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But process neither pretty nor perfect
By Dennis Wagner
Frank Parker came to Arizona Boys Ranch two years ago with a resume as bleak as his future: dope smoking, delinquent homeboy with no ambition. "I was gang-affiliated, sir," notes the 19-year-old from Los Angeles. Parker hated the first weeks of discipline, work, rules and regimen. He went from sullen to defiant, wearing the yellow shirt of potential runaways and recalcitrants.
But resistance was met with more lectures, more punishment, until it seemed easier to get with the program. Slowly, Parker adjusted to the eyes-front, yes-sir, no-sir system, until he graduated in August with a high school diploma. "They teach you a lot of respect," says Parker, who spent a year at Boys Ranch. "Respect I never had before. How to take care of yourself in a mature, manly way." Those lessons didn't gel immediately. Two friends were gunned down while Parker was at the ranch, and a third died after he was back on the streets of LA. But the Boys Ranch experience meant nothing until his best friend got shot in the head. "Once I seen him in the casket, it was like looking at myself," Parker recalls. "Yes, sir. I thought about all the times I'd been addressed and restrained and talked to. And I finally realized what all of it was for." Parker quit the streets, drugs and booze. He has a job now; plans to join the Army. And, though he still hangs with the homies, it's different: "They tell me I'm a goody-two-shoes now," he says, laughing. Parker attributes his metamorphosis to Arizona Boys Ranch, a human foundry that recasts bad boys in a process that is neither pretty nor perfect. While at the Queen Creek campus, Parker says he saw staffers get out of control. One youth was punched in the mouth, and others were manhandled. But he survived the program, believes in it, would send his own kids there if they got in trouble. "I think it helped me a great deal, sir," Parker says. Crime and punishmentWritten policy at Arizona Boys Ranch prohibits punches, kicks and cruelty. But the program heaps on hard work. It requires punishment for those who resist. It authorizes a hands-on approach. And, every few years, another child-abuse alarm goes off. It happened again March 2 after 17-year-old Nicholaus Contreraz died at the military-style camp in Oracle during a punishment session. As usual, Boys Ranch President Bob Thomas became the bull's-eye for criticism. Thomas bent the institution to his philosophy when he arrived 22 years ago, transforming a bucolic home for wayward kids into a hard-nosed reform school. He has stayed that course through four major abuse scandals. Though Boys Ranch is directed by a volunteer board, there is no question who shaped the seven-campus system. And, now, as detectives and regulators swarm, the man who confronts boys with personal responsibility may face the greatest challenge of his career. If Contreraz and other residents at Oracle were victims, who is to blame? Does the fault rest on a few renegade staffers, as Thomas contends? Or are critics right in claiming that, regardless of written policies, mistreatment is tolerated or condoned? Arizona's Department of Economic Security must answer those questions as it reviews a Boys Ranch operating license that could be renewed, placed on probation or revoked next month. The Pinal County Attorney's office faces a similar dilemma in deciding accountability. Prosecutor Richard Platt says legal options include criminal charges not only against staffers, but against Arizona Boys Ranch Inc. or its administrators. And California's Department of Social Services, which pays for about three-quarters of the 500-plus placements at Boys Ranch, must decide whether to continue placing delinquent kids there. Revocation. Indictment. Abandonment. Any of those results could be disastrous for a $26 million nonprofit agency that began with noble intentions 49 years ago. Death of a teenager In The Last Chance Ranch, a chronicle of the Boys Ranch Spartans football team, Thomas tells author Mark Emmons, "There's only two ways to get out of Boys Ranch. You can either claim to be beat on, or you can try to commit suicide." Nickie Contreraz, a 17-year-old Sacramento kid with a history of petty crime, found another path, dying after two months in the boot-camp program in Oracle. He had been sick for weeks, misdiagnosed again and again by a staff nurse. When he vomited, Boys Ranch employees mocked him. When he couldn't breathe, they called him a faker. When he had diarrhea, they put his feces-covered clothes into a bucket and made him carry it. On his last day, Contreraz refused to work; so they made him do exercises. He would not exercise; so two staffers took him into a barracks alone for counseling. He lay down; so they carried him. He fought; so they put him in a restraint hold. Contreraz's heart finally gave out while he was being forced to do more push-ups. The coroner said he had empyema, a pus build-up in the lining of his lung, caused by pneumonia, bronchitis, strep and staph infections -- all made