American drug abuse in the twenty first century has been largely defined by the opioid crisis that affected large parts of the nation beginning in the late 1990s and extending to our current moment. Books such as Pain Killer: A Wonder Drug’s Trail of Addiction and Death (2003) by Barry Meier (republished in an expanded addition in 2018 as Pain Killer: An Empire of Deceit and the Origins of America’s Opioid Epidemic), Empire of Pain: The Secret History of the Sackler Family (2021) by Patrick Keefe, and Beth Macy’s Dopesick: Dealers, Doctors, and the Drug Company that Addicted America (2018) captured how the opioid crisis unfolded and the tragedy that ensued. Television shows based on these works, such as Dopesick (2021) and Painkiller (2023), depicted this history for viewers on the streaming services of Hulu and Netflix.
Although valuable, these works focused less on the long history of opioid drug treatment and more on the immediate threat. Historians such as David Courtwright, David Musto, and Claire D. Clark, among others, have explored this longer history in a more academic form with greater attention to its history.
Yet, the most popular works on the topic of drug addiction treatment and most influential have been documented by journalists. For example, Michael Massing’s 1998 The Fix juxtaposed the attempt to treat addicts during the crack epidemic of the late 1980s and early 90s with earlier efforts of the 1970s, led by the Nixon administration’s Special Action Office for Drug Abuse Prevention (SAODAP), which Massing believed “could serve as a model for the nation today.”[1] Published in 1998, Massing could not foresee the last three decades of opioid addiction as it ruthlessly spread through prescription drugs.
Into this historiographical blind spot comes Emily Dufton’s Addiction, Inc: Medication-Assisted Treatment and America’s Forgotten War on Drugs, in which she provides an update on this history exploring the arc of treatment for opioid addiction from the late 1960s to the present, arguing that, briefly during the early 1970s, the federal government provided real treatment for opioid addicts, referred to as Methadone Maintenance Treatment (MMT). After this brief flowering, the government abandoned this approach for a free-market orientation that established treatments beyond MMT, changing the acronym to “Medication Assistance Treatment” (MAT) and later Medications for Opioid Use Disorder (MOUD). This represented changes in policy as treatment split into a two-track process which delivered “commercial success”, but ultimately failed to serve patients adequately and signaled class and racial differences for recovering addicts.[2]
Dufton also explores the world of opioid addiction post-Purdue Oxycontin, specifically highlighting how buprenorphine, marketed as Suboxone during the 2000s, benefitted from the Oxycontin’s devastation but was also punished more harshly for mirroring Purdue’s criminal marketing practices. Public disgust redounded over what many perceived as light punishments for criminal acts that hobbled America.
Historians have mined the history of the Vietnam War and its domestic and international impact in countless ways, and in Addiction Inc., the conflict once again casts a cultural and policymaking shadow. More generally, Addiction Inc. demonstrates that advances in drug addiction treatment in the U.S. often hinged on larger crises: during the 1970s, the Vietnam War, in the 1980s and 1990s, the HIV/AID crisis and the explosion of crack cocaine, and in the 2000s, the ravages of opioid addiction driven by Oxycontin.
For Dufton the Vietnam War serves as the centrifugal force that drove Nixon’s addiction treatment reform efforts, a very different animal than his more publicized interdiction efforts, epitomized by his creation of the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) in 1973.
