By Robert E. Pierre
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Inside Oak Hill's barbed-wire perimeter in Laurel, harsh punishment for the District's juvenile offenders is out. Therapy is in.

The dingy cellblock where the most unruly were sequestered, where they scribbled shout-outs to dead homies and angry threats on the walls, is abandoned. The cellblocks now have carpeting and cushioned furniture.

Striking an officer, smoking marijuana or destroying property no longer gets a young offender thrown into a dark cell to stew. Now, they call a meeting.

It's part of an evolving, controversial effort by the District to deter young delinquents from becoming career criminals by keeping fewer behind bars and surrounding the rest with counselors, drug rehabilitation and social workers at their homes to strengthen broken families.

Vincent Schiraldi is the outspoken architect of change. As director of the Department of Youth Rehabilitation Services since 2005, Schiraldi rejects physical punishment and isolation to teach lessons. Instead, he dispatches his charges to camp in the desert, to rebuild houses destroyed by Hurricane Katrina and to perform Shakespeare for the mayor.

"You have got to lock up as few as possible," he said. "The ones you do lock up, you have got to treat them in a way that can turn their lives around and not create the self-concept that the next stop is D.C. jail and the federal Bureau of Prisons."

But Schiraldi's stand has provoked an argument about reconciling the needs of damaged youths with the public's need to be protected from them.

Fierce opposition has come from law enforcement and residents in neighborhoods including Shaw, Columbia Heights and Capitol Hill who feel endangered by the young robbers and thieves whom Schiraldi has let out on probation. Critics point to his failures: An average of six youths a year killed in street violence while under his care (about the same as before he arrived) and an embarrassing escape of one youth from Schiraldi's house during a party for staff workers and young inmates.

The head of the local Fraternal Order of Police has accused the city of adopting a "hug and release" policy. Even those who agree with Schiraldi's desire to stanch the disproportionate flow of black boys into the criminal justice system contend that it's better to send some teenagers to the adult system rather than to Schiraldi's care.

"These juveniles are making adult decisions over and over again and should be treated as such and held accountable for their actions," said Chandler Goule, a Capitol Hill staff worker who lives in Northeast Washington and has been robbed three times by teens. "Giving the convicted shorter sentences and placing them at Oak Hill for only a few months will not solve the problem."

* * *

Then-Mayor Anthony A. Williams (D) hired Schiraldi in January 2005. Known as a critic of the juvenile system, Schiraldi was brought in to clean up overcrowding, brutality and low morale. On the brink of receivership, the department had been under court supervision as part of a 23-year-old consent degree to improve living conditions for those committed to its care. A blue-ribbon task force of judges, youth advocates and city leaders provided detailed marching orders: Lock up fewer juveniles, make the facilities nicer and provide family support upon release.

Schiraldi took the mandate to heart. He informed corrections officers that they were expected to be counselors and changed their titles to youth development specialists, requiring more training and formal education. Two dozen quit.

He replaced the D.C. public school on the Oak Hill compound with a charter school. He issued rules that practically forbid expelling students from classes.

Now, students such as 16-year-old Deandre Providence, who rarely went to school on the outside, make furniture in shop class, discuss history and muddle through algebra, like it or not.

"I don't get it," Providence said while staring at x's and y's. He estimated that he had been arrested as many as 20 times since age 10, trying to get money to eat. But he vows not to get into more trouble.

As an incentive for good behavior, Schiraldi set progress levels that allow early release for those who follow the rules and respond to treatment. Schiraldi focused on speed, not diplomacy, rankling judges, his own employees and community activists who argued that he was endangering public safety.

"I had to hurry up," Schiraldi said. "I am trying to achieve an end."

During Schiraldi's tenure, the number of youths assigned to the agency has ballooned 73 percent, from 420 to 727 as of early this month. During that time, there has been a steep decline in the number of runaways and a 6 percent decline in recidivism as measured within a year of release.

He reduced the number of juveniles at Oak Hill from 120 to 80 by moving those awaiting trial to a facility in Northeast.

By March, when the agency plans to open a $46 million replacement facility near Oak Hill, only 60 beds will be available, prompting concerns about whether a firm cap will force Schiraldi to release dangerous youths.

Many juvenile-justice experts have praised Schiraldi, who won an innovators award from Harvard University's Kennedy School of Government.

"There is a radical shift to the benefit of the kids," said Kristin N. Henning, a Georgetown Law professor who has also represented teens in juvenile court cases for more than a decade. "It takes time to engage the child. It's a trial-and-error process. It's a balance, and it's a risk. The question is how much is the community willing to risk."

* * *

Judges can commit juveniles to the Department of Youth Rehabilitation Services until they are 21, but Schiraldi decides how and where the time is spent.

Unlike the adult system, which focuses on punishment, the juvenile system is built around reform. So counselors who consider youths reformed, or headed that way, can release them from custody and send them to a treatment facility or even home with supervision.

At a recent D.C. Council hearing, Patricia A. Riley, special counsel to U.S. attorney for the District, cited several cases in which youths under Schiraldi's supervision have committed more crimes.

A young carjacker, living at home, was rearrested on homicide charges. A robber was convicted of two more armed robberies.

Similar incidents happened before Schiraldi's tenure. But Riley said Schiraldi's strategy has not stemmed that tide.

"We have heard that some defense attorneys seek commitment to DYRS because their clients are likely to be back on the street in a short amount of time with fewer restrictions than if they are placed on probation to Court Social Services," Riley said.

Tosha Williams, who heads the corrections officer union, said her officers are in more danger under Schiraldi. She counts a dozen assaults on staff this year. Staff members fear being brought up on charges for restraining unruly youths.

In August 2007, officer Raymond Miller caught someone smoking marijuana in his room. Miller searched the room and confiscated a lighter.

"The kid got mad and threatened me," he said. Later, Miller said, he was jumped by several youths. One broke off a table leg and hit him in the head, requiring stitches. "That should never happen. The changes are making the units less safe."

The youth was charged and remains in custody.

David Muhammad, chief of committed services for the department, said some staff members are upset that hitting youths is no longer allowed.

"There was a bit of a culture of allowing a certain amount of abuse," Muhammad said. "We are directly confronting that culture and getting pushback."

* * *

Schiraldi is in the process of overhauling services, moving them closer to where most of his charges live and making them more accessible. Home services are less costly than residential treatment or jail cells, Schiraldi said.

Duane Patterson is one example of what the city can offer. For years, his mother, Patricia, tried to get special education services for Patterson, who at 17 was still in middle school when he was released in October. He has a learning disability and has had asthma, migraines and seizures for years. Now, a monitor stops by every night to ensure that he has met his 9 p.m. curfew. A social worker is on call for crisis intervention. Even so, his mother worries that it might not be enough.

"I don't want my kid on the street robbing somebody or killing somebody," she said, welcoming the in-home support.

Such support is considered key to success. Not everyone, even under Schiraldi, has gotten the support that is needed. Cheryl Harris pleaded with Youth Services to lock up her son for missing curfew, getting high and skipping school after he got out of Oak Hill.

Her calls to caseworkers went unanswered.

In March, Ryan Harris was shot twice in the head in front of his grandmother's house in Northeast. He was 15 and, technically, still under District supervision.