CULTIVATING HOPE

Stint on Arkansas farm a life-changing sentence for drug addicts

Sandy Martin (left) encourages Kristi Taylor of Rosston to try a snow pea on Martin’s farm near Patmos in Hempstead County.
Sandy Martin (left) encourages Kristi Taylor of Rosston to try a snow pea on Martin’s farm near Patmos in Hempstead County.

HOPE -- Michael Adkins is proud to show off his driver's license photo.

The Prescott native stands up from the 10-foot-long wooden table inside a now-defunct restaurant outside Hope in the community of Patmos. He reaches into the back pocket of his Wranglers and pulls out his wallet. A wide grin covers his sun-toughened face.

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Arkansas Democrat-Gazette

Michael Adkins (left) and Tony Dominguez cut down trees on Sandy Martin’s farm in Hempstead County. Both men were required to serve 40 hours of community service on her farm last year and now return as volunteers to help out. They estimate that they have put in hundreds of hours since meeting their court-ordered obligation.

"This is my before picture," he says, his tattoo-covered bicep bulging as he holds out the plastic card.

His eyes were half closed and glazed.

One side of his mouth tilted up in a smile, while the other hung down.

His skin was sallow and drooped in odd angles.

The photo bears little resemblance to the bright-eyed, tanned man now sitting at a farm table talking about morning meditation, organic food and his church family.

"Drug court saved my life," Adkins says. "My family was planning my funeral. Matter of fact, if I died today it's already set up."

Adkins, 50, first started using drugs at 13.

He's been sober 15 months.

The specialty court, which began nationally in the late 1980s and was introduced in Arkansas in 1994, is an alternative for judges to sentence alcohol- or drug-dependent offenders to a strenuous treatment program.

Arkansas now has 43 drug courts -- in all but 18 of the state's 75 counties. While no two drug courts are the same, all programs include intensive treatment and counseling, frequent drug testing, regular court appearances and required employment.

Committed community service is also a vital tenet of the program.

And that's where Miss Sandy comes in.

Sandy Martin, 73, owns the restaurant, the surrounding lot and a 100-acre farm down the road.

The grandmother, sporting a head full of teased hair and cat-eye glasses, has a heart for the down-and-out. She doesn't know how many stragglers she's picked up from the side of the road, taken home to feed and set back on the right path.

For the past few years, Miss Sandy has lent her land, equipment and supervision to the Hope Drug Court.

Participants show up at Miss Sandy's place, eat the home-cooked meals she won't take no for an answer to, and then head to the farm where they grow fruits and vegetables to sell at the local farmers market.

"She works us like Hebrew slaves," says Teresa Pribilski, Hope Drug Court coordinator, eliciting an eye roll and lip snarl from Miss Sandy.

The room bursts into laughter.

"No really, Sandy plants by the phases of the moon. Everything is certified organic," she says. "She's very good to us."

Miss Sandy waves her hand around the long table, taking in Adkins and three other drug-court participants.

"They've become organic snobs," she says.

Miss Sandy became affiliated with the drug court program after her nephew went through one.

"He kept saying 'You need to get with Miss Teresa!' I finally listened to him," she says.

In many ways, the struggles and triumphs of farm life at Miss Sandy's place mimic the lives of the drug addicts who work the land.

Despite a flood, drought and two tornadoes, the farm produced award-winning fruits and vegetables. Pribilski's office wall in downtown Hope is covered in blue and purple ribbons for first place and best of show in county and district fairs.

Most of all, though, the triumphs of the farm can be found in the stories of hope and redemption shared through tears and laughter around the wooden table at Miss Sandy's.

The toll of drug use is etched into the participants' appearances and mannerisms.

The premature wrinkles and pockmarked skin make some appear much older than their ages. Some smile with missing teeth, and all fidget nervously. One winds a rubber band repeatedly through her fingers, while another taps repetitively on the table. Adkins rocks on a dining chair, back and forth.

None hold back as their stories tumble out.

Adkins' roommate, Tony Dominguez, 54, of Hope, took his first drink of alcohol at age 5, smoked his first marijuana cigarette at age 10 and first tried methamphetamine at age 15.

A judge assigned Dominguez to drug court after he broke into three chicken houses.

Dominguez unleashes a slew of sobriety cliches.

"I'm just living for today."

"It's me and God now."

"I'm embracing my sobriety."

He's been in rehab before but always relapsed. This time, Dominguez said, is different.

It's the structure, support and faith found in the program.

Dominguez is subjected to regular drug tests. Adkins is his sponsor and roommate. And Miss Sandy believes in him.

"I love coming here," he said, crossing his arms protectively around himself. "It's a relief."

Dominguez has been sober 10 months now.

Since he started drug court, six members of his family have followed in his sobriety footsteps.

"I want to show my family that it can be done," he says. "I guess I've been an inspiration to them."

Mark Smyth of Hope is new to the program.

Smyth started experimenting with drugs when he was 17 on a tour of duty in Vietnam for the Navy. He was going through a short period of sobriety when his 19-year-old daughter died about 20 years ago.

"I got mad at the world and everybody in it," Smyth says. "Then I got drunk and high."

He's been sober for three weeks.

"I'm going to make it this time," he says. "I'm just tired. Too old for this stuff."

Nikki Crowe, 27, of Hope sits at the table, her hair pulled in a ponytail on top of her head. She's wearing bluejeans and a T-shirt with a "Bobcats" logo across the front. Her eyebrows are neatly groomed and her pink nail polish is unmarred.

Her hazel eyes are bright and clear.

She smoked marijuana and "tried a pill" when she was 14. It wasn't until a few years later that she began heavily using drugs. Her mother died of ovarian cancer, and then her father, an alcoholic, committed suicide when Crowe was 17.

Crowe kept the emotions inside and used drugs to numb the pain.

She ended up in jail for hindering apprehension when she gave her boyfriend a ride after he robbed a grocery store. A judge gave her probation, but she violated it in 2013 and went to prison for a year.

It was when she was released to drug court in 2014 that her life changed. With two children -- a girl now 6 years old and a boy now 4 -- Crowe said she didn't want her kids to have to live without their mother.

"Since I've been clean, we've gotten our own apartment. We've gotten a car. We're finally getting back on our feet," she says.

Crowe goes to Miss Sandy's every chance she gets. She works the soil at the farm, tends to the crops once they bloom, and she's there to reap the harvest.

"Sometimes things get tough, you know," she said, her eyes misting up. "Even though things get tough, there's always someone you can talk to who will help you get through it. You don't have to go through anything by yourself. I think that's what made it worse for me. I thought I could handle it and do everything on my own. I couldn't."

The drug court program in Arkansas has more than 2,300 participants. Since 2001, about 1,267 people have graduated from it.

Fewer than 4.5 percent of drug court graduates ended up in prison within three years of starting drug court supervision, according to data from the Arkansas Community Correction Department.

The courts give offenders structure, accountability and a taste of success, said Dina Tyler, a deputy director of the Community Correction Department.

"Some of these people have had absolutely no control, but they have these small successes, and they build on that," Tyler said. "They're doing something good, and they're able to rebuild their lives."

Miss Sandy's farm offers them a chance to see something grow from nothing, Tyler said.

"It's always positive and fun," she said. "It doesn't require you to use some sort of substance to have clean, healthy fun."

It's what keeps participants like Crowe and Adkins going back long beyond their court-ordered time.

"She cooks good," Adkins says, laughing. "It's meditating, and it's relaxing to get away from the hustle and bustle and just hang out.

"I live and breathe my sobriety. That's my life."

A Section on 05/29/2016

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