Before I joined ProPublica in 2021, I had spent a year writing about a Georgia prison physician named Carlo Musso, one of the rare doctors who’d openly talked about his role in lethal injections. After he stepped away from that work, I wanted to know who replaced him, so I filed open records requests for documents that would shed light on that. 

The role Musso held is so controversial that more than a dozen states have made it illegal to disclose the names of those involved with lethal injections. Georgia is among them. The state has gone to great lengths to hide the details around how it carries out lethal injections.  

Georgia wouldn’t release records I had requested, claiming that its secrecy law is needed to prevent those helping with its executions from getting harassed by opponents of the death penalty. 

I ended up suing the state. A few years later, a panel of three judges sided with me, and the state released some of the documents.

What I received reveals new details — and revives old questions — about Georgia’s lethal injection process. Among the discoveries: Georgia has made payments of more than $1.1 million since the COVID-19 pandemic for at least one contractor to work with the Corrections Department on its lethal injection process. During that period, the state carried out just a single execution.

The records also show that Georgia is paying far more for lethal injection-related costs than it did in the past. The state’s Corrections Department has spent an average of over $150,000 a year on those costs over the past decade. That’s substantially more than what it agreed to pay in the years before 2017, the records show.

Secrecy laws like Georgia’s shield the public from awareness of the growing costs of pharmacists concocting drugs and the doctors administering the injections. Legal experts say those costs reflect the challenges that corrections officials face in finding help with carrying out lethal injections, which can subject prisoners to torturous levels of pain.

“You wouldn’t have to pay this much money if the lethal injection process was an acceptable one,” said Deborah Denno, a Fordham University law professor who is an expert on the death penalty. “The process itself is so problematic that a lot of money has to be paid.”

Even after releasing the records, the Georgia Department of Corrections declined to answer my questions about the rising costs and the secrecy around lethal injections. The state attorney general’s office, which has represented the department in the lawsuit I filed for the records, also declined to comment for this story. State officials previously said that the Lethal Injection Secrecy Act allows the Corrections Department to protect contractors who would otherwise “find themselves at the center of a firestorm of hate mail and midnight callers.” They have repeatedly argued that, without the secrecy law in place, Georgia wouldn’t be able to carry out lethal injections. 

The secrets of Georgia’s death penalty process could face scrutiny in the coming days. After a recent Georgia Supreme Court ruling, which removed a barrier that had paused executions, state officials recently scheduled an execution for Sept. 16, which would be its first in two years. 

For every new scheduled execution, a new set of questions about the people behind the injections is likely to emerge.

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It wasn’t long after Georgia traded the electric chair for lethal injections in the early 2000s that the state ratcheted up its secrecy.

That’s when opponents of the death penalty increased pressure on pharmaceutical companies to stop selling lethal injection drugs to states that could be used for executions.

By the end of that decade, the advocates’ campaign started to work. The last U.S. factory to make a key ingredient for lethal injections stopped doing so. States across the country scrambled to find new sources of the drugs.

Georgia, for its part, purchased drugs from a wholesaler whose business operated out of the back room of a London driving school. 

But that backfired. The Drug Enforcement Administration seized the state’s supply of lethal injection drugs in 2011. Soon after, the European Union — made up of countries that oppose the death penalty — effectively banned companies from selling drugs to states if they were going to use them for executions. 

Faced with dire lethal injection drug shortages, states turned to a more secret and at times sketchier source of drugs.

As Georgia’s supply was set to expire in 2013, it became one of the first states to place an order with compounding pharmacists, who mix raw ingredients to make custom drugs for patients. Although compounding pharmacies have legitimate uses, they are minimally regulated and their costs can be exorbitant.

That avenue was ideal for states that couldn’t buy execution drugs from more scrutinized pharmaceutical companies. But medical experts say that scant oversight of the compounding pharmacies increased the odds of a drug not working as intended. 

In a 2013 affidavit filed on behalf of a Georgia prisoner, one pharmacy expert wrote that “highly unpredictable, rapidly evolving and potentially painful and agonizing, not to mention life-threatening, reactions may ensue” as the result of a lethal injection drug made by a compounding pharmacist.

Right around that time, Georgia lawmakers passed the Lethal Injection Secrecy Act. State prosecutors soon defended it in court. “Once that compounding pharmacy’s identity is revealed, how will the Department of Corrections ever get another compounding pharmacy to sell to us?” an assistant state attorney general said in a 2013 court hearing. “How will we get a doctor knowing that he is going to be, or she is going to be, dragged into court?”

At that time, I was reporting on how Georgia’s new secrecy law could affect Warren Lee Hill, who had been scheduled to be killed with drugs obtained from a compounding pharmacy. Hill’s attorneys said that their inability to get information about the drugs could cause “irreparable harm” to their client — and that argument won Hill a lengthy reprieve. He died by lethal injection in 2015.

In recent years, Texas, Indiana, and Arizona have all spent six-figure sums to renew their drug supplies from confidential sources. Defense attorneys have also tried to learn more information about those involved with the lethal injection process. They had hoped extra records might help them protect their clients’ rights. 

But in Georgia, none have been successful.

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Other states likewise spend large amounts of taxpayer dollars on secret contractors involved in the lethal injection process. Oklahoma went from paying a doctor $300 per execution to $15,000. And the American Civil Liberties Union discovered that the Federal Bureau of Prisons had spent millions on staffing needed to carry out executions.

When I first requested records about Georgia’s lethal injections, the Corrections Department withheld entire documents that had “identifying information” about those involved with the process. 

I asked the department to comply with the Georgia Open Records Act by releasing the documents with redactions. It refused. With the help of an attorney, I sued the department. 

Georgia Attorney General Chris Carr, who defended the Corrections Department, wrote in a court filing that releasing the records “would not serve the interest of the public.” 

The names of the people involved with the lethal injection process were redacted from the records that Georgia ultimately released to me. But the records show more than just the spending. They show the lengths the state took to protect its contractors.

Georgia is on the hook for attorney’s fees for its contractors should they face certain kinds of legal challenges, the records show. That means that taxpayers could shoulder the costs of legal representation in “any non-judicial proceeding.” One such example could be if a licensing board threatened to punish medical providers for participating in the lethal injection process — a threat that’s happened in North Carolina.

The records also show that Georgia officials may have disregarded their own financial policies. The Corrections Department requires detailed purchase orders to be kept and logged in the state’s financial system. But all that the department’s lawyers could provide me were handwritten checks, plus a series of one-page documents containing scant information about what the state was paying for — documents that hardly resembled the invoice of an official agency.

I’ve asked the department to provide purchasing records that had more details to comply with its policy. 

It couldn’t.

“There are no other records,” wrote a lawyer for the Corrections Department.

The post This State Is Spending More on Lethal Injections. A Law Tries to Keep the Details Secret. appeared first on ProPublica.

Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton appears to have violated federal ethics law in significant ways when filing recent disclosures of his assets and liabilities, creating confusion about his net worth and holdings, a review by ProPublica and The Texas Tribune found.

Among them: Paxton, the Republican nominee for U.S. Senate, reported owning seven homes but said he earned no income from any. Yet all but one was listed for rent during the reporting periods, and some current residents and neighbors at those addresses confirmed that the properties were rented, the news organizations found. Receiving income and not reporting it is a violation of federal disclosure law, three ethics experts said. 

Additionally, Paxton did not disclose mortgages for three condos at a Utah golf resort that federal law requires him to list as liabilities if they are not personal residences. 

He also valued his stake in a vacant plot of Texas land at up to $50,000 on last year’s filing, but his business partner told the newsrooms Paxton’s share for years has been worth about $1 million. Federal financial disclosure law requires property to be listed at fair market value.

The apparent errors and omissions the newsrooms found obscure the extent of Paxton’s income streams, assets and debt, making it difficult for voters to make sense of his finances as they mull whether to support him in November’s election, the ethics experts said.

“It reflects either pure sloppiness on Paxton’s part or a deliberate effort to conceal some of his investments and property holdings,” said Craig Holman, a government affairs lobbyist for the nonpartisan good-government group Public Citizen.

If Paxton wins, an incomplete picture of his finances could prevent watchdogs from evaluating his conflicts of interest as a senator, Holman and others said.

The apparent omissions are part of a pattern for Paxton. Over three terms as attorney general, he has withheld financial information that could explain how he became a multimillionaire and had the resources to purchase more than a dozen properties in five states. He began including many of these on his state disclosures only after the Texas Ethics Commission closed a loophole in 2024 that Paxton had cited to leave them off. Most were acquired while Paxton earned a government salary of $153,750.

In the new federal disclosure, filed in August after Paxton received a three-month extension, he reported a net worth between $1 million and $27 million. That is a significantly higher range than the negative $1.9 million to $11.1 million net worth he reported a year ago, before he had secured the Republican nomination but after he had declared his candidacy for federal office.

The spike was driven not by Paxton’s acquisition of more assets but because the reported value on several of his properties soared. 

Paxton’s report omitted listing as assets seven properties worth about $5.2 million collectively, including the Utah condos for which he did not disclose mortgages. He co-owns all of his known real estate holdings with his estranged wife, state Sen. Angela Paxton, property records show. The eight he reported are held by their blind trust, which is managed by a family friend.

Federal rules do not require candidates to report as assets personal homes or properties from which they don’t earn money, even if the properties are worth millions.

At a time when voters feel anxious about their own personal finances and dislike the idea of politicians getting rich in office, it would be wise for Paxton to be more transparent about his wealth, said Texas ethics and campaign finance lawyer Andrew Cates.

“If it were me trying to get people’s vote, I would err on the side of transparency rather than not,” Cates said.

Paxton declined to be interviewed and did not answer detailed questions about how he filled out the disclosure forms. Madison Cercy, a spokesperson for his campaign, said Paxton “has had a long and successful career outside of public service, including running his own small business as a lawyer. Stirring up partisan allegations is nothing more than a bad attempt to manufacture controversy where none exists.”

Before being elected to the state Legislature in 2002, Paxton worked at a law firm in the Dallas area and was a corporate attorney for JCPenney. His state financial disclosure for 2001 listed assets totaling no more than $170,000, a ProPublica and Tribune analysis found.

By 2015, his household net worth had grown to $5.4 million, according to financial records lawmakers subpoenaed in 2023 after impeaching Paxton on charges that he took bribes in exchange for helping an Austin real estate investor.

The records, few of which were admitted into evidence during the 10-day Senate trial that resulted in his acquittal, document how Paxton built a diverse portfolio that included investments in a cellphone tower, an HVAC company, a cement supplier and a police body camera manufacturer. He netted $2.2 million when Motorola acquired the body camera firm in 2019, according to his income tax return from that year. 

Shortly after, he went on a real estate buying spree, snapping up six properties in Oklahoma, Florida, Utah and Hawaii. His impeachment defense team said Paxton made a prudent shift toward real estate at a time of rock-bottom interest rates.

Questions about Paxton’s integrity have dogged him in the race for U.S. Senate. His opponent, Democratic state Rep. James Talarico, entered September with a narrow polling lead — uncharted territory in a state where Republicans have not lost a statewide race in 32 years. 

A University of Texas/Texas Politics Project poll released last week found that just a third of respondents viewed Paxton as “honest and trustworthy.” The same day the statewide poll was published, a super PAC supporting Talarico hit the airwaves with an ad that labeled the attorney general as “the most corrupt politician in Texas.” The commercial included a reference to Paxton’s recently disclosed net worth.

Talarico’s net worth, according to his most recent personal financial disclosure, was between $67,000 and $305,000. The range changed little from the previous year. Like Paxton, Talarico did not include his single personal residence among his reported assets. 

James Henson, director of the Texas Politics Project, said the questions surrounding Paxton’s latest financial disclosures reinforce a longstanding narrative that the attorney general is secretive about his finances and may have leveraged his public position for personal gain.

“It’s his choice how much he explains or doesn’t explain,” Henson said. “But I think that comes with a potential cost, and we’re seeing that in public opinion.”

Paxton’s pivot to real estate appears to be a way to supplement his salary as attorney general. The newsrooms found recent rental listings for six of the properties he disclosed but for which he said he derived no income: two homes in Ocala, Florida; a home and a condo in Austin; a home in College Station, Texas; and a vacation lodge in Broken Bow, Oklahoma. 

A tenant confirmed to the newsrooms she’s living at one of Florida houses. At the Austin condo complex, a next-door neighbor said Paxton’s unit has a renter. And the five-bedroom, three-story Oklahoma lodge he owns is listed online as a short-term rental for up to $1,200 a night, with fall bookings filling up fast.

On his disclosure forms, which require real estate income to be reported, Paxton for each property selected the option “None (or less than $201).”

Federal law requires candidates who aren’t currently in Congress to report all loans exceeding $10,000, except those for personal residences. Paxton did not report three mortgages totaling $1.3 million for condos at the Black Desert Resort in southwest Utah, renowned for its world-class golf course. He purchased the properties in February; the reporting period for the most recent disclosure ran through mid-May. 

Reporters found the mortgage documents in local land records. Each contains an addendum to the mortgage that is used for rental properties, said New Jersey real estate lawyer Daniel M. Shlufman. That addendum removes a requirement that the unit be owner-occupied and allows the lender to collect rent directly from tenants if Paxton were to default on the loan.

Paxton purchased another condo at the resort in 2025, which he disclosed on his most recent report as an asset and a liability. The land records show he obtained a $640,000 mortgage for it. The resort advertises a program in which it leases units purchased by investors, but it declined to say if Paxton’s properties were enrolled in it.

“It’s kind of mind-boggling to think about having four homes at one resort property and imagining those are for personal use,” said Cynthia Brown, a senior lawyer at the government watchdog Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington.

The most significant changes between Paxton’s 2025 and 2026 reports were the valuations of the Oklahoma lodge and a plot of land outside of Fort Worth, whose value he said had increased by millions of dollars.

He appears to have switched from reporting the properties’ assessed values, which are set by the local county, to the loftier estimates of what they would fetch on the open market. 

Paxton’s initial use of the lowball values appears to defy federal rules aimed at bringing candidates’ disclosed property values in line with what they’re actually worth. While the Senate Ethics Committee instructs filers that they can use a recent tax assessment to set the worth of certain property, they must adjust it to market value if it is assessed below that. In these cases, valuations must be disclosed as a specific dollar figure rather than a range.

On both his annual reports as a Senate candidate, Paxton listed ranges for the value of each property he disclosed.

Last year, Paxton reported the Oklahoma lodge, just north of the Texas border, as worth between $100,001 and $250,000. The local county assesses the property at $176,000. Its estimated market value, meanwhile, is more than $1.5 million, according to real estate websites. This year, Paxton’s disclosure valued the property at between $1 million and $5 million. 

Likewise, Paxton valued a 42-acre plot of undeveloped land in Johnson County, south of Fort Worth, at between $15,001 and $50,000 last year. The county assesses the property as farmland worth $20,008, but estimates its market value is $2.9 million. This year, Paxton’s disclosure said the property was worth between $1 million and $5 million.

Paxton bought the property in 2006 with a group of investors including Rob Orr, with whom he served in the Texas House of Representatives. Orr, who manages the investment, said in an interview that Paxton’s 20% stake is worth about $1 million.

“It would have been around a million for quite a while, probably the last four or five years,” Orr said. “It has increased in value because of zoning and because of time.”

The group bought the plot to hold onto, Orr said, until creeping growth from the Dallas-Fort Worth area made it attractive for redevelopment. He said the group is negotiating a sale to a developer. Last year, Orr persuaded the City Council in Burleson to rezone the land, which had been restricted to agriculture, to permit retail and housing.

Paxton’s move to significantly revalue his assets without explaining why is “very strange,” said Margaret Dylus-Yukins, senior counsel for ethics at the nonpartisan Campaign Legal Center, which advocates for strong disclosure rules. Dylus-Yukins, who worked for six years analyzing executive branch officials’ financial disclosures for the U.S. Office of Government Ethics, said the agency would ask filers to explain major changes in writing.

“When you have public officials that appear to be fudging the numbers on their disclosure forms, and the Senate Ethics Committee is letting that slide, then you’re not only eroding trust in the committee but the candidate himself,” Dylus-Yukins said, referring to the significant differences between the filings. 

The ethics committee did not respond to requests for comment. Candidates or senators who willingly falsify financial disclosures can be fined up to $50,000 or prosecuted for making a false statement to the government, a felony. The committee rarely investigates senators and has not formally sanctioned a member in 19 years.

Candidates do not have to file any more federal financial disclosures before the November election.

The post Ken Paxton’s Financial Disclosures Appear to Violate Federal Ethics Law, Experts Say appeared first on ProPublica.

In March 2022, Colorado public health officials started getting startling reports of liver damage tied to a new marijuana-based sleep aid that had quickly become a top seller in the state.

But it wasn’t until June 2023, nearly 15 months later, that the state’s Marijuana Enforcement Division would warn consumers that the danger had become so serious that the manufacturer had halted production of the sleep pills, called 1906 Midnight Drops, after more reports of “acute liver injury.”

The delay highlights a slew of weaknesses in the system for protecting consumers from hazardous products in the nation’s first regulated recreational marijuana market.

The health complaints had prompted the division to investigate, but the agency decided it didn’t have the power to pull the drops from the stores in this situation. If the agency had dug deeper, it might have found what the state attorney general’s office later discovered: The manufacturer, Sima Sciences, began receiving complaints of harm shortly after it launched 1906 Midnight Drops and two years before health officials ever did.

Instead, the enforcement division took four months after the first report of liver damage to the state to post a notice on its website. But the agency didn’t call it a health and safety warning, which would have advised people not to consume the product. It released a more neutrally named “informational notification.” While there had been reports of “adverse health events,” the notice said, regulators didn’t find any violations. The manufacturer had reformulated the product, the notice added, and no additional issues had surfaced.

Jenifer Chatting didn’t even see it.

A surgical assistant at an oral surgeon’s office, Chatting wanted a safe, natural alternative to pharmaceuticals to treat her insomnia. So she was relieved when a local marijuana dispensary suggested a sugar-free option made of cannabis and herbal extracts that the manufacturer touted as the “the best sleep aid on the market.” She began taking the Midnight Drops nightly the same month that the state health department received its first complaint.

Unaware of the enforcement division’s notification, she didn’t worry when she started having full-body cramps and became lactose intolerant in September 2022, about six months after she started taking the drops. She thought she just needed to drink more water.

She continued taking the drops for nine more months until her dispensary stopped stocking them. Now, despite never having liver problems before, according to her medical records, she has liver damage at age 53; her doctor says she will ultimately need a transplant.

Colorado’s failure to get Midnight Drops off the market or to warn consumers to stop taking it despite repeated reports of harm was not an anomaly, The Denver Gazette and ProPublica found.

The division has limited authority to force companies to recall products. The agency instead relies on posting health and safety advisories on its website to warn the public, and on sending news releases to local media outlets.

Yet, in the cases for which the news organizations were able to identify the date of a complaint or the start of an investigation, it took regulators an average of more than seven months to issue a warning. That’s an incomplete snapshot because the division refused to release data on when investigations began. Complaint dates were private, it said, because the probes were ongoing — even years after the warnings were issued and some companies had surrendered their licenses.

Still, The Denver Gazette and ProPublica were able to identify initial complaint or investigative start dates for 23 of the 83 advisories the agency issued over the past five years by reviewing other licensing violation records. 

Seven months is a long time for products that are typically smoked or ingested within days of purchase, industry insiders and consumer safety experts said. In comparison, federal investigators have criticized the U.S. Food and Drug Administration for taking an average of two months after learning of a potential hazard to not just warn consumers but to get companies to recall contaminated food.

Kimberly Anzarut, a former Denver marijuana regulator and now an industry consultant, said the delays mean Colorado consumers aren’t getting vital warnings while products are still on shelves.

“When you take a really long time to get a bulletin out to tell people about these issues, a lot of time, people have already consumed the product,” she said.

Lab directors said it generally takes only three days to return test results identifying contaminants, and if there’s an emergency, they can do so in a day.

But MED spokesperson Heather Draper said in a statement that it’s more complicated than just getting test results and that it takes time to build a case that leads to a health and safety advisory.

“This most often requires investigative resources to evaluate the scope of concerns, gather evidence of potential product safety concerns, and receive test results that indicate a contaminated product has been sold to consumers,” she said. 

Thuy Vu, Denver’s former head of marijuana inspections and enforcement, said regulators should act more quickly and that “time is of the essence,” because the safety problems reported to regulators are almost always a fraction of the harm a product is causing.

“Seven months, eight months, that’s ridiculous,” she said.

The delays mean contaminated marijuana products often remain on sale for a long time, with no public warning. In addition to complaint dates, The Denver Gazette and ProPublica were able to get sales start dates for nearly all the health and safety advisories and found that Colorado regulators also take, on average, more than seven months from the first sale of a contaminated marijuana product to warn the public.

The news organizations found that warnings take a long time in part because Colorado lacks measures adopted in many other legalized marijuana markets to improve testing procedures and prevent contaminated marijuana from going to stores. 

And when the state does discover a problem in a product already on shelves, it gives manufacturers multiple chances to disprove the agency’s finding. Though the MED can require companies to stop distributing flagged products, industry lawyers and manufacturers said manufacturers often continue selling them while challenging the findings.

Chatting’s husband, Luke, is now fearful of losing his wife and critical of what he calls insufficient warnings about Midnight Drops. The couple is suing the company, which has denied their claims. The lawsuit is pending.

“Why weren’t there big banners in front of the dispensaries about these things?” he asked. “The state makes millions and millions and millions of dollars off of the taxes for the marijuana, but they don’t do any regulation at all.”

“My Patients Were Swearing by These”

The person behind Midnight Drops is Peter Barsoom, a wunderkind of Wall Street finance who left New York in 2014 to co-found a recreational marijuana company called Sima Sciences.

Soon he was turning up in splashy magazine profiles. The 1906 product line was a nod to the year the U.S. government enacted the Pure Food and Drug Act, which he said led to the first federal regulation and eventual prohibition of cannabis. 

His initial focus was high-end marijuana-infused truffle chocolates. 

“Our competitors are chardonnay, Xanax and coffee, not other edibles,” he said during an interview in 2017. 

