Waging a crusade

Billy Breault's passion and activism are well-known. But his campaign against NEEDLE EXCHANGE, which he may launch statewide, has taken on such a feverish tone that his opponents question his real motives.

by Kristen Lombardi

William "Billy" Breault knew the clock was ticking. It was Monday, July 22, 1998, and Springfield city councilors had just voted in favor of needle exchange. Breault, the Main South Alliance for Public Safety chairman, had a hunch that Springfield residents actually objected to the proposed syringe program, which would give intravenous drug users clean needles as a way to stem the spread of HIV; and so, this well-known Worcester resident resolved to challenge the council vote.

But to put a referendum question on the November ballot asking Springfield voters to reject the council decision, Breault would have only 20 days to gather 10,000 signatures. "We knew we had to move fast," he recalls. Two days later, he and fellow activist Lea Cox staged a press conference in front of Springfield City Hall to announce a petition drive.

"We believe that the public is strongly against needle exchange," Breault declared. "But this is Springfield's fight. It will work only if local leaders come forward."

Karen Powell, a Springfield housewife, heard those words while watching the noontime news. She'd always regarded needle exchange as "stupid," she says, "because drugs are illegal and this helps people stay on drugs." But when her city's councilors voted in favor of it, she had no clue how to fight. Then, she spotted "this man from Worcester," a man who spoke passionately, confidently. "I could tell that he knew what he was talking about," she says.

Powell called Breault that evening. And while she was telling him that she wanted to get involved, he got a phone call from another Springfield resident, Sue Gallo. Breault introduced the women who went on to organize fierce opposition of the city's proposal under the name Citizens Against Needle Exchange (CANE).

It was the beginning of the end of needle distribution in Springfield.

Now six months later, Breault's again played a leading role in toppling needle exchange -- this time back home. Breault, who argues that needle distribution condones drug use and leads to increased crime, has long been the most vocal opponent here. And last week, he managed to steer opposition to victory in the face of formidable obstacles. Under the banner Harm and Risk Reduction Coalition, needle-exchange advocates had put forth a comprehensive, unique proposal offering a syringe exchange to addicts who agree to enroll in drug-treatment services. The program would have been located at two community health centers. The coalition boasted support from credible institutions, such as the city's Department of Health and Code and the T&G editorial board. Even Police Chief Edward Gardella announced his support in the remaining days before the vote; he advocated for a six-month trial.

But Worcester city councilors voted 7 to 4 against a syringe program on January 26.

Breault would tell you that the defeat of needle exchange in Springfield and Worcester proves what he's been saying all along: it represents "a failed public-health policy."

It's true that only four cities have taken advantage of state funds to set up such programs; in addition to Springfield and Worcester, needle-distribution proposals have failed in places like New Bedford, Lowell, and Lawrence. Yet in all of these cities, over 50 percent of reported AIDS cases stem directly from IV-drug use. Not only that, they've all been cities where Breault conspicuously contributed to the debate.

So if needle exchange hasn't gained much support, advocates counter, it might just be because of Breault.

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At first glance, Breault's power seems to stem from his unpolished charm, a frank and feisty manner that can be captivating. To those who know him well, though, Breault's real power stems from his vast networking abilities.

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"He's been quite a force in shaping opposition," says Jean McGuire, who directs the HIV/AIDS bureau at the state's Department of Public Health (DPH). And this opposition, she adds, "has had a chilling effect on the program in the cities that need it the most."

Breault is so confident that Massachusetts voters disapprove of needle exchange that he's now considering a statewide petition drive to repeal the current state legislation allowing communities to receive DPH funds to establish such programs.

"I don't know if I want to commit to the task," Breault says, explaining that he'd need to gather 76,000 signatures. But, he adds, "I feel confident I have enough contacts to do it."

Such an effort would certainly push Breault to the forefront of the debate -- into a limelight where Worcester residents are used to seeing him. But if his recent actions show anything, it's that Breault has been his most effective calling the shots from the sidelines.

BREAULT RETREATED from Springfield's media spotlight as soon as he staged the July press conference -- but he never left the scene. The next day, in fact, he trekked to Powell's modest, ranch-style home to mull over strategies. Not only did he advise organizing the petition drive, he also donated $1000 to the cause, writing a check to the Springfield Union-News for advertisements calling opponents to action.

