KConnor56
03-04-2003, 01:38 AM
San Jose Mercury News / Joanne Hoyoung LeeRichard Trujillo gets a hug from his dad, also Richard Trujillo, after he is driven home after being incarcerated at the Santa Clara County Main Jail for the past three months.
County jails have become hospitals for inmates with mental problems like Damon Jester and Richard Trujillo, who use street drugs to numb the chaos in their minds. They commit petty crimes, get locked up, get out, and before long are back in jail.
Now, instead of just punishing their criminal behavior, Santa Clara County is offering a number of offenders a chance to continue treatment upon release -- in the hope they won't return.
``These are the people that you see on the street, and you're afraid of them so you turn your head,'' said program manager Sherry Johnson.
Providing Assistance and Linkages to Services (PALS) is an innovative attempt to reach an incorrigible population. Part of a yearlong research study funded by the California Board of Corrections, the program must prove it works in the next five months. The one-time-only grant money runs out this June.
PALS promises to contribute to public safety as well as save taxpayer dollars. It targets men like Trujillo and Jester, who form the core population in county jails up and down California. In Santa Clara County, as many as 650 inmates at any given time who are suffering from varying degrees of mental illness receive medication while in custody. That is about 30 percent of the population in San Jose's main jail.
Mental disorders
Jester has schizoaffective disorder, an illness combining severe mood swings with disturbed thinking and altered perception of reality. Riding the highs and lows and bingeing on crank and vodka have left him little time to devote to his two small daughters.
Trujillo has a major depressive disorder with psychotic features, a serious mental illness that alters his moods, thoughts and behavior. A petty thief recently caught rummaging through a dumpster, he drinks beer to quiet imaginary voices and anxiety attacks that leave him sweaty and trembling. His parents love and are mystified by their son. They've stuck by him through homelessness and numerous incarcerations. But they're exhausted and ready to retire to Mexico. And that means Trujillo will have to find a way to support himself legally or face life on the streets.
Santa Clara County is one of 15 in California trying to get adults who need mental health care off the drugs-to-jail treadmill. The plan is unique because individualized care begins as soon as an inmate steps outside.
In the two months following release, caseworkers with therapy and law enforcement backgrounds attend to a vast array of needs: from food and clothing to medication regimes and court appearances. This population is hard to keep track of and even harder to treat, so PALS staff members keep cell phones and pagers on seven days a week, 24 hours a day.
So far, the program is working. In its first six months, recidivism rates have been cut in half among program clients, compared with a control group.
Jester is part of the control group. Trujillo, 32, is one of the 200 men and women who have landed a coveted treatment slot.
Without support
When Jester stepped into freedom at 12:10 a.m. on a recent Sunday he had 27 cents in his pocket. Like most inmates, he was given a bus pass and a photocopied list of service agencies. The 25-year-old took his first breath of freedom in 10 months and immediately slipped on the smelly, rumpled T-shirt and jeans he was wearing when arrested.
A white Thunderbird roared up to meet him. A friend he'd met in the Elmwood Correctional Facility in Milpitas was behind the wheel with his young wife beside him. The trio bought a six-pack of Sierra Nevada and a bottle of Absolut vodka and took off for a kegger at speeds that reached 90 mph.
As he guzzled beers and downed the vodka, Jester kept telling himself he had earned the right to party. In jail, he vowed not to use methamphetamine and he wasn't, so everything was OK.
``Wednesday is when I take care of business,'' Jester said. ``Business'' means meeting with his probation officer, visiting the pharmacy, searching for housing and applying for a job. When he got a message on his pager from the woman in his life that said, ``Stay out of trouble,'' Jester blew it off.
Since he was a teenager, Jester has been mixing street drugs with legal ones prescribed to treat his condition: Ritalin and then lithium. He has a long history of psychiatric collapses and is a repeat visitor to Valley Medical Center's lockdown unit. He spent the last three Christmases in Elmwood jail. While serving his last sentence, Jester ``flipped out'' at a correctional officer and was transferred to a more secure unit.
``I don't think people understand mental illness or drug addiction, they just lock you up for it,'' he said. ``My family doesn't believe it's a problem.''
On his first night out this time around, the bottle of Absolut, and the fact that Jester hadn't eaten since dinner (a processed cheese farewell-to-jail sandwich) caught up with him. After 17 shots of vodka, Jester staggered out of the kegger in Saratoga at 3 a.m. He had been vomiting steadily for about half an hour. Jester collapsed on the sidewalk, heaving.
The following Wednesday, Jester did not take care of business. He did not pick up his medications and did not report to his probation officer.
With support
Trujillo has been to jail six times, mostly for drug use, serving from three months to a year each time. He has tried living in a halfway house and renting an apartment, but methamphetamine keeps derailing his life. After 16 weeks in lockdown, he had every reason to believe his first day of freedom would go the same way that Jester's did.
