The front door was wide open when police arrived at the
home of Samantha Rogers at 3:21 a.m. on February 23, 2010. Inside the
Stockton apartment, Rogers was alone, sitting on the kitchen table,
wiping her face with a towel. The television was overturned and there
was blood smeared across the living room carpet and walls.
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.
"I just started crying," she said. "My face was unrecognizable."
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.
----------------------
The exclusion of people on parole and probation appears to be rooted
in a belief that people who commit crimes cannot then become victims,
too. Notably, the statute outlining Victim Compensation eligibility
states that people who have been convicted of a felony should be
considered a lower priority than non-felons. Wayne Strumpfer, chief
counsel of the Victim Compensation and Government Claims Board, said
this part of the law currently has no practical application, and that
once off parole and probation, applicants with felonies on their records
are treated the same as others. Still, the language reflects an
ingrained bias against people with criminal records — a fact that today
can play out in ways beyond the ban on parolees and probationers.
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.
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