The ads were provocative, not to mention time-tested, copying slogans Breault's repeatedly used back home. One featured a big syringe bisected by a prohibit sign, along with the words: "Needles and Heroin = Drugs and Crime." Another, while less graphic, proved equally dramatic, declaring "study after study" shows needle exchange leads to increased drug use. "It was false information. Pure scare tactics," says Springfield resident Joe Oliverio, who founded the "Campaign to End AIDS" in response to CANE.

Still, the ads worked. Hundreds of people phoned Powell and Gallo and, within days, CANE was a visible force on city streets. Volunteers canvassed neighborhoods, as well as malls, grocery stores, and churches. After CANE succeeded in getting a referendum question on the ballot, activists pumped up the pressure: they wrote to politicians; they debated on radio; they leafleted meetings.

On election day, 60 percent of Springfield voters rejected the city's needle-exchange proposal and, just six days later, city councilor Bud Williams, a longtime program defender, reversed his vote -- a stunning flip-flop that came after CANE's threats to recall elections of pro-needle public officials.

Success was sweet, not simply for CANE but for Breault. He had remained influential throughout, as both a player and a coach, handing over reams of information, while offering a play-by-play analysis of CANE's attack plan. "Billy gave advice and pep talks," Powell says. "He was very important in terms of support."

Gallo puts it more bluntly, "Billy pulled us together and gave us a voice. We wouldn't have pulled it off without him."

At first glance, Breault's power seems to stem from his unpolished charm, a frank and feisty manner that can be captivating. To those who know him well, though, Breault's real power stems from his vast networking abilities. "He knows people," says Barbara Haller, a Beacon-Brightly activist and friend. "He does a lot of street work; he goes out and talks to residents."

But Breault doesn't just connect with average citizens. He's made contacts in nearly all social arenas, from high-ranking officials to agency directors to priests to laborers. "Billy networks at various levels," says Kevin Ksen, a Piedmont activist. And because he treats truck drivers with as much respect as mayors, Ksen adds, "He can get both to help."

That Breault's managed to cultivate such connections is, in part, a function of his ubiquitousness. Not only has he become a fixture at every public hearing and private meeting that touches on his public-safety agenda, but he quietly tracks down movers-and-shakers. "When Billy wants to find you, he finds you," Ksen says.

Marlene Pollock, a New Bedford needle-exchange advocate, still remembers how "outsiders" like Breault navigated her city's avenues at a dizzying pace in 1996 right after councilors voted to establish a syringe program there. Although New Bedford had its share of home-grown opponents spearheading a petition drive, including such powerful figures as former mayor Rosemary Tierney, Breault made it a point to get involved. Pollock recalls bumping up against him at meetings, as well as on the local WBSM-AM talk show, The Pat Desmaris Show. She encountered Breault and his colleagues so often, she says, it was as if they had moved to town.

They were determined to spread their message as well, no matter who tried to muffle them. Take the time Breault and Cox learned that state senator Mark Montigny (D-New Bedford), an outspoken needle-distribution supporter, was sponsoring a forum. They asked if an opponent could be a panelist but were turned down. "We were shut out," Cox recalls. So when she and Breault found out where the forum would be held, they arrived anyway, setting up a table full of fliers. They were soon ordered to leave. Cox got upset, she admits, so she screamed, This is the United States, a free country! Eventually, they were allowed to stay -- provided they kept silent. Which is something Breault opted to do. "I was angry," Cox adds. "But Billy stayed and quietly distributed literature."

In Worcester, such tenacity is easily regarded as vintage Billy Breault. As is his penchant for viewing the world through a somewhat narrow prism. "Billy sees more in black-and-white," says Haller, who, in recent years, has been his comrade-in-arms on neighborhood issues, including needle exchange. Yet if Breault prefers to keep matters simple, he still amasses an arsenal of evidence to bolster his arguments.

His detective work around needle exchange has brought him to communities like Bridgeport, Connecticut, where a city-sanctioned syringe program has operated since 1993. Breault drove down there four years ago to witness it in action -- by trailing the program van. At one point, he approached the director, Mark Kinzly, and told him that drug deals were going on near the vehicle. "I said we don't allow that activity and I invited him to watch what we do," Kinzly says. Breault declined, but that didn't stop him from driving back to Worcester and citing Bridgeport as the textbook example of how needle exchange doesn't work, which left a lasting impression on Kinzly.

