BRADY FLANIGANStaff Writer

Along Highway 41A in Manchester, there’s a building that, with a quick glance or a loud radio, might pass for a tax office or a nail salon. A small gravel parking lot and a long handicap ramp. Low ceilings and small rooms. A giant metal cross guards the waiting area. It’s Coffee County’s addition to a growing list of drug courts in Tennessee. Around here, they like to call them “recovery courts,” a different approach where rehabilitation replaces incarceration for those caught in addiction.  

Reborn in 2024, the Coffee County Recovery Court came under government oversight after a similar non-profit program was shuttered in ’23 when the Tennessee Comptroller’s Office saw signs of financial mismanagement. This time, Judge Bobby Carter and Recovery Court Director Allen Burnette are determined to make it work.

After an unexpected retirement and nearly $650,000 gone to waste, they knew the community’s trust was as fragile as cold glass, but it might just be someone’s last chance. 

Since the ’90s, drug courts have surged–a response to a criminal justice system bloated from 50 years of a War on Drugs. Nearly 45% of cells in America are taken up by people incarcerated for drug-related crimes. Recovery courts work differently. They’re aimed at addicts—not people hiding from the law–people swallowed by something more potent than law: the hunt for another fix. 

Addicts liked to say they’re “in recovery.” Twenty-six years sober and in recovery. The idea is that cheddar always seems free in a mousetrap. Unlike prison, where a sentence ends, recovery is a lifetime contract–a title as permanent as a cattle brand. But the logic makes sense. Those who dance with duct tape always run the risk of getting wrapped up in it. 

Behind Coffee County Recovery Court’s drab exterior, they’re running a practical game with high stakes. This isn’t meant to be another pit stop for paperwork and mandatory meetings. It’s a place designed to give people a fighting chance to get clean and stay clean. For Carter and Burnette, the goal is simple but hardly easy: reach people racked by addiction, not hardened by crime. Here, they’re seen as individuals with the potential to claw their way out of that rat’s nest—if they’re willing to do the work.

“The theory is to take someone that’s on the lip of being a true addict, but who’s gotten themselves to the point of a felony offender,” Carter explained. “We take them out of the jangle, supervise them, and get them into treatment for a long period. The longer you supervise, the better the outcome.”

His smile throttled down, and his eyes narrowed. “We’re here to give them a shot, but not to let them off easy.”  

Burnette is passionate because he’s played dice with addiction before. “I was mixing everything—beer, weed, crack, crank—you name it,” he said, voice unflinching. “Every day, I was running from something, hiding out. I hit rock bottom, and it took real trouble to get me to ask for help.” Now he’s about giving others that same shot he got, even if it means dragging them through a battlefield of urine tests and weekly meetings. “The goal here isn’t just to get them out of jail—it’s to help them become something. Fathers. Mothers. People who hold down jobs. We’re trying to turn lives around, not just check boxes.” 

Participants quickly learn this is no autobahn with a maxed-out throttle. It means weekly, sometimes thrice-weekly drug testing, recovery meetings, and a level of accountability most have never faced. “We’re not here to be their friends,” Carter said bluntly. “They don’t get off the hook for free. They’ve got to show us they’re serious.”

For Burnette, it’s as personal as it gets. He’s seen what addiction can do up close—the way it erodes men and leaves families shattered, lives undone. “We want to help them rescue that child locked up inside,” he said, his tone as fierce as it was quiet. “Once they free that part of themselves, they become more than their addiction. And that makes all the difference.”

Participants might think they’re just dodging time at Folsom, but they’re in for more than they realize. “They all want drug court because it beats sitting in a cell,” Burnette said. “But most don’t realize just how much comes with it. Regular recovery meetings, treatment, three drug tests a week. They’re in for a surprise. But if they can handle it, if they can dig deep enough, they’ll come out of this a different person.” 

The stakes at Coffee County Recovery Court are clear, and for some, savage. Carter and Burnette know this might be a last stop. It’s a dice roll, a brutal path for those willing to take it. But as Carter put it, “if even one person turns things around, then it’s worth every minute.”