Pubdate: Sat, 24 Apr 2004
Source: Richmond Times-Dispatch (VA)
Copyright: 2004 Richmond Newspapers Inc.
Contact:  http://www.timesdispatch.com/
Details: http://www.mapinc.org/media/365
Author: Paige Akin
Bookmark: http://www.mapinc.org/pot.htm (Cannabis)
Bookmark: http://www.mapinc.org/coke.htm (Cocaine)
Bookmark: http://www.mapinc.org/find?159 (Drug Courts)

ANOTHER CHANCE: HOLDING OUT HOPE

City Juvenile Drug Court Helps Offenders Help Themselves

Fabian Dixon rubs his palm around and around, feeling his close-cropped 
hair and thinking about the rest of the day. He needs a haircut.

And a job.

And a place to live. The Salvation Army is fine for a few days but not for 
long term.

He needs to buy a birthday present for his baby girl, Ayana. She'll be 1 soon.

And he needs to stay away from the weed and pills.

Fabian, 18, is a third-generation drug addict.

His parents have spent years in prison, and his grandmother is doing time.

It was no surprise, then, that he started dealing and using when he was a 
young teenager.

He has burned through three chances to get his life on track.

This is his last opportunity. If he fails again, he'll do time - a year, 
possibly more.

"I'm tired of going to jails, institutions, group homes," he said, as he 
rubbed his head again. "I have a daughter to support. If I mess up again, 
I'm going to jail and I won't see her. I've hit rock bottom."

It's early March, and Fabian is trying to pull himself up with the help of 
Richmond's juvenile drug court, an innovative program that integrates drug 
treatment, counseling, education and public safety.

He is one of a handful of teenagers with substance-abuse problems who are 
selected by the drug court team to work through their addictions in lieu of 
being locked up. If they graduate from the program, they can move on with 
their lives. If not, they face incarceration in a juvenile correctional center.

Last month, Fabian started his fourth and final go-round at drug court. 
This time, he thinks he can succeed.

Because for the first time in his life, he realizes he has people who care 
about him.

But those people aren't his parents. Or his grandmother.

They're the counselors and clinicians at drug court.

"They care about me. I want to do the right thing, not just because of me, 
but because they've been supportive of me," he said. "I want to show them I 
can do right."

. . .

Fabian Dixon was born in Danville to a drug-addicted mother of four.

At 6, he went to live with his aunt when his mother's drug addiction made 
it too difficult for her to keep the kids. His siblings went to other 
families or were adopted.

Several times, his mother thought she had her life in order, and she 
reclaimed Fabian.

"I was happy because I was with my mom. She had her act together for a long 
time," he said.

But she returned to drugs again and again, and Fabian always was sent away. 
Once, he went to his grandmother's house. She, too, used drugs and often 
left him home alone.

Fabian felt most comfortable with his aunt because there was a man in the 
house - his uncle - and no one was using drugs. And for once in his life, 
he had some parenting, some discipline.

"I wanted to stay there, but I didn't want to follow the rules," he said.

Fabian started breaking into homes, stealing things, smoking marijuana and 
getting drunk.

"I used to stay away from the house for a long time," he said. "And I 
started catching serious charges."

For all of his teenage years, he was in and out of group homes and 
detention centers. All he wanted, he said, was to live with his mother.

In 2000, he saw her for the first time in two years.

"She was high on crack," he said. "It hurt me."

The two rented a room in a house on Chamberlayne Avenue. He worked at 
McDonald's, and she worked, and they saved enough money for an apartment.

"Everything was going so good. That's how I got introduced to Percocet," a 
highly addictive prescription painkiller.

At 16, Fabian had a routine. He smoked weed every day, and he popped 
painkillers, too. On special occasions, or when the money was rolling in 
from crack deals, he laced his marijuana with cocaine.

He assaulted a girl, but she dropped the charges. He bought stolen clothes 
from a neighbor. He sold drugs.

And he finally wound up in Richmond's drug court last March after he tried 
to steal a woman's purse - while he was as high as a kite.

"Fabian really is a kid who's been thrown away by society," said Nancy 
Bacot, the drug court's coordinator.

. . .

It's 3 p.m. on a Thursday.

Their friends are hanging out on the corner, shooting hoops, smoking weed, 
getting drunk.

Seven young black men sit side by side in Judge Kimberly B. O'Donnell's 
courtroom in the Oliver Hill Juvenile and Domestic Relations District Court 
building.

They are wearing dress slacks and ties. A few play with their braids. One 
mother motions for her son to pull up his pants.

O'Donnell enters.

Rather than taking her seat behind the bench, she circles it and steps down 
in front of the boys.

"How is everyone today?" she asks.

O'Donnell, a tall woman with warm, blue eyes, calls each youth up and asks 
about his week.

"I heard you went to all your meetings this week. Good for you," she tells one.

"Your urine was clean this week, right? Great," she tells another.

She hugs everyone. O'Donnell said she uses that physical closeness to 
connect on a personal level with each young man.

