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by Jessica Priest, Jeremy Schwartz, Lexi Churchill and Dan Keemahill

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by Jeremy Schwartz

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When Courtney Gore ran for a seat on her local school board in 2021, she warned about a movement to indoctrinate children with “leftist” ideology. After 2 1/2 years on the board, Gore said she believes a much different scheme is unfolding: an effort by wealthy conservative donors to undermine public education in Texas and install a voucher system in which public money flows to private and religious schools.

Gore points to West Texas billionaires Tim Dunn and brothers Farris and Dan Wilks, who have contributed to various political action committees that have poured millions into legislative candidates who have promoted vouchers. The men also fund or serve on the boards of a host of public policy and advocacy organizations that have led the fight for vouchers in Texas.

In recent years, the largesse from Dunn and the Wilks brothers has reached local communities across Texas, including Granbury, near Fort Worth, where fights over library books, curriculum and vouchers have dominated the community conversation.

Gore said that she believes school board candidates are being recruited, at times without their full knowledge, in an effort “to cause as much disruption and chaos as possible” and weaken community faith in local school districts.

In 2021, two local men — former state representative Mike Lang and political consultant Nate Criswell — asked Gore to run for school board. At the time, the three were co-hosts of a web-based talk show that targeted local officials they believed were insufficiently conservative and were straying from GOP platform positions. They took frequent aim at the Granbury school district, which they alleged was allowing explicit sexual content into school libraries and teaching divisive ideas about race.

Gore broke from the group shortly after taking office in January 2022, when she concluded that the materials she had warned about on the campaign trail were not present in Granbury schools. She claims the men and other leaders of the far-right faction in Hood County, home to Granbury, dismissed her findings. They continued to pummel the district over books and curriculum, supported school board candidates who sought to remove a growing number of titles from library shelves, and worked to derail three bond elections that would have funded new and renovated buildings for the overcrowded district.

That’s when Gore said she began to piece together connections that hadn’t been previously apparent to her.

Lang, a Republican who represented Hood County in the state Legislature for four years, received more than $600,000 in campaign contributions — more than half his total — from direct donations from or PACs funded by the Wilks brothers and Dunn. On the campaign trail, Lang supported providing public money for private schools and, in 2017, voted against a House measure that prohibited funding for school vouchers. He did not respond to requests for comment.

In addition, in January 2022, Criswell’s political consulting company received $3,000 from Defend Texas Liberty, one of the PACs funded by the Wilks family and Dunn. The PAC donated another $3,000 to Criswell this year when he unsuccessfully ran for Hood County commissioner.

Criswell declined to answer specific questions but said he has closed his consulting firm, Criswell Strategies, and has “stepped away from the local political scene, aside from occasionally sharing posts on social media.”

According to her campaign finance reports, Gore did not receive any money from the men. But another school board candidate, her then-ally Melanie Graft, received a $100 in-kind contribution from Defend Texas Liberty for advertising expenses. Graft did not respond to written questions or requests for comment.

“I was knee-deep in it,” Gore said about the local connections to the billionaires. “I guess I was just too naive. I should have known better.”

Neither Dunn nor a representative of the Wilks family responded to questions. Dunn recently penned an opinion piece in the Midland Reporter-Telegram arguing that he was not the leader of the statewide push for vouchers and has never made public statements on the topic.

Nearly two decades ago, however, Dunn argued in favor of a voucher-like program, saying that the Texas Public Policy Foundation, a conservative think tank on whose board he has served for more than 20 years, supported such an idea “as long-time advocates of eliminating the government monopoly in public education.” In March, Texas Gov. Greg Abbott, who is among the state’s fiercest advocates for directing public education funds to private schools, credited the organization’s longtime advocacy with bringing the state to the “threshold” of a voucher-like program.

Dunn is also the founder of Midland Classical Academy, a private school that offers its approximately 600 K-12 students a “Classical Education from a Biblical Worldview,” according to its website. The school believes in interpreting the Bible in its literal sense, which it takes to mean that marriage can only be between a man and a woman and that there are only two genders.

Zachary Maxwell, Lang’s former chief of staff who later worked for Empower Texans, a pro-voucher public policy organization whose associated PAC was largely funded by Dunn and the Wilks brothers, would not speak about his time there, citing a nondisclosure agreement he signed when he left the organization.

Maxwell, however, said he has become disenchanted by Dunn and the Wilks family’s efforts to exert control over the state’s politics. He said Hood County hard-liners, some of whom have close ties to PACs funded by Dunn and the Wilks brothers, were trying to use Gore and Graft to drive a wedge between rural residents and their school district in an effort to build support for vouchers. The women’s presence on the school board enhanced the legitimacy of the group’s claims about pornography in libraries and Marxist indoctrination, Maxwell said.

“It’s all about destroying the trust with the citizens to the point where they would tolerate something like doing away with public schools,” he said in an interview.

Over the past two years, Abbott has teamed up with the Texas Public Policy Foundation, embarking on a tour of Texas towns to promote vouchers. Following the narrow defeat of voucher legislation in November in the Texas House of Representatives, the Republican governor campaigned to unseat lawmakers in his party who opposed such legislation. He successfully ousted five of them.

One of the Republicans who lost in the primary was Glenn Rogers, whose rural district sits just north of Hood County and whom Abbott endorsed in 2020. This time around, Abbott gave $200,000 in campaign support to Rogers’ pro-voucher opponent. Dunn and the WiIlks brothers donated another $100,000.

Rogers, who represented Hood County until 2021, when lawmakers changed the boundaries of his district, said he believes privatizing public education is at the core of Dunn and the Wilks brothers’ political efforts in Hood County and across the state.

“Whether it’s at the school board level or it’s what’s happening in the Texas Legislature right now, that’s their end goal,” he said.

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Dan Keemahill contributed reporting.

by Jeremy Schwartz

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Weeks after winning a school board seat in her deeply red Texas county, Courtney Gore immersed herself in the district’s curriculum, spending her nights and weekends poring over hundreds of pages of lesson plans that she had fanned out on the coffee table in her living room and even across her bed. She was searching for evidence of the sweeping national movement she had warned on the campaign trail was indoctrinating schoolchildren.

Gore, the co-host of a far-right online talk show, had promised that she would be a strong Republican voice on the nonpartisan school board. Citing “small town, conservative Christian values,” she pledged to inspect educational materials for inappropriate messages about sexuality and race and remove them from every campus in the 7,700-student Granbury Independent School District, an hour southwest of Fort Worth. “Over the years our American Education System has been hijacked by Leftists looking to indoctrinate our kids into the ‘progressive’ way of thinking, and yes, they’ve tried to do this in Granbury ISD,” she wrote in a September 2021 Facebook post, two months before the election. “I cannot sit by and watch their twisted worldview infiltrate Granbury ISD.”

But after taking office and examining hundreds of pages of curriculum, Gore was shocked by what she found — and didn’t find.

The pervasive indoctrination she had railed against simply did not exist. Children were not being sexualized, and she could find no examples of critical race theory, an advanced academic concept that examines systemic racism. She’d examined curriculum related to social-emotional learning, which has come under attack by Christian conservatives who say it encourages children to question gender roles and prioritizes feelings over biblical teachings. Instead, Gore found the materials taught children “how to be a good friend, a good human.”

Gore rushed to share the news with the hard-liners who had encouraged her to run for the seat. She expected them to be as relieved and excited as she had been. But she said they were indifferent, even dismissive, because “it didn’t fit the narrative that they were trying to push.”

So, in the spring of 2022, Gore went public with a series of Facebook posts. She told residents that her backers were using divisive rhetoric to manipulate the community’s emotions. They were interested not in improving public education but rather in sowing distrust, Gore said.

“I’m over the political agenda, hypocrisy bs,” Gore wrote. “I took part in it myself. I refuse to participate in it any longer. It’s not serving our party. We have to do better.”

After Gore reviewed hundreds of pages of the school curriculum, she was shocked that the pervasive indoctrination she had railed against as a candidate did not exist. She has since helped form a group that supports Republican candidates who have been alienated by the local GOP’s far-right faction. (Shelby Tauber for ProPublica and The Texas Tribune)

Gore’s open defiance of far-right GOP orthodoxy represents an unusual sign of independence in a state and in a party that experts say increasingly punish those deemed disloyal. It particularly stands out at a time when Republican leaders are publicly attacking elected officials who do not support direct funding to private schools.

“It’s a rare event to see this kind of political leap, especially in a world that’s so polarized,” said University of Houston political scientist Brandon Rottinghaus. “You rarely see these kinds of changes because the people who are vetted to run tend to be true believers. They tend not to be people who are necessarily thinking about the holistic problem.”

“With the presence of Donald Trump, fealty to cause has amplified, so this kind of action is much more meaningful and much more visible than it was a decade ago,” Rottinghaus said about Gore.

In March, Texas Gov. Greg Abbott, a Republican, was victorious in unseating five lawmakers in his own party and forcing another three into runoff elections after they voted against voucher legislation that would allow the use of public dollars for students to attend private and religious schools. His efforts sent a message that those who did not unflinchingly support his priorities would face grave political repercussions.

Gore was part of a similar movement of hard-liners who pushed out the Republican Hood County elections administrator in 2021 after determining that she was not conservative enough for the nonpartisan position. Now Gore and other disillusioned local Republicans have formed a group pushing against an “ultra-right” faction of the party that it says has become obsessed with “administering purity tests” and stoking divisive politics.

The former teacher and mother of four was influenced by such politics when she decided to run for office. She was motivated to seek a school board seat after a steady stream of reports from the right-wing media she consumed and her social media feeds pointed to what she saw as inappropriate teachings in public schools. She, too, had been outraged by school mask mandates and vaccine requirements during the throes of the COVID-19 pandemic.

But Gore said she feels that she was unwittingly part of a statewide effort to weaken local support of public schools and lay the groundwork for a voucher system.

And she said that unless she and others sound the alarm, residents won’t realize what is happening until it is too late.

“I feel like if I don’t speak out, then I’m complicit,” Gore said. “I refuse to be complicit in something that’s going to hurt children.”

Because of that outspokenness, Gore is facing backlash from the same people who supported her race. She has been threatened at raucous school board meetings and shunned by people she once considered friends.

School marshals escort her and her fellow board members to their cars to ensure no one accosts them.

Gore has faced backlash and threats since speaking out against the people who supported her school board race. School marshals now escort her and other board members to their cars after meetings. (Shelby Tauber for ProPublica and The Texas Tribune)

When things get particularly heated, a fellow trustee follows her in his car to make sure she gets home safely.

“None of It Was Adding Up”

Before Gore decided to seek office for the first time, prominent GOP operatives had been pushing for like-minded allies to take over school boards, framing the effort as necessary to maintain conservative Christian values.

In May 2021, former Trump adviser Steve Bannon told followers on his podcast that school boards were the road back to power for conservatives following the 2020 presidential election. Two months later, North Texas-based influential pastor Rafael Cruz, the father of U.S. Sen. Ted Cruz, amplified that message on social media, saying that getting candidates on school boards was critical.

“We need to make sure that strong, principled Americans, those who uphold our Judeo-Christian principles that have made America the greatest country in the world, are elected to school boards,” Rafael Cruz said in a July 2021 video posted to his Facebook page. “Because I’ll tell you the left is controlling the school boards in America.”

Those messages reached Granbury, where former Republican state Rep. Mike Lang and political consultant Nate Criswell asked Gore to run for the school board. Gore recalls hearing Cruz give a fiery speech while she was campaigning. In the speech, which reinforced her decision to run, she said Cruz boasted about flipping the school board in Southlake, Texas, by getting the churches involved in helping to install Christian candidates.

“When you put in the minds of parents that there is an agenda to indoctrinate their children … and the only answer is to get conservative Christian people elected to the school board,” Gore said, “it’s a very powerful message”

Gore, now 43, first became involved in local politics in 2016 when she campaigned door-to-door for Lang, a former constable who successfully ran for the Texas Legislature. She then served on a leadership committee for the Hood County GOP.

After Lang decided not to run for reelection in 2020, he asked Gore to join the “Blue Shark” show, a web-based program he founded and co-hosted with Criswell that produced videos taking aim at local politicians and officials considered insufficiently conservative. Criswell later ran campaigns for Gore and Melanie Graft, another school board candidate who previously tried to remove LGBTQ-themed books from the children’s section of the county library.

Soon after the women won their elections, the Granbury school district descended into a high-profile fight over school library books.

Administrators pulled 130 library books from the shelves after Matt Krause, a Republican representative from Fort Worth, published a list of 850 titles that he said touched on themes of sexual orientation and race. At the time, ProPublica, The Texas Tribune and NBC News obtained audio of the district’s superintendent, Jeremy Glenn, making clear to librarians that he had concerns about books with LGBTQ themes, including those that did not contain descriptions of sex. After the reporting, the Department of Education opened a civil rights investigation, which is ongoing, into whether the district violated federal laws that prohibit discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender.

A volunteer review committee of parents and district employees eventually recommended returning nearly all of the books to the shelves.

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Hard-liners wanted additional titles removed, claiming that the district was allowing “pornography,” without offering evidence to support the assertion. But Gore backed the committee’s findings, saying she was satisfied with the handful of books the district had removed for explicit content. Glenn, too, drew the ire of his onetime allies after he also supported the committee’s recommendation. Lang and Criswell have since called for his ouster. Glenn declined an interview request through a district spokesperson.

The book debate, along with a series of other fissures, contributed to Gore’s growing belief that her former colleagues were more interested in misleading residents than in improving educational outcomes.

In early 2022, leaders of the rapidly growing district announced plans to ask voters for $394 million in bonds to build a new high school and renovate existing campuses. School board members established a community advisory committee that would counsel the district.

Gore chose Criswell as her representative on the committee. She thought that once Criswell saw the district’s needs firsthand, he would support the bonds. But the opposite happened. Criswell urged voters to reject the measure, claiming some parts, such as providing full-day pre-K programs for all students, were “communist in nature.”

Gore said Criswell directed her and Graft, who did not respond to requests for comment, to post messages on social media against the bonds. When Gore pushed back, she said Criswell accused her of betraying the party. (The bonds ultimately lost by a wide margin.)

According to Gore, Criswell also pressured her to stop speaking with all of her fellow school board members, except for Graft. “They’re just lying to you. They’re not your friends,” she recalled him saying.

“I was like, how am I supposed to do my job as a board member if I’m not talking to anybody?” Gore said. “None of it was adding up.”

Criswell, who has previously said that he supports public schools, declined to answer detailed questions. Lang did not respond to requests to comment. In April 2022, Gore rescinded her nomination of Criswell to the bond advisory board. She felt that he and Lang were misleading voters about the bond and its cost to taxpayers.

“Mike Lang would call them snowballs,” she said. “You just get as many little snowballs as you can so you’re attacking from multiple fronts. And then you see which ones start to stick and gather speed and get bigger and bigger.”

In June 2022, Lang and Criswell directed one of their snowballs in Gore’s direction, taking a veiled shot at the former co-host of their show. In a video, Criswell praised Graft for continuing the fight to remove books from the school district’s libraries, saying she was “the only one that acts as the buffer right now on that board. Which is sad, because, you know, we’ve had other people elected in recent elections that just haven’t lived up to the expectations.”

Three days later, Gore fired back.

“I refuse to be someone’s puppet,” she wrote in a June 8 Facebook post. “I refuse to be told what to do, what to say or how to vote. I refuse to participate in any agenda that will dismantle or abolish public education.”

Once Gore was elected to the school board, she began to believe that her former allies were more interested in misleading residents than in improving educational outcomes. (Shelby Tauber for ProPublica and The Texas Tribune) “Extremism IS the Problem”

A week after that post, Gore watched the livestream of a Granbury school board meeting on her laptop from a hotel room along Mexico’s Caribbean coast while on an anniversary trip with her husband.

Emotions ran high as about a dozen residents complained that board members had not removed enough books from the library. Some argued that the school board was stifling dissent from Graft by requiring the consent of two board members to place an item on the agenda.

During the meeting, Cliff Criswell, the grandfather of Nate Criswell, took the microphone, carrying what police would later describe as a black handgun in a leather holster. He accused board members of allowing pornography in school libraries and of trying to “rip apart” Graft, whom he had previously described as “the only conservative on the board.”

“We have profile sheets” on all the trustees except for Graft, Cliff Criswell shouted. “We know what you do. We know where you live.”

Gore was shocked. Panicked, she started calling family members. “My grandmother was home with our children,” she recalled in an interview. “My brother came over and slept on my front porch to make sure nobody showed up at our house in the middle of the night. I mean, my kids were terrified after that.”

Later that night, Gore addressed the incident on Facebook.

“Tonight, threats were made against me, every board member (except one) and our superintendent. We were individually called out by name, told we had profile sheets made on each of us and that we would be dealt with accordingly. THIS IS NOT OK. I take threats against myself and my family seriously, especially with all of the violence in today’s world. Will we be dealing with school board shootings next?!? WE MUST DO BETTER!”

In response to a commenter’s message of support, Gore wrote, “extremism IS the problem.”

According to a Granbury police report, an off-duty officer spotted a black pistol in a holster in Cliff Criswell’s waistband and alerted school and city police. Possession of an unauthorized firearm at a school board meeting is a third-degree felony under state law, but because officers didn’t conclusively identify the weapon that night, and because Cliff Criswell declined to cooperate, prosecutors were unable to file charges, said Granbury police Deputy Chief Cliff Andrews. Cliff Criswell could not be reached for comment.

“Had we identified the gun at the very moment, yes, absolutely, we could have filed charges on it,” Andrews said. “We made a simple mistake.”

The incident forced the district to adopt tighter security measures, including clearly posting signs prohibiting firearms and bringing in additional officers during board meetings anytime administrators expect that certain topics could lead to heated exchanges.

“That was the moment I saw how crazy it was, how unhinged it had become and how far some people were willing to go to prove their points,” Gore said.

Gore installed “private property” signs on the gates surrounding her home after a school board meeting where Cliff Criswell, an angry resident, made threatening remarks against her and her fellow school board members. “We know what you do. We know where you live,” he had said. (Shelby Tauber for ProPublica and The Texas Tribune)

Yet rhetoric over the school district only ratcheted up in the ensuing months.

That fall, Hood County’s far-right leaders backed the school board candidacy of Karen Lowery, who in May 2022 was one of two women who filed a criminal complaint against district librarians claiming they were providing pornography to children. A Hood County constable has declined to answer questions about the status of the complaint.

Lowery, who had served on the committee that reviewed library books but opposed returning them to the shelves, also received a key endorsement from Rafael Cruz. She went on to win her election in November 2022.

Her victory helped resurface the district’s book battles as she pressed to remove more titles. Then, in August 2023, Lowery snuck into a high school library during a charity event and began inspecting books using the light of her cellphone, according to a district report.

