Town Tries to Police the Parents

Where the hell are the parents? It shouldn’t be like this, Police Detective Jack McFadzen told himself. It didn’t used to be like this. Not where he grew up.

McFadzen, search warrant in hand, was standing in the Provenzano home, a neat wood-frame house nestled on a quiet cul-de-sac in this suburb north of Detroit. He was standing, to be precise, in the attic bedroom of the Provenzanos’ 16-year-old son. To the St. Clair Shores police sergeant, this boy’s room looked atrocious.

The black-painted walls and psychedelic posters he could endure, even if they did make the room resemble a dope house. Kids have to express themselves, after all. But the marijuana roaches, the open beer bottles, the absolute unkempt filth--those he could not condone. Nor could he condone what else he saw.

In the last week, there had been three late-night burglaries at St. Isaac Jogues Church, just down the street from the Provenzano home. Checks, candy and $3,500 in cash donations had been stolen. Here, in the Provenzano boy’s bedroom, McFadzen’s eyes now rested on part of the booty.

At the detective’s side, Anthony Provenzano, the boy’s father, stared in disbelief. He didn’t know, he said. He didn’t realize.

McFadzen studied this father. Provenzano, 47, worked as a cook at a nearby restaurant. To the detective, he appeared a meek and mild man. An even-tempered, soft-spoken man, inclined toward the paths of least resistance. A man who’d lost control of his son.

McFadzen had been seeing more and more situations like this one. Parents looking the other way while their teenagers mouthed off, fought, violated curfew, abused drugs. Parents expecting the schools to pick up the slack. Parents wanting to be buddies with their kids. The trend disturbed him so much, he’d urged St. Clair Shores, in 1994, to adopt a “parental-responsibility” ordinance.

That the City Council had done, readily. St. Clair Shores’ ordinance spelled out a detailed list of “parental duties,” as well as penalties--including jail time--for parents who “have failed to act responsibly and reasonably in the supervision of their minor children.”

They’d never enforced the ordinance, though. Doing so, after all, would raise all sorts of tricky issues. How to define good parenting? How to compel it by statute? Was there really such a thing as parental malfeasance?

Maybe, McFadzen reasoned, it was time to find out.

So began what promises to be an uncommon test for an increasingly popular type of statute.

Dozens of communities, and 10 states, have adopted parental-responsibility ordinances in recent years. Usually, authorities threaten parents with these measures, rather than punish them. When they are enforced, parents almost always settle rather than fight. The Provenzanos, however, have opted for a jury trial.

On May 6, as a result, 12 of their fellow citizens will be asked to decide a difficult question indeed: Can one suburban town, struggling to hold the line against delinquency and disarray, pull up a chair at the family table? Can St. Clair Shores dictate how parents rear their children?

McFadzen looks forward to that day. “This one,” he said, “is a textbook test case.”

Transitional Time for Working-Class Town

There is something misleading about this town’s slogan as the “boating capital of Michigan.” St. Clair Shores, population 68,000, undeniably does have six large marinas, and it certainly is perched on the bank of Lake St. Clair. Few of its citizens own yachts, though. They sell them and service them, and cater to those who use them. St. Clair Shores is blue collar, working class, almost entirely white. Manufacturing and retail trade are by far the greatest sources of employment. Almost a quarter of the town’s citizens lack a high school diploma; 80% don’t have a college degree. The average price for a home is $83,000.

What St. Clair Shores can offer, in place of affluence and high culture, is a sense of order.

Jack McFadzen, now 48, felt restored when he moved his family here in 1977. After a tour of duty in the Detroit Police Department’s tough 5th Precinct--watching toddlers in diapers run loose on the street, watching infants made orphans by their moms’ gun-happy boyfriends--he finally felt back in his own environment. St. Clair Shores reminded him of Roseville, another Detroit suburb, where he grew up in the years after World War II. Kids being kids, parents being parents; just like in his father’s home, where he learned respect and boundaries. An occasional scuffle at a Burger King was all McFadzen faced in his early years with the St. Clair Shores Police Department.

Then, gradually, starting in the mid-1980s, conditions began to change. It was a transitional time for the entire region, as for communities across the nation. Slow growth, combined with a declining and aging population, created some of the problems. But so did the shrinking average household size: St. Clair Shores suddenly had a growing number of single-parent homes.

The town’s mayor, Curt Dumas, driving on a high school class field trip one day, was shocked to learn that 80% of the students lived with only one parent. Even in St. Clair Shores homes that did have two parents, both likely worked. Dumas’ wife worked; his mom never did.

