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Tag: Richardson

  • A woman died after an L.A. rehab closed last year. Why was it forced to shut down in the first place?

    A woman died after an L.A. rehab closed last year. Why was it forced to shut down in the first place?

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    Jasmine Richardson had been struggling with methamphetamine and fentanyl addiction for more than a decade, but she got sober after completing a six-month program at the Teen Project’s Freehab center on Sunland Boulevard in Sun Valley.

    That was right around Thanksgiving last year, and it was the first time the 33-year-old had been clean in years. Still, she wasn’t ready to leave the Freehab just yet; homeless since 2020, she wanted to spend at least a year in the 74-bed rehab facility before finding temporary housing. Then she hoped to move her teenage son up to L.A. to live with her, and to pursue her dream of becoming a veterinarian tech.

    All of that was cut short Dec. 4, when the Los Angeles City Fire Department shut down the facility over what it said were building and fire code violations, officials said. The group of 43 women, whose ranks included survivors of human trafficking, substance abuse and homelessness, had a few hours to pack up their belongings and find a new place to stay.

    Richardson’s mother, Janet Dooley, picked her up from Freehab and brought her back to Dooley’s home in Huntington Beach. Eight days later, Dooley found her daughter dead from an overdose of meth and fentanyl.

    Jasmine Richardson when she was attending middle school in Montana in the 2000s.

    (Janet Dooley)

    “I believe that if the place hadn’t closed,” Dooley said, “she’d still be alive today.”

    More than six months after the closure, questions about why it was forced to shut down are at the forefront of a lawsuit filed by the Teen Project, the nonprofit that operated the Freehab, against A&E Development Co., the facility’s landlord. The nonprofit alleges that A&E breached its lease and failed to maintain conditions that adhered to building codes, regulations, permits and ordinances, resulting in the rehab’s shutdown.

    The organization is seeking at least $5 million in damages.

    On a GoFundMe page created to raise money for a new treatment facility, the Teen Project blamed its landlord’s “refusal to ensure building’s upkeep” and the Fire Department’s “unwillingness to compromise, and exerting their power, even if it cost our girls their lives.”

    According to safety violation notices from the L.A. City Fire Department obtained by The Times, the Freehab had been ordered multiple times since at least September to get a fire permit to operate a residential care facility, hire fire watch personnel, install automatic fire sprinklers throughout the building and obtain a valid permit for the fire door connecting the Freehab and the adjacent building.

    The organization was notified via both email and mailed letters addressed to the Sun Valley facility, according to the notices.

    The alleged safety issues apparently go back even further. According to Fox 11, LAFD Assistant Fire Chief Kristine Larson told the Freehab’s staff in December: “In 2020, this building was required to have sprinklers, and it does not have sprinklers; therefore, it is unsafe to be occupied for overnight use.”

    Lauri Burns, executive officer of the Teen Project, said via email that she found out about the alleged violations a week before the closure.

    “They said they weren’t shutting us down and they would give us ample time to fix things, and then they returned one week later and shut us down without notice,” Burns added.

    Burns said after learning about the violations, the Freehab complied with nearly all of the requirements and paid around $7,000 a week to have a fire watch on-site at all hours. She said they weren’t able to install sprinklers because that process would take at least a month and require permits and inspections.

    Case Manager Priscilla Nunez helps put together items in the dining area of the new Teen Project facility.

    Case manager Priscilla Nunez helps put together items in the dining area of the new Teen Project facility in April in Van Nuys.

    (Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

    In its Jan. 31 lawsuit, the Teen Project alleges that A&E failed to address rat and maggot infestations at the Freehab, ignored unauthorized trailers and homelessness in the Freehab’s shared parking lot and didn’t repay the Teen Project for replacing HVAC systems and other amenities.

    Because of A&E’s “inability to provide a useable/safe space to lease for its intended purpose,” the lawsuit states, the Freehab was forced to shut down.

    “The residents under The Teen Project’s care were traumatically displaced from their safety net, and horrifically resulted in the relapse and death of a young woman only a few days later,” according to the lawsuit.

    In court papers, A&E disavowed responsibility for the shuttering of the Freehab, saying “the facts and the law are clear that the A&E is not responsible for ensuring the Premises could be used as a rehab facility.” A&E argued that the Teen Project “voluntarily vacated” the Freehab after the Fire Department and the California Department of Health Care Services revoked permits to operate the rehab facility.

    After the Freehab’s shutdown, A&E said, it received a notice from the Teen Project demanding that A&E bring the Freehab up to code. But according to A&E, the lease required it to fix problems only if they were raised within six months of the start of the lease. The Teen Project terminated its lease on Jan. 19 after the conditions to operate the Freehab weren’t met.

