At 1:45 a.m. on a Sunday morning at Boston College (BC), the brightest lights in sight come from the headlights of a police car.

Sgt. Timothy M. Kervin of the Boston Police Department and William R. Mills, Jr., Associate Director for Community Affairs at BC, sound wistful in the driver's and passenger's seats as they circle around the same group of dark dormitories.

"These four buildings, a couple years ago, there were parties every floor," recalls Mills.

On the fourth circuit around these dorms, there is a glimmer of excitement.

"This one with the lights on," Kervin says in a quiet monotone, and pulls his cruiser closer, hoping to find a wild party in hiding. Moving in, they discover that the room is silent.

"We've put ourselves out of business," Kervin quips.

Mills was remembering the neighborhood before MIT first-year and fraternity pledge Scott Krueger died of alcohol poisoning in the fall of 1997.

One week after the tragedy, the Boston Globe described these streets as a scene of bacchanalia. "In this teeming college town, at any given moment on any given weekend, there is a party to be had...There's an empty cup to fiddle with until you reach the flowing keg at the start of the line, and when the keg runs dry, there's a bouncer who will hold what he knows is a fake ID up to the light, and let you in anyway."

But in the fallout of Krueger's death, something changed.

College administrators, local cops and alcohol providers are working together to ensure that another local college student does not die of alcohol. But what are the consequences for the thirsty masses under 21? For many, the struggle to get a drink in Beantown has become a little bit harder--and the consequences are hardly a slap on the wrist.

A Death Remembered

Kervin and Mills are just a small part of what may be the nation's largest crackdown on drinking in recent memory.

After the Krueger incident, the city of Boston started enforcing its drinking age so tightly that many Boston area colleges, especially those in the Allston-Brighton area--BC and Boston University--are losing the classic college Animal House atmosphere.

According to Boston Police Department Lieutenant John E. Kervin, who serves in Allson-Brighton and is Timothy Kervin's brother, approximately 250 students have been arrested for alcohol offenses during this academic year in Allston and Brighton alone, about three times the total in past years. The department has also confiscated around five times as many fake IDs from students who have been arrested.

In the years before the Krueger tragedy, the drinking scene at Boston-area colleges differed little from that of colleges anywhere else.

"It was a lot bigger back then," says James Kenji Alt, a junior at MIT. "We used to bring kegs into the middle of Killian Court on Friday nights."

But the death of Krueger, whose blood alcohol was more than five times the legal limit, "sent shock waves out to a lot of schools," says Captain William B. Evans, commander of the Allston-Brighton police district.

"Because it occurred in a so-called elite school," says Henry Wechsler, director of the College Alcohol Study at the Harvard School of Public Health, "people thought, 'If it can happen there, it can happen anywhere.' The fact that it was at MIT gave it extra salience."

Now that MIT has come out of the lawsuit filed by Krueger's family $6 million poorer (the school settled with the family this September), the pressure is on both colleges and the city to puritanize student nightlife.

"It was a wake-up call for a lot of people, not only students and residents but public officials," Lehman says. "The Mayor [Thomas M. Menino] looked at it as a way of doing something proactive so this won't happen again...We had to start ensuring that the enforcement end was still in place. It wasn't lacking, but Scott Krueger's death breathed a bit more urgency into it."

No college wants a tragedy to occur. But these days, it seems, the threat of monetary retribution has incited university administrators to a new caution. The sense of vulnerability that has captured them after the incident is tangible.

"We still could have a Scott Krueger," said Herb A. Ross, Associate Vice President for Student Affairs at Boston University. "We know we're not immune."

Nowhere is this trend more apparent than at MIT. In addition to the settlement, the school took back the bachelor's degree of the graduate who provided Krueger with the alcohol. Now, students say, the row of MIT-affiliated fraternities lining the Charles River resembles a police state.

"Now, it's a lot more underground," said Alt. "Most small parties, you won't get bothered, but if it's noisy at all, it'll probably get broken up."

MIT first-year Bob Yin went further, describing the drinking situation at his school as "nonexistent...MIT was known for more drinking, and it got a lot of notoriety with the Scott Krueger incident," he adds. "But they were sued for millions, and that made them crack down. Now at every party, campus police stand at the door."

City On Patrol

And when the campus police are not enough, the city police are eager to contribute in Allston and Brighton, home of BC and part of BU. On Friday and Saturday nights, the district has four extra "party cars" on duty, two of which are paid for by BC.

BC administrators like Mills ride alongside the cops, ready to impose school sanctions on top of the court date. The arrests are frequent and the penalties can be severe, say Mills and John Kervin.

One of the primary aspects of the crackdown has been a greater emphasis on holding underage purchasers legally accountable for attempting to buy alcohol, instead of focusing exclusively on sellers.

"The city has changed its policy," said Martin J. Connealy, manager of the Harvard Provision Co. liquor store. "Up until now, it was always our responsibility. Now, they're putting more emphasis on making minors suffer."

