Good article here on victims rights issues in California - albeit a sad story. They're even more restrictive with resources it sounds like, than here, but AZ is still pretty bad for victims of crime. Here, certain victims rights are constitutionally guaranteed for everyone EXCEPT for "those in custody for an offense". Under AZ's "Victims Bill of Rights", Walmart counts more as a human being with the standing of a victim in court over petty things like shoplifting than a prisoner who was raped, or their survivors if they were murdered in custody - probably because state agents themselves are so often the perpetrators of crimes against prisoners.
So when Kini Seawright's only son Dana was murdered in Lewis prison for being a race traitor and she lost her health, her mind, her hope, her job, her medical insurance, and her home in the aftermath, she wasn't even eligible for grief counseling from the state, much less emergency aid - nothing of the millions set aside to help crime victims, simply because her son was in custody at the time he was murdered. Why is she being punished for that?
Kini and Samantha (below) and so many other victims of crime were thrown under the bus by the prosecutor-led so-called "victims' rights" movement a long time ago. If they really cared a damn about the rights of all victims, the movement would be reaching out to these women too and fixing these stupid laws.
Rogers didn't think she needed to go to the hospital. "I was like, 'There's nothing wrong with me. I'm okay,'" Rogers, now 46, recalled. "They could see I was in shock."
Rogers was not okay. Her whole face was swollen, she had a large cut under her eye, and her nose was broken, according to a Stockton Police Department report and Rogers' own recollection of the incident. Earlier that night, she and her boyfriend of three years had invited friends over to play cards and dominoes at their shared home. At one point, the couple got in an argument about money, and Rogers' boyfriend started getting violent. The guests "decided to leave before things escalated," the police report stated. On their way out, the friends could hear Rogers screaming for help, but they did not call police. Eventually, a neighbor did. By then, Rogers' boyfriend had dragged her on the floor and punched and kicked her in the face and head multiple times, the report said.
When cops arrived, the boyfriend was already gone — and he had taken her wallet and credit card with him.
Police immediately called in medics, who tried to convince Rogers that she needed to go to the emergency room. "They were like, 'Ms. Rogers, you don't understand how bad you're messed up. We can see, because we're looking at you,'" she recalled. Finally, they found a pocket mirror in her bedroom and handed it to her.
At St. Joseph's Medical Center, doctors told her she needed five sets of stitches, but that was not the only bad news she received. Soon after, she learned that the California Victim Compensation Program, which provides financial assistance to victims of violence, would not give her a dime of support. At the time, Rogers was on felony parole, which automatically disqualified her from receiving any aid from the state. She had been released from state prison a year earlier after more than seventeen years in and out of the criminal justice system for a range of nonviolent, victimless crimes, mostly tied to drug offenses and her battle with substance abuse. Rogers said that when she was attacked in 2010, she still had roughly eight more months left on parole. That meant the state would not help her with one of her most pressing needs — moving away from her home in Stockton where her ex-boyfriend could find her.
Just a few weeks after Rogers went to the hospital, an official from the San Joaquin County District Attorney's Office informed her of the state's Victim Compensation rules. "They said there's nothing they could possibly do to help me in any way," she said. "I had to keep my cool. But in actuality I was outraged. I was like, fucking for real? Parole is stopping me from getting the support I need? Just because I'm on parole or ... had something to do with another crime that makes me less qualified to get help?"
"That makes me feel like I'm less human," Rogers continued, noting that finding a new place to live away from her violent ex-boyfriend was critical to her safety. "I feared that if he came back, he might want to finish me off."
Over the past year, Victim Compensation, a state program that reimburses victims for a range of expenses like hospital bills, relocation, and mental health services has come under increased scrutiny for its discriminatory practices. In December, critics won a victory when the board that oversees the program voted to allow sex workers to access aid; the now-defunct regulation had stated that a victim's involvement in "prostitution" leading up to the act of violence barred her or him from receiving compensation. A sex worker who spoke out about being brutally attacked and then subsequently denied aid sparked the debate. While social justice advocates celebrated that change — which is still in the process of being finalized and implemented — other activists, especially prisoners' rights groups, continue to lament the other inequities written into state law. Namely, formerly incarcerated people who become victims of violence are barred from receiving any financial assistance while on felony parole and probation. And in California, that includes people convicted of nonviolent drug offenses.
