All the empty rum bottles stacked along the walls once made John Moore's home look like a house made of glass.

But alcohol was just part of the problem; the 25-year-old also was contending with an untreated bipolar disorder.

His dual diagnosis - mental illness plus addiction - once would have been a likely ticket to a life in and out of Idaho prisons. But today it makes him like most of the participants in Ada County's mental health court, a rigorous rehab program created to find a better way to treat mentally ill offenders.

Now clean and sober, Moore keeps himself going with Alcoholics Anonymous and cigarettes. He's traded his daily bottle of rum for Mountain Dew, carrying it in a big thermos to his job at Honk's bargain store.

"My boss tells me I'd bleed green if I ever got cut," he said.

At the end of July, after 20 months in mental health court, Moore and two others will "graduate" from the program.

A BETTER, AND CHEAPER, WAY TO TREAT SOME

The country's first mental health courts were created about a decade ago, on the principle that prison is neither effective punishment nor a deterrent for the mentally ill.

Judge Michael McLaughlin set up Ada County's version on orders of the state Supreme Court in 2005.

Left behind bars without treatment, people with mental health disorders will leave prison in worse shape than when they went in, McLaughlin said.

And that can have a huge impact on communities - 97 percent of all offenders eventually get out of prison and live among the general population.

McLaughlin sees mental health court as "an ounce of prevention for a pound of cure."

That prevention is a lot cheaper, costing between $2,500 and $3,500 per person a year, while it costs $20,000 to keep an inmate in prison, McLaughlin said.

Idaho's program is still young. Kelly Norris, program coordinator, said finding the perfect candidate for the program - someone whose mental illness is the reason for their criminal activities or addiction - is an ongoing process that becomes more refined all the time.

National studies show mentally ill people placed on regular probation have a 90 percent chance of returning to prison. When they enter a mental health treatment program, the rate falls to 35 percent.

Once in the court program, participants like Moore advance or fall back according to their ability to follow rules, make weekly court appearances and meetings with probation officers, pass random drug tests, and take classes and therapy.

Mental health court isn't a soft alternative, Norris said. "We take someone who has been living a particular lifestyle, then tell them to change everything they do."

Right now, 39 people, a near-even division of men and women, are working their way through the program in Ada County.

A lot is at stake for them. Success can mean a clean record, reduced charges and a productive life.

Failure can mean a return to the traditional justice system, felony probation and prison time.

A LONG DESCENT, AND A LONG CRAWL BACK

Caught with a pot pipe when he was a teenager, Moore was hospitalized after telling a cop - sarcastically, he still insists - that he was going to drive his car off a cliff.

He moved on to drinking, drug use and an attempt at suicide with a shotgun, all while studying computers at Boise State.

After a couple of short-term computer jobs, he found himself in a relationship with a woman who took drugs. He took on temp jobs, dug ditches in Nampa, cleaned freezers at a grocery store, stretched liners at the landfill.

This troubled phase ended with an arrest outside a convenience store. Moore was carrying a handgun and methamphetamines.

His mugshot from 20 months ago shows a bearded man with pocked skin. His physical description notes the tattoo "Thug Life" scrawled across his stomach.

With a felony charge hanging over him, he continued to drink. His dad, Kelly Moore, said it got so bad that John's liver started to shut down. In a deep depression, he "flipped out" in his front yard one day and got committed to a mental institution.

Along with therapy, 12-step programs, drug tests and check-ins, a job is considered a cornerstone of recovery for mental health court participants.

McLaughlin and Norris said Moore stood out for his initial resistance to getting a job.

His plan was to apply for Social Security and live off the monthly check for the rest of his life.

His initial contact with the Idaho Division of Vocational Rehabilitation, the group that connects mental health court participants with jobs, was rocky. He was thrown out of a counselor's office for his bad attitude.

What started the transformation of Moore's "beautiful mind," as McLaughlin now describes it, was sort of magical.

Moore had stalled in the court program. His determination not to drink was shaky, and the bad news was rolling in. His dad was diagnosed with clots in his lungs, and one of his friends, another mental health court participant, died from an overdose.

The court sentenced Moore to a community service job - unpacking donations at the Salvation Army store.

Around lunchtime one day, Moore started eyeing the Burger and Brew across the street.

"God himself couldn't stop me from having a drink," he said.

At that moment, he reached into another box to unpack.

The first thing he pulled out was a plaque printed with the Alcoholics Anonymous "Serenity Prayer." Moore took it as a sign.

"My first thought was, I can't drink," he said.

He offered to pay for the plaque, but his boss just told him to keep it.

Moore didn't cross the street that day. He went home and typed out a two-page letter he called his "dedication to change."

Change included getting the job at Honk's, where he stocks shelves, moves freight and supervises when his manager is gone. His boss trusts him with the keys to the store.

He makes $800 a month, enough to live on, but not enough to keep from worrying about the price of gas.

Home is a room in his parents' house. By mental health court order, he pays $200 monthly rent. Computers, including some he's built himself, now fill the space instead of empty liquor bottles. He watches television, plays computer games, tries to get to bed by midnight. He spends a lot of time by himself but has a couple of friends who are also sober.

Moore used his computer talents to create a PowerPoint presentation about the mental health court that McLaughlin plans to use in future presentations of his own. Moore also made two brochures, one detailing the best way to find a good AA sponsor.

For Kelly Moore, the importance of mental health court is simple. Without it, he says, his son would not have "reached a place where a lot of young men are at 25, taking a long look at their lives." Without the court program, he figures, his son would be dead.

John Moore still has that AA plaque, with its eerily good timing, and a year and a half of sobriety.

"I really believe there are no coincidences," Norris said. "Whether you put it in terms of God, or a higher power, you do get back what you need."

Moore now has another plaque, too.

The Idaho Division of Vocational Rehabilitation recently named him "Rehab of the Year."

Anna Webb: 377-6431