Pierce County mental health court aims to stop warehousing in jail

The problem in Pierce County and across the state is well documented: jails serving as de facto warehouses for criminal defendants with mental illness.

The hoped-for solution, in Pierce County at least, is a legal experiment: a felony forensic mental health court, launched in January.

“It’s filling the gap of warehousing people in either jail or prison, and trying to connect them to mental health services and other services in the community that would allow them to be stable,” said Superior Court Judge Edmund Murphy, who presides over the mental health court every Wednesday afternoon.

Backed by a $100,000 infusion of funding from Optum, the county’s designated mental-health provider, the court program has room for 40 people, if they meet the eligibility criteria.

Candidates for the court have been charged with crimes, including serious felonies. Typically, their histories include diagnosed mental illness. Acceptance into the court starts with a heavy-duty, three-page contract: a legalistic version of carrot and stick.

Defendants who sign the court contract give up their right to a jury trial in exchange for entry in the program. They gain the chance of possible dismissal of criminal charges after 18 months, or more often, credit for time served in court custody.

If they stick by the contract and its rules, they avoid jail or prison. That’s the carrot.

The rules are tough. They require regular attendance in therapy and substance abuse treatment, and regular, sometimes daily contact with treatment providers and the court.

If defendants break the rules by failing to attend treatment, or losing contact with the court, jail looms, along with the full consequences of criminal charges. That’s the stick.

‘TELL ME SOMETHING GOOD’

A busy court session in mid-October provided a glimpse of the routine. Murphy presided over a hearing room full of defendants.

One was a middle-aged man in a hoodie, who had missed a required court date. He spoke swiftly, his words tumbling together.

“You haven’t been living where you’re supposed to be living,” Murphy said. “You haven’t been in contact. Tell me something good.”

“I got people after me,” the man said.

“You’ve got people after you?”

The man apologized for losing contact with the court. He said he had to move his car before it got towed. He asked not to be taken into custody.

“You’re not in compliance with what I told you to do,” Murphy said. “The way I’m going to ensure that is I’m going to take you into custody right now.”

The man protested, repeating his concerns about his car.

“That’s not my issue right now,” Murphy said. “I want you to get the treatment you need.”

Next came a middle-aged woman with a ponytail, wearing a coat with red and black checks and a pair of sheepskin boots.

“Tell me something good,” Murphy said.

The woman said she was recovering from oral surgery but making her treatment meetings.

“I’ve never been in treatment before, so it’s interesting,” she said, and added that she took runs, twice a day, at least a mile.

Deputy prosecutor Karen Benson, who handles mental health court cases, called the woman, “a rock star in this program.”

Murphy asked about upcoming appointments and a new medication prescription. The woman said she had just started taking it, so she wasn’t sure how it was going yet, though the new meds seemed to make her slightly anxious. She wondered about reducing the dosage.

She said she was clean and sober for four months.

“Good start, good foundation,” Murphy said, and told the woman he’d see her in a week.

One woman watched the October hearing though she didn’t have to. Patricia Tennyson, 40, is a client of the court, but she attends even when she’s not scheduled to appear. Seeing people in handcuffs reminds her of the stakes.

In December 2014, she was charged with first-degree robbery. She picked two cases of beer out of a convenience store cooler and tried to walk out without paying. The store owner intervened; Tennyson hit her with one of the beer cases and fled.

“At the time of my arrest, I had been arrested 122 times,” Tennyson said. “This would have been my 10th felony. I had seven to 10 years over my head.”

Tennyson’s history included diagnoses of post-traumatic stress and anxiety disorders, along with a substance abuse problem. She applied for the mental health court, gained acceptance in March of this year, and stayed in compliance ever since.

“It’s taken me 20 years to have 10 months of sobriety,” she said. “This program will allow me to have my life back. I don’t want to be back in handcuffs.”

