BALTIMORE — Arlando “Tray” Jones was a toddler when his dad was killed by Baltimore police during a robbery. His mom died several years later after battling alcoholism.
His surviving relatives often struggled to provide for him. Sometimes the lights got turned off and the refrigerator was empty.
Jones turned to a notorious neighborhood drug dealer, a sinister father figure whose lavish lifestyle demonstrated what could be achieved in the streets. Under the supervision of “Fat Larry,” Jones finally had stable housing and money in his pocket, but violence was all around him. He started carrying a gun and punishing anyone who crossed him. Barely a teenager, he was charged with attempted murder and sent to juvenile detention in the early 1980s.
There, at the Maryland Training School for Boys, Jones says a staff member repeatedly sexually assaulted him while another kept watch. The guards would corner children in dark spaces and bribe them with extra snacks and other special treatment, according to a slew of recent lawsuits alleging widespread misconduct in Maryland’s juvenile detention facilities.
“They broke me,” Jones said, recounting how his abusers beat him into submission. “Everything that connected me to my humanity was just gone.”
Jones is among thousands of people seeking accountability under a new state law that eliminated the statute of limitations for child sexual abuse claims. It was passed in 2023 with the Catholic Church abuse scandal in mind. But now Maryland lawmakers are scrambling to address an unexpected onslaught of cases targeting the state’s juvenile justice system. They’re worried the state budget can’t support a potential payout.
The Associated Press requested an interview with the state’s Department of Juvenile Services, but the department responded with a statement instead.
“DJS takes allegations of sexual abuse of children in our care with utmost seriousness and we are working hard to provide decent, humane and rehabilitative environments for youth committed to the Department. We do not comment on pending litigation,” the agency said.
To the plaintiffs, it’s no surprise that Maryland leaders failed to anticipate a public reckoning of this size. Many victims spent decades in silence, paralyzed by shame. They were some of Maryland’s most vulnerable residents, mostly Black kids growing up in poverty with little family support.
All these years later, Jones still broke down crying in an interview. “But now I know the shame is not mine to bear,” he said.
Maryland lawmakers passed the Child Victims Act in the immediate aftermath of a scathing investigative report that revealed widespread abuse within the Archdiocese of Baltimore. Before its passage, victims couldn’t sue after they turned 38.
The law change prompted the archdiocese to file for bankruptcy to protect its assets. But state leaders didn’t anticipate they’d be facing similar budgetary concerns. Lawmakers are now considering new legislation to shield the state financially.
An estimated 6,000 people have retained attorneys and new complaints are pouring in, according to lawyers involved. In addition to monetary damages, plaintiffs want mandated reform of Maryland’s juvenile justice system.
The system has drawn serious criticism over the years. A 2004 Justice Department report found a “deeply disturbing degree of physical abuse” at the facility where Jones was detained, now called the Charles H. Hickey Jr. School. The state closed Hickey’s youth treatment program in 2005, but it’s still operating as a youth detention center.
Many other facilities named in the lawsuits have already been closed, and state leaders have strengthened oversight in recent years. They’ve also focused on detaining fewer youths.
Advocates say they’re confident the system is significantly less abusive than it was.
Other states have faced similar reckonings after changing their laws. While juvenile arrests and detention rates are declining nationally, research shows the majority of detainees are children of color. A 2024 report from the nonprofit The Sentencing Project found Black youth are roughly five times more likely to be incarcerated than their white peers.
“It’s not just in Maryland, it’s everywhere,” said attorney Corey Stern, who represents Jones and others. “It’s really a ripple effect across the U.S.”
Still, the Maryland lawsuits paint a particularly disturbing picture. It wasn’t just select facilities or a small group of abusive staff members, it was statewide and persisted for decades, attorneys say. The abuse was often a poorly kept secret, but the system repeatedly failed to stop it, the lawsuits say.
In a complaint filed earlier this month, 69 people brought claims against the same abuser, a former housing supervisor at Hickey.
One of the plaintiffs in that case, who asked to remain anonymous, said that as the abuse escalated, he started to avoid properly cleaning himself to become less desirable. He later spent decades struggling with addiction and mental health issues. He said suing the state “even now felt like I was snitching.” The AP doesn’t typically identify victims of abuse unless they want to be named.
Nalisha Gibbs said she didn’t initially report her abuse because no one would have listened. A past experience gave her proof of that.
Not long before she went to juvenile detention over a missed curfew enforced by a school truancy officer, Gibbs said, she had been raped by an uncle — and punished by her mother when she didn’t keep quiet about the abuse.
In the detention center, a female guard would come to her cell at night and assault her. Gibbs said the woman would degrade her, calling her worthless and “a throwaway.”
For coming home 15 minutes after curfew, she was sentenced to a lifetime of trauma.
After 30 days in detention, Gibbs never went back to middle school. She ended up in foster care, where she suffered more sexual abuse. She spent most of her 20s addicted to drugs, sometimes living on the streets. But in 2008, she sought treatment. She enrolled in a transitional housing program and earned her GED. She now lives with her fiancé and his mother.
Thinking back on her childhood, she sees a scared little girl who needed an adult to stand up for her.
“She just had so much life snuffed out by people mistreating her and mishandling her,” Gibbs said through tears. “But I’m not that little girl anymore. I can fight for myself.”
A couple years after being released from Hickey, Jones was involved in a fight over drugs that escalated into gunshots, killing Joshua O’Neal.
Jones was 16 when he was arrested and charged with murder. He was later convicted and sentenced to life in prison.
He said the sexual abuse pushed him over the edge; if he was headed down a negative path before juvenile detention, that experience sent him hurtling toward the unchecked brutality of the drug game.
In 2022, he was released from prison under a state law that allows sentence reductions for people convicted as children.
During his incarceration, Jones earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology. He’s studied philosophy and published two books. Now 56, he works at Georgetown University’s Prisons and Justice Initiative, which teaches students about mass incarceration and prison reform.
He said getting educated restored some of the humanity he lost. It helped him regain his freedom and gave him a second chance at life. It also made him question everything.
“An orphan child surviving poverty as best I can,” he said. “Where was my first chance?”
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Associated Press reporter Brian Witte in Annapolis contributed to this report.