School board members met to discuss censuring Lowery at an Aug. 23 public meeting for violating a policy that requires them to get permission from principals when entering a campus and for not being truthful when confronted by an administrator. Lowery claimed she had disclosed her visit to the library beforehand as required. She did not respond to calls or emails seeking comment. A district spokesperson said he was unable to pass along an interview request because Lowery has requested to only be contacted through her board email.

The board voted to censure Lowery, who opposed the symbolic measure along with Graft.

“It is clear that the actions Mrs. Lowery took, as evidenced by the community and the outcry that we have heard tonight, has broken some of that trust with our staff, parents and community members,” said Gore, who motioned to censure Lowery. “The only people that pay the price for this, no matter what happens tonight, are the kids of this district.”

Old Foe, New Friend

By November 2023, the battle lines over school vouchers were hardening in Granbury, and at the state Capitol in Austin.

Abbott had begun waging war against Republicans who had not supported voucher efforts and contributed to their failure during the last legislative session. One lawmaker who escaped Abbott’s wrath was Shelby Slawson, a Republican who represents Hood County. Unlike some of those now being targeted, Slawson had bucked a request spearheaded by Gore and supported by the school board majority that urged lawmakers to vote against a measure that would send public dollars to private schools. Slawson did not respond to questions regarding her decision to vote in favor of vouchers despite the local school district’s opposition to the legislation.

Meanwhile, Granbury was facing a tough election. The school district was asking voters to approve a $151 million bond measure to build a new elementary school in the rapidly growing and overcrowded district, as well as provide security updates and renovations to aging campuses. The balance of the school board was also at stake in the same election.

Bond opponents formed the Granbury Families political action committee. In advertising materials, the group cited library books as one of the principal reasons residents had lost trust in the board. “Our community has lost faith in the board’s ability to conduct business,” the group claimed. “Not another penny until GISD gets new leadership.”

Nate Criswell, Gore’s former co-host and campaign manager, loaned the PAC $1,750, according to campaign finance reports filed with the district. The loan constituted about 40% of the PAC’s funding ahead of the November election.

Although a majority of the state’s school districts with bond measures scored victories, Granbury’s tax measure failed once again. (Voters rejected another bond measure this month.) Hard-line conservatives celebrated the loss, pointing to anger over the library books issue.

But even as they celebrated, the November election delivered a setback to those who wanted to take over the school board. The two candidates supported by hard-line conservatives lost by wide margins, denying the county’s far-right faction the majority on the board. Among the winners in that election was Nancy Alana, the school board member whom Gore ousted two years earlier. This time around Gore endorsed Alana, and the two former opponents have since become friends and allies.

“She let everybody know that she had been misled and that she has seen for herself the good things that are happening in our school district,” Alana said. “That the school board can be trusted. That the administrators can be trusted. And she has spoken out on that. And that has made a big difference. And she is very well thought of in our community because of her willingness to step up and say, ‘I was wrong.’”

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by Jessica Lussenhop

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Update, May 20, 2024: On Sunday, the Minnesota Legislature passed a bill to reform controversial contracts-for-deed real estate deals as a part of the Judiciary, Public Safety, and Corrections Supplemental Budget Bill. The measure includes greater protections for buyers and outlaws the sort of property churning that some brokers have been accused of engaging in. Gov. Tim Walz is expected to sign the bill this week.

The Minnesota attorney general’s office filed a lawsuit Tuesday against a home seller who allegedly targeted the East African Muslim community for real estate deals that authorities called “predatory and deceptive.”

The lawsuit alleges that Chadwick Banken and six of his limited liability corporations broke state and federal laws, including Minnesota’s laws against religious discrimination, by using transactions known as contracts-for-deed to sell homes at higher prices than warranted and on worse terms to Muslim buyers.

Attorney General Keith Ellison, a Democrat, said in an interview that while the complaint focuses on Banken, the case is intended to send a message to others engaged in similar practices.

“He’s not the only one, but he’s one of the worst that I’ve seen,” Ellison said. “When people can’t pay back, they’re out of their house, and they’re out of their money. I can’t think of anything more financially devastating to a family than that.”

Banken did not respond to requests for comment.

The lawsuit, filed in Hennepin County district court, follows a ProPublica and Sahan Journal investigation in 2022 that identified a rising market in Minnesota for contract-for-deed home sales, particularly in the Somali community. Many buyers in the East African Muslim community avoid paying or profiting from interest because of their religious principles, and investors have been offering them deals as an “interest free” way to purchase a house.

But buyers told the Sahan Journal and ProPublica that they signed contracts they didn’t understand and would not be able to pay off. The lawsuit said Banken used inflated home prices, abnormally high down payments and six-figure balloon payments due at the end of short contracts to push buyers into default and to ultimately retain ownership of the property.

The ProPublica-Sahan Journal story featured Abdinoor Igal, a long-haul trucker who bought a home from Banken in suburban Lakeville in 2022 and is described in the lawsuit as “purchaser 2.” Officials confirmed that Igal was purchaser 2, and Igal said he has spoken with the attorney general’s office several times.

Igal said he walked away from his house this past winter after making about $170,000 in payments. He slept in his truck for months after sending his wife and children to live in Kenya. He said the lawsuit was news he’d been waiting to hear.

“I’m really excited,” he said. “I can’t even believe how I’m feeling.”

Abdinoor Igal bought a home from Banken in 2022. (Dymanh Chhoun/Sahan Journal)

The attorney general’s actions follow a push at the state Legislature to rewrite Minnesota’s contract-for-deed law. The bill would outlaw the kind of property “churning” that Banken is accused of in the lawsuit, and it provides a number of new protections and ways to recoup losses from a contract-for-deed deal gone wrong. It is currently included in an omnibus bill awaiting final approval at the Legislature.

The lawsuit alleges that Banken has sold hundreds of homes in contracts-for-deed deals in the last six years. It also reveals new details about his practices. The name of one of Banken’s six limited liability corporations, Slow Flip LLC, is actually a useful term for the predatory practice, the lawsuit alleges: Buyers submit exorbitant down payments and agree to large monthly installments that they will eventually default on, and then Banken takes the home back and “flips” it to a new purchaser.

According to one email from Banken’s business to a real estate agent, the ideal buyers are described as people with “low credit scores” or a “recent bankruptcy/foreclosure.” Banken also allegedly insisted that buyers enter contracts using their business names to create the false impression in court that he was evicting commercial tenants rather than families from their primary residence. None of Banken’s contracts disclosed the true total cost of the homes or the balloon payments, both in violation of federal Truth In Lending Act requirements, according to the lawsuit.

The contracts, according to the lawsuit, contained monthly interest payments in excess of the market rate, and the down payment, monthly payments and total price of the home went up if the purchaser was Muslim. Ellison said this was particularly galling, given that Banken markets his business as helpful to a community that has been shut out of the traditional home purchasing market.

“He’s not helping,” Ellison said. “What he’s really helping himself to is their money that they probably have mopped floors and pushed brooms for. … He’s setting people up to fail. His conduct is predatory, deceptive. And we hope to bring a stop to it.”

Ellison said buyers should reach out to his office if they feel they’re in a predatory contract-for-deed and that there may be options for restitution in the future.

Igal said that while he is excited to hear that there may be consequences for Banken, defaults and evictions are ongoing, affecting some of his former neighbors. And he is still struggling to put his family’s lives back together.

“My kids, the smallest one, 4 years, she called me and asked me, ‘Daddy, when am I coming?’ And I told her I’m making some money, but I don’t know when,” he said. “It’s not something I can describe.”

by Vernal Coleman, photography by Sarahbeth Maney

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Nearly three years have passed since the 2021 murder of Chicago police officer Ella French, and police and prosecutors have revealed much about her killing: the grim details of her final moments, the type of gun used to shoot her during a traffic stop and how that .22-caliber Glock made its way into the hands of the man who pulled the trigger.

But absent from the public discussion was the name of the retail shop where the gun used to kill French was purchased. Its disclosure has been hindered by a long-standing push by the gun industry to protect the identities of retailers that have sold guns used in crimes.

The law enforcement agencies that investigated her murder and prosecuted her killer could not or would not say. Those that tracked and prosecuted the man who bought the gun used to kill her have been just as silent.

ProPublica, however, has learned the name of the retailer. It’s Deb’s Gun Shop, an Indiana retailer just over the Illinois state border that has drawn attention from federal regulators because of the large number of its guns that have turned up in crime investigations. James Vanzant, an attorney for the man convicted on federal charges for buying that gun, revealed that detail in an interview.

Speaking through his attorney, Deb’s Gun Shop owner Ed Estack called French’s death a horrible tragedy but declined further comment.

A police officer holds a photograph of fellow officer Ella French in his hat at French’s funeral service in 2021. (Antonio Perez/Chicago Tribune/Tribune News Service via Getty Images)

Two decades ago, federal and local law enforcement routinely identified the source of guns used in crimes to members of the media or anyone else who inquired.

That changed in 2003 when Congress, bowing to pressure from the gun industry, approved legislation known as the Tiahrt amendment, named after a former Rep. Todd Tiahrt, R-Kan., a gun rights champion. The amendment bars police and the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives from disclosing any information they uncover during gun-tracing investigations, including the names of retailers.

The move hobbled efforts by cities to study gun-trafficking patterns and ended what the gun industry has called a pattern of “name and shame,” in which retailers were thrust into the spotlight for selling guns later linked to crimes.

Gun safety advocates and researchers argue that Tiarht created a knowledge gap on a pressing public safety issue and allowed retailers to escape scrutiny. Such information, they say, can help the public determine whether the transactions that put guns in the hands of criminals are a rarity or part of a larger pattern.

The story of the gun used to kill French began in earnest in March 2021 at Deb’s, a small storefront off one of the main drags in Hammond, Indiana. Inside, Jamel Danzy picked out the Glock to purchase, then waited to pass his background check. On March 25, he returned and picked up the gun, prepared to deliver it to a friend.

He later admitted to ATF investigators that he’d bought the gun for Eric Morgan in violation of federal law. Danzy acknowledged that he knew Morgan was barred by federal law from buying a gun for himself due to a prior felony conviction. Morgan drove from Chicago to Danzy’s home in Hammond to pick it up.

Four months later, French, 29, was on night patrol in the West Englewood neighborhood when she joined other officers in conducting a traffic stop on a Honda SUV traveling with an expired registration. The officers inspected the car and found Morgan and his brother, Emonte Morgan, inside with a bottle of liquor.

The encounter escalated as officers ordered the brothers to exit the car, according to Chicago police. Eric Morgan jumped out and fled on foot. His brother stayed, refusing to put down his cup. A scuffle ensued. As French ran to help the other officers at the scene, Emonte Morgan pulled out the Glock and began to fire, police said.

French was struck and killed. Another officer, Carlos Yanez Jr., was severely wounded.

A “back the blue” sign hangs near the location where French was killed in 2021.

Cook County prosecutors charged both Morgan brothers in French’s killing. Eric Morgan pleaded guilty to aggravated battery and unlawful use of a deadly weapon. In March, a Cook County court convicted Emonte Morgan of French’s murder. He has since petitioned for a new trial.

Danzy already was serving time by then. In 2022, he pleaded guilty to charges that he conspired with Morgan to buy the gun and lied by claiming on a required form that he was purchasing it for himself. A judge sentenced him to 30 months in federal prison.

The ATF, which investigated the purchase of the gun used to kill French, would not reveal the name of the Hammond retailer when contacted by ProPublica. Neither would federal prosecutors. In filings for the case against Danzy, the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Northern District of Illinois did not reveal the name of the store where he purchased the Glock.

The gun used to kill Chicago police officer Ella French, found by police in a yard near the scene of the shooting (Federal court record obtained by ProPublica)

Tiahrt’s restrictions prevent investigators from disclosing the names of gun retailers, but federal prosecutors who try gun traffickers have more leeway. In fact, such disclosures in federal filings occur often.

ProPublica has viewed federal filings in both the Northern District of Illinois and the Northern District of Indiana where retailers were named in conjunction with cases against individuals who lied to make gun purchases or later resold the guns illegally in so-called straw sales.

One such gun was bought from an Indiana retailer and days later used in a shooting that left two Wisconsin police officers severely injured, ProPublica reported in March. The retailer involved was never charged yet still was named in court records.

Nonetheless, Joseph Fitzpatrick, a spokesperson for the US Attorney’s Office in Chicago, said it’s “our policy to not identify uncharged individuals or entities.”

As part of an ongoing lawsuit against the firearms industry, the city of Gary, Indiana, is seeking sales records from Deb’s and other retailers in the area. The suit aims to hold responsible local gun retailers and iconic gun manufacturers, such as Smith & Wesson and Glock, associated with illegal purchases like the one that led to French’s murder. The suit has survived court challenges for nearly a quarter of a century, but the Indiana General Assembly recently passed a law designed to get it dismissed. Deb’s is not a defendant in the suit.

ATF records show that Deb’s has operated under enhanced monitoring from the agency since at least 2021. The gun shop is included in a program known as Demand 2 for retailers who sell a high volume of guns later recovered in police investigations, according to records obtained by the Brady Center, a gun violence prevention group, and provided to ProPublica.

A man glances inside Deb’s Gun Range while passing by on a bicycle.

Gun dealers can be placed in Demand 2 when ATF finds they are the source of at least 25 gun-trace requests from police in a given year; the retail sale of those guns must have been three or fewer years prior to that.

Besides the gun bought by Danzy, records show that at least one other firearm purchased illegally at Deb’s in recent years was central to a killing.

In 2021, Mark J. Halliburton shot and killed Monica J. Mills outside a school in East Chicago, Indiana, over a gun illegally purchased at Deb’s Gun Range. A prior criminal conviction prevented Halliburton from purchasing a gun legally, so he’d paid Mills $100 to buy the gun for him, according to court records. The two then argued over the deal one night inside a car in the parking lot of a school, leading to the shooting. The gun that fired the fatal shot was the same one purchased at Deb’s, according to police records. Halliburton later pleaded guilty to voluntary manslaughter and was sentenced to 17 years in prison.

David Sigale, an attorney for Deb’s Gun Range owner Estack, declined to comment on Deb’s compliance record or associations with guns traced to crimes. “Deb’s continues to cooperate with all requests from law enforcement,” he said.

The ATF points out that involvement in the Demand 2 program does not mean a retailer has done anything wrong. Retailers’ location and the sheer volume of sales they process can make businesses susceptible to trafficking schemes, the agency told ProPublica in written answers. The program helps “raise awareness” among those retailers, ATF said.

Advocates for the gun industry say retailers in Demand 2 are operating within the law. “The illegal straw purchase of a firearm is a crime committed by the individual lying on the form. That is not a crime for which the firearm retailer is liable,” said Mark Oliva, spokesperson for the National Shooting Sports Foundation, a lobbying group for gun retailers and manufacturers.

Oliva also reiterated the group’s continued support of the basic tenets behind the Tiahrt amendment. “Access to gun-trace data should only be available to law enforcement taking part in a bona fide investigation, and law enforcement already has the access it needs for this purpose,” he said.

Kristina Mastropasqua, an ATF spokesperson, said Tiahrt helps protect the integrity of ongoing agency investigations and “does not negatively affect ATF’s ability to investigate and hold accountable illegal gun purchases or traffickers.”

But the debate over Tiahrt continues even as efforts to revisit it in Congress stall.

Dr. Garen Wintemute, director of the Violence Prevention Research Program at the University of California-Davis, said that Tiahrt’s restrictions have inhibited the study of illicit gun markets. He and others who study gun violence say they need the data to understand gun trafficking and, in turn, assess the regulatory efforts to prevent it.

“Firearms are associated with a number of adverse health effects,” he said. “Wouldn’t we like to know where that hazard is coming from?”

Signage is posted for customers entering Deb’s Gun Range.

When researchers do obtain tracing data compiled by federal authorities, it’s usually under an agreement to keep the sources of the guns confidential. But there have been workarounds and exceptions. The city of Chicago and its police department facilitated University of Chicago studies that identified several Midwest retailers as the sources of thousands of guns trafficked into the city and then later submitted to the ATF for tracing.

The studies — published in 2014 and 2017 — link Westforth Sports, a now-closed Gary, Indiana, retailer, to 850 such guns recovered by police. There was no mention of Deb’s Gun Range in either of those reports. Shop owner Earl Westforth did not respond to a request for comment.

Other cities are continuing to look for ways to navigate around the Tiahrt amendment. The city of Baltimore, for instance, is suing the ATF over its denial of trace data.

That drew the ire of the National Shooting Sports Foundation, which moved to intervene in the case. “This is a transparent attempt by gun control advocates at the City of Baltimore … to gain access to the data to use it to smear licensed firearm retailers and manufacturers by suggesting they are responsible for crimes committed by others misusing lawfully sold firearms,” foundation Senior Vice President Lawrence G. Keane said in a statement.

In arguing for the gun-trace information to stay under wraps, foundation attorneys cited federal law — specifically the Tiahrt amendment.

by Kate Royals, Mississippi Today

This article was produced for ProPublica’s Local Reporting Network in partnership with Mississippi Today. Sign up for Dispatches to get stories like this one as soon as they are published.

Mississippi lawmakers have overhauled the state’s civil commitment laws after Mississippi Today and ProPublica reported that hundreds of people in the state are jailed without criminal charges every year as they wait for court-ordered mental health treatment.

Right now, anyone going through the civil commitment process can be jailed if county officials decide they have no other place to hold them. House Bill 1640, which Gov. Tate Reeves signed Wednesday, would limit the practice. It says people can be jailed as they go through the civil commitment process only if they are “actively violent” and for a maximum of 48 hours. It requires the mental health professional who recommends commitment to document why less-restrictive treatment is not an option. And before paperwork can be filed to initiate the commitment process, a staffer with a local community mental health center must assess the person’s condition.

Supporters described the law, which goes into effect July 1, as a step forward in limiting jail detentions. Those praising it included county officials who handle commitments, associations representing sheriffs and county supervisors, and the state Department of Mental Health.

“This new process puts the person first,” said Adam Moore, a spokesperson for the Department of Mental Health, which provides training, along with some funding and services related to the commitment process. “It connects someone in need of mental health services with a mental health professional as the first step in the process, before the chancery court or law enforcement becomes involved.”

But some officials involved in the commitment process said that unless the state expands the number of treatment beds, the effect of the legislation will be limited. “Just because you’ve got a diversion program doesn’t mean you have anywhere to divert them to,” said Jamie Aultman, who handles commitments as chancery clerk in Lamar County, just west of Hattiesburg.

Although every state allows people to be involuntarily committed, most don’t jail people during the process unless they face criminal charges, and some prohibit the practice. Even among the few states that do jail people without charges, Mississippi is unique in how regularly it does so and for how long. Under Mississippi law, people going through the commitment process can be jailed if there is “no reasonable alternative.” State psychiatric hospitals usually have a waiting list, and short-term crisis units are often full or turn people away. Officials in many counties see jail as the only place to hold people as they await publicly funded treatment.

