Hillary Transue talking:
I believe it was 2007 when I was on the phone with a friend, and we were just chatting, and I heard a call from the bottom of the stairs. My mother sounded irate, and she yelled up to me, “Do you know anything about a MySpace page?” And I said, “Yeah, from like months ago.” I was 15. It was a parody page about my vice principal. A couple of friends and I decided it would be funny to make fun of the school disciplinarian on the Internet, and so we created this page. And I remember putting a disclaimer on it, thinking if anybody finds this, at least I can’t get in trouble for it.
there were comments on there made by other kids that were not—that were obscene. And I will admit to that. But they were not my comments. I do believe—I think I was held responsible for them because they were on the page. a lot of it is on my mom’s end. She was on the phone with a police officer, and I didn’t really understand what was going on.
Laurene Transue talking:
The officer called, asked me if Hillary is my daughter. I said, “Yes.” He said, “Well, I’m coming down to arrest her for making a MySpace page about her vice principal.” So I yelled up to Hillary, “Do you know anything about a MySpace page and your assistant principal?” And she’s like, “Yeah, from like months ago,” at which point the officer started shouting, “I heard her! She confessed! I’m coming down there. I’m arresting her.” And I’m like, “Woah, you’re not speaking to my daughter without an attorney. At least give me time to get an attorney.” And he started shouting that that’s how parents like me are: We let our kids off the hook. And because I was getting attorneys involved, he was going to charge her with Internet stalking, abuse of the Internet. He told me that they’ve been watching my Internet activity and that he was coming down to arrest her.
I got off the phone, and I’m like—now I’m thinking, “Where am I going to find a lawyer at this time of night?” It was after I had come home from work, so it was in the evening. And I don’t know any lawyers. We’re not the kind of folks that have a lawyer on retainer. So I called my mom, and I said, “Do you know an attorney?” And she’s like, “Well, I do, but, like, not for this. And you’re overreacting. This sounds like a very simple thing that happened. Call the officer back and try and talk to him. Just, you know, follow the law, be cooperative.” I’m like, “OK.”
So I called the officer back, and he said, “Hey, you keep the lawyers out of it, and I’ll reduce her charges to a misdemeanor of harassment.” And I’m like, “Oh, OK, all right, we can do that. Are you still coming down? Can you wait ’til, you know, I have at least someone here while you arrest her or whatever?” And he said, “Oh, no, I don’t have to come down. We’ll send you something in the mail.” And then, that was in January, and we didn’t hear anything for months. In fact, I kept calling him, saying, “Where—like, we haven’t received anything.”
We did get a paper in the mail. We had to go to juvenile probation. We had to do an interview there, bring all of her shot records, birth certificate, all that kind of thing, my financial information. They asked us some very intimate questions, which was odd.
I was told to keep the lawyer out of it, and everything will go simply. And we asked the probation officer, “What’s going to happen now?” And he said, “Well, it’ll probably be probation and possibly community service.” “OK, you know, do we get a lawyer?” Like, “No, no, no, no. That—you know, we’ve done the study, you’ll go to court, whatever.” “OK.”
So then we went to court, and we walked in, and they had tables set up by last name. And we went to the table there, and they said, “Do you have an attorney with you?” And I said, “No.” They said, “Sign here.” So now I’m assuming, “Oh, this is where we get a public defender.” And so I signed this blank form and signed—but you also have to understand that there were dozens of other parents there with their children at their last-name table doing the same exact thing. So I’m like, “OK, this is how it works.”
Then we went in a big room, and we waited, and we thought the attorneys would meet us there. No one came. They said, “We’re going in the courtroom.” We sat right outside the courtroom. No attorneys came. The prosecutor came out. The assistant principal was there. She gave him a kiss on both cheeks, asked him how the family was. And he said, “Don’t worry about a thing.” And we walked into the courtroom. They said, “This is the case of,” and the judge stood up and started screaming at Hillary. The judge was Mark Ciavarella.
