DAY FOUR
Posted on Wed, Oct. 20, 2004
Sentences in limbo
MANY YOUTH SERVE LONGER THAN ADULTS
By Brandon Bailey
Mercury News
IONE - With his pudgy cheeks and broad smile, 18-year-old Joseph Rander doesn't look like a whole lot of trouble. When he was sent away to the California Youth Authority in 2000, for stealing a car in Compton, authorities estimated he would be eligible for parole in 16 months.
Forty-two months later, the soft-spoken, seemingly amiable teenager was still locked up. His tentative parole date had been delayed several times after he racked up dozens of citations for fighting, gang activities and repeated belligerence toward Youth Authority staff.
``People go into the YA, they go through all kinds of things. They get angry. The way they let it out is by fighting,'' Rander said.
Rander's experience reflects a disturbing trend in the state's juvenile prison system: The average length of stay behind bars has increased by a third since the 1990s, and the average amount of time added for disciplinary reasons has more than tripled during the past decade.
As a result, many wards, as they are called in the Youth Authority, end up serving more time than adults who went to prison for similar crimes.
While some say that wards are getting the punishment they deserve, many juvenile justice experts believe the extra time does nothing to serve the Youth Authority's goal of helping young offenders grow into productive, law-abiding adults. Instead, they say it only breeds frustration and anger -- while adding to the overall cost of the Youth Authority.
And although it's true that most wards are sent to the Youth Authority after committing serious crimes, the trend toward longer sentences is also the result of conditions they encounter inside.
Crowding and gang pressures lead many wards to fight, which can be punished with a ``time add'' that extends their terms behind bars. A shortage of treatment slots has made it difficult for some wards to complete their required programs -- which can earn them another time add. And some of the most important sentencing decisions are made not by judges in courtrooms with lawyers representing both sides, but by parole boards appointed by governors who are often concerned with appearing tough on crime.
A task force led by former Gov. George Deukmejian, a law-and-order conservative, concluded in a July report that sentencing and parole policies were part of an escalating cycle of longer terms, ineffective treatment and more violence in the Youth Authority.
From the other end of the political spectrum, longtime Youth Authority critic Vincent Schiraldi of the liberal-leaning Justice Policy Institute denounced the parole system as ``Kafka-esque.''
Starting to change
� New standards for adding time
Officials say they are responding to the criticism. Under orders from the Legislature, the Youth Authority since January has changed the way it makes some parole decisions and has attempted to set more consistent standards for imposing time adds. But many reformers believe it has not gone far enough.
Rander's experience illustrates many of the problems that plague the parole process.
Since entering the Youth Authority at age 14, Rander has been shuttled to four different institutions, often because of fights or gang involvement. Several of those fights drew time adds, doled out as punishment at disciplinary hearings.
Rander says he fought for a variety of reasons, sometimes in self-defense, often because of anger he traces to being abused as a child.
Earlier this year, officials transferred Rander from a Southern California institution to the Preston Youth Correctional Facility in the Northern California town of Ione. Rander said it was for his own protection: He had been ``green-lighted'' -- designated an open target for attacks by members of a gang he had insulted.
When the time finally arrived for his parole hearing one afternoon this summer, Rander sat quietly in a small conference room at Preston. He listened while a parole official observed that he had served the maximum time allowed for his original offense.
Some wards go into parole hearings with their parents or girlfriend sitting behind them; others have only a parole agent to explain why they are being recommended for release. In an unusual show of support, several Preston staffers had come to speak on Rander's behalf.
Even so, the young man could feel himself shaking as a parole hearing officer, Ray Johnson, wondered aloud whether Rander truly was ready to function in the outside world.
Johnson sat upright, in a crisp shirt and tie. Rander's shoulders slumped underneath his Youth Authority-issue white T-shirt.
Rander had appeared in front of other parole officials at his annual reviews or disciplinary hearings in the past, but it was his first encounter with Johnson, a former board member who now works part-time as a hearing officer.
Wards might be seen by parole officials several times before their parole hearing, especially if they have behavioral problems like Rander.
A ward can be written up by staff members for a range of misbehavior; more serious offenses can be punished with a time add. Time adds are imposed at disciplinary hearings or annual reviews. At annual reviews, officials also can grant time cuts for wards who show progress -- but that happens much less frequently.
This time, Rander was finally being considered for parole -- and Johnson had been assigned to make that decision. Parole hearings are conducted by panels of one, two or three board members and hearing officers drawn from a statewide pool. The number depends on the severity of the original crime.
Johnson's background is in law enforcement; he's a former Inglewood police chief. While two of the four full-time board members currently have backgrounds in social services and youth programs, critics say there generally has been a tilt toward a conservative, law enforcement perspective.
When Johnson asked why the teenager never took his high school equivalency exam, Rander answered hesitantly.
``I've been in lock-up for most of my time,'' he said, referring to the Youth Authority's practice of locking wards in cells for weeks or months at a time, as a response to fighting or threats of gang confrontations.
The Youth Authority is required to provide a high school education for any ward who doesn't have a diploma or General Education Development certificate. But for wards on lockdown -- whether for their own behavior, or because officials want to segregate members of rival gangs -- the only exposure to school may be a teacher who drops off a worksheet once or twice a day.
