PLACERVILLE, CALIFORNIA — For more than five decades, El Dorado County’s Juvenile Hall on Fair Lane stood as both a holding center and a lifeline for troubled youth. Built in 1971, the concrete and cinderblock facility served generations of young offenders until county officials closed its doors, citing outdated design and declining need for detention beds.
At its peak, the hall was a place of sharp contrasts. Former inmates recall a mix of stern discipline and unexpected compassion from staff. One man, who spent eight months there, wrote that the hall “helped me not only academically but emotionally… They didn’t make you feel like a criminal here. They helped you learn and grow.” Others described the opposite, calling it “hell” and likening the conditions to adult jail.
Probation officers and teachers also carried mixed feelings. Some admitted the “brick and mortar facility” limited what rehabilitation could look like. Still, they tried to fill the space with education, family-style support, and holiday programs. “If we don’t believe in change, what the hell are we doing?” one officer said.
The hall’s population dwindled in the 2000s and 2010s as statewide reforms pushed counties toward diversion programs and community-based alternatives. By its final years, there were often more staff inside than youths. In early 2020, El Dorado County leaders consolidated services and began developing a new facility in South Lake Tahoe, leaving the Placerville building vacant. Today, the property is under consideration for reuse, including as a temporary navigation center for people experiencing homelessness.
Though the walls are quiet, the legacy remains. For some, the hall was the place they turned their lives around; for others, it deepened the scars of adolescence. What endures is a shared truth: the building shaped thousands of lives in El Dorado County — for better and for worse.
Beyond the Walls: The Story of El Dorado County’s Old Juvenile Hall
For more than half a century, the cinderblock walls of El Dorado County’s Juvenile Hall on Fair Lane carried echoes of slammed steel doors, classroom chatter, and late-night conversations between kids and probation officers who often became stand-in parents. Built in 1971, the hall was born in an era when juvenile justice meant confinement first and rehabilitation second. By the time it closed, it had become something else entirely — a contested symbol of failure, redemption, and change.
The building itself was always blunt: concrete floors, narrow rooms, and exercise yards ringed with razor wire. A Notice of Exemption filed in 2002 described a roof being added over one of those yards, but otherwise the structure never shed its original jail-like blueprint. “The limiting factor here…is the brick and mortar facility,” one staff member admitted in the months leading up to closure.
Yet what happened inside those walls was never just about architecture.
From Containment to Care
Probation staff describe the old hall as a place where culture shifted dramatically over decades. “We were built to be small jails,” one longtime officer said. “Programming was an afterthought.” But by the 1990s and early 2000s, the staff had redefined their mission around treatment and intervention. Teachers recalled seeing kids who had failed in mainstream schools suddenly thrive, catching up on coursework and even graduating while in custody.
“We tried to make it as much like a home as possible,” said another. Holiday programs, community volunteers, and even gingerbread-house contests filled the bleak walls with brief moments of joy. For many employees, the work was deeply personal. “If we don’t believe in change,” one officer said flatly, “what the hell are we doing?”
The population dwindled as statewide reforms emphasized diversion and community-based alternatives. At times, there were fewer youths inside than staff. Some worried the empty beds meant the building was obsolete; others argued it meant the staff had succeeded in steering kids away from incarceration altogether.
Lives Changed, and Scarred
Former inmates remember the hall with the same duality. For some, it was the turning point. “So sad they closed,” one wrote online. “I spent 8 months in there and it helped me not only academically but emotionally. They didn’t make you feel like a criminal here. They helped you learn and grow.”
Another called the probation officers and teachers “my second family” and credits them with pushing him toward a career in medicine. Others spoke fondly of wall ball tournaments, chalkboards in cells, and staff who showed small kindnesses.
But not everyone shared that warmth. A woman who spent two months there in 2011 described it as “HELL…worse than what I imagine jail is like.” Another, detained in 2000, remembered cold staff, little mental-health support, and threats to strip privileges whenever he got sick. For them, the hall symbolized neglect more than care.
This divide underscores what the staff themselves often admitted: that a building designed for punishment could never fully deliver on the promise of rehabilitation, no matter how hard the people inside tried.
