Article by Todd Matthews / Photos by Erik Castro

It is a rare day when a long-time heroin addict receives a handshake from a judge, an award, a slice of cake, and a dismissed felony charge. Moreover, it's rarer still when that individual is grateful for the accolades -- not because he has avoided jail, but because he has endured 21 months of intensive treatment and has finally kicked his drug habit.

Appearing before the judge in King County Drug Court (photo by Erik Castro)

"I've served years and years in jail for drug-related crimes -- since I was eighteen years old, " says the recovered heroin addict. He is a short, middle-aged man with thinning black hair and a somewhat dazed and monotone voice -- a direct residue of his decades of chronic drug use. We are seated on a bench in a marble hallway on the seventh floor of the King County Superior Court building, in Seattle, Washington. "Being in and out of jail has been a natural part of my life for the past twenty-seven years," he adds, gesturing toward the nearby courtroom. "I was given a chance, and I took advantage of it."

Welcome to graduation day at King County Drug Diversion Court -- a program designed to divert substance-abusing defendants in felony drug possession cases away from jail and toward treatment and recovery.

Drug Court began in 1994 in Miami, Florida. Today there are more than 450 Drug Court programs in the United States, and King County's program is unique because it is the twelfth program in the nation. A mentor site for similar programs in the United States, King County Drug Court has proved to be a cost-effective, yet highly unconventional, way of treating and rehabilitating drug addicted criminals.

At today's graduation, the recovered heroin addict is not the only person with reason to celebrate. There is also a young mother who started the Drug Court program addicted to heroin, pregnant with her second child. And there is a middle-aged pharmacist -- a man who entered the program addicted to self-prescribed painkillers. "I feel like a different person," he says, placing his graduation medal in his briefcase. "I spent so much time in chronic pain, and taking pills. Now my life is under control."

Self-control . . . recovery . . . rehabilitation. These words are part of a self-help vocabulary. But Drug Court is much more than self-help. Sure there are accolades, pats on the back, and praise. But there are also jail sanctions, a challenging diary of court appearances, appointments with counselors, drug testing, and drug and alcohol recovery meetings. Drug Court is many things: an exercise in tough love . . . a rather revolutionary, though sometimes criticized, arsenal in the so-called 'war on drugs' . . . a truly different approach to law enforcement.

On a Friday afternoon last fall, I was invited to meet with King County Superior Court Judge Michael J. Trickey in his chambers on the seventh floor of the King County Courthouse. An older man with broad shoulders and salt-and-pepper hair, Judge Trickey has presided over Drug Court for nearly a year. "Drug Court is an unorthodox court by design," Judge Trickey explained. As we sat in his chambers, city workers jackhammered a downtown corner below -- somewhat symbolic of the reconstruction that Drug Court has had on the criminal justice system in King County. "We need to have a fundamental shift, in my mind, in how we treat people with addictions, while protecting the public with this new approach."

Drug Court is not for everyone -- an item very clear in Judge Trickey's description of the program. That is to say, an individual must be eligible for the program in order to opt in. A Drug Court candidate must be filed in King County Superior Court with a charge of Violation of Uniformed Controlled Substance Act (VUCSA). Moreover, a candidate must not have any additional felony charges at the time of filing. In addition, the candidate may not have any prior offenses sexual or violent in nature. Finally, he or she may not have indicia of dealing in the charged case -- which includes, among other factors, possession of more than 2.5 grams of heroin, cocaine or methamphetamine. If a candidate is deemed eligible for Drug Court, he or she has two weeks to observe the court and decide whether or not to participate in the program. If he or she decides against Drug Court, that individual is transferred to a 'mainstream' court, where that person is tried and, if applicable, sentenced. If a candidate decides to opt into the program, that individual waives many of his or her rights, including the right to a jury trial, the right to call witnesses and to cross-examine the State's witnesses, the right to testify, and the right to contest the VUCSA charge. Moreover, if the participant terminates from the program -- either on their own, or by the decision of the judge -- he or she will proceed to a bench trial based solely upon the information in the police report.

Three different levels chart a participant's progress through Drug Court. Level One, which typically lasts 90 days, involves all treatment sessions required by the treatment agency, two urinalysis tests per week, and verified attendance at three treatment-approved sober support group meetings per week. Level Two, which typically lasts 3-4 months, involves all treatment sessions required by the treatment agency, one urinalysis test per week, and verified attendance at three treatment-approved sober support group meetings per week. Level Three, which typically lasts three months, involves all treatment sessions required by the treatment agency, one urinalysis tests per week, and verified attendance at two treatment-approved sober support group meetings per week. In addition, a participant will appear in court one to two times per month, where the judge, prosecutor, and defense assess that individual's progress. If the court finds a Drug Court participant delinquent in his or her progress -- namely, failing to appear at all treatment sessions, failing to attend the required twelve-step meetings, or failing to remain drug and alcohol free -- he or she is sanctioned by the court. Sanctions may include, among other things, community service hours, drug court observation days, writing assignments, jail time and, ultimately, termination from the program. The average Drug Court participant spends approximately 16 months in Drug Court, working his or her way through each level before graduating from the program.

