The length of time child defendants spent incarcerated in Dallas County awaiting their cases to be resolved declined by 59 percent in two years—moving the juvenile justice system closer to meeting national standards for the first time since at least 2018. The average number of children held behind bars last year who were awaiting sentencing also dropped by nearly 30 percent, signaling that more kids were diverted away from jail before their cases even reached a judge.

Those findings were published in a new report last month by the nonprofit research firm Evident Change. It is the first analysis of the system since 2023, when neglect and problems plaguing the Henry Wade Juvenile Justice Center forced county leaders to usher in a series of reforms. At the time, researchers found minors were averaging 140 days detained before their cases were resolved, which is more than four times the national benchmark of 30 days. By August 2024, the report declares that children were spending 83 fewer days locked up compared to two years prior. 

“I’m happy that we’ve made this progress,” says outgoing Dallas County District Attorney John Creuzot, who in 2022 requested Evident Change investigate the juvenile justice system. “Obviously, it is highly suggested in here that we can do better—and for the time remaining, we’re gonna try to do that.”

Researchers first analyzed the years spanning 2018 to 2022. They found Dallas County’s juvenile justice system was functioning more like an adult criminal court instead of providing rehabilitation to minors. Most kids were charged with low-level crimes, the study contended, and should have been diverted or released quickly instead of spending months in detention. Unlike adult criminal court, the juvenile justice system begins with a police referral to an intake officer instead of an immediate court appearance. The state structured the system to emphasize treatment and rehabilitation instead of punishment.

About 79 percent of kids detained in Dallas County were deemed low- or medium-risk, researchers found, which suggested that many didn’t need detention at all. Prosecutors were moving forward with official court proceedings instead of diversion in 91 percent of cases; after spending months behind bars, judges might only punish the child with probation or a sentence shorter than the time they were incarcerated.

Dallas convicted more children of crimes from 2019 to 2020 than any other large county in Texas. (Just over 2 percent of kids charged with a crime in Texas were committed to a youth prison, according to aggregated state data; Dallas was at 3.2 percent.) 

Compounding matters, as Creuzot began researching ways to improve the speed with which cases were processed through his office and in the courts, parents and advocates raised concerns about the poor conditions inside the detention center. A state probe in 2024 found that some kids were isolated in their cells 23 hours a day and denied access to showers, exercise, and education. The state also presented evidence that staff routinely falsified reports that detailed how often they checked on the incarcerated children.

The revelations sparked a firestorm of change inside the juvenile jail and reaffirmed Creuzot’s decision to scrutinize how cases were processed, the effects of which are examined in the new report.

“We are now at a place in Dallas County juvenile justice that we have not been at in the last 15, 20 years—in a good way,” says County Judge Clay Lewis Jenkins. 

The report is considered interim while the county evaluates its data and recommendations. The study’s other findings include:

The county’s practices are now informed by research, a “dramatic shift” from the ways of the past, says Dallas County’s director of juvenile services H. Lynn Hadnot. Hadnot assumed the job in Dallas in February 2025 after serving in the same position in Collin County for the previous decade. Dallas’ former director, Darryl Beatty, had resigned at the request of a board of appointees that oversees the juvenile department after state inspectors made an unannounced visit to the Henry Wade detention center and launched an investigation into its conditions. 

Beatty’s tenure had been marred by allegations of inhumane treatment. Jenkins says the system held kids for light charges like shoplifting, drug use, or a fist-fight on a playground. All would sit in jail “a long, long time,” he says, and were rarely allowed outside. Their only contact with other people came by talking through the vents at the bottom of their cell doors, Jenkins says: “For kids in the future, they won’t be subject to the abusive tactics and illegal actions that took place in the past, hopefully.” 

Those kids were introduced to “whole new criminal enterprises,” Jenkins says, and most weren’t given long sentences after waiting weeks or months for a judge’s ruling. “That kid’s coming back to the community, coming right back next to your kid and your house and your neighborhood,” Jenkins says. “So it behooves you, whether you’ve ever known anybody in the juvenile system, for these kids to have good outcomes.”

The responsibility of finding the route to those outcomes was largely split between Creuzot, Hadnot, and Mike Griffiths, the interim juvenile services director. Hadnot recalls being warned that Dallas was where “chiefs’ careers go to die.” More than one person called him “crazy” for answering a recruiter’s call, but he was guided by his faith. “I saw that kids were hurting and I had to do some praying,” he says. “I knew it was gonna be hard and I was afraid to do it, but ultimately I just came to the position, I’m like, ‘Lord, I’ll trust you. And if that means I suffer, I’ll do it.’”

Much of the overhaul had already been underway. Creuzot called for the first Evident Change study after reviewing cases involving juveniles who were certified to be tried as adults—mostly for murder and capital murder. “I made the comment, ‘There seems to be a common theme here,’” Creuzot says. Those kids had cycled through the juvenile justice system. They’d get released, only to be arrested again years later. Creuzot suspected there were systemic breakdowns.

He discovered only about 3 percent of juvenile cases were resolved within 30 days, and his office’s decisions weren’t based on research. Without a protocol backed by evidence to guide decisions, “you’re making a guess” on the intervention a child needs, relying on the offense instead of the person. 

Incarceration can disrupt a child’s education, weaken family bonds, and increase recidivism, according to the Evident Change reports. Punitive measures, such as detaining low-risk kids, research has found, often increases their chances of returning to jail. Low-risk children fare better when they’re instead counseled or sent to community programs, the reports say, while those deemed “high-risk” benefit from “structured supervision and targeted services.” Less jail, more support. 