worse by physical stress. The boy had more than 70 cuts, bruises and other external injuries. Boys Ranch initially reported that Contreraz died during rec-reation, and an internal review found no wrong-doing by staff members. After Pinal County Sheriff's Department detectives released witness transcripts, Thomas acknowledged that Contreraz was mistreated. Three workers were fired for violating policies. Four were suspended, including the nurse. The Oracle director was replaced. Ranch officials vowed to close the campus and overhaul orientation procedures. Thomas, who declined to be interviewed for this article, has said that what happened to Contreraz was an aberration. There are bound to be incidents at a reform program for delinquent boys, he said, but most of the abuse claims are fabricated. And, when a complaint proves true, Boys Ranch holds its staff accountable, as well as the delinquents. "I'm a father," Thomas noted recently. "I have four children. I would never run a place where I couldn't put my own children." Learning the hard way But some say Contreraz was a victim of Boys Ranch culture, more than medical errors or out-of-control staffers. Less than two years ago, DES social workers wrote a memo to their boss condemning the renewal of Boys Ranch's license: "As professional, responsible social workers, we must express our concern, for moral and ethical reasons, about the severe risks to children and the violations of rules and statute occurring at Arizona Boys Ranch." Martin Wesley, a DES licensing specialist who co-authored that letter before quitting the agency, says employees were worried about something like the Contreraz case. "This was preventable," Wesley insists. "I admire the philosophy of "don't put up with any crap from the kids.' At the same time, you just can't use the physical, hands-on, "I'm bigger than you' method." Richard DiNaso, 57, says he worked six months as a cottage parent at Boys Ranch before leaving last month with heart problems and a burden of guilt. "I used to come home and cry," DiNaso says. "After the first week, my wife said, "Get the heck outta there.' There are some staff who will grab 'em by the throat and throw them down. Those who would not endorse that were called "soft.' What they do is keep it on the QT. Management knows what's going on." Tom Hickman, a Boys Ranch work camp staffer 12 years ago, says management creates an atmosphere where discipline can go too far. "I saw it with my own eyes," Hickman recalls. "That's why I left. I couldn't handle it any more. . . . It makes me sick." "I had to quit, I was so distraught," adds Steve Raths, who worked as an instructor at the main Boys Ranch campus in Queen Creek during the early 1990s. "Everything looks beautiful on paper - all their philosophy - but they just kind of let their staff members go." In a scathing 1995 evaluation, professor Ron Davidson of the University of Illinois at Chicago wrote that Boys Ranch officials "have long condoned or ignored a pattern of abusive conduct . . . a situation in which youths are systematically brutalized by violent physical attacks and psychological intimidation." Thomas and Boys Ranch answered with a lawsuit that rips the professor, saying he did shoddy research based largely on inaccurate newspaper accounts and slanted comments from government officials. Miracles in Oracle For every negative critique, Boys Ranch has graduates, friends and experts who issue glowing evaluations. During eight years as the semi-official chaplain at Queen Creek and Oracle, the Rev. William Mitchell says he's never seen a boy mistreated. But he has witnessed a lot of young lives being salvaged. "This program is a miracle," Mitchell says. "I've seen changes in the lives of these kids. Truly, one of the great joys is watching this happen. . . . To close the Boys Ranch down would be a terrible thing." Dave Terry, a Placer County, Calif., dad, says his son was using drugs and had committed a burglary when he enrolled at Boys Ranch two years ago. "It was getting to the point where that boy was going to end up permanently in jail or dead," Terry says. "Most likely, dead." Josh makes A's now at Arizona Boys Ranch, and competed in the state wrestling championships. "Literally, they've turned my boy 180 degrees. That place is the only one I've been to with total staff continuity and a common goal," Terry says. ". . . There's just some good, old-fashioned values that place puts forth." "They've turned a lot of boys' lives around," agrees former Gov. Rose Mofford, a member of the Boys Ranch advisory board. Mofford says she is sickened by details in the Contreraz case, and believes anyone who abused boys - or allowed it - should be fired. Still, she's sold on the benefits of a tough program for tough kids. "They're polite. They're not pushy, and they don't use profanity," she says. "I'm not saying who's right and who's wrong. The only thing I can tell you is I'm really proud to be a member of that board." The contradictory impression of Boys Ranch is most glaring among delinquency professionals. A year after Davidson condemned