Idaho lawmakers recently dealt with a similar issue. There, some people deemed “dangerously mentally ill” have been imprisoned for months at a time; this spring, lawmakers funded the construction of a facility to house them.

Nearly every county in Mississippi reported jailing someone going through the commitment process at least once in the year ending in June 2023, according to the state Department of Mental Health. In just 19 of the state’s 82 counties, people awaiting treatment were jailed without criminal charges at least 2,000 times from 2019 to 2022, according to a review of jail dockets by Mississippi Today and ProPublica. (Those figures, which included counties that provided jail dockets identifying civil commitment bookings, include detentions for both mental illness and substance abuse; the legislation addresses only the commitment process for mental illness.)

Sheriffs have decried the practice, saying jails aren’t equipped to handle people with severe mental illness. Since 2006, at least 17 people have died after being held in jail during the civil commitment process; nine were suicides.

The bill’s sponsors said Mississippi Today and ProPublica’s reporting prompted them to act. “The deficiencies have been outlined and they're being corrected,” said state Rep. Kevin Felsher, R-Biloxi, a co-author of the bill.

An affidavit of someone who was committed and held in a Mississippi jail for mental health issues (Obtained by Mississippi Today and ProPublica. Highlighted by ProPublica.)

As a chancery clerk in northeastern Mississippi’s Lee County, Bill Benson has long dealt with people seeking to file commitment affidavits asserting that someone, often a family member, should be forced into treatment. He said first requiring a screening by a mental health professional is a good move. “I’m an accountant. I’m not going to try and make a determination” about whether someone needs to be committed, he said. He generally allows people to file commitment papers so he can “let the judge make that call.”

The bill says that if the community mental health center recommends commitment after the initial screening, someone can’t be jailed while awaiting treatment unless all other options have been exhausted and a judge specifically orders the person to be jailed. The legislation also says people can be held in jail for only 24 hours unless the community mental health center requests an additional 24-hour hold and a judge agrees. Roughly two-thirds of the people jailed over four years were held longer than 48 hours, according to Mississippi Today and ProPublica’s analysis.

However, the bill does not address the underlying reason that many people are jailed as they await a treatment bed. “I’m not certain there are enough beds and personnel available to take everybody,” Benson said. “I think everyone will attempt to comply, but there are going to be some instances where somebody’s going to have to be housed in the jail.”

Nor does the legislation say anything about how the provisions will be enforced. House Public Health Chair Sam Creekmore, R-New Albany, the primary sponsor of the bill, said the Department of Mental Health will “police this.” He also said he hopes the law’s new reporting requirements for community mental health centers will encourage county supervisors to monitor compliance.

Moore, at the Department of Mental Health, said the agency won’t enforce the law, although it will educate county officials, who are responsible for housing people going through civil commitment until they are transferred to a state hospital. “We sincerely hope all stakeholders will abide by the new processes and restrictions,” Moore said. “But DMH does not have oversight over county courts or law enforcement.”

Several mental health experts and advocates for people with mental illness say the law doesn’t go far enough to ban a practice that many contend is unconstitutional. For that reason, representatives of Disability Rights Mississippi have said they’re planning to sue the state and several counties.

“The basic flaw remains,” said Dr. Paul Appelbaum, a professor of psychiatry at Columbia University and former president of the American Psychiatric Association. “There is no justification for putting someone who needs hospital-level care in jail, not even for 24 hours.”

Agnel Philip of ProPublica and Isabelle Taft, formerly of Mississippi Today, contributed reporting.

by Paul Kiel, ProPublica, and Russ Buettner, The New York Times

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Former President Donald Trump used a dubious accounting maneuver to claim improper tax breaks from his troubled Chicago tower, according to an IRS inquiry uncovered by ProPublica and The New York Times. Losing a yearslong audit battle over the claim could mean a tax bill of more than $100 million.

The 92-story, glass-sheathed skyscraper along the Chicago River is the tallest and, at least for now, the last major construction project by Trump. Through a combination of cost overruns and the bad luck of opening in the teeth of the Great Recession, it was also a vast money loser.

But when Trump sought to reap tax benefits from his losses, the IRS has argued, he went too far and in effect wrote off the same losses twice.

The first write-off came on Trump’s tax return for 2008. With sales lagging far behind projections, he claimed that his investment in the condo-hotel tower met the tax code definition of “worthless,” because his debt on the project meant he would never see a profit. That move resulted in Trump reporting losses as high as $651 million for the year, ProPublica and the Times found.

There is no indication the IRS challenged that initial claim, though that lack of scrutiny surprised tax experts consulted for this article. But in 2010, Trump and his tax advisers sought to extract further benefits from the Chicago project, executing a maneuver that would draw years of inquiry from the IRS. First, he shifted the company that owned the tower into a new partnership. Because he controlled both companies, it was like moving coins from one pocket to another. Then he used the shift as justification to declare $168 million in additional losses over the next decade.

The issues around Trump’s case were novel enough that, during his presidency, the IRS undertook a high-level legal review before pursuing it. ProPublica and the Times, in consultation with tax experts, calculated that the revision sought by the IRS would create a new tax bill of more than $100 million, plus interest and potential penalties.

Trump’s tax records have been a matter of intense speculation since the 2016 presidential campaign, when he defied decades of precedent and refused to release his returns, citing a long-running audit. A first, partial revelation of the substance of the audit came in 2020, when the Times reported that the IRS was disputing a $72.9 million tax refund that Trump had claimed starting in 2010. That refund, which appeared to be based on Trump’s reporting of vast losses from his long-failing casinos, equaled every dollar of federal income tax he had paid during his first flush of television riches, from 2005 through 2008, plus interest.

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The reporting by ProPublica and the Times about the Chicago tower reveals a second component of Trump’s quarrel with the IRS. This account was pieced together from a collection of public documents, including filings from the New York attorney general’s suit against Trump in 2022, a passing reference to the audit in a congressional report that same year and an obscure 2019 IRS memorandum that explored the legitimacy of the accounting maneuver. The memorandum did not identify Trump, but the documents, along with tax records previously obtained by the Times and additional reporting, indicated that the former president was the focus of the inquiry.

It is unclear how the audit battle has progressed since December 2022, when it was mentioned in the congressional report. Audits often drag on for years, and taxpayers have a right to appeal the IRS’ conclusions. The case would typically become public only if Trump chose to challenge a ruling in court.

In response to questions for this article, Trump’s son Eric, executive vice president of the Trump Organization, said: “This matter was settled years ago, only to be brought back to life once my father ran for office. We are confident in our position, which is supported by opinion letters from various tax experts, including the former general counsel of the IRS.”

An IRS spokesperson said federal law prohibited the agency from discussing private taxpayer information.

The outcome of Trump’s dispute could set a precedent for wealthy people seeking tax benefits from the laws governing partnerships. Those laws are notoriously complex, riddled with uncertainty and under constant assault by lawyers pushing boundaries for their clients. The IRS has inadvertently further invited aggressive positions by rarely auditing partnership tax returns.

The audit represents yet another potential financial threat — albeit a more distant one — for Trump, the Republicans’ presumptive 2024 presidential nominee. In recent months, he has been ordered to pay $83.3 million in a defamation case and an additional $454 million in a civil fraud case brought by the New York attorney general, Letitia James. Trump has appealed both judgments. (He is also in the midst of a criminal trial in Manhattan, where he is accused of covering up a hush-money payment to a porn star in the weeks before the 2016 election.)

Beyond the two episodes under audit, reporting by the Times in recent years has found that, across his business career, Trump has often used what experts described as highly aggressive — and at times, legally suspect — accounting maneuvers to avoid paying taxes. To the six tax experts consulted for this article, Trump’s Chicago accounting maneuvers appeared to be questionable and unlikely to withstand scrutiny.

“I think he ripped off the tax system,” said Walter Schwidetzky, a law professor at the University of Baltimore and an expert on partnership taxation.

Trump’s Chicago tower (Nurphoto/Getty Images)

Trump struck a deal in 2001 to acquire land and a building that was then home to the Chicago Sun-Times newspaper. Two years later, after publicly toying with the idea of constructing the world’s tallest building there, he unveiled plans for a more modest tower, with 486 residences and 339 “hotel condominiums” that buyers could use for short stays and allow Trump’s company to rent out. He initially estimated that construction would last until 2007 and cost $650 million.

Trump placed the project at the center of the first season of “The Apprentice” in 2004, offering the winner a top job there under his tutelage. “It’ll be a mind-boggling job to manage,” Trump said during the season finale. “When it’s finished in 2007, the Trump International Hotel and Tower, Chicago, could have a value of $1.2 billion and will raise the standards of architectural excellence throughout the world.”

As his cost estimates increased, Trump arranged to borrow as much as $770 million for the project — $640 million from Deutsche Bank and $130 million from Fortress Investment Group, a hedge fund and private equity company. He personally guaranteed $40 million of the Deutsche loan. Both Deutsche and Fortress then sold off pieces of the loans to other institutions, spreading the risk and potential gain.

Trump planned to sell enough of the 825 units to pay off his loans when they came due in May 2008. But when that date came, he had sold only 133. At that point, he projected that construction would not be completed until mid-2009, at a revised cost of $859 million.

He asked his lenders for a six-month extension. A briefing document prepared for the lenders, obtained by the Times and ProPublica, said Trump would contribute $89 million of his own money, $25 million more than his initial plan. The lenders agreed.

But sales did not pick up that summer, with the nation plunged into the financial crisis that would become the Great Recession. When Trump asked for another extension in September, his lenders refused.

Two months later, Trump defaulted on his loans and sued his lenders, characterizing the financial crisis as the kind of catastrophe, like a flood or hurricane, covered by the “force majeure” clause of his loan agreement with Deutsche Bank. That, he said, entitled him to an indefinite delay in repaying his loans. Trump went so far as to blame the bank and its peers for “creating the current financial crisis.” He demanded $3 billion in damages.

At the time, Trump had paid down his loans with $99 million in sales but still needed more money to complete construction. At some point that year, he concluded that his investment in the tower was worthless, at least as the term is defined in partnership tax law.

Trump’s worthlessness claim meant only that his stake in 401 Mezz Venture, the LLC that held the tower, was without value because he expected that sales would never produce enough cash to pay off the mortgages, let alone turn a profit.

When he filed his 2008 tax return, he declared business losses of $697 million. Tax records do not fully show which businesses generated that figure. But working with tax experts, ProPublica and the Times calculated that the Chicago worthlessness deduction could have been as high as $651 million, the value of Trump’s stake in the partnership — about $94 million he had invested and the $557 million loan balance reported on his tax returns that year.

When business owners report losses greater than their income in any given year, they can retain the leftover negative amount as a credit to reduce their taxable income in future years. As it turned out, that tax-reducing power would be of increasing value to Trump. While many of his businesses continued to lose money, income from “The Apprentice” and licensing and endorsement agreements poured in: $33.3 million in 2009, $44.6 million in 2010 and $51.3 million in 2011.

Trump’s advisers girded for a potential audit of the worthlessness deduction from the moment they claimed it, according to the filings from the New York attorney general’s lawsuit. Starting in 2009 Trump’s team excluded the Chicago tower from the frothy annual “statements of financial condition” that Trump used to boast of his wealth, out of concern that assigning value to the building would conflict with its declared worthlessness, according to the attorney general’s filing. (Those omissions came even as Trump fraudulently inflated his net worth to qualify for low-interest loans, according to the ruling in the attorney general’s lawsuit.)

Trump had good reason to fear an audit of the deduction, according to the tax experts consulted for this article. They believe that Trump’s tax advisers pushed beyond what was defensible.

The worthlessness deduction serves as a way for a taxpayer to benefit from an expected total loss on an investment long before the final results are known. It occupies a fuzzy and counterintuitive slice of tax law. Three decades ago, a federal appeals court ruled that the judgment of a company’s worthlessness could be based in part on the opinion of its owner. After taking the deduction, the owner can keep the “worthless” company and its assets. Subsequent court decisions have only partly clarified the rules. Absent prescribed parameters, tax lawyers have been left to handicap the chances that a worthlessness deduction will withstand an IRS challenge.

There are several categories, with a declining likelihood of success, of money taxpayers can claim to have lost.

The tax experts consulted for this article universally assigned the highest level of certainty to cash spent to acquire an asset. The roughly $94 million that Trump’s tax returns show he invested in Chicago fell into this category.

Some gave a lower, though still probable, chance of a taxpayer prevailing in declaring a loss based on loans that a lender agreed to forgive. That’s because forgiven debt generally must be declared as income, which can offset that portion of the worthlessness deduction in the same year. A large portion of Trump’s worthlessness deduction fell in this category, though he did not begin reporting forgiven debt income until two years later, a delay that would have further reduced his chances of prevailing in an audit.

The tax experts gave the weakest chance of surviving a challenge for a worthlessness deduction based on borrowed money for which the outcome was not clear. It reflects a doubly irrational claim — that the taxpayer deserves a tax benefit for losing someone else’s money even before the money has been lost, and that those anticipated future losses can be used to offset real income from other sources. Most of the debt included in Trump’s worthlessness deduction was based on that risky position.

Including that debt in the deduction was “just not right,” said Monte Jackel, a veteran of the IRS and major accounting firms who often publishes analyses of partnership tax issues.

Trump continued to sell units at the Chicago tower, but still below his costs. Had he done nothing, his 2008 worthlessness deduction would have prevented him from claiming that shortfall as losses again. But in 2010, his lawyers attempted an end-run by merging the entity through which he owned the Chicago tower into another partnership, DJT Holdings LLC. In the following years, they piled other businesses, including several of his golf courses, into DJT Holdings.

Those changes had no apparent business purpose. But Trump’s tax advisers took the position that pooling the Chicago tower’s finances with other businesses entitled him to declare even more tax-reducing losses from his Chicago investment.

His financial problems there continued. More than 100 of the hotel condominiums never sold. Sales of all units totaled only $727 million, far below Trump’s budgeted costs of $859 million. And some 70,000 square feet of retail space remained vacant because it had been designed without access to foot or vehicle traffic. From 2011 through 2020, Trump reported $168 million in additional losses from the project.

Those additional write-offs helped Trump avoid tax liability for his continuing entertainment riches, as well as his unpaid debt from the tower. Starting in 2010, his lenders agreed to forgive about $270 million of those debts. But he was able to delay declaring that income until 2014 and spread it out over five years of tax returns, thanks to a provision in the Obama administration’s stimulus bill responding to the Great Recession. In 2018, Trump reported positive income for the first time in 11 years. But his income tax bill still amounted to only $1.9 million, even as he reported a $25 million gain from the sale of his late father’s assets.

It’s unclear when the IRS began to question the 2010 merger transaction, but the conflict escalated during Trump’s presidency.

The IRS explained its position in a Technical Advice Memorandum, released in 2019, that identified Trump only as “A.” Such memos, reserved for cases where the law is unclear, are rare and involve extensive review by senior IRS lawyers. The agency produced only two other such memos that year.

The memos are required to be publicly released with the taxpayer’s information removed, and this one was more heavily redacted than usual. Some partnership specialists wrote papers exploring its meaning and importance to other taxpayers, but none identified taxpayer “A” as the then-sitting president of the United States. ProPublica and the Times matched the facts of the memo to information from Trump’s tax returns and elsewhere.

The 20-page document is dense with footnotes, calculations and references to various statutes, but the core of the IRS’ position is that Trump’s 2010 merger violated a law meant to prevent double dipping on tax-reducing losses. If done properly, the merger would have accounted for the fact that Trump had already written off the full cost of the tower’s construction with his worthlessness deduction.

In the IRS memo, Trump’s lawyers vigorously disagreed with the agency’s conclusions, saying he had followed the law.

If the IRS prevails, Trump’s tax returns would look very different, especially those from 2011 to 2017. During those years, he reported $184 million in income from “The Apprentice” and agreements to license his name, along with $219 million from canceled debts. But he paid only $643,431 in income taxes thanks to huge losses on his businesses, including the Chicago tower. The revisions sought by the IRS would require amending his tax returns to remove $146 million in losses and add as much as $218 million in income from condominium sales. That shift of up to $364 million could swing those years out of the red and well into positive territory, creating a tax bill that could easily exceed $100 million.

The only public sign of the Chicago audit came in December 2022, when a congressional Joint Committee on Taxation report on IRS efforts to audit Trump made an unexplained reference to the section of tax law at issue in the Chicago case. It confirmed that the audit was still underway and could affect Trump’s tax returns from several years.

That the IRS did not initiate an audit of the 2008 worthlessness deduction puzzled the experts in partnership taxation. Many assumed the understaffed IRS simply had not realized what Trump had done until the deadline to investigate it had passed.

“I think the government recognized that they screwed up,” and then audited the merger transaction to make up for it, Jackel said.

The agency’s difficulty in keeping up with Trump’s maneuvers, experts said, showed that this gray area of tax law was too easy to exploit.

“Congress needs to radically change the rules for the worthlessness deduction,” Schwidetzky said.

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Susanne Craig of The New York Times contributed reporting.

by Doug Bock Clark

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.

Ten months after Georgia officials said they would take steps to ensure that counties were correctly handling massive numbers of challenges to voter registrations, neither the secretary of state’s office nor the State Election Board has done so.

In July 2023, ProPublica reported that election officials in multiple Georgia counties were handling citizens’ challenges to voter registrations in different ways, with some potentially violating the National Voter Registration Act.

Instead of fixing the problem, the Republican-controlled Georgia legislature passed SB 189 at the end of March. The bill’s authors claim that it will help prevent voting fraud, while voting rights advocates warn that it could make the issue worse. Gov. Brian Kemp signed it into law on Monday.

“I see this as being pro-America, pro-accuracy, pro-transparency and pro-election integrity,” state Rep. John LaHood said of the bill, which he worked to help pass. “I don’t see it being” about voter suppression “whatsoever.”

When it takes effect in July, SB 189 will make it easier for Georgia residents to use questionable evidence when challenging fellow residents’ voter registrations. Voting rights activists also claim that the law could lead county officials to believe they can approve bulk challenges closer to election dates.

“It’s bad policy and bad law, and will open the floodgates to bad challenges,” said Caitlin May, a voting rights attorney for the American Civil Liberties Union of Georgia, which has threatened to sue over what it says is the law’s potential to violate the NVRA.

ProPublica previously reported on how just six right-wing advocates challenged the voter registrations of 89,000 Georgians following the 2021 passage of a controversial law that enabled residents to file unlimited voter challenges. We also revealed that county election officials may have been systematically approving challenges too close to election dates, which would violate the NVRA.

The Georgia secretary of state’s office said at the time that it was “thankful” for information provided by ProPublica, that it had been working on “uniform standards for voter challenges” and that it had “asked the state election board to provide rules” to help election officials handle the challenges. And the chair of the State Election Board told ProPublica last year that though the board hadn’t yet offered rules due to the demands of the 2022 election, “now that the election is over, we intend to do that.”