"This is a gentleman who found a crusade but he uses misinformation to advance it," says Kinzly, who knows of Breault's activism elsewhere. "In all honesty, he's done a hell of a job convincing people that needle exchange is something it isn't."

No doubt, what Breault's statewide push against needle exchange best illustrates is his efficacy as an activist. This isn't to say he hasn't had to work at it. Worcester residents, who've seen Breault lose the occasional fight, point out that his effectiveness today is rooted in his 13 or so years of experience. As Ksen puts it, "Time is Billy's ally. He's been around longer than councilors. He can spell out his neighborhood's history and no one doubts his accuracy."

If time has given Breault credibility, it's also helped him become sophisticated in the way he wages battles. He's learned how to generate publicity, for example, how to gain access to officials. Breault, who boasts a legendary temper, has also come to appreciate diplomacy. Where once he would have erupted like a human volcano, pounding tables or throwing papers, he looks subdued these days. He even sounds diplomatic: "I know now that you have to listen to opponents. They're not bad people; you just agree to disagree," he says.

Perhaps most important, the politically astute Breault has realized that what happens beyond Worcester can work to his advantage. At least, this is how his colleagues explain the nature of his state crusade. "Billy is smart enough to know that if Springfield defeats needle exchange, it's tough for Worcester to accept it," says Ksen, who supports needle distribution. "He knows how to percolate things out of the city so Worcester councilors feel the issue as politicized as possible."

FOR PROPONENTS who face Breault again and again, his vigorous opposition of needle exchange has taken on a suspect quality. It's not simply because he's crisscrossed the state, appearing, without failure, at crucial meetings, they say. Or because he's helped mobilize people elsewhere. It's because Breault has proven to be so obstinate, so zealous that, as one critic says, "He shows up even before the debate."

This boundless fervor has left many -- especially those unfamiliar with Breault's other causes -- bewildered as to why, exactly, he's chosen this particular battle. Dr. Erik Garcia, medical director at Worcester-based Homeless Outreach and Advocacy Project and a key proponent, explains, "He travels to Springfield, New Bedford, and to Washington, DC. You have to wonder where all this is coming from."

Speculation has led to wild theories. In Springfield, for instance, Breault was painted as a frontman for the Heritage Foundation, a right-wing national think tank. Proponents have also attached his name to conservative, religious organizations like the Christian Coalition and the Family Research Council.

Breault responds to such conjecture with outright indignation. And no evidence has been presented to suggest such an alliance. "No one is behind this campaign but me," he says. Yet he admits to being on the mailing list of Drug Watch International, a group devoted to halting the decriminalization of drugs. DWI, which has a fairly fanatical reputation, opposes needle exchange because, members argue, it represents the "first step" to legalizing drugs. Cox, a Hanover resident who lobbies on behalf of DWI, has her own conspiracy theories: "People who want to legalize drugs are pushing things like needle exchange and medical marijuana. They're couching legalization in terms like `harm and risk reduction'."

If Breault agrees, he doesn't let on. Instead, he explains that he's affiliated with DWI because he supports most of its positions, such as the stance that needle exchange condones drug use. He may use DWI resources and "brainpower," he adds, yet what he does is for his fight. "I make it clear that I represent myself."

But when it comes to his activism statewide, Breault doesn't offer up the sort of self-motivated answer that might satisfy skeptics. Nor does he refer to it in terms of politics. As far as he's concerned, the reason behind his crusade is as simple yet deep-seated as the reason he opposes needle exchange: "There are no boundaries to Worcester, no prohibitions limiting where you can speak," he explains. "I'm exercising my right to express what I feel whenever I get the opportunity."

Breault says this while sipping coffee at his latest a.m. haunt, the Coffee Mug in Auburn. Even here, at a peaceful diner miles from the city's center stage, he is a man who commands attention -- in his laserlike eyes, booming voice, and his frenzied gestures. When he talks about crime, drugs, and needle exchange, his emotion can grip you, resonating loudly.

