Pubdate: Tue, 23 May 2006 Source: Dallas Morning News (TX) Copyright: 2006 The Dallas Morning News Contact: http://www.dallasnews.com/ Details: http://www.mapinc.org/media/117 Author: Linda Stewart Ball, The Dallas Morning News Bookmark: http://www.mapinc.org/heroin.htm (Heroin) A DECADE LATER, SOME STILL GRAPPLING WITH HEROIN'S EFFECTS Third Of Three Parts Ten years ago, heroin hit Plano like a deadly tornado, spawning addiction and destroying lives in its path. A spate of fatal heroin overdoses – at least 20 over three years beginning in 1996 – sounded the alarm and thrust the assumed "safe" suburb with its low crime rate, big houses and excellent schools into the national spotlight. Although a decade has passed, scores of people are still dealing with the repercussions, the damage done in heroin's wake. Here's a brief look at a few and how they are faring. A recovering addict Broke and desperate, Andrew Cox needed a few bucks for another quick fix. Trolling a department store's parking lot for an easy mark, the teen's eyes locked on a woman's purse in a shopping cart. Andrew grabbed it and ran. He landed in the Collin County Jail. That was nearly 10 years ago. Mr. Cox, now 27 – a homeowner, restaurant manager and bass guitarist – says he's alive to tell about it because of what happened next. The young junkie called his dad from jail to bail him out. His father's calm response stunned him: "I'm glad to know you're safe. We'll get through this. ... We love you. Goodbye." In retrospect, Mr. Cox said, his dad was smart. But while enduring heroin withdrawal, he didn't appreciate being in that stark jail cell for two months. "It was the toughest thing we ever had to do," said his mom, Sandy Cox. "He was totally out of control." The younger Mr. Cox, the son of a schoolteacher and child psychologist, said he grew up in a loving and supportive Plano home. Good grades came easy. And though he had friends in various school cliques, he never felt like he fit in or belonged. Not until he started using drugs. Then he had an instant group of buddies. At 13, he was smoking pot. By 17, he was shooting up heroin every day. Heroin gripped Mr. Cox's body in a way that nothing else had. The excruciating pain of withdrawal, coupled with an intense fixation on getting high, made him believe he would die without it. "I didn't know how to stop," he said. By the time his parents caught on, it was too late. Early attempts at drug rehab failed. He was arrested about a month after he turned 18, but the charges were dropped on the condition he clean up. He went to Hazelden, an inpatient drug treatment center in Minnesota, and went on to graduate from the University of Minnesota. Older and wiser, Mr. Cox said, he loves his life now. The Minnesota resident said he has no time or desire for drugs. And no interest in returning to Plano, where old acquaintances are buried and his bad habits began. "It was luck or coincidence or God," he said of his redemption. "Call it what you will." A recreational user Jason Bland snorted black tar heroin at a party one night in 1997. Nine years later, he's still paying for that teenage high. Jason, then a senior at Plano Senior High School, wound up in a coma at Medical Center of Plano. He escaped death but awoke with brain damage. The heroin slowed everything down, including his body's ability to get oxygen to his brain. Today, Mr. Bland's mind is quick. But his 6-foot-2-inch body has been held in a wheelchair for nearly a decade. Through will and daily arm and leg strengthening exercises, Mr. Bland can use a walker and ride a three-wheeled reclining bicycle. He hopes to someday walk on his own. At 27, he has studied management information systems at Collin County Community College, but he is still dependent on his parents. "I regret that I'm in this chair," Mr. Bland said, his speech halting, almost robotic, another side effect of his overdose. Before self pity sets in, his father interjects: "Who can change that?" "Me," Jason responds brightly. He then kicks away his wheelchair's metal footrests. His father leans over, grabs his son's thick waist and pulls him to a standing position. The two men are facing each other. The younger man's hands grip his father's shoulders for support. Then he struggles to walk forward, putting one leaden foot in front of the other, while his dad walks backward – a defiant slow dance against Jason Bland's disability. The parents Lowell and Andrea Hill became reluctant symbols for grief-stricken Plano parents after their son, Rob, died Aug. 20, 1997. A popular athlete and college-bound Plano East High School graduate, 18-year-old Rob inhaled heroin while partying with