With the new law soon to be in effect, the State Election Board is determining its next steps. “We’re going to probably have to try and provide some instruction telling” election officials how to respond to SB 189, said John Fervier, who was appointed chair in January after the former chair stepped down. “I don’t know if that will come from the State Election Board or from the secretary of state’s office. But we’re one day past the signing of the legislation, so it’s still too early for me to comment on what kind of instruction will go out at this point.”

Mike Hassinger, a public information officer for the secretary of state’s office, said in a statement that it falls to the State Election Board to review laws and come up with rules. “Once the board moves forward with that process we are more than happy to extend help to rule making,” Hassinger said.

Conservative organizations have been vocal about their plans to file numerous challenges to voter registrations this year, providing training and other resources to help Georgians do so. Activists and Georgia Republican Party leadership publicly celebrated the passage of SB 189, with the GOP chair telling the Atlanta Journal-Constitution that this year’s legislative session was “a home run for those of us concerned about election integrity.”

But what has not gotten as much attention is how individuals who were involved in producing massive numbers of voter challenges managed to shape SB 189.

Jason Frazier, who in 2023 was a Republican nominee to the Fulton County election board, challenged the registrations of nearly 10,000 people in Fulton County, part of the Democratic stronghold of Atlanta. (Cheney Orr for ProPublica)

Courtney Kramer, the former executive director of True the Vote, a conservative organization that announced it was filing over 360,000 challenges in Georgia after the 2020 presidential election, played an instrumental role in getting the bill passed. She was the co-chair of the Election Confidence Task Force, a committee of the Georgia Republican Party that provided sample language to legislators crafting SB 189. An internal party email reviewed by ProPublica thanked Kramer for her dedication in helping bring “us to the final stages of pushing essential election integrity reform through the legislature.” Kramer said in a statement that “my goal was to restore confidence in Georgia’s elections process” and to “make it easy to vote and hard to cheat.”

Jason Frazier, who ProPublica previously found was one of the state’s six most prolific challengers, served on the Election Confidence Task Force. Frazier did not respond to requests for comment.

In late July, William Duffey, who was then the chair of Georgia’s State Election Board, was working on a paper to update county election officials on how to handle voter challenges. But when the board met in August 2023, a large crowd of right-wing activists packed the room, and dozens of people castigated the board for defending the legitimacy of the 2020 election. One mocked a multicultural invocation with which Duffey had started the meeting, declaring, “The only thing you left out was satanism!” A right-wing news outlet accused “the not so honorable Judge Duffey” of hiding “dirt” on the corruption of the 2020 election.

Less than a month later, Duffey stepped down. He denied that activists had driven him out, telling ProPublica that pressure from such activists “comes with the job.” But, he explained, the volunteer position had been taking “70% of my waking hours,” and “I wanted to get back to things for which I had scoped out my retirement.”

According to two sources knowledgeable about the board’s workings, who asked for anonymity to discuss confidential board matters, Duffey had been the primary force behind updating the rules about voter challenges, and without him, the effort stalled. One source also said that the board had realized that Republican legislators planned to rewrite voter-challenge laws, and members wanted to see what they would do.

In January 2024, Republican legislators began working on those bills. The one that succeeded, SB 189, introduces two especially important changes that would help challengers, according to voting rights activists.

First, it says a dataset kept by the U.S. Postal Service to track address changes provides sufficient grounds for election officials to approve challenges, if that data is backed up by secondary evidence from governmental sources. Researchers have found the National Change of Address dataset to be unreliable in establishing a person’s residence, as there are many reasons a person could be listed as living outside of Georgia but could still legally vote there. ProPublica found in 2023 that counties frequently dismissed challenges because of that unreliability. And voting rights activists claim that the secondary sources SB 189 specifies include swaths of unreliable data.

“My worry is” that the bill “will cause a higher success rate for the challenges,” said Anne Gray Herring, a policy analyst for nonprofit watchdog group Common Cause Georgia.

The new bill also states that starting 45 days before an election, county election boards cannot make a determination on a challenge. Advocates have expressed concerns that counties will interpret the law to mean that they can approve mass, or systematic, challenges up until 45 days before an election. The NVRA prohibits systematic removal of voters within 90 days of an election, and election boards commonly dismissed challenges that likely constituted systematic removal within the 90-day window, ProPublica previously found.

When True the Vote was challenging voters in the aftermath of the 2020 election, a judge issued a restraining order against the challenges for violating the 90-day window.

Whether SB 189 violates the NVRA could be settled in court, according to voting rights advocates and officials. On Tuesday, after SB 189 was signed, Gabriel Sterling, the chief operating officer for the Georgia secretary of state, disputed on social media that the new law would make voter challenges easier. But months earlier, he said that imprecision in the voter challenges process could lead to legal problems.

“When you do loose data matching, you get a lot of false positives,” Sterling said, testifying about voter list maintenance before the Senate committee that would pass a precursor to SB 189. “And when you get a lot of false positives and then move on them inside the NVRA environment, that’s when you get sued.”

by Lisa Song

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When I registered to attend last month’s United Nations conference in Canada, organizers insisted it would be a “plastic free meeting.” I wouldn’t even get a see-through sleeve for my name tag, they warned; I’d have to reuse an old lanyard.

After all, representatives from roughly 170 countries were gathering to tackle a crisis: The world churns out 400 million metric tons of plastic a year. It clogs landfills and oceans; its chemical trail seeps into our bodies. Delegates have been meeting since 2022 as part of the Intergovernmental Negotiating Committee on Plastic Pollution in hopes of ending this year with a treaty that addresses “the full life cycle of plastic, including its production, design and disposal.”

The challenge before delegates seemed daunting: How do you get hundreds of negotiators to agree on anything via live, group editing? Especially when representatives from fossil fuel and chemical companies would be vigorously working to shift the conversation away from what scientists say is the only solution to the crisis: curbing plastic production.

But when I got to the meeting, I discovered those industry reps were not the sideshow; they were welcomed into the main event.

They could watch closed-door sessions off limits to reporters. Some got high-level badges indistinguishable from those worn by country representatives negotiating the treaty. These badges allowed them access to exclusive discussions not open to some of the world’s leading health scientists.

In a setting that was supposed to level the inequalities among those present, I watched how country delegates and conference organizers did little to minimize them, making what was already going to be a challenging process needlessly opaque and avoidably contentious.

With such high stakes, I asked the INC Secretariat — the staff at the UN Environment Programme who facilitated the negotiations process — why they hadn’t set rules on conflict of interest or transparency. They told me that wasn’t their job, that it was up to countries to take the lead. But in some cases, countries pointed me right back to the UN.

Over five days, I would come to understand just how hard it will be to get meaningful action on plastics.

A pro-plastic ad (James Park for ProPublica) Day 1: Represent the Public? Stay Out.

From the moment I landed in Ottawa, the counter-argument of the plastics industry was inescapable, from wall-sized ads at the airport to billboards on trucks that cruised around the downtown convention center.

Their message: Curtailing plastic production would spell literal doom. (I could almost see the marketing pitch: Think of the children!)

These plastics deliver water, read one, depicting a girl drinking from a bottle in what was implied to be a disaster zone.

I headed to the media registration desk and got my green-striped badge, which placed me at the lowest rung of the pecking order.

At the top were people on official delegations. Their red-striped badges opened the door to every meeting, from the large “plenaries” where rows of country representatives spoke into microphones, to smaller working groups where negotiators hashed out specifics like whether to ban certain chemicals used in plastic.

The majority of the attendees wore orange badges. This hodgepodge of so-called observers included scientists, environmentalists, Indigenous peoples and some industry reps, though the color code made no distinction among them.

Observers were allowed into certain working groups at the discretion of government delegates.

Reporters could attend only plenaries.

These huge, open sessions were like the UN equivalent of Senate floor speeches: declarations and repetition to get ideas into the public record.

Veteran observers tracked the real action in the margins, standing in the back of the ballroom to watch who was talking to whom. It was an art, they said: You want to stroll close enough to read the small print on name tags, but you have to be chill about it.

I was not chill about the lack of access, which prevented sources from talking about what happened behind closed-door proceedings. They were governed by rules that prohibited those present from recording the meetings or revealing who had said what.

Reporters trying to inform the public and hold governments accountable were completely shut out. Yet somehow the rules allowed the industry whose survival depends on more plastic production to dispatch reps to watch negotiators at work.

The rules follow the “norms when it comes to fundamentals of negotiating, multilateralism, and diplomacy amongst UN Member States,” said a statement from the INC Secretariat. These meetings are managed by the countries negotiating the treaty, the statement said; the countries set the rules.

But when I asked the U.S. State Department, which led the U.S. delegation in Ottawa, whether journalists should have more access, a spokesperson directed me back to the UN.

An environmental health advocacy group near the Ottawa convention center (James Park for ProPublica) Day 2: “The Human Right to Science”

I heard about an exhibit at the nearby Westin hosted by the Alliance to End Plastic Waste. It sounded like an environmental group, but an online search showed it was founded by corporations including Dow and ExxonMobil. Dow didn’t respond to a request for comment. ExxonMobil said it attended the conference “to be a resource, bring solutions to the table and listen to a broad range of views by all stakeholders.”

As I wandered through the ballroom stocked with refreshments, shiny videos and diagrams promoted the potential of “circularity,” a marketing term that’s often focused on recycling. Independent research shows pollution will skyrocket if companies don’t curb production, but the industry has, for decades, shifted attention from that with false promises about waste management.

“The work we do is not the whole solution,” the alliance later told me in an email.

But I could easily see someone leaving the exhibit with that impression.

The finer points of plastic science, from its toxic manufacturing process to the limits of recycling, are highly technical and complex.

While countries like the United States could afford to fly in multiple experts to inform government delegates, other countries could not.

Later that day, I met Bethanie Carney Almroth, an ecotoxicologist from Sweden’s University of Gothenburg, who was among 60 independent, volunteer researchers who had traveled to Canada in hopes of bridging that gap in access to expertise.

As part of the Scientists’ Coalition for an Effective Plastics Treaty, they shared fact sheets and peer-reviewed studies and made themselves available for questions. Carney Almroth said ensuring the integrity of the group was vital. Members must have a proven track record of researching plastic pollution and follow a conflict-of-interest policy to prevent bias.

“The human right to science,” she said, “includes the right to transparency.”

Bethanie Carney Almroth, a professor of ecotoxicology at the University of Gothenburg in Sweden, is on the steering committee of the Scientists’ Coalition for an Effective Plastics Treaty. (James Park for ProPublica) Day 3: “No Such Thing as Conflict of Interest”

For the first two of these conferences, the INC Secretariat didn’t include the participants’ affiliations when they released the list of people who had registered for the event, making it hard to tell who worked for the industry. That has since changed, making it easier for advocacy groups to scour lists for fossil fuel and chemical company affiliations.

After the UN released the roster of the 4,000 people who had registered for Ottawa this year, the Center for International Environmental Law released its analysis of industry attendees. It found about 200 people with observer-level badges.

What’s more, the group said, 16 industry representatives had received the red badges usually reserved for government delegates. They were invited onto official delegations by China, the Dominican Republic, Iran, Kazakhstan, Kuwait, Malaysia, Thailand, Turkey and Uganda. I later learned an Indonesian delegate was listed as part of its Ministry of Industry; LinkedIn revealed him to be a director at a petrochemical firm.

I reached out to officials from all 10 countries. Most did not respond.

(The United States wasn’t on the list. “As a matter of policy, the United States does not include any industry or civil society representatives in our official delegation,” said a spokesperson from the State Department.)

There is “no such thing as conflict of interest in International negotiations,” the executive director of the Uganda National Environment Management Authority, Barirega Akankwasah, told me in a WhatsApp message. It’s “a matter of country positions and not individual positions,” he said, adding that the conference was “open and transparent” and stakeholders were “all welcome to participate.”

An official from the Dominican Republic, Claudia Taboada, told me that environmental groups and academic scientists had been consulted before the Ottawa conference and that the two industry reps on the country’s eight-member delegation had restricted privileges. They were barred from internal meetings where observers weren’t allowed, she said, and they couldn’t negotiate on behalf of the government.

Claudia Taboada was part of the official delegation from the Dominican Republic. She is director for science technology and environment at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. (James Park for ProPublica)

Those industry reps weren’t trying to influence the government’s position, added Taboada, who is director for science, technology and environment at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

I found that hard to believe. Who would sit through days of bureaucratic meetings just to observe?

A red-striped badge provides tangible benefits, multiple attendees told me, like access to email lists and WhatsApp chats that are closed to observers. A university scientist who’s part of Fiji’s official delegation, Rufino Varea, said it’s easier to talk to official delegates from other countries when you have that badge. It shows only a person’s name and country, making it impossible to tell at a glance whether someone works for the government or for private interests.

A press release issued that day showed a counter-analysis of the entire list of attendees from the International Council of Chemical Associations, which said that industry observers were vastly outnumbered by more than 2,000 members from nongovernmental organizations like environmental advocacy groups.

Many of these groups are “incredibly well funded” and supported by billionaires, said a subsequent email from the American Chemistry Council, the country’s largest plastics lobby. It noted that at least eight countries had NGO representatives on their official delegations.

Rufino Varea is in his final semester as a doctoral student in ecotoxicology at the University of the South Pacific. Varea said Fiji’s delegation supports a strong treaty that limits plastic production. (James Park for ProPublica) Day 4: Fighting for Attention

For every NGO with millions in the bank, there were others whose members couldn’t afford the trip to Ottawa. Many had to compete for limited travel funds from sources like the UN or larger advocacy groups.

I sat down with John Chweya, a friendly man in a leather jacket who makes a living as a waste picker in Kenya. A single salad at the conference cost more than a day’s pay.

As president of the Waste Pickers Association of Kenya, he wanted delegates to understand how plastic impacts the millions around the world who collect garbage and sort the recyclables they can sell in places without formal waste disposal. Toxic fumes from plastic burning in landfills make his fellow workers sick, he told me. They wake up with swollen necks, joints that don’t work and mysterious tumors. Chweya wants the world to make less plastic; he came to Ottawa to fight for protective gear and health care.

The specificity of his story brought home how the experiences of front-line communities could inform the understanding of the plastics crisis.

John Chweya traveled to Ottawa to advocate for waste pickers in Kenya. (James Park for ProPublica)

Others like Chweya tried to give voice to huge portions of the world’s populations that are suffering from every step in the plastic life cycle: residents of Indigenous communities and Louisiana’s “Cancer Alley” breathing dangerous plant emissions; Pacific Islanders seeing their coral reefs entangled in abandoned fishing nets; activists from lower-income countries that are swimming in Americans’ discarded plastic.

I watched them trying to grab the attention of government officials with handwritten posters, events in cramped rooms and limited speaking slots during the plenary.

None of it matched the flash of the billboards I could not seem to avoid, which heralded their own impending health emergency.

These plastics save lives, one decreed, featuring a girl in a hospital bed, wearing an oxygen mask.

Negotiators couldn’t even agree on setting voluntary reductions for plastic production, I thought. Nobody was proposing to eliminate enough plastic to cause hospital shortages.

Chweya called the prevalent ads “traitorous.”

Day 5: The UN Isn’t Powerless

UN officials had warned against the inequities playing out in Ottawa.

In November 2022, the Office of the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights issued a statement during the first conference to negotiate the treaty, held in Uruguay.

Even though they weren’t hosting it, human rights officials had advice on how to proceed. “The plastic industry has disproportionate power and influence over policy relative to the general public,” they wrote. “Clear boundaries on conflict of interest should be established … drawing from existing good practices under international law.”

They recommended policies similar to those adopted by the World Health Organization Framework Convention on Tobacco Control, a separate UN treaty. Government representatives meet every two years to evaluate results. Recognizing that the tobacco industry’s presence was fundamentally incompatible with protecting public health, the countries agreed to virtually ban Big Tobacco from those meetings.

“It is irresponsible and inaccurate to liken plastics to tobacco,” the American Chemistry Council said in a statement in response to my questions about this comparison. “Unlike the tobacco industry, the plastics industry is playing a vital role in helping meet the UN’s sustainability goals by contributing to food safety, healthcare, renewable energy, telecommunications, clean drinking water, and much more. …

“Keeping plastic producers out means a less informed treaty,” the council said. “We are essential and constructive stakeholders in the global effort to prevent plastic pollution.”

Short of barring the plastics industry, many have wondered why the UN can’t start with smaller steps, like giving industry observers a different kind of badge.

The fossil fuel companies “that are manufacturing plastics” are “not coming to these negotiations with solutions,” Baskut Tuncak, a former UN special rapporteur for human rights and toxics, told me. They’re here “to throw a wrench in the process, or two, or three.”

When I asked if it intended to introduce conflict-of-interest controls, the INC Secretariat said it couldn’t impose rules unilaterally. Governments would have to decide for themselves.

Some U.S. and European politicians have requested such reforms. Negotiators should consider measures “to protect against undue influence of corporate actors with proven vested interests that contradict the goals of the global plastics treaty,” said a letter last month sent to President Joe Biden and the secretary-general of the United Nations.

It was signed by Sen. Sheldon Whitehouse, D-R.I., who’s often criticized the fossil fuel industry’s influence on public policy, along with 11 other members of Congress and a member of the European Parliament. Industry reps should be required to disclose lobbying records and campaign contributions, the letter suggested.

The UN isn’t powerless, said Tuncak and Ana Paula Souza, a UN human rights officer I met on my last day in Ottawa. There’s more the institution could do to raise the profile of the issue, they said. Souza said the UN could also increase funding to allow more of those most affected by plastic pollution to attend these meetings.

An art installation outside the Ottawa convention center (James Park for ProPublica) Looking Ahead

The Ottawa conference ended with limited progress. Negotiators have a long way to go to reach a final draft at the last scheduled conference this November in Busan, South Korea. Smaller groups of delegates will meet before then; it’s unclear how many observers will be able to attend.

It’s tempting to feel pessimistic. This could easily end up like the UN climate treaty — anemic, voluntary and dragging on forever.

And it’s not like a conflict-of-interest policy would magically solve everything. Countries with powerful plastics lobbies, including the United States, can still advocate for corporate interests.

But it’s worth stepping back to recognize the magnitude of what’s happening.

Nearly every government on Earth signed up for days of painstaking sessions on plastic as a global threat — even places confronting existential crises, like Haiti, Palestine, Sudan and Ukraine. The world recognizes the importance of figuring this out. And despite all the industry influence, capping plastic production remains a possibility.

Do You Have Experience in or With the Plastics Industry? Tell Us About It.

by Sergio Hernandez

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

In the summer of 2021, New York Police Department officer Willie Thompson had sex at least twice with a witness to a Harlem carjacking that he was investigating. When a prosecutor questioned Thompson about his relationship with the witness, Thompson first lied, denying the relationship, before recanting and confessing the next day, according to an internal discipline report. About a week later, the woman, sounding upset, called the prosecutor and said Thompson had cornered her at a bodega, blaming her for getting him in trouble and threatening that officers from the precinct would be coming to her home, the document shows.

