Inside LA’s mental health court: Meth, homelessness and the judge who wants to help

In a Hollywood courtroom, prosecutor and defense attorney both asserted their positions on how to best administer justice to the man appearing before them in shackled restraints. Judge Ronald Owen Kaye surveyed documents on his computer, then looked over his eyeglasses from person to person.

“We’ve got quite a lot going on here,” Kaye said that day in February. He then turned his focus squarely to the defendant. With a state-appointed psychiatrist’s evaluation now on file, the judge wanted to discuss next steps. “I’d like to hear where you stand on all this, sir. Let’s talk turkey.”

“I’m sorry, your Honor,” responded the man in earnest. “I wasn’t planning on having turkey for lunch. I was kinda hoping for tuna.”

With a gentle smile, Kaye removed his glasses and patiently explained to the troubled defendant how the turn-of-phrase simply meant it was time to get to business. In Kaye’s Los Angeles Superior Court, that business often entails balancing criminal justice with appropriate mental health care needs to address both public safety and individual accountability.

When a criminal defendant’s mental competency to stand trial is at issue, their case will get redirected to a handful of courtrooms like Kaye’s. In partnership with L.A. County’s Office of Diversion and Reentry, these mental health courts can also further assess the alleged offenders for treatment and housing placement.

Defendants appear before Judge Kaye via different means. Many are transported from L.A. County Jail, shackled and ushered into the courtroom by sheriff’s deputies. They often stand disheveled, maybe aloof or hypervigilant, lucid or confused, bouncy or somber.

Others appear remotely from two video monitors live streamed from county and state facilities. Some even enter the building through the front door on their own volition.

In March, one defendant nodded and stared unblinking through the video screens as his public defender told the court his client was ready to accept treatment and be transferred from county jail to a state hospital.

“Is that what you want, sir?” said Kaye. “We want to get you out of that locked box as soon as possible and get you where you can get help, but I need to hear it from you.”

“I want to go home,” the man said, his body tense as he leaned closer to the camera in distress. “I want to go home.”

Both Kaye and the public defender explained to him that being released was not an option. Either the court would find him incompetent and place him in hospitalized custody — or if he was found competent, he would stand trial in a criminal court and face his felony charges. 

“I want to go to trial so I can go home,” the man continued.

“Sir, in this court you absolutely have the right to a trial to determine mental competency,” Judge Kaye assured him. “But your attorney and the prosecutor have agreed in the best interests of justice to get you treatment at the state hospital. You don’t want that?”

The man’s wild-eyed expression told the story of his incompetence. “Yes, I want to go home.”

Judge Kaye postponed a ruling for 30 days. “Talk to your client,” he said to the defender. “But if he says he wants a trial here, we’ll have to honor that.”

On a Friday in February, a woman appeared on the monitors from a treatment facility, with a clinician beside her raving about her steady improvement over the last six months. She smiled and waved as Kaye listened to her positive evaluation report.

“We are all so happy to see you doing so well,” Kaye said. “Just continue on this path and you’ll be back with your family, okay?”

“Yes, judge,” she said. “Thank you for changing my life.” Like many people receiving services through the Office of Diversion and Reentry, she found stable mental health care through the court’s ability to offer and monitor residential housing and treatment.

“No, no,” he said. “You’re the one working to get yourself better. Keep it up.”

Kaye’s path to mental health court

A former legal aid attorney, federal public defender and civil rights attorney who’d filed multiple lawsuits against the county for deprivation of mental health care, Kaye suddenly found himself assigned to the mental health court soon after Gov. Gavin Newsom appointed him to the bench in 2020.

“I really didn’t know what to expect, but I did know from my prior civil rights practice a bit about the lack of mental health care in Los Angeles County,” said Kaye. “So I felt how fortuitous that somebody like me would have the authority to assure that, as much as possible, quality care is provided.”

“I’m always balancing these issues of liberty — people’s freedom; and treatment — getting them quality of care; and making sure the community is safe. That’s essentially what I do in virtually every aspect of my job.”

Kaye said that the last handful of years on the bench have opened his eyes to the ravaging toll methamphetamine abuse extracts on a person’s long-term mental health. “I also never knew firsthand the level of methamphetamine abuse that is just plaguing the homeless and the mentally ill community, and how profoundly difficult methamphetamine is as a drug to kick,” he said. 

He has also been struck by the effectiveness of psychotropic medications. “I had no idea of how they can interrupt delusional thinking and give a person a level of stability,” he said. “With the right care and the right psychotropic medications, I’ve seen miracles happen.”

Where the circumstances merit intervention and housing, Kaye tries to look at a person’s full history and make a positive impact on their lives. But it’s complicated, particularly when he encounters people who’ve been in and out of the criminal justice and mental health systems for years or even decades. 

