RETURNING FIRE:

How The Case Of A Mexican Immigrant Led Danny Quintana To Declare War On
America's "War On Drugs."

If you were as poor as Rubalcava, you might have made the same kind of
journey. Even if you weren't Rubalcava's defense attorney, as Danny
Quintana is, you might be disturbed about the aftermath of it all.

A married 24-year-old with two children, Rubalcava's home village in the
Agua Caliente province is so impoverished that people there still draw
water from a well. His family hungry, and with no prospects in sight,
Rubalcava hopped a bus to Tijuana, where he paid $500 for a smuggler's
passage into Los Angeles.

From there, he relocated to Utah. Between time spent looking for manual
labor and restaurant work, Rubalcava met Elmer Rodriguez and three other
Mexican nationals at a Salt Lake City gas station. Rubalcava needed a place
to sleep. Rodriguez and his pals, who were running an outrageously
lucrative drug trade in the Salt Lake Valley, wanted someone to watch and
maintain their domicile as they raked in the cash selling heroin, cocaine
and meth.

Tired and hungry, Rubalcava seemed the perfect house boy. He mowed the
lawn, did the dishes, collected mail and newspapers --- all that was needed
to make a drug house look like part of the neighborhood.

Coming home one evening from the second week of his job search, Rubalcava
found a party. Reveling in their success, Rodriguez and friends arranged
some $2 million in stacked $100 bills on the kitchen counter. Above that,
in the cupboards, were bricks of cocaine, meth and heroin wrapped in wide
industrial tape.

It was picture time. With a trophy perched on a sea of money, everyone took
turns hamming it up for the Polaroid. Elmer, sitting on a stool, posed with
a gun down his shorts as piles of drugs stared blankly in the background.
Others posed kissing their girlfriends. Rubalcava posed as well, in a photo
that would doom his chances before a court.

The day after the party, police came crashing through the doors with a
warrant, and the sequence of a drug arrest fell headlong like dominoes: the
booking, the trials, the sentencing.

A FOOT SOLDIER IN THE "WAR"

If you've always thought undocumented aliens peddling drugs in Salt Lake
City were sent back to Mexico only to return like boomerangs, think again:
The sheer volume of drugs, not to mention reckless photography, ensured
that everyone was about to do hard time — including Rubalcava. His
photograph in front of kitchen cupboards stuffed with drugs buttressed
government claims that he was part and parcel of Rodriguez's crew.

In federal court before Judge Dee V. Benson, and in front of an all-white
jury, Rodriguez and his associates were sentenced to 20 years each. Benson,
stretching leniency as far as it could go under federal drug sentencing
guidelines mandated by Congress, dealt Rubalcava, who spent less than two
weeks away from home, 10 years and one month.

In a unique strategy, Quintana defended him as a "prisoner of war," a foot
soldier in a hostile foreign country. As such, Quintana argued that
Rubalcava was entitled to standards of humane treatment under international
law and the articles of the Geneva Convention — provisions that supersede
federal drug sentencing guidelines.

Murderers, rapists and untold legions of white-collar criminals have gotten
away with less time than Rubalcava. Quintana, ever eager to make a point,
says even convicted Nazi war criminals did less time after the Nuremberg
trials. But so it is, thanks to federal mandatory minimums passed by a
Congress hell-bent on the "War on Drugs," that Rubalcava sits in federal
prison as his case moves through the assembly line of an appeal. If an
appeal by Quintana fails before the 10th Circuit Court, Rubalcava's time in
prison will cost U.S. taxpayers $31,000 per year for a grand total of
$313,000 by the time he steps back into daylight. Meanwhile, his wife and
children in Agua Caliente whittle away the decade without a husband or
father.

WALKING OUT OF THE QUAGMIRE

Fresh out of law school in 1983, Quintana's first drug case was defending
two men against $400 fines each for smoking marijuana in a parking lot.
Over the years, Quintana peppered his legal career with a variety of cases,
concentrating for a while on employment law. Drug cases never made up more
than $15,000 in billing for his firm. In a profession where passion for a
client's defense can seem overblown, and suspiciously dramatic, Quintana's
carries an air of real urgency, as if forged in a white-hot furnace where
reason burns brightly with compassion. His voice, already thick with
volume, grows even louder. His eyes become tense with focus.

"Defending drug cases reminds me of being an altar boy during the Vietnam
War, when I helped bury young men who came back home dead. A light went on
in me that said, 'This just doesn't work.' When you see a homeless Mexican
from the poorest part of Mexico doing 10 years in federal prison for this,
it says something deeply troubling about U.S. drug policy," he says. "When
little people find themselves involved in a major conflict like the 'War on
Drugs' they need to be protected."

