From the bowels of Lino Lakes prison, Carlos Dickerson Jr. bided his time.
The baby-faced boy sought refuge in books to survive periods of social isolation while serving as the lone inmate in a cell block built for 20 troubled teens. Sometimes, he passed the hours playing cards with a case worker. Daily programming was so limited that he could do little else but pursue his GED.
New admissions marked a welcome distraction from the sterile white walls of the dayroom, granting Carlos an opportunity to socialize with other youth. But those friendships were often fleeting, since older boys aged out of the program within a few months.
"No kid should come here," Carlos said during a recent interview from the prison. "I know it's a punishment, but at the same time it's inhumane to sit a kid around all day and not get them help they truly need.
"The main point of prison is rehabilitation and there's none of that in here."
Carlos was only 14 when he shot and killed 17-year-old Jorge Batres during a botched drug deal in St. Paul. In 2020, he became the youngest Minnesotan to ever be certified as an adult. A Ramsey County judge sentenced him to 12 years in prison after he pleaded guilty to second-degree unintentional murder.
Rather than Red Wing, where most youths are sent, minors prosecuted in adult court for serious crimes in Minnesota are placed in the Youthful Offender Program, a segregated unit in Lino Lakes where minors stay until they can be integrated with adult prisoners.
Yet, the program was never intended for long-term stays.
The vast majority of minors were older than 17 when admitted to Lino Lakes during the past decade. Among them, 85 youthful offenders have spent an average of 209 days — less than seven months — there before transitioning to another facility with more robust rehabilitative services, according to state corrections data.
Carlos is an anomaly the system didn't plan for.
No one that young had ever entered the Youthful Offender Program. Corrections officials grappled with how to address an unprecedented scenario that left Dickerson stuck between the juvenile and adult systems — without the benefits of either.
"He can't just be mixed into the general population and he can't go to Red Wing," said Commissioner Paul Schnell, who would come to sympathize with Carlos' case. "So it's purgatory."
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Since its construction in 1963, Lino Lakes prison has morphed from a juvenile facility to the state's flagship educational institution for incarcerated adults, many of whom are in the final phase of their sentence. The medium and low-security campus offers more treatment programs than any other prison, but the youngest inmates have access to almost none of them.
That's because federal law dictates that minors must maintain sight and sound separation from adults. The populations can co-mingle only under direct supervision, meaning that interactions are largely driven by staffing levels.
When the Youthful Offender Program moved to Lino Lakes in 2014, it created some unique challenges the facility wasn't equipped to handle. In one case, an incarcerated teenage boy needed his braces removed.
"We had to call up Red Wing for help," said Vicki Janssen, associate warden of operations.
Carlos arrived at the unit in late 2020, three months after shooting and robbing a boy he barely knew. The act marked a dramatic escalation from minor behavioral issues at school, following bouts of domestic violence between his parents before their divorce.
In the aftermath, relatives encouraged Carlos to lean into treatment opportunities while incarcerated. His support network was unaware of what little stimulation actually existed outside education, or how few children would cycle through the program.
Loneliness sent Carlos diving into schoolwork — without which he would "melt away," he later confided to family. Fifteen-minute phone calls became a lifeline to the outside world and one of the few ways to pass the time.
"Sometimes he calls me 10 times a day," said his grandmother, Cheryl Smith, who became increasingly concerned about his mental health. "Whenever the phone rings, I answer it."
After living in the unit for more than a year, Carlos mailed a handwritten letter to the ACLU pleading for assistance. "They sent me to Lino Lakes for 'intense therapy,' but throughout this none of that has been going on," he wrote in the scrawl of a child, the occasional typo scribbled out. "I feel Red Wing has more hands on programming that actually cares to help kids out."
Two University of Minnesota law students agreed to take up his case.
Commissioner Schnell also found the argument compelling. After reading the letter, he directed his staff to seek a legal loophole that would allow Carlos to transfer to Red Wing, the last remaining state-operated correctional facility for juveniles.
The 450-acre campus, nestled on a bluff overlooking Hwy. 61 and the Mississippi River, serves some of the state's most troubled youth – and is often seen as the final stop before adult prison. Boys considered too dangerous to remain in the community are housed in dormitories, where they attend school and daily treatment programs to address substance abuse, anger management and childhood trauma. Many teens learn a trade, like woodworking, pursue their GED and build a resume.
"Recognizing the fact that that many of these young people are going to get out, we want to make sure that they're getting what they need," Schnell said. An assessment found no major differences between Carlos and the boys housed at Red Wing, some of whom were also involved in cases where someone was killed.
The transfer was never intended to reduce Carlos' sentence, just provide services in an age-appropriate setting. But, after months of research, a little-known state statute barred the agency from moving forward.
His lawyers found a creative solution.
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Just before Christmas, Carlos appeared before the Minnesota Board of Pardons via livestream to plead his case. He read from a notepad clutched in his hand, starting with an apology for his crime. He then relayed his efforts to reform over the past two years and his desire to have less idle time.
"I just want to better myself, honestly," Carlos told the three-person panel, comprised of Gov. Tim Walz, Attorney General Keith Ellison and state Supreme Court Chief Justice Lorie Gildea.
Placing Carlos within the most therapeutic environment possible was in the public's best interest, his attorneys argued, since he will be eligible for supervised release by age 22.
"Not only does it help Carlos along his path to be a productive and well-socialized member of society when he's released ... but it will also save the Department of Corrections money that would otherwise be spent running an entire segregated correctional facility for one prisoner," said Joshua Gutzmann, who served as co-counsel with Emma Kruger.
Schnell said his agency consulted the victim's mother, who signed off on the request as long as it didn't shorten Carlos' sentence. She could not be reached by the Star Tribune.
The board unanimously granted a first-of-its-kind conditional reprieve — temporarily suspending Carlos' status as a certified adult until his 18th birthday — allowing him to reside at Red Wing for the next year so he can access more intensive rehabilitative programming alongside his peers.
The reprieve is thought to be the first by the Board of Pardons since at least 1911, the year Minnesota outlawed the death penalty.
"This is a perfect example of clemency operating the way it was intended, as a backstop or safety valve [in our criminal justice system], fixing a gap or injustice in the law that could not be addressed in the courts," said JaneAnne Murray, director of the University of Minnesota Law School Clemency Project.
To avoid a similar situation in the future, the DOC crafted legislation that would authorize moving youth certified as adults to Red Wing, when deemed appropriate. The policy change, which will be tucked into an omnibus bill, is not expected to be a flashpoint among Republicans this session.
"It's really just about addressing risks and needs so we have a better public safety outcome," said Emily Lefholz, legislative director of the DOC. "This change would allow us to do that more effectively for [Carlos] and the kids who come after him.
"It's not about early release."
Exactly 749 days after arriving at Lino Lakes, Carlos boarded a corrections van headed southwest, toward Red Wing.
The facility provided more daily structure and a diverse range of activities. For the first time in more than two years, he was surrounded by dozens of kids his own age. Family members could hear the difference in his voice when he called.
But now, their phone isn't ringing as much.
"And we like that," his grandmother said with a laugh. "That lets us know he's occupied."
Data editor MaryJo Webster contributed to this report.
