Opinion: Reisig’s Retreat from Mental Health Courts Reveals Prop. 36’s Punitive Core

Yolo County DA Jeff Reisig – Courtesy Photo

Yolo County District Attorney Jeff Reisig hasn’t just paused referrals to mental health and addiction intervention courts—he’s pulled back the curtain on his office’s true priorities.

Last weekend, the Sacramento Bee reported that Reisig is pausing drug and mental health court referrals.

This is not merely a logistical adjustment due to staffing shortages or funding gaps. It’s a revealing moment that exposes the philosophical foundation of how Reisig views the criminal legal system.

Despite years of branding himself as a reform-minded prosecutor, this move affirms that his version of “treatment” is inseparable from punishment.

For years, Reisig painted himself as a moderate voice in criminal justice reform, often invoking buzzwords like “rehabilitation,” “accountability,” and “smart on crime.” His office rolled out specialty courts with fanfare and photo ops.

Press releases celebrated partnerships between prosecutors, public defenders, and mental health professionals. The media played along. But the real test of a reformer isn’t what they do when the spotlight is on—it’s what they do when the system is under stress.

Now, under the pressure of implementing Proposition 36—a ballot measure that expands felony prosecution while mandating treatment in narrow cases—Reisig has chosen to pause the very programs he once lauded, the Bee reports.

The mental health and addiction courts, which showed measurable success in reducing recidivism and jail time, have been sidelined not because they failed, but because they don’t align with the new prosecutorial playbook: charge first, treat later—if at all.

This isn’t simply about limited resources. Other counties, including Sacramento and Placer, are building Prop. 36 courts alongside existing treatment programs. They recognize that if we’re serious about reducing harm and addressing root causes of criminal behavior, we need more tools—not fewer. Yolo County, by contrast, is choosing to consolidate power and narrow options.

Public defenders and reform advocates have rightly criticized this decision.

Yolo County Public Defender Tracie Olson, according to the Bee, warned that the Prop. 36 mandate applies to only a narrow sliver of defendants, leaving many others—who may be in deep crisis—without viable paths to recovery. And under the new system, defense attorneys must shoulder the burden of petitioning judges without prosecutorial cooperation, lengthening timelines and raising barriers to entry.

The California Public Defenders Association, through Executive Director Kate Chatfield, called out the bait-and-switch embedded in the policy: “You don’t really believe in treatment,” she said of Reisig’s office. “What you believe in is what Prop. 36 is really about, which is incarceration.”

She’s right. At its core, Prop. 36 is not a public health intervention. It is a prosecutorial tool disguised as reform. By conditioning treatment on a new felony charge, the measure perpetuates the same logic that has driven mass incarceration for decades: criminalization as the gateway to care.

This approach also places enormous discretion in the hands of prosecutors, who now wield the power to decide who is “eligible” for state-sanctioned treatment—so long as they meet specific criteria and agree to a punitive framework. What gets lost are the human beings whose needs don’t map neatly onto a penal code section or prosecutorial narrative.

And what happens to the mental health and addiction courts that once offered dignity, flexibility, and true diversion? According to Reisig’s office, they’re on hold. The courts, once praised as “groundbreaking,” are now cast as too selective, too inconsistent, too burdensome.

But let’s be honest: Yolo County’s much-hyped commitment to justice alternatives was never what it claimed to be.

Yes, the courts existed. Yes, there were some success stories. But the eligibility criteria were always tight, the referral process complex, and the overall footprint small. These programs helped dozens when they could have helped hundreds. They were never designed to scale. And they were always contingent on the DA’s political calculations.

Now that those calculations have shifted toward Prop. 36’s more punitive appeal, the façade of reform is crumbling. What remains is the carceral instinct that has always underpinned Reisig’s approach: project moderation when convenient, return to prosecution when challenged.

This is not the first time Reisig has made headlines for championing “reform” with one hand while clinging to punitive practices with the other. He opposed the initial implementation of Proposition 47, which reduced certain drug and property offenses from felonies to misdemeanors. He’s consistently fought efforts to reduce jail populations. He celebrated his office’s use of predictive policing tools long after they were discredited elsewhere. And despite claiming support for transparency, he has resisted full cooperation with law enforcement accountability efforts.

So no, Yolo County was never truly a leader in smart justice. It played the part. It told a good story. But it was always the Jeff Reisig dog-and-pony show—well-choreographed, well-publicized, and ultimately in service of preserving prosecutorial power.

The decision to gut diversion courts in favor of a mandatory felony treatment scheme isn’t a detour from that legacy. It’s its logical next act.

California voters were promised a treatment-first model with Prop. 36. But in the hands of prosecutors like Reisig, what we’re getting instead is a system where care is conditional, justice is strategic, and the same old punitive machine rolls on—rebranded, but not reformed.

This is how mass incarceration started and why it will continue into the future.

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