Pulling his frustration in line with action, Quintana organized a series of
panels driving at the once urgent, but now curiously forgotten, question:
"Should we end the War on Drugs?"

The panels, four in a series, were hosted at St. Mark's Cathedral, where he
serves on the vestry. "If it's in the setting of a church, then it's
politically neutral and unbiased, so we can get to the merits of the issue,
not the politicization of it," Quintana says. "It's a forum in which we can
look at what we're doing to this country with the War on Drugs. Make no
mistake, I do not in any way, shape or form advocate the use of these
substances. But I think we need to take a step-by-step approach and slowly
start walking out of this quagmire."

The power of Quintana's POW argument rests on how war is defined, and if it
can be proven that the United States is, in fact, at war. Quintana believes
we are. Congress hasn't formally declared it, but politicians brandish
war-like rhetoric. More importantly, Congress spends millions to finance
this war, using the Coast Guard and U.S. military to fight it, plus spy
satellites to monitor its activity. Invoking the Geneva Convention may be
stretching for a client's defense, but like a chess player who moves for
both offensive and defensive purposes, it makes more than one point about
our "War on Drugs."

In the late '80s and early '90s, sound, educated minds called for the
legalization or decriminalization of drugs, asking if America's politicians
hadn't learned from the past failure of Prohibition. Put illegal narcotics
in the same regulated arena of legal drugs such as tobacco and alcohol,
proponents of legalization said, and we will see a decrease in violent
crime, organized crime, money-laundering, and save untold truckloads of
money.

Government quality control of these substances would cut down on deaths
from tainted drugs sold on the street, and taxes from drug sales could be
used for treatment and education to dissuade use, much like today's school
kids are dissuaded from using tobacco. It was a line of reasoning endorsed
by such conservative icons as William F. Buckley, and respected
publications like The Economist. Even better, concrete results from the
trailblazing drug policies of European nations proved the proposition was
no fluke.

"Extensive experience with decriminalization in Holland shows that not only
is there no accompanying surge in consumption — allowing for the inrush of
addicts from more restrictive countries — but related crime falls when
drugs are legalized," The Economist wrote in a May 1993 house editorial.

Persuasive as the argument was, most Americans had trouble with the paradox
behind it: To defeat the scourge of drugs we must capitulate to it. To a
nation suspicious of leniency, and cast in Puritan, eye-for-an-eye
doctrine, that's a hard sell. It also takes money away from those who
profit from the "War on Drugs": the corrections industry which builds ever
larger prisons for drug offenders, politicians who campaign on "get-tough"
rhetoric, bloated federal law enforcement agencies, and defense attorneys
who specialize in drug offenses.

"Just like the Vietnam War, you have so many people with hands in the till
that's it's almost impossible to change directions until we wean all of
these contractors and agencies from their dependency on tax dollars that
come with the drug trade," Quintana says.

Perhaps it's the still vibrant U.S. economy that keeps Americans from
dwelling on the costs to fund the "War on Drugs": a $15.2 billion 1997
budget for the National Drug Control Policy to stop the flow of drugs into
our boarders; $1.47 billion annually to imprison federal drug law
violators; millions in court and legal costs to process convictions; $9.9
billion in law enforcement costs; plus $2.2 billion in other interdiction
costs. In fact, one study published by the National Review in July 1995
estimated that, even with $5 billion redirected toward drug treatment and
prevention research and education programs, American taxpayers would save
$37 billion if the War on Drugs was ended.

Until that day, though, the U.S. government will continue to pour vast sums
of money into a futile war that builds ever more prisons, diverts the
attentions of law enforcement, and actually creates the crime it is
pretending to combat. All the while drug treatment, a far more effective
means of combating the problem, is left wanting. Even a study prepared
specifically for the Office of National Drug Control Policy showed that
treatment of addiction is 10 times more effective than interdiction in
reducing the use of at least one drug, cocaine. Nevertheless, a paltry 7
percent of the government's drug-control budget is directed toward drug
recovery and rehab programs.

Far more shocking to Quintana, though, was the human cost of the "War on
Drugs." According to the U.S. Department of Justice, 36 percent of all drug
law offenders locked in federal prisons are nonviolent violators. With
sentences far greater than those convicted of sexual abuse, manslaughter
and assault, the grudge these people will feel toward society after release
will be large indeed. Add to that federal laws prohibiting drug offenders
from government employment, making it extremely difficult for them to earn
a legal livelihood, and you have a recipe for social disaster.

