Screwing up her courage, Lee Kekua went from store to store, politely asking to speak to the manager and leaving a photo of her 17-year-old son.

Behind the teen’s straight-laced demeanor and neatly pressed shirt lies a troubling pattern. He abuses over-the-counter medicine and shoplifts to get it. Kekua wanted to warn store staff to keep an eye out for him.

"I’m embarrassed because I shop at those places," Kekua said recently as she sat with her son at Juvenile Drug Court in Kapolei. The solitary trek was her own idea, a hint of her evolution as a parent under the guidance she has received at the specialty court.

"I felt shame — no, for once in my life, I felt empowered that — that I’m not going to enable my son, " she said, pausing as a sob caught her throat. "I’m going to help him. But he’s got to make that choice to change."

Juvenile Drug Court focuses on helping substance-abusing adolescents who run afoul of the law choose a better path. Typical offenders have racked up a few nonviolent infractions, skipping school, stealing, drinking or doing drugs. They enter the voluntary, intensive probation program after their cases are judged. A team of professionals works with each teen to explore the underlying causes of their behavior — from family trauma to psychological issues.

Participants must show up in court along with their parents every Friday afternoon. They sit together in one courtroom, watching as each family steps before the judge, learning from each other’s setbacks and successes. As the teens’ behavior improves, court appearances grow less frequent.

Kekua’s son, who has been diagnosed with schizophrenia, has made progress since entering the program in August. But a relapse prompted her to make good on her threat to alert stores.

"I was a little depressed," explained her son, whose father is dying of pancreatic cancer. "I relapsed on over-the-counter medicine and weed. It’s like a coping skill for me. I’m trying to stop that bad habit of doing drugs as a coping skill."

His mother’s attitude toward the program has shifted 180 degrees.

"At the beginning I hated it," she acknowledged. "I thought they were picking on me. I hated them telling me you need to try and do this, you need to try and do that. I cried.

"I thought I had my act together, that it was my son’s fault. This program makes you aware. I have to hold myself accountable, too. It changes your way of thinking."

"Consequences. That’s what you learn in here. The choices you make have consequences."

Juvenile Drug Court takes into account the adolescent brain, which is still developing impulse control and decision-making ability. It combines close monitoring with a carrot-and-stick approach. Slip-ups can land teens in Detention Home or worse. Steps in the right direction earn them pats on the back or even gift cards.

"It’s a really hard program for kids to make it through," said Judge Matthew Viola, a father figure who presides over the court. "It’s very demanding. It’s a treatment-focused program. We hold kids accountable. We try to touch on all aspects of their lives. We’re not looking for perfection; we’re looking for effort and honesty."

It seems to work. Just 16 percent of all Juvenile Drug Court graduates commit a new offense within three years of graduation, according to Joel Tamayo, the court’s administrator. That is one-third the rate of juveniles with similar profiles on regular probation, whose recidivism rate was 47 percent in a random sample of 77 offenders taken for the Star-Advertiser.

Even teens terminated from Juvenile Drug Court, usually because they "age out" at 18 or 19, seem to benefit from their time there. Seven out of 10 stay on the straight and narrow.

"We’re giving these kids a second chance," said Blaine Tomita, a probation officer who has been with Juvenile Drug Court since it was started in 2001. "Otherwise, they are likely to become adult criminals, a burden on society. Think how much it will cost if they are incarcerated for 10, 20 years."

Probation officers keep close tabs on the kids, virtually around the clock. A counselor from the YMCA helps the teens recognize triggers for substance abuse and learn other ways to cope. A psychologist provides consultation. A family therapist and interns from the Coalition for a Drug Free Hawaii uncover problems at home and teach new ways to communicate.

The court can handle up to 50 teens at a time, down from 60 a few years ago because of budget cuts that trimmed the staff. The program keeps them busy, in school and out, with activities from Scrabble tournaments to hiking and community service, such as cleaning bus stops.

