County Insider

Giving new meaning to pet projects in government

The leggy young thing seemed a bit nervous, even though she looked great—impeccably groomed, hot pink bandana around her neck. She was accompanied by a couple of handlers to stage-manage every step of her debut performance.

She shook ever so slightly as she waited for a photographer in the VIP parking lot. Eventually, she managed to nibble a few greens, and then—paging TMZ!—she urinated! In public! Right there on the grass!

“It’s always a new adventure,” says Evelina Villa, Los Angeles County’s puppy wrangler, as she scooped up young Madeline, the eight-week-old shepherd mix, who was the day’s star attraction, and headed into the Hall of Administration.

Ordinarily, Villa, 24, tends to administrative responsibilities in the Long Beach headquarters of the Department of Animal Care & Control. But most Tuesdays, she goes to The Show—the Board of Supervisors meeting. There, she hands off the animal to Supervisor Michael D. Antonovich, who says a few words to coax would-be adopters attending the meeting or watching the next night on cable TV.
But before the big show-and-tell moment, Villa presides over a behind-the-scenes ritual that has become part of the culture of board meeting days, a folksy tradition that seems more Mayberry than metropolis. In all, nearly 650 pets have found homes—hundreds with county employees—since the program was started by Antonovich in 1995.

In fact, Villa starts the search on behalf of each animal at the very top, making the rounds of each supervisor’s 8th floor office. The No. 1 priority is finding a home for a needy pet, whether it’s with a soft-touch chief deputy or John Q. Dog Lover.
So just before 9 a.m. on a recent Tuesday, there was Madeline on the red carpet in Antonovich’s office, where the “shepherd mix’” part of her lineage was being debated. “Looks like a Jack Russell,” someone says, sizing up Madeline’s tan and cream markings—patches over both eyes, white strip down the nose.

As Villa moved among the board offices, sporting her “Travelin’ Tails” tote bag, she kept her spiel going: “Anyone interested in adopting a little puppy today? This is Madeline. She needs a home.”

In Supervisor Gloria Molina’s office, staff assistant Carlos Huezo looked like a soft touch—he’s already gotten one puppy from Villa, a German shepherd-boxer mix named Cougar. But on this day, he passed. “Maybe next time,” he says, adding: “We’ve all adopted here.”

Then it was off to the office of Supervisor Zev Yaroslavsky, where staffers have adopted a number of pets over the years, including Row-Z, a shepherd mix who now lives with chief deputy Alisa Katz.

“What do we have here? Ooh, she’s precious,” coos Regina Marquez, a longtime Third District caseworker who last year adopted Rex, a pug-Pekinese mix.

Next stop: the seventh floor offices of Chief Executive Officer William Fujioka, who bent down and attempted some dog-speak: “Maddy, Maddy, Maddy….Hey, baby….Good girl….”

Somebody offered a Pup-A-Roni snack strip. Then they were off to the 3rd floor, where, at 10:03 a.m., Villa made the handoff to Antonovich. Madeline’s moment in the limelight had begun. And, just as quickly, ended.

“So that was it, 10:05,” Villa said. Villa, who majored in business and theater at Whittier College, finds that her current job requires a bit of both: she handles all the finery of dog presentation—bandanas, collars, tiny T-shirts—and also keeps a spreadsheet on where each animal ends up. So she knows at a glance that a lab mix named Cody, for example, went home with a “relative of BOS.”

She administers a 19-point questionnaire (“Do you have a fenced yard?” “How many hours of the day will this pet spend alone without any supervision?”) to would-be adopters. If there are multiple applicants, Villa stages a drawing, with a co-worker picking the winner. New owners pay adoption fees and spay/neuter charges that range from $30 to $100, depending on the type of pet and the length of time the animal has been in the shelter.

So far, Villa has resisted the temptation to nab one of the prospective adoptees for herself, although she once had a close call with a Shi-Tzu mix named Lady.

On this day, she was accompanied by Daelene Jimenez, an animal control officer from the Baldwin Park shelter, who was learning the ropes. (In addition to showing off the animals, the department wants to showcase the range of occupations it offers at its six shelters, and sometimes sends animal control officers and animal care attendants to the board meetings to present the pets Villa has selected and named.)

