For more than a year, Wednesdays in Licking County Municipal Court have been H.O.M.E. Court days.
The Housing Opportunities through Municipal Engagement court diversion program connects homeless people charged with nonviolent misdemeanor crimes to emergency housing, mental health services, doctors and more.
Judge Teresa Liston oversees the program. The mood in her court is largely joyful. Laughter punctuates the proceedings. Participants — they aren't called defendants here — talk comfortably with one another and service providers.
On Aug. 12, people filled nearly every seat on the court's seven benches.
Even a dog attended court.
Ladybug the pitbull came to support her owner, who is currently in in-patient recovery in Pike County as part of the program. She sat quietly through the more than hour-long court session.
But when the day’s first case began, the energy in the room briefly shifted. Liston asked Preston Rogers, who was charged with three misdemeanors, why he would rather participate in H.O.M.E. Court instead of traditional court.
“I’m 54 years old and homeless. I’m tired of being on the streets," Rogers said, his voice breaking. "I don't need that. I'm a better man than that."
Rogers lowered his head. Defense attorney Kaitlin O'Hara put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Michael Kincaid, a program participant sitting in the front row, raised his hand.
Liston gave him permission to speak.
“I've known Preston for a long time. He's my brother," Kincaid said.
“Will you stand by Preston if he comes into H.O.M.E. Court?” Liston asked.
"Absolutely," Kincaid said.
To enter the program, Rogers pleaded guilty to illegal camping, trespassing and littering. Liston said he would be released from jail to go to a local shelter.
Liston ordered Rogers not to consume alcohol or non-prescribed drugs. Liston also ordered a mental health and substance-use assessment. The team would help him track down documents he might need, like his birth certificate and Social Security card.
"All your friends are so excited about this right now. I can see it in their eyes," Liston told Rogers.
"They wanted me to do this a long time ago and I wasn't ready," Rogers said.
"And you weren't ready. Okay, well, we all have the moment when we're ready, sir," Liston said.
One charge Rogers faced was for illegal camping. About 30% of the H.O.M.E. Court participants are charged with prohibited camping, though Newark Assistant Law Director Melanie Timmerman said none of the participants were arrested on that charge.
In 2024 and 2025, the cities of Newark and Heath enacted laws commonly referred to as camping bans, which make sleeping on public benches or in doorways a minor misdemeanor, carrying a fine of up to $150.
The cities put the laws on the books while advocates pushed back, saying the cities were criminalizing homelessness.
Camping bans across Ohio
The Coalition on Homelessness and Housing in Ohio (COHHIO) reports that 16 Ohio cities – including Marietta, Canton, Chillicothe, Massillon and Medina – have similar laws. Versions of camping bans are being considered in a handful of other places.
Most of those laws went into effect after a 2024 U.S. Supreme Court ruling determined that creating penalties for sleeping in public places did not violate the Eighth Amendment, which prohibits excessive fines and cruel and unusual punishment.
“What we know is that camping bans are not an effective way of addressing homelessness,” said Amy Riegel, COHHIO’s executive director. “It is not going to help individuals to solve a housing crisis by putting more barriers or more restrictions upon them in that pursuit.”
Riegel said that housing is the only real solution to homelessness, and that forcing people into treatment doesn’t typically work. Still, she admitted that good things are happening in Licking County’s H.O.M.E. Court.
“They are addressing systemic issues. We just believe that it doesn't take a camping ban to get to the place of those positive outcomes,” she said.
A year of progress
But Judge Liston believes H.O.M.E. Court really works.
“We are not a housing court. We do not find people houses,” Liston said. “We help people build their homes.”
Every person in the program is being housed either in shelters, hotels, or in-patient treatment facilities or with friends and family. Participants are getting much-needed medical attention. Plus, every time participants come to court, they leave with free lunch.
So far, around 35 people have been in the program. As of mid-August, nine had flunked out for violating terms of their bond – things like leaving treatment or failing to complete the tasks they are assigned.
One man swore after the prosecutor recommended he be "unsuccessfully terminated" from the program because he ran from the people trying to take him to an in-patient treatment facility.
Liston wasn't amused.
"What was that I just heard?" she asked, her otherwise calm and upbeat demeanor briefly faltering.
"You don’t give nobody no hope," the man said as he shuffled out of the courtroom.
But for every dropout, the court has a shining success story. On Aug. 12, Kincaid became the program’s 10th graduate.
Liston presented him with a graduation certificate in front of all his friends. Kincaid is now living in his own apartment and has done all that the court asked.
Court staff and social services workers who helped Kincaid on his journey showered him with praise.
“No, no,” Kincaid said. “I didn’t do this, we did this!”
When it was her turn to speak, Law Director Moore inexplicably stepped into the courtroom carrying a cup of urine in gloved hands, sparking a round of raucous laughter.
"Hey, wait a minute, I did that yesterday!" Kincaid joked.
Moore delivered her remarks with the apparent drug test still in her hand.
"If we can change one life, we can affect and change the world. And that's how we feel. And Michael is a prime example of that," Moore said. "I mean, you saw him sitting in here, encouraging everybody else to get better. He has affected this entire community. And we're better because of it."
After court had finished for the day, Moore explained that the cup of urine that she had held so daintily was, in fact, a drug test. It determined that a court participant who was in jail could be released to a shelter as soon as possible.
“I mean that's why it works,” Moore said. “Everybody's like, ‘we'll do what we have to even if I have put on gloves and collect urine.’”
Outside the courtroom, Kincaid’s graduation celebration continued. Program participants and service providers spilled into the hallway, sharing stories and eating cupcakes.
Kincaid got his very own cheesecake that he refused to share. He had earned it, after all.