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Meth: New ways to deal with a community problem Mail Tribune / Bob Pennell Four-year-old Natasha Gammons sits in Judge Rebecca Orf's lap during proceedings of the new Jackson County Drug Court. Natasha's dad was being questioned by the judge in the unique alternative court setting. Drug court coordinates fight against addiction By DANI DODGE When Circuit Court Judge Rebecca Orf calls Scott Gammons' case in court, not only does the 22-year-old man come forward, but so does his wife and three young children. "Want to come see me today?" the judge asks Gammons' eldest, an energetic 4-year-old. Natasha "Tasha" Gammons skips merrily up and around the imposing desk and jumps into the judge's lap, squirming with joy on the folds of the judge's black robe. Tasha bangs a gavel-shaped pencil, ordering "Be quiet, Mommy! Come up here, Daddy!" The judge silences the girl with a whisper and begins to discuss Gammons' progress. He came into the court on a methamphetamine possession charge but is currently looking for work and stable housing for his family. From the bench, Orf is able to summon a job counselor to talk with Gammons, direct an addiction counselor to set up a more convenient meeting time, and make sure the family is in touch with services to get diapers for their 1-month-old baby. "Drug court involves a process where the court and any agencies that are dealing with the family and probation officer can more closely monitor the people," Orf said in an interview. "Because of frequent appearances, I really get to know them better as people and to really understand what issues have brought them before the court. "And ultimately, it allows us to hold those who come before the court more accountable for their actions." Jackson County Drug Court is the county's newest attempt to help families and individuals successfully overcome drug addictions by building relationships among drug offenders, judges and a team of service providers that includes addiction therapists, probation officers, prosecutors and child welfare workers. Jackson County kicked off its drug court program in December with a $287,000 state grant. There are now three judges handling the complex cases that include not only the people arrested, but their families. Participants - both juveniles and adults - sign up for the drug court in exchange for having their criminal cases dismissed, probation reduced or getting their children back sooner from foster care. Those who fail to complete the program are convicted of the original charge and face the normal sanctions, including jail time. About 30 people are currently enrolled. The drug court program is intended to help the healthy family with an errant teen and the dysfunctional family caught up in a multigenerational cycle of addiction and criminal behavior. As Orf and other judges warn participants, drug court isn't the easy way out of a criminal conviction. Those who sign up must go before the judge as often as every week. They must enroll in treatment programs, attend family therapy and submit to drug tests. The judge can order family members to be evaluated for drug and alcohol addictions. The judge also can put the participant in jail up to eight days without any formal hearing. And when participants don't follow the rules, the judge can immediately call them on it, like when a 17-year-old boy failed to show up for treatment appointments and tested positive for marijuana use. "I see a lot of positive things you have to offer to the world and yourself," Orf said to the boy, "and because I want you to be the kind of person I know you can be, and because I'm convinced after hearing what is going on that what we are doing isn't working ... I am ordering today that you go to Elkhorn." Elkhorn Adolescent Treatment Center is a lock-down juvenile addiction treatment facility in Baker City. As the boy and his parents left the courtroom, the boy's mother clutching a tissue to her eyes, Orf asked the boy to write her letters about his progress during his six-month stay. In the drug court system, each of the judges exhibits his or her own personal style. Orf exudes warmth and compassion; Mark Schiveley commands a solemn respect; and Ross Davis employs a folksy, down-home approach that can bring some girls to giggles and shock sullen teenage boys out of their disrespectful demeanors. A 16-year-old boy recently walked into Davis' court wearing his hat and then later sat at the defendant's table with his arms folded, leaning away from the judge with the chair balanced on its back legs. Davis told the boy he needs to be more respectful and open. "There's a deal here about being self-centered," Davis said. "If someone is refusing to engage in relationships, it's primarily because they don't care about other people." Davis ordered the boy to come into court the following week with personal questions for three people in the courtroom. "You'd better be ready to do it because if you don't, you better be ready for some house arrest," Davis said. In addition to providing sanctions, the judges are enthusiastic cheerleaders when the participants make positive strides. When one 17-year-old pregnant girl reported she had given up a friendship after her girlfriend started using drugs, Schiveley praised her efforts. "So your antenna was up already," the judge said. "That's good. ... People do talk and people are talking very positively about you." Judges even occasionally give out prizes, such as movie tickets. But more importantly for Gammons, they put together a team of people to help get him back on his feet. "They said if I didn't do drug court, I'd get a year in jail, so I decided to do drug court," Gammons said outside the courtroom as his daughter and 2-year-old son ran around his legs. "But, it's nice because there's one judge and they know the family and the situation." Reach reporter Dani Dodge at 776-4471, or e-mail [email protected] Federal court conviction means stiffer sentence By DANI DODGE The cherry wood is polished to a rich glowing burnish and light filters ethereally through thick white curtains into the federal courtroom as Nick Rahenkamp's girlfriend sobs softly, holding the couple's 4-month-old baby tightly to her chest. "On April 25th of this year you must surrender," Federal Judge Ancer L. Haggerty tells Rahenkamp, who is dressed in a neatly pressed shirt with "Tommy Hilfiger" emblazoned across the back of his broad shoulders. "If