Pubdate: Sun, 8 Jun 2008 Source: Detroit Free Press (MI) Copyright: 2008 Detroit Free Press Contact: http://www.freep.com/ Details: http://www.mapinc.org/media/125 Author: Susan Ager NOW SOBER, THE 'POT-SMOKING JUDGE' HELPS OTHERS WITH ADDICTIONS He remembers the beginning of the end, the long walk home from work that Halloween evening, the longest two blocks of his life. "Our neighborhood is a Norman Rockwell painting," Tom Gilbert says. "We've got front porches and kids and dogs and sidewalks. It's America, and everybody is getting ready for Halloween, and we're going to have 500 kids at our door, and Marsha loves Halloween and is dressed as a witch and there's chili on the stove. "But I told her I didn't feel well and just went up to bed." The next day, she would cry at their small round kitchen table when he told her the news: Someone had seen him smoking dope at a Rolling Stones concert in Detroit 19 days earlier. Ford Field is 250 miles from the Traverse City courtroom where he served as a district court judge. It took more than two weeks for the couple who had watched him inhale to describe it to friends, who happened to be court employees, who felt compelled to tell their supervisors, who finally confronted him. That long walk home, the beginning of the end, would also become the beginning of the beginning. Five and a half years after his 15 minutes of fame as the pot-smoking judge won him a couple of jokes from Jay Leno, Tom Gilbert is a recovering alcoholic: sober, chastened and no longer casting judgment on anyone. Instead, he embraces those ready to make the changes he did, changes he might never have made on his own. No more does he walk to work. Often he flies to distant cities, where he trains families how to confront loved ones who drink too much. Almost 51, he still holds court with neighbors and friends on his front porch -- but instead of drinking beer or a three-shot martini, he sips Diet Coke with lime, or diet Vernor's. And, to remind him of the biggest turning point in his life, he keeps the ticket from that fateful Stones concert, tucked in with a pirated CD whose tunes came free but for which, he says, "I paid a lot." "For 19 days," he likes to say, "that was the best concert of my life." A Love of the Law Tom Gilbert grew up in a Saginaw family that not only abided by the law but created and protected it. His grandfather was a prosecuting attorney and a state senator. His father was a state representative and a probate and circuit judge. But Tom, the oldest of three, rebelled. He went to Michigan Technological University in the UP for, he says, four reasons. "I wanted to go as far away from home as I could and still pay in-state tuition. I wanted to ski. I wanted to have sex with someone other than myself. And I wanted to try marijuana. "I accomplished all four in my first term." Four years at Michigan Tech, two more at Central, flailing over his future, then finally to Cooley Law School, and the comfort and familiarity of the law. He worked as an assistant prosecutor in Eaton County and Grand Traverse County. He quit to become a criminal defense attorney, then, in 2000 when he was 42, ran for district court judge in Traverse City and won, campaigning on his experience: He'd done both prosecutorial and defense work, and had 200 jury trials behind him. His work paid him $138,272 a year. He loved it from the start, and thought, "This is the job for me. I'll put my 20 years in and call it good." He was five years into his second marriage, to Marsha Smith, a spirited woman who runs Rotary Charities of Traverse City. She had begun to challenge him about his drinking, especially when he overdid it in front of her colleagues. "You're not in college anymore," she told him. "I challenge you to drink just one," she dared him. And he thought: "What's the use of that?" She considered him a "heavy social drinker," but not an alcoholic. "I thought an alcoholic is your Uncle Joe who sat in his La-Z-Boy and hid his bottle of vodka between the cushions." His mother, 77-year-old Mary Lu Gilbert, says she sometimes watched him drink, remembered the alcoholism of her father and an uncle, and thought, "Wow." But, "he never acted any different when he was drinking. He never got mean." And he never missed a morning on the bench, although some mornings he felt worse than others. During a routine exam in 2002, a doctor asked Tom how much he drank each night. "A couple," Tom told him, figuring if that evasive answer was good enough for the guys who stood before him on DUI charges, it was good enough for him. The doctor persisted: But how much last night? Tom remembers responding: "Well, when I got home from work, I had a martini, which I make with three shots. Then I had another. Then I had a beer, and another beer. Then Marsha and I split a bottle of wine with dinner." Whoa! The doctor told him he should have no more than 14 drinks a week -- and Tom had had almost a week's worth in one evening. Worse, he'd had no hangover the next morning, a signal that his body had grown dangerously accustomed to way too much booze. Just One Joint Dope, in comparison, was insignificant in Tom's life. Once in a great while, he'd smoke at a party. But mostly he smoked once a year, at deer camp, when his buddies from Michigan Tech would gather at his family's compound near West Branch. Over three decades, they met annually to celebrate their friendship and remember their youth, and one buddy would often bring marijuana. In the fall of 2002, the dates for deer camp were scheduled to coincide with the Stones concert in Detroit. At Ford Field that Oct. 12, Tom and his buddies, and another group of friends, arrived with two sets of tickets. Tom deliberately sat away from his buddies, predicting they'd "get into trouble." "I figured I could be more discreet," he says. It wasn't until midway through the concert, when the air was already thick with marijuana's pungent odor, after five beers had lubricated him, as the Stones struck up their old hit, "Sympathy for the Devil," that Tom pulled a joint from his shirt pocket and lit it. First, though, he looked around to make sure he didn't see anybody he knew. He took a puff, then passed it down the aisle. It came back his way, he took another puff, and passed it in the other direction. Two puffs. One joint among thousands smoked that evening where, a Detroit police officer told me back then, nobody was ticketed or arrested: "There was so much going on there, you couldn't have gotten everybody." Tom