Silent, naked and alone

By Alicia Gallegos
Tribune Staff Writer

Wednesday,February 22, 2006
Edition: LOCL, Section: nation, Page A1

Fourth of six parts

Grainy video footage shows a scrawny man with a shaggy beard and greasy hair surrounded by trash in his tiny, stark room.

The inmate is lying on his jail bunk, wrapped only in a beige blanket, and unmoving when the guards rouse him. A jailer waves her hand in front of her face, trying to fan away the odor as another guard approaches the man. “Come on, Nick, time for a shower.”

Jailers had resorted to filming Nicholas Rice in the spring of 2004.

A jail e-mail dated April 15 explained that recording the situation might finally drive the point home.

“What I need from everyone is documentation relating to this subject no matter how big or small it may be,” wrote Lt. Fred Call. “I’m attempting to work with the public (defender’s) office to show this person (may) need help.”

Jail Capt. Brad Rogers says now that Nicholas’ mental state concerned the staff.

After repeated attempts to coax Nicholas out of his cell, jailers eventually lift him naked from his bed, put him in a restraint chair and wheel him toward the showers.

“Help us out, bud,” a guard tells Nicholas during one filming. “Stand up and go into the shower,” another says. “Rice? Please? Can you do that please?”

But Nicholas doesn’t respond. Guards covered by black plastic bags place him under the water and wash him by hand, scrubbing his hair and soaping his back.

The skinny inmate says nothing and limply allows jailers to bathe him.

***

Despite a past diagnosis of schizophrenia, a judge found Nicholas competent to stand trial in June 2004, setting his trial for December. The court order by Elkhart Circuit Court Judge Terry C. Shewmaker cited two earlier evaluations that found Nicholas competent and indicated that he was likely pretending.

Shewmaker declined to comment about the case.

Nicholas’ public defender later explained it was these first evaluations that distorted the view of his client and prevented him from getting help.

“Our system is one here that (the court) tends to rely on mental evaluations by court-appointed psychiatrists,” R. Brent Zook says. The assessments “present a rather mixed image.”

Nicholas was eventually moved to a lockdown area at the facility inmates called “the hole.” In the segregated area, inmates had to stay inside their cell for 23 hours a day with one voluntary hour spent in a jail dayroom.

The single cell was for his own safety, the jail captain later told Nicholas’ dad.

Other inmates disliked Nicholas, says former inmate Jeremy Miller, who was housed next to Nicholas. In some videotaped scenes, inmates jeer and taunt the silent inmate, yelling obscenities as guards open his cell door.

During Miller’s hour out he would try to talk to his neighbor, offering him a Halls lozenge through the bars of his cell. Halls were the closest thing to candy for inmates. Sometimes Nicholas would take the “candy,” but mostly he made incoherent noises, Miller remembers.

On one occasion, Nicholas was standing in front of his toilet without any clothes on when another inmate pushed a broom handle through the bars and jabbed him. Officers discovered the man assaulting Nicholas, but not before he’d struck him multiple times. Golfball-sized red welts covered Nicholas’ body, video footage shows.

Rick Rice was later told his son just stood there as the inmate attacked him.

***

Fellow inmates weren’t sure why Nicholas was ever allowed the razor. Everyone knew the naked inmate didn’t shave.

But one day in early August, shortly after his 22nd birthday, he was handed a blade as guards were passing them out.

The inmate sliced open his own neck.

Jail staff found Nicholas standing in his cell holding the right side of his neck with a towel and covered in blood, according to a jail log. The wound was over his carotid artery and about an inch long. After three stitches at the hospital, Nicholas returned to the jail the same day. Eventually, he was put back inside his single cell in Ward 1.

***

Near the end of August, Rick tried to visit his son, and for once, Nicholas came out of his cell. But he wouldn’t speak. The inmate walked out into the visiting room and stood there for less than a minute, his father remembers, before retreating back down the hall.

Rick watched as his son began to fall into a wall and a guard quickly grabbed his arm to steady him.

***

After more than a year of rejecting food, Nicholas’ ribs visibly protruded from his sides, his lanky arms revealed no muscle mass, and his legs were thin and bony.

Jail psychiatrist Bryce Rohrer wrote that Nicholas had lost almost 50 pounds since he arrived at the Elkhart County Jail.

The skeletal inmate was taken to a hospital emergency room on Oct. 5, 2004, after being court-issued a 72-hour commitment for medical and psychiatric treatment in a secure facility.

“Patient is dying from malnourishment,” jail psychiatrist Bryce Rohrer, wrote in Nicholas’ application for emergency detention. “Also has significant psychiatric problem. Applicant believes that if the person named above is not restrained immediately he will die.”

In capital letters, the doctor added, “NEED COURT ORDER TO ADMINISTER FOOD AND MEDICATION.”

Rohrer declined to comment for this story.

When officers took Nicholas to Goshen General Hospital that afternoon, they intended to drop him off and leave, according to nursing notes, but staff informed them it was against hospital policy to have an incarcerated patient there without jail supervision.

The problem circled into a lengthy conversation between medical staff and jailers.

3:30 p.m. Goshen General Hospital notes: “The police officers called their sergeant and they were told to bring patient back because they didn’t have the manpower to leave two officers in the hospital (with) the patient.”

4 p.m. jail log entry: “All the Elkhart County Sheriff’s Department wanted was for inmate to be taken care of medically and in the event that he is combative or dangerous (they) were to call immediately and an officer would be available.”

4:30 p.m. jail log entry: “(Hospital legal counsel) called and had concerns about her staff maybe becoming injured” if handcuffs are removed. “I informed her that we did have another judge’s order and I would fax it to her.”

5 p.m. hospital nursing notes: “Police officer leaving. Security called for patient to be watched when officer leaves.”

5:15 p.m. nursing notes: “Patient pulled out IV, out of bed. Security officer called for more assistance. Four extra people here to help.”

6:55 p.m. jail log: “Called Capt. Rogers and they are leaving an officer with inmate at least until tomorrow.”

Although it was recorded in jail notes that Nicholas was to go to Oaklawn, a psychiatric facility, after he was stabilized, a physician who called the facility was told they wouldn’t accept him.

He spoke to Salvador Ciniceros, according to hospital notes, a doctor who had done a previous court-appointed evaluation. He told the caller the facility would not take him because on a previous admission, Nicholas was found to be malingering.

After less than 24 hours at the hospital, Nicholas was back inside his cell.

***

As Nicholas’ trial edged closer, a gleam of hope finally broke through.

Zook and chief deputy prosecuting attorney Vicki Becker both agreed to have Nicholas evaluated again.The prosecution came to the agreement after some comments about Nicholas’ behavior from witnesses involved in the bank robbery attempt, Becker recalls. “We believed it deserved the necessary evaluation of mental capacity.”

On Dec. 6, 2004, Judge Shewmaker signed an order delaying his proceedings and committing him to the State of Indiana Division of Mental Health.

The paperwork was on its way to Logansport State Hospital, and it was just a matter of time until a bed became available.

Coming Thursday: ‘Can I go home now?’

Doctors note rise in uninsured, indigent patients

By Alicia Gallegos Tribune Staff Writer Source: news Sunday,March 21, 2010 Edition: mich, , Page A1

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SOUTH BEND — More than three months after Saint Joseph Regional Medical Center’s highly publicized move to a new building in Mishawaka, medical officials say a burden is growing in the city they left behind.

According to officials and recent data:

* A significantly higher number of patients are heading to the Memorial Emergency Room for treatment, many of whom are indigent and lack the transportation needed to go to Saint Joseph.

* The number of ambulances racing to Memorial has increased as more patients request the “closest” hospital.

* The pool of on-call doctors helping at Memorial is shrinking as more physicians opt to serve shifts at only one hospital.

Saint Joseph Regional Medical Center has previously said it was in no way abandoning its mission of caring for the poor and underserved in moving to a bigger and more efficient facility in Mishawaka.

But before the move, some health-care advocates voiced concern about potentially longer waits at Memorial and inner-city residents lacking the transportation to the new hospital.

Now, those worries seem to have become reality.

“Patients from South Bend are showing up here in much larger numbers,” said Dr. Steven Spilger, a Memorial physician and ER director. “We have a much larger number of unassigned patients. … It’s stressing the system somewhat.”

In response to questions about the recent developments, medical center spokesman Michael Stack said in an e-mail that although the center has moved, “We have not moved the higher volume, more widely used outpatient practices or services that deliver care to the populations in need. We have extended locations for primary care, as well as hours that physician offices are open.”

He also pointed to the number of clinics the hospital still operates in South Bend and surrounding areas, including the Sister Maura Brannick Health Center, Family Medicine Center and Bendix Family Physicians.

Displaced patients

On a recent evening in Memorial’s ER, more than 30 patients linger in the waiting room, some holding ice packs to their heads or sitting in wheelchairs.

“I’ve been here all day!” a voice bellows from one end of the room. It comes from a 15-year-old girl who says she is having severe back and leg pain and is still waiting to be seen after arriving at 2 p.m. It’s now close to 6.

The teenager’s mother, Carmelita Martin of South Bend, says she is having the same symptoms as her daughter. Martin used to go to St. Joseph Regional Medical Center, she says, adding that ER patients were usually seen faster there.