It's not uncommon for low-income people who get caught up in the criminal justice system to become victims of violence themselves. In this way, the program's exclusion of people with criminal records punishes some of the most vulnerable victims — those struggling to rehabilitate their lives after incarceration and who already have little to no support. They often can't find a safe place to live, a steady job, or enough money to survive. In these challenging circumstances, people reentering society can get caught up in gun violence and abusive relationships. And when they do, the state's denial of aid can send them on a downward spiral and, advocates argue, revictimize them.
But this isn't the only group that the program refuses to help. The state also generally rejects applicants who don't cooperate with police, which can be an obstacle for victims of domestic violence who are trapped in dangerous situations and afraid to talk with cops. And for victims caught up in gang activity, cooperating with law enforcement can be fatal — in some cases even exposing family members and friends to retaliation and violence. Program officials say they consider these kinds of risks, but advocates say unfair denials due to lack of cooperation are common. And as these victims work to protect themselves and their loved ones, the lack of basic financial aid can dramatically hinder their ability to recover from a violent episode.
Critics of the program, which is primarily supported by fines criminal offenders are ordered to pay when they are convicted, also argue that the state has more than enough cash to aid victims it currently excludes: In fiscal year 2012-13, California officials reported a program fund "reserve" of nearly $80 million.
"The fact that categories of people are barred from any type of compensation exposes such deep problems with the way in which the fund is administered," said Diana Block, an advisory board member of the California Coalition for Women Prisoners.
Rogers today still struggles to understand why a victimless, nonviolent crime in her past — one for which she already served time behind bars — prevented her from getting the basic help she needed. "You keep saying you want me to get rehabilitated. ... But where do we get some healing?"
As a victim of domestic violence with medical bills, a damaged home, and a perpetrator on the loose, Rogers was just the kind of candidate the state is supposed to help. When it was formed in 1965, the Victim Compensation Program was the first of its kind in the nation solely dedicated to providing financial aid to those who have faced violence. The program is a "provider of last resort," explained Jon Myers, deputy executive officer of public affairs and outreach for the Victim Compensation and Government Claims Board. "We help victims who really don't have anywhere else to turn to." That means the state program can help with crime-related expenses not covered by other sources, such as private insurance or Medi-Cal. (It can cover co-pays, for example.)
The program supports victims of domestic violence, child abuse, sexual assault, drunk driving accidents, robbery, and hate crimes, among others. It also offers aid to the families of homicide victims and people legally dependent on victims for financial support. (It does not support victims of nonviolent offenses, like financial crimes). Victim Compensation can help with a wide range of expenses, including medical and dental treatment, mental health services, income loss, funeral and burial expenses, home security, relocation, and crime-scene cleanup. "We see it as a big relief to victims in helping them overcome the trauma of a violent crime," said Myers, noting that expenses can quickly add up and overwhelm victims.
In fiscal year 2012-13, the state approved 41,470 claims, representing 78 percent of the total applications it received, said Anne Gordon, spokesperson for Victim Compensation. The state denied 11,649 people — 22 percent of total applications. (Those figures do not factor in whether a denied claim was appealed and subsequently approved.) On average, the board receives two hundred applications per workday and approves 40,000 to 50,000 per year. In fiscal year 2012-13, the program paid nearly $62 million to victims in total, which averages about $1,500 per approved applicant.
"That's a lot of services and a lot of people that we are helping," Myers said. Since its inception, the program has provided victims with more than $2.2 billion in total assistance.
Victims can apply through county Victim Witness Assistance Centers or through the state, and generally must do so within three years of the crime being committed. The state sets financial limits for different categories, such as a $63,000 cap on medical reimbursements and a $5,000 maximum for funeral and burial costs.
There are also a series of factors that render an applicant ineligible. In general, people who "knowingly and willingly participated in or were involved in the events leading to the crime" and victims who do not cooperate with law enforcement don't qualify for any reimbursements.
Furthermore, as was the case with Rogers, a person who is convicted of a felony may not be granted compensation until that person has been discharged from probation or parole. Probation is administered by counties and parole is run by the state and involves people convicted of felonies released from prison. Gordon said that individuals on felony probation or parole are not automatically denied and that their claims can gain initial approval, but they cannot collect any assistance until they are off probation or parole. And even at that time, expenses incurred while on probation and parole can't be retroactively covered.
In short, the program is inaccessible to people recently convicted of felonies. In California, that's a large group. As of January, the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation had 47,525 parolees assigned to its adult parole operations division. The length of probation differs by county. In Alameda County, the standard period for felonies is five years, and the county probation department supervises approximately 13,000 people at a given time. A majority of them have been convicted of felonies. There are 58 counties in the state. And there are hundreds of non-serious, low-level offenses that are classified as felonies.
