The residents of Fishtown were distressed, not about the murder—which many said was a rare case of human evil that could have occurred anywhere—but about the rampant drug use in their community. Gruesome murders were sensational, they said, but overdoses, broken families and wasted potential were part of everyday life [News, "Rec and Effects," March 10, 2005]. The detail that really grabbed my attention was the apparent frequent use (and sale) of drugs at the Fishtown Recreation Center, right across the street from the 26th District Police Station. Several residents invoked "the Rec" as a symbol of the futility of the cops' efforts.

I went down to the Rec, where I met Betty Adams, who runs the afterschool program there. Adams, a lifelong Fishtowner, didn't seem particularly eager for press attention. She did not tell me, for instance, that the huge mural alongside the Rec's basketball court was a likeness of her son, Freddy, who had been brutally murdered in 1993 at the age of 16; nor did she say that a popular sports tournament was held each summer in his memory. She gave no hint that she was a neighborhood institution.

Betty was, however, unfailingly polite. She walked me around the grounds, and told me that she often had to clean up drug paraphernalia; she led me to the hockey rink, where we found a used syringe and several empty baggies. When I got back to the office, I wrote a story about the proximity of the Rec to the police station. The first line was: "Betty Adams is cleaning up after the drug addicts again."

FOLLOW THE SCRIPTS: Users often left their wares behind the Rec. : Michael T. Regan

Recently, I got a call about that story from a woman who left only her first name, and no return number. "The article's bugged me for quite some time," she said, "because you had Betty Adams in there cleaning up … helping out the neighborhood. It just bothers me that I knew what was going down with her. … Her husband was selling drugs."

The woman went on to mention a recent drug sting called "Operation Fishtown Scripts," which implicated seven middle-aged white men from Fishtown and Port Richmond. According to the state attorney general's office, they had forged prescriptions for pain-killers like Percocet, then filled them at pharmacies in the suburbs—sometimes using fake neck braces or canes to assuage suspicion—and sold the pills for recreational use.

The alleged ringleader of the group was a man named John Loftus; one of the others, pictured on the attorney general's Web site, was a frowning, bespectacled man named Frederick Adams. Betty's husband.

Of course, I don't know whether Adams is guilty. Last year, people in Fishtown told me that "everyone knows" who sells drugs in the neighborhood, but—anonymous tipster notwithstanding—no one I spoke with last week said they had suspected Adams. Loftus, a couple of people said, had been obvious; he drove a fancy car, didn't work and was too young (40) to be on Social Security.

But Adams works as an electrician. He's also a community figure. Every year, Adams throws out the first pitch at the tournament named for his son (Sarah Colville, Adams' sister-in-law and tournament president, said the event, which features numerous sports, will continue as always. "What I am getting a little upset with is people who actually think that the good things we do with the tournament has anything to do with Fred's life," she says).

Nancy Sodos, a friend and neighbor of the Adamses, says, "Our jaws dropped" when her family heard about Fred. And a group of women standing in the Rec last Thursday said they were "shocked."

As for Betty Adams, opinions on whether she knew of her husband's alleged activities—assuming he engaged in them—ranged from "Betty probably didn't have a clue" to "How could you not?"

When I went back to Fishtown last week, she declined to comment about her husband's situation, except to say, "I can tell you that he's not as involved as the lovely media says he is. Here's a guy who works six days a week, 10 hours a day."

Walking past the mural of her son, she said it's been hard for her to face the community since the arrest.

"I don't know who would call you, to twist the knife in my back more than it already is," she said. "I went home and locked myself in the house last night, which I'm about to do again." She was fighting off tears.

Adams

Looking back over my notes from last year, one scribble, which I did not include in the story, now stands out. A man wearing an Ancient Order of Hibernians jacket was holding a sign with an anti-drug slogan on it. He observed that if he were dealing, "I would be selling weed with one of these signs in my window."

His point was that in Fishtown, drugs are pervasive—but I may have missed the message. I wrote a story saying the problem was so bad that kids used drugs in the shadows of the police station. In actuality, it's so bad that the woman who cleans up after them is married to a man now charged with drug offenses.

In a way, it's surprising to see Fred Adams' name in the paper, associated with drugs. He and his wife are respected community figures.

But in another way, it's not surprising at all. Guilty or not, Fred Adams is the face of drugs in Fishtown: a familiar one.