Series: Four Lives, One Last Chance - A Year In Drug Court: Part 35 Of 41

ACT V. VERNON: 'I'M SICK AS HELL, BUT AT LEAST I KNOW IT'

A few weeks after getting out of jail, Vernon strolls up to Drug Court,
listening to a Narcotics Anonymous tape on his Walkman and talking to
Wendell about something he learned in an NA meeting.

In the past few weeks, Vernon has been living off and on with friends and
his ex-girlfriend, sleeping on couches and scattering his few possessions
around different apartments. Because he lost his apartment when he was
locked up, most of his belongings remain in a Denbigh storage locker.

For a man who prides himself on working and paying his own bills, he finds
it hard to accept this dependency on others. Relying on his friends for
support can be humbling, but humility is something he has vowed to work on.

The Drug Court counselors and peers say they can see a marked difference in
Vernon since the judge let him out of jail. He's making an earnest effort
to devote himself to Drug Court. He attends extra Narcotics Anonymous
meetings and, for the first time, he finds inspiration in the NA community.

After he walks into the program's downtown offices, Vernon sits next to a
struggling peer who was recently released from a detox center. He leans in
close to him, almost whispering his counsel.

"You got to take it step by step," he says. "That's what I'm learning."

Later, when the group session starts, the therapist goes around the room,
asking each person how they're doing.

"Ahh, I'm good," says one.

"Fine," answers another.

"No complaints," says a third.

Then it's Vernon's turn.

"I'm sick as hell," he says, "but at least I know it."

He continues to talk for several minutes in an even, subdued voice about
his arrogance, his pride, his need for control.

"I'm scared because I don't want to face humility," he says.

He even evokes his father and the ways he adopted from him. His father was
his best friend, a man he modeled himself after. When James Mapson died
last year, Vernon went into a tailspin that ended with the judge kicking
him out of the program.

He still admires his father and his working-class values, but he also knows
James taught him how to be stubborn and unyielding. Those two traits have
continually landed Vernon in trouble with Drug Court.

"All he did was work and drink himself to death," he says of his father.
"I've got a certain male chauvinistic side. I know it's 2001, but I'm stuck
in Archie Bunker."

While everyone in the room sits in silence, Vernon goes on to talk about
stripping himself bare and seeking help from others.

The other day, he says, he made 12 phone calls searching for an addict to
talk to. He still feels like a "sissy" for unloading his troubles on
someone, but it's a start.

At the end of his measured confession, he asks for feedback.

"Anyone feel where I'm coming from?" he asks.

Unlike before, he has not joked or belittled anyone. He has not yelled or
made a spectacle of his emotions.

Before he went to jail, any long speech from Vernon would have sparked
nothing but anger and bitterness in the group. But today, several peers nod
appreciatively at his remarks before offering their advice.

"You can turn it around, if you're strong," says one.

"You've got to work the steps and work within God," adds another

Frank, a man who never hesitates to tell Vernon when he crosses a line,
speaks up, too.

"Before you went up in the jail, you weren't serious about group," he says.
"I can see a whole different attitude."

Vernon admits that he is still learning to accept people, and he continues
to bristle when they groan about their lives in group therapy. Before his
turnaround, he would mock the peers who showed some weakness.

Now he has some different advice for those addicts who would rather
complain than talk about their problems.

"I know this is gonna sound messed up, coming from me," he says, "but just
keep your mouth shut."