COMING CLEAN WITH LIFE AFTER DRUG COURT

On Monday night, Ivory Joe Robinson of Cape Girardeau graduated.
The people closest to him were there to cheer him on and wish him well.
A speaker gave an address, and Robinson was given a certificate, a
commencement coin and a bag of gifts.

He also walked away with more than that: a new-found dignity and
respect for himself and for others. He walked into a new life he had
to learn how to live. Robinson graduated from drug court.

Robinson is the 14th graduate of drug court, a program that saw its
first clients in August 2001. It is administered through the 32nd
Judicial District, which includes Cape Girardeau, Bollinger and Perry
counties. Since its start, drug court has had 66 participants and
seven commencement ceremonies.

What follows are the stories of Robinson and two other former drug
users and the difference that "coming clean" has made in their lives.
Ivory's story Most drug court participants take between 12 to 16
months to complete their program, says Steve Narrow, drug court
administrator. Robinson took 29 months after entering June 7, 2002.
After more than 20 years of trying to get clean on his own, Robinson
knew what he was getting in drug court was working for him, and he
wasn't going to leave until he was certain he was ready. "Ivory,
you're outta here," proclaimed Judge Peter Statler, before handing him
his certificate and sending him off with a bear hug. "Ivory paid some
prices along the way, but he stuck with it."

Ivory Robinson is 41 and began smoking cigarettes and marijuana when
he was 12. From marijuana he graduated to cocaine and heroin, and
washed it all down with alcohol. He came by it naturally, he said. His
grandmother and mother both were alcoholics. So is his brother. His
sister is not addicted, and he never knew his father. There still
isn't much family support. These relatives didn't come to share his
special day with him, but if drug court teaches anything, it teaches
acceptance. Some things you just have no control over.

It's all right with him, Robinson said. His drug court family was
there with him. So was his girlfriend of 11 years and her family, and
so was his son, 3-year-old Gabriel Isaiah Robinson.

"Today I have dignity, respect for others as well as myself," Robinson
told his cheering friends. "If you had told me a long time ago that
people would be saying things like this about me, I would never have
believed it." Robinson has learned acceptance. Narrow said he has
always been impressed with Robinson's humility. He recalls the day
when he met Robinson in jail, and he came to talk to him about drug
court. He couldn't read the drug court contract. When Narrow told him
that he could help him learn to read, "he started weeping. He said
'nobody ever offered to help me read in my life.'" Narrow said he'll
never forget the day Robinson came to drug court bragging that he had
read a book to his son the day before.

"A dad with a kid on his lap reading a book is worth more than money
can buy," Narrow said.

"It was awesome," Robinson recalled. "It was the best moment of my
life." Robinson said drug court taught him how to trust other people
and share what was going on with him. He learned to like himself.

"I'm not as bad as I thought I was," he said, "A lot of it was bad
choices." With acceptance and a strengthened faith in the God he
always prayed to, Robinson also has found the serenity addicts learn
early on to pray for. He's planning to go to barber school and one day
open his own business. Currently he works in Scott City for Botkin
Lumber. He'll raise and continue to read to his son. And if he had
anything to say to anyone about what life has taught him, he said he
would want to say to his now-deceased mother that he now understands
the best thing she ever gave him. "She always gave other people on the
street food," he said. "I didn't understand it when we couldn't feed
ourselves. She said that 'someday somebody might have to feed you.'
She did not mean food. She meant spiritually, mentally and guidance."

Angie's story Today Angie Craft DeVore is a starry-eyed newlywed.
Before she went into drug court March 22, 2002, police officers who
had arrested her several times for drug possession and manufacturing
swore she'd never get off drugs. She graduated from drug court last
April.

"I'm comfortable in my own skin these days," DeVore said. "I never
thought I would be this happy in my life."

Major milestones for her are things many people take for granted. For
the past three years, she has had car insurance. She has a checking
account. For the first time in her 42 years, she has held a job. She
is manager of Tracy's Place in Jackson.

While she was in prison getting drug treatment, she began reading her
Bible and praying. She credits her strengthened faith in God for
keeping her clean for nearly three years.

When she was released to drug court, DeVore was upset to find out that
48 hours after her release, she was expected to show up in court, go
for counseling, call her case manager and submit to regular and random
testing. Narrow said drug court loads clients up for reason. They have
to learn how to be normal people. They go through the motions because
they have to, and eventually it becomes natural.

