El nuevo movimiento MADD: padres toman acción contra las muertes por drogas

Siguiendo el modelo de Mothers Against Drunk Driving, que generó un movimiento en la década de 1980, organizaciones como Victims of Illicit Drugs y Alexander Neville Foundation buscan aumentar la conciencia pública e influir en las políticas sobre drogas.

La vida tal como la conocía terminó para Matt Capelouto dos días antes de Navidad en 2019, cuando encontró a su hija de 20 años, Alexandra, muerta en la habitación de su infancia en Temecula, California. La ira superó al dolor cuando las autoridades dictaminaron que su muerte fue accidental.

La estudiante de segundo año de la universidad, que estaba pasando las vacaciones en casa, había tomado media pastilla que compró a un dealer a través de Snapchat. Resultó ser fentanilo, el poderoso opioide sintético que ayudó a que las muertes por sobredosis de drogas en los Estados Unidos ascendieran a más de 100,000 el año pasado.

“La envenenaron y a la persona que lo hizo no iba a pasarle nada”, dijo. “No pude soportarlo”.

Capelouto, quien se describe a sí mismo como políticamente moderado, dijo que la experiencia lo volvió cínico sobre la renuencia de California a imponer sentencias severas por delitos de drogas.

Así que el padre suburbano que una vez dedicó todo su tiempo a administrar su imprenta y criar a sus cuatro hijas, lanzó un grupo llamado Drug Induced Homicide y viajó a Sacramento en abril para cabildear por una legislación conocida como “Alexandra’s Law”.

El proyecto de ley habría facilitado que los fiscales de California condenaran a los vendedores de drogas letales por cargos de homicidio.

La organización de Capelouto es parte de un movimiento nacional de padres que se convirtieron en activistas, que luchan contra la cada vez más mortal crisis de las drogas, y están desafiando la doctrina de California de que las drogas deben ser tratadas como un problema de salud en lugar de ser procesadas por el sistema de justicia penal.

Siguiendo el modelo de Mothers Against Drunk Driving, que generó un movimiento en la década de 1980, organizaciones como Victims of Illicit Drugs y Alexander Neville Foundation buscan aumentar la conciencia pública e influir en las políticas sobre drogas. Un grupo, Mothers Against Drug Deaths, rinde homenaje a MADD tomando prestadas sus siglas.

Estos grupos presionan a los legisladores estatales para que impongan sanciones más estrictas a los distribuidores y a las empresas de tecnología de cabildeo para permitir que los padres controlen las comunicaciones de sus hijos en las redes sociales.

Colocan cartels en las calles que culpan a los políticos por la crisis de las drogas y organizan protestas de “muerte” contra los mercados de drogas al aire libre en Venice Beach, en Los Ángeles y el vecindario Tenderloin de San Francisco.

“Este problema se resolverá con los esfuerzos de base de las familias afectadas”, dijo Ed Ternan, quien lidera el grupo Song for Charlie, con sede en Pasadena, que se enfoca en educar a los jóvenes sobre los peligros de las píldoras falsificadas.

Muchos padres se movilizaron después de una ola de muertes que comenzó en 2019. A menudo, se trataba de estudiantes de secundaria o universitarios que pensaban que estaban tomando OxyContin o Xanax comprados en las redes sociales, pero en realidad estaban tomando pastillas que contenían fentanilo.

La droga llegó por primera vez a la costa este hace casi una década, en gran parte a través del suministro de heroína, pero desde entonces los cárteles mexicanos han introducido productos farmacéuticos falsificados mezclados con el polvo altamente adictivo en California y Arizona para atraer nuevos clientes.

En muchos casos, las víctimas de sobredosis son estudiantes sobresalientes o atletas estrella de los suburbios, lo que da lugar a un ejército de padres educados y comprometidos que desafían el silencio y el estigma que rodea a las muertes por drogas.