"Simply put, it's just not fair," said Alameda County Public Defender Brendon Woods. "I don't honestly understand the rationale as to why the victim of a crime who is on probation or parole is not entitled to the same compensation as someone who's not."
The policy "uniquely disadvantages people from underserved communities," added Kimberly Horiuchi, attorney with the ACLU of Northern California, arguing that it's wrong for the state to make judgments about who is worthy and who is not. "Victims are victims. Rape is rape."
Gordon said her office has no data on the number of felony parolees and probationers who seek compensation. She said the most common reasons for denial include an incomplete application, a submission outside of the required filing period or from someone out-of-state, a request from a victim of a non-violent crime, and an applicant having participated in the crime or refused to cooperate with police.
But some victims may not even fill out an application once they learn the program is not available to them. "They already know the door is slammed in their face," said Ida McCray, director of Families With A Future, an organization affiliated with the San Francisco-based nonprofit Legal Services for Prisoners with Children. "We get the message. It's 'we don't give a fuck about y'all.' We are used to the wounds."
The policy limiting this fund to a certain class of people also serves to reinforce deep prejudices against those with criminal records. "It perpetuates the lie that someone's humanity ends once they get a conviction," said Eliza Hersh, director of the Clean Slate Practice at the East Bay Community Law Center. "People who suffer are people who suffer regardless of their supervision status or past mistakes."
For those rejected, a denial is not simply a financial inconvenience. Rogers, who is now a program assistant for the California Coalition for Women Prisoners, which is based in San Francisco, was unable to find a new place to live after her boyfriend beat her savagely in 2010. Even though she got an emergency restraining order against him, he repeatedly harassed her by phone after the incident, seemingly trying to convince her not to press charges, she said. Rogers' apartment was also in a complex where her boyfriend's family lived, giving them an opportunity to keep tabs on her activities and report back to her estranged partner, she added.
"He knows everywhere I go," she said. Rogers wanted to move to Sacramento or Los Angeles where she had family. And Victim Compensation offers up to $2,000 for relocation, which could have helped her pay for transportation, first month's rent, and a security deposit. "I would've had that opportunity to relocate and get a fresh new start," she said.
Without the financial aid, Rogers stayed in Stockton, started using drugs again, and by April, just two months after the incident, was living on the streets.
Ruben Leal was shot on October 11, 2010 in East Oakland. Leal, then 22 years old, suffered a collapsed lung and fractured shinbone and temporarily had to use a wheelchair. Two days after the shooting, his life got a lot worse. On October 13, 2010, the City of Oakland held a press conference announcing that it was seeking an injunction against 42 alleged members of the Fruitvale "criminal street gang" known as the Norteños. Leal, who was born and raised in Oakland and had been taking classes at Laney College at the time, was named as one of the gang members. The Oakland City Attorney's Office, with support from the Oakland Police Department, was seeking a civil restraining order that would restrict the activity of the named defendants. Leal said he was not involved with the gang at the time of the injunction.
"Me being shot was used as evidence for the gang injunction," said Leal, who is now 25 and works as an outreach coordinator with Communities United for Restorative Youth Justice. As part of the injunction, OPD officer Douglass Keely filed a declaration outlining each defendant's criminal history and evidence of gang ties. Summarizing Leal's involvement, Keely noted that the East Oakland resident had been injured in a drive-by incident in which as many as twelve rounds were fired. The report also listed Leal's criminal history — all minor incidents that OPD said tied him to the Norteños gang. (The report mentioned a "pending" felony case, but prosecutors eventually dropped those charges against Leal.)
After the shooting, the officer that showed up to his home to talk to him about the incident was Keely, Leal recalled. "This is the same guy that wants to put this gang injunction on me. This guy wants to talk to me?"
His attorneys advised against it. "It was a conflict of interest," said Leal. "I would've talked with any cop and tell them my story, but not ... Keely."
Michael Siegel, one of the lawyers who represented alleged gang members in the case, said that police searched and raided the homes of those named in the injunction soon after it was filed. When Keely arrived at the home of Leal, it wasn't even clear if he was there to talk about the recent shooting or simply to advance OPD's gang injunction case against him in court, Siegel said. "It was an incredibly unjust situation. Keely is providing direct evidence against Ruben. It was definitely not in [Leal's] interest ... to have communications with him."
