The teenage boy leaned against the bench Friday afternoon in Courtroom 3 of the Cumberland County Courthouse. Nearby, a graduation cake with his name on it awaited.

"Drug court definitely saved my life," he told District Court Judge Keith Powers. "You've given me more chances than I ever deserved."

Powers nodded appreciatively.

"Could you have made that speech a year ago?" the judge asked.

"No," the boy said, smiling and looking down at his feet.

Powers came down off the bench, took off his black robe and looked out over the crowded courtroom.

"Occasionally, I have graduations where I'm holding my breath," Powers said. Turning to the boy, he continued, "I'm not holding my breath with you. And that's a good thing."

With that, as the packed courtroom echoed with applause, Powers handed the boy a certificate showing he'd successfully completed Maine's Juvenile Drug Court.

The boy's timing couldn't have been better. As of Wednesday, the start of the state's new fiscal year, the nine-year-old program will close its doors.

And that, from where Powers sits, is anything but a good thing.

"What you won't see is the kids coming in and seeing a judge every week," Powers said later in an interview. "You build a relationship with these kids – and they take it more seriously. None of these kids ever thought they'd hear a judge say something nice about them."

Since their creation in 2000, the state's four juvenile drug courts have served as one last chance for youngsters in trouble who otherwise might be headed for the Long Creek Youth Development Center in South Portland. But if you think that sounds like a free pass, listen harder.

To join the yearlong program, the juveniles sign a 26-point contract that covers everything from nightly curfews (6 p.m. is not uncommon) to random drug and alcohol testing (anytime, anywhere), to specific peers with whom they are to have no contact whatsoever (along with anyone else who is up to no good).

In addition, they promise to show up every Friday afternoon for a court proceeding unlike any other. (The sessions are normally closed to the public, but Powers allowed me to sit in last week on the condition that the juveniles not be identified.)

It begins with a "precourt meeting" in which the judge sits down with the defense attorney, the prosecutor, the probation officer and the case worker from Day One, the substance abuse and mental health treatment agency the state pays to administer the program.

The name "drug court" notwithstanding, the weekly review of each kid's case extends far beyond substance abuse. A recent blow-up with a parent or girlfriend, success or trouble finding a job, a missed curfew, a just completed GED or college application – all of these things are thrown into the mix to determine how well (or not) a boy or girl is adhering to the straight and narrow.

"It can be family or mental health or school or substance abuse. We help with all of that," said Janelle Bainter, Day One's case manager for the Portland program for the past three years.

While the professionals around the courtroom chime in, the judge reviews the file, asks questions and – at least in Powers' case – injects the occasional dry humor. (Upon hearing that one girl reportedly showed up at a job interview with her bathing suit on, Powers wondered aloud whether she thought she was applying to be a lifeguard.)

Finally, the individual updates completed, the doors open. The kids – there were 13 last week – take their seats directly in front of the judge. The parents, grandparents, other relatives and friends crowd into the gallery.

For well over an hour Friday, Powers called each boy and girl up to the bench. In most cases, it was part hot seat, part coaching session.

One boy who's no...