"What a judge has to have to do this is authenticity. That's just who I am. 
I'm a very physical person, and I'm a very compassionate person, and I show 
that," she said.

The boys like O'Donnell.

"She's fair," Fabian said.

The program couldn't work without O'Donnell's commitment.

"She is absolutely passionate about what she does," Bacot said. "That 
caring comes across to these kids. Sometimes, they are not working for 
themselves. They are working because they don't want to let the judge down 
or the staff down."

O'Donnell's hands-on approach wins her points.

"You can't be phony with kids. They absolutely know who's gaming them and 
who's in their corner," she said. "We don't always see eye-to-eye with 
them, and they don't like being punished for their bad behavior, but 
there's no doubt in my mind that after the first month, these kids know we 
care."

O'Donnell schedules the drug court work in her spare time, and she doesn't 
receive any compensation for it.

"It's one of the most rewarding things that I do, and it's by far the most 
difficult thing I do every week," she said. "Every Thursday, when we sit 
together as a team, I am brutally reminded of how complicated the lives of 
these kids are."

Overwhelmingly, it's a program of young, black teenage males. Only one girl 
and one or two white boys have participated.

Drug court operates on about $340,000 a year, a mix of state and local 
funding that covers salaries of Bacot; two full-time substance-abuse 
clinicians from Richmond Behavioral Health Authority; a full-time community 
service monitor; and a few other expenses.

The program costs about $13,500 per youth, and most of them complete the 
program in a year. There are 16 spots available, and 11 are full right now. 
Seven boys are being assessed.

Nancy Ross, director of juvenile justice services for the city, oversees 
the drug court program. She said it is important to know why teenagers 
self-medicate.

"Substance abuse is so much in the fabric of many of our delinquent kids' 
lives. They've got a lot of painful stuff to deal with," she said.

Before drug court every Thursday, the drug court team meets on Wednesdays 
to discuss what to do next with each youth.

They have a difficult task.

Work isn't 9-to-5. They work long hours and have to be on call late at 
night. They make home visits. They take the boys out to lunch, sometimes at 
their own expense.

And rarely do they see a big payout for all their efforts.

"Sometimes we're planting a seed now. There's not a lot of immediate 
gratification for the staff," Bacot said.

Marisa Harris is Fabian's case manager.

"I grew up in foster care, so I've always wanted to help kids. Working with 
Fabian is a challenge at times, but it is rewarding to see him grow. It's 
like therapy for myself to see what he goes through."

The biggest challenge for Fabian, she said, is getting him to live through 
situations, rather than using drugs to avoid them.

"When something happens to him, he shuts down, shuts the world out, lays 
around in pity," she said.

. . .

Fabian has a very low tolerance for frustration.

A few weeks ago, he walked off his new job at Burger King.

Then, he got high.

"One of the issues for our kids - and certainly for Fabian being 
third-generation criminal family - is that they self-sabotage," Bacot said.

"These kids are coming to us with tremendous baggage. It's amazing that 
most of them are not using hard-core drugs or haven't gotten involved in 
serious delinquency."

Drug use kept him from getting a janitorial job at VCU Medical Center. The 
drug court test showed he was clean, but a test performed by the hospital 
was positive for marijuana.

Still, Fabian continues to attend all his meetings and is looking for work.

He was living at the Salvation Army for a few weeks, then with his baby's 
mother and grandmother. Now, he's between friends and family and may get 
some housing assistance from the Department of Social Services.

He has enrolled in school because he wants to earn his GED.

"I want to put myself in a situation where I can take my daughter away from 
all of this craziness," he said. His girlfriend is expecting their second 
child later this year.

For the most part, Fabian sees himself as a role model to the younger boys 
in drug court, "especially for the ones who are still using all the time."

"I was just like them. I was too caught up in my own feelings and emotions. 
I figured, 'Why should I care for people if no one cares for me?'" he said. 
"Now I realize I've been doing the same thing to my daughter that my mom 
and dad did to me. It was a reality check."

What drug court programs boil down to, O'Donnell said, is a chance for kids 
like Fabian to change their lives.

"When I see what these kids have to deal with in their communities - being 
shot at on the way home, dealing with grief because their friends are 
murdered - I think, 'How do they survive? How do they do this on a daily 
basis?'" she said.

"But in spite of the frustrations, I absolutely know that we're doing the 
right thing, that as a juvenile court system, we are providing honest 
opportunity for change for these kids."

Some turn around. Some don't. One who got a chance to change was Peytron 
Johnson. He participated in drug court last year but withdrew.

He was the city's first homicide victim this year.

But O'Donnell is optimistic about Fabian.

Last year, when he disappeared from the program for a while, she worried 
that he was lost for good. He wanted to serve his jail time and not deal 
with his substance abuse and other issues.

"He really picked himself up and learned how to handle mistakes and move 
on," she said. "Fabian knows now where his support systems are and how to 
reach out to them. I am very, very hopeful for him."
- ---
MAP posted-by: Terry Liittschwager