NEW DRUG COURT OFFERS HELP, HOPE

Judge James Ray ticks off how many chances a drug court attendee has had.
She is shaking nervously. Clutching her small brown purse, this 22-year-old
mother faces Judge James Ray in Lucas County's Family Drug Court and
answers his questions in barely audible whispers.

From the bench, Judge Ray studies the crack-addicted Megan for several
seconds. A seat creaks. He finally leans forward to her: "Tell me: Why are
you here?" "Because, um, I need help."

She shifts her weight uncomfortably. One of the half-dozen or so other
addicts behind her gives her a tissue, which she presses into her eyes.
Silence. Judge Ray waits. Drama here is cathartic.

This is Lucas County's experimental family drug court - where tissues
replace handcuffs and well-placed periods of silence by a judge can be as
potent as prison.

"Each week it's the same clients, the same caseworkers, the same problems,
and the same support," Judge Ray says later. "They can't fight the
addictions themselves, so we are like a parent in a way. We'll clap for
them. We'll celebrate with them their victories. But we also will punish
them when they don't do well."

The participants have failed drug rehabilitation again and again. Jail
hasn't worked. Losing their homes and jobs hasn't worked. And now they're
losing their children.

Believing another night in jail will do little to improve the situations,
court officials have suspended these participants' sentences in exchange
for their voluntary participation here in a last-chance effort at getting
clean.

But "voluntary" is a limited term.

Each Thursday, these nine women and two men face a judge and a network of
caseworkers for a progress report on the most intimate details of their
lives. One by one, they discuss their recovery, families, jobs, health, and
even romantic relationships.

Among them is a mother of five fighting a long-time addiction to heroin;
her husband, whose problems are complicated by alcohol; a new mother who
tried to lose weight by turning to cocaine, and a mechanic and his wife who
have fought multiple addictions for years and stand to lose their 10 children.

There's a waitress, a medical aide, a dancer, and a hotel housekeeper - all
battling their drugs of choice.

During the rest of the week, they attend multiple Alcoholics Anonymous
meetings, submit to frequent drug testing, and meet almost daily with
counselors.

"This intensive monitoring keeps them on track at the beginning," said Joan
Parker, case manager for the court. "But at some point, they sort of take
over that themselves. They want to prove to the courts that they're changing.

"They want to prove it to themselves," she said.

So much so that since the program began nearly four months ago, only one
participant has tested positive for drugs.

Drug courts are a new way of doing business with drug addicts who are
repeat criminal offenders. Throughout the United States, more than 500 have
been established in the past decade. Last year, the U.S. Department of
Justice doled out $26 million in grants to support them.

"They're catching on because people are seeing they work," said Marilyn
Roberts, director of the Justice Department's drug court program office.

Ohio is helping lead the way. Only California and Florida have more drug
courts than the 34 in Ohio, according to Meghan Wheeler, drug court
coordinator for the Supreme Court of Ohio.

Throughout the country, most drug courts are set in adult or juvenile court
systems, where the only client is the abuser.

But five Ohio counties run a drug court in their family court, where the
stakes are much higher. Here, participants are on the verge of losing
custody of their children.

In Lucas County's family drug court, these 11 participants stand to lose
permanent custody of 33 children.

To understand the philosophy behind drug court is to compare it to regular
court.

A typical court tries to determine guilt and level a punishment, and only
briefly interacts with the abuser. But drug courts operate on the belief
that drug addictions go hand in hand with problems like unemployment, low
self-esteem, domestic abuse, and poverty.

So drug courts corral mental health experts, drug counselors, child welfare
caseworkers, and others for an intensive weekly group therapy.

"This is very in-your-face, and that's what they need," said Dean Sparks,
executive director of Lucas County Children Services. "The punishment is
quick and sure - not something that might happen in another court hearing
three months away, but this week."

The intensity leads to an intimacy among participants, who end up hugging,
crying, or laughing together each week.

Success means they may get their children back.

Failure means jail.

As Judge Ray warns the young mother: "This can be the best place in the
world or it can be the most miserable place. It's your call.

"You're to be here next week. Same song, second verse."

