The violations against generations of New Hampshire teenagers and children were staggering in scale: decades of physical, sexual and psychological abuse, claimed by more than 1,500 victims at state-run youth detention centers, one of the worst abuse crises in state history.

After long negotiations to avoid lawsuits, New Hampshire pledged hundreds of millions of dollars to a state fund to settle abuse claims, and hearings began in 2023. Payments averaged about $540,000.

But New Hampshire, which is facing a fiscal downturn, is trying to wrest back control of the cost. In June, lawmakers quietly changed the settlement fund’s rules, limiting its administrator’s independence and giving the state power to veto payout amounts.

The governor, Kelly Ayotte, a Republican who took office this year, also did not include any money for the state fund in her budget plan. Victims challenged the changes in a class-action lawsuit; a hearing is set for Aug. 20.

“It’s like the criminal on trial gets to say, ‘I don’t like this, let’s change it,’” said Corrine Moon, a plaintiff in the class action who has described years of sexual abuse by state employees. “How is that fair? Why does the state get to keep re-victimizing us?”

New Hampshire is grappling with a wrenching moral question: How much should it pay to those who suffered devastating damage as young people in its care?

It’s an issue faced by states across the country, including California and Maryland, as the costs of settlements have soared — reaching billions of dollars in some cases. And with state budgets tight, lawmakers are weighing their commitments to victims against other fiscal priorities, including crucial services and, in some cases, promised tax cuts.

The tensions signal a shift away from the legislative impulse that prevailed 20 years ago, when the reach of the Roman Catholic church’s child sex abuse crisis became clear. Back then, many states changed laws to ease the way for victim compensation.

The abuse described by victims in New Hampshire, at three state youth detention centers, included serial beating, sex crime, choking, strip searches and weekslong solitary confinement. Most victims came from poor families, often with absent or abusive parents. Their offenses as minors included drug use, truancy and thefts. The oldest to come forward was 78, describing abuse from 1968. The youngest, 19, detailed abuse from 2018.

A state report in 1978 found deficiencies in training at the facilities. In 1980, the attorney general warned of problems that could lead to lawsuits. But the state did not launch a full investigation until around 2020, as victims came forward and filed lawsuits.

Ms. Moon, the plaintiff, said she was raped repeatedly by state employees after she ended up, at age 14, in state custody. She said she never knew when male staff members would show up in her room in the middle of the night to assault her.

Ms. Moon, 44, was one of the first victims to sue the state, speaking publicly in hopes of forcing changes. She said she now longed to put the fight behind her and opted into the state fund to find a swifter, gentler resolution.

Victims elsewhere, too, face cost containment measures.

In Maryland, recent legislation reduced the cap on abuse settlements by more than half. The state faces potential liability of more than $3 billion from thousands of abuse claims in juvenile facilities.

In Washington, costs have increased since courts broadened liability and statutes of limitations for some abuse claims. Since 2022, annual payouts for claims against the Department of Children, Youth and Families have roughly tripled, according to a 2024 report by the state’s risk management office.

To cover costs, lawmakers overdrew an account that helps pay such expenses earlier this year.

After California made suing institutions easier in 2019 for victims of child sex abuse, claims against municipalities and school districts more than doubled, according to the nonprofit California Association of Joint Powers Authorities, which helps public entities manage risk.

Los Angeles County alone agreed in April to pay $4 billion to settle more than 6,800 sex abuse claims dating to the late 1950s, with annual payments through 2051. Municipalities and school districts have warned of budget cuts and layoffs, and legislative remedies have been floated to rein in future payouts.

Lorena Gonzalez, the former California legislator who wrote the 2019 law, said she thought officials would take abuse complaints more seriously. On this count, she said, the law worked. But she never envisioned what she described as a rush of specialized, well-financed lawyers “bankrupting cities” and “making billions from public resources.”

Ms. Gonzalez, now a labor leader, said she has a new appreciation for the state’s challenges.

“If the payouts are so large that we’re getting rid of, say, child protective services and social workers, then we’re doing a disservice to kids today,” she said.

In New Hampshire, Governor Ayotte stressed fiscal caution as she campaigned across the state last fall. New Hampshire, known for its lack of income tax, has also in recent years reduced business taxes and phased out its tax on interest and dividends, changes that have cost the state millions in revenue.

In February, Ms. Ayotte proposed a budget that cut spending by $150 million. And she did not include the $75 million previously pledged for abuse settlements, an annual commitment made under her predecessor, Chris Sununu. In June, lawmakers changed the rules for the settlement fund, giving the governor power to fire the program administrator and the attorney general authority over settlements.

The governor’s office referred questions about the changes to the attorney general’s office, which said in a statement that the restructuring was driven by concerns about mounting legal fees. Payments to lawyers representing victims have totaled more than $72 million, according to the statement, with many lawyers taking up to a third of each victim’s total award “in full and upfront.” Under a previous agreement between the two sides, intended to add financial stability for both victims and the state, many victims were paid over multiple years. Lawyers were paid all at once.

The former fund administrator, John Broderick Jr., said the attorney general could have ordered lawyers’ payments to be spread out as well.

Instead, he said, the state chose to politicize a process that was working. “The abuse was a black mark for half a century, before the legislature did the right thing,” he said. “Now this will be another black mark.”

Chuck Miles, 57, said he was abused in youth homes beginning in fifth grade, and counts a substandard education and lifelong trauma among his lasting scars. He rejected the state’s claim of a money grab by lawyers.

“The money grab is the governor removing funds from the settlement fund,” he said.

David Vicinanzo, a lawyer with the firm Nixon Peabody, which represents 1,500 victims, said the state set the rules for lawyers’ payments. By blaming lawyers, he said, the state was trying to deflect attention from its own maneuvering to spend less.

“They’ll attack the messenger,” he said, “and hope that victims lose heart and go away.”

The victims may now face a protracted legal battle. By participating in the fund, they had agreed not to pursue their cases individually in court. Those agreements, lawyers said, could now be reversed.

Court cases could be pricey for the state.. Last year, a jury awarded $38 million to David Meehan, who testified about hundreds of assaults in the 1990s at a state detention center. The award was reduced to $475,000 under a state cap on damages; the State Supreme Court is now weighing the cap’s constitutionality.

Some experts say the solution will not be found in the courtroom. States that now find themselves in “panic mode” should cut long-term costs by investing in science-based prevention, said Marci Hamilton, who runs Child USA, which advocates for child abuse victims.

“If they do this right and fix it,” she said, “it’s a short-term emergency, not a permanent budget line.”