The Brief

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.

Los Angeles County Superior Court’s Hollywood Courthouse on March 12, 2025.

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Jules Hotz

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CalMatters

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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.”

Los Angeles County Superior Court Judge Ronald Owen Kaye at the Hollywood Courthouse.

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Jules Hotz

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CalMatters

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A 2004 article from the Los Angeles Times on display in Kaye’s office, on March 12, 2025.

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Jules Hotz

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CalMatters

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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.

Tents in Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles on June 20, 2021.

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Teun Voeten

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Sipa USA via Reuters

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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.”

Los Angeles County Superior Court Judge Ronald Owen Kaye in his office at the Hollywood Courthouse in Los Angeles on March 12, 2025.

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Jules Hotz

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CalMatters

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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.

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

This story first appeared on The LA Local.

Since 1977, Richard Santillan has been to every Opening Day game at Dodger Stadium. 

“The tradition goes from my father, to me, to my children and grandchildren. Some of my best memories are with my father and children here at Dodger Stadium,” Santillan told The LA Local, smiling under the shade of palm trees near the entrance to the ballpark Wednesday morning. He was there to protest the team less than 24 hours before Opening Day.

Santillan, like countless other loyal Dodgers fans, is grappling with his fan identity over the team’s decision to accept an invitation to the White House and owner Mark Walter’s ties to ICE detention facilities.

More than 30 people joined Santillan on Wednesday morning for a press conference held near 1000 Vin Scully Drive to convey a message directly to the team. 

“We are demanding the Dodgers stop participating in funding of inhumane treatment of families and do not go to the White House to celebrate with the criminal in chief,” Evelyn Escatiola told the crowd. “Together, we have the power to make a change.”

Escatiola, a former dean of East Los Angeles College and longtime community organizer, urged fans to flex their economic power by “letting the Dodgers know that we do not support repression.”

Jorge “Coqui” Rodriguez, a lifelong Dodgers fan, spoke to the crowd and called on Dodgers ownership to divest from immigration detention centers owned and operated by GEO Group and CoreCivic.

Jorge Coqui H Rodriguez speaks at a press conference outside Dodger Stadium on March 25, 2026, to demand the Dodgers not to visit the White House following their 2025 World Series win.

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J.W. Hendricks

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The LA Local

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In a phone interview a day before the protest, Rodriguez told The LA Local he did not want the Dodgers using his “cheve” or beer money to fund detention centers. 

“They can’t take our parking money, our cacahuate money, our cheve money, our Dodger Dog money and invest those funds into corporations that are imprisoning people. It’s wrong,” Rodriguez said. 

Rodriguez considers the Dodgers one of the most racially diverse teams and said the players need to support fans at a time when heightened immigration enforcement has become more common across L.A.

The team’s 2025’s visit to the White House drew ire from the largely Latino fan base, citing the Trump administration’s ongoing attacks on immigrants. 

In June, the team came under further scrutiny when rumors swirled online that federal immigration agents were using the stadium’s parking, which immigration authorities later denied in statements posted on social media accounts.

The team again came under fire after not releasing a statement on the impacts of ICE raids on its mostly Latino fan base at the height of immigration enforcement last summer. The team later agreed to invest $1 million to support families affected by immigration enforcement.

When he learned the Dodgers were pledging only $1 million to families in need, Rodriguez called the amount a  “slap in the face.” 

“These guys just bought the Lakers for billions of dollars and they give a million dollars to fight for legal services? That’s a joke,” Rodriguez said. “They need to have a moral backbone and not be investing in those companies.”

According to reporting from the Los Angeles Times, former Dodgers pitcher Clayton Kershawsaid last week that he is looking forward to the trip.

“I went when President [Joe] Biden was in office. I’m going to go when President [Donald] Trump is in office,” Kershaw said. “To me, it’s just about getting to go to the White House. You don’t get that opportunity every day, so I’m excited to go.”

The Dodgers have yet to announce when their planned visit will take place. 

Santillan sometimes laments his decision to give up his season tickets in protest of the team. His connection to the stadium and the memories he has made there with family and friends will last a lifetime, he said. On Thursday, he will uphold his tradition and be there for the first pitch of the season, but with a heavy heart.

“It’s a family tradition, but the Dodgers have a lot of work to do,” he said.

A local favorite mom-and-pop bookshop in Eagle Rock is facing displacement due to a steep rent hike. The owners say theirs is just one of several small businesses along Eagle Rock Boulevard struggling to keep up with lease increases.

Over the past 19 years, many in the neighborhood have come to love READ Books for its eclectic collection of used titles and shop dog Florence.

Co-owner Jeremy Kaplan said it’s been a delight to grow with the community over the years.

