In a historic courthouse nestled in Scottsboro, Ala., Judge John Graham ‘85 walks a different path than most who wear a robe. He greets defendants with questions, not accusations. He asks about progress, not punishment. And in doing so, he has quietly led a revolution in how rural communities can respond to addiction. He offers hope, not handcuffs.
Graham didn’t plan to become a champion for criminal justice reform. In fact, he thought it was a bad idea. In 2007, as a newly appointed circuit judge, he assumed his role would involve toughness and tradition, which means swift and stiff penalties for drug offenders. So, when the Chief Justice of Alabama, Sue Bell Cobb, personally pressed him to start a drug court, he pushed back.
“I told her all the reasons it wouldn’t work,” Graham recalled. “She listened politely. Then she looked me in the eye and said, ‘Thank you for agreeing to start a drug court in Jackson County. With you in charge, it will flourish—and you will soon discover the most rewarding work of your career.’”
Judge Graham looked her right in the eye and replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
“And everything she said turned out true,” Graham said, looking back.
Graham now describes himself as a convert and an evangelist for drug court and related recovery-based judicial models. In the past 17 years, his program has graduated more than 300 people. Only 15 percent of those graduates have reoffended. More importantly, those individuals had parented over 300 children at the time of their graduation—children who remained with their families instead of growing up in foster care.
“I consider that my greatest professional accomplishment, and maybe the most meaningful achievement of my life,” he said. “Those kids got to grow up with sober, employed parents—coaching Little League, teaching Sunday school, living full lives.”
Building a Culture of Recovery
Graham’s courtroom doesn’t look or feel like the one you see on TV, with furrowed brows and air thick with tension and tears. The tears are there, but Graham’s courtroom also contains empathy, even laughter. He doesn’t pretend drug court offers an easy path. Participants face regular drug testing, counseling, employment requirements and frequent appearances in court. They must work hard for a second chance.
“This doesn’t feel like a soft option,” Graham said. “It demands commitment. But the reward? A real life. One with dignity and purpose.”
Each year, the court holds one graduation ceremony. The event takes place at First Baptist Church in Scottsboro and often reaches standing-room-only capacity. Friends, family, clergy, and community members pack the pews to celebrate stories of transformation. The court streams the event on Facebook for those who can’t attend in person.
“People cheer, cry, hug. You’d never guess this came from a courtroom,” Graham said.
In July, participants organize the county’s biggest non-fireworks Fourth of July event: a “Freedom Celebration.” The event features food, live music, art booths, face painting and fellowship. Hundreds gather on the courthouse lawn—not just to celebrate national independence, but personal liberation from addiction. Participants do all the legwork. They raise funds, haul chairs, set up tents, and invite local recovery organizations to share their services.
“No tax dollars go toward it,” Graham says. “It comes from the people in recovery. They own it. They lead it. And they show everyone what redemption looks like.”
Changing the Narrative
Graham believes much of addiction’s harm comes from shame and invisibility. He works hard to counter that. He often speaks at civic clubs, church groups and community gatherings about what drug court actually does. “We want people to know these folks. Not as ‘addicts’ but as neighbors and fellow citizens. They volunteer. They go to school events. They care about their town.”
He often hears the same message in public spaces—from grocery stores to gas stations: “Aren’t you the drug court judge? Thank you for what you’re doing.”
Graham feels grateful for the community’s trust, and he gives much of the credit to the court participants. “They’ve shown this community what recovery can look like. I just hold the door open.”
That open door has inspired more than just individuals in crisis. The community has donated to an indigent support fund that helps people in recovery with housing, transportation and rehab admissions. It also covers winter propane bills and buys Christmas presents for children whose parents face financial hardship during early recovery. One local artist launched an arts initiative, Pictures of Hope, which received support from the Alabama State Council on the Arts and the National Endowment for the Arts.
The Berea Thread
Before his career on the bench, John Graham grew up in Stevenson, Ala., in a home full of books, livestock and practical wisdom. His family didn’t have the money for big-name universities. But his father knew about Berea College in Kentucky. A postcard, a conversation with a local alumna and a scholarship brought Graham north.
At Berea, he studied history and worked in food service and the now-retired Appalachian Museum. He soaked in the diversity of students from across Appalachia and the world. “One of my friends came from Nepal. Another from India. One of my dearest friends grew up right in Berea. Everyone came from somewhere different. And every place mattered.”
He speaks fondly of convocations with world-changing thinkers: Desmond Tutu, Norman Vincent Peale, and Alex Haley. “We didn’t always agree, but we listened. We learned to hear each other.”
Those formative years still guide him. His judicial robe includes Berea’s motto stitched inside: “God has made of one blood all peoples of the earth.”
Graham also met Angela Redmon ‘85, a nursing major from Shelbyville, Ky. The future home health nurse who specializes in wound care, ostomy and continence found her inspiration during health clinicals in rural mountain towns. John and Angela married a week before he started law school. As of this summer, they’ve been married 38 years.
Practicing Justice with Empathy
Graham doesn’t speak in abstractions. He talks about real people—parents reunited with children, young people building futures, veterans healing from trauma.
Empathy doesn’t mean excusing harm. It means recognizing humanity. Some of our graduates struggled for years. They broke laws. But they also got up, faced themselves and did the hard work. They remind us that nobody falls outside the reach of redemption.
Judge John Graham ’85
“Empathy doesn’t mean excusing harm. It means recognizing humanity,” he said. “Some of our graduates struggled for years. They broke laws. But they also got up, faced themselves and did the hard work. They remind us that nobody falls outside the reach of redemption.”
He remembers a conversation with a fellow judge that clarified his philosophy: “He told me, ‘But for one or two decisions, I could be on that side of the bench. And but for one or two different decisions, they could be mine.’ That stayed with me.”
The Bigger Legacy
Graham doesn’t claim perfection. He laughs about his missteps at Berea—including a disciplinary warning called “social probation.” But he also credits Berea’s influence and his small-town roots with helping him see the big picture.
“We don’t mend communities by locking them up. We mend them by helping people come back—stronger, wiser and ready to give back.”
After 17 years of recovery court, Graham has no plans to slow down. His eyes light up when he talks about new judges entering the field, new treatment options and new ways to support those on the margins.
“I don’t know what people will remember about me,” he says. “But if a child grows up safe because we helped their mom or dad? That counts for a lot.”
I could not be prouder to call this man my friend.