TV dubbed a homeless mom ‘Maryland’s most wanted.’ To her friend, she was in crisis.

Diana Scott turned on the television to find her best friend staring at her from the screen.

With a bloody lip and sunken eyes, Felicia Anderson was almost unrecognizable.

The 39-year-old woman was accused of assaulting two women outside a homeless shelter in downtown Baltimore last month. Local broadcast station Fox45 declared her one of “Maryland’s most wanted.”

Scott began to cry as shock turned to fear. Anderson was as vulnerable to getting hurt as she was to harming others, she believed.

There was much more to the story, Scott said. Over the course of two years, as Anderson’s life was buffeted by mental health crises, she went from working in customer service and living with her children in a three-bedroom home to sleeping on the streets.

Anderson was on a path to incarceration that is tragically common. Nearly 70% of women in local jails nationwide have a mental illness, according to estimates from the U.S. Department of Justice. It’s estimated that less than half of people with mental illness receive treatment in jail.

In hopes of shedding light on her friend’s plight, Scott emailed local news organizations. She spoke to police officers. And she set out on foot through homeless encampments to search for Anderson.

On Saturday, Scott scouted downtown with her 9-year-old daughter, Diarra Faison, stopping to talk to people sitting on steps and standing at street corners.

Anderson is wanted by law enforcement and also has mental health challenges, Scott explained to one man.

“A lot of the police officers, they don’t know how to deal with mental health,” she said. “I don’t want her to get hurt.”

Scott showed people a photo of Anderson. It’s from an earlier, happier time in her life. Soft curls framed Anderson’s face as she smiled serenely.

“Call me anytime,” Scott said while giving out her cell phone number. “If you see her, day or night, just call me.”

To help individuals like Anderson who may be in crisis, people can call 988, a service that works with counselors and 24/7 crisis response teams, according to Adrienne Breidenstine with Behavioral Health System Baltimore, a nonprofit that oversees mental health resources.

It’s an alternative to calling 911, which is more likely to lead to a police response.

At least one in four police shootings in the country involves a person with symptoms of mental illness, research has shown. In recent months, high-profile shootings of people in crisis have raised questions about the training and resources provided by the Baltimore Police Department to deescalate these tense interactions.

Nearly 30% of Baltimore’s patrol officers are trained in crisis intervention. But more often than not, emergency calls related to mental health issues are handled by officers who have not completed the special training, The Banner reported.

While the department described these cases as requiring compassion and patience, spokesperson Lindsey Eldridge wrote in a statement that “criminal actions must still be addressed appropriately to ensure public safety and accountability.”

‘Have you seen my sister?’

At 11 years old, Anderson left her unstable home in the late 1990s and moved in with Scott’s family.

“We didn’t have much either, so me and Felicia shared a twin-sized bed,” Scott said. “We just did everything together. She’s my sister.”

Attending separate schools could not keep the girls apart. Sometimes Anderson played hooky so she could go to classes with Scott.

Anderson grew into a vivacious woman who looked out for others, Scott said. “She was the one if you needed somewhere to stay, everybody could go to her house.”

After Anderson’s mental health worsened, she was evicted from her home and became estranged from her children. She moved back in with Scott’s family in 2024. But conflicts quickly arose.

Tensions came to a head when Anderson allegedly tried to hit Scott’s cousin, who filed a peace order to keep Anderson away from the home.

Scott’s family had called 911 multiple times over the course of a few weeks before the incident, according to audio recordings of related court hearings. A member of the family testified that Anderson had stopped taking her medications and was belligerent and confrontational. Officers repeatedly took Anderson to the hospital for psychiatric evaluations.

During a hearing in April 2024, Anderson denied the accusations and said she was trying to find out what happened to some missing money.

She also balked at attempted intervention by Scott.

“She’s telling me that we’re going to the hospital,” Anderson told a judge during the hearing. “I said, ‘No, for what?’ She said, ‘Because you’re a threat to yourself and others.’ I was like, ‘What? Are you serious? How is that?’”

Anderson’s struggles inspired Scott to work in the mental health field. She now spends her days approaching people in the community, offering to connect them with the type of treatment she wishes her friend had accepted.

“With mental health, until they harm themselves or someone else, nobody does anything,” Scott said, adding, “So as sad as it is, it has to come to this point for her to get help.”

The search narrows

An hour into her search on Saturday morning, it was clear that Scott was in the right area.

Several people recognized Anderson as one of the regulars who hung out near St. Vincent de Paul Church and under the Jones Falls Expressway — between a police station and the city jail — areas where there are frequent food and clothing giveaways.

A man there suggested she stick around to see if Anderson shows up.

But Scott decided she could do better than wait. She’d try to attract Anderson.

After a trip to the grocery store, Scott prepared a table with fresh fruit, body wipes and new socks. She searched her car for a face mask — a disguise in case Anderson was trying to avoid people who knew her.

She set up near the overpass, where a Korean church from Ellicott City was offering free haircuts and a live saxophone performance. She anxiously scanned the faces in the lines around her, imagining what she would do if she saw Anderson.

Would Anderson try to run? Did she even know she was wanted by authorities?

While she waited, Scott gave away snacks and hygiene supplies. She stopped to show Anderson’s photo to a woman hauling a trash bag of clothes.

The woman immediately recognized Anderson, explaining they used to stay at the shelter together just a few blocks away. She suggested Scott take her search there next.

“Me and her used to be best friends,” the woman said.

“That’s my best friend,” Scott replied, holding back tears. “That’s my sister.”

‘We can all be victims’

Anderson’s life as a fugitive started about a month ago, in the parking lot of the shelter, wedged between the expressway and a strip club.

There, Anderson approached two women sitting in a car and began arguing, according to court documents. She swung at them, then pulled out an eyebrow razor, cutting one in the face, police said.

Sara LaRue, 36, one of the women Anderson allegedly assaulted, was still living at the shelter more than a month later. A thin white scar marked the side of her face.

She and others in the shelter were unsettled by Anderson’s behavior, she said, which she described as hostile and combative.

Despite this, LaRue said she did not see Anderson as a bad person.

“We can all be victims at one point or another,” LaRue said, adding, “I want her to get help. Don’t just lock somebody up.”

Anderson left after the alleged fight, but may not have gone far.

Soon after arriving at the shelter on Saturday, Scott learned that Anderson had been taken into custody nearby less than 24 hours earlier, apparently without incident.

As it turned out, Anderson was being held just across the street from where Scott was searching.

Anderson’s facing six criminal counts, the most serious of which carries a maximum sentence of 25 years, according to court documents. Available online court records show no criminal history. Her attorney did not immediately return a request for comment.

Scott said she’s relieved Anderson’s not on the streets anymore, where she had the potential to be a danger to herself and others.

Recently, she pulled photos from a family album and mailed them to Anderson in jail to remind her of better times. In a letter, Scott described the long hours she had searched for her, the ways she wants to continue to help.

“I just don’t want her to feel like she’s alone,” she said.

If you or someone you know is experiencing a mental health crisis, call or text 988 to contact the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline.