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Attendance mandatory, at school or truancy court

By SUE CARLTON
Published August 30, 2006

In the courtroom, the 13-year-old girl with the big hoop earrings won't look up. The judge just learned she has missed eight of the first 14 days of school and wants to know why.

Silence. "I dunno," the girl finally says.

Judge Irene Sullivan prods. The girl says she stays out late, doesn't go to bed until after midnight. The judge asks her straight out: right now, would you test positive for marijuana?

"Yes ma'am," the girl says.

Drug counseling, the judge orders. A 7 p.m. curfew. TV off by 9:30. And her mom, not her uncle, standing beside her at her next truancy hearing.

Then the judge gives the girl a little shore-up, a little encouragement, and asks her what she's good at. The girl smiles a little. She does like to read.

Next.

The dozens of kids who land here in truancy court at the Pinellas Criminal Justice Center in Clearwater aren't your occasional school skippers. These are the chronics teetering on the edge, students who miss weeks or even months of school - 72 days, 90 days, and the one who showed up on the first day and wasn't seen again until after Christmas. Last year, the Pinellas court system handled 167 hard-core truancy cases.

A lot of these kids are ghosts who float through the halls of middle and high school without connecting or finding a place to land. Maybe the problem is drugs, or family, or depression, or something else. "We're here to find out," the judge says.

Truancy programs try to catch them before they drop out, which they can do as early as 16 with their parents' blessing. Then they're out in the world, no backstop. They get in trouble. They get lost.

When prosecutor Barbara Jacobs introduces herself to the courtroom, she mentions a mother recently jailed for repeatedly failing to get her child to school. This gets stony looks from the audience.

But jail time doesn't happen very often. Mostly, they just want kids in school.

In the gallery I see parents who look worn down and fed up, wearing medical assistant scrubs or uniforms or, on one father, a fat tape measure strapped to his belt. This is a workday afternoon, and every face says, I do not want to be here. Already, two mothers have phoned in with medical emergencies.

One boy who does not show has been labeled "whereabouts unknown." Another kid on the docket couldn't make it because he's being held elsewhere on criminal charges.

Before court got started this day, the players of truancy court - people from the school system, teen court, Family Resources - brainstormed over lunch. Someone heard about a program to get merchants to keep out kids who are skipping school. They talked about how to get more volunteer mentors. Someone mentioned a truant kid who is only in pre-K.

How about getting businesses to donate small rewards for kids who turn around - gift cards, McDonald's coupons, movie tickets? "That could be used on the weekend or at night," the judge cautioned, and everyone laughed.

In front of these kids, Judge Sullivan makes me think of that teacher you might have rolled your eyes at in high school but secretly hoped would like you. In court, she urges every one of them to take a free bookmark that says Attendance Attachment Achievement. Not even the hardest case refuses her.

A father in pressed blue jeans steps up when his son's name is called. He says the boy, who is 15, would not come. The boy stays out all night and drinks. "He wanted to fight me today," the man says sadly.

The judge orders the boy to be taken to a Family Resources shelter for a couple of days. "Good luck, Dad," she says to his retreating back.

Two parents stand at the podium, bracketing their tall son. By March of last year, he was already absent 54 days, but he's in a new school now. His progress reports are perfect and he hasn't had one unexcused absence. His parents tell the judge they just went to his school open house. They like his teachers.

Keep it up, the judge tells the kid, and you might graduate truancy court by October. "We give you a round of applause and you don't have to come back here," she says. He smiles, as if nothing would make him happier than to never have to walk into this courthouse again.

Sue Carlton can be reached at carlton@sptimes.com.

[Last modified August 30, 2006, 01:26:29]