By the late 1960s, heroin use among active-duty soldiers in the war had rapidly increased. “In 1969, the military investigated 573 criminal heroin cases, but by 1970 there were 1,500,” writes Dufton. House of Representative members Robert Steele (CT-R) and Morgan Murphy (IL-D) travelled to Vietnam on behalf of the Foreign Affairs Committee producing a study that indicated the problem had reached “epidemic” proportions. Estimates indicated that 10-15 percent of enlisted personal struggled with addiction, which meant 30,000 to 40,000 servicemen in total.[3] A public already showing discontent about the war in Vietnam soured further after receiving such news. The report also raised alarms about the threat of returning veterans operating as a domestic contagion for heroin addiction.[4]
The Vietnam War, however, did not create opioid use in the United States. As David Courtwright has noted, during the late nineteenth century opioid use was common among middle class white women and civil war veterans.[5] By the early twentieth century, demographic usage shifted to parts of the population seen as radical such as “IWW activists, communists, anarchists, and other feared subgroups,” historian David Musto writes.[6] If middle class white women and civil war veterans were tolerated, drug use by “immoral or unliked populations” led to calls for prohibition, note historians Richard Bonnie and Charles Whitebread.[7]
The crucial years for national opioid policy occurred between 1910-1920. Unfortunately, as Courtwright argues, “public opinion concerning opiate addiction was profoundly influenced by inaccurate and even falsified data.”[8] Congress passed laws based on the erroneous assumption that addiction was pervasive and widespread; in reality, heroin use was “a limited and diminished disease.” Evidence suggests a marked decline in usage and addiction despite nearly a century of increasing rates.[9]
A good example of Congress’s approach during this period and afterward was the Harrison Act. Passed in 1914, the legislation made no provisions for maintenance. “Either opiate addicts could obtain their supply legally, or they could not,” writes Courtwright.[10] The Internal Revenue Service, the agency tasked with the law’s enforcement, took a strong anti-maintenance stance bringing indictments and charges against doctors, druggists and addicts accusing them of conspiring to violate the law.[11] As with the opioid crisis of the 2000s, such laws drove addicts to turn to illegal purchases of heroin.
If in 1920, heroin use had been limited largely to New York and Philadelphia. By 1940, it had spread more widely especially among “underworld users in virtually every large American city.”[12] While most users sniffed heroin during the 1920s, in the 1930s intravenous use began to take precedence. “By 1940, the heroin mainliner had emerged as the dominant underworld addict type,” notes Courtwright.[13]
Between 1940 and the Vietnam War, heroin did not disappear, rather addiction festered in urban communities. For example, by 1955, government reports detailed “a serious and tragic and expensive and ominous” heroin addiction in Washington D.C’s Black community. However, it took the image of American G.I.s hobbled by addiction before the federal government acted. This bolstered the conclusion that who used heroin mattered as much as heroin use itself. During the past twenty-five years politicians that once excoriated Black communities for the crack epidemic of the 1980s, now called for treatment and understanding for rural white communities in the throes of opioid addiction.
The medical community attempted to address such addiction before the federal government intervened. Dr. Jerome Jaffe came to Chicago to manage the Illinois Drug Abuse Program (IDAP) which by 1970 was treating several hundred people a day. IDAP embraced the multimodal approach which offered three options: “hospitalized withdrawal followed by group therapy; residence in a local Therapeutic Community (TC); and methadone maintenance with counseling and vocational training.”[14] Patients chose which program they preferred and could easily switch between them.