Siegel further noted that, at the time, Leal "was not an active gang member. He was making a positive impact on his community."
Leal's medical bills related to the shooting, however, had started to pile up, to more than $100,000 total at the time. He applied for Victim Compensation to cover some of the costs, which he could not afford. Within about a month, he got a notice of rejection, citing the fact that he did not cooperate with police.
"I felt like I was being revictimized," said Leal. "I felt like I didn't have no support from nobody."
He and his attorneys appealed the denial, but never heard back, according to Leal and Siegel. They said they also tried to make it clear to OPD that Leal would be willing to talk to a different cop. OPD spokesperson Frank Bonifacio noted that Victim Compensation approves claims — not police departments. Keely declined to comment on Leal's case, but said that, in general, a victim can have his attorney present when talking to police and in some cases can give a statement to a different officer if there is a concern about a specific investigator. But it is crucial that victims cooperate, he said: "The most important thing for us is to solve the case any way possible."
Regardless, Leal did not get the financial support California typically provides to victims of gun violence, which was a significant obstacle to his physical and psychological recovery.
"The folks that have suffered this trauma — they should invest in these people. This is not rocket science," said Leal. "If you don't help them overcome that traumatic experience, they're going to find a way, and the way they find is not going to be healthy for them or for others. ... The way they are going to feel better is reproducing that trauma onto someone else."
In other words, the cycle of violence continues. And the pain lingers. After the shooting, Leal suffered several serious panic attacks. "He had hurt in his eyes and in his spirit," said George Galvis, executive director of Communities United for Restorative Youth Justice, recalling his first time meeting Leal, shortly after the shooting. "He looked wounded."
Leal said he has made significant progress since the incident. Still, he added, "Some of those scars are never going to heal."
The Victim Compensation program's rejection of Leal is a relatively common occurrence, according to some Alameda County activists. People caught up in street violence often have had past interactions with law enforcement, which can become an obstacle to receiving the aid they need to recover. Leal said he could think of about ten people he knows who have been denied, even some who cooperated with police despite the risks associated with snitching. The only time he has heard of approvals were for families of homicide victims seeking coverage for funeral expenses.
Victim Compensation also bars access for those involved in the events leading up to the crime, including "mutual combat," "illegal drug-related activity," and "gang involvement." The program's regulations state that gang membership alone is not a disqualifying factor, but several advocates who help victims navigate the application process said it seems that way in practice.
"If you're wearing any particular color that a police officer might deem is gang related, then that's something ... that can get you denied," said Linnea Ashley, training and advocacy manager of the National Network of Hospital-based Violence Intervention Programs. Ashley is based in Oakland at the offices of Youth ALIVE!, a nonprofit and a founding member of the network.
Erroneous statements in police reports can also disqualify victims from receiving compensation, said Rafael Vasquez, lead hospital intervention specialist with Youth ALIVE!'s Caught in the Crossfire program. That program offers case management for victims, often starting at hospitals immediately after a shooting. Part of that work involves helping them navigate the Victim Compensation process. Vasquez recalled one case of a young teenager who was shot in the head and survived — but was denied compensation because of a belt found at the crime scene that cops said indicated his gang involvement. In actuality, Vasquez said, the belt didn't even belong to the victim, who was not a gang member; rather, the crime simply occurred in an area with regular gang violence.
In these kinds of cases, people are essentially rejected because of where they live, a form of victim-blaming, said Kyndra Simmons, Caught in the Crossfire program manager. "You went into an area where you know there's criminal activity. It's almost as if you put yourself in that situation. But that's where they can afford to live."
Youth ALIVE! sometimes reaches out to police, requesting that they amend or clarify statements so that a victim is not incorrectly declared responsible for the crime. From there, the organization appeals the compensation denials, a process that can be successful. But not all victims have these advocates. In addition to these more nuanced obstacles at Youth ALIVE!, around 20 to 30 percent of the victims that the organization supports are on parole and probation.
"The system that is currently in place views victims and perpetrators in a very simplistic way," said Nicole Lee, founding executive director of Urban Peace Movement, an anti-violence group in Oakland. "You're either a victim or a perpetrator and you can't be both. The reality is ... violence is a cycle. And as a society, we have to find policies that disrupt the cycle."
