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St. Johns, Arizona, calls itself 鈥渢he town of friendly neighbors.鈥� With a population of around 3,500 people and a surrounding landscape of ponderosa pine forests and rolling hills peppered with cattle, the quaint town is as bucolic and all-American as it gets. It鈥檚 why Michael Latham moved here with his wife and kids back in 2009.

鈥淢y wife鈥檚 mom is from St. Johns, and we would come here for family things,鈥� says Latham, who was raised in the Mormon Church and studied law at Brigham Young University in Utah. He had been working at a law firm in Phoenix but wanted to spend more time in the courtroom. So after they moved to St. Johns, he ran for office and told his wife, 鈥淲e鈥檒l either win, or we鈥檒l move again.鈥�

They won, and, in 2014 he became Apache County鈥檚 Superior Court judge. Latham had no specific vision for his new role, aside from wanting to try new approaches to old problems. 鈥淚n small counties and towns, a lot of times things are being done the way they鈥檙e being done, because that鈥檚 how they鈥檝e always been done,鈥� he told me.

At the top of his list was reforming the town鈥檚 underutilized juvenile detention facility. Latham knew that the facility, which was built to hold up to 11 kids, cost the county over $1.2 million a year even though it sat empty for six to eight weeks at a time. 鈥淲hen you average 1.7 kids a day, those costs just stop making sense,鈥� he said. 鈥淚n a small county like this, you just don鈥檛 have the numbers and you don鈥檛 ever want to make the numbers.鈥�

Apache County wasn鈥檛 the only place with empty juvenile halls. Nearby rural counties like Navajo and Gila saw only one or two kids a day held in detention. It was unclear to Latham whether police were doing fewer referrals or whether kids simply weren鈥檛 getting into trouble as much. 

The more he looked into it, the more he thought St. Johns resembled the many communities, both rural and urban, across Arizona and the West, where juvenile crime was decreasing even as public opinion about harsh punishment had started to shift.

In the 1980s, America faced growing rates of both adult and juvenile violence. In the decade between 1980 and 1990, arrests for offenses like murder, rape, robbery and aggravated assault rose by 64%, according to the Washington, D.C.-based Urban Institute. The nationwide juvenile arrest rate for murder almost tripled during that time, from five to 14 young people out of every 100,000.

There were several reasons, sociologists thought, for the spike in violence, including an increase in the use of handguns as well as the growth of illegal drug markets, especially for crack cocaine. And the future was expected to be even worse: The 鈥�90s had already been dubbed the 鈥淪uperpredator Era.鈥�

Coined by Princeton University sociology professor John Dilulio, the term superpredator referred to 鈥渁 young juvenile criminal who is so impulsive, so remorseless, that he can kill, rape, maim, without giving it a second thought.鈥� Speaking to the press in 1995, Dilulio predicted that the number of juveniles in U.S. custody would rise exponentially over the next few decades; these young cold-blooded criminals, he claimed, 鈥渇ear neither the stigma of arrest nor the pain of imprisonment.鈥�

Dilulio鈥檚 critics slammed his warnings as racist and partisan. And Dilulio turned out to be wrong: Even though the population of 10- to-17-year-olds continued to grow, violent crime in America began to drop starting in 1994, falling to its lowest point in two decades. Dilulio later publicly apologized for his grim predictions, saying his approach was misdirected.

But the damage had been done. Sensationalist media coverage of children committing gruesome crimes frightened Americans, and by the late 鈥�90s, nearly every state in the country had begun treating minors like adults, even sentencing them to life without parole. By the year 2000, more than 100,000 young people 鈥� mainly Black and brown teenagers 鈥� were in custody in the U.S., and larger detention facilities were being built to accommodate them, according to the Bureau of Justice Statistics. 

That was around the time Victor Ch谩vez began work as a corrections officer for the Navajo County adult corrections system in Arizona. Ch谩vez defies the corrections officer stereotype: He has a mellow, friendly demeanor and was a mentor for the local Boys & Girls Club. He sought to reduce the incarcerated population through a program called Intensive Supervised Probation, which allows convicted offenders to rejoin their communities while they are monitored by someone like Ch谩vez. Some people, he explained, do well on probation and go on to have successful lives. 鈥淏ut when you have to revoke them, then they end up having to go (back) to prison,鈥� he said, his voice cracking a bit. 鈥淪ometimes that gets to you. And it does to me. As I get older, I have more empathy for people and their families.鈥�

By 2015, Ch谩vez had a family of his own. And he was ready for something different; he wanted to provide more hands-on mentorship. One day, he got a call from Paul Hancock, a former fellow corrections officer who was now director of Juvenile Court Services for Apache County.

鈥淗e was like, 鈥榁ictor, we鈥檙e going to do something,鈥欌�� he said. 鈥溾�楬opefully, it鈥檚 going to be really awesome. And I鈥檇 like you to come be a part of it.鈥欌��

Hancock told Ch谩vez that the Apache County juvenile detention facility, located about an hour and a half from where he worked in Navajo County, was closing. The new judge, Michael Latham, had some ideas for how to use the space, and he wanted forward-looking people like Ch谩vez to be part of a social experiment.

