A HOPE IN HELL

With heroin abuse among the young at an all-time peak, two new drug
courts in Britain are tackling the crisis with an alternative to
prison. Robert Chesshyre investigates.

On a mid-winter's day when almost no light squeezes through the high
window above the magistrates' bench, a young man in a voluminous black
anorak, Adidas sweat pants and trainers stands in the well of the
court to answer to a charge that he threw a brick through a window of
his parents' home. He is pasty and thin, and his hair looks as if it
has been cut in the dark. William Lloyd, 21, is a heroin addict, and
it was his parents who turned him in. Out of misplaced loyalty, his
family had subbed his habit. Driven to despair, they cut off his
funds. In the grip of withdrawal, what addicts call the "rattle",
their son attacked their house. His situation is dire. Already on
probation for possession of heroin, in many courts he might well have
been on his way to jail. But this is a drug court in Pontefract, West
Yorkshire - one of the first in Britain - where imaginative American
approaches to addiction are being pioneered. The atmosphere is
relaxed, Prosecutor, defence lawyer, probation officer and JP act as a
team to address offenders' addictions. The bench has the option to
substitute a court-supervised regime of detoxification and
rehabilitation for the customary range of punishments. But
magistrates retain their full powers. They can decide there and then
that a particular offender is not suitable for the special order, and
later, if they conclude that a defendant is abusing the opportunity
offered by the drug court, they can resentence him - and that may mean
jail. William, his lawyer tells the court, is greatly distressed by
his addiction, and on arrest asked repeatedly for help; his parents
also want him to have professional assistance. However, his response
to his previous probation order was "chaotic". He lived entirely to
get his next fix. His local community, a former pit village, is awash
with heroin, and he found it difficult to break with his drug-taking
friends. An addict for two years, he tried detox before, but was
unable to handle the withdrawal symptoms. The JPs read a report, go
into a brief huddle, and ask William to stand. He is, they decide,
suitable for the innovative programme. The chairman tells him, "You
have your life ahead of you, and you are clearly ashamed of what you
did. We can give you help, but in the end it comes down to you. This
is not a soft option," he warns. "You have to comply with all the
stringent requirements. If you keep coming back, I'm sure you know
where you'll end up. Do you understand?" "Yes," replies William, and
he leaves court to start a year-long regime designed to restore him to
mainstream life - drug - and crime-free, if possible employed and
ideally, happy and fulfilled for the first time in years.