one fails to voluntarily surrender ... you will truly complicate the rest of your life." When Rahenkamp, 28, of Trail, surrenders to federal marshals, he will be giving up his freedom for the next 10 years. Last year, police found more than a pound of methamphetamine in Rahenkamp's former home on Cedar Links Drive in Medford. Rahenkamp's long federal prison sentence is one of the many ways local, state and federal officials are trying to stem the tide of drugs flowing into Jackson County. If Rahenkamp had been prosecuted in state court rather than federal court, his sentence would have been between two years and probation. But stiffer sentences aren't the only way the community is struggling to deal with the skyrocketing increase in methamphetamine use in Jackson County over the past decade. Doctors in Jackson County are now expected to test pregnant women for drugs so they can get addiction treatment before they damage their babies. If babies are born drug exposed, other programs help parents deal with the tragic behavioral and physical problems that can ensue. On the justice side, the Circuit Court has established a special drug court dedicated to breaking the multi-generational grip of drug addiction and crime. Treatment providers have expanded their programs, shifting the focus to treating families instead of just individuals. And even while people are in jail, they are tutored in new ways to approach life. In July 1998, the county began offering cognitive restructuring classes to those serving time behind bars. The program is intended to teach criminals and addicts ways other than getting high to deal with stress, disappointment and frustration. Of the 21 people who graduated from the program and have been out for more than three years, only four were arrested on new felony charges, said Elaine Larson, programs manager for adult probation. Nearly 500 people have gone through the six-week program. Cathileen Reeves, 46, of Medford spent the last 25 years in and out of jail and on and off of drugs. Just before she was released from Jackson County Jail last week, she said going through the cognitive restructuring program gave her the tools she needs to stay clean this time. "It fascinated me - the way they teach it and the way the stuff keeps your attention," Reeves said. At other group meetings she's been to, she said, "I want to use because people are sniveling all the time, but in the cog program you really learn something new." Addiction treatment also has changed dramatically outside of jail, said Rita Sullivan, executive director of OnTrack Inc. There is more focus on family therapy, more partnerships have formed among social service agencies, and the emphasis is on supporting rather than punishing the addicts. "When we opened the Home Program in 1989, it began to define for us that the problem was the family and not the individual," Sullivan said. Unlike traditional addiction outpatient treatment programs with a 30 percent success rate, OnTrack's residential programs geared for mothers (the Home Program) and fathers has a 70 percent success rate, said Barbara Roth, director of the two programs. Inside the Home Program, the women laugh and cry and put up pictures of the children they've had taken away as well as cuddle the babies they still have. And they work - not only on their addictions, but also on dealing with issues of childhood abuse that brought them to this point. "I've been in five treatments and in the penitentiary from my addiction (to heroin)," said Angel Nelson, a 30-year-old mother of three boys. "But before this, I never got the real treatment for my abuse." And in the process, they learn to love each other and themselves. "I only liked men before," said Kelly Lundberg, holding the hand of her roommate and new friend. "But I've learned how to trust people in sobriety, and who my true friends will be." The women in the program all began their drug use early and say drugs are readily available throughout the Rogue Valley. Federal agencies also recognized the prevalence of drugs, and in June 1999, the county was designated a High Intensity Drug Trafficking Area - one of 28 in the nation, said Chuck Karl, executive director for the Oregon HIDTA program. In 2002, that means an additional $346,968 will be pumped into Jackson County to fight drug trafficking. The money goes to law enforcement and to pay the salary of Judi Harper, a special drug prosecutor who increased the number of federal drug prosecutions from 19 in 2000 to 36 in 2001. When an officer finds a large amount of drugs, he or she can take the case to Harper, who may decide to prosecute on the federal level where paperwork is much more extensive, but sentences are much longer. "I'm there to try to determine who are the major dealers in the valley and to charge those people with the most serious charges we can so we can get the dealers off the streets and get the drugs out of the community," Harper said. One of the statistics for 2002 will be Rahenkamp, aka Henry Eugene Pyle, who soon will be serving his 10-year sentence for guilty pleas to being a felon in possession of a weapon and possession of methamphetamine with intent to distribute more than 500 grams. It's actually a few years short of the recommended sentence. The judge gave Rahenkamp a break because he produced more than a dozen letters from his employers, friends and relatives attesting to his rehabilitation since the arrest. Still, after his sentencing, Rahenkamp said he was "shocked" by the lengthy sentence. Other than one possession of methamphetamine conviction in '94, and a first-degree theft in '95, his record is mostly a run of reckless driving convictions. "It's harsh," he said. "I've just been a moderate user most of my life, but it got a little out of hand because I decided it would be easier not to pay for it. I got involved with (drug dealers from Mexico) and pretty soon they are pushing it on you." Since his arrest, Rahenkamp said, he has focused on staying clean and working as much as he can as a plumber to provide for his girlfriend and daughter while he's in prison. He considers it "luck of the draw" that his case went federal. "There's not a whole lot you can say - it's an eye-opener when you realize what's going on," he said. "When you are in the fog (of drug abuse) and get a chance to wake up, it's like 'Jesus, what have I done?' It's just what the stuff does to people." 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