Two years after Ch谩vez spoke to Hancock, the Loft Legacy Teen Center in St. Johns celebrated its grand opening in August 2017. A YouTube video of that day shows Judge Latham talking to a group of about 30 excited teenagers. 鈥淗opefully, this is something that will be here for decades,鈥� he said to loud cheers from the kids. Standing over to one side, Ch谩vez and Hancock, the two former corrections officers-turned-mentors, smiled. They were dressed in casual clothing 鈥� T-shirts, jeans, baseball caps 鈥� just like the teens in the audience.

The Loft occupies the old juvenile facility building on Cleveland Street, but it looks very different now. Repurposed and cleaned up, it resembles an industrial loft space: The white walls are finished with wood and aluminum, and there are couches and beanbag chairs in every room.

In one area, teenagers can study and use free internet from 2:30 to 5 p.m. during the week. There鈥檚 even a fully equipped recording studio, and a music space with a keyboard and electric guitars. The setup was inspired by The Rock, a teen center started in Phoenix by the legendary rocker Alice Cooper.

鈥淲e started off with one pool table, but it was wildly popular,鈥� Hancock said as we watched the kids trickle in after their high school let out. 鈥淎nd the great thing about pool is that it鈥檚 like a social game. You can鈥檛 play pool and not talk to somebody. So we have kids that don鈥檛 know each other at the high school, but they know each other really well here.鈥�

For Hannah Wilkinson, The Loft, which opened in her freshman year, became a refuge. Her parents were strict, so she spent most afternoons during high school here. It made such a difference that, after graduating from high school, she became a mentor.

The job basically requires her to hang out with younger kids and model good behavior. Sometimes, she has to act as the disciplinarian, even though, at 19, she looks as young as the teens she supervises. 鈥淪ome kids will just come up and start talking,鈥� Wilkinson told me. 鈥淚f there鈥檚 a life in danger or something illegal going on, I have to report it. I鈥檝e only had to do that once, thankfully.鈥�

One of the Loft鈥檚 regulars is a 17-year-old I鈥檒l call William. (I鈥檝e agreed to not use his real name because St. Johns is a small town and what he tells me could impact his life.) 鈥淚鈥檓 one of the biggest nerds you鈥檒l ever find in this town,鈥� he joked when we met, without turning away from the X-Box. William, who dropped out of school after eighth grade, comes to The Loft religiously to play video games. Like Wilkinson, he lacks an ideal relationship with his parents, and sometimes he comes in just to talk with her.

As a socially alienated teenager who鈥檚 not into sports, William has often felt like he doesn鈥檛 belong. 鈥淢ost of the time, if you talk to certain people, you feel like you鈥檙e getting judged or something. But when you talk to them here, they don鈥檛 immediately jump to one conclusion,鈥� he said. William鈥檚 mentors are working with the high school counselor, trying to help him return to school.

While he chatted with Wilkinson in the main room, I talked to Richard Gwinn at the reception desk. 鈥淚鈥檇 like to think we are part of a bigger shift,鈥� Gwinn, a former sheriff鈥檚 deputy, told me, explaining how The Loft works to keep young people out of the criminal justice system through truancy prevention and mentorship programs. 鈥淎nd I think it has worked, because we鈥檝e had a tremendous reduction in the number of referrals.鈥� The year The Loft opened, juvenile arrests in Apache County dropped by 55%. And the center operates at roughly a quarter of the amount it cost the county to run the juvenile facility.

Still, the drop in juvenile arrests is due to more than a local shift in resources. In 2011, the state established a detention-screening tool that determines whether a juvenile should be put in detention in the first place. 鈥淚f a judge or a probation officer gets upset with a kid and the response is detention, the tool kind of re-guided them and said, 鈥楴o, this kid really isn鈥檛 a public risk,鈥欌�� said Joseph Kelroy, the director of the Juvenile Justice Services Division at the Arizona Supreme Court.

Other states are attempting more ambitious reforms. California is shutting down its Division of Juvenile Justice altogether; by July 2023, its three remaining facilities will close and California will replace it with a new Department of Youth and Community Restoration, which promises rehabilitation along with educational and job training.

California鈥檚 shift amounts to a massive undertaking. But The Loft has shown that it鈥檚 possible to move to a care-first model even in a rural county in a politically conservative state. If the teen center continues to partner with local organizations to address illegal activity and minimize arrests, the mentors say, youth detention facilities will eventually become obsolete.

 During my visit this spring, I was invited to attend graduation and watch as 66 local teens received their diplomas. About half of the kids came through The Loft, part of the first high school class that has had the youth center as a resource since freshman year. 

Backstage, Hancock and Ch谩vez chat with William, who is there to film the ceremony and stream it online for everyone who couldn鈥檛 attend due to the pandemic.

While they wait for the ceremony to start, Hancock and Ch谩vez urge William to go back to school, as they often do. 鈥淛ust get your high school diploma,鈥� Hancock says. 鈥淭hen you could study video or animation. Wouldn鈥檛 you like to graduate like the kids here today?鈥�

William looks shyly at the ground. He seems unaffected by their words, perhaps a little confused. But as long as he spends time at The Loft, Hancock and Ch谩vez will keep encouraging him. Try sports, they鈥檒l say, or video or music 鈥� whatever.

The graduates鈥� names are called and they throw their caps in the air as Kool & the Gang鈥檚 鈥淐elebration鈥� plays over the loudspeakers. William checks in with Ch谩vez, who says he鈥檚 good to go home. 鈥淪ee you on Monday!鈥� Ch谩vez shouts, as William makes his way out of the auditorium. 

This originally appeared at聽聽and is published here in partnership with the聽.

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