The Narcotics Treatment Administration (NTA) run by Robert DuPont in Washington D.C., which by the late 1960s and early 1970s was under siege from heroin addiction, mirrored IDAF’s efforts. The NTA opened in February of 1970 and operated out of the city’s health and welfare office.[15] Both programs required that patients “dose at the clinic daily, submit three urine tests a week, and attend weekly meetings with their counselors and group therapists,” writes Dufton.[16]
Widespread heroin addiction often led to escalating crime rates. As President Richard Nixon, prepared for his 1972 presidential campaign, he hoped to reduce those numbers. Due to the efforts of Nixon advisors Jeffrey Donfeld and Egil “Bud” Krogh, Jaffe was recruited from IDAF to run the Special Action Office for Drug Abuse Prevention (SAODAP). From 1971 to 1975, the office managed to radically reduce heroin use by Americans, thereby also reducing crime, Nixon’s main concern. In Detroit, New York, and Washington D.C., all cities where SAODOP operated, crime declined significantly: 15 percent, 18 percent, and 25 percent respectively.[17] By fall of 1972, SAODOP funded 365 programs in 214 communities across the nation, a trebling of its numbers within 12 months.[18]
Though SAODAP’s policies led to marked reduction in heroin addiction, it soon came under fire in the Black community which Dufton argues voiced “the loudest criticisms.”[19] Black nationalists believed the use of methadone threatened to cripple the community, by replacing one addiction with another, notably one controlled by the federal government. Even more moderate voices, like the Washington Post’s William Raspberry, the newspaper’s first African American columnist, expressed skepticism. “The guy who was sick on heroin is just as sick on methadone. The streets may be a little safer, but the addict is scarcely better off.”[20]
The heroin epidemic and its severity framed political decisions made by the District of Columbia city council, newly empowered by Nixon’s Home Rule legislation. As sociologist James Forman, Jr. argues, the drug’s impact led to Black opposition to the decriminalization of marijuana in D.C. When decriminalization was raised as a possibility in the nation’s capital during the mid-1970s, Black leaders such as Walter Fauntroy and Doug Moore smothered it. Many prominent Black leaders argued African Americans, beset by racism and discrimination, could not weather addiction in the face of such obstacles and that marijuana would lead to harder drugs.[21] “Addiction, they had learned, could spread exponentially, and its consequences were not exclusively personal: drug use could decimate families, schools, even entire neighborhoods,” writes Forman. The rise of the carceral state of the 1980s had not yet unfolded and leaders like Fauntroy and Moore “could not foresee the eventual impact of their victory on the young Blacks they were trying to save,” writes Forman.[22] Indeed, as Massing points out in The Fix, by the late 1990s, the U.S. Bureau of Prisons spent $2 billion annually on housing drug offenders.[23]
Some medical professionals also castigated SAODAP’s approach. Dr. Alfred Freedman, president of the American College of Neuropsychopharmacology and the American Psychiatric Association, skeptically asserted that SAODAP’s marriage of “addiction treatment and government oversight” because it put the profession in the “law and order” business, which it decidedly was not. Dr. Matthew Dumont affiliated with the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), who backed community mental health psychiatrists, made similar arguments. Doctors should not “adopt the values of cops” such an approach threatened larger civil liberties. “If the freedom of the addict is jeopardized … then everyone’s freedom is jeopardized.”[24] Even some sympathetic observers, such as Vincent Dole who had helped to pioneer methadone maintenance worried about SAODAP’s quick and massive ramp arguing the approach was “practicing methadone maintenance in a sloppy way.”[25]
Such complaints were not without merit. While effective, one of methadone maintenance’s weaknesses was the prevalence of diversion, the illegal use of a prescription drug or its trafficking on the black market, which led to, as noted by critics, greater oversite and surveillance. In 1972 Washington D.C., methadone overdose deaths spiked to 52, more than double the 21 deaths witnessed by residents in 1971. In the city, Dr. Thomas Moore was found guilty of flagrantly overprescribing the drug to patients, which led the city council to suspend prescriptions from private doctors such that only NTA clinics could provide the drug.[26]
Conservatives also took aim. Director of the Office of Budget and Management, Caspar Weinberger, refused to “budget additional funds for the office,” such that SAODAP, after only four months and visible success in reducing addiction among the afflicted, “was nearly broke.” Funding from the president’s emergency coffers saved it.[27] Yet, Nixon rarely if ever mentioned it on the campaign trail in 1972, a sign that SAODAP, regardless of its successes, was not integral to the president’s larger administration. It took the bipartisan passage of the Drug Abuse Office and Treatment Act of 1972 (DAOTA) to fully fund SAODAP and legalize it. However, the law came with numerous new responsibilities that SAODAP could not fully address regardless of funding levels. By mid-June 1973, exhausted from the effort, Jaffe resigned from his office, and on June 30, 1975, SAODAP created by executive order and never meant to be permanent, closed its doors, replaced by the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA).[28]
The Reagan administration largely dismantled Nixon’s treatment-oriented approach shifting NIDA away from treatment and toward a cheaper, decentralized research-based model.[29] The administration’s policies regarding drug abuse rested on an expanding carceral state and advocating for abstinence.
