A middle-aged man steps up in the District Court in Northwest Baltimore and ignites a vast smile on the judge's face. She is glad to see him.
"Good afternoon," says the judge, examining his file. "I see you are doing great. We owe you our applause."
Everyone in the court starts clapping -- clerks, lawyers, other waiting defendants -- in celebration of Joseph Paige, who is then asked by the judge to say a few words.
"I was a heroin addict for over 27 years," he tells the 30 or so people on the benches. "I was a teacher in Baltimore City for 21 years. Most of the time I was high. Today I consider myself 271 days old. That's how long I've been clean."
There is more applause as Mr. Paige, a 47-year-old physical education instructor, departs, looking forward to Day 272 of his new life.
Soon after, another addict stands before the court. His file indicates he is using drugs. It elicits from the judge not a smile, but the sting of her disappointment.
"I relapsed out of depression," William Stokley says. "My father's in the hospital. Lots of people in my family are old and getting sick. I been talking to my pastor. I'd like to ask you to be lenient."
"The struggle here, the real test," the judge responds, "is when things get tough, how you deal with the bad days."
Incarceration looms. The public defender, Stephen Chaikin, argues that jail won't help his client. The judge disagrees.
"You owe me some days," she tells Mr. Stokley with finality. He gets two days in jail.
Welcome to "drug court," Judge Jamey H. Weitzman presiding. This is Baltimore's response to these disturbing numbers:
* Eighty percent of the inmates of Maryland's prisons are there for drug-elated crimes.
* Nearly 85 percent of all crime in Baltimore is drug-related.
* Sixty-five percent of all those arrested in Baltimore have drugs in their blood, and 45 percent have more than one drug.
"Does that scare me?" Assistant State's Attorney Alan C. Woods III asks. "Yes," he answers. "It does."
The Baltimore drug court has been operating at the District Court level (where misdemeanors such as shoplifting, petty theft and prostitution are dealt with) since March.
It is an attempt to reduce the high recidivism among those charged with drug-related crimes by putting them into treatment rather than jail.
No violent offenders are admitted to drug court. No drug dealers, sex offenders or child molesters are eligible, or anyone convicted of a firearms offense in the past 15 years. Until recently, no felons were considered for one of the 600 treatment slots the drug court contracts for at three treatment programs.
That changed last month, when a drug court began operating at the Circuit Court level, with Judge Joseph McCurdy presiding. But even there, among the felons, the same eligibility criteria apply.
Has drug court worked?
"So far I'm excited about it," said Mr. Woods. "The numbers are not yet large enough to be certain. Treatment programs should go a year or 18 months, and we've only been up since March."
Federal funding
Even so, those involved with drug court are hard put to conceal their enthusiasm for this program, funded by a $5 million, three-year grant from the U.S. Justice Department. Judge Weitzman, a former prosecutor of narcotics offenders, is "thrilled" by the program.
So is David Skeen, co-chairman of the Baltimore Coalition Against Substance Abuse, who said that of the 120 addicts put on the drug court's rolls since March "only eight or 10 have dropped out or been asked to leave."
Of the others, he said, "some are doing well, some are trying and failing and trying again."
Because Judge Weitzman has been sitting in drug court since March, she has been able to follow each case and learn a lot about the pathology of addicts. That attentiveness and constant judicial review is the key to making drug court work.
Addicts appear every few weeks before the judge for a progress assessment. Every Wednesday afternoon, Courtroom 2, in the 5800 block of Wabash Ave., resounds with the frequent and uncharacteristic sound of applause, and occasionally the even more impressive silences of disappointment.
Once accepted by the drug court, addicts are sent into treatment without delay. Drug rehabilitation counselors immediately involve themselves in the addicts' lives.
Counseling goes on every day, or less frequently, depending on the individual addict's needs. Addicts are given frequent urine tests and must attend Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Most of the treatment is on an outpatient basis.
The principle of the carrot and stick prevails in drug court. You do well, you get the carrot (such symbols as plastic pens and drinking cups, plus lots of moral support; more important, you get to keep your freedom). You do badly, you get the stick: more rigorous testing, more counseling, jail.
"Every drug court gives something positive to people when they graduate," said Judge Weitzman, who went to Florida in 1993 to watch the nation's first drug court in operation. The Florida court was set up in 1989 by Janet Reno, then Dade County district attorney.
The judge also visited a drug court in Fort Lauderdale, then came home prepared to believe.
"In Fort, Lauderdale they give out doughnuts," said the judge. Anything, it seems, will do.