For Jimenez, this meant an early wake-up call and responsibility for another crucial part of the Tuesday ritual—giving Madeline a bath. Jimenez also got a crash course in the tricks of the trade, meant to avoid any dogs-gone-wild moments involving elected officials. Rule No. 1: Always start the day with a potty break on the Temple Street lawn.

Soon, some older animals will be getting their star turns, as well.

“The puppies we have no problem adopting; we’re hoping to give exposure to some of the beautiful older pets,” says Villa’s boss, Michelle Roaché, deputy director of the department’s Outreach and Special Enforcement Division. (Cats are sometimes featured, too, but don’t ask Villa to wrangle them. She’s allergic.)

It is a point of pride that “100% of the animals featured, including dogs, cats, rabbits, birds, and a guinea pig have been placed in new homes,” says Antonovich spokesman Tony Bell.

As for Madeline, no county employees stepped up to adopt her during Villa’s rounds. “Usually, if we do have takers, I would know by now,” Villa says before heading back to her office. So if no one from the public steps up either, then Madeline would head to a rescue organization, which would continue the hunt. “Our goal is to get the dogs out of the shelter,” Villa says, “It’ll end up good for her.”

In the 12 months ending July 1, 25,246 of the 45,356 dogs impounded into county shelters found homes—nearly 56%. Those who’d like to adopt can check out the department’s website.

Insider tapped to probe children’s services

Rose Belda hit the ground floor running.

Working from a basement office in the Hall of Administration, the newly hired chief of the Children’s Special Investigations Unit already had been directed by the Board of Supervisors to examine the deaths of 36 children. With no staff yet, she was doing her own photocopying of case files.

Belda nodded towards a six-inch stack of confidential files she’d just run off about Lazhanae S., a 13-year-old charge of the Department of Children and Family Services who, in March, was stabbed to death in South L.A. after bolting from a DCFS-monitored foster home. “Here’s my reading for tonight,” Belda said.

Her workload won’t lighten anytime soon.

The board hired Belda in September as the unit’s lead attorney to investigate deaths and other “critical incidents” of abuse or neglect of children known to have had contact with the Department of Children and Family Services. She’ll advise the supervisors about needed improvements, offering advice about what works and what doesn’t.

Belda will also examine issues of accountability within children’s services, including whether appropriate disciplinary action was taken, as well as whether problems exist within the overlapping responsibilities of various county departments, including DCFS, probation, mental health and health services.

“Some of the system issues that need to be fixed are huge,” she says of her mandate. “They are not going to be fixed by small changes in policy – by adding a word here or there. I wish it were that easy.”

No doubt, Belda’s own work will be under the microscope, too. She begins her job after several high-profile deaths—and numerous critical news stories—have raised troubling questions about county services to kids in trouble.

In July, Dae’von B., 6, was found beaten to death after the boy had complained of abuse to teachers, health care staffers and social workers. His mother’s ex-boyfriend has been charged in the case. In that same month, preschooler Lars S. of Highland Park was decapitated by his mother, who killed herself, just months after county investigators looking into the mom’s mental health declined to remove the boy from her care. And two months later, In August, 19-month-old Jasmine G. died under mysterious circumstances while in county-supervised foster care.

Belda, 49, believes her experience as County Counsel’s legal advisor to DCFS since 2001 will give her an edge in investigating such tragedies. “Being an insider, I’m not coming in cold,” says Belda.

Belda says that, during her early years with the county representing the interests of children in dependency court, she saw up close the harm that can come to youngsters caught up in the system.

“I have a strong recall of a lot the cases that came in when the kids were really hurt,” says Belda. “In other [county] departments, when someone is asleep at the wheel, people don’t die. This is an area where the impact is so immediate and so quick and so swift. The kids can really get hurt…They need good people to step up for them.”

The mother of two teens, Belda lives in Hollywood with her husband, Superior Court Judge Victor Greenberg, who once held a similar post in the 1990s investigating child deaths as an inspector general in the Auditor Controller’s office.

The new post, which pays $193,000 annually, reports directly to the board.

DCFS Director Trish Ploehn called Belda an “excellent selection” and says she doesn’t believe Belda’s direct line to the supervisors will make adversaries out of her investigative unit and DCFS. “Hopefully,” Ploehn says, “the aim of my department, the board and the CSIU are all the same—find out what has gone wrong in tragic cases and find ways to fix the problems.”

