ProPublica

by Sharon Lerner and Lisa Song

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up to receive our biggest stories as soon as they’re published.

The Environmental Protection Agency has withdrawn a legal complaint filed last year against the GEO Group, a major donor to President Donald Trump that has more than $1 billion in contracts with the administration to run private prisons and ICE detention facilities.

The administrative complaint, which the EPA filed last June under the Biden administration, involved the GEO Group’s use of a disinfectant called Halt at the Adelanto Immigration and Customs Enforcement facility in California. The EPA regulates the product, which causes irreversible eye damage and skin burns, according to its label. By law, users are supposed to use goggles or a face shield, chemical resistant gloves and protective clothing.

But on more than 1,000 occasions in 2022 and 2023, the GEO group had its employees use the disinfectant without proper protections, the EPA complaint alleged. The agency alleged that GEO Group’s employees wore nitrile exam gloves that were labeled “extra soft” and “not intended for use as a general chemical barrier.” In a separate, pending lawsuit, people who were detained at the detention center alleged they were sickened by the company’s liberal use of a different disinfectant.

A hearing had yet to be scheduled before an administrative law judge. The maximum penalty for the company’s alleged misuse of Halt is more than $4 million. But a notice filed on Friday by Matthew Salazar, a manager in the EPA’s Enforcement and Compliance Assurance Division, stated that the EPA’s case against the GEO Group would be dropped. The notice did not provide an explanation.

“This is a complete surrender,” said Gary Jonesi, an attorney who worked at the EPA for almost 40 years. “If this is not due to political intervention on behalf of an early and large Trump donor who stands to gain from managing ICE detention facilities and private prisons, then surely it is at least partly due to the intimidation that career staff feel in an environment when federal employees are being fired and reassigned to undesirable tasks and locations.”

A spokesperson for the White House said that the GEO Group has “provided services to the Federal Bureau of Prisons for several decades” and has been a major federal contractor for many years. The spokesperson did not say whether the White House played a role in the decision to withdraw the complaint but referred ProPublica to the EPA.

The EPA said in an email that, “As a matter of longstanding practice, EPA does not comment on litigation.” The GEO Group didn’t respond to questions from ProPublica. In a filing in response to the EPA’s complaint, the GEO Group admitted that its employees used Halt but said that the disinfectant “was applied in a manner consistent with its label at all times and locations.” The company also wrote in its court filing that the gloves its employees used are chemically resistant and offered appropriate protection.

The GEO Group has had close ties to the Trump administration. Pam Bondi, Trump’s attorney general, was a lobbyist for the company in 2019. The attorney general “is in full compliance with all ethical guidance,” a spokesperson for the Department of Justice said in an email.

The firm was the first corporation whose political action committee “maxed out” on contributions to Trump’s presidential campaign. A subsidiary company, GEO Acquisition II, also gave $1 million to the pro-Trump PAC Make America Great Again. The GEO Group, its PAC and individuals affiliated with the company collectively contributed $3.7 million to candidates and political committees in the 2024 election cycle, compared with $2.7 million in 2020, according to OpenSecrets, an independent group that tracks money in politics. They donated overwhelmingly to Republicans: In every election cycle since 2016, at least 87% of their donations to federal candidates went to Republicans.

Data from the Federal Election Commission shows that George C. Zoley, the founder of the GEO Group, donated $50,000 in 2023 to a joint fundraising committee to support Republican efforts to maintain a majority in the House of Representatives. Zoley gave the maximum amount allowed for an individual per election at the time, $3,300, to Trump and House Speaker Mike Johnson’s primary and general election campaigns in 2024.

The GEO group regularly and liberally sprayed disinfectants in the ICE facility, according to both the EPA complaint and a separate civil suit filed on behalf of Adelanto detainees. The EPA complaint did not state whether employees were harmed by the pesticide; it accused the company of inappropriately handling the pesticide.

The separate lawsuit, filed by the Social Justice Legal Foundation, alleges that Adelanto detainees were sickened by the use of a different disinfectant product, HDQ Neutral, made by the same company. “Various Plaintiffs had nosebleeds or found blood in their mouth and saliva. Others had debilitating headaches or felt dizzy and lightheaded,” the lawsuit stated. “GEO staff sprayed when people were eating, and the chemical mist would fall on their food. GEO staff sprayed at night, on or around the bunk beds and cells where people slept. And on at least one occasion, GEO staff sprayed individuals as a disciplinary measure.”

That lawsuit is still pending. The allegations echo a warning letter the EPA previously sent the company accusing the GEO Group of improperly using HDQ Neutral. That letter cited complaints from detainees at Adelanto who suffered “difficulty breathing,” “lung pain” and skin rashes from the disinfectant. The pesticide was sprayed onto bedding and inside microwaves, the EPA said. The GEO Group has told reporters that it rejects allegations that it’s using harmful chemicals, and that it follows the manufacturer’s instructions. In a court filing, the company said any problems alleged by the EPA “were the result of the declared national emergency concerning COVID-19.” A judge ordered ICE to stop using HDQ Neutral in 2020. The GEO Group began using Halt “on or about” March 2022, according to the EPA complaint.

Pratheek Rebala contributed reporting.

by Aliyya Swaby

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up for Dispatches, a newsletter that spotlights wrongdoing around the country, to receive our stories in your inbox every week.

New laws in Georgia and New Mexico are requiring harsher punishments for students — or anyone else — who make threats against schools, despite growing evidence that a similar law is ensnaring students who posed no risk to others.

ProPublica and WPLN News have documented how a 2024 Tennessee law that made threats of mass violence at school a felony has led to students being arrested based on rumors and for noncredible threats. In one case, a Hamilton County deputy arrested an autistic 13-year-old in August for saying his backpack would blow up, though the teen later said he just wanted to protect the stuffed bunny inside.

In the same county almost two months later, a deputy tracked down and arrested an 11-year-old student at a family birthday party. The child later explained he had overheard one student asking if another was going to shoot up the school tomorrow, and that he answered “yes” for him. Last month, the public charter school agreed to pay the student’s family $100,000 to settle a federal lawsuit claiming school officials wrongly reported him to police. The school also agreed to implement training on how to handle these types of incidents, including reporting only “valid” threats to police.

Tennessee requires schools to assess whether threats of mass violence are valid before expelling students. But the felony law does not hold police to the same standard, which has led to the arrests of students who had no intent to disrupt school or carry out a threat.

In Tennessee’s recent legislative session, civil and disability rights advocates unsuccessfully pushed to change the law to specify that police could arrest only students who make credible threats. They argued that very young students and students who act disruptively as a result of a disability should be excluded from felony charges.

Several Tennessee lawmakers from both parties also voiced their dissatisfaction with the school threats law during the session, citing the harm done to children who did not pose real danger. “I’m still struggling through the unintended consequences because I’m still not entirely happy with what we did before,” Sen. Kerry Roberts, a Republican, said at a committee hearing in April. “We’re still struggling to get that right.”

But Greg Mays, the deputy commissioner of the Department of Safety and Homeland Security, told a committee of lawmakers in March that in his “informed opinion,” the law was having a “deterrent effect” on students who make threats. Mays told ProPublica that the number of threats his office was tracking had decreased since the law went into effect. His office did not immediately release that number and previously denied requests for the number of threats it has tracked, calling the information “confidential.”

According to data ProPublica obtained through a records request, the number of students criminally charged is growing, not shrinking. This past school year through the end of March, the number of charges for threats of mass violence in juvenile court has jumped to 652, compared to 519 the entire previous school year, when it was classified as a misdemeanor. Both years, students were rarely found “delinquent,” which is equivalent to guilty in adult court. The youngest child charged so far this year is 6.

Rather than tempering its approach, Tennessee toughened it this year. The Legislature added another, higher-level felony to the books for anyone who “knowingly” makes a school threat against four or more people if others “reasonably” believe the threat will be carried out. Legal and disability rights advocates told lawmakers they worried the new law would result in even more confusion among police and school officials who handle threats.

Despite the outcry over increased arrests in Tennessee, two states followed its lead by passing laws that will crack down harder on hoax threats.

In New Mexico, lawmakers increased the charge for a shooting threat from a misdemeanor to a felony, in response to the wave of school threats over the previous year. To be charged with a felony, a person must “intentionally and maliciously” communicate the threat to terrorize others, cause the evacuation of a public building or prompt a police response.

Critics of the bill warned that even with the requirement to prove intent, it was written too vaguely and could harm students.

“This broad definition could criminalize what is described as ‘thought crimes’ or ‘idle threats,’ with implications for statements made by children or juveniles without a full appreciation of the consequences,” the public defenders’ office argued, according to a state analysis of an earlier, similar version of the legislation.

After a 14-year-old shot and killed four people at Apalachee High School in Georgia last September, the state’s House Speaker Jon Burns vowed to take tougher action against students who make threats.

He sponsored legislation that makes it a felony to issue a death threat against a person at a school that terrorizes people or causes an evacuation. The law, which went into effect in April, says someone can be charged either if they intend to cause such harm or if they make a threat “in reckless disregard of the risk” of that harm.

Neither Burns nor the sponsor of the New Mexico bill responded to requests for comment.

Georgia also considered a bill that would treat any 13- to 17-year-old who makes a terroristic threat at school as an adult in court. But after pushback from advocates, the bill’s author, Sen. Greg Dolezal, a Republican, removed threats from the list of offenses that could result in transfer to adult court.

During a March committee hearing, Dolezal acknowledged advocates’ concerns with the original bill language. “We recognize that there is actually a difference between people who actually commit these crimes and minors who are unwisely threatening but perhaps without an intent to ever actually follow through on it,” he said.

Other states also considered passing harsher penalties for school threats.

In Alabama, Rep. Alan Baker, a Republican, sponsored a bill that removes the requirement that a threat be “credible and imminent” to result in a criminal charge. The bill passed easily in both chambers but did not go through the final steps necessary to make it through the Legislature.

Baker said the broader version of the penalty was intended to target hoax threats that cause panic at schools. A first offense would be a misdemeanor; any threats after that would be a felony. “You’re just talking about a very disruptive type of scenario, even though it may be determined that it was just a hoax,” Baker said. “That’s why there needed to be something that would be a little bit more harsh.”

Baker told ProPublica that he plans to reintroduce the bill next session.

Pennsylvania is considering legislation that would make threats against schools a felony, regardless of credibility. The bill would also require offenders to pay restitution, including the cost of supplies and compensation for employees’ time spent responding to the threat.

In a memo last December, state Sen. Michele Brooks, a Republican, cited the “cruel and extremely depraved hoax” threats following Nashville’s Covenant School shooting as the reason for the proposal. “These calls triggered a massive emergency response, creating perilous conditions for students, teachers and public safety agencies alike,” she wrote.

The ACLU of Pennsylvania opposes the legislation, calling it a “broad expansion” of current law that could lead to “excessive” costs for children.

Pennsylvania’s Legislature adjourns at the end of December.

Paige Pfleger of WPLN/Nashville Public Radio contributed reporting.

by Nicole Santa Cruz, ProPublica, and Dave Biscobing, ABC15 Arizona

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up for Dispatches, a newsletter that spotlights wrongdoing around the country, to receive our stories in your inbox every week.

Watch ABC15 Arizona's series "Seeking Death," based on our joint investigation into Maricopa County's handling of death penalty cases.

In 2010, Vikki Valencia’s 24-year-old brother, Triny Rey Lozano, died in an almost unimaginably brutal way. He was shot in the head multiple times, dumped on a remote road outside Phoenix and set on fire.

Valencia saw only one way prosecutors could bring her family justice: The killer should get the death penalty.

Maricopa County prosecutors built a capital murder case against the man they say killed Lozano, Victor Hernandez.

Valencia knew it would take a long time but believed it would be worth it. Over nearly 10 years, she visited the courthouse hundreds of times, frequently missing work to attend hearings where she revisited traumatic images of the crime scene.

“The death penalty was the thing that we wanted most because we thought it was going to give us justice,” she said in a recent interview.

During jury selection, the case stalled because of a potential conflict of interest involving a prosecutor who had previously represented Hernandez. Years later, a second trial followed. As that jury was deliberating, prosecutors dropped the death penalty. Nine years after he was charged with killing Lozano, Hernandez was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison.

Although the Maricopa County Attorney’s Office has historically pursued the death penalty at high rates, its efforts rarely result in a death sentence.

ProPublica and ABC15 Arizona reviewed nearly 350 cases over a 20-year period in which Maricopa County prosecutors decided the crimes warranted the death penalty, and found that 13% ended in a death sentence. In most of the cases, defendants either pleaded guilty and received a lesser sentence or prosecutors changed course, ending their pursuit of the death penalty.

In 76 trials in which Maricopa County juries deliberated a death sentence, 41, or 54%, yielded one.

By comparison, an analysis of death penalty cases initiated in Harris County, Texas, from 2004 through 2023, found prosecutors took fewer cases, 24, to trial and were more successful, obtaining a death sentence 75% of the time, according to figures provided by a local advocacy group. Data over a longer time period also shows that federal prosecutors nationwide have obtained death sentences at a higher rate than in Maricopa County, according to the Federal Death Penalty Resource Counsel Project.

Pursuing the death penalty is among the most consequential decisions that prosecutors make. Each case can be litigated across the tenures of multiple county attorneys and can cost more than a million dollars. In the hundreds of Maricopa County death penalty cases that prosecutors have pursued since 2007, the cost of furnishing the accused with an adequate defense has totaled $289 million. But the outcomes in the county raise questions about the office’s judgment in its pursuit of the ultimate punishment, according to court records and interviews with more than three dozen people including lawyers, former prosecutors, family members of victims and defendants, jurors and experts.

Former County Attorney Rick Romley said there should be a review of capital charging decisions after ProPublica and ABC15 shared the newsrooms’ findings with him. Romley wondered whether prosecutors are seeking death “in the appropriate cases.”

“The jury is kind of a barometer of whether or not you’re doing a good job,” he said. “And quite frankly … if it was a school grade, that’s called an F.”

The office, now headed by Rachel Mitchell, a Republican, declined our request for an interview. A spokesperson responded to written questions, emphasizing that “only one” person in Maricopa County — Mitchell — makes the decision to seek the death penalty and that each case is reviewed throughout the process, as information changes.

Maricopa County’s and the state of Arizona’s handling of the death penalty have been questioned for years. A 2016 report by the now-defunct Fair Punishment Project, a legal and educational research group at Harvard University, cited the county, among other places, as having a history of “overzealous prosecutors, inadequate defense and a pattern of racial bias and exclusion.”

In addition, defense attorneys for a death row prisoner in 2018 petitioned unsuccessfully to the U.S. Supreme Court, claiming that Arizona’s statute was overly broad because almost every murder can be charged as a capital case. And two former prosecutors and appeals court judges wrote in a 2022 law journal article that state officials, rather than individual counties, should make all death penalty decisions to ensure the process is “less arbitrary.”

Maricopa County prosecutors’ handling of death penalty cases is newly relevant as Arizona has resumed executions after a two-year pause. The state, which has 111 people on death row, halted executions in 2014, after Joseph Wood was injected repeatedly over two hours, gasping more than 600 times before dying, according to a reporter’s account. The state executed three people in 2022 but paused after the newly elected Gov. Katie Hobbs ordered a review of the lethal injection process. Hobbs dismissed the retired federal magistrate she had appointed to conduct the review after he concluded there is no humane way to execute people.

Valencia and her family felt the case had put their lives on hold. Looking back, she said it seemed odd that the prosecution, which had pursued death for so long, decided not to once the outcome was close. (Prosecutors declined to comment on the case.)

But as Valencia learned, there’s little transparency around the process in Maricopa County. Although the final decision to seek death is made by the county attorney, each case is vetted by a little known panel, the Capital Review Committee. The county attorney’s office refused to disclose to ProPublica and ABC15 who sits on the panel, how they vote on the cases being considered for the death penalty or even which cases they review.

The office said in a statement that the process ends not with the county attorney’s office but with a trial, which is “all done in public, in an open courtroom.” The office also said that it is successful in prosecuting capital cases and comparisons to Harris County could be misleading because they ignore the “details and intricacies of individual cases.”

Establishing a committee is generally better than individual judgments, but the quality of the decisions depends on the individuals involved, said Robert Dunham, director of the Death Penalty Policy Project, which conducts research and analysis on death penalty issues.

“Anyone who says that they have a fair process and is unwilling to say what that process is, is somebody who doesn’t have a fair process,” Dunham said.

Vikki Valencia and her family waited nearly nine years for her brother’s killer to be convicted. Near the end, prosecutors stopped seeking the death penalty. (Ash Ponders for ProPublica) “I Have to Run It by The Man”

When Romley, a Republican, was first elected Maricopa County attorney in 1989, deputy prosecutors in one of the nation’s largest counties decided whether to seek the death penalty on their own.

Among the first changes Romley made was to foster more deliberation. He created the Capital Review Committee to evaluate cases and recommend whether to pursue the death penalty. He still had the final say, but he believed that a group of veteran prosecutors would apply the law more consistently and recommend only cases that warranted the ultimate punishment.

“Seeking the death penalty is a momentous decision that you’ve got to make,” Romley said. “I wanted to make sure that we were ferreting out all the facts, that we made sure that judgment wasn’t being skewed by personal biases.”

Romley served four terms and decided not to seek a fifth, leaving office in 2004. His successor was Andrew Thomas, a Republican attorney and author, who ran as a law-and-order conservative vowing to crack down on illegal immigration and impose tougher sentences. After two years, Thomas had nearly doubled the number of death penalty prosecutions, earning Maricopa County the distinction of seeking death more than almost any other jurisdiction in the nation.

Critics said Thomas sought the death penalty for crimes that didn’t warrant it — including a case of vehicular homicide. The defendant in that case, David Szymanski, had a blood-alcohol content nearly twice the legal limit and cocaine in his system when he drove the wrong way on a freeway and killed a 22-year-old man.

A police review found that officers had violated department policy while pursuing Szymanski. Thomas relented more than a year later, and the Capital Review Committee recommended the capital charge be withdrawn. Szymanski pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and was sentenced to 22 years in prison.

The victim’s mother told the Arizona Republic, “We’ve never wanted the death penalty.”

Kenneth Everett, who was a defense attorney on capital cases for the Maricopa County Office of the Legal Advocate during Thomas’ tenure, told the American Bar Association’s ABA Journal in 2010 that it was clear decisions on the cases were made solely by Thomas. “When I begged for a deal, all of the prosecutors would say, ‘I have to run it by the man,’” he said. “Thomas certainly had the ultimate power. And if he said no, you were going to trial. And he usually said no.”

The Arizona Supreme Court convened a task force to address case delays amid a shortage of qualified capital defense attorneys.

Thomas responded to criticism of the delays by blaming defense attorneys for drawing out proceedings and the courts for failing to enforce speedy trial rules. He wrote in an Arizona Republic opinion piece, “I’ve sought the death penalty in appropriate cases knowing juries make the ultimate decision and believing they should have this option.”

Thomas won a second term but resigned in 2010 to pursue an unsuccessful bid for state attorney general. He was later disbarred for misconduct and political prosecutions of county officials. Thomas, who did not respond to requests for comment, said at the time that he was “working to fight corruption.”

After Thomas’ resignation, the Maricopa County Board of Supervisors appointed Romley to serve out the term. Back in his old job, Romley reviewed the 120 capital cases the office was pursuing at the time. He decided not to seek the death penalty in 11 of them, including a case in which a 4-month-old child was found dead at an in-home day care. The medical examiner had concluded the child died of blunt force trauma, but Romley said he brought in medical experts who disputed that and found the injuries the child suffered could have been caused by an illness.

In court minutes of a hearing to drop the death penalty in the case, the Capital Review Committee is noted as having voted 8-0 to dismiss the case, which was never refiled. But the weight of the charge on the defendant, Lisa Randall, is evident in court documents. Over the three years she was in and out of jail, her marriage fell apart and she lost her house, according to court documents. Randall couldn’t be reached for comment.

“Once you allege death, the whole game changes,” Romley said. “So many more resources go into that particular case.”

Former County Attorney Rick Romley created the Capital Review Committee in the early 1990s to evaluate potential death penalty cases. (Gerard Watson/ABC15) “They Should Show Some of the Bravery That They Expect Us to Show”

Once a prosecutor decides to seek the death penalty, the stakes rise. The courts and victims’ families face a lengthier process, and jurors can face intense scrutiny.

The court appoints two defense lawyers, along with an investigator and a mitigation specialist. (In other cases, defendants have only one lawyer.) The defense is also given more time to prepare, to allow for an examination of the defendant’s background to find sympathetic factors that could mitigate a death sentence.