In 2019, he branched out into the sleep tablet line and also manufactured other “drops” meant to help with sex, anxiety, energy, focus and bliss.

By 2023, his company, based in Henderson, Colorado, was manufacturing 81% of the pills sold in dispensaries in the state, according to the cannabis analytics firm BDSA.

Vu, the former Denver regulator, worked for about a year as Barsoom’s head of regulatory compliance and said Barsoom wanted her to bend the rules on inventory reporting and product safety, though she stressed that she was unaware of the problems with the Midnight Drops, which were made after she left. They clashed, and he fired her in 2016, she said.

Barsoom declined interview requests and did not respond to detailed questions. His company’s lawyers also did not respond to requests for comment. But in court filings in response to personal injury lawsuits, they stated that “injuries, damages and losses, if any, may have been caused by plaintiff’s own comparative negligence.”

To promote the Midnight Drops, the 1906 website said the pills were infused with corydalis, an herbal extract, which, it said, “has been used for millennia.” It claimed the extract had sedative qualities and would help people stay asleep because it targeted body pain and tension.

A relative of the poppy, corydalis also contains a compound that researchers have linked to severe and potentially fatal liver injury.

Following reports about liver problems, the company reformulated Midnight Drops and added a warning label stating the product should be taken in consultation with a physician. But the new herbal supplement was also primarily composed of a compound with the same chemical makeup as the one in corydalis that had been tied to liver risks, regulators eventually concluded. 

One doctor reported to the enforcement division in December 2022 that he continued to “see an uptick in patients with elevated liver enzymes,” which he believed was caused by Midnight Drops. He warned the agency that he had seen four such patients in the past two months and knew of other doctors treating more, state records show.

Dr. David Cristin, a gastroenterologist, said he was exasperated because patients kept using Midnight Drops despite his concerns. He said he registered a complaint through the company’s website, detailing the issues he had found, but was never contacted.

“The thing that was frustrating was my patients were swearing by these,” he said.

By May 2024, the Colorado Department of Public Health and Environment would receive 52 reports of harm involving Midnight Drops, at least 20 severe enough to require medical care. Of those reports, 25 occurred before the MED’s second notification. While the health department often does the initial review, records show it typically finished gathering information within days, which would trigger an automatic referral to the MED.

Nearly a year after issuing its first “informational notification,” the MED and the health department issued the second one in June 2023, warning that Midnight Drops had continued generating reports of “acute liver injury.” 

At that time, Sima announced it was stopping production. But Barsoom and his companies continued marketing Midnight Drops for several more months and did not adequately warn dispensaries to stop selling them, according to a Colorado attorney general’s office investigation.

Chatting didn’t see the second MED notification either. A couple of weeks after it was posted, she went into a dispensary but learned the drops were no longer in stock. She said a dispensary staffer told her they had been pulled because consumers had been abusing the product. She hadn’t been, so she didn’t worry.

But that summer, bloodwork during a routine checkup revealed Chatting’s liver enzymes had soared to abnormal levels, indicating potential damage.

The MED’s lawyers have refused to release any of the agency’s investigative files about Midnight Drops, making it difficult to assess why the agency didn’t act sooner. Draper, the spokesperson, said that when regulators were fielding complaints about Midnight Drops, their powers were limited: They could put a hold on products and require companies to issue recalls only for specific violations. She said because of a 2023 statute change, regulators can now place holds on products over safety concerns to prevent their sales, even without a violation.

Still, even with that change, the time it takes to warn consumers after the first complaint as well as after the date when a product goes on sale have both gotten longer, according to the news organizations’ analysis. Draper said the agency “has improved its Health & Safety Advisory processes and this work continues.” She added that agency officials do not believe that the newsrooms’ analysis is “an accurate representation of our process and progress in these areas,” but she did not say why or provide any evidence disputing it.

Loopholes in Safety Rules

The continued time lag in public warnings from regulators is another blow to consumer safety for Colorado’s marijuana industry, which has loopholes in safety rules other states have closed to make it less likely that contaminated products end up in dispensaries.

In one of the longest cases, it took regulators three years to warn consumers from the date of the first sales of marijuana products made by Pueblo County-based Boone Farms that were contaminated with yeast, mold and aspergillus, which can damage lungs and cause asthma, fungal infections and, in rare instances, death. Draper said she could neither confirm nor deny if there was any other investigation. The owner of the company declined to comment but previously said it was a small amount of product and that some of it sold before the state set standards for aspergillus.

An MED investigator had similar suspicions about contamination in products made by Boulder-based Range Street, but “due to other priorities and bandwidth,” had to put the investigation on the “backburner,” according to the investigator’s synopsis obtained through a public records request. The MED eventually found yeast, mold and aspergillus. But it didn’t warn the public until 410 days after the first sales. Range Street, whose former owner declined to comment, has since surrendered its medical marijuana cultivation license.

Unlike other states, Colorado operates largely on an honor code, with manufacturers free to choose the samples and the labs that conduct contaminant tests required before products can be sold. Colorado regulators in January said they were considering requiring lab personnel to collect samples, which would bring Colorado in line with 26 of the 42 state marijuana markets. But the agency backed away from the proposal after top manufacturers argued it would increase costs.

Colorado also allows marijuana manufacturers to test their products far less frequently if they can show consistent compliance, something only one other state does. And the time frame for demonstrating that compliance can be as little as a few weeks.

Colorado’s regulators acknowledged at a 2023 industry forum that the reduced testing program “potentially poses risks to public health and safety,” as problems with the program were “a common occurrence” in investigations.

This January, the enforcement division noted in an industry bulletin that problems with that program persist, leading to recalls and advisories for unsafe levels of pesticides. The division told manufacturers in July that it is reviewing the reduced testing program as it considers a broader overhaul of testing rules. 

Colorado also has historically relied on complaints to identify tainted marijuana once it is actually in the marketplace, rather than randomly sampling products on shelves. The Cannabis Regulators Association recommends random sampling, and other states like Oklahoma have such programs. Colorado only this year launched a pilot program to randomly sample dispensary products, but the program has run into delays, and the state hasn’t identified a long-term funding source.

Once a contaminated product gets to dispensaries, Colorado regulators face challenges in getting the product off the shelves. Colorado expects manufacturers to voluntarily recall products. Regulators in Colorado can only force products to be recalled in a public health emergency, but regulators can encounter hurdles to quickly establishing that one exists.

Even when testing finds contaminants, manufacturers say marijuana that’s already in dispensaries often remains for sale. That’s because Colorado allows the manufacturer to retest the marijuana, and the rules don’t specify a time frame for when those tests have to be done. The rules state that the MED “may” require manufacturers to refrain from selling items during retesting.

In contrast, Missouri immediately puts a hold on all marijuana products that fail mandatory contaminant testing. Manufacturers there can have the products reanalyzed, but dispensaries can’t sell those products until retesting shows the original analysis was incorrect.

In an industry bulletin in January, Colorado regulators said the agency had seen “increased instances” of marijuana manufacturers taking advantage of the retesting rule to cover up the use of banned pesticides.

“Health Isn’t Really Their Primary Concern”

Tess Eidem, a research professor at the University of Colorado who has a federal grant to analyze the division’s health and safety bulletin process, said she worries the state prioritizes protecting the financial viability of the marijuana market over consumer safety.

She pointed out that the MED isn’t part of the state’s health department but instead is in the state’s revenue department. 

“So health isn’t really their primary concern,” she said.

Draper said that “consumer safety has been and remains a top priority for the Division.”

In September 2024, a little over a year after Chatting stopped taking Midnight Drops, she and her husband went on a dream vacation to England, where they lived on a houseboat. The trip was such a success that they began planning to retire there, projecting that in about a decade they could downsize and spend their golden years traveling the canals through the English countryside where Luke was born.

A month later, Jenifer got a call from a doctor. Because she’s a former smoker, she had gone in for a routine lung screening. Her lungs were fine, but the X-ray detected something suspicious with her liver. A follow-up ultrasound detected cirrhosis.

Chatting’s gastroenterologist ruled out alcohol consumption, noting in her medical records that Chatting had always been a light drinker, and instead cited an herbal sleeping aid as a likely factor. After she stopped taking the drops, her liver enzymes came back into normal ranges, but the damage was already done, her medical records show.

Two days before Thanksgiving, Luke couldn’t sleep and rose about 2 a.m. to Google information about cirrhosis. He said it was then that he finally discovered the MED’s notifications about Midnight Drops.

He started slamming his fists on the armrests of his desk chair. One armrest broke, and his fist hit jagged plastic, fracturing his left hand.

“Jen, they killed you,” he recalled shouting.

She has few symptoms now, other than body cramps, but her gastroenterologist has warned that her condition will inevitably deteriorate and she will require a liver transplant in as little as five years.

Struggling to come to terms with the diagnosis, Jenifer now stays mostly indoors, building elaborate Lego artwork and spending time with their rescue pug mixes. 

“It’s hard because you think you’re doing something good for yourself and healthy and all natural,” she said. “And then it ends up being, you know … .” She stopped and gathered herself. “Just because something’s all natural doesn’t mean that it’s good for you.” 

Last September, Barsoom and his companies settled with the attorney general’s office to resolve the office’s investigation. Barsoom and his companies denied that they had violated consumer protection laws. But they agreed to pay $400,000 in fines, and the settlement bars them from selling cannabis products in Colorado until at least 2027. 

Barsoom also agreed to issue an apology. 

“We’ve always believed that great products should improve people’s lives,” his statement read. “When we learned that Midnight Drops wasn’t meeting that standard for everyone, we realized we had let our customers down. We are sorry that we didn’t act faster and communicate better with both our customers and regulators.”

The Chattings said Barsoom’s apology doesn’t amount to much for them, and they wish Colorado regulators had acted faster and communicated better with consumers.

“How are people supposed to know this?” Luke asked. “The only way I found this stuff was by digging and digging and digging on the internet.”

The post Regulators Knew This Marijuana Product Was Harming People. It Stayed on Shelves for More Than a Year. appeared first on ProPublica.

When President Donald Trump returned to the White House, he pushed for a seismic shift in immigration enforcement resulting in mass detention. Immigrants with no criminal convictions, who under previous administrations would have been released on bond or not detained in the first place, would now be held while their immigration cases were pending.

In an effort to gain their freedom, tens of thousands of detainees have filed what are known as habeas petitions, asking federal judges to rule that they have been unlawfully held by the government. But their chances of a speedy ruling have varied dramatically. For some, freedom came within days. Others have waited months for a decision. Some were deported before a judge could rule. 

A ProPublica analysis of court records from the more than 70,000 habeas cases filed since January 2025 found that some judges take far longer than others to resolve cases as federal courts have adjusted unevenly to the unprecedented flood of filings.

The waits have been particularly long in parts of Mississippi and Louisiana, where federal judges have usually taken three months or more to decide whether a detainee should be released. Among the cases that have been resolved in Mississippi, half took 92 days or more — the longest of any state.

While new habeas petition filings have slowed somewhat in recent months, they remain far higher than before Trump began his second term. 

The massive caseload has inundated the already overwhelmed federal courts and overburdened judges who suddenly have had hundreds more cases on their already crowded dockets. District courts with staffing shortages have struggled to keep habeas cases moving.

The delays have left many detainees waiting in prisonlike facilities overseen by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement that advocates say are substandard and unsafe, riddled with allegations about spoiled food, beatings and medical neglect, though federal officials dispute those claims. Some immigrants have been deported or accepted the government’s offer to leave the country rather than wait for a federal judge to rule on their freedom. 

“The amount of food they are being given is simply not enough, and people are left hungry,” said Liudmila Nafikov, whose husband has been detained in a large Mississippi facility for nearly two years and is awaiting a decision on his habeas case. “For three days, they have had no hot food or hot water.”

“I do not believe it is fair or humane to keep people in these conditions for such a long time, especially people who have committed no crime and people who are sick.”

A Department of Homeland Security spokesperson acknowledged an Aug. 22 fire outside the Natchez, Mississippi, facility that affected “all hot water, kitchen services, and laundry operations,” adding, “No one was injured as a result of this incident and as of August 24, the facility is back in 100% operation with hot water and meals.” The spokesperson called claims of substandard conditions in federal detention facilities false, adding, “All detainees are provided with 3 meals a day, clean water, clothing, bedding, showers, soap, and toiletries.” 

Federal courts elsewhere have adjusted to the new reality and closed cases at a faster pace. In Texas, California and Florida, courts have handled thousands more habeas petitions and typically have made decisions in about a month and a half or less, according to ProPublica analysis. 

Courts in Minnesota, which experienced a surge in habeas petitions during an immigration enforcement push earlier this year, have reached decisions and closed cases even faster, with a median of about 12 days.

One commonality across districts: The vast majority of judges have ruled against the Trump administration in habeas cases, Politico found. Lawyers say that judges who are more receptive to habeas relief often issue decisions relatively quickly. 

“A Completely Unresponsive Black Hole” 

Habeas corpus, which means “you should have the body” in Latin, gives anyone in the United States a chance to challenge their detention in court. It is intended to be adjudicated quickly because a person’s liberty is at stake. 

“Delay is undesirable in all aspects of our justice system, but it is especially to be avoided in the sensitive context of habeas corpus,” the U.S. Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit wrote in a 1988 decision.

The habeas statute directs judges to give the government three days to initially respond with justification for the detention but allows for that deadline to be extended up to 20 days. 

In practice, however, judges have broad discretion to set their own deadlines as they balance habeas petitions alongside other civil litigation and criminal trials that can tie up a court, lawyers told ProPublica. They have the power to order the parties to respond, grant extensions and determine the priority of cases before them.

The U.S. courts’ rules governing non-immigration habeas cases are less specific, saying only that judges must order the government to respond “within a fixed time.”

California-based immigration attorney Bonita Gutierrez has seen swift movement on her habeas cases in the state, leading to the release of her clients — some within days. 

But after the adult son of a longtime client was detained in August 2025 and sent to a detention center in Mississippi in November, she filed a habeas petition in that state in February. Both sides presented their arguments, and the case sat for about a month with no decision from the judge. Gutierrez received “radio silence” when she emailed the court deputy about it, she said.

“It’s just like your petition has gone to a black hole, a completely unresponsive black hole.” 

The man was deported in late April, rendering his habeas case moot after he spent eight months in ICE custody. The case was closed on May 1, according to electronic records reviewed by ProPublica.

Almost all cases in the Mississippi Southern District are assigned to one longtime judge, David C. Bramlette III, who was appointed by George H.W. Bush, and referred to two magistrate judges. Bramlette presides over a division within the court district where Adams County Correctional Center, one of the country’s largest ICE facilities, is located. 

The federal government has transferred many detainees to some of the nation’s largest detention facilities in Louisiana and Mississippi, complicating their legal representation and crowding the dockets in those states.

A total of 747 habeas cases have been assigned to Bramlette during the second Trump administration, as of Aug. 25. (Only 14 federal judges around the country have been assigned more.) A total of 539 of his cases, about 72%, remain active, according to electronic court records.

A spokesperson for Bramlette did not answer questions from ProPublica about case wait times, instead pointing to a page tracking his habeas caseload.

Lawyers who practice in Mississippi told ProPublica that many of their cases were languishing after the parties filed briefs and were waiting on a judge’s response. One case involved Aidar Nafikov, a Russian asylum seeker hoping to be reunited with his family. Nafikov filed his habeas petition in April after being detained in Adams County Correctional Center for over a year and a half. His case was argued before Bramlette in June of this year with no response.

Meanwhile, his health has deteriorated in detention, where he has suffered repeated bouts of strep throat and developed kidney problems, his wife, Liudmila, said.

“Getting medical help is very difficult because even if you complain, they don’t provide medical help right away,” she said.

A DHS spokesperson did not comment on Nafikov’s case but denied claims of medical neglect at ICE facilities, saying that it is “longstanding practice to provide comprehensive medical care” for anyone in ICE custody.

The harm caused by the delays spurred immigration attorneys and advocates in the state to send a letter to Chief Judge Sul Ozerden in March about the habeas bottleneck. The letter recommends distributing habeas cases among other judges in the district, noting that a district in Pennsylvania had recently done the same.

Other than adding an option to file habeas cases electronically, officials have not addressed the other suggestions in the letter, according to Korbin Felder, a Mississippi attorney at the Center for Constitutional Rights, one of the organizations that signed it. 

Ozerden did not respond to a request for comment.

More than 2,600 habeas cases have been filed in Louisiana, which has the second-largest immigrant detainee population after Texas. Over half of the resolved cases there have taken 89 days or more to be decided, according to ProPublica’s analysis.

Louisiana attorneys say that it’s hard to get a habeas case moving in the first place. Until recently in Louisiana’s Western District, petitioners had to formally deliver the lawsuit and summons to government defendants in person and through certified mail. Deadlines set by the judge for the government to respond would then begin after the U.S. attorney’s office received a suit. In other states, this process, carried out by the court, is faster.  

In addition, attorneys say judges in Louisiana have been giving the government generous deadlines to respond to a habeas petition — sometimes up to 60 days, treating the cases like ordinary civil litigation. By contrast, judges in Minnesota have ordered responses within three or four days.

Through a spokesperson for the Administrative Office of the United States Courts, the Western District of Louisiana declined to answer questions about the backlog.

Steep Learning Curve

ProPublica’s analysis also found that judges within the same district can take vastly different amounts of time to resolve habeas cases.

Seven judges in Oklahoma’s Western District have been assigned more than 150 habeas cases each during the second Trump administration. Two Trump-appointed judges, Charles Goodwin and Patrick R. Wyrick, have taken a median of 144 and 91 days, respectively, to resolve their cases. (Around 67% of Goodwin’s cases and 80% of Wyrick’s cases remain unresolved.) Meanwhile, their fellow Trump-appointed colleague Jodi W. Dishman has taken about 49 days to close her cases. (Only 26% of Dishman’s cases remain open.)

The court clerk of Oklahoma’s Western District declined to comment on behalf of the district and the judges.

Maggie Kopel of the National Immigration Litigation Alliance points out that rapid expansion of ICE facilities in states like Oklahoma has led to a steep learning curve for courts that did not have a history of dealing with habeas cases. In Oklahoma, cases have taken a median of 63 days to close.

“That’s not an excuse,” Kopel said. She notes that New Hampshire and the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, which have closed habeas petitions faster than Oklahoma, also did not have a history of detention centers. “Both those districts got up to speed extremely quickly.”

Unresolved legal questions also can cause uncertainty, leading to some of the delays in litigation. Recently, Louisiana judges David C. Joseph and Alexander Van Hook paused some of their habeas cases until the 5th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals decides whether the government can detain an immigrant without a bond hearing.

Out of the 130 completed cases Elissa Stiles, an Oklahoma immigration attorney, has filed, nearly 1 in 5 ended before her client received an answer. In four of those cases, the detainee was deported, and in 15 of them, they chose to return to their country. 

Most of her clients want to fight their cases, she said. 

“It’s rare that a client is immediately interested in voluntary departure because their entire lives are here,” said Stiles, adding that the conditions inside the detention centers are so dire that leaving the country becomes a better option. “If their cases had been adjudicated more quickly, they would not be taking voluntary departure.”

A spokesperson for the Department of Homeland Security said that the department is “working rapidly and overtime to remove these aliens from detention centers to their final destination — home.” Detained immigrants can request “a free flight home and a $3,000 exit bonus,” the spokesperson said.

“Judicial Emergency” 

Many federal courts answered the upsurge in habeas cases by issuing standing orders shortening briefing schedules and assigning public defenders to certain detainees without lawyers. Some courts, like those in California, have temporarily assigned judges from other districts to help cut the backlog.

Courts in other states have established ways to standardize certain habeas proceedings.

In the Georgia Middle District, home to the Stewart Detention Center, the majority of the roughly 1,500 cases filed since Trump retook office have been assigned to Judge Clay D. Land and two magistrate judges. Land has the most habeas cases of any judge in the ProPublica analysis.

To address the backlog, Land directed magistrate judges that if a habeas petition falls under certain parameters, they can use preapproved language ordering the government to provide a bond hearing without the district judge’s approval.

“The volume of these petitions has created an administrative judicial emergency which requires the Court to consider novel solutions to assure that these cases are handled expeditiously,” Land wrote in the directive.

His district takes a median of 29 days to close a case and has cleared nearly 80% of its habeas docket.

The spokesperson for the Administrative Office of the United States Courts, which provides a range of support services and collects statistics about the federal judiciary, said the agency and the Judicial Conference do not “impose directives on judges to manage their dockets differently.” The spokesperson pointed to an “unprecedented number” of habeas petitions and a shortage of federal judges.

In 2025, the Judicial Conference recommended that Congress create 71 new judgeships to address increasing caseloads. The list, however, did not ask for any new judges in Mississippi, Louisiana or the Western District of Oklahoma, where habeas cases have been delayed the longest.

New district judgeships have not been authorized for more than two decades, the spokesperson said.

Congress did pass a bill in December 2024 that would have added 66 new federal judges, but then-President Joe Biden vetoed the legislation a month before leaving office.

In July, the Western District of Louisiana issued an order authorizing the court, instead of the habeas petitioners, to serve defendants copies of the lawsuit. The court can also issue a standard scheduling order rather than wait for a clerk or magistrate judge to review it.

While the order doesn’t require judges to set shorter deadlines, Carley Tatman, a Louisiana immigration lawyer, is cautiously optimistic. In practice, it’s still taking several days or even weeks for the courts to issue scheduling orders. 

In addition, Mississippi lawyers have said they have seen movement recently in some of their long-delayed cases. Bramlette has closed over 90 of his cases since July.

However, Liudmila Nafikov is still waiting for a decision in her husband’s case before the judge.

Being apart from her husband of 20 years has been “physically and emotionally taxing,” she said. She is the family’s sole caregiver and has been struggling to pay for basic necessities in addition to her husband’s legal expenses. She adds that her three children are also traumatized after being separated from their father.

All they can do is what they’ve been doing for almost two years now: wait.

“The kids always ask me when Dad will come back home,” Nafikov said. “And I can’t give them an answer because I don’t have it myself.”

The post These Judges Take Months to Decide If Immigrants Have Been Unlawfully Detained appeared first on ProPublica.

