Pioneer Press, St. Paul, Minn., Ruben Rosario column

Source: Pioneer Press, St.迷你倉出租 Paul, Minn.Aug. 24--John le Carre had his "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy." I have my Addict, Thief, Dealer, Baker.I'm talking here about Somong Vang, a modern-day prodigal son as any you will find in the Saintly City or anywhere else.As a 12-year-old gangster wannabe hooked on drugs, he stole much of his parents' life savings to help feed his growing habit. He was making up to $6,000 a week selling pounds of crystal meth a few years ago to inner-city addicts but more so to well-heeled suburban users. Now, with the help of the St. Paul cop who first busted him, the 25-year-old reclamation project is making honest dough at a bakery, pocketing $900 every two weeks. And he could not be more at peace."I saw a lot of things many people have not seen -- nasty stuff," Vang told me after he finished the 11 p.m.-to-7 a.m. graveyard shift at the New French Bakery in St. Paul, where he leads an 11-member crew."I've been shot at," he said. "It was just crazy. But I did not care about anything."Vang credits his turnaround to police Sgt. Rich Straka, a no-nonsense lawman who for some reason did not give up on a young man most others would write off as irredeemable."He kept after me when I gave up on myself," Vang said of the 28-year-veteran cop. He also acknowledges the intervention of a judge, a prosecutor and an older brother who threw the book -- in this case, the Bible -- at him when he was jailed and facing state prison time."When I accepted Christ, my life changed," Vang said.HE STOLE FAMILY'S LIFE SAVINGSOh, no. Not another offender who supposedly found Jesus after lockup. Sure, I've known quite a few, more fake than real in my line of work. Vang, according to those who know him, is money-down sincere."He is a great person," said Tatiana Bluhm, the bakery's production manager who took a chance on a young man with a rap sheet. "He has very good people skills and was honest and opened his heart to us (about his past). Anything canhappen in a person's life. It doesn't mean you write them off forever."Unlike his older, straight-arrow brother, Koua Vang ("He's a Christian; he's against everything I did"), Somong hung out with the wrong crowd in his Frogtown neighborhood. Instead of hitting the books, he hit parties and developed a craving for Ecstasy and, later, crystal meth.When his parents, manual laborers and Hmong immigrants who squirreled savings inside their home because they mistrusted banks, learned their son had wiped them out, they called the cops.Straka, then assigned to the juvenile division, responded to the call.Vang ultimately was sent to Boys Totem Town, the Ramsey County juvenile correctional facility."My parents forgave me, but they never trusted me," he said.Straka saw something in the kid. He counseled him to atone and seek help. It didn't stick.Vang dropped out of school, hit the streets hard and sold meth. To hide detection from cops, he would pose as a helmeted biker in the neighborhood. "They would dismiss me, though I was biking around with a half-pound of meth in my backpack," he said.He was busted once for possession. Again, Straka counseled him and recommended he look into Ramsey County's Adult Substance Abuse Court, better known as drug court. Vang told him he would look into it. But the fast money and the addiction had too much of a hold on him. He knew how to make money but also how to blow it on fancy clothes and an insatiable gambling habit that made him a regular at the Treasure Island and Mystic Lake casinos."I played the slots; I did not play the tables," he said.He ran away from a workhouse after he was charged with felony assault for allegedly striking his then-girlfriend during a heated argument while high on drugs.THIS TIME, HE LISTENEDThen came March 3, 2011. High and possessing an ounce of crystal meth, he was hanging out on a neighborhood street with several associates and a younger brother迷你倉when the cops, guns drawn, rolled on him. Straka was among them."You lied to me," the cop sternly told Vang."I could see the disappointment in his face," Vang recalled last week. "As soon as I saw him, it was game over for me."This time, he was most certainly facing state prison time. Locked up at the local jail, he began to realize that the so-called friends who partied with him when he was throwing money all over the place were nowhere to be found. Broke, he reached out to his brother and asked for money to buy stuff while in lockup."I will send you money, I forgive you, but I want you to read the Bible," Koua told him. Somong had a religious imprint stamped on his much-buried memory bank of when he was taken to church early in childhood. It resurfaced.This time, he listened. This time, he obeyed his brother, grabbed a copy from the jail bookshelf and devoured in particular the Gospel according to Matthew.Someone greater than him had his back, regardless of the way he had lived his life, he says he finally realized. He prayed constantly. Still, he did not believe that was going to help him avoid prison, though he felt spiritually ready to accept his fate.'I KNEW HE WANTED HELP'He was unaware that, behind the scenes, Straka lobbied hard to divert him to drug court. Technically, Vang was ineligible for the program because he had the previous domestic-assault felony on his record. The program is designed exclusively for nonviolent drug offenders with no prior felonies. Straka somehow convinced Ramsey County prosecutor Kim Bingham and District Judge Joanne Smith to bend the rules this time."When we run across gang members or someone like Vang, we tell them about job opportunities or other ways to get out of the life," Straka told me. "Nothing can be done with some, but I knew he wanted help, even though he was hooked on drugs."Vang's prison sentence was stayed on the condition he complete the 24-month-long program that involved strict supervision, rehabilitation treatment and submitting to drug tests at least three times a week."It was like boot camp, and the thing is, they send you back to the environment where you were corrupted to test whether you can deal with it," Vang said.He found a temporary roofing job through members of the House of God, a nondenominational Christian church with a predominantly Hmong congregation that Vang now attends regularly.Vang then landed a job at a McDonald's on Rice Street. He became a manager there a month later. He landed a packing position at the bakery in February. The prodigal son eventually returned. He now lives with the parents he stole from. Financially and in other ways, he's repaying the debt he owes them and other family members.Vang graduated from the drug court this month. Although once dismissed by early critics as a touchy-feely, "soft-on-crime" effort, numerous national and local studies confirm it has reduced recidivism and saved taxpayers substantial prison costs."He's done so well," said Smith, who has presided over the award-winning drug court for 12 years. "To see him break out of the lifestyle he once had to now is nothing short of a miracle.""He deserves all the credit," Straka said of Vang. "He has worked his tail off. This should be all about him."Vang says his life now mainly consists of work, church and home. He knows he's a fortunate man. One of his former business partners is serving a 20-year federal prison sentence after a major drug bust."I try to avoid and rarely walk the streets," Vang said. "But the few times I do, some people still come up to me to score dope. I tell them I no longer do that anymore."Ruben Rosario can be reached at 651-228-5454 or rrosario@ pioneerpress.com. Follow him on Twitter at @nycrican.Copyright: ___ (c)2013 the Pioneer Press (St. Paul, Minn.) Visit the Pioneer Press (St. Paul, Minn.) at .twincities.com Distributed by MCT Information Services儲存倉