Longtime director of Yellowstone County juvenile jail announces retirement

Jan. 19—When Valarie Weber was getting her social work degree at Colorado State, she was sure she didn't want to work with kids.

But, a self-proclaimed "farm kid from Billings," she was desperate to return home, and her job offers were at the Rivendell Psychiatric Center, a youth facility which closed in 1993, or Yellowstone Boys and Girls Ranch.

Her first two clients at Rivendell were boys from the Pine Hills Youth Correctional Facility in Miles City.

"I fell in love with working with delinquent kids," Weber said.

Now, after 27 years as director of the county's juvenile jail, she will retire in May.

In that time she introduced parenting support groups, developed the educational program, and started a chemical dependency group.

But she's also seen some things change for the worse, for reasons beyond her control.

The juvenile justice system differs from the adult system because "the fundamental function of the youth justice system is to ask why a kid is behaving this way, to solve that, and then to hold them accountable."

Weber used to routinely have attorneys call and ask her what she thinks a kid needs.

"It used to be that the process focused on what do we need to do with and for this kid," she said. "But now it feels like exclusively a legal process."

This means there's less initial agreement, which can further drag out a case.

And court processing times are already "rapidly increasing," driven by a shortage of public defenders.

When no public defenders are available attorneys from private practices are contracted. But the pay rate, determined by the state legislature, is so low that most attorneys won't do it.

'The fact is, it's jail'

Long wait times are bad for educational progress and mental health.

"We do the best we can, but the fact is it's jail and they're sitting in a cell," she said.

Most of the kids Weber works with already have mental health problems and educational struggles. They aren't making it in the school system and would benefit from educational alternatives.

"But school budgets are tight, so does it make sense to spend a bunch of money to educate the difficult kids?" she said.

And the mental health of the kids she works with has worsened over time, particularly since the state's 2017 budget cuts.

"Back when I started, one or two kids would be severely mentally ill," she said. "But now it's most of them."

The lack of in-state mental health resources also means that most of Weber's kids who end up being placed in treatment are sent to out-of-state facilities.

"It's incredibly expensive for the state and disruptive to the child," Weber said. Many won't see their families at all during treatment, as travel makes it too expensive to visit.

'Gang wannabes'

The jail doesn't detain youth for initial petty crimes, mostly because the limited space — with 24 secure beds and 15 shelter beds — which means that holding non-violent kids is not a good use of space.

Plus, "the surest way to have a juvenile commit additional crimes is to lock them up, that's scientifically proven."

Though some believe it teaches them a lesson, "it absolutely does the opposite," she said.

The recent uptick in youth violence and crime was a surprise to Weber and those who have worked in juvenile justice for a while, as was the uptick in multiple participant crimes, which are generally rare.

Though this has been attributed to gangs, Weber thinks they're more like "gang wannabes." Which, in her opinion, is worse.

"Actual gangs have discipline, structure, management," she said. "Gang wannabes have no discipline."

Greasing the gears

Despite systemic challenges, the outlook is not all gloom and doom.

Connections between the jail, youth probation officers, and judges can help facilitate the process — to an extent.

"Co-operation can grease the gears, but it can't fix the system," Weber said.

Weber says there's always a handful of kids who are chronically in and out of jail, but the vast majority of the 450 kids admitted each year don't go on to commit serious crimes.

Weber plays competitive billiards and sometimes she'll be approached in bars by men who ask if she recognizes them.

"They'll say 'I'm so and so, I'm doing good, I'm a diesel mechanic, I've got two kids,'" she said.

"At 17 or 18, I would've bet money that kid would commit serious crimes as an adult," she said. "But people mature out of it and get their lives together."

Though Weber can't talk about specific cases, she goes to Kiwanis clubs, church groups, and community groups to talk about her work.

"People in the community are justifiably outraged and fail to see the human being involved," she said. "I try to get them to understand that these kids have done terrible things, but they're not rabid dogs."

On Christmas Eve, after Weber celebrates with her family, she goes to the jail to give the kids chocolate and cards written by the jail's board.

"One year, I was looking around, and everyone in the room had done something really horrendous — really ugly, tragic crimes," she said. "And I wish I could explain this to people, but they're also dorky teenagers. They seemed no different from the kids in my family."

Between Rivendell, the jail, and working in a mental health program with the school district in between, Weber has been on call for almost 32 years.

"I was on the phone about an intake at 1 a.m. this morning," she said. "It'll be interesting not to be on call. I'm looking forward to seeing what that feels like."

Weber feels grateful to have been given the opportunity to connect with so many kids and people through her work.

"It's a gift and a privilege to be present when people are going through the worst moments of life."

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