the program, a University of Illinois colleague and political science professor, Evan McKenzie, found Boys Ranch to be an "exemplary program." "The youth at ABR benefit from a social environment that is safe, nurturing, supportive, structured and tailored to their normal needs as teenage boys, as well as their special needs as delinquents who are being given a last opportunity to change," wrote McKenzie, who was retained by Boys Ranch. Another consultant, California Parole Board member Robert Roos, ranks Boys Ranch as "one of the best I've ever seen in the juvenile justice field." He says Boys Ranch has been persecuted by government officials who resent private agencies. Management consultant Rip Shivone offered a similar appraisal last year, and compared Thomas to "a prophet (who) has no honor in his own land." Tough love Thomas was not the first hard-liner to head Arizona Boys Ranch, or to deal with allegations of abuse. In 1971, superintendent Wendell Newell was accused of punching kids, an allegation that prompted then-Boys Ranch President Dallas Keck to complain, "Anyone who thinks that wayward youth coming up today can be handled by pantywaist methods just doesn't know what he is talking about." Newell was replaced by a new superintendent who vowed to reform the reform school by injecting "an atmosphere of love." That lasted until 1977, when Robert B. Thomas left a Michigan youth camp to head Arizona Boys Ranch. Thomas recalls arriving at an asylum run by juvenile inmates who were allowed to smoke and didn't even make their own beds. "Permissive. Extremely permissive," Thomas said during a deposition last year. ". . . Before I took this job, I remember telling my board, I said, "I will probably have close to 100 percent turnover in staff." The prediction came true. And the aversion to pantywaist methods quickly set Thomas at odds with government regulators. "I put a completely different type of program format in, and I know there was some disagreement with DES back then," he recalled. " . . . When I came to Boys Ranch, work was considered abuse. And, somewhat, it still is today." Even with new employees and rules, Thomas groused in 1981 that Boys Ranch smacked of Father Flannigan's Boys Town. One year later, DES issued a 500-page report describing discipline methods that involved grabbing kids by the throat and throwing them to the ground. Maricopa County courts yanked 19 boys out of the program. In what would become a pattern, Boys Ranch hired a team of experts to evaluate DES and the abuse charges. Their report vindicated Boys Ranch. And Thomas vilified investigators with the pugnacious style his staffers use in addressing boys. DOC workers complained that Thomas vented his "lack of respect for the system through an hour-plus personal, verbal assault on every individual and agency involved with the current controversy." In a letter to Boys Ranch, they complained, "It is not this agency . . . that is exposing the Boys Ranch to any type of high-risk (publicity) situation, but rather the personalities and administrative style within your organization." In 1987, runaways from a Boys Ranch camp near Hannagan Meadow complained of being punched, scalded and head-butted. This time, Child Protective Services findings were supported by a state Department of Corrections investigation which substantiated abuse tales from 11 boys. Once again, Boys Ranch conducted its own probe to determine that the charges were bogus. Thomas denounced the investigators as biased, unprofessional, politically motivated. The Boys Ranch license was put on provisional status, again. In 1994, the drama replayed: More runaways. More abuse claims. Child Protective Services investigators substantiated 13 incidents and suspended the Boys Ranch license. A judge in Alameda County, Calif., withdrew 67 boys after concluding there was "systemic child abuse by ABR staff." Once again, Thomas and his board chose a potent offense as the best defense, blaming the trouble on lying kids, inept investigators and biased government agencies. In a 1994 letter, Thomas, fumed about Nancy Friedman, an Arizona Child Protective Services employee: "My concerns center on Ms. Friedman's ability to professionally assess ABR. . . . Clearly, she does not understand the sophisticated delinquents we place at ABR." In other correspondence, Thomas ripped an Alameda County probation officer: "I have seen young men totally manipulate her the entire week. And I'm sure she'd be much better off distributing food stamps in Redding than supervising placement of delinquent youth." About that time, a ward from Mississippi, Lorenzo Johnson, drowned while trying to escape. Boys Ranch hired Melvin McDonald, a former U.S. attorney, to investigate abuse allegations, CPS and the death of Johnson. For a fee of about $400,000, McDonald assembled a team of ex-law officers who reviewed the evidence and interviewed dozens of witnesses. His finding: Biased and inept government watchdogs and the media were duped on 12 of 13 abuse charges. Thomas complained that Boys Ranch was the victim of a "witch hunt" by