Image provided by: University of Oregon Libraries; Eugene, OR
About The skanner. (Portland, Or.) 1975-2014 | View Entire Issue (March 16, 2016)
Page 10 The Skanner March 16, 2016 News Poor Offenders Pay High Price When Probation Turns on Profit Adam Geller Sharon Cohen AP National Writers MURFREESBORO, Ten- nessee (AP) — When Ste- ven Gibbs couldn’t afford the fees demanded by the company supervising his probation, he wound up in jail. When Gibbs — who had been arrest- ed for driving on a sus- pended license — failed a drug test the company charged him to take, he was jailed again. “Half the time I’m scared to go outside the door,” said Gibbs, 61, a former construction worker who lives in a $200-a-week motel room because his disability pay and wife’s fast-food wages don’t leave enough for a deposit on an apart- ment. “I don’t trust none of them anymore,” he said, in late January. The company continued charging Gibbs fees until last week, when a judge agreed to put him on a new plan, supervised in- stead by the court, to pay down fines he owes the county. Here in Rutherford County and in more than 1,000 courts in about a dozen states, probation for misdemeanors is a profit-making — and in- creasingly contentious — venture. While those with cash to pay fines of- ten avoid supervision, poor offenders can be snared in debt and pun- ishment. The practice has sparked widening debate and numerous lawsuits demanding change. “The unfortunate part of our judicial system is once you get caught up in it, it’s like a rat wheel you can never get out of be- cause of some of the fines and the probation,” says the local sheriff, Robert Arnold. A federal judge recent- ly barred Rutherford County from jailing peo- ple solely for non-pay- ment, citing a 1983 Su- preme Court decision that courts must consid- er people’s indigence. The mayor has recom- mended the county take over the job. For-profit probation is praised as a way to “ AP PHOTO/MARK ZALESKI Critics say charging offenders for supervision piles costs on those who struggle to pay for the service “You don’t criminal- ize poverty,” says Hub Harrington, who, as an Alabama circuit judge, called one city’s private probation program a “ju- dicially sanctioned ex- tortion racket” when he shut it down in 2012. “If you turn the courthouse into a profit center, this is what you get.” ___ The debate over how to punish crime largely and counseling sessions. Some probationers are charged to participate in litter pickup or other as- signments. “The system is designed to sell as many probation services as possible,” says Jack Long, a Geor- gia attorney who has brought 18 suits against one company, Sentinel Offender Services. Steven Queen, Senti- nel’s director of Georgia In this Jan. 27, 2016 photo, Rachael Hamm sits in her cell at the Rutherford County Adult Detention Center in Murfreesboro, Tenn. Rutherford County courts are using a private probation company, which profits by collecting monthly probation fees and fees for drug- testing and other services. The county is being sued for using the private company because critics say it is not fair to trap those on probation in a cycle of debt. Hamm says she struggles to take care of her two children because of the probation fees she has to pay. overlooks nearly 9 mil- lion Americans on pro- bation, nearly half for misdemeanors or small- Services, disputes the criticism. “There is no intent, practice, behavior or pol- You don’t criminalize poverty. If you turn the courthouse into a profit center, this is what you get uphold justice and im- prove collection of fines while saving money for governments. Critics, though, call it unfair, saying probation fund- ed entirely by charging offenders piles costs on people who can’t pay and jails them for offenses as innocuous as traffic tick- ets. er infractions. Many cities and coun- ties have outsourced supervision of lesser of- fenders who can’t imme- diately pay to companies, who charge supervision fees averaging $40 to $45 a month. Most col- lect court-imposed fines. They also charge for orientation, drug tests icy that in any way pro- motes the exploitation of any participant, regard- less of financial posi- tion,” he wrote, respond- ing to questions from The Associated Press. People can show finan- cial hardship, and courts can sentence them to al- ternatives such as com- munity service, Queen says. But probation matches those guilty of offenses like domestic vi- olence or drunken driv- ing with court-ordered counseling, he says. Privatized probation lets government focus resources on felons while saving taxpayers millions of dollars, says John Prescott, president of the Community Cor- rections Association of Georgia, an industry group, in a written re- sponse to questions. But in Harpersville, Alabama, the probation company harassed peo- ple they knew couldn’t pay, including a mentally disabled man who’d been involuntarily committed several times by a pro- bate judge, Harrington says. “They jailed him and were extorting money from his family to let him out ... and the only income he had was Social Security disability,” he says. Some industry veter- ans question the extent of abuses. “I just don’t know that they’re as widespread as they’re made out to be,” says Dale Allen, chief probation officer in Clarke County, Geor- gia. Allen has worked for both public and for-prof- it probation operators. Some people simply want to escape fines, he says. Many governments contracting with pro- bation companies are in a financial bind, says Chris Albin-Lackey, au- thor of a 2014 Human Rights Watch report on for-profit supervision. But judges and compa- nies too often fail to con- sider offenders’ ability to pay, he says. “You see a lot of cases where people are trying to explain to their pro- bation officer why they honestly cannot afford to pay,” he says, “and essen- tially the response from the probation officer is, ‘I don’t want to hear that. You don’t pay that, I’m go- ing to throw you in jail.’” ___ At The Journey Home, an outreach center for Murfreesboro’s home- less, director Scott Foster is used to seeing regulars arrested for public intox- ication or trespassing. Most wind up on proba- tion, and often in jail. Marguerita Scroggins, who lives in the woods but uses the center’s mailing address, says after her arrest last fall for possession of a crack pipe, she brought a jar with $3 in change to the probation company. The officer, who wanted $45 each week for fees and fines, told her they didn’t take cash. Scroggins’ only income is a $744 monthly disability check. “You tell the judge you couldn’t pay but that you’re trying to do bet- ter, you’re trying to make ends meet, and so they basically start your pro- bation over again,” Fos- ter says. “So essentially, for our very indigent folks, we’ve almost set up a debtor’s prison here in 21st century suburban America.” A few blocks away, Charlie Barker, arrives at the probation office be- fore it opens. At 35, he’s been on probation for 12 years. Eight arrests for driv- ing on a suspended li- cense and another for drug possession, each brought more probation, fines and fees. Barker used to work construc- tion. But driving to work got him rearrested, he said. Barker says when his mother gets a tax refund, he plans to pay the last $500 he owes. But he wonders if he’ll have to keep paying for drug tests or supervi- sion fees until probation expires in September.
