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But statistics on such injuries are hard to find. Even state-run camps aren't required to file injury reports. Jodi Beckley, who investigated boot camps for Arizona Governor Jane Dee Hall, says even parents don't file complaints. "They are shame filled. They think it's their fault. It isn't. The one mistake they made was trusting a stranger with their child."Much of the problem lies in the camp philosophy. "They embrace in-your-face confrontation as the most effective means," says Wright. "The mantra is break the kid down so you can build him back up."
Many of the camps -- even state-run camps -- operate along those lines. Counselors are little more than guards, former military personnel or retired police, who are told they have the authority to enforce strict discipline. "They create a climate where being physical is what you're pushing," says Mike Finley, an attorney formerly with the Washington-based Youth Law Center. "When you're telling staff, 'Here's our program, it's about punishing kids and being physical,' you're just asking for abuse."
For $4000 per child, Chuck Long told parents his 35-day program developed "teamwork, desire, dedication, discipline, self-reliance and love." But he didn't employ a psychologist or child therapist, and many of his counselors, who oversaw as many as 87 kids per session, were volunteers from area military bases, with little training in such basics as first aid.
Long doesn't have much formal training in juvenile counseling either. After a brief career as a Marine in the mid-1960s, Long joined the Washington, D.C., police in 1969, but quit after less than a year over what he terms a disagreement with superiors. In 1990, jumping on the boot-camp bandwagon, Long started his program, and then in 1994 tried to replicate it for Vision Quest, a national youth-intervention service. He was fired after a few months. Vision Quest officials won't say why.
Despite his seemingly spotty record, Long says he got results. He used the Internet, referrals from child therapists and community events to promote his camps. He estimates he trained more than 350 kids, and took in as much as $200,000 per session. "Children have moved on to respect themselves, respect their parents. They're able to sit down in a classroom and learn. They're not lying, they're not cheating."
However, Long's camps have been investigated for allegations of assault and child abuse. And a counselor faces an assault charge for the treatment of a camp kid in Arizona in 2000.
There are some programs, like the privately run Anasazi wilderness camp in Arizona, that are working. The program screens the young people it accepts, and psychiatrists, therapists and medical personnel are on staff. Parents, too, undergo counseling. Anasazi claims fewer than five percent of its 3200 kids have needed more inpatient care after undergoing the rigorous 42-day trek through the wilderness. That kind of success comes with a price tag of $15,000.
Despite Anasazi's better-than-average recidivism rate, criminal-justice experts say boot camps as a whole have failed because their results are no better than the programs they were meant to replace. A recent national survey by the University of Maryland found recidivism rates among boot-camp graduates were 49 percent, equal to the 50 percent recidivism rate for traditional juvenile-justice programs.
In the wake of such findings, several states are rethinking their commitment to the tough love regimen. Georgia abandoned its camps, citing concerns about abusive behavior by staff. "Kids need structure and to be accountable," says Orlando Martinez, Georgia's commissioner of juvenile justice. "But they also need to have relationships. And that's difficult to do when you have a confrontational model such as boot camps. It's so easy to be abusive." Other states, such as Texas, Michigan, Florida and Virginia, still tout them. Texas Youth Commission Executive Director Steve Robinson says his agency's camps are successful. The cost -- about $90 per day -- and the recidivism rate -- 50 percent -- are comparable to other youth facilities.
Michael Villa enrolled in Chuck Long's camp in 2000 because he hoped to learn the skills that would let him become a Marine, just like his dad. After failing to answer a counselor, according to the criminal complaint, Villa was dragged by his neckerchief until he blacked out, and was left unconscious in the desert.
Once home, his father says, the boy had nightmares about his experiences. On June 26, 2001, he disappeared into a stand of ponderosa pines near his home, where he hanged himself. No one knows for sure what brought the young man to such a tragic end, but Villa's father believes Long's camp contributed to it.
Long won't face charges in Villa's case. But the Maricopa County D.A. did charge him with second-degree murder in the death of Tony Haynes. Long won't comment on the case, but he does defend his program. "The children that come are children who have run away. Children who are truant. Children who are doing drugs, okay?" His program, he says, combats that. "It is not a trip to Disneyland, okay? Some children refer to it as a trip through hell. And we don't apologize for it."
Maybe he should.
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