May 5-11, 2005

cover story

Crime Choppers

front line: Damon Pannell (left) checks in on Zakee Jacobs, 25, and his 2-year-old daughter Zakia. Jacobs' wife was murdered last fall after leaving her job at Temple University on payday. By: Michael T. Regan

A successful program for at-risk youth faces a fiscal death.

by Trey Popp

Eric Jones* walks a narrow line between life and death. He has lived most of his 21 years in a Southwest Philadelphia neighborhood trammeled by economic depression and violent crime. The remainder he has passed in the juvenile justice system and state prison.

Jones has what probation officers call "a lengthy history." It includes possession of crack cocaine, a gun offense that led to a year in the Venango and Franklin County prisons and a high school record that stops well short of graduation. As a juvenile offender, he racked up an escape charge that brands him as a particularly difficult case.

Jones is also, along with several hundred similar young men and women, the subject of a multimillion-dollar gamble in which the city of Philadelphia has deployed an unprecedented array of resources in an effort to transform its worst-behaved citizens into productive adults. Gamble may not be the right word. The city's bet on Jones, while by no means a sure thing, is part of a larger venture that is beginning to look like a prudent investment.

Six years ago, a program now called the Youth Violence Reduction Partnership (YVRP) was brought into being in Philadelphia. A collaborative endeavor involving the police, the district attorney's office, the adult and juvenile probation bureaucracies, and an assortment of other municipal and nongovernmental agencies including the Philadelphia Anti-Drug/Anti-Violence Network (PAAN), YVRP was launched with a simple objective. "We decided we were going to try to identify, in one police district, those young people who were at greatest risk of killing or being killed," says Deputy District Attorney John Delaney, who has been closely involved with the program since its inception in the 24th District.

All participants were between 14 and 24 years old. Most were black or Hispanic males — groups for whom homicide is a leading cause of death. (Nationwide, young black males are murder victims nearly 10 times more often than their white counterparts, a contributing factor to the six-year gap in life expectancy between those groups.) The partnership's goal was to keep them alive until they turned 25. Beyond that, it hoped to turn them into community assets, not liabilities.

On the first measure, Jones constitutes a success, having steered clear of violent crime. On the second, his record so far is mixed in a way that makes him emblematic of the people YVRP targets.

He hasn't lost his propensity for poor decisions, but he is back on track to complete his education and he isn't running away from his girlfriend or their 2-year-old son.

"By definition, these kids are knuckleheads," Delaney says. "They're in situations because they don't follow the rules, they don't know how to behave right. It's hard to get these kids to invest in tomorrow."

From the outset, YVRP embraced an evidence-driven approach that led it to the North Philadelphia neighborhood of West Kensington, which had the highest number of youth murders of any sector in the city. Delving deep into probation files and tapping local community members' knowledge of neighborhood miscreants, YVRP recruited 125 "youth partners." Regarded as the worst of the worst, these adolescents were about to get an unprecedented amount of support and attention.

In the past, adjudicated offenders met with their probation officers, who were saddled with as many as 200 cases, once a month. Now, a special group of P.O.s with reduced loads would see them every couple of weeks in the office and as many as eight times a month in the field — in their homes, at their jobs, at their girlfriends' apartments, wherever. Additionally, each youth partner was assigned a street outreach worker from PAAN who would visit him or her as many as 16 times a month, sometimes according to a schedule, sometimes by surprise. There were also targeted police patrols in which plainclothes officers in unmarked cars drove around until midnight in the company of probation officers, visiting the youth partners on their own turf.

For the first time, city agencies that had never worked in close concert began to see the synergistic effects of their cooperation. Before long, YVRP seeped farther west into the neighboring 25th District, which had the city's highest overall homicide total. The result was statistically significant: By 2002, the murder rate in the 25th had been cut in half, not only among the targeted demographic but also among the population as a whole. The 24th District's homicide rate also experienced a drop, even as the city's overall rate continued to rise. The data do not prove that YVRP caused the decreases, but the trends were encouraging. In 2002, a new district emerged as Philadelphia's most dangerous, and YVRP moved across the city, chasing the crime data into Jones' neighborhood in the 12th District.