"There's been a shift, and it's made people a little more responsible," echoes Patrick M. Lee, owner of the Grafton Street restaurant/bar.

"When the education part does not work,"--he gives informational talks on drinking laws at about a dozen universities--" the big thing is enforcement," Evans says. "Kids are handcuffed, taken to the station and treated like they just robbed a bank. They're fingerprinted and put in a cell. If it's a Friday, [they] could conceivably sit there until Monday morning."

The new policy does away with the old value of lenience for college kids out of concern for hurting their futures, Evans says.

"It's always on your record if you're 17 or above," he says. "You'll always be in our system. Your fingerprints and photograph are still on file. You're always going to have to explain that blemish--it is always on record. And if the FBI has to decide between two candidates, they might take the one that doesn't have that."

The actual legal consequences for a first offense are, in most cases, slim. According to Charles E. Ouellette, assistant clerk magistrate for Brighton County, the average case is dismissed after six months if there are no further arrests.

However, a conviction for underage drinking or attempting to purchase with a fake ID is often accompanied by suspension of a driver's license.

"If that's their primary means of transportation," Lehman says, "that has a bigger effect."

Paternalism Works

But even where the law stops, less official forces step in. Both students' colleges and their parents are automatically notified after every arrest. And at least in the short term, authorities agree, that is the scarier possibility for students.

"They're more afraid of what the school will do," says John Kervin. "Kids were always saying, 'Will BC find out?'"

Schools have traditionally taken up the slack when police were lenient, and they are not relaxing any. For instance, Mills says one BC student was suspended for a semester for possessing two fake ID's.

Evans is matter-of-fact about such strict measures: "Schools give them one bit of the apple," he said. "The second time they're gone."

Yet according to Lehman, for many, the worst sanctions come from home.

"[The enforcement] works a little better when Mum and Dad are involved," he said.

Even the chair of Wellesley College's Alcohol Advisory Committee S. Joanne Murray, who presided over the adoption of a policy focusing more on education than enforcement, concedes that "there is some evidence that it's a good deterrent to notify parents." Wellesley town police pushed hard for the college to adopt their zero tolerance policy, according to published reports last year.

Evans agrees about the importance of parental involvement, saying "the kids don't like us notifying parents. They can deal with the college and the courts, but when the parents call, they tell us, 'If you see this kid again, take him out of school.' Parents are paying $30,000, and they're not paying for the kid to come and party. We don't want to see these kids party away their life."

A Do-Over?

Even when there are no arrests to be made, this paternalism seems to be an important part of the enforcement pattern. Back on that Saturday night, when Timothy Kervin and Mills finally found a party and pulled up, the soiree broke itself up almost immediately.

The large crowd in the driveway dispersed in a matter of seconds, as student-cum-partygoers dove into the surrounding bushes and scampered off. By the time the officers exited their car, the entrance to the house was silent and its lights had been extinguished. But a few tell-tale signs remained: The front hall smelled of beer, and the floor was covered in plastic cups.

When Kervin and Mills encountered the hosts in the living room, they casually began to make small talk.

"You should really clear out that entry; that's a fire hazard," Mills told one. The four hosts, dressed in black and gray t-shirts, jeans and khakis, were quiet.

"Can I help you with anything?" one asked meekly.

"Guess," Mills retorted. "Why do you think we'd come in here at 2 a.m?"

"It was the World Series game," another of the hosts responds.

"Well, this is strike one," Mills jokes.

The students laugh tentatively.

"How about a ball?" one ventures, playing along.

"Or a do-over?" adds another.

Smiling all the way, Mills delivers his message--this chat will not be so friendly next time--and exits.

"You don't get another do-over," he said.

Keeping the Bartenders Honest

For students who want to drink, the answer to the crackdown isn't as simple as "don't get caught." Boston has focused on preventing illegal purchases just as much as it has on punishing offenders. Through a program called Cops in Shops, according to Evans, undercover police officers are randomly distributed at liquor stores, ready to arrest anyone who attempts to purchase alcohol with a fake ID. They also spot check vendors.

According to Eliza S. Partington, an assistant manager at Charlie's Kitchen in Cambridge, bartenders are often confronted by decoys who ask for beers, and those who fail to ask for ID are given red cards that can cost their owners up to $2,000.

At Charlie's Kitchen, they pay the price with their jobs.

"If you serve someone underage, you will be fired," Partington said. "One year ago someone got fired for that. But it doesn't happen too often."

The Death of Fake IDs?

Before the crackdown, said Wechsler, "with a high density of alcohol outlets, there's more competition for customers, so you cut corners to stay alive."

But as a result of the tighter enforcement, bouncers, barkeeps and store clerks have become more adept than ever at spotting even the most undetectable fake ID's--the wink-wink attitude depicted by the Globe three years ago seems like a pipe dream for students whose fakes are getting snatched up.

But now, the equation has shifted dramatically. Store owners and police alike say it is just not worth it.