Before the reforms, the county’s juvenile department immediately referred cases to prosecutors who frequently filed charges regardless of the child’s “risk” level. This resulted in more kids being sent to detention than what national recommendations deem necessary.

Today, probation officers and the district attorney’s office screen cases to determine whether adolescent defendants can be diverted away from jail. Some cases are no longer referred to prosecutors at all, like first-time misdemeanor assaults, first or second-time misdemeanor family violence, and possession of less than a gram of THC. Instead, the child receives a verbal warning with a community resource referral or deferred prosecution, an alternative to court where a minor completes programs like counseling or community service to resolve their case without a formal conviction.

For cases that are referred to the DA’s intake division, the juvenile department will send a profile of the child that includes risk scores based on research, offense level, prior criminal history, and family/community stability. That information helps guide decisions on whether diversion or program services are more appropriate than incarceration. Only one probation officer was said to handle all deferred cases in Dallas, according to the report; now, Hadnot plans to deploy deferred prosecution teams of between three to four people in each of the nine juvenile district offices, for a total of at least 27.

Change is evident inside Henry Wade, too. When Hadnot arrived, he says staffing was short and violence was common because kids struggled to regulate their emotions. His team added lighting and commissioned paintings inside the detention center. They re-trained staff and allocated employees to make sure kids who don’t get along weren’t crossing paths. Children now earn rewards for good behavior as opposed to “everything being punitive,” Hadnot says. 

Over the following year, violence dropped about 90 percent, he says. “Our staff no longer walk their heads down. You can see that there’s a light behind our staff’s eyes and a light behind our kids’ eyes.”

Many of the report’s recommendations are already adopted, he says, like creating data infrastructure to track outcomes. The juvenile department now has a “robust research division,” and he hopes to share findings with stakeholders and develop key performance indicators for accountability. 

Another recommendation is to incorporate family perspectives into improvement plans. The county now staffs “family engagement specialists” who have a history in the juvenile justice system. These staffers guide families and offer recommendations to administrators. Kids, too, are having their voices heard; they sit on committees to represent their peers in a monthly meeting with executive staff where they share concerns and recommendations. “They dress up,” Hadnot says, “they’re called councilman and councilwoman.”

Much of the work came about by breaking down silos, according to the report, which notes agencies reported limited communication and much skepticism. Now, Creuzot’s and Hadnot’s teams hold weekly meetings. The group decides on individual cases: Does the minor need a warning, services, formal probation, or detention? Hadnot aims for the “least restrictive intervention” appropriate; he’s personally offered recommendations to prosecutors, and once testified on behalf of a minor.

When the initial Evident Change report was presented to commissioners in 2023, stakeholders disagreed over its methodology. (Juvenile Board Judge Cheryl Shannon declined to comment on the new report.) Hadnot called some of the new report’s methodology “problematic” since it pulled from multiple datasets and periods of time, but he believes it acknowledges its limitations. He went over the report line by line with researchers.

“I still need to look at the numbers with my team,” Hadnot says, “but what I can say definitively is that based on the datasets that they analyze, we’re definitely trending in the right direction.” Its findings match what he sees each day, Hadnot says, as he and his team walk the floors, talk with kids about their cases, and see them leave detention.

Elizabeth Henneke, CEO of the Lone Star Justice Alliance, a nonprofit that advocates for juvenile justice reforms, says not long ago, families saw Henry Wade as a hole their children fell into and “never got out.” Kids didn’t have adequate food. She recalled reports of feces being smeared on floors, and there was no traction among administrators to develop rehabilitative solutions. Stories amounted to “neglect, certainly,” if not abuse. The community’s concerns were often ignored by the county’s probation department: “It was an unacceptable level of disengagement,” she says.

“It is a night and day situation,” Henneke says about current leadership.

One of the new report’s recommendations is to codify reforms so they last through leadership changes. That test is on the horizon. Creuzot lost his re-election bid to former District Judge Amber Givens, who is running unopposed to become Dallas County’s district attorney in January. (Givens did not respond to requests for comment.) Creuzot says he’s trying to formalize best practices to make the changes foundational, perhaps through a memorandum of understanding with stakeholders. “I don’t know what the future holds, and so that’s my concern,” he says. Hadnot says he hasn’t spoken with Givens, but is hopeful because of her qualifications; Givens was a juvenile prosecutor and served on the juvenile board from 2015 to 2025. 

“I do have a great sense of optimism,” Hadnot says. “I’ve told our team, ‘Major reform—we’re not gonna fix everything that needs to be fixed in a year. It’s gonna take us three to five years to do this.’”

Problems remain. Dallas still isn’t meeting the national benchmark for pre-disposition detention times. In September, a juvenile service officer was arrested on charges he put a 15-year-old in a chokehold and stepped on the teen’s face. Henneke believes too many children are being sentenced to formal probation and that Henry Wade needs more renovations. 

She also says there aren’t enough community-based interventions to support kids or integrated workforce solutions so those detained can get viable jobs upon their release. The new report also underscores the importance of sustaining the work of the past three years.

“Dallas County has demonstrated what becomes possible when agencies choose to build trust through action,” the researchers wrote in the report. “What it does next will determine whether this becomes a turning point or a moment.”

Kelli Smith is a staff writer for The Lab Report. [email protected].

We’ll send a new story to your inbox once a week. Have a friend who would appreciate it? We’d love for you to forward this email to them. You can also find all of our work here.

The Lab Report Dallas is a local journalism project published by the Child Poverty Action Lab (CPAL). Its newsroom operates with editorial independence.

© 2025 Child Poverty Action Lab. All rights reserved.