“I deal with chronic homelessness, chronic mental illness, and drug abuse,” he said. “The drug abuse is often a manifestation of the mental illness because they’re engaged in self-medication — and that all manifests in criminal conduct.”

Launched in 2015, L.A.’s Diversion and Reentry services have helped more than 13,000 incarcerated persons with diagnosed mental health disorders transition successfully out of county jail. The program currently handles over 2,500 participants in residential housing treatment, with roughly 1,400 in permanent supportive housing.

California’s Department of State Hospitals began a pilot program in 2018 that helped implement diversion services in 28 additional counties to address the growing numbers of criminal defendants deemed incompetent to stand trial, many of whom also deal with homelessness and/or substance abuse.

Effective June 30, the pilot program will end — to be replaced by permanent diversion services available to all counties that choose to implement them. According to the Department of State Hospitals, 10 permanent county programs have already been contracted, and 14 others are currently in the process of having their contracts finalized. 

On another day in Kaye’s court, a middle-aged man appeared in person for a scheduled progress check and stood at the small podium on the public side of the courtroom. He and Kaye spoke about his progress in outpatient treatment.

“Are you still living in that RV on the street?” Kaye asked him. “Are you working?”

“I’m just barely getting by, your Honor,” he said. “It’s a struggle.”

“We can get you in a housing program right now,” the judge said. “Hot meals, a safe bed, a stable health care environment. But I can’t force that on you. It’s your decision.”

The man declined Kaye’s offer, citing how he lives in his vehicle with his girlfriend and their dog — and they all need to stay together. He walked out of the court with a follow-up appearance scheduled in 60 days.

“My vision, if at all possible, is to make people feel comfortable in court and make them feel like they matter,” he said. “They can actually be looked at in the eye by someone in authority and feel like someone who’s deep in the system of power cares about them.”

New courtroom experiences for former prisoners

The human potential for growth — and to be able to earn a second chance — is a recurring theme of Kaye’s career. Away from the  bench, he also works with the formerly incarcerated community to provide emotional support and inspiration.

In collaboration with the Anti-Recidivism Coalition and the Los Angeles Innocence Project, Kaye meets with newly paroled people, welcoming them into his courtroom and chambers, where he is free of his robe and the usual symbols of authority. 

Franky Carrillo, chief policy director for the Innocence Project in L.A., knows Kaye well. After being exonerated in 2011 for a wrongful murder conviction, Carrillo first partnered with Kaye to bring a civil lawsuit against L.A. County, a case that resulted in a $10 million settlement approved by the Board of Supervisors in 2016.

Through his nonprofit, Restorative Project, Carrillo has brought Kaye on retreats with mixed groups of formerly incarcerated ex-lifers, criminal justice reform advocates and allies to speak and help build a stronger sense of community.

“I think it’s very healing to have Judge Kaye be present, in order to maybe take away the stigma of what a judge might’ve signified in someone’s life — 20, 30 years prior, when they were sentenced,” said Carrillo. “Lo’ and behold, you’re free, and this is your first interaction with a judge on the outside.”

Mery Alaberkyan served as Judge Kaye’s judicial assistant from 2023 to 2024, while starting Loyola Law School. Her time in his court shaped her vision of the kind of lawyer she hopes to become. 

The most important lesson Alaberkyan took away from Kaye’s courtroom demeanor was his humanizing style of communication.

“He would greet every single defendant, making sure they were acknowledged and that they understood what was happening in the courtroom,” she said. “You see people in a jumpsuit and most people’s reaction is to shy away, but he actually made sure that defendants were treated like this is their case and not something that was happening to them — like, whatever you need to say, you may say.”

On April 5, the Criminal Courts Bar Association of Los Angeles honored Judge Kaye with its  annual Morton Herbert Award for outstanding community service. Typically, the award goes to attorneys for volunteer work. Only once before has it gone to a judge since it was created in the 1950s. 

“This category fit him perfectly,” said Christopher Chaney, the association’s executive director, who represented several clients in Kaye’s court during the COVID-era mental health crisis. 

“We all know about his empathetic approach and the work he does going into prisons and helping individuals with their life after prison,” Chaney said. “Our recidivism rates – the numbers are so upside down. We gotta figure out soft landings for these guys when they get out.” 

The night of the award ceremony, Carrillo and other formerly incarcerated  individuals joined the black-tie gala to celebrate their friend and ally. In a tuxedo, standing beside his wife at a VIP table, Judge Kaye hugged many of them and made sure they were included in photos. 

“You know, mental court anywhere — but especially here in Los Angeles — is not easy,” Carrillo said. “Because he came pre-equipped with the compassion that I think all judges should have, it’s just perfect. It’s a win-win for the county and for everyone in the courtroom.”

Joe Garcia is a California local news fellow.