government officials who conspired with the media. Boys Ranch sued DES in an attempt to overturn rulings that abuses had occurred. It sued The Arizona Republic for libel over an article on the death of Johnson. Trial is set for October. It sued Davidson, complaining that the professor's report portrayed Thomas "as a person who continues to condone, and even encourage, the outrageous conduct" of child abuse. Mr. Boys Ranch Strong leaders often inspire polar-opposite sentiments: Gen. George Patton, Vince Lombardi, Ted Turner. People revered them, or reviled them. It's like that for Bob Thomas. Employees, graduates and outsiders are hot or cold, their appraisals as paradoxical as the "tough love" concept that underlies his system. Some say Thomas manages a bully school where fear is added to the pathology of boys who are already screwed up. Others say he has molded thousands of would-be criminals into productive citizens who say, "Yes, sir" when spoken to. Opinions converge on one point: Thomas is a crusader, committed to making bad kids good. His strength, or weakness, is an unflinching certitude that his way is best. And a willingness to bulldoze ahead when persuasion fails. "Thomas did things his way," Emmons wrote in his book. "He made waves, and he did not suffer fools gladly. He challenged state officials, and he made no apologies afterward. There was a self-assured, confident, cocky attitude among staff at the ranch. That all began with the man at the top." One example: When administrators with the state Supreme Court threatened to stop placing Arizona kids at Boys Ranch in a dispute over sex counseling, Thomas fired off a terse letter. "(You) have no right to tell Boys Ranch who we should or should not effectively treat," he wrote. ". . . We've been in the business longer, and have a better track record." Casandra McCray, a Boys Ranch spokeswoman, says passion is part of the package: "He does what he does because he truly cares about kids. And he's very adamant." "He is dedicated to child care," agrees Richard LaCues, chief probation officer for San Bernardino County, Calif. "He isn't always real diplomatic in his approach to situations, but his heart's in the right place." While Thomas bemoans negative publicity, he sometimes seems to invite it. In 1990, he hired former football coach Frank Kush as an administrator at Boys Ranch, even though the ASU legend had been fired for allegedly punching a player - and denying it. When asked about that incident, Thomas told reporters, ". . . it doesn't bother me one iota." The selection of Carl Prange as new director at Oracle also raised eyebrows. Prange was charged with child abuse 12 years ago while heading a Boys Ranch program in the White Mountains. Although the criminal complaint was dismissed for lack of evidence, state investigators concluded that boys were mistreated. Thomas suspended Prange at the time, but also defended him. Hands-on methods Thomas says the average American has no idea what it takes to rehabilitate young criminals. Most of the kids have twisted histories - dysfunctional parents, drugs, gangs, abuse. Many are rejects from therapy, group homes and probation. Thomas says they've learned to dupe adults with whining and rationalization. When all else fails, they play for sympathy by claiming sickness, discrimination or abuse. Thomas is convinced the key to rehabilitation is a stiff dose of reality - structure, discipline, effort, confrontation. But child welfare agencies are designed to protect kids - to help them with therapy, understanding and medication. Everyone seems to agree that Boys Ranch's problems stem from that conflict in mission and methods. Even Linda Blessing, director of DES, recently urged state lawmakers to consider whether her office is right for the job of overseeing a delinquency camp. Thomas does not believe in babying boys with sympathy or psychotropic chemicals. They learned to be anti-social, he argues, so they can unlearn it with a system of work, rules, consequences, goals. "These kids are not crazy . . . but they have been treated like they are abnormal," Thomas says. "We say, "Son, you are normal. You can perform and control it through exercise, diet and, quite frankly, just firm guidance and relationships, which are the key to our program." New arrivals at Boys Ranch seldom share Thomas' enthusiasm. But resistance earns extra labor. Defiance prompts ranch staffers to isolate a boy using a technique known as "addressing" - an in-your-face confrontation that may range from calm discussion to yelling or ridicule. If a youth fights back, staffers take him to the ground or against a wall, holding his arms in a restraint position until he is calmed. The drill continues until a boy submits. While there are no written guidelines, Thomas says, "Addressing, for the most part, is mostly verbally correcting. It only goes beyond that on a certain few kids that take it beyond that." To the outsider, that may seem brutal, like breaking a wild horse. Critics claim you cannot teach civility with violence, or command respect through fear. They also say the