Now, District Attorney Lynne Abraham wants to expand YVRP, which costs $2 million per district, into eight more areas. YVRP's guideline is to target 125 youth partners in each of the three current districts.

"It is an expensive program. But if you're thinking about the high cost of the health care consequences, and the public health consequences, it's a very inexpensive price to pay," she says.

A mixture of federal, state and local funds currently finances the program, but the federal portion is expected to dry up in the near future. Budget deficits and a Republican-controlled Congress have combined to change priorities in Washington, particularly on issues involving aid to cities, and Delaney says President Bush has talked about eliminating the federal block grant that originally got YVRP up and running. But if Philadelphia and Pennsylvania know what's good for them, they'll find the money, says Abraham. At present, however, optimism about funding is not the dominant mood, even as the city and state try to stretch the money as long as they can. The city has its own financial restraints.

targeted enforcement: YVRP officials honed in on the 12th, 24th and 25th Police Districts when they established the collaborative anti-violence program six years ago. Driving these efforts is a mission to help "youth partners" from rough pockets of town survive beyond their 25th birthdays.

Jones lives with his mother on a quiet street off a thoroughly rutted stretch of Woodland Avenue. Modest, single-family houses form an unbroken row behind a sidewalk crowded by old sedans with sun-blasted paint. It is peaceful enough that Jones' mother will occasionally open her front door to scatter the young children from around the corner who bounce on the hood of her car. It is dangerous enough that few adults make a habit of long strolls.

Mrs. Jones* gets frequent visits from Vince Coleman, the PAAN street worker to whom Jones has been assigned. Jones is often absent when Coleman drops by. He has been enrolled as a youth partner for about six months, but if he's turning the corner on his past, he seems to making a slow go of it.

"I've been talking to [Mrs. Jones] and seeing [Jones] on weekends, days off," Coleman says while visiting to deliver an updated list of job tips. "But I don't see him as much as I see a lot of my other youth partners."

There is a reason for Jones' absence today; his mother threw him out of the house after an argument ended with Jones smashing her coffee table.

"Our relationship is good. He and I are smooth," Mrs. Jones insists, "but we have it out sometimes. He goes berserk. But I think he's just so frustrated."

In place of what used to be the glass tabletop is a rectangle of unfinished plywood.

"I think Eric has abandonment issues," she continues. "And I can understand why. His father committed suicide when he was 6. His older brother doesn't come to see him. My other son has been away for 10 years. In prison."

Coleman and Mrs. Jones talk. "The program has been dynamite for him," she says, presumably basing her verdict on the fact that he's managed to elude another prison term and has faced up to the responsibility of fatherhood. "I don't want Eric on the streets, at all, period. I want him taking anger management courses, working a job. If he does all that, he won't have time to be on the streets. Eric's biggest problem now is getting a job. He needs a job. He's got GED classes starting soon. He doesn't have a diploma, nothing."

The notion that youth partners need to be constantly engaged is an article of faith all the way up the YVRP hierarchy.

"Each street worker and each probation officer's goal is to get their youth partner involved in proactive activities 24 hours a day," Delaney says. That "was a challenge early on to the probation officers, because their standard of success was: as long as a guy's not getting locked up, you're in good shape. But we went through this process where when the street workers and probation officers would present their cases, they'd say, "Well, so-and-so doesn't do much. He just chills all day.' It took a while, but I think we eventually persuaded them that the market for professional chillers is not expected to pick up anytime soon. So if these guys are going to do something, they've got to be contributing."

By the next week, Jones has patched things up with his mother, but his schedule remains largely empty. "I see Vince once in a blue. I miss his appointments a lot," Jones admits. His excuse is not strong. "I'm probably somewhere else — chillin', hanging out with my friends, eating and sleeping. I sleep and eat most days."

