NEW WAYS TO COPE

Special Courts Making A Difference For Drug Abusers, Mentally Ill

The men and women stood solemnly in a circle, their arms locked and
heads bowed. A man nervously opened and closed his fists, to fight
back the anger bubbling inside him. One woman started to sob softly.
Tears flowed down her cheeks, dripping mascara onto a photo of a
friend who had died a week earlier after being run over by three cars.

"Whenever death comes, we're never where we want to be in our lives,"
said Joe Turcer, a grief counselor for the Columbus Health
Department. "It makes me think of the Serenity Prayer." Without
prompting, they all began to recite the prayer: God grant me the
serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the
things I can and wisdom to know the difference.

At one time, the nine men and women in the room likely would have
turned to alcohol or drugs to numb the pain of Eric Pinson's death on
April 25. But a program called Treatment is Essential to Success, has
taught the group, of which Pinson was a member, other ways to grieve
and cope with things beyond their control. It is one of two Franklin
County court programs created two years ago to help repeat offenders
whose criminal behavior is largely caused by addiction or mental
illness. It allows "frequent fliers" -- alcoholics and addicts who
have been charged over and over with nonviolent felonies -- to choose
treatment and courtsupervised monitoring over jail. A similar program
for the mentally ill charged with nuisance crimes, such as disorderly
conduct and trespassing, operates out of Municipal Court.

Some questioned whether such "specialty courts" could break the cycle
of addiction, but 80 percent of the people who enter the programs
stay clean and graduate. Many have found jobs, entered college,
bought their first home or regained custody of their children from foster care.

"People often tell me, 'You saved my life.' I tell them, 'No, you
saved your own life,' " said Common Pleas Judge John A. Connor, who
oversees the drug court.

Lawyers, social workers, drug-treatment counselors, mental-health
workers and probation officers work with the courts, and participants
generally take 18 to 24 months to complete the programs.

The judges praise participants for attending counseling, finding
jobs, passing drug tests and securing housing. They punish them by
taking away privileges if they slip up.

"How's your week going? " Municipal Judge Scott D. Van-DerKarr asked
a man last week.

"My week was supposed to get better, but I don't know that it did,"
he told the judge. "My meds are new, and I don't like them."

VanDerKarr explained that a lot of psychiatric medication has a
sedating effect. But when the man complained that he could barely
keep his eyes open, the judge asked his caseworker to make sure he
saw a doctor before the week was out.

The judge took a harder stance with a man who tested positive for
anti-anxiety medication he wasn't prescribed.

"I want him watched like a hawk," VanDerKarr said after ordering the
man into Fowler House, a treatment center and halfway house for
people with mental illness. "If they tell me to throw you in jail, I will."

"The judge forms a personal relationship with each individual going
through the program," said David Royer, chief executive officer of
the county's Alcohol, Drug and Mental Health board, which partially
funds VanDerKarr's program. "And because of that relationship, people
want to succeed not only for themselves and their families but the judge."

The drug court has graduated 10 people, and none has become a
reoffender. The mental-health court has worked with 82 people.

Before joining the program, participants were arrested an average of
five times a year and served 74 days in jail. Now, they average 27
days in jail a year. The programs save money, proponents say.

"Our program costs $100,000 a year, which works out to less than
$3,000 per person," Connor said. "Compare that to jail, which can
easily cost $20,000 a year a person, or prison, which can be as high
as $40,000."

Calvin Fisher, 47, of the East Side, gave up hope after slipping into
his old ways two years ago after two years of sobriety. "I had been
in prison, shot at and smoked enough dope to kill a person," he said.
"But God seemed fit to keep me here, and I wanted help." Today,
Fisher has completed treatment at the Bell Center, a program geared
toward black men that emphasizes African culture, history and
traditions. He has been free from drugs for more than a year, is a
group representative for Cocaine Anonymous and volunteers at several
treatment programs. He is to graduate from the Treatment is Essential
to Success program in July and wants to begin classes at Columbus
State Community College in the fall to become a counselor.

At the grief session, Fisher used Pinson's death to illustrate how
life can be unfair, even when you're taking the right steps.

"They always tell us, with this disease, that some of us have to die
for the rest to live," he said. "We better make the best of what
we've been given."