Capital trials consume more time because they consist of three parts: A jury first decides if the defendant is guilty; then jurors consider aggravating circumstances that could make the defendant eligible or ineligible for a death sentence. Finally, the jury decides if the sentence should be death or life in prison.

It’s unclear how much the Maricopa County Attorney’s Office spends prosecuting capital cases. When ProPublica and ABC15 asked the office for a breakdown, a spokesperson said that the office doesn’t track spending on death penalty cases.

But since 2007, the county has spent nearly $289 million on defense for capital cases. Last year, the county spent $26 million, more than any year since 2007, according to the Maricopa County Office of Public Defense Services.

In Oklahoma, a study released in 2017 found that capital cases cost, on average, three times more than noncapital cases.

Jodi Arias made headlines in 2013 when she was convicted of killing her ex-boyfriend. Prosecutors sought the death penalty twice, and jurors deadlocked both times. Arias was ultimately sentenced to life in prison. The two trials cost $3.2 million, including the defense and prosecution, according to officials at the time.

During the 20 years examined by ProPublica and ABC15, juries in 35 cases either voted for life, deadlocked, determined the cases didn’t qualify for death or found the defendant not guilty. In 41 cases, jurors recommended the death penalty.

Frank Baumgartner, a University of North Carolina political science professor, was surprised Maricopa County juries disagreed with prosecutors 46% of the time in capital cases. Prosecutors would save taxpayers money by exercising more discretion over which cases they pursue, Baumgartner said. They also appear to be out of step with public opinion in the county, given that juries disagree with them so frequently on the death penalty. “They’re not in sync with their local community,” he said.

People who served on capital juries in the county told ProPublica and ABC15 that they had traumatic experiences. During the selection process, potential jurors are asked personal questions in open court, making them feel vulnerable. Some have had their identities revealed by jurors who disagree with them.

A juror in a high-profile Maricopa County murder case who asked not to be named because of safety concerns called the experience “one of the worst of my life.” Once the juror learned it was a death penalty case, the stress triggered intense stomach pain. “It’s the highest penalty in the land, and I don’t think that it should be applied lightly,” the former juror said.

Given what jurors go through, prosecutors should be transparent about their decision-making, the juror said.

“They should show some of the bravery that they expect us to show,” the former juror said of the secretive committee. “You ask us to do this, to put our life on hold, to go through this, not share it with anybody. Then show some of the bravery that you hold us to, and be accountable like we would be accountable if we were caught not following any of the rules.”

In 2019, Myla Fairchild served as a juror in a case against the man accused of murdering Gilbert police Lt. Eric Shuhandler, who was killed after pulling over a pickup truck. Christopher Redondo, a passenger in the truck, shot Shuhandler in the face, setting off a 50-mile chase, prosecutors said. Fairchild said she voted against the death penalty because of Redondo’s mental capacity and long history of mental illness. Redondo was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. Afterwards, frustrated jurors told the media Fairchild’s name.

She wasn’t afforded the same privacy as the prosecutors on the review committee who recommended the death penalty in the first place, she said.

“You’re not protected,” she said.

The Maricopa County Superior Court in downtown Phoenix where capital cases are tried (Gerard Watson/ABC15) “A Total Disservice”

ProPublica and ABC15 asked the largest prosecutorial offices in Arizona and across the nation how they decide whether to seek the death penalty. The newsrooms found that no two counties handle decision-making the same way, but Maricopa County is an outlier for obscuring nearly every aspect of its committee’s work.

The ACLU sued the Maricopa County Attorney’s Office in 2019 for access to the committee’s membership and other records. Jared Keenan, the American Civil Liberties Union of Arizona’s legal director, said the organization considered the records important to the public’s understanding of the death penalty.

“Prosecuting agencies have an incredible amount of power, and that power is at its height when they make life-and-death decisions,” Keenan said. “The public needs to know who is involved in making those decisions to be able to ensure that those decisions are made responsibly, constitutionally, ethically.”

The county opposed releasing the information. “They were fighting to keep this specific information from the public for years and years,” Keenan said. A judge did not order the county to release the committee records to the public.

At ProPublica and ABC15’s request, the county attorney’s office shared a policy document listing the composition of the Capital Review Committee but said the document is “significantly out of date.” It listed as committee members: the deputy chief of the Criminal Division; the division chiefs from the Capital Litigation Bureau, Major Offenders Division and Special Victims Division; and the Community Based Prosecution Division chiefs. The policy allows the county attorney to designate other committee members.

In a statement, the county attorney’s office reiterated that Mitchell makes the final decision after considering a wide range of information.

Still, the decision can feel opaque to victims’ family members.

Sherry Spooney visits the graves of her relatives in Phoenix. Spooney wondered why prosecutors sought the death penalty for their mother in the 2016 killings of the children. (Ash Ponders for ProPublica)

When prosecutors sought the death penalty against Octavia Rogers in the killing of her three young children in the summer of 2016, they went against the family’s wishes, according to Rogers’ aunt, Sherry Spooney. Spooney and her family had lost three young relatives in the killing and didn’t want to lose Rogers to the death penalty, too. “What would it solve? How would it help the situation?” she said.

Prosecutors never spoke to the family about how they arrived at their decision, Spooney said.

The Maricopa County Attorney’s Office said it reached out to the family.

Spooney called their secrecy “disheartening” and said it caused her to wonder if the office had its own agenda in pursuing the death penalty. “It’s a total disservice, to not just the family, but the victims of the family. And in this case, we’re both, we’re one and the same, and if they’re going to make decisions for someone else, it should be known.”

Last year, after Rogers was found incompetent to stand trial, she pleaded “guilty except insane,” meaning she did not know at the time of her crime that the act was wrong. Rogers is being held at the Arizona State Hospital.

Valencia recalled that when the case against her brother’s killer was delayed, she initially blamed defense attorneys for dragging out the proceedings, but the committee’s secrecy was also contributing to the delay. Attorneys for Hernandez, the defendant, had discovered a member of the Capital Review Committee had a potential conflict of interest: A former defense attorney for Hernandez in an unrelated case had since become a prosecutor and was on the committee that voted to reject a plea deal for Hernandez. (The plea deal included the noncapital case as well.)

Prosecutors fought for nearly three years to keep the committee’s membership and its votes secret in a case that reached the Arizona Supreme Court. A judge eventually determined there was no conflict of interest in the Hernandez case.

Years later, when prosecutors withdrew the death penalty charge against Hernandez, Valencia said she agreed with the decision even though she’d once thought it would be the only just outcome.

“It took such a toll on our family, at that point, I was just ready for it to be done,” she said.

Clarification, June 10, 2025: This article was updated to clarify that Robert Dunham’s current job is as director of the Death Penalty Policy Project.

by Mary Steurer and Jacob Orledge, North Dakota Monitor

This article was produced for ProPublica’s Local Reporting Network in partnership with the North Dakota Monitor. Sign up for Dispatches to get our stories in your inbox every week.

Ever since North Dakota voters created an ethics watchdog agency seven years ago, dubious lawmakers have pushed back against giving it power to actually keep an eye on state officials.

That was true in the session that just ended, as legislators shut down many requests from the Ethics Commission, keeping the agency on a modest budget and rebuffing measures that would have given it more latitude in its investigations.

The offices of the governor and attorney general also argued during the session that the state constitution does not permit the commission to create or impose penalties for ethics-related violations.

“I was hopeful that the tide was turning,” said Rep. Karla Rose Hanson, a Democrat from Fargo and member of the Appropriations Committee, which worked on the commission’s budget. “But my general perspective is that the legislative body as a whole, specifically the majority party, is very hostile to the Ethics Commission and their work.”

North Dakotans, fed up with what they saw as ethical lapses by public officials, voted in 2018 to amend the state constitution and create the Ethics Commission. The amendment set rules for public officials and empowered the commission to both create more rules and investigate alleged violations related to corruption, elections, lobbying and transparency.

North Dakota was one of the last states to establish an ethics agency and since then, the commission has struggled to fulfill its mission, the North Dakota Monitor and ProPublica reported this year. The amendment left some ambiguity about the commission’s role and whether it can enforce ethics laws, leading to ongoing disagreements about how it operates.

State leaders’ actions this year further hamstrung the agency at a time when public officials across the country have been working, in various ways, to reverse or rein in policies created through citizen-led ballot initiatives, including those related to abortion and employee benefits.

Danielle Caputo of the national nonprofit Campaign Legal Center said several state governments have worked to undermine ethics initiatives in particular. North Dakota leaders’ assertions this year that the ethics agency cannot punish officials for wrongdoing is another example of that, she said.

“We have seen what appears to be a concerted effort in those states to overturn ballot initiatives or to twist their language in a way that’s most beneficial to those who want less enforcement,” said Caputo, whose organization has studied the issue. She said North Dakota is “one of the more egregious examples of that that I’ve seen.”

In an email to the North Dakota Monitor and ProPublica, the governor’s office called Caputo’s take a “gross mischaracterization” and said the governor does not oppose the Ethics Commission. In a separate email, Chief Deputy Attorney General Claire Ness called the notion that the attorney general’s office is undermining the intent of voters “unimaginable.”

As government officials debate the commission’s authority, North Dakotans have reported more concerns about ethics violations to the agency this year than in any other. The commission as of late May had received 72 complaints this year. There were 41 complaints filed in all of 2024.

By the end of last month, the commission had 63 pending complaints, some of which date back to 2022. The agency — which has three full-time staff members and five commissioners who receive a small stipend to oversee the work — has yet to disclose whether it has substantiated a complaint. (State law requires that the commission keep complaints confidential until the end of the process, so little is known about the nature of the filings.)

The Ethics Commission supported legislation this session that it said would have overhauled its process to speed up investigations and allow it to close cases sooner.

Under the measure, sponsored by eight Republicans and two Democrats, the commission would have been able to settle and dismiss complaints at any time instead of at only certain stages in the complaint process. It also would have been allowed to investigate alleged ethics violations without someone filing an official complaint. The agency currently cannot investigate some North Dakotans’ tips because they must be submitted as formal complaints, which some complainants are uncomfortable doing, agency staff have said.

Staff from the offices of Gov. Kelly Armstrong and Attorney General Drew Wrigley, both Republicans, testified against the bill because they said it would have given the commission too much power.

Faced with strong opposition from state leaders and their own reluctance to give the agency more authority, the House voted overwhelmingly to reject the legislation. Most of the House sponsors voted against it.

Rep. Austen Schauer, a West Fargo Republican who chaired the committee that worked on the legislation, acknowledged tension between the Ethics Commission and the legislature and oppositional testimony from the executive branch.

“The bill was basically DOA, and we just had to move on,” Schauer said.

Lawmakers instead settled on tweaks to the existing process; one requires the commission to develop time management standards and another allows it to informally settle ethics complaints with the accused. Those settlements would only be made public if all parties to the agreement consent.

“There’s people that for years have been sitting with this complaint over their head, which is absolutely unfair,” said Rep. Mike Nathe, a Bismarck Republican who has criticized the commission and proposed some of the changes. He also said he thinks the commission’s caseload includes fake complaints submitted by North Dakotans who want to “weaponize” the system against their political opponents. (Because state law requires that the commission keep complaints confidential, this claim cannot be verified.)

Rebecca Binstock, the Ethics Commission’s executive director, said the agency will look for ways to work around the hurdles that continue to slow down the investigation process. “The Commission must now consider how to fix the process absent legislation,” Binstock wrote in an email.

Rebecca Binstock, executive director of the North Dakota Ethics Commission, said the agency will seek ways to overcome hurdles slowing its work without legislation. (Michael Achterling/North Dakota Monitor)

The legislature also approved a measure that protects its members from prosecution for voting on something that would provide them with a financial benefit as long as they disclose their conflicts.

Lawmakers, some of whom said they want to keep the commission small out of consideration to taxpayers, also turned down the agency’s request for $250,000 over the next two years for a fourth staff member who would conduct training and education for the public. That would have allowed current employees to spend more time investigating complaints, agency staff said.

“I don’t recall a discussion with the public being, ‘We’re gonna have a multimillion-dollar branch of government,’” Rep. Scott Louser, a Minot Republican, said during a legislative hearing in April.

State leaders also argued the legislature is the only entity that can create penalties for ethics violations and delegate enforcement of those penalties to state agencies. The commission can only punish officials for wrongdoing if the legislature gives it that authority, they said.

Chris Joseph, the governor’s general counsel, testified this year that if the commission were given the power to both create and enforce penalties, it would be “defining, executing and interpreting its own rules” without oversight from other parts of state government.

The commission, however, says its enforcement authority is implicit in the constitutional amendment. That interpretation could soon be tested. Binstock indicated in an email that commission staff members have wrapped up investigating several cases and are waiting on commissioners to take action, which could include imposing penalties.

Ellen Chaffee, part of a group called the Badass Grandmas that organized the ballot initiative and drafted the amendment, said voters intended for the Ethics Commission to impose punishments for wrongdoing.

“The people who worked on the amendment had understood that the only way to have unbiased follow-up on any violations of ethics rules was for the Ethics Commission to have that responsibility,” she said.

Mike Nowatzki, the governor’s spokesperson, said if the amendment does not reflect what the advocates wanted, “they can always seek to clarify it with another constitutional amendment.”

by Rafael Carranza, Arizona Luminaria, and Gabriel Sandoval, ProPublica

This article was produced for ProPublica’s Local Reporting Network in partnership with Arizona Luminaria. Sign up for Dispatches to get our stories in your inbox every week.

Since the start of President Donald Trump’s second term, U.S. immigration officials have deputized a record number of local police to function as deportation agents, despite repeated warnings from government watchdogs since 2018 that the program does not adequately train and oversee officers.

This expansion of the 287(g) Program is being driven by the administration’s resurrection of a previously abandoned task force model empowering local officers to question individuals’ immigration status during traffic stops and other routine policing. At least 315 departments have signed on to the more aggressive approach, which Immigration and Customs Enforcement abandoned in 2012 amid racial profiling problems and lawsuits.

Overall, ICE initiated 514 new agreements with local law enforcement agencies across 40 states since January. Among the new partners are highway patrol troopers in Tennessee and officers with about 20 Florida agencies, who in recent weeks assisted ICE with the arrest of more than 1,300 people.

“It has been wonderful to see people jump in and be a part of it to make sure that we have not just the authorities that we need to go out there and to work, but also to have the local knowledge and the people in the community that really want to be a part of the solution,” Department of Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem said in a statement.

ICE officials tout the expansion of the 287(g) Program — named for the section of law that allows the delegation of limited powers to local officers — as a “force multiplier” to accelerate deportations and counter sanctuary policies that limit local cooperation with immigration agents.

But civil liberties experts and immigrant advocates warn such agreements come at a high cost to communities. Bringing on local partners at such a fast pace compounds the concerns, voiced by ICE’s own internal watchdog, that the agency is unable to adequately train and supervise local officers to execute often complex immigration laws. Advocates say police are more likely to engage in racial profiling under these agreements, damaging community trust in local law enforcement.

“Local law enforcement in these jurisdictions have more authority to enforce immigration laws, but they don’t necessarily know just by looking at someone walking down the street or pulling someone over whether they’re an immigrant or not,” said Austin Kocher, a professor at Syracuse University who has tracked the 287(g) Program for 15 years. “There are a lot of people in this country who are going to be affected by this expanded police power, maybe even who aren’t immigrants, but who might get caught up in the system just because police think they’re an immigrant or because they’re conducting enforcement operations in places that affect U.S. citizens.”

As of June 6, local and state police departments had signed 649 agreements to participate in the program, compared to the 135 agreements that were in place in January, according to ICE. An additional 79 applications were pending. A local police or sheriff’s department may have multiple agreements with ICE.

Over several days last month, the Tennessee Highway Patrol sent a surge of cruisers along the streets of south Nashville, pulling over drivers as ICE agents in unmarked vehicles with flashing lights waited next to them. They quickly drew the attention of passersby and activists who recorded video of the arrests.

Local leaders and immigrant advocates alleged the operation violated the civil rights of Nashville residents, noting it focused on areas where Latino immigrants live and involved far more traffic stops in a few hours than officers would typically do in an entire day.

A majority of the 196 people arrested did not have prior criminal records, according to information released by ICE. The agency said 95 had criminal convictions or pending charges. Thirty-one had committed a felony by reentering the country illegally after being previously deported.

“What’s clear today is that people who do not share our values of safety and community have the authority to cause deep community harm,” Nashville Mayor Freddie O’Connell said. O’Connell pressed ICE to release the names of everyone who had been arrested, prompting House Republicans to launch two congressional investigations into the mayor for allegedly creating a chilling effect on ICE’s work in the city.

Lisa Sherman Luna, executive director of the Tennessee Immigrant and Refugee Rights Coalition, said the action traumatized immigrant families. “This operation — which was focused on a neighborhood with an established, vibrant immigrant population — reeks of racial profiling and unconstitutional discrimination,” said Sherman Luna, who fled Guatemala to the U.S. with her family following the kidnapping of her sister. Nashville and Davidson County governments, along with community nonprofits, launched a fund to provide emergency support for immigrants “during moments of crisis.”

But federal officials defended the operation and lambasted critics. DHS Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin said in a news release, “You would think all public officials would unite around DHS bringing violent criminal illegal aliens to justice and removing them from American communities. However, pro-open borders politicians — like Mayor O’Connell — would rather protect illegal aliens than American citizens.” DHS had included Nashville in a now-deleted list titled “Sanctuary Jurisdictions Defying Federal Immigration Law.”

Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers detain a man stopped by Tennessee Highway Patrol at a gas station in south Nashville, Tennessee, in May. The state agency is among the latest to sign a cooperation agreement with ICE. (Seth Herald/Reuters)

It’s unclear how many immigration-related arrests can be attributed to the 287(g) Program since Trump took office. ICE officials did not respond to Arizona Luminaria and ProPublica’s request for those numbers. The agency issues monthly reports that selectively highlight arrests for violent crimes but don’t provide arrest totals involving local police partners.

Politics and power are driving the 287(g) Program’s rapid expansion, according to Kocher. Republican-led states, including Florida, are passing laws requiring local police to sign on to the program. In conservative counties, it’s popular to aid Trump’s mass deportation effort. As a result, a large portion of new agencies signing 287(g) agreements are sheriff’s offices, which run county jails.

“Sheriff’s offices are elected,” Kocher said. “Many of them are more than happy to do this, right? But regardless, it’s also a public visibility electoral thing.”

The expansion is not, however, driven by money. In fact, many expenses associated with the federal partnership, such as officer salaries, overtime and transportation, are covered by local agencies and taxpayers, per the agreements.

Local departments can participate in three ways. The jail enforcement and warrant service officer models limit local agencies’ immigration powers to people already being held in local jails and state prisons for other charges. The task force model extends that authority to community policing.

The Obama administration abandoned the task force agreements, deeming other enforcement programs, specifically those allowing local officers to share information with ICE, to be more efficient.

The Trump administration’s decision to resurrect them has drawn sharp criticism. Immigration advocates say it erodes communities’ trust in police, violates constitutional rights and shifts the focus of enforcement from immigrants charged with violent crimes to those who’ve committed minor offenses. They also note it comes as the Trump administration has dismissed civil rights investigations into several local police departments and gutted offices at the Homeland Security and Justice departments that probe police misconduct.

None of the agreements allow local officers to act on their own. They must be supervised or directed by ICE. Local officers are also supposed to receive 40 hours of online training to participate in task force agreements.

However, a 2021 Government Accountability Office report found the program lacked meaningful oversight policies, resulting in police departments violating the agreements and ICE policy.

Participation in the 287(g) Program is strongest in the Southeast, where entire states like Florida are mandating full cooperation with ICE. There were 277 agreements in Florida alone as of June 6, according to ICE’s online database.

But as quickly as it has taken hold in the Southeast, the expansion has so far missed the country’s biggest cities and counties, home to large immigrant populations.

Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis, first row center, stands behind ICE Deputy Director Madison Sheahan at a press conference where she speaks about a multiagency immigration enforcement operation that ICE says resulted in the arrest of 1,120 individuals and included participation by state and local law enforcement through the 287(g) Program. (Joe Raedle/Getty Images)

Doris Marie Provine, an emeritus professor at Arizona State University and lead author of “Policing Immigrants: Local Law Enforcement on the Front Lines,” attributed big cities’ reluctance, in part, to concerns about the costs to police departments and taxpayers.

