The Brief

This year, as South Gate librarian Stephanie Lien reviewed new picture books for the LA County Library’s shelves, she found a story that reflected her own childhood.

Little Bird Laila is the story of a young girl with a big job — translating between the English in her everyday life and the Chinese her parents speak.

“ I know every kid who may be like a first-generation immigrant who has parents who don't speak English that well — they've done the same thing,” Lien said. “I know I did it as a kid.”

In California, an estimated 1.8 million children are part of a family where at least one parent has difficulty speaking English. The experience of kids translating for their family members is called "language brokering.” It can feel burdensome but also build empathy.

“ You get annoyed,” Lien said. “But … [I realized] they need help, just like I do.”

And it turns out, this wasn’t the only SoCal-created picture book on the subject this year. Manhattan Beach author Maritere Rodriguez Bellas and local publisher Lil’ Libros created the bilingual Tío Ricky Doesn't Speak English. (Thanks to MiJa Books co-founder Stephanie Moran Reed for the heads up!)

"Little Bird Laila" and "Tío Ricky Doesn't Speak English"

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Erin Hauer and Ross Brenneman

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LAist

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LAist sat down with both authors to understand how they brought these stories to life and what they hope families find between the pages.

These excerpts are from separate interviews with Maritere Rodriguez Bellas and Kelly Yang.

Author Kelly Yang.

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Jessica Sample

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Author Maritere Rodriguez Bellas.

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LAist: What compelled you to become an author?

Bellas:  Over three decades ago, when I was raising my kids, there was really very little information or education about bilingual parenting.

I grew up with Spanish and English, and then I went to school and I learned a third language, French. While doing that, I met people from all kinds of cultures, and I realized what a gift it was to be able to communicate in all these languages and learn about all these cultures.

Yang: I have been writing for many, many years — pretty much since I was a little kid — but wasn't really sure if I could do it as a profession. I would go to the library, and I would look at the back of books, and I didn't really see anyone who looked like me, so I didn't really know if this was a possibility for someone like me. I loved telling stories. I come from an immigrant background, and my parents and I moved here [from Tianjin, China] when I was 6 years old. Stories were really big in our family, as a way to keep ourselves motivated and paint a brighter future for our lives.

Where did the idea of your book come from? 

Yang: [Little Bird Laila]  mirrors my own childhood experience. To this day, I am the one dealing with pretty much all of the property tax filings — anything that has to do with English, even though my parents actually do speak English. But this is just kind of an inherited job that I'm unfortunately tenured for now.

 As a kid, it was very aggravating. I didn't want to have to do all these other things. When we grow up with parents who really need our help, we don't really have a choice.

I learned that there were things that were pretty powerful about it too. Everyone kind of depended on me. I also got to translate things in my own favor. So for example, when I would go to teacher-parent conferences — and obviously I had a lot of grammar mistakes and spelling mistakes when I was a kid — I would just tell my mom, ‘Kelly is doing an amazing job.’

I learned that there were, you know, two sides of the coin. Yes, there's a lot of work. It can be a big pain, but there were also benefits too.

Bellas:  In 2017, I was asked to write my first children's book.   I did not intend my career to end up as a children's book author, but I wrote that book, and while I was writing it, I kept thinking, ‘This is the book that my kids didn't have when they were growing up.’

I truly believe having raised multicultural kids, the more we expose children to different cultures and different languages, the better adults they're going to be in their future — compassionate, empathetic, respectful. And those are the virtues that I wanna ... show and I want parents to go after when they're raising their little pequeñitos.

Fast forward to 2022, when Bellas reached out to local bilingual book publisher Patty Rodriguez (Lil’ Libros) with a few ideas for children’s books. 

Bellas:  One of the ideas was a boy that had to translate for his grandmother, and she called me on the phone right away, and she’s like, ‘This spoke to me because that was me.’

The little boy in Tío Ricky Doesn't Speak English is Puerto Rican, and throughout the story, there are little hints at his identity. For example, he plays dominoes with his uncle and there’s a bag of plantain chips on the table. Why were those details important to include? 

Bellas:  I wanted my Puerto Rican culture to be highlighted. It's important to me. My kids didn't have that. They spent every summer for, I don't know, 12 years in a row in Ponce, Puerto Rico. So they grew up with the flavors and the smells and the noise and all that from our culture. But they didn't have it once we were back home. I couldn't read them a book where they could actually see themselves.