Passion has always defined his brand of activism. Ever since he took over the helm of Main South Alliance for Public Safety from his father, Theodore -- who, in 1987, founded the city's oldest crime watch -- Breault's gained attention for his unrelenting efforts to improve his impoverished neighborhood. He's called the cops on drug dealers, lobbied for gang crackdowns, even prowled the streets with video cameras to expose men seeking prostitutes. While his dogged determination, working on everything from arson to abandoned buildings, has earned him the title, "pit bull of Main South," that exact appellation aptly describes how Breault, at times, has gone beyond the issues by pinpointing those he feels are responsible for area woes; absentee landlords like Joanne Geissler have been frequent targets of Breault's attacks.

All of this, of course, fits neatly under Breault's public-safety banner. But so, too, does needle exchange -- if you consider how his opposition began. In 1990, Breault's Main South Alliance had teamed up with King Street activists around the problem of rooming houses, many of which were havens for drug trafficking. The activists had just lobbied to close down three infamous King Street houses when the Boston-based AIDS Brigade showed up and started distributing clean needles. Residents got angry, Breault says, because the Brigade appeared to attract addicts back to the neighborhood. "My interest started there," he says. "Needle exchange seemed to be contradicting everything we were trying to do."

Not long after, Breault spotted a WCVB-TV Channel 5 editorial in support of needle distribution, which prompted him to offer a televised, opposing view. "I said it was no good," he recalls. "That the state shouldn't be heading in the direction of condoning drug use, not even to accommodate AIDS." His impassioned speech caught Cox's attention; they've campaigned together on drug-related issues ever since.

Though Breault acknowledges the current forcible presence of HIV/AIDS in Worcester, he still touts his original argument: "We shouldn't handle the [AIDS] problem by politically validating this activity." It's a position that he maintains despite his research into syringe programs nationwide -- despite medical reports, professional opinions. If anything, his research has made him more resolved to fight.

And it's particularly paid off here, a city where needle-exchange advocates have outdone themselves. After being defeated four years ago, they regrouped last year in response to studies that showed 53 percent of new AIDS cases in Worcester are linked to IV-drug use. Advocates put forth a unique model combining a syringe program with treatment for IV-drug users. They even addressed opponents' complaints -- the program was to be held at fixed locations, rather than on a roving van. That city councilors could reject such a comprehensive plan baffles proponents. McGuire, the state DPH's HIV/AIDS bureau director, captures the attitude best: "Worcester was exemplary in situating [needle exchange] as a medical response," she says. "How much more responsible can you get?"

Although opponents have faced daunting challenges this time, Breault's taken them in stride. Unlike 1995, when he and former AIDS Project Worcester director Jim Voltz went at each other with sound and fury, Breault assumed a composed public personae and instead worked behind-the-scenes. He joined forces with usual allies, such as crime-watch groups, and then ventured into new territory. Like when he asked public-school officials for lists of parent-teacher organizations at the schools located near the proposed needle-exchange clinic sites. Breault planned to call parents, he says, "to tell them the other side." He was first blocked by Doherty school official Claire Angers, who wrote a memo forbidding teachers to get involved. Yet he wasn't deterred long; he says he got parents' names after dialing Mayor Raymond Mariano.

Breault's influence on other councilors was apparent as well. Those who opposed the proposal relied on negative findings of controversial studies on Vancouver and Montreal needle-exchange programs -- studies that Breault made sure they received. (Authors found that AIDS cases had gone up among IV-drug users but determined that needle exchange had to be expanded, not eliminated.) Councilors, in addition, echoed Breault's long-held belief that the opinions of professionals who work in Worcester but live in Shrewsbury, Holden, or Marlborough shouldn't carry as much weight as those of the city's residents.

This is exactly why Ksen and Piedmont activists -- who live next to the proposed Jacques Avenue site -- voiced their support. But, Ksen adds, "I knew we would have a hard time being heard over Billy."

Supporters, too, have had a tough time getting beyond Breault's argument. Since needle exchange deals with two highly stigmatizing diseases -- namely, drug addiction and HIV/AIDS -- it is an emotional issue, conjuring up frightening images of death, drugs, and crime. What makes Breault so effectual, supporters say, is his ability to divide the health argument from the drug-addiction argument. In other words, he focuses on drugs rather than on stemming HIV/AIDS. "He brings out people's biases against drugs and addicts," says Jonathan Heins, a needle-exchange proponent who contracted HIV through IV-drug use. "It's easy to do. Billy puts it on the table and everyone dives in."