Thompson, who declined to comment, was found guilty by the NYPD on two misconduct charges and was placed on probation.

But if you looked up his disciplinary history on the department’s public database of uniformed officers, you would be unlikely to learn that.

ProPublica has found the NYPD site for allowing the public to track officers’ misconduct is shockingly unreliable. Cases against officers frequently vanish from the site for days — sometimes weeks — at a time. The issue affects nearly all of the officers in the database, with discipline disappearing from the profiles of patrol officers all the way up to its most senior uniformed officer.

ProPublica examined more than 1,000 daily snapshots of the database’s contents and found that, since the fall of 2022, the number of discipline cases that appear in the database has fluctuated often and wildly. Try to pull up the record for a disciplined officer and the site sometimes spits back, “This officer does not have any applicable entries.”

Since May 2021, at least 88% of the disciplinary cases that once appeared in the data have gone missing at some point, though some were later restored. As of this week, 54% of cases that had at one point been in the system were missing.

“It is really disconcerting to see that there are records that are there one day that are not the next,” said Jennvine Wong, a supervising attorney with the Legal Aid Society’s Cop Accountability Project.

In the NYPD’s Officer Database, Discipline Records Frequently Vanish

A ProPublica analysis of more than 1,000 daily snapshots of the NYPD’s Office Profile database found that, since fall 2022, cases have repeatedly disappeared and the number of publicly accessible cases fluctuates often and wildly.

Source: ProPublica analysis of archived NYPD data. (Chart by Sergio Hernandez)

The NYPD did not respond to repeated requests for interviews or comment.

Because the department’s database is designed to show discipline only for active officers, some cases relating to former officers might have been removed from the data over time. Yet that would only explain a fraction of the missing cases. For most of the past year, at least a third of cases that had previously appeared in the database were missing.

These missing cases have included Chief of Department Jeffrey Maddrey, the force’s highest-ranking uniformed officer, and six deputy chiefs whose assignments include the department’s transit bureau and the Joint Terrorism Task Force.

The allegations against these high-ranking officers include being “discourteous” to a suspect, drinking while on duty, improper use of department property, and wrongful searches, frisks and uses of force.

In the chief of department’s case, Maddrey was docked 45 vacation days over a 2015 incident in which he impeded internal affairs officials who were investigating an altercation with an ex-lover and fellow officer. The incident ended with the officer brandishing a gun at Maddrey. When a reporter looked up Maddrey’s discipline record on Wednesday, the department’s system reported no disciplinary cases against him.

In interviews, several advocates for police reform and accountability said the issues raised by ProPublica’s analysis renewed their concerns about the NYPD’s competence, legal compliance and accountability.

“It just continues to undermine the public confidence in that they care at all about discipline and police accountability,” said Lupe Aguirre, a senior staff attorney at the New York Civil Liberties Union. “Their track record shows that they are both unwilling and unable to hold their officers accountable.”

While people across the country rallied against police brutality in the aftermath of George Floyd’s murder by Minneapolis officers in 2020, reform advocates in New York scored a major victory. Capitalizing on the groundswell of public demand for accountability, they pushed lawmakers to repeal a state statute that, for more than four decades, prohibited the release of personnel information about police officers.

Early the next year, the NYPD published a searchable database of its uniformed officers, allowing the public to look up cops and see their training histories, departmental awards and, for the first time, internal discipline records. In a department-wide memo, agency brass reportedly touted the move as a “step that increases transparency and improves accountability.”

Despite a 2012 local law that requires agencies to publish their data on the city’s open-data platform, the police department chose a vendor best known for selling “athlete management” software for sports teams to run the officer lookup system.

The source code of the officer profile website reveals it runs on software from RockDaisy, a New York-based software company. A blog post on its site, first published in 2017 and updated last year, says it has been licensed to several teams in the NFL, NHL and NBA and “the world’s largest police department,” an apparent reference to the NYPD.

RockDaisy’s founders did not respond to ProPublica’s inquiries about the company’s relationship with the police department. While RockDaisy does appear in a database of qualified vendors, a spokesperson for the city comptroller, which audits agency spending and reviews city contracts, said her office could not find any contracts with or payments to the company.

Aguirre and Wong, the Legal Aid Society attorney, cited the department’s habit of resisting oversight to argue that disclosure of officer misconduct data should not be entrusted to the department itself.

“It all should be up on [NYC] Open Data,” Wong said, referring to the citywide portal that publishes data from various agencies, including the NYPD, on everything from 311 calls and filming permits to a census of the city’s trees.

A schedule of upcoming releases shows that the NYPD’s officer profile data was supposed to be added to Open Data by the end of last year, but that still has not happened.

A spokesperson for the city’s chief technology officer, whose agency operates the Open Data platform, did not respond to ProPublica’s request for comment.

Adrienne Schmoeker, who led the city’s Open Data program from 2016 to 2019 and served as New York City’s deputy chief analytics officer under former Mayor Bill de Blasio, said it was not unusual for data releases to fall behind schedule. But failing to publish quality data reliably, she said, risks losing the public’s trust, especially when New Yorkers assume the worst: that agencies are hiding unflattering information.

“That’s extremely problematic, even if it’s wrong,” Schmoeker said, “because it erodes the trust that is essential between New Yorkers and their government.”

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by Brett Murphy

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Years before Oct. 7, soldiers and officers in four Israeli security force units committed what the U.S. State Department would later determine to be serious human rights violations against Palestinians.

In one incident in 2019, an Israel Defense Forces soldier shot and killed an unarmed Palestinian man on the side of a road in the West Bank. That soldier was given no jail time — only three months of community service.

Under the U.S. Leahy Laws, the government must disqualify any military or law enforcement unit from receiving assistance if there’s credible information that the group had committed violations like rape or extrajudicial killings, unless the offending entity has taken adequate steps to punish the perpetrator.

On Friday, Secretary of State Antony Blinken told Congress he had determined the punishments for the soldiers and officers in all four cases — including the community service sentence — to be adequate, according to a State Department memo to Congress. The units won’t be disqualified from receiving American military assistance. The names of the units were previously reported by Al-Monitor. ProPublica obtained the memo with Blinken’s justifications.

Some experts disagreed with that decision, saying that the punishment Israel meted out in the 2019 case was not adequate. They said the decision to continue the support was another example of special treatment for Israel.

Community service is “not what would be considered appropriate punishment,” said Tim Rieser, a longtime aide to former Sen. Patrick Leahy, D-Vt., the chief author of 1997 laws that the State Department is meant to enforce.

Rieser said Blinken’s justification was “not consistent with how the law was written and how it was intended to be applied.” A former State Department official said it was a “mockery.” Both officials, along with another congressional aide, were especially troubled that during the years it had taken to assess whether Israel had sufficiently punished the perpetrators, the State Department had apparently not disqualified the units from U.S. support.

A State Department spokesperson did not answer questions about Blinken’s memo but told ProPublica the agency has taken “extensive steps to implement the Leahy law for all countries that receive applicable U.S. assistance, including Israel.” The spokesperson said the agency is continuing to review reports of violations. “Israel has a moral obligation and a strategic imperative to protect civilians,” the spokesperson added.

ProPublica previously reported that a panel of internal State Department experts, known as the Israel Leahy Vetting Forum, had sent Blinken multiple cases of violations, along with recommendations to cut units off from assistance, months ago. The recommendations were an unusual escalation after years of deferential treatment of Israel, according to people close to the forum’s activities.

Following the report three weeks ago, Blinken promised to announce his determinations “in the coming days.” At the time, several media outlets reported that the State Department was poised to sanction one of the units, Netzah Yehuda, the ultra-Orthodox military battalion that has operated in the West Bank and been accused of multiple human rights violations.

The vetting forum reviewed the unit for an incident in which commanders gagged, handcuffed and left an elderly Palestinian American man for dead. (The commanders were reprimanded and demoted but did not face prison time, according to the vetting forum’s meeting minutes.) Israel’s leaders responded by fiercely pushing back against U.S. plans to withhold American assistance from the battalion. Blinken has since delayed his decision on it, Axios reported.

Netzah Yehuda is not mentioned in Blinken’s Friday memo. In the meantime, the unit has apparently remained eligible for U.S. military assistance despite the finding that there was a violation.

“That’s an outrage and another example of special treatment for Israel,” said Charles Blaha, the former director of the State Department’s Office of Security and Human Rights and a former participant in the forum. The larger issue, he added, is that “there are literally dozens of Israeli security force units that have committed gross violations of human rights and remain eligible for assistance because of the State Department’s failure to apply the law.”

Blinken’s letter to Congress comes at a time of increasing tension between the U.S. and Israel. Last week, President Joe Biden withheld a shipment of 3,500 bombs to Israel after the country pledged to ignore international outcry and go forward with its incursion into the southern Gazan city of Rafah. It was the first known time since Hamas’ terrorist attack that the administration has halted an arms shipment. Then, on Wednesday, Biden told CNN he would not supply bombs and shells to Israel that it can use to attack Rafah, where there are 1 million civilians sheltering.

Blinken is required to inform Congress about any State Department findings of gross human rights violations that he considered to be remediated. His memo on Friday detailed four cases he apparently decided met that standard.

In one case, a senior officer in the Israeli National Police’s Ma’avarim unit deceived and coerced six women, including some in the Israeli military, to have sex with him. Another officer serving in the West Bank’s COGAT unit forced at least two Palestinian women who were seeking permits to work in Israel to have sex with him between 2013 and 2016. Both of those officers are currently serving significant prison sentences, punishments that experts said are an adequate response from the Israeli government.

In March 2016, Elor Azaria, a medic in the Israel Defense Forces’ 92nd Shimshon Battalion, killed a 20-year-old Palestinian, Abed al-Fatah al Sharif. Al Sharif was disarmed and handcuffed on the ground after stabbing an Israeli soldier when Azaria shot and killed him. Azaria was charged and convicted with manslaughter and appealed before serving nine months in prison.

The case received enormous attention in the Israeli media, spurring debate in Israel about whether the punishment was adequate.

However, experts, including some State Department officials, say the handling of the fourth case is egregious.

In that case in 2019, an unnamed officer from the Shahar Search and Rescue Battalion, which looks for Hamas weaponry and intelligence, shot and killed an unarmed Palestinian man named Ahmed Manasra. Manasra had pulled over on his way home from a wedding to help a woman on the side of the road. The soldier also shot and wounded another driver, who the soldier assumed had been throwing stones at Israeli motorists.

The soldier reached a plea deal with military judges, who acknowledged he had “made a mistake of fact when he shot the victim,” before sentencing him to three months of community service and a three-month suspended sentence. He was also removed from the military.

The Israeli military said during court proceedings that the soldier had “wrongly assumed” that Manasra was the stone thrower and that there was a report of a possible terror attack in the area before the incident, according to The Associated Press.

The Israeli Embassy declined to comment.

“To the best of the Department of State’s knowledge, the investigation and judicial processes were credible,” Blinken noted in his memo to Congress. He determined that the Israelis “are taking effective steps to bring to justice the responsible member of the Shahar Battalion.”

Blaha, one of the former forum members, said if any other country offered such a paltry punishment, his office never would have accepted it as adequate remediation. “The whole process has been such a disappointment to me,” he said.

by Jennifer Smith Richards and Jodi S. Cohen

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.

From the first months that Brett Ashinoff was at Shrub Oak International School in New York, his parents felt uneasy about the residential school for students with autism.

They worried that Brett, who already was thin, was losing weight. They said his nails weren’t getting cut. He would refuse to get into the car to return to Shrub Oak after visits home, sitting for hours on the porch until his father coaxed him into the vehicle.

His parents’ concerns, documented in email exchanges with school administrators, began soon after he started in April 2022 and grew over time. Brett’s speech therapy was reduced because of limited staff. He wasn’t given his medication for at least five days in a row. “Kindly accept our sincerest apologies,” Lauren Koffler, a member of the family that operates the school, wrote in an email to Brett’s mother about the medication. She said an error with the pharmacy was responsible for the lapse.

Then came a series of confrontations with overnight staff in February 2023. Brett, his parents said, had never been physically restrained at a school before going to Shrub Oak. But employees restrained the 18-year-old, who weighed 95 pounds, at least three times one week after he became aggressive with them. One of those nights, several employees took him to a padded room and held him down on the floor. He sustained injuries, including a cut on his leg, according to emails between the school and his parents.

When Brett called his mother crying and begging to leave, Russ Ashinoff, his father, got in his car and drove two hours from his home in New Jersey to Shrub Oak, located in Westchester County.

He said he arrived to find Brett shaking, his foot purple and swollen. His nose was bruised and cut. “He was inconsolable, not himself,” Ashinoff said. He took Brett to an emergency room, where he was sedated, records show. Brett had never before needed to be sedated, his father said.

Ashinoff said he tried to report suspected abuse to several agencies in New York. The attorney general’s office took his complaint but told him it didn’t have jurisdiction and referred him to the New York State Education Department, according to the attorney general’s office. The Education Department told Ashinoff that it, too, couldn’t do anything, he said.

Ashinoff scribbled notes on the back of an envelope as he was repeatedly turned away.

“I never imagined you could have a school with a bunch of kids who are vulnerable that would be a free-for-all,” said Ashinoff, a physician. “The health department comes in and looks at every McDonald’s, but nobody is going to check out a school?”

He’s right. No state agency oversees Shrub Oak, which enrolls a range of students with autism including those whom other schools declined to serve and who have severe behavioral challenges and complex medical needs. The private, for-profit school chose not to seek approval from New York’s Education Department.

That means it has gotten no meaningful oversight and state officials have had no authority over the school — over who works there, whether money is spent properly and if the curriculum and services are appropriate for students with disabilities.

Even without New York’s approval, Shrub Oak receives public money from school districts across the country that pay tuition for the students they send there.

Brett Ashinoff, 18, lived at Shrub Oak for nine months before his parents brought him home to New Jersey. (Liz Moughon/ProPublica)

Shrub Oak opened in 2018 with grand promises: beautiful dorms, an indoor therapy pool, an equestrian stable, a restaurant-quality kitchen, sophisticated security, round-the-clock care and cutting-edge education for students with autism from around the world.

Some of those promises never materialized. A ProPublica investigation — based on records from school districts, court documents and interviews with nearly 30 families and just as many workers — also found accusations of possible abuse and neglect: unexplained black eyes and bruises on students’ bodies, medication mix-ups, urine-soaked mattresses and deficient staffing. Many parents and workers, armed with confidential documents and photos of student injuries, described their futile efforts to get authorities to intervene.

Shrub Oak’s leaders declined to be interviewed. In written responses to questions from ProPublica, the school said it “handles some of the most complex cases” of students who have autism and who struggle with “significant self-injurious behaviors,” aggression and property destruction.

“Our success stories are now known among parents and many of the currently enrolled students were recommended to us via word of mouth,” the school wrote in its response, provided by crisis communications specialist Richard Bamberger. He arranged interviews with four families who said the school has been a godsend for their children.

Shrub Oak is among the most expensive therapeutic boarding schools in America. Tuition for residential students is $316,400 this school year. Many students require a dedicated aide for 16 hours a day, bringing the total to $573,200. Shrub Oak currently enrolls about 85 students, ages 7 to 23, from 13 states and Puerto Rico.

Though the school touts its expertise with students who need constant care, police records detail young people swallowing aluminum foil, plexiglass, diapers and their own feces; putting their heads or fists through windows; and running away as recently as late March.

Shrub Oak serves students on the autism spectrum who might also have challenging behavioral and medical needs. (Liz Moughon/ProPublica)

Last year, two Shrub Oak workers were criminally charged with abusing students, though one case has been dropped. The other worker is due in court on Thursday.

Shrub Oak struggles to maintain enough workers, particularly during evenings and weekends. It doesn’t always provide the dedicated aides it guarantees, records and interviews show. And the school’s leaders also have hired employees with criminal convictions for offenses including robbery and burglary — something that would be prohibited in many students’ home districts.

The New York Education Department said it does not track how many unapproved schools operate in the state. It oversees hundreds of approved private schools, which gives them the ability to issue diplomas and take tuition money directly from New York school districts.

New York’s position is that the states sending students to Shrub Oak are responsible for them. But some states and districts have struggled to monitor students’ progress or well-being or didn’t check on them in person, the ProPublica investigation found. The failures of oversight come at a time when more young people are being diagnosed with autism and school districts and families are desperate for help educating them.

Shrub Oak said the school has been working with New York to get approved. But the state Education Department and other agencies that would need to sign off said Shrub Oak has not filed applications with them.

The school said its tuition rates are reasonable, especially given all the services it provides. It defended its hiring practices, saying it gives individuals with criminal histories a second chance as long as their misconduct didn’t involve children. Shrub Oak investigates allegations of misconduct by staff members, involves police and “fires employees involved in an issue,” the school said.

Shrub Oak said it could not comment on incidents involving individual students, citing the need for confidentiality, and asked reporters to have families sign a broad waiver provided by the school’s lawyer. ProPublica’s lawyers modified the waiver to enable the school to release information relevant to ProPublica’s questions. One former adult student and a parent of another student signed that but two did not, including the Ashinoffs. Shrub Oak still declined to address individual cases without its version of the waiver.

Koffler, a top administrator at Shrub Oak, said the school uniquely serves all types of students with autism, from those learning basic life skills to others who will go to college. “It’s a beautiful thing to be able to service the entire spectrum,” she told reporters during a tour of the school.

The Ashinoffs never took their son back to Shrub Oak. They had a friend collect his things.

Brett, at home with his parents in New Jersey, would rather jump around in his bounce house or play with his dog, Otis, than talk about the nine months he spent at Shrub Oak.

“I hate Shrub Oak,” he said, barely above a whisper. He dropped his head. “It’s kind of sad,” he said, and then decided he didn’t want to talk anymore.

Brett Ashinoff plays in his inflatable bounce house in his family’s basement in New Jersey. (Liz Moughon/ProPublica)

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As Michael Koffler and his family were creating Shrub Oak in 2016, they were still dealing with the fallout from a state investigation into their alleged misuse of taxpayer money for personal gain.

That October, New York authorities publicly accused Koffler and his two sons, Brian and Daniel, of using state money intended for students with disabilities at Sunshine Developmental School, a special-education preschool in New York City, to pay family members’ inflated salaries, credit card bills and boat expenses. Some state money also paid Brian Koffler’s law school tuition, and Michael Koffler claimed maintenance on his Westhampton beach home and purchases in St. Barts as business expenses, according to the investigation by the New York state comptroller, attorney general and tax commissioner.

“We won’t allow special education programs to be exploited for personal financial gain,” then-Attorney General Eric Schneiderman said in a press release.

The family and its business, K3 Learning Inc., “launched a scheme” to avoid paying millions of dollars in personal and corporate income tax and had also created a real estate company that it used to mark up rent to Sunshine, the tax commissioner said at the time.

