November 8–15, 2001

cover story

Silent Treatment, part 2

Hundreds of unregulated drug-recovery houses operate in Philadelphia without any government oversight.

by Gwen Shaffer

Just Say Surrender: Erwin Warfield (outside his 24-hour mini market) founded Stop and Surrender in 1992.

part 1 | part 2

"He’s got no clothes?" Vernon Wright is asking someone on the other end of the phone line. "Look in my closet. There’s a pair of jeans he can take to tide him over for now … and make sure he gets a 10-day supply of his meds."

Wright, 56, is the director of outreach for Stop and Surrender, near 25th Street and Lehigh Avenue in North Philadelphia. Founded in 1992 by Erwin Warfield after he went through ODAAT, it is now sprawling. It operates three houses for men new to the program, two "work houses" for men who have been in the program more than six months, and five houses specifically for women. A drop-in center is open 24 hours.

Stop and Surrender is also unique because it has a licensed counseling center. Pennsylvania’s managed-care plan, Community Behavioral Health, pays the therapists.

The vast majority of clients don’t have jobs but collect public assistance. They must turn over $211 each month for rent and food.

After hanging up the phone, Wright says he is seeking funds to expand Stop and Surrender. "One of the things hindering our growth," Wright says, "is that in Pennsylvania you can’t collect public assistance if you’ve been convicted of a felony drug offense. We’re trying to do something about that now."

About 75 percent of the people who enter Stop and Surrender have previously lived in other recovery houses, Wright estimates. Based on the strength of its alumni association, he guesses that 65 percent of "graduates" stay clean. But there is no way to confirm this because residents are not tracked once they leave. By comparison, Chavers of Minute by Minute speculates that for every 100 people who go through a recovery program, 35 of them stay clean for a year.

Stop and Surrender was originally an ODAAT spinoff. Now Wright has little positive to say about that program.

A colleague peeks his head through the door to say that the "urine man is here" and needs keys to get upstairs.

As Wright is straightening out the situation, Warfield himself walks in. He is wearing a solid black suit, tie loosely knotted, and a Calvin Klein baseball cap.

Stop and Surrender prepares users to "re-enter society" and to be "responsible," says 43-year-old Warfield.

Not only do they see a licensed drug counselor — one on one and in group sessions — they also attend 13 different seminars each week. Topics include domestic violence, mental health and HIV prevention. On Friday nights, residents are required to attend a nonalcoholic "club" run by Warfield. On Monday nights, they must go to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Church is mandatory on Sunday mornings.

Residents are discouraged from working, Warfield says, because "a recovering addict needs time to learn about himself."

That is, of course, unless that recovering addict is working in one of two businesses at the intersection of 24th and Lehigh that are owned by Warfield. Stop and Surrender clients staff his variety store, Warfield’s 24-Hour Mini-Mart, and his takeout restaurant, The Original Mom & Pop Soul Food, and don’t get a paycheck in return.

A soup kitchen that Warfield opened in 2000 "feeds the whole community" every Wednesday, he says. "Volunteers" from Stop and Surrender staff it as well.

"These are on hands-on training programs. They also help [clients] get self-esteem," Warfield says.

"This program is built on the backs of those who are willing to give back," Wright adds.

The men are eager to show off the soup kitchen. The space — a near-empty box with a row of chairs, a cement floor and a kitchen in the back — doubles as the alcohol-free club.

"Clients and staff fixed this place up," Warfield boasts.

On this particular Friday afternoon, a group of Stop and Surrender residents are installing a new front door and mopping the floor as part of their "contribution" to the program.

One guy says he is originally from Baltimore, but declines to give his name. He is "living proof" that anyone can turn around his life, he says.

"I’ve been in quite a few recovery programs, but coming here really made me want to change," he says. "I’ve learned that if you give back, you’ll get."

Walking down the street to the convenience store — sparsely-stocked with laundry detergent, cigarettes and a hoagie counter — Warfield introduces Daniel Sconiers. Sconiers is happy to share details of how Stop and Surrender changed his life when he arrived from New Jersey seven years ago.