Some proponents like Heins credit Breault for his honesty and commitment, but most call him a "demagogue," a "jerk," and a "fraud." They say they resent that they've never seen him helping to halt HIV/AIDS by volunteering at a clinic or participating in the annual AIDS Walk. "He doesn't seem to care much about the spread of AIDS," says Leo Negron Cruz, a longtime AIDS activist. Overwhelmingly, they blame him -- his argument, anyway -- for thwarting a program that the city desperately needs.

Garcia exclaims, "I've nothing but disdain for anyone who allows people to be infected with HIV because of the message [the program] sends."

ONE THING is apparent about Breault: he can handle harsh words. He may bristle at implications that he lacks compassion; if he did, he replies, he wouldn't be looking for drug-treatment funds now. He may scoff at suggestions that he's brought down needle exchange; if it's failed, he retorts, it's because proponents come up short. Even so, he sees a certain redemption in such claims, viewing them as a sign that he's winning.

"Proponents resort to name-calling because they cannot win the debate on its merits," he explains.

What probably bothers Breault most is people singling out his state activism on needle exchange. After all, he says, it's not as if he hasn't gone outside of Worcester before. The whole reason he has contacts in New Bedford, Springfield, and Lawrence is due to his arduous neighborhood work, he adds, in which he's traveled across the state, checking out what cities are doing on issues like graffiti, litter, and arson.

Thus, he concludes, his statewide needle crusade is "nothing new."

Still, it is different, and not merely because he's played the agitator. Breault's passion over this issue has him wound so tight, he looks to be somewhat irrational. He's made a spectacle of himself at DPH hearings, even targeted department officials, such as Commissioner Howard Koh.

And this past September, he moved from the topic of needle exchange to the very distinct issue of HIV surveillance.

"He argued against [a DPH] policy on how to track HIV cases," recalls McGuire, who admits to being "confused" by his newfound interest in broader public-health questions.

Breault isn't likely to clarify the confusion, though. Doctors report HIV patients to the DPH using what's called "unique identifiers," rather than using patients' names. The same professionals fighting for needle exchange, Breault argues, also fought against a name-based method, which, he says, would more effectively curb the spread of HIV/AIDS.

In essence, his interest in HIV tracking comes down to his opposition of needle exchange. And this is exactly why his crusade has been perceived as not only irrational but obsessive. Indeed, Breault appears to be as addicted to this fight as addicts are to their fix -- when asked whether it's enough that he's successfully led the charge to block needle distribution here, he bellows, "No! Absolutely not!"

It doesn't seem to be enough that he's helped obstruct the program elsewhere either. Breault's already suggested to DPH officials that he won't stop campaigning until he eradicates needle exchange, McGuire says. But when pressed on this point, he falls short of acknowledging any plan to organize against current programs in Boston, Cambridge, Northampton, and Provincetown. Instead, he voices disapproval of the Boston and Northampton ones -- specifically, because they were established by mayoral executive orders -- then hints at attempts to challenge them.

"Northampton slams doors on our faces but we'll be there to get answers," he says. Minutes later, he adds, "I would like to take on [Boston Police Sgt. Detective James] Devlin," liaison to that city's program.

Although Breault is vague about the existing programs, he remains upfront about continuing to stop needle-exchange's expansion. Right now, he's keeping a watchful eye on the public debate in Holyoke, readying himself to go there if needle distribution gains support.

And he alludes to bigger things: "We're working at a national level, but I don't want to trip up what we're doing."

Meanwhile, in the wake of defeat, Worcester's needle-exchange advocates are just beginning to reassess local strategies. Supporters were somewhat naive in thinking that medical expertise would prevail, they say, so they're looking toward political action -- by trying to oust at least two city councilors who oppose needle exchange during this fall's elections. Considering that they're also strategizing with state DPH officials on possible tactics, there's nothing to suggest that they'll capitulate.

"We're by no means giving up," Garcia says assuringly.

But if Breault decides to take up a statewide petition drive, Garcia and his colleagues might not get to fight again. For now, though, Breault plays his cards close to his chest, only promising that, as long as there's debate, "We'll be there to represent the opposition." n

Kristen Lombardi can be reached at klombardi[a]phx.com.