It was Keith Hellawell, now the national drugs tsar and then the chief
constable of West Yorkshire police, who four years ago decided to
tackle Britain's accelerating drugs problem in new ways. Up to UKP1.3
billion worth of property is stolen annually by heroin addicts, and on
Hellawell's own patch of West Yorkshire, probation officers report
that more than 60 per cent of their clients' crimes are drug related.
The closure of the coalmines devastated local communities, creating a
cadre of poorly educated, unemployed young men vulnerable to
addiction. Once they might have gone down the pit, where they would
have earned a good wage and had status. Now prospects are bleak.
Spotting a potential market, heroin dealers moved in. West Yorkshire
is not unique. According to a Home Office report last year, heroin
addiction has spread to places that previously had no problem. The
number of seizures of heroin has climbed dramatically in the Nineties;
between 1995 and 1996 alone they rose from 6,500 to 9,800, a jump of
50 per cent. The report considered Britain to be in the grip of an
"epidemic". Heroin street prices fluctuate greatly. When I was in
West Yorkshire, a quarter of a gram (enough for one fix for most
addicts) was selling for UKP 10 - so cheap, I was told by one
magistrate, that people were coming from London to buy it. (The
ultimate source is South-East Asian heroin arriving via Eastern
Europe.) Most offenders are criminals only because they are addicts.
Yet except for a few prison-based programmes such as RAPt (the
Rehabilitation for Addicted Prisoners Trust), punishments seldom
address their addiction. Hellawell sought inspiration in Miami, where
since 1989 a charismatic former cop, Judge Stanley Goldstein, has
presided over one of the first US drug courts. The atmosphere is part
revivalist, part autocratic, part caring and sharing. A British
visitor described to me what happens. "Give me your boy for a year"
Goldstein tells a father who has come to court with his addict son,
"and you won't believe how proud you'll be of him." An ex-addict, who
once lived rough, but now has an apartment, a job and a girlfriend, is
paraded before other offenders as a shining example of what is
possible. Everyone applauds the young man. By contrast, an offender
who tested positive is packed off to "my hotel" - the county jail -
for a week's reflection and cold turkey. Goldstein bullies, flatters,
exhorts, threatens, encourages, punishes, rewards, to keep his
vulnerable flock on the straight and narrow. It works. Only three per
cent of offenders dealt with by his court are rearrested within a
year, compared to 30 per cent of similar drug defendants tried by
ordinary Miami courts. And the cash savings are dramatic - it costs
seven times more to jail an addict than to treat him in the community.
Now there are more than 400 drug courts in the US, with more being
set up all the time. In 1996, Hellawell invited Goldstein to Britain,
where his enthusiasm lit a fuse. The next year, professionals
concerned with addiction visited Miami. L Barker, assistant director
of public health in Wakefield, said, "I was moved to tears by
Goldstein's passion. He has an ego the size of the planet, but he
cares for people. He makes you believe you can do something."
Magistrates can already require drug addicts to undergo treatment as
part of probation orders. Where US courts differ is that it is the
judges who have ultimate responsibility for offenders throughout the
period of rehabilitation. Hellawell was determined tort the American
principle of court-supervised sentences. The police authority stumped
up UKP 200,000 and some firms, including Marks & Spencer, chipped in.
A new agency, the Substance Misuse Treatment Enforcement Programme
(STEP), was created to administer the court orders. Police, drug
workers and others joined forces. Magistrates were specially trained.
The first drug courts - in the neighbouring towns of Wakefield and
Pontefract - opened last summer. To qualify to appear before a drug
court, an addict must be over 18 and live locally. His crime must not
be grave enough for trial at the Crown Court, nor so minor that it
would merit a lesser punishment than probation. The addiction may be
to any illegal drug, but in practice it is most often heroin. While
US courts deal only with those convicted of drug offences, here
offenders whose crimes are drug-related are included. STEP prepares a
report for the JPs. If they are persuaded that supervised
rehabilitation is the right sentence, a probation order (usually 12
months) is imposed requiring the offender to follow the STEP
programme. During the detox stage, this means regular urine testing,
weekly meetings with a drug worker and attendance at a clinic. If
addicts don't find other ways to fill the time they once devoted to
drugs, the chances of relapse are high. So, after detox they will be
offered behavioural therapy and advice on education, training and
jobs. They must return to court each month for a review. An offender
who has done well will be praised; one who has lapsed will be warned,
or in extreme cases, resentenced - which could mean jail. Such an
outcome would mean that the attempt to rehabilitate the addict had
failed. STEP workers and the court therefore do everything possible
to keep an offender on the scheme. Occasional slips are inevitable
and are tolerated as long as the addict retains his commitment to come
off drugs.