"In that time, I’ve come to the conscience decision to help others," Sconiers says. "Now I give back to Stop and Surrender." He works for free at the convenience store.

At the soul food restaurant across the street, Charles is flipping burgers from behind the counter. He doesn’t appear to mind working without pay.

"If not for Stop and Surrender, I could be dead," he declares.

Warfield introduces Michelle Reid as she wipes down a table. He explains that Reid moved to Philadelphia from Baltimore and is not eligible for public assistance. Warfield "abates" her rent in exchange for working in the shop.

"This program is giving me an opportunity to improve myself," says Reid, who already tried eight recovery programs in Baltimore. "I feel positive since I got here."

Also serving at the restaurant is 30-year-old Erica. A drug user since the age of 13, Erica says she has started — but never completed — nine other treatment programs in her native Baltimore. After 61 days at Stop and Surrender, Erica says she is grateful for the "constructive criticism" and "self-esteem" the program has given her.

"I know I’ll finish up," she says, adding that she’d like to live in Philadelphia permanently "if the job opportunities here are good."

Warfield says he inherited the convenience store and the restaurant from his parents, after they were murdered on Dec. 26, 1989.

"My addiction killed my parents," he says, acknowledging that he "terrorized the neighborhood" before overcoming his own drug habit more than 10 years ago. "Someone threw a firebomb in my parent’s house looking for me."

[A review of Municipal Court records suggests a different version of events. Percy Warfield Jr. died of a gunshot would to the back of his head. His wife, Dorothea, died of smoke inhalation. After a two-and-a-half-year investigation, the couple’s son, Percy Warfield III, was charged with shooting his father to death and starting a fire to cover up evidence of the crime.

Wright denies that Erwin Warfield’s legal name is Percy Warfield III. Percy Warfield III is "a family member," he says.

The case was dismissed in July 1992 when the judge granted a defense motion arguing that police illegally searched Warfield and used "physical and psychological coercion" during questioning.]

 

Even though unlicensed recovery houses have been a reality in Philadelphia for 20 years, their existence has received little attention from officials and the media.

With one significant exception.

In 1995, an investigation by Pennsylvania investigators found that New Jersey corrections officials were sentencing convicts to treatment programs and then quietly busing them across the border to recovery houses in Philadelphia. New Jersey sent roughly 1,000 parolees and probationers to treatment houses in Pennsylvania and New York between 1991 and 1995.

Many who showed up in Philadelphia entered houses in Kensington where they received lax supervision. Program directors instructed them on how to obtain city voter-registration cards, then use the cards as proof of state residency to obtain Pennsylvania welfare benefits. Those benefits were, of course, turned over to the house.

Each convict cost Pennsylvania taxpayers about $500 per month in food stamps, welfare and medical assistance, according to an Oct. 1, 1995, Inquirer article. At the time of the investigation, the Pennsylvania attorney general’s office accused New Jersey of owing the Keystone State $3.1 million.

Andy Demarest, a senior deputy attorney general who worked on the investigation, says the amount of restitution paid by New Jersey turned out to be "substantially less," although he is uncertain of the actual amount.

A new law was passed during Gov. Ridge’s 1995 special legislative session on crime as a direct result of the investigation, Demarest notes. Today, if another state wants to import residents for drug treatment in Philadelphia, they must have viable employment and live in residences approved by Pennsylvania officials.

Rumors abound that Baltimore officials are now steering addicts to Philadelphia.

"We get a lot of guys from Baltimore," says Wright of Stop and Surrender. "I’ve got contacts with social service departments, parole officers and correctional officers."

Despite welfare reform laws, transplants from other cities "can collect public assistance after they stay in Philadelphia for 30 days," Wright explains. He himself moved here from Baltimore to enter Stop and Surrender.

Marshall, co-director of Minute by Minute, boasts that his clients have migrated from as far away as Alabama and that they "flood in from Baltimore."