Over the “strongest possible” objections from the federal prosecutor handling the case, leaders at the Department of Justice in Washington, D.C., quashed plans to bring civil rights charges against an Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent accused of shooting a Venezuelan immigrant and then lying about it. 

The agent, 52-year-old Christian Castro, allegedly shot Julio Cesar Sosa-Celis in the leg in Minneapolis this January during Operation Metro Surge, the Trump administration’s immigration blitz that sent thousands of federal agents into the state. The incident was one of three shootings by immigration agents in the city, the other two of which were fatal. 

Federal prosecutors in Minnesota had been preparing to charge Castro with deprivation of rights under color of law for the shooting of Sosa-Celis, according to several people familiar with the case. Those charges are similar to the ones leveled against Minneapolis police officers accused in George Floyd’s killing and can carry hefty prison sentences. 

Late on Tuesday, Matthew Evans, the assistant U.S. attorney in Minnesota in charge of the case, told lawyers for Sosa-Celis and other victims to prepare for Castro to be charged “only with False Statements,” according to an email that was reviewed by ProPublica. 

That charge would likely carry a far less severe punishment if he were convicted.

“This is being directed by the Main Justice and the US Attorney,” Evans wrote in a remarkably candid account of internal deliberations. “I objected in the strongest possible terms and fought it as hard as I could. It wasn’t enough.” 

He wrote that the false statement charges could come soon and would likely be filed under seal.

“It has been an honor and a privilege to try to get justice for your clients,” Evans concluded the email.

A DOJ official said civil rights charges require consultation with the civil rights division in Washington, and “any charging decisions that come out of such investigations are collaborative and deliberative and adhere to the facts and law of that specific case and controversy.”

The agency “has not yet reached a conclusion on this matter and will never rush an investigative process and the thorough review of all evidence,” the official said. 

Evans and a spokesperson for the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Minnesota declined to comment. An attorney for Sosa-Celis did not return phone calls from a reporter. Castro, who has an outstanding warrant in Minnesota for this case, could not be reached for comment.

Under the Trump administration, the Justice Department’s civil rights division has been thinned and has dropped some Biden-era oversight of law enforcement agencies. This move by the DOJ is likely to fuel further concerns that the department is operating more in support of President Donald Trump’s political agenda than to preserve the rule of law. Earlier this year, a ProPublica analysis found that in almost every instance of immigration agents shooting people, Trump’s administration blamed the injured and dead within hours of the incident. In many of those cases, federal or local police declined to investigate the agents.

Castro, who was put on leave by the Department of Homeland Security, is also facing multiple state felony charges in Minnesota, including assault with a dangerous weapon. After he left Minneapolis and returned to Texas, Minnesota officials had requested state officials there extradite Castro to face the charges, but Texas Gov. Greg Abbott refused to cooperate. Castro had been held for 90 days in jail while the two states fought over the extradition. He was released last week. 

Sosa-Celis was shot on Jan. 14, as Castro and another ICE agent chased Alfredo Aljorna, an immigrant from Venezuela, after a traffic stop. Aljorna ran to his home, which he shared with Sosa-Celis. The two men made it inside after a brief scramble, and Castro fired through the closed door, “knowing [the home] was occupied by several people,” according to state charging documents. One witness said there were two children in the house when Castro shot into it. Sosa-Celis was hit in the leg. 

ICE agents then deployed tear gas into the home and took the men and their partners into custody, according to the documents and other court records.

DHS originally said Castro and the other agent were ambushed by the men and beaten with a shovel or broomstick, making Castro fear for his life and fire in self-defense. DHS called Sosa-Celis and Aljorna “violent criminal illegal aliens,” and federal prosecutors charged them with assault. 

The next month, however, they dropped the charges against both men, and the DHS backed off its narrative in a rare admission of possible wrongdoing of its officers. “Video evidence has revealed the sworn testimony of the two agents appeared to be false,” then-acting ICE director Todd Lyons said in a statement.  

After Castro’s release from jail, Hennepin County Attorney Mary Moriarty, who is leading the state’s prosecution against him, said she worried that Castro will flee to Mexico.

Reached for comment Wednesday, Moriarty compared the Justice Department’s decision to overrule Evans to its actions after ICE agents killed Renee Good. A week before shooting Sosa-Celis, ICE agent Jonathan Ross shot Good in her car. Agents alleged she drove toward them, but video of the incident showed Good’s wheels turned away from them when they shot her. Federal authorities first agreed to a joint investigation, but Justice Department officials later refused to cooperate with state police, deeming any review of the fatal shooting unnecessary.

The post Trump’s DOJ Blocked Serious ICE Shooting Charge Over Federal Prosecutor’s “Strongest Possible” Objections appeared first on ProPublica.

Top U.S. Postal Service officials tasked with issuing new regulations on mail voting expressed concerns in internal meetings about how the rules they were drafting could delay or block ballots from reaching large swaths of eligible voters for the upcoming midterms, but the rules moved forward anyway, ProPublica has learned.

The revelations about the discussions, from someone familiar with the rulemaking process, come as a separate anonymous federal employee filed a whistleblower disclosure with U.S. Sen. Richard Blumenthal, warning that the new system is untested and error-prone, and could lead to mass disenfranchisement in the upcoming election. The whistleblower described the entire process as “secretive, rushed, chaotic, and fundamentally flawed.” 

In a March executive order, President Donald Trump directed the Postal Service to create the new rules, including requiring states to give USPS a list of all voters eligible to receive a ballot in the mail and requiring USPS to use those lists to determine which ballots get sent to voters. USPS officials were tasked with crafting the details of how the new system would work, including the creation of a new portal for states to upload their voters’ information and the back-end software that would allow mail delivery sites and local post offices to track, and potentially block, ballots entering into the mail on their way to voters. 

Voting rights organizations, state officials and Democratic political groups filed lawsuits challenging the new rules, and a federal court has temporarily blocked the requirements for states. The merits of the new rule are expected to reach the Supreme Court before the November election. Even if the Supreme Court allows the plan, though, election officials and experts say that the new system could not be ready in time for this election, given that ballots for people who are in the military or overseas must be sent out this month.

During meetings in which top USPS officials discussed how to comply with the executive order, there was much discussion about the controversial nature of what they needed to do, according to the person familiar with the discussions who spoke on the condition of anonymity for fear of reprisals. The focus was on limiting the impact to voters while also complying. One repeated concern regarded how to avoid invalidating an entire batch of ballots if one voter among thousands couldn’t be confirmed as eligible. Some in the meetings recommended trying to limit harm to voters by not rejecting the entire batch, according to the person familiar with the discussions. Despite that, according to the whistleblower who contacted Blumenthal, the directive to reject entire batches if they included just one unverified ballot moved forward.

“As presently designed, if even one bar code on one single ballot in a bulk-mailing of 10,000 ballots fails to properly scan during the verification process, the entire batch is rejected and sent back to the state — effectively stopping the ballots from being mailed to voters,” the whistleblower wrote.

Election clerks raised similar concerns directly to USPS officials just days before the final rule was issued, at a mid-August National Association of Election Officials conference in Kansas City, Missouri, ProPublica has learned. 

There, an example was given of Maricopa County, Arizona, which often sends out more than 2 million ballots at a time in its initial mailing. USPS officials confirmed it was possible that one ballot with a bad barcode or wrong voter information within the more than 2 million ballots could delay the entire mailing, according to two people who attended the related committee meeting.

The Postal Service has defended its final rule in court, stating that it does not intend to seize control of administration of elections and that the rule “need not and should not prevent a single voter from voting by mail.”

In a statement to ProPublica, a Postal Service spokesperson said the agency is carefully reviewing the Blumenthal whistleblower’s concerns and that USPS has spent months developing its system, in a manner consistent with court orders, and will soon provide instructions for how election officials can use it.

“Regardless of political party or perspective, we share a common goal: ensuring that Americans can have confidence that their election mail will be handled securely and delivered reliably,” the spokesperson said.

Lauren Bis, a White House spokesperson, said in a statement to ProPublica that the process of building software to carry out the new mail ballot checks “is neither complex nor unique for USPS since the Postal Service regularly uses bulk mailing and intelligent mail barcodes for a wide variety of large customers.”

“Under President Trump, the federal government is working to ensure safe, transparent, and honest elections,” Bis wrote.

Blumenthal, the Connecticut Democrat who received the whistleblower disclosure, asked the postmaster general for detailed info about the plan in a letter this week. He told reporters on a call Monday that the new USPS rule puts all mail voters at risk, and he accused the administration of being “hellbent on changing the framework of casting ballots in this country, clearly for political reasons.”

Election officials and printing experts have told ProPublica that errors in the system are likely, given how difficult it is to design envelopes with a clear barcode for scanning and to keep voter information up to date. Seemingly small details have yet to be worked out that could throw the entire system into chaos, they said, such as what file format to use when uploading voter lists and whether to provide mailing or residential addresses to USPS.

“These are trivial things that create massive problems,” said Jeff Ellington, CEO of Runbeck Election Services, which prints ballots and ballot envelopes for counties. Beyond that, he said, most of the counties in the country don’t have the type of barcodes needed to make the system function. And the Postal Service hasn’t told local election officials how to design new ballot envelopes and get them approved by USPS in this short of a timeframe.

The Blumenthal whistleblower said the idea that entire batches will be delayed by one mistake is especially concerning because of significant operational problems that exist with the portal that will contain information about eligible voters and the lack of testing of the system. The whistleblower is concerned about how, while systems typically have a known error rate, there has been no internal acknowledgment that errors will occur in the new mail ballot system, and instead the USPS has adopted a “zero-percent failure policy.”

The whistleblower also alleges that the administration moved forward with steps to create the new system during two initial injunctions from the court, which would have violated the court’s order. USPS had stated when issuing its final rule that it was adhering to the injunctions and would not take actions to implement the rule for the 2026 election unless the injunctions were lifted.

Both the whistleblower and the person familiar with discussions about the executive order’s implementation said that the timeline for creating a sophisticated tracking system would typically be at least nine months. The whistleblower’s disclosure says that workers began to work on the system in mid-June and had only weeks before being given a Sept. 1 deadline. The person familiar with the discussions said it was common for priority projects within USPS to have crunched timelines. The internal goal, the person said, was to try to implement the new system by that deadline or to show why it couldn’t happen — which was typical of other directives the agency had faced in the past.

The whistleblower disclosure described confusion as the staff attempted to develop the systems without enough direction, within weeks, and without proper communication, and said several employees referred to the situation as a “shit show.” 

The post New Mail Voting Rules Moved Forward Despite USPS Officials’ Concerns About Mass Disenfranchisement appeared first on ProPublica.

The rejections piled up one after another as leaders of Alpha School, a growing network of private school campuses, tried to convince states that their artificial-intelligence-led teaching model belonged in publicly funded charter schools.

The Alpha system is centered on the idea that students can “crush academics,” like reading and math lessons, in just two hours a day. AI software teaches the lessons. The human teachers, referred to as guides, focus on motivation and emotional support. “School is broken, and we’re here to fix it,” Alpha’s “2 Hour Learning” tagline claims.

But over the last two years, officials in numerous states have questioned the model,  characterizing it as “untested” and ”experimental.” In North Carolina, one charter school board member feared two hours was “not nearly enough” to teach required subjects. A month earlier, in August 2024, an official in Utah worried that the school’s instructors may act more like “a life coach” than a teacher.

Even the largely conservative Texas State Board of Education, which had approved most charter applications over the last decade, rejected Alpha’s pitch last summer. 

“I’m just a little skeptical of those types of gains,” said Keven Ellis, a Republican board member in Texas, in response to Alpha’s claims of massive improvements in student academic outcomes over short periods of time.  

By this spring, Alpha had applied to form charter schools in at least 10 states, according to an Instagram post from co-founder MacKenzie Price in March. Only Arizona had said yes.

“I’ve met with White House representatives. Policy makers at the federal and state level. Decision makers who hold the fate of our society in their hands,” said Price in the Instagram post, months after Texas rejected the company’s charter pitch. “Unfortunately, change is hard.” 

What Price didn’t mention in her post was that Texas leaders were rolling out a new education program that would allow private schools to earn state funding, and Alpha School was set to benefit. The inaugural voucher initiative would award tax dollars for select students’ homeschooling or private school tuition. Price and her husband, Andy, had personally pushed for vouchers by donating over $2 million, before and after the program was approved, to Texas legislators and political action committees that helped pass the controversial program and oversee it. 

Now, just one year after the state rejected its charter school application, Alpha has roughly quadrupled its Texas private schools, with more than 30 virtual and in-person campuses, most of which were accepted into the voucher program, ProPublica and The Texas Tribune found. This rapid expansion has made Alpha among the largest private school chains participating in the voucher initiative.

“They took a backdoor approach,” said Democrat Tiffany Clark, one of several Texas State Board of Education members who voted against Alpha’s charter school application last summer and were concerned with its entrance into the voucher program. “They said, ‘You know what, we can’t get in as a charter, but we can continue to be a private school and take these funds.’”

Texas and Arizona appear to be the first states where Alpha’s campuses have been approved to participate in school choice programs, though they could qualify in others. After starting with one campus in Austin, the chain now has private schools in 17 states and Puerto Rico. Most of those states run voucher programs. 

As ProPublica reported in July, private schools across the country have multiplied in recent years, often with little oversight, alongside the growth of state voucher programs. The result is that taxpayer dollars sometimes go to school leaders who have misused public funds or have documented histories of abusing children. Elected leaders in Texas, which has one of the newest and largest voucher programs in the country, promised that they had implemented strong guardrails, including some that other states had not. 

But Alpha School’s acceptance into the voucher program, after state education leaders rejected the same model just last year, underscores the limitations of those standards, according to education experts. Alpha leaders didn’t apply again to the state education board but to the Texas comptroller’s office, essentially the state’s chief financial officer, which legislators designated to run the voucher program. The comptroller checked for only four criteria: that a school operates in Texas, that it’s accredited by an approved organization, that it’s been in operation at least two years and that it administers annual standardized tests.

None of Alpha’s private schools had to meet state curriculum standards or show how the company’s model would lead to student success. None of the concerns raised by the Texas board just last year about Alpha’s rejected charter applications, test scores or use of AI to teach mattered.  

“That wasn’t relevant,” said Travis Pillow, a spokesperson for the voucher program. “Our role is to make sure that a school meets the requirements in the law.” 

None of the Alpha leaders named in this story, nor the company’s press office, agreed to interviews, nor did they answer most of the newsrooms’ questions, including about their test scores. An Alpha spokesperson provided an emailed response only to questions about previous reporting by other news outlets. Alpha officials have defended their model in interviews and podcasts, saying it has drastically improved student outcomes and test scores that it says place their kids in the top 1% to 2% in the country.  

Price has said she co-founded the school in 2014 to allow students to learn at their own pace after her oldest daughter grew bored and felt held back in public schools, according to multiple interviews. That mission was supercharged four years ago, when tech mogul Joe Liemandt poured $1 billion into the school and its AI-guided platform with the goal of reaching 1 billion students worldwide. Since then, Alpha has transformed into a sprawling education company with a fast-growing national profile. The schools have caught the attention of Trump endorser and billionaire hedge fund manager Bill Ackman and Elon Musk, whose Starlink internet will be used to launch more Alpha schools across the world.

Education experts have raised skepticism about Alpha’s bold claims, noting that private schools can self-select affluent students, who are likely to perform well academically. ProPublica and the Tribune interviewed five such experts, who noted that private schools aren’t required to share their internal data and so can easily cherry-pick positive examples. 

The newsrooms also examined some of Alpha’s outcomes among lower-income students and charter schools, including a partnership the company had with an existing charter in Texas that has not yet been reported. The experts ProPublica and the Tribune spoke with said in those examples, Alpha either didn’t release enough data to verify its alleged successes or the test scores released by state education agencies fell far short of the academic growth that company leaders predicted.

“I don’t believe their claims that typical students will see rapid improvements,” said Justin Reich, director of the Teaching Systems Lab at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. “There are tons of reasons to be skeptical of that claim.”

Rejection After Rejection

To achieve their ambitions of teaching a billion students, Alpha leaders had to break into the same public education system they aimed to revolutionize. 

By 2024, the company was in the midst of a nationwide sprint, hoping to open virtual or in-person charters in over half the country. 

The concept intrigued some state leaders, who liked the self-paced learning or the opportunity to pioneer AI instruction in classrooms. “My mind is kind of blown by all this,” one North Carolina education official said in September 2024. 

But charter leaders across the country raised similar concerns that led them to reject Alpha’s pitches, according to ProPublica and the Tribune’s review of applications, interviews and written feedback from the six states where the newsrooms were able to verify the company had applied: Texas, Arizona, Arkansas, North Carolina, Pennsylvania and Utah.

Officials in every state the newsrooms reviewed worried about what would happen to the role of teachers if Alpha’s AI-led platform, rather than certified educators, provided lessons to students. Many state charter leaders also doubted students could master necessary lessons in just two hours a day or questioned whether Alpha’s courses covered each individual state’s required curriculum. In at least one instance, in Utah, Alpha leaders admitted they had not checked the curriculum standards before applying. 

In several states, charter leaders criticized Alpha’s habit of projecting multiplying enrollment year after year, or the little community support and outreach they’d secured to back up the claims. Alpha leaders told education officials at times that they surveyed Price’s social media followers to measure parent interest in a state. 

At least two state education boards also took issue with Alpha’s plan to keep Price and her husband on the charter’s oversight board while the school simultaneously paid their companies, which provide services like the two-hour learning platform. The Prices acknowledged the conflict of interest and repeatedly promised to correct it. In Arizona, the only state to approve the Alpha-affiliated charter, Andy Price said in 2024 that they were “fully committed to having a majority board of 100% independent Arizona folks by the end of this year.” MacKenzie and Andy Price were still serving on the board as recently as this June, according to board meeting minutes.   

Among state officials’ most consistent concerns was the fact that Alpha’s model had been tested only among affluent students whose families could afford expensive private schools or among students who’d received scholarships. They questioned whether the learning platform would work in charter schools, where there could be more students behind academically, who had special education needs or were learning English as a second language. (In at least four of its charter applications, Alpha said it incorporates programs like the language app Duolingo to help students with their English.)

Alpha leaders often countered concerns by referencing successful student test scores in two more diverse campuses in Texas where they’ve operated. But the achievements they highlighted were not so clear-cut as they made them seem, experts said. 

In one instance, Alpha partnered with an Austin charter called Texas Preparatory School that was already facing a potential state-imposed closure because of low student test scores and failed financial audits. An Alpha leader told Texas education officials in May 2025 that after they implemented their two-hour learning platform at the charter, outcomes changed from most students failing state exams to 50% to 60% of students passing them. 

Test results published by the Texas Education Agency don’t back up that claim. The scores indicate that students may have performed worse on state tests than before Alpha’s involvement, according to several education experts who reviewed them. The portion of students who achieved “approaches grade level,” the lowest category that counts as passing the test, slightly rose, from 19% to 21%. The share of students that the test showed were at their grade level dropped from 10% to zero after the Alpha partnership. 

Texas Preparatory School received its third consecutive F rating, largely based on the test scores it received during the partnership with Alpha. 

“I don’t see the extreme growth,” said Toni Templeton, a research scientist at the University of Houston Education Research Center who reviewed the records at the newsrooms’ request. “If you’re such a high-performing school, you should have no problem demonstrating it.” 

The state decided to shut down the charter permanently last year in the middle of the Alpha partnership, but it allowed the campus to finish out the school year. 

Alpha leaders also pointed to its private school campus in Brownsville, a majority-Latino city in South Texas, as another example of their success. Alpha boasted to state charter boards that its Brownsville students, located in one of the poorest school districts in the nation, still excelled using the company’s AI program. 

“We don’t care if a student is white, Black or brown, rich or poor. An AI tutor is infinitely patient,” Price said during an interview with education officials in Utah about opening a charter campus there. “I believe this is the most kind of equitable answer to the problem of education.” 

However, reports from Wired and CNN have detailed families leaving the school after students fell behind academically or developed anxiety trying to keep up with learning expectations. Alpha has vehemently denied the findings, which a spokesperson wrote in an email to ProPublica and the Tribune “contain inaccurate reporting, misleading context and potentially defamatory representations.” “Prior to publication, WIRED was provided with documentation that directly contradicted its central claims, yet the piece did not accurately reflect that information,” the spokesperson wrote. She did not share that documentation with ProPublica and the Tribune, saying some of the “strongest evidence involves sensitive mental health records, personal records and individual data related to minor children.”

ProPublica and the Tribune specifically looked at the Brownsville student outcome data that Alpha self-published, which does not include detailed test scores to prove academic growth for all students, according to several education experts who reviewed it. There was also inconsistency in how Alpha presented the data. An Alpha leader told Texas education officials that  students across grade levels in the Brownsville campus had scores that jumped from 30% to 80% mastery. But Jennifer Steele, an education professor at American University, said that Alpha’s published report shows those improvements for only its second graders, who may not be representative of the entire school.

“The bottom line is that if you desperately want your child to drill on screens two hours a day and you are prepared to pay a lot of money for that, you might have the kind of child who will test well after doing so. These kids do exist, and the Alpha schools are built to attract their parents,” Steele said. “But as a scalable model for public schools — even public charter schools — there is no evidence that it works.” 

Even in Arizona, the sole state to green-light Alpha’s charter pitch, the academic outcomes appear to again fall short, based on the preliminary state test scores recently presented to the charter school’s oversight board ahead of their official release this fall. (The Arizona Education Department would not provide ProPublica and the Tribune with the underlying scores.)

In their application to form a charter school in Arizona, Alpha leaders had predicted 65% of their students would test proficient in English at the end of the first year, but just 28% did, the state test scores showed. They projected 60% could reach that level in math. Only 10% achieved it. 

The Expansion Continues

Even as many states have rejected Alpha’s charter applications, the company’s push to expand its footprint hasn’t slowed. It’s only intensified. By this summer, Alpha had announced the launch of private campuses in 50 cities across the country, each catering to a different type of learner: Athletes can attend one of Alpha’s 13 sports academies. There are options for kids who play video games like Fortnite or who like to spend time in nature. One high school campus in New York challenges students to launch business ventures and net $1 million by the time they graduate, or else Alpha will pay back their $150,000 annual tuition. In another program, students spend their year abroad in Kenya and Ecuador. Their mission: help start new Alpha schools. 

