Aubriana, a 24-year-old Los Angeles resident, couldn’t afford the $30,000 bond the judge had set as a condition for her release. Although she hadn’t been convicted of a crime and she was still legally presumed innocent, she was taken into custody because she couldn’t afford to pay bail. She spent months in jail awaiting trial, during which time she was evicted from her home and became homeless. That case was ultimately dismissed seven months later, but the simple accusation alone upended Aubriana’s life. 

Her situation is not unique. Of the nearly 30,000 individuals served by The Bail Project at least one-third have their cases dismissed. Meanwhile, because of bail, these legally innocent people have their lives disrupted, with huge consequences. According to a 2022 report by the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, more than 60% of incarcerated individuals could not afford to post bail and were detained before trial. People who are in poverty, like Aubriana, face the brunt of the cash bail crisis. Even a few days in jail, for example, can lead to a loss of job or housing.  

“I knew I was innocent because I didn’t do anything wrong, but it’s still scary how in the dark someone can be kept about the fate of their lives.”

But often left out of the conversation are the emotional and psychological impacts that cash bail has on people’s lives. For Aubriana, not only did she have to start her life over from scratch, but the experience left her feeling like she had been found at fault, both before and even after her case was dismissed. “I knew I was innocent because I didn’t do anything wrong,” she recalled thinking. “But it’s still scary how in the dark someone can be kept about the fate of their lives.” 

Bail proceedings typically occur at arraignment or at what’s sometimes known as “first appearance.” As its name suggests, this is one of the first and most critical steps in a criminal case. Several outcomes occur at these proceedings. Judges may release people either on their own recognizance – which means a written promise by the defendant that they’ll return without posting any bail money – or bail is set at a certain dollar amount. 

Many jurisdictions, such as Los Angeles, also rely on bail schedules, which specify automatic bail amounts for specific criminal charges. Often bail amounts set according to a schedule are very high and unaffordable, with no consideration paid to whether someone can actually afford the amounts set against them – despite the fact that most states have a statutory requirement that bail amounts be affordable when they are set. In California, for instance, the median bail set was $50,000 in 2015. Yet most Americans report being unable to afford even a $1,000 emergency expense.

Despite the importance of bail hearings, these proceedings typically only last a minute or two. This makes it difficult to ensure that judges are effectively and comprehensively assessing an individual’s circumstances. Experts have raised other concerns as well. Research shows that having an attorney present at initial bail hearings is important because it reduces racial and socioeconomic disparities in pretrial incarceration rates and improves case outcomes. That’s because without legal representation, poor defendants, who are predominantly people of color, may be more likely to plead guilty and accept longer sentences. However, not all states require counsel be provided at these initial hearings, meaning that accused people are forced to advocate for themselves within complicated judicial proceedings. 

“There are moments now when I get triggered and I don’t realize why until I analyze what’s going on.”

Aubriana is an introspective and social young woman who loves children. She speaks with confidence and is not judgemental, which gives her the rare quality of being able to make even strangers feel like long-time friends. At the same time, Aubriana is deeply analytical and driven to learn about how people’s childhoods shape their adult lives. Her curiosity is rooted in her own childhood and adolescent memories. Aubriana was born and raised in Las Vegas. She lived with her mother, who struggles with methamphetamine addiction, until the age of seven. As a young child, her mother would sometimes leave her alone for days at a time in order to buy and use drugs. Her father, meanwhile, was in prison and not involved in her life. “I would call my aunts and uncles asking for food because I hadn’t eaten for days,” she recalled. When Aubriana’s mother lost custody of her, she was placed into foster care and then raised by her aunt. “Going through trauma with a parent can be detrimental later on as an adult,” Aubriana said. “There are moments now when I get triggered and I don’t realize why until I analyze what’s going on.” 

By late 2019, Aubriana was working a stable job in retail, driving a new Toyota, and had found a loving new relationship. She became pregnant and was looking forward to being a first-time mom, but suffered a miscarriage. Overcome with sadness and grief, Aubriana had difficulty concentrating. Her mood sank, affecting her relationships at work and with loved ones at home. 

Needing a fresh start, Aubriana moved to Los Angeles in early 2020, figuring she had left her troubles behind. The Covid-19 lockdown was announced shortly after her arrival. With travel and work restrictions imposed nationwide, she was unable to find a job and became homeless. Roughly one year later, she found temporary housing, was paying rent, and working a job as a nanny. But then she was arrested. It took only six weeks for her life to unravel.

Aubriana’s legal troubles began in March 2021, when a group of women confronted her and a friend while they were browsing the tourist shops that run alongside Venice Beach. The women who approached her were acting jealous and possessive, Aubriana said, accusing her of trying to steal away someone’s boyfriend. The accusations turned to threats and then the threats turned to punches. Aubriana didn’t know these accusers, but before she had the chance to get away, one of them hit her. Fearing for her safety, Aubriana defended herself, but was still left badly injured. Her left hand had been broken and she suffered a blow to the head. She considered calling the police but ultimately decided not to, going home instead to recover. 

The night after the fight at Venice Beach, Aubriana got a knock on her door from the police. They were there to charge her with assault. The woman who incited the fight was accusing Aubriana of starting it. Aubriana defended herself, explaining to the police the circumstances and that she feared for her safety. “It was in self-defense,” she told them. Still, they booked her into jail. 

After spending a few days in custody, and still covered in bruises from the fight, Aubriana had a bail hearing. In Los Angeles, defendants are allowed to pay what’s known as a “percentage bond,” where they’re required to pay only 10% of the total amount to be released; if they don’t appear in the future, they are liable for the remaining 90%. Aubriana watched as defendants before her were released without any requirement at all to pay bail. When it was her turn, Aubriana felt immediately misunderstood. At one point the judge suggested she should do a psychological evaluation. “He thought I was talking to myself, but I wasn’t,” Aubriana recalled. “I was just muttering to myself that I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. He tuned me out like I didn’t matter.” The judge set bail at 10% of $30,000, or $3,000, which was more than she could afford.

“I slept on the sidewalk and in tents for a few months. I was so anxious.”

Aubriana was taken back into custody where she spent the next six weeks in jail. It was during this period that her landlord evicted her, effectively rendering her homeless. One day in mid-April, a correctional officer approached Aubriana and told her she was going to be released. Her public defender had referred her to The Bail Project and our Los Angeles team paid her bail. Aubriana was relieved to be released, but because she was homeless as a result of the incarceration, she had nowhere to go. Homelessness, incarceration, and victimization are deeply intertwined issues among women. A study of formerly incarcerated homeless women published in the National Institutes of Health found that among the women surveyed, over half (53%) met the criteria for post-traumatic stress disorder. A similar study found a year prior to incarceration, over half (53%) of women reported being threatened with serious violence. “I slept on the sidewalk and in tents for a few months,” Aubriana said. “I was so anxious.” On days when she felt most overwhelmed, she hopped on a bus and made her way to Beverly Hills. There, she would bask in the sun and sit on the freshly mowed lawn at the Beverly Garden Park. Although her reality was starkly different from the wealthy individuals who lived nearby, the glittery upscale city, renowned as one of the richest neighborhoods in the county, became her sanctuary. 

In September, nearly six months after she was released on bail, Aubriana’s case finally went to trial. When the person who had accused her of starting the fight took the stand to testify, it became apparent Aubriana was telling the truth about acting in self-defense. The judge dismissed her case. By this point, Aubriana had spent nearly two months in jail; she had been evicted and experienced homelessness. She was exposed to traumatic conditions inside of Los Angeles County’s jails. She missed out on meaningful opportunities to pursue pro-social activities like employment and education. She would have been in jail even longer had The Bail Project not paid her bail. 

Aubriana’s release before disposition afforded her an opportunity to prepare a more effective legal defense. She took her case to trial, an outcome that is statically rare – roughly 3% of all cases in the United States end in trial. That’s because, each day, countless people accept guilty pleas before trial, even when they are innocent, just to escape the traumatizing conditions of our nation’s jails. For some, like Aubriana, pretrial release can be the difference between a dismissal and a conviction. 

While out of jail, Aubriana was also able to search for stable employment and permanent housing. By the time her trial was over, Aubriana found new temporary housing. 

“My end game is to work with children, especially kids who have gone through the same things as me.”

Now, more than one year later, Aubriana has completely turned her life around. She has a permanent apartment in Los Angeles, is enrolled full-time in college, and recently became a mother to a healthy baby girl. When she wakes up each morning and gets ready in her own apartment, she is instantly reminded of her blessings. And with her healthy eight-month-old baby girl by her side, she doesn’t need to look far to remember what keeps her going. Aubriana said she’s studying applied behavioral analysis and psychology in college because she hopes to become either a behavioral technician or counselor that works with children who have developmental and behavioral issues. “Both are important professions to me,” she said. “My end game is to work with children, especially kids who have gone through the same things as me.” 

When Anthony, 35, appeared in a Washtenaw County court in early 2022, the judge instantly recognized him. She had been his defense attorney on another case several years before. Although that case had been long ago resolved, the judge still remembered him.

