Keep Local Kids Local:

Departed Capital, Derelict Land,

and (Neo)Liberal Detention
Judah Schepf

o r t h e f ir s t t im e in f o u r d e c a d e s , t h e r e is s o m e in d ic a t io n t h a t

Nor t h

Americans are beginning to rethink mass incarceration. More than two dozen
state governments have partnered with policy organizations to strategize about
corrections reform through justice reinvestment strategies.1 Attorney General
Eric Holder announced federal drug law reform and directed federal prosecutors to
actively avoid triggering mandatory minimum sentencing laws.2 Critiques of mass
incarceration have even emerged from the Right.3 It remains to be seen, however,
whether these initiatives beget meaningful reform or inscribe carceral logic into
seemingly new policies and processes. Indeed, California, the bellwether state for
prison policy, passed Assembly Bills 109 and 117 in 2011, pursuing what it calls
Public Safety Realignment and putting more emphasis on local jails for some
nonviolent offenses.4
In the context of both conservative calls for prison reform and the transfer of
increased control to the counties, it seems especially unsuitable for progressive
communities to pursue carceral expansion. This article, based on two years of
ethnographic research, examines such incongruity in a small city I call Springfield,
a Midwestern college town home to a little over 100,000 people and a large
university.5 Springfield, and the surrounding Lincoln County, boasted political and
criminal justice leadership comprised almost exclusively of liberal and progressive
elected officials. This article relies on fieldwork with these officials to examine
their energetic and passionate pursuit of a justice campus. Comprised of a new
adult jail, a juvenile facility, a work release center and new law enforcement offices,
the campus would sit on 85 acres that had been abandoned by industry in the late
1990s. The constitutive institutions of the campus would each exponentially expand
the number of incarcerated and supervised persons in the county. Local officials
* J u d a h S c h e pt (email: Judah.Schept@eku.edu) is an Assistant Professor in the School of Justice
Studies at Eastern Kentucky University. His book. Progressive Punishment: Job Loss, Jail Growth,
and the Neoliberal Logic o f Carceral Expansion, is forthcoming from New York University Press
in 2015. His writing appears in academic journals such as Radical Criminology, Theoretical
Criminology, Crime, Media, Culture, and Social Justice, as well as in blog form for Social Justice,
Tennessee Students and Educators for Social Justice, Uprooting Criminology, and the Reclaiming
Justice Network. His research considers the political economy, historical geography, and cultural
politics of the carceral state, with a current focus on the relationship between extractive and carceral
economies in central Appalachia.

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Social Justice Vol. 41, No. 4

Keep Local Kids Local

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justified the project as an articulation of local benevolent justice; the campus,

they frequently argued, would reject the logic and practices of the carceral state.
Even the few officials who were hesitant about or critical of the plan supported the
construction of the juvenile facility.
In rhetorically rejecting mass incarceration but materially replicating its logic
and practices, local officials and others in the community demonstrated the capacity
of carceral logic to structure individual, community, and institutional dispositions
(Kramer, Rajah, and Sung 2013). Elsewhere,I have called the inscription of dominant
carceral ideology even into oppositional bodies carceral habitus (Schept 2013) and
proposed that the latteri.e., our internalization of neoliberal responsibilization,
racialized constructs of criminality, and cultural embraces of punishmentcan
explain much of how communities come to participate in the carceral state even
as they purport to resist and reject it.
The ideological work of incarceration succeeded in part through its reliance on
resonant tropes that framed carceral expansion as a project of therapeutic justice
and rehabilitation rather than punishment. This was only possible because of a
particular historical geography that produced a spatial and political landscape on
which officials could project their visions. The 85-acre space for the justice campus
was formerly the home of a large factory for a multinational corporation. Following
that companys departure from the community, officials began to mobilize a carceral
vision for the derelict land. Labeled a campus and originally designed just as a
juvenile facility, the proposed development could easily rely on the language of
rehabilitation and treatment. The discourse had two distinctive though interrelated
threads: (1) the construction of local subjectivities, including an exceptional
practitioner and a youth population in need of saving (as well as a concurrent
population of non-local youth from whom our youth needed protection); and (2)
a vividly imagined justice campus that would aid local youth. Importantly, both
constructs relied on actuarial discourses to justify their claims.
The local suturing of penal welfarist approaches (Garland 1990, 2001) to the
new penological imperatives of risk management (Feeley and Simon 1992) and
other technocratic managerial concerns (Hannah-Moffat 2005) would seem to
connect Springfield carceral policy to larger trends of punishment .This late modern
rehabilitation (Robinson 2008) eschews welfarist narratives that supported treatment
as an end in and of itself and is instead inscribed into a broader framework of
actuarial concerns (Garland 2001). The flexibility of risk thinking and epistemology
can gain traction in its application through rehabilitative ideals. Although the
disposition toward incarceration of most Springfield officials was firmly rooted
in penal welfare sensibilities, the actuarial mechanisms and discourses on which
they relied to measure, justify, and wield those sensibilities in support of carceral
expansion cannot be ignored. That is, local officials mobilized rehabilitation logic
and filtered it through actuarial mechanisms (including corrections consultants and
risk management discourses and policies) in order to support an inherently punitive
project of carceral expansion.

