When JC walked out the doors of prison, she was looking forward to seeing her family, including her then six-year-old son Caesar.
WARNING: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers are advised this article contains an image and video footage of a person who has died.
The 29-year-old Yamatji woman's first stop was the shops to buy some gifts for her son and things for herself — exercising the luxury of choice after two long years inside.
She was happy to be free and her mental health seemed good then, according to Leslie Anne Jones, the woman who raised her from when she was a baby.
A little over two weeks later she lay bleeding to death on the street, shot in the abdomen by a police officer who said he feared she was about to stab him.
Advocates say what led JC to be standing on that street that day — gripping a kitchen knife in one hand and a pair of scissors in another — was a system failure that left her stranded without mental health care and nowhere to turn.
They say if she was put on a mental health care plan and given help to secure housing, she might still be alive today.
JC's story has been told in part through a high-profile Western Australian murder trial of the officer who shot her. He was acquitted of all charges earlier this month.
The verdict sparked rallies around the country, and the state's top police chief called it "one of the most difficult chapters in the history between Aboriginal people in Western Australia and the WA Police Force".
Western Australia has the highest incarceration rate of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in the nation.
'Loving, caring and helpful'
JC's family say the picture that emerged of her from the officer's trial was not one they recognised.
"She's a great person, she's very helpful," Ms Jones said.
"She was very loving and caring.
Born in the dusty outback town of Meekatharra, 700 kilometres north-east of Perth in Western Australia's Mid West, JC went to live in Carnarvon on the coast at just five months old.
She didn't grow up with all of her siblings, but spent a few years living with her sisters when they were young.
Her big sister, Bernadette Clarke, remembers JC as a quiet child.
"(She) was always was the one to look out for, that kid," Ms Clarke said.
"Because (she) was always quiet, and I would always sing out her name just to make sure where she was."
When she was little, Bernadette says JC loved basketball and football, because their foster father belonged to sports committees in Carnarvon.
"Old man always got us into sports and music. He was a guitar player; us girls would play along with him," she said.
When JC was 12, she moved with Ms Jones to Mullewa, a township of a few hundred people about 100 kilometres east of Geraldton.
But in Mullewa, she got itchy feet. She moved to Geraldton, the big smoke of that part of the world with around 32,000 people.
Repeated contact with the justice system
JC's criminal record was read out by the defence lawyer for the man who shot her during the trial.
Born in 1990, she was still a child when in 2005 she was first convicted for a crime.
In the years that followed, there was only one when she did not have a conviction recorded against her.
Her family say while in prison JC got help for her mental health.
"In prison I think she got more help and she realised how sick she was."
Ms Jones said JC had a lot of health problems as a baby.
She says JC asked for a health assessment in jail, and was diagnosed with Foetal Alcohol Syndrome Disorder (FASD) and schizophrenia.
From prison, she would always call to talk with her foster mother and her son, Ms Jones said.
Ms Clarke said she visited her sister while she was inside.
JC always remembered her nieces and nephews and sent cards from prison.
"Christmas cards and birthday cards, as an auntie she never forgot my son's birthday," she said.
"I don’t know what it was about my son, she loved him like he was her own."
'A lot of systems failed her'
Ms Clarke said she believed JC was failed by the prison system the last time they sent her out the gates.
"A lot of those systems failed her at that time. She didn't know who to turn to anymore," Ms Clarke said.
Ms Jones said after she was released from prison, her foster daughter was not offered support.
"She needed help to get, you know, regulated with her mental health issues," Ms Jones said.
"She needed help to get yourself accommodation and things like that."
Ms Jones said outreach programs that went to clients, rather than expecting them to come to the office, would have helped.
"They've got support places there but ... they won't get out of their offices and look for their clients, they'd sooner sit behind their desks and wait for their clients to come to them," Ms Jones said.
"She needed help to get yourself accommodation and things like that. And I know taking her or getting herself off to the hospital or even to get the medications, she wouldn't do that.
No mental health follow up
This is backed up by medical records tendered to the WA Supreme Court, which stated JC received mental health treatment in prison but was "discharged from prison with no mental health follow up".
Indigenous human rights advocate Hannah McGlade said JC should have had something known as proper "through care" upon release.
"There is support, there needs to be appropriate housing, there needs to be mental health care in place," professor McGlade said.
"We know that Aboriginal women in Bandyup prison and in prisons in Western Australia have a high level of needs related to their own trauma and victimisation, their history of being victims themselves from childhood onwards.
"She should have had that support in place, and we don't believe it was.
The WA Department of Justice said prisoners were provided with clinical and psychological health services, which included psychiatry, individual counselling and group interventions by psychologist and social workers.
They also have access to Prison Support Officers who are Aboriginal and the Aboriginal Visitor's scheme, which provides culturally appropriate support.
The department said it had opened WA's first dedicated prison mental health unit at Bandyup, Perth's women's prison, in July this year.
But it said mental health care in the community was the responsibility of primary care providers and state-funded specialist mental health services.
"The department works with non-government organisations to provide services to prisoners according to their risk and need," the statement said.
"Service providers deliver tailored, culturally competent reintegration services including, but not limited to: re-entry support services, transport, transitional and sustainable housing services, parenting advice and family support services.
"Accessing these services is voluntary and they generally commence while a prisoner is in custody for a period of up to six months and can continue for up to 12 months post release."
The department did not comment specifically on JC's circumstances.
Professor McGlade said the nation was not responding properly to Aboriginal deaths in custody.
"We've got the highest rate of Aboriginal deaths in Western Australia, and yet we have no proper engagement," Professor McGlade said.
"It seems that the violence against women, Indigenous women, women of colour, is just too easily overlooked."
Hospital discharge prior to shooting 'not appropriate'
Professor McGlade said JC did reach out for help, but didn't get what was needed.
Just prior to her death, JC called triple-0 on herself.
She was suicidal and in a downwards spiral after being unable to secure housing in Geraldton.
Police took her to hospital. She was flown to Perth's Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital where she was admitted for mental health treatment.
While there, JC threatened health staff and threw things at them. She insisted on being discharged and was released just 10 days prior to the shooting.
"JC was a risk to herself," Professor McGlade said.
WA Police Commissioner Chris Dawson said JC's death was a "tragic chapter" in the relationship with police and Aboriginal people.
The commissioner said they now had a mental health response team based in Geraldton, duplicating a similar model deployed in the metro area.
"What that means is that rather than just police singularly respond, we have mental health clinicians who accompany police whenever we are aware and can't respond to a known situation for any person that we have prior history of," he said.
"We have specialised officers who work alongside clinicians," he said.
"As a consequence of the tragedy in Geraldton our specialist officers assist our general duties (officers)."
National Suicide Prevention and Trauma Recovery Project coordinator Gerry Georgatos said police should have comprehensive training in how to recognise and deal with mental health incidents.
"It goes to the heart, are police substantially trained to be mental health advocates? To arbitrate, to mediate, to mitigate? That's the burning question. And in my experience, they're not," Mr Georgatos said.
He said JC's death revealed a wider failure to implement all of the 1991 Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody's recommendations, which included greater collaboration with Indigenous communities.
He said JC should have had outreach support post release.
"This was a vulnerable individual and none of that happened," Mr Georgatos said.
"It's a moral and political abomination."