As the number and types of schools multiplied, so did Alpha leaders’ efforts to win support from public officials, particularly those who have pushed voucher programs. 

In 2023, the Texas Observer reported that an LLC called Future of Education, whose incorporation address is the same as the Prices’ Austin home, donated $1 million to the campaign committee affiliated with then-Virginia Gov. Glenn Youngkin, an outspoken voucher advocate. In Texas, Andy Price gave over $250,000 to a political action committee that helped elect pro-voucher candidates, and MacKenzie Price gave $10,000 to Rep. Brad Buckley, the Republican lawmaker who successfully carried the Texas voucher bill last year. She also donated to the leaders whose office oversees the state’s voucher program: $200,000 to Kelly Hancock and $100,000 to Don Huffines, who have both served as Texas comptroller. 

MacKenzie Price personally donated the most money in Texas to the main fundraising committee of Gov. Greg Abbott, who led the charge to bring a voucher program to the state. She contributed over $1.5 million to the governor’s campaign in the last three years. 

Alpha even got a mention in a press release the governor’s office issued in September 2025, after Abbott met with U.S. Education Secretary Linda McMahon. McMahon had toured an Alpha campus in Austin earlier that day. “The Secretary noted the innovation of Texas schools using artificial intelligence as a beneficial tool to assist students in learning how to ask the right questions to better understand educational materials,” the press release said.   

Joining McMahon on that tour was Texas Education Commissioner Mike Morath, though about two months earlier the state board of education — which oversees his initial charter decisions and often agrees with Morath — had rejected Alpha’s charter proposal despite his recommendation. Morath has been a supporter of Alpha’s model before and after the vote, which he doesn’t have the power to override.

State board member Julie Pickren was thrilled to learn from ProPublica and the Tribune that Alpha private schools were accepted into the voucher program. Pickren, who voted in favor of Alpha’s Texas charter last summer, thought the model brought a promising individualized learning solution that could improve student outcomes, especially in academically struggling districts. 

“I would say thank you to them,” said Pickren, referring to Alpha. “Thank you for not giving up and looking for a way to serve children.” 

Fellow Republican and education board member Evelyn Brooks disagreed. She was shocked  to learn about Alpha’s acceptance into the voucher program and rapid expansion in Texas.

“You’re just making money. You’re reproducing a model, regardless of the region, regardless of the state,” said Brooks, who voted against Alpha’s charter proposal last year. 

And Alpha continues to open campuses where its leaders say there is enough demand. 

Last month, the company sent out a news release announcing a new school in a suburb of Houston. 

“At this point,” Brooks said, “it’s a franchise.” 

The post Several States Rejected This Private School Chain as a Charter. Now It’s Eligible for Texas’ Taxpayer-Funded Vouchers. appeared first on ProPublica.

Dave Masters could no longer ignore the storm as trees cracked and the swollen river roared. It was dark outside, but through the window he could see his father’s house, usually 100 feet away from the Pigeon River, was surrounded by water. Masters, tall and slender, forded the frigid waist-deep water to wake up his father and convince the 63-year-old to evacuate.

From the son’s trailer on the hillside, the two watched the water rise as Hurricane Frances wreaked havoc on Western North Carolina in early September 2004. Within an hour, his father’s home floated up like a bobber on a fishing line and then sailed down the middle of the road before veering into a telephone pole and cracking in half. The two pieces finally stopped when they got caught under a bridge downstream.

Just 10 days later, Hurricane Ivan dumped more rain in an unprecedented double whammy for the mountainous region far from the coast. Haywood County realized it needed to prevent further harm. It condemned several neighboring mobile homes along with a wood-frame house across the river. 

Recognizing the threat of flooding, the county eventually bought out that house, making the land near the town of Clyde permanent open space under a federally funded program to reduce the risk of future loss of life and property damage. The state also paid to relocate Masters’ father and another family from the trailer park on Hyder Mountain Road out of the floodplain “to mitigate the possibility of future damage to life and property should subsequent events occur.”

But although federal floodplain maps showed that the land where the trailer park sat was at risk, the county didn’t buy out the mobile home park or stop the park’s owners from again renting out the lots where trailers were destroyed, including the one where Masters’ father had lived.

It was a decision that would have great consequence. In 2021, the Hyder Mountain Road park flooded again during Tropical Storm Fred, damaging five of the six trailers that fronted the river, including one on the plot where Masters’ father had lived. Despite the damage, all the trailers in that first row remained. Then, in 2024, flooding from Hurricane Helene swept one of those mobile homes into the river, driving it into the same bridge and killing a resident and three of her dogs.

The repeated losses at the Hyder Mountain Road mobile home park are in part the result of a gap in disaster policy that allows mobile home residents to be put in harm’s way again and again. 

The federal government’s programs to buy out disaster-prone buildings are “the cornerstone of the Nation’s system for emergency management,” according to the Federal Emergency Management Agency. But the program was developed with traditional homeowners in mind, and mobile homes, the country’s largest source of affordable housing, are often left out. Trailers, even when they become immovable and lifelong homes, aren’t typically considered real estate but instead personal property, like motorcycles and boats.

That still leaves people living on flood-prone land. For the state to actually buy that land, mobile home park owners have to take the buyout, and FEMA’s program offers little incentive for them to do so: They can’t collect from the government for lost rent or for the value of the mobile homes on top of the land. 

Some park owners say the payouts are not high enough to allow them to relocate; others aren’t even aware of the buyout program. So park owners regularly allow new trailers to move into the vacant spots. Art and Lynne Heinmiller, who own the Hyder Mountain Road mobile home park, did not respond to questions — which were emailed, texted and mailed via certified letter — about allowing trailers and campers to move back to where they’d washed away.

What to do about such properties is now a big question for counties and Renew NC, Gov. Josh Stein’s billion-dollar Hurricane Helene recovery program. Renew NC’s manual states that it can help relocate mobile-home owners whose damaged trailers face future flood risks. But the program doesn’t keep new families from moving onto lots with a record of flooding.

At the Hyder Mountain Road park, families now live in recreational campers on plots where mobile homes have twice washed away. The county knows it’s a problem. The mobile home park is one of the spots Wentfard Henson, chief of the Clyde Volunteer Fire Department, watches during storms. Twice ahead of Helene in 2024, his team visited the community, knocking on doors and telling people to evacuate. 

“Where they’re at, it’s not if, it’s just when,” Henson said. “It’s going to flood again, there’s no doubt, because it flooded every time we’ve had a storm. It’s flooded four times.” 

Asked why residents are again allowed to live by the river, Cody Grasty, Haywood County’s recovery officer, told The Assembly and ProPublica that until a neighboring county bought out a park decimated by Helene, he “did not know it was even possible” to buy out a mobile home park. Small counties like Haywood, which has 60,000 residents, often look to the state for direction.

North Carolina Emergency Management, which reviews buyout applications and often completes these transactions for local governments, said there is no specific guidance for mobile home park buyouts and that the process is no different than it is for commercial or residential properties. In a statement, Justin Graney, the agency’s spokesperson, said, “It is entirely the property owners and the local jurisdiction’s decision on whether or not they wish to participate in the program.” 

Neither Haywood County nor the state of North Carolina maintain a list of high-risk properties where they believe mitigation is necessary for public health and safety, a standard practice in many states. 

That disturbs Masters, an auto mechanic who moved out of the mobile home park before the 2021 floods.

“Without a doubt in my mind, it’s going to happen again,” Masters said. “They need to remove it.”

A Second Disaster

Joe Rogers was 38 and living less than a mile away on the other side of the Pigeon River when hurricanes Frances and Ivan struck in 2004. He walked down and saw the destroyed mobile homes at the Hyder Mountain Road park.

He didn’t expect that two years later, he’d move to the lot next to where Masters’ father once lived. 

But Rogers’ own father, whose health was declining, gave him a single-wide trailer in 2006, intending to help him stay in the increasingly expensive Appalachian region where his family had lived for generations. The trailer’s roughly 900 square feet was enough space for Rogers to raise his son. And at $200 a month, renting the lot on the river was affordable on his wages as a Waffle House cook. 

In the front yard, he and his high school crush, Sandra Justus, planted two peach trees for shade and a pink rose of Sharon for the birds, and they put up a fence so the dogs Justus was prone to rescuing could play outside.

Caring for others was at Justus’ core. In addition to raising her daughter, she often took in other children and animals in need. She was a wildlife rehabilitator and hair stylist who loved Renaissance fairs, rock ’n’ roll and Halloween.

Rogers’ lot was only 100 feet from the Pigeon River, but he’d heard that large floods should happen only once every 40 years and figured he’d have a few decades before he’d have to worry about that.

During heavy rainstorms, the Pigeon River would sometimes creep over Hyder Mountain Road 40 feet away. But the river spared their home for 15 years, until Tropical Storm Fred in August 2021. Water flooded all but one of the six trailers closest to the river. Inside the couple’s home, muddy water rose 3 inches, damaging the particleboard floors and the foundation — a burden made lighter when FEMA’s assistance paid for repairs. 

The couple got married in 2022, and Sandra changed her last name to Rogers. Two years later, they were planning to move when, in September 2024, Helene hit Florida as a Category 4 hurricane and was spinning fiercely toward Western North Carolina. The county sheriff warned residents that “a catastrophic, life-threatening event” that could surpass the 2004 and 2021 storms was “about to befall Haywood County.”

But none of the park’s residents had been there during the 2004 storms, so they only had memories of the minor damage from Fred. So most residents of the Hyder Mountain Road park stayed, as did the couple, who wanted to look after their army of dogs and pet birds. “We thought that maybe it would be just like the last flood,” Joe said.

On the night of Sept. 26, 2024, the couple went to bed. Within hours, the river, usually about 5 feet deep, crested at a record 30 feet. It took less than an hour for the water in their home to go from ankle-deep to chest-high. They packed the birds into travel boxes and cages, and Joe moved two of their cars to higher ground, giving up on the third when its wheels spun in the waterlogged soil. 

Sandra told Joe she thought they should leave but changed her mind when she found out she’d need to swim through water now above her head. Sandra sat on a wooden chair on top of their saturated foam mattress in the bedroom. In the living room, Joe dodged floating furniture, trying to figure out what to do, as the cold, murky water rose. 

Suddenly, the water pulled the back door off the trailer. Joe watched several of the dogs make their way toward the opening, where they could swim toward higher ground. 

The water had reached his neck when, for a moment, it seemed to recede. He thought the worst was over, only to realize it was because the home had been pushed off its foundation. The trailer lurched, thrusting Joe toward the ceiling. His fingers gripped the top of the bedroom door frame as he called into the darkness to his wife. 

Thinking the only safe way to get Sandra out would be by breaking a window, Joe swam through the kitchen and escaped out the back doorway. He clung to a sharp metal gutter, fighting the raging water, and yelled for someone to call 911, hoping emergency responders would be able to reach Sandra by busting a hole through the roof. 

Buyout Program’s Fatal Flaws

Most homeowners at the Hyder Mountain Road mobile home park didn’t want to endure another flood after Helene, but they didn’t own the land underneath them so they couldn’t pursue a buyout. It was the park’s owners who would need to apply to the government and ask it to buy the land. 

But that’s not what the owners of the mobile home park did. After Helene, Haywood County officials spoke with local mobile home park owners about “how they wanted to recover” and “based on those conversations, none of them seemed interested to be done” with running the mobile home communities, said Grasty, the county’s Helene recovery officer. 

The buyouts he manages are voluntary, and the county will not consider condemning the land, Grasty said, noting the property owner could choose to not lease out the low-lying lots, to require homes to be elevated as part of lease agreements or to use the land for something else.  

“It comes back to that property rights thing,” Grasty said. “We can work on solutions, but not until the property owner or homeowner even says, ‘I want to do this.’”

Pam Quinn, who owned the wood-frame home that Haywood County purchased across the Pigeon River in 2007, said she is baffled that the county still hasn’t bought out the neighboring mobile home park. 

“It’s right across the river. It’s so close, but they got treated so differently,” Quinn said.

The Assembly and ProPublica reached out to the current and former owners of the Hyder Mountain Road mobile home park on multiple occasions. They briefly spoke to a reporter in person but declined to be interviewed. Terry McCracken owned the property with her husband, who died in 2013, before selling it in 2019. McCracken told a reporter outside her home that she thought the 2004 floods were “once in 100 years” and she didn’t know if her husband ever considered a buyout. 

The park’s current owners, the Heinmillers, have experienced two floods in the seven years they have owned the park. From behind a screen door, Lynne told a reporter that she was not offered an application for a buyout and would need to confer with her husband as to whether the couple would consider one now. Neither Heinmiller returned follow-up calls.

A buyout is often a financial loss for park owners, said John Richardson, who until this year owned a small mobile home park in neighboring Buncombe County. With a housing shortage, even decades-old mobile homes will bring in at least $1,000 a month in rent, and a lot to park one on yields upward of $300 monthly, he said.

“The cash flow is so good once you’re established in it that there isn’t an incentive to take a buyout,” Richardson said.

Still, after the Swannanoa River washed seven of the nine homes in his park off their foundations during Helene, Richardson decided to pursue a buyout. He didn’t want other families to face similar destruction, and, unable to pay his mortgage without the rental income, he felt he had no other choice.

Foreseeing future disasters, local governments in at least 11 states have fully funded buyouts and relocation assistance for mobile home parks, benefiting the park owners and residents of the mobile homes.

Central Pennsylvania’s Greene Township bought out the property owner and paid to relocate residents of a 54-home park after excessive rainfall rendered all but four homes uninhabitable in 2006. In Harris County, Texas, the owner of a mobile home park that endured severe, repetitive flooding received a multimillion-dollar sum for the lot while homeowners were offered up to $210,000 to purchase a home outside of the floodplain and renters received up to 42 months of assistance.

North Carolina attempted to implement its own solution after Hurricane Floyd struck the Cape Fear region in 1999. The state legislature funded a Crisis Housing Assistance Fund that paid to repair homes or relocate families that didn’t qualify for federal programs, like homeowners in mobile home parks. It also provided funding for families whose buyout did not cover a comparable home.

A lot of the families the program assisted were in mobile homes, said Yolanda Abram, the retired director of the North Carolina Redevelopment Center, which oversaw the program. In almost every circumstance, the program would not allow new homes to go back in the floodplain and paid to help families relocate.

The program got additional state funding in 2005 to relocate homeowners in flood and landslide zones impacted by the past season’s hurricanes. Roughly 40 Haywood County families participated, including Masters’ father.  

But the program did nothing to prevent new families from moving to the same lots.

“I Watch the River”

As homeowners started to rebuild after the devastation wrought by Helene, Haywood County required homes in the floodplain to be elevated and securely anchored into the ground to limit catastrophic damages. 

At the Hyder Mountain Road park, that means new mobile homes along the river would need to be raised at least 8 feet off the ground. So far, only staircases leading to raised electrical boxes have been added, but no mobile homes have returned to those lots as the elevation costs could reach tens of thousands of dollars. 

But the rule doesn’t apply to campers. 

Recreational vehicles can be in the floodplain, so long as they can be driven or towed away in case of a storm. After the floods, the county issued permits for five campers to occupy the same lots the formerly flooded homes did. 

But at least here, those campers have become year-round homes, their undercarriages wrapped in insulation. The county approved them for water, sewer and electric hookups. Yet without elevation and anchoring, fast-moving waters could easily sweep them downstream. 

The image of homes going back in where others have repeatedly washed away astonished Abram, whose team helped relocate past residents of the park.

“It continues to happen where homes are being placed in floodplains, and maybe that shouldn’t be happening now,” Abram said.

K.K. Bautista, a single mother, lives in one of the campers in the same row where Masters’ father and Rogers lived. She never wanted to be this close to the water again. The Pigeon River tore through her trailer at another mobile home park during Helene, ripping off the siding so passersby could see through her entire house.

Bautista lost almost everything except her car. A nonprofit gave her a small Jayco Eagle travel trailer, and the lot at Hyder Mountain Road was the only place she could afford. She knew the river had also surged there during Helene but felt she had no other choice.

“When it rains, I don’t sleep and I watch the river,” Bautista said, clutching a cup of McDonald’s coffee, her eyes jumping between the river, her 2-year-old daughter and the road. 

The post Hurricane Helene Killed His Wife and Destroyed His Mobile Home. New Tenants Are Now Renting the Same Flood-Prone Land. appeared first on ProPublica.

The leading scientist urging policymakers not to criminalize kratom, a substance that has left a trail of death and addiction around the world, has routinely failed to disclose longstanding financial ties to the industry’s most powerful lobbying group, ProPublica has found.

University of Florida professor Christopher McCurdy has accepted travel reimbursements, donations to his university’s foundation and funding for an annual symposium on research into the leaf’s medicinal potential from the American Kratom Association — none of which has been disclosed in his conflict of interest statements or on the papers he publishes.

The fight to keep kratom legal across the country has taken on increased urgency as more potent kratom derivatives have appeared on store shelves and evidence has mounted of the leaf’s risks to users’ health. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 5,200 people in the United States died from drug overdoses involving kratom between 2020 and 2024. And calls to poison control centers involving kratom have spiked 1,200% in the last decade. 

The lobbying group, which says it advocates for kratom consumers, has waged a pitched battle in statehouses and in Washington, D.C., to keep kratom products widely available in America’s gas stations, smoke shops and convenience stores. Documents show it has relied repeatedly on McCurdy to help convince lawmakers kratom is safe enough to remain legal — deploying him to key states that are either considering full bans on the leaf or are on the verge of overturning an existing ban. His success fighting federal regulators earned him a place in the AKA’s Legacy Advocate Hall of Fame.

Kratom comes from a tree native to Southeast Asia and is sold as a powder or in capsules, tablets or shots like energy drinks. In small amounts, it acts as a stimulant. In larger amounts, it acts like an opioid. Although the Food and Drug Administration prohibits marketing it as a supplement or using it as a food ingredient, it’s advertised as a mood and energy enhancer, a painkiller and an alternative to opioids.

ProPublica’s review of McCurdy’s appearances in recent years shows he has emphasized kratom’s therapeutic potential while downplaying its risks — despite his own published research finding kratom use can lead to severe withdrawal symptoms in newborns exposed in utero, and to dependency and even death in those who take it. McCurdy has brushed off questions about the hazards by noting that even water can kill if consumed in excessive quantities. McCurdy does, however, argue for better manufacturing standards and labeling, and for putting age restrictions on kratom’s use.

Other scientists who consult with and do research for the kratom association disclose that relationship. But McCurdy, who does not disclose it, has built a reputation as a neutral arbiter in the emotional debate pitting those with life-altering kratom addiction against those who say they use it without ill effects to combat opioid use or relieve pain.

Indeed, McCurdy’s research focuses on developing kratom’s dominant chemical compound into a pharmaceutical to treat addiction. That work has been funded by the federal government, which has poured an estimated $100 million in grants into the research. Such funding could be disrupted if kratom is declared illegal.

McCurdy told ProPublica that he has accepted invitations to speak to policymakers because “decisions about kratom should be informed by the best available science.” Reimbursed travel expenses don’t influence the “substance” of his presentations or his “scientific conclusions,” he said.

“My views on kratom are based on more than two decades of scientific research,” he said. “They are my own and are not dictated by the American Kratom Association or any other outside organization.”

Those advocating for restrictions on kratom contend that as McCurdy testifies, publishes research or provides public information, he should be more forthright about his relationship with the kratom industry.

Jennifer Brandt, a Virginia pharmacist who advocates for a total ban on kratom sales, was the first to file records requests with the University of Florida for McCurdy’s correspondence. She has subsequently asked a medical journal to append corrections listing his ties to the lobbying group. “I’m really confused on where science ends and lobbying begins,” she said of McCurdy.

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McCurdy’s work opposing the criminalization of kratom started as early as 2018. That year, he joined with other scientists — including the AKA’s lead science consultant — to convince the Drug Enforcement Administration not to classify kratom as a Schedule I narcotic. The designation, reserved for drugs with no medical purpose and high abuse potential, would make kratom illegal. The scientists said in a letter to federal regulators that it would also “severely hinder” their research into possible therapeutic uses. In a paper, McCurdy argued that scheduling kratom would erect new regulatory hurdles to studying the leaf and dissuade funders from supporting it. The effort to schedule kratom was halted during the first Trump administration.

However, the association’s fight continued as it worked to convince state lawmakers to explicitly legalize kratom by regulating its sale. McCurdy also became a key player in this effort, according to emails obtained by ProPublica through public records requests to the University of Florida. 

While the group’s membership is made up of kratom users, its lobbying efforts are funded by manufacturers and vendors. It spends about $2.5 million a year on lobbying.

In 2023, at the AKA’s request, McCurdy briefed the United Nations Commission on Narcotic Drugs, which regularly considers kratom regulation. He conducted the briefing remotely and did not travel to the annual meeting in Vienna that year. In 2025, however, he made the trip to brief delegates in person. Emails indicate his hotel room was paid for by the lobbying group.  

In 2024, McCurdy traveled several times for the association. He planned an August trip to Indonesia, which was considering a full ban on the leaf, with the association paying $8,700 for a first-class plane ticket. McCurdy canceled the trip at the last minute, the association said. Email correspondence indicates, however, that he kept the flight credit for future AKA-related travel. 

But he was soon back on the road. In September, he went to Washington, D.C., to dine with and brief members of Congress and their staffs. There, he told lawmakers that he couldn’t say kratom is “entirely safe” but that it should remain available to the public as research continues.

“I want it to be accessible to everybody,” he said. “Always have.”

The following month, the AKA arranged for McCurdy’s travel to Little Rock, Arkansas, where lawmakers were debating whether to lift a kratom ban enacted in 2016. He told them kratom dependence was similar to caffeine dependence, describing withdrawal symptoms as akin to those caused by missing a morning cup of coffee. Kratom users have described dependence, so severe they suffer debilitating withdrawal symptoms and can’t quit the leaf. McCurdy has also said in a deposition that some users have been unable to stop taking it.

