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WILKES-BARRE, Pa. (AP) — Standing in front of the darkened movie screen, Hillary Transue was speechless. The 2014 documentary "Kids for Cash," which featured Transue and four other teenagers Luzerne County Judge Mark Ciavarella jailed, finished screening. A man approached. "You're so articulate for a juvenile delinquent," he said. He meant it as a compliment. It was a sobering moment for Transue, a recent college graduate at the time who was enrolled in the master's degree program for creative writing at Wilkes University in Wilkes-Barre. Forever she will be known as a juvenile delinquent. Saturday marked the sixth anniversary of Ciavarella's conviction on multiple charges for accepting money from the owner and developer of the juvenile detention center at the heart of the kids-for-cash scandal. He is serving a 28-year prison sentence at the Federal Correctional Institution in Ashland, Kentucky; his co-defendant, former Judge Michael Conahan, is serving a 17 ½-year sentence at Federal Correction Institution Coleman in Sumterville, Florida. Ciavarella sent Transue to juvenile detention for creating a fake Myspace page that mocked a vice principal at her school. The hysterical screams of her mother, Laurene Transue, faded long ago from that day in 2007, when she was handcuffed and removed from the courtroom. The White Haven native, now 25, graduated in January from Wilkes University with a second master's degree, in fine arts. She was hired Wednesday as an adjunct English professor at Widener University. She wants her accomplishments to define her, not the documentary, which she describes as a blessing and curse. "People think this is who I am — an ex-juvenile delinquent," she said. "I want to make sure people know, I'm a lot more." 60 seconds Hillary Transue's story began in April 2007, at Crestwood High School in Wright Twp., when she and several classmates decided to mock their vice principal. They elected Transue, then 15, to create a page on Myspace, a social networking website. Wouldn't it be funny, they thought, to have the vice principal admit she dreams about actor Johnny Depp wearing "tighty whitey" underwear? Not amused, school officials called police. They filed harassment charges and Transue wound up in front of Ciavarella. A former social worker, her mother was well-versed in juvenile court proceedings. The arresting officer assured her that Transue would get probation and community service. She soon realized how wrong she was to believe the officer. "They called our name and I thought, I guess now we are going to meet with the public defender," Laurene Transue said. "We were just whisked into the courtroom." The hearing lasted 60 seconds. "Ciavarella slammed his hand down on the desk and said 'What makes you think you can get away with this crap?'" Laurene Transue said. "When I turned around to look, Hillary was gone. It was almost like she evaporated." She did not realize a paper waiving her daughter's right to an attorney was among numerous documents she was required to sign. She later learned her daughter was among hundreds of juveniles who appeared before Ciavarella without a lawyer. Frantic to get her daughter home, she contacted the Juvenile Law Center in Philadelphia, a juvenile rights advocacy group. Their attorneys immediately filed a petition seeking Hillary Transue's release. Within three weeks, she was free. Few people knew about her case, which was handled behind the closed doors of juvenile court. That changed two years later. On Jan. 26, 2009, the U.S. Attorney's office filed criminal charges against Ciavarella and Conahan, accusing the judges of accepting more than $2 million from the developer and owner of the PA Child Care juvenile detention facility in Plains Twp. Suddenly, she became national news. 'Terrible people' Media swarmed the Transue home. Interviews were the last thing Hillary Transue, then 17, wanted to do but she felt obligated. "I remember crying," she said. "I felt like every bad thing anyone ever said about me was true and that everyone would know what a piece of garbage I was. My mom was like, the Juvenile Law Center did us this big favor. They saved you. We need to return the favor." She shared her story, first to local reporters then to national print and broadcast media, like CNN, Good Morning America and the New York Times. "There was this pressure to make sure I was handling myself in a professional sort of way and to make sure I was making myself the model student or child because it was going to help the cause that was really important to us," she said. She told everyone how the Myspace page was a joke that went terribly wrong. How she wasn't one of those "bad" kids who needed the juvenile justice system to straighten her out. Trouble was, she didn't believe any of it. Just weeks after her release from the juvenile detention center, she hit the party scene. "I hung out with a crowd that smoked pot and drank," she said. "I had to get on camera and pretend to be this person I really didn't think I was. ... We'd laugh about how we had everyone fooled about what good kids we were, when we were really just terrible people." Living a lie Eventually the media attention subsided. Hillary Transue graduated from Crestwood High School in 2009 and immediately moved to New Hampshire to attend college at Franklin Pierce University. Determined to leave her partying past behind, she focused on studies, which didn't go over well with the new group of friends whose mantra was "let's be irresponsible and drink too much alcohol." "I wanted to do better for myself and get out of that lifestyle," she