“From local law enforcement’s perspective, it’s an unfunded mandate,” Provine said. “There has been much more interest in community policing than there was 20 years ago, and that is very directly in conflict with turning local police into immigration officers.”

Since the 287(g) Program first ramped up nearly 20 years ago, it has faced repeated accusations of racial profiling and of creating a chilling effect among immigrant communities, who may be reluctant to report crimes.

Two Justice Department investigations alleged that enforcement under 287(g) agreements led to constitutional violations in North Carolina and Arizona. ICE subsequently pulled their agreements.

In North Carolina’s Alamance County, the DOJ found in 2012, six years after the sheriff signed a 287(g) agreement, that the sheriff’s office engaged “in a pattern or practice of discriminatory policing against Latinos.” A federal judge dismissed the case in 2015, following a bench trial, ruling that the DOJ failed to support its claim. A spokesperson for the sheriff’s office said the department doesn’t comment on past litigation. The sheriff signed an agreement with ICE in 2020 for enforcement in its jail, which remains in effect despite concerns that discriminatory policing practices continue.

In 2013, a federal judge in Arizona reaffirmed the DOJ’s findings and ruled separately that then-Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio and his deputies had used race to target Latino drivers and Latino-majority areas with traffic stops and sweeps. The American Civil Liberties Union of Arizona had filed the lawsuit on behalf of citizens and legal residents caught in the sweeps less than a year after the sheriff signed a 287(g) agreement.

Trump pardoned Arpaio in 2017 of federal contempt charges for disregarding the judge’s ruling.

New Maricopa County Sheriff Jerry Sheridan has declined to pursue new 287(g) agreements, citing the court’s ongoing scrutiny of the department to ensure officers comply with the 2013 ruling. The cost to taxpayers for the ongoing effort to root out racial profiling in the department had surpassed $300 million as of March.

Sheridan said he values the 287(g) Program but agreed with the judge’s finding that community enforcement under the county’s agreement was “racially biased.”

ICE did not respond to a request for comment about its monitoring of local agencies for potential civil rights violations.

White House spokesperson Abigail Jackson said: “ICE’s 287(g) Program is playing a critical role in fulfilling President Trump’s promise to deport criminal illegal aliens and keep America safe. Dangerous criminal illegals with lengthy criminal records who pose a risk to the American people are detained all the time thanks to partnerships with local law enforcement officers.”

In an April speech to the Arizona Legislature, Tom Homan, Trump’s pick to lead the administration’s mass deportation efforts and a former ICE director, praised Arpaio’s work with ICE. The former sheriff was seated in the front row.

In highlighting ICE’s push for greater collaboration with local law enforcement, Homan rebuffed a common criticism of the 287(g) Program — that allowing police to enforce immigration laws erodes trust between communities and local officers.

“I’m sick and tired of hearing the talking point, ‘Well, we’re a welcoming community, we’re a sanctuary city because we want victims and witnesses of a crime that live in the immigrant community to feel safe coming to law enforcement to report that crime,’” Homan told Arizona lawmakers. “That is a bunch of garbage. A victim and witness of crime don’t want the bad guy back out there either.”

ICE is seeking more funding to expand 287(g) agreements and its detention and deportation capacity. During an appropriations hearing in May, ICE Acting Director Todd Lyons said the agency would reduce its reliance on private prisons.

“We would much rather partner with a sheriff’s department or a state corrections agency, someone that’s in a state where an individual is arrested that we don’t have to transport all around the country due to lack of bed space,” Lyons said.

by Paige Pfleger, WPLN/Nashville Public Radio, and Mariam Elba, ProPublica

This article was produced for ProPublica’s Local Reporting Network in partnership with WPLN/Nashville Public Radio, a 2023-2024 LRN partner. Sign up for Dispatches to get our stories in your inbox every week.

For half a century, through scandals, investigations, failed state inspections and even the illegal use of seclusion to punish children, Richard L. Bean remained in his perch of power as the superintendent of the juvenile detention center that bears his name.

Throughout nearly all of his tenure, there was only one body that could remove him from his post: a board of trustees unlike any other in the state. New reporting by WPLN News and ProPublica shows that for decades the voting members of that board were close friends and allies of Bean’s.

Even for Knoxville, Tennessee, a city known for its old-school politics, the relationship Bean has had with board members past and present stands out. His former secretary, his personal lawyer, the judge for whom he served as a campaign treasurer and a pallbearer of his wife’s casket all sat on the board over time as voting members.

“He’s just been allowed to go unchecked,” said Democratic state Rep. Sam McKenzie of Knoxville, a critic of Bean’s. “It was just a bad situation compounded by a rubber-stamp board that really was trying to protect him and not protect our children.”

Bean, who did not respond to requests for comment, abruptly announced last week that he is resigning in the wake of a new scandal. Had he not chosen to leave himself, McKenzie said, the board never would have unseated him.

“Watchdogs Over Richard”

Tennessee has 16 other county juvenile detention facilities similar to the Richard L. Bean Juvenile Service Center. Oversight of all of those falls to county agencies, like the sheriff’s department, juvenile court or commissioners. And a few are run by private companies.

In 1972, when Bean started as superintendent, the juvenile detention home in Knoxville was a city-run facility. In the mid ’70s, it became a regional facility that had 40 beds and has since grown to three times that. The creation of the board, through a legislative act, was a way for both city and county officials to maintain some say in the facility’s functioning.

The board’s mandate, as laid out in the Knox County code, is to have “administrative control” over the center, its budget and its superintendent. Though it was constituted to include 10 members, only three have voting power. The county commission appoints two of the voting members. The county juvenile court judge, who also sits on the board as a nonvoting member, appoints the third.

None of the current board members responded to a request for comment. Neither did six current commissioners who helped appoint the voting members now on the board. The juvenile court judge, Tim Irwin, declined to comment.

Knox County lawyer Chris Coffey was a voting board member from 1999 to 2020, according to the Knoxville city website. He remembers the quarterly meetings as small — usually attended by a handful of board members, the juvenile court judge and Bean, plus occasional staff members from the facility.

A cell in the Richard L. Bean Juvenile Service Center. Tennessee has 16 other county juvenile detention facilities similar to the Bean Center. (William DeShazer for ProPublica)

The board only knew what Bean told them about the facility, he said. The superintendent would give a presentation during each meeting about how many kids were in the facility, what kinds of meals they served or how many books were donated.

Coffey does not recall any serious discussions about issues at the detention center or with Bean’s leadership.

“It just never really dawned on me that we were watchdogs over Richard,” Coffey said. “It never really was explained to me that way.”

“Friends of Richard’s”

Local lawyers John Valliant, Billy Stokes and Sherry Mahar are the current voting members of the center’s board. When Bean’s wife, Lillian, died last year, Valliant and Stokes were listed as her pallbearers. The latter was also an officiant at her funeral.

Stokes worked for Bean at the center for three years, calling some of the children there “dangerous thugs” in a 1991 letter to the editor defending Bean against The Knoxville News Sentinel’s criticism of his leadership. Later, Stokes represented Bean as his personal lawyer when he was sued in his capacity as superintendent of the center in 2003.

Valliant, appointed to his seat on the board by the county commissioners, has represented county commissioners as their lawyer. After WPLN and ProPublica reported on Bean’s documented illegal use of seclusion at the facility in 2023, lawmakers called for his resignation. But Valliant told a local TV news station that he thought the Bean Center was “the best facility in the state of Tennessee.”

Mahar is a longtime lawyer in Knox County representing kids in juvenile court. On New Year’s Day 2025, screenshots provided to WPLN show that she wrote to Bean on Facebook, “Just wanting to say Happy New Year and I love you” with a red heart emoji.

Bean’s close relationships with the voting members of his board go back years, said Betty Bean, a longtime political journalist in Knox County who said she’s a distant relative of the superintendent.

“Richard made his own rules back in the day, and it hasn’t changed a lot,” she said. “Most of the board are good people. But they’re all friends of Richard’s.”

One former board member was Bean’s secretary, who had donated money to his wife’s campaigns for Knox County circuit, general sessions and juvenile court clerk, according to Betty Bean and local news reports at the time. And for decades, another voting board member was Gail Jarvis, a lawyer and former Knox County General Sessions Court judge. Richard Bean was campaign treasurer for Jarvis when she was running to become the criminal court judge in 1998.

Jarvis did not respond to a voicemail seeking comment.

“He had a lot of political influence in town,” former board member Coffey said. “Back in those days, almost anybody that ran for anything — whether it was judicial or political — wanted his blessing and endorsement.”

Photos of people posing with Bean blanket the wall of his office. (William DeShazer for ProPublica)

Some of the people listed as appointees to the center’s board didn’t know they were members until receiving a call from WPLN and ProPublica for this story.

At least two people listed on a Knoxville city website as being nonvoting appointees from 1999-2020 said they had no idea they had been members. And the East Tennessee Development District Law Enforcement Advisory Committee, which is listed as having appointed the pair, has not existed for at least 15 years, according to the head of the development district.

“This is the first I’m hearing of it,” said Terry Frank, who is now the mayor of neighboring Anderson County. “Something definitely as important as a juvenile board, I would definitely appear if I knew that I was a sitting member.” Bill Brittain, the former mayor of Hamblen County, said the same.

According to the public list, the board has also had a Knox County GOP appointee, but it has had a vacancy for a Democratic appointee since at least 1999.

U.S. Rep. Tim Burchett was also a nonvoting member of the board, listed from 1999 to 2017 as the city mayor’s appointee. When reached by phone he estimated he only attended two meetings during that time.

“Somebody Was Going to Die in There”

It would have been hard for the board to miss that the Bean Center was troubled.

A 1991 grand jury said the facility had rat problems and no toilet paper. A 2000 grand jury called the detention center a “disgrace” to the county, citing that the facility was dirty to the point of stinking.

In 2003, allegations of sexual harassment and assault by an employee at the center made the papers. The Department of Children’s Services said it was investigating the employee and considering a probe of the center. Three female staffers, and one of their husbands who also worked at the center, filed a lawsuit — later dismissed — against Bean, Knox County and the employee. The county later settled with the husband, who claimed he was demoted when his wife threatened legal action.

A 2023 investigation by WPLN and ProPublica found the facility was illegally using seclusion as punishment and was consistently out of compliance with DCS, according to public records.

Stephani Clowers, the nurse whose firing set in motion Bean’s resignation, said she never considered going to the board for help. She said Bean openly told people they were his “best friends.”

“Absolutely not. Because they would have told him,” she said. “It would’ve made things much harder.”

Clowers reported the alleged mishandling of medication by the staff to Bean, but nothing changed, she said. She hit her breaking point in 2024 when a child at the center was clearly in need of medical attention “and that child was hidden from me,” Clowers said. When she was able to see him, she called and consulted a doctor who determined that the boy should be transferred to the emergency room. Clowers said the child was never taken there. She reported these incidents to the DCS workers assigned to those children and then to the state comptroller’s office.

“I knew then that if something did not change, somebody was going to die in there,” she said.

Teenagers watch a movie at the Bean Center. (William DeShazer for ProPublica)

WPLN and ProPublica reached out to board members and the detention center for comment about Clower’s allegations. Irwin, the juvenile court judge who is also on the board, declined to comment. The others did not respond.

Bean’s decision to fire Clowers was the apparent last straw for Irwin. He went to Knox County Mayor Glenn Jacobs.

Irwin, a former NFL player, and Jacobs, a former professional wrestler, wrote a letter to the 84-year-old superintendent demanding he reinstate the nurse and another fired employee. And Jacobs looped in the governor and called for the facility to be taken out from under Bean and the board.

A day later, Bean announced that he plans to leave on Aug. 1. He didn’t reply to requests for comment, but in 2023 he told WPLN and ProPublica that he would stay in his position as “long as Judge and my board put up with me.” He predicted that Irwin would “run him out” for bad publicity.

“I am dismayed and disappointed by the rush to judgement by the Mayor, Judge Irwin, and other county leaders,” Bean wrote in his resignation letter to board member Valliant.

Clowers said she was surprised that Bean decided to resign.

“I thought he was gonna get away with it. This whole time I knew it would be me or him,” Clowers said. “And when it was me it was kind of devastating. I was like, wow, he wins again.”

The Board’s Unknown Future

Even with Bean’s departure, the question of the board remains.

Jacobs is asking the commissioners to pass an emergency ordinance dismantling the board. He wants them to delete sections of the Knox County code about the board, its meetings and duties and replace them with a new section that would give operation and control to the Knox County sheriff.

Commissioners who came into office after the last board was appointed told WPLN they want an investigation before they reassign control of the center to anyone. That includes the sheriff, who told WPLN in a statement that he was willing to work with the mayor and the state “to find solutions in the best interest of the juveniles in custody.”

McKenzie, the Democratic state representative, said he doesn’t think giving the detention center to the sheriff’s office is the answer. He pointed to a recent incident in which sheriff’s office SWAT deputies shot and killed a Black high school student during a raid.

“I don’t think that office is built or equipped to handle juvenile justice,” he said.

The sheriff’s office said it takes “the safety and security of juveniles in our care very seriously,” but it declined to comment further on McKenzie’s statements.

McKenzie said giving the facility to the sheriff would be like saying “we want to sweep this under the carpet,” keeping “Knox County business inside Knox County.”

That type of insular “good old boys” attitude, he said, created this problem in the first place.

Bean in his office in 2023. He plans to leave on Aug. 1. (William DeShazer for ProPublica)

by Lexi Churchill, ProPublica and The Texas Tribune

This article is co-published with The Texas Tribune, a nonprofit, nonpartisan local newsroom that informs and engages with Texans. Sign up for The Brief Weekly to get up to speed on their essential coverage of Texas issues.

Texas state legislators dropped efforts to spend millions of dollars to buy what experts call ineffective child identification kits weeks after ProPublica and The Texas Tribune reported that lawmakers were again trying to fund the program.

This is the second consecutive budget cycle in which the Legislature considered purchasing the products, which promise to help find missing children, only to reverse course after the news organizations documented the lack of evidence that the kits work.

ProPublica and the Tribune originally published their findings in a 2023 investigation that revealed the state had spent millions of dollars on child identification kits made by a Waco-based company called the National Child Identification Program, run by former NFL player Kenny Hansmire. He had a history of legal and business troubles, according to public records, and although less expensive alternatives were available to lawmakers, Hansmire used outdated and exaggerated statistics about missing children to help boost sales.

He also managed to develop connections with powerful Texas legislators who supported his initiatives. In 2021, Republican state Sen. Donna Campbell authored a bill that created a Texas child safety program. The measure all but guaranteed any state funding would go to Hansmire’s business whenever lawmakers allotted money for child identification kits. That year, the state awarded his company about $5.7 million for the kits.

Two years later, both the House and the Senate proposed spending millions more on the program. But when the final budget was published, about a month after the newsrooms’ investigation, legislators had pulled the funding. They declined to answer questions about why.

Funding for the program appeared again in this year’s House budget. State Rep. Armando Martinez, a Democratic member of the lower chamber’s budget committee, suggested allotting $2 million to buy the kits for students in kindergarten through the second grade. The Senate, however, didn’t include that funding in its version of the budget.

The newsrooms published a story in early May about the proposed spending plan. The final version of the budget that lawmakers passed this week again had no designated funding for the identification kits.

Campbell, Martinez and the leaders of the House and Senate budget committees did not respond to the newsrooms’ interview requests for this story or written questions about why the funding didn’t make the final cut.

Hansmire did not reply to an interview request this week. In a prior response, he told the newsrooms he’d resolved his financial troubles and said that his company’s kits have helped identify missing children, though he did not provide any concrete examples. Hansmire told reporters to reach out to “any policeman,” naming several departments specifically. The newsrooms contacted a number of them. Of the dozen Texas law enforcement agencies that responded to the queries, none could identify one case where the kits helped find a runaway or kidnapped child.

Stacey Pearson, a child safety consultant who previously oversaw the Louisiana Clearinghouse for Missing and Exploited Children, said legislators made the correct decision to eliminate the identification kits from the budget because there is no data proving they actually help improve kids’ safety. She remains disappointed that Texas lawmakers continue to give the program any attention and hopes they won’t contemplate the funding in the future.

“Every dollar and every minute, every hour that you spend on a program like this, is a dollar and a minute and an hour that you can’t spend on something that is more promising or more sound,” said Pearson.

by Brandon Roberts and Vernal Coleman

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up to receive our biggest stories as soon as they’re published.

When an AI script written by a Department of Government Efficiency employee came across a contract for internet service, it flagged it as cancelable. Not because it was waste, fraud or abuse — the Department of Veterans Affairs needs internet connectivity after all — but because the model was given unclear and conflicting instructions.

Sahil Lavingia, who wrote the code, told it to cancel, or in his words “munch,” anything that wasn’t “directly supporting patient care.” Unfortunately, neither Lavingia nor the model had the knowledge required to make such determinations.

Sahil Lavingia at his office in Brooklyn (Ben Sklar for ProPublica)

“I think that mistakes were made,” said Lavingia, who worked at DOGE for nearly two months, in an interview with ProPublica. “I’m sure mistakes were made. Mistakes are always made.”

It turns out, a lot of mistakes were made as DOGE and the VA rushed to implement President Donald Trump’s February executive order mandating all of the VA’s contracts be reviewed within 30 days.

ProPublica obtained the code and prompts — the instructions given to the AI model — used to review the contracts and interviewed Lavingia and experts in both AI and government procurement. We are publishing an analysis of those prompts to help the public understand how this technology is being deployed in the federal government.

The experts found numerous and troubling flaws: the code relied on older, general-purpose models not suited for the task; the model hallucinated contract amounts, deciding around 1,100 of the agreements were each worth $34 million when they were sometimes worth thousands; and the AI did not analyze the entire text of contracts. Most experts said that, in addition to the technical issues, using off-the-shelf AI models for the task — with little context on how the VA works — should have been a nonstarter.

Lavingia, a software engineer enlisted by DOGE, acknowledged there were flaws in what he created and blamed, in part, a lack of time and proper tools. He also stressed that he knew his list of what he called “MUNCHABLE” contracts would be vetted by others before a final decision was made.

Portions of the prompt are pasted below along with commentary from experts we interviewed. Lavingia published a complete version of it on his personal GitHub account.

Problems with how the model was constructed can be detected from the very opening lines of code, where the DOGE employee instructs the model how to behave:

You are an AI assistant that analyzes government contracts. Always provide comprehensive few-sentence descriptions that explain WHO the contract is with, WHAT specific services/products are provided, and WHO benefits from these services. Remember that contracts for EMR systems and healthcare IT infrastructure directly supporting patient care should be classified as NOT munchable. Contracts related to diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) initiatives or services that could be easily handled by in-house W2 employees should be classified as MUNCHABLE. Consider 'soft services' like healthcare technology management, data management, administrative consulting, portfolio management, case management, and product catalog management as MUNCHABLE. For contract modifications, mark the munchable status as 'N/A'. For IDIQ contracts, be more aggressive about termination unless they are for core medical services or benefits processing.

This part of the prompt, known as a system prompt, is intended to shape the overall behavior of the large language model, or LLM, the technology behind AI bots like ChatGPT. In this case, it was used before both steps of the process: first, before Lavingia used it to obtain information like contract amounts; then, before determining if a contract should be canceled.

Including information not related to the task at hand can confuse AI. At this point, it’s only being asked to gather information from the text of the contract. Everything related to “munchable status,” “soft-services” or “DEI” is irrelevant. Experts told ProPublica that trying to fix issues by adding more instructions can actually have the opposite effect — especially if they’re irrelevant.

Analyze the following contract text and extract the basic information below. If you can't find specific information, write "Not found".

CONTRACT TEXT: {text[:10000]} # Using first 10000 chars to stay within token limits

The models were only shown the first 10,000 characters from each document, or approximately 2,500 words. Experts were confused by this, noting that OpenAI models support inputs over 50 times that size. Lavingia said that he had to use an older AI model that the VA had already signed a contract for.

Please extract the following information: 1. Contract Number/PIID 2. Parent Contract Number (if this is a child contract) 3. Contract Description - IMPORTANT: Provide a DETAILED 1-2 sentence description that clearly explains what the contract is for. Include WHO the vendor is, WHAT specific products or services they provide, and WHO the end recipients or beneficiaries are. For example, instead of "Custom powered wheelchair", write "Contract with XYZ Medical Equipment Provider to supply custom-powered wheelchairs and related maintenance services to veteran patients at VA medical centers." 4. Vendor Name 5. Total Contract Value (in USD) 6. FY 25 Value (in USD) 7. Remaining Obligations (in USD) 8. Contracting Officer Name 9. Is this an IDIQ contract? (true/false) 10. Is this a modification? (true/false)

This portion of the prompt instructs the AI to extract the contract number and other key details of a contract, such as the “total contract value.”

