Parole officers at the crossroads: Are they social workers or cops?
And they exercise enormous power over the lives of those ex-prisoners they are charged with supervising. A beer can on the table can mean a violation and that could eventually lead to reincarceration — and with it the loss of a job, housing, and those ties to community that take time to build or rebuild.
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But Governor Maura Healey's personnel choices signal that a shift is well underway. The man
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But he is also the son of Puerto Rican-born parents, who, he told the Governor's Council Wednesday, came north with little money, and depended on a variety of social services for a 'hand up.'
'I believe those who come before the Parole Board are looking for a hand up,' he said, adding his guiding principle has been and remains '
ser justo
, to be just.'
He also told the council that since the passage of a major
'We're not police. Our mission is different,' he added. 'We have evolved dramatically.'
Well, yes and no.
Even a cursory read of the parole officer
In fact, as recently as the last available
Now keep in mind, parole field officers were never a part of the 2020
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And, as state Senator Will Brownsberger (D-Belmont), who helped draft and shepherd the police reform bill through the Legislature, explained, 'We don't really think of them as law enforcement officers. Their job is primarily supervisory.'
And so both parole and probation officers were never part of the regulatory scheme.
But that hasn't stopped some parole officers from joining in the police action when the occasion presented itself — that is until a new agency protocol was signed, effective March 19, expressly prohibiting their participating 'in other investigations and warrants' unless they directly involve a parolee.
The edict provided the impetus for at least one angry letter to the Governor's Council, from Bryan Westerman, a parole field officer, who opposed Gomez's confirmation and blamed him for 'dismantled law enforcement partnerships.'
There is no hiding the tension between what the Healey administration, officials like Gomez, and his supporters want for the direction of the agency and what they are up against in moving the parole system into the 21st century.
'The newer parole officers are much like social workers,' said Senator Jamie Eldridge (D-Acton), a champion of criminal justice reform and a supporter of Gomez's confirmation. 'They recognize that people want to find a job and housing and don't want to go back to prison.'
They see their roles as 'coaches, not referees,' he added. 'But if you have a parole officer focused on technical violations, they're not really serving the cause of justice.'
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And those who simply want the adrenaline rush of a police raid ought to be looking for another job.
Gomez, whose confirmation comes up for a vote before the Governor's Council next week, is the right man at a critical time. But he and his fellow board members are up against a workforce that has had things its way for decades. Turning that ship around will be everybody's job.
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Chicago Tribune
4 hours ago
- Chicago Tribune
ICE took her mother. Now, a 6-year-old is left without a guardian or legal path back to reunite in Honduras.
As Gabriela crossed the stage at her kindergarten graduation in Chicago, she scanned the audience, desperately searching for a familiar face. But her mother was nowhere to be found. Still, wearing a pink dress and ballerina flats, Gabriela, 6, smiled and twirled around holding a bouquet on her way home. An older neighbor who sometimes cares for her walked by her side. Just a week earlier, on June 4, her mother, Wendy Sarai Pineda, 39, was detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement outside an office in downtown Chicago during what was supposed to be a routine check-in, while Gabriela was at school. The little girl doesn't understand why her mother vanished and had hoped her mother would be at her graduation, said Camerino Gomez, Pineda's fiance. 'I told her that she went to get some paperwork ready so that they can be together in Honduras,' Gomez, 55, said. 'And that I will take her to be with her soon.' But Gomez doesn't know if that's even possible. He has no legal guardianship over Gaby, as he calls her. The girl, who is a Honduran citizen, has an asylum case pending. And with Pineda being held at the Kenton County Detention Center in Kentucky before being deported to Honduras, there's no clear way to secure a power of attorney for Gomez to travel with the girl. ICE, he said, has not been responsive to him or the lawyer for the mother and daughter. 'She is afraid that the state or the government will take (Gaby) away from her,' Gomez said. 'She's afraid she'll never see her ever again.' When parents are detained or deported by immigration authorities, their children — many of them U.S. citizens, others, like Gaby, in the U.S. without legal permission — are often left behind to navigate the fallout alone. Some are placed in the care of relatives, while others may end up in foster care. All face the emotional trauma of sudden separation, sometimes compounded by economic instability and legal uncertainty. Reunification is often blocked by bureaucratic hurdles, Chicago advocates say. Despite life-altering consequences, there is currently no federal protocol to ensure that children are reunited with their deported parents. Their well-being is left to chance, in a system that wasn't built to protect them.'An infrastructure for children left behind when their parents are deported does not exist,' said Erendira Rendon, vice president of immigrant justice at The Resurrection Project, an organization that offers legal help for immigrants. 