[This article is excerpted from the book Rehab: An American Scandal. You can read Filter‘s interview with the author here.]
Wendy McEntyre learned her son Jarrod’s darkest secret on a breezy day in Santa Monica, California, sitting inside a shiny red booth at Marie Callender’s restaurant where her daughter Jamie, had asked her to meet for lunch.
The youngest of Wendy’s two children, Jamie had always been the problem child, ever since she first tried meth at the age of 14. She was her mother’s daughter, outspoken and headstrong, even in her fuck ups. Wendy never worried about Jarrod. While Jamie’s bedroom was a disaster zone, Jarrod’s was always clean and tidy. Jamie totaled her car, while Jarrod liked to detail his with a Q-tip. Jamie was loud, always accidentally telling on herself. Jarrod was so shy, he had Jamie ask for extra ketchup. He was a straight-A student, quiet and reserved unless he was playing hockey.
Now, Jamie was 18 and Jarrod was 20. Wendy had spent probably close to $100,000 on out-of- state residential treatment for Jamie—something she could afford to pay for out-of-pocket, although just barely, because of her high-powered job as a mortgage broker. Despite those treatment stints, and her membership in AA, Jamie still struggled.
So it was unusual for her to invite her mother to lunch. Even more unusual that she wanted to talk to Wendy about Jarrod, the good one. Jamie looked nervous, shifting around in the squeaky vinyl seat. “You have to promise me you won’t tell grandma and grandpa,” Jamie said. Suddenly, it felt to Wendy as if everyone in the restaurant had turned to stare at them.
Jamie told her mother that Jarrod was addicted to heroin.
She had discovered her brother’s troubles after a disastrous trip to Palm Springs. Jamie had accompanied her NA sponsor on a business trip, only to discover the woman had relapsed and locked her out of their hotel room. Flying to the rescue, Jarrod dutifully picked up his sister and brought her back to his apartment in Los Angeles. But it was there she soon noticed heroin’s telltale signs: Jared nodding off on the couch, his pupils as tiny pinpricks; Jarrod driving his beloved car home without acknowledging the layers of paint scraped off the side. As soon as Jamie confronted him, he confessed that he was using.
Suboxone was technically an option. But in 2003, it was so scarce that neither Wendy nor Jarrod had heard of it, and many established treatment programs and 12-step groups were against it.
Jamie hid Jarrod’s car keys in her pillowcase. If her brother was going to use, she wouldn’t let him drive. But one night, Jamie woke to find Jarrod and his keys gone. When Jarrod snuck back in hours later, Jamie lost her composure. For most of their adolescence, she had been the one to keep their mother up at night; she’d never been on the receiving end of that worry and grief. Now, Jamie started screaming at him, punching and kicking, trying to get through to him. He was so high, he didn’t even react. Then, both exhausted, the two of them cried. That was when Jamie realized she needed their mother’s help.
As she once had for Jamie, Wendy made Jarrod sign a contract, stating all the efforts he would make to get sober. She gave him a folder containing a print-out of AA meeting locations, bus passes, and the names and phone numbers for several sober–living homes, where people in recovery could live and work while following a set of rules to stay sober.
Wendy wanted Jarrod to go to rehab, but in 2003, there were few options for a young man without health insurance. This situation was all the more frustrating because Jarrod lived only a short drive from one of the rehab meccas of the world. In nearby Malibu, ritzy private pay programs offered pool and beachside retreats that were less restrictive than typical rehab stays—and more expensive, too. At Promises, which would later boast celebrity clientele like Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan, treatment cost upwards of $40,000 per month. The nonprofit Betty Ford Center was also pricey, charging about $20,000 a month.
Suboxone was technically an option. But in the aftermath of the Drug Addiction Treatment Act, it was so scarce that neither Wendy nor Jarrod had heard of it, and many established treatment programs and 12-step groups were against it, contending it just replaced one drug with another.
Jarrod tried methadone for a time, and found it worked well for him, but methadone had a stigma attached that discouraged many suburbanites like him from even trying it. Eventually, a friend pressured him to stop taking methadone and Jarrod quickly relapsed.
