Barely 17, he's a good-looking kid with a wide grin. If not for the county-issued orange jumpsuit, Malcolm could be the kid behind the cash register at Wegmans, earning a little extra money after school.

But Malcolm is, once again, an inmate at the Monroe County Jail - incarcerated twice for drug possession. About 150 juveniles are in the county jail at any given time and nearly 2,000 teens ages 16 to 19 pass through the facility every year. The Monroe County Jail wasn't designed to house juveniles, but several adaptations have been made for them.

Mostly black and Hispanic boys, many juveniles in the Monroe County Jail have either dropped out of school or have fallen behind and won't graduate in four years. Drug-related crimes often play a significant role in their incarceration of these teens - most already veterans of the justice system. They have either exhausted their chances for leniency with judges or they have committed serious crimes.

Juveniles are defendants under age 18, but those who commit serious crimes can be prosecuted as adults at age 13. New York, like most states, passed laws in the 90's that made tougher punishment of minors possible. And the laws, according to a 2004 report by The Trauma Foundation at San Francisco General Hospital, disproportionately affect young people of color living in urban environments.

In Monroe County, juveniles with minor offenses are typically handled in Family Court. Juveniles convicted of serious offenses and tried in Criminal Court are transferred to a state prison once they turn 16.

Malcolm will be released in May after serving 10 months of a one-year sentence. Being locked up, he says, has given him time to think about his future.

"You're in here and life is going on out there without you," he says. "You're missing out on everything. It's hard, and I don't want to ever go through it again."

Malcolm should have been a junior in high school, getting ready for college. He's a B student, but makes A's in math. He says he still plans to go to college.

"I am going to become a lawyer," he says. "I'm going to start at MCC and transfer. I know I can do the work if I focus myself. I know one thing for sure: there's got to be something else out there besides this."

The odds are not in Malcolm's favor. Once juveniles enter the justice system, they often need to undergo a real turnaround to stay out of trouble. The risk of re-offending or violating probation is high, and that could land them back in jail, often with more charges. A big step for Malcolm was his ability to admit his mistake, and to accept help for his drug problem.

"Taking responsibility is a major step," says Margaret Porter with the Rochester school district. Porter is the administrator of the district's Youth and Justice Programs. She oversees more than six different education initiatives for juveniles who have become involved in the justice system, including the Incarcerated Youth Program at the Monroe County Jail.

The program is a collaborative effort between the city school district and the county, involving 16 teachers and one counselor. Three of the teachers are certified in special education and one is a reading specialist. Fifteen classrooms at the jail serve two different groups of students: those who have dropped out and are working on their GED's, and those who are maintaining their normal course of study as if they were still in their regular school.

Many of the kids come from poor, single-parent households, Porter says, or may be living with someone other than a parent.

"You can look at them and see that these boys are just kids. But they are kids who have committed some serious offenses," she says. "They could be in for anything from assault charges stemming from a fight, to gang activity, drugs, burglary, weapons - you name it."

Students in the Incarcerated Youth Program benefit greatly from family visits and meetings with concerned community leaders, Porter says. City School Board Member and local attorney Van Henri White, and child advocate Mary Hale asked Porter to arrange a meeting with students in the Incarcerated Youth Program. That meeting took place in late March at the Monroe County Jail.

 "We already know that kids who fail in school or drop out have a much higher chance of being locked up," White says.

To get to the boy's area of the jail, you have to leave personal items such as coats, purses, and cell phones in a locker near the entrance. There are dozens of security cameras. Small, black surveillance cameras dot the ceilings of every room and hallway, even in the elevators. Every movement is watched. And a strange mix of disinfectants, food, and dirty linens - institution stink - seems to drop from the ceiling like a net.

The boys' cells cover two floors, with a large gymnasium-like space in the center. It's a noisy chamber that echoes when the boys yell from their cells. Each cell has a metal frame to hold a thin, plastic-covered mattress. There's a stainless steel sink and a commode. The only windows are narrow vertical panes of safety glass on the cell doors so that guards can see inside. Some of the boys lean against the windows, peering out at a nurse pushing a medication cart into the main area. The top of the cart is covered with tiny cups and stacks of plastic-sealed pill packs. Many of the boys receive anti-depressants.

The jail's classrooms are nearby. They have desks, maps, globes, computers, and blackboards - the same things you would find in most classrooms. But the rooms look temporary. Partially completed walls and movable partitions give them a make-believe quality, like movie sets.

It's time for the meeting to begin.

 About 22 teenage boys in their jumpsuits and black flip-flops quickly move their chairs into a semicircle. At first, they look down and keep their hands folded. But it doesn't take long for the discussion to turn serious.

