It’s now a law in Missouri that, if you’re on Medicaid, and you miss your doctor’s appointment without notifying the doctor 24 hours in advance, you can be charged a fine. The charge for the first missed appointment is $5, the second is $10 and the third is $20. Way to go, state legislature: You’ve just added a new poverty crime to the books.

The new law also allows providers in Missouri Health Net [Missouri’s name for Medicaid] to refuse to schedule new appointments until the missed appointment fee is paid.

Those fees may not sound like a lot to someone earning a middle-income paycheck or above, but they count. They’re a way of nickel-and-diming people who can afford it least. And they can be a barrier to healthcare for people who are financially disadvantaged.

Fortunately, the fee is unlikely to win approval from the federal government.

“They’ve consistently told states they cannot impose a missed appointment fee. I’m not sure that will ever be approved,” said St. Louis University School of Law Professor Sidney Watson of the Center for Health Law Studies.

But in Missouri, passing a law that is unconstitutional, or inhumane, or in violation of federal rules typically does not deter the Republican-dominated state legislature. Apparently, in their quest to pander to the worst instincts of their voter base, they like to go on record as being in favor of these extreme measures. Case in point: The Missouri legislature just enacted—over Democratic Governor Jay Nixon’s veto—a law that removes the need for a permit or any training if you want to carry a concealed gun. The law also institutes the “castle doctrine” or “Stand-Your-Ground” principle that allows you to shoot first, and ask questions later, if you feel—in any way—threatened.  That law resulted in national media dubbing Missouri the “Shoot-Me” state.

The new missed-appointment fee is only the latest in the laundry list of poverty crimes that plague low-income people in Missouri, and elsewhere. Around here, you can pile up lots of fees—traffic fines, court costs, appearance costs—then get arrested for non-payment and put behind bars until you bail yourself out for a few hundred dollars. Then you get fired for not showing up to work, and lose your paycheck, which puts you back into the non-payment cycle.

Moral of the story: Don’t be poor in Missouri. But don’t count on your elected officials to help you, either.

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America has one of the highest rates of incarceration for juveniles in the world – as of 2008, the US rate was five times that of South Africa, which ranks second. This is an expensive policy: Illinois’ annual cost of juvenile incarceration jumped from $71,000 per child to $92,000 per child over the last few years. At Murphysboro, the cost soars to $147,000 per child because the  facility currently runs at less than 50% occupancy.

Those imprisoned are frequently jailed inappropriately:  Up to 70% of children imprisoned in Illinois have a mental illness diagnosis. This fact is particularly disturbing given the possibility of suicides among juvenile offenders, when combined with jailer-to- inmate ratios as high as 60 to 1, instead of the recommended 10 to 1.

The high cost of incarcerating young offenders is aggravated by the “get tough” policy of throwing any and all offenders into prison for as long as possible. This has led to the construction of more facilities, which in turn has led to officials leaning on incarceration as a primary policy strategy, because “that is what we’ve got.”

This policy works poorly for the offenders and for the general public, because imprisoning a juvenile is associated with higher chances of reoffending. It is important to remember that children who are incarcerated for offense that are sometimes not offenses for adults (known as a status offense), will be returning to their communities sooner or later, usually sooner.

Illinois separated the adult and juvenile portions of the justice system in an attempt to deal with the high recidivism rate among juvenile offenders, along with the high costs of incarceration. This separation has not included the probation officers, meaning that officers who mainly deal with adult offenders also work with young offenders with an entirely separate set of needs. Many youths in the system do not have basic life skills that are taken for granted in adult populations and non-offending youth populations.

The juvenile detention system of Illinois is accused of being particularly filthy and dangerous for the youth detained in it. Cook County’s juvenile detention facility has had lawsuits, due to violent behavior of staff towards inmates, as well as violence between inmates. Children do not have access to clean clothing and are frequently exposed to rodents and insects. The American Civil Liberties Union attributes conditions to the use of the facility as a form of patronage, with little interest in correcting management issues. The ACLU is pursuing lawsuits aimed at conditions in the juvenile justice system in an attempt to force corrections to the issues.

There are good models for reducing recidivism , costs and actually offering assistance to youth in trouble. Simply assessing children who are being placed on probation for mental illness has been shown to reduce recidivism. This saves society money, reduces crime and benefits the children and families who receive the resources needed to relieve the worst effects of mental illness. Redeploy Illinois also attempts to interrupt the patterns of incarceration for at-risk youth by connecting children in the system with the resources they need to succeed and avoid incarceration.

Avoiding the incarceration of juveniles has the potential to save states billions of dollars, at a time when budgets are straining to provide essential services to citizens. The attitude of “lock them up and throw away the key” has led to unsafe facilities that do not prepare youth for their eventual release, meaning higher crime rates for the community. Unsafe and filthy facilities have resulted in lawsuits that will cost the citizens of Illinois, and other states, millions more in costs. There are better alternatives available, but there seems to be little political will to do what is necessary to fix a broken system.

The post Kids in prison: Illinois’ expensive, dangerous and failed policy appeared first on Occasional Planet.