"Drug Court is a way to treat people so that they don't come back into the system, while protecting the public and saving people money," Judge Trickey observed. The same people -- or, rather, people with the same problems, such as drug and alcohol addiction -- are appearing before the criminal justice system in what could be described as a revolving door. But Drug Court is serving as a doorstop of sorts -- if not entirely abolishing that door. The recidivism rate of Drug Court graduates is impressive. Less than 10% of Drug Court graduates collect new felony charges. Compare that figure to the 33% of Drug Court dropouts who collect new felony charges, and the program is clearly addressing the relationship between crime and drug/alcohol abuse. "Anybody who has been working in the criminal justice system for a long time knows and understands that most people who get involved in the criminal justice system have substance abuse problems," Judge Trickey told me. "That's just causing a lot of street crime. Some of the people who graduate from Drug Court come in and say, 'I'm drug-free. This is the first time I've stopped committing crimes in the past ten years of my life.'"

If Drug Court is an unorthodox court, then it would follow that Judge Trickey is an unorthodox judge. Moving from a traditional courtroom -- first as a lawyer, and then as a Juvenile Court judge -- to Drug Court has meant a great deal of adjustment for the judge. True, he is still the final arbiter in his courtroom. He still wears the traditional black robe. And he still looks to the defense and prosecution for information on each case. But his job has been 'personalized' on many levels -- an element of the Drug Court proceedings that is a bit unsettling and, frankly, disarming to both courtroom observers and program participants. In one instance, Judge Trickey will ask a defendant how many pieces of cake he had at the morning's graduation. In the next instance, he will allot a jail sanction to a Drug Court defendant who has produced a 'dirty' urinalysis test. Drug Court requires a lot more communication between the judge and the individual defendant in court -- more than in any other part of the court system. Much of the conversation is directly between the judge and the individual defendant. "Drug Court requires me to be more actively involved," Judge Trickey explained, "as opposed to relying on the lawyers to make their presentations to the court. So I had to change from the more traditional judicial style to the Drug Court style, which requires a more one-on-one relationship with the defendants."

Similarly, it's interesting to observe the behavior of a private attorney in Drug Court. Though Judge Trickey said he hasn't seen a private attorney "flame on," Drug Court's non-adversarial nature does take some acclimation for more traditional lawyers.

The unconventional relationship that Judge Trickey described extends well beyond the judge and the defendant; it also touches the judge and the attorneys -- both for the prosecution and defense.

One Thursday morning, thirty minutes before Drug Court is scheduled to begin, the prosecutor, two defense attorneys, court liaisons, and Judge Trickey are huddled on couches and chairs in the judge's chambers. They are reviewing the day's calendar. Whereas a traditional trial may require off-the-record dialogue between the defense and prosecution, Drug Court relies on such an exchange. Each weekday morning the judge hosts a staffing session -- a meeting wherein the above mentioned individuals can discuss cases and make decisions prior to the court's regular session. For some defendants struggling through the program -- missing scheduled appointments, providing 'dirty' urinalysis tests -- the group agrees upon jail sanctions. Other defendants who are progressing well through the program will find their cases placed on 'express' -- namely, they will be moved to the front of the day's calendar, where their cases will be heard first and they will avoid having to spend an entire morning in court.

Judge Michael Trickey doesn't like to see defendants more than once (photo by Erik Castro)

In this meeting, the day's actions and decisions aren't the most important items. What's truly important is the dialogue between the judge, defense, and prosecution. Gone is the adversarial setting, replaced with what is clearly a symbiotic, team-based effort. The defense attorney does not 'bargain' with the prosecutor. Neither side really even 'argues' its case. Rather, they look at each case from a single common ground and make suggestions. Though Judge Trickey makes the final decision, rarely does he stray from what the prosecution and defense have recommended.

The staffing session is Drug Court ingenuity; it benefits the program exponentially. Because all parties meet prior to the court session, they have the opportunity to compare notes, brainstorm, and make decisions on each case. The relationship between the defense and prosecution is non-adversarial, resulting in a problem-solving approach to each case, rather than the typical 'winner' and 'loser' scenario. Moreover, having discussed the cases prior to court session, each party approaches the bench well prepared, with a plan that is agreed upon and familiar to the judge. The end result: a streamlined, amiable and efficient courtroom setting -- one that sends a consistent message to each Drug Court participant.