But when he left the main jail at 9 a.m. on a Monday, a plush county sedan was waiting. Melanie Rhodes, a PALS caseworker, handed him a new sport coat, a crisp white T-shirt and a woolly hat. His second gift was a hygiene kit with lavender shower gel.
Trujillo's parents, a machinist and a Kaiser EKG technician, have always been there for him, but have never been sure how to help their son. Their hearts pull them one way; their ``tough love'' parenting support groups another.
Their ongoing dilemma was summed up in a terrible moment about five years ago, when Trujillo plunged a kitchen knife into his gut as his parents looked on.
``I was hearing voices at the time,'' he recalled. ``I felt like somebody was leading me, controlling my actions, my arm movement. It was like I was a zombie.''
Trujillo has a distended belly and a hernia to remind him of that day. And yet, he had never received a mental health diagnosis -- let alone treatment -- until he landed in jail last year.
Caseworker Rhodes prepared the family, introducing them to the still strange-sounding concept of ``mental illness,'' and agreeing to provide 24-hour support for the parents and the son. They agreed to let Trujillo come home one more time.
On their way there, Trujillo and Rhodes stopped at the probation office. Rhodes asked gently if money was tight and about medical coverage. She suggested Trujillo stop rolling cigarettes because that may lead to pot smoking.
At the second stop, the Enborg Lane Pharmacy, the obstacles Trujillo face became clear. He rummaged through the bag of powerful medications doctors had prescribed -- Remeron, Risperidone and Hydroxizine -- and told Rhodes he plans to stay off illicit drugs. But he needs his beer.
Trujillo explained that the medications give him night sweats, and he dreams that he is being ``sucked underground.'' Beer helps soothe his panic attacks.
``I don't plan on staying sober,'' he told Rhodes. ``I just don't foresee myself stopping.''
In response, Rhodes whipped out a copy of Trujillo's ``sentencing snapshot,'' the rules of his probation. Violations that could land him back in jail -- or prison -- include drinking, being around people who drink, and visiting a liquor store.
``Food for thought,'' she said with raised eyebrows. ``The choice is up to you.''
The pair was driving along Guadalupe Parkway, catching a glimpse of the main jail. ``Is that the jail right there?'' Trujillo asked. ``I can see my window.''
``Yeah, but we're zooming right by it,'' Rhodes responded. ``Hopefully this is the last time you'll be back here.''
---------------------------------
If you know of someone in a Santa Clara County jail with a severe mental illness who could benefit from the PALS program, call (408) 998-3285 extension 1598.
County jails have become hospitals for inmates with mental problems like Damon Jester and Richard Trujillo, who use street drugs to numb the chaos in their minds. They commit petty crimes, get locked up, get out, and before long are back in jail.
Now, instead of just punishing their criminal behavior, Santa Clara County is offering a number of offenders a chance to continue treatment upon release -- in the hope they won't return.
``These are the people that you see on the street, and you're afraid of them so you turn your head,'' said program manager Sherry Johnson.
Providing Assistance and Linkages to Services (PALS) is an innovative attempt to reach an incorrigible population. Part of a yearlong research study funded by the California Board of Corrections, the program must prove it works in the next five months. The one-time-only grant money runs out this June.
PALS promises to contribute to public safety as well as save taxpayer dollars. It targets men like Trujillo and Jester, who form the core population in county jails up and down California. In Santa Clara County, as many as 650 inmates at any given time who are suffering from varying degrees of mental illness receive medication while in custody. That is about 30 percent of the population in San Jose's main jail.
Mental disorders
Jester has schizoaffective disorder, an illness combining severe mood swings with disturbed thinking and altered perception of reality. Riding the highs and lows and bingeing on crank and vodka have left him little time to devote to his two small daughters.
Trujillo has a major depressive disorder with psychotic features, a serious mental illness that alters his moods, thoughts and behavior. A petty thief recently caught rummaging through a dumpster, he drinks beer to quiet imaginary voices and anxiety attacks that leave him sweaty and trembling. His parents love and are mystified by their son. They've stuck by him through homelessness and numerous incarcerations. But they're exhausted and ready to retire to Mexico. And that means Trujillo will have to find a way to support himself legally or face life on the streets.
Santa Clara County is one of 15 in California trying to get adults who need mental health care off the drugs-to-jail treadmill. The plan is unique because individualized care begins as soon as an inmate steps outside.
In the two months following release, caseworkers with therapy and law enforcement backgrounds attend to a vast array of needs: from food and clothing to medication regimes and court appearances. This population is hard to keep track of and even harder to treat, so PALS staff members keep cell phones and pagers on seven days a week, 24 hours a day.
So far, the program is working. In its first six months, recidivism rates have been cut in half among program clients, compared with a control group.
Jester is part of the control group. Trujillo, 32, is one of the 200 men and women who have landed a coveted treatment slot.