Hillary Transue talking:
The first thing he said to me was: “What makes you think you can do this kind of crap?” And it was—it was really off-putting. I was there that day in my mother’s clothing, because she insisted that I look nice, and, you know, at 15 years old, I didn’t have anything appropriate. And, you know, I’m already uncomfortable, and he started screaming at me, “What makes you think you can do this kind of crap?” And I was just terrified. I don’t—I have never been before a judge before, and I wasn’t expecting to be screamed at by one. So it definitely was jarring.
it took about 30 seconds, so it’s hard for me to have exact details, but he said something along the lines of “Adjudicated delinquent,” which meant nothing to me. And then I remember—I remember my mother’s hands leaving my shoulders, and I remember gliding as if in like a dreamlike sort of state to this back room, where I’m—all I can hear is the sound of my mother’s pleading, her wailing and pleading, and I’m being cuffed.
And the bailiff says, “Look what you did to your mother.” And it’s—just like I said, it’s sort of like time stopped, and I began to veer of to this like parallel universe.
Laurene Transue talking:
He said, “Adjudicated delinquent.” And he said, “Send her up to FACT AdDel for her to think about what she’s done.” And I just started—I looked at the officer, and I’m like, “But that’s not what you said.” And I’m like looking at these people who have said, you know, this—it will be probation, possibly community service. And I’m thinking this is crazy, because I had called a—in Pennsylvania, we have magistrates. And I asked, you know, “My daughter’s been accused with this statute of Pennsylvania law.” I said, “As an adult, what would be the maximum sentence?” One night in jail and up to a $50 fine. So why on earth would think they would take my daughter, who’s never been in trouble? We had no family issues. We were not involved with the system in any way. Why would I think they would take my daughter away? So, basically, I started, you know, asking him, and then I just started—I became hysterical. This is the best way I can explain it.
it was very odd, because my hands were on her shoulders, and as soon as he said, “Adjudicated delinquent,” I really didn’t hear anything else. I had been a caseworker for 16 years, and I knew exactly what that meant. So, I turned and was talking to them, and when I turned again, it was like—it was like she had evaporated. She was just gone.
Charlie Balasavage talking:
I was 14 and the police came over. At first, I thought it would be because I was riding this scooter around without a helmet on, because, you know—and ended up it wasn’t that. It was that someone had called, reported that scooter stolen.
My parents bought it off of a family member. they bought it for me. So, my parents weren’t home at the time, so I had to call them. They rushed home, and the cops
The cops arrested all three of us and took us down to the police station. And we had to write a statement and everything. We told them what happened, that we bought it. And they said, unfortunately, because we didn’t have no documentation saying that they bought it from my family member, that they’re going to have to charge with receiving stolen property. And so, they said to my parents, you know, if I take the charges, maybe I’ll get probation, maybe not even, just community service. So I agreed to it. I was like, “OK, you know, I’ll do that,” because otherwise my parents were going to get charged with it.
no lawyer. This was all the cops’ suggestion, too, that I take the charges, nothing will happen, you know. And so, I was like, “OK.” And I ended up having to go into court, and when I went into court, it was the same thing. You walk up to that table. They have that form.
my mom was with me. She signed it. We didn’t have a lawyer at all. We thought also we’d get a public defender. That’s not what happened. We walked into the courtroom. We were really in there for maybe a minute. And the judge already knew what he was going to do with me.
judge was Ciavarella. And I really don’t even remember what he—oh, he said, clearly, that I have a behavior problem, because I had a speech impediment when I was younger, and because of it, I was made fun of a lot in school, so I had a problem going to school, and he had records of that. So, that was my big problem. He sentenced me to three months in Camp Adams. it’s like a boot camp, pretty much. They shackled me right there in front of my mother and hauled me off.
It was the three months I had to do in Camp Adams. Then they do a follow-up where I have to go back to court. And when I went back to court, I ended up having to go to a place called Clearbrook for three months, because I experimented with marijuana.