Anthony had been in and out of court because he struggled with opioid addiction for nearly two decades. It’s not uncommon for people battling addiction to also end up having legal problems that are caused by or related to their dependency. A study by the National Institutes of Health found that 68% of incarcerated people with substance use disorders surveyed were rearrested within three years of release from prison. Anthony started stealing to support his addiction to opioids. Before long, he was cycling in and out of jail. 

Aware of his years-long battle with addiction, the judge offered to transfer Anthony into Washtenaw County’s Drug Treatment Court. The program aims to improve public safety and reduce recidivism rates by providing treatment and recovery support to people who have substance use disorder and are charged with nonviolent crimes. Anthony was reluctant. By this point, he had already resigned himself to the belief that there was no escaping his life of opioid addiction and incarceration. “When I was in that lifestyle it got to a point where I sat back and accepted that this would be my life,” he said. 

But Anthony’s judge didn’t give up. She had representatives from the drug court visit him in jail several times. During their visits, they spoke about the services and resources that would be available to him and the recovery community that he would be part of. Anthony agreed to give it a try. “After she kept sending members of the recovery team, I thought I really don’t have a reason not to take a different route,” he recalled. “My life hadn’t gone anywhere this entire time.” 

Drug offenses account for some of the most common reasons people are arrested in the United States. According to the Prison Policy Initiative, one in five incarcerated people is locked up for a drug offense. As families like Anthony’s continue to grapple with the effects that opioid addiction has on their communities and loved ones lives, there has been growing momentum for reform. In recent years, a number of jurisdictions across the nation have begun implementing diversion or support programs to help reduce illicit drug use and associated crimes. Such initiatives, like the Drug Treatment Court in Washtenaw County, are rooted in a public health approach. Providing long-term treatment opportunities to justice system-involved people has shown to be one effective way at reducing drug-related crimes and overdoses. Research suggests this is because it not only helps people tackle the underlying causes of their addiction but also supports them in getting their basic needs met – such as transportation, housing, and employment. 

“I had to put my pride aside and give my kid the best life possible.”

Anthony was born in Illinois and spent much of his early childhood there. He moved to Michigan with his sister and parents at the start of high school. His teenage years began the way it does for most adolescent boys. He was social and enjoyed playing football and basketball. Before he graduated high school his parents got divorced. Anthony says this led him to start acting out. He became involved in drugs and was partying, which got him into trouble with his parents and school. When he eventually began to steal to support his addiction, he got in trouble with law enforcement and his legal problems began. He left Michigan for some time and later returned, but his lifestyle remained the same. Eventually he started using harder drugs and opioids. By this point Anthony was now a father. His partner was also struggling with opioid addiction. Together they struggled to raise their young son so they decided it would be best to have his partner’s parents raise their kid. “It was a hard pill to swallow because, at first, when I thought about it, I felt like it was admitting failure,” he said. “But I had to put my pride aside and give my kid the best life possible.”

For years, Anthony fought to overcome his addiction. One of the major obstacles he faced was finding meaningful employment. As a result of his legal struggles, Anthony was forced to participate in weekly drug testing, which made it difficult to find stable work; oftentimes, individuals have to travel long distances to testing locations or take time out of their work day to participate in drug tests. At times, Anthony felt that employers were not interested in investing in his potential because of his criminal background. This took a toll on Anthony’s mental health. He felt defeated, frustrated, and had little motivation. Without stable job opportunities or a strong support system, Anthony repeatedly fell back into old habits. This contributed to his relapses, further fueling behaviors that led to more arrests and more time spent behind bars. 

Anthony’s experience is not unusual. People in similar situations – who have a combination of complex health and social issues and cycle repeatedly through local jails – are commonly referred to as “frequent utilizers.” Studies show that when these individuals are arrested, their conditions often worsen. One reason is because being in custody disrupts a person’s treatment plan. Two-thirds of people in local jails, for instance, report having substance use disorder. Yet, only a small number of individuals are receiving medication-assisted treatment in custody. 

Anthony hadn’t yet realized it, but his decision to participate in the county’s Drug Treatment Court program would be the catalyst that sparked his recovery journey. It wasn’t easy. At times, it seemed the odds were stacked against him. At nearly every stage he encountered obstacles beyond his control. But with the support of the recovery community, drug treatment program, and nonprofits, such as The Bail Project, Anthony exceeded expectations. 

Among the many meetings, responsibilities, and tasks Anthony had to complete, he also had debts to pay, court appearances to make, and he was required to get drug tested three times a week. To make matters more complicated, the drug testing center was over one hour away. He didn’t have a car and if he used public transportation he wouldn’t be able to find a stable job since he’d have to miss a half-day’s work several times a week. Such obstacles add up and can make anyone feel overwhelmed, let alone someone who is struggling with addiction and poverty. It’s these seemingly small things, Anthony says, that can easily be overlooked by court systems, employers, and even family. 

“You can’t have a dead end job where you’re barely getting enough hours to work and expect to get better.”

Had it not been for the support of people he met through the drug treatment program, Anthony says it’s likely he would have relapsed and ended up back in jail. He believes that until more counties across the nation start eliminating these barriers for people in their communities, the cycle of incarceration and drug use will continue. “You have to be able to make enough money to move forward,” Anthony said. “You can’t have a dead end job where you’re barely getting enough hours to work and expect to get better.” 

Experts agree – societal and economic barriers are other common reasons why a person’s condition may grow worse after an arrest. When formerly incarcerated people struggling with addictions reenter society, they often encounter situations that make recovery even more difficult to overcome. A 2021 report by the nonpartisan think-tank Council of State Governments found that 72% of local, state, and federal regulations impact employment opportunities for people post-release. People with certain convictions, for instance, may be restricted from accessing different occupational licenses in some jurisdictions. Other times, employers aren’t allowed to retain workers with specific convictions. Most often the impacted industries are where job growth and upward mobility are relatively high.

During the first six months of the Drug Treatment Court program, Anthony spent most of his time at Dawn Farm, a long-term substance abuse treatment center. For the first time, he had direct access to wrap-around services, such as safe housing, employment support, and case management. His first few months there, however, were rocky. He struggled to follow the rules and was on the verge of failing the program. Dawn Farm worked with Anthony to identify his triggers and understand the reasons why he was reverting back to negative habits. Together, they decided to move him to a different site located on a sprawling farm outside the city. Changing Anthony’s environment proved to be the right solution. “There was more room and opportunity to be outdoors and that made it easier for me to adjust,” he said. “ I had more space and freedom. I was surrounded by people and animals.” 

To help get Anthony to his drug tests and court appearances, the people at the recovery program put him in touch with The Bail Project. Our team provided Anthony with free Lyft rides to his appointments and free court reminders. This marked a turning point in Anthony’s recovery. Having reliable and affordable transportation allowed him to find meaningful employment. Using other resources and connections now at his disposal, he landed a job at a restaurant. His supervisors there were understanding of his court required appointments, so they allowed him to work flexible hours. For the first time, Anthony no longer worried about having to choose between losing his job or going back to jail. “One huge thing is having people show up and be there for you while you’re doing the hard work,” he said. “Sometimes that’s what it takes.” 

It had been decades since Anthony felt like he belonged anywhere. Building new relationships and creating a strong support system with the recovery community felt rewarding. He took advantage of as many opportunities as he could find. His new friends included doctors, lawyers, business people, and construction workers. Whether it was during group meetings or support sessions, people yelled his name anytime they saw him. Together, they went to concerts and attended football games. Meanwhile, at work, Anthony was promoted to supervisor roles and earned raises. Finally, he was making enough money to pay his bills and debts. “My life has turned around to where I have people in my corner,” he said. “ It wasn’t always like that. Prior to this, I would just do jail time. I have people overseeing my probation who sit in court with me now and advocate for me.” 

“I’ve done more stuff in this last year than I had my whole entire time of addiction.”

Now, less than two years later, Anthony has completely turned his life around. He is a manager at the sober living house that he used to be a resident of and has been promoted to manager at the same restaurant where he first caught a break. He is making enough money to put into savings and he spends quality time with his son. And most recently – for the first time in his adult-life – Anthony celebrated 19 months of sobriety. “I’ve done more stuff in this last year than I had my whole entire time of addiction,” he said.  

Anthony says his story serves as a blueprint for what other communities can do to help tackle mass incarceration, reduce substance use disorder, and improve public safety. From the judge who encouraged him to seek treatment to his employers and friends at the recovery center who stood by his side, to nonprofits, like The Bail Project, whose direct services gave him the momentum he needed to succeed, it’s this new community Anthony is part of that he says is vital for anyone seeking long-term recovery from substance use disorder. “If anybody needs someone to talk to, I would have no problem if they reached out to me,” he said.” As bad as you think your life is, if you keep taking baby steps forward it’s crazy how fast your life can change and get better.” 