If treatment was largely dismissed by the administration, its focus was interdiction, incarceration, and prevention. Perhaps the most famous drug policy to come out of the Reagan presidency, and indicative of its larger policy, was Drug Abuse Resistance Education, known to Generation X, as D.A.R.E. The program placed police in schools and had teachers instruct students to resist drug use through abstinence. It was chiefly paid for through a mix of “local funding, federal grants, private donations, and corporate largesse,” writes historian Max Felker-Kantor, a finance structure that also emulated the Reagan administration’s support of public private partnerships.[30] D.A.R.E. proved relatively ineffective at preventing drug use and may have even contributed to greater abuse among suburban students.[31]
D.A.R.E. did, however, increase contact between schools and law enforcement and police and students. The program invested in culture not treatment and largely divorced the social and economic realities that contributed to drug abuse from use itself.[32] “[T]he real value of DARE was its integration of police into schools and the larger community,” writes Kantor.[33] Decoupling law enforcement from treatment has been a sticking point in drug addiction treatment from the beginning. After all, Nixon supported SAODAP and sold the program to the public based on the promise it would reduce crime.
With the dismantling of SAODAP’s infrastructure, drug treatment became more privatized. Methadone maintenance endured some very tough years. The Reagan administration reduced and shifted treatment funding toward block grants to the states. Between 1976 and 1987, federal funding for methadone declined by 30 percent. The corporate-free enterprise 1980s left methadone clinics with one option: privatization which meant patients paid directly for treatment rather than the federal government. While some states did provide funding by allotting monies obtained from federal block grants, privatization dominated. By 1990, ninety percent of California’s clinics had been privatized, “run by either for profit or nonprofit groups, a trend being mirrored nationwide,” observes Dufton.[34]
Yet, the combined outbreak of the AIDS crisis and the continued availability of heroin and crack renewed the importance of drug treatment. Intravenous drug use contributed significantly to the spread of HIV/AIDS. The crisis proved so stark that Catholic Republican, retired navy admiral and former chief of naval operations, James D. Watkins, who oversaw the President’s Commission on the HIV Epidemic, encouraged the administration to “pour billions of dollars into health care” to slow the disease’s spread, particularly since drug users emerged as the greatest threat to its spread.[35]
Mark Parrino, who operated a clinic in Manhattan and had been working in the field since 1974, summarized the decade simply: “The 1980s were the dark ages.”[36] Although the years had been hard, the newly privatized clinics were leaner and more efficient, “by 1990, the country’s surviving clinics were bigger than ever,” and served as the “nation’s frontline responses to AIDS.” Patients in this era were often sicker, requiring “intensive medical and psychosocial interventions,” many also struggled with multiple addictions, Parrino noted.[37] This came with greater costs. “The era of inexpensive outpatient methadone maintenance treatment ended with the appearance of HIV,” Parrino wrote in 1993.[38]
By the 1990s, Parrino emerged as the “face of methadone America.” Emphasizing management stability, he advocated for efficiently run clinics, which in turn created stability and an engaged staff that consistently led to better outcomes for patients. Parrino organized the industry’s first trade group, the Northeast Regional Methadone Treatment Coalition. It started in New York and nine other states, and by 1989, nationalized becoming the American Methadone Treatment Association.[39] From his perch atop AMTA, Parrino united clinics across the country promoting efficient business and “comprehensive care” and appealed to state and federal authorities for increased funding.[40] Due to Parrino’s efforts and the federal government’s own willingness to address the growing crisis, greater federal funding followed. As the nation approached the dawn of a new millennium, Congress displayed a markedly new attitude toward methadone maintenance, “from total rejection under the Reagan administration to begrudging deference, and even market protection under Clinton,” writes Dufton.[41]
