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Juvenile probation officers search and (try to) rescue

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By JEFF JARDINE
BEE LOCAL COLUMNIST

TURLOCK — A young woman sat in a tattered recliner. Her toddler son squirmed in her lap.

The house was a disaster, with clothing, toys and stuff strewn throughout. The place reeked with the stale smell of cigarette smoke.

It didn't seem to bother her that a team of probation officers and Stanislaus County sheriff's deputies, all clad in flak jackets and some with guns drawn, had arrived to search the home.

Not that she had a choice.

Her younger brother is a confirmed gang member, a Norteño who spent time in Juvenile Hall for drug possession, theft and other convictions.

By doing so, he surrendered his family's rights as well. Officers can search their home whenever they feel like it.

"Parents are appalled how it impacts their personal lives, having someone in the house on probation," said Jerry Powers, Stanislaus County's chief probation officer. "They find it very intrusive, and we get some indignant parents who are absolutely in denial about their kids."

Juvenile Probation's high-risk unit frequently performs such sweeps, often hitting more than a dozen homes or hangouts in a 12-hour operation.

The officers in this unit carry smaller caseloads — about 40 teens each — compared with other probation officers, supervisor Mike Moore said.

"You can have a greater impact and provide more services," he said. "When you have 180 to 200, it's hard to make an impact."

That impact comes from working with teens to help them avoid future mistakes. They are as much counselors as cops. They offer a tattoo removal program. They work with delinquents to get them back into school, off of drugs and into jobs.

"We haven't had as many (successes) as we'd like," Moore said. "But even if we only got one a year, that's a success. There's been a handful who wanted to get the 14s ('XIV' tattoos) taken off."

XIV is used by Norteños, for the 14th letter of the alphabet, N. Sureños use "XIII" for M, the 13th letter, and the first in "Mexican mafia."

Most teens on probation, however, merit a heavier hand. They've been in trouble repeatedly and many are deeply entrenched in gangs. They steal and sell property to pay for their alcohol and drugs.

"The majority on probation have substance abuse problems," said Kandy Rakoncza, a probation officer for 10 years. "I had one kid in the (juvenile) hall who hasn't gone to school for two years. The kids he hangs out with — they drink a case of beer a day."

These officers all have stories to tell about the operations.

Like the time they went to a home to serve a warrant and were spotted by the teen on probation. He told his girlfriend to get in the shower while he hid. She then answered the door wrapped in a bath towel, telling the officers they'd interrupted her shower.

They searched the home and found he had crammed himself into a small bathroom vanity cabinet.

"He was quite a contortionist," Rakoncza said.

Like the time in Empire, when they approached a home and the kid bolted, escaping through holes he'd cut in a series of chain-link fences that led to another neighborhood and temporary freedom.

Like the time they visited a duplex in Modesto and found 15 gang members selling rock cocaine.

"Almost every one of them had a warrant," Moore said.

Like the time they went to serve a warrant to a gang member who was a no-show in court. The teen's 11-year-old brother tried to bully them.

When they told the belligerent child to calm down, the mom yelled at them.

"The mother said, 'This is his home. Don't you talk to him like that,'" Rakoncza said.

They were amused only to a point, because they knew they'd probably be dealing with that 11-year-old at Juvenile Hall in the not-too-distant future.

"(The mom) is raising him to be defiant," Rakoncza said.

Ultimately, there's nothing funny about these stories. They are a sad depiction of one of society's many underbellies. They involve dysfunctional families whose children are ripe for recruiting by gangs. The parents often are afraid of their children or are in complete denial about their kids' criminal activities.

The cost is enormous, in terms of ruined lives and the tax dollars spent to combat it through enforcement on the street and through the juvenile halls, jails and prisons. Searches such as the one in Turlock, part of a sweep the unit performed last week, involve all of the above.

The high-risk unit makes its unannounced visits to see if those troubled teens are living up to the terms of their probation. The officers look for drugs, weapons, gang paraphernalia and stolen property. They serve arrest warrants on those who fail to show up for their court dates, or any other violations, taking the kids back to Juvenile Hall — when they catch them.

The teen from Turlock wasn't home when they made their rounds one day last week. His sister, a 19-year-old with a face devoid of emotion, never made eye contact with the officers. She answered their questions while locking in on the blaring TV.

"Is he still bangin'?" one officer asked.

"I don't know. I don't think so," she replied.

They found evidence that would indicate otherwise. The teen had painted interior door panels red, the Norteños' color. Same with the plastic light-switch plates.

One of the switch plates bore a logo from K-Swiss, the sports shoe company. Norteños use the logo as a bravado-laden acronym: Kill Scraps When I See Scraps.

Scraps is a derogatory term Norteños use for the rival Sureños.

Court orders prohibited that teen from possessing red bandannas. Yet the search turned up red bandannas, along with a red jacket and other red clothing.

Rakoncza seized and cataloged the items before the unit went to the next stop from the list she had compiled earlier in the day.

Over the next 10 hours, they conducted more than a dozen visits and searches, following a strict protocol each time.

They met at a prescribed place — usually a parking lot — several blocks from the next targeted home. Rakoncza or Ranjit Takhar, another officer in the unit, briefed the rest of the unit on the teen they were after. They went over the teen's rap sheet; the likelihood of finding drugs or weapons;, any gang affiliations; and whether the kid has a history of being a "rabbit," known to bolt when officers arrive.

They split up duties — who would cover the back or side yards and who would go to the front door.

Then they drove to within a block or so of the home and quietly marched toward it. Neighbors watched the procession. Some officers drew their guns, and the tension built.

"Sheriff's deputy probation search," one of them yelled.

If someone answered the door, they explained their business and went in. Often, no one was home, and they went to the next home on Rakoncza's list.

This sweep was uneventful compared with most. Usually, they arrest six to eight teens, with a high of 10, Moore said. This time, they nabbed only one.

They arrested a 16-year-old at his girlfriend's home in Empire. He had outstanding warrants for probation violations including possession of drugs, alcohol and gang paraphernalia.

"He told us, 'I was going to turn myself in after Valentine's Day,'" said Jim Miler, one of the officers. "I told him, 'Look at the bright side. You don't have to buy her anything.'"

The young lovers were allowed a goodbye kiss before officers led him away in handcuffs.

At another home in Turlock, they came across an adult parolee who, at first, denied having been in prison. He was 24 and looked 40. He consented to a search and eventually admitted to being a parolee. He was clean — no drugs, weapons or outstanding warrants — thus avoiding a return trip to the slammer.

They went to find one of the teens who had been shot in the Jan. 7 incident at the Heritage Inn on McHenry Avenue. The teen came walking through the apartment parking lot after officers had searched the apartment and talked to his parents.

He, too, was clean, and they let him go.

And they went to a home in the airport neighborhood to arrest a 16-year-old with a long history of drug abuse. When they got there, they learned he'd been arrested on grand theft charges the previous night in Merced County, using his brother's name while being booked.

The problem, transcending the obvious lack of sibling loyalty, was that his brother was in custody in Stanislaus County.

As the officers walked away from the home, a small boy — maybe 7 or 8 — strutted after them, talking serious smack until two older girls restrained him.

I had to wonder how long it will be before he becomes another file in their caseload and another stop during a sweep.