BALTIMORE \u2014 Arlando \u201cTray\u201d Jones was a toddler when his dad was killed by Baltimore police during a robbery. His mom died several years later after battling alcoholism.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His surviving relatives often struggled to provide for him. Sometimes the lights got turned off and the refrigerator was empty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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 \u201cFat Larry,\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019s juvenile detention facilities.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey broke me,\u201d Jones said, recounting how his abusers beat him into submission. \u201cEverything that connected me to my humanity was just gone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019s juvenile justice system. They\u2019re worried the state budget can\u2019t support a potential payout.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Associated Press requested an interview with the state\u2019s Department of Juvenile Services, but the department responded with a statement instead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDJS 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,\u201d the agency said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To the plaintiffs, it\u2019s 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\u2019s most vulnerable residents, mostly Black kids growing up in poverty with little family support.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All these years later, Jones still broke down crying in an interview. \u201cBut now I know the shame is not mine to bear,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A law with unexpected consequences<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n 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\u2019t sue after they turned 38.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The law change prompted the archdiocese to file for bankruptcy to protect its assets. But state leaders didn\u2019t anticipate they\u2019d be facing similar budgetary concerns. Lawmakers are now considering new legislation to shield the state financially.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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\u2019s juvenile justice system.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The system has drawn serious criticism over the years. A 2004 Justice Department report found a \u201cdeeply disturbing degree of physical abuse\u201d at the facility where Jones was detained, now called the Charles H. Hickey Jr. School. The state closed Hickey\u2019s youth treatment program in 2005, but it\u2019s still operating as a youth detention center.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Many other facilities named in the lawsuits have already been closed, and state leaders have strengthened oversight in recent years. They\u2019ve also focused on detaining fewer youths.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Advocates say they\u2019re confident the system is significantly less abusive than it was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s not just in Maryland, it\u2019s everywhere,\u201d said attorney Corey Stern, who represents Jones and others. \u201cIt\u2019s really a ripple effect across the U.S.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Systemic abuse all over the state<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Still, the Maryland lawsuits paint a particularly disturbing picture. It wasn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In a complaint filed earlier this month, 69 people brought claims against the same abuser, a former housing supervisor at Hickey.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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 \u201ceven now felt like I was snitching.\u201d The AP doesn\u2019t typically identify victims of abuse unless they want to be named.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nalisha Gibbs said she didn\u2019t initially report her abuse because no one would have listened. A past experience gave her proof of that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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 \u2014 and punished by her mother when she didn\u2019t keep quiet about the abuse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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 \u201ca throwaway.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n For coming home 15 minutes after curfew, she was sentenced to a lifetime of trauma.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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 fianc\u00e9 and his mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Thinking back on her childhood, she sees a scared little girl who needed an adult to stand up for her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShe just had so much life snuffed out by people mistreating her and mishandling her,\u201d Gibbs said through tears. \u201cBut I\u2019m not that little girl anymore. I can fight for myself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Pushed over the edge<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n A couple years after being released from Hickey, Jones was involved in a fight over drugs that escalated into gunshots, killing Joshua O\u2019Neal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jones was 16 when he was arrested and charged with murder. He was later convicted and sentenced to life in prison.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In 2022, he was released from prison under a state law that allows sentence reductions for people convicted as children.<\/p>\n\n\n\n During his incarceration, Jones earned a bachelor\u2019s degree in psychology. He\u2019s studied philosophy and published two books. Now 56, he works at Georgetown University\u2019s Prisons and Justice Initiative, which teaches students about mass incarceration and prison reform.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAn orphan child surviving poverty as best I can,\u201d he said. \u201cWhere was my first chance?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n