IDEA STARTED WITH JUDGES

Murphy and presiding Superior Court Judge Frank Cuthbertson devised the court idea three years ago, wearying of a depressing routine: defendants with mental problems, slipping out of treatment, decompensating and falling into criminal habits, and entering the system through what Cuthbertson calls “the wrong door — a long, expensive, inappropriate cycle begins.”

The two judges submitted proposals to county agencies for funding. At first, they had no luck.

A meeting with leaders from Optum and locally based Greater Lakes Mental Health Care changed the dynamic.

Optum eventually agreed to fund a pilot program, with Greater Lakes providing the staff support: a felony forensic assertive community treatment team, or FFACT for short. The team is available to patients at all hours, assisting with therapy, transportation, access to employment or housing, or sometimes, answering the phone in the middle of the night.

Optum’s funding pays for that team, as well the work provided by Marianne Clear, the court’s mental health case coordinator.

Entry into the program is not automatic. The FFACT team — as well as the judge, the prosecutor, defense attorney and Clear — collectively assess a defendant’s chances of success. Can defendants stick to the rigors of an 18-month program? Are they willing and able to follow the rules?

“It’s not for everybody,” said Bea Dixon, Optum’s executive director. “A person might not be competent at the initial stage. The team has to feel that person can be treated.”

That standard evolves as the defendant moves through the system, Murphy said.

“We want to make sure we’ve got people who can function and be successful,” Murphy said. “Somebody with expressed unwillingness to cooperate — that would be a red flag. We have a limited number of spots, and it’s not the right thing to do.”

The program hinges on continued annual funding from Optum, though county money broadly supports Superior Court functions. Still in its first year, the mental health program will see its first graduates in mid-2016, the 18-month mark.

“This is one of our most important programs,” Dixon said. “We are committed to it, committed to it remaining viable. We need the Superior Court to be invested in it as well. It’s the type of program I would say that really depends on a partnership.”

THE COURTROOM — FAILURE AND SUCCESS

The program isn’t foolproof. At its heart, it hinges on cooperation from defendants.

Last month’s procession of defendants in Murphy’s courtroom included a young man, a recent entrant to the court, charged with domestic violence and violating a no-contact order filed by his mother. He’d lost contact with the court for several days — a no-no.

“Saw you two weeks ago,” Murphy said. “What’s been going on?”

The man fidgeted and told a long story of his phone being stolen, leaving him unable to tell the court where he was.

“Push the erase button and get rid of the last two or three minutes and start over,” Murphy said. “You want to try the truth?”

The man said he did tell the truth, and began to tell his story again, saying he couldn’t get a bus ticket. Murphy cut him short.

“You’re fairly new,” Murphy said. “This doesn’t work this way when you drop off the grid for three or four or five days. If my liberty hung on compliance, I’d walk 20 miles to be in compliance.”

Benson, the prosecutor, echoed Murphy’s concerns and said the man needed to stay in one place and maintain contact with the court and his treatment providers. He had missed a drug assessment and a therapy session.

The man said he’d missed only one appointment.

“You’re minimizing what’s going on,” Murphy said. “I’m going to take you into custody today, and bring you back next week. We’ll have a plan.”

Next came a young woman with a blue ponytail. Clear, the court’s coordinator, said the woman was doing well so far, working on organizing her time.

“Sometimes it’s nice to go old school and have a piece of paper in your pocket that tells you what day it is,” Murphy said.

The young woman nodded. She was a quiet sort, not given to storytelling.

“I like your hair,” the judge said.

The woman smiled. “Thank you,” she said.

“Is blue your natural color?” Murphy asked.

The courtroom tittered. The young woman smiled.

“Purple and gold’s always good too,” Murphy added, invoking his alma mater, the University of Washington.

He asked if the woman had a keychain: a mark of staying clean and sober. The woman said yes — for 30 days, then 60.

“And yesterday was my 90,” she said.

The courtroom applauded. Murphy sent the woman on her way.

“Alright,” he said. “Hang in there.”

This story was originally published November 17, 2015 at 1:12 PM with the headline "Pierce County mental health court aims to stop warehousing in jail."