The Belleville News Democrat is reporting on a series of defendants whose contributions to a State Attorney’s fund allowing them to walk away from criminal charges. Matthew F. Koesterer had no history of criminal behavior, and had been charged with marijuana cultivation. Circuit Judge Richard Brown of Randolph County ordered a $22,500 contribution from Koerstner to a prosecutor’s fund. These funds are typically used at the discretion of the prosecutor for a variety of purposes, including training of police and defraying the costs incurred by the prosecutor’s office.

Charles J. Northrup, general counsel to the bar association has stated that “It’s not our place to comment on the legality or ethics of the practice, but it does raise concerns that the public’s perception of our justice system may be undermined. Northwest University’s law school Professor Stephen Lubet stated that even if all actions were above board, the impression is still created of wrongdoing.

The local Sherriff was unaware of the deal, even though his deputies had conducted the surveillance resulting in the charges of marijuana cultivation. The plants were described as being over 10 feet tall and in a remote area.

There have been previous instances of plea bargains involving marijuana cases where “contributions” were made to various funds. One contribution involved sharing a $15,000 “contribution” among various funds including the Red Bud Drug Dog Fund and the Percy Police Department.

Several of the individuals ordered to make contributions have complained of the financial hardships involved. Matthew Koersterer was required to pay a $7,000 fine on top of the $25,000 contribution and was also sentenced to probation and required to serve weekends in jail. Tamara Koersterer described the financial result as “ruining us” and stated that they had been pressured for even more money. Roger Hutchison had charges of criminal sexual assault of a child dropped as part of a deal involving a $7,000 contribution to the States Attorney fund. Mr. Hutchison claims that the real reason that charges were dropped was that he did nothing wrong. For the sake of the neighborhood’s children, we should hope that Mr. Hutchison is telling the truth, even if that calls into question just how just the justice system in Southern Illinois is.

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Before you dash off to the store, you go through that little checklist. (Your list is probably similar to mine.) Wallet? Check. Keys? Check. Cell phone, shopping list, gun. Check, check, …wait. You don’t go shopping with your gun? Why not? If you live in Missouri you have the right to. It’s one of the joys of living in an “open carry” state. Open carry means that as long as you legally own a gun you can proudly wear it in plain view of everyone. Now the idea of wearing your gun to go grocery shopping may sound odd, but on March 12, a man did just that in my neighborhood. And it caused a small uproar.

Let’s take a moment to talk about that little incident. On March 12, Brett Darrow was in the checkout lane of the Maplewood Wal-Mart. He was wearing a gun, it was clearly visible. Other patrons had seen the gun and alerted some store employees, who in turn called 911. He wasn’t behaving weird, he wasn’t causing any trouble. Brett was just wearing a pistol and that made people uncomfortable enough to want to call the cops. (Once the cops showed up, he refused to identify himself and they arrested him for an outstanding traffic warrant, but that really isn’t important.) The important thing is that it’s perfectly legal to be out in public wearing a gun.

That might be changing in my neighborhood. The city council of Maplewood decided that maybe being open carry wasn’t such a great idea. (Remember, just the sight of one gun at Wal-Mart was enough to make people nervous. Imagine what would happen if we all started packing heat.) They proposed an ordinance that would ban open carry in our city of about 9,000. It gets voted on Tuesday, April 12, 2011. The ban is expected to be a shoe-in. But that only matters here in my backyard. The whole state of Missouri is legally open carry. It’s up to the local government of each city whether or not they want their citizens carrying guns in plain sight.

Missouri isn’t alone in its open carry status. According to OpenCarry.org (a self-described, “pro-gun Internet community focused on the right to openly carry properly holstered handguns in daily American life.”) 27 other states are open carry without a license. 14 states are open carry with a license. All together that’s 41 states in which you can wear a pistol out in the open at a Wal-Mart. And don’t think it’s just grocery stores or big box stores where you can wear a gun. Open carry applies to bars, restaurants, churches, political rallies, offices, hospitals, movie theaters, parks, and even some airports. (Colleges, schools, and some government buildings have restrictions, but it generally varies state by state.) Businesses have a right to refuse service to someone with a gun and some places will have signs saying whether or not guns are allowed on the premises. Even with a few exceptions, that’s a long list of places you can go armed.

It should come as little surprise then, that I’m not a big fan of the open carry law. It’s not that I mind guns. I’m fine with hunting. I even own a pellet gun. It’s fun. But it’s the fact that we have some lenient gun ownership laws that make me uncomfortable with open carry. Even though I live near the city with the highest crime rate in America, (Go St Louis!) I feel safe. I don’t feel like I need to take a gun with me everywhere I go to defend myself. Safety and security are one of the perks of living in a civilized society. Despite all of our political bickering and trashy reality television, I’d like to think we live in a civilized society. In all honesty, if I were picking up groceries and I saw a person wearing a gun, I’d call the cops. Because I trust police. I don’t trust the random guy in aisle 3. So the next time you’re shopping, please leave the gun at home. Most of Maplewood agrees, it just makes us feel safer.

The post I’m going shopping, and I’m bringing my gun appeared first on Occasional Planet.

