Few days have blown my mind like the day I spent at the Alcohol and Other Drug Treatment Court (AODT).
So unusual was it that I wondered if I was, in fact, on drugs.
I have long complained that the efforts of justice are exclusively focused on punishment and not reform, and where reform is attempted, it’s piecemeal and ineffective. Ticking away quietly in New Zealand’s small number of AODT courts, however, was something I thought I’d never see – a cohesive approach to justice concerned with preventing future crime.
Two AODT courts were established in Auckland in 2012, with funding provided by National’s then-Minister of Justice, Simon Power. Power was one of the smartest people to hold the Justice portfolio, and the smarts of the AODT courts were recognised by the Labour-led Government that followed. They embraced the courts and in 2021 established one in Hamilton.
Despite this rare bipartisan support, I knew scant little about them when I appeared at the doors of the Waitākere courthouse earlier this month. The morning session was closed to the public, but around a table sat the judge, the police prosecutor (who everybody called Sarge), social workers employed to work with those appearing, peer support and role modelling workers, a probation officer, and lawyers.
Files of those appearing were picked up and examined, and updates on progress – or concerns – were raised and discussed. The offenders represented by those files had to meet specific criteria to get the chance to appear before the court, and they also had to be committed to changing their behaviour.
Courts are places where punishment is compulsory, but at this one, people must volunteer to get well.
And many people are terribly unwell. At one point, a new file is produced, the court considering taking a woman who has recently been arrested. Again.
The judge believes the court can help her, even though – actually, because – she has such high needs. Her story is awful but common.
She has multiple pages of criminal history, including scores of charges for breaching community conditions. She is of no fixed abode and devoid of prosocial support. Euphemistically, the judge says: “She has been used and abused since childhood and experienced things no person ever should.” She uses drugs and alcohol to numb her existence, but also for frighteningly practical reasons. She uses methamphetamine to stay awake when she is dossing to keep her safe from sexual predators. She suffers from audial hallucinations when drug-affected and she undertakes acts of physical self-harm.
Ordinarily, this woman serves a short stint in prison after which she is released back to the street and to her chaotic life and, of course, to offend again. Rinse and repeat, as they say.
If she comes under the jurisdiction of the AODT court, however, she will be given a residential placement to tackle her alcohol and drug addictions, as well as a range of wrap-around services to address her physical and psychological needs. But it’s no sure thing she’ll agree to it. The programme that the drug court will insist on will have a longer duration than her prison sentence. And given prison is familiar, and is without the demands to change, she may choose – as many do – the easier option.
Transformative changes for those who commit
For those who commit and persevere, the changes are transformative. In the afternoon, the court opens, and one of its first pieces of business is a graduation. Up walks an older man, a recidivist drink driver, dressed in a kōrowai (cloak) provided by the court. He has whānau and a support worker in tow.
The judge lists off his achievements, including nearly 500 days clean and sober, over 200 hours of community service work, and scores of different programmes attended. His niece steps forward and says “the uncle standing in court today is not the uncle we have known all of these years”. She had no idea a court like this existed and she thanked the judge. Sarge stood up and said: “I’ve looked at your file, and your life was a mess for year and years, and now you have proven yourself to such an extent to your community that you have been accepted as a Māori Warden. I’m proud of you.”
The judge congratulated him on graduating and then called the court to order. Having completed the programme, the man is still to be formally held accountable. A sentence of 18 months’ intensive supervision is handed down, a sentence that will be judicially monitored to check ongoing progress, including drug testing. The court, I kid you not, applauded.
“I would like to thank every single person here,” the man said.
The rest of the afternoon is filled with offenders speaking about what they’ve done since their last appearance (which is fortnightly, then every three weeks, then monthly). If people aren’t complying, they are given warnings or sanctions and asked what they require to help them comply. If they really stuff up, they are exited from the programme.
At one point the judge turns to Sarge and says: “You will be requesting a warrant for arrest?”
“Yes ma’am.”
In a world dealing with terribly complex problems, such failures are common. But each success represents something far greater than a win. It is one less offender, a safer community and one more positive community role model. Somebody who can demonstrate to those around them that change, while hard, is possible.
In a similar way, the AODT court is demonstrating that changing the way we do justice is possible, too.