This was error-prone and not necessary, as accurate contract information can already be found in publicly available databases like USASpending. In some cases, this led to the AI system being given an outdated version of a contract, which led to it reporting a misleadingly large contract amount. In other cases, the model mistakenly pulled an irrelevant number from the page instead of the contract value.

“They are looking for information where it’s easy to get, rather than where it’s correct,” said Waldo Jaquith, a former Obama appointee who oversaw IT contracting at the Treasury Department. “This is the lazy approach to gathering the information that they want. It’s faster, but it’s less accurate.”

Lavingia acknowledged that this approach led to errors but said that those errors were later corrected by VA staff.

Once the program extracted this information, it ran a second pass to determine if the contract was “munchable.”

Based on the following contract information, determine if this contract is "munchable" based on these criteria:

CONTRACT INFORMATION: {text[:10000]} # Using first 10000 chars to stay within token limits

Again, only the first 10,000 characters were shown to the model. As a result, the munchable determination was based purely on the first few pages of the contract document.

Then, evaluate if this contract is "munchable" based on these criteria: - If this is a contract modification, mark it as "N/A" for munchable status - If this is an IDIQ contract:   * For medical devices/equipment: NOT MUNCHABLE   * For recruiting/staffing: MUNCHABLE   * For other services: Consider termination if not core medical/benefits - Level 0: Direct patient care (e.g., bedside nurse) - NOT MUNCHABLE - Level 1: Necessary consultants that can't be insourced - NOT MUNCHABLE

The above prompt section is the first set of instructions telling the AI how to flag contracts. The prompt provides little explanation of what it’s looking for, failing to define what qualifies as “core medical/benefits” and lacking information about what a “necessary consultant” is.

For the types of models the DOGE analysis used, including all the necessary information to make an accurate determination is critical.

Cary Coglianese, a University of Pennsylvania professor who studies the governmental use of artificial intelligence, said that knowing which jobs could be done in-house “calls for a very sophisticated understanding of medical care, of institutional management, of availability of human resources” that the model does not have.

- Contracts related to "diversity, equity, and inclusion" (DEI) initiatives - MUNCHABLE

The prompt above tries to implement a fundamental policy of the Trump administration: killing all DEI programs. But the prompt fails to include a definition of what DEI is, leaving the model to decide.

Despite the instruction to cancel DEI-related contracts, very few were flagged for this reason. Procurement experts noted that it’s very unlikely for information like this to be found in the first few pages of a contract.

- Level 2+: Multiple layers removed from veterans care - MUNCHABLE - Services that could easily be replaced by in-house W2 employees - MUNCHABLE

These two lines — which experts say were poorly defined — carried the most weight in the DOGE analysis. The response from the AI frequently cited these reasons as the justification for munchability. Nearly every justification included a form of the phrase “direct patient care,” and in a third of cases the model flagged contracts because it stated the services could be handled in-house.

The poorly defined requirements led to several contracts for VA office internet services being flagged for cancellation. In one justification, the model had this to say:

The contract provides data services for internet connectivity, which is an IT infrastructure service that is multiple layers removed from direct clinical patient care and could likely be performed in-house, making it classified as munchable.

IMPORTANT EXCEPTIONS - These are NOT MUNCHABLE: - Third-party financial audits and compliance reviews - Medical equipment audits and certifications (e.g., MRI, CT scan, nuclear medicine equipment) - Nuclear physics and radiation safety audits for medical equipment - Medical device safety and compliance audits - Healthcare facility accreditation reviews - Clinical trial audits and monitoring - Medical billing and coding compliance audits - Healthcare fraud and abuse investigations - Medical records privacy and security audits - Healthcare quality assurance reviews - Community Living Center (CLC) surveys and inspections - State Veterans Home surveys and inspections - Long-term care facility quality surveys - Nursing home resident safety and care quality reviews - Assisted living facility compliance surveys - Veteran housing quality and safety inspections - Residential care facility accreditation reviews

Despite these instructions, AI flagged many audit- and compliance-related contracts as “munchable,” labeling them as “soft services.”

In one case, the model even acknowledged the importance of compliance while flagging a contract for cancellation, stating: “Although essential to ensuring accurate medical records and billing, these services are an administrative support function (a ‘soft service’) rather than direct patient care.”

Key considerations: - Direct patient care involves: physical examinations, medical procedures, medication administration - Distinguish between medical/clinical and psychosocial support

Shobita Parthasarathy, professor of public policy and director of the Science, Technology, and Public Policy Program at University of Michigan, told ProPublica that this piece of the prompt was notable in that it instructs the model to “distinguish” between the two types of services without instructing the model what to save and what to kill.

The emphasis on “direct patient care” is reflected in how often the AI cited it in its recommendations, even when the model did not have any information about a contract. In one instance where it labeled every field “not found,” it still decided the contract was munchable. It gave this reason:

Without evidence that it involves essential medical procedures or direct clinical support, and assuming the contract is for administrative or related support services, it meets the criteria for being classified as munchable.

In reality, this contract was for the preventative maintenance of important safety devices known as ceiling lifts at VA medical centers, including three sites in Maryland. The contract itself stated:

Ceiling Lifts are used by employees to reposition patients during their care. They are critical safety devices for employees and patients, and must be maintained and inspected appropriately.

Specific services that should be classified as MUNCHABLE (these are "soft services" or consulting-type services): - Healthcare technology management (HTM) services - Data Commons Software as a Service (SaaS) - Administrative management and consulting services - Data management and analytics services - Product catalog or listing management - Planning and transition support services - Portfolio management services - Operational management review - Technology guides and alerts services - Case management administrative services - Case abstracts, casefinding, follow-up services - Enterprise-level portfolio management - Support for specific initiatives (like PACT Act) - Administrative updates to product information - Research data management platforms or repositories - Drug/pharmaceutical lifecycle management and pricing analysis - Backup Contracting Officer's Representatives (CORs) or administrative oversight roles - Modernization and renovation extensions not directly tied to patient care - DEI (Diversity, Equity, Inclusion) initiatives - Climate & Sustainability programs - Consulting & Research Services - Non-Performing/Non-Essential Contracts - Recruitment Services

This portion of the prompt attempts to define “soft services.” It uses many highly specific examples but also throws in vague categories without definitions like “non-performing/non-essential contracts.”

Experts said that in order for a model to properly determine this, it would need to be given information about the essential activities and what’s required to support them.

Important clarifications based on past analysis errors: 2. Lifecycle management of drugs/pharmaceuticals IS MUNCHABLE (different from direct supply) 3. Backup administrative roles (like alternate CORs) ARE MUNCHABLE as they create duplicative work 4. Contract extensions for renovations/modernization ARE MUNCHABLE unless directly tied to patient care

This section of the prompt was the result of analysis by Lavingia and other DOGE staff, Lavingia explained. “This is probably from a session where I ran a prior version of the script that most likely a DOGE person was like, ‘It’s not being aggressive enough.’ I don’t know why it starts with a 2. I guess I disagreed with one of them, and so we only put 2, 3 and 4 here.”

Notably, our review found that the only clarifications related to past errors were related to scenarios where the model wasn’t flagging enough contracts for cancellation.

Direct patient care that is NOT MUNCHABLE includes: - Conducting physical examinations - Administering medications and treatments - Performing medical procedures and interventions - Monitoring and assessing patient responses - Supply of actual medical products (pharmaceuticals, medical equipment) - Maintenance of critical medical equipment - Custom medical devices (wheelchairs, prosthetics) - Essential therapeutic services with proven efficacy

For maintenance contracts, consider whether pricing appears reasonable. If maintenance costs seem excessive, flag them as potentially over-priced despite being necessary.

This section of the prompt provides the most detail about what constitutes “direct patient care.” While it does cover many aspects of care, it still leaves a lot of ambiguity and forces the model to make its own judgements about what constitutes “proven efficacy” and “critical” medical equipment.

In addition to the limited information given on what constitutes direct patient care, there is no information about how to determine if a price is “reasonable,” especially since the LLM only sees the first few pages of the document. The models lack knowledge about what’s normal for government contracts.

“I just do not understand how it would be possible. This is hard for a human to figure out,” Jaquith said about whether AI could accurately determine if a contract was reasonably priced. “I don’t see any way that an LLM could know this without a lot of really specialized training.”

Services that can be easily insourced (MUNCHABLE): - Video production and multimedia services - Customer support/call centers - PowerPoint/presentation creation - Recruiting and outreach services - Public affairs and communications - Administrative support - Basic IT support (non-specialized) - Content creation and writing - Training services (non-specialized) - Event planning and coordination

This section explicitly lists which tasks could be “easily insourced” by VA staff, and more than 500 different contracts were flagged as “munchable” for this reason.

“A larger issue with all of this is there seems to be an assumption here that contracts are almost inherently wasteful,” Coglianese said when shown this section of the prompt. “Other services, like the kinds that are here, are cheaper to contract for. In fact, these are exactly the sorts of things that we would not want to treat as ‘munchable.’” He went on to explain that insourcing some of these tasks could also “siphon human sources away from direct primary patient care.”

In an interview, Lavingia acknowledged some of these jobs might be better handled externally. “We don’t want to cut the ones that would make the VA less efficient or cause us to hire a bunch of people in-house,” Lavingia explained. “Which currently they can’t do because there’s a hiring freeze.”

The VA is standing behind its use of AI to examine contracts, calling it “a commonsense precedent.” And documents obtained by ProPublica suggest the VA is looking at additional ways AI can be deployed. A March email from a top VA official to DOGE stated:

Today, VA receives over 2 million disability claims per year, and the average time for a decision is 130 days. We believe that key technical improvements (including AI and other automation), combined with Veteran-first process/culture changes pushed from our Secretary’s office could dramatically improve this. A small existing pilot in this space has resulted in 3% of recent claims being processed in less than 30 days. Our mission is to figure out how to grow from 3% to 30% and then upwards such that only the most complex claims take more than a few days.

If you have any information about the misuse or abuse of AI within government agencies, reach out to us via our Signal or SecureDrop channels.

If you’d like to talk to someone specific, Brandon Roberts is an investigative journalist on the news applications team and has a wealth of experience using and dissecting artificial intelligence. He can be reached on Signal @brandonrobertz.01 or by email brandon.roberts@propublica.org.

by Brandon Roberts, Vernal Coleman and Eric Umansky

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up to receive our biggest stories as soon as they’re published.

As the Trump administration prepared to cancel contracts at the Department of Veteran Affairs this year, officials turned to a software engineer with no health care or government experience to guide them.

The engineer, working for the Department of Government Efficiency, quickly built an artificial intelligence tool to identify which services from private companies were not essential. He labeled those contracts “MUNCHABLE.”

The code, using outdated and inexpensive AI models, produced results with glaring mistakes. For instance, it hallucinated the size of contracts, frequently misreading them and inflating their value. It concluded more than a thousand were each worth $34 million, when in fact some were for as little as $35,000.

The DOGE AI tool flagged more than 2,000 contracts for “munching.” It’s unclear how many have been or are on track to be canceled — the Trump administration’s decisions on VA contracts have largely been a black box. The VA uses contractors for many reasons, including to support hospitals, research and other services aimed at caring for ailing veterans.

VA officials have said they’ve killed nearly 600 contracts overall. Congressional Democrats have been pressing VA leaders for specific details of what’s been canceled without success.

We identified at least two dozen on the DOGE list that have been canceled so far. Among the canceled contracts was one to maintain a gene sequencing device used to develop better cancer treatments. Another was for blood sample analysis in support of a VA research project. Another was to provide additional tools to measure and improve the care nurses provide.

ProPublica obtained the code and the contracts it flagged from a source and shared them with a half dozen AI and procurement experts. All said the script was flawed. Many criticized the concept of using AI to guide budgetary cuts at the VA, with one calling it “deeply problematic.”

Cary Coglianese, professor of law and of political science at the University of Pennsylvania who studies the governmental use and regulation of artificial intelligence, said he was troubled by the use of these general-purpose large language models, or LLMs. “I don’t think off-the-shelf LLMs have a great deal of reliability for something as complex and involved as this,” he said.

Sahil Lavingia, the programmer enlisted by DOGE, which was then run by Elon Musk, acknowledged flaws in the code.

“I think that mistakes were made,” said Lavingia, who worked at DOGE for nearly two months. “I’m sure mistakes were made. Mistakes are always made. I would never recommend someone run my code and do what it says. It’s like that ‘Office’ episode where Steve Carell drives into the lake because Google Maps says drive into the lake. Do not drive into the lake.”

Though Lavingia has talked about his time at DOGE previously, this is the first time his work has been examined in detail and the first time he’s publicly explained his process, down to specific lines of code.

Lavingia has nearly 15 years of experience as a software engineer and entrepreneur but no formal training in AI. He briefly worked at Pinterest before starting Gumroad, a small e-commerce company that nearly collapsed in 2015. “I laid off 75% of my company — including many of my best friends. It really sucked,” he said. Lavingia kept the company afloat by “replacing every manual process with an automated one,” according to a post on his personal blog.

Sahil Lavingia at his office in Brooklyn (Ben Sklar for ProPublica)

Lavingia did not have much time to immerse himself in how the VA handles veterans’ care between starting on March 17 and writing the tool on the following day. Yet his experience with his own company aligned with the direction of the Trump administration, which has embraced the use of AI across government to streamline operations and save money.

Lavingia said the quick timeline of Trump’s February executive order, which gave agencies 30 days to complete a review of contracts and grants, was too short to do the job manually. “That’s not possible — you have 90,000 contracts,” he said. “Unless you write some code. But even then it’s not really possible.”

Under a time crunch, Lavingia said he finished the first version of his contract-munching tool on his second day on the job — using AI to help write the code for him. He told ProPublica he then spent his first week downloading VA contracts to his laptop and analyzing them.

VA press secretary Pete Kasperowicz lauded DOGE’s work on vetting contracts in a statement to ProPublica. “As far as we know, this sort of review has never been done before, but we are happy to set this commonsense precedent,” he said.

The VA is reviewing all of its 76,000 contracts to ensure each of them benefits veterans and is a good use of taxpayer money, he said. Decisions to cancel or reduce the size of contracts are made after multiple reviews by VA employees, including agency contracting experts and senior staff, he wrote.

Kasperowicz said that the VA will not cancel contracts for work that provides services to veterans or that the agency cannot do itself without a contingency plan in place. He added that contracts that are “wasteful, duplicative or involve services VA has the ability to perform itself” will typically be terminated.

Trump officials have said they are working toward a “goal” of cutting around 80,000 people from the VA’s workforce of nearly 500,000. Most employees work in one of the VA’s 170 hospitals and nearly 1,200 clinics.

The VA has said it would avoid cutting contracts that directly impact care out of fear that it would cause harm to veterans. ProPublica recently reported that relatively small cuts at the agency have already been jeopardizing veterans’ care.

The VA has not explained how it plans to simultaneously move services in-house, as Lavingia’s code suggested was the plan, while also slashing staff.

Many inside the VA told ProPublica the process for reviewing contracts was so opaque they couldn’t even see who made the ultimate decisions to kill specific contracts. Once the “munching” script had selected a list of contracts, Lavingia said he would pass it off to others who would decide what to cancel and what to keep. No contracts, he said, were terminated “without human review.”

“I just delivered the [list of contracts] to the VA employees,” he said. “I basically put munchable at the top and then the others below.”

VA staffers told ProPublica that when DOGE identified contracts to be canceled early this year — before Lavingia was brought on — employees sometimes were given little time to justify retaining the service. One recalled being given just a few hours. The staffers asked not to be named because they feared losing their jobs for talking to reporters.

According to one internal email that predated Lavingia’s AI analysis, staff members had to respond in 255 characters or fewer — just shy of the 280 character limit on Musk’s X social media platform.

A VA email tells staffers that the justification of contracts targeted by DOGE must be limited to 255 characters. (Obtained by ProPublica)

Once he started on DOGE’s contract analysis, Lavingia said he was confronted with technological limitations. At least some of the errors produced by his code can be traced to using older versions of OpenAI models available through the VA — models not capable of solving complex tasks, according to the experts consulted by ProPublica.

Moreover, the tool’s underlying instructions were deeply flawed. Records show Lavingia programmed the AI system to make intricate judgments based on the first few pages of each contract — about the first 2,500 words — which contain only sparse summary information.

“AI is absolutely the wrong tool for this,” said Waldo Jaquith, a former Obama appointee who oversaw IT contracting at the Treasury Department. “AI gives convincing looking answers that are frequently wrong. There needs to be humans whose job it is to do this work.”

Lavingia’s prompts did not include context about how the VA operates, what contracts are essential or which ones are required by federal law. This led AI to determine a core piece of the agency’s own contract procurement system was “munchable.”

At the core of Lavingia’s prompt is the direction to spare contracts involved in “direct patient care.”

Then, evaluate if this contract is "munchable" based on these criteria: … - Level 0: Direct patient care (e.g., bedside nurse) - NOT MUNCHABLE - Level 1: Necessary consultants that can't be insourced - NOT MUNCHABLE - Level 2+: Multiple layers removed from veterans care - MUNCHABLE - Contracts related to "diversity, equity, and inclusion" (DEI) initiatives - MUNCHABLE - Services that could easily be replaced by in-house W2 employees - MUNCHABLE

Such an approach, experts said, doesn’t grapple with the reality that the work done by doctors and nurses to care for veterans in hospitals is only possible with significant support around them.

Lavingia’s system also used AI to extract details like the contract number and “total contract value.” This led to avoidable errors, where AI returned the wrong dollar value when multiple were found in a contract. Experts said the correct information was readily available from public databases.

Lavingia acknowledged that errors resulted from this approach but said those errors were later corrected by VA staff.

In late March, Lavingia published a version of the “munchable” script on his GitHub account to invite others to use and improve it, he told ProPublica. “It would have been cool if the entire federal government used this script and anyone in the public could see that this is how the VA is thinking about cutting contracts.”

According to a post on his blog, this was done with the approval of Musk before he left DOGE. “When he asked the room about improving DOGE’s public perception, I asked if I could open-source the code I’d been writing,” Lavingia said. “He said yes — it aligned with DOGE’s goal of maximum transparency.”

That openness may have eventually led to Lavingia’s dismissal. Lavingia confirmed he was terminated from DOGE after giving an interview to Fast Company magazine about his work with the department. A VA spokesperson declined to comment on Lavingia’s dismissal.

VA officials have declined to say whether they will continue to use the “munchable” tool moving forward. But the administration may deploy AI to help the agency replace employees. Documents previously obtained by ProPublica show DOGE officials proposed in March consolidating the benefits claims department by relying more on AI.

And the government’s contractors are paying attention. After Lavingia posted his code, he said he heard from people trying to understand how to keep the money flowing.

“I got a couple DMs from VA contractors who had questions when they saw this code,” he said. “They were trying to make sure that their contracts don’t get cut. Or learn why they got cut.

“At the end of the day, humans are the ones terminating the contracts, but it is helpful for them to see how DOGE or Trump or the agency heads are thinking about what contracts they are going to munch. Transparency is a good thing.”

If you have any information about the misuse or abuse of AI within government agencies, Brandon Roberts is an investigative journalist on the news applications team and has a wealth of experience using and dissecting artificial intelligence. He can be reached on Signal @brandonrobertz.01 or by email brandon.roberts@propublica.org.

If you have information about the VA that we should know about, contact reporter Vernal Coleman on Signal, vcoleman91.99, or via email, vernal.coleman@propublica.org, and Eric Umansky on Signal, Ericumansky.04, or via email, eric.umansky@propublica.org.

by Lomi Kriel, ProPublica and The Texas Tribune

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up to receive our biggest stories as soon as they’re published.

This article is co-published with The Texas Tribune, a nonprofit, nonpartisan local newsroom that informs and engages with Texans. Sign up for The Brief Weekly to get up to speed on their essential coverage of Texas issues.

In a half-empty committee room in late April, one of Texas’ most powerful Republican state senators pitched legislation that would make it harder for immigrants in the country illegally to get jobs.

Her bill would require all employers in the state to use a free federal computer system, known as E-Verify, that quickly confirms whether someone has authorization to work in the United States. Sen. Lois Kolkhorst of Brenham ticked off a handful of Republican-led states that mandate the program for all private companies and listed others that require it for most over a certain size. Yet Texas, which prides itself on being the nation’s toughest on illegal immigration, instructs only state agencies and sexually oriented businesses to use it.

