DRUG COURT OFFERS HOPE

Oklahoma City (AP) -- Judge Charles Hill's small courtroom fills up quickly
as people assigned to drug court file in and greet each other like old
classmates at a reunion.

For some, it's graduation day. They've tested negative for drugs for months
and are ready to advance to the program's next phase, to aftercare where
they mentor others or have the charges against them dismissed.

For others, it's judgment day. Their urinalysis came back dirty or they
violated the drug court's rules. They're going to jail for the weekend, or
to prison for years.

"Sandra Coleman."

A petite 13-year crack cocaine addict, who keeps to herself on a crowded
wooden bench, braces for Hill's assessment of her progress.

"Ms. Coleman, how many days have you been sober?"

"Sixteen days," says Coleman, her long dark hair flowing over a delicate
pink blouse.

Hill's face, stoic as he studies her progress report, breaks into a broad
smile.

"Sixteen days of sobriety," Hill beams.

The judge's pronouncement sparks thunderous applause from addicts and court
clerks alike.

Next up is Keith Day, who says he's been clean for one year, three months
and 28 days following 20 years of drug addiction.

"I'm a recovering meth addict," Day says. "I would like to thank Judge Hill
for this opportunity."

Applause follows Day's words as it does the testimony of a dozen other
people whose statements of sobriety provoke the kind of positive feedback
drug court encourages. It's recognition they're winning the battle against
addiction.

Such scenes are unlike any found in a typical courtroom. It's something
repeated in 15 other drug courts across Oklahoma, including one in Tulsa
County where Judge Sarah Smith presides.

"Let me shake your hand," a smiling Smith tells Bronco Anderson, who is
progressing in drug court after twice going to prison on drug and alcohol
violations.

"In all honesty," the 28-year-old says of drug court, "it saved my life."

Research indicates that three out of four nonviolent drug offenders who
enter Oklahoma drug courts go on to graduate from the program.

For some, the drug court experience is the first time they have ever been
praised for not using drugs.

The positive reinforcement isn't limited to smiles and applause.

Rhonda Eubank, a recovering methamphetamine and marijuana addict, petitions
to move on to Phase IV of Hill's drug court program, a step requiring her
to not use drugs for at least 90 days, keep a job and show a commitment to
a drug-free lifestyle.

Eubank tearfully recalls her fight to kick her addiction.

"Most of all," she ends, "wish me luck."

Court personnel shower a grateful Eubank with hugs and words of praise.
"We're very, very proud of you," Hill says.

Courtroom chatter falls to a low hush when the judge confronts a man whose
urinalysis test indicates he had recently used methamphetamine.

"I don't know how that could have happened," the man says.

"Well, I do," Hill snaps back. The judge remands him to the custody of
sheriff's deputies to spend the weekend in jail.

The man finds a chair alongside a line of inmates dressed in orange
uniforms and shackled together by the wrists. Some hope to qualify for the
drug court program, while others are at risk of losing their eligibility.

They were led by deputies into the courtroom earlier in a sad display known
by court veterans as "The Parade of Orange."

During a brief recess, Barbara Thomas, who was re-arrested within days of
entering drug court, pleads to stay in the program with public defender
Jeannie Bauman, who helped develop it.

"It's too late," Bauman says. "You're not going to be in drug court. You're
going to jail for at least 20 years."

Tears well up in Thomas' eyes and she shakes her head in disbelief.

"I don't have any more chances!" Thomas cries out.

Nearby, a woman opens a Bible and immerses herself in the hopeful prayer of
the 91st Psalm.

"For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler, and from the deadly
pestilence ... ," she begins.

A group new to drug court listens intently as Bauman outlines what's
expected of them.

"If you don't want this program, then we're wasting our time," she says.
"If you really want to get off drugs, if you really don't want to go to
prison, if you want to have a relationship with your family, fine. We want
you here.

"We want you not to be in orange ever again."

"All of you can do it," Hill says. "I don't like to send addicts to prison.
But some addicts want to go. They break into the prison."

Drug court's rewards and punishments are geared toward achieving what all
drug users wish for when faced with a lifetime of addiction or incarceration.

"It's getting to the end result of maintaining your sobriety," Hill says.

Outside the courtroom, a crowd of new faces gathers.

A young woman holds her small child tightly to her chest. A man in cowboy
boots plays with his young son in a hallway. Another woman sits alone and
quietly recites a speech, a plea to be taken to the next phase.

Another session of drug court is about to begin.