I also want to share with children from all cultures. I want them to learn about my little island wherever they are.

At one point in Little Bird Laila, the girl realizes she can teach her parents English, even though she hasn’t quite perfected the language herself. Why did you include this uncertainty? 

Yang: I just wanna be real to the authentic experience of someone who is still learning. And there is a lot of self-doubt, right? You're a learner, but you're still able to teach other people even though you are a learner. And I wanted to honor that — that people felt that they could, that they had permission, that they could do it. Because I definitely wasn't perfect at speaking or writing or reading or any of it, but ... there were things I could still give.

What do you hope families take away from your book? 

Yang: The central theme for all my books is to hope that people feel seen and that they find the humor and the heart in the story because there's a lot of funny moments and there's a lot of deeply emotional moments too. We really need to cherish those moments. Whatever we can do to spend time together as a family, right?

It's OK to open up and share that we don't have all the answers or we don't know all of the skills. There are tons of things I tell my kids like, I don't know. I don't know how to navigate that app. Right? Or whatever it is. There's lots of things I don't know, and it's OK to share that, and it's OK to be vulnerable together, and it's OK to learn together.

Bellas: The idea was always that the child, when he or she reads the book, would think, ‘Oh, it's really not a chore to translate. It's really an act of kindness and love and I'm proud to be bilingual.’

In describing the massive undertaking it was to compose the score for the latest Avatar installment, Avatar: Fire and Ash, film composer Simon Franglen has some statistics he likes to share.

One is that almost every minute of the three-hour, 17-minute film was scored — three hours and four minutes to be exact. Printed out, that amount of music totaled more than 1,900 pages and had to be transported in two large road cases.

Another favorite stat of Franglen’s is that the epic score, which needed to match the epic scale of the film, required the work of 210 musicians, singers and engineers in Los Angeles.

Bucking the trend of recording overseas

Franglen is from the U.K., but L.A. has been his home for years. Meaning no disrespect to Britain, Franglen still says, “I would rather be here than anywhere else.”

That pride in his adopted home base has extended to his scoring work for Avatar, which Franglen says he and the film’s producers (director James Cameron and Jon Landau, who passed away in 2024) wanted recorded in Los Angeles, despite the fact that a lot of film scoring is increasingly moving abroad.

Franglen scored the second Avatar film, Avatar: The Way of Water, as well, and worked with Cameron previously, along with his mentor, composer James Horner, on the first Avatar and Titanic.

He also has worked as a session musician and producer with artists like Whitney Houston, Barbara Streisand, Miley Cyrus and Celine Dion — he won a Grammy for Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” from Titanic.

But even with his membership in the small club of Grammy winners, Franglen is more likely to bring up that he’s been a member of the American Federation of Musicians Local 47, the local professional musicians union, for more than three decades.

Recording the Avatar: Fire and Ash theme in Los Angeles was important to everyone on the production, Franglen says, as was bucking recent trends of scaling back film scores or using more electronic scoring than live orchestras.

“The Hollywood film score is something that we've all grown up with,” Franglen says. And it was important to him and the producers to keep the recording of the score in L.A. (the first and second Avatar scores were recorded here, as well) “because we are very much a part of not just the music community but the film community of L.A., which has been having a tough time recently, as we all know.”

“ I'm very proud of being able to keep the work here,” Franglen says. “And I think the quality of the work is shown in the score itself, which I'm exceedingly proud of.”

Avatar: Fire and Ash’s end-credits song, “Dream As One,” sung by Miley Cyrus and which Franglen co-wrote with Cyrus, Mark Ronson and Andrew Wyatt, recently was nominated for a Golden Globe. And the score for Avatar: The Way of Water earned Franglen a 2023 World Soundtrack Award.

How work for musicians in LA has declined and the ripple effects

When Franglen first came to L.A. as a session musician, he says there were seven full-time orchestras working every day. When he was working on pop records, Franglen says, the top guitarists would need to be booked three months in advance because they were so busy.

Today, Franglen says, there’s less and less work because of productions moving overseas.

The latest annual report from Film LA, the official film office for the LA region, found the number of scripted projects filmed in L.A. declined 14 percent from 2023 to 2024.

And while California expanded its Film & TV Tax Credit Program this year to help encourage productions to stay here, its effects aren’t yet known.