The lobbying was unsuccessful in Arkansas. But a few months later, with McCurdy’s help, the organization had its first success overturning a state ban. 

Rhode Island’s Gov. Dan McKee had vetoed a bill to legalize kratom after weighing the concerns of his top public health officials. The association booked travel for McCurdy and other scientists to Providence to brief those health officials. When the legislature reconvened in 2025, the AKA’s bill passed and McKee signed it. This time, the state health officials stayed silent.

That frustrated Rep. Michelle McGaw, a Democrat who is also a pharmacist. She opposed legalizing kratom, citing the threat to public health, but struggled to get her legislative colleagues to take seriously data showing kratom’s risks. “It has been a struggle, particularly in light of having kratom lobbyists finding ways with their own research or data to counter that narrative or try to confuse the narrative.”

Mac Haddow, the AKA’s lead lobbyist, said his organization relies on McCurdy and other scientists to provide accurate information but has “no control” over what they tell policymakers. “We think that science should dictate what the public policies are,” he said. 

Regarding McCurdy’s lack of disclosure that the association funds his travel, Haddow contends that beneficiaries aren’t typically required to reveal travel-related payments and said the association has never commissioned a study from McCurdy that would require disclosure.

Instead, the group has donated to the University of Florida’s foundation and has helped to underwrite McCurdy’s annual kratom symposium, attended by about 100 scientists, to promote research into kratom’s therapeutic potential. The AKA, through its nonprofit arm, the Center for Plant Science and Health, has donated more than $100,000 to the school.

McCurdy estimated while speaking to lawmakers in Georgia this summer that his research has been supported by $1 million from industry donations to the foundation.

McCurdy had not disclosed any ties to the industry on papers he’s published until Brandt, the Virginia pharmacist, spoke up in 2025. She provided one publisher with email correspondence she had obtained under public records laws revealing McCurdy’s ties to the association. The publication required McCurdy to append a correction to the paper that discloses his work as an expert witness in court cases, which he has done for both kratom companies and families bringing wrongful death claims. The correction doesn’t mention his work with kratom industry lobbyists. 

Rules for disclosure vary depending on the scientific journal. But the International Committee of Medical Journal Editors, which recommends publishing standards, requires reimbursed travel to be disclosed for research submissions. 

Such information is important to understanding the validity of research, said Ivan Oransky, executive director of the Center for Scientific Integrity. 

“It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t trust anything that’s funded by industry,” Oransky said. “It’s part of knowing the whole picture.”

Oransky said giving to a university foundation instead of directly funding research is similar to a business using a shell company to conceal its true ownership. Such a donation might not trigger disclosure the way sponsoring a specific study would.

“These things are technically legitimate but not intellectually honest,” Oransky said of McCurdy’s funding sources. “It’s obscuring what’s really happening.”

McCurdy did not list any travel in his conflict of interest statements required by the University of Florida. The university requires disclosure if travel exceeds $5,000 in a calendar year. The total value of the travel reimbursed by the AKA is unclear, and neither McCurdy nor the association responded to questions about how much was spent. 

A university spokesperson said a review of McCurdy’s university disclosures “found no indication of non-compliance.” The spokesperson did not reply to a question about whether McCurdy’s travel totaled less than $5,000.

In an email to a university colleague, McCurdy said he sees talking to policymakers for the AKA as “part of my work related expertise and education of the public and policy makers,” which does not need to be disclosed.

---

The AKA does not support the sale of all products derived from kratom. More recently, McCurdy has sounded the alarm on new kratom derivatives, such as MGM-15 (dihydro-7- hydroxymitragynine), MGM-16 (9-fluorodihydro-7-hydroxymitragynine), and MP (mitragynine pseudoindoxyl), which the AKA is trying to have banned. This has involved drawing a bright line between whole-leaf kratom — generally the products sold by the vendors that fund the association — and its new derivatives, which have been described as more potent than morphine.

This summer, McCurdy told a committee of Georgia lawmakers that such derivative products have a high potential for abuse and are causing deaths in his state. “These are the things that are really scary to me,” he said. “These synthetics are far from kratom, they are derived from kratom, but they are not kratom at all.”

The DEA cited McCurdy’s research in its recent notices seeking temporary classification of some derivatives as Schedule I drugs. In a news release, the DEA specified the classification does not apply to “botanical kratom products,” such as the ones McCurdy has sought to protect from scheduling.

But whole-leaf kratom — the natural product and its extracts — has also led to dependence and death, according to McCurdy’s own research.

In 2022, he co-authored a review of medical literature that found cardiovascular, neurological and psychiatric adverse events from kratom use and emphasized an “urgent” concern about babies born experiencing withdrawal after exposure to kratom in utero.

In 2025, he co-wrote a paper analyzing kratom-related deaths in Florida from 2020 to 2021, well before the more dangerous derivatives came on the market, that concluded dozens of people “died of kratom (mitragynine) exposures alone.”

When talking to policymakers, McCurdy stays largely silent on these findings.

McCurdy told ProPublica he doesn’t contend kratom “is without risk” and that his findings on its dangers should “be taken seriously.”

“At the same time, the existence of risk does not by itself answer the policy question of whether a substance should be prohibited,” he said. “My scientific assessment has led me to support appropriate regulation, including manufacturing and labeling standards, age restrictions, and safeguards addressing products that present materially different risks.”

When pressed by lawmakers on the danger, he answers that any substance can be dangerous at the right dose, including caffeine and water.

“There is such a thing as water intoxication that can cause death, and does cause deaths every year,” he told a lawmaker in Arkansas in 2024. “But we don’t ever think about banning water or making it illegal. It’s an essential part of life.”

The post The Scientist Trying to Keep Kratom Legal Has Not Disclosed Longstanding Ties to Kratom Lobbyists appeared first on ProPublica.

For more than a year now, I’ve been investigating how youth sports organizations have failed to protect kids from sexual abuse, and the gaps in the system that have allowed coaches banned for misconduct to keep working with young athletes. 

So far, I’ve shown that one major nonprofit sports organization, the Amateur Athletic Union, has become a haven for coaches accused of abuse. I identified eight coaches who are still working with kids under the AAU despite having been banned by SafeSport, a center created by Congress to protect kids from abuse in sports that has a public list anyone can check. The AAU has said it does not comment on individual cases but in a statement said that it is “committed to protecting its athletes through comprehensive protection policies overseen by our Compliance Department.”

I also told the story of a Texas volleyball coach named Ryan Richardson, who continued coaching despite having been banned by SafeSport and is now under investigation by the Department of Homeland Security. Richardson did not respond to multiple requests for comment on ProPublica and The Washington Post’s reporting, or an email seeking comment about the Homeland Security investigation. When he was first suspended in 2024, Richardson told the local news website MyRGV that complaints about him were an effort to “retaliate and defame someone’s character,” and he said he “would never do anything to risk the physical or mental wellbeing of these strong young ladies.” 

I’m still reporting, and I want to hear from you. 

I know these are sensitive topics that can be difficult to discuss. I also know how important these stories are. If you know about a coach on the SafeSport list who is still working with kids, or you have other experiences with how youth sports organizations have handled abuse allegations, please fill out our brief questionnaire. 

I’m particularly interested in:

• Finding instances of coaches who are continuing to work with kids after being banned by SafeSport. 
• Better understanding how abusive coaches manipulate and deceive parents.
• Learning about coaching abuse, safety and misconduct in basketball, in which SafeSport has far less influence compared with many other popular youth sports.

We take your privacy seriously and will contact you if we wish to publish any part of your story.

The post Help Us Investigate Abusive Coaches in Youth Sports appeared first on ProPublica.

A Texas volleyball coach who was the subject of an investigation last month by ProPublica and The Washington Post is now facing a federal child exploitation probe, according to an agent for Homeland Security Investigations, the main investigative arm of the Department of Homeland Security.

The ProPublica and Post story detailed how Ryan Richardson continued to coach teenage girls for years at his gym in Pharr, Texas, amid allegations of misconduct, even after he was suspended in early 2025 and subsequently ruled “permanently ineligible” this February by the U.S. Center for SafeSport, an oversight group. On its public disciplinary list, SafeSport said it found that Richardson had an intimate relationship with a minor, committed sexual misconduct involving a minor, and engaged in physical misconduct and bullying. 

Juan J. Flores Jr., a supervisor in a Homeland Security Investigations unit that focuses on child exploitation in the Rio Grande Valley, told ProPublica and The Post that he had launched the probe into Richardson in response to the story, which included allegations from a parent and former players that he had a sexual relationship with a 16-year-old player beginning in 2022 and that he groomed and emotionally and physically abused others. 

“My plan is to turn over every rock, have every conversation. I know he’s still coaching,” Flores said. 

Richardson did not respond to multiple requests for comment on ProPublica and The Post’s reporting or to an email seeking a comment for this story. When he was first suspended in 2024 by Lone Star Region Volleyball, the organization overseeing volleyball in Texas, Richardson told the local news website MyRGV that complaints about him were an effort to “retaliate and defame someone’s character,” and said he “would never do anything to risk the physical or mental wellbeing of these strong young ladies.” 

A spokesperson for the Department of Homeland Security said HSI was “a global leader in the fight against child exploitation” but said it was “unable to confirm or deny any ongoing investigations.”

ProPublica and The Post published excerpts of Snapchat messages between Richardson and a former player, including from August 2022, when the girl was 16. In those messages, Richardson and the girl said “I love you” to each other and planned when they would next meet up. In a message in May 2023, when the girl was 17, Richardson wrote, “I don’t like that we are only sex right now so I really would love to get past this high school Shit when you are on your own pretty much.” The Snapchat messages were part of an investigation conducted by SafeSport.

The mother of the former player, Maggie Gutierrez, said that in the summer of 2022, she discovered Richardson alone with her 16-year-old daughter in the darkened back room of his gym, which at the time contained a twin mattress. Richardson turned his back to her and appeared to be tying up the string of his pants, Gutierrez said. At the time, Richardson and Gutierrez’s daughter denied anything inappropriate had happened. (ProPublica and The Post, which do not name alleged victims of sexual abuse without their consent, are referring to Gutierrez by her maiden name to avoid identifying her daughter, who declined to be interviewed.) 

Gutierrez went to the police in both Pharr and McAllen in early 2024, she told ProPublica and The Post, after her daughter’s college volleyball coach told her that he believed Richardson and her daughter, then 18, were dating. 

She said police declined to pursue the case because her daughter was a legal adult and did not want to speak to police officers.

Police in both jurisdictions denied records requests from ProPublica and The Post by citing an exemption under state privacy statutes, but the news organizations obtained excerpts from the police report in McAllen. In the text, an officer described meeting with Gutierrez at the McAllen police station.

The officer wrote that due to Gutierrez’s daughter “being 18 years of age, which as per Texas law is considered an adult and an age which gives her the right to consent, case would not be further investigated and closed.” 

Gutierrez then reported her concerns to Lone Star, the regional arm of USA Volleyball, which governs the sport. Officials referred the matter to SafeSport, which opened an investigation. 

Gutierrez spoke to the Homeland Security investigator last week, she told ProPublica and The Post. 

Flores said his inquiry would also involve looking into the actions of both police departments that declined to pursue a case against Richardson.

Police in Pharr and McAllen did not respond to requests for comment.

The post Homeland Security Opens Child Exploitation Probe Into Banned Texas Volleyball Coach appeared first on ProPublica.

California lawmakers unanimously passed legislation last week to ensure that school administrators are informed about past accusations of misconduct against teachers as part of their hiring process.  

The legislation follows a KQED-ProPublica investigation revealing how delays and inaction, combined with a lack of transparency, allowed educators to get new jobs after school districts reported them to the state teacher licensing agency for sexual harassment or other misconduct. Our reporting found that at least 14 educators were hired by new schools after their former employers determined they had sexually harassed students or committed other sexual misconduct. 

The bill, authored by Democratic Assemblymember Al Muratsuchi, is an attempt to make sure that doesn’t happen again, adding teeth to background check mandates in place since 2025. Under that law, applicants for jobs at public schools are supposed to list every teaching position they have ever held. The requirement expanded to private school teaching applicants this year. Top school administrators are required to check with applicants’ previous employers to see if they had ever been reported to the state for credible or substantiated complaints of egregious misconduct.

But the existing law relies on schools and teachers to follow the mandates without clear penalties for those who fail to do so. Muratsuchi’s bill specifies that the state’s teacher licensing agency may discipline teachers and administrators; that can include issuing public reprimands, or suspending or revoking their credentials if they don’t comply. 

“If there aren’t any penalties, there are no consequences,” Muratsuchi said in an interview with KQED and ProPublica after the legislation passed. “The bill makes sure that school districts prioritize this by putting in consequences for failing to do so.” 

Gov. Gavin Newsom, a Democrat, has until Sept. 30 to sign or veto the legislation. A spokesperson for Newsom said the governor does not typically comment on bills awaiting his signature.  

The measure is dramatically different from the bill Muratsuchi originally proposed in June, which would have gone further, creating a searchable database that would allow schools to see if applicants for public school teaching positions had been reported to the state after they were fired or had resigned over claims of misconduct. California is set to launch such a database by next summer for school support staff, such as bus drivers and janitors, with substantiated claims of egregious misconduct. But public school teachers are not included.

The Trump administration had singled out teachers unions as obstructions to legislative reforms to protect children when it announced a national crackdown this summer on how school districts handle accusations of sexual misconduct by teachers.

California’s powerful teachers unions, the California Federation of Teachers and California Teachers Association, had criticized Muratsuchi’s database proposal for public school educators, arguing it would violate teachers’ privacy and subject them to employment consequences if allegations are later determined to be unfounded. 

The Commission on Teacher Credentialing, California’s educator licensing agency, also warned that complying with the proposed legislation to add teachers to the database would “require Commission staff to commit crimes” and expose the agency to liability because state law restricts what information it is allowed to share. 

After the pushback, Muratsuchi amended the proposed bill and scrapped the database idea. The revamped legislation ultimately received support from the California Federation of Teachers. 

School administrators, though, say the legislation does not address the burden on school districts to reach out to every previous employer for any reports they made to the state about a teacher applicant.  

“Many of us in this state have been faced with budget cuts and reduced staffing. We need a better system,” said Chris Calabrese, superintendent of Benicia Unified, a 4,500-student district in the San Francisco Bay Area. 

He said a database for employers to check whether a teacher had ever been reported would be a more efficient way to vet applicants, allowing schools easy access to critical information that would keep students safe.

Currently, a red flag shows up next to a teacher’s name in the state’s public database of credentialed educators if the licensing agency has ever disciplined the person. But the state disciplinary process typically takes one year, according to the agency, giving educators who have been reported a window to apply for new teaching jobs without any warning to potential employers. 

In 2023, Benicia Unified reported former elementary teacher Matthew Shelton to the state after students accused him of touching them inappropriately. Shelton resigned and weeks later was hired as an assistant principal at a nearby middle school in West Contra Unified. A red flag did not appear next to his name until the following year, after his teaching license was suspended because he was charged with five felony counts of lewd acts on a Benicia student. The number of victims and charges has since grown, and Shelton, whose license has been revoked, is scheduled to go to trial in September.

Shelton, who has pleaded not guilty to all charges, did not respond to requests for comment, and his attorney declined to comment. 

Calabrese, who started as superintendent last year, declined to comment on specific questions about Shelton.

The post California Lawmakers Pass Bill to Punish Administrators Who Fail to Vet Teachers for Misconduct appeared first on ProPublica.

In mid-July testimony before Congress, Russell Vought boasted that, as the acting head of the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, he’d refashioned the agency’s approach to pursuing banks and other financial companies accused of exploiting Americans — the role Congress had created for the agency after the 2008 economic crash.

Vought had spent the first 18 months of the new Trump administration trying to dismantle the bureau, much as he and other appointees had done with the U.S. Agency for International Development. At CFPB, he’d ordered mass layoffs, tried to choke off the bureau’s funding and ended the lease on its headquarters, attempting to make good on his vow to put civil servants “in trauma.” But federal courts blocked Vought’s efforts to close the CFPB, with a judge at one point saying the administration had acted with “complete disregard” for Congress. 

So Vought, who is one of President Donald Trump’s top advisers, switched tactics: If there had to be a watchdog, theirs would be more of a golden retriever, friendlier to industry and less aggressive. Vought had accused the bureau of “thuggery” in the past, and said the “new” CFPB would focus on deregulation, embrace “humility” and adopt a “collaborative approach” to its dealings with companies that harm consumers.

As evidence of the success of this new approach, Vought singled out one company by name in his testimony, a buzzy startup called Bilt. The company, which offers credit cards used to make rent and mortgage payments, had fumbled a critical transition, leading to confusion and financial stress for its customers. In the past, the CFPB might’ve deployed examiners to ensure that every consumer harmed got relief, investigated Bilt’s technology platforms for potential flaws, questioned its third-party contractors or issued subpoenas — with the goal of finding the root causes of whatever went wrong and preventing it from happening again. 

The Trump-era CFPB took a different tack. “We reached out to the company,” Vought told Congress, “and before it got to the adversarial part of the process, they were able to fix their issues.” The CFPB even posted a feel-good statement on its website, touting its new approach and telling consumers that information provided by Bilt “appears to show” the firm was “back on track.”

Yet two weeks after Vought’s testimony, Bilt failed customers again. This time, Bilt cardholders received mistaken debt collection notices and saw their credit scores go down as a result, sparking more embarrassing news stories and angry complaints. It was Bilt’s second fiasco in six months, and as its customers scrambled to understand what had gone wrong, the CFPB was nowhere to be found.

The Bilt controversy offered an early test of CFPB’s new approach, and the results suggest that an ask-nicely strategy to consumer protection isn’t likely to protect consumers. What’s more, current and former CFPB officials say the bureau could’ve caught the issues that caused the second of Bilt’s two screw-ups had the previous playbook still been in use.

ProPublica sent the CFPB a detailed set of questions about its handling of the Bilt complaints and what actions it took to protect consumers and prevent future problems. The bureau did not respond to any questions or requests for comment.

The whole episode drives at a bigger question, according to consumer advocates and current and former CFPB employees: If the Trump administration can’t eliminate the CFPB, what will become of it in the hands of Trump officials, such as Vought, who have long believed the agency is unnecessary? (Vought termed out as acting director in early August but remains a senior adviser. The administration’s nominee for full-time director, Brian Johnson, is an executive at Capital One bank and a former CFPB appointee. At his confirmation hearing, Johnson said he could not think of a single decision that he disagreed with made by Vought at the CFPB.) 

“What we saw Vought do with Bilt is innovative — and I don’t mean that as a compliment,” said Mike Pierce, a former CFPB official who runs the consumer advocacy group Protect Borrowers, which has criticized Vought’s tenure at the bureau. 

A Rocky Transition

Bilt’s business rests on a simple premise: Consumers should build credit and earn rewards for what’s typically their single biggest expense — their rent or mortgage payment. “Prior to Bilt, that payment didn’t build anyone’s credit history, which is crazy,” Bilt co-founder Ankur Jain said in March. Jain added that it was “silly that you can earn rewards buying a round of drinks at a bar, but not paying your rent every month.”

Founded in 2021, Bilt is one of the hottest startups in the personal finance industry. Bilt says it has 7 million customers and has raised nearly $1 billion in venture capital investments, at a $10.75 billion valuation. Investors include private equity giant Blackstone, the Ontario Teachers’ Pension Plan and a venture capital fund chaired by former American Express CEO Kenneth Chenault. 

Forbes estimates Jain’s wealth at $3.4 billion. People magazine published exclusive photos of Jain’s 2024 wedding to Erika Hammond, a former WWE wrestler and cast member on the upcoming season of “The Real Housewives of New York City.” The event took place near the Great Pyramid of Giza; one photo shows the couple kissing at sunset with the Sphinx and pyramids in the background.

Earlier this year, Bilt suffered a serious crisis. The startup had signed a seven-year partnership with Wells Fargo to offer Bilt-branded credit cards that could be used to pay rent. Under its deal with Bilt, Wells Fargo agreed to absorb processing fees associated with rent transactions and make payments to Bilt because it saw the partnership as a way to attract new customers who might one day seek a mortgage from Wells Fargo, according to The Wall Street Journal. 

But revenue fell short of Wells Fargo’s projections, and the bank was losing so much money — as much as $10 million a month, the Journal reported — that it ended its partnership with Bilt four years early. (A Bilt spokesperson said at the time that the Journal’s reporting was “an inaccurate representation” of the Wells Fargo partnership.)

In February, Bilt relaunched its credit cards with new financial partners. But the rollout of “Bilt 2.0,” as the company called it, was a debacle.

Customers said their rent payments were paid late, double-charged or not paid at all. Credit limits had been lowered from one card to the next. Their cards were inexplicably frozen.

Bilt’s customer support department struggled to keep up as tens of thousands of messages poured in. Customers fumed that they were unable to bypass chatbots and reach a human being for help. They also bombarded the CFPB’s website with complaints, which included accounts of how Bilt’s AI support system gave information that was “completely wrong” and “demonstrably … false.” (In a statement at the time, Bilt said its new card had “attracted unexpectedly high demand, and some of our members experienced gaps in service that are simply unacceptable to us.” The company told ProPublica it resolved all problems related to the new cards “months ago.”) 

In March, the consumer group Protect Borrowers sent a letter to the CFPB, demanding that the bureau’s supervision or enforcement divisions take “immediate action.” Sen. Elizabeth Warren, D-Mass., wrote to Bilt, pointing out a 1,300% increase in complaints about the company submitted to the CFPB in February and seeking answers about the Bilt 2.0 transition. Warren also said that Bilt’s practice of immediately debiting rent payments may have run afoul of the 2009 Credit Card Accountability Responsibility and Disclosure Act’s disclosure requirements for credit cards. A Bilt spokesperson said Warren’s assertions were “incorrect.”

It’s common for lawmakers and advocacy groups to fire off outraged letters about a company’s alleged wrongdoing.

The strange part is what the CFPB, then led by Vought, chose to do about it.

“Air Cover for the Company”

The law that established the CFPB, the Dodd-Frank Act of 2010, envisioned two tracks for the bureau’s work. 