Martino, a 21-year-old Black transgender woman, feared for her safety the moment she arrived at the all-male section of the Hamilton County Jail. Prosecutors had charged her with two non-violent misdemeanors. Although those charges would later be dropped and her case dismissed, she still spent two weeks in jail because she could not afford the $200 bail amount that the judge had set against her.  

After the bail hearing, correctional officers took Martino to the male section of the jail. When she arrived, she overheard several incarcerated men say they wanted to have sex with her. Other men, she noticed, refused to sit next to her. Over the next 14 days inside the men’s jail, she figured it would be smart to try as best she could to be invisible. She skipped mealtime. She didn’t take showers. She avoided going into the common areas. Most days she relied on bologna sandwiches that she ate alone in her cell. She soon realized that unless she found a way to pay bail, she would continue living in fear of being physically or sexually assaulted. 

“I was scared. I heard guys saying they don’t support the trans community. That they don’t accept it.”

“I was scared,” Martino recalled. “I heard guys saying they don’t support the trans community. That they don’t accept it.” 

Transgender people who are incarcerated face serious risk of being sexually and physically harmed. According to the latest survey conducted by the National Center for Transgender Equality, transgender people who are incarcerated are over nine times more likely to be assaulted or abused than the general population, and over five times more likely to be assaulted or abused by facility staff. Transgender women, like Martino, face especially high risk of violence. According to a study published by the National Institute of Corrections, transgender women who are placed behind bars with men are 13 times more likely to be sexually assaulted than cisgender men.

Because of these known risks of harm, federal law requires correctional staff to consider on a case-by-case basis where to house transgender people. In accordance with these federal guidelines, Ohio’s Department of Rehabilitation and Correction policy directs staff to consider whether the housing assignment for a transgender person would ensure that person’s health and safety. It also states that staff are required to consider that person’s own views during the intake process. “All people in custody are screened for the risk of being sexually abused by other people in detention,” the policy states. 

However, Martino’s story shows how the situation on the ground is different. Reports suggest transgender people across the country are being routinely assigned to jails based on their sex assigned at birth, without any regard for how they identify. This is despite the 1994 U.S. Supreme Court ruling that correctional staff who fail to protect transgender people in custody can be held accountable under the Eighth Amendment to the United States Constitution, which ensures that no one be subject to cruel and unusual punishment. Martino’s experience presents the latest example of how the carceral system fails to address the safety concerns and unique needs of incarcerated transgender people. It also calls into question whether correctional facilities are doing enough to enforce state and federal guidelines. 

Martino is ambitious and driven to succeed. She learned to be independent and self-sufficient at a young age. She was born and raised by her single mother in Covington, Kentucky. For most of her childhood, her father was incarcerated and unable to be involved in her life. When she was around 11, her mother suddenly died, uprooting her sense of safety. Her mother was Martino’s primary caregiver and main support system.

Martino lived in a shelter for youth for a short time afterward. Then she was transferred to the Children’s Home of Northern Kentucky (CHNK), an inpatient residential treatment program in Burlington, Kentucky. The program offers psychiatric and behavioral health services for children in state custody who come from fractured families. But what was supposed to be a four-month stay turned into one year. Living there broke Martino’s spirit. “I was being watched all the time. I was forced to take medication,” she said. “My social worker dropped my case, so I had to wait until somebody else picked it up. That’s why it took me so long to get out of there.”  

The rest of her childhood and adolescent years didn’t get much easier. Martino was forced to jump between different cities in Kentucky and Cincinnati, rarely staying in one place for too long. She spent four months living with a foster family before moving in with her grandmother. Then she moved in with her father’s aunt after she got custody of her. 

Like most teenagers, Martino longed for security and also desired independence. Having both would allow her to forge her identity and develop values and opinions that aligned with her authentic sense of self. However, at times Martino said she felt she had to choose between either feeling accepted or having autonomy. “Being that I was gay and Black, I felt like that it didn’t sit right with many people,” she recalled. “As I was growing up, people didn’t like it very much. I got picked on and bullied.” 

Despite these difficulties, Martino was determined to succeed. She started working at around age 16 so that she could buy her own clothes and pay for a cell phone. She also was determined to excel in school. “I wanted to go to school to learn as much as I could,” she said. “I really wanted a good GPA.” 

Martino decided around her sophomore year in high school that she wanted to become a counselor so that she could help other young people who had gone through traumatic events. “I was going through some real harsh life things,” she said. “So I have the tools that I know can help me relate to other people.”

After Martino graduated high school, she took time off to figure out her next steps. However, she said her difficult childhood experiences made it hard for her to feel like she could succeed. “I wasn’t getting the correct love that I needed given that my mom passed away,” she said. “I turned rebellious. I wasn’t listening to anybody.” 

When Martino reflects on what the last three years have been like since she graduated high school, she acknowledges making a few decisions that she now regrets. Still, she never thought she would end up incarcerated. Her case is not a one-off situation. Transgender people are disproportionately impacted by the criminal justice system in many ways. Especially vulnerable are transgender people of color who are low-income. According to the National Center for Transgender Equality’s last national US. Transgender Survey conducted in 2015, the rate of incarceration for transgender people was double that of the nationwide rate of incarceration, and about 10 times higher for Black transgender women. 

“I was traumatized. I was falling into a depression and losing myself.”

Martino’s first few days in jail were agonizing. “I was traumatized,” she said. “I was falling into a depression and losing myself.” She also said her cellmate barely spoke with her. According to Ohio state policy, transgender people who are incarcerated are allowed to take separate private showers. Martino said that no one told her that. “I didn’t know how the showers worked,” she said. “I would have preferred to be in a female facility.” 

However, like other incarcerated transgender people, Martino didn’t have much of a choice. Part of the problem, advocates say, is that it remains unclear whether federal standards for treatment of incarcerated transgender people are being enforced well enough. They point to how the phrase “a case-by-case basis” – which is written in federal guidelines – is vague language, and how it’s one example of how those mandates may be easy to circumvent. “We’ve heard from so many trans women that prison officials will ask them if they have a penis during intake,” Richard Saenz, a senior attorney with Lambda Legal, told CNN. “And that’s how they decide where they should be housed.”

After one week in jail, Martino’s cellmate started opening up to her. He told her he noticed she wasn’t eating or showering. He encouraged her to go out during mealtime and also said he’d make sure she had privacy when she took a shower. That’s when things started to change. “My cellmate told me that he would look out for me,” she said. “He wanted me to feel safe. He told me ‘I’ll open the door and look out for you.’”

At the end of two weeks, Martino was finally released when her public defender put her in touch with The Bail Project. After we paid her bail, our Cincinnati team referred her to organizations to help her find a job. We also provided her with free court reminders and transportation to court. Because of the supportive services Martino was able to access, she made it to all her court dates. Her charges were dropped and the case was dismissed later that month. 

“I want people to recognize that I just want to be helpful. I want my time to matter. And I’ve remembered that I love myself.”

Martino said her experience in jail has motivated her to start fresh. She recently decided to pursue a job in the medical field and has set up an interview with a program that trains people to become medical assistants. She has several family members in that line of work. “I want people to recognize that I just want to be helpful,” she said. “I want my time to matter. And I’ve remembered that I love myself.”

Leah woke up feeling agitated and distressed one morning in late September 2022 and decided she would go for a drive. Her mental health had been plummeting for some time and her behavior became increasingly erratic. Before getting in her car, she obscured her license plate by fully covering it with red tape, which is illegal. She wasn’t totally sure why she did it. It was, in part, a sign of her deteriorating mental health and she may have been trying to provoke a response from law enforcement. The 25-year-old Ann Arbor resident then drove aimlessly for hundreds of miles. As she made her way throughout different parts of Michigan, hours ticked by. At one point, she noticed the police were following her. Leah said she ignored their signals for her to pull over and eventually they stopped following her. It’s not clear why they left her alone. When she reached Ohio, she turned around and drove back home. 

Leah had recently been experiencing thoughts of suicide and engaged in self-harming behavior. She had been hospitalized several times in the previous months, and over her life, psychiatrists diagnosed her with different mood and personality disorders. Despite hospitalization, she still hadn’t found a treatment plan that worked.

When Leah went outside later that evening, she noticed her car was missing. After learning it had been towed, she went to the impound lot to pick it up, but by the time she got there, it was closed. In desperation, Leah jumped the fence, got inside her car, and started driving, but all the gates were locked. Frantic, she called a friend for help. The friend, who was aware that Leah had in the past struggled with her mental health, was worried by her behavior and how she sounded; she told her to dial 911 so the police could help by taking her to the hospital. Before Leah had the chance, the police arrived, who didn’t know that she was having a mental health crisis. Confused and frightened, she ignored their orders to exit her vehicle, instead driving in small tight circles inside the locked parking lot.  

When the police eventually arrested Leah, she tried explaining that she was having a mental health crisis. But instead of taking her to the hospital, the police booked her into the Washtenaw County Jail and charged her with fleeing a police officer, resisting arrest, and reckless driving. 