“The problem is [...] if you're going to film in Europe, then maybe you don't record the score in L.A.,” Franglen says. “ And eventually what happens is that if I want to hire the finest guitarist in the world, I know that he'll be available. I can probably ask him, ‘Would you be available this week or next?’ And he will say yes.”

While that can be wonderful in many ways, Franglen says, it also means less opportunities overall, including for musicians with less experience who might get a chance at a bigger gig if all the top musicians were as busy as they used to be.

“I'm seeing a lot of the faces that I know from when I was a session musician in my orchestra," Franglen says. "That's great. I'm very, very pleased to see them. But it also means that the turnover has not been as extensive as what one would've expected, and that turnover is important.”

More new players coming in, Franglen says, helps ensure that recording work for movies like Avatar — and smaller scale films too — can stay in Los Angeles for years to come.

FBI deputy director Dan Bongino said Wednesday he plans to step down from the bureau in January.

In a statement posted on X, Bongino thanked President Trump, Attorney General Pam Bondi and FBI Director Kash Patel "for the opportunity to serve with purpose."

Bongino was an unusual pick for the No. 2 post at the FBI, a critical job overseeing the bureau's day-to-day affairs traditionally held by a career agent. Neither Bongino nor his boss, Patel, had any previous experience at the FBI.

Bongino did have previous law enforcement experience, as a police officer and later as a Secret Service agent, as well as a long history of vocal support for Trump.

Bongino made his name over the past decade as a pro-Trump, far-right podcaster who pushed conspiracy theories, including some involving the FBI. He had been critical of the bureau, embracing the narrative that it had been "weaponized" against conservatives and even calling its agents "thugs."

His tenure at the bureau was at times tumultuous, including a clash with Justice Department leadership over the administration's handling of the Jeffrey Epstein files.

But it also involved the arrest earlier this month of the man authorities say is responsible for placing two pipe bombs near the Democratic and Republican committee headquarters, hours before the assault on the U.S. Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021.

In an unusual arrangement, Bongino has had a co-deputy director since this summer when the Trump administration tapped Andrew Bailey, a former attorney general of Missouri, to serve alongside Bongino in the No. 2 job.

President Trump praised Bongino in brief remarks to reporters before he announced he was stepping down."Dan did a great job," Trump said. "I think he wants to go back to his show."
Copyright 2025 NPR

President Trump opened a primetime address to the nation on Wednesday with a message intended to reassure Americans. 

"Eleven months ago, I inherited a mess, and I am fixing it," he said at the start of his speech.

However, in his roughly 20-minute address from the Diplomatic Reception Room, Trump broke little new ground, restating messages his White House has been pushing for months: that current economic problems can still be blamed on former President Joe Biden, and that Trump's second term in office has thus far been a massive success.

Indeed, Trump took a familiar, hyperbolic tone in describing his term.

"Over the past 11 months, we have brought more positive change to Washington than any administration in American history," he said.

The address had the feel of a Trump rally speech, without the rally. Unlike the often sedate primetime addresses of past presidents, Trump spoke loudly throughout his speech, at times seeming to shout.

The president did announce one new policy, saying that nearly 1.5 million military service members will be receiving a "special warrior dividend" of $1,776, a reference to the nation's founding in 1776. Trump said the money will arrive "before Christmas" and that "the checks are already on the way."

Trump spoke as his approval rating on the economy has hit a new low of 36%, according to the latest NPR/PBS News/Marist Poll. The poll found that the cost of living in particular is weighing on Americans. Fully 45% said prices are their top economic concern right now, far ahead of the next-highest category — housing prices — at 18%.

In addition, the poll found that two-thirds of Americans are "very" or "somewhat concerned" about the impact of tariffs on their personal finances.

Nevertheless, in his address, Trump continued to tout tariffs as a major cause of the economic accomplishments he sought to highlight. That's despite the fact that the various tariffs President Trump has unilaterally imposed are driving prices higher, as Federal Reserve Chair Jerome Powell reported last week. He told reporters that inflation growth is happening entirely in goods (as opposed to services), and that the growth is "entirely in sectors where there are tariffs."

Though the president highlighted few new policies, he did tease that in the new year he would announce "some of the most aggressive housing reform plans in American history."

Trump also told Americans that better economic times are ahead, stressing that Americans will receive tax refunds from his "big, beautiful bill" next year.