"They hear about us from church, parole officer, family member, hospital referrals, word of mouth," Marshall says. "And we pray for people to come."

Assistant Health Commissioner Mark Bencivengo says he frequently hears stories about users moving to town from Baltimore but can’t comment on how widespread the practice is.

Linda Mathers, director of special projects for Philadelphia’s probation department, says she received a call "not long ago" from a probation officer in Baltimore asking about unlicensed recovery houses in Philadelphia. Mathers told the caller "absolutely not" to send clients here.

Bonnie Cypull, acting president for the Baltimore Substance Abuse Systems, says she has "heard" that the city’s Department of Social Services (DSS) sends clients to Philadelphia.

"It is primarily a result of availability," she says. "We have limited services, and Philadelphia has far more publicly funded beds than Baltimore."

Calls to DSS were referred back to Cypull.

"Tony" has been running a recovery house called The Brotherhood in Baltimore for four years. He notices addicts from his city drifting up I-95.

"I’ve heard people leave for Philadelphia when they can’t get government assistance here," Tony says. "They do it out of laziness or fear of providing for themselves."

 

Bencivengo wants to make one point very clear: There is a distinction between the majority of recovery houses in Philadelphia and the 17 programs funded by CODAAP’s Housing Initiative.

Recognizing the important role stable housing plays in beating an addiction, the City of Philadelphia put out a request for proposals in 1994 and began funding a handful of recovery houses in spring 1995. With fierce competition among recovery houses for city backing, the initiative has grown every year since.

City-funded houses don’t require an operating license, but they must follow more than a dozen "protocols." For instance, each resident is assigned a case manager to monitor progress; each resident must see an outside therapist; houses must comply with building codes; and house staff members attend nine days of intensive training.

To date, the city funds nine houses for men, four for women, one for women and their children, and one methadone maintenance house for women. A residence for Spanish-speaking clients is under renovation, and four beds in the system are set aside specifically for HIV-positive users.

When CODAAP first requested proposals from recovery houses in 1994, the city was "poised" for managed care. Officials recognized that insurance companies and the state would likely begin limiting payouts for chemical dependency.

"Pennsylvania requires a ‘medical necessity’ before it provides coverage," Bencivengo says. "We feel we have to address the ‘social necessity.’ Stable housing is an important factor in treatment outcome."

Initially, state officials balked at funding an unlicensed program, Bencivengo says. Eventually, they granted a waiver. Now, any county in Pennsylvania is permitted to place clients in recovery houses (although none have followed Philadelphia’s lead).

CODAAP allocates about $3.5 million annually for its housing initiative, which has 245 slots (92 percent of them are currently filled). The agency spends $50 a day per client on expenses like food, drug tests, building renovations and staff salaries.

"We don’t need to pay for doctors or master’s level psychologists," Bencivengo says.

Community Behavioral Health fronts the cost of outpatient counseling.

CODAAP does not track clients once they leave recovery houses, so statistics on relapse rates don’t exist. But based on a follow-up study done on early-release inmates who were assigned to recovery houses, "these folks had fewer reconvictions," Bencivengo says.

Sam Cutler, CODAAP program manager, says he receives more inquiries about the housing initiative than any other service.

In the five years since the housing initiative began, CODAAP has dropped just two houses. One mismanaged its finances, and residents in the other house were "unhappy," Cutler says.

The Fresh Start Foundation first opened 15 years ago and now operates nine houses in Frankford. One of those facilities, known as Fresh Start II, is funded by CODAAP.

Fresh Start II, near the intersection of Frankford and Allegheny avenues, is a neat rowhouse with a wooden front porch. Agency Director Carlo Liberati is clearly proud of the work done here. He gives the grand tour of the house, from the cozy first-floor living room (residents aren’t allowed to watch any movies that glorify "gangster life") to the nearly bare bedrooms (guys aren’t allowed to hang anything on the walls), to the sparkling clean kitchen (he opens the freezer to show off rows of Wonder Bread and red meat).