“I was told I would get mental health help at the jail, but I didn’t. Instead, I was put in an anti-suicide jacket and kept alone in a cell.”

Leah hadn’t realized it yet, but she had just been swept into a complex and difficult-to-understand legal system that consists of jails, mental health diversion programs, and court appearances. People with mental illness, in particular, can encounter a justice system that at every stage seems ill-equipped to meet the needs of this population. “I was told I would get mental health help at the jail, but I didn’t,” Leah said. “Instead, I was put in an anti-suicide jacket and kept alone in a cell.”  Her journey to recovery would be made much more difficult by this unwieldy and cumbersome bureaucracy. 

Each year, up to two million people experiencing a mental health crisis are booked into jails and prisons. Studies suggest that most of these arrests are for nonviolent misdemeanor offenses, like Leah’s, such as trespassing or theft. Unable to advocate for themselves, many people end up languishing behind bars where they don’t receive the treatment they need. Often, their condition gets worse. The long-term consequences of an arrest are also dire – without a strong support system, many face an uphill battle in finding jobs or housing. As a result of incarceration, some lose access to healthcare and benefits, preventing them from accessing needed mental health care. At the same time, these individuals are also expected to navigate an already complicated and confusing pretrial justice system. 

Leah’s mental health struggles have been a life-long battle. The soft-spoken Michigander is empathetic and sensitive to others. She was adopted into a small family when she was around six months old. As an only child, she felt lonely at times and craved the company of friends and family. “I had a decent upbringing but there was some physical and verbal abuse,” she said. “My mom would call me all these names and it would just hurt so bad that I hated myself.”  

“I really wanted friends and to feel connected with people.”

As she grew older, the abuse at home worsened. School was no reprieve. She was bullied and struggled to fit in. To cope, Leah would write poetry or music. Creative writing and open mic performances were some of her favorite activities. She was also seeing a therapist, but they failed to diagnose her depression. “I really wanted friends and to feel connected with people,” she said. After high school, Leah attended Eastern Michigan University. Her mental health problems were impacting her ability to focus and she eventually dropped out. Later, she attended a college in Minnesota. After failing that program, she left feeling hopeless. That’s when her mental health took a turn for the worse. “I felt down and like I wasn’t good enough,” she said. “Like I didn’t belong there.” 

In recent years, states and local communities across the country – including Michigan – have tried to tackle mental health crises by creating alternatives to incarceration. People in a mental health emergency who come in contact with law enforcement, for example, may be diverted to mental health court or placed into mental health treatment programs. These efforts also include educating the police and other first responders about best practices for helping someone they come across who is experiencing a mental health emergency. 

After a few days in jail, Leah’s husband paid her bail and she was released. Her public defender put her in touch with The Bail Project and our team in Michigan provided her with court reminders and offered her free transportation to and from court. Leah was thankful to be home, but her mental health remained fragile. Her public defender referred her to Washtenaw County’s Mental Health Treatment Court, hopeful that were she admitted, she would be able to avoid any future jail time or have her case dismissed altogether. The program allows people with mental illnesses who come in contact with the justice system to be diverted into supervised community-based treatment programs and court staff and mental health professionals work to develop a treatment plan. 

Leah learned two months later that she had not been accepted into the program. The county’s public mental health agency excludes people with certain diagnoses from participating, which advocates argue is one of the limitations of the Mental Health Treatment Court. Leah was told she didn’t qualify because one of her diagnoses included borderline personality disorder. Her public defender told her he would be reaching out to the prosecutor to see how her case may be resolved without the program. Overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation, Leah hurt herself and was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. Her court case was delayed as a result. 

It wasn’t until after Leah’s court case had closed that she realized how unwell she had been. But by then it was too late: she was convicted and sentenced to 12 and 18 months consecutive probation and required to get mental health treatment, continue therapy, submit to medical evaluations, and pay $2,000 in fines and fees.  

“When I was in court I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I was still dealing with my mental health. But now that I’m better it’s too late.”

For the majority of her time in court, Leah didn’t understand the process and what her options meant – a fact that highlights one of the challenges associated with managing mental health issues within court settings. When people are experiencing an acute psychiatric crisis, it can be difficult for them to exercise good judgment, which can be detrimental to their case and outcomes. “When I was in court I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I was still dealing with my mental health,” Leah said. “But now that I’m better it’s too late.” 

In situations where there is reasonable doubt that a person does not understand the nature of the legal proceedings or is unable to assist in their own defense, a mental competency hearing can be requested. A defendant’s competency can be called into question at any point during court proceedings by either the defense attorney, prosecution, or judge. As soon as doubts are raised, the judge is responsible for putting the underlying case on hold so that a competency hearing can be conducted first. Leah is unsure why questions about her competency weren’t raised sooner.

Like thousands of other people across the United States who have been convicted of nonviolent misdemeanors as a result of a mental health crisis, Leah’s situation has significantly affected her job prospects. She had recently been hired to work at a psychiatric hospital where she had previously been a patient, but after a background check her job offer was rescinded. “I had gotten my uniform and everything. They said I wasn’t eligible because my misdemeanor charges were related to me attempting to commit a felony,” Leah said. “But I haven’t given up yet, and I’m seeing if there’s anything we can do to figure it out.” 

Despite these recent difficulties, Leah has been able to find more stability in her life. Those days of feeling like she doesn’t belong are now behind her. As an ambitious young woman, she earned her nursing assistant license in 2019 and is determined not to let her past dictate her future career trajectory. She is set on helping others who are experiencing mental health crises. She was drawn to this line of work after meeting other patients in psychiatric hospitals. “I’ve had bad experiences in psych units and I don’t want people to be mistreated there,” she said. “I want to help change things around for people like me who went through a mental health crisis. I know what I did wasn’t good, but when there are cases like mine – when a person is having a mental health crisis – they should have opportunities to get help.” 

“Speak to people you trust. Don’t stay silent. Find someone you can talk to.”

With the support of her community and her own perseverance, Leah is hopeful that she will soon find a solution. The challenges she has overcome in recent years have taught her that she is resilient. For now, she wants other young people who struggle with their mental health to speak up and seek help. “I know a lot of people who experienced abuse or are struggling with their mental health and it’s so important for them to speak up,” she said. “Speak to people you trust. Don’t stay silent. Find someone you can talk to.”

Floyd, a 51-year-old veteran from Detroit, has dealt with his fair share of uncertainty. In 1993, when he was a young soldier who just joined the Army, he was deployed to Somalia. It was shortly after the deadly Battle of Mogadishu, also known as the Black Hawk Down incident. Tensions were high and his convoy was met with angry protesters. Later, he built refugee camps in Panama for Haitian refugees while riots raged nearby. In 2001, shortly after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, he helped fortify military facilities in Hawaii. With such extensive global experience in highly volatile situations, there wouldn’t ever be a situation that he couldn’t handle alone, Floyd thought. Little did he know that a short brush with the U.S. pretrial justice system would permanently change all that he had come to know. 

In March 2019, Floyd heard someone knocking on his door. He opened it and was surprised to find the police. They were there to arrest him. Floyd had been charged with assault. He was taken to jail and the judge set his bail at $350. Unable to afford that amount, he thought he would be stuck behind bars until his trial. Life as he knew it had suddenly come to a halt. There was little he could do. He knew he was innocent, but with no other solution in sight, he feared what the outcome would be. 

As he sat behind bars, Floyd dwelled on the events that led to his arrest. Weeks earlier, he had been assaulted by an acquaintance. During the altercation, Floyd pushed her away in self-defense. He made his way to a phone to call 911, but she then fled. When she left, he didn’t bother calling the police. No one was hurt and it was over, he thought. It was only after his arrest that he found out she had gone to the police and accused him of being the assaulter. He imagined that her testimony would even make his service to his country look bad. He said he feared she would say something like “this big mean veteran laid his hands on her.”

Currently, there is no reliable data on the number of justice-involved veterans. The latest data available from the U.S. Department of Justice is from 2015. That study found that more than 181,000 veterans are incarcerated in jails and prisons across the country. Based on what little available information is out there, what researchers do know is that veterans have historically been overrepresented in America’s jail and prison populations. Research often points to post-traumatic stress disorder and the lack of accessible health care as factors that may cause veterans to become involved in the justice system. What’s often missing from the conversation, however, are the socio-economic factors – such as poverty or mental health conditions like post-traumatic stress disorder  – that make veterans a vulnerable group. Research from 2012 shows the prevalence of post-traumatic stress disorder ranges from 27% to 40% among justice-involved veterans, compared to 11% of nonveterans. Without more up-to-date information, it’s difficult to understand how these unique challenges manifest in their lives. This poses a challenge to policymakers tasked with identifying preventative interventions and solutions.  

Floyd initially joined the Army for mostly practical reasons. The economy wasn’t great, and he thought it would be a good job. It seemed like a smart option. And any initial hesitations evaporated while he was in the service.

“I liked being a soldier,” he said. “It’s just hard to describe because there are so many different facets of it.”