On patrols, McFadzen started to see more violence, and a different type of child. His generation’s children--the ‘60s generation’s--were now in junior and senior high school. These children cloaked their disrespect with sophistication.

Thirteen-year-olds, caught driving without a license, told cops, “You can’t do that, you haven’t read me my rights.” Teenagers, approached for drinking beer at a local lake, sneeringly wondered whether “you cops had anything better to do?” Broken windows, pellet guns, stolen bikes and lawn mowers--little things, but some kids had five or six such “cards” at the station.

When their parents were called in, not all sided with the police. Some sat silently as their 14-year-olds yelled at McFadzen. Some, when McFadzen suggested he “found inconsistencies” in their child’s story, demanded to know if he was “calling my son a liar.” Some insisted that their child couldn’t go on probation because “he’d never make it,” or “was taking Ritalin,” or had “attention-deficit disorder.” Some let their kids curse them out, right there in the police station.

Watching it all, McFadzen couldn’t help but think of how his father would have handled things. You tell the policemen everything; that’s what his dad would have ordered.

It was just about then that McFadzen decided St. Clair Shores needed a parental-responsibility ordinance.

Confessions in Church Burglary

When St. Isaac Jogues Church was burglarized on three successive nights in May of 1995, it didn’t take police long to identify the Provenzanos’ 16-year-old son--he will be called AP in this account--as a suspect. Within days, an informant reported that AP had been boasting about his deeds and showing off his spoils.

The next morning, McFadzen and five other police officers, search warrant in hand, knocked on the Provenzanos’ front door. A juvenile officer, meanwhile, appeared at AP’s school. Within hours, Anthony Provenzano and his son were sitting in a police station conference room, staring at a box full of evidence. Marijuana, cash, checks, a Detroit police officer’s badge and ID card--all had been found in AP’s pockets, bedroom and school locker.

McFadzen studied the boy and his father.

Anthony Provenzano was a short, stocky man, maybe 5-foot-8 and 170 pounds. He’d appeared fairly calm when six cops knocked on his door, just an average, clean, middle-class St. Clair Shores citizen. Now he looked a little upset, a little teary-eyed, but still receptive.

So, for that matter, did his son. At 6 feet, AP towered over his dad, but even with his shaved head, McFadzen thought him a normal, decent-looking St. Clair Shores boy. He was responding to his father with respect; his father was calling him “son.”

But he was also confessing to the three church burglaries. He tried to buy marijuana with most of the money, he said, but got ripped off. The rest he lent to friends, or used to buy shirts and CDs.

As AP talked, McFadzen watched the father’s reaction. His son’s confession appeared to be a revelation. Provenzano was shaking his head, even sobbing a little.

“Hang in there,” McFadzen urged him.

Not until the interrogation turned from marijuana to cocaine did the father balk. Wait a minute, Provenzano told his son then. I don’t want you talking anymore.

McFadzen labored to understand this man. How could he let his son run wild? How could he not know what his son was up to?

After AP left the conference room, McFadzen turned to Provenzano. He’d been vainly pleading with parents ever since his 5th Precinct days; maybe this time it would work. “Please, sir, take control of your child,” the detective urged. “The house belongs to you, not him. Make him follow your rules.”

Provenzano showed little emotion. Yes, he said. He knew his son was a problem. He’d even had to put padlocks on the basement storage room and the master bedroom so AP wouldn’t steal from them.

McFadzen gaped in disbelief. So that’s why he’d seen locks on those doors.

“I have to advise you that this city has a parental-responsibility law,” he told Provenzano. “You could end up in front of a judge explaining why you let your son smoke dope and drink beer in the house, then go out and break the law.”

Provenzano sighed.

He’d started at a local pizzeria, he’d strived hard to become a restaurant cook. Now he worked 14-hour days. His wife worked too, as a bookkeeper at a bank. They supported their family well. They lived in a decent neighborhood; they paid more than $3,000 a year to keep their son in the region’s most respected private school. It was true, working so hard, he and his wife spent much time away from home. But nowadays that was quite common. It hadn’t affected their daughter; she’d never been a problem.

The way Provenzano would later tell it, his son hadn’t been one either, not until two years ago. Not until he started experimenting with drugs and hanging with the wrong kids. Provenzano knew AP had been sliding, but he hadn’t understood what he was up to. They’d allowed their son his privacy. They’d thought the trouble was just adolescence.

Yeah, Provenzano murmured. I guess I have a problem.

“Take control of your son,” McFadzen insisted.