On the supervision track, CFPB employees would periodically visit banks and other financial institutions to monitor their business practices and ensure compliance with the law. Supervision would be confidential, giving companies the ability to adjust their operations without public scrutiny. Contrary to Vought’s accusations, current and former CFPB staffers say the traditional supervision process has long been collaborative and nonpublic. Congress designed it that way when it wrote the law.

Supervision could examine the past or look in real time. In one notable instance, when two federal student loan servicers exited the industry in 2021, the bureau’s supervision division chose to proactively monitor the transition of more than 9 million borrowers’ accounts to new servicers. Bureau staffers caught problems mid-transfer, from inaccurate due dates to botched repayment schedules, and directed the companies to fix them. It later published a recap of what the CFPB did as well as a set of tips so that the rest of the industry could avoid the same mistakes.

On the enforcement track, CFPB lawyers would file lawsuits against or pursue consent decrees — binding settlements that courts can enforce — with companies that allegedly broke the law. By their nature, lawsuits and settlements are public, but the enforcement division didn’t speak publicly about its actions apart from its filings.

The Trump-era CFPB took neither of these tracks in response to Bilt’s first incident. A senior political appointee and Vought aide, Victoria Dorfman, took the lead in contacting Bilt and asking for information about the consumer complaints, according to a person familiar with the interactions who requested anonymity to share confidential communications. Dorfman was joined by Elie Greenbaum, another Vought adviser, and Deborah Morris, the deputy enforcement director. Having political appointees lead this process, instead of nonpartisan career executives and subject-matter experts, was “abnormal” for the CFPB “but is becoming normal” under the Trump administration, a current CFPB staffer told ProPublica.

Dorfman, Greenbaum and Morris met with Bilt’s executives, who explained how they were fixing the problems and supplied data to the bureau about the company’s customer communications and efforts to resolve problems. When Bilt assured the bureau it had fixed the issues, CFPB officials appear to have taken those assurances at face value, issuing a celebratory press release on the bureau’s website. 

But it was what the press release said, or didn’t, that alarmed some current and former CFPB officials. Nowhere does it mention whether the bureau dispatched examiners to help locate the root of Bilt’s problems, as it would have done in the past, or whether it conducted its own audit of Bilt data to ensure every harmed consumer got relief. 

Indeed, the CFPB’s statement stressed that the bureau did not open an investigation. Nor did it craft a consent decree or enforceable pledge to ensure compliance. Documentation provided by Bilt, the bureau said, “appears to show” that the company had fixed its problems and that its systems were “back on track.”

Austin Hinkle, a former supervision lawyer and section chief at the CFPB, said it’s easy for a company to identify a population of customers who were harmed, issue an apology and get them relief, as Bilt did. 

Understanding what caused the issue is more complicated — and arguably just as important. In a situation like Bilt’s, Hinkle said, CFPB examiners would normally conduct a root-cause analysis, asking, for instance, which system led to the late or double-charged rent payments and why had it failed. Financial technology companies often rely on third-party processors and banks, Hinkle said, so the bureau’s investigators would also scrutinize what outside firms Bilt uses and what the communications have been with those firms.

There’s none of that depth in the CFPB’s statement, Hinkle said. “The press release just looks like they’re providing air cover for the company without directing real fixes or systematic changes.”

The lighter touch appears, so far, to be a hallmark of the Vought-era bureau. It has brought just one enforcement action since Trump took office, which ended with a consent decree and a civil penalty of $1, while dismissing or resolving dozens of cases brought during previous administrations. A CFPB supervisor warned her subordinates that they would face “most unpleasant” consequences if they were too aggressive in their work, Reuters reported. Recently, the bureau announced it would no longer include narratives in consumer complaints that appear in the CFPB’s public database.

Meanwhile, a current CFPB staffer told ProPublica that the number of policy attorneys, who help direct supervision work and identify violations of law, had shrunk from typically between 40 and 50 lawyers down to five. The staffer said that examiners were no longer allowed to access the primary source level data and could only “check the checker now,” meaning they must rely on a company’s own findings. They also faced pressure to finish examinations as fast as possible, given only three weeks to complete their work when they used to have eight weeks.

The staffer added that, as far as they knew, the first time that front-line staffers on the supervision and enforcement tracks heard of CFPB’s handling of the Bilt case was either the public statement or when Vought mentioned Bilt in his Capitol Hill testimony.

Pierce, the Protect Borrowers director, said he viewed CFPB’s treatment of Bilt as an indication that the bureau had embraced a mindset similar to what Ronald Reagan’s presidency was known for: a wholesale deregulatory approach meant to strip away regulations and oversight of companies large and small. 

“It’s taking the government’s supervision and enforcement tools and figuring out how you can use them the way the Reaganites used them,” Pierce said.

“Sent Me Into a Panic” 

Roughly two weeks after Vought’s testimony, Bilt customer Jordan Carey, a 30-year-old who works in the hospitality industry, received an alert from Credit Karma, the credit-monitoring service. His credit score had dropped 50 points in a single day. The news “sent me into a panic,” Carey said. He had stellar credit and paid off his Bilt credit card the day charges were posted. “I was thinking there is no way this is real,” he said.

Carey dug deeper and saw that the hit to his score had happened after a debt collector, Tate and Kirlin, reported a supposed long-overdue payment. And when he looked at the collections notice, he saw it listed Bilt as the cause of the error.

When he alerted Bilt’s customer service to the problem, he said, “they were not aware of the issue [and] I’m pretty sure I was one of the very first people to report it.” A Bilt customer service agent initially laid the blame with Wells Fargo and told Carey to contact the bank for help. But when he posted on Reddit about his experience, he got a different response from Bilt about the source of the problem, blaming a different banking partner. He also heard from almost a dozen other people who said they had the same issue. 

Nearly 1,900 of Bilt’s customers received mistaken notices from a debt collector that said they owed hundreds or even thousands of dollars in unpaid credit card balances. On Reddit, people wrote about receiving one or multiple false collections notices, including, in one case, as the cardholder was closing on a new house.

Hinkle, the former CFPB section chief, said the more recent Bilt problem was the kind of situation the CFPB’s previous oversight model could’ve prevented or identified more quickly, instead of customers discovering the problem and self-reporting it. “The fact that there’s a seemingly related problem popping up now suggests to me that the normal supervisory process didn’t work here,” he said.

The CFPB has not made a public statement since Bilt’s second breakdown. 

Bilt, for its part, said the issue had to do with an earlier iteration of its credit cards that had stopped accepting customers. The company said it alerted the collection agency in question as well as the credit bureaus to the mistake. It also awarded customers an extra 2,500 points for their trouble, worth between $25 and $50. “We held the agency accountable, made things right for every customer involved, ensured each was notified directly and provided direct customer support along with courtesy Bilt Points,” a spokesman said.

Carey said his credit score had been restored within a few days but was unimpressed by the free points; 10,000, or about $100 to $200, would have felt more appropriate. “This is a multibillion-dollar company,” he said. “They can afford it.”

The post The Trump Administration’s Plan for Protecting Consumers? Politely Ask Companies to Behave. appeared first on ProPublica.

Jimmie “Chris” Duncan wiped the sweat off his forehead as he assessed his temporary home from the parking lot of a rundown motel in central Louisiana. Sure, there’s drug dealing and prostitution, he said on a recent summer afternoon. And he suspected his neighbors were cooking meth on a floor below the room he paid $350 a week to rent.

But, he said, “I feel safe here. I mean, I’ve been on death row. I feel safe anywhere.”

Duncan had spent the last three decades trying to prove his innocence after a jury convicted him of killing his former girlfriend’s toddler. An investigation by Verite News and ProPublica last year showed that prosecutors had relied on key evidence that appeared to be fabricated by a pair of forensics experts whose use of bite mark analysis has since been widely discredited as junk science.

Nevertheless, Louisiana prosecutors continued to argue that Duncan should be put to death. The threat became ever more real as Gov. Jeff Landry began expediting executions, despite the state’s track record of convicting and sentencing to death people later found to be innocent. It wasn’t until June that the Louisiana Supreme Court threw out Duncan’s murder conviction, ruling that the bite marks found on the child’s body, the only physical proof tying Duncan to the alleged crime, could not have been made by a human.

Chief Justice John Weimer was so outraged by the prosecution of Duncan that he compared it to 17th-century witch trials. “We now look back at those practices as asinine and absurd” with “no basis whatsoever in logic,” he wrote. Some of the evidence against Duncan, he said, was “similarly specious.”

The trauma that the state imposed on Duncan as a result of his wrongful conviction continues today. Although Louisiana’s top jurist tore apart the state’s case against Duncan, the 57-year-old West Monroe native still isn’t truly free. Steve Tew, district attorney for Ouachita Parish, where the crime allegedly took place, had warned the justices during an April hearing that he would retry Duncan if the court vacated his conviction. Tew, who did not respond to requests for comment, has said in court that he still believes that Duncan is not only guilty but deserves to be executed. Tew has until next June to decide on a retrial, though his term ends in January and he is not running for reelection.

Until then, Duncan said, he is trapped in limbo, both mentally and financially. He came out of Angola with nothing in the bank and now makes $17 an hour working the night shift at Walmart unloading and stocking freight. While he enjoys the job — he was named employee of the month in June — Duncan said he is barely scraping by.

There is a state restitution program designed to compensate exonerees up to $480,000 over a decade for wrongful convictions, but he is not eligible until either the district attorney decides not to retry him or he is acquitted in another trial, which can take years. And even then, there is no guarantee he will ever be awarded any money. Attorney General Liz Murrill has opposed nearly all applications for compensation, telling lawmakers last year that defending the state against such claims consumes an enormous amount of time and resources and that the fund should be abolished altogether.

“The foreseeable future for me is the year between now and when they can’t prosecute me no more. That’s the only future I get to play with,” Duncan said. “I’m 100% factually innocent, but not 100% free from prosecution.”

Surviving His First Decade in Angola

Over the course of more than six hours of interviews with Verite News and ProPublica, Duncan described in harrowing detail the nightmare he lived since police arrested him on Dec. 18, 1993. By far the worst of it all, he said, was thinking that his neighbors, friends and even relatives could believe he had committed such an unspeakable crime against a child.

It felt as if everything he was as a person was “being torn out of you, violently, in an emotionally painful way,” Duncan said. “Just having your identity eviscerated.”

Duncan was babysitting Haley Oliveaux in the home he shared with the girl’s mother, Allison Layton Statham, in West Monroe when the 23-month-old died. Duncan told law enforcement he had put the child in the bath, then went to wash dishes. When he heard a noise coming from the bathroom, he rushed to check on her and found Haley floating face down in the water. She was pronounced dead a few hours later.

Police initially arrested Duncan for negligent homicide, but prosecutors upped the charge to first-degree murder after pathologist Steven Hayne and dentist Michael West conducted Haley’s medical exam and claimed they discovered evidence, including the purported bite marks, that she had been sexually assaulted and intentionally drowned. Following two weeks of testimony during the trial in 1998, the jury found Duncan guilty; months later, the 30-year-old was sentenced to death.

His first decade at the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola was the hardest, Duncan said. Not only did he lose his initial appeal in 2002, and with it the dream he could convince the courts of his innocence, but he was forced to watch helplessly as his family gradually fell to pieces.

His mother, Barbara Oren, used to visit him every Thursday, and then in 2004, she stopped coming without explanation. Duncan would stare out the window across the hall from his cell, “almost obsessing, like my mom’s gonna show up any time now,” he said.

Three years later, Oren died of complications from excessive drinking, her sister, Elaine Whiteside, said. But in truth, Whiteside said, grief killed her.

“She fought for Chris for so long, and she turned to alcohol,” Whiteside said. “It’s been very traumatizing for everybody. For the last 32 years, how do you tell someone your nephew’s on death row for the rape and murder of a baby?”

Fourteen years after his mother passed, Duncan’s brother, David, died of an overdose. During the first several years of his incarceration, Duncan said he spoke with his brother often, but those calls grew less frequent as David’s addictions took hold.

“My brother ended up going from being the region’s No. 1 car salesman to being addicted to drugs to eventually dying of overdose,” he said. “He just couldn’t take it. He couldn’t escape being my brother.”

Duncan wasn’t allowed to attend either of their funerals.

Daily life on death row nearly robbed him of his sanity, Duncan said. Like all inmates awaiting execution, Duncan remained in solitary confinement for 23 hours a day. This lasted almost 20 years. And there was never a set schedule for that one hour he would be let out and allowed to use the phone. Some days, it would be 2 a.m. Who could he call at that hour? (Death row inmates were eventually allowed to spend at least four hours outside their cells following a 2017 class-action lawsuit.)

The concept of time gradually disappeared. Duncan tried to keep a strict routine: wake up, drink coffee, watch the news, exercise and read books, mainly about other cultures and religions. He learned Hebrew so he could better understand the Bible. He became a tutor and helped other inmates earn their GEDs.

But the years of confinement began to take their toll physically. After about four years, Duncan started experiencing severe heart pain caused by a bacterial infection. “By the time I was 34 years old, my health had went all the way downhill,” he said. “A lot of nights, I went to sleep, said my prayers and really didn’t think I was going to wake up the next day.”

During the summer months, when the heat inside could rise to 115 degrees, Duncan said he experienced seizures. “I’m pretty sure I got brain damage as a result of it,” he said. “There were times when I got out of bed and I didn’t even know if I was left-handed or right-handed. There were a few times when I got up, I didn’t even know my name.”

In 2013, three death row inmates sued the Louisiana Department of Public Safety and Corrections for “appalling and extreme conditions” as a result of the high temperatures. Their experiences described in the lawsuit closely matched Duncan’s. For 85 straight days in 2012, the heat index in one section of death row exceeded 126 degrees, according to the suit. A judge ordered the state to provide air conditioning throughout death row, but a federal appeals court overturned the order. The corrections department did not respond to questions about conditions within the prison.

Instead of breaking him, Duncan said the brutal conditions hardened his resolve to keep fighting. But it didn’t seem as if anyone was listening.

“Sometimes the louder you scream, the more people look at you and laugh, like, ‘There’s another one claiming he’s innocent,’” Duncan said. “I was suicidal at one point because I was hopeless.”

Signs of Hope

Duncan had been on death row for about a decade when he learned from his lawyers and the news that there were others like him — people convicted based on inaccurate evidence, including discredited bite mark science, presented by Hayne or West. Four of them had been exonerated by 2008, and five more would follow.

In 2009 journalist Radley Balko wrote about Duncan’s case in Reason, a libertarian magazine, and how it was part of a larger pattern of “forensics fraud” perpetrated by Hayne and West. At the time, Duncan’s attorneys with a New Orleans nonprofit had filed a post-conviction appeal but did not have the resources to conduct a fuller investigation and uncover new evidence required to win. That left his case largely dormant.

Then in 2016, Duncan’s attorneys contacted the American Bar Association, which put him in touch with an Atlanta firm that took Duncan on as a client pro bono. (The Innocence Project in New York signed on six years later.) They filed a series of discovery requests that unearthed a trove of evidence pointing to Duncan’s innocence. This included expert witnesses who said the child’s death was an accidental drowning brought on by a seizure and a jailhouse informant who recanted his trial testimony that Duncan had confessed to the crime.

Most important was a recording of West’s 1993 examination of Haley. In that grainy black-and-white video, West can be seen taking a mold of Duncan’s teeth and grinding it into and across the girl’s body, seemingly creating bite marks where none previously existed — the marks later used to secure a death sentence against Duncan. The trial judge had not allowed the jury to see the video on the grounds that it was not an indication of Duncan’s innocence.

West, who has not responded to multiple earlier requests for comment, had previously said he was simply using what he called a “direct comparison” technique — in which he presses a mold of a person’s teeth directly onto the location of suspected bite marks. He admitted in a 2011 deposition in another case that he no longer believed in bite mark analysis. Hayne died in 2020.

Atlanta attorney Christian Bromley, who had joined the case, recalled the first time he was shown the recording in 2016 and being “horrified and surprised that the video had been available at that point for over 20 years and just essentially ignored and deemed not relevant.” The video would provide the foundation for Duncan’s latest bid for freedom.

Filmmaker Catherine Legge, who spent more than three years creating a documentary about his case, also played a pivotal role. Duncan said he’s indebted to her for tracking down Statham, Haley’s mother, and convincing her of his innocence. He knows it wasn’t easy.

“Allison spent 30 years being accused of being a partner to her baby’s killer,” Duncan said.

In April of last year, then-Ouachita Parish Judge Alvin Sharp overturned Duncan’s conviction, criticizing the “questionable” work of Hayne and West. Tew appealed, claiming that bite mark evidence was an accepted science at the time of Duncan’s trial and that some experts still consider it to be a useful forensic methodology.

At Duncan’s bail hearing last July, Statham told the court that the district attorney’s office had lied about her daughter’s death to make it look like murder and continues to perpetuate the lie. She said Duncan deserved to be free. He wept as he listened to his former girlfriend come to his defense.

“Just seeing her on the stand and hearing her voice engaged in the same struggle that I’ve been fighting for 30 years, knowing that what mattered to her was the truth,” he said, “That was the only thing that mattered to me.”

Four months later, Sharp granted Duncan bail. He was released into the embrace of his family the day before Thanksgiving. Then, this June, the state Supreme Court rejected the district attorney’s appeal and threw out Duncan’s conviction. Of the four people sentenced to death based in part on the work of Hayne or West, Duncan was the last to be freed.

Rebuilding a Life From Scratch

Since his release from prison, Duncan has been trying to piece together some semblance of a normal existence. There were the everyday logistics of finding permanent housing and a job. And then the deeper work of addressing the decades of pain that he — and his family — experienced.

At first, he slept on his aunt’s living room couch in Pineville in central Louisiana. But she broke her leg in June, which required twice-weekly visits from nurses and physical therapists, leaving little room for Duncan. That’s how Duncan ended up at the motel across the Red River in Alexandria, with half of his belongings packed into the back of a truck. In August, he moved into his own apartment, the first place he has ever lived by himself.

“I never really had a place to just be comfortable and relax,” he said.

Duncan’s main focus now is doing the best job he can at work. On most nights, he said he puts his earbuds in, listens to music, unloads the trucks and lets the world drift away. “Ain’t got to think about nothing else,” he said. But Duncan has his eye on the future and enrolled in a Walmart management training program that will bring additional responsibilities.

One day soon, though, he knows that he will need to shift his attention back to the flawed criminal justice system in Monroe and the conditions in Angola prison. He wants to make sure the horrors he experienced don’t happen to anyone else, including the guys on death row, men who were convicted of terrible crimes but with whom he still formed true friendships.

“I was under the same roof with those people twice as long as I was under the same roof with my own family,” he said.

He’s also rekindled a relationship from long ago. Recently, he was going through Facebook friend requests and saw a familiar face, but one he couldn’t quite place. He accepted, and the woman texted him a photo of herself when she was just a kid. It was his childhood sweetheart.

The last time he saw her was at a skating rink just after Christmas in the early 1980s. He had given her a pair of earrings. A short time later, her family moved out of town.

“She just disappeared,” Duncan said. “She’s one of the only people I remember from my past. I still missed her just the same as I always did.”

That part of his life seems at times to be more of a dream than reality, Duncan said. He lived a simple, country life. He hunted and fished. He drank beer, rode motorcycles and worked on hot rods. And he planned to become a firefighter like his dad.

But then Haley died.

“I can’t be a simple person anymore,” Duncan said. “I try to find ways to be happy, but nothing is simple anymore.”

The post He Spent 27 Years on Death Row as a Wrongfully Convicted Man. What Comes Next? appeared first on ProPublica.

When ProPublica recently investigated a rape crisis that surged through Syracuse University in the 1980s, we found evidence that the school had taken steps to suppress news coverage of the assaults. The university responded by portraying itself as a changed institution today, “committed to supporting the students who come forward and being there for them at every step of the process,” as a school spokesperson put it.

But the university’s recent actions in a lawsuit filed by a former student who was attacked on campus during that period appear at odds with that commitment. After the Syracuse Police Department agreed to provide old records to the victim, lawyers for Syracuse University intervened, seeking to block the victim’s access to many of the records. The school argued in legal papers that the subpoena sent to the police department was “overbroad” and suffered “from fatal geographic overreach” that rendered “it unreasonably burdensome and irrelevant.”

New York state court Judge Joseph Lamendola ruled in the university’s favor in February, dramatically limiting the records the victim could obtain to make her case that the school should have beefed up security in response to escalating crime in the area.

In June, her attorneys appealed that decision, sending the matter to a state appellate court.

“It smacks of the 1980s when SU quashed media coverage of sexual assault. It’s that all over again,” said Andrew Stengel, a former Manhattan prosecutor representing the victim. He accused the university of “retraumatizing” his client “by pretending sexual assault wasn’t a problem on campus and in the surrounding area.”

Stengel and his client, referred to as Jane Doe in legal filings, are suing the university under the Adult Survivors Act, a New York law that opened a one-year exemption from the statute of limitations for survivors of long-ago sexual assaults to pursue legal claims against alleged abusers and negligent institutions.

Sarah Scalese, Syracuse University’s vice president of communications, said in an emailed statement that “we do not comment on active litigation.” In response to ProPublica’s earlier story, Scalese said the university “has a robust structure in place to support those affected by sexual and relationship violence,” including “confidential counseling, advocacy and investigation and resolution services to students.”

Doe was attacked by a man with a knife inside a bathroom on the third floor of the university’s music building at about 6:30 p.m. on Feb. 27, 1987. Her assailant had entered the building through an unlocked door, according to her lawsuit, which contends that the university administration offered her “zero support” after the assault. The music program director, the complaint alleges, told her, “Men get raped, too,” and advised her to get “back on the horse.” (The director is deceased.)

Hers was one episode in a brutal saga of sexual violence that unfolded in and around the Syracuse campus throughout the decade. The scourge of assaults became so pervasive that it eventually inspired student protests, drew national press attention and contributed to the passage of federal legislation that now requires universities to publicly report crime statistics.