*
Next up in Judge Weitzman's court is Kirk Gardener.
"Congratulations," says the judge. "This is a great report: eight out of eight negatives. [applause] You're really cooking. How's it been?"
"Been an uphill climb."
"You've had a few bad days. How do you deal with them?" (This is apparently for the benefit of Mr. Stokley, who is still in the courtroom and who also had a few bad days.)
"I just listen to the voice inside. I don't want to be controlled."
"Controlled from outside?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, we owe you this for doing such a good job." (The judge holds up a plastic pen.)
Mr. Gardener goes up and collects it. There is more applause.
*
Judge Weitzman thinks drug court is cost-effective. "I think the public is scared about the amount of crime," she said. "I think their fear is valid. But the reality is we cannot lock up our way out of this. There is just not enough prison space. If you can treat someone for one or two thousand dollars [a year] instead of locking them up for 16 thousand a year, well. . . ."
"I think people recognize this is a realistic approach to crime," said Leonard Kuentz, one of four attorneys detailed to the Drug ** Court by the Public Defender's Office.
That is evident in the way drug courts have proliferated. Judge Weitzman estimates that there are about 30 nationwide, and she expects to see about 100 a year from now.
Besides the Florida drug courts, Baltimore contacted programs in Chicago and Delaware, and examined the literature and assessments made of others around the country before starting its own.
The Baltimore court deals with people who already have been convicted and are eligible for probation, along with those not yet brought to trial.
Those in second group who make it through treatment have their cases placed on the inactive docket and avoid conviction.
Those who continually fail to comply with the treatment and reporting requirements of the Drug Court are dropped (there have been about 10), and their cases returned for adjudication in the regular criminal courts.
With about 120 people enjoying the rigorous benefits of this program, there are still slots for 480 more.
How are the candidates chosen? Very carefully.
"Within the course of the week [in the regular District Court], I identify one to 10 people who are likely candidates," said Judge Weitzman. "Other judges are on the lookout."
'Very selective'
"We're being very selective," said Mr. Skeen, who is also on the board of Baltimore's Tuerke House, one of the program's three treatment centers.
"We're trying to get those most likely to succeed. We have such limited funding we can't waste money on someone who is committing crimes because he is a sociopath, not truly addicted."
In Baltimore, no addict goes to Drug Court who doesn't want to. That kind of choice is not offered in Miami and in some other jurisdictions, and it might not be available here in the future, said Judge Joseph H. H. Kaplan, chief judge of the Circuit Court.
Even Kuentz, the public defender whose job is to protect the rights of all defendants, believes the time may have come for that. "Research apparently indicates that forced rehabilitation seems to work," he said.
Judge Michael B. Getty, who ran a drug court in Chicago for five years, said he wouldn't have believed it a dozen years ago. He has since learned that for most drug offenders, "treatment is usually preferred over prison. And if you bring the body, the mind will follow. We have found that mandatory treatment has worked."
Drug Court is forgiving, Mr. Kuentz said. People selected for it are expected to fail, recover and fail again.
"In the past, treatment had a zero tolerance," he said. "No relapses allowed. No missing meetings. In our program, so long as the person remains nonviolent and is not a threat, we have tolerance."
That means Mr. Stokley, sent to jail by Judge Weitzman, will be let out after a couple of days. He will go back into the program, and one Wednesday afternoon he will appear again before her. Her greeting, smile or frown, will depend on him.
For Drug Court, after all its other dimensions are explained and elaborated, is essentially an arena of human conflict. Not legal conflict, the state against this defendant or that. Rather, it is a place where each defendant's struggle against himself becomes public and the causes of successes and failures are revealed.
*
"Good afternoon, Mr. Jones." No smile decorates Judge Weitzman's usually sunny visage. "Had a setback, didn't you?"
Michael Jones squares his shoulders. He's prepared to take his medicine.
"I don't have an excuse," he says. "No excuse. It just happened."
"What propelled you to do this?"
"Loneliness."
"Haven't you met people at the NA [Narcotics Anonymous] meetings?"
"Yes," he answers, then hesitates and adds: "But I mean intimate loneliness."
Judge Weitzman looks puzzled. She looks again at Mr. Jones' file.
"Why did you succeed before and not now?"
"That was because of something that happened that last time I used [drugs]," replies the addict, looking abject now, referring to an earlier time of triumph.
"What was that?"
"My mother saw me high. The look she gave me, I can't ever forget that."