"If you think we have problems now, wait until these kids who've served 10
to 20 years under mandatory minimums come out," Quintana says. "You are
going to see the most angry, vicious animals humanity has ever produced."

It could also be argued that the "War on Drugs" produces results that, on
their face, are harsher for minorities and people less likely to afford the
extravagant expense of a first-rate defense attorney. African-Americans
make up 41 percent of the federal prison population, and account for 84
percent of crack-cocaine convictions. Latinos account for 28 percent of the
federal prison population, and that number is rising fast.

Discounting even all that, Quintana believes the "War on Drugs" is a
colossal failure simply because it has failed to stem the tide of drugs
into our society. If anything, the "War on Drugs" has made our society more
uncivil. The illegality of drugs feeds profit-making, which attracts
criminals. As Quintana points out, last year the United Nations estimated
that the world drug trade generates some $400 billion in annual profits. No
effort, no matter how well-orchestrated, is going to surmount a
profit-motive of that size — one that's larger than the world trade in
automobiles or textiles.

There's also more than a little hypocrisy involved. American tobacco
companies are free to ship their addictive, deadly, carcinogenic products
worldwide. Less developed nations must ship their opium and cocaine sight
unseen. And what about the death toll? Far more Americans die every year in
car accidents, or because of poor diet or lack of exercise, than overdoses
from illegal drugs.

"I wish these substances didn't exist, but they do. And yes, people can die
from using them," Quintana says. "I've had family members who've used drugs
to the point where they've almost died. But is it any less tragic when a
person dies from some other cause? Life has hardships. Life is not easy,
and life can be very, very cruel. And all we can do is work together to
make sure that it's not so cruel."

THE ROOT ISSUE

The path leading toward 10 and 20-year sentences for drug offenders isn't
difficult to trace back. It was 1986 when Len Bias, the 22-year-old
basketball star and Boston Celtics draft pick, died of a cocaine-induced
heart failure. As a tribute to the fallen hero, Congress passed the 1986
Anti-Drug Abuse Act, and mandatory minimum sentences for drug offenders
were born. President Reagan signed it into law in October of that same
year, a week before election day.

If politicians and the public loved the bill, few who understood the legal
system did. The U.S. Sentencing Commission complained that mandatory
minimums recklessly and arbitrarily doled out sentences that rarely fit the
severity of the crime. But in a 5-4 decision in 1991, the Supreme Court
found that the law did not violate the Eighth Amendment, which prohibits
cruel and unusual punishment. Speaking before the University of Chicago Law
School, Justice John Paul Stevens continued to voice his opposing vote:
"The use of mandatory sentences É are manifestly and grossly
disproportionate to the moral guilt of the offenders."

Two years later, in 1993, 50 federal judges announced they would no longer
hear drug cases. It's a tactic Quintana recommends for defense attorneys as
well. "I would recommend that every defense attorney in America stop taking
these cases," he says. "If we refuse to defend people charged with drug
crimes, then it's going to make it exceedingly difficult to continue this
war."

Among the participants of Quintana's panel discussions at St. Mark's,
comments rarely fell in a straight line of agreement. There was, however, a
recurring pattern of thought among the health-care professionals,
attorneys, scholars and law enforcement officials who spoke.

"In all four panels not one person has suggested that we continue to do
what we've been doing in the 'War on Drugs.' Everyone agrees that we need a
change of direction," Quintana says.

If a second theme has emerged --- albeit, ever so slightly --- it might be
the importance of drug addiction treatment and preventive education over
the heavy hand of law enforcement and interdiction. In the second panel,
"Winners and Losers in the War on Drugs," Odyssey House director Glenn
Lambert lamented the fact that people addicted to drugs must sometimes wait
up to six months for a space at the recovery center he manages. He's also
seen government funding for drug addiction treatment shrink at a time when
health insurance companies refuse to pay for the expense.

Society needs to rethink not just the "War on Drugs," but the very nature
of drug addiction. In an ideal world, addiction would be seen as a health
problem — no more, and no less. "Many other health problems have relapses
as well, but we seem to get angrier at people who relapse into drugs,"
Lambert says. "Diabetes has huge consequences on a person's health, but
people afflicted with that condition often go against their treatment in a
way similar to that of the drug addict. We tend to be a punitive society
when it comes to drugs. Instead of treating them we like to punish them."