“E-Verify is the most functional and cost-effective method the state of Texas can implement to stem the flow of illegal immigration, or those that are here not legally, to ensure that U.S. citizens and those able to work in the state of Texas are the ones who get the Texas jobs,” Kolkhorst told fellow senators, reminding them that the Business and Commerce Committee passed her nearly identical bill two years ago. (That proposal never made it to the Senate floor.)

No one spoke against the new legislation. Only one committee member, a Democrat, questioned it, asking if supporters would also favor an immigrant guest worker program. A handful of labor representatives called the bill a bipartisan priority, testifying that too many employers cut corners by hiring workers illegally at lower wages. The bill went on to sail through the committee and the Senate.

But then, like dozens of E-Verify bills over the last decade, the legislation died.

Texas’ top Republican leaders have built a political brand on the state’s hard-line stance against illegal immigration, pouring billions of dollars into Gov. Greg Abbott’s state border security initiative, including funding construction of a border wall and deploying state police to arrest migrants on a newly created offense for trespassing. This session, lawmakers voted to require most sheriff’s offices to cooperate with federal immigration agents.

Yet again and again the state’s conservative Legislature has refused to take what some Republicans call the single most crucial step to preventing immigrants from coming and staying here illegally: mandating E-Verify to make it more difficult for them to work.

Since 2013, GOP lawmakers in Texas have introduced more than 40 E-Verify bills. Most tried to require the program for government entities and their contractors, but about a dozen attempted to expand the system to private employers in some capacity. With few exceptions, like mandating E-Verify for certain state contractors, Republican legislators declined to pass the overwhelming majority of those proposals.

This session, lawmakers filed about half a dozen bills attempting to require private companies to use the program. Kolkhorst’s legislation was the only one to make it out of either legislative chamber but eventually died because the state House did not take it up.

Given Texas leaders’ rhetoric on the border, it is a “glaring omission” not to more broadly require E-Verify as other GOP-led states have done, said Lynden Melmed, former chief counsel under Presidents George W. Bush and Barack Obama at U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, the federal agency that oversees E-Verify. At least nine majority Republican states — including Arizona, Georgia, Florida and South Carolina — require that most, if not all, private companies use the system. Abbott has frequently positioned Texas as harsher on immigration than each of them.

Still, that a private mandate made it further this session than ever before may illustrate the growing conflict in Texas between the pro-business side of the state’s GOP and Republicans who want to look tougher on immigration, said Melmed, who was a former special counsel on the issue to U.S. Sen. John Cornyn of Texas.

The resistance to E-Verify isn’t just about Texas Republicans’ reluctance to regulate business, Melmed said. It’s about how such a system could impact the state’s labor supply and economy.

An estimated 1.3 million Texas workers, more than 8% of the state’s work force, are here illegally, according to a 2023 analysis of U.S. census data by the Pew Research Center, a nonpartisan think tank in Washington, D.C. About a quarter of all construction workers in Texas lack legal status, for example, and the industry faces a critical labor shortage as a need for housing booms. Likewise, the state’s understaffed agricultural, restaurant and elder care sectors rely on workers here illegally.

“If you got serious about applying [E-Verify], you would create even worse problems” with labor shortages, said Bill Hammond, a GOP former state lawmaker who once led the Texas Association of Business. “Do you want to go to a restaurant and use paper plates because no one will wash dishes?”

Texas’ political leaders know this, Hammond said, but they don’t want to publicly acknowledge it.

A spokesperson for Abbott refused to say whether the governor supports mandating the program for private companies. However, when running for governor more than a decade ago, Abbott acknowledged that businesses had complained about instituting the system. At the time, he touted federal statistics that E-Verify was 99.5% accurate. State agencies, he said, could serve as a model before legislators imposed it on companies.

A spokesperson for Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick, who as a senator unsuccessfully pushed legislation to hold employers accountable for hiring immigrants here illegally, did not return requests for comment, nor did a spokesperson for Speaker Dustin Burrows explain why the House refused to take up E-Verify. Kolkhorst declined repeated interview requests on her legislation.

State Sen. Charles Schwertner, a Georgetown Republican who authored the first E-Verify bill that the Texas Legislature approved, said in an interview that his 2015 legislation did not go as far as he would have liked. He said that he agreed with Kolkhort’s private-company mandate.

“We need to enforce our immigration laws, both at the border and the interior of Texas, and E-Verify is an important component,” Schwertner said.

Some GOP lawmakers who pushed the issue this session faced “deafening silence” from many colleagues and impacted industries, said state Rep. Carl Tepper, a Lubbock Republican who filed two E-Verify bills.

Lawmakers and industry groups have a “misguided fear” about losing a portion of their workforce who are here illegally and whom they feel dependent on, he said. Although immigration enforcement is overseen by Congress, Tepper said that the state should do what it can to prevent such workers from coming to Texas by making it more difficult to hire them.

Even one of the state’s most influential conservative think tanks has supported more incremental E-Verify legislation, such as extending the state mandate to local governments. Doing so would be an “easier win” than requiring it for businesses, said Selene Rodriguez, a campaign director for the Texas Public Policy Foundation. Still, she said that the organization generally supports a broader mandate and is disappointed that Kolkhorst’s legislation failed.

E-Verify has been tricky for her group, Rodriguez acknowledged, because lawmakers have done so little over the years that it has had to prioritize what is “attainable.”

“Given the Trump agenda, that he won so widely, we thought maybe there’d be more appetite to advance it,” Rodriguez said. “But that wasn’t the case.”

She blamed “behind-the scenes” lobbying from powerful industry groups, particularly in agriculture and construction, as well as lawmakers who worry how supporting the proposal would influence reelection prospects.

A dozen prominent state industry groups declined to comment to ProPublica and The Texas Tribune on their stances relating to E-Verify.

E-Verify supporters admit the system is not a panacea. The computer program can confirm only whether identification documents are valid, not whether they actually belong to the prospective employee, and as a result a black market for such documents has surged. Employers, too, can game the system by contracting out work to smaller companies, which in many states are exempt from E-Verify mandates.

Even when states adopt these, most lack strong enforcement. Texas legislators have never tasked an agency with ensuring all employers comply. South Carolina, which has among the toughest enforcement, randomly audits businesses to see if they are using E-Verify, said Madeline Zavodny, a University of North Florida economics professor who studied the program for a 2017 Federal Reserve Bank of Dallas report. But South Carolina does not check whether companies actually hired immigrants here illegally, said Alex Nowrasteh, vice president for economic and social policy studies at the libertarian-leaning Cato Institute in Washington, D.C. Some states have carve-outs for small companies or certain employers that often rely on undocumented labor. North Carolina, for example, exempts temporary seasonal workers.

Immigrants here illegally contribute billions to the economy, said Tara Watson, an economist at the Brookings Institution, a Washington, D.C., think tank. Much of the rhetoric over the issue is “using immigration as a wedge issue to rile up the base of voters who are concerned about cultural change, but at the same time not wanting to disrupt the economy too much.”

Expanding E-Verify, she said, is “not really in anybody’s interest.”

by Steve Suo

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up for Dispatches, a newsletter that spotlights wrongdoing around the country, to receive our stories in your inbox every week.

The question was a simple one: Had Nike, the athletic apparel brand dogged by sweatshop allegations more than two decades ago, truly become a beacon of environmental stewardship and fair labor practices, as it claimed?

As editor for ProPublica’s Northwest team and a longtime Oregonian, I was as eager to know the answer as the Portland-based reporter who posed the question, Rob Davis.

Nike is woven into Oregon’s fabric. It’s one of the Portland area’s largest employers and one of the state’s few Fortune 500 companies. Nike’s headquarters in the Portland suburbs is a 400-acre complex of buildings, running paths and sports fields where fashion design and athleticism meet. At the University of Oregon, alma mater of Nike co-founder Phil Knight, buildings across the campus bear his name or the names of his relatives.

The trouble was that the answer to Davis’ question primarily lay across the Pacific Ocean. Although ProPublica is undaunted by stories that take time and, yes, money — see recent reporting by reporters Josh Kaplan and Brett Murphy from Gambia, for example — Davis first needed to prove to editors that an overseas trip would bring us a story that broke new ground.

One of our most important decisions early on was to partner with reporter Matthew Kish and his editors at The Oregonian/OregonLive, where Davis and I worked previously. Kish has covered Nike for more than a decade and knows the company as well as perhaps any reporter in the country.

Kish and Davis started reviewing public reports that Nike had put out over the past two decades and every news article they could find about the company’s efforts in the realm of social responsibility. Davis spoke by phone with labor advocates around the globe. He even found a few factory workers in Asia willing to talk in late-night (for them) video calls about their working conditions.

The nut that Davis and Kish couldn’t crack was Nike itself. The reporters told Nike’s public relations team about their interest. Might Nike staffers share what they were finding in factory audits or how they were ensuring compliance with Nike’s code of conduct? The PR people at various points provided some background information, including excerpts of past corporate reports, but the company chose not to make anyone available for on-the-record interviews at that stage.

(I also asked Nike last week to weigh in on the company’s interactions with Kish and Davis or about the stories they’ve written for this series; a Nike spokesperson declined to comment to me on the record.)

With layoffs hitting Nike last year, Kish and Davis had an opening to talk with insiders about one particular aspect of the company’s social responsibility efforts. Pursuing a tip, the two worked with research reporter Alex Mierjeski to compile a list of employees who had worked in sustainability roles. The reporters started knocking on virtual doors: about 100 of them. They established that Nike’s reorganization had taken a heavy toll on the workforce whose efforts included reducing the company’s carbon footprint.

This time, Nike responded by granting an interview with its chief sustainability officer, the only interview the company has given for this project to date during more than a year of reporting. It lasted 17 minutes. She said the company remained committed to sustainability and described its strategy as “embedding” the work throughout the company.

We published stories laying out the departures and one other development that seemed to go against Nike’s declared intent to help the planet: increasing emissions from its private jets.

Yet something remained missing from our reporting. The former sustainability workers spoke English. Many were based in Oregon. They had online presences. Understanding working conditions in Nike’s factories called for gaining a closer vantage point on the company’s far-flung foreign supply chain.

Davis zeroed in on one specific claim from Nike. The company has said that the factories for which it has data pay their workers, on average, 1.9 times the local minimum wage. It provided no breakdown of factories included in the calculation, and it wasn’t clear how widely pay might vary from the average. So Davis started requesting paystubs for workers across the globe. We hoped that even scattered data would help us test Nike’s math.

Paystubs trickled in. A handful of workers from a factory in Central America. More from Indonesia. A smattering from Cambodia.

Then, a breakthrough.

Davis received an Excel spreadsheet in English and Khmer, the language most widely spoken in Cambodia. It was a payroll ledger for Y&W Garment, which made baby clothing for Nike from 2022 to 2023. Davis could see every employee’s job title, age, hiring date, gender and pay amounts.

This was one factory in a supply chain made up of hundreds, 3,720 workers out of more than 1.1 million that Nike’s suppliers employ globally. But it was a uniquely comprehensive window. Quick calculations showed that only a tiny share of Y&W’s workforce — just 1% — made 1.9 times the minimum wage, the amount that Nike said was typical.

While Nike says contract factory workers for whom it has data earn 1.9 times their local minimum wage, a Y&W Garment factory payroll ledger shows many workers earning a base pay of $204 a month, Cambodia’s minimum wage last year. Even including bonuses and incentives, more than three-quarters of the factory’s employees earned close to the minimum wage. (Obtained by ProPublica. Highlights and redactions by ProPublica.)

Davis connected with a bilingual freelance journalist in Phnom Penh, Keat Soriththeavy, who tracked down some of the workers named in the payroll ledger. Now we had factory sources on the ground. We had someone to help Davis translate what they had to say. And we had our spreadsheet. I told Davis to book a ticket for January.

On a Sunday morning, less than a day after his plane landed in Cambodia’s capital, Davis met a group of workers on their only day off. After introductions through our hired translator, Davis pulled an iPad out of his travel bag and passed it around, asking whether the details of the digital payroll ledger were accurate.

One by one, each worker studied the entry by their name. “Correct?” Davis asked. Pause for translation.

“Yes.”

Around the table they went: Correct. Yes. Correct.

While Davis interviewed a garment worker in her home outside Phnom Penh, her neighbor, Phan Oem, came by. She had worked at Y&W Garment since 2012, the year it opened, and was happy to answer questions. She said she worked as many as 76 hours per week and sometimes was forced to work overtime. (Rob Davis/ProPublica)

Davis spent the rest of his 12-day visit traveling by tuk-tuk — a tiny three-wheeled taxi named for its puttering engine — to meet workers in small villages around Phnom Penh. Cambodian garment workers are typically on the clock at least six days a week, leaving limited free time to spend with family or a visiting journalist. Yet with Keat’s help, Davis managed to talk with a total of 14, some willing to be identified by name. They told him the money they made in a 48-hour work week wasn’t enough to live on and that they needed overtime to make ends meet.

First image: Davis while stopped for lunch along a highway outside Phnom Penh. Second image: Davis’ business card sits inside a tuk-tuk. (First image: Keat Soriththeavy. Second image: Rob Davis/ProPublica)

When workers began telling Davis that people fainted in the hot factory and needed to be treated at its clinic, he messaged me to gauge my reaction. I asked: Could he find a doctor who treated them? Very quickly, Davis got a phone number for a clinic staffer willing to talk. The medical worker helped us quantify the scale of the problem, telling Davis as many as 15 people a month became too weak to work in the hot months of May and June. (As used in Cambodia, the term “fainted” can describe becoming too weak to work.)

ProPublica photojournalist Sarahbeth Maney followed on Davis’ trail a month later. She documented, with intimate portraiture, the home life of people from a factory where base pay started at about $1 per hour.

Sar Kunthea, who packaged clothing at Y&W Garment, said she commonly worked two Sundays a month on top of her regular hours but still had to borrow money from friends a few times a year to stay afloat. (Sarahbeth Maney/ProPublica)

Nike did not answer detailed questions from Davis about wages or faintings, instead issuing a written statement. The company said it is “committed to ethical and responsible manufacturing” and that it expects suppliers “to continue making progress on fair compensation for a regular work week.”

Representatives of Y&W Garment and its Hong Kong parent, Wing Luen Knitting Factory Ltd., did not respond to Davis’ emails, text messages or phone calls. Haddad Brands, which Y&W workers told Davis served as an intermediary for Nike at the Phnom Penh facility, didn’t respond to emails asking about conditions there.

As Davis was drafting his story, President Donald Trump’s plan to raise tariffs on goods manufactured overseas sent Nike’s stock prices tumbling. One declared goal was to reverse the economic forces that drove Nike and others to make their products in places like Cambodia and not the U.S. It seemed, honestly, like Nike’s track record in the region might be losing relevance.

But experts told Davis and Kish, our reporting partner at The Oregonian, quite the opposite. Rather than bring jobs home, brands might simply squeeze their foreign suppliers for greater productivity.

It made the issues that drove Davis from the beginning as pressing as they have ever been. Had Nike lived up to its promises in Southeast Asia?

At one Cambodian factory, Davis’ tenacity brought us a simple answer: No.

Street vendors sell goods in front of the former Y&W Garment factory in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. (Sarahbeth Maney/ProPublica)

by Hannah Allam

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up to receive our biggest stories as soon as they’re published.

When Thomas Fugate graduated from college last year with a degree in politics, he celebrated in a social media post about the exciting opportunities that lay beyond campus life in Texas. “Onward and upward!” he wrote, with an emoji of a rocket shooting into space.

His career blastoff came quickly. A year after graduation, the 22-year-old with no apparent national security expertise is now a Department of Homeland Security official overseeing the government’s main hub for terrorism prevention, including an $18 million grant program intended to help communities combat violent extremism.

The White House appointed Fugate, a former Trump campaign worker who interned at the hard-right Heritage Foundation, to a Homeland Security role that was expanded to include the Center for Prevention Programs and Partnerships. Known as CP3, the office has led nationwide efforts to prevent hate-fueled attacks, school shootings and other forms of targeted violence.

Fugate’s appointment is the latest shock for an office that has been decimated since President Donald Trump returned to the White House and began remaking national security to give it a laser focus on immigration.

News of the appointment has trickled out in recent weeks, raising alarm among counterterrorism researchers and nonprofit groups funded by CP3. Several said they turned to LinkedIn for intel on Fugate — an unknown in their field — and were stunned to see a photo of “a college kid” with a flag pin on his lapel posing with a sharply arched eyebrow. No threat prevention experience is listed in his employment history.

Fugate’s profile picture on LinkedIn (Via Fugate’s LinkedIn page)

Typically, people familiar with CP3 say, a candidate that green wouldn’t have gotten an interview for a junior position, much less be hired to run operations. According to LinkedIn, the bulk of Fugate’s leadership experience comes from having served as secretary general of a Model United Nations club.

“Maybe he’s a wunderkind. Maybe he’s Doogie Howser and has everything at 21 years old, or whatever he is, to lead the office. But that’s not likely the case,” said one counterterrorism researcher who has worked with CP3 officials for years. “It sounds like putting the intern in charge.”

In the past seven weeks, at least five high-profile targeted attacks have unfolded across the U.S., including a car bombing in California and the gunning down of two Israeli Embassy aides in Washington. Against this backdrop, current and former national security officials say, the Trump administration’s decision to shift counterterrorism resources to immigration and leave the violence-prevention portfolio to inexperienced appointees is “reckless.”

“We’re entering very dangerous territory,” one longtime U.S. counterterrorism official said.

The fate of CP3 is one example of the fallout from deep cuts that have eliminated public health and violence-prevention initiatives across federal agencies.

The once-bustling office of around 80 employees now has fewer than 20, former staffers say. Grant work stops, then restarts. One senior civil servant was reassigned to the Federal Emergency Management Agency via an email that arrived late on a Saturday.

The office’s mission has changed overnight, with a pivot away from focusing on domestic extremism, especially far-right movements. The “terrorism” category that framed the agency’s work for years was abruptly expanded to include drug cartels, part of what DHS staffers call an overarching message that border security is the only mission that matters. Meanwhile, the Trump administration has largely left terrorism prevention to the states.

ProPublica sent DHS a detailed list of questions about Fugate’s position, his lack of national security experience and the future of the department’s prevention work. A senior agency official replied with a statement saying only that Fugate’s CP3 duties were added to his role as an aide in an Immigration & Border Security office.

“Due to his success, he has been temporarily given additional leadership responsibilities in the Center for Prevention Programs and Partnerships office,” the official wrote in an email. “This is a credit to his work ethic and success on the job.”

ProPublica sought an interview with Fugate through DHS and the White House, but there was no response.

The Trump administration rejects claims of a retreat from terrorism prevention, noting partnerships with law enforcement agencies and swift investigations of recent attacks. “The notion that this single office is responsible for preventing terrorism is not only incorrect, it’s ignorant,” spokesperson Abigail Jackson wrote in an email.

Through intermediaries, ProPublica sought to speak with CP3 employees but received no reply. Talking is risky; tales abound of Homeland Security personnel undergoing lie-detector tests in leak investigations, as Secretary Kristi Noem pledged in March.

Accounts of Fugate’s arrival and the dismantling of CP3 come from current and former Homeland Security personnel, grant recipients and terrorism-prevention advocates who work closely with the office and have at times been confidants for distraught staffers. All spoke on condition of anonymity for fear of reprisal from the Trump administration.

In these circles, two main theories have emerged to explain Fugate’s unusual ascent. One is that the Trump administration rewarded a Gen Z campaign worker with a resume-boosting title that comes with little real power because the office is in shambles.

The other is that the White House installed Fugate to oversee a pivot away from traditional counterterrorism lanes and to steer resources toward MAGA-friendly sheriffs and border security projects before eventually shuttering operations. In this scenario, Fugate was described as “a minder” and “a babysitter.”

DHS did not address a ProPublica question about this characterization.

Rising MAGA Star

The CP3 homepage boasts about the office’s experts in disciplines including emergency management, counterterrorism, public health and social work.

Fugate brings a different qualification prized by the White House: loyalty to the president.

On Instagram, Fugate traced his political awakening to nine years ago, when as a 13-year-old “in a generation deprived of hope, opportunity, and happiness, I saw in one man the capacity for real and lasting change: Donald Trump.”

Fugate is a self-described “Trumplican” who interned for state lawmakers in Austin before graduating magna cum laude a year ago with a degree in politics and law from the University of Texas at San Antonio. Instagram photos and other public information from the past year chronicle his lightning-fast rise in Trump world.