End of an Era
In January of its final year, staff were summoned to a mandatory all-hands meeting. The news was blunt: the Placerville juvenile hall would be closing. The building was too outdated, too expensive to retrofit, too far from what modern juvenile justice demanded. Youths were shifted to South Lake Tahoe facilities while county leaders planned a new, state-of-the-art center that would include not only detention beds but also a family service hub.
For staff, the closure felt like both a loss and a victory. They mourned the tight-knit “functioning, dysfunctional family” they had built inside the hall, but they also recognized the truth — the walls themselves had become a barrier. For former inmates, the closure stirred nostalgia, gratitude, and in some cases, relief.
The hall is now being eyed for reuse, including as a temporary navigation center for people experiencing homelessness. Its story as a juvenile facility has ended, but its legacy is written in the lives of the people who passed through — some scarred, some strengthened, all shaped by the paradox of a place that was built to confine but often tried, in spite of itself, to heal.
Takeaways from Inmate Voices
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Transformation & Gratitude: Several former inmates say the hall saved their lives, gave them education, honor status, family reunification, and even career direction (medical assistant → future RN).
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Staff Impact: Names of staff like Melissa, Fernando, Taylor, Russ, Quinn, and others appear repeatedly — showing that individuals, not just “the system,” made the difference.
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Second Family: Multiple comments describe staff as family figures during the most vulnerable times of their youth.
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Bittersweet Nostalgia: From gingerbread houses and wall ball tournaments to chalkboards in rooms, small human touches stood out.
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Criticism & Pain: Some voices describe the opposite — isolation, harsh treatment, lack of mental health care, and feeling like an animal. Those accounts emphasize inconsistency in experience and evolving standards.
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Legacy & Memory: Mentions of lost peers (“RIP Eric,” “Rest easy Mikey & Rico”) show how the hall is woven into life stories beyond its walls.
(Quotes from Former Inmates)
“They didn’t make you feel like a criminal here. They helped you learn and grow.” — Former youth, 6 years ago
“Without them I would not be where I am today. They went above and beyond.” — Former youth, 5 years ago
“You were my second family when I was figuring out who I would become as an adult.” — Juan Rodriguez, now a medical assistant
“Place changed my life.” — SeanyD
“I loved the wall ball tournaments on Fridays… and the gingerbread houses. They were really trying to make it better for us in there.” — Former youth, 3 years ago
“At first I wouldn’t have said this, but as time progressed I definitely felt like they were my family.” — Former youth, 5 years ago
“I was only in there for weed. They told me I was a big zero. So I went to college on scholarship to prove them wrong.” — Ms. Sophie Tomko
“I don’t recall any of this feel-good stuff. They were cold, disconnected and expressed no interest in me.” — Roma Krelian, 2000
Key Facts & History
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Location & Use
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The old Juvenile Hall was located at 299 Fair Lane, in Placerville.
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It served as the county’s juvenile detention facility—that is, where young people (juveniles) who were detained by the court/probation system were held.
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Facilities & Design
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It’s described as an older-style facility: concrete floors, steel doors, cinder block walls. inedc.com+1
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It had exercise yards surrounded by razor wire. The general feeling (from news reports and accounts) was that it felt more like a jail than a rehabilitative facility.
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In 2002 there was a plan (Notice of Exemption) for adding a roof structure over one of its exercise yards.
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Challenges / Criticism
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The facility was seen as outdated, with many people (including the probation leadership) stating it didn’t match newer standards of juvenile justice rehabilitation vs. detention. inedc.com+1
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There was concern about its design reinforcing a prison-like atmosphere rather than an environment to help youth rehabilitate. inedc.com+1
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Transitional Use after Juvenile Hall
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After Juvenile Hall operations were scaled down / moved, the building was leased to CalFire for seasonal workers.
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More recently, there were plans to convert the building into a temporary Navigation Center for people experiencing homelessness.
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Plans / Replacement
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The county has been planning to build a new juvenile hall facility on the west slope (Placerville area) to replace or supplement the old one.
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The transition has included temporarily sending youths to a facility in South Lake Tahoe while the new facility is built.
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Current Status (as of latest reports)
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The old Placerville juvenile hall has been slated for closure (not forever, perhaps, but until a newer facility is ready).
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Its lease by CalFire ended in (or was set to end) around December 2022.
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The Navigation Center plans are to use it as a temporary facility while a permanent one is built.
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