Bills calling for more judicial discretion when it comes to mandatory minimum sentences for drug crimes are gaining traction in the Florida Legislature. State lawmakers hope the resulting legislation — along with a proposal to increase funding for substance abuse treatment by more than $50 million — will help bridge glaring racial disparities in Florida’s […]

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When it comes to punishment, racial disparities are pervasive

‘This is a culture war’ When it comes to punishment, racial disparities are pervasive

Florida State Prison is located in Bradford County, near Starke. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / MIKE LANG

Michael Brackins stopped at a strip plaza near Busch Gardens to sell a bag of crack cocaine.

As roller coasters roared nearby, the 33-year-old black man handed 1.5 grams to an undercover deputy posing as an addict and disappeared through a sea of rush hour traffic.

Michael Brackins

When the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office arrested Brackins on a warrant months later, they enhanced the $100 drug deal to a more serious first-degree felony. Deputies reported the deal took place near a small, Hispanic church — and Florida law says Brackins threatened their safety to worship.

But the address listed is the home of a pastor. His church is more than a mile away.

Prosecutors did not drop the enhancement. Brackins signed a plea deal, and the judge gave him 20 months in state prison.

Alan Arakaki

A few blocks north, Tampa police arrested Alan Arakaki for selling oxycodone pain killers to a confidential informant at Arakaki’s apartment complex near the University of South Florida. They busted the 37-year-old white man for the same crime a month later.

Police reports say Arakaki was 1,000 feet from El Bethel Primitive Baptist Church. But prosecutors dropped any mention of that chapel when it came to sentencing. Court and prosecutor files don’t explain why.

A judge offered Arakaki the leniency of probation, then sent him to substance abuse treatment.

The disparity between the two cases is not unusual.

Lawmakers ramped up the war on drugs in the 1980s through policies like drug-free zones to curb the crack epidemic that bred violence and havoc in minority neighborhoods across the country.

Times have changed.

Crack is no longer the scourge it once was. Cocaine convictions in Florida are down more than half during the past decade, as violent crime rates plummeted.

Now, the crisis is heroin and fentanyl. The dealers are mostly white. So are the tens of thousands of Floridians dying.

But the policies used to combat the epidemic still target those with darker skin.

Reporters at the Herald-Tribune spent more than a year analyzing millions of records in the state court’s Offender Based Transaction System, which tracks every criminal case in Florida from arrest to appeal.

The newspaper also used two databases from the Florida Department of Corrections and a fourth from the Florida Medical Examiners Commission to measure racial disparities in the war on drugs. Journalists pored through boxes of court documents and crossed the state to interview criminal defendants, justice system officials, historians and researchers. Among the findings:

• Blacks represent 17 percent of Florida’s population but have accounted for 46 percent of the state’s felony drug convictions since 2004. Those with darker skin spend two-thirds more time behind bars for drug crimes.

• Laws on the books since the crack epidemic continue to bloat racial disparities. Heightened penalties for carrying drugs near churches, parks and public housing blanket minority communities , where police roam for low-level offenders. Blacks are nearly three times more likely to face a drug-free zone enhancement and account for two thirds of these convictions statewide.

• Once caught in drug-free zones, black Floridians spend nearly double the time in lockup as whites who are convicted of the enhanced charges and score similar points on their sentencing guidelines, which account for the prior records of defendants and the severity of their crimes.

• Legislators continue to pass laws that emphasize punishment over treatment, even as rehab is seen as the answer to substance abuse. These policies have crowded jails and prisons, while making it harder for blacks to get help for addiction.

The disparities stretch to every corner of the state.

Judges in Jacksonville’s 4th Judicial Circuit sentence whites convicted of drug-free zone enhancements to an average of 795 days behind bars, according to data from the Florida Department of Corrections.

Blacks get two times longer.

In Fort Lauderdale’s 17th Circuit, whites are locked up for an average of 233 days.

Blacks get three times longer.

In Pensacola and the 1st Circuit, whites go away for 263 days on average for drug-free zone enhancements.