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J u d a h Sc h e p t

Moreover, as suggested by work that seeks to bridge analyses of risk and discipline
with Marxian political economy (Kramer, Rajah, and Sung 2013; Rigakos and
Hadden 2001), the actuarial justifications for the justice campus ignored striking
evidence that the entire project was predicated on a particular historical trajectory
and material geography of deindustrialized and mobile capital. A distinctive local
discourse animated a particular landscape that at once aestheticized a massive
carceral expansion project through green and liberal rhetoric; justified it through
actuarial mechanisms that spun openly corrections-focused and intellectually suspect
consultant reports into objective criminal justice policy evaluation criteria; and,
crucially, buried the history of the very land in the process.
This articles examination of local juvenile justice policy pays particular
attention to the ideological work of neoliberal logic in driving carceral expansion.
Beginning with the political-economic history that structured the carceral potential
of the justice campus, I extend the ideological work of the landscape to consider
how an 85-acre piece of derelict property can take on a life of its own, structuring
how individuals and the community see natural carceral contours to the land and
imagine a youth population in need of just the kind of welfarist-carceral saving
that a justice campus could provide. Finally, I examine briefly the production of
technocratic knowledge that naturalized expansion as a common sense policy for
the community.
Methods
This article derives material from two years of ethnographic fieldwork in Springfield
and the surrounding Lincoln County. I conducted 24 in-depth, semi-structured
interviews with county and city politicians, civic leaders, criminal justice officials,
corrections consultants, and community activists, many of whom were instrumental
in shaping the local discourses of the justice campus and subsequent attempts at
carceral expansion. In addition, I conducted over 100 hours of fieldwork at various
gatherings in the community, including official public hearings about the campus,
public meetings about a subsequent proposal to bring the existing youth shelter under
the purview and direction of the juvenile court, political forums for campaigning
politicians that focused on criminal justice policy, community activist meetings, and
visiting hours at the county jail. Finally, I collected numerous county reports and
over 100 articles from local periodicals to historicize my inquiry and to examine
the role of local media in shaping the discourse and politics of expansion.
(Neo) Liberal Detention in Four Parts
Landscapes: Capital Departures and Carceral Growth
Historicizing the justice campus reveals its deep entrenchment in transnational
neoliberal politics. The very site proposed for the complex, an 85-acre expanse
of derelict land south of downtown Springfield, locates the justice campus in a

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larger story of globalization and migrations of industry, capital, and jobs out of the
community. Known colloquially in the county as the old TDA site, the grounds
formerly housed a manufacturing plant owned by Technology Development of
America, a well-known multinational corporation that makes household electronics.
For several decades during the middle of the twentieth century, the TDA plant was
the largest employer in the county, with 9,000 county residents working there.
During the last two decades of the century, however, the plant slowly shed jobs
until it finally closed its doors in 1999, moving its operations to Mexico and laying
off the last 1,200 workers in Springfield. The pattern of carceral growth replacing
industry and job loss is not unique to Springfield and Lincoln County, and in fact it
connects this particular community to similar stories around the country (De Giorgi
2007; Gilmore 2007; Hunter and Wagner 2008; Williams 2011).
Very few informants spoke of this history as having any bearing on the
contemporary debates about the justice campus. Important work in geography
suggests that this silence isnt surprising. Don Mitchell (2000,94) has written that
landscapes should be considered as both work as in the product of labor and
social contests over spaceand as something that does w orkas in a social agent
that develops particular representations of places. Part of the work that landscape
performs is the naturalization and even erasure of the relations of production and the
social struggles that created it (ibid., 103^1), an ideological function that includes
a particular means of organizing and experiencing the visual order of those things
on the land (ibid., 242). Importantly, in burying the history of deindustrialization
and capital departures under the upcoming pastoral and benevolent campus, official
discourse moralized and aestheticized the imagined carceral landscape, anesthetizing
the possibility of a structural critique.
The attempt to complete the trajectory from industry loss to carceral growth
aligns closely with what geographers have noted about conceptions of space under
neoliberal ism . Herbert and Brown (2006,756) argue, for exam ple, that conceptions
of space help underwrite contemporary practices of exclusion; that space is not
just impacted by neoliberal policies, but that its conceptualization importantly
helps legitimate those policies ; and, most importantly for present purposes, that
popularized conceptions of space affect how neoliberalism conceals inequality
while simultaneously promoting its spatialized entrenchment." Deindustrialized
and mobile capital produced the spatial conditions for the campus. But neoliberal
and carceral logic also mobilized the land to structure how officials could perceive
the now-empty space.6
The dominant discourse of carceral expansion always envisioned the justice
campus on the TDA site; tel 1ingly, since the countys purchase of the site in the early
2000s, there has been no other plan for the space other than the justice campus.
As such, all four of the public hearings in Springfield about the justice campus
featured the rendering of the site commissioned by the county and its consultant
and completed by Springfield-based architectural firm Smith and Vance, Inc. The

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J u d a h S c h e pt

fourth and final hearing about the justice campus turned away from the three major
components of the sitethe adult jail, the juvenile facility, and work releaseand
focused instead on the actual concept of and architectural plans for the 85 acres.
Embedded in both the design of the campus and the architects descriptions are
important insights into the relationship between carceral habitus and the ideology
of landscape.
In his testimony at the hearing, architect Steven Vance noted that the 85-acre
site offered a variety of topographies including large ridge tops, rougher properties
full of boulders, and open spaces. Interestingly, the very bucolic nature of the
landscape which undoubtedly contributed to the labeling of this expansion project
a campus would also perform the work of carcerality. Vance argued that the
open spaces were adaptable to some very large buildings, that the boulderstrewn and other rough areas actually provide opportunity for barriers, give us
an opportunity to separate land uses and have a significant buffer between uses,
and that heavier-treed areas would operate as sound barriers.
Vance and presumably others saw specific carceral features in the natural grade
of the land. In their view, the 85 acres not only could accommodate expansion
but would also play an active role in animating the social control functions of the
campus. In addition to considering this as part of the ideology of landscape in
general, I submit that the carceral landscape in this case played a similar role to
the one historically played by prison architecture (Garland 1990,258-60; see also
Evans 1982; Foucault 1977). As the public face of the complex, the landscape of
the justice campus would have to perform crucial work aestheticizing a particular
representation of incarceration. The ability of Vance and others to see only carceral
contours in a derelict piece of land illuminates important features of the carceral
habitus and raises critical questions about the structuring ocular logic of the neoliberal
state (Mirzoeff 2011; Schept 2014). In Lincoln County, local derelict landscapes,
structured as such by capitals migrations, became naturalized carceral opportunities.

