Series: Four Lives, One Last Chance - A Year In Drug Court: Part 16 Of 41

ACT III. GROUP THERAPY

Linwood, Jennifer and two other recovering addicts -- all four clients in
the advanced fourth phase of the Newport News Drug Court -- slowly filter
into one of the windowless second-floor rooms at the program's

downtown offices. With group therapy set to begin, they each grab a chair
from along the wall and drag them into a circle.

Seconds after they have all found a seat, Jerry, one of the other veteran
clients, starts the meeting with a confession.

"I got something I need to share with y'all," he says, gravely. "I used
this weekend."

A hush comes over the others. They sit silently waiting for Jerry to speak,
as he smiles nervously at the floor. Then he looks up, and the words pour
from his mouth.

That weekend, he had a fight with his newlywed wife, and she threatened to
divorce him. The mere mention of divorce tore at Jerry, who still believes
that "until death do you part" is a sacred oath. After the fight, Jerry
felt lost and alone. He walked the streets, struggling with his fear and
anger, and fighting the urge to use drugs.

About 5 a.m., his resolve broke down. He found a dealer and got high.

Hoping to fool his urine screen, he drank "like 15 glasses of water" to
dilute the drugs in his system. But now, he says, he knows it's more
important to talk about this setback than to avoid punishment.

"Even if I passed that test, I wouldn't have stayed with that," he says.
"If I don't talk about this with people I care about, how am I gonna get
over it?"

After he's unloaded his burden, he waits for his friends to respond. Sheila
immediately speaks up.

"First of all, I love you. But no matter what happens, you ... don't ...
use," she says, pausing for emphasis between each word. "You know where I
live. You knock on my door at 5 a.m. I'll answer."

Then Linwood fixes his penetrating glare on Jerry and speaks for several
minutes.

"Recovery comes first, period," he says, waving his hands through the air.
"What I'm hearing now is you see the importance of connecting with other
addicts. I commend you on your honesty. That's opening the book to
recovery. Now you got to move on."

For the rest of the hour, the others continue to discuss Jerry's relapse in
a calm, encouraging tone. They remind him that the battle of addiction
never ends. They remind him that he can never seek refuge from his problems
in drugs. They remind him that he must rely on the community of recovering
addicts, who share his struggles.

"I know, I know, I know," Jerry says, as the session ends. "I'm getting so
much relief talking about myself and my marriage with y'all."

As they place their chairs back against the wall, they all write their
phone numbers on scraps of paper, telling Jerry to call any time he needs
to talk.

Throughout the therapy, the counselor has been mostly a spectator. He has
had little to add in a meeting where the addicts can dissect their own
issues with the skill of surgeons.

Group therapy for the newcomers, however, can be a different matter. Those
sessions are packed with clashing personalities and addicts just weeks
removed from the streets and jails. The fortunes and moods of these groups
swing wildly, and the meetings are sometimes engulfed in bickering and
screaming arguments.

Invariably, one or two addicts just drop their heads to their chests and
tune it all out. In these meetings, the counselors can seem like hall
monitors lording over unruly kindergartners.

One day, in a Phase Two meeting, Darlena complains about being ordered to
attend seven Narcotics Anonymous meetings in seven days as a punishment for
a transgression. She says she's working hard to stay clean while others are
just faking their way through the program.

Vernon, who has his head down and his eyes closed, perks up at her words
with an inflated expression of astonishment.

"What?" he bellows. "You be happy if a whole bunch of people went to jail?"

"I didn't say nothing about jail!" Darlena yells, even louder.

"Whatever!" Vernon says, standing and shouting her down. "You want everyone
to do seven in seven so you can have some company?"

Mike Clark, the therapist, opens the door and threatens to kick Vernon out
unless he calms down. With a sour look on his face, Vernon falls back into
his chair and shuts his eyes again.

On other days, though, this group can be remarkably subdued. In one
session, right before Christmas, the mood is particularly dark and somber.
Everyone sits around the table, staring at the wood grain in the surface.
Even Vernon, the program gadfly, is mute.

To conclude this meeting, Clark passes out a "Weekly Inventory of Progress"
- - a three-page sheet of fill-in-the-blank questions such as "I didn't use
by..." and "I wanted to use when...."

While everyone else carefully scribbles out long answers, Vernon quickly
dashes off his responses, finishing well before the others. Clark begins
reviewing his paper.

"The best thing that happened to you this week: 'I stayed awake for Drug
Court,' " he reads.

"You mean nothing good happened to you this week, Vernon?"

Vernon leans back in his chair and looks at the ceiling.

"Not really," he says.

Vernon's demeanor in counseling tends to either be quiet or combative. He
argues most often with Robert, a Vietnam veteran who is perhaps an older
version of Vernon.

The younger man rarely lets Robert speak without making a stinging joke.
The older man, in turn, blames Vernon when the counseling sessions go awry.

Still, disputes between the two Chicago natives are rarely about anything
serious.

In one meeting, Vernon is discussing his problems in a surprisingly even,
subdued tone. Then, suddenly, Robert slaps the sheet of paper he's been
reading.

"I'm sick of this. I came here to go to class," he says. "It's always about
Vernon, Vernon, Vernon."

Vernon's face contorts in rage, and he leaps out of his chair. Standing in
the middle of the circle and jabbing a finger at Robert, Vernon delivers an
impassioned, angry speech.

"When I'm joking, I'm joking. When I'm serious, I'm serious," he says. "Now
what he said wasn't even no burning desire. It was just some off-the-wall
shit."

As Vernon prowls around the room, the others try to calm him down by
shouting out Narcotics Anonymous mantras.

"Take the cotton out of your ears and put it in your mouth," says one.

"If it don't apply, let it fly," says another.

But Vernon plows over the other voices until he is the only one left talking.

Finally, he runs out of steam and sits down.

"I ain't gonna say another thing," he declares.

An exasperated Clark admonishes everyone, telling them that they must put
their petty squabbles aside and talk only about fighting drug addiction.
With a moment of calm descending on the addicts, the therapist decides to
end the session.

As everyone stands for a final prayer, Wendell looks over at Vernon.

"Man, you get out of this program and I catch you using, I'm gonna smack
you upside the head," he says. "All that shit you talking."

The clients huddle in a circle. Clark gives Vernon the nod to say the
closing words.

Vernon begins his prayer with his head bowed. Then he looks up to stare
hard at Robert, who is wearing a new, checkered flannel coat.

"We pray for the sick and suffering addict," Vernon says, with a menacing grin.

"Some of them wearing funny coats."