Still, he takes a more moderate view than Quintana's where
decriminalization and legalization are concerned. "Few of my drug addicts
would argue for the legalization of drugs, mostly because they've seen what
it did to their lives," Lambert says. Even Quintana makes one caveat in his
crusade: Under no circumstances should methamphetamine ever be legalized. A
truly dangerous drug, it induces violent fits and psychosis in the user.

In the third panel, "Medical Problems With the 'War on Drugs,'" Dr. Todd
Gray, Utah's chief medical examiner, noted that of the 70 homicides in
which drugs played a motivating factor last year, 9 could be attributed to
the continuing illegal status of drugs. These were homicides involving drug
transactions gone sour.

"That's actually a lower number than in '95 and '96, when a large amount of
business consolidation was going on," Gray notes. "If the economic
incentives behind illegal drugs were removed, you wouldn't get those kinds
of killings."

In the category of drug deaths listed as intentional or unintentional
overdoses, Utah saw 80 deaths last year. And therein lies the rub for
Quintana and others who want to see drugs decriminalized. No one's sure how
much consumption would rise under legalization, and how many people would
die, before people started to realize that drug use isn't smart. Then
again, no one knows for certain how much drug use could be controlled if
the U.S. government spent even half the money on drug education as it does
on the construction of prisons.

Like Lambert, Gray, speaking for himself and not the state, would also like
to see more emphasis on the benefits of treatment. "I don't see
legalization as a panacea to all drug-related problems, but we have to come
up with a better way to get people to stop using drugs other than saying,
'You're a very bad person and you need to go to jail,'" Gray says. "To me,
the root issue is why people take drugs in the first place. I don't see
that issue getting the kind of attention and resources that would
dramatically affect the problem. If you deal with that issue first you sort
of cut the whole Hydra off at its legs instead of chopping off one head at
a time."

"WE AS A SOCIETY CAN DO BETTER"

Before the fourth, and last, panel in his series at St. Mark's Cathedral,
Quintana pushes his wheelchair through a growing crowd of people about to
take seats in neatly arranged rows of folding chairs. Although he
repeatedly refers to his own life as "fortunate" and "lucky," he did not
escape the ravages of multiple sclerosis, which disabled his legs.

It's rare that Quintana ever talks about past events, or the fate life
dealt him, in conversation. There's too much to be done for the future.
There are people to meet, hands to shake, comments to hear, ideas that need
discussing.

After a short round of introduction from the panelists, the evening's
panel, "The Morality of the 'War on Drugs,'" is launched.

It's already clear that, with several physicians and Ph.Ds on board, this
will be the most scholarly of the four discussions. Dr. Jay Jacobson,
medical doctor and ethicist at LDS Hospital and the U.'s school of
medicine, draws perhaps the most surprising and humorous conclusion of the
evening by observing that Anglos' drugs of choice --- alcohol, tobacco,
Prozac, etc. --- have always been legal, while drugs common to other
cultures --- coca leaves of the Andes --- have not been. Match that
observation with another --- the fact that police actions are more often
directed toward minorities --- and you have to wonder at the mixed motives
at work in America's "War on Drugs."

"I find it very peculiar, and wonder why it is, that we don't like it when
people different from us use drugs we don't approve of, or use ourselves,"
Jacobson says. "You have to conclude that we can't stand it when others
might use drugs we don't approve of to feel good once in a while. And you
have to conclude that we don't like it when these people feel good."

The audience erupts in laughter.

Steven Epperson, programs coordinator for the Utah Humanities Council and a
former professor of religion at BYU, returns the panel to a grave tone. To
his mind, drugs have been demonized by Western, monotheistic religions
worried that their effects might invite the consideration of other gods and
deities. The real failure is not so much the "War on Drugs," but the
failure of society and religious communities to prevent the conditions that
invite drug use in the first place. Other panelists take turns, condemning
the "War on Drugs" in no uncertain terms.

The audience ponders it all in silence. Questions are directed at certain
panelists.

Who's to say those in attendance leave a little wiser? Who wonders if
anything will change? Before the closing, Quintana asks the audience to
change the law through their votes. "Give the politicians a graceful way
out," he says.

Even with the crowd gone, wheeling himself around the church rectory,
Quintana's mind never stops turning the subject around. Sure, Utah is a
hard place to bring up the topic of decriminalizing drugs. But who wants to
preach to the converted?

"I figure it's going to take me 10 years working with other people to
change these laws, but I am going to change these laws. They're hurting far
too many people," Quintana says. "These laws are going to change. We as a
society can do better. And do you know what? The people here tonight were
not radicals. They're law-abiding, professional people."