“I hate that they moved,” Martin said. “You go to what’s closer.”

Across the room is an older man appearing distraught and holding his head in his hand. He’s been waiting three hours, he says, but he points to another family sitting next to him: “They’ve been waiting five hours.”

The mother beside him nods. Her 20-year-old daughter has been having chest pains, she explains. They arrived at noon.

The assembly of patients make up an additional 13 percent increase in volume in the Memorial ER in the last few months, according to hospital data.

Hospital spokeswoman Diane Stover cited several possible reasons for the rise including a busy flu season, the poor economy and the St. Joe move.

Emergency room physician Dr. Richard Seall said the increase may not seem that high, but it’s definitely felt by staff, adding that the ER has become busier as months have gone by.

“We’re seeing patients who haven’t been to Memorial who don’t want to go all the way to Mishawaka,” he said. “A lot of people don’t have insurance and don’t have doctors. We provide them basic care.”

Spilger said one reason contributing to the rise relates to the Indiana Health Center on Western Avenue that primarily treats poor, uninsured patients. Patients from the center used to be split between Memorial and St. Joe, Spilger said, but now Memorial “seems to be getting them all.”Ambulance service statistics reflect the fact that more residents are requesting they be taken to Memorial.

Previously, ambulances went to Memorial about 60 percent of the time and St. Joseph about 40 percent, according to Steve Cox, director of EMS for the South Bend Fire Department.

Numbers now show that percentage has tilted to about 80 percent Memorial and 20 percent St. Joseph, Cox said.

The EMS director said time and convenience are the most common reasons patients list for wanting to go to Memorial. The decision is entirely up to the patient, he explained, unless, of course, the resident is critical and in need of Memorial’s higher-level trauma services.

Cox stressed that the numbers only show the first few months since St. Joseph’s move and that a better picture will likely develop after more time has gone by.

Meanwhile, Mishawaka ambulances have increased their service to St. Joseph Regional Medical Center, according to officials, dropping patients off more quickly and improving turn-around times.

“The new hospital has proven to be a real asset to the Granger community and Clay Township,” said Fire Chief John Vance with Clay-Harris Fire Territory.

Lt. Kerry Hershberger with Mishawaka Fire said his department’s ambulance unit is also going to St. Joe more often and agreed the move has made a significant difference in turn-around times.

St. Joe efforts

Stack said St. Joseph continues its efforts to reach out, adding that a Transpo bus route has been extended to the hospital to accommodate patients in South Bend.

“We constantly plan on how to serve the community however we can,” Stack said. “We work with all those who are in need of our services so that they can benefit from the high quality health care services we provide for all populations living in the communities we serve.”

Stack would not address a reporter’s question about whether the trend of more poor patients headed to Memorial’s ER is concerning, saying only, “The answer we’ve provided is the answer to your question.”

When asked whether the hospital could provide any current geographical data about patients coming into the new medical center, Stack replied: “Our hospital is here to serve the over one million people in our market areas of 8 counties, including generations of families who have come to rely on us for exceptional quality and compassionate, faith-based care for over 125 years. Our patients have come, and are continuing to come, from all over Michiana.”

Stack acknowledged later that demographic information is collected and used for marketing purposes, but he would not further address the issue.

Fewer doctors to call on

As the number of patients seeking help at Memorial has risen, the number of outside doctors providing services there has dropped.

Qualified physicians can choose hospitals for which they can be on call. And historically, said Dr. Jesse Hsieh, doctors in the community frequently worked at both hospitals when needed.

But since the move, that number is diminishing as more on-call doctors are choosing only to go to St. Joseph, said Hsieh, family practitioner and board president of the South Bend Clinic.

Many docs don’t want to make the extra drive or are concerned about being too far from calls if they’re already at one hospital. Physicians in Memorial’s ER agreed they’ve seen this shift in on-call help.

The shrinking pool means patients who formerly had St. Joseph primary care physicians are showing up at Memorial without their doctors available.

South Bend Clinic physicians, meanwhile, are still serving at both hospitals and will continue to do so, Hsieh said, but the majority have noticed they are being called to Memorial more often since the move.

When asked about this issue, Stack said in his e-mail response: “SJRMC provides a physician-friendly environment featuring the greatest in medical technology and workflow convenience. We are very proud that Michiana physicians want to practice their quality healthcare in our new facility.”

During a followup phone call, Stack said he had not heard about more St. Joe doctors opting out of on-call stints at Memorial.

Soothing the increase

Recently, Seall said Memorial has added staff and more shifts to keep up with the inflow of patients.

At least one more nurse per shift has been added, he said, and two new physicians were just hired. They will start soon.

Seall and other medical officials say they don’t believe the swell of patients coming into Memorial will decline any time soon.

“Unless something changes, (especially) for those without health care, people who don’t have access to primary care physicians,” Seall said, “we’re their only option.”

Staff writer Alicia Gallegos: agallegos@sbtinfo.com (574) 235-6368

Is System Tough Enough?

Devine

By Alicia Gallegos
Tribune Staff Writer

Source: news
Sunday,January 17, 2010
Edition: mich, , Page A1

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It was 1 a.m. when a North Liberty police officer spotted a red Ford Explorer veering left across the center line where Indiana 23 meets Indiana 4.

The officer activated his lights and pulled the swerving SUV over near Leeper Road.

Officer Sean Stuart noticed the driver’s eyes were red and watery, according to police reports, and that he smelled of alcohol. Despite his appearance, the driver, Shawn P. Devine, told police he had not been drinking.

But according to reports, Devine proceeded to fail several sobriety tests, and a breath test later showed Devine had an alcohol level of 0.11 percent, above Indiana’s legal limit of 0.08 percent while driving.

Devine was arrested at the scene and booked into the St. Joseph County Jail. The date was Dec. 19, 2005.

It wasn’t Devine’s first time being accused of driving drunk, and it would not be his last.

In the 11 years his wallet held only an expired permit, Devine was arrested on multiple driving infractions and charged with drunken driving three times, despite his never having a valid license. His first DUI on record was in 2002 after he hit a parked car on a Mishawaka road.

But in any of the cases, the only time behind bars Devine would serve would be a handful of weekend reporting stints. The North Liberty case was eventually dismissed as part of a plea agreement in another DUI.

Some, such as Dave Beaty, South Bend Fraternal Order of Police president, believe Devine’s history is a classic example of a convicted criminal’s past never being taken seriously.

“They start to look at the justice system as a joke,” Beaty said of habitual offenders. “Ideally, in a better system, you give breaks for maybe first-time offenders. But you can’t do it the 10th time. That’s not working.”

Beaty and others, such as advocates with Mothers Against Drunk Driving, believe the court system is too soft on drunken drivers and that too often it takes causing a serious injury or even death for drivers to face stiffer penalties.

Devine is now charged in connection with last weekend’s death of Mishawaka Police Cpl. James Szuba, who was killed when Devine’s SUV plowed into his police cruiser during a pursuit. Tests showed Devine’s blood alcohol level was almost triple the legal limit.

Advocates say laws in Indiana need to be stricter and more done within courts to keep intoxicated residents from driving.

Court officials argue they only have so much discretion when it comes to the guidelines of Indiana law and a wide range of factors affect charging and sentencing decisions.

Meanwhile, legislation introduced just last week means a new mandated regulation for drunken drivers might be in the works.

What Indiana law says

Drunken driving laws and sentencing ranges in Indiana are by no means black and white.

Instead, statutes stretch far and wide when it comes to offense classification and possible penalties.

Some factors affecting the range include: the amount of alcohol in a person’s system; whether the person is showing signs of impairment; whether minors are in a vehicle, and, perhaps most notably, whether prior convictions exist.

The more convictions, the greater the chance of becoming a habitual traffic offender.

St. Joseph County deputy prosecutor Mark Roule explains that to receive a habitual designation, a person must have three major offenses in 10 years or 10 minor infractions within five years.

Majors include things like operating while intoxicated with a blood alcohol level of more than 0.08 or reckless driving.

The wide spectrum of classifications can sometimes be scary, says St. Joseph Superior Chief Judge Michael Scopelitis, considering the potentially devastating effect that drinking and driving can have in the community.

“The problem with this area of the law is that it’s fragmented depending on which elements you stick into it,” he said Friday. “They all have slightly different penalties, and those penalties change depending on what happens when you’re in that state” of intoxication.

Considerations such as whether a person caused injury or death have much higher potential consequences than driving drunk and causing property damage, according to Indiana law.

DUI-related offenses can be as low as a C misdemeanor, which is the lowest type of misdemeanor, or as high as a B felony.

That’s why, in theory, prior convictions generally make punishment for subsequent offenses that much heavier.

If, for instance, a person is convicted of a DUI and has a prior DUI conviction within the last five years, that second offense can be a D felony, which carries a maximum of three years in prison.

But in reality, a handful of convictions don’t always keep a repeat drunken driver off the road.

That was the case when Shawn Devine was finally stopped for his third drunken driving offense in March 2006.

Familiar face

After clocking Devine driving 50 miles an hour in a 30 mph zone, a St. Joseph County police officer stopped Devine on Ironwood Road near Topsfield Drive.

