Series: Four Lives, One Last Chance - A Year In Drug Court: Part 8 Of 41

ACT II. 'YOU'RE WORTH FIGHTING FOR'

A Newport News Drug Court hearing begins like any other court proceeding,
with the deputy's call:

"All rise," she says, as the judge enters the room.

From that point, however, Drug Court is decidedly unlike any other hearing.

In no other courtroom would a judge say, "I want to help you beat this
problem." Or ask, "How can I help you stay clean?"

In no other proceeding would a judge tell a room full of drug addicts,
"Don't give up on yourselves. You're worth fighting for."

And in no other court would Circuit Court Judge H. Vincent Conway Jr.
address a defendant as "Pops."

Pops, a 59-year-old Vietnam veteran whose real name is Edward, is the elder
statesman of the program and one of the few clients who can call Judge
Conway a contemporary. When Pops is called forward, a sly smile creeps
across Conway's face.

"Pops, you using?" the judge asks one day.

"Yeah - my head," Pops says.

Another day, when Pops comes to court after falling ill, the judge asks
him, "Pops, I heard you were sick?"

"Yeah, the four horsemen come to see me," Pops says. "I told them your name
and they turned right around."

After the deputy's call, the judge emerges from his chambers dressed in his
black robe and sits on his perch behind the bench.

On some days, he starts by saying, "I've been reading...."

This declaration invariably brings a chuckle from the clients, who are
familiar with the judge's parables, the little morality tales he likes to
pass on to his charges.

Many of his stories lean toward the humorous, taking some of the inevitable
tension out of the air. This is important to many of the addicts, for whom
court is the place where they take away your kids and put you in jail. Even
Drug Court veterans with clean records still get nervous in front of the
affable Judge Conway.

One day in October, the judge tells the old story of a man trying to fit
rocks, gravel, sand and water into a jar. The man learns that he must put
the rocks in first, followed by the gravel, then the sand and the water.
The moral, he says, is to concentrate on the big things in life and don't
sweat the small stuff.

"I hesitated to use this story because to some people a 'rock' is something
else," the judge says. "But this rock is a rock of dirt, you understand."

Months later, Vernon parrots this lesson when the judge warns him to stay
focused on Drug Court.

"I know." Vernon says. "Put the rocks in the jar first, then the gravel,
sand and water,"

The judge can only grin broadly in response.

Following the judge's opening statement, Rod Charity, the parole officer,
begins calling the names on the docket. Each person comes forward
individually and sits between Charity and Gary Ford, a social worker and
therapist. This duo run the court, calling the names and reporting the
progress of each client to the judge.

Charity's report, read in a steady baritone, is the same for each client.
Only the names and number of clean days change.

"Your honor, during this brief period, Mr. Mapson has complied with the
conditions of his probation and the conditions of Drug Court," he says. "He
has been tested three times this brief period, and all three tests have
been negative for the use of drugs. Mr. Mapson has been drug-free for the
past 72 days."

Then the clients applaud, as they do every time clean days are mentioned -
a ritual borrowed from their required Narcotics Anonymous meetings. At the
meetings, applause is used as encouragement and support.

Ford delivers his report next. He provides a clinical description of the
client's mental state, taken from their participation in group counseling
and their general behavior around the staff offices. He uses terms like
"positive-growth manner," and he talks about how the addict is "addressing
issues" and "providing feedback to peers."

Then the client approaches the bench, stopping a few feet short to talk to
the judge. Conway chats with each of them for a few minutes, ending each
time with, "I'm proud of the fact that you've been clean for the past 72
days." Hearing that, of course, the clients applaud.

When someone comes up dirty, Charity reports they have been "drug-free for
the past zero days," and a pall descends over the courtroom. The clients
shift uneasily in their seats and stare at their shoes. The judge frowns,
and his tone becomes grave.

Some of the offenders admit to their mistake with remorse. Others, however,
refuse to acknowledge their relapses, coming to court with improbable
explanations for how the drugs ended up in their bodies. One common
explanation is to say the drugs were absorbed through the skin when they
touched some cocaine.