The family did not admit any wrongdoing but agreed to pay New York $4.3 million to settle the case. Michael Koffler’s sons have paid what they owed, records show. But Koffler and his wife are delinquent. The state issued a tax warrant, and with penalties and interest the couple now owe $2.9 million. Michael, Brian and Daniel Koffler did not respond to a request for comment. The school’s spokesperson said “the tax warrant case is unrelated to Shrub Oak.”

Sunshine Developmental School in Queens is a special-education preschool. New York state officials found in 2016 that it misspent public money. Its operators developed Shrub Oak. (Alex Bandoni/ProPublica)

Six weeks after the settlement was announced, Brian Koffler applied to establish Shrub Oak International School, the family’s first boarding school, as a business in New York. Michael Koffler used K3’s business address and his company email address in financing documents to open Shrub Oak, records show.

Shrub Oak said in its responses to ProPublica that “K3 is unrelated to Shrub Oak.” But some leaders are the same; Michael Koffler is the CEO, Brian Koffler is the general counsel and a consultant. Brian Koffler’s wife, Lauren, is head of admissions, communications and client relations. In his LinkedIn profile, Michael Koffler lists himself as K3’s CEO and under his experience there mentions Shrub Oak, calling it “a crowning achievement to date.”

Shrub Oak took over the property, a former seminary on 127 acres of rolling hills in Mohegan Lake about an hour outside of New York City, in late 2017. The goal was to enroll about 400 students, and Shrub Oak’s leaders worked to create buzz about their new project. Email blasts to school district officials touted the “extraordinary personal attention” that students would get. Advertisements promoted a luxe facility with impressive amenities. A piece in Architectural Digest extolled its renovation.

Michael Koffler in 2010, left, Lauren Koffler and Brian Koffler (Michael Koffler’s image: Jason Binn/WireImage/Getty Images. Lauren Koffler’s image: Shrub Oak leadership page. Brian Koffler’s image: Sunshine Developmental School Director’s Corner page.)

While the initial idea for Shrub Oak was to be a high-end school serving autistic students as they transitioned to adult life, leaders broadened the vision to include difficult-to-place students with immense challenges. The school then made direct pitches to public school districts, navigated states’ varying rules for funding and helped families understand how they could get public money to pay the tuition.

Shrub Oak’s leaders are currently responding to another market demand as they prepare to open their next venture this summer. The Pines at Shrub Oak, a 24-bed wing within the same building as the school, will enroll autistic students who are experiencing a psychiatric crisis.

In response to inquiries from ProPublica about Shrub Oak, the school’s spokesperson arranged interviews with families who described similar traumatic experiences that led them to send their children to Shrub Oak and why they believe the school is essential.

Ed Dasso described the pain of realizing his two autistic sons couldn’t stay at their local school or in his home because of their aggressive behavior. His school district, in a suburb west of Chicago, agreed that Shrub Oak was the best option after other schools closer to home turned them down.

As he prepared for an admissions call with the school, Dasso said he thought: “If this doesn’t work out, I think I have to give up custody of the boys.” His sons, who are 16 and 18, moved to Shrub Oak about eight months ago and Dasso said he feels that they are well cared for and are experiencing new things. “They basically saved our family and saved the boys.”

Kristin Buck expressed the same gratitude. Her 13-year-old son, Teddy, interviewed for a spot at Shrub Oak from a juvenile detention center after a violent outburst landed him in custody. He had been there for six months and was terrified, she said. At Shrub Oak, Teddy gets more attention and the school has figured out what triggers difficult behavior for him, Buck said.

“There were no other schools for Teddy,” said Buck, whose family lives in the suburbs of Chicago. “Everybody turned their back on us. What instance can you think of where the police can’t help you, hospitals can’t help you, schools can’t help you?”

A few other parents, including those not provided by the school’s spokesperson, said they are aware of troubles at the school but believe their children have done well.

“I know that it’s not perfect,” said Brandy Carbery, from Bartlett in suburban Chicago. She said that she doesn’t know where her family would be without Shrub Oak, and that her 14-year-old son Alex has taken trips into the community and enjoys the school’s sensory room. But, she added, “I know that some people have issues.”

As ProPublica was reporting on Shrub Oak, some state education officials and advocates for people with disabilities were looking more closely at the school.

Massachusetts acknowledged to ProPublica that it approved Shrub Oak two years ago in violation of its own requirements. The state allowed public money to pay students’ tuition there after it failed to realize that New York had an approval process — and that Shrub Oak had not sought that approval. The Massachusetts education department discovered the error after receiving complaints about the school from at least two districts and parents. It gave the seven districts with publicly funded students at Shrub Oak until July to find other placements for them.

And last year, Disability Rights New York, the federally appointed watchdog for people with disabilities in the state, launched an investigation and visited the school. DRNY said in recent court filings that it has received more than 40 complaints about the school, including students being denied medical attention and staff being discouraged from calling 911 — allegations the school said are false. The organization can release its findings publicly and sue to seek changes, but it does not have enforcement authority.

The group filed a lawsuit last month against the state Education Department after the agency denied responsibility for Shrub Oak and argued it didn’t have to provide records of any complaints. The department has cited the school’s nonapproved status as a reason for denying the records, saying it does not have responsibility for “investigating incidents of abuse or neglect, injury or death” or “any other oversight responsibility” at Shrub Oak.

Shrub Oak criticized the fairness of the investigation, saying DRNY and a similar agency in Connecticut have visited the school multiple times and requested documents and other information but have not shared their concerns, leaving the school unable to respond.

DRNY declined to comment to ProPublica. Disability Rights Connecticut would not comment except to say that the group has “information that is of great concern to us.”

There are currently about 85 students from 13 states and Puerto Rico enrolled at Shrub Oak. (Liz Moughon/ProPublica)

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Last October, soon after the school day ended, a Shrub Oak employee began menacing a student who was yelling, court records show. The man raised a desk over his head and threatened to throw it at the 22-year-old student from Chicago.

He also knocked on the student’s forehead with his knuckles four or five times “similar to a way a person would knock very hard on a door,” according to the sworn statement of an employee who said she witnessed the incident.

The student said, “Ouch, you are hurting me,” according to that statement, and the student at one point grabbed the right side of her stomach and cried out that she’d been hit.

The employee was fired then charged with three misdemeanors — menacing, harassment and endangering the welfare of a disabled person. He has pleaded not guilty.

A court filing describes what led to criminal charges against a former Shrub Oak worker last fall. (Obtained by ProPublica from the Yorktown Justice Court)

When the Chicago student’s mother picked up her daughter for a visit in December, she decided she wasn’t comfortable leaving her at Shrub Oak any longer. She called Chicago Public Schools and learned that Shrub Oak had not told the district that its student was the victim of the alleged abuse even though it should have, according to its contract with Shrub Oak. Chicago Public Schools confirmed the district learned of the alleged abuse of the student from her mother.

That same day, the student’s mother also called ProPublica. She and other parents spoke to reporters on the condition that their names not be used because they were afraid of retaliation by the school’s operators or feared being in the desperate position of needing to find another school and being penalized for speaking out.

“I just called Chicago Public Schools and said: ‘I’m not taking her back. This is not a safe place,’” the student’s mother told ProPublica.

Shrub Oak said it couldn’t comment about the incident or its communications with Chicago Public Schools because they are related to an individual student.

A 22-year-old student attended Shrub Oak until late last year when her family brought her home to Chicago. (Taylor Glascock, special to ProPublica)

The October incident was one of the more than 150 times that the local police responded to calls about the school since 2019 — from employees reporting student injuries to parents asking for well-being checks on their children.

In at least four other incidents involving suspected abuse, Shrub Oak told police that it had fired employees, records show. The school fired an employee in 2022 who was seen shoving a student “to the floor multiple times.” It fired another employee in November 2023 after a co-worker saw him hit a student in the head and chest and slam him to the floor.

In February of last year, Shrub Oak also fired a worker who reportedly punched two students in the stomach at night in their bedrooms. The school told police about the incident three days later. An employee who witnessed the incident told police he saw the worker punch both students and then justify it, saying, “Sometimes you have to (motioned punching) to get them to do what they have to do,” according to court records.

Listen to a 911 Call Related to the November 2023 Incident A security guard alerts authorities to the incident. (Yorktown Police Department. Edited by ProPublica for clarity and to preserve anonymity.)

The employee in the February incident was arrested, but the Westchester County district attorney’s office said it dismissed the case because of issues with gathering sufficient evidence within the required time frame for criminal cases.

The school told ProPublica that it calls the police to be transparent and impartial, and that some students make false allegations or call 911 as “negative attention-seeking behavior.”

Underlying many of the problems at Shrub Oak are staffing shortages, according to records and interviews. An internal email shows that one night, a “skeleton staff” was stretched too thin to attend to students’ hygiene. Employees provided ProPublica schedules that showed multiple students assigned to one worker even though the students required individual aides and the districts were paying for them.

Shrub Oak acknowledged the challenge of operating round-the-clock, but its spokesperson said that its staff of 400 is adequate and that the school “determines staffing levels based on student needs and contract parameters.” The school said that some students have advanced to where they can work without individual aides and that it passes any savings onto the districts.

James Roddy, a former Shrub Oak student, said the school sometimes was so short on staff “they’d literally ask other kids to watch over them.” He and another student ran away from the school one evening in January 2022 and spent the night hiding inside a Home Depot, police records show.

James Roddy, 18, is a former Shrub Oak student who lives in Utah. (Kim Raff for ProPublica)

Despite being a school that pledges to help students with intense behavioral challenges, Shrub Oak has only one certified behavioral therapist, employees and parents told ProPublica. Shrub Oak would not confirm the number.

“You send your kid to a residential school because you can’t handle all the things they need,” said the mother of one current student. “So they go to a school where they will have a team of experts, and you trust that the school will provide that. They are not providing that.”

A current employee described his concern over a student who was isolated in his bedroom as punishment. Like the Ashinoffs, he found he had nowhere to turn. He tried the state Education Department and the Justice Center, which investigates allegations that students with disabilities have been abused or neglected. He said both agencies told him they had no authority over unapproved schools.

“It broke my heart,” the employee said. “Who is watching out for these students?”

A note from Shrub Oak’s staff messaging system describes a student’s condition. (Obtained by ProPublica. Redactions by ProPublica.)

Other workers and parents expressed their alarm at failures to address students’ basic needs: medicine, hygiene and food.

“I had a student almost die because he had a seizure and almost stopped breathing. They had stopped giving him medicine,” said a former behavior specialist at the school. Police records and emails describe students taking the wrong medication or none at all. Shrub Oak told ProPublica that it has changed its medication practices.

Several parents also said their children uncharacteristically began urinating and defecating in their rooms because they were locked out of bathrooms overnight. Shrub Oak said some students have conditions that lead them to soil themselves — sometimes intentionally — and that staff are always available to let students in the locked bathrooms.

A student eats his takeout meal at Shrub Oak. (Obtained by ProPublica from the family)

And for years, Shrub Oak leaders have been telling parents that a “restaurant-quality kitchen” would be finished “by year end” or in a few months, records show.

Instead, the food mostly comes from a nearby deli, though the school says Shrub Oak’s chef and nutritionist “are beyond compare.” (The therapy pool and equestrian stable also have not been built.) Shrub Oak told ProPublica on April 12 that the kitchen is slated to open “within days,” pending completion of electrical work. As of Tuesday, the kitchen still was not open.

“The promise of this place was magic,” one mother from California said. She pulled her son from Shrub Oak last year and sent him to an approved residential school for autistic students.

“Why they’re even allowed to have a school, I have no idea,” she said.

A wing of the Shrub Oak campus is being renovated to include more dorm rooms. (Liz Moughon/ProPublica)

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Help ProPublica Report on Education

Mollie Simon contributed research.

by Anna Maria Barry-Jester

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It was 2022 when pediatrician Tom Herr realized just how many babies on the Rosebud reservation in South Dakota were already infected with syphilis when they took their first breaths. He was seeing more and more patients who’d spent their first weeks in a tangle of tubes that pumped antibiotics into their tiny bodies. Some had died in the womb.

With growing alarm, Herr and other health officials spread the word, appealing to bosses at the federal Indian Health Service and tribal health authorities, writing op-eds and talking to reporters. But as the months ticked by, the crisis mounted.

By 2023, an astonishing 3% of all Native American babies born in South Dakota were infected.

Now, according to tribal leaders, the syphilis rate among American Indians and Alaska Natives in the Great Plains surpasses any recorded rate in the United States since 1941, when it was discovered that penicillin could treat the infection.

On a map of rising syphilis cases nationwide, some reservations stand out like a red alert.

Desperate for help, in late February of this year tribal leaders from four Great Plains states took the extreme step of asking U.S. Department of Health and Human Services Secretary Xavier Becerra to declare a public health emergency. The Great Plains Tribal Leaders’ Health Board asked the secretary to deploy commissioned officers from the U.S. Public Health Service to help diagnose and treat people for syphilis, and to provide emergency funding for the tribes to improve their response capabilities.

More than 10 weeks later, Becerra has not responded.

“We need to free up resources so we can take extraordinary measures to respond to these extraordinary circumstances,” said Meghan Curry O’Connell, chief public health officer for the tribal health board.

Syphilis, which is transmitted primarily through sexual intercourse, is easily treatable. But the disease is life-threatening when left unchecked. Babies infected in the womb can be born in excruciating pain, with deformed bones, brain damage or other serious complications. They can even die.

The emergency declaration may be the only way to get money in time to prevent more babies from getting sick or dying. The typical funding processes — which go through the federal budget or the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention — can lead to a delay of a year or more before money trickles down to communities.

In response to questions from ProPublica about why Becerra hasn’t replied to the emergency request, an HHS spokesperson wrote that “HHS has received the request and will respond directly” to the Great Plains tribes, but did not provide a time frame for doing so.

ProPublica also sent questions about the outbreak to Dr. Natalie Holt, chief medical officer for the Indian Health Service’s Great Plains office. In response, IHS provided written answers from both Holt and HHS.

The rise of syphilis cases among Native American communities, particularly in some Great Plains states, is “especially concerning,” Holt said. She said that Great Plains IHS is working with the South Dakota Department of Health and tribal partners to “maximize syphilis case identification, contract tracing and treatment efforts.”

HHS wrote that it was “taking action to slow the spread with a focus on those most significantly impacted,” noting that it had held a workshop for tribes and created a national task force to “leverage federal resources.” It also pointed to guidelines IHS had released in October 2023 about how to respond to the outbreak.

Syphilis has been on the rise nationwide for a decade, and the country has repeatedly run low on penicillin, the medicine used to cure it. But amid a shortage of health care providers and money the disease was spreading faster on reservations.

Because syphilis is treatable and can be so devastating to a baby, even one case of an infected infant is a sign that a health system is failing.

Alarms about health care in the area have been ringing for years, in large part due to neglect from various arms of the federal government, including chronic underfunding from Congress for the health care system for Native Americans.

Now, the silence from HHS is threatening to perpetuate what health workers say is a preventable outbreak that endangers the lives of children.

“The more you delay, the harder it is to contain. More people infected, more infant deaths,” O’Connell said.

The U.S. government is obligated to provide health care to many tribes, including several in the Great Plains, under a variety of treaties. It does so largely through the Indian Health Service, a series of clinics and hospitals on reservations and in cities primarily in the western United States.

Unlike other major health programs like Medicare, IHS funding is determined by a congressional vote each year. It has always fallen far short of the $50 billion tribes say is needed. The IHS spends a little over one-third of what the Veterans Health Administration spends per patient and half of what the government spends on health care for federal prisoners, according to the most recent data available.

When infectious diseases inevitably arrive, as they do in every community, the Indian Health Service is often ill equipped to respond, according to current and former employees. Those existing shortfalls have made the syphilis outbreak even more challenging.

Holt, the chief medical officer at IHS Great Plains, wrote, “Public health initiatives are chronically underfunded.” Responding to infectious diseases requires “substantial ‘boots-on-the-ground,’” she said, noting that the U.S. is experiencing a national health care staff shortage, including a dearth of nurses, providers and other support personnel.

At the end of 2020, HHS released a national strategic plan to tackle sexually transmitted infections, including syphilis. The report noted concerning rates of syphilis in Native American babies across the country, which by then were already three times higher than in the population as a whole. Officials set a goal to bring the rate down by more than 15% by 2025.

Instead, over the next two years, the rate of syphilis among Indigenous people in the Great Plains soared by 1,865%. Around 80% of the cases in South Dakota in recent years have been among Native people, who represent less than 10% of the state population.

At Rosebud, Herr started spending his weekends at work, poring over patient charts. He made a list, tracking those who had tested positive but gone untreated. He shared the list with colleagues and tried to figure out how to get people their penicillin.

“We just did this with COVID,” he thought. “We know what to do.”

Herr set up an alert in the electronic medical record system to flag patients who needed treatment. On the walls of reservation hospitals and clinics, staff hung colorful posters featuring pregnant bellies, encouraging people to get tested.

The more you delay, the harder it is to contain. More people infected, more infant deaths.

—Meghan Curry O’Connell, chief public health officer for the tribal health board

Nurses held a few testing events in the community, diagnosing several people. The tribal health board held testing events in Rapid City.

Other Native American reservations were struggling as well. Jessica Leston, then a director for the Northwest Portland Area Indian Health Board, was tracking infectious disease data throughout the West when she noticed a cluster of new syphilis cases at a reservation in Montana. In a community of under 10,000 people, a dozen patients had been diagnosed in one week. She alerted colleagues at Indian Health Service headquarters, and they learned that three of the cases were stillborn babies.

The Montana outbreak was detailed in the Indian Health Service’s budget justification to Congress last year. In 2023, the president’s budget proposal called for $9.3 billion for IHS, a modest increase from the previous year, with additional increases over the next decade. Congress approved $6.9 billion for the system that serves 2.6 million people.

“People always say we care about babies,” Leston said. “Now we aren’t even caring about babies.”

Last year, the tribal health board called in the CDC through a program that deploys the agency’s experts for one to three weeks during outbreaks. CDC staff concluded, as Vox reported last year, that there isn’t enough prenatal care in the area and that patients lack transportation to the few available clinics. CDC disease investigators provided care to 14 people during their visit, noting that all but one would have gone untreated without their help.

The CDC recommended that tribes test and treat people outside of clinics, transport patients to appointments and hire additional workers to find the sexual partners of those who’ve tested positive so that they can be treated as well. The officials also suggested the tribes consider the use of rapid tests, which can return results in time for a patient to be treated before they leave the clinic.

All of those suggestions are nearly impossible to implement, tribal health officials told ProPublica.

Prenatal care used to be more readily available at the Indian Health Service facilities across the Pine Ridge, Rosebud and Cheyenne River reservations, which span nearly 5 million acres, an area approximately the size of New Jersey.

Over the last two years, many staff left and weren’t replaced. Across the three reservations, only Pine Ridge had an obstetrician for much of the last year, according to several people with direct knowledge of the situation. Holt said that the IHS is working to hire more providers and that there is now an additional part-time obstetrician at Pine Ridge and another working two days a week at Cheyenne River.