Devine failed sobriety tests in that 2006 traffic stop, according to court records, with his blood alcohol level testing at 0.13.

He was charged with two misdemeanors and two D felonies in the March 2006 case. At the time, Devine’s 2005 North Liberty case was still pending.

But before either case was resolved, Devine was caught driving again in September 2006.

According to court records, Devine was later charged in that case with disregarding a traffic device, driving while suspended, no license in possession, and no insurance.

Devine pleaded guilty to the first D felony count in the first 2006 case and, as part of a plea agreement with the prosecutor’s office, the three other counts were dismissed.

His pending 2005 DUI case was also dismissed by the state as part of the agreement. It’s unclear why the separate case was included in the 2006 agreement. The case file at the county courthouse has since been destroyed.

A spokeswoman for the St. Joseph County prosecutor’s office said Friday they no longer have the 2005 case in their records but have requested it from a microfilm department, which could take up to three days.

For Devine’s only felony case, St. Joseph Superior Judge Jerome Frese sentenced Devine to one year in prison but suspended it – meaning Devine did not actually have to go to prison – and to one year of probation. Devine also was ordered to serve four 9-a.m.-to-5-p.m. shifts at the county jail, according to court records.

The second 2006 case was also dismissed, although it’s also unclear why. No records other than documents indicating the dismissal took place in 2008 could be found at the courthouse.

Yet another overlapping case happened in 2007, when Devine was again arrested and charged with driving while suspended and littering.

In this case, Devine pleaded guilty and was assessed a $150 fine. Records are fuzzy on whether Devine was still on probation at the time of the incident and could have received jail time.

Like several other pieces of Devine’s record, the full 2007 case file could not be found at the courthouse.

St. Joseph County Prosecutor Michael Dvorak said Friday that he is looking into the dismissals and did not want to comment for this story until he has more information.

‘How many times?’

Beaty says Devine’s history and lack of serious repercussions is something officers see every day.

“It’s very frustrating,” Beaty said, adding it seems no motivation exists for chronic offenders to stop offending. “We find these (offenders) laugh about it.”

Beaty, who has been a police officer for 17 years, says frequently offenders such as drunken drivers are offered plea agreements and other counts are dismissed. He also doesn’t believe enough jail or prison time is imposed for repeat offenders.

“How many times does (an offender) need to get arrested before they stop giving him a break?” Beaty asked.

Frank Harris, a public policy representative with Mothers Against Drunk Driving, agrees that judges have too much leeway in Indiana when it comes to drunken driving sentences.

“Currently, the system is broken in Indiana,” Harris said in a phone interview. “The current law allows too much vagueness and ambiguity.”

Judge Scopelitis stressed that judges can sentence only along the guidelines of Indiana law and any maximum sentence given must have a good reason, as maximum sentences are regularly reversed by the Court of Appeals if valid rationales aren’t found.

“It is illegal to give a maximum sentence unless there’s a reason to give it,” Scopelitis said. “Refusal of a judge to exercise desecration, is in itself abuse of discretion.”

However, Scopelitis acknowledged he does have concerns about some areas of sentencing in St. Joseph County, including DUIs. The judge said he is in the process of poring over certain areas of misdemeanor sentencing and has formulated some opinions about certain trends he is seeing. He felt it would be inappropriate to give more details about those opinions, but said he might recommend changes in how some offenses are handled.

Scopelitis also believes that too often the courts are wrongly blamed: Sometimes, the court can do everything conceivable to an offender, such as impose jail time, revoke a license and order an alcohol treatment program, but the offender still reoffends.

“Whose fault is that?” Scopelitis asks. “We’re so much a society of blame. Let’s place the personal responsibility where it belongs: the person who drank and drove and hurt someone or killed someone.”

Scopelitis adds it seems perceptions on sentencing adequacy differs depending on who you are.

“The fact of the matter is that everyone wants people who break the law to be treated more harshly, until it’s your mother or father or brother,” he said. “Then they’re being treated ‘too harshly.’

“The correctness of the sentence is in the eye of the beholder.”

New proposal

Recently proposed legislation could mean drunken drivers would be forced to prove they’re not dangers to the community.

The legislation involves Ignition Interlocks, which are Breathalyzer-type devices built into vehicles and require a driver to blow into them before they are allowed to drive.

Right now, explains Harris with MADD, the legislation would affect only offenders who previously drove with a blood-alcohol level of 0.15 percent or more. To keep offenders from having a friend blow for them, the interlock system requires a second blow soon after the vehicle is rolling.

If an offender is caught driving without the ordered device, it’s an automatic felony, Harris says. Although MADD is advocating the new legislation, Harris says the group would rather see the devices be implemented to all first-time offenders regardless of alcohol level. Indiana is one of 47 states that already use Ignition Interlocks as a sentence condition, but they are not mandated. Scopelitis says ignition interlocks can currently be ordered for offenders with prior alcohol-related convictions as part of a probationary license.

Although the judge worries about how the cost of the devices would be met, he believes the newly introduced legislation is a good idea.

“This is a national crisis,” he said. “I’m not just talking about alcohol, but also about drugs (and driving).

“Imagine how many lives that could save.”

Staff writer Alicia Gallegos: agallegos@sbtinfo.com (574) 235-6368

Can Sex Offenders Be Cured?

Lindsey

From the South Bend Tribune

Can sex offenders be cured? By Alicia Gallegos Tribune Staff Writer Source: news Sunday,November 22, 2009 Edition: mich, , Page A1

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SOUTH BEND

Despite a disturbing criminal past, friends and family believed Michael Lindsey had made significant strides in the decades he spent behind bars.

For more than 20 years, the man was a model prisoner, espousing deep religious beliefs, completing law courses and assisting other inmates with criminal cases.

Upon his initial release, officials say the man complied with all parole regulations, fulfilled treatment requirements and was holding down a full-time job and adjusting well to married life.

“I thought if anybody in the world can make it on release, it would be Mike,” said prison minister Tim Blakley, who has known Lindsey for almost 10 years.

But just months after being allowed back into society, Lindsey did more than just violate his parole. He led authorities on a frenzied chase across county lines after three attempted abductions and one kidnapping.

Perspectives differ on what led to Lindsey’s breakdown and subsequent crime spree.

Some believe he was never truly rehabilitated from his past sexual deviance and was a ticking time bomb.

But others, including Lindsey himself, say it was the overwhelming pressure to re-acclimate into society and a lack of preparation that fueled his failure. Debate also exists about whether the motivation for his latest offenses was sexual.

Although not a segment of society for which most residents feel sympathy, the reality is that 10,000 to 20,000 sex offenders are released back into the general population each year, according to a report by the Center for Sex Offender Management, a U.S. Dept. of Justice project.

Making sure sex offenders are prepared to enter society properly rehabilitated greatly reduces recidivism and enhances overall public safety, says the report.

But experts argue about how prepared sex offenders are when the cell door opens and whether enough re-entry programs are available.

In the case of Michael Lindsey, a long-term prisoner with the darkest of pasts, the question becomes: Was his future doomed from the start?

Low risk for re-offending

Jan Lindsey met her husband in 2001 while he was incarcerated at the Correctional Industrial facility in Pendleton, Ind.

The relationship started innocently when the two began writing letters, Jan Lindsey said during a recent phone interview.

Jan was doing ministry work at the time, she said, and had been asked by a pastor whether she would correspond with several inmates, including Lindsey.

Right away, she knew he was different, she said. He was extremely educated and positive, never asking the woman for money, as other inmates did. The letters continued for years until the friendship turned romantic. They married several years later at the prison.

Jan knew about Lindsey’s past.

The now-48-year-old man was in prison for rape and child molesting out of Elkhart County and was completing a sentence of 50 years, of which he served half for good behavior. The two cases in which Lindsey was convicted involved a woman and a 13-year-old girl abducted at knifepoint.

“I knew what he did before was terrible,” Jan Lindsey said. “(But) that wasn’t who he was anymore.”

Jan asked a prison psychologist about Lindsey and said the doctor told her he had shown true remorse for his actions and was considered “low risk” for re-offending.

She believed him. So did Blakley, who also sent Lindsey letters and felt the man was “1 billion percent rehabilitated,” he said.

While in prison, Lindsey had taken therapy classes, his wife said. He also completed Sex Offender Management and Monitoring.

All sex offenders in the state must complete SOMM before being released, according to Adam Deming, psychologist and executive director of SOMM.

The time and length of the program depends on the sex offender and his or her level of risk, says Deming, but much of the treatment focuses on cognitive behavior therapy, accountability, and formulating a relapse prevention plan.

Individual Indiana prisons do not have the program available, but inmates are sent to the New Castle facility when treatment is deemed necessary and room is available.

But even with the required prison programs, Jan Lindsey says, her husband was missing something when he was finally paroled in 2008.

Changes in 25 years

The world he entered upon his release was very different that the one he left 25 years earlier, Lindsey said in a shaking voice during his recent sentencing.

At first, he felt he could adjust and do well, he said, but his confidence soon started to waiver.

“It really started to overwhelm me,” he said during sentencing. “I didn’t know how to get gas, how to order food. I started wondering if I should even be out.”

Lindsey had hoped to find work as a paralegal when he was released, but he was not allowed. He also applied for several re-entry programs, he said, but was not accepted.