You don’t volunteer for Grand Jury duty in St. Louis County for the money. Few can get off work for 18 consecutive Wednesdays and get by on the allotted $18-per-eight-hour-day. I live a fairly cushy life. So, a few years ago, when the judge asked for volunteers from a cohort of 200 potential jurors, I raised my hand, not really knowing what lay ahead, but curious about the inner workings of the justice system.

I had no idea what a grand jury did. Turns out, at the county level, the grand jury isn’t the kind that investigates organized crime or reviews cases with headline mojo. Our job was to be a relief valve for the overstuffed docket of preliminary hearings—and a rehearsal hall for prosecutors preparing cases for the bigger time of a live courtroom.

So, sworn in, given an official badge, and briefly briefed on state statutes, penalties, procedures and the locations of nearby restaurants, we began. They warned us: It’s not like “Law & Order” or “CSI.” We’d never again be able read about or watch a crime report the same way. There will be laughs, tears and gasps of astonishment, they said.

It wasn’t. We couldn’t. And there were. Our weekly crime chronicles introduced us to the hungry and homeless, who stole steaks and shoelaces from supermarkets. The brazen, caught on videotape unabashedly sauntering out of big-box stores with cartloads of tv’s and microwave ovens. The sloppy, ripping off car stereos as their wallets spilled out of their pockets and stayed behind on the front seat, IDs intact. The morally bankrupt, forging their best friends’ names on checks, or stealing jewelry from the elderly who paid them for home care.  And the despicable, who raped and tortured their ex-girlfriends or sexually molested their biological children.

Our charge was to serve up indictments—or not. Mostly, we did. Every week, the endless loop of crime re-booted, and while I admit to finding the soap-opera perversely entertaining, I took my job seriously. We all did. The prosecutors impressed me with their thoroughness most of the time, and their cynicism some of the time. With as many as 63 cases on a single-day’s docket, the pace was often super-fast-forward.

The witnesses—usually the cops who made the traffic stops or vaulted fences to catch the bad guys—varied in their ability to talk about what they did. We strained to hear the mumblers and LOL’d with guys who told their stories so colorfully that they could make a living in stand-up comedy. Clearly the police were working hard. Some were working out hard, judging by the biceps and pecs threatening to burst out of their uniforms.

I wondered, sometimes aloud, if we always heard the truth about Miranda, the pretexts for the traffic stops, and the search warrants. But in a scary situation, I now know more than ever that I want one of those folks on my side, and I’ll pay the taxes to make sure I get one.

When victims testified, you could almost touch their pain. We saw a sad parade of women—some tearful, some angry, some simply resigned to their fates—abandoned by boyfriends and husbands who never paid a nickel to support their own kids, even though the court order called for as little as $25 a month. The women we cried with will probably never get a cent, and neither will the long line of folks defrauded by home repair companies and other fly-by-nights. But I could see that each got some small sense of validation from the chance to tell their stories to someone official—even if it was just us, a bunch of random citizens trying to make sense of the senseless.

Our discussions were, by law, secret and closed-door. It took a week or so to get the hang of this gig. At first, we solemnly talked about cases in detail before voting. And in the beginning, I was determined not to be the proverbial ham-sandwich indicter. But some cases were such slam-dunks for indictment that we were already voting before the door to the Grand Jury room had completely closed behind the prosecutor and witness.

They told us to ask questions. So we did. Most of our questions were reasonable. We had been warned not to emulate previous grand jurors who asked abuse victims about their sexual histories.  One juror, though, clearly obsessed with guns and 2^nd Amendment rights, often fixated on the guns holstered in the cops’ utility belts and invariably asked about caliber, casings and other weaponry issues only tangentially relevant to our deliberations.

In the brief moments between cases, during breaks, and at lunch, our dozen got to know each other.  Our grand jury included the retired maitre d’ of a posh restaurant, the owner of a heating-and-cooling business, a postal worker, a former Green Beret, a high-school teacher. One of the original 12 un-volunteered early in our stint, too emotionally clobbered by child- and sexual-abuse cases to go on.

We shared homemade cakes and cookies, and we traded family stories and workplace horrors. We exchanged email addresses and promised to stay in touch. We agreed. We argued. Once, a jury member scared us so badly that we took our fears to the judge. After only 18 weeks, we had become a dysfunctional family.

I learned a great deal about the law, but much more about myself. I discovered that a liberal like me can be just as hard on crime as anyone else, particularly when “crime” is not a just a political code word, but a real occurrence. I found myself scouring the weekly docket for crimes in my comfortable neighborhood, simultaneously hoping to be reassured that I was safe from the horrors we heard about in other municipalities, and inexplicably, somehow wanting to feel that my life was relevant, too.

I went home each week wiped out and overwhelmed by the volume and repetitiveness of criminal activity, exhilarated by a new understanding of legal procedures, and bursting with stories I couldn’t tell.

It was an eye-opening, mind-altering, life-changing, feel-good-and-feel-bad, exhausting and sometimes goose-bump-scary experience. I’d do it again in a Midwestern milli-second. But I won’t be invited. One of the many things I learned about our legal system as a grand[ma] jurist was that I’m now exempt for the next 10 years.

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