Program for young victims of violence shutting down

Outside his home in West Philadelphia, 17-year-old Michael Kennedy cautiously exits a cab. A crutch under his right arm, he steps carefully with his left leg, shattered last summer by errant gunfire.

Waiting for him on the sidewalk is his caseworker, Tinisha Scott, part of a gun-violence intervention program that begins in the hospital.

She's there to get an update on Kennedy's physical therapy, his readmittance into school, his plans for college, and to chip away at the fear Kennedy feels every time he leaves his house.

But this program, which tries to prevent gunshot victims ages 15 to 24 from being struck by violence again, is coming to an end.

Starting tomorrow, the Pennsylvania Injury Reporting and Intervention System (PIRIS) will no longer accept new referrals. And its three case managers will soon notify their 31 clients that the program is closing June 30.

The program, with a $1.3 million budget, is among about 100 being zeroed out to close the state's budget gap.

"The governor had to make some very difficult decisions," said Barry Ciccocioppo, a spokesman for Gov. Rendell.

Among those dismayed by the decision is Scott Charles, trauma outreach coordinator at Temple University Hospital, who refers gunshot patients to the program.

"This kind of trauma is the existential crisis," says Charles. "It's one of the most stressful, paranoid-inducing situations you could be in, that someone is trying to kill me. And the one consistent resource we had at our disposal, we've now closed.

"We have no place for these guys now," Charles continues. "The question is: What will they do now?"

The state Health Department launched PIRIS in 2006 to try to slow the revolving door of gunshot patients' barreling through the city's emergency rooms. It's overseen by the Public Health Management Corp. (PHMC) and aided by the Philadelphia Anti-Drug/Anti-Violence Network.

The goal was to offer them a lifeline when they were most apt to listen - while lying in a hospital bed.

"For the patient, it's about what happens after you get that discharge," says PHMC case-management supervisor Doris Spears. "That's really their beginning."

If the victim was an innocent bystander, Spears says, caseworkers help him return to some sense of normalcy.

If the victim's behavior contributed to his being shot, "then we need to talk about lifestyle changes."

The program guides participants through a maze of social services: medical appointments, medical assistance, public assistance, post-traumatic stress treatment, witness protection, criminal court, family court, GED programs, job training.

It provides bus tokens for job interviews, and helped one uninsured gunshot patient obtain a prosthetic eye.

"Whatever they need us to do," Spears says.

Between 2006, when PIRIS began, through 2008, more than 2,200 people in its targeted age group were shot.

Calvin Johnson, chief medical officer for health systems at Temple University Health System and a former emergency physician, helped launch PIRIS when he was state secretary of health.

"It certainly is my hope that support for [PIRIS] continues and grows. There's no question that the need still exists. There are too many young people who are getting shot."

To date, the three participating hospitals have referred 332 gunshot victims, overwhelmingly black males, with an average age of 19.

Many suffered multiple gunshot wounds, according to PIRIS data. Many said the gunfire was random.

The difficulty has been getting victims to come into the program and stick with it.

Of those referred, about half completed the program, reaching goals like a GED, a job, permanent housing, and avoiding criminal activity, according to PIRIS data.

Of the other half, 49 refused to enroll; case managers were unable to contact the rest.

Tinisha Scott has 11 clients. For many, she has become a sassy older sister, dosing out tough love.

She asks those with a "hustler mentality": "You think you're going to be a kingpin? The way you're going, you're not going to live that long."

She points to her successes: two participants in high school; one in a GED program; and a former drug dealer, 24, who has worked as a general contractor for a year and studies business part time at a community college.

Another plans to go to barber school, as soon as doctors remove his colostomy bag.

Scott laments those who walk away from the program.

"You preach you have another chance in life, but you go back to the same street, except now you've been shot. Some of them try, though, I do give 'em that."

Sitting in the Kennedys' spotless living room, Scott asks Michael Kennedy about his wounded leg.

His ankle aches. His doctor says the remaining bullet fragments will exit on their own.

Kennedy, a Sayre High School senior, attends church every Sunday, Scott said.

Last summer, he and his friends were a few blocks from his home, laughing and talking about a girl, when someone yelled, "Run!"

Kennedy took off, not realizing he'd been shot until he "heard this crunching noise," until he saw "a gushing of blood." Then came the pain.

Another teen was apparently the intended target, in retaliation for the sins of his father, Scott said.

Six months later, Kennedy wrestles with his paranoia and his desire to pick up his former life.

He's haunted by visions of a gunman coming to get him. When a doctor told him it would likely be months before he could walk or go back to school, he cried.

Sometimes he still does.

"I was having so much fun. I passed my classes. I had a summer job. I was going to the 12th grade. My life was so good, and this happened."

Kennedy is in the school's homebound program. A teacher visits for about two hours, three times a week, he says. He hopes to graduate on time.

Scott moves the conversation to the coming prom and Kennedy's college plans. He still spends most days in the house, afraid even to sit on the porch.

"It shocked my nerves," he says of the shooting. "I don't trust nobody."

"You got to get out," Scott pleads. "The world is waiting for you. . . . You can't let this deter you. You're young and you have a whole lot to get into. This is just a minor setback."

They say their goodbyes. She doesn't have the heart to tell him her visits will soon end.

Contact staff writer Kia Gregory at 215-854-2601 or kgregory@phillynews.com.