Instead, he found work at a factory, working an exhausting third shift, says his wife. The couple also had housing issues, as Jan’s home was not suitable for sex offender requirements, and the two had to move.

Stress started to consume Lindsey, Blakley said, and he was not getting along well with his boss at work.

But his marriage was thriving, Jan Lindsey said, adding that her husband was always good to her, making dinner and mowing the lawn. But Lindsey hated having to make so many decisions, she said.

“Life is so fast out here,” Jan Lindsey says. “It’s so slow for them in there. How do you prepare someone for something like that?”

Before leaving prison, Lindsey did complete a re-entry component of SOMM. Prisoners are introduced to the re-entry aspect about nine months before release, according to Deming.

The transitional program helps prisoners review possible housing and employment options as well as addresses parole stipulations they will face, Deming says.

But aside from the nine-month re-entry program, few community transitional programs, halfway houses or community re-entry facilities even consider taking sex offenders.

According to Greg Cress with South Bend Community Re-Entry, specific DOC criteria prevents sex offenders from being allowed into his program.

Traditionally, lower level offenders are eligible for the local re-entry program about nine months before release. The program addresses life skills, substance abuse and job readiness.

A recent addition also now allows prisoners to attend 18 to 24 months before release.

“Some offenders need a little more time,” Cress said. “The longer you’ve been institutionalized, the more difficulties you’re going to have coming out.”

Cress says that at one time, sex offenders were allowed in the program, but that was 20 years ago. Because of the risk to the community, corrections officials generally want sex offenders to serve their entire sentences before being around civilians.

At the St. Joseph County DuComb Center, it’s possible to accept some types of sex offenders, but that doesn’t happen frequently, says interim Program Manager Dave Nickerson.

And Doug Huyvaert with the South Bend Parole Office says parole officers do not send sex offenders to community transitional programs.

“I do not know of any cases in my district,” he said.

Eight months later

Treatment continued for Lindsey on the outside.

He was going to weekly treatment sessions and receiving regular assessments, Huyvaert says, adding there were no red flags in his file until the day Lindsey missed a meeting.

The date was Feb. 24.

Lindsey had been out of prison just eight months.

Later, Lindsey would insist that missing work the night before made him fear he would violate his parole. He says he was overwhelmed, and only wanted a vehicle to run away.

He first confronted a Mishawaka woman with a screwdriver and demanded her car. She screamed, and Lindsey ran away. The man later abducted a 19-year-old woman at knifepoint and drove with her to White County, before leaving her in a field.

Police later arrested Lindsey in Jasper County after a third abduction attempt.

Authorities previously said Lindsey never physically or sexually harmed the 19-year-old woman, and charges to the contrary were never filed.

But a deputy prosecutor said during sentencing that it was untrue that nothing of a sexual nature happened.

The now-20-year-old woman said Lindsey straddled her at one point and forced her to take off her tights before changing his mind and letting her go. Lindsey admitted in court that he thought about doing something sexual, but then came to his senses.

‘Doesn’t cure an illness’

St. Joseph County Superior Court Judge Jerome Frese sees hundreds of sex offense cases come through his courtroom each year and says the crimes can be some of the most heinous.

Frese could not comment specifically on the Lindsey case but spoke generally about sex offenders and treatment resources while incarcerated.

Frese spoke highly of the SOMM program but argued re-entry and treatment services should start early in prison time. “The problem is that, ironically, they don’t give it to someone until their release date,” he said. “What happens is that it’s eight to 10 years before (a person) is allowed to qualify for that program.”

Deming, however, believes the program and services offered by the DOC gives inmates the necessary tools to succeed in society. The re-entry component of the SOMM program is highly effective, he says, adding that in three years, inmates who complete the program have shown only a 1 percent rate of returning to prison with a new sex crime.

But Jan Lindsey wishes more had been done for her husband to prepare him for life in society. She does not believe his recent crimes were sexually motivated.

At the very least, she believes, if Lindsey had had a mentor when released, it would have helped.

The woman once envisioned growing old with her husband, she said, but knows now that can’t happen. Lindsey pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 40 years in prison for the Mishawaka offenses and six more years in Jasper County.

He remains at the St. Joseph County Jail awaiting transport to prison.

Jan Lindsey said she has not yet filed for divorce but knows she must move on.

Meanwhile, the family of his now-20-year-old victim says Lindsey should have never been back in society.

“That fact that he did what he did tells me he was not reformed,” the victim’s mother said.

Her husband says he has compassion for Lindsey’s sickness and that he has prayed for him, but he also holds much anger.

“I think he’s a very sick person,” the dad said. “Putting someone away for 25 years doesn’t cure an illness.”

Can I go home now?

Nicholas Rice

By Alicia Gallegos
Tribune Staff Writer

Thursday,February 23, 2006
Edition: MICH, Section: nation, Page A1

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Fifth of six parts

Out of nowhere, an unfamiliar voice was echoing down the corridor of Jail Ward 1.

“We were like, ‘What in the world?'” remembers former inmate Jeremy Miller.

His silent, immobile neighbor was talking.

“Out of the blue that day, he seemed normal,” Miller says. “He just opened his mouth.”

Nicholas Rice was known inside the jail as the naked inmate. He usually lay on his bottom bunk under a blanket, never speaking and rarely leaving his cell. He wouldn’t shower, and he usually refused to eat.

But on Dec. 17, 2004, he suddenly started a conversation with another inmate who stopped by his door.

Earlier that week, Nicholas had also surprised jail staff when he unexpectedly looked up and asked, “Can I go home now?”

The 22-year-old inmate had been in the Elkhart County Jail for more than a year, accused of trying to rob a bank. But a judge had recently ordered Nicholas’ admission to a state psychiatric hospital.

Other inmates had tried for so long to persuade Nicholas to say something. When he finally did, they had no idea why. Miller had some coffee that day and offered some to his neighbor. Nicholas actually took a sip and then agreed with Miller that it was too strong.

Miller would later regret that he fell asleep during his hour out of his cell that day; he had meant to converse again with his quiet neighbor.

Maybe he could have talked to Nicholas one more time.

***

Miller was reading in his bunk about 3 the next morning when he heard what sounded like water running and then a gurgling noise coming from Nicholas’ cell next door. It sounded as if he were throwing up.

Then came an abrupt thud, he says, as if the inmate had fallen.

Miller called out to Nicholas, asking him if he was OK, but the inmate didn’t respond.

The deep gurgling noise started again, Miller says. The other inmates heard it, too, and someone asked whether they should alert the guards.

But Nicholas was always making incoherent noises. The inmates decided he was fine.

***

Close to 5 a.m., a nurse was passing out medications in Ward 1 when she heard an officer yell from downstairs, “Nurse, you need to get down here now!”

She rushed toward Cell 5A where the officer stood, and she saw an inmate lying face down in a pool of blood.

His skin was blue, one officer reported, and his eyes were bulging from their sockets. A red froth flowed from his mouth.

The nurse checked his vital signs. No pulse. No respiration.

She and an officer rolled the inmate onto his back and started chest compressions, she would report later. Behind their bars, inmates watched as their neighbor in 5A was taken out by paramedics.

An officer escorted medics as they loaded the inmate into an ambulance. He watched as medics pushed the stretcher into an emergency room filled with medical staff and shut the door.

The officer stood outside until someone told him the news, and then he called the jail captain.

Nicholas Rice was dead.

***

Rick Rice was shaving that morning when he heard a knock.

He remembers peeking out the entryway of his bathroom and seeing that his front door was slightly ajar, two uniformed men standing behind it.

“What is a cop doing here?” he wondered.

Then he saw the word “chaplain” on the coat of one of the men. He slammed his hand angrily against the brown paneled wall by his door.

He just knew.

***

Diane and her husband were sleeping when she took the call from Rick.

Nicholas was dead.

“Louie, get up,” she remembers saying. “Get dressed. We have to go to the hospital. I have to see my son.”

They rushed to the hospital and were directed into the right room.

There was Nicholas. Her oldest boy, lying on a bed with a blanket pulled over his head.

Diane lifted the blanket to look at him. “I don’t know if that was good or bad,” she says now.

He was thin, she remembers, but her son didn’t look hurt.

Instead of shopping for Christmas presents the week of Dec. 20, 2004, Rick and Diane were planning their son’s memorial service.

“Cause of inmate’s death unclear,” a Tribune headline read on Dec. 21.

Reporters were told it appeared Nicholas died of natural causes and no foul play was involved. No method of suicide was found, jail Capt. Brad Rogers was quoted as saying, and a preliminary coroner’s report revealed no anatomical signs indicating a cause of death.

“He had no injuries,” Elkhart Coroner Jeff Landrum said.

An Elkhart County autopsy was ongoing, and toxicology tests were under way.

But it was hard to trust anyone, Rick says, especially county officials who were supposed to take care of his son.

In phone conversations between Rick and Landrum, the coroner kept referring to a recent hospital visit Nicholas had made before his death.

Rick was confused. He knew about an incident where Nicholas had cut his neck with a razor blade, but Landrum seemed to be talking about another time.

It wasn’t until months later that he came across a hospital form indicating his son had been treated for dehydration and malnourishment on Oct. 5. An emergency detention form clearly stated a doctor’s worry that Nicholas might die.