Subjectivities: Structuring Exceptional and Detainable Identities

Despite their distinctive approach to incarceration, officials invoked ideas about
youth, crime, and juvenile justice that were unexceptional and even previously
hegemonic (Garland 2001,34). Indeed, in the in-depth examination of the local
politics of juvenile justice, a familiar construct emerged: child saving (Platt 2009;
Ward 2009,2012). Several respondents at the helm of formulating juvenile justice
policy envisioned an exceptional group of leaders and officers who would save
local youth from various threats: their families, their communities, and, crucially,
the real criminals awaiting them in institutions outside of the county. In addition,
campus advocates relied on discourses that softly otherized (Bonilla-Silva
2006) detainable local youth. By conflating economic and moral deficit in a larger
schematic of the culture of poverty, officials relied on classed and racialized tropes
to delineate an inferior youth subject in need of the countys carceral benevolence.

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Officials beliefs in their exceptional capacities are nothing new. As Garland

(1990, 249-76) has argued, various symbolic, rhetorical, and material practices
of penality help to construct the subjectivities of those on both its delivering and
receiving ends. In framing local penality as an extension of the countys welfarist
policies and overall ethos, officials could inject punishment into the same narrative
as social services and project a larger image of the benevolent county (Garland
1990, 267). In this way, officials could frame jail and youth detention officers as
social workers and incarceration as an extension of social services. This also served
the important symbolic function of disarticulating the local, welfarist criminal
justice apparatus from the punitive state, even as the state in its historical role in
structuring the punitive logic embraced by the county was anything but absent.
Public meetings, including the four hearings about the justice campus, revealed
instructive examples of how penality works to structure subjectivities. At the first
hearing, focused exclusively on thejuvenile facility. Juvenile Probation Coordinator
Robin Trotter offered public comment. She approached the podium after a moving
testimony from a youth worker named Shawn Ryland who had spoken passionately
about the importance of non-coercive, positive relationships between adults and
youth. Trotter opened by saying the following:
Juvenile Probation provides a tremendous amount of evidence-based
programming. And evidenced-based simply means we stop doing things
we like just because we like them. Were actually trying to figure out
what works, whats effective, and relationships (pointing at Shawn) are
absolutely one of the most important. And probation officers know that.
Weve all been trained in motivational interviewing, weve all been trained
in how to engage kids and engage families. Were not nail em and jail
em, were not punitive. We try absolutely everything we can do before
we pull that trigger and securely detain, residentially place, youth shelter.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Trotter suggested that the positive relationships that
Ryland credited as having enormous impact on youth can occur in the power-laden
and coercive context of the relation between probation officer and probationer.
For her, a relationship with youth is something that can be built by motivational
interviewing.
One year later, the justice campus proposal had been tabled because of budget
concerns and a new proposal had emerged: the transfer of the jurisdiction over
the residential youth shelter from the county commissioners to the juvenile court.
Concerned that this transfer, which would include placing probation officers on site,
would compromise the safety, ethos, and availability of the shelter, activists called
a public meeting. Several officials were present and offered fatigued and pointed
defenses of the move. In response to the critical observation that placing probation
officers on site would affect the perception and use of the space and potentially deter
youth from seeking out the shelters housing and counseling services, juvenile court

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J u d a h S c h e pt

judge Randall responded (with visible annoyance) that probation shared the same
culture of rehabilitation for youth as the shelter. He then added, Come on guys,
probation is like social workers, and Springfield is a community of purpose... The
shelter and probation are both delivering services. Probation chief Carrie Donnelly
later asked, Where would you get that the juvenile justice system is punitive? We
are different than the adult system. We deal with treatment, mapping the official
mission of the department and the juvenile court onto the lived experiences of
both the officers and the youth.7 Officials often insisted that they were against
youth incarceration even as they pushed for policies that would explicitly expand
carceral capacities and widen the reach of the juvenile court.
In addition to articulating distinct practitioner subjectivities, officials also
channeled dominant constructs of youth criminality into the county. It is a central
feature of the cultural work of punishment to construct subjectivities in such a way
as to deem some people normal and others deviant and requiring of social control
(Foucault 1977; Garland 1990, 2001). Local officials were aware of these cultural
constructions and spoke with clarity and passion about racialized and classed markers
of difference. Many condemned the institutional racism of mass incarceration and
located the roots of criminalization in capitalist inequality. Yet when discussing
Lincoln County, they often invoked a responsibilized and un-acculturated individual
actor whose actions were freely chosen and unattached to the structural constraints
that the same officials recognized as pervasive everywhere else. It was thus the
job of the county and its institutions to reconstruct those individuals through a
treatment regimen that required their captivity and enforced compliance. Although
officials could offer existing and potential programmatic options as evidence of
their rehabilitative focus, they misrecognized the ways that neoliberal logic ties
both punitive and treatment approaches to discourses of criminality (Kramer,
Rajah, and Sung 2013).
As I was conducting my research, I sat down with Victoria Krause, a former
police officer turned social worker who retired from directing a nearby county's
juvenile facility to open a consultancy practice. At the time of our interview, Lincoln
County had hired Krause as a consultant in the post-justice campus pursuit of
placing the youth shelter under the jurisdiction of the juvenile court. Like many
respondents, Krause offered a strong criticism of incarceration, going as far as
admitting a hatred of the criminal justice system, using as an example her decision
to drop out of a PhD program in criminal justice because she couldnt see herself
studying a system she hated. Nevertheless, Krause could reconcile her politics of
incarceration with her occupation as a juvenile justice consultant through a belief
in the possibility to incarcerate youth for their own benefit. Indeed, speaking of the
institution she had directed, Krause claimed, I m passionate about that facility.
In her descriptions, a picture of a differentiated and deficient youth in need of
detention began to emerge. She took pride in describing the common critique of her
facility: its being too nice. Moreover, she explained her zero tolerance policy