Wendy’s sole hope was the criminal justice system. In 2000, in response to years of massive prison overcrowding, California voters passed criminal justice reforms, allowing judges to sentence people with first-time or low-level drug charges to treatment instead of jail or prison. Almost overnight, the law pumped $120 million a year into the rehab industry, stimulating astronomical growth in court-ordered treatment programs. Longstanding programs began displacing patients who voluntarily wanted treatment in favor of court-ordered clients, who had no choice, but to attend, bringing state money with them. Treatment facilities and sober-living homes had begun opening up left and right.
When Jarrod appeared in court, the judge ordered him into a sober-living home, not rehab. The difference was significant.
A few months after Jamie’s confession to her mom, Jarrod was busted for stealing a motorcycle. While Jarrod was incarcerated, Wendy learned he had also stolen an antique gun from his grandmother’s house.
Suddenly, Wendy saw an opportunity. She convinced her mother to press charges, and then pleaded with the court to order Jarrod into treatment. “Jarrod will be dead very soon without proper intervention,” Wendy wrote to the judge. “I ask that he be ordered into treatment for the maximum amount of time that you can under the provisions of Proposition 36.”
But when Jarrod appeared in court, the judge instead ordered him into a sober-living home, not rehab. The difference was significant: Rehabs were licensed and regulated. In an ideal program, patients transitioned out of their physical dependence on substances, and started learning how to live without them. A sober living home, on the other hand, was not subject to licensing or regulations. These were communal, living arrangements—safe havens for people who wanted to avoid substances and support one another. The homes and the types of rules imposed on their residents varied, but it was basically where you went after treatment—to put those new skills to the test, alongside other sober people.
Wendy was disappointed. The judge had not ordered Jarrod to rehab. Still, Safe House, in Van Nuys, was reputable; Wendy had made sure of that. The owner and founder of the program, Rick Schoonover, was well known in local recovery circles. He sat on the board of directors of the Sober Living Network—a nonprofit, voluntary accreditation agency—and he had even contributed to the training manual for sober-living home owners and managers.
Membership in the voluntary network ensured the home was safe, clean, well managed, and ethical, Wendy read. The house had strict rules, with drug possession grounds for removal, as well as weekly house meetings led by managers and assignment of daily chores. Everyone was supposed to find employment and wake up by 8 am, and violations of house rules usually resulted in warnings, assignment of an essay, or a $5 dollar fine. At least Jarrod would be in a safe place, where he would not be allowed to use drugs, Wendy thought.
Jarrod mentioned he was sore because the founder had him moving beds out of the house prior to an inspection, and back in afterwards. That struck Wendy as strange.
Jarrod moved into Safe House, and over weekly lunches at the Van Nuys airport, Wendy watched as her son seemed to get better. He got a job at a nearby deli, and found a girlfriend who was older and more mature. He was saving up money, and seemed happy. But about three months into the stay, Jarrod relapsed. Wendy was dismayed when the program didn’t notify the judge, who might’ve referred Jarrod to a treatment program. Instead, the program kicked Jarrod out for three days and then let him back in.
Another time, Jarrod mentioned to both his girlfriend and Wendy that he was sore because the founder, Rick, had him moving beds out of the house prior to an inspection, and back in afterwards. That struck Wendy as strange. Still, by and large, Jarrod seemed to be doing well.
Then, during the Thanksgiving holiday in 2004, Jarrod came home. Something was bothering him. Finally, Jarrod told Wendy that one of his roommates was using. Jarrod was afraid to go back. He didn’t want to be tempted.
It took all Wendy had in her not to pick up the phone and call Rick herself. Rick was Jarrod’s sponsor. The two had grown close in men’s groups that Rick ran. Surely, if Rick knew, he would do something. But Jarrod was an adult. He needed to do this himself. “Talk to Rick,” Wendy told him.
Wendy would never learn whether or not Jarrod had followed her advice. That Wednesday, Jarrod and his girlfriend were supposed to go to the DMV so Jarrod could apply to get his driving license reinstated. When Jarrod didn’t call as planned, his girlfriend started to get worried. She called the house at 8:30 am. No answer. She called the phone in the back room, and she called the phone in the main house. Someone there picked up and told her Jarrod wasn’t there. Finally, she called again at around 4:30 pm, and this time the police picked up.
Wendy soon received the call. Jarrod had overdosed. He was dead.
Excerpt published with permission from Rehab: An American Scandal, by Shoshana Walter, published August 2025 by Simon & Schuster. Top image shows detail from the cover.