On a bitter night on an estate near Castleford, front doors swing open
on broken hinges, letting the dank mist seep in; the furniture is
squalid; children roam unsupervised, while adults cluster round the
television; tiny front gardens are piled with rubbish and one has to
be careful where one treads, as many are deep in dog mess. I go to
see Pete, 22, whom I met in court; a suspicious man answers the door,
denying Pete is in - clearly a routine reaction to any visit from a
stranger. Hearing my voice, Pete appears. The ground outside the
house is blackened where joy-riders torched a car; soft-drinks cans
and plastic bags are entwined in the lank grass in the garden. Pete's
parents split when he was four. His stepfather ignored him. He got
four GCSEs, but worked only briefly. He was on cannabis at 14 and
heroin at 17. "More and more people were going on," he says. "I
tried it, liked it and was hooked within a month. I thought this has
to stop, but I couldn't get off it." He was kicked out of home for
stealing, and began shoplifting and burglary. Arrest held no fears:
"The only thing in your head is getting the next fix. When you're
doing a burglary your mind is a blank." Eventually he was jailed for
18 months. He came out of prison free of drugs And with a building
qualification. His girlfriend "fell pregnant", but a month before the
child was born, he "drifted back on to gear. "The people I grew up
with were all on it. If I wanted to keep off, I had to stay home and
boredom got to me. It was me sat there, the odd one out. I thought
one smoke won't hurt me." Soon he was injecting. His girlfriend left
him and he has never seen his seven-month-old child. He was arrested
for theft and possession of drugs. When we meet, he is waiting to be
sentenced, hoping to be put on the STEP programme. I ask why he
thinks he will succeed in getting off heroin this time. "my
girlfriend will have me back when I'm clean. I grew up without my
father, and I don't want my daughter to do the same." He thinks he
can get a building job. "I'll be at work or at home. I won't have
time to get back on." He clutches his lighter so tight that his
knuckles show white. Addicts display remarkable energy and ingenuity
in feeding their habits. Yet in other matters they are listless and
capable. A JP said, "If they only applied their undoubted
intelligence to something positive, what a contribution they might
make." But they fail to attend court; they miss STEP appointments;
they don't turn up for urine tests. Excuses are often lame: a
friend's car wouldn't start; they had no money for a bus. While the
Miami court gets through 60 cases a morning, there are huge gaps at
Pontefract, most of them caused by offenders' failure to turn up. I
waited with a STEP worker who was expecting three "Clients" for
interview; not one showed. Judge Goldstein would have locked them up
for a week to teach them a short, sharp lesson. JPs in Britain have
no such powers; STEP workers must coax and exhort to keep backsliders
on board. It can be draining. John, 28, is teetering on the brink.
He is in a vile mood. He has failed a urine test and has been denied
a prescription for methadone, a heroin substitute used in the process
of detoxification. He is shouting and swearing, threatening the STEP
receptionist. "I'll kill that muppet," His life is in chaos, and he
is convinced that a few days supply of methadone will solve his
problems. STEP worker Diane Horsfield takes him into an office at
STEP's Wakefield HQ. "You've consistently used while you've been on
methadone. It's a lethal combination. You come on STEP so you didn't
go to prison, didn't you?" "Yes." "You've messed about for years.
This is an enforcement agency, not a soft option. We're not doing it
to piss you about. It's for your own safety." The confrontation is
heated, with Diane rapping the table and John alternating between
bluster and despair. He admits to "pinning up" (injecting) to make
each wrap last longer. Like many addicts, he finds heroin no longer
gives him a buzz, it simply stops the rattle. Diane says, "I'm really
sorry things have turned out this way. You think that methadone will
solve things. It won't. It isn't a magic wand. If I had one,
believe me, John, I'd use it. I've still got faith in you, but it's
got to come from you. You could have seen this coming, you're
streetwise enough." John's problems are indeed beyond the power of
methadone. He owes his dealer UKP 500. In revenge, the dealer
smashed up his house and threatened his mother. John has dyed his
hair in the hope of evaded his pursuers. He is in the grips of severe
withdrawal, yawning, shivering, shaking, and slurring words. His
father left home when he was a year old; he was on cannabis at 15 and
has not worked since he was 17. He has been to prison three times,
but - until now - has stayed clear of trouble for seven years. I go
home with him to a rotting pebbledashed estate. He tells me that
junkies occupy every fifth house. He likes music and once had a
guitar, but this - along with anything else sellable except a
television on which the picture is a ghostly purple - has been flogged
to buy heroin. When I ask what the longest period is that he has been
heroin-free, his girlfriend butts in: "one hour." There is a rap on
the window. Terrified that the gang has returned, John crouches on
the floor while his girlfriend investigates. It proves to be a neighbour.

The house in which Dave, 18, has a flat is also boarded. The garden
is strewn with rubbish: shattered perspex sheeting, a Calor gas
cylinder, and a milk crate. Inside, the kitchen window sill is lined
with cereal packets, and the only furniture is a bed. Dave left home
at 13 and was found living in an abandoned car and taken into care. I
sit while he is interviewed by Caterina Fagg, a STEP manager and
probation officer. He was on heroin for six years, has been to jail,
and twice been on rehab programmes. He can't remember all his
convictions, but was first caught shoplifting at 12. After prison he
was clean for a month. "I got bored. There was nowt to do, so I
turned back to it." He lives off cereal, with the occasional Chinese
take-away. His mother moved south and he wants to join her, but is
unsure whether she will have him. He realises that the chances of
staying clear of drugs in his old familiar haunts are slim. "All my
mates are using." Catarina praises him: "You've done well. You came
on time and stayed for an hour." Praise is rare in most addicts'
lives. Across the corridor, another STEP worker, Pam Brewster, is
congratulating Elaine, whose waif-like face framed with fair hair
belies her 25 years. Amazingly, she has been a heroin addict for 10
years. She tells Pam she was offered heroin the previous day and
refused. Pam says, "If someone offered you drugs and you said no,
that's pretty impressive. Do you realise that? Once you start saying
no, it gets easier. You think once won't hurt, but your body
remembers. There will be a crisis - an argument, a row - when you're
going to think about using again. Start saying no as a reflex."
Elaine says, "If I hadn't been on STEP, I would never had said no."
She smoked cannabis at 11, was on heroin at 14, and left home at 15.
She shoplifted "Every day". She mixed with criminals who bought what
she stole - "whisky, big jars of Nescafe, anything". She believes she
would have been on her way to jail if she hadn't appeared before a
drug court. Thus far, she is proving a model STEP client. As well as
saying no, she has reduced her methadone intake. The STEP doctor,
Linda Harris, says that it is often easier to motivate women. Elaine
is living with a friend who has a child, providing a stable
environment after years of chaotic living. She has interests - she
cited horse-riding - and enjoyed working briefly with old people, but,
like many addicts, finds it hard to visualise a drug-free future. Dr
Harris asks what she plans to do next month. "I haven't got through
this one yet," replies Elaine wanly.

