Series: Four Lives, One Last Chance - A Year In Drug Court: Part 5 Of 41

ACT I: VERNON

Vernon strolls onto a grass field, surveys his peers with a quick glance
and announces his presence.

"You know," he says loudly, "I've made a lot of connections with people in
Drug Court."

The clients, gathered around the grills and picnic tables at King-Lincoln
Park, stop eating their hot dogs and put down their card games. As they
quiet down, a wry smile creeps across Vernon's face.

"But if I met some of the people here at work," he says, "I'd get me a new
damn job."

This is how Vernon starts his stand-up act for the talent show portion of
the annual Drug Court picnic. But this comic barb, this Don Rickles-like
attack, is not uncommon.

By the late summer outing, Vernon has been in Drug Court for only a few
weeks, but everyone has gotten to know him. A man of average height and
build, there is little to physically distinguish him from the others. He
dresses simply in jeans or sweat pants, and a five-point star tattooed on
his hand - the symbol of his old Chicago neighborhood - is his only adornment.

But Vernon has a sharp mind, an unrestrained tongue and the strut of a
big-city survivor. He constantly jokes and cajoles, and he spares no one
the cutting edge of his humor - not his friends, not his Drug Court peers
and especially not the Drug Court staff.

Even though they know what to expect from Vernon, some of the peers still
jab back at him, tempting a torrent of abuse.

When Vernon starts his monologue, Leon makes a half-hearted heckle.

Like a veteran comic, Vernon shifts his wit to Leon, making an insensitive
remark about his tormentor's dark skin that quickly silences his foe.

The crowd roars at the performance, and Vernon soaks up the laughter like a
sponge.

He continues his mocking routine for a while, drawing more guffaws and
backslaps.

Soon, though, Vernon starts telling stories about the crazy things he did
while on drugs. The stand-up has turned into a confession. Now it isn't
laughter he's looking for.

"Don't laugh," he says with a stern face. "This ain't funny."

It's impossible to know if he's serious or not, and it hardly matters.
Everyone laughs anyway.

While many of his peers don't know when, if ever, to take Vernon seriously,
it is obvious to some that he hides his feelings behind a wall of humor.

"He seems like he's got a lot of pain, a lot of hurt, he just don't know
how to express it," says Jennifer. "The way he expresses himself is by
making people laugh."

This defense mechanism isn't lost on the counselors, who often chide Vernon
for joking, instead of talking about more weighty matters. Gary Ford, one
of the therapists, likes to say Vernon "could talk you out of your
underwear and sell it back to you."

Even Judge Conway comments on Vernon's intelligence in one breath, then
says in the next that his sense of humor is his own worst enemy.

Still, the judge and the counselors often can't help but laugh at some of
Vernon's more insightful banter. At times, the staff members even feel
complicit for encouraging his acts.

Vernon frequently matches wits with Rod Charity, his parole officer. As a
black man from rural Virginia, Charity makes a worthy sparring partner for
the Chicago-born Vernon.

At the picnic, Charity takes to playing horseshoes. Vernon doesn't watch
long before he has something to say.

"You know, Mr. Charity can play horseshoes. He from the country," Vernon
yells from under the pavilion. "He throw the whole horse."

Charity returns the salvo one day when the addict touts his hometown.

"I've been telling you - you in the South now," Charity says, smiling. "You
gotta deal with us country bumpkins. You a commonwealth man now."

Vernon leans his head back and responds.

"Man, I never thought I'd see a black man representing the Confederate
flag," he says.

Vernon is most animated when he's joking. His hands dart through the air,
and his smooth, expressive face lights up in a wide grin of beautiful
teeth. He seems to draw energy and strength from his ceaseless wit and his
edgy, profane observations.

One of his most frequent targets is Robert, a Drug Court participant and
fellow Chicago native. One day in court, the judge complains that Robert is
too quiet. Back at the Drug Court offices, Vernon disagrees.

"Man, I was about to snitch on you," he says. "I think Robert got Tourette's."

Darlena, another Drug Court participant, shakes her head as she fishes a
bag of chips from the vending machine.

"Man, I'm gonna do something with Vernon," she says, only half kidding.
"I'm gonna take him outside the way he running his mouth."

This is Vernon, day and night, whether he's in Drug Court or not.

At the Hampton restaurant where he waits tables and works in the kitchen,
the attitude is much the same. Once, when he sees a waitress doing nothing
for a little too long, he hollers out to the bartender.

"Yo, don't she look like she belongs in a department store window?" he
says, loud enough for everyone to hear. "She look like a mannequin."

As Vernon mimics, standing blank-faced, arms and legs rigid like a statue,
the chastised waitress moves on with a pained expression, as if she had
tasted something rotten.