A cardboard standup of Clint Eastwood presides over meetings in John Crumbley's office. Eastwood is dressed as a cowboy, his belt hanging low with the weight of his gun, his svelte figure preserved mid-swagger. By contrast, Crumbley, has a crown of gray hair rimming the edges of his bald head, wears square glasses, a button-down shirt and tan suit pants. He folds his large hands in his lap as he relaxes in his office chair.  Crumbley is no cinematic hero, but he is a hero nonetheless. In the street culture of Lane County, Oregon, among groups of young people who take methamphetamines to stay awake for homeless night after homeless night, it is Crumbley's calm voice that is rumored to save people.

            Crumbley is part of a team of therapists who work at the intake unit of the John Serbu Juvenile Justice Center in Eugene.  Serbu, as the kids who use the center call it, is a leader in a nationwide movement away from jail-time for kids, which only serves to increase criminal behavior, and toward treatment-oriented services, which boast a 40 to 80 percent decrease in offenses, according to the Lane County Youth Services Detention Orientation Manual.  Crumbley's record, which spans his 25 years on the job is, like that of his colleagues, decorated with national awards and appointments. He is on the National Council of Juvenile and Family Court Judges, is a recipient of the Social Interest Award of the Oregon Society of Individual Psychology, and has been an Assistant and Associate Professor at the University of Nevada, Reno, while he was on leave from Serbu. He is currently a part-time instructor at both the University of Oregon and Lane Community College and a trainer for "Love and Logic," the most popular parent education program in the country. The awards he's received and the research he has completed boil down to one concept: people can change.

            No one is born criminal, and Crumbley, his colleagues and his clients prove it on a daily basis. Intake counselors are the first people, after police, to see young people after they are taken into custody for committing serious crimes in Lane County. Crumbley specializes in violent offenders. When young people have assaulted others, they and their families meet with him. Crumbley decides if each case will go before the court or if he, the youth and the family can set up an alternate plan. Often, the alternate plan means continuing to meet with Crumbley or another therapist.

            In a large conference room, outfitted with clean carpet and rolling chairs, Crumbley reads aloud from a police report. It is one of the first things he does when he meets with a family, so they all know why they are sitting around a table together. No matter that Crumbley is reading about bruises and concussions, that he details the post traumatic stress suffered by the victim, he sounds like a kindly old man recounting Bilbo Baggins' adventures to a room of second graders at naptime.

            When he's done, Crumbley is quiet. Usually, he looks across the table at the accused, and then at his or her parents. Sometimes siblings and extended family members also attend. But at this particular meeting, only the father has shown up to respond to his son's assault charges. As he speaks, Crumbley takes notes on a purple pad in front of him. It's his job to listen now, to get a snapshot of the boy and his family, to see how much effort the parents want to invest, how much the boy thinks better of what he's done, how likely he is to re-offend. Then the therapist decides whether the kid will stand trial before a judge. He does not decide who's lying, who's in the right or wrong. Just the week before, a man apologized for lying about his daughter in an intake meeting. He'd been covering for her. "You were doing the best you could to protect your daughter,” Crumbley responded.  “How can I hold that against you?" In the current case, the boy's father says his son causes trouble at school when there are substitute teachers. Crumbley leans back in his chair and actually giggles. "Giving substitutes a hard time? I know kids who will only go to school if there's going to be a substitute." Messing with subs, it turns out, is not a predictor of future crimes. Spending time with other youth who are often in trouble with the law, refusing to go home and lack of remorse are far stronger correlates. All of them, Crumbley believes, can be changed.

            The father looks up from the paperwork he's filling out and eyes Crumbley.  He's close to despair, he tells Crumbley.  His son won't come home anymore, and now he's assaulted someone. The therapist pauses a moment. "I don't think there's any reason for despair. As a matter of fact, there is considerable reason for hope at this point, because one thing the court will do is require a closer relationship with his family." His low voice rises in pitch when he's making an important point. The man nods, weighing his own hope.