Though he's recently mocked Democrats' focus on affordability, their focus on pocketbook issues is seen as why they swept key off-year elections in November. And the president has tried to address the issue, recently hitting the road to make his economic case. He pitched supporters in Pennsylvania last week by promising bigger tax returns in April thanks to his policies, as well as promoting "Trump accounts" for children born between 2025-2028.

Trump will have another opportunity to talk directly to voters on Friday, when he will deliver a speech in Rocky Mount, North Carolina.
Copyright 2025 NPR

Boom.

Ronda Deplazes had just gotten out of the shower and placed curlers in her long blond hair when she heard something slam against her front door.

Boom.

Outside, her son — a man who could fix anything, who loved his family, who never remembered these incidents but always apologized later — was yelling and swearing as he pulled large gray river rocks from the planter beds and hurled them at the front of his parents’ suburban Concord home.

Boom.

Deplazes heard a woman scream.

Later she learned her 38-year-old son had ripped a branch from a crepe myrtle in the front yard, leapt over a retaining wall and fallen onto the sidewalk. CalMatters is not naming Deplazes’ son, who lives with psychosis and addiction and could not be interviewed for this story.

Police arrived within minutes that August evening. They found Deplazes, hair still in rollers, in bed cuddling her shaking 17-year-old Labrador, Farley.

This was not the first time officers had visited the family’s home.

“What happened with CARE Court?” one officer asked.

Deplazes offered her assessment of a program she’d once seen as an answer to her prayers.

“They did nothing,” she said.

More than three years have passed since Gov. Gavin Newsom introduced the concept of CARE Court. Standing at a lectern in front of a San Jose treatment center in March 2022, he described a new court system that would steer hard-to-treat individuals down a pathway of housing and services. He called it “a completely new paradigm, a new approach, a different pathway.”

“I’ve got four kids,” he said that day. “I can’t imagine how hard this is …It breaks your heart. I mean, your life just torn asunder because you’re desperately trying to reach someone you love and you watch them suffer and you watch a system that consistently lets you down and lets them down.”

Family members of people with serious mental illnesses told CalMatters they breathed a sigh of relief that day. So many struggled for years to find help for loved ones who seemed to slip ever deeper into psychosis.

While disability rights advocates decried the program as a threat to the civil liberties of people with mental illness, and counties protested that they didn’t have the necessary resources or time, family members described feeling a twinge of something that had long eluded them: Hope.

Finally, they thought, someone heard them.

Finally, their loved ones would get help.

With the vocal support of many of these families, Newsom shepherded CARE Court through the Legislature. That October, he signed it into law. A year later, the program rolled out in an initial cohort, reaching the entire state by December 2024.

Now, many of the same family members who embraced CARE Court say it has fallen short of their expectations. In dozens of conversations with CalMatters, they described loved ones who continue to cycle between jail and homelessness. Some said their loved ones were dropped because they failed to participate in voluntary treatment plans. Others said counties had lost track of them entirely.

Some of the disappointment is a matter of scale. Newsom had initially projected that as many as 12,000 people could be eligible for the new program.

Two years of data from the state’s judicial council shows that, as of October, courts had received 3,092 petitions for CARE Court. Almost half were dismissed. Thus far, these petitions have translated into just 706 CARE plans and agreements.

Ronda Deplazes at her home in Concord, on Oct. 27, 2025.

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A photo of her son, now 38, riding a motorcycle in their backyard as a child, long before his mental health diagnosis. “His love of life,” she said, referring to dirt bikes and how her son has been a risk taker since childhood.

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County and state officials say it’s too soon to pass judgment on the program. They point to the uncounted individuals who received help without ever enrolling in the program, and to those who have made incremental progress, perhaps working with a substance use counselor for the first time. They also say buy-in from vulnerable people takes a long time to achieve, but that the voluntary nature of the program is essential for lasting recovery.

Some officials acknowledge a significant disconnect between what many families expected, and what the law actually prescribes.

In Contra Costa County, where Deplazes lives, Judge Melissa O’Connell said she meets with participants who tell her they now have stable housing or are preparing for their first job interview. Such accounts buoy her.

“That’s how I view CARE,” she said. “It is helping people that would not be helped if CARE did not exist. It’s not helping everyone. I get that.”

But many families who have spent years or decades begging for help have lost patience.

In Ronda Deplazes’ case, she’s going to war.