Laws That Define Parental Obligations

In one form or another, generally worded statutes making parents liable for their children have been on the books for decades. What distinguishes the newer round of ordinances are their rigorous penalties and far-reaching definitions of parents’ obligations.

The measures have gained particular momentum in the last two years, as communities grow increasingly frustrated with rising delinquency and the deterioration of the nuclear family. Silverton, Ore.; Arlington Heights, Ill.; Roanoke, Va.; Grand Rapids, Mich.; and dozens of other towns have jumped on the bandwagon. So have 10 states in 1995 alone; California adopted its measure in 1994. Many jurisdictions have levied fines or ordered parents to attend classes and do community service; Roanoke--which jailed a single mother for a day after her 16-year-old son violated curfew--is among a dozen or so that have gone further.

We don’t mean to hammer parents with these laws, local authorities regularly declare. We want only to involve them.

A mounting chorus of critics, including various law school professors and the American Civil Liberties Union, nonetheless argues that most parental-responsibility ordinances are unconstitutionally vague and over-broad, as well as unworkable. Some lawyers are mounting legal challenges; one, in Roanoke, has persuaded a city circuit judge to strike down part of a local law that punishes for “insufficient control” of a child.

How to define what is “responsible and reasonable” parenting?

Should prosecutors, judges and juries really have the power to second-guess parents?

Should parents be punished for the behavior of their children if they’ve not been criminally negligent?

What if you simply can’t physically control a son who is bigger than you?

How could anyone who has reared adolescents think parents have total control over their teenagers?

Don’t some kids go astray despite the most attentive parenting?

Although these are the questions now swirling around parental-responsibility ordinances, it can’t be said they’ve ever been overly explored in St. Clair Shores. There was little debate here when the City Council adopted its law in July 1994. In fact, there was no debate.

McFadzen simply took some sample ordinances to his boss, Deputy Police Chief Fred Marengo. Together they crafted their own version, then handed it to the city attorney, who presented it to the council, which quickly embraced it. Months later, the city attorney, Robert Ihrie, could not recall how the measure had been conceived. Until it was enforced, few in town even knew it existed.

As such ordinances go, the one adopted by St. Clair Shores nonetheless included some distinctive elements. It declared a minor’s violation of any city law to be “prima facie evidence” that the parents “failed to exercise reasonable parental control.” It identified a laundry list of “parental duties,” including “exercising reasonable control” to prevent their children from “committing any delinquent act” or “associating with known juvenile delinquents.” It made parents “civilly responsible for the damages” resulting from their child’s acts. It imposed criminal sanctions, including fines ranging from $75 to $500 and jail sentences ranging from 30 to 90 days.

What the ordinance didn’t do was specify exactly how far a parent must go to keep from violating its provisions.

“Some conduct just can’t be precisely defined,” Ihrie explained recently. “That’s the difficulty in drafting these ordinances. If you try to identify every situation, you find it impossible. So you use the ‘reasonableness’ standard. Keep in mind, this ordinance requires parents only to forbid behavior, not prevent it. Maybe you can’t stop your daughter from associating with juvenile delinquents. But did you sit down with her and tell her not to?”

Just how, Ihrie was asked, do you prove you had that conversation?

“Ultimately,” Ihrie replied, “that’s what juries are for. They make the determination. Did Dad forbid it? Did Dad try? That’s up to the jury.”

One Father’s Attempt to Control His Son

Fifteen days after McFadzen exhorted Anthony Provenzano to control his son, Provenzano attempted to do just that.

It was June 10, a Saturday, at 1:15 in the afternoon. Pending juvenile court action, AP was still living at home. Provenzano, meaning to visit his son’s room, started up the staircase. AP, not wanting him to do so, blocked the staircase. What followed was later summarized in a police report.

“As Mr. Provenzano tried to go by him, [AP] grabbed him and ‘threw’ him toward the dining room. In the dining room, [AP] started punching his father with closed fists. Mr. Provenzano tried to restrain his son. During this restraint time, [AP] yelled to his sister, ‘Kick him . . . so I can get loose.’ [AP] then stuck his fingers into his father’s eyes so as to get free. Once free he ran to his bedroom and got a golf club. He went after his father again. . . .”

Provenzano, fearing for his safety, called the police. A juvenile officer arrived shortly, took AP into custody and placed him in a youth home. There he stayed just one day. Provenzano, apparently not yet willing to sever relations with his son, came to pick him up.

It is an eternal question for parents: Do you try to ride out your troubled child’s conduct? Or do you confront it, and risk exacerbating the situation? There are those in St. Clair Shores who say they would have “wrapped that golf club around the boy’s neck” if it had been their son. Provenzano chose a different course. He simply tried to avoid confrontation after the golf club attack.

