Over the next week or so, I searched for state-run recovery centers as an alternative kind of diversion agreement. One big problem with them was the waiting lists; there weren’t enough recovery centers for the demand. The one closest to us had a six-month waiting list, with well over a thousand men on it. A center farther away had a three-month waiting list with only fifty-five men waiting. In 2011, these were new in Kentucky, and the demand was high. Some of these programs I had already heard about in court, as they were utilized by other defendants with drug charges. I passed along my information to Dylan, who was otherwise relying on testimonials or hearsay of other inmates. From those sources, he came up with another option: “Well, I hear Lighthouse Ministries offers a good program, and you can be out in nine months,” he told me. “The last three months are for vocational training.” I looked it up, and found the training included a heavy component of born-again religion. Dylan said he’d heard that, but it wasn’t necessarily a deal-breaker if other aspects worked out. Given Dylan’s views on religion, I doubted he would be too sincere about being born again. What I suspected is that this alternative program sounded shorter and easier. But it, too, had a waiting list.
Meanwhile, Dylan’s dad and his partner, Linda, weighed in on matters. The more we discussed it, the more our collective family members agreed we wanted him to stay here, do Drug Court, and go back to college. Plus he’d be in a smaller place, one with more support and stability. Within two years, he could be well on the way to finishing his degree and have the chance to wipe out his felony charges gradually—though that would take five more years of good behavior on probation. Drug Court did sound rigorous, but isn’t that just what he needed to get his head straight? Could he successfully complete it? We didn’t know, but much depended on his willingness.
For his part, as one week followed another, Dylan gradually reverted to his first position of wanting to leave the area altogether. To him, it seemed perfectly reasonable to transfer any diversion agreement, be it Drug Court or whatever, to northern Kentucky near Cincinnati, so he could attend UC again. He’d find a way to do it, with or without our support. After a while, Dylan refused to talk anymore about further treatment options. He was concerned about getting this decided before the date when fall quarter started up at UC. We were at a stalemate. Rather than reaching any consensus, the rift between our positions was widening. Sometimes, I wondered if Dylan’s digging in his heels like this had something to do with his being off meds. How was that affecting his reasoning now? But I figured it was all part of a larger pattern, my son’s stubborn defiance of any authority. The defender, Ms. Pulaski, confirmed that the Drug Court Committee was meeting soon, and Dylan’s candidacy would be assessed. She knew about Dylan’s other plans. “I guess he has his own ideas,” she told me with a smile. I could only shake my head.
The next hearing was scheduled for Monday, September 12. By the time I arrived at court, Sandra was already there. She had graciously agreed to come for moral support. So had Patrick, but he would be coming a little later. While making our way upstairs, we encountered a large crowd sitting in the waiting room. Defendants exchanged brief greetings with attorneys, and families sat quietly together, glancing nervously at the courtroom door to see when it was time for us to file in to take our places on the wooden pews. Our faces showed the strain. Weeks or months of sleepless nights, guilt-ridden daydreams, the fear and dread of waiting for some kind of a positive outcome to a desperate situation, everyone hoping Judge Marlowe would throw a successful “Hail Mary” pass. We didn’t know each other; our paths might never cross outside this room. But on that morning, we’d all be sitting on a courtroom bench, waiting for a decision that would impact our lives.
