Series: Four Lives, One Last Chance - A Year In Drug Court: Part 19 Of 41

ACT III. VERNON: 'THERE'S SOME TENSION WITH YOU IN THIS WHOLE PROGRAM'

Vernon is driving down Mercury Boulevard at 60 mph when the red and blue
lights of a Hampton police cruiser start to flash in his rearview mirror.

He hasn't had a driver's license in years, and he's not supposed to drive.
Getting busted for driving could land him in serious trouble with Drug Court.

Vernon pulls over and considers what to say. He could tell the officer that
he was just bumming a ride home from a friend. When his friend drove the
wrong way up the Coliseum Mall flyover, Vernon realized that she was drunk
and took the wheel.

He could explain how he was trying to do the right thing. But then his
friend would get in trouble.

He rolls down the window as the officer walks up to the car.

To hell with it, he thinks.

"I don't have a license," he says. "I'm in Drug Court, and I'm on probation."

Although the officer is impressed with his honesty, he leaves Vernon with a
speeding ticket, a citation for driving on a suspended license and a court
date.

For Vernon, who just got back from his father's funeral, this has been a
bad month.

Just a few weeks earlier, his life had been going more smoothly. After he
enrolled in Drug Court, he was hired back at his old job at a Hampton
restaurant. He found an apartment he could afford, and he moved in with his
few possessions. In Drug Court he performed well enough to be scheduled for
promotion.

Then his father died, and Vernon spent several weeks in Chicago, taking
care of the funeral arrangements. Since he returned, he has been riling the
counselors and peers much as he did when he first entered the program.
People have been complaining again about his attitude and his constant,
aggressive joking.

A few days after the traffic stop, Vernon must appear before Judge Conway,
who oversees his Drug Court status. His counselor and parole officer will
report on his progress. Vernon is still slated for promotion, but the judge
could also kick him out of the program for driving without a license.

Vernon wouldn't be surprised if the judge sent him to prison.

In court, he calmly awaits his fate as parole officer Rod Charity and
counselor Gary Ford read their reports to the judge. They commend Vernon
for staying clean through his father's death and his trip home to Chicago.
They tell the judge about the driving charge, but they still recommend that
he move to the second phase of the program.

The judge nods and smiles in response. Then he stands, holding a
certificate that documents the promotion. As he typically does, Conway
walks down to the courtroom floor to shake Vernon's hand and present the
paper like a college dean giving out a diploma.

Vernon knows the judge must still consider the traffic stop, so he leans in
close to whisper in his ear.

"Show me some mercy," he says.

The judge returns to the bench and switches his attention to Vernon's
driving charge.

"My first thought," he says, "was how would I explain it to the community
if someone in this program with no authority to be on the road injured
someone."

Judge Conway then notes that Vernon has been clashing with nearly everyone
in Drug Court since his father's death.

"There's some tension with you in this whole program," he says.

Such friction may not be enough to justify booting Vernon from Drug Court,
but the judge still decides to give him a week in jail for his driving
offenses.

Unlike his previous sanction, when he stormed out of the courtroom, Vernon
walks off alongside the deputy without a single demonstration of his anger.

For seven days, however, he stews in jail with nothing to do but watch
"Matlock" reruns on the blaring cellblock television. He thinks about the
sour turn his life has taken, and he wonders why he can't figure out what
Drug Court expects of him.

They complain about his attitude and his joking, he thinks, but they don't
give him any credit for staying off drugs. He doesn't believe he can ever
be like Linwood - someone who walks around talking about recovery all the
time. To act like that, Vernon thinks, would be a fraud.

"They sanctioned me just to show me who's boss," he says. "The judge is
rounding it off to my personality, like he wants me to put on a song and
dance."

Gradually, Vernon starts to believe there is something he's meant to learn
in jail, some conclusion or insight he's supposed to grasp. He just doesn't
know what it could be.

The week becomes the longest of many he's spent in jail.

At the end of his sanction, Vernon follows a deputy back into Conway's
courtroom. Wearing street clothes and ankle chains, he stops in front of
the bench. The judge looks down at him.

"Now, when does one drive when one doesn't have a license?" Conway asks.

"You don't," Vernon answers.

"What can I do for you today?" the judge asks.

"Let me go home," Vernon says. "I got a headache and my back hurts from
those steel beds."

Looking hard at the man in chains, the judge sternly tells him to work on
his recovery, to put the problems of the past month behind him.

"You have the ability, sir, to be successful," Conway says. "You have the
job skills, the mind and the personality.

"You've just got to stay focused," he concludes. "Sometimes you lose focus
and forget where the boundaries are."

Vernon nods, then follows the deputy out of the courtroom.

Two hours later, Charity signs him out of jail, and the two walk the four
blocks back to the Drug Court offices. When they arrive, Vernon finds a
tangle of his peers standing outside, quietly smoking cigarettes.

He immediately dives back into the mix, accepting hugs and backslaps and
handshakes. Despite an agonizing week in jail, he's quick to embrace his
old routines, running his mouth and commanding attention.

He cracks wise with the counselors, and he flirts with a new woman in the
program. He brags about sneaking cigarettes into the jail. He even drops to
the concrete to demonstrate how he relaxed in his cell, smoking a
contraband Newport.

"They'd be like, 'Who's smoking?' " he says. "And I'd flush it and be like,
'I don't know,' with smoke coming out of my mouth."

Now the group is lively and loud, spilling up and down the 30th Street
sidewalk, laughing along at Vernon's exploits. None of his peers could
guess at how difficult his week has been.

Then Antoinette comes outside to show off her new diamond engagement ring.

"Ahh, man, I saw that ring in the bubble-gum machine," Vernon hollers.

Antoinette playfully chases him into the street, and his voice fills the air.

"How many quarters it take to get that?" he laughs.