When Lawmakers Lock the Gate and Throw Away the Key: Why Maryland—and My Own State—Must Let Judges Judge

Part Two: When Truth Becomes Collateral Damage

Part one of this series pulled back the curtain on the political takedown of Maryland’s Secretary of Juvenile Services—Vincent Schiraldi. That part doesn’t need repeating. The facts speak loud enough.

But I’ll admit—what followed kept me glued to my speakers, for all the wrong reasons.

For hours, I listened to WBAL radio’s talking heads in Baltimore wrestle with whether Schiraldi jumped or was pushed. A pair of backseat drivers trying to navigate a wreck they never saw coming, dissecting the end of his short tenure like Monday morning quarterbacks who never bothered to watch the game.

What made it painful wasn’t the criticism itself—public service comes with callouses—but the ignorance driving it. They accused Schiraldi of being soft on kids and pointed to a supposed spike in youth crime as their smoking gun. But that gun was a prop. The number they cited—that juvenile crime rose by 146%—was a fiction spun by the Baltimore State’s Attorney and swallowed whole by nearly every major media outlet in the city.

They weren’t analyzing the facts—they were echoing a fable. A fable that ignored the reality: youth crime in Baltimore had actually declined. In a stunning twist of irony, they were dragging a man who arguably engineered that very decline.

And then—Vincent Schiraldi did something rare in public service: he walked away, not in defeat, but in defiance. Not because he failed the system, but because the system failed to live up to its promises. His resignation wasn’t a retreat—it was a declaration. A moral flare fired into a fog of political expedience and media distortion.

In his guest commentary, Schiraldi describes the agony of watching youth languish in adult jails for months before their cases resolved. Many are ultimately dismissed or returned to juvenile court, but only after their futures have been scarred by the slow grind of adult criminal procedure. It’s a system soaked in delay, dysfunction, and a dangerous disregard for what developmental science makes clear: their brains are still under neurological construction.

What makes Schiraldi’s resignation so compelling is that he left not because he didn’t fight—but because he fought and watched a mountain of bipartisan, expert-backed support for reform get ignored. The Maryland legislature refused to even allow a vote on legislation that would have simply given judges the discretion to decide—on a case-by-case basis—whether a child belongs in adult court. That’s not radical. That’s rational. And that’s justice.

Georgia, like Maryland, has long suffered under a similar law. SB 440, passed in the ‘90s during the height of the “superpredator” scare, mandates that youth accused of certain violent felonies—no matter their background, history, or individual circumstances—be transferred to adult court. The fear-driven era that birthed these laws was shaped by an influential academic article that predicted a coming wave of remorseless youth criminals. That wave never came. In fact, juvenile crime plummeted.

I was presiding as a juvenile court judge during this time and served on Georgia’s Criminal Justice Reform Commission from 2013 to 2018. I wanted to tackle SB 440 then, but I was told the timing wasn’t right. There was too much political risk, too much fear still in the bloodstream of policymaking. So, we pursued lower-hanging fruit—diversion programs, reinvestment strategies, community-based alternatives—that made real, measurable improvements. But SB 440? It stayed on the shelf.

That was more than a decade ago. We’ve collected more data, more stories, and more regrets. And still, children are funneled into adult systems by legislative mandate, not judicial judgment. It’s not only unjust—it’s an insult to the very purpose of the judiciary.

Let me be clear: this is not a defense of youth violence. I have presided over cases involving serious offenses. I have seen tragedy up close. But accountability is not synonymous with adultification. When you remove discretion from judges—when you lock the gate and throw away the key before even hearing the case—you are no longer administering justice. You are following orders. And history does not look kindly on those who abdicate moral responsibility in the name of political convenience.

Let me explain with a true story—one that lays bare the tragedy of political convenience triumphing over moral responsibility.

A young man stood before me, charged with armed robbery. No doubt, a serious and violent offense. He was a tall, good-looking African American teen, articulate and visibly nervous. I asked the question I always ask: Why?

“I wasn’t thinking, Your Honor. I was stupid.”

It wasn’t just honest—it was clinical. Neuroscience confirms what every juvenile judge knows: the adolescent brain is still under construction. The scaffolding of judgment, impulse control, and foresight isn’t complete. These kids aren’t hardened criminals. They’re unfinished people. Immaturity isn’t an excuse—but it is a diagnosis. And unlike prison sentences, immaturity is treatable. Prisons are not.

Under Georgia law—like Maryland’s—this young man bypassed juvenile court and landed in adult court, where a mandatory minimum of 10 years in an adult prison loomed over him. He sat in jail, awaiting trial, as the adult system slowly turned its gears.

But then, something rare happened.

The district attorney—herself a former juvenile court judge—stepped in. “I can’t let this kid spend 10 years in an adult prison,” she told me. “I’m handing him over to you. Give him five years in juvenile corrections—at least it’s safer.”

But I didn’t give him five years.

I gave him a lifeline.

Instead of incarceration, I placed him in our Second Chance Program, an intensive probation track designed for high-risk youth. Yes, he came from poverty. No father in the home. One of seven children. A life saturated with food insecurity, housing instability, and schools more like holding pens than launching pads. A recipe not just for delinquency, but for despair.

And yet, he completed the program. He graduated high school. Then college. Then earned a Master’s in cybersecurity. Today, he wears a suit, not an orange jumpsuit. He carries a briefcase, not a criminal record. He pays taxes instead of consuming them.

You might say, “Well, it worked out for him.” But that’s not the point.

The real question is: Why did he have to go through adult court at all? Why did we waste time and taxpayer dollars on a system that wasn’t built for him, only to backtrack into the one that was? Why not start with what works?

That’s exactly what Vincent Schiraldi’s reform proposal aims to do—end the automatic prosecution of youth as adults and return discretion and development science to the courtroom where it belongs.

Because here’s the truth: every 14-year-old deserves the chance to be more than the worst thing they’ve ever done. And none of us would want our life’s potential defined by a moment of teenage immaturity.

Critics will say, “If they commit adult crimes, they should face adult time.” But that argument confuses the severity of an act with the maturity of the actor. We don’t put toddlers in traffic court when they run into the street. We intervene. We correct. We guide. A child with a gun is dangerous—but that danger grows when we place that child in a system designed for seasoned criminals. It’s like throwing a sapling into a wildfire and expecting it to come out stronger.

The evidence is conclusive: kids tried as adults reoffend more often and more violently. They’re more likely to be assaulted in custody, more likely to attempt suicide, and less likely to access rehabilitative services. The CDC and the Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention have both concluded that trying youth as adults makes communities less safe—not more.

Schiraldi’s question demands an answer: What kind of society allows children—presumed innocent—to languish in adult jails while their cases crawl through courts that weren’t designed for them? A society that refuses to let go of myths. A society that still legislates from fear.

I salute Vince for his integrity. I share his anger. And I echo his call: Let judges judge. Restore discretion. Repeal automatic transfer laws. Let justice be individualized—not industrialized.

Because what begins in fear ends in shame. And we owe our kids—and our communities—more than that.

Steven Teske is a retired judge having served in juvenile and superior court. He has testified before Congress on four occasions and numerous state legislatures on law and policy reform. He was an adjunct law professor at John Marshall Law School in Atlanta, GA and is currently an adjunct professor at Pima Community College in Tucson, AZ teaching criminal justice and business law.