
bench. The judge examines results from her urine tests, reports from her
treatment program, then nods his approval.

"Looks like things are going well for you."

"They are. Thank you, judge."

She's told to report back next month. Thirty seconds, case closed.

The two cases -- Karl's and the confident woman's -- illustrate the court's
carrot-and-stick brand of justice. In theory, drug courts offer offenders
the chance to avoid prison or jail.

The biggest reward, for an addict, is the loss of a crushing habit. Another
benefit is the dismissal of the original charge.

For some, graduating from drug court can be harder than doing time.

Suppose it happened to you. You've been busted for criminal possession. You
want it off your record. First, you must qualify for the program. If you
have a violent background, or a sex crime conviction, you're out.

If you get in, you'll be required to submit urine samples, whenever you're
asked, at least twice a week in the beginning. You'll be closely observed
while you're doing this, so you can't cheat, and you'd better not be shy.
If you had other plans for this day, tough.

A single "hot" urine will get you three days in jail. Meanwhile, you'll be
giving up alcohol, and that can be detected in urine, too.

Never mind that the drug-testing industry is little regulated and
susceptible to all sorts of mischief. Poppy seeds can show up as opiates,
and hemp-food products can produce positives for marijuana. Prescription
drugs can likewise confuse the testers. But those excuses won't fly, not in
drug court.

You'll also be entering a treatment program, whether or not you think
you're addicted. The weekly regimen of random urinalyses and outpatient
therapy will take its toll on your time. And don't forget your monthly
appearance before the judge. If you're an addict who hasn't met a schedule
or deadline in years, you'll think it's impossible, and for many, it is.

If you're trying to hold down a job, good luck. You'll learn quickly that
your boss can be unsympathetic to your repeated requests for time off. Your
problem only multiplies if you've got young kids.

As time passes, though, the demands will ease up.

To graduate, you'll pass through three stages of supervision. Mess up just
once, you'll pay dearly.

Back in the courtroom, Trickey calls another case. This man is all set for
graduation. Not so fast. A recent urine test shows a positive for cocaine.
The man offers no excuse.

"I was doing really good for a year," he tells the judge. "I got curious."

Graduation is off, says the judge. Tougher still, Trickey orders the man to
move back to the first rung of the three-rung graduation ladder. Then
there's the matter of three days in jail.

When would you like to serve? asks the judge, sensitive to the upcoming
holidays.

The man commits to a date and leaves, shoulders slumped.

Soon after, another man is promoted to the final stage before graduation.
The courtroom breaks into applause, and the recovering junkie beams like a
schoolboy.

The program's difficulty is spelled out in the numbers: King County's most
recent figures, compiled last month, show that 5,343 defendants have been
referred since 1994. Of those, 1,637 have entered the program, 399 remain
active in drug court and 342 have graduated.

That's a graduation rate of less than three in 10.

"It's not designed to be easy," says Trickey. "It's designed to be rigorous."

Drug courts may be popular, but not universally so. The most cutting
criticism comes from Judge Morris Hoffman of Denver, published in the North
Carolina Law Review in June.

"We have succumbed to the lure of drug courts, to the lure of their federal
dollars, to the lure of their hope and to the lure of their popularity,"
Hoffman writes. "Drug courts themselves have become a kind of institutional
narcotic upon which the entire criminal justice system is becoming
increasingly dependent."

Of particular concern to Hoffman is the manner in which drug courts meld
prosecutor, public defender and judge into a team that tries to solve an
addict's problems.

"In their mad rush to dispose of cases, drug courts are risking the due
process rights of defendants and turning all of us -- judges, prosecutors
and public defenders -- into cogs in an out-of-control case processing
machine."

Asked to respond, Trickey says, "I don't believe we're an out-of-control
case processing machine." He points to the recidivism rate for graduates of
King County Drug Court, which shows fewer felony arrests for graduates than
for those who wash out.

But Trickey admits that he and his staff operate at full-tilt most every day.

"We couldn't take on much more," he says.

Another feature of the King County drug court is its ability to pay for
treatment and drug tests. Not all drug courts cover those costs, which can
burden a defendant with expenses of $50 a week or more.

While Hoffman's dissent deplores the lack of evidence for drug courts'
success, an analysis in Delaware makes a strong counter-argument:

"An individual who has an out-of-control addiction commits an average of 63
crimes a year," writes Richard Gebelein of the National Institute of Justice.

"Assuming this could be reduced to 10 for someone who is in or has
completed treatment, and multiplying it by the 200 offenders in Delaware .
. . who comply with all requirements, a single drug court may prevent more
than 10,000 crimes each year."

Of course, that assumes that every drug court client has a runaway habit,
and that this habit results yearly in 63 crimes. Most of those crimes would
be prostitution, shoplifting or minor theft, the usual repertoire for a
street addict.

Another irony is the clout that courts wield in finding space in treatment
programs. Many street addicts profess strong desire to get help, but can't
find it. Those who commit a crime become eligible for help through the drug
court.

Maybe the best way to judge the court's efficacy is to ask the graduates.
On any graduation day, when they receive their diplomas and exchange hugs
and tears with the court staffs, many former addicts express unrestrained
thanks.

"Drug court has not been a negative experience for me," one woman told
Trickey last week. "Drug court kept me clean for the whole year of 2000,
and I am very grateful."

(SIDEBAR)

Since 1994, the King County Drug Court has:

Had 5,343 defendants referred to it.

Of those, 1,637 have entered treatment.

399 remain active in drug court; 342 have graduated.