Ternan no sabía casi nada sobre el fentanilo cuando su hijo de 22 años, Charlie, murió en el dormitorio de la casa de su fraternidad en la Universidad de Santa Clara unas semanas antes de que se graduara en la primavera de 2020.

Los familiares determinaron a partir de los mensajes en el teléfono de Charlie que había tenido la intención de comprar Percocet, un analgésico recetado que había tomado después de una cirugía de espalda dos años antes. Los socorristas dijeron que el estudiante universitario de 6 pies y 2 pulgadas, y 235 libras, murió media hora después de tomar una píldora falsificada.

Ternan descubrió una serie de muertes similares en otras comunidades de Silicon Valley. En 2021, 106 personas murieron por sobredosis de fentanilo en el condado de Santa Clara, frente a las 11 de 2018. Las muertes incluían a un estudiante de segundo año de la Universidad de Stanford y a una niña de 12 años en San José.

Con la ayuda de dos ejecutivos de Google que perdieron a sus hijos a causa de las píldoras mezcladas con fentanilo, Ternan convenció a Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, YouTube y otras plataformas de redes sociales para que donaran espacios publicitarios para mensajes de advertencia sobre medicamentos falsificados.

La presión de los grupos de padres también ha impulsado a Snapchat, con sede en Santa Mónica, a implementar herramientas para detectar la venta de drogas y restricciones diseñadas para dificultar que los traficantes se dirijan a los menores.

Desde los primeros días de la epidemia de opioides, las familias de las personas que se enfrentan a la adicción y de las que han muerto por sobredosis se han apoyado mutuamente en los sótanos de las iglesias y en las plataformas en línea desde Florida hasta Oregon. Ahora, las organizaciones familiares que surgieron de la crisis del fentanilo en California han comenzado a cooperar entre sí.

Recientemente se formó una red de padres y otros activistas que se hace llamar la California Peace Coalition liderada por Michael Shellenberger, un autor y activista de Berkeley que se postula para gobernador como independiente.

Una crítica de las políticas progresistas de California es Jacqui Berlinn, una empleada de procesamiento legal en East Bay que inició Mothers Against Drug Deaths, un nombre que eligió como homenaje a los logros de la fundadora de Mothers Against Drunk Driving, Candace Lightner, ama de casa de Fair Oaks cuya hija de 13 años fue asesinada en 1980 por un conductor ebrio.

El hijo de Berlinn, Corey, de 30 años, ha consumido heroína y fentanilo durante siete años en las calles de San Francisco. “Mi hijo no es basura”, dijo Berlinn. “Se merece recuperar su vida”.

Berlinn cree que la decisión de la ciudad de no acusar a los traficantes ha permitido que florezcan los mercados de narcóticos al aire libre en ciertos vecindarios y el consumo de drogas, en lugar de alentar a las personas que enfrentan adicciones a buscar ayuda.

En abril, el grupo de Berlinn gastó $25,000 para erigir una valla publicitaria en el exclusivo distrito comercial de Union Square. Sobre una resplandeciente toma nocturna del puente Golden Gate, el letrero dice: “Famosos en todo el mundo por nuestros cerebros, belleza y, ahora, fentanilo sucio muy barato”.

Este mes, el grupo instaló un letrero a lo largo de la Interestatal 80 en dirección a Sacramento que apunta al gobernador demócrata Gavin Newsom.

Reproduciendo la señalización utilizada en los parques nacionales, la cartel presenta un saludo de “Bienvenido al Campamento Fentanyl” contra una toma de un campamento para personas sin hogar. El grupo dijo que una valla publicitaria móvil también rodeará el Capitolio estatal por un período no revelado.

Mothers Against Drug Deaths está pidiendo más opciones y fondos para el tratamiento de drogas y más arrestos de traficantes. Este último marcaría un giro brusco del evangelio de la “reducción de daños”, un enfoque de salud pública adoptado por funcionarios estatales y locales que considera que la abstención es poco realista.