Once the bailiff opened the courtroom doors, we streamed in, and soon began the familiar rush of activity as attorneys moved about the room among their tense clients. We heard the injunction, “All rise,” as the judge entered. By then, I had managed to gain a sense of Judge Marlowe’s personality: serious-minded but with a quirky sense of humor. God knows that when you’re meting out justice every day, much of it unwelcome news to the assembly, you have to lighten the load with a joke every now and then. Not to mention, a judge bears daily witness to every human frailty and shortcoming. Occasionally, a touch of testiness would crop up in his voice. Yet on this day, all seemed to go smoothly. In fact, the judge appeared to be in a good mood; it helped that today’s batch of defendants were either getting or staying on track. When Judge Marlowe read his admonitions to those gaining pre-trial diversions, he would say: “Do you have any questions?” Hearing none forthcoming, he would add: “Good luck to you, sir.” One defendant, a middle-aged woman in simple attire, stood before the bench to be acknowledged for having completed her probation successfully. Congratulations were in order, and the judge concluded by telling her cordially, “That’s good, you can leave us then, and we hope not to see you here again.” The exchange gave me hope; good things could happen. Watching it all, I shifted restlessly in my seat. Yes, to get out of here and never have to come back again …
At about 9:00, Patrick came in to join us. As the docket continued, the tension mounted. With each preceding case, the notch of the screw in my stomach tightened. The uncertainty of what would take place gnawed at all of us. I could only hope that defender Pulaski would use her calm manner and her rational arguments to steer Dylan toward his own best interest. He didn’t even want to talk to us now. “I think you should all back off,” he’d told me last Saturday by phone. “The problem is: you and Dad think you can live my life better than I can.”
On that one, he was absolutely right. We were sure of it.
After a while, I noticed that Ms. Pulaski hadn’t appeared in court at all yet today. She couldn’t have been out conferring with clients all this time. Was she away? During a break, I was able to catch Ms. Beaumont’s attention; she was the other public defender, the one who always seemed to wear the same bright fuchsia outfit you could easily pick out in a crowd. When I asked about her absent comrade, the news wasn’t reassuring: Wesley Pulaski wouldn’t be there this week, and Ms. Beaumont was taking her place. “But don’t worry,” Ms. Beaumont said brightly, seeking to inspire confidence. “Ms. Pulaski has thoroughly briefed me about your son’s case. He’ll be coming up after the break.” I gulped and nodded.
When Court resumed, I noticed a slim woman in black emerge from one of the back doors of the room, behind the judge’s bench and off to one side. As she moved down the aisle and toward the exit doors, I recognized her as Darlene Winchester, the tough-minded woman who talked like a social worker and dressed like Stevie Nicks. “That’s the director of Drug Court,” I said to Sandra next to me. What impressed me most at that moment was her intensity as she passed us: she looked straight ahead, a dark expression on her face. Maybe she had just talked to Dylan and heard him say he didn’t want to do Drug Court here in town. If so, that would explain the set of her jaw. I could relate. Tension mounted. I stretched my back, shifted again on the wooden bench.
Finally, the inmates were led through the side door by the bailiff with a clanking of keys. Dylan glanced over the barrier to catch sight of us before taking a seat. Before long, I heard, “Next, Mr. Stafford.” With Dylan standing next to the defender in handcuffs, having given his name and address, Ms. Beaumont stood before the bench and began to speak. Just then, another voice piped up from the prosecution’s side of the courtroom.
“If it please the Court, sir, Ms. Winchester just reported that some new information has come up in this case that needs to be considered. We advise meeting together and postponing the hearing until Friday the 16th.”
I held my breath.
Judge Marlowe, raising his eyebrows, asked, “Good or bad information?”
The prosecutor shrugged her shoulders.
“Indifferent?” Marlowe said. “We’ll see, then. This case will be continued on Friday the 16th.”
I collapsed against the hard wood behind my back. Four more s
leepless nights!
The three of us filed out of the courtroom and held our own counsel outside in the parking lot. I was just trying to breathe and keep my blood circulating, which seemed to require more effort than usual today. How long could this uncertainty go on? On the other hand, we should have known by now that the courtroom is always full of surprises—or rather delays. I speculated openly about Ms. Winchester’s demeanor. We figured that the court hadn’t been aware of Dylan’s new position and the results of his recent talk with Ms. Winchester of Drug Court, hence the need for further discussion before moving forward. Rev. Patrick volunteered to visit my son that afternoon, since he had special clergy privileges, to see what Dylan knew and thought of the proceedings. We all agreed we would get in touch later. I called John to tell him what little I could report and then had to get back to campus and teach a class, back to my other life and responsibilities.