During methadone’s roller coaster ride, the government pursued other treatments for drug addiction, though neither emerged as a public health success. Developed by Eli Lilly in 1949, Levo-AlphaAcetyl Methadol known more widely as LAAM “a synthetic congener of morphine,” eventually emerged as a possible additional treatment for opioid addiction. The drug, unlike methadone, could prevent withdrawal for up to three days, a significant improvement over methadone’s much shorter duration.[42]
Unfortunately, sloppy and glacial study results and a desultory 1970s economy led to government cuts, delayed new drug applications, bureaucratic controversies at NIDA, and financial disputes. In addition, ethical questions about contracting undermined its development such that four years later it was “a wreck, its once promising progress stalled financially, legally, and philosophically,” writes Dufton.[43] When it resurfaced again with support in the 1980s and 1990s, it failed once more, but this time due to methadone’s own evolution. Parrino and AMTA, had established a much stronger foot ahold in drug addiction treatment. LAAM had essentially missed its window.[44]
A second more successful effort formed around the drug, buprenorphine. Discovered in the 1960s and originally developed for pain relief, the drug reemerged in the United States in the 1980s.[45] The drug quelled heroin cravings with minimal side effects; its long duration meant it was easier to quit with fewer abstinence impacts. While the possibility of diversion existed, it was less likely to cause overdoses, hence limiting its liability as a public health threat.[46] While NIDA’s optimism regarding the drug failed to mirror that of independent researchers, the agency still saw its value and committed to $100 million on trials.[47]
It took the dedication of Charles O’Keefe, the former deputy director of international affairs for the Carter administration’s Office of Drug Abuse Policy and consultant for the World Health Organization, to deliver buprenorphine to the masses and in doing so, rewriting decades of national drug policy.
For seventy years, the federal government had required maintenance treatment to be dispensed in government approved clinics or hospitals. By the mid to late 1990s, well over one million Americans struggled with opioid addiction. Many were young professionals. While methadone clinics were surging, government officials, such as Health and Human Services (HHS) secretary Donnan Shalala openly worried that the nation was failing to serve its growing number of addicts. Shalala threw her support behind drugs like buprenorphine believing it could reach drug users who remained outside the methadone system.[48]
O’Keefe successfully lobbied for the passage of the Drug Addiction Treatment Act of 2000 (DATA 2000). Signed into law by President Bill Clinton in October 2000, its passage amounted to “a quiet but monumental revolution,” observes Dufton. “For the first time since the Harrison Act … doctors who registered with the proper authorities and abided by strict regulations could prescribe Schedule III drugs for opioid maintenance, and pharmacies could dispense them. Private maintenance was legal again.”[49] A legal loophole between DATA 2000 and the Children’s Health Act meant buprenorphine was the only drug accessible from doctors’ offices.[50] Parrino thought buprenorphine operated better as a compliment to methadone rather than a replacement but recognized its impact early by changing AMTA’s name a third time to the Association for the Treatment of Opioid Dependence (AATOD) in 2001.[51]
Eventually marketed as Suboxone, a combination of buprenorphine and naloxone, by the newly merged conglomerate Reckitt Benckiser Pharmaceuticals (RBP), the drug did not immediately sell. Having retired in 2005, O’Keefe handed over RBP’s leadership to Shaun Thaxter.
