by John Luciew
She is on probation and she has run away from her mother. The officers got a tip that she is staying with a man more than twice her age. Sex is another thing that drives them, the teens who lose their way in the city. It’s not the sex that grows out of a relationship and grand thoughts of love. It’s the empty kind that happens when a girl doesn’t care about anything, least of all herself. That’s the way the probation officers describe it.
These girls feel they have nothing and do not know enough to respect themselves. So they give away everything they do have for nothing and for no good reason. Maybe they hope something good will come of it, something to make them feel like somebody. But it never happens that way.
They are left with unwanted presents, however -- sexually transmitted diseases. The female probation officers tell of girls as young as 12 who have every disease in the book.
“Let’s change the subject,” Glass says. “I’m getting sick. I can’t take it.”
NO ROUTINE VISITS
When a youth skips probation by no longer staying at their approved residence and starts living with a friend, it’s time for the probation office to track him down. They get tips, often from parents or relatives. Then they go -- at least four of them -- to make the pickup, the arrest.
They might catch the kid ready for bed, dressed only in shorts and a tank top, as the team found the 16-year-old girl with the nasty temper who vowed never to stay with her mother again.
The girl had cut off a $500 electronic monitoring bracelet from her ankle and was living with a friend. Her own mother gave her up.
After two officers cuff her, a female probation officer helps her take off her jewelry -- various rings and toe rings and earrings -- so there is no chance the items will get lost at Schaffner. Her friend will keep them for her.
“What are you and your mom fighting for?” Glass asks.
“Because she’s an unfit mother,” the girl coldly says. “Tell my mother, when her back is turned, I got her.”
“Now don’t make threats,” Glass says.
“I got her,” the girl says again.
Cindy puts a call in to Schaffner, as Johnson and Bishop take the screaming, indignant girl to the juvenile lock up.
Other visits are less confrontational. But they are never routine.
In another home, they find a 15-year-old pregnant girl. She had been doing well on probation, but she has fallen in with a friend, also 15, who is on probation, too.
The friend is living at the pregnant girl’s house. They are inseparable. They were recently busted for shoplifting at J.C. Penney’s. It was the old scam. They had a shopping bag from buying something at another store, and tried to slip some Penney’s merchandise into it. They were obvious about it and they got caught. Now it could be back to Schaffner for the both of them.
“If you two can’t be together and stay out of trouble, then you can’t be together,” Glass scolds them.
The girls will have to go before the judge again. When a probation officer says “the judge,” she means county Juvenile Court Judge Lawrence F. Clark Jr. He has quickly gained a reputation among juvenile offenders as one mean . . . well, judge, to use the printable, edited version of the youths’ descriptions.
“I don’t want to go before Judge Clark anymore,” the pregnant girl says. “We’re not the best of friends.”
Glass starts asking about the baby. She wants to know if the girl would like to have it while she is in juvenile placement.
“You’re pregnant and you’re still doing like this?” she asks the girl. Glass inquires about the father. The girl says it’s “Boobie’s” baby. She doesn’t give his proper name.
The mother of the pregnant girl is disgusted. “They all better turn 18 quick,” she says.
The probation officers put both girls under house arrest. “School-home, school-home, that’s it,” Glass says, outlining the girl’s new, very limited schedule.
On another visit to another house, Libby decides it’s surprise inspection time. He asks the boy, “Is your room clean?”
Libby looks for himself. He sifts through the clothes on the floor and in the drawers. He’s searching for any sign of drugs or weapons.
And while he’s at it, Libby will test the boy’s urine to see if it’s free of drugs, as well.
Before he hands over the plastic sample cup, Libby asks the boy, “How’s it gonna turn out?”
“Don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Did you use?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Four days ago.”
The truth comes out one way or another. Libby will take a urine sample anyway and send it to the lab to be checked for the marijuana levels and tested for other drugs.
What’s next, after a urine test and poking through a teen’s untidy room?
Pizza, of course.
MAKING A DIFFERENCE
Chad Libby used to work every day in the Harrisburg school system. Now that the district doesn’t allow probation officers in the schools, Libby has been forced to vacate an office in the district’s Baton-Felton Academy, a high-discipline school for students expelled from the city schools.
He has traded that for these long nights on the streets of Harrisburg. At least three long nights a week, with the other days filled with paperwork and court duty that can only be done during office hours.
Libby’s wife is not thrilled with his new schedule and its risks. Earlier this year, he broke his leg in a fall while chasing a probationer.
Stephen Bishop tried to get some of his night hours reduced to concentrate more on his courses for a master’s degree. He’s newly married, and his wife would like to see him more. His bosses denied the request. The city-based probation officers must be fully available to work nights.
Libby and Bishop will do it because they love what they do. They can’t imagine doing anything else.
Libby says he grew up poor himself. His mother was the only parent. He got in trouble in school. A lot. He remembers all of that and has an idea of what kids need. He tries, at least. Every night that he gets into that county-issue car, he says he goes out with the idea of trying to do something or say something that will make a difference to one kid.