Starting in May 2024, photos show a newly graduated Fugate at a Texas GOP gathering launching his first campaign, a bid for a delegate spot at the Republican National Convention in Milwaukee. He handed out gummy candy and a flier with a photo of him in a tuxedo at Trump’s Mar-a-Lago estate. Fugate won an alternate slot.

The next month, he was in Florida celebrating Trump’s 78th birthday with the Club 47 fan group in West Palm Beach. “I truly wish I could say more about what I’m doing, but more to come soon!” he wrote in a caption, with a smiley emoji in sunglasses.

Posts in the run-up to the election show Fugate spending several weeks in Washington, a time he called “surreal and invigorating.” In July, he attended the Republican convention, sporting the Texas delegation’s signature cowboy hat in photos with MAGA luminaries such as former Cabinet Secretary Ben Carson and then-Rep. Matt Gaetz (R-Fla.).

Fugate at the Republican National Convention (Via Fugate’s Instagram account)

By late summer, Fugate was posting from the campaign trail as part of Trump’s advance team, pictured at one stop standing behind the candidate in a crowd of young supporters. When Trump won the election, Fugate marked the moment with an emotional post about believing in him “from the very start, even to the scorn and contempt of my peers.”

“Working alongside a dedicated, driven group of folks, we faced every challenge head-on and, together, celebrated a victorious outcome,” Fugate wrote on Instagram.

In February, the White House appointed Fugate as a “special assistant” assigned to an immigration office at Homeland Security. He assumed leadership of CP3 last month to fill a vacancy left by previous Director Bill Braniff, an Army veteran with more than two decades of national security experience who resigned in March when the administration began cutting his staff.

In his final weeks as director, Braniff had publicly defended the office’s achievements, noting the dispersal of nearly $90 million since 2020 to help communities combat extremist violence. According to the office’s 2024 report to Congress, in recent years CP3 grant money was used in more than 1,100 efforts to identify violent extremism at the community level and interrupt the radicalization process.

“CP3 is the inheritor of the primary and founding mission of DHS — to prevent terrorism,” Braniff wrote on LinkedIn when he announced his resignation.

In conversations with colleagues, CP3 staffers have expressed shock at how little Fugate knows about the basics of his role and likened meetings with him to “career counseling.” DHS did not address questions about his level of experience.

One grant recipient called Fugate’s appointment “an insult” to Braniff and a setback in the move toward evidence-based approaches to terrorism prevention, a field still reckoning with post-9/11 work that was unscientific and stigmatizing to Muslims.

“They really started to shift the conversation and shift the public thinking. It was starting to get to the root of the problem,” the grantee said. “Now that’s all gone.”

Critics of Fugate’s appointment stress that their anger isn’t directed at an aspiring politico enjoying a whirlwind entry to Washington. The problem, they say, is the administration’s seemingly cavalier treatment of an office that was funding work on urgent national security concerns.

“The big story here is the undermining of democratic institutions,” a former Homeland Security official said. “Who’s going to volunteer to be the next civil servant if they think their supervisor is an apparatchik?”

Season of Attacks

Spring brought a burst of extremist violence, a trend analysts fear could extend into the summer given inflamed political tensions and the disarray of federal agencies tasked with monitoring threats.

In April, an arson attack targeted Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro, a Democrat, who blamed the breach on “security failures.” Four days later, a mass shooter stormed onto the Florida State University campus, killing two and wounding six others. The alleged attacker had espoused white supremacist views and used Hitler as a profile picture for a gaming account.

Attacks continued in May with the apparent car bombing of a fertility clinic in California. The suspected assailant, the only fatality, left a screed detailing violent beliefs against life and procreation. A few days later, on May 21, a gunman allegedly radicalized by the war in Gaza killed two Israeli Embassy aides outside a Jewish museum in Washington.

June opened with a firebombing attack in Colorado that wounded 12, including a Holocaust survivor, at a gathering calling for the release of Israeli hostages. The suspect’s charges include a federal hate crime.

If attacks continue at that pace, warn current and former national security officials, cracks will begin to appear in the nation’s pared-down counterterrorism sector.

“If you cut the staff and there are major attacks that lead to a reconsideration, you can’t scale up staff once they’re fired,” said the U.S. counterterrorism official, who opposes the administration’s shift away from prevention.

Contradictory signals are coming out of Homeland Security about the future of CP3 work, especially the grant program. Staffers have told partners in the advocacy world that Fugate plans to roll out another funding cycle soon. The CP3 website still touts the program as the only federal grant “solely dedicated to helping local communities develop and strengthen their capabilities” against terrorism and targeted violence.

But Homeland Security’s budget proposal to Congress for the next fiscal year suggests a bleaker future. The department recommended eliminating the threat-prevention grant program, explaining that it “does not align with DHS priorities.”

The former Homeland Security official said the decision “means that the department founded to prevent terrorism in the United States no longer prioritizes preventing terrorism in the United States.”

Kirsten Berg contributed research.

by J. David McSwane

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up to receive our biggest stories as soon as they’re published.

In February 2020, President Donald Trump’s first education secretary issued a memo to employees emphasizing the department’s policy “to ensure that diversity, inclusiveness, and respect are integral parts of our day-to-day management and work.”

“Diversity and inclusion are the cornerstone of high organizational performance,” Betsy DeVos continued, adding that all people were welcome in the Department of Education. The memo ended with a call for employees to “actively embrace” principles of diversity, equity and inclusion, or DEI.

As part of that push, Quay Crowner was among the top education officials who enrolled in the “diversity change agent program.” Crowner thought little of it at the time. She had over two decades filled director-level human resources roles at several federal agencies, including the IRS and Government Accountability Office, and she’d participated in seminars on leadership and workplace discrimination. But five years later, as Trump entered office a second time, his administration’s tune on DEI had changed. Crowner was abruptly placed on leave under Trump’s executive order to dismantle DEI programs across the federal government.

As a longtime manager familiar with federal hiring and firing policies, Crowner, 55, believed she knew what it looked like to be unfairly targeted. Her current job as the director of outreach, impact and engagement at the Education Department was not connected to diversity initiatives. She said the only part of her responsibilities that could have been considered DEI was that her team guided students who’d had trouble navigating financial assistance applications; while most people who seek federal student aid are from disadvantaged backgrounds, her office was a resource for any and all and had no diversity mandate. She was not involved with hiring and retention efforts.

More troubling, she said, was that she was the only person on her team who had been let go, and her bosses refused to answer her questions about her dismissal. When she and colleagues from different departments began comparing notes, they found they had one thing in common. They had all attended the training encouraged under DeVos. They also noticed something else: Most of them were Black women.

“We are still just in utter shock that the public service we took an oath to complete … has fallen apart,” said Crowner, whose bills related to an injury and health issues are likely to mount as she loses her federal health care coverage.

“We never imagined that this would be something that would happen to us.”

Her experience is part of a largely untold story unfolding as Trump dismantles civil rights and inclusion programs across government: Many of those being forced out, like Crowner, are Black women who spent decades building a career of government service, only to see those careers shattered in a sudden purge.

ProPublica interviewed Crowner and two other career civil servants, all Black women, who are among the hundreds of fired federal employees represented in a legal action brought against the Trump administration. Filed in March with the U.S. Merit Systems Protection Board by legal teams including the Washington branch of the American Civil Liberties Union, the case contends the administration violated the First Amendment rights of employees by targeting them for holding views perceived as contrary to the Trump 2.0 doctrine.

What has received less attention is the suit’s claim that the administration also violated Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. They claim the DEI purge disproportionately affected those who aren’t white men.

Hard numbers documenting the demographics of those forced out by Trump are hard to attain. The Trump administration has provided little information on those being fired, and a revolving door of firings and reinstatements in some departments makes capturing formal figures even more challenging.

But a broad assessment of Trump’s firings by ProPublica and other media shows the agencies with the most diverse staffs are often the hardest hit. Before the firings, the Education Department’s staff was majority nonwhite, with Black women making up about 28% of workers, the most recent federal data shows. According to a New York Times tracker of the firings, that department has seen a reduction of about 46% of its staff. The staff of the U.S. Agency for International Development was majority women and nearly 40% racial and ethnic minorities before Trump all but eliminated it.

Meanwhile, at the Department of Justice, where white personnel make up two-thirds of the workforce, most of it men, staff has been cut just 1%, according to the most recently available federal data and the Times tracker. The Department of Energy, more than 70% white, saw a reduction of about 13%.

Lawyers representing federal employees whose careers and families have been uprooted cite anecdotal evidence of disparate impact, a key ingredient in many successful civil rights claims.

“We have observed approximately 90% of the workers targeted for terminations due to a perceived association with diversity, equity and inclusion efforts are women or nonbinary,” said Kelly Dermody, one of the plaintiffs’ attorneys, who have asked an administrative law judge to approve class-action status for the fired employees.

Nearly 80% of potential case plaintiffs are nonwhite, she said; most of that cohort are Black women.

A spokesperson for the White House declined to comment. The Education Department did not respond to a request for comment.

Since reentering office, Trump has made clear his feelings about diversity programs, referring to them in an executive order as “Radical and Wasteful Government DEI Programs and Preferencing.”

Disparate Impact?

Ronicsa Chambers graduated from Florida A&M University, a historically black college, in 1990. Afterward, she got an MBA from Johns Hopkins University and landed a finance job with U.S. Airways, where she fell in love with aviation.

In 2005, she left the private sector to work in finance for the Federal Aviation Administration. She worked her way up the chain and, by 2019, helped create a program to address a lack of diversity in the agency by gaining the interest of graduates from historically black colleges and universities, or HBCUs.

In 2022, Chambers was named Air Traffic Manager of the Year. “I didn’t even know that non-air traffic controllers could get that award, and I was so proud,” she said. As titles in government do, hers changed in December 2024 as her team’s mission expanded to help FAA employees with issues such as providing accommodations so people with disabilities could do their jobs.

Then this January, she felt as though she’d been hit “in the face with a brick.” She was told on a video conference call that her FAA career was over. Though her work had involved DEI in the past, it was no longer in her title or her job description, and she said no one had asked her what her job entailed before she was removed.

She said she began moving through stages of grief but keeps coming back to anger because her team members — five Black women and one white man with a disability — were told they would be reassigned. She says they never were.

“As far as we know, we’re the only ones still on administrative leave,” she said, referring to those removed as part of Trump’s DEI executive order.

Ronicsa Chambers said she was told she and her team members would be reassigned after being let go from their jobs at the Federal Aviation Administration. They never were. (Schaun Champion for ProPublica)

It’s unclear if the FAA, whose workforce was largely spared due to recent airline safety concerns, has fired or even fired and rehired people in departments outside of Chambers’ team. A spokesperson for the FAA did not respond to requests for comment.

The FAA has long been criticized for its lack of diversity. According to the most recent federal data, the agency was composed of 57% white men compared with 4.4% Black women.

Scott Michelman, an ACLU of DC attorney working on the complaint against the Trump administration, said Chambers’ case underscores how mass firings aimed at people who had even a peripheral connection to a DEI program, past or present, “harms the American people.”

“It takes dedicated, experienced, award-winning civil servants out of their job, their expertise, the place where we as the public want them and need them so that our government works for us,” he said. “This is a lose-lose.”

Key to their case is the argument that minority workers were disparately impacted, a long-held civil rights theory at which Trump has taken direct aim. In April, Trump issued an executive order to broadly eliminate that doctrine from civil rights enforcement, one of many steps he’s taken to reverse the traditional role of the federal government in protecting individuals from issues such as housing and employment discrimination.

For instance, the Trump administration gutted the Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights, which was tasked with ensuring equal treatment for students regardless of gender and race, and instead focused that office at targeting transgender athletes and their schools.

Lawyers and former employees say focusing on people who may have had some DEI training or job duties would cause greater harm to nonwhite employees. And historically, the federal government has been a prominent force in upward mobility.

“For a segment of Black America, the federal government has been crucial to stepping up,” said Marcus Casey, an economist and associate professor at the University of Illinois Chicago. The opening of federal work following the Civil Rights Movement provided an alternative to manual labor, teaching or ministerial work in the form of white-collar jobs and skills training that many took into private sector jobs.

Today, Black people make up about 18.6% of the federal workforce, larger than their percentage in the overall U.S. workforce, 12.8%, according to the Pew Research Center.

“So, you think about HBCU graduates, like Howard University, a lot of these people tell us the same story: ‘This is where I started. This is where I got my first internship,’” Casey said.

Upward Mobility

Sherrell Pyatt’s family story is quintessentially American.

Her great-grandfather served in the Vietnam War and, on his return, took a job in the U.S. Postal Service, a key employer in the story of upward mobility for middle-class Black families. His granddaughter, Pyatt’s mother, also found a career at the Postal Service. So, even though she would attain more education than the previous three generations, it seemed fitting that eventually Pyatt would find herself at the Postal Service.

Pyatt grew up in the Bronx, New York City’s poorest borough, but tested well enough to attend a private school. She became the first of her family to get a degree, from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where she worked to pay tuition. She got a master’s degree and worked at a nonprofit before landing a job in 2014 with the Postal Service, shaping policy as a government relations specialist.

While at USPS, she coordinated with Customs and Border Protection to stop drug shipments through the mail. That experience, as well as her fluency in Spanish, led her to a similar role at Immigration and Customs Enforcement. While there, she was involved in immigrant removal operations as part of Trump’s first-term “zero tolerance” clampdown on border crossings. She next transferred to CBP, where she helped investigate deaths of migrants in federal custody and rampant racism in a Facebook group of Border Patrol agents.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, both of her parents fell ill, and she moved to an Atlanta suburb to care for them. To make the move work, she transitioned to a job at the Federal Emergency Management Agency, where she worked as a supply chain analyst, ensuring that equipment such as medical masks made their way to U.S. hospitals. In early 2024, she moved yet again, to the Department of Homeland Security’s Office for Civil Rights and Civil Liberties, which investigates allegations of rights abuses lodged by both immigrants and U.S. citizens.

Sherrell Pyatt had more than a decade’s worth of experience working for the federal government before her dismissal. (Rita Harper for ProPublica)

“My team was almost exclusively African Americans, and I think it’s just because of the experience of Black people in this country,” Pyatt said. “We seem to be more likely to go into those types of roles — one, because we have experience, and two, because of the passion to make a difference.”

In March, the Trump administration fired nearly all 150 employees in that office, including Pyatt. A DHS spokesperson did not respond to a request for comment about her firing.

“I think it was an easy target to get rid of people of color and people who fight for people of color,” Pyatt said. “It’s absolutely a way to attack people of color, people who are differently abled, people who don’t agree with what this administration is.”

Pyatt’s sudden loss of a career wrought instant consequences for her family. She was the primary breadwinner, but now her husband, who works for the Postal Service, provides the only income. They worry they won’t be able to make the mortgage payments on their home for the long run. Their three daughters, all middle school age, may no longer be able to attend their private Christian school or play softball.

Career federal employees like Pyatt are supposed to be able to petition for a transfer or receive preference in hiring at other agencies. Despite having worked for the federal government for more than a decade, at five agencies, including four Homeland Security posts, Pyatt says she’s faced nothing but silence.

“So it’s little things like that that this administration is doing that makes it really feel like they’re targeting people like me, people who love the country, come from a family that has served the country for generations, did what we were supposed to do,” Pyatt said through tears. “And it just doesn’t matter.”

by Matt Krupnick for ProPublica

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up to receive our biggest stories as soon as they’re published.

The Trump administration has proposed cutting funding for tribal colleges and universities by nearly 90%, a move that would likely shut down most or all of the institutions created to serve students disadvantaged by the nation’s historic mistreatment of Indigenous communities.

The proposal is included in the budget request from the Department of the Interior to Congress, which was released publicly on Monday. The document mentions only the two federally controlled tribal colleges — Haskell Indian Nations University and Southwestern Indian Polytechnic Institute — but notes the request for postsecondary programs will drop from more than $182 million this year to just over $22 million for 2026.

If Congress supports the administration’s proposal, it would devastate the nation’s 37 tribal colleges and universities, said Ahniwake Rose, president and CEO of the American Indian Higher Education Consortium, which represents the colleges in Washington, D.C.

“The numbers that are being proposed would close the tribal colleges,” Rose told ProPublica. “They would not be able to sustain.”

ProPublica found last year that Congress was underfunding tribal colleges by a quarter-billion dollars per year. The Bureau of Indian Education, tasked with requesting funding for the institutions, had never asked lawmakers to fully fund the institutions at the levels called for in the law, ProPublica found.

But rather than remedy the problem, the Trump administration’s budget would devastate the colleges, tribal education leaders said.

The Bureau of Indian Education, which administers federal funding for tribal colleges, and the Department of the Interior, the bureau’s parent agency, declined to answer questions.

Rose said she and other college leaders had not been warned of the proposed cuts nor consulted during the budgeting process. Federal officials had not reached out to the colleges by the end of the day Monday.

The proposal comes as the Trump administration has outlined a host of funding cuts related to the federal government’s trust and treaty obligations to tribes. The Coalition for Tribal Sovereignty said last month that the administration’s proposed discretionary spending for the benefit of Native Americans would fall to its lowest point in more than 15 years, which it viewed as “an effort to permanently impact trust and treaty obligations to Tribal Nations.”

Congress passed legislation in 1978 committing to fund the tribal college system and promising inflation-adjusted appropriations based on the number of students enrolled in federally recognized tribes. But those appropriations have consistently lagged far behind inflation.

The colleges have managed, despite the meager funds, to preserve Indigenous languages, conduct high-level research and train local residents in nursing, meat processing and other professions and trades. But with virtually no money available for infrastructure or construction, the schools have been forced to navigate broken water pipes, sewage leaks, crumbling roofs and other problems that have compounded the financial shortcomings.

Tribal college leaders said they were stunned by the proposed cuts to their already insufficient funding and had more questions than answers.

“I’m shivering in my boots,” said Manoj Patil, president of Little Priest Tribal College in Nebraska. “This would basically be a knife in the chest. It’s a dagger, and I don’t know how we can survive these types of cuts.”

Congress will have the final say on the budget, noted Rep. Teresa Leger Fernández, the ranking Democrat on the House Subcommittee on Indian and Insular Affairs, whose New Mexico district includes three tribal colleges. Tribal colleges “are lifelines in Indian Country,” Leger Fernández said in a statement. “They provide higher education rooted in language, culture and community. These cuts would rob Native students of opportunity and violate our trust responsibilities.”

Other members of the House and Senate Indian Affairs committees did not immediately respond to questions from ProPublica. The White House also did not respond to a request for more information.

Monday’s budget release was the latest in a string of bad financial news for tribal colleges since President Donald Trump began his second term. The administration suspended Department of Agriculture grants that funded scholarships and research, and tribal college presidents spent the past week trying to fend off deep cuts to the Pell Grant program for low-income students. The vast majority of tribal college students rely on Pell funding to attend school.

Tribal colleges contend their funding is protected by treaties and the federal trust responsibility, a legal obligation requiring the United States to protect Indigenous education, resources, rights and assets. And they note that the institutions are economic engines in some of North America’s poorest areas, providing jobs, training and social services in often remote locations.

“It doesn’t make sense for them to (approve the cuts) when they’re relying on us to train the workforce,” said Dawn Frank, president of Oglala Lakota College in South Dakota. “We’re really relying on our senators and representatives to live up to their treaty and trust obligation.”

But others noted they have spent years meeting with federal representatives to emphasize the importance of tribal colleges to their communities and have been disappointed by the chronic underfunding.

“It is a bit disheartening to feel like our voice is not being heard,” said Chris Caldwell, president of College of Menominee Nation in Wisconsin. “They don’t hear our message.”

by Alec MacGillis

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up to receive our biggest stories as soon as they’re published.

It’s a tough time for the rank-and-file tech worker or computer science graduate looking for a job. The Silicon Valley giants have laid off tens of thousands in the past couple years. The longstanding threat of offshoring persists, while the new threat of AI looms.

There is seemingly one reason for hope, which you won’t find in popular hiring websites like Indeed.com or ZipRecruiter. It’s exclusively in the help-wanted classifieds in printed newspapers. Every Sunday, metropolitan newspapers across the country are full of listings for tech jobs, with posted salaries sometimes exceeding $150,000. If you’ve got tech skills, it seems, employers are crying out for you, week after week.

One day this spring, I decided to test this premise. I set out with the classified pages from the most recent Sunday edition of The Washington Post, which were laden with tech job offerings in the suburbs of Northern Virginia and Montgomery County, Maryland.

