It’s a rainy, grey winter morning, and Representative Lauren Davis is trying to get into her parking spot at the state capitol, while also attending a Zoom meeting on drug policy.
"I’m horrible at parallel parking, by the way," she says, looking at her blind spots.
It’s day one of the 2024 Washington legislative session, which leadership have declared will be focused heavily on fentanyl. Preliminary reports from 2023 show drug deaths are rising faster in Oregon and Washington than anywhere in the country.
Davis is one of the many Washingtonians who lost someone fighting addiction last year: Her best friend, Ricky Klausmeyer-Garcia. She’s thinking of him right now because he taught her to parallel park. Badly.
"I can only get into my legislative parking stall because of Ricky," Davis says, unbuckling her seat belt, "although he would be ashamed at my skill set. But we did alright this morning."
They met when they were teens, working together at a preschool in Issaquah. In his early 20s, Klausmeyer-Garcia got a DUI, so Davis drove them everywhere. Klausmeyer-Garcia would DJ. He loved country and Latin music.
Their song was 'Invierno' by Reik. She mentioned it in her speech at his funeral.
This was around the time Klausmeyer-Garcia was drinking more, and using benzodiazepines — a potentially deadly mix. Davis tried to get him help, but in Washington, getting someone into treatment – even when they want it – is very hard.
One report last year found less than a third of Washingtonians who went to a hospital for substance use treatment got a follow-up call within 30 days – worse than Idaho, Oregon or California.
"I remember Lauren would constantly tell me," Klausmeyer-Garcia told KNKX in 2018, "'when we get to the ER, to just tell them you're suicidal.' So they won't let you go. And at times, I would have to do that. Even though those times I wasn't really suicidal. I mean, I just had to say that so I could get some sort of help."
His experience inspired Davis and other advocates and lawmakers to pass 'Ricky's Law,' a way to involuntarily commit someone with serious addiction issues.
At the time, it was a good story — something all too rare in the dark world of American drug policy. Getting Ricky’s Law passed inspired Davis to run for the legislature (she represents Shoreline, Lynnwood and Mountlake Terrace) and pass more legislation around behavioral health in the last five years.
But today, the first day of session in January, is different. The last time Davis was at the state capitol was the day Klausmeyer-Garcia died in May of last year.
Davis says she’s still in the first stage of grief: Denial. Instead of dealing with his death, she’s trying to fix one of the things she says led up to it: He was expelled from treatment.
On the House floor, Davis spots Republican Dan Griffey. Davis is a Democrat, but they’re friends.
"I'm looking for some sponsors on this bad boy. I'm trying to drop this today," Davis says.
"What is it?" Griffey asks.
Davis pulls up the blue sheet and explains. The bill does many things, but the first thing is:
"A lot of our substance use disorder providers are kicking people out of inpatient treatment for various — what I consider frivolous — reasons," Davis tells Griffey, "like sharing shampoo, passing a note, talking to somebody of the opposite sex outside of group. Ricky, before he died got kicked out of two separate facilities for very stupid reasons."
It is possible, Davis said later, that Klausmeyer-Garcia left the first facility against medical advice and the facility wouldn't readmit him. The second one ejected him because he had COVID, according to Davis.
Mere weeks later, he was admitted to the treatment facility where he died. None of the treatment providers responded to calls or emails from KNKX.
Kicked out of treatment
Terminations like this from treatment are poorly tracked, but likely common, and one study last year found that nationwide, people of color were more likely to get kicked out than white people.
Madeline Stenersen was lead author of the study at Saint Louis University. She’s also worked on the front lines of community behavioral health.
"What we used to do, and what we still do, to a certain extent, is blame and shame groups that are not succeeding in substance use treatment, right?" Stenersen said. "'Well, they're just not getting it... they could be trying harder, right? And those are obviously rooted in systemic racism and sexism."
At KNKX’s request, Stenersen analyzed Washington state’s treatment data. She found in 2021, of about 1500 trips through Washington state’s residential treatment system, 8% ended with the patient getting kicked out.
In Texas, where way more people go through treatment, far fewer are kicked out — less than 3%. In California it was only 0.1%. Some experts have cast doubt on the reliability of the data Stenersen used, but a spokesperson for the Washington state Healthcare Authority called the data reasonably accurate and representative in an email.
Davis’ bill would make providers report their ejections – and also the reasons for them.
Inside a treatment facility
On a recent Friday, Brian Bononi opened the door to go into the living unit in the mens' residential treatment facility he manages in Mount Vernon. It's run by a nonprofit called Evergreen Recovery Centers.
A little sign next to the door said ‘Welcome to Recovery.’ As he walked through the dining hall, two men were playing dice for cigarettes.
"What are you guys doin’? Stop doin’ that," he said, grinning as they giggled. "You're kidding — I know you're kidding. Stop it."
A prank, he said: Gambling is against the rules. But down the hall is another, smaller room where someone would come if they actually violated the rules. He pointed to two cameras.
"There's checks and balances, right?" Bononi said. The "frivolous" ejections Davis is talking about?
"Doesn’t happen here."
Bononi said staff only remove people who are risks to health and safety or repeatedly break the rules. Racism and homophobia are not allowed.
While he wouldn’t share how many people they dismiss, he said it’s lower than the 8% state average from 2021.
"I don't see a problem having to report," Bononi said, "other than more paperwork to an already overworked, underpaid, inundated industry."
Davis said the industry is underfunded, but the final version of the bill also removes some paperwork burdens.
The story's ending
The bill died in the Washington state House, but Davis managed to get its contents into a state senate bill that was signed by the governor in March.
Klausmeyer-Garcia’s family, and his dog Otis, were at the signing. The governor thanked them for their leadership as Otis whined.
Davis stood behind the Garcia family, wearing the same dress she wore in 2016 to the signing of Ricky’s Law. Even now, she’s still in denial that her best friend is not here.
"Even at the bill signing, you asked me, like, how am I feeling? And the actual answer, I think, is nothing," Davis said in April, just a little before the one-year anniversary of Klausmeyer-Garcia's death on May 16.
"I feel numb, because I can't allow myself to experience the pain of his loss, nor the joy, or relief, or whatever you want to call it, of that legislation," she said, eyes tearing up. "So I am just basically, like, putting my head down and doing what I do know how to do well, which is legislating and policy work."
The work she feels she must do, so that Klausmeyer-Garcia's story is not just one about a man failed by the behavioral health system — but someone whose death inspired improvements.
It won't be easy. The state has struggled with implementing Ricky's Law: A little less than half the beds for involuntary drug detox went unused from October 2022 to last September because of staffing issues, among other things.
But Davis is still prepping more bills based on Klausmeyer-Garcia’s experiences, and the experiences of others. The other stages of grief will come. And she said one nice thing about going to Olympia each winter for a couple months of legislating: it’s a blur. The winter passes before you know it.
Kind of like her and Klausmeyer-Garcia’s song, "Invierno," which means "winter." The chorus and a rough translation go like this:
Se cae el cielo y, ¿qué más da?
Tenemos nuestro mundo
El día sigue siendo azul
Si estamos juntos
No importa nada más
Que aquí jamás será invierno
The sky is falling, and so what?
We have our world
the day is still blue
if we are together
Nothing else matters
it'll never be winter here.