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for profanity. When administrators from other counties come to tour her facility,
she said, they always wonder at the absence of audible profanities. Krause then
noted that any resident who uses profanity is sent directly back to their room until
they calm down." Krause elaborated that she views the anger expressed through
profanity as evidence of poor socialization to appropriate behavior. In this regard,
she also spoke of the importance of cognitive therapies within the facility and in
her countys community-based juvenile justice services to break intergenerational
patterns and ways of thinking that land youth in detention. She spoke passionately
of their day treatment program, run through the juvenile court, which requires
youth to report seven days a week, including after school during the week, all day
on Saturday, and in the afternoon on Sunday (so, as Krause told me, families can
worship together.") Noting, They all have anger issues, Krause explained the high
usage of cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT), aggression replacement therapy, and
moral reconation therapy in her county. She made no mention of poverty, racism,
joblessness, or any other structural factors associated with incarceration.
Krause dismissed and disparaged punishment and yet baldly endorsed the
importance of discipline and coercion. In the form of micro-penality (Foucault
1977, 178), the facility relied heavily on the disciplining of youth into certain
prescribed performances of deference and comportment .This marked as punishable
offenses certain behaviors indeed even certain words or ways of speakingthat
outside of her facility werent necessarily considered deviant, let alone criminal.
Discipline also came in the form of the examination (ibid., 184-94), whereby
youth were classified, studied, and treated according to the bio-psycho-social needs
that the institution and its employees identified.
Krauses endorsement of treatment modalities to break intergenerational patterns
of delinquent thinking was a popular perspective shared by Lincoln County officials.
The heralding of CBT and other approaches as essential to the detention experience
affirms critiques of the neoliberal logic that marry punishment and therapy, part of
the novel responsibilizing industry that has become the new rehabilitation of
late modernity (Gray 2013,4; see also Fox 1999; Kramer, Rajah, and Sung 2013).
Moreover, the discipline meted out to young people locally echoed the disciplining
of poor youthful offenders from prior eras into their appropriate class positions.8
Yet the need for treatment that was invoked to mark difference and construct
otherness was also used to signify a second set of distinctions. While Krause
and others spoke of local youth as exceptional in the unthreatening nature of
their delinquency, and thus in need of the exceptional carceral services that only
the county could provide, they also positioned local youth against a racialized
real criminal awaiting them at the state facilities. Historians of punishment
have observed this fastening of criminality to blackness (Muhammad 2010) and
have charted how such a construct animates selective rehabilitative interventions
into the lives of white youth (Ward 2009, 228; 2012). Moreover, other scholars

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J u d a h S c h e pt

have observed the contemporary work this construct performs in the symbolic
production of race (Alexander 2010, 192-202) and in the decision of corrections
administrators and institutions to employ or abandon rehabilitation strategies and
discourses (McCorkel 2013).
Mapping race onto the local pursuit of a youth facility acutely illuminates the
larger politics of criminal justice at play in the community. During an interview,
Probation Director Carrie Donnelly remarked that another county, also home to
a large university but an hour closer to Chicago, had a much higher rate of youth
incarceration, a fact that this administrator speculated was due to its proximity
to criminals from Gary, Indiana, and Chicago. Just a few minutes later, while
reflecting on the recent history of juvenile justice in Lincoln County, Donnelly
claimed that there was a jump in the number of youth sent to the Department of
Corrections in the mid-1990s because of local gang activity. She observed, however,
that these were organized wannabees, suggesting that real criminals come from
outside the community, presumably from urban centers.
Other examples of the construction of the county and its youth as distinct from
places with real crime and real criminals abounded, including in the pages
of the major county periodical, the Lincoln Times. The Times played a key role
in the local discourse of incarceration through both its editorial endorsements of
expansion and its coverage of crime and justice stories. In this way, the newspaper
provide[d] a crucial mediating link between the apparatus of social control and the
public (Hall et al. 1978, 68; see also Croteau and Hoynes 2003; Foucault 1980;
Hall 1982, 64; Kappeler and Potter 2004). In a Lincoln Times story covering a
police raid on a house after an investigation had revealed that several young men
with alleged ties to the Chicago Vice Lords were living there and dealing crack
cocaine, a police captain was quoted as saying:
This investigation has revealed yet another group of individuals who have
come from out of town for the sole purpose of dealing crack cocaine in
our community.... Hopefully, sometime soon the message will reach those
other communities that Springfield is not the place to go to deal drugs.
(Citation omitted to preserve anonymity; my emphasis.)
The message in the captains testimony was clear: drug dealers come from
other[ized] cities and threaten the communitys way of life. In ignoring the drug
dealing that occurred in and through the local community and, most certainly, at
the university, this officers comments position Springfield and its residents as
innocent, untainted victims distinct from the real criminals. He joined other
local officials in the creation of a delinquent population in need of saving from
others as much as from themselvesand who were clearly imagined to possess a
soul at risk of corruption.9

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Institutions: The Locavore" Politics o f Punishment Consumption

