THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, April 15, 1996 TAG: 9604130052
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY JUNE ARNEY, STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: CHESAPEAKE LENGTH: Long : 194 lines
ONE DAY last February, a 17-year-old boy and his friend skipped school and, armed with cans of spray paint, drove to an overpass on Military Highway near Chesapeake Crossing.
The fun didn't last long.
A police officer drove by and caught them in the act of painting graffiti.
In any other Hampton Roads city, it probably would have meant a trip to an overcrowded juvenile court. It would have meant long hours sitting next to their parents, waiting for their names to be called. It would have meant standing before a judge, heads hung, and possible juvenile records.
But in Chesapeake, first-time juvenile offenders who admit their guilt can skip the courtroom. Instead, they can choose to throw themselves on the mercy of a juvenile conference committee - a group of citizen volunteers who listen, ask questions and then level appropriate punishment.
So on a recent evening, the two thwarted graffiti artists showed up at Oaklette United Methodist Church for separate hearings before a panel of volunteers.
It wasn't court. But it wasn't a picnic either.
``If you're not straight with us, we'll stop what we're doing and go back to the courts,'' warned Rich Laughlin, 49, a retired Navy lieutenant commander.
Wearing an oversized T-shirt and baggy jeans frayed at the bottom, the 17-year-old high school senior sat opposite Laughlin and the other volunteers at a long table. On the wall behind the adults was a portrait of Christ.
``How do we know you're not going to do this again?'' Michele Lymber, a 24-year-old college student, demanded to know.
``I can tell you right now I'm not going to do this again. . . because of the disposition. . . because of this,'' the boy answered in a steady voice.
Many of the kids who appear before the committees struggle in school. But not this one. He was an honor student attending the Governor's Magnet School for the Arts and had plans for college.
His crime took about 15 minutes, the boy said. And the spray-painted head he drew covered a space only about 2 feet square.
After listening to his account, the volunteers asked him to leave. They wanted to speak to his mother. The blond, well-coiffed woman answered their questions in earnest detail. She even shared a note he left her on the day in question: ``Mom, could you come upstairs when you get home? I've just had the worst day of my life.''
After she left, the committee discussed the case.
``I'd like to see him cleaning up the highways, myself,'' said a woman who works as an elementary school principal.
``Sounds like he doesn't have enough responsibility.''
Lymber was more skeptical.
``I get the impression that he thinks he knows the ins and outs (of the system) better than other people,'' she said.
In the end, they drafted a contract for the boy to sign. According to its terms, he had to agree to write a 500-word letter of apology to his family, take a two-hour tour of the Chesapeake Jail and do 30 hours of community service - probably painting. All within 90 days. Or go to juvenile court.
The boy signed. His friend accepted a similar deal.
``They wanted to paint, we'll let them paint,'' Lori VanHorn, director of the volunteer program that is affiliated with the city's juvenile courts, said later.
In an adjoining room, a separate panel heard the case of another boy. He was 13. The charge against him: stealing two packs of bubble gum from a convenience store.
At first, the boy downplayed his responsibility for the incident. His friend coaxed him to swipe the gum and to ``stop being such a punk,'' he told the panel.
``He called you a punk, and that's why you did it?'' asked Lisa Van Driesen, 38, who works in a children's clothing shop. ``You could have easily turned the tables on him, and then you wouldn't be sitting here tonight.''
Chastened, the boy nodded.
``Do you realize that if this (program) weren't available to you, you would have a record for 59 cents worth of gum?'' asked Russell Foot, 49, a seventh-grade math teacher at Indian River Middle School.
The boy was assigned to write letters of apology to his mother and the store manager, visit the Chesapeake Jail, take a life skills class, maintain a B average, and contact one of the volunteers weekly.
His mother was optimistic.
``I really do believe it's the first time, and I'm glad he got caught,'' she said. ``I really feel like he's sorry. He's talking about it to his sister and brother. He told them, `Don't even think about doing something like that.' ''
Considering cases as seemingly insignificant as the theft of packs of gum may seem extreme. But the volunteers take it seriously.
``It's a principle,'' VanHorn said. ``It's a message. It's nipping it in the bud. . . It's not OK, because what you're going to do is go on to bigger and better things.''
Since 1985, volunteer panels in each Chesapeake high school district have dispensed creative sentences to hundreds of juvenile first offenders who admit their guilt in non-violent crimes such as petty larceny, possession of a beeper or activating a fire alarm. More than 100 volunteers now hear about 200 cases a year at a cost to the city of about $35,000 a year, which covers the salary of one staff person and secretarial support.