Right after class at 3:30, I received a phone call from jail. I asked Dylan what had happened in court. He confirmed what we had suspected about Ms. Winchester’s talk with him. A few minutes into our conversation, Patrick made his appearance at the jail for a visit, and I could hear Dylan’s name being called through a loudspeaker. Later that evening, another call came from Dylan. Unlike me, he didn’t seem upset that Ms. Pulaski hadn’t been there. In fact, he’d heard that Ms. Beaumont was “better”; she went along with his plans and found them reasonable. Inside, I groaned. Furthermore, it was his belief that the judge was probably making sure that the Circuit Court of Kenton County would take his case so that it could be diverted to northern Kentucky. He seemed to accept the delay, though he also mentioned that his plan was to get to UC by next Wednesday in order to begin the fall quarter.
“But how can you just start the quarter with no place to live, no preparation?”
He didn’t have his mind on details like that.
It was another big circuit court day for us on September 16. Sandra, Patrick, and I took up our customary places in the courtroom at 9:00 a.m., a low buzz of activity going on around us, mainly off the side of the judge’s bench. Just the typical back-and-forth stitching of fates between the attorneys for the defense and those for the prosecution, I assumed. We chatted nervously and eventually noticed that it had been fifteen, twenty, twenty-five minutes and still no judge. Where was he? By the time Judge Marlowe eventually stepped from his chamber to the bench, his black robe swirling around him, he was a full hour late. Even the bailiff was caught off guard; we only had time to half-rise before sitting back down. The judge told the court that he’d just been involved in a light truck accident, was shaken but obviously glad to be alive. After a bit of banter with the attorneys, he plunged into the docket. No Ms. Pulaski, of course; she was still away, and fuchsia-clad Ms. Beaumont remained the only public defender for the day. Other cases came up, but not the one I came to hear, and I didn’t have much time left. By 10:30, I already had to leave because of my upcoming class at the college. Both Sandra and Patrick said they could stay on and promised to fill me in later.
After class, Sandra told me Dylan had been offered Drug Court—right there in Doran County, nowhere else—and Judge Marlowe was stern: take it or leave it. Having heard the judge pronounce in previous first-offender cases, I could imagine clearly what he must have said. Dylan would have to make a plea of guilty in order to get this diversion. The judge always asks whether the defendant understands his rights and that he is giving certain of them up in order to get this diversion. He would also ask, “Are you of sound mind? Do you testify that you are not under the influence of drugs or alcohol?” It’s serious because you can’t go back and plead not guilty after this; you give up your right to a trial. Then, punctuating the pronouncement several times as the terms are read to the defendant, Marlowe would have asked, in tones and a cadence I would recognize because I had heard this ritual question in court so many times by now: “Mr. Stafford, how do you understand the terms I have just read to you?” Then Dylan would have reiterated in his own words what the judge had explained to him.
“He took the offer,” Sandra reported.
Moments later, Patrick called, too. He confirmed everything and told me Dylan would be released soon. My hands were shaking as I got off the phone. Released soon! I would have to sort out my emotions later—part jubilance, part apprehension. Mainly relief. But for now, an adrenaline rush! I had to get to the jail ASAP; Dylan had an appointment at Drug Court at 1:00 that very afternoon, at 10th and Maple. I grabbed my car keys and headed through crowded halls downstairs to the outside and then across town to the jail, where I parked and walked quickly through the doors. Almost simultaneously as I entered the building, I heard the clank of heavy steel doors down the corridor. Suddenly, Dylan was walking toward me in his jeans again. He was free.
We walked outside into the light of day, he for the first time in many weeks, both of us dazed. We hugged briefly and headed for my car. There was no time for speeches or hardly even conversation. I glanced over at him sitting next to me and smiled. In fact, I was speechless but happy. I knew only this for certain: Drug Court was starting up, and Dylan had just a few minutes to get there for the first meeting.