“My name is on the file,” Rick says angrily. “Why didn’t someone contact me?”

After Nicholas’ memorial service, Rick and Diane decided to send his body for a private autopsy in Michigan. They heard about Werner Spitz, a renowned pathologist, who might be able to help them.

But like determining his sanity in life, experts would disagree on what caused Nicholas Rice’s death.

Coming Friday: Why did Nicholas die?

Challenges Add Up

From The South Bend Tribune By Alicia Gallegos Tribune Staff Writer Source: news Saturday,November 17, 2007 Edition: mich, , Page A1

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Third of five parts

SOUTH BEND — Frost now covered the once-bloody grounds where three people were shot in the head on April 25, 2003, and left for dead.

Mari Lindke, former St. Joseph County deputy prosecutor, and her team now had the daunting task of preparing for trials that would attempt to bring the men involved to justice.

Terrease Nesbitt, then 22, and Aaron Johnson, then 25, sat in jail cells awaiting court proceedings. Another suspect, 18-year-old Antonio Pettrie, had pleaded guilty to the attacks.

A fourth man, Sylvester Dingle III, was killed in the shooting.

But valuable witnesses aren’t always around after crimes wind their way to court.

Melissa, the woman raped and shot in the incident, was no longer living in the city.

“We had to find her,” Lindke later remembered. “We had to do some looking.”

For prosecutors, attorneys and other court officials, assembling a case is a lengthy process that begins months before a jury is ever selected.

What is not apparent during dramatic trials is the massive amount of behind-the-scenes work required – adding to an already heavy stack of caseloads weighing on courts across the country.

In 2005, 100 million incoming cases made their way through state courts, 21 percent of which were criminal cases, according to a study by the National Center for State Courts.

Indiana courts handled more than 71,000 felony cases in 2005, the study found.

A single case is a burden on court officials as well as its victims, who often must describe painful events over and over again.

After some searching, Lindke and then-paralegal Kathy Sadler tracked Melissa down in Kentucky, where the woman was serving in the Job Corps.

When Sadler told her it was the prosecutor’s office calling about the shooting, the woman screamed and dropped the phone.

During the few months that had passed, Melissa had tried to forget about the terrifying attack. Now she was being asked to come back and retell it to a crowd of strangers.

Lindke knew that, as for most victims of violent crime, the trials wouldn’t be easy.

Costly court cases

In 2006, close to 2,000 felony cases were filed in St. Joseph County, 120 of which went to trial.

“That’s way too many for this county,” says Frank Schaffer, former deputy prosecutor recently turned U.S. attorney.

Costs associated with trials are many, court officials say.

Juror duty pays $25 a person plus mileage, which rises to $52 a day after jurors are selected. For murder cases about 50 people are called for duty reduced to 12 jurors plus two alternates.

Gathering victims could mean paying for plane tickets, meals and lodging, Schaffer says, or bringing witnesses from out-of-state prisons.

Loss of work during trial dates also adds up for families, says Deputy Prosecutor Liz Hurley, lead attorney for the St. Joseph County Family Violence and Victims Unit.

Then there are the hearing continuances, scheduling conflicts and other case mishaps that may prolong a resolution.

Nationally, the median time from arrest to sentencing in state courts was about six months, according to the most recent study by the Bureau of Justice Statistics.

In the United States, an estimated 1,051,000 people were convicted of a felony in state courts, according to the BJS study – of that number, 197,030 were for violent felonies.

Planning for justice

Lindke and her then-prosecuting team had their work cut out for them during the winter of 2003, as the Howard Park shooting trials loomed.

“Oh, God, preparing for that,” Lindke later said, her eyes growing wide with the memory.

The shootings had happened after Melissa accepted a ride home earlier that spring from four men in a green SUV.

After Nesbitt threatened her life, he and other men reportedly took turns raping her and forcing her to perform oral sex, according to reports.

A debate about whether the woman should be killed ended with the fatal shooting of Dingle and the wounding of both Melissa and 25-year-old Aaron Johnson, another participant.

But wrapping the whole case into a presentable display would be complicated.

“You’re talking four suspects, one rape kit, and blood evidence everywhere,” Lindke said later. “The crime scene itself was all of Howard Park.”

Lindke had never seen a DNA report as extensive as the one related to the Howard Park shootings. It was 17 pages long.

The company Christmas party came and went that year while Lindke and others worked.

Dozens of charts were created, key photos were selected from the 100 or so taken at the scene, crime scene videos were reviewed, and every bit of suspect audio was dissected.

Planning the case, Sadler said later, was like packing for a trip: The team laid everything out, decided what to take and tried not to forget anything.

At least 15 witnesses were involved, and each had to be interviewed at least once before the trial. Protecting their star witness and explaining court proceedings was also paramount.

Melissa, then, 20, happened to be four months pregnant during the trials by a then-boyfriend. To protect her identity, The Tribune is not using her real name.

“Testimony is always the most important piece,” Lindke later said. “With that case there was never a question, ‘Was she raped?’ It’s an issue of consent.”

Testimony: Time, money

Witnesses aren’t the only ones who must prepare for trials and find time to testify.

Coroners, medical examiners, police and homicide investigators must also review old reports and prepare.

“The lead investigator has to sit through the entire trial, the pretrial, hearings, evidence, testimony,” says Capt. Mike Grzegorek, assistant commander of the St. Joseph County Metro Homicide Unit. “It really varies how fast this goes.”

Expert witnesses are another expense.

Hurley says some experts charge about $300 an hour. The price depends on the specialist and how long he or she must be used.

DNA expert Dr. Michael Conneally, a professor emeritus at Indiana University, charges $500 to $800 a day for his services, he said. The doctor has testified in 26 states in the last 18 years, including St. Joseph County.

Conneally points out the rate for private lab experts is closer to $3,000 a day.

But in a case like the Howard Park shootings, when DNA is an essential part of the evidence, the testimony of experts is priceless.

Unpacking the case

During the Howard Park shooting trials in January 2004, Pettrie testified against Nesbitt and Johnson, confirming Melissa’s account that she had protested the sex assaults.

Melissa took the stand during each of the two trials and told jurors of the traumatic April night.

“The first time, I had no idea how I made it up there without throwing up,” Melissa would later say. “The second trial, I was stronger. I went in with my head up and looked them dead in the eyes.”

Johnson testified that he was not part of the assault against Melissa.

Defense attorneys called Pettrie’s statements into question because of differences in earlier accounts.

Each trial was exhausting, but Lindke and her team presented their case as clearly as possible.

The fate of both men now hung in the hands of jurors.

Coming Sunday: A judgment with high rates

Staff writer Alicia Gallegos: agallegos@sbtinfo.com (574) 235-6368

———————-

Only on the Web

* A young woman hurt in a domestic violence incident struggles to recover.

* Mother of teen shot outside a party recalls horror.

* Memorial ER workers respond to “lightning.”

About this series

Thursday: Medical miracles can’t stanch costs of violence.

Friday: Lengthy bills for law enforcement, big tabs for testing.

Today: Court caseloads pile up.

Sunday: Jam-packed prisons weigh down taxpayer pockets.

Monday: Mental anguish lingers long after scars heal.

From the South Bend Tribune

Who is Madison?

From the South Bend Tribune

Who is ‘Madison’? By Alicia Gallegos Tribune Staff Writer Source:  news Sunday,December 16, 2007 Edition: mich, , Page A1

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SOUTH BEND — At nightfall, a motorist driving U.S. 31 in either direction would pass several well-lit streets and fluorescent signs before crossing the intersection of Madison Road.

A narrow, two-lane street jutting west of the highway, Madison is about three miles south of Ireland Road, close to four miles north of New Road, and just about as dark as can be. The road seems to be the perfect place for a vehicle to travel without being seen, taking the driver toward an empty field lined in shadowy woods.

The pasture is overgrown with thick brush, an ideal place to hide something — say, for instance, a dead body.

Although the concealed crypt may sound like the setting for a horror film, it was in this very spot 11 years ago this month that the bones of a young woman were discovered.

The mystery of “Madison,” nicknamed after the road she was found near, has never been solved. Over the years, the case has been passed through a chain of investigators, come close to a series of conclusions, but repeatedly hit a wall of dead ends.

Now homicide detective Sgt. Tom Cameron, who has been working on the death for almost a decade, is hoping that a new forensic sketch will help revive Madison’s case.

A recently developed DNA database and a growing world of Internet resources focusing on missing people also are tools advancing Cameron’s efforts.

Although the strange location of the woman’s body and other signs indicate foul play, investigators know that before they

can figure out how Madison died, they must first answer the question that has proved baffling: Who is she?

A grisly discovery

The sun was shining on Dec. 29, 1996, when Ed Walton and his buddies Steve and Joe went hunting off Madison Road.

The men were shooting at clay pigeons, Walton remembered recently, when one of the men walked over to what he believed was a heap of firewood and spotted a pile of human bones.

“There’s a skeleton over here!” Walton remembered his friend shouting. “I said, ‘Don’t touch it, damn it!’ ”

The group rushed to a nearby farmhouse owned by Bob Krusinski and called 911. A swarm of St. Joseph County officers were soon at the scene.