“That’s my mission,” she said. “We have to stop CARE Court.”

Years of desperation

Anosognosia.

It’s a word people struggle to pronounce, even as they describe how profoundly it has upended their loved ones’ lives. It means an inability or refusal to recognize a defect or disorder that is clinically evident.

Ronda Deplazes knows it as a Catch-22.

Her son is sick but doesn’t believe he’s sick. Who would voluntarily accept treatment for an illness they don’t think they have?

The conundrum dates to 1967, when California passed the Lanterman-Petris-Short law. Prior to the law, it had been far too easy for family members to force loved ones into mental health treatment. Civil rights violations were rampant. Conditions in state hospitals were dismal.

The landmark law established strict criteria for involuntary treatment. It imposed specific timeframes for confinement and limited who could be subjected to holds: only people deemed a danger to themselves or others, or gravely disabled.

These civil rights protections are still widely considered imperative. But desperate family members say the law has at times made it difficult for them to get their loved ones life-saving treatment.

Many families pinned their newfound hope on Newsom’s initial comments, in which he said individuals who weren’t willing or able to follow through on their CARE plans might be moved “into a different category of care and support, more traditional along the lines of what we have today, through the (Lanterman-Petris-Short) conservatorship system.”

Several family members CalMatters interviewed interpreted that to mean CARE Court could compel their seriously mentally ill loved ones to get help.

“We get so pumped up with hope,” Deplazes said.

“I think the frustration and disappointment is more than a person can bear. That's the truth of it. That is the bottom line,” she said.

In an interview with CalMatters, California Health and Human Services Undersecretary Corrin Buchanan said CARE Court was never intended to be another form of conservatorship. She emphasized what she considers unique facets of the program – families can directly petition the courts for help, county behavioral health departments face increased accountability and they are getting state support to develop the “three-legged stool” of treatment, medication and housing.

She said she’s heard from many families whose loved ones have benefited from the program, which can provide tools to meet the needs of “the right person, who’s the right fit for the model.”

Growing up, Deplazes’ son loved baseball, tinkering and spending time outside.

In retrospect, the first signs that something was wrong were the risky behaviors — leaping from the second story window onto the trampoline, doing donuts with his truck. By the time he was 19, he had received three DUIs. At one point, neighbors filed for a restraining order against him.

A pillow rests on an armchair at Ronda Deplazes’ home in Concord, on Oct. 27, 2025.

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Deplazes, a preschool teacher who regularly volunteers through her church, and her husband, Roger, who runs a family solar electricity business, met in middle school and have been together since their teens. They tried everything they could think of to help their son. They paid to send him to a high-end rehabilitation center. Staff told them their son was hearing voices. Eventually, he was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, a condition marked by symptoms of psychosis as well as mood disorders.

Deplazes was familiar with the implications of that diagnosis: Her mother, sister and brother had all suffered with similar illnesses. She and her husband found their son a psychiatrist. He thrived for a while, with professional help, a girlfriend and a part-time job.

Then, during the pandemic, Deplazes said her son went off his medication because he didn’t like the way it made him feel.

Things spiraled.

He lived with his parents until violence fueled by fentanyl use made the arrangement untenable.

In 2022, court records show, Deplazes filed for a temporary restraining order.

Her son started sleeping in strip malls near their home.

Inspired by Newsom

After hearing Newsom describe his plans for CARE Court, Deplazes felt inspired to participate in transforming the mental health system. She signed up for a class to help other families navigate mental illness.

In that class, she learned about Contra Costa County’s assisted outpatient treatment program — a court-ordered mental health treatment program that predated CARE Court. Upon her referral, he was accepted, she said; she hoped county mental health workers could convince him to participate in treatment.

One summer day in 2024, Deplazes pulled her car into the parking lot of an abandoned Dollar Tree where her son sometimes slept. She initially didn’t recognize the unconscious body surrounded by trash, grease caked into the neck, face and arms.

When she finally managed to shake her son awake, he was weak and trembling. She moved him to the shade and ran to get water, Gatorade and food.

She called the county behavioral health team.

“You have to help me,” she said.

County workers brought him food and water, she said, but her son wasn’t willing to accept additional help.

“‘Don’t worry,’” she remembers them saying. “‘In December you can apply for CARE Court.’”