Jones thinks his probation ends in 2010 but isn't sure. "I'll probably have a job and a full family by then." He's determined not to go back to prison, but he has yet to chart a path that leads in an unambiguously positive direction.

In some ways, Jones is brimming with potential. He is habitually polite and sometimes charming. His quiet demeanor gives way to conversation slowly, but when he talks he can be quite engaging. But, he can also be irresponsible, forgetful and easily discouraged. His predominantly gentle manner can translate into a lack of assertiveness, which he disguises beneath a hard-edged, street-tough persona.

Mrs. Jones may be both a demanding and patient mother, but she is not an ideal role model. Having exhausted the limits of bankruptcy law, she stands a fair chance of losing her home. She blames her current crisis on her lawyer, but in fact it has roots in a criminal matter of her own. In 2003, she forged her own death certificate in an attempt to collect a lump sum from her pension plan. The authorities noticed she was alive shortly thereafter, when they received her subsequent application for Social Security benefits.

At a time when Jones could make as much as $1,000 a night hustling, he did not contribute to the household finances. "I had to buy things for my son, and for my girlfriend," he says. "I didn't buy anything for my mom or my grandmother, because I didn't want them to know what I was doing, where the money came from."

"I don't care where you get it from," Mrs. Jones blurts, "as long as I get some help with these bills."

Jones jerks forward in his chair. "You can't say that, Mom! That's not right! Because if you say that, it's like you don't care what I'm doing."

"I care what you're doing," she responds, "but I can't do all this on my own."

Jones says his relationship with his mother is rocky, but he's looking forward to his GED classes. He wants real work — to be paid at least $7 an hour — and he knows he can't get it without more education. So far, his closest shot has been an auto body school that was going to subsidize the purchase of his tools, which cost about $1,000, so he could learn the trade. At the last minute, the school called to say the funding had dried up.

"They called me the day before I was going to start," Jones says with surprising emotion. "They talked to my mother, didn't even talk to me. I cried when she told me. That was a job. That was a career. That was something I could have had."

His sentiments are heartfelt and he clearly wants to turn his life around, but Jones also continues to be drawn in counterproductive directions. A few days later, he reports to the courthouse at 13th and Filbert streets for a status hearing for his recent arrest for possession of a small amount of crack (which he insists he does not use). This may eventually get him locked up again; the DA says her office is not lenient on offenders just because they happen to be enrolled in a program she supports.

Being sent to prison wouldn't necessarily end Jones' involvement with YVRP. The only way youth partners get cut from the program is by being sentenced to a prison term that extends beyond their 25th birthday or in the unlikely event that they move.

Standing in a fourth-story hallway, Jones says, "Every floor you go up, it's a higher crime." Asked how high he's been, he laughs softly and says, "Oh, I've been up there. But they knocked me back down."

After the hearing, he turns down an offer of lunch, suggesting a Market Street shopping expedition instead. He buys an oversized Original Gangster T-shirt and browses a jewelry shop. He wants to get his girlfriend a diamond ring. The saleswoman shows him a thick shank; its asymmetrical setting blooms with dozens of miniscule stones, and Jones says, "Bigger." Every ring he looks at is more expensive than a set of auto shop tools.

"Eric's a bright kid," says his probation officer, Donna Ferrigno, who has worked with YVRP for three years, "but his element and where he lives really impedes anything that I want to do, because there's already been 20 years of the same thing."

Yet, Jones' world is suddenly filled with the prospect of change. "My P.O. is the best," he declares. "She's on my side 100 percent. She don't want me out here in this shit." About Coleman, he adds, "He cares about me. He really, really cares. And it feels good when somebody cares about you."

Ferrigno has seen some of her cases complete high school and even take college classes on their way to steady jobs. "They are 26 or 27 now and really adults," she says, taxpaying citizens who have become solid community members and are parenting their children the way Ferrigno tried to teach them.