Krusinski, who owns 220 acres in the area including the land where the body was discovered, said recently that he had dragged a tractor over that part of the pasture for years.

Krusinski

“I never thought nothing of it,” he said. “It was just a bunch of shrubs at that time.”

It’s mostly hunters who roam the field to catch deer, wild turkey and pheasants, said longtime Madison Road resident Violet Dudley.

“I was surprised that she had been there long enough to turn to bones and nobody noticed,” Dudley said.

Examiners estimated the body had been in the field for about 18 months.

Not a shred of clothing was found on the bones or anywhere nearby. Even after a year and a half, Cameron said that if the woman had been clothed, evidence of a remaining button or a fiber of clothing would have been found.

“There’s absolutely nothing there,” he said. “There’s no clothing and only one strand of brown hair.”

A forensic anthropologist in Michigan was able to determine that the skeleton was that of a white female, likely between the ages of 20 and 35. Further estimates put Madison between 5-foot-3 and 5-foot-7 inches tall.

No trauma was discovered on the body, according to Cameron, adding that the throat bone, called the hyoid, was also intact, ruling out strangulation.

“It’s a cold case of an unknown death,” he said.

The highway to Madison

Eleven years ago, the Citgo gas station that now sits at the intersection of Madison and U.S. 31 was a grocery store and owned then by longtime resident Larry Ross.

Back then, Ross owned all of the properties near the intersection, said his son, Joe Ross, including the restaurant next door now called Stacie’s diner, which was then a doughnut shop.

What hasn’t changed is the busy highway that sends cars, trucks and semi-trailers whizzing past the edge of Madison Road on any given night.

“It’s the link,” says Ross, who works at his father’s U.S. 31 business, Country Gardens Nursery Landscaping.

Ross calls the highway “crazy” for the number of crashes that have happened on it, but he explains that with its access to so many major destinations, “everybody” travels the road.

“This is the main route to Indy, Rochester, all of them,” Ross says. “I think they call it one of the main arteries of South Bend.”

Not only locally, but U.S. 31 is also an easy channel from one side of the country to the other, Cameron says, considering the highway runs into the Indiana Toll Road.The scope means Madison could have come from anywhere.

The search has sent former investigators and Cameron dipping into the files of thousands of missing persons cases across the nation, trying to find a match.

In the last year alone, Cameron has spent close to 200 hours sifting through charts, calling outside police departments, talking to families and looking at online resources.

“I’m playing with this when I’m not working on what happened this weekend,” he says. “I have piles of stuff that needs to be done.”

The investigator regularly returns to the findings of the forensic anthropologist, whose report of Madison’s description just doesn’t add up to her death going unnoticed.

Puzzling traits

A study of Madison’s mouth by pathologists in 1996 revealed that the woman had excellent hygiene, according to past reports.

Further examinations determined the woman had never had a broken bone, was “fit” and seemed to be in good general health.

The conditions mean the victim was not likely homeless or a runaway, Cameron said, and would usually be easily connected to a family.

But there’s an even stranger piece of the identification puzzle that has had detectives scratching their heads to this day. It’s an uncommon biological trait discovered on the body that is so rare, it’s shared by less than 10 percent of the population.

It would seem that this clue to Madison’s identity would mean that someone, somewhere, would recognize who she is. Wouldn’t it?

Coming Monday: Sketching a skeleton

Staff writer Alicia Gallegos: agallegos@sbtinfo.com (574) 235-6368





Runaway Series

From the South Bend Tribune

‘Nothing I could do’ By Alicia Gallegos Tribune Staff Writer Sunday,December 3, 2006 Edition: MARS, Section: nation, Page A1

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SOUTH BEND

When her 14-year-old son ran away the first time, Donna Horne did what many parents would do: She called police.

The single mother hoped officers would quickly catch up with the teen, who left in a huff during an argument with his mom.

After filling out a runaway report, police said they would keep an eye out for the teenager, and the worried mother waited for news.

But Garrett Horne had taken a train to Michigan City, where he lived previously with his father, and was eventually found with old friends.

The teen spent a short time in a Michigan City detention facility after he was found, and Horne picked him up, hoping again the story would end there.

Instead, the mother’s ordeal of dealing with a runaway child and what she says was little help to curb the behavior was just beginning.

Shortly after returning to his mother’s home in South Bend, Garrett was gone again.

Horne, a social worker who had moved with her younger daughter to South Bend the year before, spent countless hours on the phone and in person with police, the Frederick N. Thomas Juvenile Justice Center, her son’s school, friends and family.

It seemed everywhere she turned, a door closed in her face.

Horne believed officers did little to find her son, and she was upset that the JJC wouldn’t detain him. The school couldn’t do much except be on alert that he was missing, and his friends “conveniently” hadn’t seen him.

“The JJC, police, school, they had no effect,” Horne said. “I saw with my own eyes there was nothing I could do.”

And Garrett soon realized that few repercussions followed after he left home.

“I thought the first time after I got caught, I’d get locked up,” the then-14-year-old said months later. “If I had got locked up, I probably wouldn’t have (kept doing) it.”

Horne wondered whether it was going to take her son turning violent, delving into worse trouble or becoming a victim himself before someone took the situation seriously. She feared it was only a matter of time before officers were knocking on her door.

It was.

“It didn’t have to be this way,” she now says.

A ‘silent crisis’

Running away is one of the most overlooked and underdocumented problems in the country, Maureen Blaha says.

One of every seven children will run away from home before the age of 18, and an estimated 446,700 run every year, according to a report from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

“Running away is a silent crisis,” says Blaha, executive director of the National Runaway Switchboard. “I don’t think people realize what a crisis it is.”

More than a third of the children who run away leave more than once, the NCMEC report says, not including the estimated 12,800 who escape from juvenile facilities annually.

In Indiana, the number of runaways has increased in the last year, according to annual FBI statistics. In 2005, 3,761 children were recorded as running away, compared with 3,576 in 2004, reports say.

“This is a hard population to get our arms around,” Blaha says. “Parents don’t always report kids running away, but the numbers are staggering.”

In South Bend, police records indicate that runaway numbers have gone up in the last year, and St. Joseph County authorities stress that the dilemma remains consistent.

In 2005, a total of 575 runaway reports were made in South Bend, an increase of 37 since 2004.

JJC numbers show that in 2005, 537 runaways were reported, down one from the previous year.

But don’t forget, experts say, the “throwaway” children.

The term refers to the estimated 127,100 children each year who are directly told to leave the household or who have caretakers who make no effort to recover the child after they’ve run away, according to the NCMEC.

It’s a label that counters the traditional perception of running away, Washington High School social worker Mary Lahey says, and she believes “it has gotten much worse.”

“We have an awful lot of children living with neither parent,” she says. “We’ve got an awful lot of homeless children. They’re just bouncing from one place to another.

“Is that running away?”

An estimated 59,200 “throwaway” children are without a secure place to stay while on the run, the NCMEC reports, and the often-abandoned group is far less likely to ever return home.

The blame game

During one of the multiple times Garrett was missing from home, the 14-year-old returned to school at Jackson Intermediate Center.

A school resource officer learned that the teen was in the building and promptly confronted him, dropping him off at home.

Police say resource officers at middle schools must contact parents or guardians and let them know if their runaway has been found at school.

Horne was at work, but Garrett was met at his house by his aunt. He stayed only 30 minutes, changed clothes and left again.”There were no consequences,” Horne says.

Although parents easily direct anger to authorities when their children run away, school and police officials say a lack of options also frustrates them.

School resource officers are usually notified of a student runaway and are asked to be on the lookout, Lahey said, adding that sometimes teachers may not know a student has run away unless told by administrators.

But officers can’t do much more than transport a runaway after they’re found.

After a runaway report is made, police enter the missing child into the National Crime Information Center system and alert on-duty officers of the runaway’s description and possible locations.

Some police departments, like Mishawaka, have an officer who specializes in searching for runaways, but a lack of manpower and resources means police can’t spend entire shifts looking for missing teens, according to Mishawaka Police Capt. Pasquale Rulli Jr.

“I always tell parents, you need to go out pounding on doors yourself, we’re not going to look like (actors) look on TV,” he said.

Once police find a runaway, they can either take them home, to the JJC, or to the Safe Station, a local housing place for runaways.

Running away is a status offense, explains South Bend Police Capt. Phil Trent, meaning the action is only illegal because of the offender’s age.

“We take the report and assist in locating them, but then we turn it over to the JJC,” he said. “From there it’s up to those authorities.”

The chance that JJC will actually keep the runaway is low, according to South Bend Sgt. Marian Nicks-Walker, who handles many runaway cases.

Lack of bed space and more serious juvenile offenders make it hard for the facility to accommodate runaways, authorities explain.

JJC officials do evaluate each case and deem whether the child is a danger to themselves or the community, sometimes holding them for 24 hours, according to Chuck Whetstone, JJC director of probation.

“We have only a 90-bed facility,” Whetstone says. “We’d have 300 kids in here if we took every runaway who was refusing to do chores.”

Children who repeatedly run away have the possibility of being placed on probation, Whetstone said, and adolescents with three or four status offenses are sometimes referred to the Department of Correction for private placement.