The county narrative about the justice campus took on especially passionate tones
when focusing on the juvenile facility component. County judges and probation
officers frequently framed the need for a facility as a moral and political matter;
they argued not only that the county would be able to create exceptional institutions,
but also that doing so would be an integral expression of the countys progressive
politics. Indeed, local officials were fond of invoking the countys liberal identity
as a point of shame for not having a local youth facility.
Even those county officials who took critical or ambivalent stances on the ulti mate
rendering of thejustice campus defended the initial concept, which had been centered
on the idea of a juvenile facility campus. Perhaps the most edifying expression of
this original vision came from former county council member Bridget Markham.
Markhams platform for her 2008 candidacy included a passionate commitment to
build the justice campus. In an interview at a local cafe, she rejected the massive
nature of the final proposal but restated her support for a complex that featured
a lockdown facility ... [with] a progressive and innovative educational
component, alternative programming, and with the feel of a small, private
college, where there could be school programs, programs related to other
disciplines at the university, the kinds of initiatives that exist therelocal
food programs, things like that.
Markhams vision suggests that local carceral habitus was the product of diverse
structuring influences. Her references to both education and local food in the context
of articulating support for youth detention are instructive. It would seem that the
school, the church, the asylum, the treatment center, and even the small farm
informed and structured the local carceral habitus alongside the penal institution.
Moreover, Markhams reference to local food programs reveals the rhetorical and
conceptual influence of Lincoln Countys strong and vibrant local food movement.
Springfield boasted a nationally recognized farmers market and hosted city, county,
and non-profit organizations dedicated to expanding local sustainable agriculture,
cuisine, and economy. Many civic and political leaders expressed their support
for the justice campus, in particular the juvenile facility component, through the
slogan of keeping local kids local. This was most directly in response to the
juvenile courts practice of sending youth out of the county for secure detention.
But the slogan certainly relied on the political-cultural capital generated by the
locavore movement. In a fascinating twist and cooptation of the logic expressed
by the movement, officials mapped the passion and energy invested in eating and
buying local produce onto a call for increased local punishment consumption
(Simon 2010). Understanding habitus as situated among multiple fields helps
explain a number of statements made by local officials that would otherwise seem
contradictory and irreconcilable.

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The slogan keep local kids local and its message of decentralized county
governance over juvenile justice indexed a broader relationship between the
community and the state. As compelling work has shown, the state figures heavily
in the transmission of logic that structure the operation of community attempts at
justice (Crawford 1999; Myers and Goddard 2013). In Springfield this was especially
notable because attempts to govern local youth justice were positioned explicitly
against the state. In the minds of many, the justice campus embodied a distinctive
local benevolence that could counter the punitive state. But the explicit rejection
of the state in the local embrace of the justice campus ignored the various ways in
which the state worked in and through the local community in material and symbolic
fashion. As has been argued by various scholars, neoliberal decentralization of the
state does not mean that the state, in fact, withers. Instead, the state can diffuse its
power, operate through both brute force and discursive hegemony, and scale back
its official presence even as its scope expands and its influence grows (Crawford
1999; Lea and Stenson 2007; Meiners 2011; Rose and Miller 1992). It was the
logic of the neoliberal carceral state that stitched local rehabilitative ideals to the
larger hegemony of the cage.
Moreover, in their rhetorical rejection of the state, local officials ignored a rather
startling piece of history: it was the state Department of Corrections (DOC) that
originally approached the county to pursue a regional juvenile detention center. In
1990, around the same time commonly cited as marking the beginning of studies
and conversations about a new juvenile facility, the Lincoln Times ran two stories
that I offer as a revisionist historical context to the county narrative of a unique
youth facility. According to the Times, a DOC deputy commissioner arranged a
meeting in Springfield to urge Lincoln and surrounding counties to collaborate on
a local juvenile detention center. On the heels of a $500,000 grant from the state
to Lincoln County, the commissioner sought commitments from the counties to
generate the additional necessary funds. Three weeks after the meeting, in a story
headlined Detention center budget gets f u n d s The Times noted that Lincoln County
would begin an appropriation process, an adjacent county committed $100,000 to
the project, and supplemental monies would come from per-day charges paid by
other counties sending their youth to the facility. These facts contrast starkly with
the testimonies from officials who staked their claims in a local system completely
disarticulated from the carceral state.
The intimate and deeply structured relationship between the state and the county
existed at the level of embodied dispositions and forgotten histories (Bourdieu
1990, 56) and highlights the inner workings of the carceral habitus. Rather than
ensuring the straightforward replication of social structures, the concept of habitus
points to the availability of diverse practices within certain structural constraints.10
Local officials could push for carceral expansion and yet do so through discourses
and imagined practices that offered important distinctions from mass incarceration.
Many, in fact, criticized the very concept of punishment and laid out what they
considered to be an alternative paradigm for corrections.

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The narrow scope of this alternative paradigm was frequently displayed during
the public hearings about the justice campus. At the first hearing about the j uvenile
facility, after the consultant finished his presentation and the floor formally opened
for public comment, a man named Robert Cantor made his way to the podium to
speak. Cantor was an elderly clergy member and a community activist around
issues of poverty, homelessness, and incarceration. He had cofounded a local group
called Begin Again/Springfield Justice (BA/SJ) that provided all programs within
the jail and advocated for therapeutic justice. The organization was highly active
during the hearings, with its leadership and volunteer base consistently promoting
therapeutic justice. Notably, their advocacy for this approach offered both explicit
and implicit support for the justice campus; in their views, the increased space of
the facilities would enable a robust therapeutic approach. Cantor raised this point
in his comments:
Please, lets do something in the community for our youth which is positive
from the very beginning and lets move that on up into the jail system,
so that were doing positive things for them all along the way so that the
experience of going to jail becomes a positive one and not one that results
in either their being helpless with a continuing type of helplessness, which
makes them really not want to get a job when they get out, not want to
change their drug or alcohol habits, not want to take on the responsibility
of family life, not really want to be good citizens. We put them out angrier
than when they came in, and more inclined to do the negative thing than
the positive thing.
Although at times critical of the justice campus, Robert Cantor affirmed support
in this testimony for a juvenile facility. Later in the hearing he urged the county to
pursue such a facility even if the larger campus plan were to be defeated. Cantors
plea for the facility rested on the popular image of a virtuous detention experience
that would perform the responsibilizing and saving work that the population needed.
Although many BA/SJ members were outspoken critics of punishment and selfproclaimed leftists (indeed. Cantor was a radical clergy member who frequently
invoked Eugene Debs) they rarely spoke of getting people out of jail or investing
resources in non-institutional alternatives.They endorsed jaillocal,non-punitive,
and redemptivewith passion.
Two judges, the juvenile court Judge Patrick Randall and the Circuit Court
director, Judge Allan Barrett, spoke during the same meeting to refute Robert
Cantors claim that the system was punitive. That is, the judges disputed the idea
that punishment was even part of the system, preferring to consider their work as
treatment-oriented (even when mandating a youth to secure detention) or as doling
out consequences for adults who break the law, a rather paternalistic distinction
from punishment that seemed devoid of empirical differences. At the end of the
meeting about the juvenile facility, Judge Barrett responded directly to Cantor:

52

J u d a h S c h e pt

[Robert], all due respect to you, you said that our approach here was
punishment-oriented. That isnt true and its never been true. Ive been
on the bench 30 years and for 30 years weve done nothing but design
alternatives to jail, trying to find ways for people not to be incarcerated,
and increasing the number of treatment and rehabilitative programs that
exist here. Tonight the focus is on the juvenile facility. It was introduced
... as a juvenile detention facility. That has never been what we have
called it here in the 20 years weve been talking about it. Its been a
juvenile treatment center, for programming and services offered to youth
to accomplish much of what you're talking about here.
This exchange offers important insights into the political landscape of the county.
Allan Barrett was the lone Republican judge on the circuit court, and based on
personal communications with a number of people who have gone before him, one
of the harshest. Yet, his reply to Robert Cantor didnt affirm a place for punishment
(as one might assume a Republican judge would do), but rather spoke to Cantor on
the rhetorical turf of therapeutic justice, eschewing punishment as something that
he and the court had never embraced. This is illustrative of the powerful nature
of a local discourse largely devoid of the traditional tensions between advocates
of treatment and advocates of punishment. Rather, there were unlikely alliances
between justice officials, county politicians, and activists to advocate for treatment
in the context of increased institutionalization.11
Official endorsements of the juvenile facility at times reached beyond coherence.
At the same hearing, the then president of the Springfield city council, Rose
Halverson, offered comment. She began by immediately identifying her support
for the proposed juvenile facility and substantiated her position by raising her own
history as a CPS worker and a current volunteer in the jail with B A/SJ. She then said:
Im now working with individuals in the jail who I had on my caseload as
juveniles.... We have to consolidate our efforts, from the school system to
the wonderful volunteers we have in this community to our public officials
to our justice system. It is time. I couldnt agree more with Judge Randall.
1 will be joining his choir. It is time for us to address the needs of youth
and families to be preventative in our efforts. The amount of money we
invest in [the juvenile facility] will save us not only money; were talking
human capital. Human lives. That makes me ill as a volunteer working
with the jail, people with capabilities, intellect, abilities that have wasted
many years of their lives being locked up, without freedom, without
dignity, without the opportunities to be with their families. So I couldnt
be more supportive of working on this project. Thank you Judge Randall.
Halverson offers a clear critique of the toll incarceration takes on individuals
and families. Her support for the juvenile facility matched her defense of the

Keep Local Kids Local"

53

benevolence of the countys criminal justice institutions and personnel in the other
hearings I attended. Reading into her statement reveals a startling reality: she is
passionately advocating for the juvenile facility as a way to prevent incarceration,
arguing for the detention of young people to preempt their incarceration as adults.
Like Cantor, Halverson views the detention facility as the mechanism for saving
the lives of the destitute and marginalized.
Some officials positioned the justice campus as a whole, and the juvenile
facility specifically, as a central organizing institution for the community around
which other agencies and services could orbit. In an interview. Probation Director
Carrie Donnelly conveyed a more capacious vision of the campus according to
which the 85-acre complex would include not only adult and youth jails, but also
centralized county social services. She explained that the justice campus would
help poor people by allowing them to visit their loved ones and then go get their
food stamps, to access housing and employment assistance, and to visit the social
work offices that formed important components of their safety net. In this vision,
the justice campus would constitute a one-stop-shop for poor people, a bucolic
strip mall of incarceration and social services.
At least one other official strongly involved with the justice campus proposal a
former juvenile court judge named Bill Rusch whom many officials credited as
the campuss intellectual architectexpressed a similar expansive vision for the
85 acres. Both Rusch and Donnelly told me that they believed this more capacious
complex would do a favor to the county poor by offering a streamlined and efficient
experience of negotiating the social service bureaucracy. Of course, this vision
subsumed the actual needs of poor people under concerns about bureaucratic
management and operations. In integrating and co-locating welfare services and
the justice campus, Donnelly and others collapsed poverty and imprisonment into
one spatial-political articulation and envisioned a larger bureaucratic model of
governing though incarceration (Simon 2007). No doubt attempting to alleviate
some of the burdens of travel for people accessing the community safety net, officials
nonetheless envisioned a physical carceral continuum where the jail juvenile facility,
and work release center ensnared food pantries, housing assistance, shelters, and
other services into their domain.
Juvenile probation coordinator Robin Trotter offered similar comments at the
first justice campus hearing. As I noted in a previous section, she first spoke about
the relationships her officers have with youth. Her comments then turned to the
role of probation more broadly in the lives of the families mandated to her office
and the potential she saw in the facilites of the justice campus:
We provide educational support to every kid in Lincoln County thats
involved in our system. That could be GED prep, we provide resources,
some of the families we deal with dont have a computer. Hey, come and
use our Internet. Maybe they dont have a color printer. We help kids learn