I was truthful with them and told them that, yeah, I tried it before. So, apparently, I had a drug problem at that time, so they made me do another three months there.
That was for my first two weeks at Camp Adams. They have like a system. Your first 30 days there, you’re a—it’s called like a ranger. You do nothing but like physical training and stuff like that. And yeah, every time I would ask for a pillow, no one would ever get me one. And finally, once I moved past that ranger stage, they moved me to a different cabin. I finally got a pillow.
I served about five years in jail. I would get out. I would not go to school or something, like curfew.
I was in there with people that—people that actually belong there, that I’ve heard things, and, like, I guess I could say I was influenced, I mean, by these people. Even staff would say to me, “What are you doing here? Why are you here?” And I would say, “I don’t know.”
Sandy Fonzo talking:
Just a regular, normal, happy life we had. And the summer of his senior year, what would have been his senior year, he started, you know, experimenting a little, too, and sneaking out of the house at night. I knew he was drinking. I always—you know, it was just me and him. So when I did have a problem with him, it was always, you know, “I’m going to call your dad, and your dad’s going to come.”
star wrestler. I mean, the scouts were all looking at him, many opportunities for scholarships. They were watching him since he was in junior high wrestling for high school. He just had a lot—a lot before him, you know, a lot of good. You know, he had a girlfriend at the time that was telling me stuff about him experimenting and, you know, just getting a little bit out of control. I would call his dad, and his dad couldn’t do anything anymore. You know, he was this big kid, you know, six-one and big muscles. He would lift all the time. And not doing anything than any other—you know, than what I did at 17 years old, either. But he just had so much to lose.
And it got to the point that his dad called one day, and Ed wasn’t home. You know, he was supposed to be home in school, he’s supposed to be in school. And he found out that he was at an underage drinking party. And he had friends that he graduated with that were cops, so he talked to them, and they were going to go in and put some, you know, paraphernalia on him just to get him caught, get him a slap on the wrist, let him—you know, community service, educational program, anything to let him know what—you know, he has just too much, too much to lose. And this is his senior year. He’s wrestled since he was four years old. And so, that’s what happened. They went and got him, and they took him in.
They planted drug marijuana pipe. I get the call that he’s down at the police station. Juvenile court isn’t until Tuesday, so for the weekend he had to stay in jail. Tuesday comes along, and now all along, you know, we’re talking to the probation people. We’re talking, actually, to the judge also.
I get the call that he’s down at the police station. Juvenile court isn’t until Tuesday, so for the weekend he had to stay in jail. Tuesday comes along, and now all along, you know, we’re talking to the probation people. We’re talking, actually, to the judge also. There was a sit-down in
Judge Ciavarella, that this was all, you know, in his best interest just to get him a little slap on the wrist, wise him up, scare him straight. He’s a great kid. He has a great future ahead of him. And yeah, we know. There’s, you know, nothing you have to worry about. We don’t need a lawyer—the same story. You got off the elevator, and they were there. “Do you have a lawyer?” “No, we were told we don’t need one.” “OK, sign.” And that was it.
I don’t know. I was just very naive. And, I mean, I was—never in my wildest dreams would I think these people that are supposed to have—you know, they were the professionals. They have your child’s interest at best—best at heart. And these are the people that you trust, and everything’s going to be OK. You know, he’s going to learn a little lesson, and everything will be fine.
And we stood there, and in 30 seconds he was cuffed and shackled and taken away. And, I mean, that was the worst feeling, seeing him turn and look at me like, you know, “What’s going on?” And there was nothing I can do. That’s frozen into my psyche for the rest of my life, that look that was on his face. They took him to the PA Child Care and said that he would be there until he got this psychological evaluation, which we all know was Judge Conahan’s son-in-law. that was doing these psychological evaluations. Well, it was a whole 30 days.
you were allowed on certain days and certain times to go see him and talk to him. And he wanted nothing more. “Mom, I know, you know, this was so stupid. I just want to get back. I’ve missed so much wrestling practice. This is my senior year.” All he wanted to do was get back to school. I had letters from the teachers, letters from the judges—or, I’m sorry, from the coaches, in lieu of Ed’s character, of what a great kid he was, sent to the judge’s chambers. And anyway, we had to go. So, we’re going now for 30 days, you know, and I thought to myself, “OK, you know, this was good. He sat there. He got his head together. He wants to get back to school. Everything’s good.”