“You never know if what you say or do is going to work,” he says. “But you’ve got to try.”
And now and extended excerpt of:
ZERO TOLERANCE
By John Luciew
FOUR
Investigation Interrupted
MONDAY, OCTOBER 23, 2000
I.
The telephone receiver pressed hot and hard against Peter Jarvis’ ear. River County District Attorney Sheila Atkinson was on the other end of the line, lamenting how the cops had nothing -- “zip, dick, shit” -- on the Galesko case.
“It’s been a goddamn week since the attack, and we got zilch,” she said in her hoarse smoker’s voice. “The governor of the fucking state is coming, and we still got three snot-nosed teen terrorists running around. Don’tcha just love that? Teen terrorists? So catchy. That’s what the goddamn newspaper and the TV are callin’ the little pukes. Sells newspapers, I guess. And it makes us look like idiots the longer this drags on. I wanna get those little shits.”
Sheila Atkinson took a deep drag on her cigarette. Jarvis could hear her greedy inhale over the phone as he squirmed in his office chair at the River County Juvenile Detention Center. The head of the county’s juvenile department had, up until this point in the conversation, been understanding and patient amid the DA’s rants. But he saw his chance to escape now that Sheila had a mouthful of carcinogen.
“They may be shits, but they’re not so little,” Jarvis put in. “Not if you believe Galesko’s description, that is.”
“Don’t get me started,” Atkinson shot back in a long exhale. “Old man Galesko hasn’t exactly been a star witness. His so-called descriptions aren’t much to go on. One of them’s big, one’s black and one had a dirty mouth. He gave us next to nothing on
facial features, identifying marks and names and places these pukes might have mentioned. Galesko and his wife talk more about that bearskin rug the one shat on than they do about the kids. And we still have no clue how they got in the house in the first place. Galesko swears up and down that the door was dead-bolted and the alarm was on. Yet these kids walked right through the front door? You tellin’ me they had a key and the alarm code? Does that sound like any juvenile caper you ever heard of, Pete?”
Sheila punctuated her comments by sneaking another greedy inhale.
“It’s a tough case,” Jarvis sympathized in a deep, radio voice that could comfort anyone.
Sheila Atkinson started in again, but Jarvis no longer heard her. He had put in one too many years at the county to get excited over screaming DAs. And he’d been in his office too damn long that day. A horrible Monday, no less.
Jarvis had spent the past twelve hours interviewing the county’s fresh crop of juvenile offenders, the ones hauled in over the weekend. Jarvis hoped he would run across one kid who had heard something on the street. Then he would use that soothing voice of his, along with his considerable clout, to convince the kid to share his information for a shot at early probation, a quick ticket home and, most importantly, release back on the streets.
So far, however, Jarvis had what Sheila Atkinson so aptly described as zip, shit and dick. The only things he did have were a stiff neck, a dry mouth, wet underarms, a tired ass and a numb left ear. He shifted in his swivel chair, the very picture of annoyance and discomfort. Bags ballooned under his eyes, and his badly wrinkled white shirt had come un-tucked from the back of his pants. At least he could do something about his aching ear.HH He could get rid of Sheila and all her bitching and moaning.
“This whole case just stinks,” The DA continued in flat, defeated tones. “Who the fuck are these shits, and how the hell did they get away with this? Detectives got nuthin, ‘cept that load a shit on the rug. I’m countin’ on ya, Pete. You know these kids. You gotta get me something. Somebody’s gotta know something.”
Jarvis glanced through the window of his office door at the subject of his next interview, a tan-skinned boy with a bad, blond dye job.
“Oh, sumbuddy knows, all right,” Jarvis assured, thumbing the kid’s case file. “Just goin’ a little slow right now, is all. Give it some time. I’m still talking to the kids, and I’m watchin’ them. We’re going through all the records to check for any matches to this type crime. We’ll get ‘em.”
“I just hope to hell it’s soon,” Sheila exhaled. “This whole thing smells like shit. The paper’s calling them teen terrorists, and we got the governor coming, for god sake.”
“I know, I know. I’m workin’ for ya, girl. I’m workin’ it. But the more time I spend talking to you, the less time I got to work the kids. Soon as I know sumpthin’, so will you. You’ll be the first.”
“Please God, just give us one snot-nose who knows something,” Sheila croaked.
“Take a smoke break, Sheila,” Jarvis suggested. “Smooth yourself out before you get back to it. Do ya some good.”
“I don’t think your advice has been approved by the Surgeon General, but it’ll work.”
Peter Jarvis chuckled, and then replaced the receiver. Blood returned to his ear, but he was unwilling to budge from his chair. Instead, he lobbed a paperclip at the window of his office door. The 250-pound guard stationed just outside turned, and Jarvis gestured for him to send in the bad dye job.
Unbelievably, Kevin Bacon was the name on the case file. The boy represented the last obstacle between Jarvis and his Mercedes Benz coupe, the one luxury he allowed himself. The car was waiting patiently in a city garage a short walk from the downtown detention center.
The bad dye job shuffled in. The kid looked oh so tired as he plopped down on the molded plastic chair. He slouched before Jarvis, head bowed, eyes downcast.