54

J u d a h S c h e pt

study skills, organizational skills, we partner with Springfield University

to provide functional family therapy, which is a blueprint, evidence-based,
internationally renowned program.... Some of our families have never
been on the university campus, so simply to be exposed to the campus is
fabulous. We also provide aggression replacement training, which again is
an evidence-based program and its very cognitive. We provide a similar
program for parents. It talks about problem solving, it talks about anger
chain, it talks about how you practice having a difficult conversation, how
do you make a compl iment, how do you deal with stressful situations, cause
we know if someone bumps you in the hallway we all dont bump back.
So what happens in some of our heads to prevent that and what happens in
some of our heads that doesnt? We are extraordinarily treatment oriented,
we are extremely rehabilitation focused ... and the number one barrier
to us providing additional programming for kids is space. The thing Im
looking forward to with this facility is space: day treatment programs,
opportunities for parenting classes, opportunities for kids to learn different
skills life skills, homemaking, all of those different skills that we know
are critical for them to be successful.
Lincoln County juvenile probation clearly offers substantial services and
programs for young people. But Robin Trotters testimony is instructive for the
intimate link it creates between program provision and increased carceral space.
Indeed, Trotter and many others spoke of the centrality and even necessity of
expanded carceral space to providing such programs. Moreover, and in line with
other testi monies above, it appears that a variety of quotidian, cognitive-behavioral,
and acculturating services offered by the county were channeled through the
probation office.
The justice campus archipelago (Foucault 1977)the constitutive carceral
components imagined alongside social servicesreveals both the structured and
structuring capacities of the carceral habitus. The justice campus would perform
a clasping of the Left and Right hands of the local government, a linking of social
welfare and penal policies, geographies, and individuals (Bourdieu 1994, 1999;
Wacquant 2009, 2010). In refashioning carceral expansion as a welfarist policy
initiative, county officials conceptualized the justice campus as an attempted
disarticulation from the carceral state.

Knowledge: Epistemic Confidence in Detention

The public hearings about the justice campus began with the meeting about the
juvenile facility referenced above. That meeting started with a statement from
juvenile court Judge Patrick Randall. In what were some of the first official remarks
of the justice campus public process, Judge Randall said, Good afternoon. I feel
like Im having deja vu all over again. I first spoke on this issue almost 20 years

Keep Local Kids Local

55

ago in this room. I think Ive spoken on this issue 25 times over the years. Flipping
through a five-inch stack of paper, he continued:
As you can see in front of me, we have at least five studies examining the
issue of whether or not we need a juvenile facility to deal with both shelter
care and secure detention.... Its not right that we dont have a facility
for our kids in this county when every other county of our size or smaller
does. So I would urge you to consider this. We need to discuss whats the
right size of the facility and thats the kind of input I certainly want to
have from all of you, what kinds of programs and services we should offer.
J udge Randall spent much of the two-hour meeting justify ing his and many others
belief that a local juvenile facility was critically important and that its absence belied
the communitys rhetorical commitment to progressive politics and social services.
Of crucial importance was that Randalls zealous endorsement of the campus was
not without evidence to support it. Conducted by state and national corrections
consultants, the studies Randall referenced that night dated back decades, and all
five came to some semblance of the same conclusion: Lincoln County needed a
youth detention and treatment center. The studies worked as important semiotic
resources for local officials in favor of the campus. Sitting in county chambers,
presiding over the meeting, speaking about his decades of work as an attorney
and judge, and holding a thick stack of seemingly objective data, Judge Randall
commanded respect and influence as an expert; such authority, backed by empirical
evidence and political support, generated considerable legitimacy for the justice
campus proposal. But the seemingly infallible five studies must be understood
in their particular epistemological context. The technocratic, managerial and
professionalized discourses of evidence-based and best practices accompanied
a heavy reliance on the institutional expertise of providers. In addition, and as
Judge Randall intimated, there were decades of dependence on state and national
corrections consultants in assessing the operations and needs of the local juvenile
justice system. Perhaps unsurprisingly, these consultants always recommended
expansion.
At public meetings about the justice campus and subsequent proposed expansions,
this shared register of technocratic terminology and actuarial and budgetary
concerns worked as a form of cultural capital whereby those with proficiency in
such discourses consultants, local officials, criminal justice practitioners, and
long-time civic leaderscould more readily engage in discussion. This had the
added effect of reinforcing their positions as experts to whom the community
should defer regarding issues of criminal justice operation and expansion.Moreover,
the official discourse in the county marginalized other forms of knowledge (such
as narratives) as anecdotal, a strategic process in the symbolic violence and the
ideological work of language (Thompson 1984,46; see Schept 2012 for a discussion
of local resistance to expert knowledge).