'It makes this heartbreaking situation even harder for families.' Advocates estimate about 20 people, including Pineda, were detained by immigration officers on June 4 following a confrontation involving local officials and ICE agents in the South Loop. According to Gomez, Pineda had received a message to attend an appointment that morning at an office housing the Intensive Supervision Appearance Program, an ICE-run alternative to detention that ensures compliance with immigration processes. The mother, who came from Honduras with Gaby in May 2023 to seek asylum, was not aware that she had a prior deportation order from entering the United States without authorization years before. Still, the Biden administration allowed her into the country with her daughter because she did not pose a threat to the country and had no criminal record, her attorney Elisa Drew said. For the last few years, Pineda had been checking in with ICE. That's what she intended to do June 4. 'She wanted to get to the office early so she could come home early,' Gomez said. 'Instead, she wasn't allowed to leave.'Masked federal agents pulled Pineda and more than a dozen others from the ICE office and loaded them into unmarked white vans as relatives watched, many in tears. She is now being held in Kentucky, awaiting deportation. Many of the detained that day were parents who had been complying with check-ins for years, said Antonio Gutierrez, co-founder of Organized Communities Against Deportations. The parents, he said, are desperate to know how their children are doing. Most have been sleeping on the floor at the detention center because of overcrowding, according to Gladis Yolanda Chavez, another immigrant mother who was detained June 4. There is no clear data on the number of children who have been left behind. Their ages range from newborns to high schoolers. In past administrations, immigrants would be given some time to purchase plane tickets back to their home countries and then escorted to the airport, Drew said. And though that is what Pineda would have wanted to do, she couldn't. 'They were thinking maybe they could leave as a family unit. I thought they would be safer,' Drew said. At home, Gaby keeps asking where her mother went.'She told me that when she sees her mom's clothes, she remembers her and gets more sad,' Gomez said. In recent weeks, immigration attorneys have told the Tribune that ICE has ramped up the visibility of enforcement across Chicago and other sanctuary cities, targeting people at court hearings and during check-ins.'To have a parent taken away suddenly like that … can have lifelong implications for their development and for their socialization — night terrors, screaming, crying uncontrollably,' said Caitlin Patler, an associate professor of public policy at the University of California at who met Gaby after getting engaged to her mother in November, said he would like to take Gaby back to Honduras, but ICE has the child's passport and the power of attorney. After more than two weeks, ICE has been unresponsive, Drew said. Though Gomez has tried to reach out to the Honduran Consulate in Chicago and other organizations, he has gotten little to no response. 'What do I do if Gaby gets sick, if she needs something that requires her parents to be here?' he said. The Illinois Department of Children and Family Services, which intervenes only in cases of abuse or neglect, said in a statement that it works with families regardless of immigration status. If a child is found to be neglected and a parent is detained or deported, the agency aims to place them with relatives and reunify them with their parents, sometimes with the help of foreign consulates. The Mexican Consulate visits each detainee at the immigration processing center in Broadview before they are transferred to a detention center to provide a power of attorney or custody letter if they have a child in the country. Other countries, however, do not have that type of structure. Due to the political turmoil, Venezuela, for example, does not have a consulate in the United from the Resurrection Project, urges families to create an emergency family plan that includes discussing with a loved one who can care for the children if the caregiver is detained, and having the necessary documents ready for family reunification. The situation can be even more complicated when parents in the country without legal permission have U.S.-born children, said Jacqueline Stevens, a political science professor at Northwestern University who studies deportation enforcement. Some parents may choose to leave the child in the U.S., even if they are sent to another country, for safety, stability or the promise of a better future. Every situation is different, Stevens added. 'Nobody chooses their country of birth. Nobody chooses their parents,' she said. Gaby didn't choose to be in the U.S. with someone she had only known for a year, said Gomez. Pineda is afraid that in the midst of it all, Gaby will be lost in the system. 'But there's no way she can stay here without her mother,' Drew said. 'She needs to be reunited with her.' Different community groups have collaborated with Chicago Public Schools to create 'sanctuary teams' to help alleviate the anxiety and stress experienced by kids by providing essential resources for families, including medical assistance, clothing, food and mental health support. Some educators expressed concern to the Tribune about that support being cut off during the summer months. Other groups use school buildings as spaces to meet even through the summer, said Vanessa Trejo, a school-based clinician with the Brighton Park Neighborhood Council. During the school year, Trejo worked with a boy whose mom was also detained and deported by ICE. She said it directly affected his ability to focus in class. Trejo met with the student twice a day. He would cry and they would play games. 'I try to sit with him. Just having a physical being around is huge,' Trejo student, who was born in the U.S., was in the process of obtaining his passport so he could be with his mother, she said. As for Gaby, her future is uncertain, Gomez said. Her mother is still in detention, and there is no timeline for when or where she'll be deported. Let alone when she'll see Gaby again. In the meantime, Gaby spends her days with an elderly neighbor, Maria Ofelia Ponce, 74, while Gomez is at work. Other times, Gomez's older daughter and his brother's family help take care of her. 'It breaks my heart to see her alone. To not know what will happen to her,' Ponce said. At Gaby's graduation, as mothers in dresses held their children in their graduation gowns, Gaby's family had a small gathering to celebrate her, hoping to help her feel loved.
Boston Globe
6 hours ago
- Boston Globe
Parole officers at the crossroads: Are they social workers or cops?