Blacks get four times longer.

“The disparity in the system is pervasive,” said Deborrah Brodsky, director of Florida State University’s Project on Accountable Justice. “Where you live and the color of your skin matters greatly.”

To be sure, the opioid epidemic is not marked by the same violence that pervaded the crack trade. Some legal experts say blacks are targeted more because they deal drugs in the open, making them an easier mark for law enforcement and prosecutors.

Blacks also see their sentences swell because they often have more prior arrests and longer records than comparable whites, leaving them with less leverage to negotiate down a drug-free zone enhancement.

“Everyone would agree we want the system to work well and be fair, and it can always be better,” said R.J. Larizza, state attorney for the 7th Circuit Court and president of the Florida Prosecuting Attorneys Association. “I can’t say we are going to agree on everything, but we are working with the (Florida) Legislature on these issues … We are going to do our own independent review to put some statistical information together and analyze it to improve how we do business.”

State Attorney R.J. Larizza ST. AUGUSTINE RECORD ARCHIVE / 2017

Supporters of reform see the disparities as more proof that minority neighborhoods are over-policed, over-prosecuted and over-incarcerated — especially as the drug epidemic shifts to white suburbia.

“This is a culture war,” said Lisa Graybill, deputy legal director for the Southern Poverty Law Center. “We are long past the point of thinking the war on drugs does anything to affect usage, public health or safety, so it’s a fair question to ask: Why are we still doing all of this?”

‘I deeply regret my mistake’

Back pain got Arakaki hooked on prescription opioids. Court files show he abused cocaine, methamphetamines and morphine as well.

His battle with addiction cost him his 7-year-old daughter in 2011, when the courts granted temporary custody to his parents in Boise, Idaho.

Arakaki worked off and on as a computer tech at the UPS store on Fowler Avenue that a friend managed, but he struggled to hold down a steady job and faced eviction, court records show. To generate cash, he began selling the coveted prescriptions on the street.

A confidential informant purchased oxycodone from Arakaki in January 2012. He bought more a month later. On one visit to Arakaki’s apartment, he saw a semi-automatic handgun on the coffee table and a bottle containing what he estimated to be at least 100 pain pills.

Officers charged Arakaki with eight felonies — including two with the heightened penalty of dealing narcotics in a drug-free zone. Confidential informants noted the sales took place near a church in their reports, and prosecutors mentioned the proximity in their initial charging documents.

Police arrested Alan Arakaki for selling opioids at his Tampa apartment, which is near El Bethel Primitive Baptist Church. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / JOSH SALMAN

But when prosecutors consolidated the charges, they dropped any reference to drug-free zone enhancements. They also scored the Montana native as a first-time offender on his sentencing guidelines, the formula used to determine criminal punishment in Florida. The scoring system uses points to calculate sentences based on the severity of the crime, the defendant’s prior record and a host of other factors.

Arakaki had priors for consuming alcohol in public. He was picked up six times for driving without a license. He had a previous conviction for possession of narcotics without a prescription. And while his latest drug cases were still open, authorities arrested him for stealing a $400 computer from the Verizon kiosk at Westfield Mall in Citrus Park.

At the advice of his public defender, Arakaki pleaded guilty. He accumulated 34.6 points.

The judge gave him 36 months’ probation. The court also withheld adjudication, so Arakaki would not be considered a convicted felon.

Seven months into his probation, he failed a drug test.

“I made a huge mistake in judgment over a few days prior to my (probation) appointment,” Arakaki wrote in an apology to the court. “I went to an old friend’s house to celebrate his birthday. I was offered a bump of cocaine, and against my better judgment, I said yes. I deeply regret my mistake. This is not something I normally do and will think twice before making the same mistake. I wasn’t thinking, and I hope you can have some lenience.”

Arakaki’s probation officer recommended he stay on course despite the violation, suggesting an increase in the frequency of drug tests.

A few months later, Arakaki was battling another violation. This time, he had moved from his residence without informing his probation officer. He also fell behind on court payments and community service, court records show.