    The LAFD said in a Dec. 5 statement after the Freehab’s closure that the agency “will continue to provide guidance to the building owner and lessee regarding required compliance with the fire violations and change-of-use permits to ensure the safety and security of the tenants and the property.”

    “The California Department of Health Care Services is responsible for ensuring this type of facility is in compliance with the fire code and questions regarding the status of this facility’s license to operate should be directed to them,” according to the statement. “They are also responsible for rehousing any displaced residents.”

    LAFD spokesperson Karla Tovar said that a fire code change in 2020 required sprinklers in the type of building that housed the Freehab. The alleged violations were found during a fire inspection and “much research was done with many other agencies before the facility was closed,” she said.

    In response to the Teen Project’s allegation that LAFD’s actions somehow contributed to the overdose death of one of the Freehab’s clients, Tovar said in an emailed statement:

    “The LAFD is committed to preserving life, protecting property, and safeguarding our communities. Ensuring that buildings operate according to fire and life safety regulations is a matter we take seriously for residents, patrons, employees, and owners.”

    A spokesperson from the California Department of Health Care Services confirmed that the Freehab was deemed noncompliant with the fire code. The agency said it was able to get 32 of the 43 women into other treatment centers across L.A. However, Richardson told them she wanted to go home to be with her son, her mother said.

    The Teen Project, whose name was born out of “teenagers exiting foster care to homelessness and trafficking,” according to Burns, opened a new facility in June called the Van Nuys Sanctuary. At least 10 of the women who stayed at the Freehab reached out and asked if they could get a spot at the new center, according to Teen Project program director Melissa Coons.

    “They have a safe place to be and we really try to make this place look like a home versus an institution,” she said. “We’re really excited to get back to helping the girls in the community.”

    Richardson’s problems began in middle school, when she became depressed and started self-medicating with marijuana, Dooley said. It snowballed after she turned 18, when her father died and she later turned to meth. Richardson, her ex-boyfriend and her son lived with Dooley until well into the pandemic, when Dooley said she had to evict them.

    A woman stands next to a twin bed

    Yesenia Sanchez was in the Teen Project program for substance abuse and now works as a cook at the new facility.

    (Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

    “Things got worse and worse, and I had to get them out because I couldn’t live like that,” Dooley added.

    After the Freehab closed, Richardson didn’t know what to do. According to her mother, she thought about going to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. She texted employees from the Teen Project to see if she could get into temporary housing.

    On Dec. 11, Dooley dropped Richardson off near the courthouse to handle a legal matter but didn’t hear from her for a few hours. Richardson came home late and said she had been with friends. Dooley got up for work around 3 a.m., and when she came home five hours later, she discovered that Richardson had overdosed.

    “Jasmine was incredibly upset and scared” when the Freehab closed, Coons said. “Originally, she wanted to stay with us for a year, and she never really wavered from that.”

    Tom Wolf, a recovering fentanyl and heroin addict who founded the Pacific Alliance for Prevention and Recovery, said that structure and routine are especially important in early recovery. Significant emotional events, such as a death in the family, job loss or a breakup can result in relapse.

    “These folks were displaced, and even if they were offered shelter or housing in another program, they were displaced from friendships, the support systems and the structure of that specific program,” he said. “If you take all of those things away at once from someone after years of homelessness, it would be easy to go back onto the street and buy fentanyl for $5 and relapse.”

    Yesenia Sanchez, 31, struggled with addiction to alcohol, but she has been sober for more than two years after completing the Freehab’s six-month program. She started out as an intern in the kitchen before becoming a full-time cook at the facility.

    She wasn’t working the day the Freehab was forced to shut down, but once she heard about the closure, she scrambled to help the women find other places to stay. Some of them, she said, had to go back to living on the streets.

    “That was really hard because those were the girls we were helping every day, and we just didn’t have enough time,” she said.

    Casey Anderson, another former Freehab client, relapsed almost immediately after the facility closed down. Anderson first started abusing Ritalin as a teenager before getting addicted to meth. She was homeless for more than a year and slept in various parks in Lancaster before deciding she needed to get help.

    Casey Anderson

    Casey Anderson outside her sponsor’s home in Simi Valley.

    (Michael Blackshire / Los Angeles Times)

    Anderson started living at the Freehab in June 2023 and was two weeks away from completing her program when the facility closed.

    “It was heartbreaking,” she said. “We all felt safe. We all felt like we had a place to go and then all of a sudden, it was taken from us.”