Floyd’s older brother served during Operation Desert Shield and Desert Storm. His younger brother served in Afghanistan and Iraq. But while Floyd’s decade of service was between those larger conflicts, he still encountered tense situations. He remembers one incident in Somalia where he was the rear guard on a convoy. Everyone was on edge because there had been harassment of convoys in the area. The convoy arrived at a checkpoint. As the first vehicle stopped to check in, it forced all the vehicles behind it to stop as well. He was on the back of the last vehicle. A large, angry crowd began gathering right behind him. Looking back on it, it’s scary, he said. “But truth be told, I don’t ever remember being scared. I did what I was trained to do. Because one thing they drilled into us was to follow your training.”

Floyd had many other memorable moments in the Army. During his 10 years in service, Floyd was deployed to five countries across three continents. His work in the army brought him close to disaster zones and high-stakes global conflicts. Along with his service in Somalia, Panama, and Hawaii, in 1999, he helped with clean-up efforts after Hurricane Floyd. Later, during the Japanese hostage crisis in Peru, his unit quickly assembled a replica of the Japanese embassy there so special forces units could practice a rescue attempt. 

When Floyd left service in 2002, he returned to his hometown of Detroit and enrolled in college. At the time, he thought he transitioned easily to civilian life, but in retrospect, he sees that he was struggling more than he realized. He had difficulty finishing one class – the last one he needed to graduate – so much that he had to take it multiple times. His financial aid ran out and he wasn’t able to finish his degree. He began to wonder if he was dyslexic or had some other learning disability, but a friend suggested he might be depressed.

He looked up the symptoms of depression and was surprised to realize that he had 8 of the 12 listed symptoms. Even more surprising to him, he realized he had been having those symptoms for years. He thinks some of the discipline and structure of military life – as well as the soldier’s mindset of pushing through hardship – had helped him mask his depression even from himself. He called the Veterans Association and was assigned a therapist and he began taking Prozac. He is now on disability for depression and asthma. 

When Floyd recalls the day of his arrest and the subsequent months that followed, he still feels taken aback. “The whole situation, it just should have never happened,” he said. After spending two weeks in jail, The Bail Project paid his bond and Floyd was released. A few weeks later, Floyd was found not guilty at a bench trial. He said a critical piece of evidence was the initial police report, in which the police officer recorded that she said she struck him first, meaning he was acting in self-defense. Still, he served two weeks for something he didn’t do – and he would have served closer to two months if The Bail Project hadn’t bailed him out.

He said the relief he felt when the verdict came in was indescribable.

“I walked out of the courthouse alone,” he said, and it was a marvelous feeling. “I appreciate The Bail Project,” he said, because without the organization, “I would have lost like literally two months of my life.”

Jerod had a period in his past, before he became a father, that was marked by incarceration. His circumstances are not that different from those of the 50% of Americans who, at some point in their lives, were either incarcerated themselves or had a family member incarcerated. About five years ago, Jerod was charged and convicted of a nonviolent offense and was put on probation, a type of sentence that is understood by most to be an alternative to incarceration because the person is released from custody – but they are still subject to supervision. Although on probation, Jerod’s freedom let him put his life together. He earned a good living working in a bakery warehouse. He started a new relationship. His partner was soon pregnant with twins. 

One night Jerod and his partner had a bad fight and the police were called. Officers discovered a firearm on the premises, which they claimed belonged to Jerod. The simple allegation that he possessed a weapon violated his probation and he was immediately sent to prison and forced to serve 18 months. In other words, Jerod was imprisoned, and served the entirety of his sentence, for an alleged offense that he had yet to stand trial for to determine his guilt or innocence. In fact, when his case for the firearm possession charge finally went to trial – after he had served 18 months – his charge was dismissed. 

People on probation are required to comply with dozens of rules for years on end, which commonly include work requirements, regular check-ins, travel restrictions, and mandatory drug and alcohol testing. Sometimes people are also required to adhere to egregious terms, such as restricted cell phone or social media usage. If they are alleged to have failed to adhere to these conditions, probation can be revoked and the person can be incarcerated.

Some experts argue that the overuse of probation and community supervision has fueled mass incarceration, instead of curtailing it. Over the past decade, the number of people on probation and other forms of community supervision has soared. In 2019, one in 73 American adults in the United States was on probation. A Human Rights Watch report published in 2020 found that most people accused of violating probation were incarcerated for minor technical violations of the conditions of their probation, not for committing a new crime.

After Jerod had finished serving his time in prison, he still didn’t get to see his kids. He was transferred immediately from prison to the St. Louis County Jail, so he could then face the charges of illegally possessing a firearm. As that new case proceeded, Jerod continued to remain incarcerated, but this time solely because a $3,500 bond was set against him that he couldn’t afford. The ride from prison to jail was his only taste of freedom. “It was a happy, nice little two-hour drive,” he said.

When Jerod finished serving 18 months in prison, his case for firearm possession finally went to trial. Four months later, those charges were dismissed. That the case that landed him in prison for 18 months was ultimately dismissed makes Jerod’s initial incarceration so needless and unnecessary, especially when considering the adverse impact it had on him and his family. Not only did Jerod miss the birth of his twins, but he was also deprived of the opportunity to bond with his newborns and experience being a new father. The fact that a simple allegation ripped these moments away from him demonstrates not just the failures of the criminal justice system, but also the ways in which it is broken. This type of circumstance – where someone is arrested and incarcerated, only to later have their case dismissed – is unfortunately common across the United States. The Bail Project’s clients have their cases dismissed 33% of the time; in some jurisdictions, like Charlotte, NC, case dismissal rates are extremely high, with cases for clients of The Bail Project dismissed 66% of the time.

“I missed a lot of my kids’ lives,” Jerod said. “A year and half.”

Jerod spent five days behind bars after he was transferred to St. Louis County Jail to deal with the weapons charge when The Bail Project learned about Jerod’s situation and stepped in to pay his bail. By this point, Jerod had spent a total of 20 months incarcerated and separated from his family. After he was released on bail, Jerod felt like he could start to get his life under control again. He finally got to see his twins, who were 10 months old. It also meant that Jerod was able to have more access to his lawyer and a better shot at fighting his case. Without proper resources and support – such as transportation, stable housing, employment, and health services – it can be difficult to expect anyone already struggling with an array of problems to overcome them alone. Not only did The Bail Project help Jerod get out of jail, but it also assisted him by providing rides to court.

These simple supports – court notifications, travel assistance, referrals to voluntary supportive services to address unmet needs – are broadly lacking in courtrooms across the country. In fact, most courts are too under-resourced to afford enough public defenders, let alone supportive services that can help people during the pretrial part of their case and, hopefully, avoid future justice system involvement altogether. This is why community-based pretrial support services like the ones provided by The Bail Project proved to be an invaluable asset to Jerod and his family. 

“Now, my twins, I see them every week. I love spending time with them, it makes them so happy,” Jerod said. “I was blessed, I’m glad I made it out and I never want to be in jail again. I’ve got kids to raise.”

He is expecting a third child in a few months.

Maribeth was nearly seven months pregnant when she was arrested and booked into Orlando’s Orange County jail for illegally entering and occupying a vacant mobile home. The judge set $350 in bail as a condition for her release, but Maribeth didn’t have the money. She asked her mother for help, but she couldn’t afford it either. The last person left to ask was the father of her unborn child. Although the pair are estranged, she hoped he would lend her a hand since it was an emergency. It turned out she was wrong. He refused. 

Maribeth was overcome with a deluge of emotions. She was scared about giving birth in jail. She worried not knowing how long she would have to stay behind bars. She missed her young children who were staying with her mom. She felt helpless and abandoned. She was also livid that, as a pregnant woman, a few hundred dollars could prevent her from carrying her pregnancy to term in a safe environment versus the confines of a jail – places that are notorious for abhorrent living conditions and lack of medical resources and staff.

But most of all, Maribeth felt frustrated, angry, and disappointed with herself. Over the past decade, Maribeth struggled with substance use disorder and she had made great progress. With the help of her long-term partner – an undocumented immigrant – Maribeth stayed sober and out of jail for years. She was proud of the life they were building.  

But then tragedy struck: her significant other was deported. Soon after, depression took hold of her life. She experienced emotional flashbacks that resurfaced traumatic memories from her childhood. Slowly, she started spending more time around people that had a negative influence on her behavior.

Maribeth is a long-time Orlando resident, second-generation Latino, and a mother of six kids. She is proud of her immigrant roots. As the youngest of five siblings, she knows firsthand the hard work it takes to raise a family as a single mother. “My dad was abusive to my mom. When I was a young kid I remember one day she grabbed us and all her stuff and we left,” she said. “It was hard. My mom didn’t have much money. She worked two jobs.” 

Back inside Orange County jail, while correctional staff were doing her intake, Maribeth was feeling increasingly overwhelmed by the minute. In frustration, she lashed out at a nurse. A correctional officer immediately handcuffed her. “They were going to slam me into the ground when someone yelled out that I was pregnant,” Maribeth recalled. 