"Drug Court is intended to be a cooperative effort, rather than the same old adversarial system," said Paige Garberding, one of the court's public defenders. "The prosecutor and defense attorney cooperate. We may disagree at times about exactly how to get there, but we don't lose sight of the fact that we all work together."

Garberding has worked as a public defender for nearly two decades, and Drug Court defense attorney for three years. She is employed by the Associated Counsel for the Accused. Perhaps no one else in Drug Court truly understands each program participant more than Garberding. As the public defender, she is often the sole point-person for a client struggling with addiction, trying to make it through the program. "A lot of people think that defendants get an easy ride at Drug Court," Garberding explained. "But a lot of the defendants choose Drug Court, despite the fact that they may get more jail time in Drug Court sanctions than they would if they just plead guilty and would have gone on probation.

"A lot of defendants tell me, 'It's easier for me to just go to prison,'" Garberding added. "'I can have a roof over my head for free. I can have three square meals a day. I don't have to work.' Drug Court takes a lot more effort. It's not just a physical investment. They also have to make a psychic investment. The mental, emotional, and intellectual investment they have to make -- and keep making -- is an ongoing process. If they want to stay in recovery, they have to keep it up for the rest of their lives, one day at a time."

Studying the statistics related to Drug Court, it would seem that the program would be a championed alternative to traditional and arguably ineffective criminal justice policies. According to a study completed by the University of Washington, the cost of adjudicating one VUCSA case in Drug Court is $287; the cost of adjudicating the same case in a mainstream court is $400. Similarly, 78% of the $670,000 spent treating drug offenders in King County is offset by about $520,000 in forgone court and jail costs. And according to one police officer I spoke with, the cost to incarcerate one felony offender per year is $26,000; the cost to treat and rehabilitate the same offender is $2,000 per year. Considering that more than 90% of the individuals who graduate Drug Court do not collect new felony charges, the statistics are promising.

But Drug Court has never been an easy sell to the law enforcement community. It wasn't until November 2000 that the King County Superior Court system recognized Drug Court as a viable program, and folded it into its regular budget. The program has been labeled 'alternative' for quite some time, and it is a description that is somewhat unsettling to Judge Trickey. "Drug Court is an established alternative," he told me. "The key way to think about it is that 'alternative' doesn't necessarily mean 'temporary.' Drug Court is a way to keep people out of the system, which is really going to guarantee long-term cost-savings."

If King County Drug Court is so effective, why does the program have its critics? I asked Officer Sean Whitcomb that question. As the Drug Court liaison for the Seattle Police Department, Officer Whitcomb spends much of his time sharing the program's positive attributes with his colleagues.

Before working as the Drug Court liaison, Officer Whitcomb was a bike patrol officer in Seattle's University District neighborhood. He came into contact with a considerable number of drug addicted felons. Moreover, he experienced a great deal of frustration when he would see individuals he arrested only a few months prior appear on the streets again -- smoking crack or shooting heroin in one of the neighborhood alleys. "It's frustrating for a police officer to arrest someone and then, two weeks later, see them on the street and out of jail," Officer Whitcomb told me one afternoon, in between an all-day meeting with a group of county sheriffs, Drug Enforcement agents, and city police officers.

Drug Court graduate Lois Moi: "I never had a problem with the system, I had a problem with myself. I needed something or someone to say, 'Hey, I'll help you.' And the people at Drug Court did that. They laid out a plan and it worked." (photo by Erik Castro)

Officer Whitcomb's frustration was twofold. First, he was seeing repeat offenders getting arrested, serving jail time, then re-offending when released -- their drug addiction never addressed during that cycle. Second, some offenders were arrested and released -- having opted into Drug Court instead of jail. "I would think, 'Wait a minute. I just arrested that guy two weeks ago, and now he's back out on the street,'" said Officer Whitcomb.

This seemingly ineffective 'catch-and-release' cycle pointed toward Drug Court. As such, Drug Court has had to overcome the notion among many in the local law enforcement community that the program is a lenient alternative to criminal justice.

Debunking that notion, or 'myth,' as many Drug Court advocates refer to it, falls to Officer Whitcomb. As the liaison, Officer Whitcomb spends much of his time educating his colleagues about the program. It is a job that, even he admits, took much convincing early on. "Before I even knew about this position," he said, "or even applied for the job, my impression of the program was very negative."

Officer Whitcomb's views about Drug Court have changed. He presently spends much of his time speaking to members of the law enforcement community, distributing Drug Court participant lists to police department role calls, and contributing to staffing meetings, so as to stay abreast of the program and communicate with his fellow officers. "Law enforcement is a key part of Drug Court," he explained. "We are the people who make the arrests and file the reports. It's my job to let the court know what is going on in the streets."