    Anderson didn’t think she would need to go into another program after the Freehab’s closure. Instead, she reverted to living with her parents in Lancaster and quickly got hooked on drugs again. In early April, she contacted one of the program directors from the Teen Project to get on the waiting list for the new Van Nuys facility, where she moved June 6. There were eight women in the program as of June 25.

    She is sober again and is hoping to get back to pursuing her dream of becoming a preschool teacher. In the meantime, she recently got a job working as a registered alcohol and drug technician.

    “I thought I was ready to leave, but I wasn’t,” Anderson said. “I only had two weeks left, but it turns out I actually needed more. I probably would’ve known that if we had more time to work on it.”

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    Summer Lin

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  • Miss Pasta: A Numerical Pasta Party

    Miss Pasta: A Numerical Pasta Party

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    Someone sent us a social media post about Miss Pasta, a newish restaurant with a unique concept from chef Giuliano Matarese, formerly at Mille Lire: Fresh house-made pasta with regional sauces made from scratch served in a fast-casual manner. They had us at pasta, of course, so we ventured out for a high-carb lunch recently…

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    Hank Vaughn

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  • Icon Patti LuPone Shares ‘A Life in Notes’ in Masterful Eisemann Center Show

    Icon Patti LuPone Shares ‘A Life in Notes’ in Masterful Eisemann Center Show

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    “Music is a gift, and has a power to crystallize a moment,” said a breathless Patti LuPone on Saturday night, moments after sweeping onto the Eisemann Center’s Hill Performance Hall stage, on the receiving end of the first of many standing ovations. “This is my life in music — so far.”…

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    Preston Jones

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  • Singer, Rapper and Instrumentalist Ravs Takes Her Own Independent Time

    Singer, Rapper and Instrumentalist Ravs Takes Her Own Independent Time

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    Whatever the circumstances, singer, rapper and instrumentalist Ravs is going to make shit happen. Born and raised Amanda Bongiovanni in Richardson, Ravs says her love of music began when she “came out the womb.” At 29, she has carved her own musical pathway, finally doing what she has always set out to do…

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    Alex Gonzalez

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  • A Politician Who Loved Being Courted

    A Politician Who Loved Being Courted

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    Every so often, someone asks me who my favorite politicians to write about over the years have been. I always place Bill Richardson, the longtime congressman and former governor of New Mexico, near the top of my list. I once mentioned this to Richardson himself.

    “How high on the list?” he immediately wanted to know. “Top 10? Top three? I get competitive, you know.”

    Richardson died in his sleep on Friday, at age 75. I will miss covering this man, the two-term Democratic governor, seven-term congressman, United Nations ambassador, energy secretary, crisis diplomat, occasional mischief magnet, and freelance hostage negotiator who even holds the Guinness World Record for the politician who’s shaken the most hands—13,392—in an eight-hour period.

    “Make sure you mention that Guinness World Record thing,” Richardson urged me the first time I wrote about him, in 2003. “The handshake record is important to me.”

    Why? I asked. “Because it shows that I love politics,” he replied. “And I do love politics. I love to campaign. I love parades. I don’t believe I’m pretentious. I’m very earthy.”

    But why was the fact that he loved politics important?

    “Because I’m sick of all these politicians these days who are always trying to convince you that they are not really politicians,” Richardson went on. I had noticed this phenomenon as well, and it holds up: that the slickest and most unctuous people you encounter in politics are often the ones who spend the most energy trying to convince you they hate politics and are in fact “not professional politicians.”

    “I don’t mind being called a ‘professional politician,’” Richardson added. “It’s better than being an amateur, right?”

    Richardson was an original. Born to a Mexican mother and an American businessman, he spent much of his childhood in Mexico City and identified strongly as Latino. He served as chair of the Congressional Hispanic Caucus in the 1980s and was the only Latino governor in America during his two terms in Santa Fe. Richardson spoke often about how his dual ethnic and cultural identities placed him in advantageous and sometimes awkward positions—“between worlds” (which he’d use as the title of his 2005 memoir).

    His identities also placed Richardson in big demand as probably the most prominent Latino elected official in the country at the time. He absolutely loved being in big demand, and was milking his coveted status as much as possible when I first encountered him. That September, all of the 2004 Democratic candidates for president—John Kerry, Howard Dean, John Edwards, etc.—were straining to pay respects to Richardson after a debate in Albuquerque.

    I was working for the Washington Post Style section at the time, and I found Richardson’s full-frontal “love of the game” quite winning. He was over-the-top and unabashed about the enjoyment he derived from the parade of candidates coming before him. “It’s fun to get your ring kissed,” Richardson told me that night, though he might not have said ring.

