A Helping Hand Keeps Mentally Ill Out Of Jail -- Program Assists `Helpless, Hopeless'

UNINTENTIONALLY, the King County Jail has become the area's largest institution for the mentally ill - a burden for both the jail and troubled offenders. To help both, an unusual pilot program diverts nonviolent, mentally ill criminals into counseling instead of a cell.

A man sits alone in a jail cell. It reeks, but he seems oblivious.

His thin shoulders are slumped, his long arms drooped, his left leg draped over his right leg. There is a large hole in his sock, as there is in his life.

He was picked up for pocketing junk food in a Pay Less Drug store. He admits it now, in the same, slow way he admits he is hungry and disoriented and do you have a cigarette?

First, he must make a decision: go to jail for shoplifting, or go with two men who have just arrived at the police station from the Community Psychiatric Clinic. Their van is outside. What's it going to be?

The man opts for the van. Jail would only traumatize him further. He is mentally ill.

The clinic workers escort him to the van - another "helpless and hopeless" person they have diverted from jail in a pilot project that may be unique in the nation.

Called the Community Diversion Program, it intercepts petty criminals who are mentally ill and directs them to counseling and medical services instead of jail cells.

That may not sound earth-shaking, but in Seattle's criminal-justice system, it is a triumph. Quite unintentionally, the jail has become King County's largest institution for the mentally ill.

On any given day, about 160 of the 2,000 inmates are severely mentally ill. Reducing that population is an urgent priority at the crowded facility, where each inmate costs $75 to book and $43 a day to shelter, clothe and feed.

In the first six months of this year, the project diverted 146 mentally ill people. In jail time, that is a big savings. Mentally ill inmates average 34 days in custody - three times that of inmates more able to post bail and leave.

"It's tremendously important," Ray Coleman, assistant jail director says of the program. "These people shouldn't be here. We don't want to punish the mentally ill by keeping them in jail."

The Community Diversion Program costs $500,000 annually, financed primarily by King County with assistance from Seattle, and is now in its second year. One of its key features is a mobile unit that roams Seattle. When police call, the van responds, hoping to divert another mentally ill person from jail, as long as the suspect is nonviolent and the crime is minor.

The shoplifter, for example, was shaken by his arrest and trip to North Precinct. Jail would have amplified his fear.

When he was taken to the Community Psychiatric Clinic on Stone Way North in Wallingford, assistance began.

"How does a burrito sound?" asked counselor Ken Meyer.

"How about two burritos and a bowl of soup?" the man replied - a reasoned response from a hungry man.

Meyer and another counselor, Lars Henson, sat with the man, calming him, lighting his cigarette, asking questions about his past. They learned he was 40, had lived in a hotel and occasionally washed dishes for a living.

He had been taking some sort of medication - three pink pills in the morning, two at night - and he was sorry to have caused them any trouble.

Henson brought him soup. The man accepted it silently, putting his cigarette aside. He held the styrofoam cup to his mouth. The steam drifted past the stubble on his chin and onto the lens of broken glasses. He barely paused between gulps. And then he cursed someone named Art.

"You got no compassion for me," he mumbled.

Art is someone known only to this man, a voice in his head, a confrontational colleague in the dark leagues of an ill mind.

That night, the man was given new shoes and pants, bus fare to a friend's house and instructions to return the next day for evaluation and counseling.

"OK, thanks a lot," he said, walking away. "See ya."

Henson and Meyer watched him leave. He was like so many others.

Mentally ill people tax not only the jails, but the courts. Just ask Municipal Court Judge Judith Hightower. She sees 40 to 100 cases a day, of which two to 10 are mentally ill. That may not seem like a lot, but the stress adds up. There was, for example, the woman who claimed she was about to give birth to the Lamb of God. Or the man who bit a custody officer's ear.

She has been a judge three years and has seen it all - including the effect of the diversion program.

"It's a godsend, frankly," she says. "You know there is someone who's an advocate for the individuals who need mental-health treatment."

That someone is counselor Greg Sigrist. Every morning, he visits the jail and reviews referrals made by the psychiatric staff.

If the mobile van unit doesn't divert a mentally ill person before he or she goes to jail, Sigrist tries to catch them within 24 hours of arrest, as they move from the jail to arraignment in court.

On a recent morning, Sigrist walked to the south wing to interview a referral. A middle-aged man emerged from the cellblock, wearing sandals and a blue jumpsuit. He was an alcoholic who suffered depression. This is the story he told:

"I was arrested for assaulting my wife of 20 years. It was the first time it ever happened. I had sat up drinking until 6 in the morning and I almost flipped. I grabbed my wife by the hair. I must have threatened her so that she thought I would kill her. The police came and here I am. She won't bail me out, which deeply horrifies me because I love the woman so."

The man talks softly, his speech now clear of the drunkenness that brought him here. Sigrist nods, listening for clues about depression or suicidal thoughts. Long-term drinking can trigger both.

Sigrist tells the man he will call his wife for additional information. The man's eyes widen. "If you do talk to her, tell her I profoundly love her and profoundly regret what I did."

Sigrist looks down. He can't pass such messages along; that would violate the wife's no-contact order following the incident. But he says he will look into alcohol treatment for the man rather than send him onto the streets.

For that, the man seems grateful and extends his hand. He now has an advocate in the faceless maze of jail corridors, courtrooms and alleys.

"There is a machinelike quality to the system," says Sigrist. "When someone like me comes in to advocate, everyone comes up for air. It creates a different flavor in court - they'll take a second look at the individual."