The probation officer wrote in his violation report that Arakaki “has proven himself to be in need of stricter supervision.” He recommended house arrest, but the terms of Arakaki’s probation remained unchanged.

In January 2014, law enforcement officers arrested Arakaki for possession of meth and drug paraphernalia. It was his third violation, prompting the court to revoke its offer to withhold adjudication, branding Arakaki a convicted felon.

The judge sent Arakaki to the DACCO Prison Diversion Program in Tampa. There, he received residential treatment.

DACCO in Tampa offers substance abuse treatment. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / MIKE LANG

Arakaki did not return messages left on phone numbers he provided to police. No one came to the door of what was believed to be his apartment and calls to relatives went unanswered. The public defender who represented him told the Herald-Tribune she did not remember many details of the case or why Arakaki was given so many chances. The attorney said there was nothing extraordinary that stood out.

Arakaki completed his probation in February — five years after his arrest.

Brackins did not get those same chances.

The black man sold $100 of crack cocaine to an undercover deputy at that retail strip near Busch Gardens in November 2009.

At the time, Brackins had priors for dealing in stolen property, burglary of a dwelling and grand theft. He also had two misdemeanors on his record.

Dealing cocaine is a level 5 felony that carries a score of 28 points. But because Brackins was purportedly within a drug-free zone, and prosecutors did not drop the enhancement, the State Attorney’s Office doubled the points for the drug offense to 56.

The church cited in the arrest report for Michael Brackins is 1.2 miles from where the drug deal took place. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / JOSH SALMAN

As a result, what would’ve been a total sentencing score of 49.2 points ballooned to 77.2, which means the difference between spending 16 months behind bars or 37.

Brackins pleaded guilty to forgo trial, hoping for leniency. Judge Wayne S. Timmerman sentenced below the minimum set by the guidelines, but probation wasn’t in the cards. Neither was drug treatment.

The judge gave Brackins 20 months in state prison.

The Herald-Tribune requested Brackins’ full file from the State Attorney’s Office, but prosecutors said his case was purged from storage.

Brackins did not respond to phone calls or letters. The defense attorney he hired said the circumstances of the case were not unusual.

“Sometimes they’ll agree to reduce the charges to get a lower sentence, sometimes they won’t,” Tampa lawyer Stephen Leal said. “It all varies from case to case, prosecutor to prosecutor. Anytime they have leverage like that with enhancements, it’s a bargaining chip in their back pocket.”

‘Somebody of privilege deserves a second chance’

If prosecutors showed Arakaki the same treatment as Brackins, his scoresheet would look different.

At sentencing, Arakaki scored 34.6 points.

Bring back the six felony charges included on his arrest reports — two for drug-free zone infractions — and his score would have swelled to 56.2 points. That would have meant a lowest possible sentence of 21 months in prison.

Add 6 points for each of Arakaki’s three probation violations, and the total climbs to 74.2 points, which equates to a minimum of 35 months behind bars.

Prosecutors instead used their discretion to wipe away enhancements and secondary charges — allowing him to dodge any meaningful incarceration.

“The different outcomes (between Brackins and Arakaki) resulted largely from the defendants’ contrasting criminal histories,” said Andrew Warren, state attorney for the 13th Judicial Circuit, in a statement emailed to the Herald-Tribune. “One was a first-time offender whereas the other had a prior conviction for violent crime. Nevertheless, we recognize that bias exists within our system, which is why we are dedicated to identifying and eradicating it.”

Andrew Warren, State Attorney of the 13th Judicial Circuit, enters A courtroom at the Hillsborough County Courthouse Annex in Tampa. TAMPA BAY TIMES / OCTAVIO JONES

Warren, who was elected in January, said his office is partnering with outside organizations, including Measures for Justice and the University of South Florida, to help identify disparities in how defendants are treated.

“I have expanded the use of diversion programs and created new civil citation programs for low-level offenders to help stop the revolving door of incarceration, particularly in our communities that have been disproportionately impacted by our legal system,” Warren said.