    We were walking into a post-debate reception for another candidate, Senator Joe Lieberman. Like most of the Democratic VIPs in Albuquerque that night, Lieberman was an old friend of Richardson’s; they’d worked together on the 1992 Democratic Party platform committee.

    “I wore this to curry favor with you,” Lieberman told Richardson, pointing to a New Mexico pin on his jacket. “You also saw that I spoke a little Spanish in [the debate].”

    “I thought that was Yiddish,” Richardson said. Lieberman then got everyone’s attention and offered a toast to El Jefe.

    Richardson let me ride around with him in the back of his SUV while he tried to hit post-debate receptions for all of the candidates. I noted that he’d instructed the state police driver to keep going faster and faster on Interstate 40—the vehicle hit 110 miles an hour at one point. When I mentioned the triple-digit speed in my story, it caused a bit of a controversy in New Mexico. Ralph Nader made a stink. (“If he will do this with a reporter in the car,” Nader said, according to the Associated Press, “what will they do when there’s no reporter in the car?”)

    The next time I saw Richardson, a few months later, he shook his head at me and tried to deny that the vehicle was going 110.  I held my ground.

    “Oh, whatever. Fuck it,” Richardson said. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

    Richardson ran for president in 2008, but he quit after finishing fourth in both Iowa and New Hampshire. I had since moved on to The New York Times and used to run into him on the campaign circuit. A few weeks after he dropped out, I went down to Santa Fe to interview him about the lengths that the two remaining Democratic candidates—Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton—were going to in an attempt to win his endorsement. Another Bill Richardson primary! What could be more fun?

    “Oh, the full-court press is on like you wouldn’t believe,” he told me. The “political anthropology” of this was quite interesting too, he added. “Barack is very precise,” like a “surgical bomb,” Richardson said. “The Clintons are more like a carpet bomb.” He relished my interest in the pursuit of him.

    “I want to make it clear that I’m not annoyed by any of this,” Richardson said of the repeated overtures he was getting from the candidates and their various emissaries. I quoted him saying this in the Times, but not what I said in response to him in the moment: “No shit, governor.”

    I’ll admit that the notion of a pol who loves the game seems quite at odds with the tenor of politics today. People now routinely toss out phrases like our democracy is at stake and existential threat to America, and it’s not necessarily overheated. Fun? Not so much.

    But thinking about Richardson makes me nostalgic for campaigns and election nights that did not feel so much like political Russian roulette. Presidency or prison? Suspend the Constitution or preserve it? Let’s face it: Death threats, mug shots, insurrections, and white supremacists are supreme buzzkills.

    Richardson made it clear to me that he’d loved running for president—it was one of the best times of his life, he said—and he missed the experience of it almost as soon as he got out. But what he really wanted was, you know, the job. “I would have been a good president,” he said in Santa Fe in 2008. “I still believe that. Please put that in there, okay?”

    If nothing else, the Clinton-Obama courtship was a nice cushion for Richardson as he tried to ease back into life in the relative quiet of his governor’s office. It also, he said, might get him a gig in the next administration. Richardson was 60 at the time and said he envisioned “a few more chapters” for himself in public life. Richardson told me he would have loved to be someone’s running mate or secretary of state.

    “I’m not pining for it, and if it doesn’t happen, I’ve had a great life,” he told me. “I’m at peace with myself.”

    He wound up endorsing Obama, who, after he was elected, nominated Richardson to be his secretary of commerce—only to have Richardson withdraw over allegations of improper business dealings as governor (no charges were filed).

    Richardson devoted the last stage of his career to his work as a troubleshooting diplomat and crisis negotiator. He would speak to thugs or warlords, drop into the most treacherous sectors of the globe—North Korea, Myanmar—if he thought it might help secure the release of a hostage.  Among the many tributes to Richardson this past weekend from the highest levels (Joe Biden, Obama, the Clintons), I was struck most by the ones from some of the people who knew directly the ordeals he worked to end: the basketball star Brittney Griner and the Washington Post journalist Jason Rezaian, who called Richardson “a giant—the first giant—in American hostage diplomacy.”

    The last time I saw Richardson was a few years ago, in the pre-pandemic Donald Trump years—maybe 2018 or 2019. We had breakfast at the Hay-Adams hotel, near the White House. I remember asking him what he called himself those days, what he considered his current job title to be.

    Richardson shrugged. “‘Humanitarian,’ maybe?” he said. But he worried that it sounded pretentious.

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    Mark Leibovich

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