Two months later, St. Clair Shores police began fielding reports about residential burglaries in the Provenzanos’ neighborhood. Six in all, between mid-August and late September of 1995. Stolen items included jewelry, stereo equipment, a TV, a cellular phone, a .25-caliber gun, a .38-caliber gun and more than $16,000 in cash.

This time when McFadzen knocked on the Provenzanos’ front door, it was AP who opened it. While one officer handcuffed the boy and put him on the floor, five others fanned out. Spoils from the residential burglaries were not hard to find: Stereo equipment in an outside tool shed, jewelry and checks in AP’s room. On the night stand next to his bed, in open sight, sat the stolen .25-caliber gun.

“Here we go again,” McFadzen told Provenzano at the police station. “Can’t say we didn’t warn you.”

Provenzano didn’t argue. “My wife doesn’t want our son back in the house,” he said. “The problems he’s causing are getting out of hand. I now feel some fear of safety for my family.”

In late November, AP--lodged in the Macomb County Youth Home--pleaded no contest to a reduced number of charges that will probably land him a one-year sentence. Soon after, McFadzen conferred with Marengo. They weren’t finished, they decided.

The Provenzanos were a good, hard-working family, but they had no control over their son. Your kid suddenly brings home a $500 radio, your kid compels you to lock your bedroom door in fear, you should know things have gone too far. That Provenzano boy, he was ruling the house; his parents weren’t doing anything about it. Enough was enough.

McFadzen reached for the phone, punched in the number for the city attorney’s office.

If St. Clair Shores was ever going to apply its ordinance, he reasoned, it was now.

Highly Visible Plight Gives Some Pause

On the late February morning when he was fingerprinted and arraigned, Anthony Provenzano looked scared and overwhelmed. On local radio talk shows, dozens of callers were enthusiastically endorsing his prosecution; on his lawyer’s desk sat messages from the TV show “48 Hours” and the Court TV cable network.

Still, faced with a potential of $70,000 in civil liability for his son’s acts, to go along with a $100 criminal fine, he saw little choice but to fight the charges. Both he and his wife, Susan, pleaded not guilty, and were released on $5,000 bond each.

“My wife and I didn’t know of our son’s problems until it was too late,” Provenzano told a local reporter on the courthouse steps. “Our son went to Del La Salle High School, where he was a good student and was on the golf team. But he got mixed up with the wrong kids. . . . It’s not like my wife and I didn’t try to provide a good home. . . . This is embarrassing for myself and my wife.”

Here and there in St. Clair Shores, the Provenzanos’ highly visible plight has started to give certain folks pause. In private conversations, at least, a few parents have felt moved to reflect on troubles they’ve had with their own children. One police detective talked about a teenage daughter who ran away from home; one city official spoke about a son with three earrings and waist-length hair; one local lawyer reflected on a daughter who’d gotten pregnant at 17.

But even those aware of how hard it is to control teenagers still voice unbridled support for the town’s parental-responsibility ordinance. Just now, it is hard to find anyone in St. Clair Shores inclined to defend the Provenzanos, or contemplate questions about civil liberties.

The radio talk-show comments--”It’s about time. . . . I only wish you’d use it more often. . . . Someone’s got to be held accountable. . . . How about spankings in school? . . . You shouldn’t stop here”--make it abundantly clear just how deeply St. Clair Shores’ citizens share McFadzen’s longing for his Roseville boyhood.

It is true that some in town squirm a bit about this longing. Mayor Dumas, after hearing what he called “a lot of ‘Happy Days’ stuff” on the radio, felt compelled to say, “This isn’t a nostalgia thing; we know it wasn’t perfect in the past.” Most, though, welcome the public sentiment, regarding it as a sure indication the town will prevail in court.

“The pendulum swings on these kind of questions,” observed Ihrie. “Does this ordinance invade our family decision-making? Well, ultimately, that is a question that society is going to answer. Right now, I think society would support this ordinance. This is the right case to use as a test, but this is also the right time.”

For his part, Jack McFadzen forgoes much analysis or prediction regarding what he’s wrought. No matter what happens in the county courtroom, after all, he has in a sense already prevailed. When next he urges a parent to control his child, he suspects it is unlikely he will be ignored.

In fact, it appears St. Clair Shores parents are already thinking twice about how they deal with their children. Just last week, two parents filed police reports on their sons, one for possessing cigarettes, another for climbing out his bedroom window at 11 p.m.

“Now they know,” McFadzen observed one recent morning. “Now they know.”