"All we look for in the first six to eight months is compliance,"
Narrow said. "We don't want people to have to think -- we just want
them to do. They move out of compliance to acceptance. They do because
they see changes, they feel better."

"I had to learn how to handle emotional things," DeVore said. "I had
to learn how to cope, how to live. I really give my being clean to
drug court, being held accountable."

DeVore said that her religious faith is filling the void she used to
try to fill with drugs. She's learned to respect herself and she has
learned how to be a friend. Drug court doesn't look at its clients as
file numbers to be disposed of.

"It's a huge advantage," Narrow said. "We know you are a person. We
know you have kids and parents. We can relate to you as a person."
When Robinson graduated Monday, his friends gave him a "goody bag"
filled with things he likes: a huge Hershey bar because he loves
chocolate, movie passes, some books of meditation. Narrow said those
are more than just gifts -- they're testimony that his friends were
listening to him, valuing him as a friend.

Narrow said he remembers vividly when DeVore graduated from drug
court. She looked at the cake the court provides for the party after
the ceremony. It had the names of all the graduates on it. She saw her
name and started to cry. "She said 'I don't remember the last time I
saw a cake with my name on it,'" Narrow said. "She was either on drugs
and high or in the middle of some domestic argument. Something as
stupid as a name on a cake touched her heart. That's why we make a
party and honor these folks." DeVore said she was skeptical at first.

"At first I thought it was a big put-on," she said. "It's a totally
different feeling. It's important to let people know they are
important." DeVore, like Robinson, learned to give of herself. She's a
regular at other drug court graduations and meetings. But she gives
back in other ways, Narrow said.

"It's not all about touchy-feely," he said. "It's about getting this
lady out of the system. We addressed her addiction. We also make sure
she stays out of the system. She's not on welfare, she's paying taxes,
contributing to the community in a variety of ways. That's what
graduates do. They stop being a drain on the community and start
giving back. People come into the coffee shop and she lights up the
place. People come back. It's giving back in a tangible way."

Dan's story Dan Essner of Cape Girardeau said he was "smoking a lot of
weed, doing coke, doing a lot of meth with a whole bunch of people."
One day seven police officers knocked on his door with a search
warrant and a drug dog. "Me and another guy were smoking pot and
watching a Michael Jackson tribute back in January of 2002," he
recalled. "There was a knock on the door. I opened the door and got
spun around and cuffed that quick." He was arrested for possession of
residue of methamphetamine and drug paraphernalia. Drug court offered
a hand up and he took it. "Before long you get kicked in the butt and
don't have a life" he said. "Drug court gives you back your butt and
gives you back your life. I used to think life was unfair. Everybody
has hard shots. That doesn't justify criminal behavior."

Essner, now 45, spent 11 months in drug court, entering Feb. 15, 2002.
When he finished, he felt the need, he said, to do some giving back on
a large scale: He wanted to go to Africa with the Peace Corps and
teach agriculture and English. The Peace Corps, noting that he just
concluded drug court, said he needed to wait. It was wary about
sending him to a place where there would be no support for him if he
relapsed.

Essner has sold his house, his possessions, and moved in with his
sister until he can join the Peace Corps. A carpenter by trade, he
works with S&L Builders. He likes the work, but longs to go into the
Peace Corps. Narrow suggests gently that maybe God is telling Essner
he is needed here. "Peace Corps is a big step for you," Narrow said.
"Frankly we need you around here. You've been valuable."

Narrow said that Essner leads the 12-step program for the juvenile
drug court members. The youngsters like "Mr. Dan," and Essner clearly
enjoys being with them.

"He lets them know there is life after sobriety," Narrow said. Essner
said he is aware of the difference his actions made when he was on
drugs and now that he is off.

"Using drugs has a ripple effect on everybody," he said. "Recovery
does the same thing. It has a ripple effect on everybody around you."
n Narrow said that recidivism is only 10 percent statewide in drug
court. Locally, it's too soon to see any statistics. Regular court
sees a 30 percent return to court. Since drug court began locally, six
women gave birth to drug-free babies. When a woman in drug court
becomes pregnant, Narrow said, she stays in drug court until she has
the baby. "It costs $100,000 to get an addicted baby from birth in
intensive care to home," Narrow said. "It costs $10,000 for a healthy
baby from birth to home. That's $90,000 saved that you and I would
have had to pay for on the Medicaid bill."

Narrow said that he and Judge Statler often argue about who enjoys
drug court most.

"I can go to my grave on this stuff," Narrow said.