They estimate their success rate at about 80 percent, based on youths not reoffending for five years.
Over the years, the job has gotten tougher and the juveniles younger, VanHorn said.
One of the advantages the program offers is the manpower to closely monitor clients, VanHorn said. Another is immediate punishment. Volunteers hear cases about a month after the youth is charged. Part of the appeal is that participants realize the volunteers are there because they want to be rather than being paid to do a job.
The idea came from a program in El Paso, Texas, where officials began diverting first-time juvenile offenders from the courtroom in April 1979 to reduce caseloads and get the community involved. They now handle about 500 cases a year in an area with a population of about 650,000.
When Chesapeake's conference committees began in 1985, they were the fifth such program in the nation. It remains the only one in Virginia and one of a very few in the country, according to VanHorn.
Often, once the volunteers start listening, they discover that the child's crime is only the tip of an iceberg.
VanHorn tells the story of a 16-year-old honor student who came to the conference committee charged with shoplifting. Although the girl's father could not understand her misbehavior, patterns became clear to the volunteers during the interview.
It seemed that the girl stole each time she got angry with her mother, who had left and moved to a different part of the state. The committee recommended counseling, and the girl got better and stopped stealing, VanHorn said.
During another case about five years ago, the conference committee's work uncovered a pyramid club in which high school students stole certain amounts of merchandise to reach various game levels. Once the club was uncovered, parents and school officials intervened.
Occasionally, the volunteers get creative with sentencing. There were the 12- and 13-year-old brothers who stole a woman's lawn mower so they could use it to make money cutting grass. Part of their punishment was to do the woman's yardwork for the summer.
The youngest offender VanHorn remembers was the 6-year-old who came to the committee after getting caught throwing rocks at a train with his 12-year-old brother and two of the brother's teenage friends. The rocks broke a train window by the conductor's head. The youths had to apologize to the railroad and the conductor, pay for the broken window and do community service.
Most of the time, volunteers don't know what impact their recommendations have in the long run, VanHorne says. But they do get occasional glimpses.
There was the time a few years ago when a youth stopped by to see VanHorn and said: ``You don't remember me, do you? I was one of your clients.''
The youth, Ryan Dudley, 22, sits on the other side of the table these days working as a volunteer. He graduated from North Carolina State University with a political science degree and plans a career in corrections or probation.
The offense that brought him before the conference committee occurred in late July 1990, when he was 16. He was one of four people who paid a visit to a boy to settle a dispute. It was about midnight, and the boy's father came outside the house in Great Bridge. The adult in their group fought with him. The boy's father pressed charges against all four. The adult went to court and the three boys went to the conference committee.
Dudley said he never set foot in the yard and didn't participate in the fight, but he knew that just being that close was wrong. He pleaded guilty to trespassing and disorderly conduct.
His punishment was 100 hours of community service, letters of apology to the victim, two 500-word essays on disorderly conduct and trespassing, evaluation for substance abuse and a tour of the Chesapeake Jail.
It wasn't until he got to college that he started to understand the gift of being allowed to avoid juvenile court and a juvenile record.
``It was punishment,'' he said in a recent interview. ``I didn't like it. Now I'm thankful. It definitely made me slow down my pace of life.''
He spent his last week of summer vacation and the first afternoons of his senior year helping janitors at a middle school to work off his community service requirements.
``The 100 hours really makes you think - after school every day while everyone else is outside,'' he said.
Another client who reflected on the program and made a return visit was Danny. He appeared before the conference committee in the late '80s and turned to the volunteers again a few years ago when he needed help with his 15-year-old sister in trouble for shoplifting. The children's father was on the road much of the time. Danny had assumed many of the parental responsibilities and was struggling.
In the end, his sister made it through her contract.
``The longer you're here, the more you're going to see things like that,'' VanHorn said. ``You think, `I guess something did work. Something did sink in.' Then you realize why you're here. One kid, one thank you, seems to be all we need in this environment.'' MEMO: Anyone interested in volunteering for Chesapeake's Juvenile Conference
Committees can call 436-8182 or 436-8185.
ILLUSTRATION: VICKI CRONIS
The Virginian-Pilot
Rich Laughlin and Michele Lymber, members of a citizen panel that
meets at Oaklette Methodist Church Church in Chesapeake, listen to a
juvenile offender's case.
MOTOYA NAKAMURA
The Virginian-Pilot
Over the years, the job has gotten tougher and the juveniles
younger, says director Lori VanHorn.
by CNB