En cambio, esta estrategia exige ayudar a las personas que enfrentan adicciones a mantenerse seguras a través de intercambios de agujas y naloxona, un fármaco para revertir la sobredosis que ha salvado miles de vidas.

Los fiscales progresistas Chesa Boudin en San Francisco y George Gascón en Los Ángeles han evitado encarcelar a los traficantes callejeros, a lo que llaman un juego sin sentido que castiga a las minorías pobres.

Los legisladores de California temen repetir los errores de la era de la guerra contra las drogas y han bloqueado una serie de proyectos de ley que endurecerían las sanciones por la venta de fentanilo. Dicen que la legislación lograría poco además de llenar las cárceles y prisiones del estado.

“Podemos encarcelar a la gente por mil años, y no evitará que la gente consuma drogas, y no evitará que mueran”, dijo el senador estatal Scott Wiener (demócrata de San Francisco). “Lo sabemos por experiencia”.

Algunos padres están de acuerdo. Después de ver a su hijo entrar y salir del sistema de justicia penal por cargos menores de drogas en la década de 1990, Gretchen Burns Bergman se convenció de que acusar a las personas por delitos menores de drogas, como la posesión, era contraproducente.

En 1999, la productora de desfiles de moda de San Diego inició A New Path, que ha abogado por la legalización de la marihuana y el fin de la ley de los “tres strikes” de California. Una década más tarde, formó Moms United to End the War on Drugs, una coalición nacional. Hoy, sus dos hijos se han recuperado de la adicción a la heroína con la ayuda de un “apoyo compasivo” y trabajan como consejeros de drogas, dijo.

“He estado en esto el tiempo suficiente para ver el movimiento pendular”, dijo Burns Bergman sobre las opiniones cambiantes del público sobre la aplicación de la ley.

En diciembre, Brandon McDowell, de 22 años, de Riverside, fue arrestado y acusado de vender la tableta que mató a la hija de Matt Capelouto. McDowell fue acusado de distribuir fentanilo con resultado en muerte, lo que conlleva una sentencia mínima obligatoria de 20 años en una prisión federal.

Aunque Alexandra’s Law no logró salir del comité, Capelouto señaló que años se dedicaron años de cabildeo hasta que se aprobaron leyes más estrictas sobre conducir en estado de ebriedad. Prometió no renunciar al proyecto de ley que lleva el nombre de su hija, que escribía poesía y amaba a David Bowie.

“Voy a estar de nuevo frente a ellos”, dijo, “Cada año”.

Esta historia fue producida por KHN, que publica California Healthline, un servicio editorialmente independiente de la California Health Care Foundation.

KHN (Kaiser Health News) is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues. Together with Policy Analysis and Polling, KHN is one of the three major operating programs at KFF (Kaiser Family Foundation). KFF is an endowed nonprofit organization providing information on health issues to the nation.

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The New MADD Movement: Parents Rise Up Against Drug Deaths

People who have lost children to pills laced with fentanyl are demanding that lawmakers adopt stricter penalties and are pressuring Silicon Valley for social media protections. The movement harks back to the 1980s, when Mothers Against Drunk Driving activated a generation of parents.

Life as he knew it ended for Matt Capelouto two days before Christmas in 2019, when he found his 20-year-old daughter, Alexandra, dead in her childhood bedroom in Temecula, California. Rage overtook grief when authorities ruled her death an accident.

The college sophomore, home for the holidays, had taken half a pill she bought from a dealer on Snapchat. It turned out to be fentanyl, the powerful synthetic opioid that helped drive drug overdose deaths in the U.S. to more than 100,000 last year. “She was poisoned, and nothing was going to happen to the person who did it,” he said. “I couldn’t stand for that.”

The self-described political moderate said the experience made him cynical about California’s reluctance to impose harsh sentences for drug offenses.

