Fifth in a series

Tosha Sims, the youngest of Rosie Sims' three children, spent the most time living with Rosie as she battled schizophrenia. Tosha loved her mother fiercely, but Rosie's illness-induced wanderings were draining.

"I don't know what 'normal behavior' was for my mother," Tosha said. "She was always sick. My first memory is seeing her in the back of a police car being taken away to a hospital."

Now, in late March 1998, Rosie roamed the streets again. She had been missing for days when she made a late-night call from an Oak Cliff pay phone.

Around 2 a.m., Tosha wearily climbed into her green Dodge Avenger, flipped the headlights on and drove slowly along Illinois Avenue, north of Kiest Park. She spotted a woman carrying several bags of belongings. Anyone else passing by might have assumed this was a homeless bag lady. Tosha recognized her mother.

"It was the worst sight," Tosha recalled. "My heart just sank." She pulled the car over, rolled down the window. "Momma, get in the car," Tosha said.

Rosie was exhausted. Without complaint, she climbed in. Tosha had called 911, and now the police pulled up. Rosie spied the patrol car and tried to bolt. The officers were too quick.

Rosie had started a fire at her sister's house, and a warrant had been issued for her arrest. So, although Rosie was psychotic, the police did not take her to Parkland Memorial Hospital's mental health unit, or to the Green Oaks mental health facility. Rosie Sims went to jail.

Tosha had immediate second thoughts about involving the police. Rosie would be off the streets, that was true. But would jail be the best place for her mother? Would she get proper care? Tosha didn't know it then, but experts say jail is the worst place to house people with mental illness, since they often refuse medication and can languish, isolated and unattended.

In jail, Rosie was agitated and violent. When guards handed her food through a slot in her cell door, she tried to hit them. Otherwise, she sat and chanted, answering the voices in her head.

Dr. Michael Pittman, a psychologist who interviews mentally ill prisoners for the courts, saw Rosie in jail on April 5. He decided she was incompetent to stand trial.

The courts needed to restore Rosie to competency so she could understand the charge against her, assist her court-appointed attorney and avail herself of her right to a trial. To get her proper medical care, the court ordered Rosie to Vernon State Hospital.

She was admitted May 21. The doctor who examined her saw a psychotic, disheveled woman with poor eye contact. Rosie spoke in a pressured, rapid-fire manner. It was hard to interrupt her. She fidgeted and jiggled her legs, like a grounded child anxious to run out and play. She nervously rubbed her nose with her hand once, twice, constantly.

When the doctor asked her to name some U.S. presidents, Rosie's distracted, racing mind recalled only two. When she was asked to spell "world" backward, Rosie's brain stumbled.

Like a Super Ball careening around a tiny room, Rosie's mind could focus on each thought for only a few seconds.

Rosie was put on Olanzapine and Depakote. She was given Haldol and Ativan.

Vernon State Hospital, 50 miles west of Wichita Falls near the Oklahoma border, is surrounded by flat, open land planted with cotton, reminiscent of Floydada on the Texas High Plains, where Rosie grew up.

Vernon's cluster of buildings resembles a small college campus, with one exception – the high chain-link fence that curves in at the top and is trimmed in spots with razor wire. This is the home of violent defendants found incompetent to stand trial.

Dallas prisoners travel to Vernon in a sheriff's van, still chained and wearing their white prisoner jumpsuits. Once they are released to the hospital staff, the chains come off, the patients receive civilian clothing, and good behavior can win the right to greater campus freedom.

Patients kick off with a 6 a.m. wake-up, 6:15 a.m. shower and 8 a.m. distribution of medication. They participate in individual and group counseling sessions, covering everything from anger management to laundry skills.

After three months of treatment, Rosie had improved. "I used to hear voices, but not now," she told doctors. They decided she was competent to stand trial.

Rosie pleaded guilty to arson, a second-degree felony. She was ordered to pay a $300 fine and was sentenced to a 10-year probation.

Rosie moved in with her sister, Ruby Chatman, who lived in Oak Cliff. Ruby wanted to care for Rosie, wanted to keep an eye on her. And for a time, Rosie took her medicine, and things went smoothly.

But eventually, Rosie, now 57, once again stopped taking the drugs. She hated the way they made her body bloat. She hated how they numbed her emotions. But without them, she could not control the dramatic mood swings caused by her illness.

On Feb. 18, 2002, Ruby was in her bedroom when Rosie appeared. In her hand, Rosie held a metal candleholder. Suddenly, Rosie lifted the candleholder and brought it down on Ruby's head. "For no reason," Ruby later said.

Rosie landed several more blows before Ruby could scramble away and shout to her son, Vernon. He raced to the rescue, but not before Rosie grabbed a lamp and swung.

Ruby called police. She told them Rosie was mentally ill and had stopped taking her medication. Ruby Chatman went to Methodist Hospital to have her injuries treated.

Rosie Sims went back to jail.

E-mail rosie@dallasnews.com