“Our criminal justice system must not only keep us safe but also promote equal justice for all. That’s why all the stakeholders in the system must be committed to the fair and objective treatment of all defendants, relying on evidence and the law to overcome bias that unfortunately creeps into the system.”

Experts say the disparate outcomes in Brackins’ and Arakaki’s cases highlight the failures in Florida’s war on drugs and how prosecutorial power can exacerbate biases.

Across Florida, blacks made up about 46 percent of felony drug cases since 2004.



During the same period, they accounted for about two-thirds of all drug-free zone convictions and 80 percent of the enhancements for cocaine crimes, according to an analysis of the state’s Offender Based Transaction System.

All told, about 5 percent of felony drug convictions involving a white defendant are within a drug-free zone.

That rate more than doubles to 13 percent for blacks.

Florida courts then sentence those with darker skin to 85 percent more time for these drug-free zone convictions, even with similar points on their scoresheets, according to DOC data.

That’s an extra 18 months of confinement.

“Somebody of privilege deserves a second chance because they can change and become a potential leader someday,” said Melba Pearson, deputy director of ACLU of Florida and a former prosecutor. “But then you look at someone of color, and because of what side of town they are on, they don’t have any potential and are seen as destined for dealing drugs.”

“That’s where you see disparities — people not valuing lives the same way.”

Melba Pearson, deputy director of the ACLU of Florida

Amid crack’s reign, lawmakers adopted drug-free zones, which increase severity by one statutory degree. Under a law adopted in 1987, a third-degree felony drug charge punishable by up to five years in prison would become a second-degree offense with a maximum of 15 years.

The law first applied to offenders busted 200 feet from K-12 schools. But over the years, the zones were lengthened to 1,000 feet and expanded to include child care facilities, parks, churches, convenience stores, colleges, public housing and nursing homes.

A 2011 study from the Florida Senate questioned the effectiveness of drug-free zones, noting most offenders were not targeting children or churchgoers but were instead dealing inside neighborhoods where they live. The report cited disproportionate numbers of blacks caught up by the law.

“In some places you literally have entire cities and urban communities covered by drug-free enhancements,” said Marc Schindler, executive director of the Justice Policy Institute, which studied drug-free zones. “It has swept up huge numbers of people and has had a disparate impact in communities of color.”

A sign at the Bradford County line warns drivers there is “zero drug tolerance” in the county. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / MIKE LANG

‘They have no education. No skills. No job.’

Florida’s 8th Circuit Court stretches from the University of Florida in Gainesville to the Osceola National Forest, just below the Georgia line.

The six mostly rural counties have some of the widest sentencing disparities in the war on drugs.

Named after the first Confederate officer from Florida killed in the Civil War, Bradford County is a trucker shortcut from Jacksonville on the east coast to Interstate 75 along the state’s west.

The county of 28,000 is also near five state prisons, including the two that house the majority of Florida’s death row inmates.

Pine forests are separated by small family farms growing hay and strawberries. Discount grocers, fast food restaurants and farm supply stores dot the county’s four-lane commercial drag. Railroad tracks on the edge of historic downtown Starke divide the Southern porch homes from the cottages in the city’s traditionally black neighborhood.

A former stronghold for the Ku Klux Klan, residents of Starke’s black community say their small town still harbors racial biases.

Black leaders say the prejudices start in schools, where black kids have been called “monkeys” or the N-word. A recent fight between white and black high schoolers increased tension. The black community organized meetings with public officials to voice their frustrations.

“Some of the things that took place when I was growing up are still happening,” said Ophelia Hines, president of Bradford County’s NAACP, a native who became the first African-American to work at the courthouse. “This is just typical here.”

Since 2004, judges in the rural county courthouse have sentenced white drug defendants to an average of 143 days behind bars, according to an analysis of DOC data that compares defendants of different races who score the same number of points at sentencing.

They gave blacks 253 days.