Well, we went and stood back in front of that judge, and he was shackled and cuffed and taken to a boot camp out in—it was Northwestern Boot Academy, an hour away from our house, total military. They couldn’t speak. They couldn’t do anything. They were dressed in military attire. He was with, you know, people from all over that committed actual—when he would tell me the crimes that were committed, this is whom my son was in with. They broke you down, I mean tore you apart, humiliated you. He wouldn’t tell me what happened when he was in there.
He went in there for three months. And then, from there, because Ciavarella said he had a drug problem, then he would have to go to Clearbrook, which was, you know, a rehabilitation for addictions. By the time my son got there, if he ever did have a problem with drugs or alcohol, he was never treated, because they said, “This kid has spent so much time already, we can’t even keep him.” So then he was just released and thrown back out. “Get back your life.” No school, because they gave him that amount of schooling in there, so he never got to go back to his high school, never got to wrestle. He was a just—he was a mess when he came out of there. Lost all chance of scholarship.
He wouldn’t talk about what happened in there. five months, approximately. But he came out of there a changed person. Like I said, he was a 17-year-old, free-spirited boy, and he came out a hardened man that wouldn’t even talk about what in—so, to this day, I don’t know what happened to him in there, but he would never talk about it. But he was just a different person. You know, he—very bottled up, you know, wouldn’t speak, and no respect for the justice system at all. He knew he was wronged. He knew what was taken away. He lost his little girlfriend while he was in there. She left him for somebody, you know. He just lost, in that age, at that impressionable age, way too much. He had way too much taken from him, everything his—everything he had, really.
And he ended up getting into a fight while he was still on probation, so he would have to go in front of Judge Ciavarella again. And now Ciavarella takes him for four months and sends him to his other facility out in the PA Child Care in western Pennsylvania for four months now—loses his job, loses everything again. The people that worked there couldn’t understand why this almost 20-year-old is doing in this juvenile facility. Nobody understood. But he came out of there, and, I mean, that was it. He ended up in a fight, which he had to go into—and the fight that he did get into, that we took to adult court, was thrown out. It was just a fight between two kids. It was nothing. But Ciavarella, you know, four months, he went to his other facility that they were receiving profit for. And that was it. He got into the fight. He was sentenced to a state prison for it, and he came out. He lasted for almost five months, and then—that’s it.
Then he shot himself. in his heart.
— source democracynow.org
Hillary Transue, convicted and sentenced to juvenile detention by Judge Mark Ciavarella when she was 14 years old as punishment for creating a MySpace page mocking her assistant high school principal. She was freed after three weeks and went on to graduate from both high school and college.
Laurene Transue, her daughter Hillary was convicted and sentenced to juvenile detention at the age of 14. She called the Juvenile Law Center seeking help after seeing her daughter shackled and led out of the courtroom. Her action sparked an investigation that led to the kids-for-cash scandal.
Sandy Fonzo, her son, Ed Kenzakoski, was sentenced to 30 days in a juvenile boot camp by Judge Mark Ciavarella for a minor charge of having drug paraphernalia. Kenzakoski was 17 years old at the time and a star wrestler at his high school. Fonzo says her son’s sentence started him on a path to the adult court system that culminated in his suicide. She dramatically confronted Judge Ciavarella outside the courtroom when he was on trial for taking kickbacks.
Charlie Balasavage, was 14 when he was sent to juvenile detention after his parents unknowingly bought him a stolen scooter from a family member. He ultimately spent five years in and out of the criminal justice system.