One week later, the session starts off somberly.

One of the program's first participants, a 35-year-old mother, is in
shackles as she is escorted by a sheriff's deputy. Days earlier, she walked
away from court-ordered treatment at Aurora House, a women's shelter in
Toledo's old north end.

Punishment is swift. As she is escorted away to jail, several participants
avert their eyes.

"There's a camaraderie that develops between them," Ms. Parker says.
"Everyone learns from each other. They're encouraged by their successes,
and saddened when things go wrong."

As the handcuffed mother shuffles out, a 35-year-old waitress approaches
Magistrate Donna Mitchell for her case. The folks in here know that this
bubbly brunette has been battling to regain custody of her newborn. A
hearing had been scheduled the previous week.

Now those in the courtroom shift their focus.

"Can you tell me what has happened to you?" the magistrate asks.

"Well, I got my car. I got my license, and I got my insurance." Then she
smiles: "And I get my baby back next Friday."

The others clap and cheer.

While successes are as inevitable in drug court as failures, it's
admittedly an expensive way to deal with substance-abusers.

Each Thursday session includes about a dozen caseworkers from the courts,
Lucas County Children Services, and local treatment centers. Together, they
devote much of their work to about a dozen drug court clients.

The Lucas County Family Drug Court has about $600,000 to carry it through
until mid-2001, using grants from the local and state Alcohol and Drug
Addiction Services boards, in addition to money from the local juvenile
court, said Kendra Kec, special projects coordinator for the Lucas County
Juvenile Court.

Yet if the drug court is successful, the payoff is immeasurable, she said.

"These people may get their children back and that means that the system is
no longer supporting them," she said. "They might get off welfare. They get
jobs. They become productive, tax-paying citizens."

In comparison, it costs taxpayers between $8,000 and $60,000 to care for a
child through the Children Services system for one year, said agency
spokesman Rod Brandt. Special needs children cost more.

On this day, the local drug court seems so far successful. Nearly three
months into the program no one has tested positive for drugs.

That's about to change.

On this Thursday Rhonda, a hotel employee, is sobbing in the back of the
courtroom as another woman - still battling her own drug problems - holds
her tightly.

Glancing at some paperwork, Judge Ray calls Rhonda to the front.

"We're going to cut to the chase here. At the most recent urinalysis, [you]
tested positive for cocaine," he says. "The issue today is sentencing."

Rhonda's face is wet and red.

"If I had to make a personal decision here," the judge continues, "I'd
probably forgive you and hope that it doesn't happen again. But we have set
the standards here, and they are standards you agreed to."

Moments later, Rhonda is handcuffed and escorted away.

The others shift in their seats.

There is more bad news. On this day, Megan, the 22-year-old mother who
appeared here for the first time two weeks ago, is given a suspended
three-day jail sentence for spending time with her boyfriend instead of
with her rehabilitation group.

Whether drug courts will work and whether they will have a lasting impact
is difficult to determine. There's no nationwide tracking system of the
programs' participants. But based on studies conducted in courts in other
states, Ms. Roberts at the federal drug courts program office believes
there's a much lower recidivism rate than in traditional drug
rehabilitation programs.

In Lucas County, officials will measure the Family Drug Court program's
effectiveness by tracking whether participants regain and keep custody of
their children.

And there is plenty of promise. On the same day Rhonda is jailed, one
couple - both factory employees - tell the others about their latest visits
with their children and a trip to Cedar Point.

A medical aide talks about successfully coping with the stress of her
newborn baby. And a mechanic learns he is another step closer to completing
drug court successfully.

One of the court's best success stories, a hotel housekeeper and mother of
six, drops by this day even though she is not required to. Months ago, she
and her husband were offered drug court. She accepted. He refused.

By last week, her divorce was being finalized; she was in the process of
regaining custody of several of her children, and now she visits to offer
support for some of the new participants.

"You have to want it bad enough. You have to be willing to go the lengths
to stay clean," she says after this day's session, as she hugs one of the
younger women.

"They're here to help as much as they can, and they will," she adds, "but
in the end, it's really up to you."