Youth partners have used the program as a springboard to trade schools, carpenters' union apprenticeships, retail jobs and customer service positions. Jones hasn't progressed that far, but he is still alive, and his son still has a father. To Ferrigno, that in itself is a measure of success. "I have a lot of hope for Eric. I just need him to have that for himself, and I don't know if he does yet. But I'm working on it."

battle tested: While YVRP workers like Parnell have successfully kept participants from slipping back into lives of crime, federal funding could soon dry up, leaving the program for dead. Photo By: Michael T. Regan

Not far from Jones' neighborhood lives a young woman, Renee*, that Coleman and his partner Damon Pannell have been seeing for a full year. Her story in YVRP has traveled much farther toward an ending, or rather a new beginning.

"When I first got her," Coleman remembers, "she had three kids, wasn't working, just chillin'. She wasn't doing anything. No driver's license. When I first got her, she was evil."

Renee's involvement with YVRP began as a result of a violent incident about which she is deliberately vague.

"She was a procrastinator," Pannell adds. "But now she's taking it upon herself to do things."

On a recent rainy morning, Renee hops into the tiny Ford Focus in which the two strapping social workers make their daily rounds. She's on break from her job at a Center City pharmacy and has arranged a late breakfast meeting at a nearby diner. Slamming the car door shut, she utters a few last words into her cell phone. "I'm gonna call you back," she says. "I'm with my friends."

Her smile is striking — full of humor, slyness and a hint of playful reproach — and its effect is instantaneous. Inside Pinky's Cafe, she flashes it at the manager, saying in a singsong voice, "You know what I want." He bounds from the table with a skip in his step, as though this is the high point in his day.

Tucking into a plate of grits and bacon, she teases Coleman about his sausage order. "That's disgusting," she says. "Keep that away from my plate. I don't want any pork juice on it."

Coleman laughs. "You put a pig in my household, I'm gonna cut him and gut him." These days they only see one another about once a week. It used to be virtually every day. Renee was also a very tough character.

"I remember the first time I saw you," Coleman says. "I walked up those steps and you came to the door --"

"Your lip was way up yonder," Pannell interrupts, raising his own lip into a nasty sneer.

"'Cause I don't let people come up and check on me!" Renee retorts.

"Now you smile all the time," Coleman says. She flashes it again, and it is clearly a powerful thing. A smile that could fend off challenges that may have required fists a year ago.

"What did you do after work?" Pannell asks Renee.

Coleman answers for her. "You go home and watch videos."

"I watch the news," Renee corrects him. "I got to know what's going on."

"Did you see that kid who killed someone in Bartram's Village over the weekend? Just because he wanted to be in the news?" Coleman asks.

So far, this year has been one of the most murderous in recent memory. Over a recent nine-day stretch, there were an astounding 22 homicides in Philadelphia. And that's not including the gruesome April 23 murder in Southwest Philly of 15-year-old Christine Marie Ham of Chester.

But here is the good news: Of those murders, which involved perhaps 40 individuals, only a single case has featured one with a history in YVRP. Renee shakes her head in solidarity of disbelief. A year ago, she was an unemployed mother with a violent crime on her record and three kids who lived with their grandmother. Today, she budgets her wages to buy tiny shoes and shirts for her children, who stay with her throughout the week.

"We cannot afford not to have this program," Abraham declares.

Ferrigno, who spent a year with a general probation caseload before coming over to YVRP, goes farther.

"YVRP should not be a program," she says. "It should be the way all probation is done."

Two million dollars per district — working out to about $16,000 per youth partner — isn't small change. But considering that it costs upwards of $25,000 a year to keep someone in prison, which is where many of the YVRP participants would otherwise be headed, leaving their children behind potentially to re-enact the same fate, Abraham hopes the city will decide that YVRP is the right fiscal choice.