56

J u d a h Sc h e p t

A particularly instructive moment from my fieldwork illustrates these points. At

a general meeting of a criminal justice advisory body, county council member Brian
Mulvaney announced a $1.3 million juvenile services fund to be administered by
the county council. The money had been in use in other places and it was up to the
council to spend it elsewhere or absorb it into a youth services fund. The council
opted for the latter, requiring that the monies should be used for prevention services
and could not be used to fund detention. The encouraging nature of this news was
not without complications. After announcing this in the meeting, Mulvaney turned
to juvenile court Judge Pat Randall and encouraged direct communication between
the judge and the council on how to spend the money. Randall replied that: (1) the
money should first fund a day reporting program; (2) the council should confer
with the juvenile justice consultant, Vicki Krause, on how to spend the funds; (3)
he and the juvenile court could spend it all; and (4) he would research best
practices to bring to the county council. Councilman Mulvaney replied directly
to the judge, noting that one of the requirements that the council placed on the
distribution of the monies was that the recipient programs be evidence-based.
Working through the judges comments reveals the constitutive nature of
knowledge production and illuminates the narrow boundaries that surround the
carceral habitus. Technocratic discourse and provider and consultant expertise
constructed and supported one another. In Randalls and Mulvaneys comments
about evidence-based and best practices, one can see the already limited
continuum of possible destinations for the money. By making funding contingent
on that designation, the council immediately restricted what could be imaginable
for county youth to a set of programs already closely aligned with detention and
supervision (see Myers and Goddard, this volume). Indeed, despite the mandate
that the monies not support detention, the judges first suggestion was to fund a
day reporting program, an alternative sanction that would undoubtedly widen
the carceral net through increased surveillance and scrutiny. The designation of
evidenced-based carried enough political capital among social service and criminal
justice officials as to warrant no discussion of its definition.
Implicit in the judges comment that he could spend it all was both the
accepted logic that the money would go through his office and the more cynical
observation that the judicial-carceral system consumes enormous sums of money.
In the suggestion to consult Krause, the judge and the council seemingly ignored
the diverse and vibrant organizations and youth-oriented workers active in the
community. That is, with $1.3 million dollars of funding available and a group
of people convened precisely to foster inter-agency collaboration and community
partnerships, there was no mention of consulting social service practitioners, youth
workers, parents, teachers, community organizations, or, most glaringly, the youth
themselves. The only people assumed to be able to provide leadership and expertise
in deciding how to disseminate the funds were criminal justice practitioners and a
consultant from outside of the county.

57

Keep Local Kids Local

Conclusion
This article has relied on ethnographic data from a small and progressive city to
examine the structuring work of the neoliberal carceral logic. In the community,
significant carceral expansion only emerged as a policy worthy of pursuit by
liberals and progressives when 85 acres of space became available following the
closing of a plant and the departure of capital and jobs. Once officials mobilized
narratives of expansion to fit the abandoned property, the landscape could then
perform important ideological work in affirming its carceral potential in the
county imagination. Envisioning a justice campus with all of the attendant logic
of therapeutic justice and treatment programs, officials readily constructed youth
in need of the benevolence the facility would provide; they also suspended their
critiques of incarceration to imagine a distinct local approach.Finally, officials relied
on the actuarial assessments of consultants and other experts to justify expansion.
This case study of county carceral expansion should caution the optimism
with which some might approach policies such as Californias realignment or the
justice reinvestment strategies that are circulating in more than two dozen states,
including the one in which this research occurred. Indeed, the justice campus
proposal arose just two years before the state would formally contract with the
Pew Center to study corrections reform. It only added to the incongruity to see
liberal and progressive officials advocating expansion as the Republican governor
embraced reform. As states look to slim their prison populations, the potential is
all too great that transcarceration the transfer of prisoners from state prisons to
county jailswill supplant meaningful decarceration. In the process, the carceral
state will become further reified, and progressives will once again be complicit.

NOTES
1. See http:llcsgjusticecenter.orgljr/\ see also Pew Center (2010).
2. See www.justice.govlisolopalaglspeechesl20l3lag-speech-130812.html.
3. S e e www.rightoncrime.com.
4. See www.cdcr.ca.gov/realignment/.
5. Names of places and people have been changed to preserve anonymity. In addition, in a few
places, I have omitted citations from local media coverage of crime and justice issues in order to avoid
identification.
6. Considerable work in geography and critical social theory has developed pointed observations
about the productive role of capital in mobilizing definitions and values of nature (Harvey 1996; Smith
1984) and in the production of space (Lefebvre 1991).
7. This orientation of the probation department and the juvenile court is grounded in their historical
development; see Platt (2009, especially pp. 142^-5).
8. There is no shortage of scholarship that reveals the work the juvenile justice process performed
in the service of instantiating class and labor relations. See for example Platt (2009), Prisciotta (1994),
Rothman (2002). Writing about the prison reform movement at Elmira Reformatory in New York,
Prisciotta (1994, 7-8) states that its benevolent rhetoric masked a repressive class control agenda

58

J u d a h Sc h e pt

designed to build docile bodies ... and instill youthful offenders with the habits of order, discipline and
self control and to mold obedient citizen-workers. The socialization and 'normalization' of offenders
was aimed at controlling the lower classes and, on a practical and symbolic level, contributing to the
development of an orderly society. In slightly different terms, it is perhaps appropriate to consider the
juvenile reformatory's historic and contemporary role as a form of pacification: fabricating a particular
social order centered around deference to accumulation and state power (Neocleous 2000, 2011: see
also Schept, Wall, and Brisman, this volume).
9. Platt (2009, 129) observed a similar pattern of concern among the newly created juvenile
courts, noting that certain child savers implored the creation of the court so that children might be
saved from contamination of association with older criminals.
10. Although see Bourdieu (1977, 164) for a description of habitus and doxa that aligns more
closely with notions of false consciousness and hegemony. See also Schaeffer (2004) for compelling
philosophical contributions to theorizing habitus and hegemony.
11. The insistence by Judge Barrett and others on the benevolence of the county bench and the
local carceral apparatus, especially with respect to youth, evokes important historical work on a very
similar pattern from officials. Writing of the World of Juvenile Justice during the Progressive Era,
historian David Rothman (2002, 268) observes that the descent from the rhetoric to the reality of
juvenile institutions is precipitous. The ideals that justified incarceration had little relevance to actual
circumstances. No matter how frequently juvenile court judges insisted that their sentences of confinement
were for treatment and not punishment, no matter how vehemently superintendents declared that their
institutions were rehabilitative and not correctional, conditions at training schools belied these claims.

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