This transition coincided with new guidelines released by HHS. In 1993, Parrino established the term Maintenance Assisted Treatment (MAT) as the identifier for drug addiction treatment; however, the new 2004 guidelines, influenced by buprenorphine development shifted to Maintenance Assisted Treatment (MAT), pointing to the two different tracks of treatment. Since patients could take the drug at home, buprenorphine didn’t require the infrastructure necessitated by methadone treatment, but it also lacked any sort of therapy or counseling arm. Additionally, these developments overlapped with the expansion of heroin use and the proliferation of prescription opioid abuse epitomized by Purdue’s marketing of oxycontin.[52] The latter’s spread fed an increased need for buprenorphine or in this case, Suboxone, to treat the spreading addiction. “With Oxycontin, Purdue had started a fire. With Suboxone, RBP could sell the hose,” observes Dufton.[53]
Under Thaxter, RBP soon filled with former Purdue employees and adopted many of its marketing practices. Its representatives weren’t salespeople but “clinical liaisons” (CLs) who worked closely educating doctors on their products and overall addiction treatment. Admittedly, before Oxycontin’s explosion doctors were probably too opposed to prescribing pain medication, sometimes referred to as “narcophobia” but Purdue’s efforts swung the pendulum too far in the opposite direction. Doctors’ willingness to prescribe such treatment, aided by eager sales reps, and pharmaceutical perks such as fully paid conferences in exotic locations, became overzealous.[54] At first, RBP’s CLs helped doctors to understand Suboxone’s value and application for addiction treatment. Moreover, Oxycontin’s wreckage demonstrated the need for such treatments as Suboxone clinics opened on the path carved by Purdue’s infamous drug.[55] That this devastation unfolded in rural America far away from most of the nation’s methadone’s clinics further facilitated Suboxone’s rise.[56]
Yet, evidence of diversion surfaced. Doctors overprescribed and reports of patients selling the drug on the street mounted. More folks ended up in emergency rooms for non-medical use of the drug, going from 4,400 in 2006 to 14,266 in 2009. Law enforcement officials noted the absence of counseling. “These aren’t real treatment programs,” noted one official speaking to the Baltimore Sun. “There’s no counseling or monitoring. They just sell the drug.”[57]
By 2006, Suboxone rose to 198th on the best-selling drug list and then rocketed to 49th by 2009, drawing in $900 million to RBP coffers. By this time, the company had managed to convince commercial insurance and Medicaid to cover the drug, boosting its profits. Increased earnings led to new attitudes regarding its sale and distribution. CLs cared less about impacting addiction and more about garnering bonuses. Questions about Suboxone’s efficacy rose since overdose deaths increased by more than two-fold from 16, 859 in 1999 to over 37,000 in 2009 despite the drug’s proliferation.[58]
With RBP’s exclusivity for the drug soon to lapse, the company developed a new version, Suboxone Film, which gave the company a new ten-year window of exclusivity. Borrowing from the Purdue playbook in its literature, RBP and its CLs mischaracterized the danger of new generic versions. CLs pushed the new drug heavily and RBP incentivized film sales over all other products.[59] The passage of the Affordable Care Act (ACA) further boosted sales as the ACA made thirteen million more Americans eligible for MAT through Medicaid. Government expenditures soon merged as a much more significant portion of RBP’s bottom line. In 2013, Medicaid reimbursements accounted for two-thirds of RBP’s revenue, a 2,664 percent increase from 2010.[60]
RBP embarked on a campaign to persuade officials in Massachusetts that its Medicaid program, MassHealth needed to “switch from reimbursing tablets to exclusively covering Suboxone Film.”[61] The Massachusetts program had the largest volume of addiction treatment and represented a windfall in profits if such a change were accomplished. RBP manipulated data regarding pediatric exposure to the drug thereby making Suboxone Film appear safer than it was.
RBP also organized an aggressive letter writing campaign by physicians, some of whom were employed by the company, arguing in favor of Suboxone Film, and some alleged that not making the change amounted to a vile “political and moral offense” on par with Strom Thurmond’s filibuster opposing the 1957 Civil Rights Act.[62] Ironic, considering that Suboxone’s demographic skewed heavily white, comprising employed, college educated individuals who were frequently addicted to prescription opioids. This contrasted with methadone patients who were often non-white, unemployed, had no college education, and “heroin dependent.”[63]
Lawsuits ensued, and unfortunately for RBP, they unfolded in a post 2007 Purdue Oxycontin world. Despite heavy financial penalties, the Department of Justice had shielded Purdue executives from punishments. When a federal grand jury handed RBP, rebranded as Indivior, a 28-count criminal and civil indictment, it was a sign of things to come. In July of 2020, Indivior settled agreeing to pay a resolution of $2 billion, the largest ever of a DOJ brought case involving opioids. Moreover, the DOJ ordered Indivior’s entire Suboxone sales force disbanded, the first time in U.S. history that a drug firm was forced to do so. While Indivior could sell the drug, it was banned from marketing it.[64] A federal judge sentenced Thaxter to six months in jail followed by a year of supervised release and well over $600,000 in fines.[65]
Dufton concludes Addiction, Inc. by exploring the history of Switzerland’s well documented struggles with and solutions to their opioid crisis. While instructive, Dufton also acknowledges the very different demographic and political realities that enabled that country’s approach, raising questions about how feasible such policies would be in the United States. It’s a valuable palate cleanser that maps a potential path to a solution for our own troubles in this area.
