‘Why punish a person with a drug problem?’

In 2015, David and Carol Augenblick learned of a burglary at their home, on a quiet, tree-shaded cul-de-sac in Lafayette Hill. Their son, Jonathan, was arrested and charged with receiving stolen property, a felony.

“We were not going to press charges, because we knew what impact that would have,” said David Augenblick. He figured he’d refuse to testify, and the case would be dropped. Then, Jonathan, a heroin user with bipolar disorder, was offered admission into Montgomery County drug treatment court — but only if he first pleaded guilty.

A photo from the Augenblicks' family album shows Jonathan in 2010 before he was incarcerated.

“We were just focused on getting him help, not knowing the consequences,” his mother said. “I would never have agreed to this if I had known.”

Jonathan kept relapsing every few months — and each time, he’d land back in jail, where he received no treatment at all. By the time he was kicked out of treatment court, he’d already spent a year and a half incarcerated. He’d then be released on probation, only to relapse, fail a drug test, and cycle back into jail.

“He’s spending his whole adult life in the local prison,” his father said. “You can see every time he comes out he’s less and less of a person.”

David Augenblick was standing in the back of the courtroom this June, waiting for Jonathan’s latest probation-violation hearing, a proceeding that had been delayed three times, leaving him incarcerated seven months. The Augenblicks had spent around $15,000 in legal fees trying to extract their son from the system. Now, he was facing what they feared most: state prison.

He had encountered a reality that’s often lost in the conversation about these “problem-solving courts.” Statewide, just 56% of those leaving drug courts did so successfully in 2017, in line with the national average. For those who fail, punishments can be far harsher than if they had not been given the “break” of treatment court in the first place.

He’s spending his whole adult life in the local prison. You can see every time he comes out he’s less and less of a person. David Augenblick, whose son has been incarcerated repeatedly for probation violations

John Roman, a researcher based at the University of Chicago who has conducted numerous drug court evaluations, said he’s found the programs do reduce offending, drug use, and incarceration for those who graduate. But the reductions in incarceration that drug courts achieve are nearly canceled out by the lengthy sentences imposed on those who fail.

“People who fail tend to do no better, or maybe even worse, than people who don’t participate at all,” he said.

That’s borne out in Montgomery County, where those unsuccessfully discharged from drug court in 2016 had already served an average of 306 days in jail, an analysis of court dockets revealed. Two-thirds of them would be resentenced to probation, jail, or even state prison.

On a recent Friday afternoon, Judge O’Neill had his courtroom set up for treatment court by placing a lectern in front of his bench, facing a mirror emblazoned with the phrase “WHO AM I.”

JESSICA GRIFFIN / Staff Photographer A gavel made by a drug court participant at the Montgomery County Courthouse, in the courtroom where drug court is held, in Norristown. It's engraved with the message, "May your funding never run out for you have changed my life."

Soon, participants began arriving to take their turn at that lectern. The court has an above-average graduation rate — 68% in 2017 — evident in the roll call of “100 percenters,” who had fulfilled all their obligations; they were entered into a raffle to win $100 off their court costs.

Then came individuals graduating from one phase of the program to the next, to tepid applause.

As others stepped up, though, sheriff’s officers crept quietly behind them.

One man had tested positive for alcohol, which he attributed to a dose of NyQuil. “You didn’t bother reading the label, did you?” O’Neill asked. He sent the man to jail for 24 hours. “Now you know,” the judge said, as an officer snapped on handcuffs.

Then came a woman who’d submitted a urine sample too diluted to analyze. O’Neill gently scolded her for mismanaging her fluid intake. “I just got a little extra with the coffee,” she said, explaining she’d struggled to stay awake and to juggle overnight work, AA meetings, and frequent drug testing. “All right,” she relented, as she, too, was handcuffed and led away to jail, “have a nice Labor Day weekend.”

Despite a state Supreme Court accreditation program designed to standardize drug courts, each runs differently, shaped largely by the attitudes of the presiding judge.