Still, some people in the law enforcement community believe that Drug Court is an easy ride. 'Do the crime, do the time,' was the mentality early on -- and still is in large pockets of law enforcement. Officer Whitcomb combats these arguments with statistics. "If you look at the cost-savings and the recidivism rate," said Officer Whitcomb, "it's quite simple. The program is clearly working."

Mary Taylor, the Drug Court Program Coordinator, echoes these remarks. Taylor cites a study conducted by the Department of Judicial Administration (DJA) that shows the number of Drug Court graduates has increased every year since 1995 -- except for 1999. Between 1995 and September 2000, 350 people graduated from the Drug Court program. The numbers are indeed impressive -- 350 people recovered; 280 people not re-offending. "Drug Court changes people's behavior," Taylor said, "so that they aren't using drugs or committing new crimes."

According to the DJA, 71% of Drug Court participants are male, 29% are female; 50% are Caucasian, 35% African American, 7% Hispanic, 3% Asian, and 5% Native American; 28% of the participants claim their drug of choice as cocaine, 26% as alcohol, 26% as heroin, 11% as marijuana, 6% as amphetamines, and 3% as other; upon entry into the Drug Court program, participants reported that 54% began drug use prior to adulthood; 49% reported daily use; 51% reported use for 10 years or more; and 75% reported continuous drug use.

These demographics illustrate a daunting and challenging population that Drug Court is working with. The graduation rate is 23% -- a figure that, in some circles, is either frowned upon or touted. Many critics look at this less-than-twenty-five-percent success rate as an argument for continued incarceration for all drug offenders. But Drug Court supporters claim that the individuals who graduate, though relatively small in number, do so recovered from alcohol and/or drug abuse and rarely re-offending -- bonuses that incarceration does not provide.

The Drug Court prosecutor, Denis O'Leary, cites the cost-savings associated with the program. When a Drug Court participant opts into the program, he or she waives all rights to a jury trial. "When is the last time an officer was subpoenaed for Drug Court?" O'Leary argued. "When is the last time an officer has had to come downtown and testify in Drug Court? Never. We are able to save money by not drawing the local law enforcement into the system." In addition, one prosecuting attorney, two public defenders, and one judge are assigned to Drug Court -- a relatively small staff that handles approximately 1,000 cases per year, on a $1.1 million annual budget.

A low cost to taxpayers . . . . Drug and alcohol recovery treatment for felony offenders . . . . A reduction in crime . . . . These are all selling points for Officer Whitcomb -- what he describes as a 'win-win' situation. If a member of the law enforcement community is critical of Drug Court, said Officer Whitcomb, it's typically because that individual doesn't know about the program. "I try to do what I can to let police officers know about Drug Court," he commented, "and show them that the program is working."

At the meeting downtown with Officer Whitcomb and the local law enforcement, I met an African American woman named Lois. Earlier that day, Mary Taylor, the Drug Court Program Manager, told me that Lois would be at the meeting, and I would probably want to speak with her. Lois is a Drug Court graduate, and an avid supporter of the program. She is frank and sincere, and knows intimately what sort of an impact Drug Court can have on participants. She described the prosecutor, who was seated nearby, as a Rottweiler in the courtroom, but a honey bear outside. "I learned to respect him," she added, "He wasn't just working in Drug Court for a paycheck." Meeting Lois was a bizarre event. I watched her banter with prosecutor O'Leary, shake hands with many of the law enforcement officers in the room. Before entering Drug Court, Lois spent many years as a homeless prostitute addicted to crack cocaine. She has a catalogue of lived experiences of the truly disenfranchised. She described a night so cold, her blankets stolen, that she walked the streets of downtown in order to stay awake; if she had slept on a bench or in an alley, Lois feared she would have froze to death. And as a prostitute in South Seattle, Lois recalled, she suffered the despair of not knowing where her five children were living.

"I never had a problem with the system," she told me. "I had a problem with myself. I needed something or someone to say, 'Hey, I'll help you.' And the people at Drug Court did that. They laid out a plan and it worked."

Today Lois owns her own contracting business. She is a Drug Court success. And though that may sound cliche, consider that, since the program's inception six years ago, Drug Court has produced 350 other people just like Lois -- completely rehabilitated, no longer committing crimes, and living as a productive member of the community.

"Drug Court is a good program," Lois said. "But if you're not willing to succeed, you're not going to make it. I entered the program with every fiber of my being determined to succeed. And I did."

This article originally appeared in Washington Law & Politics magazine.