BALTIMORE (news agencies) — 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.
media 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.
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