Series: Four Lives, One Last Chance - A Year In Drug Court: Part 26 Of 41

ACT IV. NEW YEAR'S EVE

Jennifer starts the assembly line, dumping spoonfuls of sweet potatoes and
potato salad into Styrofoam take-out containers.

Linwood, standing in the middle of his mother's kitchen, is next in line.
He moves purposefully, filling the boxes with the green beans, turkey and
gravy cooling on the stove. Then he hands them to his mom, who is wedged
between the kitchen counter and the washing machine. She places some wax
paper, a roll and a fork in the tray and closes the lid.

Then Antoinette carries the meals outside and places them alongside cakes
and sodas in the trunk of Jennifer's car.

When Linwood was a homeless addict, people he had never met would show up
on the East End drug corners with holiday meals. Now, after nearly a year
of sobriety, he has decided that he will be the one delivering the meals.
He will try to ease some of the suffering on the streets that caused him so
much pain.

"Trying very, very hard to do 40," he says, measuring out portions of
dwindling turkey. "Trying to stretch this."

As he packages the last of the food, Linwood's mind reaches back to his
days on the corner.

"Honeybuns," he says to no one in particular. "All I ate was honeybuns.
Believe that. Unless they came to feed me."

When all the meals are ready, Linwood gets dressed. He puts on a green
dashiki and places an ankh - the looped Egyptian symbol of life - around
his neck. Then he pulls a knitted red, black and green hat over his
dreadlocked hair.

As everyone prepares to leave, Jennifer bursts into the living room with a
thought.

"We gonna be the first people to graduate from Judge Conway's court," she
says. "Tell me we ain't special."

"We special because of God," Linwood says.

When Sheila arrives, the group readies to leave. Linwood's mom puts on her
coat, to the surprise of the others.

"You going?" someone asks.

"I wanna see their faces," she says.

The group bounds out the door with bright eyes and wide grins.

"I got chills," Jennifer says as she steps into the cool December air. "I
feel like I'm gonna cry."

Their first stop on this mission is a drug corner not more than two blocks
from Linwood's house. They pop the trunk, releasing the smell of the
freshly cooked meals into the air. Addicts come out of hiding to collect
their dinners, then disappear just as quickly. Linwood sees several
familiar faces among the crowd.

After a short drive, they stop next at 25th and Wickham in front of the old
Walter Reed School, which has long been closed and had its windows covered
with plywood. Three men sitting on the steps get up and bolt over to the
car. Then they return to their perch and dive into the food. One man pounds
his chest as a sign of gratitude.

"'Preciate it, man," he says.

Another man with blood-shot eyes sets his food on the top of a trash can
and opens the take-out lid.

"I'm hungry," he says. "Hungry for sure."

When everyone there has been fed, Linwood and his crew pile back into their
cars to search for more people. But the streets are surprisingly empty on
this bright afternoon.

"I got to think a minute. I ain't been out here in a while," Linwood says,
as the car winds its way through the East End. "I got to give the police
credit. This whole place used to be wide open."

At 32nd and Orcutt, a young dealer aggressively bounces up to the car and
scowls inside.

"No drugs," Linwood says through the window. He flashes a two-fingered
peace sign as the car rolls past.

"No drugs here," he says again.

They park down the block, a respectable distance from the dealer. A few
addicts collect their meals there before heading back up to where a tight
group of men are positioned on the corner.

"Let's go," Sheila says, sizing them up. "They ain't hungry. They look like
they got money."

"Yeah," Linwood says. "They have food delivered to the corner."

They drive through some deserted areas before Antoinette suggests the block
of 41st Street where she used to get high. The street is lined with
boarding houses, where rooms are mostly rented to addicts by the week. One
of the city's biggest open-air drug markets thrives on the corner.

Today, the block is quiet. At least until Linwood jumps out of the car.

"Anyone hungry?" he yells.

People seem to materialize from nowhere, and the meals fly out of the trunk.

Antoinette knows nearly everyone who wanders up.

"Hey, how you doing?" she yells to a man wearing scraggly cornrows and an
olive-drab military jacket.

"Hey," he says, giving her a one-toothed smile.

Antoinette, dressed immaculately in a black leather jacket and shoes, has
come a long way from the days when she smoked crack along this block.

"Girl, you looking good," says one woman.

When all the meals have been spirited away, Linwood rests in the car with
an empty bowl in his lap, his head bowed in silent prayer. When he looks up
again, his eyes are wet with tears.

"God, thank you," he says softly. "Thank you for letting me be a servant."

When the group returns to Linwood's house, he suggests one last prayer in
the living room. Everyone gathers in a circle and holds hands. Linwood
closes his eyes and smiles.

"Let's have a moment of silence to reflect on where we are today and where
we were," he says.

In those seconds of calm contemplation, the emotions begin to spill from
these recovering addicts, who, not long ago, suffered the pangs of hunger
and the pains of addiction.

Linwood's eyes brim with tears as he launches into the Serenity Prayer.
Everyone recites it along with him.

"God, grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, the
courage to change the things we can and the wisdom to know the difference,"
they say.

"Just for today."