For a variety of reasons, domestic violence victims can also be very reluctant to file charges or cooperate with police, but that doesn't mean they aren't deserving of aid, said McCray, who works as a domestic violence counselor at S.F. Bay Counseling and Education. "When they try to separate, that's the most dangerous time," she said of people who attempt to get away from their abusive partners. McCray also noted that domestic violence survivors face risks when reporting their partners to cops. Plus, she said, "women often times stay in domestic violence situations because of their children. They are the glue of the family."
Deep distrust of law enforcement can also motivate their lack of cooperation, said McCray, who works with formerly incarcerated people as the director of the Women's Resource Center, which is affiliated with the San Francisco Sheriff's Department. "There's a cultural stigma behind talking to cops, because these communities have already been oppressed ... and targeted by police forces." And the Victim Compensation denials sting, she said. "It keeps them depressed. It keeps them angry. ... And it's just so fucking petty."
Strumpfer, the Victim Compensation chief counsel, said that the program has limitations in place for "public safety purposes." If a victim is refusing to talk to police and withholding information, then the state cannot support that individual by offering benefits, he said.
"The burden is on us to show a lack of cooperation," he said, noting that there are exceptions to the rule and that Victim Compensation would consider the risks a victim faces in talking to law enforcement. The state cannot aid victims who break the law or irresponsibly put themselves in harm's way prior to the incident, he continued. Strumpfer cited examples of a burglar who is shot during the act or an individual actively enticing someone to fight at a bar.
Ken Ryken, head of the Alameda County District Attorney's restitution unit, explained it this way: "If a person is engaged in criminal activity that's dangerous, they assumed that risk. ... The state shouldn't have to bear that cost."
In cases of domestic violence, state law states that victims should not be rejected solely because they did not file a police report and that the program should consider other evidence such as medical records or the existence of a restraining order. But victims can still be denied compensation if they refuse to testify, request that the suspect not be prosecuted, or decline to "completely and truthfully" respond to a request for information "in a timely manner."
Regarding the question of gang involvement, Strumpfer said that the state reviews applications on a case-by-case basis and only reject requests when it finds involvement in the crime in question. "It's not just a throwaway line in the police report."
Asked why the state does not compensate felony parolees and probationers, he responded that this policy has been written into law for a long time and that it is "just another condition of being on probation or parole." And it's not necessarily about saving the state money, Myers noted: "It's more of a policy decision, not a financial decision."
Strumpfer pointed out that the program is funded by offenders through restitution fees, which are the mandatory fines required of all adults convicted of misdemeanors and felonies in the state. "If you're a criminal offender, you're paying into the program," Strumpfer said. "You may very well likely owe restitution."
Critics reject this notion, arguing that people forced to financially support this fund should not be disqualified from accessing it when they are in need. (Prisoners' rights groups also strongly oppose the restitution fines on a more fundamental level, due to the fact that the fees can become insurmountable debts for people reentering society after incarceration; for more, see Part Two in our "Unfair Punishment" series next week).
Because discrimination against people on felony parole and probation is written into law, expanded access would require legislative action. I asked Strumpfer if last year's debate around sex workers' rights had sparked further evaluation within the program about its ongoing exclusionary practices, including the exclusion of people convicted of nonviolent crimes, like drug offenses. He replied: "The [program's] board members have not showed any signs of wanting to review anything else."
When the Victim Compensation program is a dead end, people recovering from violence must look elsewhere for support. And advocacy organizations all too familiar with the state's denials have focused on alternative ways to support victims, while recognizing that financial aid can only go so far anyway.
Communities United for Restorative Youth Justice sometimes leads "healing ceremonies," for example, which give victims and family members a meaningful opportunity to grieve and reflect, said Galvis, the executive director. "It's about how we restore balance and restore that spirit for people who have suffered from trauma," he said. "There's strength and healing in letting those tears flow."
Leal said it made a huge difference when advocates like Galvis reached out to him. "These different community members came out and supported me on their own dime just because they wanted to. ... That helped me with my healing journey."
Communities United also organizes fundraisers for victims, Galvis said. This can be critical when families don't get adequate compensation from the state.
As for Samantha Rogers, she was homeless for several months in 2010 after the state refused to help her relocate. She ended up at a rescue mission and eventually received significant counseling, which helped her get back on her feet. But it took time. And Victim Compensation could have put her on a very different path, she said. "If they could've supported me back then, there's no telling where I could've been four years later."
Rogers has been off of parole for more than three years and now gets to spend more time with her four children, daughters ages 30 and 25 and sons ages 22 and 20. Today, she regularly speaks at events and marches in rallies advocating for the rights of incarcerated people.