It must be incredibly demoralizing to be a juvenile-justice-reform advocate in Maricopa County these days.
jamie peachey
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The governor's made official her plan to close the Arizona Department of Juvenile Corrections, sending about 500 kids incarcerated by the state to the counties, thus cutting roughly $63 million from her budget.
The vast majority of these kids are from Maricopa County, placing the largest burden here. County officials immediately began complaining that they can't afford to take the kids — all except one official, Sheriff Joe Arpaio, who announced he'd happily take all 500 at no extra charge to anyone.
No one worth his salt wants Arpaio to have the kids, for obvious reasons — like his terrible record with adults. And it's hard to take him seriously, considering that every other sheriff in the state has signed a letter to the governor refusing to take this on.
So who will? Clearly the Governor's Office has some more work to do — if only from a public relations standpoint. Don Stapley, chairman of the Maricopa County Board of Supervisors, wrote to legislative leaders this week complaining that, as stakeholders, county officials weren't invited to the table to discuss the logistics of making these kids the counties' obligation. (Hard to know where she stands, since the Governor's Office didn't respond to a request for comment for this story.)
Part of the problem is that no one in a position of authority seems to know what sorts of kids they're really dealing with here — much less how to help them.
Maricopa County spokeswoman Cari Gerchick describes the population at the ADJC as "dangerous," but the truth is that only about 15 percent placed in ADJC facilities in 2009 were there for violent crimes, according to court statistics. (The rest violated probation or were convicted of misdemeanors or felony property crimes.) At least twice that number are seriously mentally ill and, by the department's own admission, do not belong in secure facilities. The system is ill and it's making sick kids sicker.
That's the danger. And, by and large, it's one best addressed, the experts agree, by community-based programs and therapy provided outside a locked facility. Judges need to be educated — perhaps a daunting task but one far less expensive than locking kids up and throwing away the key.
From Beth Rosenberg at the Children's Action Alliance to Anne Ronan at the Arizona Center for Law in the Public Interest to Brad Snyder — a Scottsdale-based, nationally recognized expert in the gathering of juvenile justice data and behaviors of adolescents — the advocates and experts are here. And they have ideas that would neither put dangerous hoods back on the streets nor create a Tent City Jr.
Their ideas do not include allowing Arizona's system to continue as is.
"There is no data to suggest that the ADJC, or any other youth authority in the United States, deters crimes," Snyder says. "In fact, data suggest that juvenile justice involvement is a predictor of future juvenile-justice involvement."
The examples of smart, safe, cost-effective juvenile-justice reform are all over — from a decades-old effort in Massachusetts to recent innovations in Kansas and Missouri. Even Pima County has taken part in a national program that has cut in half the number of kids it sends to correctional facilities, thereby saving a tremendous amount of money.
This seems the perfect time — a time when, for once, leaders in this state are discussing juvenile corrections — to embark on reform.
And yet Rosenberg, whose organization sent the governor a detailed letter on the topic, sounds defeated already.
"Unfortunately, I am not certain anyone is listening or really cares about real reform in the good sense of the word," she commented earlier this week.
Instead, the governor's trying to play Hot Potato by passing costs to other government entities, and here in Maricopa County, this is just one more reason for the sheriff and the Board of Supervisors to engage in battle. Too bad. But that's just part of Arizona's rich history when it comes to juvenile corrections failures.
It costs millions of dollars a year to incarcerate youth in Arizona. Add to that, dear taxpayer, the amount it's cost the federal government to investigate the ADJC for civil rights abuses over the past few decades.
In 1987, Johnson vs. Upchurch led to years of litigation and investigation, and eventually federally mandated and monitored changes at the ADJC, which had kept one boy in solitary confinement for weeks.
For a while, according to advocates and employees at the time, things got better. That didn't last. But the ADJC — which has for some reason never attracted the attention of many outsiders, including the governor and state legislators responsible for its funding — flew under the radar for years.
A couple of anonymous tips from employees led to a New Times investigation in 2001, which let loose an avalanche of records detailing abuses: the continued inappropriate use of solitary confinement, poor healthcare, substandard education, lack of training for employees, physical and sexual abuse of kids by staff — and more.
Coincidentally, around the same time the stories appeared, there were three successful suicide attempts. The deaths accelerated a process that had already begun and led to an investigation by the U.S. Department of Justice.