For the most part, runaways return home on their own, according to police.

In fact, officers often struggle with parents who fail to follow up after the child is found, leaving the child lingering in the system.

Most kids are discovered within 48 hours, Trent says, and back home within 72. More than 90 percent of runaway cases are reportedly resolved.

“It’s very common for us to discover the child has returned home by making a followup phone call,” he said.

No easy answers

So what can be done to reduce the number of adolescents running away? And what control do parents and officials have?

Horne, like other parents might believe, thinks a couple of nights in the JJC might have shaken Garrett up enough for him to stop running.

But others think running away is anything but a crime and should not be treated as such. The action is a “cry for help,” Blaha says, and the reason a child is running needs to be examined first.

Either way, experts say, ignoring the problem altogether often leads to further delinquency down the road.

In Garrett’s case, the lack of consequence for running away led to a juvenile record and a home detention bracelet.

Coming Monday: Reasons as varied as runaways

From the South Bend Tribune

Why runaways run By Alicia Gallegos Tribune Staff Writer Monday,December 4, 2006 Edition: MARS, Section: nation, Page A1

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SOUTH BEND — As Jenny Forkner had imagined, her 17-year-old son, Zak, was not happy when she told him he couldn’t attend a concert last summer in Indianapolis.

The mother and son had a typical argument about it, and the teen sullenly accepted his mother’s decision.

Or so she thought.

Little did she know her son was instead planning to run away. Sometime during the night in mid-July, he packed a few things and slipped into the darkness while Forkner slept.

The single mother discovered Zak was missing the next morning and frantically checked his usual spots: skate parks, friends’ homes and his job at Steak N Shake.

Then she called police.

She figured her son was just upset with her and would be back after he let off some steam, but days went by, and he didn’t return.

“You go through a lot of emotions,” she said shortly after his disappearance. “There’s times when I’m sad and times when I’m angry. I’ve never dealt with this.”

Zak had never been in major trouble before, Forkner said. He was an A student at Community Baptist, involved in their church, played several sports and was holding down a job.

A new girlfriend had altered the teenager’s attitude slightly, Forkner said, but she never expected he’d run away.

Shortly afterward, his 15-year-old girlfriend also went missing.

Her son had been extremely close to his grandfather, Forkner said, and she knew he had taken it hard when the man passed away six months before.

In the meantime, the mother could only hope that after the concert took place the next weekend, Zak would come back.

A range of reasons

As many reasons exist as to why children run away as there are kids, says Washington High School social worker Mary Lahey. They can range from a typical bout of teenage rebellion to deeper-rooted issues such as abuse and neglect.

Lahey sees many students who have little structure in their lives but a whole lot of responsibility.

“Sometimes it’s not even reported that they’re a runaway,” she says. “They’ll just tell someone, ‘I haven’t been home in three days.'”

Nationally, the No. 1 reason that children run away is family dynamics, according to Maureen Blaha, executive director of the National Runaway Switchboard.

“Adolescence is a bit of a turbulent time to begin with,” she said. “Kids are trying to exercise their independence.”

A breakdown of communication in families is something employees at the Safe Station see all the time.

The facility is part of the St. Joseph County Youth Service Bureau and provides a 24-hour shelter for teens in crisis.

Many times teenagers may feel as if they’ve been kicked out because of a confrontation with a parent, while the parent believes the child ran away, says service coordinator Shotunus Peterson.

Of course, parents arguing with teenagers is nothing new, experts say. But the way in which families operate and are broken down is.

The number of children born outside of marriage has risen along with women in the work force who have young children, says Scott Sernau, a sociology professor at Indiana University South Bend.

This isn’t to say all single mothers are without help from fathers, he said, adding there has actually been a rise in joint custody.

“(But) kids are dealing with more complicated families,” he said, meaning that stepparents, half-siblings and other extended family members play a role in the child’s life and sometimes add conflict.

Similarly, the way parents and children interact today varies from years past, Sernau says, and their relationships can sometimes be a double-edged sword.

“If you ask people about their relationship with their children, they will tell you that they get along better with their children than they did with their own parents,” he says.

But there is less certainty about roles and what goes into discipline, he explains.

Many parents want to be friends with their children, and that can send mixed messages to kids.

“It becomes ambiguous,” Sernau says. “What makes a good mother or father?”

Some parents have never set boundaries with their children, causing them to lash out when faced with limitations for the first time.

Running from trouble

Other teenagers take their chances on the street rather than face the aftermath of delinquent actions, says Chuck Whetstone, director of probation for the Frederick N. Thomas Juvenile Justice Center.

JJC officials are faced with some children who don’t want to deal with probation restrictions or court hearings, so they run.

This was the case for 16-year-old Michael Mason, who last summer cut off his home detention band and jumped out of a window at his home.

His mother, Yolanda Mason, said her son had been in trouble for fighting and said earlier, “Mama, I’m not gonna stay in one place for 90 days.”

Family members returned home from church one day, to find Michael gone.

When Mason first spoke about her son, he had been gone for two weeks.

“He’s running from fear,” she said. “It’s heartbreaking. I’m praying. Everybody’s praying.”

Mason and her husband couldn’t spend all of their time looking for Michael, being the parents of eight children, four of them teenagers. Both work and are active members of their church, Mason said.

The parents also had to deal with their 16-year-old daughter, Michelle — Michael’s twin — running away, Mason said.

That time, Mason found out where she was and drove to Beacon Heights apartments to retrieve her, finding her with a group of unruly and disrespectful teens.

“It was a mess,” Mason said. “I gave her a great big hug and said, ‘This is not where you need to be.'”

Michelle came home willingly, and Mason doesn’t believe she’ll run away again.

But Michael, on the other hand, was running from consequences bound to catch up with him.

Beyond rebellion

At the other end of running away are children who are neglected, experts say.

Staff at the Safe Station often see teens who are overlooked by parents and caregivers and run because they’re searching for something, says director Mary Poczik.

Many times children missing from home will show up at school because they value the structured atmosphere school provides, she said.

Employees also remember being surprised to find that teens staying at the shelter actually liked that staff members checked on them every half-hour during the night.

Down the dark end of the spectrum is also the issue of physical and sexual abuse. Poczik has seen her share of kids plagued by present or past abuse but who are reluctant to talk about it.

At least with police officers, Sgt. Marian Nicks-Walker said children aren’t as open as they used to be about what’s going on at home.

“(It’s) frustrating,” she said. “In the early ’90s, kids were more willing to talk. Now kids are on edge. Sometimes they’re real careful of what they tell police.”

But experts say children who run from abusive situations at home may become victims again the longer they stay on the streets.

Coming Tuesday: Path often leads from home to crime

Staff writer Alicia Gallegos:

agallegos@sbtinfo.com

A costly ride: Modern medicine saves more lives than ever, but violence exacts even greater tolls

South Bend Tribune – South Bend, Ind.

Author:	ALICIA GALLEGOS
Date:	Nov 15, 2007

First of five parts

SOUTH BEND — She remembers stumbling out of the truck and trying to find her bearings in the darkness.

She could feel the wet sensation of blood dripping down her neck.

After a few dizzying minutes, she realized she was in a park … Howard Park.

Wearing only a fleece jacket and her socks, Melissa staggered past the big maple tree and into the street screaming.

Cars whizzed past her on Jefferson Boulevard, none stopping for the half-naked, bleeding young woman.

Finally, a cab driver pulled over, Melissa later remembered. “I was like, ‘I’ve been shot! Let me in!’”

When police and paramedics arrived at the scene just before 3 a.m. that April morning in 2003, they found that 20-year-old Melissa was not the only victim. To protect her identity, The Tribune is not using her real name.

Another man also was alive, shot in the head. A third person lay dead inside a nearby vehicle.

Like dozens of violent crimes, the process of piecing together the bloody picture was just beginning.

When it was over, Melissa would be far from the only person to pay a price.

Just how many people are affected by a single act of violence? The price may be too much to quantify.

But a closer look shows that the bill extends far past the intended or unintended target. It reaches into hospital emergency rooms, through police departments, into courtrooms and across prisons, ultimately digging into the pockets of taxpayers.

Annually, the United States suffers 16,800 homicides and 2.2 million medically treated injuries because of violence, according to a new study in the American Journal of Preventative Medicine.

Productivity losses and medical treatment alone cost a combined $37 billion, the study found.

But violence also carries with it an emotional price that weighs not only on victims, but on the very people working to ease the burden.

Taming trauma

Trauma, Memorial Hospital emergency room physician Mark Walsh says, is like lightning: It strikes on any given day, sometimes more than once, and sends dozens of emergency staff racing to find its cause.

Memorial Hospital’s ER was struck by 50,000 patients in 2006, an increase of 4,000 from the previous year, according to Memorial records provided to The Tribune.

In 2006, 186 of that number were considered “911 status,” meeting the highest level of trauma activation. The category includes blunt, penetrating and burn trauma.

“I think anyone that is new to this community as a physician is in for a big surprise,” says Dr. Scott Thomas, a surgeon who is director of the trauma center. “It’s frightening to look at the amount of violence we have in this community.”

Memorial has been operating as a Level II trauma center for three years. Only four hospitals in Indiana have this verification.