One client actually admitted handling crack while he was packaging it for
sale, but he adamantly denied smoking it. The judge reminded him that
packaging crack constitutes distribution, a serious crime that could get
him kicked out of the program. Conway put him in jail, but he allowed the
man to remain in Drug Court.

Another woman complained that the marijuana in her system came from her
mother's second-hand smoke. This seemed probable to the judge, and he
agonized over her fate for several weeks, requesting information and lab
tests to check the validity of her story.

"This program says you must be drug-free," he finally concluded, "whether
it's from your mother or from Martians."

This drama runs nearly every Thursday in Conway's court. It plays again,
with different characters, on Fridays before Judge Verbena Askew. As one of
the founders of the program, Askew has been hearing cases longer. The
procedure in her courtroom is the same, but Askew has devised her own
methods for dealing with the stubborn addict.

Once, when an addict tried to fake his attendance at his required Narcotics
Anonymous meeting, Askew began grilling him. Despite the heat, he stuck to
his story.

"Well, three other participants were in those meetings and didn't see you,"
the judge said.

"I sit in the back away from people," the man replied. "I don't really mix
with the crowd."

When the judge got tired of his transparent excuses, she assembled the
other addicts in the jury box, to sit in judgment of their peer.

They weren't buying the story either, and unanimously agreed that the man
was lying.

Only then did he admit that he didn't attend the meetings.

"We have to be able to trust you," Askew said. "We're here to help you, not
hurt you."

Because the man came clean, she agreed not to put him in jail.

Both judges admit to caring about the clients as if they are their own
children, and giving out sanctions is rarely easy for them. Every week the
clients bare their souls in court, sharing their joys, sorrows and fears.
The judges want only to see them turn their lives around.

For those who stick with the program, a slow but discernable transformation
takes place every week. Clients in the early phases of the program come to
court in jeans and sneakers and Timberland boots. Sometimes they wear sweat
pants and baseball hats turned backward. For some, it's the same outfits
every week. One reed-thin man showed up once with a necktie holding up his
pants.

In time, though, the disheveled look of an addict gives way to a more
professional appearance. Clients in the advanced phases come to court in
suits and ties, dresses and heels. The women wear makeup and the men are
clean-shaven.

There are exceptions, of course. Nelson has a collection of torn, ragged
T-shirts that he proudly wears to court even after ascending to Phase
Three. He retired one shirt, however, after it prompted Conway to ask him
whether he'd been attacked by a pit bull.

But when Nelson is bucking for a promotion to the program's fourth phase,
he suddenly shows up in black pleated pants, a dress shirt, leather shoes
and black socks. When his name is called, everyone is stunned silent as he
makes his way to the front of the courtroom.

"Well, look at this," the judge says, as the courtroom erupts in laughter.
"Who is this man at the table?"

Then there is Wendell, a longshoreman with a quiet demeanor, who wears a
tie to court from his first days. He says dressing appropriately is simply
his habit, but it is a habit he retained through years of drug addiction.

Once, on the eve of an impending jail sanction, Wendell jokingly said,
"I'll be wearing my tie."

Such small dramas play out week after week, creating a see-saw story of
addiction and hope that is impossible for anyone who witnesses it to forget.

The deputies and clerks visibly react to the ebbs and flows of recovery,
smiling broadly at the successes and becoming crestfallen at the failures.
Even the stenographers grin at the jokes, but they usually stifle any
outward laughter.

But for those wandering into Drug Court unawares, such an unconventional
courtroom can be shocking. Occasionally, a lawyer will arrive early for a
hearing and walk in during Drug Court. He'll hear the laughter and
applause, look around as if he's stepped onto the surface of the moon, then
go outside to wait his turn before the judge.

Often it's the smallest of details that matter most to those on the docket:
another day clean, that first paycheck, the praise of a peer.

One day, Nelson comes to court proudly wearing a mechanical pencil clipped
to his shirt. He reports that he's moved from part time to full time in his
job at a lumberyard.

"Does this mean more responsibilities?" the judge asks.

"Yeah." Nelson says. "They gave me a pencil."

The week before Thanksgiving, Judge Conway asks the clients what they had
to be thankful for. A smattering of responses rings out.

Living.

Not being in jail.

Being clean.

Waking up.