“Like seeing kids come back in, who were in grade school and now they’re in college,” Kaplan said.

But the building where Kaplan and wife Debbie rent was recently sold, and the rent increased by more than 130% to $2,805 a month, Kaplan said. He told LAist it was an increase his small business simply could not absorb.

Kaplan said he originally was given 30 days notice of the rent increase. After some research, assistance from Councilmember Ysabel Jurado’s office and some pro-bono legal help, Kaplan said he pushed back and got the 90-day notice he’s afforded by state law.

California Senate Bill 1103 requires landlords to give businesses with five or less employees 90 days’ notice for rent increases exceeding 10%, among other protections.

Systems Real Estate, the property management company, did not immediately respond to LAist’s request for comment.

What can small businesses do? 

Nadia Segura, directing attorney of the Small Business Program at pro bono legal aid non-profit Bet Tzedek said California law does not currently allow for rent control for commercial tenancies.

Outside of the protections under SB 1103, Segura said small businesses like READ Books don’t have much other recourse. And even then, commercial landlords are not required to inform their tenants of their protections under the law.

“There’s still a lot of people that don’t know about SB 1103. And then it’s very sad that they tell them they have these rent increases and within a month they have to leave,” Segura said.

She said her group is seeing steep rent hikes like this for commercial tenants across the city.

“We are seeing this even more with the World Cup coming up, the Olympics coming up. And I will say it was very sad to see that also after the wildfires,” Segura said.

Part of Bet Tzedek’s ongoing work is to advocate for small businesses, working with landlords who are increasing rents to see if they are willing to give business owners longer leases that lock in rents.

What’s next 

After READ Books posted about their situation on social media, commenters chimed in to express their outrage and love for the little shop.

While he looks for a new spot, Kaplan says he’s forming a coalition of local businesses and activist groups to see what can be done to help other small businesses facing similar displacement. He wants to address the displacement issue for businesses like his, which have made Eagle Rock the distinctive neighborhood that it is today.

Owl Talk, a longtime Eagle Rock staple selling clothing and accessories in a unit in the same building as READ Books, is facing a “more than double” rent increase, according to a post on their Instagram account.

Kaplan said he’s been in touch with the office of state Assemblywoman Jessica Caloza and wants to explore the possibility of introducing legislation to set up protections for small businesses like his, including rent-control measures or a vacancy tax for landlords. Kaplan said he also reached out to the office of state Sen. Maria Durazo.

By his count, Kaplan said there are about a dozen businesses within surrounding blocks that are at risk of closing their doors or have shuttered due to rent increases or other struggles.

When READ Books was founded during the Great Recession, Kaplan said he knew it was a longshot to open a bookstore at the same time so many were struggling to stay in business.

“It was kind of interesting to be doing something that neighborhoods needed. That was important to me growing up, that was important to my children, that was important to my wife growing up,” Kaplan said.

“And then somebody comes in and says, ‘We’re gonna over double your rent.”

Topline:

Frozen budget: Most of the city’s Bureau of Street Lighting budget comes from an assessment that people who own property illuminated by lights pay on their county property tax bill. The amount people pay depends on the kind of property they own and how much they benefit from lighting. A typical single-family home currently pays $53 annually, and in total, the assessments bring in about $45 million annually for the city to repair and maintain streetlights. Changing the amount the Bureau of Street Lighting gets from the assessment requires a vote among property owners who benefit from the lights.

Ballots: L.A. City Council’s vote gives city staff the green light to prepare and send out those ballots. Miguel Sangalang, who oversees the bureau, said at a committee meeting earlier this month that he expects to send out ballots by April 17. Notices about the ballots will be sent out prior to the ballots themselves.

Near unanimous vote: L.A. City Councilmember Monica Rodriguez was the only “No” vote Tuesday, saying she wanted to see a more current strategic plan for the bureau. Sangalang said the bureau developed a plan in 2022 that lays out how money will be spent. Councilmember Imelda Padilla was absent for the vote.

Vote count: Votes will be weighted according to the assessment amount. Basically, the more you’re asked to pay yearly to maintain streetlights, the more your vote will count. Ballots received before June 2 will be tabulated by the L.A. City Clerk.

How much more money: According to a report, the amount needed in assessments from property owners to meet the repair and maintenance needs of the city’s streetlighting in the next fiscal year is nearly $112 million.

Use of the money: Sangalang said at a March 11 committee meeting that the extra funds would be used to double the number of staff to handle repairs and procure solar streetlights, which don’t face the threat of copper wire theft. That would all potentially reduce the time it takes to repair simple fixes down to a week. Currently, city residents wait for months to see broken streetlights repaired. The assessment would come with a three-year auditing mechanism.