Maribeth was told that she would be placed in punitive segregation for 30 days as a disciplinary measure. She was escorted to an individual holding cell. The officer who was taking her was walking fast and Maribeth was struggling to keep up. Before placing her inside, Maribeth lost balance and fell forward. “I remember the officer saying ‘Get up, you see what your dumb ass did,’” she said. 

Maribeth was locked behind a metal door with only a small window to peer out of. The floor was concrete and she struggled to get up. She could hear the screams of people held in the nearby mental health unit from her cell. 

Being in punitive segregation meant that Maribeth spent nearly 24 hours alone in her cell each day. A nurse came to check on her daily, as well as correctional staff, but otherwise Maribeth had minimal human interaction and outdoor recreation time. It also meant limited access to her lawyer. “I didn’t know who my lawyer was,” she said. “At first I felt depressed. I felt forgotten. I was upset with myself because I had given up that destructive lifestyle. I thought I changed.” Whenever she felt her baby kick her stomach, she was reminded that she wasn’t alone. “It’s just me and you baby,” she remembers whispering. 

To help pass time, Maribeth asked a staff member for a pen and paper so she could draw – an activity that ended up being therapeutic. “I would draw for several hours. Time flew by,” she said. “I started drawing my kids’ names and animals. Whenever I ran out of ink or paper, I would ask for more and sometimes I drew on napkins.” She would also strike up conversation with correctional officers. “The nice officers talked to me and had conversations with me. They asked about my kids and I asked them questions.” 

After one month, Maribeth was moved to the female general population. It was a difficult transition. By this point, she was around 32 weeks pregnant. She would be moved to the medical dormitory in a few weeks when she was 37 weeks, where she would remain until giving birth. Maribeth felt defeated. “At first I didn’t want to come out of my cell,” she said. “I didn’t want to accept that I would be having my baby in jail.” She tried her best to keep a positive attitude. “I didn’t know how I was going to get my bail paid, but I wasn’t going to have my baby here,” she recalled thinking to herself. “I kept thinking, I don’t want to have my baby here. I was set on that.” 

In addition to receiving medical check-ups by nurses who work at the correctional facility, women who are pregnant in Orange County jail are given an extra mattress to sleep on and additional food during lunch and dinner. Still, jails are far from the ideal environment for pregnancy. In addition to the mental toll that being incarcerated takes on a person, their physical safety is also at risk. Maribeth recalled how some correctional staff yelled and berated her and other women. She said some staff could also be unpredictable and rough when handcuffing people.

Maintaining good hygiene was also difficult. She said that at one point she went two weeks without being given clean clothes. Another time, she wasn’t able to get the commissary items she bought, such as shampoo, deodorant, and extra soap, because the kiosk was broken.

“Pregnant women shouldn’t be incarcerated pretrial. The medical attention in jails isn’t good enough,” she said. “There aren’t enough nurses and sometimes they take their time. Some officers could be really mean.”

Pregnant women like Maribeth, who are accused but not convicted of crimes, face a slew of challenges when it comes to receiving medical attention in jails, such as the lack of prenatal care policies and inadequate medical resources. Although jails in Orange County have written policies in place for pregnant women, the care they’re able to provide is only as good as the infrastructure in place. In recent years, there have been several accounts of incarcerated pregnant women – including at least two in Florida – who have either died or lost their babies because they didn’t receive timely medical attention. Researchers say part of the problem is that there are no clear federal standards to ensure pregnant people are actually receiving the care they need and lack of training of jail and prison staff. 

After nearly three months in jail and eight months pregnant, Maribeth finally had the breakthrough she had been praying for. She was talking to her attorney who mentioned how The Bail Project may be able to pay her bail and also provide access to supportive services. The next day Maribeth met Tito, a member of The Bail Project’s Florida team. He visited Maribeth in jail. “I’m going to hear you out,” Maribeth recalled Tito telling her. Maribeth confided in Tito. She told him she didn’t want to give birth in jail and that she would be open to him linking her to supportive services. “I told Tito all I knew I could do was give him my word.”  

Tito quickly paid Maribeth’s bail. The following day, Maribeth was released from jail. After three long months, she was finally reunited with her children. She felt instant relief knowing she would be able to rest at home for the remainder of her pregnancy and give birth at a hospital. “I couldn’t believe it when I was told I was leaving.” 

Maribeth is currently living with her mom and raising her children. She decided to take a plea deal in order to put the ordeal behind her and is currently on 24 months probation. She looks forward to finding a job soon and says the love she has for her children and Tito’s understanding played an indispensable role in getting her life back on track. “I feel seen and valued,” Maribeth said. “Tito gave me hope again. He was very helpful with everything, including doctor’s appointments, transportation and court date reminders.”

Above all, Maribeth credits the resilience and perseverance she found within herself for her success. “You have to want to get better. It takes time and means setting goals. I want to be able to come through for my kids. They’re so happy I’m around more. My grandma is proudest of me. She makes me fall into tears,” she said. “After I had my baby, I cried. It worked out how I wanted it to. I was happy.”

Ontequa, 29, a member of the Bitterroot Salish Tribe, remembers her maternal grandmother speaking to her when she was a child in their native language. Her grandmother was her strongest tie to her cultural heritage.

“My Yaya worked at two of the schools here in the valley,” Ontequa said, referring to her grandmother. “She was a Salish language teacher. I thought it was common [to speak Salish].”

In recent decades, Salish youth and young adults have been advocating for resources to help keep their native language, which is considered critically endangered, alive. There are as few as 18 fluent Salish language speakers left. Ontequa’s embrace of the Salish language and tradition allows her to honor her grandmother. Studying and speaking her mother tongue has also helped her to find and maintain her sobriety. “It has played a major role in finding out who I am and centering myself while also educating my kids about who we are,” Ontequa said.

Ontequa has been raising her four kids on the Flathead Indian Reservation in Montana, which is home to 5,000 Tribal members from the Salish, Pend d’Oreilles and Kootenai Tribes. Native Americans living in Montana, as well as those who are members of the Flathead Reservation, are disproportionately impacted by a variety of adverse health-related outcomes. For example, on the Flathead Reservation and across the United States, compared to the U.S. population as a whole, Native Americans face higher rates of substance use disorder, death by suicide, unemployment, and prevalence of certain physical illnesses.

Native Americans are also disproportionately incarcerated and subject to higher levels of law enforcement activity.

In the United States, Native Americans are incarcerated at double the rate of the general population and quadruple the rate of white people.

In Billings, the largest city in Montana, only 5% of the population is Native American, yet they make up 27% of the arrests by the police department.

Like the estimated 29.5 million people in the United States who grapple with alcoholism, Ontequa has struggled to maintain her sobriety. She began drinking soon after her grandmother died in 2010. In addition to grieving the loss of her grandmother, a combination of problems deepend the hold alcohol had on her. Several people close to her died by suicide, which took a toll on her mental health. She also could not find full-time work. In 2017, Ontequa was first arrested for nonviolent offenses related to her substance use.

By 2022, Ontequa had begun to put her experiences with the justice system behind her. She was enrolled in college and was receiving straight A’s. One night, though, a celebratory drink led to several more and she found herself encountering law enforcement again. She was arrested and accused of resisting the orders of a peace officer.

After her arrests, Ontequa experienced a justice system that had changed dramatically over the past two centuries. With the establishment of reservations came designated Tribal Courts, which adjudicate cases related to criminal offenses that are alleged to have occurred on Tribal lands by Tribal members. There, Tribal leaders exercise their own methods of justice, with laws and procedures that fall somewhat outside the purview of the U.S. legal system. The Tribal Court system is bound by judiciary regulations that pertain to all courts in the country. They do have some flexibility to operate within traditional values and punishments, but are subject to an overriding federal authority.

The existence of Tribal justice does not exempt Native Americans from encountering the U.S. criminal justice system, however. When Native Americans are accused of crimes outside of Tribal lands, they are processed like anyone else in local, state, and federal courts.

Despite these jurisdictional differences, Tribal and state courts still have some similarities. When adjudicated in both courts, Native Americans are often mandated to adhere to strict court-ordered requirements, like treatment for addiction, curfews, abstinence from drugs and alcohol, and evaluations for mental health and chemical dependency. To comply with court orders, many Native Americans are forced to visit a limited number of social service providers that work on-reservation. However, these providers are often underfunded, creating staffing issues that lead to backlogs and inadequate treatment.

Another thing both courts have in common is cash bail.

For resisting the orders of a peace officer on the reservation, Ontequa was arrested and had bail set at $500, an amount she could not afford. She was detained in Tribal Jail where she was kept inside an 8-by-12 foot cell. “You don’t get outside time. You’re stuck in a little room,” Ontequa recalled. “It’s horrible. It makes you depressed. You feel ashamed. Guilty. Sad.”