Since 2023, in part due to drugs such as Suboxone and Narcan, the U.S. recorded notable declines in deaths caused by opioid overdoses. A welcome development, but one that if history serves won’t hold. Under the Trump administration cuts to Medicaid and other services aimed at treatment threaten to throttle gains, particularly since even with these declines the cost of opioid addiction remains too high. Dufton’s book serves as a reminder that addiction has been an American trait for decades and likely will be for decades to come. Finding a solution means looking at what and what hasn’t worked in the past, lest our own answer to addiction begins to resemble addiction itself.
Join Emily Dufton and Dr. Jerome Jaffe, Nixon’s Drug Czar for addiction treatment for a zoom discussion of Dufton’s new book and the longer arc of addiction treatment in the U.S. held by the Library of Congress on April 15, from 2pm to 3pm. You can register here.
References
[1] Michael Massing, The Fix, (University of California Press, 1998), 14.
[2] Emily Dufton, Addiction Inc.: Medication Assisted Treatment and America’s Forgotten War on Drugs, (University of Chicago Press, 2026), 381.
[3] Dufton, 39.
[4] Dufton, 35-39.
[5] David Courtwright, Dark Paradise: A History of Opiate Addiction in America, (Harvard University Press: 2001), 110.
[6] Dufton, 22
[7] Dufton, 22.
[8] Courtwright, 33.
[9] Courtwright, 33-34.
[10] Courtwright, 103.
[11] Courtwright, 103-104.
[12] Courtwright, 98.
[13] Courtwright, 109.
[14] Dufton, 95.
[15] Dufton, 82.
[16] Dufton, 95.
[17] Dufton, 134.
[18] Dufton, 133-34.
[19] Dufton, 146.
[20] James Forman, Jr., Locking Up Our Own: Crime and Punishment in Black America, (Farrar, Straus, and Girioux: 2017), 28.
[21] Forman, 43-46.
[22] Forman, 45.
[23] Massing, 272.
[24] Dufton, 141-142.
[25] Dufton, 143.
[26] Dufton, 154-55.
[27] Dufton, 130.
[28] Dufton, 131.
[29] Dufton, 212.
[30] Max Felker-Kantor, DARE to Say NO: Policing and the War on Drugs in Schools, (University of North Carolina Press, 2024), 6.
[31] Felker-Kantor, 165.
[32] Felker-Kantor, 134, 165
[33] Felker-Kantor, 176.
[34] Dufton, 226
[35] Dufton, 231.
[36] Dufton, 224.
[37] Dufton, 246.
[38] Dufton, 247.
[39] Dufton, 251.
[40] Dufton, 251-252.
[41] Dufton, 284.
[42] Dufton, 175.
[43] Dufton, 189.
[44] Dufton, 256.
[45] Dufton, 266-267.
[46] Dufton, 270.
[47] Dufton, 275.
[48] Dufton, 284-285.
[49] Dufton, 287.
[50] Dufton, 287
[51] Dufton, 291.
[52] Dufton, 298-299
[53] Dufton, 302.
[54] Dufton, 304.
[55] Dufton, 205, 305.
[56] Dufton, 306.
[57] Dufton, 310.
[58] Dufton, 311.
[59] Dufton, 316-317.
[60] Dufton, 319, 327
[61] Dufton, 319.
[62] Dufton, 321.
[63] Dufton, 322.
[64] Dufton, 337.
[65] Dufton, 340.