If pressed, she'll say her mother used drugs, sometimes forgot about her and her older sister, and failed to shield the girls from her boyfriend's rage. Racine eventually turned to school officials for help, triggering a child welfare investigation that led to her being adopted at age 8.

But today, Racine is repeating her mother's past, imperiling a new daughter's future.

Dependency court, 10 a.m.,

Tuesday, Sept. 14, 2004

Now 20, Racine is battling an addiction to methamphetamine. She sits before 3rd District Juvenile Court Judge Sharon P. McCully, awaiting judgment on her own fitness as a parent - and the fate of her baby, a 7-month-old girl with reddish blonde curls and heartbreakingly blue eyes. It's a frustratingly common cycle in Utah's child welfare system, where almost two-thirds of child abuse and neglect cases involve alcohol or drug abuse, much of it intergenerational.

No longer seen as a moral failing, addiction is now viewed as a treatable, but chronic disease that takes time to manage. Research on Utah's drug court participants shows meth addicts, for example, require an average of 410 days in treatment.

"It takes 18 months for their brains to heal and for people to start thinking clearly," says Utah substance abuse director Brent Kelsey.

But the nation's juvenile courts have little patience for drug users.

Federal reforms passed in the '90s stress child safety, giving judges eight to 12 months, depending on the age of the child, to decide whether to send a child back home or into foster care, hopefully to be adopted. Debate over extending the deadlines has centered on fears children might languish in foster care or continue to suffer abuse.

McCully believes courts must ultimately put children first and takes a different approach: placing parents on an even speedier track.

"They just lost their kids. If they're ever going to be motivated to change, this is the time," she says.

McCully pairs stricter deadlines with "therapeutic justice" - early screening aimed at getting parents into treatment and counseling sooner. She holds hearings more frequently than most judges, as often as every two weeks.

She explains: "I don't expect a full recovery. You don't ever fully recover as an addict, anyway. I just need a sense that the parents are committed."

Racine is under the tightest constraints because her daughter is younger than 3. She can get temporary custody of her daughter as soon as she enters residential treatment and has six months to show progress, explains McCully.

Slip up, start using again, the judge adds, and "I will take her away. . . . You're going to have to work hard. The alternative is, you will lose your daughter forever."

Race against time

The clock started ticking for Racine and her boyfriend, Paul Foucault - the father of her child - on the evening of Sept. 9, 2004, when Salt Lake City police responded to a domestic dispute at their apartment.

Racine was feeding the baby when Foucault kicked them out of bed during an argument, court documents state. He hit and scratched Racine, leaving marks on her arms and cutting her lip, according to police.

Officers also found marijuana, baggies with drug residue and other paraphernalia. Foucault denied using drugs in front of the child and alleged Racine had attacked him.

Racine admitted smoking meth in the house. She was cited for drug use and child endangerment and was taken to jail, where she spent two nights before heading to a domestic violence shelter.

"I had never been to jail before, and I never want to go back," Racine says months later. "It was wretched . . . All I could do was sleep. Plus, I was coming down."

Her baby was taken to the Christmas Box shelter, then placed with Foucault's mother. Less than a week later, the baby went to live with Racine at a residential drug treatment facility.

She was lucky. Reforms aimed at treating, rather than jailing, drug users are straining the state's public clinics. In Salt Lake County, the waiting time for residential beds averages six to eight weeks.

Under federal law, women with children march to the front of the line. Research shows the prognosis for mothers improves when they're able to undergo therapy without being separated from their families.

But while Utah drug courts have treatment slots reserved, McCully relies on Kris Urry, a social worker assigned to her court, to help parents find openings.

"In our system, the parents are the bad guys; they've done something wrong," Urry says. "I try to advocate for them."

Pretrial hearing, 1:35 p.m.,

Monday, Oct. 4 , 2004

The hallway outside McCully's courtroom is teeming with lawyers, caseworkers, anxious parents and restless children. Racine leans against a wall, waiting. With heavy caseÂloads, delays are the rule.

"We're always here. It's all about being in court. It's all about being in this hallway," says Urry.

Racine's baby sits on the floor, sucking on a bottle, in a white christening dress and matching cap. She chokes, heads turn, Racine blushes. She gingerly picks up the baby and pats her on the back, aware that her parenting skills are under the microscope.