And they exercise enormous power over the lives of those ex-prisoners they are charged with supervising. A beer can on the table can mean a violation and that could eventually lead to reincarceration — and with it the loss of a job, housing, and those ties to community that take time to build or rebuild. Get The Gavel A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr. Enter Email Sign Up But Governor Maura Healey's personnel choices signal that a shift is well underway. The man Advertisement But he is also the son of Puerto Rican-born parents, who, he told the Governor's Council Wednesday, came north with little money, and depended on a variety of social services for a 'hand up.' 'I believe those who come before the Parole Board are looking for a hand up,' he said, adding his guiding principle has been and remains ' ser justo , to be just.' He also told the council that since the passage of a major 'We're not police. Our mission is different,' he added. 'We have evolved dramatically.' Well, yes and no. Even a cursory read of the parole officer In fact, as recently as the last available Now keep in mind, parole field officers were never a part of the 2020 Advertisement And, as state Senator Will Brownsberger (D-Belmont), who helped draft and shepherd the police reform bill through the Legislature, explained, 'We don't really think of them as law enforcement officers. Their job is primarily supervisory.' And so both parole and probation officers were never part of the regulatory scheme. But that hasn't stopped some parole officers from joining in the police action when the occasion presented itself — that is until a new agency protocol was signed, effective March 19, expressly prohibiting their participating 'in other investigations and warrants' unless they directly involve a parolee. The edict provided the impetus for at least one angry letter to the Governor's Council, from Bryan Westerman, a parole field officer, who opposed Gomez's confirmation and blamed him for 'dismantled law enforcement partnerships.' There is no hiding the tension between what the Healey administration, officials like Gomez, and his supporters want for the direction of the agency and what they are up against in moving the parole system into the 21st century. 'The newer parole officers are much like social workers,' said Senator Jamie Eldridge (D-Acton), a champion of criminal justice reform and a supporter of Gomez's confirmation. 'They recognize that people want to find a job and housing and don't want to go back to prison.' They see their roles as 'coaches, not referees,' he added. 'But if you have a parole officer focused on technical violations, they're not really serving the cause of justice.' Advertisement And those who simply want the adrenaline rush of a police raid ought to be looking for another job. Gomez, whose confirmation comes up for a vote before the Governor's Council next week, is the right man at a critical time. But he and his fellow board members are up against a workforce that has had things its way for decades. Turning that ship around will be everybody's job. Editorials represent the views of the Boston Globe Editorial Board. Follow us
Boston Globe
7 hours ago
- Boston Globe
For LGBTQ veterans, the Trump administration brings fear and uncertainty
Advertisement '[The ship] wasn't named for [Milk] because he was gay,' Story told me. 'It was named for him because he was a veteran. He served his country, served it well, and was also gay.' Get The Gavel A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr. Enter Email Sign Up But Milk's service is being disregarded by a president who, unlike Story, 'They feel they're under attack. They see what's coming out of the Trump administration and it's not just the words but the executive actions,' Jon Santiago, secretary of the Massachusetts Executive Office of Veteran Services, said in an interview. 'As a veteran myself, when I served, when I deployed, I didn't care what your gender, your race, or your sexual orientation was,' Santiago said. 'You signed the same contract I signed, we're going to get deployed together, my life depends on you and vice versa. All I cared about was if you could do your job.' Advertisement Photos of Harvey Milk, including in military dress, at Harvey Milk Plaza in San Francisco. JASON ANDREW/NYT Last month, the 'We're talking about the exclusion of transgender members from military service,' Santiago said. 'We're talking about cutting off gender-affirming care at [Veterans Administration hospitals]. We're talking about [LGBTQ] erasure from the public [like] removing Harvey Milk's name from a ship.' In his first presidential run, Donald Trump was touted in a 2016 New York Times article as having 'more accepting views on gay issues' that 'set him apart' in the GOP. That story included a comment Trump made on the 'Today' show that transgender people should 'use the bathroom they feel is appropriate.' But today, an LGBTQ Army veteran familiar with veterans services told me that some veterans are so fearful of the Trump administration's anti-LGBTQ actions that they've contacted their VA providers to have them 'change their sexual orientation or gender identity in their VA records because they're afraid they'll be at risk of being isolated or targeted.' Advertisement The source, who requested anonymity, added that they have friends who are transgender veterans and 'have already left the country because they fear for their safety.' Whatever their sexual orientation or gender identity, this is a fraught time for this nation's nearly 16 million veterans. In March, the Trump administration announced that the Department of Veterans Affairs, the agency where many veterans receive health care and other services, will But for LGBTQ veterans, there's the added indignity of wondering whether they'll need to conceal who they are to receive the care that they have earned and deserve. Story, 76, who is a wedding minister at Old South Church in Boston, feared that under the Trump administration, the military could retreat into another 'Don't ask, don't tell' era. 'For someone enlisting today, I think they'd have to keep [their sexual orientation and gender identity] to themselves, which is sad,' he said. 'To not be openly gay is not the way we're supposed to be in this country.' Renée Graham is a Globe columnist. She can be reached at