ProPublica’s earlier examination — rooted in the wrongful conviction of Anthony Broadwater for the rape of Alice Sebold, an author who wrote a bestselling memoir about being attacked on the last night of her freshman year at Syracuse University in 1981 — found that more than a dozen women, many of them students, reported being raped or attacked by strangers in a half-square-mile area near the campus over four years. Sebold’s was the third such attack in Thornden Park, which runs alongside the campus, in about seven months.

Some of the police reports from this time period were marked “NO PRESS,” which, according to the testimony of a former Syracuse detective, meant that the university had used its influence in the police department to “put their foot down and said no press for any kind of rape, robbery, burglary that’s anywhere in the area of Syracuse University.”

Last year, Stengel asked the police department for all police calls and reports tied to a variety of crimes from 1982 to 1987 within the ZIP code that contains the university, Thornden Park, various businesses, and a mix of student and nonstudent housing.

Emails filed as an exhibit in Doe’s case show that a lawyer representing the Syracuse Police Department suggested that Stengel focus his search on that ZIP code. The two of them agreed on the terms in August 2025, and the police department began gathering the records shortly thereafter.

A month later, the university filed a motion to “partially quash” the subpoena. Relying on case law that applies only to central and western New York state, university lawyers argued that it had standing to limit the request, even though it was not the recipient of Stengel’s subpoena. The university asserted that the subpoena would create unnecessary work for the police department, unearth irrelevant documents and waste the time of everyone involved.

The police department then reversed its earlier position and joined in the motion, estimating in a February brief that it would take 845 hours and $50,000 in staff time to provide the documents Stengel had asked for and the police department lawyer had initially approved. (A spokesperson said that “the City of Syracuse does not comment on ongoing litigation.”)

At a hearing, John Powers, an attorney hired by the university, seemed to play to Lamendola’s previous role as a lawyer for the city of Syracuse, reminding the judge that the city is “inundated with [Freedom of Information Law] responses and subpoenas, and it’s incredibly burdensome on the city, I think, as you know in your experience as well.”

The records were too old to be digitized, Powers told the judge, adding that, just as the judge once did, Powers represents the city in other matters. City employees, he said, would have to find them “the old way, Judge, the way we used to do it, crawling around in the dusty storeroom … trying to determine what ZIP code’s involved, looking at the crime. A lot of boxes, a lot of files. Very burdensome, very expensive for the city.” (Powers declined to comment, citing the litigation.)

Lamendola was persuaded. Under his ruling, none of the rapes that took place in Thornden Park or in the student apartments near it will have to be disclosed. The police will have to disclose only reports of crimes that took place on the campus itself, and not reports concerning burglary, larceny and other offenses, which the judge deemed irrelevant. He also directed Syracuse University, the defendant in the case, to assist the Police Department in identifying cases that occurred on its campus.

Doe’s team filed a 37-page appellate brief in late June that argues that the court’s decision to limit the disclosure to university buildings is “hard to justify” given that the campus is interwoven with the city. The brief, authored by appellate attorney Michael Steinberg, also takes issue with the decision to allow university personnel to act as “gatekeepers,” authorizing them to review the police files and decide for themselves which meet the judge’s criteria and which don’t. That, the appeal contends, presents a conflict of interest that would “give the defendant the power to control the evidence it will have to contest at trial.”

The university has until Sept. 23 to respond to the appeal.

Legal filings also show that university lawyers have sought to reduce its liability by raising the name of a onetime suspect in the case, Michael McKinney.

At the time of Doe’s rape, McKinney was on parole after attacking a woman in a downtown parking lot. According to police reports, two witnesses saw a man matching his description running out of the Syracuse music building the night of the attack. Doe later picked him out of a photo array.

Days later, police went to his home. Officers learned from his wife that he owned a Miller beer hat identical to the one the suspect was said to have been wearing at the time of the crime. She also said he had left abruptly, for another state. Police put the case in the “inactive file,” a common occurrence for rape cases in Syracuse at the time.

Months later, McKinney turned up in New York City. By then he had come under scrutiny for the violent robbery of another Syracuse woman. According to a newspaper article from December 1987, he was eventually found guilty of that robbery and given an unusually lengthy sentence of 20 years to life, with the judge noting his repeated crimes against women. McKinney was never prosecuted in the Jane Doe case.

McKinney served 30 years in prison on the 1987 robbery charge, records show. Then, in March 2025, he was arrested for the rape of a 46-year-old woman earlier that year. A grand jury indicted him in June 2026. He has pleaded not guilty.

While McKinney was in jail, Syracuse University lawyers filed a civil complaint against him, arguing that if the university is held liable in Doe’s case, McKinney should “contribute to any award in an amount equal to his equitable share” because of “his own culpable conduct.” Because McKinney did not respond to the suit, the university lawyers have asked the judge to find him in default. This could eventually affect a jury’s decision on the financial responsibility owed to Doe by the university.

Reached by phone, Donald Kelly, McKinney’s court-appointed lawyer in the new rape case, said, “It’s concerning that the university would serve a third-party complaint upon a prisoner to try to avoid liability,” noting that McKinney has “empty pockets.”

Reiterating that McKinney was never charged in the 1987 rape of Doe, Kelly added, “Either the university was negligent or it wasn’t.” (Kelly declined to make his client available for an interview.)

Jonathan Cardi, a Wake Forest University law professor who specializes in civil litigation and has researched negligence claims for rape, said it was not especially unusual for a defendant to try to quash subpoenas of third parties or to shift liability to others.

“These are litigation tactics,” he said. “But, at the end of the day, the university is the client, and very frequently a client’s business interests or morals dictate what they say their attorneys can and can’t do. If a university is trying to turn over a new leaf, they can tell their attorney that even though this might be the best litigation practice, this is not who we want to be.”

The post Syracuse University Seeks to Prevent Campus Rape Victim From Obtaining Police Records appeared first on ProPublica.

The first emergency call about a detainee trying to harm himself came about a month after Camp East Montana — an immigration detention center in El Paso, Texas — started to house immigrants. It was 2:50 p.m. on Friday, Sept. 12. 

“We have a patient currently in holding who is saying he’s got suicidal ideations, swallowed some foreign object, has refused our basic medical care here,” a nurse told the operator. In the audio, you can hear that someone is moaning and yelling in the background. 

“At this point he is unable to speak and rolling on the floor in agonizing pain, holding his stomach,” the nurse continued. “A preliminary X-ray was done and a foreign object was found. We just need to take him to the hospital that’s closest so that they can verify if the object is currently in his system and possibly to excavate the object.”

I’ve been reporting on Camp East Montana for months. It sits on barren military land and was supposed to be a model for how the Trump administration would carry out mass deportations. Instead, it became an example of what could go wrong. It remains in operation despite claims of inhumane conditions and abuse, which Department of Homeland Security officials have said are “categorically false.” ICE plans to keep the facility running at least through Sept. 30, 2027, The Associated Press reported.

In the span of six weeks between December 2025 and January 2026, three men died at Camp East Montana, making it one of the country’s deadliest detention centers at the time.

In July, ProPublica and The Texas Tribune published my investigation into the Jan. 3 death of one of those men, Geraldo Lunas Campos, a 55-year-old Cuban national with a history of mental illness. He died after an altercation with guards over his medication, and a medical examiner ruled Lunas Campos’ death a homicide. (The Trump administration initially claimed that he had experienced medical distress, but Department of Homeland Security officials later said guards had used force to keep him from killing himself.)

We found that Lunas Campos had repeatedly raised concerns about his mental health while detained at Camp East Montana. Records show staff didn’t transfer him to a facility that could better care for him, despite repeatedly saying they were working to do so.

I wanted to understand more about how the facility was responding to such incidents. I obtained, via public records requests, recordings of more than 160 emergency calls, and I spoke with staff, government officials familiar with the facility, detainees, lawyers and advocates who had spent time inside the detention center. 

I asked DHS about my reporting and some of the 911 calls. A spokesperson did not comment on the specific issues identified in the calls, but said the facility provides “comprehensive medical services, including mental health services.” If the detainee requires a higher level of medical care, they are referred to local emergency services as needed, the spokesperson said. The official also said that for many immigrant detainees, the healthcare they get while in custody is the best they’ve gotten in their lives.

Now I want to share some of those 911 calls with you. While they may be difficult to listen to or read about, they offer a glimpse into what’s happening in a place reporters don’t have access to. The calls and my investigation show failures in responding to mental health and medical emergencies that extend beyond those experienced by one man. (Note: In some cases, recordings were edited to remove long stretches where no one was talking.) 

Oct. 12, 2025: “They will not give them medical treatment.”

Two months after Camp East Montana began holding detainees, some were growing so desperate that they were having friends and relatives call 911 to seek medical help on their behalf. A man from North Texas called three times on Oct. 12, trying to get a detainee, whom he identified as his partner, emergency care for his kidney stones. 

“Why isn’t the facility calling?” the operator asked.

“Because they don’t care. They don’t care about any of the detainees. They will not give them medical treatment; they don’t care. … He does not like to go to the hospital. So when he is saying he is in emergent pain at a level of 10 out of 10 and he needs to go to the emergency room, it is no joke; it has got to be very, very serious.” 

In a declaration to lawyers, a 32-year-old Venezuelan man identified by a pseudonym, Xavier, who fits the profile of the man with kidney stones, said he had gone on a hunger strike because he was not getting any information about his case or about a court date. “Being here feels like torture,” he said. “I feel like this experience is finishing me emotionally and physically. I don’t feel like I can survive for another month at this place. They treat us like animals.” 

Nov. 2, 2025: “We don’t have any oxygen for her.”

In some of the emergency calls, the medical providers themselves lamented how little they could do for their patients.

A nurse at the facility dialed 911. She said she had a 46-year-old woman with COVID-19 who was short of breath and whose oxygen saturation was dropping. “But the issue is we don’t have any oxygen for her, especially if she does start desaturating even more,” she tells the operator. “She just doesn’t look good.” 

“OK. Let me request assistance, OK? Just bear with me,” the operator tells her.

“Apparently she’s been sick for the last couple of days and she’s asked to be brought into the clinic and they hadn’t brought her in,” the nurse explains later in the call. “She was just brought in today, bless her heart, so I’m just worried about her.” 

Feb. 28, 2026: “Was this accidental or intentional?”

By late February, three people had died at Camp East Montana. The first one was Francisco Gaspar-Andres, a 48-year-old Guatemalan man who died on Dec. 3, 2025, of liver and kidney failure. Then came Lunas Campos’ death on Jan. 3. Less than two weeks later, ICE reported that Victor Manuel Díaz, a 36-year-old Nicaraguan who had been detained during Operation Metro Surge in Minneapolis, was found unresponsive and with a piece of fabric around his neck. His autopsy has not been made public. 

Still, the 911 calls kept coming.

“OK, we have a guy who’s overdosed. He’s a detainee,” a nurse told an emergency operator on Feb. 28. 

They didn’t know much about the 60-year-old man who had just arrived at Camp East Montana or about what he had taken about an hour ago, she said. Someone had seen him “popping pills” and stumbling around.

“Was this accidental or intentional?” the operator asked.

“Intentional,” she said.

The post Listen to 911 Calls From Inside an Immigration Detention Center: “We Just Need to Take Him to the Hospital” appeared first on ProPublica.

Every third morning Soumia Bensalah was roused before the break of dawn. Pulled from her cell, shackled hand and foot, she was herded onto a bus and driven over Tampa Bay from the Pinellas County Jail to a cramped hold room at a U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement office. 

Each time, she sat there all day, still shackled. Once evening came, she was driven back to the jail, forced to wait for hours in a hallway, photographed, strip-searched, questioned and led back to her cell. This happened five times last December, and Bensalah said it left her exhausted and humiliated.

It was no coincidence that Bensalah, a French Moroccan with a pending green card application, was released from the Pinellas jail and then sent back at regular, 72-hour intervals, according to legal experts. That’s the maximum amount of time that county jails like Pinellas’ can hold immigrants on behalf of ICE. The limit exists to prevent immigrants detained on civil charges from spending too long in jails meant for people detained on criminal charges. 

Repeat releases and readmissions, known as rebookings, typically happen in secret and circumvent federal rules and regulations, according to eight legal experts interviewed by ProPublica. 

The jail had refused to release the logs that documented Bensalah’s journey, citing federal immigration regulations that shield jail records, which are typically public. We were able to trace the journey after obtaining an unredacted copy of the Pinellas jail’s booking logs from a source who provided them on the condition of anonymity, for fear of workplace reprisal. We checked them against anonymized federal immigration data collected by the Deportation Data Project.

The repeat rebookings stem from the fact that the federal government often doesn’t have enough detention space to jail all the immigrants whom ICE and its cooperating local authorities are rounding up. The shortage of detention space is pronounced in Florida, where the majority of law enforcement agencies have signed agreements to collaborate with ICE on immigration enforcement. 

ProPublica’s analysis of data obtained by the Deportation Data Project shows that over the past year, jails in both Pinellas County and in Orange County, Florida, had unusually high numbers of repeat rebookings of immigrants held for ICE compared with other jails nationwide. (Read more about our methodology here.) The Orange County Jail, in Orlando, rebooked 559 of them two or more times from July 2025 until early February 2026, when the data shows the practice ceased. Less than two hours away, in the Tampa Bay area, Pinellas rebooked 174 immigrants at least twice from July 2025 until the practice appeared to cease in July 2026, when zero rebookings were recorded in the data. 

The scale in the two Florida counties is unmatched, ProPublica found. Other jails across the country rebooked no more than 10 immigrants two or more times.

All of the rebooked immigrants ProPublica counted were jailed for ICE, meaning they were not being detained on local charges. Our analysis counted a person as having been rebooked only if they cumulatively spent at least 72 hours in jail.  

Emily Ryo, a Duke University law professor who studies ICE detention, said jails often can’t provide comprehensive medical screenings, space for confidential legal consultations or even outdoor access. All of those things should be guaranteed to immigrants in ICE custody, according to ICE’s own detention standards. 

Two former Department of Homeland Security officials who spoke with ProPublica described the repeated rebookings as an attempt to evade the detention standards.

“What it shows is that they were very aware that they were breaking a rule,” said Michelle Brané, a former DHS immigration detention ombudsperson. 

Bensalah landed in jail after her U.S. citizen husband allegedly assaulted her, according to a police report. She called the police, who observed cuts on both and booked them into the Polk County Jail on battery charges. (The charges against both were later dropped.) She posted bond but was not released because of an ICE detainer, a written request from the federal government asking a jail to hold someone for up to 48 hours after they’d otherwise be released. A detainer is meant to give ICE time to pick up an immigrant and begin deportation proceedings. 

State law requires every jail in Florida to sign collaboration agreements with ICE. Most jails in the state can detain immigrants for ICE for only up to 48 hours. Through June, Pinellas and Orange had special contracts that ICE says allowed them to hold immigrants for up to three days. ICE designates them as “under 72” facilities in its database.

“At 72 you should have walked him out the door,” said a former senior DHS official, who spoke on the condition of anonymity because of fear of reprisal. 

Instead of sending Bensalah to a longer-term immigration detention facility in the days after she posted bond, ICE moved her two counties over to Pinellas. Three days later, her rebookings began. 

“There’s no argument that this is a lawful detention,” Jennifer Chacón, a professor of law at Stanford University, said of the repeat rebookings.

In response to ProPublica’s questions about the repeat rebookings, a DHS spokesperson wrote: “ICE is NOT breaking any laws by making custody determinations based on bed space and ensuring detainees’ presence for immigration proceedings or removal from the United States.”

ProPublica shared with DHS details about Bensalah’s case. The department responded that “she received due process.”

“Under President Trump and Secretary [Markwayne] Mullin, if you break the law, you will face the consequences,” DHS wrote. “Criminal illegal aliens are not welcome in the U.S.”

All the people rebooked at least twice in Pinellas and Orange counties ended up behind bars for more than 72 hours. One woman from Mexico was rebooked into Pinellas 10 times, spending a cumulative 26 days in the jail. (DHS declined to comment on her case because ProPublica did not provide her name; she had declined multiple requests for an interview.) She was then transferred to an ICE facility and eventually released after posting a $2,000 bond, according to Deportation Data Project figures. Only 65 people rebooked into those counties’ jails two or more times through June 2026 were eventually released on bond.

Of the 423 immigrants rebooked at least twice in Pinellas and Orange counties through December 2025, 115 — or 27% — had no criminal charges or convictions except for traffic-related offenses. That is consistent with recent data released showing that an increasing percentage of all ICE detentions involve people with no criminal record or charges.

For some rebooked immigrants in Orange County, the turnaround time was extreme: 30 of them were rebooked in 15 minutes or less, right as their current stay approached 72 hours. Those rebookings were between September 2025 and February 2026. Orange County rebooked five immigrants back into the jail in as little as one minute. 

Additionally, the Pinellas County Jail has held at least 157 immigrants for ICE for longer than three business days in a single booking since the start of President Donald Trump’s second term in January 2025, according to a ProPublica analysis. In the two years prior, it held only five immigrants for longer than three days. After one woman — a Brazilian immigrant who had not been charged with a crime — challenged her nine-day detention in federal court this July, ICE released her, calling her jail stay a “procedural error.” 

“All her claims will be heard by an immigration judge, and she will receive due process,” DHS wrote in response to questions about the Brazilian woman’s case. “This administration will not ignore the rule of law.”

Legal experts say that the only real recourse for immigrants repeatedly rebooked or held for prolonged periods in a local jail is to file an emergency petition in federal court seeking relief from illegal detainment. ProPublica was able to determine that at least 29 of the immigrants held for ICE in Orange or Pinellas counties filed such petitions, called habeas corpus claims.  

In response to the Brazilian woman’s habeas petition, the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Office claimed that she was in federal custody and that it didn’t have the power to release her. Federal appeals courts have found the opposite: Jails have the power to release ICE detainees after a hold expires and can be found liable if they don’t. Last November, a federal jury ordered Suffolk County, New York, to pay $112 million to more than 600 immigrants it found had been wrongly held. Suffolk County has appealed the decision. 

Corporal Jamie Miller, a spokesperson for the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Office, told ProPublica that the facility holds people for ICE for only up to 72 hours before releasing them. The sheriff’s office declined further comment after ProPublica shared the findings from its analysis and sent a list of questions. The office declined requests for an interview with the sheriff.

In a written statement to ProPublica, a spokesperson for the Orange County Jail said it had eliminated “multiple bookings.” The statement referred further questions to ICE. 

Our analysis shows that in Orange County, the rebooking practice stopped in early February. That change happened after widespread public opposition. In Pinellas, where opposition has been quieter, the rebookings slowed in January, but single stays exceeding 72 hours started to climb. 

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Orange and Pinellas counties both stand out nationally for their volume of rebookings. But their differing politics contributed to different outcomes at their jails. 

In majority-Democratic Orange County, religious groups, attorneys and a coalition of activists prompted officials and the courts to take action. In county commission meetings, community members told the stories of immigrants held in the jail and pointed out that the county was losing money every time it held someone for ICE.

County officials — caught between a state legislative mandate to cooperate with ICE, a national mass deportation push that was filling their jail with detainees and a vocal electorate that demanded change — wrestled with how to respond.

In August 2025, the Orlando Sentinel reported on half a dozen rebookings in the Orange County Jail. Months later, in late January, a defense attorney showed up at a county commission hearing to describe how the rebooking practice was still going on. She claimed she had multiple clients who’d been illegally held at the jail on behalf of ICE and that the rebookings violated due process.

A week later, County Mayor Jerry Demings sent a letter to ICE, informing it that “ICE inmates will be limited to one continuous housing period of up to 72 hours per immigration matter.” After the letter, the rebookings ceased, ProPublica’s analysis shows.

The day Demings sent the letter, Orlando federal judge Paul Byron criticized the rebooking practice at a hearing for an immigrant who’d claimed he was illegally detained.

“If the government is pulling a detainee out of jail to artificially reset the clock, that is wildly inappropriate,” Byron told Assistant U.S. Attorney Phillip Ragler. “What allows that?”

Ragler didn’t have an answer. Byron ordered the immigrant be freed.

Ragler recently told ProPublica that the experience led to a crisis of conscience.

“Being forced to defend ICE’s actions in a professional capacity caused significant moral and ethical conflicts for me personally,” Ragler wrote in a statement to ProPublica, adding that ICE gave the U.S. attorneys no reasoning or justification for detaining people, many of whom had no criminal record. He told ProPublica he resigned from the position shortly after the hearing, following almost a decade in the office.

Ultimately, Orange County renegotiated its contract with ICE so that immigrants could be held for only two days. Soon after, the number of immigrants in ICE custody booked into the jail plummeted, ProPublica’s analysis shows. Just two were booked into the jail in July, down from a high of 692 in January.

At around the same time that Orange County stopped repeat rebookings of immigrants, the number of rebookings in Pinellas started decreasing. But unlike Orange County, Pinellas then began holding more immigrants for longer than three business days in a single stay — and saw no dip in the number of immigrants it was booking overall. 

Six months later, in July, Pinellas appears to have stopped repeat rebookings of immigrants, ProPublica’s analysis found. That same month, at least 12 immigrants booked in the jail were held for more than three business days. One Honduran man stayed for at least eight days.

Pinellas County, unlike Orange County, trended Republican in the last presidential election. Pinellas Sheriff Bob Gualtieri has long advocated for his and other local jails to collaborate with the federal government on immigration enforcement. Over the past decade, he helped pioneer a type of contract with ICE that shields local jails from legal liability when they hold someone for the agency. He also helped create a federal-local agreement that lets jail staff serve ICE detainers on people held at the facility.

“For years, sheriffs have had to choose between releasing criminal illegal aliens from their jails back into the community, or exposing themselves to potential civil liability,” Gualtieri is quoted as saying in a 2017 ICE press release.

In the August 2025 Orlando Sentinel article, Gualtieri is quoted as saying that there’d been rebookings at his facility due to “a capacity issue” at the federal detention facility where they were supposed to be transferred. 

In the summer of 2025, Gualtieri was part of a group of Florida sheriffs that proposed allowing ICE to take advantage of unused jail beds across Florida — and have Florida police transport the detainees. Since Trump took office in January 2025, Gualtieri’s own jail began to house a historically high number of them. 

