Kids and the law

Readers of this newspaper’s recent three-part series on juvenile crime cannot help but be torn. Repulsed by young prison inmates such as Cote Choneska, who justifies firing six bullets into a defenseless storekeeper he didn’t know was a nice guy, or Jason Mann, who compares beating and robbing to a video game. Heartened by the earnest efforts of the countless educators, police, parents and community volunteers trying to connect with troubled kids.

Utterly, and understandably, baffled by the scope of the problem. Totally stumped by the creeping callousness. Terrified by the seemingly inevitable progression from the juvenile testing out anti-social attitudes to the sociopath adult.

There is a place for fretting, worrying and agonizing. The impact of popular entertainment upon young minds and souls, the decline in parenting skills, the point at which youthful mischief becomes deliberate harm would give any thoughtful person a full agenda. But there also is a place for action — the Maine Legislature.

Maine, like most states, is saddled with a juvenile justice system that is not a system at all, but a hodgepodge of laws, policies and programs that has accumulated over decades. It is telling that the most vigorous debate the Legislature has had in years was over a proposal to lower the age of criminal adulthood from 18 to 17. To its credit, the Legislature wisely decided such number-shuffling was no solution.

When lawmakers convene in January, it will be helpful if they first agree on what seem to be two points where bleeding-heart liberals and cold-hearted conservatives can find common ground: Young, first-time offenders should be kept out of jail and away from their vicious, abusive peers; and for every crime, there is a price that must be paid.

A kid who committed a single stupid, destructive or, to a certain degree, violent act may or may not be better off at home, but is certainly better off in school. Under the existing law regarding the confidentiality of criminal records, this put schools in an impossible position — they are part of the juvenile-justice system without knowing it. The Legislature must revise that law to include schools. Anything less puts students and teachers at unreasonable risk and prevents the school from being an effective part of the rehabilitation team.

The price of crime can be paid in several ways. Anyone who has watched an 18-year-old in real trouble in real court for the first time has witnessed the smugness that comes from having an extensive juvenile record expunged at the last birthday. Perhaps the extent to which the slate is wiped clean should depend upon the extent to which conditions of probation were met and repeat offenses avoided.

Paying the price

As for paying a real price, fines don’t work for kids. As long as mom and dad write the check, money doesn’t matter. Time does — the Legislature should take at fresh look at the concept of community service.

Mention community service to most small-town officials and watch the seething begin. They don’t have the resources or the energy to supervise a young window-breaker as he mops a floor or scrapes peeling paint; the liability exposure is terrifying. Fifty or 100 hours of menial labor can send a powerful message, but the burden of oversight must be borne by the state, not the towns.

As a model, the Legislature might use an adult alternative-sentencing program that works — the First Offender Program for drunk drivers. Rather than serve the mandatory jail sentence, groups of qualified applicants spend a weekend getting lectures by substance abuse experts, scoldings by judges and sore muscles from honest labor. A similar setting for juveniles could provide an effective double dose of counseling and cold reality.

Lawmakers cannot give Cote Choneska a conscience. They cannot force Jason Mann to distinguish between Nintendo characters and his fellow human beings. They can, along with the rest of society, wring their hands, but they can also act.