Deplazes spent three days filling out paperwork ahead of CARE Court’s rollout in Contra Costa County. It was so complicated, she said, and required so much information that she eventually had to seek help: first from a volunteer from the local chapter of the National Alliance on Mental Illness, then from staff at the local law library. But she got the petition submitted, and in late January, her son was approved.

High expectations, then disappointment

The first CARE Court hearing for Deplazes’ son was on the morning of Feb. 7 of this year. She and her husband arrived at the Martinez courthouse at the appointed time. Their son did not.

In the coming months, Deplazes continued to find him crumpled up in strip malls a few blocks from her home. She had to stop frequenting those shopping centers. It was too hard to see him like that.

Sometimes, in the cold and rain, he would appear on her doorstep barefoot and freezing. He might lie there for days, barely moving. She’d contact the CARE Court team to alert them to his location. On some occasions, she said, they came out and did their best to help him. But most times, he was gone before they arrived.

She cut back on work, spending hours each day on the phone.

He kept getting arrested. Police would drive him to the county jail in Richmond. Often, Deplazes said, they discharged him in the middle of the night and he would walk until he could borrow a phone to call home. Her husband, worried for their son’s safety, would drive 25 miles to pick him up. CARE Court workers often weren’t even aware he was behind bars, Deplazes said.

Deplazes and her husband stopped going anywhere, fearing a crisis would emerge in their absence.

“You can’t have a life when you have a kid like this,” Deplazes said.

By March, she was already convinced that CARE Court wasn’t going to save her son.

She started reaching out to everyone she could. The county behavioral health department. The public defender. The district attorney.

“Dear Secretary Welch,” she wrote in a March email to the deputy secretary of behavioral health at the California Health and Human Services Agency, “This is a desperate plea to save our son’s life as now we are being told that CARE Court is also 100% voluntary…my son is deteriorating rapidly and being arrested on a regular basis for extreme and escalating behaviors….Secretary Welch please let me know if this CARE Court petition is futile and I should go another route. We love our son. He is smart, sweet and worth saving. We will never give up on his recovery. Please send guidance before it is too late for our family.”

She followed up with a second email, but never heard back.

“I’m giving up,” she told a reporter one morning soon after. “Honestly, I’m giving up.”

Instead, she began begging the county to let her son out of CARE Court, reasoning that he would get more treatment through the criminal courts if he was not constrained by his participation in the program.

Welch, in an interview with CalMatters, offered a message to parents like Deplazes:

“We’re listening,” she said. “We’re trying to better understand how we can be helpful. There’s lots of tools in the toolbox and CARE wasn’t necessarily a panacea.”

'It was my baby'

Not long into her CARE Court experience, Deplazes was introduced to a former police officer named Sam Figueroa. The two instantly bonded over their shared desperation.

During his 25-year career, Figueroa said he had specially trained to help people in mental distress. By his own estimation, he had placed thousands of people on involuntary holds.

In 2023, he said someone called to tell him they heard screaming from his son’s Los Angeles area apartment. Figueroa immediately flew south, arriving to find his son emaciated and lying in the bathtub in a urine-soaked sleeping bag. Feces and rotting food coated the apartment.

“I thought I was in a nightmare,” he said. “And it was my baby.”

His son had recently graduated magna cum laude from UC Santa Cruz. Now, doctors told Figueroa that the sooner he intervened, the more likely he was to save his son’s life.

Despite his years of experience, Figueroa couldn’t convince anyone to place his son on an involuntary hold. Not after the young man tried to break into someone’s home. Not after he jumped from a moving vehicle.

Like Deplazes, Figueroa had started out optimistic about CARE Court. Like her, he soon grew angry. The clock was ticking.

“Doctor says ‘He doesn’t know he’s sick, he needs treatment now.’ CARE Court says ‘He doesn't know he's sick, he has to volunteer,’” he said. “I don’t understand that language. And I barely got high school, but that sounds very stupid.”

Gigi Crowder, CEO of Contra Costa’s chapter of the National Alliance on Mental Illness — an organization that represents family members — said she had initially felt hopeful about the new program. She remembers telling parents that CARE Court represented a new opportunity.

“We have failed this community of individuals,” she said recently. “We just have. We continue to do it when we offer false hope.”

Ronda Deplazes at her home in Concord on Oct. 27, 2025.

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By last summer, Deplazes had had enough.