First, I drove to the address given for one of the employers, Sapphire Software Solutions, whose ad said it was looking for someone to “gather and analyze data and business requirements to facilitate various scrum ceremonies for multiple business systems and processes.” I arrived at an office building in Ashburn, Virginia, near Dulles International Airport. But the receptionist in the appointed suite looked confused when I asked for Sapphire.

“This is virtual office,” she said, in a heavy Eastern European accent. “We have many kinds of virtual offices.” She gestured at a long filing-cabinet drawer that was open behind her, full of folders. “You must mail to them.”

From there, I drove 2 miles to another company advertising for help, Optimum Systems, whose address turned out to be an office park full of dental practices. But the office door said nothing about Optimum, instead carrying a sign for an accountant and a different tech firm. It was dark and empty.

And from there, I drove 6 miles to a company called Softrams, which was advertising for a “Full Stack Developer.” I walked into an office in a building that also housed a driving school. The reception area was empty. I called hello, and a woman appeared. I told her I was a reporter wanting to learn more about the listing. She was surprised and asked if she could read the ad in my hand. “I’ll check with the team and get back to you,” she said.

A few days later, after similarly mysterious visits to other offices, I reached the woman, Praveena Divi, on the phone. “This ad is for a PERM filing,” she said. “A filing for a green card.”

To anybody familiar with the PERM system, those words meant the ad was not really intended to find applicants. I had entered one of the most overlooked yet consequential corners of the United States immigration system: the process by which employers sponsor tech workers with temporary H-1B visas as a first step to getting them the green card that entitles them to permanent residency in the U.S. It is a process that nearly everyone involved admits is nonsensical, highly vulnerable to abuse, as well as a contributor to inequities among domestic and foreign tech workers.

Yet the system has endured for decades, largely out of public view. There is occasional debate over the roughly 120,000 workers from overseas who are awarded H-1B visas every year for temporary high-skilled employment. Last December, a tiff erupted between billionaire entrepreneurs Elon Musk and Vivek Ramaswamy, on the one side, and MAGA champions including Steve Bannon, over the formers’ claims that H-1B workers are needed because the homegrown tech workforce is inadequate. But almost as quickly as it started, the spat vanished from the news.

There is even less attention given to what happens with these foreign workers — three quarters of whom are now from India — when many decide they want to stay beyond the six-year maximum allowed for an H-1B recipient (a three-year term can be renewed once). To qualify for a green card, workers must get their employers to sponsor them via the Permanent Labor Certification process, aka PERM. And to do that, employers must demonstrate that they made a sincere effort to find someone else — a U.S. citizen or permanent resident — to do the job instead.

What’s striking about this requirement is that, as a result of choices made by legislators 35 years ago, the effort to find a citizen is not expected at the front end, when employers are considering hiring workers from abroad. At that point, employers simply enter the lottery for H-1Bs, and if they get one, they can use it.

Only once a company has employed someone for five or six years and become committed to helping that person stay in the country permanently must the company show that it is trying to find someone else. It’s no surprise that the efforts at this point can be less than sincere.

This is where the newspaper ads come in. Under U.S. Department of Labor rules dating back to the era before the worldwide web, employers must post the job for which PERM certification is being sought for 30 days with a state workforce agency and in two successive Sunday newspapers in the job’s location.

This makes for a highly ironic juxtaposition: pages of print ads paid for by tech employers, many of them the same Silicon Valley giants that have helped eviscerate newspaper classifieds and drive down print newspaper circulation to the point that it can be hard even to find a place to buy a paper in many communities.

These columns of ads that are not really looking for applicants underscore the challenges facing American tech workers and the striking disparities in the current immigration landscape. While restaurants, meatpackers and countless other businesses now risk having workers targeted by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, tech employers have largely escaped Trump administration scrutiny for their use of foreign labor. Among the companies sponsoring many H-1B employees for green cards every year are ones aligned with President Donald Trump, such as Oracle, Palantir and Musk’s Tesla.

But the PERM system also takes a toll on its supposed beneficiaries, the temporary employees seeking permanent residency. Even after their PERM applications are approved, they must typically wait more than 10 years before getting a green card, a long wait even by the standards of the U.S. immigration system. In the interim, it can be hard for them to leave their sponsoring employers, which exposes them to overwork at jobs that often pay less than what their American counterparts receive.

Whichever way you look at it, said Ronil Hira, a Howard University political science professor and research associate at the Economic Policy institute, the PERM process is crying out for reform. As he put it, “Everyone in the industry knows it’s a joke.”

Divi, the manager at Softrams, was quite forthcoming about how PERM works at the 450-person company, whose largest client is the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services and which was bought last year by another company, Tria. She told me that Softrams had 69 employees on H-1B visas, had never hired another applicant during the PERM process and had received zero applicants from the latest ads.

I had a much harder time getting through to Sapphire Software Solutions, the company with the mail-drop in Ashburn, whose website states that it’s “a leading provider of IT staffing solutions and services since 2011” and that it also has offices in the Northern California town of Dublin, plus Hyderabad, India. The company’s phone directory offers options for, among others, “recruiting” and “immigration.” When I chose the latter, I reached a man who sounded surprised by the call and said, “Give me some time.” I never heard back from him, so I called back days later and pushed the option for “recruiting.” This time, the person who answered hung up on me. Finally, I picked the option for human resources and reached a woman who told me to send an email. I did, and never heard back.

Fortunately, one can learn a lot about the PERM process from Department of Labor records, which list all of the roughly 90,000 PERM applications submitted every year. The 2024 list shows Sapphire with 51 applications — a striking number for a company that gives its size as 252 employees. The jobs include computer systems analysts offered $96,158, software developers offered $100,240 and web developers offered $128,731. All of the applications were approved by the government, as is true of virtually all applications under the PERM process.

The federal listings don’t list the names of the employees whom the companies are sponsoring for PERM certification, but they do show their nationalities and where they received their degrees. All but one of Sapphire’s 51 were from India; their degrees came from a mix of American institutions (among them the University of South Florida and University of Michigan-Flint) and Indian ones (among them Visvesvaraya Technological University and Periyar University.)

All of the Sapphire applications were advertised in The Washington Post. And all list the same immigration attorney, Soo Park in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I called and asked her about the company’s applications. Sapphire, she said, is “just one of the companies I do.” I inquired about the PERM process, and she demurred, telling me to ask AI instead.

I encountered similar resistance and intrigue when I made the rounds in a different metro area with a burgeoning tech sector: Columbus, Ohio. Here also, several of the job listings in The Columbus Dispatch led to empty or abandoned offices or to buildings that were mail-drops for dozens of companies.

When I sought out Vizion Technologies, which had listed three jobs, I found a single-story office park in Dublin, a suburb of Columbus. Vizion’s office, adjacent to that of a cleaning company, was empty, save for a Keurig machine and some magazines. I called the company’s number and asked the man who answered about the listings. “This is a PERM ad,” he said freely. But, he said, he would consider other applicants. Had any come across the transom? I asked. No, he said. “But you never know.”

After an unilluminating visit to another company, I headed to EDI-Matrix, which had advertised for software programmers. At the company’s small office, I met John Sheppard, a manager. He said the owner, Shafiullah Syed, was for the time being in India, where a quarter of the company’s 40 employees were based, and where 20 of the Ohio-based staff was from. The company, founded in 2008, provides tech support for state government and private-sector clients.

Were the ads in the Dispatch for PERM applicants? I asked. “Probably,” Sheppard said. “Our owner is a big believer in trying to find ways to help people.”

The story of how the PERM system — the full name is Program Electronic Review Management — came to be is a decadeslong tale of, depending on your perspective, misguided assumptions or self-interested machinations. Since the middle of the 20th century, temporary guest-worker programs had been on a separate track from employment-based permanent residency programs. It was difficult for guest workers to apply for permanent residency, a process that had long required employers to prove that they couldn’t find an American worker for the role.

But those separate tracks converged with the 1990 Immigration Act. Bruce Morrison, who helped draft the law as a Connecticut Democrat serving as chair of the House Subcommittee on Immigration and Citizenship, told me that the law’s goal was to constrict the use of temporary labor from abroad.

Previously, employers had been able to hire unlimited numbers of temporary skilled workers under vague language about “distinguished merit and ability.” The 1990 law created a new H-1B category that required a bachelor’s degree, established a cap of 65,000 visas per year and set a minimum wage level. Still, it spared employers from having to prove they couldn’t find U.S. workers for the job in question, on the logic that these were just temps filling a short-term role.

The hope, Morrison said, was to encourage employers to bring in skilled workers via the permanent residency pathway, on the theory that immigrants with green cards would, by being on stronger footing, be less likely to undercut wages for Americans than guest workers did.

Things worked out much differently. The law passed on the cusp of the Internet era as the job market was pushing toward shorter-term employment, especially in the tech world. A rapidly growing middle class in Asia was producing millions of tech workers eager to work in the U.S., especially English-speaking Indians.

And, crucially, the law allowed H-1B holders to apply for permanent residency.

Within just a few years, three-quarters of those applying for employer-based permanent residency were people who were already working for the employer in question, mostly on H-1Bs. Thus was created the backward situation of employers having to prove that they were looking for qualified applicants for a role that they had already filled with the person they were sponsoring. Their recruitment efforts were “perfunctory at best and a sham at worst,” wrote the Department of Labor’s office of inspector general in a scathing 1996 report.

The report found that there had been more than 136,000 applicants for 18,011 PERM openings that it examined, but that only 104 people were hired via advertisements — less than 1% — and those hirings were almost accidental. (The companies kept the foreign workers they were sponsoring, but came across a tiny smattering of qualified Americans, whom they also hired.) “The system is seriously flawed,” the report stated. “The programs are being manipulated and abused.”

In the years that followed, the demand for H-1B visas surged, due partly to the demand for Indian tech workers to assist with the Y2K threat and to the tech-bubble burst prompting companies to seek lower-wage workers. Under pressure from the tech industry, the government raised the cap for several years, as high as 195,000 visas annually, between 2001 and 2003.

This exacerbated a bottleneck already in the making: Tens of thousands of H-1B holders, many from India, were now seeking permanent residency as their visas neared expiration, but under the law, no single nationality could receive more than 7% of the 140,000 employment-based green cards awarded in a given year. Workers who had been approved for permanent residency could remain on extended H-1Bs while they waited for their green card, but this was an unstable limbo that further swelled the ranks of H-1Bs.

In 2005, the Department of Labor tried to address at least one part of the pipeline, the delays in approving employees for permanent residency. It introduced the new PERM process, which allowed employers simply to attest that the position in question was open to U.S. workers, that any who applied were rejected for job-related reasons and that the offered pay was at least the prevailing wage for that role. Employers also had to submit a report describing the recruitment steps taken and the number of U.S. applicants rejected. It was at this point that the print advertising requirement was clarified as two successive Sunday newspapers.

It became quickly apparent how easy it was for employers to game the system. Many advertised completely different positions in the newspaper ads compared to their own websites. Some directed applicants to send resumes to the company’s immigration lawyers rather than to human resources.

A viral video captured the absurdity. At a 2007 panel discussion, an immigration lawyer, Lawrence Lebowitz, laid out the mission in startlingly candid terms: “Our goal here of course is to meet the requirements, No. 1, but also do so as inexpensively as possible, keeping in mind our goal. And our goal is clearly not to find a qualified and interested U.S. worker. In a sense, that sounds funny, but it’s what we’re trying to do here.”

The video caused a flurry of outrage, yet the system has survived to this day, largely unchanged, protected by congressional dysfunction and the interests that are served by the status quo, the tech industry and the immigration law bar.

Advocacy groups representing American tech workers have attacked the system repeatedly, challenging the notion that H-1Bs are bringing in the world’s “best and brightest” by pointing out that the program makes no attempt to identify exceptional talent beyond requiring a bachelor’s degree, relying instead on a lottery to award the visas. The real appeal of H-1Bs for employers, worker advocates say, is that they can pay their holders an average of 10% to 20% less, as several studies have found to be the case, which has helped suppress tech wages more broadly.

Yet the advocacy groups have struggled to mobilize sustained opposition. There was talk during the Obama administration of reforming PERM, but it fizzled amid the failure of broader immigration reform during his second term.

In 2020, the Department of Labor’s inspector general issued another critical report, calling attention to PERM’s vulnerability to abuse. It noted that when the department did full audit reviews of applications, which it did for 16% of them, it wound up rejecting a fifth of them, far more than the mere 3% that were rejected during the standard review. That suggested that many faulty applications were slipping through. “The PERM program relentlessly has employers not complying with the qualifying criteria,” it concluded.

As for the newspaper ad requirement, the report noted with understatement, “Available data indicates newspapers are becoming a less effective means of notifying potential applicants in the U.S. about job opportunities. … U.S. workers are likely to be unaware of these employment opportunities due to the obsolete methods required.”

Since that report, there have been two notable bids for accountability. In December 2020, the Department of Justice filed suit against Facebook, alleging that the company was discriminating against U.S. citizens by routinely reserving jobs for PERM applicants. In a settlement nearly a year later, Facebook, which had denied any discrimination, agreed to pay a civil penalty of $4.75 million, pay up to $9.5 million to eligible victims of the alleged discrimination and conduct more expansive recruitment for slots in PERM applications.

In 2023, the DOJ announced a similar settlement with Apple, which also denied any discriminatory behavior but agreed to pay up to $25 million in back pay and civil penalties, conduct more expansive recruitment, train employees in anti-discrimination requirements and submit to DOJ monitoring for three years.

And yet, the PERM process carries on, with its own ecosystem. One firm, Atlas Advertising, offers the specific service of advertising jobs intended for PERM applicants. “Expertly place your immigration ads in leading newspapers, ensuring compliance and targeted reach for PERM certification,” Atlas urges potential customers.

I searched in vain for defenders of the process — major tech lobby groups either declined to comment or didn’t return my calls. Theresa Cardinal Brown has lobbied on immigration policy for the U.S. Chamber of Commerce and American Immigration Lawyers Association, but she, too, was critical of PERM. “Even if you are trying to sponsor someone who is already on the job, you have to act as if you aren’t,” she said. “Increasingly, this jury-rigged system isn’t working for anyone.”

Among those now decrying the system the most sharply is Morrison, the former Democratic congressman who helped write the 1990 law. In 2017, he told “60 Minutes” that H-1B “has been hijacked as the main highway to bring people from abroad and displace Americans.”

Morrison, who is now a lobbyist, was even more outspoken when I talked with him. He noted the H-1B caps have grown in recent years. The 65,000 cap laid out in 1990 no longer includes the thousands renewed every year, and there are an additional 20,000 visas for people with graduate degrees and 35,000-odd exemptions for universities, nonprofits and research organizations. This adds up to about 120,000 new H-1Bs per year. Meanwhile, the per-country cap for employer-based green cards last year was 11,200. The backlog of workers and family members awaiting green cards, mostly Indians, has swelled to more than 1 million, creating a vast army of what Morrison and others call “indentured” workers who are at the mercy of their employers.

“It’s fair to say that no American has ever gotten a job due to the certification system,” Morrison said. “It doesn’t do what it should do.”

One day, after many more hang-ups on calls to Sapphire Software Solutions, the company with the mail-drop in Ashburn and 51 PERM applications on last year’s Department of Labor list, I finally reached one of their managers, Phani Reddy Gottimukkala.

I asked him whether the company had gotten any responses to its recent ads in The Washington Post. “That will be taken care of by the immigration department,” he said. More broadly, he said the PERM process was working well for the company. “Everything is fine because we have very strong attorneys working for us.”

Doris Burke contributed research.

by Paige Pfleger, WPLN/Nashville Public Radio

This article was produced by WPLN/Nashville Public Radio, a 2023 ProPublica Local Reporting Network partner. Sign up for Dispatches to get our stories in your inbox every week.

Richard L. Bean, the longtime superintendent of the East Tennessee juvenile detention center that bears his name, abruptly announced Friday that he will be stepping down. His decision to retire came the day after the Knox County mayor said he had lost confidence in Bean’s leadership.

Bean, 84, has been superintendent of the juvenile detention center since 1972. A 2023 investigation from WPLN and ProPublica found the facility was using solitary confinement more than other detention centers in the state. Sometimes the children were locked up alone for hours or days at a time. That kind of confinement was also used as punishment, in violation of state law.

At the time, Bean broadly defended the practices at the facility, saying he wished he had more punitive abilities and that people who pushed back didn’t understand what was necessary.

After the story ran, the head of the detention center’s governing board told local TV station WBIR that he thought the Bean center was “the best facility in the state of Tennessee.”

Renewed scrutiny on the detention center began last week when Bean dismissed two employees, including the facility’s only nurse. The nurse’s termination was first reported by Knox News, and the mayor described her dismissal as “retaliation” because she had reported to state investigators significant issues with medical care at the facility, which she said went unchecked and unaddressed by Bean.

On Wednesday, Knox County Mayor Glenn Jacobs and juvenile court Judge Tim Irwin wrote a letter to Bean demanding he reinstate both employees. Irwin is a nonvoting member of the center’s governing board of trustees but selects one of its three voting members.

“These dismissals may well lead to lawsuits against you and the county,” the letter reads, “which could cost the taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

The following day, Jacobs wrote a letter to the governor calling for immediate state intervention and detailing issues with medication in the facility going missing, errors with medication reporting and “even medication going to the wrong detainees.”

In a public video statement, Jacobs said he had “no confidence that these issues will be addressed with the center’s current leadership or the governing board that oversees the Bean juvenile detention center.” He called for the Knox County Sheriff’s Office to take over operation of the center but said he has limited power to intervene.

By Friday, Bean announced that he would leave his post as superintendent in two months after he gets the facility “shipshape,” according to a press release. He did not respond to requests for comment but said in the press release that his last day will be Aug. 1.

During WPLN and ProPublica’s investigation of the Bean center, documents revealed that state officials repeatedly had put the Bean center on corrective action plans and had documented its improper use of seclusion yet continued to approve the center’s license to operate without the facility changing its ways.

“What we do is treat everybody like they’re in here for murder,” Bean told WPLN during a 2023 visit to the facility. “You don’t have a problem if you do that.” Most of the children in the Bean center are not in for murder and instead are awaiting court dates after being charged with a crime.

When asked if he was worried he might get in trouble for the way he was running the facility, Bean said, “If I got in trouble for it, I believe I could talk to whoever got me in trouble and get out of it.”

by Max Blau

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up to receive our biggest stories as soon as they’re published.

The mother of an Arizona man who died after being unable to find mental health treatment is suing his health insurer, saying it broke the law by publishing false information that misled its customers.

Ravi Coutinho, a 36-year-old entrepreneur, bought insurance from Ambetter, the most popular plan on HealthCare.gov, because it seemed to offer plenty of mental health and addiction treatment options near his home in Phoenix. But after struggling for months in early 2023 to find in-network care covered by his plan, he wasn’t able to find a therapist. In May 2023, after 21 calls with the insurer without getting the treatment he sought, he was found dead in his apartment. His death was ruled an accident, likely due to complications from excessive drinking.

Coutinho was the subject of a September 2024 investigation by ProPublica that showed how he was trapped in what’s commonly known as a “ghost network.” Many of the mental health providers that Ambetter listed as accepting its insurance were not actually able to see him. ProPublica’s investigation also revealed how customer service representatives and care managers repeatedly failed to connect Coutinho to the care he needed after he and his mother asked for help. The story was part of a yearlong series, “America’s Mental Barrier,” that investigated the ways insurers employed practices that interfered with their customers’ ability to access mental health care.

The lawsuit, filed on May 23 in Maricopa County by Coutinho’s mother, Barbara Webber, accused the insurer Centene, along with the subsidiary that oversaw her son’s plan, Health Net of Arizona, of publishing an “inaccurate and misleading” provider directory. The suit also accused the companies of breaking state and federal laws, including ones that require directories to be kept accurate.

The errors in the Ambetter directory gave Coutinho a false impression about the kinds of mental health care that were actually available, the lawsuit said. According to the lawsuit, the failure to correct those errors concealed the fact that Centene companies had provided insufficient services through the Ambetter plan.

The lawsuit draws upon the findings of ProPublica’s investigation, summarizing Coutinho’s repeated attempts to find a therapist in Ambetter’s network and to get Centene representatives to connect him with a mental health provider that he could actually see.

The lawsuit also describes how Arizona insurance regulators had previously informed Health Net of Arizona that it had failed to maintain accurate provider directories. Health Net of Arizona promised to correct the errors. Regulators did not fine the insurer and declined to answer ProPublica’s questions about whether the Centene subsidiary addressed their concerns.