The status means the hospital has the ability to care for a higher level of trauma — and it is sent the worst-of-the-worst cases.

Like other high-level care facilities around the country, new advancements and medical technology have led to a dramatic increase in survivability.

That’s why experts say the best measure of violence in a community may not be by counting murders.

A 2002 University of Massachusetts Amherst study found that advances in medical care in the last 40 years have decreased homicides by more than 30,000 nationally.

“I think if you’re trying to assess the burden of violence, it’s really important to go beyond just fatalities,” says Dr. Phaedra Corso, associate professor at Harvard University and co-author of the AJPM study.

But trauma experts say the art of saving lives doesn’t start at the hospital.

It starts during the first critical moments after medics reach the scene.

The cost of violence

On a recent Sunday afternoon, all is calm in the Memorial emergency room when “lightning” strikes.

In a flash, specialists assemble in the ER. The group includes surgeons, nurses, a blood bank operator, a respiratory therapist and countless others.

The team darts confidently around the trauma room, watching computer screens, grabbing medical tools and hovering over a newly arrived patient suffering from a gunshot wound.

Police officers stand nearby, taking pictures of the woman’s injuries and asking questions about what she remembers.

In minutes, the victim is whisked off to surgery to remove a bullet lodged in her stomach.

The scenario is routine for the trauma team.

In 2006, Memorial Hospital treated 40 gunshot wounds related to an assault, as opposed to accidents or suicides, a rise of 11 since 2005, according to records.

Penetrating wounds — primarily stab and gunshot wounds — account for about 19 percent of the most severe trauma patients.

“It’s a disproportionately high number for a community of this size,” Thomas says.

But trauma experts and surgeons have become aces at following the path of a bullet inside a body and working to prevent its destruction.

Along with their medical knowledge, doctors also know their share of ballistics, Thomas says, learning the impact of trajectories and being able to identify the caliber of weapons.

“Nowadays, a .22 is a common gun,” he says, “(but) a 9 mm, it can do quite a bit of damage.”

Trauma costs vary with injury and length of treatment.

An overnight stay in the intensive care unit runs patients $2,630, a cost that can easily be multiplied by a respirator, X-rays or surgery.

For patients without insurance, it’s hospitals and taxpayers that pick up the bills.

“Nobody’s turned away,” says Dr. Tim Noveroske, a Memorial surgeon. “Who’s going to pay for it later?”

A walking miracle

The last thing Melissa remembers before losing consciousness is the cold air at the hospital and how the nurses cut off her red and black fleece jacket.

She loved that fleece.

Everyone was rushing around, and blood was running down her shoulder, soaking the gauze wrapped around her arm. Then she was asleep.

When she awoke, her whole family was in her hospital room, staring down at her.

Melissa was told that she had been shot in the head and in the arm, but that the bullet had missed any major vessels in her brain.

“They said I was a miracle,” she later remembered. “A walking, talking miracle.”

Her bills would eventually total more than $15,000, she later said, which would be paid for by victim assistance money, distributed by the Indiana Department of Justice.

While Melissa was gathering her strength in the hospital, police officers were sifting through evidence at the scene where she was attacked.

As dawn broke on April 25, 2003, investigators surveyed the violent puzzle:

Two shooting victims in the hospital, one man dead, a sport utility vehicle parked in the middle of Howard Park, and plenty of unanswered questions.

Coming Friday: Investigators begin to unravel the case — but at a price.

Staff writer Alicia Gallegos:
agallegos@sbtinfo.com
(574) 235-6368

 

Are former lead factory sites toxic?

From the South Bend Tribune

Are former lead factory sites toxic? By Alicia Gallegos Tribune Staff Writer Source:  news Sunday,July 20, 2008 Edition: mich, , Page A1

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SOUTH BEND — Older homes and peeling paint might not be the only sources of higher lead poisoning rates in certain parts of the city.

Historical data show that lingering in two of the highest lead-testing ZIP codes in South Bend are the remains of two former lead smelting operations, which, according to an environmental scientist, could be leaching toxins into the soil.

Last Sunday, The Tribune reported the results of a five-year St. Joseph County Health Department analysis finding that children are being poisoned at higher rates in ZIP codes 46619, 46628 and 46616.

William Eckel, a senior scientist with the Environmental Protection Agency, says that in 2000, he discovered more than 600 unrecognized lead-smelting sites across the country, including two in South Bend — Max Schneider Co., 2606 W. Sample St., and South Bend Smelting & Refining Co., also known as Hurwich Iron Co., 1610 W. Circle Ave.

The former Schneider Co. resides in ZIP code 46619, and the South Bend Smelting building is in 46628.

“What I found is that these were not recognized by the government as having industrial activity on them,” said Eckel, who conducted the study as part of his doctoral research. “Not being investigated (or) inspected.

“It’s a potential exposure pathway.”

Local health department officials said they had no knowledge of the former lead smelting sites in South Bend and did not know whether they could be creating contamination.

“I’m not familiar with that,” said Marc Nelson, health department environmental health manager. “Any site we know of contamination, we follow up on. If we are aware of any, we would follow through.”

The health department’s lead program coordinator, Rebekah Carpenter, said lead officials have examined some current industrial companies that could be releasing toxins into the air, but they had not heard about any former lead smelters in the county.

If a major contamination site exists that requires cleanup, Nelson said it falls under efforts by the EPA or the Indiana Department of Environmental Management, with aid from the local health department.

IDEM records indicate that at least one of the sites was tested at some point, according to spokeswoman Amy Hartosk.

Hartosk said a lead soil sampling was completed in the residential area around the former Max Schneider operation, as part of an initiative by the EPA in the early 2000s to investigate lead smelters. The rates were determined to be at safe levels, she said.

Hartosk did not find records to indicate that any testing had been done at the South Bend Smelting building, she said.

In an e-mail response, an EPA spokeswoman said the department’s Office of Research and Development was not familiar with either site.

But Eckel says that testing only the soil near homes and not inspecting the entire smelting source may not be clearing away all the danger.

Changing times, owners

Just past the Olive Street overpass, a long blue building stretches for more than a block along Sample Street.

The facility at 2620 Sample St. is also listed under 2606 Sample St. in the St. Joseph County assessor database and is classified as “vacant land.”

The listed owners of the property could not be reached for comment Friday.

But Tom Schwenk, who owns a trucking company next door to the building and has lived in the area for 60 years, says the warehouse was formally a cardboard-making company before it switched owners.

He doesn’t recall a smelting factory ever having been there, although he says the surrounding land around Sample Street has been known to have pollutants.

“This was a typical industrial side of town for years and years,” he said. “But I don’t know of any lead in the ground.”

Many of the historic sites Eckel investigated operated between 1931 and 1964, having changed hands and operations frequently since then.

Database information provided by Eckel shows that the 2606 W. Sample company was listed in operation between 1963 and 1964. South Bend Smelting and Refining on Circle Avenue was listed in operation in 1950, and again from 1963 to 1964.

IDEM officials say they do not believe either business is in operation and that no current permits are listed for either address.

The Circle Avenue address, which is just east of Olive Street off Washington Street, is listed under multiple owners in the assessor’s database, and it was unclear exactly which one owned that particular building. A set of industrial buildings sits behind a fence at the property.

A man who has been reported in the past as a partner in a company that owns the Circle Avenue address, also listed as Hurwich Iron, did not return a call Friday seeking more information.

Like the South Bend sites, most of the historical lead smelters Eckel researched were near cities and neighborhoods. Many apparently conducted secondary recycling of some type or specialized in old car batteries and moved closer to the demand.

Eckel said it’s essential to test the source of the site and not just surrounding areas. Data has shown that once the lead seeps into soil, it can stay for decades, he said, and contamination can exist on- and off-site.

An investigation into lead poisonings in the neighboring state of Michigan five years ago showed just this.

Detroit contamination

In Detroit, 16 potentially harmful former lead smelters, foundries and alloy makers were identified and linked to soil contamination after research by Eckel and a series of reports by the Detroit Free Press.

The 2003 reports detailed the problem of childhood lead poisoning in the city, improper testing, and the cleanups of smelters.

Many of the Detroit smelters had been abandoned or sold and were performing different operations, making them difficult to track, according to a summary on the EPA Web site.

“Testing has been done in some of them showing high levels of contamination, prompting further testing and analysis for lead and other heavy metals,” the report reads.

In response, the EPA and other Michigan health agencies started an initiative to clean up the former smelters and pledged to cut the percentage of lead-poisoned children in half by 2010.

Eckel said other states also started to look into historic smelter sites after his research and the Free Press reports, including Ohio and New York.

Some smelter sites are also included on the EPA’s National Priorities List, a list aimed at cleaning up contamination areas, also called Superfund sites.

However, in her e-mail response, EPA spokeswoman Roxanne Smith wrote that not all lead smelters automatically come under protection of the Superfund program once they cease.

“Sites come to the attention of the program after a release, or threat of a release of a hazardous substance into the environment,” she wrote. “Only the most complex sites become Superfund sites, other sites are addressed by states.”

Likewise, Hartosk from IDEM said the state checks properties based on knowledge of contamination, a complaint of possible contamination or during a routine inspection.

Staff writer Alicia Gallegos: agallegos@sbtinfo.com (574) 235-6368