"I needed money," says Daryl, a small-framed boy with dark skin. "That's how I got in here. That's how most of us got in here. I was out on the streets doing things I shouldn't have been doing. But what are you supposed to do? You don't think about getting caught."

A chain of events turned his life upside down, he says.

"My brother died," says Daryl. "He got shot a couple of years ago. He was my best friend. He was everything. He used to get me up in the morning and get me ready for school. After that, I didn't really care about much. That just took me down, man. I used to get high all the time and I just stopped going [to school]."

How many of you have lost someone? White asks. About a third of the boys raise their hands.

"I lost my grandma," says Jermane, one of the taller, older boys sitting in the back of the room. He lived with his grandmother, and he says she made him study for two to three hours every day after school.

"She was strict and tough sometimes, but I knew she cared about me," he says. "I am so glad she's gone. I don't mean that to sound bad, but I would never want her to see me in here. It would break her heart. I wouldn't be able to sit down after she was through with me."

Jermane says he is working on his GED, but he doesn't know if he will ever go to college.

John says he's had a lot more opportunities than the others. He went to a good school and he came from a loving family.

"You asked what it's like in here," he says. "There's a lot of pain in here, Mr. White. Some of these guys, they didn't have a chance. If you knew them better, they'd tell you this was bound to happen to them sooner or later."

The conversation turns to using drugs.

"How many of you used to smoke weed?" asks White. Several of the boys chuckle, and they look around the room at each other. Slowly, more than half raise their hands.

"You know what that does to your mind and your motivation, don't you?" says White. "How are you going to know what motivates you if you're doing that stuff?"

"You're right," says Daryl. "But sometimes you need to do something, anything just to stop thinking about all of your problems. That's what I did. I wasn't trying to hurt anybody or anything like that."

White made a promise to the boys at the beginning of the meeting.

"I told you I was going to be straight with you, right?" says White. "I think there's another reason you're here, and I'm hoping you recognize it. You know that most of you will eventually be getting out of here. But here's the question: then what are you going to do?"

Some of the boys say they're going to get jobs when they get out. A couple of them say that they have children, and that they want to be able to support them.

"How?" says White. "How are you going to support them? What job are you going to get if you don't finish high school and you don't go on to college?"

Jermane says he's going to work for his father when he gets out.

"That's cool," says White. "But the problem is most of you haven't got a plan. You know, we aren't all that different. I'm a lawyer today, but I wasn't a straight A student. There's probably a lot you that have better grades than I did in school. But the difference is I had a plan."

Jail has, in some ways, been a positive thing, Daryl says. He says it's safer in the jail than it is on the city streets. And he wouldn't be studying if he wasn't in jail, he says.

"I would probably still be out on the streets," he says. "This has helped me because I dropped out, and now I'm getting my GED."

But several other boys say the boredom and loneliness is almost unbearable.

"It's hard to concentrate and study, especially when you're worried all the time," John says.

The teachers and counselors in the jail are trying to help, Jermane says, but he questions whether education will pay off in the end.

"There are no jobs out there for us," he says. "Once they find out you've been in trouble with the police, they won't hire you."

It's impossible to change the past, White says.

"You all don't believe there's much you can do about your situation, but I'm here to tell you - that is just not true," he says. "You all got yourselves here. Not the police, not your teacher, not your mom or dad. You did it. But if you start right now and do something, just one thing every day toward your goal, you'll start to see success. And you'll never end up in a place like this again."

Tapping his fingers to his temples, White says, "But you have to make it up here first."

Education, Porter says, is the best way to help the students not re-offend.

"Remember that most of these kids are eventually going back home, back into the community, or back into the school system," she says.

An important goal for Porter's small battalion of teachers, she says, is to help students understand that they have options other than drug dealing and robbery to get the things they want in life. Learning how to make the right choices, she says, builds self-esteem. Many of Porter's students have a parent, sibling, or cousin who is incarcerated.

"They've got to learn to own their freedom," Porter says. "They don't understand freedom. What they've learned is how to survive. We have to re-teach them a new set of concepts about belonging, loyalty, and trust. We're always saying to them, ‘You don't belong here. This isn't good enough for you.'"

They've had little exposure to adults who are college graduates - family members who become doctors, engineers, or CEOs, she says.

"We have to break that thinking," she says. "Instead of a gang leader, I'll ask them, ‘Why aren't you a community leader? We need your help.' And they'll look up at me like - 'What are you, crazy?' But it's probably the first time anyone has asked them for their help."