COURTING A LIFE WITHOUT DRUGS

Graduates Of Peoria County Drug Court Lean On Each Other Through
Alumni Group

In the years since they graduated from Peoria County Drug Court,
they've stepped into ordinary, everyday lives.

Richard Pickens, disabled with a host of health problems himself,
dedicates much of his time caring for a wife with back problems and a
mother with dementia.

"I don't clean up, he won't let me go in the kitchen," says his wife,
Glenda. "He wants to do my laundry, too, but I prefer to do my own."

Pickens, 53, didn't enter drug court thinking it would change his life
and restore his marriage. "I was just trying to get out of jail."

Kim Robinson, 39, however, was desperate to find something tougher
than the myriad drug treatment programs she'd already gone through
when she sought drug court. Today, she works two jobs and takes
community college classes part time. She just moved into a little
white house she adores. "It's so comfortable," she says.

Johnnie Higgins just started a new job delivering meals for a local
agency. It's full time, with benefits, he practically brags. It's also
his third job in four years. At age 52, it's his third job ever.

Simple, seemingly uninspired routines - getting a driver's license or
a job, settling into a comfortable new house, salvaging an 18-year
marriage - underline the achievements behind the graduation
certificates they earned the day they walked out of the courtroom.

"It's the best education I've ever had," Higgins says.

Once known mainly as "Johnnie Wine," Higgins was more accustomed to a
judge as villain than the judge as guidance counselor, more fixed on
going to prison from a courtroom than graduating from one. "I spent 24
years in and out of jail or prison, 35 years using drugs," he says
matter-of-factly. He hasn't been back in the courthouse on a criminal
charge since he graduated in 2005, hasn't used drugs or alcohol since
2003.

In fact, he's the current president of the drug court alumni group,
Unity + Serenity, a network of drug court graduates who support one
another and the program.

"Our group is just like any alumni group at a prestigious university,"
he says, "be it Harvard, Stanford, Yale, whatever."

"They are an important part of drug court," says 10th Judicial Circuit
Judge John Barra. Now in Tazewell County, Barra, as chief judge, was
presiding over drug court when Higgins graduated.

It sounds odd to use terms like "educate," "graduate" and "alumni" in
the same breath as drugs, crime and court. But drug court is not a
typical court. The court's approach to addicts charged with nonviolent
felonies is not quite like criminal court, not quite like drug
treatment programs, not quite like other alternatives to jail, such as
probation, and nothing like prison.

Instead, drug courts synthesize all three, under a judge's weekly
supervision, into a highly structured system unique to both criminal
justice and drug treatment.

Pickens, 53, calls drug court a "short, transparent leash." The drug
court team - including prosecutor, public defender, probation officer,
drug-treatment provider and judge - holds power over where clients
live, where they work and who they see.

Minor infractions result in almost immediate consequences. Higgins
once spent a weekend in jail for letting a known drug user style his
hair. Minor successes garner immediate praise from the judge, as well
as gradual loosening of the leash.

More than a diploma, graduating from drug court means a sentence or
charges will be dismissed. Drop out or get kicked out, and the case is
returned to criminal court.

"Our goal is to make people become responsible citizens," Barra
says.

Chris Hollins, an early drug court graduate who helped start the
alumni group, sums up drug court's impact.

Once a "bona fide thief" supporting a crack cocaine addiction, she
says, "I went in and out of the penitentiary more times than I care to
count. I only went through drug court once."

A substance abuse counselor for White Oaks, she's currently part of
the drug court team. She hasn't used drugs in nine years.

Seeking more success

For 10 years, Peoria County's drug court has resisted conventional
thinking about incarcerating drug addicts like Hollins or Higgins. The
program's challenge now is to mirror successes of drug courts
nationally, by increasing participation and decreasing drop-out rates.

According to February 2007 figures, 335 people had gone through drug
court since it began. Only 32 percent graduated, a figure well below
the national average of 47 percent. The local program does not have
figures on numbers who may have relapsed after graduation, though drug
court graduates know, more intimately than most, how often that happens.

"One thing about drug court clients, we have a bond," Pickens says.
"To see them turn the other way and go back out there, it's painful."

But drug court alumni don't say that, somehow, drug court failed.
Instead, suggests Becky Bridges, a 2002, graduate, the alumni group
plays a crucial role preventing relapses.