Addicts rarely hit or molest their children. They neglect them, forget to change their diapers or cook them dinner.

"It's death to parenting," McCully says of meth.

The hearing begins, and state attorneys report that while Racine has made gains, she flew into a rage earlier in the week, threatening to leave treatment after a dispute with another resident over baby formula.

But now, a repentant Racine forfeits a trial and admits to the state's allegations, pledging to forge ahead.

"I'm glad to see it," McCully tells her. "You've taken one big step."

On the way out, Urry asks if Racine has pursued a protective order to keep Foucault away.

"No," she responds, adding that having to testify against him "would really scare me."

Cottonwood Family Treatment

Center, Tuesday, Nov. 16, 2004

Weeks into drug treatment, Racine is getting glowing reports from counselors.

Privately, she sounds cagey. "I just have to do my part so DCFS and everyone can leave me alone," she says.

But she cites a heartfelt motive for change: her own life in foster care and the loss of her birth name - Amber Harrison - in an otherwise joyous adoption.

"I wanted someone to care about me," says Racine. "I was in some pretty wicked foster homes. . . . That's exactly why I said I'll do anything to keep [my baby]."

Racine's drug of choice, meth, and the fact that she starting using as a teenager pose obstacles.

Meth, a stimulant that is smoked, snorted or injected, is unlike any other drug; the highs are higher and last longer. New research, however, shows meth addiction is treatable.

"She understands treatment, so maybe it's a little less scary for her," Urry says of Racine's past. "But kids who grow up in the system tend to repeat the patterns of their parents. Plus, they have that genetic factor that no amount of great parenting can help."

Racine appears "really motivated," says Urry. "But she needs to learn to cope as a single mom. With many women, the biggest problem isn't the drugs, but relationship issues. She could relapse if she goes back to [Foucault] or finds someone else equally destructive."

Foucault, then 36, grew up in a middle-income Murray home. His parents separated when he was 2, and he says his father "wasn't around much." He says family is important to him and calls his mother his "best friend."

Striding into court one afternoon, he recalled, "I had another girlfriend who got pregnant, disappeared and called me one day to say she was putting the baby up for adoption. I lost one daughter that way. I'm not about to lose another one."

Urry is concerned. "He denies everything," she observed. "It's going to be a bit more difficult for him to make changes."

At a hearing in late November 2004, state attorneys argue Foucault has rejected domestic violence counseling. He enrolled in an outpatient drug program but failed a urinalysis.

"It's not OK to have three clean UA's and then have a dirty one," McCully warns. "If that continues to happen, you won't get custody of this child."

But in December, Foucault surprised everyone. He never admitted to the allegations, instead he agreed to state-ordered remedies. McCully approved supervised visits with his daughter.

Racine's hard work also paid off. In January, the state conceded that custody of her daughter should be restored to her while she finished community service and remained in counseling.

The baby's fate was settled - with one month to spare in McCully's six-month deadline.

The state ended all supervision of Racine on June 20, 2005. She was living on her own, working full time and applying for aid to pay for child care.

'Acting like an adult'

A study by the National Council of Juvenile Family Court Judges found it takes McCully an average of nine months to move cases from removal to permanency, faster than the one-year standard but slower than some family drug courts.

Citing incomplete data, the council declined to pass judgment on whether therapeutic justice keeps more families intact or leads to fewer children falling victim again to abuse.

Foucault says he no longer drinks or uses drugs but resents the court's intrusion.

"McCully did her job, but she doesn't know the whole story," he says. "If you can't afford a top-notch attorney, you're scrolled through the machine."

As for Racine, hers is a success story.

She only sees Foucault now when she drops her daughter off for visits. Eight months ago, she gave birth to another child, a boy, and found herself fleeing another abusive boyfriend.

But this time, she sought help. Today, she lives at a domestic violence shelter where she waits for transitional housing. She says she has been sober for 2 1/2 years and works now at a science lab for good wages and benefits. Her employer has even agreed to help pay for college courses.

"[McCully] was awesome. She made me do what I needed to do: begin acting like an adult," Racine says. Of mothering, Racine says she's now free to enjoy "the little things," such as how happy the kids are to see her in the morning.

"When I was high," she says, "I didn't ever realize it."

kstewart@sltrib.com

brooke@sltrib.com