The director folded his hands under his considerable double chin and considered the boy. All these kids looked so damn tired, as if it were too much effort to lift their heads, pull up their baggy pants and sit straight. They just didn’t have the energy.
Jarvis glanced once more at the highlights of Kevin Bacon’s case file and considered what he would say. There was no question how he would say it, no doubt what tone he would strike. The large black man with his deep, soothing voice talked to all of his boys the same way. His was the voice that said everything’s okay. You can talk to me. It’s just between us.
Only today, it didn’t seem to be working. Not Jarvis’s smooth tones. Not his intimidating physical presence. Not the street lingo he mixed into his little “Come to Jesus” speeches. Not even the clout that came from being the head of the county’s juvenile justice system and all the favors he could grant to an especially helpful delinquent as a result.
But he had to try. With all of them, he had to try.
“So where do your boys let their hair down at night?” Jarvis asked.
Kevin Bacon shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t about to talk.
“How you doin’, anyway?” Jarvis tried again.
“Ah’ite.” The boy shrugged. So tired.
Jarvis nodded, his jowls overlapping his too-tight shirt collar. “You say you ah’ite, but you don’t look all right. Lookin’ at your case file, here, it don’t look so good, neither.”
Jarvis studied the kid slouched in the chair and knew exactly what the boy was thinking. Kevin Bacon was wondering how bad the old man had been hurt. Even as the kid acted so tired and disinterested, Kevin Bacon was wondering if he’d killed the guy. The kid was sweating it out, all right. Shit, Jarvis could practically smell the sweat seeping out of the boy’s pores.
II
Even with his bad dye job, his drab detention center clothes and the vacant holes of the piercings in his face and ears, Kevin Bacon had star quality.
Perhaps, he got it from his namesake, the actor from his mom’s favorite movie, Footloose. This Kevin Bacon might be better looking than the actor, with his light skin and subtle African-American features. Those looks were the main reason Kevin Bacon was back in county detention.
He had it way too easy when it came to the girls. He just couldn’t keep them away. And come 11 PM last Saturday, Kevin Bacon was in his familiar position, the only variable being the girl. This time the lucky contestant was some twelve-year-old whitebread suburban chick who wanted a piece of Kevin’s star quality. The two were in the girl’s fancy, frilly bedroom in the middle of the act when her father unceremoniously crashed the sex party. Surprise, surprise.
As soon as the girl saw her old man’s wide eyes and dangling jaw, she started screaming bloody murder and squirming out from underneath Kevin, as if she hadn’t been an eager participant just seconds before.
The girl scurried under her pink sheets, pulling them up around her neck, and then began her crying act. Her old man shouted till his face turned purple and strands of hair from his comb-over were flopping over his ear.
It would just be Kevin’s luck if the fat fucker had given himself a heart attack or a stroke, or something.
Amid all the hollering and carrying on, Kevin had managed to snatch his pants and step back to the wall, where he felt as if he were watching a movie, like it wasn’t actually happening to him. Seeing that little girl’s room, with the frilly bed, the stuffed animals and teen idol posters, Kevin realized he was a stranger, an intruder. It made him feel like dog shit on the bottom of someone’s shoe.
“What’re you doin’?” the man bellowed at his daughter. “He’s black!”
The words struck Kevin with the force of a fist. He’d been dealing with racial shit from all sides. Heard it from blacks and whites, like he didn’t fit in anywhere.
Kevin had to say something. He had to do something. But the old man had his back to him, as if Kevin wasn’t even there.
“I’m not black, you hear?” Kevin shouted. “I’m not black. You take that back.”
The man turned and wiped somet
hing, maybe a tear, from his face with the back of his hand. The father’s sympathetic expression for his daughter mutated into anger and disgust as he eyed Kevin.
“Why don’t you get the hell out of here and go back where you came from?” the man said.
“You said I’m black. I’m not. My mother’s white. I want you to know that,” Kevin said.
“Shut up and get out of here.” The man’s face was moving up the color charts to purple again. “You’ll never touch my little girl again. My girl isn’t goin’ with any black.”
Kevin charged at the man then, shoving him hard and toppling him backwards. The man took out the nightstand and banged his head off a wall as he went down. His eyes rolled back into his head as he slumped to the floor.
The girl screamed again, this time throwing herself atop her unconscious father’s chest.
“Daddy, wake up. Daddy, pleeeeease. Wake up.”
Kevin just stood there, huffing deeply and feeling the tingling bursts of adrenaline. Then the girl looked up at him. Her face was a violent mix of hatred and fear. Neither of them said a word, and Kevin turned and got the hell out of there.
The cops picked him up three hours later. He’d fallen asleep on a sliding board in a playground just down the street from his mother’s house.
* * *
“Looks like Kevin Bacon ain’t gonna be so footloose anymore,” Jarvis said, shaking his head and making the matter seem very serious, indeed. “No more footloose and fancy free. Looks like Kevin be goin’ to placement. He be outta circulation, away from the ladies. That’s where he be.”