I spent two days in court and a week talking to offenders and watching
STEP at work. I also met JPs and police officers. It is early days -
only 46 people were on STEP orders when I was there - and progress has
been slow. It had been thought that detox would take 12 weeks, but six
months after the first orders, none of the offenders was yet
drug-free. After court one day, I met two magistrates. They said
that STEP gave them a chance to do something positive with addicts at
last. Jailing them is usually an utter waste of time. One said,
"They stand there with blank expressions: you might be sending them to
the moon for all the reaction you get." Fining people without money
is a joke. The chairman of the Pontefract bench is Doreen Hoyle, a
former club singer. With blonde hair and stylish clothes, she brings a
touch of glamour to the bench. But she lives in one of the poorest
pit villages and empathises with the young people appearing before
her. She welcomes the chance to play a continuing part in the
treatment of offenders. "It is important that they return to the same
JPs. They know you know about their offence and how close perhaps the
to going to prison. You can remind them where they might finish up."
Another JP told me, "They can't keep spinning the same excuses, if
they're always before the same bench." Hoyles opposite number in
Wakefield, Constance Gilbey, was about to retire after 40 years. She
is a tiny, grey haired woman with gold-rimmed glasses. "The key is
that defendants must be ready to breaks their habits. Asking them to
overcome addiction and keep going is asking a great deal. Think how
hard it is to give up smoking or even chocolate. There will be slips
and we have to make allowances. "Being on STEP harder than being
locked up and following orders. The offenders are given a lot of
personal responsibility they are not used to handling." She fears a
downturn in the economy will make it harder for them to get jobs and,
therefore, to stay free of drugs. If the drug courts at Wakefield and
Pontefract succeed with only a few offenders, huge sums will have been
saved, but it will also mean fewer people in prison, less police time,
less stolen property. However, STEP itself faces a financial crisis.
It will be Home-Office-funded from 2000, but still needs UKP 135,000
for the coming year. Raising money is not easy. There is public
prejudice that addiction is self-inflicted; drug courts have been
criticised for "rewarding" offenders. Supt Sarah Sidney, head of
Pontefract police, said, "People say addicts "play the system". Many
simply want to lock them up. We have got to overcome that lack of
understanding." John Binns, recently retired head of Wakefield police
and now a fundraiser for STEP, argued that greater coercive powers are
needed to ensure that offenders comply (he suggested tagging), a view
echoed by Prof Philip Bean of Loughborough University, one he few
criminologists to make a study of American drug courts. He said,
"There is nothing soft about US drug courts. They have a very tough
regime, much tougher than being on probation or almost anything you
could devise under our criminal system." As British JPs lack the
powers of US judges, the Yorkshire courts are different. But they do
reflect the American model in that it is the court that oversees
offenders' compliance, and the regime they impose is more demanding
and more tightly supervised than normal probation orders. They
provide addicts with support (many, unlike William Lloyd, have little
family backing) and discipline underwritten, if necessary, by
sanctions. JPs learn during training how difficult it is to break drug
addiction, and those I met were sympathetic towards defendants. But
some offenders, I felt, fail to understand that a STEP order is a
punishment as well as a treatment. They respond like John, as if they
are on a volunteer scheme. I overheard defendants and their mates
discussing STEP as if it were tantamount to "getting off". Although
some offenders have been back before the courts for failing to fulfil
STEP requirements, no one - when I was there - had yet been jailed for
breach of the STEP conditions. Homilies about no "soft options" will,
I suspect, soon need to be backed by tough action.

On my last day, William Lloyd came to the Wakefield STEP clinic with a
four-year-old cousin he was taking shopping. He talked about his
life: he had some GCSEs, but had worked only briefly at humdrum jobs.
He once dreamed of becoming a professional snooker player and
practised hard, but lost his edge when he began taking drugs. He was
tense and withdrawn, but his mood lifted as he returned to his home
village to have his photo taken by us. Being with his cousin put him
in mind of his own childhood and gave him hope, he said. The boy fell
asleep in the back of the car, and William went back several times to
check very tenderly, that he was all right. He was curious about our
jobs and took an interest in other people. He was keen on mechanics,
and hoped STEP might get him on a course. As with STEP itself, it was
too early to judge how things will turn out for him. But it was
possible to be optimistic. It had to be better that William was
taking his cousin out for the day - and, with the support of the court
and STEP, was on course to a drug-free future - than being locked in a
cell, twiddling his thumbs, liable like Pete to "drift back on to
gear" on returning to the environment in which he had twice before
failed to detox.

END Some names have been changed