“I’m not surprised by the statistics at all,” said Hines, who also worked as a probation officer in Bradford. “I was appalled to see some of the treatment.”

The prisons are the top employers in Bradford. For those with a checkered past, the other options are farming or retail. Those without a job turn to the corner, where white addicts can be spotted circling in cars — searching for a black drug dealer.

The Rev. Esther Kelly leads the congregation at the New Bethel Baptist Church in Starke. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / MIKE LANG

“They have no education. No skills. No job,” said the Rev. Esther Kelly, a prominent pastor in Starke. “That’s the environment. The ones who have the nice cars, fancy clothes and gold in their mouths are the ones dealing drugs. They see that fast money and that lifestyle, so that’s what they do.

“I’ve been here all of my life fighting a system to find justice.”

‘We have way too many of these zones’

Bradford County’s top prosecutor is Luis Bustamante.

During the past six years, he has been more likely to drop drug-free zone enhancements and mandatory minimum charges if the defendant is white.



He’s also more apt to offer pretrial diversion or recommend withholding adjudication for white defendants, which can mean clean records after court proceedings, according to a Herald-Tribune review of his cases.

Born in Venezuela, Bustamante previously managed the Jacksonville Bureau of the Florida Attorney General’s Office of Statewide Prosecution. There, he handled white-collar crime, public corruption and drug trafficking, his resume shows.

Bustamante also worked as a prosecutor in Daytona’s 7th Circuit and has twice run for judge.

Herald-Tribune reporters asked the state attorney’s office for all of Bustamante’s 254 felony drug cases dating back to 2011. An analysis of those cases shows that blacks made up about half of his caseload. But they represented nearly 80 percent of the 75 drug-free zone and mandatory minimum cases presented to him by law enforcement.

As part of the plea bargaining process, Bustamante dropped four out of five of those enhancements against whites.

For blacks, he dropped just over half, with seven cases still open.

During an interview with the Herald-Tribune in September, Bustamante said defendants’ race has nothing to do with how he approaches their cases as a prosecutor.

“There are some families that have some bad kids — they come from both black and white families,” Bustamante said. “I’m Latin. Looking at races is not something we do. That would make little sense for us. Cases come into us and we react. Whatever comes in, we try to do the best we can.”

Luis Bustamante is a prosecutor in Florida’s 8th Judicial Circuit in Bradford County. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / MIKE LANG

Bustamante has sole discretion over what to charge.

Authorities picked up James William Young in June 2015 on four felony drug charges, including possession of opioids with intent to sell.

The 42-year-old white man had priors for carrying a concealed firearm, grand theft, criminal mischief, intercepting a wiretap and driving without a license six times.

Young scored 50.8 points on his scoresheet at sentencing, accounting for his past record and the severity of the drug busts.

He agreed to a plea deal that called for nine months in jail.

Trevor Lavell Mitchell was arrested in May 2015 for selling marijuana, a far less dangerous substance. But the 39-year-old black man was tagged for dealing within 1,000 feet of a school.

Mitchell’s drug deal alone would have scored him 16 points. But the drug-free zone enhancement boosted that tally to 28. With his priors for burglary and driving without a license 13 times, his total score came to 50.9.

Mitchell signed a plea agreement and the court sentenced him to 18 months in state prison.

Mitchell scored one-tenth of one point more than Young. But the black defendant received double the time.

Bustamante was the prosecutor for both cases.

He did not return three calls seeking a second interview regarding his decisions.

His boss, 8th Judicial Circuit state Attorney Bill Cervone, also declined to comment.

In Bradford, about 2.5 percent of all drug cases involving a white defendant had a drug-free enhancement, according to the Herald-Tribune’s analysis of OBTS data.

That rate nearly triples to 7.1 percent for blacks.

“It definitely makes our job harder,” said Stacy Scott, public defender for the 8th Circuit. “And it definitely makes sense that folks will fall into these zones more frequently when you have a concentrated area of race, and in our area, it tends to be neighborhoods that are African-American.