hands-on method invites claims of abuse. What is abuse? To some extent, the debate is subjective and semantic: When a woman swats her naughty toddler in the supermarket, is it child abuse or tough love? What if she uses a belt? Thomas seems flabbergasted by the notion that Boys Ranch discipline is worse than the street violence these boys have known, or the abuse they'd face in juvenile prison. "We're a tough program," he told Emmons. "We probably should be tougher. But our structure makes this the safest environment they've probably ever been in. We won't allow boys to intimidate one another. They can't gang bang here." Even Boys Ranch graduates seem ambivalent. Gary Cummings, once an LA street thug, says he witnessed abuse at the Oracle campus and was "slammed against the wall a few times." But it wasn't like kids were bloodied or hospitalized. And Cummings doubts that less severe methods would have worked. "Now, I think it was a good thing," Cummings says. "But when I was there, I didn't think it was." Chris Ditter, 20, of Sacramento, says the intimidation began with muscular staff members, many of them ex-military. "These are some big guys," he notes. "They grab you by the shirt and address you that way. If you're defiant, they aren't going to abuse you, but they'll wrestle you to the ground. . . . They don't put up with any disrespect. They'll make an example of you." Ditter had a history of drugs, burglary and assault before he enrolled at the Oracle campus. Now he works at Home Depot, plans to be a teacher, and credits Boys Ranch with giving him goals and self-reliance. "One thing you'll come out with is a work ethic," he says. "It's all a choice, but you know what you can do." Thomas contends that his staff uses less physical intervention per resident than other delinquency programs. And he says Boys Ranch has one of the most successful rehabilitation records in America, with only three boys out of 10 committing new crimes within a year after graduation. That means thousands of supposedly incorrigible kids have been honed into productive citizens. Months before the latest furor, Thomas said, "We have been scrutinized probably more than any nonprofit agency in the history of the United States, and we have come out positive. . . . Through all this adversity, and it has certainly been ugly adversity . . . people that provide us kids even believe in us now more than ever." Reform school politics Boys Ranch has continued to thrive - adding campuses, more kids and lots of money. In 1971, the program served 109 youths at the Queen Creek compound, spending $375,000 a year. This year, more than 500 boys are housed on seven campuses statewide under a budget that has increased 70-fold to $26 million, the lion's share of which comes from taxpayers. That growth - along with the respect of parents, judges and probation officers - is a testament to the effectiveness of Boys Ranch. It also hints at a savvy sense of PR and politics. Since the nonprofit agency was founded by Phoenix Rotary Club in 1949, it has been a philanthropic favorite of politicians, entrepreneurs and celebrities. John Mangum, a Capitol lobbyist and fund-raiser for Gov. Jane Hull, served as Boys Ranch lawyer for years. Today, the eight-member board is chaired by Richard Hazelwood, who owns a multimillion-dollar sports souvenir business. Besides Mofford, the advisory board includes Kent Komadina, chief criminal lawyer in the state Attorney General's Office His job with Boys Ranch: "law enforcement liaison." In the mid-1990s, when Thomas was bucking state regulators, an outline was drawn up for plans to "influence the Arizona Legislature to reform the state's juvenile justice system to at least allow for reality-based programs like Arizona Boys Ranch." Among the strategies: "Recruit two people, at least one of whom is a highly respected public figure, as co-chairman to initiate organizing efforts. . . . Cindy McCain and Rose Mofford are our initial choices (this doesn't necessarily mean the best). . . ." "We need to preplan the campaign as much as possible to keep it under some control, understanding that this kind of monster can become a runaway power unto itself. . . . We need to control it enough so that leadership and board will protect ABR." To some, such calculations have cynical overtones. To others, including Ron Lepore, there is nothing wrong with a sound program defending itself from the chronic claims of abuse. Two years ago, Lepore's son was a parole violator, drug user and thief who had washed out of counseling programs and didn't respond to drug therapy. "He was out of control," Lepore says. "He couldn't be reached. The courts couldn't handle him. I couldn't handle him." On May 21, Justin Lepore graduated from Boys Ranch. "To the best of my knowledge, this kid has turned 100 percent," his dad says. "I don't know of another program in the country that can provide for these troubled youth."
Dennis Wagner can be reached at 602.444.8874 or at [email protected] via e-mail.
Copyright 1998, The Arizona Republic
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