"We have a schedule," Liberati stresses. "Clients wake up, eat breakfast and are out most of the day for intensive outpatient counseling. Everyone eats dinner together at five o’clock."

In the evenings, the guys do chores around the house and attend outside Narcotics Anonymous meetings. On weekends, they sweep sidewalks in the neighborhood or perform some other community service. All residents must sign out when they leave the house. Visiting hours are every Sunday from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m.

"You won’t see clients lounging around here," Liberati promises.

	Sam Cutler at Methadone House in North Philly.

Philadelphia has moved so far away from grassroots politics, one legislative aide comments, that "crews from rehab houses" have replaced constituents.

"It has turned into a cottage industry," says the aide. "Come election time, we get tons of calls from guys who hope to work. There is a lot of pressure to hire these guys."

One could even argue that residents of ODAAT helped get John Street elected as mayor. On Election Day in November 1999, hundreds of ODAAT clients canvassed North Philadelphia, urging voters to pull the lever for Street.

It is common practice for local candidates to hire entire houses to work on their campaigns.

"It is easily obtainable labor," says a source who has worked on both City Council and state House races.

U.S. Sen. John Corzine, a Democrat from New Jersey, bused in dozens of recovery-house residents to work for him on Election Day in November 2000.

"He’d exhausted everybody else and was searching high and low for workers," the campaign source says. "When you need people, [former addicts] are really a source to consider … I’ve found these folks to be committed and efficient."

Warfield, of Stop and Surrender, says his residents volunteer at the polls, staff voter registration drives and participate in political rallies.

"It is a commitment we make to the community," he says.

A state House aide characterizes the practice as exploitation.

"It is a very nasty system because people get screwed," the source says. There are even "brokers" who specialize in making arrangements between the houses and political campaigns.

Typically, each poll worker receives $50 and lunch for working from 6 a.m. to 9 p.m. on Election Day. But, the aide adds, the campaign often "cuts deals" with the recovery-house director. For instance, the campaign might offer to give the house $2,000 in exchange for sending out 200 guys to hang posters. In those cases, there is no way of knowing if the residents themselves ever see a dime of that money.

At the same time, this source says, "We’ve talked about paying guys to stay home on Election Day just so they don’t work against us."

U.S. Congressman Chaka Fattah is known for his amazing "get out the vote" machine. But he couldn’t do it without recovery-house residents.

"They mostly do high-traffic stuff like malls and transit stops," says someone who has worked on several Fattah campaigns. "It’s been going on for the past decade. In some cases, they do it as a community project; others get paid."

One reason Germantown is full of recovery houses, a state Senate aide says, is because the local political leadership encouraged it. Rep. John Myers and City Councilwoman Donna Reed Miller "get elected by registering these guys to vote," the source says.

Greg Paulmier, 12th Ward leader, recalls participating in "candidates’ nights" at a house called Turn it Over (now Recovery King).

"It is a great way to reconnect these people to society, show them they do have a say," Paulmier says. Ira Potter, president of Recovery King, is a committeeman in Paulmier’s ward.

Myers says that campaigns are a good experience for recovery house representatives.

"Philosophically, a lot of these people are required to give back to the community," Myers says. "Ithink that the persons in recovery programs really want to participate [on Election Day]."

Miller did not return calls for comment.

 

David Fair, now the director of Community-Based Prevention Services for the Philadelphia Department of Human Services, has been active in the drug and alcohol world for 20 years.

"Recovery houses play a valuable role when done right," he says, noting that he even co-founded a house in South Philly many years ago. "But there is a question about standards."

Fair says he seen too many programs that are simply an alternative to shelters and offer little hope of recovery. "Now that shelters are drug-free, recovery houses are sometimes worse."

Fair characterizes the recovery-house system in Philadelphia as a social service network that developed without any government oversight.

"And the government needs to catch up," he says.

There is a catch, however. If the city were to set standards for recovery houses, those standards would need to be enforced. Scores of programs would certainly be shuttered.

"And a lot of people would have no place to live," Fair says.

part 1 | part 2