Latest drug court graduates draw praise

The Allen County drug court program continues to affirm its positive effect in the community. On Thursday afternoon, in front of a crowded courtroom, the program recognized four new graduates.
Drug court was introduced to the 31st Judicial District nearly three years ago by former Allen County Sheriff Tom Williams and District Judge Daniel Creitz as a less punitive, less expensive, treatment-based alternative to incarceration for felony-level drug offenders.
“We have no idea how lucky we are that you offer this program in lieu of prison,” said one of Thursday’s graduates, a man in his early 40s, who addressed the judge from the podium before accepting his certificate of completion.
“You know,” Creitz told the man, who had been devoted to methamphetamine, opiates and marijuana since the late-1980s, “when I sentenced you, I would have questioned whether you could do this. I had you in several hearings and your life had just turned upside down. And look where you are now.”
During the course of the yearlong program participants are required to appear before the court for evaluation twice monthly. They must also make themselves available for random drug tests, treatment, therapy, probation meetings, and are expected to maintain full employment or else provide proof of academic study. A schedule of sanctions is in place for those who fail to comply.

THE HOUR-LONG event was a largely joyous one. Creitz is a compassionate force in the room and regularly invites applause from the audience when the progress detailed by the offender merits it.
Prior to the ceremony, current, non-graduating participants were compelled to appear before the judge, too. A few confessed to backsliding — one young woman, in an orange jumpsuit and shackles, entered the courtroom on the arm of the bailiff to be told by the judge that she’d been removed from the program, her probation revoked — but most were congratulated by the court for extending the length of their sobriety, and were advanced to the next stage in the four-phase program.
One snag occasionally cited in reference to the program concerns the timing of the mandated court evaluation. A main requirement of drug court is that a participant hold down a fulltime job. Some observers, however, question  whether the midday court appointments — which often requires an employee to request time off work — might not jeopardize the offender’s likely already tenuous job security.
It’s a challenge not lost on the court, and one Creitz is willing to accommodate, to the extent feasible. “Now, I want to work this around your work schedule,” he told one young woman, to whom he assigned 24-hours in jail after she admitted to refusing a drug test.
He repeatedly reminded participants to maintain a dialogue with the court. “I think that all just deals with communication,” he told one man, who had recently missed one of his appointments. “Just make the call — ‘I can’t be here. I’ve got an issue with a child’ or something like that. It’s not going to be a problem. We can reschedule it.”
Transportation to Iola for residents without a reliable vehicle is a second concern, but one the court has addressed in part with the use of a bus service which includes the outlying counties.

THE AUDIENCE on Thursday consisted of current drug court participants, members of the drug court support team — probation officers, counselors, correction officers, clerks; the real engine behind the program’s success, to hear the addicts tell it — as well as the family and friends of the graduating class.
One graduate, a woman in her early 30s, wearing a nurse’s uniform, took to the podium and explained how, in 2012, methamphetamine, after years of chronic use, had finally “grabbed ahold” of her.
“What do you mean it grabbed ahold of you?” asked Creitz.
“I mean it took my life and went,” she said. “I had no control over it.”
The woman’s son, probably 12 or 13, sat in the back row of the courtroom as she spoke. He craned his neck, swaying from one side to the other, trying to get an angle on his mother as she detailed for the courtroom her journey toward sobriety. He wore a huge grin as he watched her and ran his fingers absently along the petals of a single red rose, wrapped in cellophane, which he held in his lap.
All four graduates directed well wishes toward the current crop of drug court participants seated in the gallery. One young grad called her months in drug court, “from the depths of my heart, the greatest thing that happened to me, my parents, and especially my kids. … To my fellow drug court participants…I wish you all the best of luck and hope to see you standing where I am today.”
“Big round of applause,” urged Creitz.
One of the current participants who joined in the applause from her seat at the front of the gallery was a young, college-aged woman who had updated the court on her own progress 10 minutes earlier.
“How we doing?” Creitz had asked her as she approached the podium.
“Good,” she’d said, in a soft, halting voice.
“That’s what I hear. I hear you’re doing fantastic.”
“Yep,” she told him. She was working a new job, in a salon.
“How do you like it?” Creitz asked.
“It’s awesome,” she said, smiling.
“When was the last time you used?”
She reached back and pulled her long hair across one shoulder. “August 12.”
“And what did you use?”
“Heroin.”
“Why don’t you tell us a little about your heroin use?”
“Well. I mean, I started when I was 20. That was the first time I used it. I had been addicted to pain pills and stuff like that for a couple of years before. I started using it and instantly spiraled out of control. And then I overdosed on it six months later. And, well, I had to spend three days in the hospital. And I—.”
“You about died,” Creitz said.
“Yeah,” the young woman said. “I mean, I did — they were there to resuscitate me. It was — really scary.”
“Amazing,” Creitz said. “And now, you’re doing fantastic.”