"To me, the people who stay clean and sober tend to be part of the
alumni group in some form or fashion."

Drug courts became a national phenomenon soon after Miami started the
first one in 1989. The potential of breaking cycles of
addiction-related crime held possible, welcome side benefits of
reducing the numbers of repeat drug offenders clogging courts, jails
and prisons. In less than two decades, the number of drug courts grew
to about 2,000, including 27 in Illinois.

In Peoria County, low participation and graduation rates have had
limited impact on an overburdened criminal justice system. The
county's drug court team offers a variety of reasons for both.

Public defenders in criminal court either don't know or know enough
about it to suggest it as an option for clients. Skeptics say the
concept is too easy and mock it with nicknames like "hug-a-thug."
Eligible offenders often turn down the opportunity, saying it's too
hard, too long and - with weekly drug tests, weekly visits with the
judge, along with other requirements - too strict.

They don't want to plead guilty, a prerequisite for drug court. They'd
rather take their chances in criminal court, says drug court team
leader Linda Earley of White Oaks Cos. They think they can beat the
charges or get regular probation.

Prospective drug court clients usually are in jail when Earley talks
to them. "I'll have people say, 'I can do prison standing on my head,
and you're telling me you want me to do 18 to 24 months in a program
where they're eyeballing me every minute.' "

But Allen Buckley, a 2005 graduate, says he heard about drug court in
jail, then convinced a judge that's what he wanted.

"Drug court is nothing you really hear about, my lawyer had told me it
wasn't an option," he says. "You don't get the information from people
in authority because all they want is a conviction."

The state's attorney's office is the gatekeeper for drug court.
Prosecutors have veto power over who gets in, even if they meet
eligibility guidelines.

"I think sometimes prosecutors think it's too easy, like a person's
getting away with something," says John Lonergan, public defender in
drug court since it began.

Finally, Lonergan says, Peoria's low numbers could be because Peoria's
drug court is more demanding than others.

Though drug court is not a cure-all, supporters argue it's successful
on broad levels, especially in comparison to probation, prison or
treatment alone.

"What's the value of a life saved to society?" asks current Drug Court
Judge Rick Grawey. "Certainly, to that person, it's huge."

Persuading skeptics

Judge Barra, once a skeptic himself, says it will take more time for
drug court's true impact to show. "But having been involved 5 1/2
years, I think it does work, it will work. How effective will it be? I
don't know."

Peoria County State's Attorney Kevin Lyons is less skeptical about
drug court now than he was when it began. For the return on the cost
and effort, drug court is not a good buy, he says. But it's difficult
for him to look at it in strictly cost-efficient terms. He's seen how
the drug-court experience changes people, clients and judges included.

"I don't know how to increase the success rate," he says. "But of
successes, it's the most satisfying completion I deal with. I don't
see anybody coming out of the penitentiary or off probation saying,
'Yeah, that was a good deal.' "

David Loveland, research director for Fayette Cos., parent company of
White Oaks, says the local program can be more efficient and effective
by wrapping more services around drug court clients sooner. The
program recently received a $175,000 federal grant aimed at increasing
graduation rates by 50 percent and reducing the length of time to
complete the program from an average of 24 months to 17 months.

Among other features, the money, combined with matching county and
state funds, allows staff to enhance treatment aspects of the program,
start job-education and trauma support groups, improve program
evaluation methods, and hire two part-time recovery coaches to help
clients access community resources.

The alumni group is drug court's home-grown community
resource.

Though the program gets referrals from prosecutors and defense
attorneys, alumni are the best recruiting tools, Earley says.

Higgins, for example, carries drug court brochures with him at all
times, in case he meets prospective drug-court clients or attorneys
who may know of prospective drug court clients.

"People see the Richards and the Johnnies on the street," Earley says.
"When they're in trouble or really low, that's who they're calling."

The group also creates a new set of clean-and-sober peers for
themselves and drug court clients. They offer support, sponsor
activities and volunteer transportation to 12-step meetings. Like any
alumni group, they raise money.

Members originally thought the money raised would go for parties and
outings for drug court clients. Instead, it's typically used for
basics like prescription drugs, dental care, or to buy clothes for
drug court clients released from jail.

"Giving back is not just important for the alumni," says Higgins,
"it's an important part of recovery."