says now, "Forty thousand pairs of eyes were on Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones, but two people weren't getting their money's worth because they were watching the judge." A couple from Elk Rapids saw what he did. Into Treatment Fifteen days later, still comfy in his job and still hearing the advice of his doctor in his head, Tom Gilbert decided to try quitting alcohol. When a neighbor stopped by for a beer after work, Tom chose a diet pop. The next night, the neighbor stopped by for another beer and insisted he couldn't drink without Tom having one too. So he did. But that was his last, on Oct. 28, 2002. He wasn't sure how long he could make it stick, but three days later, when word finally reached his court that he'd been seen smoking dope, he was cornered into sobriety. The night before the Traverse City Record-Eagle broke the news, he and Marsha drove to Saginaw to tell Tom's parents. His mother said: "So this is it," as if she'd seen it coming. His father said: "I always thought a guy with so many beer cans in his garage probably shouldn't be a judge." Addiction specialists convinced him he needed treatment -- long-term, inpatient treatment. A few days later, driving west toward the Hazelden drug and alcohol treatment center in Minnesota, sick to his stomach with grief and guilt and fear, Tom learned by cell phone that his insurance would cover none of the $24,000 cost of the 28-day program. He took out a $15,000 loan, he says, from "the bank of Dad." And that Thanksgiving, from his room at Hazelden, he called the Elk Rapids couple to apologize for having put them in an uncomfortable position. "We thought you hated us," one said. No, he replied. "You saved my life." Public Condemnation He returned to the bench a changed man, he says. Exhilarated, for one, for having realized, on his 19th day in treatment, that he had a disease that sometimes made him crazy, and stupid. Later he would say in a press release: "It allowed me to think that what I did on my own time and for my own pleasure had nothing to do with my job or who I am." At first, his cases were limited to those having nothing to do with intoxicants. But eventually, he was back to seeing DUIs and pot-possession cases, domestic assaults, shoplifting -- about 80% of which, he says, involved alcohol or drug abuse. The Record-Eagle continued its editorial campaign to drive him off the bench, even commissioning a poll: 62% of respondents said he should resign. Editorials berated him for "mindlessly breaking the law he is sworn to uphold," saying he "tarnished the judiciary." Letter-writers called him "the epitome of hypocrisy" and worse. He believed his experience, his treatment and his commitment to sobriety made him a better, more humane judge, but the Michigan Supreme Court affirmed a recommendation by the Judicial Tenure Commission to suspend him for six months. He returned to the bench again in mid-2004. More editorials against him appeared. His court reporter began to say, "All rise, Judge Thomas Gilbert," leaving out "the honorable." But he refused to resign -- "I was brought up to finish what you started." He decided that fall, however, not to seek re-election. He and Marsha couldn't take any more bruising, and he'd come to see that his presence on the bench stained its reputation. No reporters hovered during his last day on the bench, but his wife came. Afterward she said to him, "Now what was it you liked about that work?" A New Mission For Marsha, he had converted to Catholicism. Now he listened to a call from God. With help again from the bank of Dad, he returned to school, to Hazelden, where last year he collected a master's degree in addiction counseling. On graduation day, his old pot-smoking Michigan Tech buddies showed up to help him celebrate -- this time, soberly. In January, he rented a tiny office over a restaurant in Traverse City and named his company TouchStone Professional Services (www.touchstonerecovery.net). He aims to create "a culture of recovery" in the area, encouraging those who need support to get it, and helping those in recovery with legal issues. "I'll go anywhere to talk to anyone to say, 'You want to know what an alcoholic looks like? I'm one. And I've got three messages I will go to the ends of the Earth to proclaim: Addiction is a disease, no worse than diabetes. Treatment works. And recovery is possible for absolutely everybody." He appealed his insurance company's decision, to no avail, but he wishes all insurance plans covered treatment for addictions as it does treatment for other chronic diseases. In the meantime, he does what he can. He has officiated at about a dozen interventions: gatherings at which he coaches families ahead of time on what to say to persuade an addicted loved one to go for help, that same day. "I drive them to treatment," he says. "They're usually very quiet." Locally, he is mentoring an attorney fighting to keep his license. He has met with priests, offering to help their parishioners. He intervened in the case of a 22-year-old alcoholic accused of several felonies, talking with the prosecutor and the defense attorney to work out a 90-day jail term instead of prison. "And," he says, "I will be part of how he re-enters home life when he gets out of jail." This summer, he will help train residents at Munson Medical Center in Traverse City to recognize addiction in their patients and take steps to help them toward recovery. His debts to Dad are paid off. He and Marsha have largely abandoned the media, TV and newspapers. "We watch the Tigers and the weather," he says. In the morning they sit together on the sofa to pray and read spiritual reflections aloud. He's more thoughtful, his wife says, and less impulsive. His mother says he treats his sisters better, initiating calls in a way he never did, remembering their kids' birthdays. She still identifies herself to strangers as "the mother of that pot-smoking judge." "They all know who I'm talking about," Mary Lu Gilbert says. "I was embarrassed at first, but not anymore. "Now when I tell people, I also say that I want them to know he hasn't had a thing to drink in five years, that he went back to school, that he's doing good." In his basement, in a garment bag, hang his black robes. He can't say why he keeps them, but they come in handy. He'll wear a robe this fall when he officiates at the marriage in Paris of a friend he met in graduate school at Hazelden. And Marsha wore one for Halloween. - --- MAP posted-by: Richard Lake