Roadside Drug Tests With False Positives Are Fast-Tracking Innocent People To Prison
Ryan Gabrielson and Topher Sanders write in The New York Times about how a $2 roadside drug test -- one that routinely produces false positives -- sends innocent people to jail. However, police departments across the country are still using them -- and prosecutors are still going by them:

Police officers arrest more than 1.2 million people a year in the United States on charges of illegal drug possession. Field tests like the one Officer Helms used in front of Amy Albritton help them move quickly from suspicion to conviction. But the kits -- which cost about $2 each and have changed little since 1973 -- are far from reliable.

The field tests seem simple, but a lot can go wrong. Some tests, including the one the Houston police officers used to analyze the crumb on the floor of Albritton's car, use a single tube of a chemical called cobalt thiocyanate, which turns blue when it is exposed to cocaine. But cobalt thiocyanate also turns blue when it is exposed to more than 80 other compounds, including methadone, certain acne medications and several common household cleaners. Other tests use three tubes, which the officer can break in a specific order to rule out everything but the drug in question -- but if the officer breaks the tubes in the wrong order, that, too, can invalidate the results. The environment can also present problems. Cold weather slows the color development; heat speeds it up, or sometimes prevents a color reaction from taking place at all. Poor lighting on the street -- flashing police lights, sun glare, street lamps -- often prevents officers from making the fine distinctions that could make the difference between an arrest and a release.

There are no established error rates for the field tests, in part because their accuracy varies so widely depending on who is using them and how. In Las Vegas, authorities re-examined a sampling of cocaine field tests conducted between 2010 and 2013 and found that 33 percent of them were false positives. Data from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement lab system show that 21 percent of evidence that the police listed as methamphetamine after identifying it was not methamphetamine, and half of those false positives were not any kind of illegal drug at all. In one notable Florida episode, Hillsborough County sheriff's deputies produced 15 false positives for methamphetamine in the first seven months of 2014. When we examined the department's records, they showed that officers, faced with somewhat ambiguous directions on the pouches, had simply misunderstood which colors indicated a positive result.

No central agency regulates the manufacture or sale of the tests, and no comprehensive records are kept about their use. In the late 1960s, crime labs outfitted investigators with mobile chemistry sets, including small plastic test tubes and bottles of chemical reagents that reacted with certain drugs by changing colors, more or less on the same principle as a home pregnancy test. But the reagents contained strong acids that leaked and burned the investigators. In 1973, the same year that Richard Nixon formally established the Drug Enforcement Administration, declaring "an all-out global war on the drug menace," a pair of California inventors patented a "disposable comparison detector kit." It was far simpler, just a glass vial or vials inside a plastic pouch. Open the pouch, add the compound to be tested, seal the pouch, break open the vials and watch the colors change. The field tests, convenient and imbued with an aura of scientific infallibility, were ordered by police departments across the country. In a 1974 study, however, the National Bureau of Standards warned that the kits "should not be used as sole evidence for the identification of a narcotic or drug of abuse." Police officers were not chemists, and chemists themselves had long ago stopped relying on color tests, preferring more reliable mass spectrographs. By 1978, the Department of Justice had determined that field tests "should not be used for evidential purposes," and the field tests in use today remain inadmissible at trial in nearly every jurisdiction; instead, prosecutors must present a secondary lab test using more reliable methods.

But this has proved to be a meaningless prohibition. Most drug cases in the United States are decided well before they reach trial, by the far more informal process of plea bargaining.

Poor people accept plea bargains -- never mind whether they are innocent of the charge -- because it seems the best trade-off under the circumstances.

This ruins lives. People lose jobs, cars, homes, and the custody of their children -- ruining their lives in the process.

One woman whose live was torn apart by this had her "drug" sample from her arrest locked up in a lab, untested, for five months beyond when she'd completed her sentence:

On Feb. 23, 2011 -- five months after Albritton completed her sentence and returned home as a felon -- one of Houston's forensic scientists, Ahtavea Barker, pulled the envelope up to her bench. It contained the crumb, the powder and the still-unexplained syringe. First she weighed everything. The syringe had too little residue on it even to test. It was just a syringe. The remainder of the "white chunk substance" that Officer Helms had tested positive with his field kit as crack cocaine totaled 0.0134 grams, Barker wrote on the examination sheet, about the same as a tiny pinch of salt.

Barker turned to gas chromatography-mass spectrometry analysis, or GC-MS, the gold standard in chemical identification, to figure out what was in Albritton's car that evening. She began with the powder. First the gas chromatograph vaporized a speck of the powder inside a tube. Then the gas was heated, causing its core chemical compounds to separate. When the individual compounds reached the end of the tube, the mass spectrometer blasted them with electrons, causing them to fragment. The resulting display, called a fragmentation pattern, is essentially a chemical fingerprint. The powder was a combination of aspirin and caffeine -- the ingredients in BC Powder, the over-the-counter painkiller, as Albritton had insisted.

Then Barker ran the same tests on the supposed crack cocaine. The crumb's fragmentation pattern did not match that of cocaine, or any other compound in the lab's extensive database. It was not a drug. It did not contain anything mixed with drugs. It was a crumb -- food debris, perhaps. Barker wrote "N.A.M." on the spectrum printout, "no acceptable match," and then added another set of letters: "N.C.S." No controlled substance identified. Albritton was innocent.

But oops, she'd already lost her job and her home.

And here's the latest:

The Texas Criminal Court of Appeals overturned Albritton's conviction in late June, but before her record can be cleared, that reversal must be finalized by the trial court in Houston. Felony records are digitally disseminated far and wide, and can haunt the wrongly convicted for years after they are exonerated. Until the court makes its final move, Amy Albritton -- for the purposes of employment, for the purposes of housing, for the purposes of her own peace of mind -- remains a felon, one among unknown tens of thousands of Americans whose lives have been torn apart by a very flawed test.

We in this country have become very cavalier about our own and others' civil liberties, not really noticing the accumulation of erosions.

The thing that the individual can do, at the very least, is to start talking about this -- and if possible, start writing about this and taking action. Work for organizations that defend civil liberties or at least donate to them.

These are not big things in and of themselves, but if many people make at least a small effort, it's a start -- one that may help do the very difficult task of moving our standards back to liberty rather than a bully state that treats its citizens as criminals (whether or not they are actually guilty of doing anything hurtful to the rest of us).