SHOCK TREATMENT

The Program Gives Juvenile Offenders A Jolt Of Reality About The
Consequences Of Their Bad Decisions

TAMPA - Doug Parrish stood behind a lectern in the chapel at Stowers
Funeral Home, facing a sea of sullen adolescent faces. Some of the boys sat
and stared at him. Others sprawled across the pews, eyes closed.

Parrish, a 48-year-old military veteran, has had his fill of funeral homes
since the death of his son New Year's Eve. Scott Parrish, 22, was shot in
the face at a convenience store in Polk County.

Nevertheless, Parrish forced himself to show up Wednesday at the funeral
home in Brandon. As painful as it was, he wanted to tell the boys about
Scott. He wanted to tell them the difference between life and death can
come down to one split-second choice in the heat of a moment.

The 40 boys, in trouble for crimes ranging from petty theft to drug and
alcohol possession, are part of Shock, a juvenile diversion program.

Created by the 13th Judicial Circuit in 1995, Shock gives delinquent 13- to
18-year-olds a dose of reality about the consequences of poor choices.

It's a less-intense version of Scared Straight, a program that sends
delinquents into jails to experience firsthand the daily life of a convict.

Teens can be ordered into the six-week Shock program by a judge or referred
by parents, school administrators or social workers. It's primarily for
first-time offenders, although judges may order juveniles with prior
records to attend.

Some 14 percent of Florida's first-time juvenile offenders are considered
high risk for becoming chronic criminals, according to the state Department
of Juvenile Justice. Shock is intended to help those kids. Last year, 136
participants completed the course.

Classes are segregated by sex and meet twice a week. The teens visit the
emergency room and neonatal ward at Tampa General Hospital. They tour the
Drug Abuse Comprehensive Coordinating Office residential drug and alcohol
treatment center. Planned Parenthood educators talk to them about sexual
responsibility. The teens serve food to homeless people at Metropolitan
Ministries.

The neonatal unit seems to have a big impact on most kids, said Maggie
Pines, a social worker who runs the classes.

``I think seeing the drug-addicted babies is a big shock for them,'' Pines
said. ``They just can't believe something like that can happen.''

He Hopes They Listen

The teens also visit Stowers to listen to members of the local Bereaved
Parents support group talk about the deaths of their children.

Parrish's voice was high and tight with emotion as he spoke to the boys
about Scott.

``He was my best friend,'' Parrish said, breathing deeply in an effort to
regain composure.

Some boys traded uneasy glances, clearly uncomfortable with the man's raw
grief.

``Every time I come here, I ask God to give me some words to say that you
guys are going to hear,'' Parrish continued. ``I know none of this makes
any sense to you now. But if you hear it now, maybe later it will make a
difference in your life.''

Scott wasn't a troublemaker, his father said. But he was in the wrong place
at the wrong time when someone else decided to use a gun.

``I always try to tell young guys like you, when you're at a bad place,
doing something you know is wrong, take 10 seconds and think about what
you're doing,'' Parrish said.

His message seemed to reach some of the boys.

``Everything he said was true,'' said Chris Woods, 16. ``It can happen to
us. It did scare me a little bit to think that.''

Alexander Allende, 17, said he understood Parrish's loss because he has had
several deaths among family and friends recently. But he doubted many of
the other boys connected.

``Honestly, no, they don't get it,'' said Allende, who has been in drug
treatment for nearly 11 months.

``I've learned to stop and think,'' he said. ``Because I'm clean, I realize
now what can happen, but I never did before.''

Regina Carswell was one of about a half-dozen parents who joined their
children at the funeral home. Parents are welcome at all Shock classes
except the one on sexual responsibility.

``The kids won't open up and talk if the parents are there,'' Pines said.

Carswell thought the Shock program was a good thing for her 13-year-old
son, Lawrence Artis, who got in trouble for taking a bicycle from school.

``I think it'll be helpful for him,'' she said. ``I just hope he learned
something.''

Spending On Prevention

Legislators learned a lesson about the impact of juvenile crime after a
series of tourist shootings involving young suspects in 1993. Tourism fell
dramatically in the aftermath, and in budget year 1994-95, the Legislature
created the Department of Juvenile Justice.

State spending on delinquency prevention programs increased from $40.9
million in 1994-95 to $78.4 million in 2000-01. Then the economy turned
sour, and the Legislature held a special session to cut spending. The
department lost 114 juvenile probation officers statewide, and caseloads
jumped 10 percent. Prevention program funding was slashed.

Some of the losses were restored in the department's $634 million budget
for 2002-03. Seventy-five probation officer positions were added, along
with an extra $1.3 million for prevention programs. Some say it wasn't enough.

``Money for diversion programs was cut, and many of those slots were never
replaced,'' said Richard Dembo, a University of South Florida professor who
is a juvenile-program consultant for Hillsborough County's 13th Judicial
Circuit.

``Much of the money is going to residential commitment programs at the
expense of prevention,'' Dembo said.

Advocates of prevention say it pays off. Since the Juvenile Justice
Department was formed, the number of youth in Florida has grown by 11
percent, but the number of juveniles committing serious crimes has dropped
by more than 7 percent.

The department funds more than 200 types of delinquency programs statewide,
serving more than 75,000 juveniles. On average, fewer than 10 percent of
the youngsters who complete a prevention program are referred for
delinquency within six months, according to state statistics.

The Shock program isn't one of those funded by the department, though. And
13th Circuit administrators only recently began to study how many graduates
become repeat offenders.

Pines - who has run the classes since March 2000 and whose $26,000 salary
is the only major cost of the program - bets the numbers are low.

``It's not mom and dad telling them how it is,'' she said. ``They are
seeing it for themselves.''