It also offers healthy, Hawaiian-style outlets for their energy. Surfrider Spirit Sessions give kids the rush of riding waves and time with good role models. A kaju­kenbo martial arts master teaches them to "take the push" without resorting to aggression.

"I think we’re the only drug court in the country that has a martial arts component," Viola said. "It’s not about learning to fight; it’s the things that come with the martial art, being a role model, discipline, training, restraint."

On average, teens take 18 months to graduate from Juvenile Drug Court. It’s a frustrating path with detours and steps backward as well as forward.

A baggy gray sweatshirt stenciled with the letters D.H. enveloped one teenager’s wiry, athletic form as he stood before Judge Viola. The 16-year-old keeps landing in Detention Home after "digging out" from school or home to get stoned, sometimes disappearing for days at time.

His father, who joined him at the table, was starting to show the strain. So was the judge.

"Same old same-old. When is it going to change?" Viola demanded.

"When I get out," the boy responded.

"Why should I believe that?" the judge shot back. "People in prison as adults didn’t plan on it. They get there through a lot of bad habits, a lot of bad associations. I’m worried that you’re headed in the wrong direction. You can change that. You have more courage than you’re showing right now."

The first sign of trouble came two years ago when the boy’s father got a call from police after his son stole a 99-cent bag of candy. "I couldn’t believe it," his father recalled. "We live five minutes from Walmart. If you’re that hungry, walk home!"

Now he has to take off from his job on a military base on Friday afternoons to attend court with his son. He worries that his boy could follow the path of an uncle, who made bad choices and ended up in prison.

"The tough part about it is I’m a single dad, and I’ve been taking care of him since he was 6," said the Mili­lani resident. "A lot of time has been invested on baseball fields, schoolwork, and for him to change in the last two years, since he turned 14, it’s hard."

"He should be pitching for his high school baseball team," he added. "Instead he’s out getting high."

Participants in Juvenile Drug Court must call a hotline between 4 and 6 a.m. every day to find out whether they are selected for a random drug test. A petite and perky 15-year-old has had a string of "clean" tests, and the news prompted a round of applause in the courtroom.

"You’re building up credibility," Viola said. "Do you know what that means? No? It means that I trust you. You’ve earned it. A couple months ago you weren’t honest."

Her mother gave her daughter a squeeze. She had endured countless restless nights when the oldest of her three children would disappear without a trace.

"The scariest part was when she was on the run," she explained during a break in court. "I always watched the news. My husband would drive the neighborhood. He comes home and I cannot sleep; 1 or 2 o’clock in the morning, I would drive the neighborhood hoping that I see her."

The teenager had long bridled under the strict parenting style of her mother, an immigrant from the Philippines who seemed out of touch with the local scene. At 12 she started smoking cigarettes on the sly with her hula sisters. Then she tried drinking, because it seemed cool. She ran away to be with a girlfriend and moved on to drug use. "When I was on the run, I went drinking every single day, burning (marijuana), how much times," the girl said. "I didn’t care. I was doing Vico­din pills when I finally got caught."

Even while her daughter was missing, the mother faithfully went to Juvenile Drug Court and took part in counseling and group activities. The father dodged it at first, until the judge threatened to issue a warrant. But once he came in, he agreed to be tested for drugs, like his daughter.

"It turned out that the dad smoked pot and he had an ‘ice’ problem," probation officer Lisa Ogata said. "Mom didn’t know. It came out in court."

The Coalition for a Drug Free Hawaii began working with him. That proved to be a turning point for his daughter, who was fed up with her parents "just looking at me as the problem."

"I thought they was mad at me," she told the Star-Advertiser. "Now I see they cared about me."

Sitting by her side, her mother’s eyes filled with tears as she reflected on the impact of Juvenile Drug Court on her family.

"It’s like I have somebody help me carry the burden on my shoulder, and eventually it melts," her mother said. "The worries that I had for the longest time is coming into happy moments. The years that I missed with her, we are working to get it back."