From homeless and addicted to advocating for the unsheltered in Hennepin County

Alyssa Benson and Edward Weibye met under the direst of circumstances and then formed the most unlikely of friendships.

An alcoholic addicted to drugs, Weibye had bounced in and out of Hennepin County's criminal justice system for years and often found himself homeless. Here he was back again, facing prison for selling crack cocaine out of his apartment.

Benson was a probation officer who met him to assess whether he was a good candidate for the county's drug court, an intensive program that favors treatment over prison.

Weibye wanted none of it. He begged her to send him back to prison, admitting he always violated his probation conditions anyway. They continued to talk over the next several days, even after Benson sent him back to the streets when he showed up drunk for their visits.

But she saw something more than a hopeless drunk and drug abuser. She saw a suffering man who people had given up on.

She eventually found him a sober house and he went on to graduate from drug court. He took his last drink Sept. 26, 2008.

More than a decade later, Weibye's life has taken another unlikely twist. He is now an outreach worker for Health Care for the Homeless, helping the kind of people whose lives looked just like his did years ago.

"I'm so proud of Edward and the work he's done," Benson said. "He made me a better probation officer and working with him was a defining moment for me. I don't have a connection with other former clients like I have with Edward."

Weibye, 48, sensed a certain kinship with Benson when they first talked in jail. There was something about her caring manner that sliced through the booze and the chaos of his life. She could have faced discipline for sending him away three times for drinking, but she said something told her he would return for the next appointment.

"He thought he was done with me, especially with the swear words and his plea of wanting to go back to prison," she said, choking back tears. "The fact that he was able to lean on me when he relapsed said a lot to me. He encouraged me to take risks on other clients."

Drug court is a diversion program that works with people with entrenched chemical dependency issues who are at high risk to reoffend.

Weibye had endured 13 failed treatment attempts, but Benson got him into a program she hoped would finally lead him to sobriety.

Benson, 41, now a corrections program manager for Hennepin County, said she took a huge chance by recommending Weibye for drug court. There were alarming details about his past arson convictions, something that ordinarily would have disqualified Weibye from the program. But Benson kept advocating.

"If it hadn't been for drug court, I would have definitely been back in prison or dead," he said.

After graduating, he returned to speak to drug court participants. He also spoke at the State Capitol about the impact of specialty courts. He embraced a strong Alcoholic Anonymous program and sponsored people in their quest to get sober.

At the same time, he began to feel a deeper calling to help others.

He had been content with his job in construction out of state, but then he landed jobs working at sober houses and treatment programs in Minnesota. Like he once experienced, Weibye saw homeless clients who were treated and dumped back on the streets.

He later earned a bachelor's degree in human services and became a certified chemical dependency counselor. He had worked with the county at St. Stephen's, which landed him his outreach position with Health Care for the Homeless. On his first day, he e-mailed Benson to tell her he got the job and "that he made it."

The job takes him wherever people are living unsheltered, from encampments to under bridges. The program offers everything from service referrals, clean needles, medical and mental health care, vaccines, birth control and medication refills.

His visits might simply offer a client a tarp, tent, water, candy, help getting an ID or a ride to a gas station. His life experience with drugs and alcohol and homelessness allows him to zero in on the needs of his clients and "speak the language," he said.

For the last three years, Weibye said he has been dealing with his own mental health struggles. He lost an uncle and several close clients.

In his despair, he found a 13-year Alcoholics Anonymous sobriety medallion on the ground near Prodigal House, where he first sobered up. At that moment, he, too, was nearly 13 years sober.

"My work was bringing up past personal traumas," he said. "I wanted to go out and have a drink or do heroin. But I told myself I'm not going out like that. I can make it another day."

Through all his recent turmoil, Weibye found out in June that he had been granted a rare "pardon extraordinary" from the state Board of Pardons. The board consists of Gov. Tim Walz, Minnesota Supreme Court Chief Justice Lorie Skjerven Gildea and Attorney General Keith Ellison.

"Stories like Mr. Weibye's are the reason we grant pardons," Walz said. "He paid for his actions, turned his life around, and is now dedicated to making our community safer by helping people avoid the mistakes that he made."

Such a pardon is granted to a person who has completed their criminal sentence and satisfied a required waiting period, if they can demonstrate that they have reformed and are law-abiding citizens. The board holds only two public meetings annually.

A pardon allows a person to stop reporting or disclosing convictions except in limited circumstances. The convictions remains public record, but the fact of a pardon will be placed in the record as well.

Weibye had a long list of convictions including arson, drug possession, domestic assault, theft and drunken driving. The pardon lifts barriers he continues to face, such as renting a house, he said.

"The pardon tells me the state forgives me," he said. "People can look at me for who I am now. Before I was judged on what's on paper."