Series: Four Lives, One Last Chance - A Year In Drug Court: Part 15 Of 41

ACT II. VERNON: 'MY DADDY WAS MY BUDDY'

James Mapson was a lifelong drinker who always said he'd have to die some
way, so he might as well die with a drink in his hand.

A Teamster who worked the Chicago railyards, James chomped on big cigars
and carried a bottle of booze in the back pocket of his khakis. He worked
hard for his money, then brought his paycheck home to his wife and pulled
the cork.

He was a black Archie Bunker, Vernon says of his father. He was the Carroll
O'Connor of the South Side.

James was a good father to Vernon and his brothers - taking them all as
foster children - even if he was a little over-indulgent. When Vernon was a
child, his dad spoiled him and let him run wild, but the two remained close
through all the years of drug abuse and prison terms.

"My daddy was my buddy," Vernon says.

"I didn't care about his drinking. It hurted and all, but I loved him."

Vernon learned many of his values and beliefs at his father's knee,
especially his reverence for the working world - an uncommon trait in Drug
Court. When any of his peers lands a job and puffs his chest in pride,
Vernon shakes his head and laughs, even if it's their first job in five or
10 years.

"You supposed to work," he says.

James Mapson also taught his son about Chicago politics and the Teamster
ethos. That left him hypersensitive to the commands of people in power, and
distrustful of their motives and legitimacy. But it also left him with a
strong sense of what's fair and unfair, and an activist's fervor for
voicing his opinion. He is the only addict who ever asked Judge Conway
about restoring his voting rights.

In September, just three months after entering Drug Court, Vernon talks to
his father on the phone. He can tell his dad isn't well. James has heart
disease and a drinking man's liver, but there is little Vernon can do. With
no money and a demanding Drug Court schedule, going to Chicago might as
well be like going to the moon.

Three days later, Vernon gets a phone call at work from his sister-in-law.

James has died in his sleep.

Just like when his mother passed in 1992, Vernon couldn't be there. He was
in prison then, and the warden wouldn't let him attend the funeral. One of
Vernon's brothers had to videotape the ceremony so he could watch it when
he was paroled.

This time, there is no question about attending the funeral - even if he
has to skip on his probation.

Drug Court, however, is more flexible than prison. Charity says Vernon can
go home as long as he checks in every day and attends his NA meetings.

Meanwhile, Vernon's friends from work chip in their tip money so he can buy
a train ticket to Chicago.

The trip home is Vernon's first journey back to his old neighborhood since
he quit using drugs. Many people in Drug Court express serious doubts that
he will return, and Charity makes jokes about going to Chicago to look for him.

For his part, Vernon couldn't care less about meeting Drug Court's demands,
and the idea of staying in Chicago is at least a passing temptation. He
just wants to be left alone to deal with his father's death without
interference from Drug Court or anyone else.

When he does call in, Charity asks, "Have you been to a meeting?"

"Hell, no!" he says. "I ain't been thinking about no meetings."

When Vernon arrived in Chicago, he discovered that he had been put in
charge of his dad's estate and funeral. Although he grew up with four other
brothers, he is the only one his father legally adopted.

There's several hundred dollars in insurance money, but he spends every
dime on the funeral and burial, getting the best he can afford. A woman
working at the cemetery suggests that Vernon keep some of the money and let
the state bury his father. For the proud son of a proud working man, the
idea is unacceptable.

"Hell, no," Vernon says. "I'm burying my father."

The service takes place on Sept. 17 at a South Halsted Street funeral
parlor, where family and friends gather in the funeral home's largest
chapel. James Mapson is laid out in the coffin in a gray suit. Vernon is
one of the pallbearers.

After a few prayers, Vernon gets up to deliver the eulogy. He speaks for
about 10 minutes, talking less about his father than about what his
father's death means to him. He describes how he could always count on his
dad to come through with whatever he needed - often just someone to talk to.

Now he wonders what he will do without the father who was also his buddy.

"My dad's death," he says, "is a wake-up call for me."

Nearly three weeks later, the Drug Court staff awaits Vernon's scheduled
return.

Vernon blows off his Oct. 3 deadline without so much as a phone call. It's
the same story the next day. Charity ponders an arrest warrant.

Finally, on Oct. 5, Vernon arrives in Newport News and goes to Drug Court.

Charity immediately takes him to see the judge. Conway is sympathetic, but
he makes Vernon spend a few hours in a holding cell - more for formality's
sake than for punishment.

To Vernon, sitting in the cell, any sanction in this case is just another
reason to discount the program.

"I was taking care of my pop's arrangements," he thinks.

"This is some bullshit."