So Capelouto, the suburban dad who once devoted all his time to running his print shop and raising his four daughters, launched a group called Drug Induced Homicide and traveled from his home to Sacramento in April to lobby for legislation known as “Alexandra’s Law.” The bill would have made it easier for California prosecutors to convict the sellers of lethal drugs on homicide charges.

Capelouto’s organization is part of a nationwide movement of parents-turned-activists fighting the increasingly deadly drug crisis — and they are challenging California’s doctrine that drugs should be treated as a health problem rather than prosecuted by the criminal justice system. Modeled after Mothers Against Drunk Driving, which sparked a movement in the 1980s, organizations such as Victims of Illicit Drugs and the Alexander Neville Foundation seek to raise public awareness and influence drug policy. One group, Mothers Against Drug Deaths, pays homage to MADD by borrowing its acronym.

The groups press state lawmakers for stricter penalties for dealers and lobby technology companies to allow parents to monitor their kids’ communications on social media. They erect billboards blaming politicians for the drug crisis and stage “die-in” protests against open-air drug markets in Los Angeles’ Venice Beach and San Francisco’s Tenderloin neighborhood.

“This problem is going to be solved by the grassroots efforts of affected families,” said Ed Ternan, who runs the Pasadena-based group Song for Charlie, which focuses on educating youths about the dangers of counterfeit pills.

Many parents mobilized after a wave of deaths that began in 2019. Often, they involved high school or college students who thought they were taking OxyContin or Xanax purchased on social media but were actually ingesting pills containing fentanyl. The drug first hit the East Coast nearly a decade ago, largely through the heroin supply, but Mexican drug cartels have since introduced counterfeit pharmaceuticals laced with the highly addictive powder into California and Arizona to hook new customers.

In many cases, the overdose victims are straight-A students or star athletes from the suburbs, giving rise to an army of educated, engaged parents who are challenging the silence and stigma surrounding drug deaths.

Ternan knew almost nothing about fentanyl when his 22-year-old son, Charlie, died in his fraternity house bedroom at Santa Clara University a few weeks before he was scheduled to graduate in spring 2020. Relatives determined from messages on Charlie’s phone that he had intended to buy Percocet, a prescription painkiller he had taken after back surgery two years earlier. First responders said the strapping 6-foot-2-inch, 235-pound college senior died within a half-hour of swallowing the counterfeit pill.

Ternan discovered a string of similar deaths in other Silicon Valley communities. In 2021, 106 people died from fentanyl overdoses in Santa Clara County — up from 11 in 2018. The deaths have included a Stanford University sophomore and a 12-year-old girl in San Jose.

With the help of two executives at Google who lost sons to pills laced with fentanyl, Ternan persuaded Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, and other social media platforms to donate ad space to warnings about counterfeit drugs. Pressure from parent groups has also spurred Santa Monica-based Snapchat to deploy tools to detect drug sales and restrictions designed to make it harder for dealers to target minors.

Since the earliest days of the opioid epidemic, the families of people dealing with addiction and of those who have died from overdoses have supported one another in church basements and on online platforms from Florida to Oregon. Now, the family-run organizations that have sprung from California’s fentanyl crisis have begun cooperating with one another.

A network of parent groups and other activists that calls itself the California Peace Coalition was formed recently by Michael Shellenberger, a Berkeley author and activist running for governor as an independent.

One critic of California’s progressive policies is Jacqui Berlinn, a legal processing clerk in the East Bay who started Mothers Against Drug Deaths — a name she chose as an homage to the achievements of Mothers Against Drunk Driving founder Candace Lightner, a Fair Oaks housewife whose 13-year-old daughter was killed in 1980 by a driver under the influence.

Berlinn’s son, Corey, 30, has used heroin and fentanyl for seven years on the streets of San Francisco. “My son isn’t trash,” Berlinn said. “He deserves to get his life back.”

