Alice has no family in Arizona (details are sketchy, but she apparently never had children) and was living in a Phoenix apartment before her employer cut her hours back last summer.
Her landlord evicted her in July. Alice was not yet 62, and so was ineligible for senior housing through the city of Phoenix.
Jeanne Allen in a 2005 sheriff's booking photo for drug possession.
Paul Rubin
Liz DaCosta on Thanksgiving morning with two former "street people," Lisa Stufano and Russ Jefferson.
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Shadow Dwellers: A Series
What's the one image you took away from the Tucson shootings? We thought so. That mugshot of Jared Loughner is haunting. And for the world, it has become the face of mental illness in Arizona. Here, we know that's not true. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but the story of what it's like to be mentally ill in this place cannot be told in a single photograph.
Tens of thousands of seriously mentally ill people live in Arizona. Some of them look
just like you.
Other stories in the series:
Tucson's Cafe 54 Is the Real Face of Mental Illness in Arizona, Not Jared Lougher, by Amy Silverman
Meet Raven, a Homeless Man with More Community Than Many of Us Have, by Paul Rubin
Why Did the Arizona Department of Corrections Put a Mentally Ill Man in Cell with a Convicted Killer?, by Paul Rubin
Mental Illness Hasn't Stopped Chris Shelton from Becoming a World-Class Boxing Historian, by Paul Rubin
Jan Brewer's Response to Jared Loughner: Slash More Than 35 Million in Services from an Already Beleaguered Mental Health System, by Paul Rubin and Amy Silverman
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First, someone helped her move her furniture and other possessions into a storage facility at the cost of $160 a month. Then she gathered up some clothes, soap and other sanitary items, a few mementos, and her beloved cat, Angel.
Alice stuck everything into a shopping cart (Angel was caged) and pushed it to her workplace, a few miles away. It was the middle of one of Phoenix's hottest summers on record.
That night, her work ethic intact, she reported for duty as usual.
Alice was a member of the working poor even before her employer cut her hours. Now, she had sunk into another category — the working homeless.
After her shift ended the next morning, Alice ended up in front of another building across Jefferson Street.
It was the City of Phoenix Housing Department.
The agency touts itself as "proud to say our various housing programs provide homes to more than 25,000 Phoenix residents. The department provides services and referrals to assist residents reach their goals and attain self-sufficiency."
Alice wasn't one of those 25,000.
Instead, kindly officials allowed her to sit inside the air-conditioned building during the day until closing. A fastidious sort, Alice would wash her security guard outfits in a bathroom sink there and hang them outside to dry.
After hours, she would step out to a bench with her cat and wait until night fell, maybe catching a few hours of sleep.
It's unclear where Alice got food for herself and Angel, though she allows that an occasional quart of goat milk did wonders for their health.
Alice would rub a bleaching cleanser on her legs to keep ants — real and imagined — at bay when she needed.
Eventually, someone at Phoenix Housing contacted Community Bridges, which quickly took note of Alice's plight.
Alice was vulnerable by any definition, and Allen and DaCosta were assigned to introduce themselves to her.
She is both headstrong and a bit dotty — a taxing combination — and asking anyone for help at first was out of the question.
"She needed stability and some friends," Liz DaCosta says. "There's nothing worse than having nowhere to go and no one to turn to. It's a feeling like no other."
The navigators slowly won Alice's trust by repeated visits to her place of work and improvised "home" at the housing authority.
At the same time, efforts to secure her a federal Section 8 housing voucher (for low-income people) were under way.
The voucher came through by early November, and Project H3 identified an apartment for Alice just west of downtown Phoenix.
The target date for her to move in was around Veterans Day, but a glitch arises.
The electric company is operating on a reduced schedule, and new customers have to wait a few days to get their power established. And the landlord won't allow Alice to move in without electricity.
Allen and DaCosta go to the state government office, where Alice has just finished her shift, to tell her what was up. She has her belongings stacked in the front lobby, and Angel's cage is draped with a thin throw blanket.
Alice wants badly to go to a grocery store to buy some goat milk.
"The cat needs to have it, too," she tells the women. "He got sick when I got sick. My stomach."
Alice gets into the back seat of the Community Bridges van, but she is on edge.
"Too much disappointment, too much discouragement," Alice mutters at the bad news about the housing delay. "Forgive me, my mind is on my problems. This ain't clickin' for me."
She's about to get out of the van, headed for parts unknown, when DaCosta speaks up.
"Actually, this is not a discouragement," she tells Alice, smiling warmly to emphasize her point. "This is just a step along the way. I want you in your apartment so much. We have your best interests at heart — from the moment I met you."
That resonates with the worried older woman, who stays put. Allen drives to a Fry's to get the milk, as she and DaCosta devise an impromptu plan.
This is what navigation is all about.
A few phone calls later, and Alice has a place to stay for the weekend, a room at the downtown YWCA.
Alice is openly skeptical but seems convinced when DaCosta tells her, "They'll have a hot shower there, and you will have your own room. You can bring your stuff up there, and we'll get the cat in there, don't worry."
(The navigators moved Alice into her new apartment the following Monday.)
As all this is happening with Alice, the navigators' 40 other clients also have an assortment of pressing needs.
"We are going to hit the eight corners of the world today," Jeanne Allen says.