As two other board members listened in silence, Johnson grilled Rander about other disquieting items in his file.
Rander answered that he hadn't had time to complete an anti-gang program he'd been ordered to attend. Rander also said he sometimes skipped taking medications prescribed to control his anger because he was too tired and no one made him get out of bed for ``pill call'' at 6 a.m.
He also seemed vague about the tasks he would need to perform in a shoe-sales job that a relative had arranged for him on the outside.
``You don't seem to know too much about selling things,'' Johnson lectured. ``If you don't show up for work, or you don't show up for class because you didn't take your meds -- who do you think is going to care?''
But Johnson calculated that the youth was about to exhaust his ``available confinement time.'' By law, the Youth Authority can hold a ward for no longer than the maximum sentence an adult could face for the same offense, although most adults actually serve less than the maximum. That meant Rander had to be released by the end of the month.
And there was some encouraging news: Staff members told Johnson that Rander's behavior had markedly improved in recent months, after the young man told a counselor that he'd been abused by a woman when he was a child.
Rander had not revealed that secret during his first three years in the Youth Authority, although he was supposed to be receiving help for his anti-social behavior. He only made the disclosure after the recent death of his stepfather, to whom he'd been close.
Although Rander's own behavior made him a difficult case, the Youth Authority had failed to reach him during most of his time in the system. Staff members said they wished the breakthrough had come sooner, so they could have spent more time working with him before the Youth Authority was required to let him go.
Still, psychologist James Telander said Rander was starting to take responsibility for his actions and was getting along better with others.
``He is choosing to be different,'' Telander said.
Johnson remained doubtful. He granted Rander's parole, but declined to release him before the end of the month -- when his available confinement time would run out. He ordered the youth to continue outside counseling and report to a parole agent until he is 21.
After giving Rander so many time adds, Johnson acknowledged, the Youth Authority was now in a bind. By allowing the young man to ``max out,'' the Youth Authority had given up most of its leverage to guide his behavior in the outside world.
Unlike parolees who still have available confinement time, Rander cannot be reincarcerated for violating parole conditions connected with his original offense. He cannot be sent back to a Youth Authority facility if he fails to enroll in counseling or stops checking in with his parole agent.
The only thing the Youth Authority can do to Rander now, if he gets out of line, is deny him an honorable discharge, which he needs to have his juvenile records sealed. While that's important to some wards, officials say it's a weak threat compared with reincarceration.
Youth Authority officials say they recognize that problem and they have begun releasing some wards a few months before their time is exhausted -- which at least gives the wards more incentive to behave during their first weeks back on the street. Still, about a sixth of wards are released only after they max out their time.
On the other hand, Johnson warned Rander that his next big mistake could put him in a whole new league of trouble: If he commits a new criminal offense, Rander could go to adult prison, because he is now 18.
Little tailoring
� Flexibility leads to longer sentences
By the time most wards come up for a parole hearing, statistics show, they are likely to be released. That's because they are prescreened at their annual reviews, and officials may reschedule a parole hearing if they don't feel a ward is ready to go home.
The judge who sent Rander to the Youth Authority in December 2000 was only responsible for setting his ``available confinement time'' -- usually the high end of the sentencing range for an adult convicted of the same offense.
After Rander arrived at the Youth Authority, a panel of officials reviewed his case, determined which treatment programs he should complete and scheduled his first parole consideration hearing for April 2002, based on state guidelines.
Although Rander was initially scheduled for parole consideration in 16 months, that date was delayed again and again. Ultimately, he earned a total of 26 months of time adds -- which kept him inside the Youth Authority until he had reached his maximum available confinement time of 42 months.
It's a far different system from the way adult criminals are sentenced in California. In most cases involving adults, the judge sets a fixed prison term from a range prescribed by law. Once they begin serving time, most adult prisoners earn automatic reductions for good behavior. Their sentences cannot be extended unless they are convicted of a new crime while in prison.
In theory, the system for youth offenders provides flexibility to tailor sentencing to each young offender, who are considered better candidates for rehabilitation than hardened adult criminals might be.
But over the years, critics say parole boards have used their discretion arbitrarily and primarily made sentences longer.
On average, wards released in 1990 were required to stay 5.6 months past their original parole consideration date. By 2002, wards were having an average of 10.6 months added. The average declined slightly to 10.1 months this year.
Initial sentences also have increased: On average, wards released in 1990 were assigned an initial parole consideration date that was 20 months after they entered the system. That grew to 28 months in 2002, before dropping to 25 months this year.
Youth Authority officials say changes in the ward population have fueled both trends.
Over the years, the state has adopted policies encouraging counties to develop local programs for youths who commit minor crimes. As a result, most counties send only their most serious offenders to the Youth Authority.
Because their crimes are more serious, officials point out, it's logical to expect those wards to serve more time before their initial parole consideration hearings. They also are more likely to get in trouble inside the Youth Authority. They earn more time adds, while contributing to an atmosphere in which guards must crack down on everyone to maintain control -- potentially leading to more time adds for other wards.