In Montgomery County, two-thirds of those unsuccessfully discharged from drug court are resentenced to probation, jail, or even state prison.

In Pittsburgh, Judge Lester Nauhaus has controversially limited medication-assisted treatment in treatment court, requiring anyone who’s on methadone or suboxone to taper off and permitting only Vivitrol, an opioid blocker.

“We want them to live as sober and clean a lifestyle as they can, and not substitute one drug for another,” said Karen Duffola, Allegheny County treatment court coordinator.

In Delaware County, where Judge Frank Hazel was reluctantly cast in the role of treatment court judge in 2008 after 35 years of locking people up, he cycles through the roles of social worker, judge, and kindly teacher — inquiring not only about participants’ sponsors and treatment regimens, but about their new jobs, their children’s college search, their home renovations, and their ear gauges. He emphasizes the basic skills of adulthood: time management, coping, emotional regulation. He shares personal stories (like the time he tried to nail an opposing player rounding home plate in a youth baseball game and ended up beaning an old lady instead).

JOSE MORENO / Staff Photographer Judge Frank Hazel speaks to a participant in Delaware County Drug Court, Sept. 17, 2019. He gives advice, warnings, and encouragement to try to help people in their recovery.

“This is not an abstinence program,” Hazel said in an interview. “This is a recovery program. We don’t just want you to stop using drugs. We want your life to change.” Of more than 200 graduates, he said, 86% have never been arrested again.

But half of participants fail — oftentimes, Hazel said, because they “don’t give a rat’s ass.” He often resentences them to state prison or state intermediate punishment, a two-year program that includes prison and community-based treatment. To Hazel’s mind, these are not punishments so much as additional opportunities for recovery.

In Philadelphia, Judge Frank Brady appears to take a similarly compassionate approach, reassuring participants that, though sobriety is the goal, all he requires is that they show up for tests and engage in treatment. (Brady and Philadelphia treatment court coordinator Matt Schmonsees declined to comment for this story.)

In court recently, he urged one participant to cut back on marijuana, and asked another why he had missed four weeks of mandatory tests. For those who had just one positive test, the sanction was not jail but a day in the jury box in Brady’s courtroom, a punishment akin to in-school suspension. Jail sanctions were reserved for repeat violators, like a man who had absconded from two inpatient programs and then overdosed on fentanyl.

Philadelphia’s drug court boasts a graduation rate 20 percentage points higher than the state average, perhaps, in part, because of its more forgiving approach. But it can also drag on for years — in some cases, pushing a decade. On average, 2017 graduates spent 18 months in the program, while those who failed spent 28 months before being discharged and sentenced.

Beletsky, the Northeastern professor, said that protracted supervision has consequences.

“One way in which we over-criminalize folks is by keeping them ensnared in the system,” Beletsky said. “It’s extremely disruptive. It strips them of dignity. It requires them to comply with all these conditions. ... And it tethers people to the criminal justice system and makes it hard for them to gain control of their lives. It does the opposite of what it’s supposed to be doing.”

JESSICA GRIFFIN / Staff Photographer Carol and David Augenblick exit the Montgomery County Courthouse in Norristown after a hearing regarding their son Jonathan's probation violations on June 21, 2019.

Back in the Montgomery County jail, where Jonathan Augenblick was waiting to be sentenced for the fourth time on his 2015 conviction, after relapsing in treatment court and then relapsing on probation, he had come to feel that incarceration was an inevitability.

“Every time I come back here, I feel more hopeless. It almost feels like your brain degenerates, you’re stressed all the time,” he said by phone. “Then, they think when you get out, you get right on your feet, you get a job. But it’s not easy when you lose everything every time you come in there and you have to start all over again.”

In court for Augenblick’s resentencing, O’Neill described the flipside of that relationship. “We’ve tried pretty much everything we could,” he said, acknowledging Augenblick had tried as well and had sustained periods of sobriety.

“These cases are obviously about the substance-use disorder,” the judge said, calling Augenblick’s disease “particularly cunning and baffling.”

Then, he sentenced Augenblick to up to two years in state prison.