“I just think we have way too many of these zones … It’s sort of an ongoing joke that next we will be writing violations for people within 1,000 feet of a live oak.”

‘Punishment is not the same’

Megan Shoults was arrested in 2015 for possession of opioids with intent to sell within 1,000 feet of First Baptist Church of Lawtey.

With the drug-free zone infractions, the 25-year-old white woman faced a minimum of nearly 19 months in prison.

But Bustamante dropped the enhancement. Shoults agreed to plead no contest and was sentenced to probation.

Law enforcement officers arrested Juliette Wynne for opioids near the same church that same year. She was looking at a minimum of 13 months.

Again, the prosecutor chose not to pursue the drug-free zone charge against the 29-year-old white woman. She received seven months in county jail.

Bustamante did not negotiate down the same enhancements for Demetria Slocum and Quincy Harris.

Both were arrested in 2015 for selling marijuana — a far less dangerous drug than opioids — within 1,000 feet of a drug-free zone. The two black defendants pleaded to avoid trial.

Slocum got six months for her crime. Harris got 12.

“It’s disparate for sure,” said Alan Bushnell, an attorney who represented Wynne and who handles cases for the public defender when there’s a conflict of interest. “There are churches and schools everywhere. But because law enforcement targets black neighborhoods, it becomes easy enough for them to get that enhancement. And in my experience, prosecutors will use that leverage because they can.”

With enhancements as a bargaining chip, advocates for reform say the increased prosecutorial leverage can lead to inequitable plea deals.

“You put yourself in a better position to force a plea,” said Graybill, the deputy legal director for the Southern Poverty Law Center. “When you look at how it’s implemented, whether it was intended or not, it’s disparate.”

Each drug-free zone creates an area the size of 68 football fields.

In Bradford, these zones cover much of the black community, where public housing or churches occupy almost every block.

The zones begin to dissipate where properties have more acreage, homes are newer and owners are white.

“I’m not saying all these black kids are innocent, because they do break the law,” Rev. Kelly said. “But the treatment is not the same. The punishment is not the same.”

‘You can’t eliminate discretion or bias’

The war on drugs has always been about race.

In the 1800s, it was fueled by fears that Chinese immigrants were bringing their addictive opium to America.

In the early 1900s, blacks were labeled “Negro cocaine fiends.”

By the Great Depression, it was lawless Mexicans stoned on marijuana.

When Presidents Nixon, Reagan and Clinton ramped up the war on drugs to curb violence from the crack trade, minorities were again the targets. Mandatory minimum sentencing laws that came with tougher penalties were the answer.

Across Florida, blacks convicted on a mandatory minimum for drugs spend 39 percent more time in lockup than whites who scored similar points at sentencing , DOC records show.

In Gainesville’s 8th Circuit, it’s 126 percent more time.

In Lake City’s 3rd Circuit, it’s 111 percent.

“Everyone is going to prison for murder, and everyone gets probation for lower-level property crimes,” said Ojmarrh Mitchell, an associate professor of criminology at the University of South Florida. “Drug offenses are right in the middle — and race can actually push the pendulum one way or another.”

Spurred by Miami’s cocaine cowboys, the Florida Legislature adopted mandatory minimums for narcotics in 1979 and continued to tweak the rules over the years based on weight thresholds.

At the time, racial inequalities were rampant in the criminal justice system, and supporters of mandatory minimums touted them as a way to bring fairness to sentencing. Early proposals gained support from the Congressional Black Caucus.

Today, mandatory minimums continue to draw support from most prosecutors, who praise them as an essential tool to secure drug convictions — enabling them to speed the conclusion of cases by first threatening the mandatory minimum and then negotiating reduced charges.

A report from the Florida Senate in 2009 found that mandatory minimums magnify the role of the prosecutor, stripping discretion from judges — whose hands become tied from sentencing below the floor set by the policy.

The study also concluded mandatories have captured many lower-level drug offenders and those using drugs for personal recreation — not members of the violent cartels.