But the longer detention periods also reflect the role of the parole board itself.
A lengthy 2002 audit by the state's inspector general found that board members were ordering new wards to serve increasingly longer periods before their first parole hearings -- longer even than guidelines suggested for the more serious crimes.
Critics such as Schiraldi, of the Justice Policy Institute, have complained that parole boards were too quick to hand out time adds for fighting and other disciplinary issues, the kinds of punishments imposed on Rander.
But the audit also found the parole board was setting requirements -- such as drug-abuse or sex-offender counseling -- when its members had no professional expertise in those subjects or information about the effectiveness of those programs.
Sometimes, board members ordered programs that didn't match the offense, the audit found. And sometimes, board members assigned wards to more programs than they could reasonably complete before their parole hearing.
In many cases, there simply wasn't enough space available in programs to accommodate the parole board's orders.
Officials disputed the audit's findings, although they acknowledged there were often long delays for wards to get into required programs.
``I've seen that,'' said Ron Herron, vice chairman of the parole board and a former Oakland police captain. ``A kid has an anger management problem, but his parole consideration date was three or four years off, so he wasn't given the program. So he's angry, gets into fights and then he gets time adds.''
In response to the audit, state Sen. John Burton, D-San Francisco, authored new legislation that shifted some of the parole board's responsibilities to committees consisting of Youth Authority staff members, including parole agents, school officials and mental health workers. The idea was to put more decisions in the hands of people with specialized training and experience. Parole board members no longer handle disciplinary hearings or annual reviews, but they still make final parole decisions and handle appeals by wards who want to challenge time adds.
In addition, the Youth Authority has set new limits on the committees' discretion in adding extra time. Parole boards previously could add up to a year for a ward who threatened a staff member, for example. Now, the prescribed penalty is no more than two months.
Officials say it's too early to tell whether the changes will reduce the overall time each ward serves. Critics say they are a positive step but that the emphasis is still on adding time, not encouraging good behavior.
``It's a punitive, penitentiary system,'' said Dan Macallair of the Center on Juvenile and Criminal Justice in San Francisco, a research and advocacy group. ``There is very little incentive for kids to change.''
Some staff members say wards need time before ``the light goes on'' -- when they decide to lead a different life. But others argue that simply extending the length of incarceration is not enough to make someone change.
``I don't know how this is helping me,'' said John Reid, an 18-year-old ward who shook his head in disgust after parole board members denied his appeal of a six-month time add for participating in a group altercation at DeWitt Nelson Youth Correctional Facility in Stockton.
Witnesses had described Reid lifting another youth in the air, while other wards fought nearby. Reid insisted he was only defending himself, but board member Joyce Arredondo told Reid he should have dropped to the floor or otherwise avoided the fight.
Many wards insist they have to fight back if they don't want to be assaulted again and again. Some Youth Authority staff members take a middle ground, telling wards they have the right to defend themselves, as long as they stop fighting when a guard tells them to quit.
Stern for a reason
� Parole officials say safety is priority
Critics contend parole officials aren't in touch with the realities of life in the Youth Authority, but board members say they understand those conditions well, after hours of talking with wards and staff.
A typical parole hearing is an intense examination of a life gone wrong, a discussion of efforts to put it back together -- and a fervent hope for success against difficult odds.
Parole board members often take a stern approach, explaining privately that they know it can be their last chance to make an impression before sending a ward back to the outside world. They also press the wards hard on their plans for putting gangs and drugs behind them.
``You have a disease and it's trying to kill you,'' Arredondo told one teenager who admitted he often drank to excess. Arredondo ran a non-profit youth program in Sacramento before she became Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger's first appointment to the board.
Herron, the former Oakland police captain who was appointed by then-Gov. Gray Davis, said he looks for evidence that a parole candidate is ready to lead a different life.
``The overriding consideration is public safety,'' Herron added.
Many candidates say they have renounced gang ties, but some are frank about the risks involved.
``I didn't go to every gang member and tell them, because I could get killed,'' explained Moses Suniga, an 18-year-old from Greenfield, in Monterey County, who was sent to the Youth Authority for burglary.
Carlos Salazar, a 21-year-old from San Jose, was sent to the Youth Authority for a drive-by shooting, but said he decided to reform after an uncle died in a gang-related dispute. His caseworker said Salazar had worked hard to earn a high school diploma and a clean disciplinary record for his last two years in custody.
Salazar said his biggest fear about parole is what could happen if he encounters former rivals while taking his baby brother to Jack in the Box.
For Richard Franklin, attending a board hearing is just as nerve-racking the fifth time as it was the first time.
``Every time, it's the same. I'm scared,'' he said, holding his face in his hands.
Franklin was first committed to the Youth Authority for assault in 1995, when he was 15. He was first paroled home to Fresno in 1997.
But he's been sent back four times for violating the terms of his release, mostly for smoking marijuana. Once, he left the state to visit his daughter for several months without his parole agent's permission.
Now 24, Franklin is a grown man who has spent half of the previous nine years in custody. He was paroled again this summer, after promising board members that he was ready to change.
``I'm growing up,'' he said. ``I want stability, I want a life.''