She believes the city’s decision not to charge dealers has allowed open-air narcotics markets to flourish in certain neighborhoods and have enabled drug use, rather than encouraged people dealing with addiction to get help.

In April, Berlinn’s group spent $25,000 to erect a billboard in the upscale retail district of Union Square. Over a glowing night shot of the Golden Gate Bridge, the sign says: “Famous the world over for our brains, beauty and, now, dirt-cheap fentanyl.”

This month, the group installed a sign along Interstate 80 heading into Sacramento that targets Democratic Gov. Gavin Newsom. Playing off signage used at parks, the billboard features a “Welcome to Camp Fentanyl” greeting against a shot of a homeless encampment. The group said a mobile billboard will also circle the state Capitol for an undisclosed period.

New Billboards from Mothers Against Drug Deaths on I-80 in Sacramento. @StopDrugDeaths pic.twitter.com/3UdXh9BUq5

— Mothers Against Drug Deaths (@JacquiBerlinn) May 12, 2022

Mothers Against Drug Deaths is calling for more options and funding for drug treatment and more arrests of dealers. The latter would mark a sharp turn from the gospel of “harm reduction,” a public health approach embraced by state and local officials that holds abstention as unrealistic. Instead, this strategy calls for helping people dealing with addiction stay safe through things like needle exchanges and naloxone, an overdose reversal drug that has saved thousands of lives.

The parent movement echoes recall efforts happening in two major cities. Progressive prosecutors Chesa Boudin in San Francisco and George Gascón in Los Angeles have veered away from throwing street dealers in jail, which they call a pointless game of whack-a-mole that punishes poor minorities.

California lawmakers are wary of repeating the mistakes of the war-on-drugs era and have blocked a series of bills that would stiffen penalties for fentanyl sales. They say the legislation would accomplish little apart from packing the state’s jails and prisons.

“We can throw people in jail for a thousand years, and it won’t keep people from doing drugs, and it won’t keep them from dying,” said state Sen. Scott Wiener (D-San Francisco). “We know that from experience.”

Some parents agree. After watching her son cycle in and out of the criminal justice system on minor drug charges in the 1990s, Gretchen Burns Bergman became convinced that charging people with minor drug offenses, such as possession, is counterproductive.

In 1999, the San Diego fashion show producer started A New Path, which has advocated for marijuana legalization and an end to California’s “three strikes” law. A decade later, she formed Moms United to End the War on Drugs, a nationwide coalition. Today, both her sons have recovered from heroin addiction with the help of “compassionate support” and work as drug counselors, she said.

“I’ve been at this long enough to see the pendulum swing,” Burns Bergman said of the public’s shifting views on law enforcement.

In December, Brandon McDowell, 22, of Riverside, was arrested and accused of selling the tablet that killed Matt Capelouto’s daughter. McDowell was charged with distributing fentanyl resulting in death, which carries a mandatory minimum sentence of 20 years in federal prison.

Although Alexandra’s Law failed to make it out of committee, Capelouto pointed out that years of lobbying went into the passage of stricter drunken driving laws. He vowed not to give up on the bill named for his daughter, who wrote poetry and loved David Bowie.

“I’m going to be back in front of them,” he said, “every year.”

This story was produced by KHN, which publishes California Healthline, an editorially independent service of the California Health Care Foundation.

KHN (Kaiser Health News) is a national newsroom that produces in-depth journalism about health issues. Together with Policy Analysis and Polling, KHN is one of the three major operating programs at KFF (Kaiser Family Foundation). KFF is an endowed nonprofit organization providing information on health issues to the nation.

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San Francisco Wrestles With Drug Approach as Death and Chaos Engulf Tenderloin

Covid-19, distrust of police and cheap narcotics have turned parts of the wealthy city into cesspools of filth and drug overdose. City officials and residents profoundly disagree on what needs to be done.

This story also ran on Los Angeles Times. It can be republished for free.