One June morning, she came before Judge O’Connell, who oversees the county’s assisted outpatient program, conservatorship proceedings and CARE Court.

Deplazes’ health had deteriorated from the constant stress. Her son seemed to be getting worse.

Irate, she begged the judge to remove her son from CARE Court before he ended up dead.

“I said ‘let him out. I need to find him help and he’s not getting it here,’” she said.

In retrospect, Deplazes wishes she had been more tactful.

But, at that moment, she just didn’t care.

The hardest days

O’Connell is not oblivious to the pain of families like the Deplazes.

She and others in her courtroom are acutely aware that many have submitted petitions only after decades of heartache.

The hardest days are the ones when she has to tell family members that CARE Court is not going to help their loved ones.

“As a parent, when you feel like our systems have failed your loved one time and again, that can be devastating,” she said. “That’s never lost on us in CARE. But I know that doesn’t help make someone feel better about it.”

Prior to being sworn in on Jan. 8, 2024, O’Connell spent years working for the Northern California Innocence Project. A psychology major in college, she was excited to take on her new role.

About six or seven months into the county’s CARE Court rollout, she became concerned about the apparent disconnect between what the law described and what community members expected. She edited the county’s CARE Court webpage to better emphasize the program’s voluntary nature.

“I would never want to give someone false hope,” she said. “The only way you can try to avoid that is by being good at communicating and managing expectations.”

As of October, Contra Costa County had received 69 petitions for CARE Court, 28 of which had been filed by family members. Twenty-four of these petitions had since been dismissed, 11 led to CARE agreements with four more agreements pending. Seven individuals had exited the program to enter the Lanterman-Petris-Short conservatorship system, the county said.

Marie Scannell, Contra Costa County’s mental health program chief, and Elyse Perata, the mental health program manager, describe the challenges they’ve faced in rolling out CARE Court. Their staff members spend countless hours searching for hard-to-locate individuals, they said. They then make multiple visits over several months to gradually gain these individuals’ trust.

Then there are the families.

Perata, a therapist, said she empathizes with families frustrated that their loved ones can’t be compelled to participate. But she also emphasized the importance of a client’s buy-in in order to achieve “longstanding success.”

She and Scannell described the dedication of their staff, and the warmth of O’Connell’s courtroom – where participants are greeted with snacks and support.

For some people in the community, they said, the program has worked well.

One 31-year-old man, who asked that his name not be used for privacy reasons, told CalMatters he had participated in the county’s CARE Court program for several months. Prior to that, his father had referred him to a mental health treatment facility after he went off his medication, fell into psychosis and poured water into his gas tank, ruining his car.

He appreciates the help he’s received connecting with job training, as well as the program’s more intangible aspects – moral support, reassurance, a positive outlook.

“I didn’t expect it to be this life-changing,” he said.

After CARE Court

In July, Deplazes’ son was released from CARE Court. Deplazes said the judge told her it was because the CARE Court team couldn’t locate him.

In August, on the evening he was found throwing river rocks at the front door, police arrested him for repeatedly violating his parents’ restraining order, Deplazes said.

In September, she said, a criminal court judge ordered her son placed in 180 days of inpatient treatment, along with domestic violence classes and antipsychotic medications.

“My son, we finally got him criminalized,” Deplazes informed her friend, Figueroa, as the two sat together on the leather couches in her living room.

“God bless,” he said.

Figueroa remained worried about his son. He had brought him back north and put him up in a nearby hotel for nine months, he said, until the young man was kicked out for frightening the staff.

Homeless, his son had wandered into a neighboring county. His county responded by closing his son’s CARE Court case, he said.

Now, Figueroa was trying to track his son’s Instagram posts to make sure he was still alive.

In the meantime, the days of the involuntary hold the judge had ordered for Deplazes’ son were slipping away. She was still desperately trying to find a long-term placement her son would be willing to accept. She knew he longed for his freedom.

“And there's no talking to him,” she said. “Because remember again, in his mind, he's not sick.”

The two talked briefly about a new law that will take effect this January. It promises to expand the grave disability standard as laid out by the Lanterman-Petris-Short law. Many families hope it will open a new pathway to conservatorship.

“But again, it's a law,” Deplazes said.

Implementation, she said, was another question entirely.

This project story was produced jointly by CalMatters & CatchLight as part of our mental health initiative.

This article was originally published on CalMatters and was republished under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license.