More than 7,000 immigrants have been detained for ICE in the Pinellas County Jail during the first 564 days of Trump’s second term, according to ProPublica’s analysis. That’s more than four times as many as during the last two years of the Biden administration.

The jail’s proportion of ICE detainees among its total bookings steadily increased over the course of 2025, from under 7% at the start of the year to 18% in December, according to ProPublica’s analysis of Pinellas jail booking data. In 2026, the proportion hovered around 20% from January through July.  

Most of the immigrants ProPublica tracked in Pinellas and across the country, including Bensalah, ultimately were deported. After her fifth rebooking, she was transferred to the first of four ICE detention centers, then deported to France. 

Paul Chavez, litigation director for Americans for Immigrant Justice, a legal nonprofit that litigates for immigrants’ rights, said repeat rebookings like Bensalah’s are clear examples of unconstitutional detention. 

“If it was that easy to thwart, all we would have to do to thwart the Fourth Amendment was throw somebody in the backseat of a car, drive them to McDonald’s and then drive back,” he said. “I don’t know that the drafters of the Fourth Amendment would have found solace in that.” 

How We Identified People Rebooked Into County Jails

ProPublica found immigrants ICE repeatedly rebooked into county jails by analyzing multiple federal and local detention databases. 

To count immigrants rebooked two or more times at jails nationwide, we used federal immigration detention data obtained by the Deportation Data Project. The data assigns a unique ID to each person in detention and records the date and time each person is booked into and out of each facility. We calculated the length of each stay, as well as the period between leaving and returning to a single facility.

A detainee may leave ICE detention, such as when they are released on immigration bond or into U.S. Marshals’ custody and then return to ICE custody weeks or even months later. To avoid counting these cases, ProPublica counted a person as being rebooked only if their return to the same facility occurred within 24 hours. Detainees are sometimes rebooked into the same facility after longer periods, but our analysis found that 95% of detainees were rebooked within 12 hours.

The detention data covers a period from Oct. 1, 2022, through Aug. 6, 2026. We limited our analysis to local jails, where federal rules require jails hold ICE detainees for less than 72 hours unless jails sign a special contract with ICE and meet ICE’s detention standards, which include submitting to regular federal inspections. Because a single rebooking could be due to a failed transfer or a missed or delayed deportation flight, we counted only immigrants who had been rebooked two or more times. An expert familiar with ICE detention practices told ProPublica that was a better indicator of intentional rebookings made to extend detentions in a single jail. 

Under federal regulations, weekends and holidays do not count toward a jail’s stay limit. ProPublica excluded these days when counting the number of hours each person spent in a county jail. We counted someone as having been rebooked only if their total cumulative stay reached at least 72 hours. When tallying the total stay of individual detainees, ProPublica counted all hours spent in jail, including weekends and holidays.

To count the number of rebooked detainees without criminal charges or convictions, ProPublica used ICE detention data released by the federal government under the Freedom of Information Act. Versions of this dataset were originally released to the Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse and The New York Times. This data ends in mid-December 2025. To determine that 27% of detainees rebooked two or more times had no criminal charges or convictions except for traffic-related offenses, we filtered by detainees charged with only traffic-related offenses or who were described as “other immigration violator,” a category used by the Department of Homeland Security when a detained individual has no other record of criminal charges or convictions. 

ProPublica queried an unredacted copy of the Pinellas County Jail’s inmate search database it obtained to calculate the share of bookings at the jail that were ICE detainees. ProPublica verified the veracity of the unredacted database by comparing its booking records to those in Pinellas’ online search tool and by validating the booking dates and timestamps against the federal immigration datasets.

The post These Local Jails Were Supposed to Detain Immigrants for Only 72 Hours. One Woman Was Held for a Total of 26 Days. appeared first on ProPublica.

The rules governing your retirement plan may be changing.

As we reported in July, President Donald Trump wants to encourage 401(k) plans to invest more in private equity, real estate and cryptocurrency, which can be complex and risky. To pave the way, the Department of Labor has proposed rules that would make it harder for employees to hold companies liable for how they oversee retirement plans.

Employers are required to serve the best interests of their employees when choosing investment options. Under the proposed changes, a company that follows a certain process would get the benefit of the doubt in court, making it harder for workers to sue over the management of their 401(k).

A spokesperson for the Department of Labor did not respond to requests for comment. In an announcement from March, the department said the proposed rule change will “democratize access to alternative investments in 401(k) plans” and “lower litigation risks” for employers who are acting with good judgment.

The new rules, expected to be finalized this year, also raise broader questions: What investment options are already offered in people’s retirement accounts, and what are people paying in fees?

We’ve asked the public to send us their annual 401(k) disclosures so we can understand the range of funds and fees people have in their accounts. (Want to send us yours? Here’s how.) So far, we’ve heard from more than 200 people, many of whom also asked us questions about their plans. To find the answers, we spoke with eight economists, lawyers and retirement benefit experts.

If you have questions about your specific retirement plan, experts recommend talking to a fee-only financial planner who will serve as a fiduciary (which means they must provide advice in your best financial interest, not theirs). You can check a financial adviser’s qualifications by searching here.

Table of Contents

How could the proposed changes affect my 401(k)?
How do I know if my 401(k) is in good shape?
How can I tell if I’m paying high fees?
How can I compare my 401(k) to plans offered by similar companies?
What if I don’t like my retirement plan?

How could the proposed changes affect my 401(k)?

Under the Labor Department’s proposed rule change, employers who show that they’ve considered a set of six factors when choosing investments and document their reasoning when building a plan should have greater protection from a potential lawsuit.

That liability tends to sit with your employer because they have final say over your plan’s investment options, even though companies usually hire firms like Fidelity or Vanguard to run the plan, and those firms often suggest which funds to include.

A company could document its reasoning for choosing to offer certain investment options and still act imprudently, said Tim Hauser, who was the deputy assistant secretary at the Labor Department’s Employee Benefits Security Administration until last December. In his three-plus decades there, he encountered cases in which companies “generated a lot of paper” to explain their reasoning but, ultimately, didn’t make wise financial decisions based on the information available to them.

Monique Morrissey, a senior economist for the Economic Policy Institute, wrote in a June letter that the proposal would “gut protections for retirement savers” and prioritize maximizing investment returns over balancing risk. She cited a 2025 AARP survey finding most Americans don’t think it’s important to be able to access private market investments or cryptocurrency in their retirement accounts.

But Bonnie Treichel, the founder of Endeavor Retirement, a consulting firm for retirement advisers, said the proposed rules are a framework not a mandate. Employers could offer these investments, but that doesn’t mean they’ll rush to add riskier investment options.

To find out if the rule change may affect your 401(k), ask your plan administrator, often someone in your human resources department, whether the company plans to offer new investment options. (The plan administrator is often listed on the same document that lists your fees; find out how to access that information in the form on this post.)

How do I know if my 401(k) is in good shape?

For many people, a 401(k) only needs close attention when starting a job, when leaving a job and when closing in on retirement. The rest of the time, it mostly runs itself. Still, experts we interviewed said it’s worth checking in on the plan once a year as fees and fund options can change.

A healthy account comes down to three basics: how much you save, how much risk you take and how much you pay in fees, experts say. Only the first is entirely up to you. The other two you manage from a menu of options your employer builds.

The more you save — and the earlier you start — the more time your money has to grow. Companies often offer to match part of your contribution, so if you can swing it, experts advise putting in at least enough to collect the full match. Otherwise you’re leaving money on the table.

You also control what your savings are invested in, based on the menu of investment options your plan offers.

Each fund you invest in carries a different level of risk. Stocks are more volatile than bonds, for example, and a balanced investment portfolio weighs the level of risk depending on how far you are from retirement. Younger investors decades away from tapping into their retirement fund may invest more in stocks, while older workers may prefer to have more in bonds.

The “easy button” is to choose a target-date fund that’ll automatically reallocate your investments to reduce your risk by shifting from stocks to bonds, or other less volatile investments, as you approach retirement.

“For most people, this is all the money they have,” said Jean-Pierre Aubry, an associate director at the Boston College Center for Retirement Research. “It’s not money you want to play around with.”

How can I tell if I’m paying high fees?

Compounded over time, even small differences in fees have a huge impact on your retirement savings. By the Labor Department’s own math, 1% in additional fees can shrink a nest egg at retirement by 28%.

Federal law requires employers to make sure employees are paying reasonable fees. Since 2012, the Labor Department also requires companies to send a disclosure form to employees listing all funds and fees. (That’s the annual disclosure we’re asking people to send to us. If you want to send us yours, find instructions on the form in this post.) Still, the Government Accountability Office found nearly 4 in 10 people don’t fully understand the fees they’re paying on their retirement plan.

The number you should watch for is each fund’s expense ratio: the fees firms charge employees for owning or investing in a fund, taken as a percentage of the money you have in it. An expense ratio of 0.5% means you pay a $5 fee per year for every $1,000 you’ve invested. To find the fees you’re paying, look for your annual disclosure on your plan’s website or ask your HR department. (See instructions for your specific plan here.)

If most funds on your 401(k) menu have an expense ratio over 1%, that should be a “red flag” that it’s a high-cost plan, said Christine Benz, director of personal finance and retirement planning at Morningstar.

Even 0.75% or 0.5% is “actually pretty high by 401(k) standards,” said Quinn Curtis, a law professor at University of Virginia who has studied the litigation around 401(k) fees.

The cheapest options are typically index funds, which mirror a slice of the market like the S&P 500 instead of paying a manager to pick stocks. Workers are gravitating to these passive, low-cost investments and the firms are competing to win over investors, which is driving down fees even more. Most index fund fees are under or around 0.1%, Benz said. If your index fund is charging several times that, experts say it’s worth asking why or finding another option.

When you check your 401(k) plan once a year, make sure you’re still in the funds with the lowest available fees, Aubry said.

And be wary of offers for personalized portfolios at the click of a button, Treichel said. These services often charge additional fees.

“Nothing in life is free,” she said. “So, if it looks free, look further.”

How can I compare my 401(k) to plans offered by similar companies?

There’s no easy way. No free database exists where you can, say, type in your employer name and see how its 401(k) investment options compare to what other companies offer. But there are a few general trends to be aware of.

The size of your company matters. Smaller companies tend to get offered retirement plans with higher fees, according to research. Larger companies have more employee money and therefore leverage, and tend to negotiate lower fees. So, if you work for a smaller company, experts said you may want to be especially vigilant about your plan’s investment options.

Other signs of a good plan: your employer pays some or all of the administrative costs and your employer offers a matching contribution, experts said.

And more choices don’t necessarily mean better ones. Most people don’t have the time or the expertise to understand the investment funds available to them, Curtis said. A well-designed retirement plan gives workers a curated set of low-cost investment options that’ll “meet the needs of most investors.”

What if I don’t like my retirement plan?

Start with your plan administrator, often someone in your company’s HR department, experts say. Tell them that you aren’t happy with the investment offerings and the associated fees, and lobby for additional options.

If you believe the people overseeing your 401(k) plan have been careless, disloyal or negligent, resulting in a smaller nest egg for your retirement, you can contact the Department of Labor, Hauser said. An employee benefit adviser should follow up with you to learn more and may refer your case to the enforcement division for further investigation.

Under federal law, you can also file a lawsuit against your employer.

But Hauser said it may be difficult for the average person to police the options in their 401(k) plan. Much of the responsibility falls on employees, whether or not they are well-versed in investing, he said. That can mean people invest in their retirement fund for decades before they notice the high fees that cut into their potential retirement savings.

“People consistently underestimate the impact of even small differences in fees,” Hauser said.

The post How to Check In on Your 401(k) Fees appeared first on ProPublica.

The U.S. Army paid General Dynamics $533 million for an artillery factory that failed to produce a single usable shell.

Instead of efficient, state-of-the-art production lines, half a billion dollars in taxpayer funding paid for machines that kept failing in bizarre ways, former workers told ProPublica’s Jesse Coburn. Giant robot arms would catch fire. The Texas factory’s signature device often cracked the steel meant for the shells. And workers regularly had to take a sledgehammer to certain machines to try to make them function properly. But the machines still botched nearly every shell.

The boondoggle, which included a real-life dumpster fire, was described as an “absolute disaster,” by one former official who worked in an Army office overseeing the project. The official, like others interviewed for the story, spoke on the condition of anonymity.

In a detailed statement, the Army told ProPublica it exercises “rigorous oversight” and that, “where vendors fail to meet contract specifications” — as at the General Dynamics artillery factory — ”we are evaluating contract performance, seeking recoupment of funds, and pivoting resources.”

General Dynamics declined an interview request, but the company has said it “met or exceeded requirements,” according to a Department of Defense inspector general report. In a statement, a company spokesperson told ProPublica its reporting “fundamentally mischaracterizes the circumstances,” but did not respond to a request to specify our reporting’s alleged errors.

To chronicle what went wrong, Coburn interviewed 36 people who’ve worked for the Army, the Pentagon, General Dynamics and the White House, and he reviewed internal company documents as well as photos and video from inside the factory. Here are the lapses in planning and execution Coburn’s reporting uncovered — and some of the consequences of those mistakes.

The Red Flags

The Army awarded the project to General Dynamics in a rushed process despite significant unknowns.

When Russia invaded Ukraine in 2022, the Biden administration rushed to boost production of artillery shells to support Ukraine’s war effort. General Dynamics was the only company producing the 155 mm metal shell bodies in the U.S. at that time, mainly in a century-old facility in Pennsylvania.

The company could have simply replicated the facility’s traditional manufacturing method, which dated back to the time of the Korean War, to ramp up production. But General Dynamics proposed using a state-of-the-art production line from Repkon, a Turkish company virtually unknown in American defense. 

Repkon said other countries were already using its machinery to build an older, simpler model of the artillery shells. But it wasn’t clear the Turkish equipment could work with the particular steel used to make the Army’s newer model of 155 mm shells. And Repkon said the Army and General Dynamics could not inspect full artillery production lines in action, citing customer privacy.

Repkon did not respond to requests for comment. 

The Department of Defense did not competitively bid the project.

The Army could’ve insisted that General Dynamics more fully demonstrate that Repkon’s machines could perform the desired work. But that would’ve taken time, and — as a former Army official told Coburn — “there was incredible pressure to go fast.”

In November 2022, the Army gave General Dynamics the first in a series of contract awards for the artillery factory. Then, Congress granted the Department of Defense the power to award money for Ukraine-related causes without some of the usual contracting safeguards meant to ensure taxpayer money doesn’t go to waste. That meant the Army could give General Dynamics no-bid awards and the company could start work on the project before finalizing the contract terms with the government.

The U.S. ended up ordering three Repkon production lines — instead of just one — without knowing for certain whether they could make shells that met the Army’s specifications. (The Army said it selected General Dynamics because of the company’s unique artillery production experience).

The Army did not thoroughly vet the proposal before approving it.

Both the Army and General Dynamics sent staffers to Turkey to inspect the Repkon machines. But they never inspected a full production line in action, and they didn’t send enough experts who could identify potential defects in Repkon’s equipment, four former General Dynamics and Army officials told ProPublica.

The Army also didn’t require General Dynamics to demonstrate it could use Repkon’s equipment to complete the entire production process and make shells that met the service’s specifications. (The Army said that “formal testing could not occur prior to full machinery installation.”)

In 2024, leaders from the Army and General Dynamics gathered in Texas to celebrate the factory’s opening. But the machines were barely functioning. 

Here’s how the rushed planning from the Army and General Dynamics played out in the factory.

The Consequences

In Texas, robotic arms caught fire and smashed into equipment.

Twelve former factory workers told Coburn that problems quickly piled up inside the factory. Machines meant to begin giving the shells perfectly smooth noses would, instead, mangle them into swirls that looked like soft-serve ice cream.

The robotic arms had a tendency to swing out of control, smashing into things around the factory. Workers talked about the arms going “rogue.” Sometimes, a machine in the factory would be seen moving on its own, controlled remotely by someone in Turkey, spooking workers in the Texas factory. 

Workers said smoke hung in the air inside the factory, and it’d reach desert-like temperatures when the furnaces or forging presses were on. Making matters worse, walls cracked, water flooded in when it rained and employees said the foundation of the buildings appeared to be shifting or sinking beneath them.

As progress at the artillery plant continued to stall, paranoia grew and rumors swirled among the American workers that the Turkish employees from Repkon might be purposefully sabotaging the machinery.

“It was astonishing how little progress we would make, month after month, year after year,” one former worker told ProPublica. “People started speculating, ‘I wonder if they’re spying on us.’” (The Army said it has no evidence of sabotage or spying.)

General Dynamics failed to meet a number of milestones at the facility, including failing to perform scheduled first article tests, which would’ve demonstrated the factory could produce shells that met the Army’s requirements. 

The Army hasn’t required General Dynamics to pay the money back.

General Dynamics, one of the world’s largest defense contractors, and Repkon haven’t been held publicly accountable for the taxpayer-funded failure. The Army also hasn’t made General Dynamics pay back the money. (The service said it will recover funding from the project by getting unspecified discounts from General Dynamics on production orders.)

In August 2025, the Army halted work on two of the three production lines at the factory. But the Army didn’t unilaterally terminate the contract awards. In December 2025, the government paid the company $26.3 million in “progress payments” for two production lines — although the lines had never made a usable shell.

The Army says it won’t spend any more money on the artillery plant. But since the Army partially halted work at the factory last summer, the same unit of General Dynamics responsible for the struggling facility has won contract awards worth $2.5 billion, according to the Army. (The service said this was for “distinct production lines and critical national defense requirements” unrelated to the Texas factory.)

Having experienced the failure of a little-proven technology in its factory, General Dynamics has announced it will team up with yet another unheard-of partner promising technological innovation. The new solution? Artificial intelligence.

Read our full investigation here.

The post The Costly Blunders in the Army’s $533 Million Fiasco appeared first on ProPublica.

In Idaho, parents who say their faith prohibits lifesaving medical care for their children can’t be charged with child neglect or manslaughter. Supporters of this protection over the years have included lawmakers who voiced support for “traditional” Idaho values.

But from at least the 1880s through the early 1970s, it was illegal for parents in Idaho to choose prayer over medical care when a child’s life was at stake, newspaper archives and historical documents show.

“Every parent of any child who willfully omits, without lawful excuse, to furnish necessary food, clothing, shelter, or medical attendance for such child, is guilty of a misdemeanor,” reads the 1887 edition of Idaho territory statutes, published before statehood.

The statutes included no mention of spiritual belief as a “lawful excuse.” Three years later, the state constitution explicitly put limits on Idaho’s freedom of religion. It would not excuse “acts of licentiousness,” polygamy or other practices “inconsistent with morality or the peace or safety of the state.”

It wasn’t long before the law came down on members of the Followers of Christ, a faith-healing sect that arrived in Idaho in 1899 and remains active in the state. From 2015 to 2025, the sect’s congregations in Idaho experienced 15 preventable deaths of children, according to ProPublica’s reporting.

Pearl Annis was a 13-year-old girl whose parents had moved from Oklahoma to Idaho’s Magic Valley in the spring of 1915 with at least one other Followers family. The Annises and their 13 children shared “a two-room shack,” a local newspaper reported. An officer and a doctor visited the home after neighbors voiced concern. They found Pearl in bed, fully dressed and on the cusp of death.

Her father, Lurid P. “Lewis” Annis, was arrested on a misdemeanor charge of refusing to provide medical attention. Pearl was taken to the hospital, according to the news story, and died there with what today would be described as septic shock from a bowel blockage. The newspaper, which didn’t appear to follow up on Annis’ criminal charge, called the Followers church “a religious cult” and Pearl’s death a consequence of “religious mania.”

News archives and historic records don’t say how many times Idaho acted on similar cases in the decades after.

But one legal battle over lifesaving care drew attention in the 1960s, as sickness made its way through a Followers family in a Boise suburb. The mother died in December 1965. Her 4-year-old daughter died the following June.

Days after the girl’s death, a judge ordered the state to take custody of her 10-year-old brother under Idaho’s child protection law. The boy was admitted to a local hospital with pneumonia, a complication of the measles. He spent days in critical condition but survived. The judge told the father that to regain custody, he would have to be willing to give the boy medical care as the law required.

A doctor testified that without the hospitalization, the child “almost certainly would have died,” a newspaper report said.

The father’s lawyer told the judge that his sect was rooted in “faith that God will heal the sick.” The law in the 1960s was clear, though: a parent had a duty to protect their child’s health, no exceptions. The judge told Samuel’s father: “The law governs conduct. Religion governs opinion.”

But the legal landscape was about to shift. It came with little public attention.

During a full-on rewrite of Idaho’s criminal code in 1971, the Legislature added a section that said the state could not bring endangerment charges against someone “who chooses for his child treatment by prayer or spiritual means alone.” Legislative records don’t make clear how the wording originated. The passage of another law one year later, affirming the “spiritual means” language and applying it to other crimes, has been credited to the Christian Science church, another Christian denomination with Idaho members.

(The Christian Science website says the church’s practice of “healing in the way Christ Jesus taught” is not “faith healing” and that members are free to choose any form of healthcare. The church also supported Oregon’s full removal of its faith-healing exemption in 2011.)

Faith-healing exemptions soon became widespread nationally. The trigger was the federal Child Abuse Prevention and Treatment Act of 1974, which set out to standardize the nation’s child welfare system by giving states grants to more effectively investigate reports of child abuse.

The Department of Health, Education and Welfare interpreted the law as requiring states to have a faith-healing exemption to qualify for the grants — an interpretation that records from the time don’t explain.

Most states went along, and Idaho further broadened its exemption in 1976 to not only keep faith healers from going to jail if their children died, but also to keep their children from being placed in foster care solely for lack of medical care.

At the national level, the mandate lasted less than a decade. The Reagan administration adopted new regulations in 1983 that took a neutral stance on the subject, and several states in subsequent years rolled back their exemptions.

Colorado, for example, reverted to prosecuting faith healers as it would any other parent in 2001 following deaths in the Followers-adjacent sect Church of the First Born, including the death of a 13-year-old girl from untreated diabetes.

But Idaho clung to its special treatment for faith healers.

It has remained that way ever since.

The post Idaho Law Protects Faith Healers. It Wasn’t Always That Way. appeared first on ProPublica.