SAN FRANCISCO — In early 2019, Tom Wolf posted a thank-you on Twitter to the cop who had arrested him the previous spring, when he was homeless and strung out in a doorway with 103 tiny bindles of heroin and cocaine in a plastic baggie at his feet.

“You saved my life,” wrote Wolf, who had finally gotten clean after that bust and 90 days in jail, ending six months of sleeping on scraps of cardboard on the sidewalk.

Today, he joins a growing chorus of people, including the mayor, calling for the city to crack down on an increasingly deadly drug trade. But there is little agreement on how that should be done. Those who demand more arrests and stiffer penalties for dealers face powerful opposition in a city with little appetite for locking people up for drugs, especially as the Black Lives Matter and Defund the Police movements push to drastically limit the power of law enforcement to deal with social problems.

Drug overdoses killed 621 people in the first 11 months of 2020, up from 441 in all of 2019 and 259 in 2018. San Francisco is on track to lose an average of nearly two people a day to drugs in 2020, compared with the 178 who had died by Dec. 20 of the coronavirus.

As in other parts of the country, most of the overdoses have been linked to fentanyl, the powerful synthetic opioid that laid waste to the eastern United States starting in 2013 but didn’t arrive in the Bay Area until about five years later. Just as the city’s drug scene was awash with the lethal new product — which is 50 times stronger than heroin and sells on the street for around $20 for a baggie weighing less than half a gram — the coronavirus pandemic hit, absorbing the attention and resources of health officials and isolating drug users, making them more likely to overdose.

The pandemic is contributing to rising overdose deaths nationwide, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, which reported last month that a record 81,000 Americans died of an overdose in the 12 months ending in May.

“This is moving very quickly in a horrific direction, and the solutions aren’t matching it,” said Supervisor Matt Haney, who represents the Tenderloin and South of Market neighborhoods, where nearly 40% of the deaths have occurred. Haney, who has hammered City Hall for what he sees as its indifference to a life-or-death crisis, is calling for a more coordinated response.

“It should be a harm reduction response, it should be a treatment response — and yes, there needs to be a law enforcement aspect of it too,” he said.

Tensions within the city’s leadership came to a head in September, when Mayor London Breed supported an effort by City Attorney Dennis Herrera to clean up the Tenderloin by legally blocking 28 known drug dealers from entering the neighborhood.

But District Attorney Chesa Boudin, a progressive elected in 2019 on a platform of police accountability and racial justice, sided with activists opposing the move. He called it a “recycled, punishment-focused” approach that would accomplish nothing.

People have died on the Tenderloin’s needle-strewn sidewalks and alone in hotel rooms where they were housed by the city to protect them from covid-19. Older Black men living alone in residential hotels are dying at particularly high rates; Blacks make up around 5% of the city’s population but account for a quarter of the 2020 overdoses. Last February, a man was found hunched over, ice-cold, in the front pew at St. Boniface Roman Catholic Church.

The only reason drug deaths aren’t in the thousands, say health officials, is the outreach that has become the mainstay of the city’s drug policy. From January to October, 2,975 deaths were prevented by naloxone, an overdose reversal drug that’s usually sprayed up the nose, according to the DOPE Project, a city-funded program that trains outreach workers, drug users, the users’ family members and others.

“If we didn’t have Narcan,” said program manager Kristen Marshall, referring to the common naloxone brand name, “there would be no room at our morgue.”

The city is also hoping that this year state lawmakers will approve safe consumption sites, where people can do drugs in a supervised setting. Other initiatives, like a 24-hour meth sobering center and an overhaul of the city’s behavioral health system, have been put on hold because of pandemic-strained resources.

Efforts like the DOPE Project, the country’s largest distributor of naloxone, reflect a seismic shift over the past few years in the way cities confront drug abuse. As more people have come to see addiction as a disease rather than a crime, there is little appetite for locking up low-level dealers, let alone drug users — policies left over from the “war on drugs” that began in 1971 under President Richard Nixon and disproportionately punished Black Americans.

