Thousands allege sexual abuse in youth detention centers. It could cost
Maryland a huge sum
[March 21, 2025]
By LEA SKENE
BALTIMORE (AP) — Arlando “Tray” Jones was a toddler when his dad was
killed by Baltimore police during a robbery. His mom died several years
later after battling alcoholism.
His surviving relatives often struggled to provide for him. Sometimes
the lights got turned off and the refrigerator was empty.
Jones turned to a notorious neighborhood drug dealer, a sinister father
figure whose lavish lifestyle demonstrated what could be achieved in the
streets. Under the supervision of “Fat Larry,” Jones finally had stable
housing and money in his pocket, but violence was all around him. He
started carrying a gun and punishing anyone who crossed him. Barely a
teenager, he was charged with attempted murder and sent to juvenile
detention in the early 1980s.
There, at the Maryland Training School for Boys, Jones says a staff
member repeatedly sexually assaulted him while another kept watch. The
guards would corner children in dark spaces and bribe them with extra
snacks and other special treatment, according to a slew of recent
lawsuits alleging widespread misconduct in Maryland’s juvenile detention
facilities.
“They broke me,” Jones said, recounting how his abusers beat him into
submission. “Everything that connected me to my humanity was just gone.”
Jones is among thousands of people seeking accountability under a new
state law that eliminated the statute of limitations for child sexual
abuse claims. It was passed in 2023 with the Catholic Church abuse
scandal in mind. But now Maryland lawmakers are scrambling to address an
unexpected onslaught of cases targeting the state’s juvenile justice
system. They’re worried the state budget can’t support a potential
payout.
The Associated Press requested an interview with the state’s Department
of Juvenile Services, but the department responded with a statement
instead.
“DJS takes allegations of sexual abuse of children in our care with
utmost seriousness and we are working hard to provide decent, humane and
rehabilitative environments for youth committed to the Department. We do
not comment on pending litigation,” the agency said.
To the plaintiffs, it’s no surprise that Maryland leaders failed to
anticipate a public reckoning of this size. Many victims spent decades
in silence, paralyzed by shame. They were some of Maryland’s most
vulnerable residents, mostly Black kids growing up in poverty with
little family support.
All these years later, Jones still broke down crying in an interview.
“But now I know the shame is not mine to bear,” he said.
A law with unexpected consequences
Maryland lawmakers passed the Child Victims Act in the immediate
aftermath of a scathing investigative report that revealed widespread
abuse within the Archdiocese of Baltimore. Before its passage, victims
couldn’t sue after they turned 38.
The law change prompted the archdiocese to file for bankruptcy to
protect its assets. But state leaders didn’t anticipate they’d be facing
similar budgetary concerns. Lawmakers are now considering new
legislation to shield the state financially.
An estimated 6,000 people have retained attorneys and new complaints are
pouring in, according to lawyers involved. In addition to monetary
damages, plaintiffs want mandated reform of Maryland’s juvenile justice
system.
The system has drawn serious criticism over the years. A 2004 Justice
Department report found a “deeply disturbing degree of physical abuse”
at the facility where Jones was detained, now called the Charles H.
Hickey Jr. School. The state closed Hickey’s youth treatment program in
2005, but it’s still operating as a youth detention center.
Many other facilities named in the lawsuits have already been closed,
and state leaders have strengthened oversight in recent years. They’ve
also focused on detaining fewer youths.
Advocates say they’re confident the system is significantly less abusive
than it was.
Other states have faced similar reckonings after changing their laws.
While juvenile arrests and detention rates are declining nationally,
research shows the majority of detainees are children of color. A 2024
report from the nonprofit The Sentencing Project found Black youth are
roughly five times more likely to be incarcerated than their white
peers.
“It’s not just in Maryland, it’s everywhere,” said attorney Corey Stern,
who represents Jones and others. “It’s really a ripple effect across the
U.S.”
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Arlando "Tray" Jones, center, speaks during a press conference among
other survivors of sexual abuse in Maryland juvenile detention
centers, Wednesday, March 19, 2025, in Baltimore. (AP
Photo/Stephanie Scarbrough)
Systemic abuse all over the state
Still, the Maryland lawsuits paint a particularly disturbing
picture. It wasn’t just select facilities or a small group of
abusive staff members, it was statewide and persisted for decades,
attorneys say. The abuse was often a poorly kept secret, but the
system repeatedly failed to stop it, the lawsuits say.
In a complaint filed earlier this month, 69 people brought claims
against the same abuser, a former housing supervisor at Hickey.
One of the plaintiffs in that case, who asked to remain anonymous,
said that as the abuse escalated, he started to avoid properly
cleaning himself to become less desirable. He later spent decades
struggling with addiction and mental health issues. He said suing
the state “even now felt like I was snitching.” The AP doesn’t
typically identify victims of abuse unless they want to be named.
Nalisha Gibbs said she didn’t initially report her abuse because no
one would have listened. A past experience gave her proof of that.
Not long before she went to juvenile detention over a missed curfew
enforced by a school truancy officer, Gibbs said, she had been raped
by an uncle — and punished by her mother when she didn’t keep quiet
about the abuse.
In the detention center, a female guard would come to her cell at
night and assault her. Gibbs said the woman would degrade her,
calling her worthless and “a throwaway.”
For coming home 15 minutes after curfew, she was sentenced to a
lifetime of trauma.
After 30 days in detention, Gibbs never went back to middle school.
She ended up in foster care, where she suffered more sexual abuse.
She spent most of her 20s addicted to drugs, sometimes living on the
streets. But in 2008, she sought treatment. She enrolled in a
transitional housing program and earned her GED. She now lives with
her fiancé and his mother.
Thinking back on her childhood, she sees a scared little girl who
needed an adult to stand up for her.
“She just had so much life snuffed out by people mistreating her and
mishandling her,” Gibbs said through tears. “But I’m not that little
girl anymore. I can fight for myself.”
Pushed over the edge
A couple years after being released from Hickey, Jones was involved
in a fight over drugs that escalated into gunshots, killing Joshua
O’Neal.
Jones was 16 when he was arrested and charged with murder. He was
later convicted and sentenced to life in prison.
He said the sexual abuse pushed him over the edge; if he was headed
down a negative path before juvenile detention, that experience sent
him hurtling toward the unchecked brutality of the drug game.
In 2022, he was released from prison under a state law that allows
sentence reductions for people convicted as children.
During his incarceration, Jones earned a bachelor’s degree in
psychology. He’s studied philosophy and published two books. Now 56,
he works at Georgetown University’s Prisons and Justice Initiative,
which teaches students about mass incarceration and prison reform.
He said getting educated restored some of the humanity he lost. It
helped him regain his freedom and gave him a second chance at life.
It also made him question everything.
“An orphan child surviving poverty as best I can,” he said. “Where
was my first chance?”
——
Associated Press reporter Brian Witte in Annapolis contributed to
this report.
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