People with any kind of pregnancy risk factor — including a patient over 34 and another with high blood pressure — have said they were told to drive up to three hours to Rapid City.

Tribal health officials lack the staff or money for mobile clinics and more testing events to find new cases.

They also struggle to track existing cases because three states and the Indian Health Service have refused to share contact information for patients who test positive. South Dakota recently began sharing this crucial information with the tribal health board, but the Indian Health Service and Iowa, North Dakota and Nebraska still do not. Health departments in Iowa, North Dakota and Nebraska did not respond to questions about data sharing.

As for the rapid tests, the Indian Health Service nationally recommends their use. But current and former staff in South Dakota said that area managers have denied their requests for these tests. Instead, providers said, they must use a test that has to be sent out to a lab and wait three to seven days for results. By that time, it can be hard to locate patients for treatment.

Holt said that the IHS “supports data sharing in the interest of improving population health” and that tribes must follow an established policy to request and receive the data. Regarding rapid tests, she wrote that the Great Plains IHS prefers to do the lab-based testing because “we feel this approach improves speedy access to treatment.”

The CDC also urged the tribes to research how punitive policies stop people from seeking medical care. In South Dakota and on several reservations, a pregnant person with illegal substances in their system can be charged with a felony. And providers are required to contact child protective services if they know a person has used drugs during pregnancy. Doctors described patients being screened for drug use at hospitals, with or without their consent, and then taken to jail. People in the area know this risk and sometimes avoid medical visits as a result, women and providers said.

The South Dakota tribes and state officials have shown no indication they are considering changing these policies.

Immediately after the CDC visit last summer, the tribes put in a formal request to the agency for more help. A few CDC staffers returned to the area in April to help find and treat patients who have tested positive. It’s an important step, O’Connell said. But given how far syphilis has reached into the community, a few days of help at few reservations is not enough to stop babies from dying.

The tribes also worry about the damage that’s already been done. In addition to asking for help preventing new infections, leaders asked for a longer-term plan to make sure that children born with syphilis get the care they need in years to come.

Herr remains haunted by one patient file from Rosebud. It belongs to a young woman who came to the hospital in labor and delivered a stillborn baby. A week later, when the patient was long gone, test results came back showing she had syphilis.

Hospital staff tried a few times to follow up to no avail. The woman returned to the hospital months later, this time in the midst of a miscarriage. Based on her medical records, Herr believes she lost both pregnancies due to untreated syphilis.

When Herr retired from IHS in January of this year, the woman still hadn’t been treated.

We plan to continue reporting on Native American health care and are looking for experts and sources. Help us make sure our journalism is responsible and focused on the right issues. We’d especially like to hear from tribal members about their experiences, along with employees of the Indian Health Service, and tribal leaders and elders. If this is you, please fill out the form below or reach out to reporter Anna Barry-Jester at anna.barryjester@propublica.org.

by ProPublica

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

ProPublica won the prestigious public service Pulitzer Prize for what the judges described as “groundbreaking and ambitious reporting that pierced the thick wall of secrecy surrounding the Supreme Court to reveal how a small group of politically influential billionaires wooed justices with lavish gifts and travel, pushing the Court to adopt its first code of conduct.” The prize is given to the staff of a news organization that performed “meritorious public service.” It is the seventh Pulitzer Prize for ProPublica.

The Pulitzer Board also recognized a collaboration between The Texas Tribune, ProPublica and FRONTLINE as a finalist in the explanatory reporting category. The investigation provided a detailed analysis of the deeply flawed law enforcement response to the mass shooting at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas. The designation is ProPublica’s 17th Pulitzer finalist in 16 years.

ProPublica’s “Friends of the Court” series uncovered the biggest ethics scandal to hit the Supreme Court in the modern era. Reporters Justin Elliott, Joshua Kaplan, Alex Mierjeski, Brett Murphy and Kirsten Berg pierced decades of judicial secrecy and uncovered major gifts to justices from a small set of politically influential donors.

Senior editor Jesse Eisinger, left, and Murphy, Mierjeski, Elliott, Berg and Kaplan (Sarahbeth Maney/ProPublica)

The series began a national conversation about ethics and judicial reform of the Supreme Court. In response to ProPublica’s reporting, the court announced in November that it had unanimously adopted the first ethics code in its 234-year history. Justice Clarence Thomas for the first time acknowledged that he should have reported selling real estate to billionaire Harlan Crow in 2014, writing in his annual financial disclosure form that he “inadvertently failed to realize” that the deal needed to be disclosed. Thomas also disclosed receiving three private jet trips from Crow, two of which ProPublica had already reported. The Senate Judiciary Committee voted to authorize subpoenas of Crow and conservative legal activist Leonard Leo as part of its ongoing effort to investigate ethics lapses by justices.

In the series honored as a Pulitzer finalist in explanatory reporting, the Tribune, ProPublica and FRONTLINE used a trove of unreleased investigative files to produce a startling and exhaustive investigation of the Uvalde shooting, which included a documentary. It revealed what no one else had: States across the country are providing devastatingly insufficient training for law enforcement to confront a mass shooter, leaving critical and long-overlooked gaps in preparedness between children and the officers expected to protect them. The series involved the work of Lomi Kriel, Lexi Churchill, Perla Trevizo and Jessica Priest for ProPublica and the Tribune; Jinitzail Hernández and Zach Despart for the Tribune; and Juanita Ceballos, Michelle Mizner and Lauren Prestileo for FRONTLINE.

After the news investigation, U.S. Attorney General Merrick Garland unveiled the findings of a federal probe into the response. Garland pointed to missteps that led to delays in confronting the shooter. Then he turned to what he said was the biggest failure, one that required the most urgent action to avoid another colossal breakdown such as the one that cost lives that day: the lack of sufficient active shooter training for law enforcement. Garland’s comments validated the investigation’s finding that there is an astounding dearth of such instruction around the country.

ProPublica received Pulitzer Prizes for national reporting in 2020, feature writing in 2019, public service in 2017, explanatory reporting in 2016, national reporting in 2011 and investigative reporting in 2010. Local Reporting Network partner Anchorage Daily News won the Pulitzer Prize for public service in 2020.

by Mark Olalde, ProPublica, and Nick Bowlin, Capital & Main

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up to receive our biggest stories as soon as they’re published. This story was produced in partnership with Capital & Main and Gray Television/InvestigateTV.

The first sign of trouble bubbled up from gopher holes a stone’s throw from Stan Ledgerwood’s front door. The salt water left an oily sheen on the soil and a swath of dead grass in the yard.

It was June 2017, and Ledgerwood and his wife, Tina, had recently built a home on the family farm, 230 acres of green amidst the rolling hills and long horizons of south-central Oklahoma. There they planned to spend their retirement, close to Stan’s parents on land that has been in the family since 1920.

The view from the porch took in Stan’s parents’ house, two rows of pecan trees his great-grandfather had planted in the 1930s, and the forest shielding the Washita River, a muddy brown ribbon flowing along the southern edge of the farm. The nearest town, Maysville, has a population of 1,087.

“The only people who come down our road are either lost or the mailman,” said Stan, a husky man with a biting sense of humor.

Stan and Tina Ledgerwood in the family’s pecan grove (Mark Olalde/ProPublica)

Also visible from the porch was metal piping in a red-gated enclosure: an aging oil well.

Like many property owners in this rural farming community, the Ledgerwoods own their land but only a meager percentage of the oil beneath it. Pump jacks nod up and down in nearby fields of soybeans and alfalfa.

Stan’s 84-year-old parents, Don and Shirley Ledgerwood, have watched oil companies drill multiple wells on their farm, where the family had grown crops and run cattle. The family received small royalty payments from the oil production. And decades later, they had to allow a wastewater pipe to cross the farm when another company, Southcreek Petroleum Co. LLC, redrilled the well behind the red gate. The well, which plunged about 9,000 feet into the earth, was repurposed to inject salt water into the geologic formation and push any remaining oil up to other wells.

A new production boom never materialized for Southcreek in this slice of Garvin County, and the family didn’t hear much from the oil company.

“When they were through here,” Don said, “we thought we were finished with the oil business.”

But then a corroded valve malfunctioned underground, injecting brine into the soil, according to a report by a Southcreek contractor.

After salt water leaked from an oil well on the Ledgerwoods’ farm, fouling part of their land and their drinking water, the family struggled for years to hold oil companies accountable. (Jason Crow/InvestigateTV+)

Watch video ➜

A few days after the release was discovered in June 2017, Stan met with Southcreek and the Oklahoma Corporation Commission, the state’s oil and gas regulatory agency. At the meeting, the company characterized the incident as a “small spill,” the Ledgerwoods later alleged in court. It was unclear how long the leak lasted, but the saltwater plume had already saturated the soil and killed 2 acres of vegetation by the time it broke the surface, according to state oil regulators.

Samples analyzed a month later by Oklahoma State University found that the soil’s concentration of chloride, which occurs in the type of salt water injected into the well, had risen to more than 12 times the state’s acceptable level and was “sufficiently high to reduce yield of even salt tolerant crops.”

Other tests showed that chloride levels in the family’s water well had spiked to more than five times what the Environmental Protection Agency deems safe. The tests didn’t look for other contaminants like heavy metals that are often left behind by the oil production process.

Watch “Drilled and Drained”

The Ledgerwoods entered a grim limbo, wondering what toxins might be in the cloudy water coming from their faucets and waiting for someone to address the problem.

They experienced firsthand the policy failures that have allowed the oil and gas industry to reap profits without ensuring there will be money to clean up drill sites when the wells run dry and the drillers flee. A recent ProPublica and Capital and Main investigation found a shortfall of about $150 billion between funds set aside to plug wells in major oil-producing states and the true cost of doing so. When the Ledgerwoods later sought to hold the drillers accountable, the family learned how easily oil companies can use bankruptcy to leave their mess to landowners.

Don began traveling 30 miles round-trip to Walmart to buy bottled water. Stan and Tina’s steel pots rusted after being washed, and their 2-year-old great-niece’s skin became irritated and inflamed after repeatedly washing her hands while they potty-trained her. In a text message, the girl’s mother described her hands as looking like they had “a burn.”

After an oil well leaked salt water just outside her front door, Tina Ledgerwood wondered what else was in the water flowing from her taps. (Mark Olalde/ProPublica)

Southcreek did not respond to ProPublica and Capital & Main’s requests for comment. In court, the company denied calling the release “small” and argued that the groundwater contamination was contained to the two impacted acres the state identified.

The Ledgerwoods watched in horror as the farm that represented their past and their hope for the future languished. Somehow it had to be fixed, they believed. The rest of the family had also considered retiring to the farm, said Steve Ledgerwood, Stan’s brother and a lawyer in nearby Norman, but that plan was going up in smoke.

“We’ve gone out and made our living and done what we were supposed to do, and we wanted to have a relaxed, peaceful life,” Steve said. “And it has been anything but that.”

“Our Only Source of Fresh Water”

The Ledgerwoods and other farmers in Garvin and McClain counties started worrying the moment the oil industry returned in 2012.

Southcreek and other oil companies wanted to resume extraction from the oil field underlying Maysville. But the reservoir was old, so they proposed flooding it with water to force the oil to the surface. Don Ledgerwood and other local farmers signed a petition beseeching the Corporation Commission to reject the companies’ plans.

“This aquifer is our only source of fresh water for our homes, families and livestock,” the farmers wrote. “We fear that any error in development and production could lead to devastating contamination to this critical freshwater supply.”

Cows graze in a pasture in Garvin County, Oklahoma, where farmers tried and failed to block renewed activity from oil companies over fears of water pollution. (Jason Crow/InvestigateTV+)

Watch video ➜

As is common in American oil fields, property rights in this part of Oklahoma often create split estates, where one person owns the land while another owns the underlying minerals, such as oil and gas. The owner of the minerals has a right to drill, even if the landowner would prefer they didn’t.

The farmers didn’t sway the Corporation Commission, and in 2014, Southcreek redrilled the well on the Ledgerwoods’ land. The company was small but produced about $4 million worth of oil and gas from the area, adjusted for inflation, according to an analysis of Oklahoma Tax Commission data.

State regulators are supposed to minimize the risks that accompany oil and gas production, including by mandating that drillers plug old wells to prevent them from leaking greenhouse gases into the atmosphere or leaching toxic chemicals into the land and water.

In theory, cleanup is guaranteed by financial instruments called bonds that companies fund and that regulators can put toward the cost of retiring wells if drillers go bankrupt or walk away. Sufficient bonding creates an incentive for companies to plug their own wells: Once the work is completed, the company gets its bond back. But when bonding requirements are lax, there’s little to deter drillers from forfeiting their bonds and leaving their wells as “orphans.”

Oklahoma allows companies to cover an unlimited number of wells with a single $25,000 bond. Alternatively, companies can satisfy bonding requirements by proving they are worth at least $50,000, in which case they often do not have to set aside any real money in bonds. Corporation Commission spokesperson Matt Skinner said the agency was unable to find a single case where the state recouped enough money to plug a well from companies that relied solely on the latter option.

To cover all of its roughly 30 wells, Southcreek held a $25,000 bond and filed paperwork to show it was worth at least $50,000. (Different agencies disagree on how many wells Southcreek operated.)

The well that spoiled the Ledgerwoods’ drinking water is one of the 18,500 that the Corporation Commission classifies as orphaned. “We would not be surprised to see that number go higher,” Skinner said. State taxpayers will ultimately be on the hook to plug many of them, or the state can leave the wells unplugged, but many will continue leaking.

A state contractor plugs an orphan Southcreek Petroleum Co. LLC oil well on a farm across the road from the Ledgerwoods’ property. (Mark Olalde/ProPublica)

Some orphan well cleanup in Oklahoma is funded by a voluntary 0.1% fee paid by industry on the sale of oil and natural gas. The Oklahoma Energy Resources Board spent $156 million of the funds collected from this fee over the past three decades. The state has an additional orphan well fund with several million dollars in it.

But Oklahoma has more than 260,000 unplugged wells — behind only Texas — according to data from energy industry software firm Enverus. To plug and clean up the state’s wells could cost approximately $7.3 billion, according to an analysis of state records. Oklahoma has just $45 million in bonds.

The oil industry’s bonds are “shockingly inadequate,” said Peter Morgan, a Sierra Club senior attorney. “It’s clear that abandoning wells and leaving communities and taxpayers to foot the bill to clean them up is baked into the oil and gas industry business model.”

At the Capitol in Oklahoma City, which features repurposed oil derricks outside its main entrance, Republican state Rep. Brad Boles has tried for several years to address the shortfall. This year, he introduced a bill to create a tiered bonding system based on the number of wells a company operates, increasing the highest required bond to $150,000.

A monument to oil stands outside the Oklahoma Capitol. (Mark Olalde/ProPublica)

“We have a huge liability in our state that we’re trying to get better control of,” he said, acknowledging that his bill would only be a partial solution. “It’s a lot better than it was, but it’s nowhere near where we need to be.”

The Oklahoma House of Representatives and a Senate committee both passed it unanimously, but the bill didn’t receive a vote on the Senate floor. Boles pledged to run a similar bill next session.

“They’re Doing You a Favor If They Clean Up”

Shortly after the 2017 brine release, Southcreek began cleaning up with funds from an insurance policy. Fox Hollow Consultants Inc., an environmental consulting firm working with Southcreek, warned in a report that “the remediation of ground water impacted by saltwater is at best a difficult undertaking, costly, and often not effective.”

A stream of trucks rumbled down the Ledgerwoods’ once-quiet gravel road as workers removed enough dirt to fill 750 dump trucks and pumped more than 71,000 gallons from the Ledgerwoods’ water well.

Workers remove contaminated soil from the Ledgerwoods’ farm after the 2017 saltwater release. (Courtesy of Stan Ledgerwood)

Watch video ➜

But the dangerous concentrations of chloride didn’t change, according to Fox Hollow’s report.

A family who leased the Ledgerwoods’ farmland decided not to plant a crop and removed their cattle.

Nearly two years after the spill was discovered, the company drilled new water wells next to each house, but questions about the safety of drinking the water persisted. Southcreek eventually halted its cleanup, and the Corporation Commission deemed the incident resolved.

“It’s your own property, but you’re made to feel like they’re doing you a favor if they clean up their pollution,” Stan Ledgerwood said.

The Ledgerwoods considered moving. A nearby farm was for sale. Although it was half the acreage with only one house, the water was clean and they could distance themselves from the debacle on their farm. So they held an auction for their farm in June 2019.

Their property had been appraised to be worth around $1 million before the spill. They feared bids would be low — they had disclosed the water issues to potential buyers — yet the offers from the auction were shocking, with bids for the whole farm coming in at $450,000.

Potential buyers’ “first question was about the water, and I couldn’t say it was safe,” Stan said.

Still, the Ledgerwoods needed to pay their attorneys, so they sold nearly all the land, about 200 acres, including the fields that earned them income. The family kept the two houses, with the injection well sitting in the field between them.

The same week as the auction, the Ledgerwoods sued Southcreek. The family’s lawsuit also named as defendants Wise Oil & Gas No. 10 Ltd. and Newkumet Exploration Inc. — which each owned an interest in the oil Southcreek was pumping — as well as the companies that manufactured and sold the well’s corroded valve. The family sought reimbursement for expenses related to the spill, monetary damages and an order that the oil companies finish removing the contaminated soil and water.

In court, Newkumet denied responsibility because it did not operate the well, while the other companies argued that the failed valve was not defective.

On a recent, unseasonably warm winter day, with a mackerel sky hanging over the property, Stan and Tina Ledgerwood talked about what brought them back to the farm. Stan had worked for three decades at the Oklahoma Electric Cooperative, a nonprofit utility, while Tina held an administrative role at the University of Oklahoma, and they looked forward to a peaceful retirement.

“There’s a draw to the beauty here,” Tina said.

Stan and Tina Ledgerwood at the failed injection well (Mark Olalde/ProPublica)

There were also family memories stretching back a century. Tina recalled taking her niece to camp along the Washita, where sandbars interrupt the river’s meandering flow and willows grow on the red dirt banks.

Her niece still talked about eating the best hamburger of her life on one of those excursions, Tina said with a laugh. “It’s frustrating,” she added, her tone shifting, “because you look out there and it’s not yours anymore.”

An Escape Hatch

Progress in the lawsuit was short-lived. In November 2019, shortly after the Ledgerwoods’ attorney sent discovery requests to Wise Oil & Gas, the company filed in a Texas court for voluntary Chapter 7 bankruptcy — a full liquidation of its assets.

Company executives acknowledged they declared bankruptcy to avoid legal fees associated with the Ledgerwoods’ suit, according to court records.

Bankruptcy court has become an easy escape hatch for the industry to shed its costly obligations. More than 250 oil and gas companies in the U.S. filed for bankruptcy protection between 2015 and 2021, bringing about $175 billion in debt with them, according to research from law firm Haynes and Boone. (Haynes and Boone is representing ProPublica in several Texas lawsuits.)