Ontequa’s expressions of sadness, shame, and guilt are near-universal experiences for those who are detained pretrial. Though legally presumed innocent and approved for release by a judge, Ontequa remained incarcerated simply because she lacked the financial resources necessary to secure her release. In jail, separated from loved ones and community, her spirits declined. She felt hopeless.

Many people who are jailed because they cannot afford bail choose to plead guilty to the crimes they are charged with, even if they believe they are innocent of the charges. People take these guilty pleas so they can go home and escape the harmful and terrifying realities of incarceration. Many who accept these plea deals discount the fact that a criminal conviction may follow them for the rest of their life, sometimes barring them from access to social services, like student loans and housing.

“I have my family and kids at home. I can’t be here,” Ontequa said, recounting what she worried about while she was incarcerated. “I have school and I have work.”

Ontequa had defense counsel assigned through the Tribal Defenders Office, an organization that provides free legal support to people who are accused of crimes that occur on the reservation. The Tribal Defenders Officer deploys a more robust model of support than most traditional public defenders’ offices that is referred to as “holistic defense.” Through the holistic defense model, most clients are assigned to social workers who can help them address unmet needs and access supportive services.

Ontequa’s public defenders referred her case to The Bail Project and connected her to Cedar Creek, a treatment center that helps people overcome substance use disorders. When we learned Ontequa was incarcerated, we posted her bail. The Bail Project offers free bail assistance to uphold the presumption of innocence and protect people from making legal decisions that can follow them for years to come.

Once her bail was paid, Ontequa was able to return home. Her release lessened the pressure she felt to decide between taking a criminal conviction or pursuing a robust legal defense. Her chances to experience better case outcomes improved also: Research shows that when people are released pretrial, some have their cases dismissed, and those who don’t are less likely to take plea deals or to receive additional jail time if convicted.

Ontequa was thankful to The Bail Project and the opportunity to participate in the outpatient treatment program her public defender referred her to. She is committed to her recovery, despite a lot of turnover amongst the treatment counselors who’ve supported her. Like many communities across the United States, Flathead’s community-based supportive services that address unmet needs like substance use treatment are underfunded. Were community-based services more robustly provided, it’s possible that some of the issues that led to Ontequa’s justice-system involvement could have been prevented.

Since her release, Ontequa has been able to stabilize her life and return to her responsibilities as a student and a mother. Being connected to her family, community, and heritage has helped her maintain her sobriety. She credits much of her post-release success to her reconnection with her native language. She has a new job at the Blue Bay Campground and is participating in the Salish Language Apprentice Program, where she is doing her part to keep her native language alive. Whether she’s driving, in the shower, or taking care of her kids, she speaks the language out loud or in her head.

“I try to name everything I see in Salish and I play language games with my kids at home,” she says. “It’s really awesome to see my 3-year-old catch on so much. She’s way better than I am. It’s rewarding. I can only imagine how my grandmother felt when I was speaking with her.”

Ashley, 39, was nearly eight months pregnant when the Oklahoma City police approached her in early June 2021 while she withdrew cash from an ATM machine. The police asked her for ID and then told her there was an outstanding warrant for her arrest. Caught off guard, Ashley asked what charges had been filed against her. The police refused to answer, forcing her into handcuffs instead. 

“They just threw me on the ground,” Ashley said. “They didn’t care that I was pregnant.” 

The police took Ashley to jail, where she learned that charges had been filed against her for failing to appear in court on an open nonviolent misdemeanor charge. She had no idea she had missed her court date – she was just like the countless people who miss appointments because of scheduling mishaps. She was fingerprinted, booked into jail, and bail was set at $11,500, which she couldn’t afford. “I [was] on fixed income, I didn’t have the ability to pay,” she said. 

Ashley was placed in a cell on the jail’s medical floor with two other women – one who was pregnant and another who was visibly bleeding. Their cell was covered in feces. Ashley wasn’t given a mattress when she arrived, forced to sleep for several nights on the concrete floor even though she was pregnant. 

Ashley’s experience in Oklahoma County jail is not a one-off case. Health and safety problems have been ongoing at the facility for years. Since 2021, at least 30 people have died there, making it one of the deadliest correctional facilities in the country. The state’s health department and the National Institute of Corrections, a federal agency, published reports describing the poor conditions of the housing units, where, like Ashley, others were not provided bedding in compliance with department standards. 

“It was scary,” Ashley said. “I wouldn’t treat an animal this way, let alone a pregnant person.”

Many of the people at the jail, like Ashley, were subjected to inhumane and inhospitable living conditions simply because they couldn’t afford to pay bail amounts set against them. This outraged her. “I saw women stuck in jail because they don’t have money,” she said.“The system needs to be changed. People need to know.”

Women are the fastest-growing segment of the incarcerated population in America. There are more than 2 million women jailed across America – and a majority have been charged with nonviolent crimes. 80% of them are mothers. Of the women who are jailed each year, 3%, or about 55,000, are pregnant. To make matters worse, few jails have policies and procedures in place for expectant mothers. Many incarcerated women struggle to see medical professionals, let alone receive proper prenatal care or treatment for high-risk pregnancies. In many ways, Black mothers and pregnant women are disproportionately impacted and carry the brunt of this crisis. They are already more economically disadvantaged, face greater health inequities, and are incarcerated at higher rates than white women. 

Prior to being incarcerated Ashley had an apartment, was enrolled in school and worked a steady job as a manager at a liquor store. She had been incarcerated for three weeks when The Bail Project received a referral for Ashley. We interviewed her and paid her bail so she could be released. By that time, however, Ashley had lost her job and her apartment. Homeless, with nowhere to go, and eight months pregnant, Ashley slept in her car. 

The instability Ashley faced post-release is an example of how the cash bail system harms vulnerable groups. At the time, Ashley was a part of a population of people who policymakers commonly refer to as “high utilizers” – these are people who are repeatedly charged with nonviolent misdemeanors and cycle in and out of jail quickly. The short jail stays are incredibly destabilizing, often affecting housing, employment, and physical and mental health.  

Ashley’s intermittent experiences in the jail were also, in large part, due to extensive case filing delays in Oklahoma City. In Ashley’s case, the same day she was released from jail, the state filed a new case against her for allegedly violating a protective order by making phone calls to her brother’s girlfriend. Nine days later, Ashley was rearrested, sent to jail again, and she was released on bail again. Two months after that, and by then nearly nine months pregnant, Ashley was rearrested a third time for allegedly obstructing an officer for the incident that occurred outside of the ATM. For that charge, her bail was set at $500, which she couldn’t afford. She worried she would have her baby in jail. When The Bail Project learned Ashley had been rearrested and was being held on a few hundred dollars, we paid her bail again. 

Ashley was thankful to be able to have her child in a hospital, rather than in jail. However, she was still without a place to live. Often, transitional housing is not available due to inadequate funding and extremely high demand. “We slept in a car …for a few weeks after I got out of the hospital,” Ashley said. “Then we went to a shelter.”  The stress of her situation negatively impacted her mental health and she knew she needed more support.She sought out therapists at community clinics that provided services at a reduced cost, but they told her they were not accepting new patients and put her on a year-long waiting list. Through it all, The Bail Project supported her in court by providing text reminders. Afterwards, Ashley made it to every single future court appearance. 

Ashley struggled to find a job. “It’s hard to get a job when you get out of jail. It makes it harder for people not to go back to drugs or whatever you did before,” Ashley said. “There needs to be more opportunities for people than just locking them up. A lot of women have postpartum depression and mental health problems. This needs to be addressed.” She’s not wrong about the systemic issues: almost half of all Black women released from prison or jail are unemployed. “I’ve been through so much in my life and I could go on and be bitter and angry at the world, or I could keep going, ” Ashley said. “I just want people to know, as a person who has been abused, as a person who has lost everything in my life, if we still have breath, we have time.” 

In October 2022, Ashley agreed to take a plea bargain so she could put the present situation behind her. She was sentenced to a fine of $230 and served no additional jail time. Despite these most recent setbacks, Ashley is proud of how far she has come. On a recent afternoon in March, Ashley was sitting in her new apartment watching cartoons with her now one-year-old baby girl. 

“I own my truck. And I take care of my one-year-old. I have my own house,” Ashley said. “I’ve been trying hard to get myself together. I learned that you need to try to be your best self. Sometimes you can’t depend on anyone else. I haven’t been in any trouble since I got released.

“I’m grateful to wake up every day. I’m grateful that I have my daughter. I’ve struggled so much, but I’ve come so far.”  

Reverend Charles Tinsley is a minister and juvenile justice advocate. Over the last five decades, he’s spoken to hundreds of incarcerated youth, listening to their struggles, learning about the challenges they’ve overcome, and supporting their goals. For 24 of these years, Rev. Tinsley helped youth in juvenile detention facilities apply to colleges, find jobs, and advocated on their behalf in court. For him, it’s not just a profession – it’s personal: he legally adopted two children and serves as a surrogate parent to countless others, many of whom are without loving parents. 