In practice, San Francisco police don’t arrest people for taking drugs, certainly not in the Tenderloin. On a sunny afternoon in early December, a red-haired young woman in a beret crouched on a Hyde Street sidewalk with her eyes closed, clutching a piece of foil and a straw. A few blocks away, a man sat on the curb injecting a needle into a thigh covered with scabs and scars, while two uniformed police officers sat in a squad car across the street.

Last spring, after the pandemic prompted a citywide shutdown, police stopped arresting dealers to avoid contacts that might spread the coronavirus. Within weeks, the sidewalks of the Tenderloin were lined with transients in tents. The streets became such a narcotics free-for-all that many of the working-class and immigrant families living there felt afraid to leave their homes, according to a federal lawsuit filed by business owners and residents. It accuses City Hall of treating less wealthy ZIP codes as “containment zones” for the city’s ills.

The suit was settled a few weeks later after officials moved most of the tents to designated “safe sleeping sites.” But for many, the deterioration of the Tenderloin, juxtaposed with the gleaming headquarters of companies like Twitter and Uber just blocks away, symbolizes San Francisco’s starkest contradictions.

Mayor Breed, who lost her younger sister to a drug overdose in 2006, has called for a crackdown on drug dealing.

The Federal Initiative for the Tenderloin was one such effort, announced in 2019. It aims to “reclaim a neighborhood that is being smothered by lawlessness,” U.S. Attorney David Anderson said at a recent virtual news conference held to announce a major operation in which the feds arrested seven people and seized 10 pounds of fentanyl.

Law enforcement agencies have blamed the continued availability of cheap, potent drugs on lax prosecutions. Boudin, however, said his office files charges in 80% of felony drug cases, but most involve low-level dealers whom cartels can easily replace in a matter of hours.

He pointed to a 2019 federal sting that culminated in the arrest of 32 dealers — mostly Hondurans who were later deported — after a two-year undercover operation involving 15 agencies.

“You go walk through the Tenderloin today and tell me if it made a difference,” said Boudin.

His position reflects a growing “progressive prosecutor” movement that questions whether decades-old policies that focus on putting people behind bars are effective or just. In May, the killing of George Floyd by the Minneapolis police energized a nationwide police reform campaign. Cities around the country, including San Francisco, have promised to redirect millions of dollars from law enforcement to social programs.

“If our city leadership says in one breath that they want to defund the police and are for racial and economic justice and in the next talk about arresting drug dealers, they’re hypocrites and they’re wrong,” said Marshall, the leader of the DOPE Project.

But Wolf, 50, believes a concerted crackdown on dealers would send a message to the drug networks that San Francisco is no longer an open-air illegal drug market.

Like hundreds of thousands of other Americans who’ve succumbed to opiate misuse, he began with a prescription for the painkiller oxycodone, in his case following foot surgery in 2015. When the pills ran out, he made his way from his tidy home in Daly City, just south of San Francisco, to the Tenderloin, where dealers in hoodies and backpacks loiter three or four deep on some blocks.

When he could no longer afford pills, Wolf switched to heroin, which he learned how to inject on YouTube. He soon lost his job as a caseworker for the city and his wife threw him out, so he became homeless, holding large quantities of drugs for Central American dealers, who sometimes showed him photos of the lavish houses they were having built for their families back home.

Looking back, he wishes it hadn’t taken six arrests and three months behind bars before someone finally pushed him toward treatment.

“In San Francisco, it seems like we’ve moved away from trying to urge people into treatment and instead are just trying to keep people alive,” he said. “And that’s not really working out that great.”

This story was produced by KHN, which publishes California Healthline, an editorially independent service of the California Health Care Foundation.

Kaiser Health News (KHN) is a national health policy news service. It is an editorially independent program of the Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation which is not affiliated with Kaiser Permanente.

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