friends. The Hills sought the harshest penalties for the drug dealers. They've since moved on, toward healing and peace. Today, the Hills are a source of strength to others who have lost children. They're volunteer grief counselors at their church, Christ United Methodist in Plano. They also serve as facilitators at Journey of Hope, comforting grieving parents who tap into the nonprofit Plano group for support. They say their daughter, who was away at college when Rob died, helped pull them through. The Tulsa, Okla., dentist gave birth 19 months ago to Kaylee, the Hills' only grandchild. Preparing for a recent overnight stay, they made a place for her. The Hills converted Rob's bedroom – which had been off-limits – into a little girl's room, complete with baby bed and stuffed animals. Gone are his dusty trophies and team photos, the enshrined remnants of a young man's years. "There's no signs of Rob at all in that room," Mr. Hill said. "It's real strange. It's just really hard to believe. ... But life goes on. You lose one life, but a new life begins." The detective Detective Billy Meeks is a mountain of a man with a mop of salt-and-pepper hair and a thick moustache. He's easy to spot and not soon forgotten. As the lead overdose investigator for the Plano Police Department in the mid- to late-1990s, he arrested many young heroin users and dealers. Many of the small-time dealers have served their prison time and been released. Several are trying to turn their lives around. The detective says he often runs into them at Collin Creek Mall, where he works off duty. Some blame him for ruining their lives. Others thank him for saving them. But all ask that he pretend that he doesn't know them when their paths cross. As long as they stay clean, he's happy to oblige. Detective Meeks, part of a multiagency drug task force that tracked heroin to the poppy fields in Mexico, said he, too, has changed. The most personal being a divorce brought, in part, by the long hours he spent working on those cases. Aside from the hundreds of arrests and convictions, he sometimes wonders what he accomplished during his five years on the drug task force. "I was hoping to make a dent somewhere. ... But we never permanently stopped the flow," he said. "There's still heroin out there. There's still cocaine and meth. No matter how well we do our investigations. "As long as you have someone who wants to use, there is going to be a source. And there will always be users because they find it easier than taking reality." A dealer Unable to change his heroin-dealing past, Jose Alberto Meza sits in a federal prison, focused on the future and his 8-year-old daughter. "I miss my family," he said in a recent telephone interview from an east Arkansas penitentiary. "But I have to make the best of what I've got." In 1999, Mr. Meza, then 21, received a 30-year sentence. Now 28, he is the youngest of three Meza brothers serving time for their role in a heroin and cocaine distribution ring that operated in Collin County in the mid-1990s. Day and night, scores of clean-cut-looking youths beat a path to a little blue house on Plano's east side where police said Jose "Beefy" Meza lived with one of his brothers and another dealer. Police seized guns, drug paraphernalia and heroin at the site. Authorities dubbed it an illicit warehouse for a business that targeted an upper-middle-class market, gave free samples and then watched indifferently as its addicted customers died. The drugs Mr. Meza and 25 others sold were linked to the overdose deaths of at least four young people with Plano ties. Beyond admitting his own heroin addiction, Mr. Meza declined to discuss or acknowledge any drug-trafficking involvement, citing future appeals. "I was partying," said Mr. Meza, who dropped out of school in ninth grade but later earned a GED. "I was going out with friends, staying out late at night, smoking weed. And all of the sudden, I don't remember when, one of the guys said, 'Hey, look what I got.' And we started doing heroin." Mr. Meza completed a drug treatment program in prison. He teaches basic education skills to other inmates. He's scheduled to be released in 2027, if he stays out of trouble in prison. "If I could do it all over again, heroin wouldn't be on my list or agenda," he said. Today, his child is the light of his life. He looks forward to her visits, when they take pictures together and play hopscotch. When she asks why he's in prison, he doesn't mention the heroin fatalities. "I tell her it's because I did drugs," he said. "I remind her that drugs are not good. I tell her to be strong. ... Dad's got to be away for now." - --- MAP posted-by: Beth Wehrman