In 2005, when Rev. Tinsley was working as chaplain of Contra Costa County’s Juvenile Hall, he was introduced to Ryan, a 17-year-old resident of a nearby juvenile mental health care facility.  Ryan had been placed in foster care as an infant after his mother, who battled drug addiction, was incarcerated and lost custody of him. Over the next 18 years, Rev. Tinsley supported Ryan in any way he could. He paid for his college tuition, housing, and found him a job. In doing so, Ryan felt a sense of belonging. 

Despite these achievements, Ryan’s painful childhood memories and mental health symptoms overshadowed his judgment, causing him legal problems. Rev. Tinsley despaired as he watched Ryan become justice-involved after becoming an adult. He tried to advocate for Ryan’s release and reduced sentences, but with limited money and access to resources there were limits to how much one person could do. “I love Ryan as a son and I want what is the very best for him,” Rev. Tinsley said in a letter to a judge. “I maintain time spent in a mental health care facility could potentially be more beneficial for him, and for the community, than in a jail where treatment is beyond the institution’s scope.” 

Rev. Tinsley soon realized that Ryan was the most work-intensive individual he ever cared for. In order to help him, Rev. Tinsley would need the support of his community, network of givers, and nonprofit organizations, such as The Bail Project. This experience not only deepened Rev. Tinsley’s commitment to cash bail reform, but also reaffirmed his belief in the positive role charitable bail funds have in communities.  

“The criminal justice system takes advantage of people who don’t have the social bandwidth to take them on. There’s people who are incarcerated that could be easily [released] if they had the money,” Rev. Tinsley said.

“Many people in my network have been helping me from the very beginning. I still use that network today.”

In the late 1980s, Rev. Tinsley recognized that incarcerated youth face many disparities that he understood to be the result of significant underfunding of critical supportive services for populations and communities most in need. To address gaps he saw, and recognizing the additional assistance he could provide as a faith-based leader, Rev. Tinsley went to work  establishing partnerships with other faith-based leaders and social service providers so that together they could form a tapestry of care: Where government services struggled to meet these needs, the community would step in to help people, including those who were released pretrial get access to the services they needed most. His wide-reaching network of volunteers paid tens of thousands of dollars for food, housing, clothes, eyeglasses, and college scholarships. Many of the volunteers he worked with also provided community service opportunities for formerly incarcerated youth. Unwilling to abandon people who had become justice-involved, those in Rev. Tinsley’s network welcomed them into their homes to meet with friendly people interested in providing care and community support.  

According to Rev. Tinsley, some of the most vulnerable adolescents he helped raise were individuals like Ryan, who grew up in foster care because either one or both parents were incarcerated. There are an estimated 5 million children in the United States with at least one incarcerated parent. The impacts of parental incarceration on life outcomes is stark: many experience lower educational attainment and higher dropout rates; many struggle with post-traumatic stress disorder and other behavioral difficulties; they also face a greater likelihood that they will become justice-involved themselves at some point in the future.

The disadvantages imposed upon children and adolescents with incarcerated parents is compounded by foster care placements, where they are commonly subjected to mistreatment and neglect. Foster care placement alone, without parental incarceration, has significant impacts on a child’s future outcomes and success. Ryan spent a significant portion of his childhood in group homes throughout Marin County, CA, where he was subjected to physical and emotional abuse. “Sometimes I was hit,” Ryan said. “You saw grown adults restraining kids. They had padded rooms where they strapped you to the bed if you acted out. My first time in one was when I was eight-years-old.” Doctors diagnosed Ryan with bipolar disorder and PTSD, which is not uncommon for children who grow up in foster care or who have incarcerated parents. 

Ryan’s teen years included institutions as well. When he was 17, he was placed in a juvenile mental health care facility in Contra Costa County, CA. As a minor, he lacked the legal authority to leave on his own. With his mother incarcerated, and few family members to care for him, Ryan existed without the type of kinship care people sometimes take for granted. “I was in the start of severe depression. I had a complete loss of hope of any kind [for a] happy future,” Ryan recalled. “I was so used to people abandoning me.” He worried about what his future would look like, but he knew one thing – as soon as he turned 18 and was considered an adult, he’d leave the facility. 

Rev. Tinsley was asked by the assistant director of the juvenile facility to meet with Ryan a few months before his 18th birthday. “I began to speak with him on a regular basis about the idea of going away to college, about what he might wish to do with his life,” Tinsley recalled. Those conversations resulted in Tinsley covering the costs of Ryan’s tuition at a community college in Oroville, CA. Later, Ryan applied and was accepted to Knoxville College, a four-year historically Black liberal arts college in Knoxville, TN, where Ryan could pursue a bachelor’s degree. 

Many academics consider educational attainment and employment both to be stabilizing factors that prevent criminal justice involvement. Unfortunately, the upward trajectory of Ryan’s academic career wasn’t enough to provide the stability he needed: he struggled with the symptoms of his bipolar disorder and PTSD, and was kicked out of college after an alleged altercation. After his expulsion, he had difficulty holding jobs. Without school or a job, Ryan’s legal troubles began. For the better part of the next decade, he cycled in and out of jail, where on several occasions, he was placed in solitary confinement, which is known to be especially harmful to people who have been diagnosed with serious mental illness.

Rev. Tinsley worried about Ryan’s well-being behind bars. He wrote more than a dozen letters to prosecutors, judges, sheriff’s departments, and district attorneys advocating for Ryan’s release and pleading that incarceration for him was not only unnecessary, it was also unsafe and detrimental to his future stability. Rev. Tinsley had other religious leaders write letters for Ryan, too. Despite their efforts, Ryan remained incarcerated. “Stories of torture and death, at the hands of fellow inmates and guards abound and are numerous,” Rev. Tinsley wrote of Ryan in a 2014 letter to Marin County’s district attorney. “I do believe that sending him to prison is tantamount to signing a warrant for his death.” 

In 2018, Rev. Tinsley retired from his work with the Juvenile Hall and moved to southwest Ohio, where he currently serves as chaplain for National Church Residences. A few years later, Ryan, who was now in his early 30s, decided to follow and moved to Montgomery County, Ohio, at Rev. Tinsley’s suggestion. About a month after arriving, police called Ryan and said there was a warrant out for his arrest. Ryan was still on probation and busy settling in his new apartment. He was surprised and figured it must be a mistake. It wasn’t. 

On October 7, 2021, Ryan was arrested and booked into Hamilton County jail. His bail was set at $25,000. Inside jail, Ryan’s mental health took a turn for the worse and correctional staff decided to place him in a solitary cell. There were no windows or clocks. He was allowed outside for only a few hours each day. Ryan was deprived of food and felt claustrophobic. “Being in isolation makes a person’s mental health worse,” Ryan said. “I was losing weight and I kept telling [the correctional officers]. After the [nurse] looked at my chart they finally realized I was right and they suddenly showed up with 10 apples.”  

Ryan said he considered filing a complaint, but ultimately decided against it. “All you can do is write grievances and see if they do an internal investigation,” he said. “But that never goes anywhere. It’s impossible to hold someone accountable.”  

Despite the lack of appropriate mental health care in correctional facilities, America’s jails and prisons have become the de-facto healthcare providers for people incarcerated with mental illnesses.  Approximately 44% of people incarcerated in jails — or about 2 in five people — have been diagnosed with a mental illness. Without enough state hospital beds or community-based care options, nearly two-thirds of people with mental illnesses in jails fail to receive proper medical treatment. Unable to advocate for themselves or effectively express their needs, this vulnerable segment of the incarcerated population are trapped behind bars with no access to the outside world. 

“When I found out what happened to Ryan, that’s when I contacted The Bail Project’s office. I met with Jeremy Page and took him out to lunch,” Rev. Tinsley said, referring to The Bail Project’s Operations Manager for Ohio. “I was quite impressed with him. I was immediately supportive. ” 

After interviewing Ryan, The Bail Project paid his bail and he was released from jail. Ryan received free Lyft rides to and from court to help ensure that he could easily attend his future court appearances. The Bail Project’s staff also referred him to social service providers so he could see a doctor and therapist. Over a year later, Ryan’s case was finally resolved – prosecutors dropped his charges due to lack of evidence.  

Rev. Tinsley sensed a certain synchronicity in the timing of his learning about The Bail Project and Ryan’s incarceration. Every day, across the United States, there is someone incarcerated simply because they cannot afford to pay the bail amounts set against them. Approximately one out of every three clients The Bail Project serves are like Ryan – their cases are ultimately dismissed after some period of incarceration that occurs because bail is set at amounts they cannot afford. Had Rev. Tinsley and The Bail Project not intervened, Ryan would have remained incarcerated unnecessarily for a year simply because he could not pay the bail amount set against him. Ryan would have lost his apartment, car, and job painting houses.  

On days when Rev. Tinsley worries his goals seem out of reach, he reminds himself of the promise held by organization’s like The Bail Project to show up in unexpected ways to support people in their communities. “Having hope and being able to bounce back from these experiences is important,” Rev. Tinsley said. “There also needs to be accountability. So much has been done to Ryan. It is unjust.”