CHAPTER 8: DRUG COURT
The very next day after his release, Dylan was summoned to the city park to help with a 5K Run for Recovery, headed up by Ms. Winchester. Later on, Dylan said the Drug Court director remarked, on first seeing him, that he looked about as cheery as a man on Death Row. By now, we all knew Darlene Winchester wasn’t one to hold back what she was thinking. On the following Monday, the new regime started in earnest, as Dylan had to show up for a drug test in the morning, then attend a round of activities in the afternoon. He reported that Judge Marlowe had been tough on him at the 1:00 meeting, but he also got more of an impression of how things would go from seeing the other people in Drug Court and being involved with the group. He was not the only young man there—far from it. There were about thirty people of all ages doing the program. While attending his first meeting, he got a lead on a job in town, which he intended to pursue. Meanwhile, the judge said he could talk to his public defender the next day at 2:00 to explore alternatives if he wasn’t sure he wanted to do Drug Court. Dylan wouldn’t be expected to sign final papers for DC until the following Monday. Nobody was being coerced. It was a big commitment, and the choice was his.
Drug Court ground rules in a west Kentucky town, circa 2011:
• You must live independently: you can be with another adult but not a parent or family member.
• You must be productive: you must have a job or be a full-time student.
• No drugs or alcohol of any kind can be used. Only prescribed medications are allowed. Random, frequent drug tests ensure compliance. Your residence may be inspected for violations.
• Every morning at 7:30, it is necessary to call in to see if there will be a drug test that morning. If so, this must be completed before 8:30 a.m. at a specific location.
• Curfew every evening at 10:00 p.m. Call in and confirm you are home either by landline or cell phone with GPS.
• Required attendance at these meetings every week: at least four AA meetings, one court meeting with Circuit Judge, and one group meeting for education and counseling. For newcomers or those needing it, you must also have a one-on-one meeting with Ms. Winchester.
For someone coming straight out of jail, or for an addict who seldom adhered to any kind of daily schedule, or for a college kid taking psych meds and/or prone to self-medicating as he deems fit, this regime could be a definite shock to the system. Coping with problems without resorting to any un-prescribed mood-altering substances? Showing up for meetings to discuss openly what you’d normally hide or skip over? Living with one hundred percent accountability? These have to go from being vague concepts for sometime in the future to a regular daily practice—as defined by a court, starting right now. It definitely gets a person’s attention.
Drug Court offered a clear structure, but there were plent
y of basic problems for individuals to solve: housing, transportation, and finding work. Though families were, in one sense, off the hook in terms of reinforcing total responsibility for behaviors, in another sense, we were still very much on the hook for lending a hand, especially in the finance department. After consultation with Dylan’s dad, I told Dylan the family would be willing to help him out with rent as long as he would do his part in Drug Court. Being a full participant was his MAIN job. For spending money, he would have to earn what he could through finding some kind of remunerative work, not from the family. Many of the particulars had to be figured out on the fly. That meant some trial and error.
To comply, the first problem Dylan faced was to find housing. He’d lost his apartment in the legal fray; now he had to find another, which wouldn’t be easy after the start of the semester when all the student housing close to campus was already taken. After much searching, we found a house close by that seemed to fit the criteria—almost. It was too big for one person, but it had earlier been subdivided into two apartments, and Dylan was counting on getting a housemate, another young guy at Drug Court named Connor, to occupy the other part and pay rent. After two visits to make sure they each had their own kitchens, bathrooms, and living spaces, Ms. Winchester finally approved the dwelling for both of them. However, she stressed that they would each have to maintain their own domains and be responsible for following the rules. There could be an inspection at any time. A week later, Connor moved in “next door” and his girlfriend moved in, too. Dylan could see the advantages of having a buddy nearby, especially one with a truck who had to attend a lot of the same meetings he did. Now, he had a roof over his head, food, a pal, and freedom. Freedom with plenty of limits.
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