Belda, asked whether she’s experienced any obstacles in her investigations so far, made a politic bow toward the cooperation she’s getting from DCFS and other departments.

“I haven’t found any big impediments,” she says. “All of the county departments have been helpful even when they know that I’m sort of targeting them. People have been, if not thrilled, super polite and super responsive. That’s a real positive.”

Merck no match for L.A. County pharmacy director

L.A County Pharmacy Director Amy Gutierrez was determined to make pharmaceutical giant Merck & Co. live by its corporate motto: “Where patients come first.”

Merck, she says, was balking at providing free doses of the cervical cancer vaccine Gardasil to uninsured young women no longer eligible to receive the drug through a state administered program.

Gardasil, which has proven to be about 75% effective in preventing cervical cancer, is recommended for women between the ages of 9 and 26. But California offers free vaccines to uninsured women only up to the age of 18. Gutierrez wanted to make sure that no woman would be denied the vaccine because of her age or insurance status.

Merck executives saw it differently.

According to Gutierrez, the New Jersey-based company would not broaden its “patient assistance program” beyond private doctors or entities to make Gardasil available through public facilities. Gutierrez said Merck executives repeatedly suggested that public health workers may not be qualified to provide the $400 vaccine, administered in three treatments over a six month period.

“It was an arbitrary decision that I thought was insulting,” says Gutierrez, who’s headed the pharmacy for three years.

Last summer, Gutierrez began pushing Merck hard on the phone and in writing, with help from Dr. Robert Israel, an OB-GYN who oversees women’s health clinics at LAC+USC medical center. She also enlisted the interim chief medical officer of the county’s health services department, Dr. Robert G. Splawn.

In July, the two co-signed a sharply worded letter to Merck, explaining once again the importance of providing Gardasil to uninsured and vulnerable women between the ages of 19 and 26 at county medical facilities. Denying the vaccine to these patients simply because they’re being seen in a public hospital or clinic, they wrote, “is not logical, nor is it consistent with the stated objectives” of Merck’s patient assistance program, to provide vaccines to those who can’t pay.

Not so subtly, the two also reminded Merck that Los Angeles County is a big customer, spending more than $9 million annually on the company’s various drugs.

Still, Merck held fast to its position, saying it was waiting for the results of a pilot program with public agencies in several states before proceeding, a program for which California had not applied. So Gutierrez and her staff decided to turn up the heat, making Merck aware that the county had begun scrutinizing certain big-ticket purchases from the company.

Concerned by the county’s move, Merck executives called to discuss the situation. But the pharmacy director says she told them: “There’s only one item on the agenda that I want to talk about.”

One month later, in mid-December, Gutierrez says she got “a great Christmas present”—an e-mail from a top Merck executive.

“Hello Dr. Gutierrez,” the note began, “I wanted to confirm that we have altered our policy such that public institutions and entities are now eligible to utilize the current Vaccine Patient Assistance Program in the same manner and to the same extent as private institutions and entities.”

Merck’s dramatic shift in policy was not only good news for Los Angeles County but for every county in the U.S., where the vaccine and other designated drugs can now be distributed through public hospitals and clinics.

“I never thought I could do something to change the policy,” says Gutierrez, whose three daughters have all been vaccinated with Gardasil. “But if you have enough persistence, you can pull it off.”

In February, the county started administering Gardasil through the LAC+USC Healthcare Networks. Dr. Israel, the women’s health expert and a USC professor, says dosages are being provided to about 25 women a month. In the weeks ahead, he says, other county facilities, such as Olive View Hospital, will begin the vaccination program.

Even then, however, he does not expect the numbers of participants to be large because, for the most part, women between the ages of 19 and 26 who show up at county facilities with gynecological issues already are confronting serious medical problems. For them, he says, the vaccine is down the list of priorities.

“We opened the door,” he says of the vaccine’s availability. “I didn’t expect we were going to kick the door down.”

Health professionals hope that, in the future, there’ll be no need to provide Gardasil in this older age group. The goal, they say, is for the vaccine to be administered to all girls at an early age, before they have sexual intercourse and become vulnerable to strains of the human papilloma virus that cause cervical cancer.

Until then, Gutierrez says, she’ll continue to spread the word. “If we can in any way impact cervical cancer in L.A., we’ve succeeded.”