Without support
When Jester stepped into freedom at 12:10 a.m. on a recent Sunday he had 27 cents in his pocket. Like most inmates, he was given a bus pass and a photocopied list of service agencies. The 25-year-old took his first breath of freedom in 10 months and immediately slipped on the smelly, rumpled T-shirt and jeans he was wearing when arrested.
A white Thunderbird roared up to meet him. A friend he'd met in the Elmwood Correctional Facility in Milpitas was behind the wheel with his young wife beside him. The trio bought a six-pack of Sierra Nevada and a bottle of Absolut vodka and took off for a kegger at speeds that reached 90 mph.
As he guzzled beers and downed the vodka, Jester kept telling himself he had earned the right to party. In jail, he vowed not to use methamphetamine and he wasn't, so everything was OK.
``Wednesday is when I take care of business,'' Jester said. ``Business'' means meeting with his probation officer, visiting the pharmacy, searching for housing and applying for a job. When he got a message on his pager from the woman in his life that said, ``Stay out of trouble,'' Jester blew it off.
Since he was a teenager, Jester has been mixing street drugs with legal ones prescribed to treat his condition: Ritalin and then lithium. He has a long history of psychiatric collapses and is a repeat visitor to Valley Medical Center's lockdown unit. He spent the last three Christmases in Elmwood jail. While serving his last sentence, Jester ``flipped out'' at a correctional officer and was transferred to a more secure unit.
``I don't think people understand mental illness or drug addiction, they just lock you up for it,'' he said. ``My family doesn't believe it's a problem.''
On his first night out this time around, the bottle of Absolut, and the fact that Jester hadn't eaten since dinner (a processed cheese farewell-to-jail sandwich) caught up with him. After 17 shots of vodka, Jester staggered out of the kegger in Saratoga at 3 a.m. He had been vomiting steadily for about half an hour. Jester collapsed on the sidewalk, heaving.
The following Wednesday, Jester did not take care of business. He did not pick up his medications and did not report to his probation officer.
With support
Trujillo has been to jail six times, mostly for drug use, serving from three months to a year each time. He has tried living in a halfway house and renting an apartment, but methamphetamine keeps derailing his life. After 16 weeks in lockdown, he had every reason to believe his first day of freedom would go the same way that Jester's did.
But when he left the main jail at 9 a.m. on a Monday, a plush county sedan was waiting. Melanie Rhodes, a PALS caseworker, handed him a new sport coat, a crisp white T-shirt and a woolly hat. His second gift was a hygiene kit with lavender shower gel.
Trujillo's parents, a machinist and a Kaiser EKG technician, have always been there for him, but have never been sure how to help their son. Their hearts pull them one way; their ``tough love'' parenting support groups another.
Their ongoing dilemma was summed up in a terrible moment about five years ago, when Trujillo plunged a kitchen knife into his gut as his parents looked on.
``I was hearing voices at the time,'' he recalled. ``I felt like somebody was leading me, controlling my actions, my arm movement. It was like I was a zombie.''
Trujillo has a distended belly and a hernia to remind him of that day. And yet, he had never received a mental health diagnosis -- let alone treatment -- until he landed in jail last year.
Caseworker Rhodes prepared the family, introducing them to the still strange-sounding concept of ``mental illness,'' and agreeing to provide 24-hour support for the parents and the son. They agreed to let Trujillo come home one more time.
On their way there, Trujillo and Rhodes stopped at the probation office. Rhodes asked gently if money was tight and about medical coverage. She suggested Trujillo stop rolling cigarettes because that may lead to pot smoking.
At the second stop, the Enborg Lane Pharmacy, the obstacles Trujillo face became clear. He rummaged through the bag of powerful medications doctors had prescribed -- Remeron, Risperidone and Hydroxizine -- and told Rhodes he plans to stay off illicit drugs. But he needs his beer.
Trujillo explained that the medications give him night sweats, and he dreams that he is being ``sucked underground.'' Beer helps soothe his panic attacks.
``I don't plan on staying sober,'' he told Rhodes. ``I just don't foresee myself stopping.''
In response, Rhodes whipped out a copy of Trujillo's ``sentencing snapshot,'' the rules of his probation. Violations that could land him back in jail -- or prison -- include drinking, being around people who drink, and visiting a liquor store.
``Food for thought,'' she said with raised eyebrows. ``The choice is up to you.''
The pair was driving along Guadalupe Parkway, catching a glimpse of the main jail. ``Is that the jail right there?'' Trujillo asked. ``I can see my window.''
``Yeah, but we're zooming right by it,'' Rhodes responded. ``Hopefully this is the last time you'll be back here.''
---------------------------------
If you know of someone in a Santa Clara County jail with a severe mental illness who could benefit from the PALS program, call (408) 998-3285 extension 1598.