said. "People didn't like me if I didn't smoke pot and hang out and do drugs. ... I lost all my friends." Her life grew more complicated in July 2010. Conahan agreed to plead guilty to racketeering conspiracy. Seven months later, Ciavarella went on trial. After two weeks of testimony, he was convicted on Feb. 18, 2011, of 12 counts, including mail fraud, racketeering conspiracy and tax evasion. Once again, Transue became the center of media attention as the perceived bad kid gone good. Now a sophomore in college, she and her mother traveled the northeast to appear on television talk shows. Hillary Transue portrayed herself as a happy, healthy co-ed on her way to big things. Off camera, depression and anxiety consumed her. "I was hiding in my dorm room, sleeping for days," she said. "If I missed class it was not because I was partying. It was because I was sitting in my room eating a whole bag of Doritos." She pushed through those tough times and graduated in 2013 with a bachelor's degree in English literature. Several months later, she enrolled in the creative writing program at Wilkes University. "Then, in 2014, 'Kids for Cash' comes out, and it's back," she said. "It's part of my life again." Facing the past Transue and other juveniles featured in the film attended screenings throughout Pennsylvania and New York, and often fielded questions from moviegoers after special screenings. "At first it was exciting. ... I don't think there is anybody who doesn't enjoy attention," she said. "It was kind of a surreal experience. I was going around with this film and people were excited to see me." She was stunned when she learned the producer, Robert May, invited Ciavarella's daughter, Lauren Ciavarella Stahl, to attend some of the question-and-answer sessions. "I remember saying, she's just trying to clear her reputation," Transue said. "I wasn't OK with it." Things worsened after she saw a comment Stahl made on a Facebook post that criticized the documentary for not including more information on the criminal histories of the juveniles profiled. Stahl criticized her father's zero-tolerance policy, but agreed with the poster that the film downplayed the youths' criminal histories. "People were saying to Lauren how these kids did something wrong and your family is being made out to be villains," Transue said. "She never came out and said anything offensive, but I was hyper-sensitive to the conversation." Transue was driven by a need to contact her. At the time, Transue knew she and Stahl shared a passion for creative writing. Stahl completed the same creative writing program at Wilkes. "I tapped into some really honest feelings and I messaged her on Facebook," she said. "I said 'Hey, I don't like you, and I don't really know why. If you really are into helping these kids or the cause I want to hear about it. I'd really love to talk about it.'" They arranged a meeting. 'Somebody's dad' Transue was apprehensive as she entered the Bakehouse Bakery & Cafe in Kingston. "I was still super bitter about the whole thing," she said. "I thought he (Ciavarella) was the embodiment of evil and his whole family was evil. I was definitely anxious. I knew chairs weren't going to be thrown, but I was expecting her to kind of defend her father." When she looked across the table, she didn't see the "monster's" daughter. She saw a genuine person. Stahl declined to be interviewed for this story. "Her dad was super strict," Transue said Stahl told her. "One time, there was an accident on the mountain and she came home five minutes late. He grounded her. She was like, 'Don't you want to hear what happened?' He said, 'I don't care.'" He also was the kind of man to sit on a roller coaster with her, two and three times, even though it made him sick, just to make her happy, Transue learned. "That's when it hit me," she said. "He's somebody's dad. People love this man." For the first time, Transue no longer saw Ciavarella as an "evil monster," but as a flawed human being who, just like her, made mistakes. It was a turning point. "I went on this path of forgiveness," she said."It was just this really good feeling. I realized, we are all just people and we are all screw-ups." Survivor's guilt Transue starts her new job in the fall at Widener, teaching introductory English to freshman. Her class may focus on writing essays about social justice issues. She is thrilled to start her new career. Still, she has survivor's guilt from her time at the juvenile detention center, especially when she thinks about the other four teens featured in the documentary. "All these kids were sent away not for months, but for years," Transue said. "Somehow, I ended up being the spokesperson for them. I got to speak for them like I know anything about their experience. ... That's something I still don't really understand and still struggle with." She realizes she is one of the lucky ones. She could have just as easily followed a path of self-destruction. "When you tell a kid they're bad, they can either fight against it and say ... I'm a good kid. I made mistakes. Or you can say, you're right, I'm bad. It's too hard to fight back. Being bad is easier," she said. "The wrong choice is really easy." She credits her success in large part to her mother. "I don't feel as bitter about kids for cash anymore because ... I don't define myself that way anymore," Transue said. "I don't let other people's opinions of me define how I think of myself. People see me as a recovering juvenile delinquent. I know I'm Hillary." ___ Online: http://bit.ly/2l9Px6Z ___ Information from: The Times-Tribune, http://thetimes-tribune.com/

Teen recovers after courthouse kickbacks scandal