“Possession is treated like trafficking in many instances in Florida law,” said Sen. Jeff Brandes, R-St. Petersburg. “You can be an addict and get caught up in the same mandatories we use for kingpins. These laws often don’t afford judges with the same power as prosecutors who can downward depart as they cut plea deals.”

‘It can be unfair at times’

Florida lawmakers continue to emphasize mandatory minimums and other stiff punishment.

Rep. Jim Boyd, R-Bradenton, and Sen. Greg Steube, R-Sarasota, sponsored a new mandatory minimum law last year for fentanyl distribution. The legislation also opened the door for fentanyl dealers to be charged with murder if their customers die from an accidental overdose.

The measure passed the Senate by just one vote on the way to Gov. Scott, who signed it into law during a press conference in Sarasota.

Florida Attorney General Pam Bondi, who also serves on a White House task force to combat the opioid crisis, called the fentanyl bill her “top priority” last spring.

Senator Greg Steube, R-Sarasota. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / THOMAS BENDER

Steube pointed to the state’s mounting death toll. He said it’s more about the lethality of fentanyl than it was about being punitive.

“We’re talking about a substance where four specks of salt can kill a human,” said Steube, whose father is a former sheriff of Manatee County. “With the epidemic we’ve seen in Florida, and when you’re dealing with a substance like that, it’s a different conversation than, say, marijuana.

“If we can keep traffickers and drug dealers locked up — and charge them with murder in some cases — I think it will help.”

Other legislators argue that the fentanyl law is just the latest in a series of impediments toward drug treatment. They say these mandatory minimums take options, like rehab, off of the table for judges, while weighing on the state budget.

“It can be unfair at times,” said Sen. Randolph Bracy, D-Ocoee. “We really tried to focus on lower-level mandatories for possession. These are users. If anything, they need to be in treatment — not prison.

“There’s implicit bias in the war on drugs,” Bracy said. “Minorities are targeted often. It’s time we roll back these laws.”

In 1993, the Florida Legislature repealed mandatory minimums for lower-level trafficking offenses, relying instead of sentencing guidelines to dictate penalties. Despite an overall drop in the crime rate during that time, trafficking mandatory minimums were brought back in 1999.

In the years that followed, a disproportionate percentage of new prison commitments for drug trafficking were black. For example, no drug was responsible for more mandatory prison punishments in fiscal year 2008 than cocaine — and 58 percent of those offenders were black, according to the Florida Senate.

“We continue to fight this war with the same ammunition,” said Larry Eger, public defender for the 12th Circuit Court in Sarasota, Manatee and DeSoto counties. “And we continue to lose.”

Judith Scully is a law professor at Stetson University in St. Petersburg, Florida. HERALD-TRIBUNE STAFF PHOTO / MIKE LANG

‘We are breaking up families’

Judith Scully teaches criminal procedure at Stetson University, leads diversity and implicit biases seminars for Tampa area judges and co-founded the law school’s Innocence Project.

She said blacks become a target in the war on drugs because it’s “easy.”

“They’re easy prey — easy arrests to make,” Scully said. “Drug sales take place in the open for the most part in these low-income communities. College campuses, boardrooms and other places where drug sales are also taking place are more difficult to police. They’re out of the public.”

Scully says everyone in the system is responsible for the bias — from judges tasked with administering justice to prosecutors and the oft-overworked public defenders.

As legislators continue to pass new mandatory minimums for drugs, Scully fears the consequences will mean tighter access to substance abuse treatment, especially for blacks, who already are underrepresented in rehab.

Advocates on both sides of the political aisle are now pushing for reform. They want to treat addiction as a disease and health care issue, pointing to the costs of incarceration and the lives lost.

“There’s a significant disparity in the effect of drug laws,” said Clark Neily, vice president of criminal justice at the Cato Institute, a think tank founded by the Charles Koch Foundation. “We are breaking up families. It gets harder for them to find a job. They have a higher chance of recidivism. We have all of these negative consequences.

“And what are we getting? Absolutely nothing.”