"Why should someone jeopardize his business just for a 30-pack of Bud?" asks John Kervin.

"It's in our best interests to keep people who are underage out," says Grafton Street's Patrick Lee.

"If you have to rely on underage people, you're not going to succeed anyway."

Massachusetts state law requires vendors to accept only valid in-state licenses, passports or military identification as proof of age, meaning that if an underage student purchases alcohol with an out-of-state ID, the establishment is liable. But many sellers accept out-of-state licenses at their own risk to serve the sizeable portion of their client base represented by Boston's polyglot student population.

At the Harvard Provision Co., says Connealy, "the vast majority of [customers'] IDs are from out of state."

To that end, most stores that sell alcohol pay outside experts to train their employees to catch fake IDs. They often have tools at their disposal: a book of out-of-state IDs to match up against suspicious attempts, and a scanner that allows them to verify many licenses.

"The book is really good," says Partington. "It tells you about the typesetting, and even how the material feels...[But] even a good fake looks fake."

Many establishments actually confiscate fakes that have failed to work their magic. Although, according to Connealy, "it's a gray area of the law, if there's any doubt, we'll call a police officer, and that usually settles it."

Charlie's Kitchen's has been a prolific confiscator this fall: a stack of swiped fakes about four inches high lies on a counter in a room behind the bar.

But even when employees make a mistake, it often is not too late.

"Sometimes," says Anthony Ayotte, a clerk at the Harvard Provision, "[You have to] go out on the stoop to see if someone's handing it to a minor, and if so, you have to run out after them and snatch the booze."

The Tricks of the Trade

But even Charlie's pales in comparison to The Kells, a popular Irish bar in Allston whose bouncers are, according to general manager Bob O'Guin, "the best in Boston."

The Kells turns over 30 to 45 confiscated IDs to Allston/Brighton police every week, and, says owner Jerry M. Quinn, its bouncers receive $150 for every 10 fakes they collect.

The large sign next to the door declares, "Students' schools will be notified: Everyone will be taken to court" clearly does not scare everyone away, but the bouncers more than pick up the slack. "The word on campus is, if you're underage, you don't come down here, cause they're so good at the door," Mills boasts.

"Some [fake IDs] are just so ridiculously made," says Kells' head doorman, a large, bearded man named Jimmy, who declined to give his last name.

Partington agreed, saying that when the occasional patron protests, she asks, "If this is really your ID, why can I peel it in two?...I've had people swear up and down that it's their license, but [when informed they can return when the owner is there to reclaim it], they never come back."

For those whose authenticity cannot be instantly determined, The Kells' doormen have learned some effective tricks of the trade.

"If they don't look like the person in the photo," Jimmy says, "we'll ask a couple questions, like what's their Zodiac sign. If it's an out of state ID, and we don't know the answer to a question, they probably don't either."

Feigned familiarity is another favorite tactic. When confronted with a hypothetical potential patron with a questionable New Jersey ID, Jimmy said, he might say, "'Oh really, you know, I'm from New Jersey too! Where did you go to high school?' Or we'll ask their friends, 'What's your friend's name?'"

"As you get more confident," O'Guin says, "you ask more questions. Terry [a bartender] over there talked to one guy for 5 minutes. There was this one girl last week, she looked exactly like the person in the picture. It must have been her older sister--she knew all the information. We just said, 'Thanks, no way you're 21,' and she walked away."

But sometimes, a little persistence pays off, because bouncers can be wrong.

"If she'd have fought us we would have given her her ID back," O'Guin says.

A Hard Day's Night

Boston's trained bouncers waste little time when presented with a fake. One 18-year-old Harvard first-year attempting to get into the Lansdowne Street nightclub Axis on a 19+ night had her subsequent nightlife crippled.

"I had no intention of purchasing drinks," says the first year, who declined to have her name used. "The bouncer took my ID [a Vermont license which had not been turned down in months] and asked if he could scan it, so I said sure. Then," she continues, "he told me it would be a felony if it didn't scan, so I just said 'I'll just take it and leave,' and he said 'No, I can't give it back to you, it's fake, I have to confiscate it.'"

This first-year's fate is not uncommon, she says.

"At least three other people I know have had their IDs taken since they've been here, all at clubs."

The punishment is particularly unjust, according to this first-year, because these holders of illicit IDs never planned on breaking the law.

"I know three people who just went into New York to buy IDs just to get into clubs, not for alcohol," she says.

Yet despite the universal zero tolerance professed by bouncers and police officers alike, there are some holes in the blue wall between minors and drinks. At Boston University on Saturday night, a few students walk down the street with beers in hand, and we do not stop.

"I could get them for disturbing the peace," says John Kervin, "but I'm not going to."

So how can underage students who want to drink circumvent the crackdown? According to Bill Mills of BC, some kids lucked out as soon as they turned 18.

"If it's a nice Harvard student," Mills says, "you might get a break."