Centene and Health Net of Arizona didn’t respond to multiple requests for comment on the lawsuit. ProPublica previously reached out to Centene and Health Net of Arizona more than two dozen times and sent them both a detailed list of questions. None of their media representatives responded.

One of the 25 largest companies in America, Centene and its subsidiaries have been accused in past lawsuits of purposefully misrepresenting the number of in-network providers by publishing inaccurate directories. Centene lawyers have previously denied such claims in two of the bigger cases, in Illinois and California. Both cases are ongoing.

The top trade group for the industry, AHIP, has told lawmakers that companies contact in-network providers to ensure the listings are accurate. AHIP also stated that the companies could correct inaccuracies faster if providers did a better job updating their listings. Providers have told ProPublica, however, that insurers don’t always remove their names from insurer lists when they officially request to leave their networks.

Mel C. Orchard III, a partner with The Spence Law Firm who is representing Webber, told ProPublica that he intended to bring the case before a jury to hold Centene accountable for negligence and consumer fraud. The lawsuit does not state a specified amount that Webber is seeking in damages.

“Ravi is an example of the abject failure of the insurance industry to do what it’s supposed to do — and that is to insure us in times when we need them the most,” Orchard told ProPublica. “Instead they prey upon our vulnerabilities; that is what happened in this case.”

Watch a live performance of Max Blau’s investigation of Ravi Coutinho’s death, performed by actors Oscar Isaac, Kathryn Erbe and Bill Camp, produced by Theater of War Productions and presented by WNYC.

by Ginny Monk and Dave Altimari, The Connecticut Mirror

This article was produced for ProPublica’s Local Reporting Network in partnership with The Connecticut Mirror. Sign up for Dispatches to get our stories in your inbox every week.

The Connecticut Senate on Friday overwhelmingly passed the most significant reform to the state’s towing policies in decades, a measure lawmakers said would help protect drivers from predatory towing.

House Bill 7162 overhauls the state’s century-old towing statutes and comes in response to an investigation by the Connecticut Mirror and ProPublica that showed how state towing laws have come to favor tow companies at the expense of drivers. It takes several steps to make it harder to tow vehicles from private property and easier for drivers to retrieve their vehicles after a tow.

The bill, which passed the House of Representatives last week with wide bipartisan support and little debate, sailed through the Senate on a 33-3 vote.

“It’s reform that ensures transparency, it ensures fairness and accountability, but does all of this without undercutting the essential work that ethical and professional tow operators do each and every day for us, keeping our roads safe and our properties accessible,” said Transportation Committee Co-chair Sen. Christine Cohen, D-Guilford. “We’ve learned over the years, and particularly over the last year due to some investigative reporting, of some particularly egregious circumstances.”

A spokesperson for Gov. Ned Lamont said the governor plans to sign the bill into law.

Republican Sen. Tony Hwang, ranking member of the Transportation Committee, also spoke in favor of the bill. The bill got about a half hour of debate ahead of passage, and there were no comments in opposition.

Hwang, who represents Fairfield, said the bill strikes the right balance between the interests of towers and consumers.

“I want to acknowledge that our press had an important part to bring out transparency and some of the bad actions, and I think in this bill we address some of those issues,” Hwang said. “We took measures to ensure that there is due process, and what has been discovered to have occurred in a criminal action, I believe, should never, ever happen again, to undermine the trust that we have to have in this process.”

Connecticut’s law allows tow companies to begin the process to sell vehicles after just 15 days. CT Mirror and ProPublica found that it is one of the shortest windows in the nation, and that the law has particularly impacted people with low incomes. Reporters spoke with people who said towing companies required them to pay in cash or wouldn’t allow them to get personal belongings out of their vehicles. Many couldn’t afford to get their towed vehicles back and lost transportation or jobs because of it.

After weeks of negotiations, lawmakers said they came to a compromise with the towing industry. Two bills were merged to include massive reforms to towing procedures from private property and rate increases for highway tows that typically follow car accidents.

The bill that passed and would take effect Oct. 1 requires tow companies to accept credit cards and doesn’t allow them to tow vehicles immediately just because of an expired parking permit or registration. Vehicles can’t be towed from private property without notice unless they’re blocking traffic, fire hydrants or parked in an accessible spot.

Under the bill, towing companies can still start the sales process for vehicles worth $1,500 or less after 15 days, but they would now have to take more steps to give the owner a chance to claim the vehicle. The Department of Motor Vehicles would be required to check whether the driver filed any complaints about the tow before approving the sale, and the tower would have to send a notice ahead of the sale to the registered owner and lienholders via certified mail, with receipts of delivery.

The actual sale couldn’t go through until 30 days after the tow.

The bill also requires that towers take at least two photos before they tow a vehicle — one of the violation that resulted in a tow and another of any damage to the vehicle. Cohen said this would help determine if vehicles had any missing parts before the tow, a seeming nod to the news organizations’ story about a DMV employee who the agency’s investigators found schemed with a towing company to undervalue vehicles and sell them for thousands in profit. (The employee denied he did anything wrong, and the agency ultimately took no action in that case.)

The bill also establishes a working group to study how to handle proceeds from the sales of towed vehicles. State law requires that towing companies hold profits in escrow for a year in case the vehicle owner claims them, then remit that money to the state. But CT Mirror and ProPublica found the DMV never set up a system for that process to occur.

Additionally, it calls for the DMV to work with the state’s attorney general to develop a consumer bill of rights on towing.

Tow companies have to be available after hours and on weekends to allow people to get their vehicles or personal property. In a story published this month, CT Mirror and ProPublica reported that tow truck companies sometimes hold onto people’s belongings to pressure them into paying their towing fees.

Under the new law, drivers will be allowed to retrieve their belongings from their vehicles, even if they haven’t paid the towing fees. State regulations currently allow vehicle owners to retrieve only “personal property which is essential to the health or welfare of any person.”

Cohen listed many of the issues outlined in the news outlets’ reporting as “some of the worst abuses of predatory towing practices.”

Timothy Vibert, president of Towing and Recovery Professionals of Connecticut, said the industry initially opposed the bill because towers believed it would impede their ability to tow cars and clear traffic. He also said towers weren’t involved enough in the original draft. But they worked with lawmakers on the bill over several weeks, and he issued a statement in support this week.

“The people of Connecticut deserve safety, accountability and transparency when their cars are towed, and so do the people who work for Connecticut’s towing companies who risk our lives every day to make our roads safe,” Vibert said. “We all need clear, easy-to-follow rules.”

DMV Commissioner Tony Guerrera commended the House and Senate.

“The DMV fully supports this initiative, as it not only enhances the framework for fair and equitable enforcement of towing laws but also provides a clear path forward for our agency to advance these efforts,” Guerrera said in a statement.

Cohen said that the bill aims to “fix a broken process,” and that lawmakers had worked on some aspects of it for years before the bill passed.

News of the bill’s passage brought relief to Melissa Anderson, who was featured in a CT Mirror and ProPublica story after her car was towed and sold from her Hamden apartment because of an expired parking permit.

The bill requires a 72-hour grace period before a car can be towed for an expired parking sticker to allow people time to get a new one.

“I’m glad we made a difference,” Anderson said. “This is going to help a lot of people.”

The bill next heads to Lamont’s desk.

“The Governor appreciates all the work that went into this legislation, which provides greater protections for the public and their vehicles,” Lamont’s spokesperson, Rob Blanchard, said in a text message. “He plans on signing the legislation once it reaches his desk.”

by Anjeanette Damon and Mollie Simon

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up to receive our biggest stories as soon as they’re published.

The former operator of one of the largest HomeVestors of America franchises has agreed to plead guilty to federal wire fraud in connection with a sprawling Ponzi scheme targeting people who believed they were investing in his real estate empire.

Federal prosecutors in Texas identified 80 victims defrauded of nearly $40 million by Charles Carrier since 2018. Though Carrier agreed to plead guilty to only one count of felony wire fraud involving one $200,000 transfer, he admitted to the broader scheme as part of the deal and agreed to pay restitution — the amount of which has yet to be determined.

The charge also carries a maximum 20-year prison sentence and the possibility of millions of dollars in fines. A federal judge will decide the sentence.

Carrier owned Dallas-based C&C Residential Properties, one of the most successful franchises in the HomeVestors chain, which is known for its “We Buy Ugly Houses” slogan. HomeVestors terminated Carrier’s franchise in October 2024, after receiving a tip that he had been defrauding investors. It has since sued him for infringing on the company’s assiduously protected trademark. Carrier has not yet responded to the lawsuit.

In a story published this month, ProPublica detailed how Carrier bilked millions of dollars from scores of investors across Texas, including both wealthy businesspeople and older adults of more modest means who depended on the investment income for daily expenses. According to new court documents, losses to individual investors range from $35,000 to $11.6 million. The plea agreement was filed in court two weeks after the article was published.

Carrier took loans from investors to finance his house-flipping business, initially using the money to buy and renovate older houses to sell for a profit. Carrier promised each loan would be secured by an ownership interest in a house and that he would pay 8%-10% interest in monthly installments over the course of the loan.

For many years, investors received reliable monthly payments. In 2018, however, Carrier started taking out multiple loans on individual properties, sometimes providing investors with deeds he never recorded and racking up debt far beyond the value of the houses, according to court documents. Carrier also admitted to forging signatures and notary stamps so he could sell properties without notifying the investors or paying off their notes, according to court documents. Carrier admitted to using investor money to “pay personal credit card balances, business operating expenses and interest obligations to earlier investors,” according to court documents.

The fact that Carrier’s plea deal contains only a single charge left some victims even more angry.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Ron Carver, who lost $300,000 and whose father lost $200,000 before he died. “They will let him plead out and he might get a slap on the wrist.”

A spokesperson for the U.S. attorney’s office said they can’t comment on a pending case.

Carrier’s lawyer, Tom Pappas, said it wasn’t Carrier’s “intention to defraud anybody of their money.”

“Pretty much all of his money was put into his business to try and make it successful so investors would be successful,” Pappas said, adding that Carrier didn’t fund a lavish lifestyle. Without providing details, Pappas said changes in the real estate market “overtook” Carrier and “the thing just got away from him.”

Although Carrier agreed to plead to only one count, the entirety of the fraud identified by prosecutors will be considered by the judge during sentencing.

Pappas said Carrier is “committed to repaying every investor every dollar he can to make them whole.” Pappas said he expects the restitution will likely be “much lower” than the $40 million in losses identified by prosecutors, as the lawyers are wrangling over the value of the investors’ losses. In February, Carrier signed an asset liquidation agreement allowing prosecutors to oversee the sale of his remaining properties, with the proceeds going toward restitution.

Pappas said he expects Carrier will serve time in prison.

“Depending on the amount of the loss, there’s a strong possibility he may go to jail,” he said. “But again, we are doing everything we can to make everybody as whole as we can.”

by Mica Rosenberg, ProPublica; Perla Trevizo, ProPublica and The Texas Tribune; Melissa Sanchez and Gabriel Sandoval, ProPublica; Ronna Rísquez, Alianza Rebelde Investiga; and Adrián González, Cazadores de Fake News

Leer en español.

The Trump administration knew that the vast majority of the 238 Venezuelan immigrants it sent to a maximum-security prison in El Salvador in mid-March had not been convicted of crimes in the United States before it labeled them as terrorists and deported them, according to U.S. Department of Homeland Security data that has not been previously reported.

President Donald Trump and his aides have branded the Venezuelans as “rapists,” “savages,” “monsters” and “the worst of the worst.” When multiple news organizations disputed those assertions with reporting that showed many of the deportees did not have criminal records, the administration doubled down. It said that its assessment of the deportees was based on a thorough vetting process that included looking at crimes committed both inside and outside the United States. But the government’s own data, which was obtained by ProPublica, The Texas Tribune and a team of journalists from Venezuela, showed that officials knew that only 32 of the deportees had been convicted of U.S. crimes and that most were nonviolent offenses, such as retail theft or traffic violations.

The data indicates that the government knew that only six of the immigrants were convicted of violent crimes: four for assault, one for kidnapping and one for a weapons offense. And it shows that officials were aware that more than half, or 130, of the deportees were not labeled as having any criminal convictions or pending charges; they were labeled as only having violated immigration laws.

As for foreign offenses, our own review of court and police records from around the United States and in Latin American countries where the deportees had lived found evidence of arrests or convictions for 20 of the 238 men. Of those, 11 involved violent crimes such as armed robbery, assault or murder, including one man who the Chilean government had asked the U.S. to extradite to face kidnapping and drug charges there. Another four had been accused of illegal gun possession.

We conducted a case-by-case review of all the Venezuelan deportees. It’s possible there are crimes and other information in the deportees’ backgrounds that did not show up in our reporting or the internal government data, which includes only minimal details for nine of the men. There’s no single publicly available database for all crimes committed in the U.S., much less abroad. But everything we did find in public records contradicted the Trump administration’s assertions as well.

This article is co-published with The Texas Tribune, a nonprofit, nonpartisan local newsroom that informs and engages with Texans. Sign up for The Brief Weekly to get up to speed on their essential coverage of Texas issues. It’s also co-published with Alianza Rebelde Investiga (Rebel Alliance Investigates), a coalition of Venezuelan online media outlets, and Cazadores de Fake News (Fake News Hunters), a Venezuelan investigative online news organization.

ProPublica and the Tribune, along with Venezuelan media outlets Cazadores de Fake News (Fake News Hunters) and Alianza Rebelde Investiga (Rebel Alliance Investigates), also obtained lists of alleged gang members that are kept by Venezuelan law enforcement officials and the international law enforcement agency Interpol. Those lists include some 1,400 names. None of the names of the 238 Venezuelan deportees matched those on the lists.

The hasty removal of the Venezuelans and their incarceration in a third country has made this one of the most consequential deportations in recent history. The court battles over whether Trump has the authority to expel immigrants without judicial review have the potential to upend how this country handles all immigrants living in the U.S., whether legally or illegally. Officials have suggested publicly that, to achieve the president’s goals of deporting millions of immigrants, the administration was considering suspending habeas corpus, the longstanding constitutional right allowing people to challenge their detention.

Hours before the immigrants were loaded onto airplanes in Texas for deportation, the Trump administration invoked the Alien Enemies Act of 1798, declaring that the Tren de Aragua prison gang had invaded the United States, aided by the Venezuelan government. It branded the gang a foreign terrorist organization and said that declaration gave the president the authority to expel its members and send them indefinitely to a foreign prison, where they have remained for more than two months with no ability to communicate with their families or lawyers.

Lee Gelernt, the lead attorney in the American Civil Liberties Union’s legal fight against the deportations, said the removals amounted to a “blatant violation of the most fundamental due process principles.” He said that under the law, an immigrant who has committed a crime can be prosecuted and removed, but “it does not mean they can be subjected to a potentially lifetime sentence in a foreign gulag.”

White House spokesperson Abigail Jackson said in response to our findings that “ProPublica should be embarrassed that they are doing the bidding of criminal illegal aliens who are a threat,” adding that “the American people strongly support” the president’s immigration agenda.

When asked about the differences between the administration’s public statements about the deportees and the way they are labeled in government data, DHS Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin largely repeated previous public statements. She insisted, without providing evidence, that the deportees were dangerous, saying, “These individuals categorized as ‘non-criminals’ are actually terrorists, human rights abusers, gang members and more — they just don’t have a rap sheet in the U.S.”

As for the administration’s allegations that Tren de Aragua has attempted an invasion, an analysis by U.S. intelligence officials concluded that the gang was not acting at the direction of the Venezuelan government of Nicolás Maduro and that reports suggesting otherwise were “not credible.” Tulsi Gabbard, Trump’s director of national intelligence, fired the report’s authors after it became public. Her office, according to news reports, said Gabbard was trying to “end the weaponization and politicization” of the intelligence community.

Our investigation focused on the 238 Venezuelan men who were deported on March 15 to CECOT, the prison in El Salvador, and whose names were on a list first published by CBS News. The government has also sent several dozen other immigrants there, including Kilmar Abrego Garcia, a Salvadoran man who the government admitted was sent there in error. Courts have ruled that the administration should facilitate his return to the U.S.

We interviewed about 100 of the deportees’ relatives and their attorneys. Many of them had heard from their loved ones on the morning of March 15, when the men believed they were being sent back to Venezuela. They were happy because they would be back home with their families, who were eager to prepare their favorite meals and plan parties. Some of the relatives shared video messages with us and on social media that were recorded inside U.S. detention facilities. In those videos, the detainees said they were afraid that they might be sent to Guantanamo, a U.S. facility on Cuban soil where Washington has held and tortured detainees, including a number that it suspected of plotting the 9/11 terrorist attacks. The Trump administration had sent planes carrying Venezuelan immigrants there earlier this year.

They had no idea they were being sent to El Salvador.

Among them was 31-year-old Leonardo José Colmenares Solórzano, who left Venezuela and his job as a youth soccer coach last July. His sister, Leidys Trejo Solórzano, said he had a hard time supporting himself and his mother and that Venezuela’s crumbling economy made it hard for him to find a better paying job. Colmenares was detained at an appointment to approach the U.S.-Mexico border in October because of his many tattoos, his sister said. Those tattoos include the names of relatives, a clock, an owl and a crown she said was inspired by the Real Madrid soccer club’s logo.

First image: Colmenares’ mother, Marianela Solórzano, and sister at their home in Venezuela. Second image: Photos of Colmenares as a child in Venezuela. (Adriana Loureiro Fernández for ProPublica and The Texas Tribune)

Colmenares was not flagged as having a criminal history in the DHS data we obtained. Nor did we find any U.S. or foreign convictions or charges in our review. Trejo said her brother stayed out of trouble and has no criminal record in Venezuela either. She described his expulsion as a U.S.-government-sponsored kidnapping.

“It’s been so difficult. Even talking about what happened is hard for me,” said Trejo, who has scoured the internet for videos and photos of her brother in the Salvadoran prison. “Many nights I can’t sleep because I’m so anxious.”

The internal government data shows that officials had labeled all but a handful of the men as members of Tren de Aragua but offered little information about how they came to that conclusion. Court filings and documents we obtained show the government has relied in part on social media posts, affiliations with known gang members and tattoos, including crowns, clocks, guns, grenades and Michael Jordan’s “Jumpman” logo. We found that at least 158 of the Venezuelans imprisoned in El Salvador have tattoos. But law enforcement sources in the U.S., Colombia, Chile and Venezuela with expertise in the Tren de Aragua told us that tattoos are not an indicator of gang membership.

McLaughlin, the DHS spokesperson, said the agency is confident in its assessments of gang affiliation but would not provide additional information to support them.

John Sandweg, a former acting director of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, said, “for political reasons, I think the administration wants to characterize this as a grand effort that’s promoting public safety of the United States.” But “even some of the government’s own data demonstrates there is a gap between the rhetoric and the reality,” he said, referring to the internal data we obtained.

The government data shows 67 men who were deported had been flagged as having pending charges, though it provides no details about their alleged crimes. We found police, court and other records for 38 of those deportees. We found several people whose criminal history differed from what was tagged in the government data. In some cases that the government listed as pending criminal charges, the men had been convicted and in one case the charge had been dropped before the man was deported.

Our reporting found that, like the criminal convictions, the majority of the pending charges involved nonviolent crimes, including retail theft, drug possession and traffic offenses.

Six of the men had pending charges for attempted murder, assault, armed robbery, gun possession or domestic battery. Immigrant advocates have said removing people to a prison in El Salvador before the cases against them were resolved means that Trump, asserting his executive authority, short-circuited the criminal justice system.

Take the case of Wilker Miguel Gutiérrez Sierra, 23, who was arrested in February 2024 in Chicago on charges of attempted murder, robbery and aggravated battery after he and three other Venezuelan men allegedly assaulted a stranger on a train and stole his phone and $400. He pleaded not guilty. Gutiérrez was on electronic monitoring as he awaited trial when he was arrested by ICE agents who’d pulled up to him on the street in five black trucks, court records show. Three days later he was shipped to El Salvador.

But the majority of men labeled as having pending cases were facing less serious charges, according to the records we found. Maikol Gabriel López Lizano, 23, was arrested in Chicago in August 2023 on misdemeanor charges for riding his bike on the sidewalk while drinking a can of Budweiser. His partner, Cherry Flores, described his deportation as a gross injustice. “They shouldn’t have sent him there,” she said. “Why did they have to take him over a beer?”

Jeff Ernsthausen of ProPublica contributed data analysis. Adriana Núñez and Carlos Centeno contributed reporting.