Sen. Jeff Merkley, an Oregon Democrat, said it is “outrageous” that oil executives can pay themselves handsomely before offloading liabilities via bankruptcy. He is preparing a Senate bill to amend the Bankruptcy Code to address this pattern in the oil industry.

“They privatize the profits, and then they dump the costs on the taxpayer, which is an outrageous arrangement that needs to end," Merkley said, adding that “this is not just one company in one place. This is a practice that has been exquisitely developed by the industry.”

Josh Macey, a University of Chicago law professor who studies bankruptcy, said that “one of the most significant benefits you get when you file for bankruptcy protection is the automatic stay,” which puts other cases on hold while the bankruptcy is ongoing.

The Wise Oil & Gas bankruptcy halted the Ledgerwoods’ suit.

So the Ledgerwoods ventured into labyrinthian bankruptcy court proceedings as creditors. But the bankruptcy filings for Wise Oil & Gas — which owned a 20% stake in the oil underlying the Ledgerwood farm — listed between $1 million and $10 million in liabilities against less than $33,000 in assets.

While Wise Oil & Gas appeared to be underwater, financial and legal documents showed that the company was one node in a sprawling business empire run by the wealthy Cocanougher family of North Texas.

Alongside their extended family, brothers Daniel and Robert Cocanougher own the web of businesses that included real estate holdings, golf courses, trash services, charitable organizations and more. A company representative estimated in court that the family controlled more than 100 companies. The entire operation was managed by Cocanougher Asset Management #1 LLC out of an office in North Richland Hills, Texas, near Fort Worth.

Wise Oil & Gas was kept afloat by more than 30 loans from other Cocanougher companies, chiefly Wise Resources Ltd., which shared an office with the oil company, according to records filed in court. The loans ensured the oil company had enough cash to operate, but it otherwise hovered around insolvency. Wise Oil & Gas periodically held less than $0 in its account, internal records revealed in court show.

The Ledgerwoods would never see any money from the Cocanoughers’ businesses.

“A Pretty Ordinary Situation”

In bankruptcy, secured creditors, whose debt is backed by collateral, are first in line to claim proceeds from the liquidating company’s assets. Unsecured creditors — such as the Ledgerwoods — are paid if there are funds left over. Even further back in line are environmental claims, such as money to plug wells.

One secured claim stood out: $1.9 million for Wise Resources. According to legal filings, a few months before declaring bankruptcy, Wise Oil & Gas had consolidated its “outstanding obligations” and transferred them to Wise Resources, although the deal was backdated to the previous year.

During one deposition, Jamie Downing, a lawyer for the Cocanoughers, went back and forth with Steve Ledgerwood, who occasionally represented his family, over whether Robert Cocanougher was “two different people” when he signed documents for Wise Oil & Gas and for Wise Resources.

“Robert Cocanougher is signing documents in his capacity as general partner of one entity or the manager of another entity,” Downing said. “They would not be the same person.”

Even though the Cocanoughers were wealthy, the layers of corporate entities between the family and the oil limited their liability for the saltwater spill. It is difficult to “pierce the corporate veil” and tie a company’s actions to individuals, so executives finding protection in bankruptcy is “a pretty ordinary situation,” Macey explained. “We’ve gone too far in shielding investors from the cost of corporate misconduct.”

Daniel and Robert Cocanougher and company attorneys did not respond to requests for comment. In court filings, the family and its companies argued that they were not responsible for the brine release and were within their rights to file for bankruptcy protection.

The Ledgerwoods soon realized the bankruptcy case would lead to neither the cleanup of their farm nor Wise Oil & Gas paying for the damage, so they filed a motion to dismiss it, sanction the Cocanoughers and force the company back into their Oklahoma lawsuit.

Southcreek tanks that formerly collected contaminated liquid near the Ledgerwoods’ farm are now leaking. (Jason Crow/InvestigateTV+)

Watch video ➜

The judge overseeing the case was Mark X. Mullin, a former corporate bankruptcy attorney himself. At first, he acknowledged the Ledgerwoods’ plight. “To be clear, the court has a lot of empathy for what happened to the Ledgerwoods,” he said during an August 2021 hearing.

But two months later, Mullin ruled against the Ledgerwoods. He disagreed that Wise Oil & Gas had entered bankruptcy to shed bad investments and dodge cleanup obligations. He blasted the Ledgerwoods for requesting sanctions against the Cocanoughers.

“Merely because the Ledgerwood Creditors have been damaged by the saltwater contamination, this does not provide them with an unfettered right to retaliate or lash out against unrelated and far-removed targets, such as the Cocanougher Sanction Targets,” Mullin wrote.

If the Ledgerwoods wanted to continue seeking damages against the Cocanoughers and their businesses, they would have to pay the oil company’s attorneys’ fees, about $107,000, Mullin ruled.

Mullin declined to comment.

In September 2022, the trustee overseeing Wise’s liquidation reported that, after paying administrative fees, the company had no money for creditors. The Ledgerwoods withdrew their claim.

“I Can’t Afford to Come In and Clean It Up”

The Ledgerwoods weren’t the only ones taking a financial hit. Southcreek, the well’s operator, also entered bankruptcy protection and began offloading its wells. Cleaning them all up could cost taxpayers nearly $1 million, based on the Corporation Commission’s average cost to plug a well.

Even before the company liquidated, Southcreek executive Gus Lovelace admitted to the state that the company had stopped maintaining its wells, according to Corporation Commission records.

The company left some wells to the state as orphans, including the injection well that fouled the Ledgerwoods’ land. Some ended up in the hands of other oil companies, although those, too, appear to be on the verge of becoming wards of the state.

Michael Brooks, a neighbor of the Ledgerwoods, lives on a farm that his father-in-law worked before him — they’ve put in more than 50 years between the two generations. On a recent winter morning, Brooks showed ProPublica and Capital & Main a 3-acre drill site that scars his land and provides him no royalties.

The plot would be Bermuda grass pasture for cattle, but the paddock instead hosts two inactive oil wells and huge tanks that the Ledgerwoods believe held the salt water that fouled their land. Brooks has to retrieve cows that slip through the barbed wire fence around the site and chew the wells’ rusting metal and drink wastewater.

“I’m at a complete loss,” he said from beneath the brim of a hat embroidered with the logo of an oil and gas pipeline company. “I can’t afford to come in and clean it up. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Brooks has for years tried to reach the companies that own the wells, calling phone numbers on the signs posted around them. No one ever answered or called back, he said.

ProPublica and Capital & Main’s attempts to contact the owners were also fruitless. Court records indicate several of the Southcreek wells on Brooks’ farm and other nearby properties were sold out of bankruptcy. But the first company that purchased them is not a registered oil operator in Oklahoma, and the Corporation Commission has no record of the business taking them over.

The idle wells were then transferred to another oil company, but, when asked about that transfer, Corporation Commission staff said they had made a mistake in approving it and would try to revoke it. The best Brooks can now hope for is the state declaring that the wells are orphaned and plugging them.

“It’s just so frustrating because it’s just here. We look at it every day outside our windows,” Brooks said, adding, “It’s been nothing but a pain.”

“We’ll Never Have Back What We Had”

Nearly seven years after brine first poured from gopher holes on the Ledgerwood farm, most of the land has been sold. But the well is still there, rusting behind a curtain of dry weeds.

“We don’t get these years back,” Stan Ledgerwood said. “There’s no way to pay for that. We’ll never have back what we had.”

Stan and Tina drink from their new water well. But Don and Shirley Ledgerwood, Stan’s parents, don’t trust the water that flows from their faucets, as their house sits at a lower elevation than the injection well and water tests have shown occasional increases in the salt concentration.

Don Ledgerwood hauls clean water from a well at his son and daughter-in-law’s home. (Mark Olalde/ProPublica)

Don’s back is slightly hunched, but his sprightliness belies his 84 years. He still cuts the expanse of grass surrounding his old brick house, and Stan long ago gave up asking to do it for him. “He doesn’t do it right,” Don said, as he filled 5-gallon blue plastic jugs with water from Stan’s well. In one form or another, Don has been hauling water for six years.

As he hoisted the jugs into his off-road vehicle, Don lamented that landowners have to allow oil companies to drill on their property, only to see those operators avoid the costly cleanup.

“That’s not right,” he said.

The sun was rising higher, and Don had more chores to do. So he finished loading the water jugs and whisked them down the gravel road, kicking up dust that hung in the air alongside his parting words.

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Mariam Elba contributed research.

by Anna Clark and Sarahbeth Maney, Photography by Sarahbeth Maney

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Flint, Michigan, is less than 70 miles from the Great Lakes, the most abundant fresh water on the face of the planet. It’s laced with creeks and a broad river that bears its name. Yet in 2014, Flint’s drinking water became a threat — not because of scarcity, or a natural disaster, or even a familiar tale of corporate pollution.

Ten years ago this spring, public officials made catastrophic changes in the city’s water source and treatment, then used testing practices that hid dangers. As problems emerged, they failed to appropriately change course. Residents raised repeated concerns about the color, odor and taste of the water but struggled to get a sufficiently serious response, especially from state and federal authorities.

It didn’t help that the distressed city was under the authority of state-appointed emergency managers, an unusually expansive oversight system that residents decried. For a crucial period of about 3 1/2 years, local decision-making was not accountable to voters. The result: excess exposure to toxic lead, bacteria and a disinfection byproduct in Flint’s drinking water. An outbreak of Legionnaires’ disease sickened 90 people and killed 12. (The toll is likely higher, as Frontline documented.) The water, now drawn from the Flint River, wasn’t treated with corrosion control — a violation of federal law — so the pipes deteriorated more every day.

At one point, saying the water damaged its machinery, a General Motors plant switched to another community’s system. Flint’s emergency manager and other officials still insisted that nothing was seriously wrong with the water. But if the water was harming machines, many wondered, what was it doing to people?

The Flint River near Vietnam Veterans Park along East Fifth Avenue and James P. Cole Boulevard

It took about 18 months, and an extraordinary effort by residents and a few key researchers, before the state reconnected Flint with Detroit’s water, which is drawn from Lake Huron. In the years since, remediation efforts have included replacing corroded pipes, at-home filtration and infrastructure investments, which seem to have yielded promising results. Michigan’s Department of Environment, Great Lakes and Energy said in December that Flint’s water had met federal standards for more than seven straight years. Recent testing followed Michigan’s requirements, adopted in 2018, which are even tougher than federal standards. The state and city are working to resolve deficiencies to the supply system that can affect water safety.

Expired water bottles are scattered throughout the abandoned Northwestern High School in Flint. Flint Mayor Sheldon Neeley takes a tour of upgraded facilities at the Flint water plant. “It’s about establishing all the things that we need to be able to build back the trust,” Neeley said.

But no one can flip a switch on public trust. And Flint was vulnerable long before the water crisis.

Many point to the crisis as an extreme example of environmental injustice, where people of color and poor people, and especially those who are both, are disproportionately exposed to toxic conditions. A state commission acknowledged that race and class contributed to Flint not having “the same degree of protection from environmental and health hazards as that provided to other communities. Moreover, by virtue of their being subject to emergency management, Flint residents were not provided equal access to, and meaningful involvement in, the government decision-making process.”

That emergency manager law is still on the books. The work to replace the pipes is mostly done — but the city has blown repeated deadlines to complete it. Two state investigations under two administrations led to high-profile criminal charges, including allegations of involuntary manslaughter, official misconduct and willful neglect of duty. Primarily, state officials and employees were charged, including the former director of the state health agency and the former governor. Two emergency managers were also charged; both pleaded not guilty. One has said there was “overwhelming consensus” for the switch, and he was “grossly misled” by state water experts.

No case made it to trial. A new attorney general’s team dismissed the initial cases and started a new investigation. But the second wave of charges fell apart when courts rejected the use of a one-man grand jury to gain indictments.

The Environmental Protection Agency didn’t use its authority to effectively protect public health in Flint, according to the agency’s inspector general. The EPA has denied liability, however, and earlier this year asked a federal judge to dismiss a lawsuit alleging that it failed to properly intervene.

While it was announced in 2020, not one penny of the class-action settlement of more than $626 million has reached residents. With more than 40,000 claims and 30 compensation categories, a special master indicated recently that the initial review should be complete this summer, but there will still be more vetting to do before claims are paid. (Some lawyers and contractors, though, have already been paid preliminary fees and expenses.)

Water is Flint’s origin story. The city was founded on a riverbank, and water powered its rise. Each spring, the water turns neighborhoods and parks lush. But these days, the betrayal of trust by the very institutions meant to protect residents has made some extra cautious as they look to keep themselves and their community safe. Their relationship with water is forever changed.

A nonprofit promotes protection of fresh water in a parking lot across the street from the Flint River along James P. Cole Boulevard.

Pastor Robert McCathern of Flint’s Joy Tabernacle Church said he has a list of about 30 people who haven’t gotten baptized because they’re afraid of the water. They’re wondering, he said, “‘Am I still saved?’ And the answer is yes."

McCathern, 70, crosses the street in front of Joy Tabernacle Church in Flint. The church is also the site of the Urban Renaissance Center, a faith-based nonprofit designed to provide social and development services in the Civic Park neighborhood and broader Flint community.

McCathern’s church served as a bottled-water distribution site during the crisis, which, he said, strengthened relationships and community trust. But he worries for the next generation, especially their psychological well-being. And he has his own fears too. He said he often smells a “foul odor” from the water. He is apprehensive when showering and usually drinks bottled water, he said, but sometimes lets his guard down to make tea with tap water.

In recent years, McCathern was diagnosed with multiple myeloma cancer. He believes it’s connected to chemicals in the water but will never know for sure. Over his 22 years at Joy Tabernacle, McCathern said, he’s seen an uptick in youth suicide. He wonders about a connection between lead exposure and violence. He recalls sitting at one funeral and thinking, Oh my God, if it produces violent tendencies, that’s not just outward violent tendencies — that’s internal.

McCathern approaches Tayler Armstrong, 9, and his grandmother Patricia Stewart-Burton while preaching during a Sunday service at Joy Tabernacle Church.

An investigation published in Science Advances showed an 8% increase in the number of school-aged children in Flint with a qualified special educational need. But, the researchers indicated, it’s difficult to pinpoint to what extent lead is the direct cause.

A cross-sectional study backed by the federal Office of Victims of Crime found that five years after the onset of the crisis, an estimated 1 in 5 residents — roughly 22,600 people — had met the criteria for clinical depression in the past year. One in 4, or 25,000 people, were estimated to have had post-traumatic stress disorder. According to researchers, only 34.8% of residents were offered mental health services to assist with psychiatric symptoms related to the crisis. Most people used them, if offered.

“We’re very acquainted to human suffering. This community has been acquainted to abandonment — to not trusting health systems, not having relationships with health systems and not having access at a level of comfortability. People have to come out of their safe zones to access health. Marginalized communities, people of color, have to go on and survive. They have to go through it.” — Pastor Robert McCathern

McCathern becomes emotional while talking with a friend about the lasting health impacts of the Flint water crisis. “That’s the only reason I’m here [in Flint], is because so much injustice to humans, to humanity.”

Teagan Medlin was a teenager in Flint during the water crisis. Now, the 25-year-old is the mother of three, including a newborn named Audrina. She lives at a recovery house for people with substance use disorder. As she works through her own recovery, she also struggles with whether it’s OK to expose her children to the water.

Teagan Medlin, 25, holds her newborn baby, Audrina, at a recovery house where she lives temporarily. Medlin bathes Audrina using water from the bath faucet at the recovery house in Flint.

Medlin said she uses her food stamp benefits on bottled water deliveries from Walmart for Audrina’s bottles. For her first months, Medlin relied on the infant’s father to bathe her at his home outside the city.

“I’ve been through the wringer. I’m sure I can handle it, but my babies — I don’t know what that could do to them. I am already done growing. I’m 25 and my brain is done growing. My body is done growing, but they are still developing and I don’t want it to damage them. But I don’t have anywhere else to go, and I can’t afford to live anywhere else, honestly.” — Teagan Medlin

Medlin prepares tea for herself using bottled water.

Ambitious programs aim to support Flint’s most vulnerable residents. Medlin is enrolled in Rx Kids, which “prescribes” a no-strings-attached payment of $1,500 for pregnant Flint residents and $500 for each month of the baby’s first year. A Medicaid initiative that covers youth up to age 21 and pregnant parents who were exposed to Flint’s water was extended in 2021 for another five years. And the Flint Registry connects people with health services while monitoring the effectiveness of efforts to prevent lead poisoning.

“I’ve seen the struggle for Flint in a deep way. I’ve been on the streets. I’ve met a lot of people. There are beautiful people here and it’s a beautiful city. They deserve better. I don’t know if there is a way to make up for the actual damage that’s been done. The accountability needs to be there.” — Teagan Medlin

Medlin and Audrina

Jacquinne Reynolds lives with unanswered questions about possible connections between the water and her health. She said she takes only quick showers these days, and never any baths.

Jacquinne Reynolds, 73, prepares for her care routine, which involves washing, brushing and moisturizing her scalp multiple times per week. Reynolds holds her dreadlocks, which she believes fell out because of contaminated water.

Reynolds is the executive director of a local literacy organization, tutoring children and adults on reading, writing and African American culture. She said her hair began falling out during the water crisis. While she was diagnosed with alopecia, she said, another doctor later told her that the hair loss is likely connected to the water. She too feels like she’ll never know for sure. Because of the lack of information about the water at the time, she didn’t think to track her symptoms.

“Going through this, I didn’t know that I was being affected. Nobody was saying anything to us. We didn’t know what was going on.” — Jacquinne Reynolds

The water’s effect on hair and skin was among the earliest concerns raised by residents, though a direct correlation has been difficult to prove. A 2016 state and federal analysis — conducted after Flint switched back to Detroit’s system — identified nothing in the current water supply that affected hair loss. A survey of more than 300 residents by academic researchers found that more than 40% of respondents said they experienced hair loss beyond what they considered normal before the crisis. Black respondents reported significantly higher percentages of hair loss. The more physical symptoms respondents reported, the more likely they were to report psychological symptoms.

Reynolds inside the classroom where she tutors at Word of Life Christian Church

Having taught and tutored Flint families for decades, Reynolds feels the weight of the community’s unmet needs.

“When are we, the citizens, going to be thought about? When are our children who were affected by the water and who are having learning difficulties in school going to receive what they need?” — Jacquinne Reynolds

A photograph of Reynolds and her husband, Lawrence Reynolds, a retired pediatrician and former president and chief executive officer of Mott Children’s Health Center

Nearly 80,000 people now live in Flint, according to recent census data, a drop of about 20% in the past 10 years. Fifty-seven percent are Black, 34% are white and 4% are Hispanic. Median household income is $33,036. Nearly 38% are in poverty. Population loss and disinvestment make it difficult to maintain a water system, with fewer people paying for infrastructure designed for a much larger city.

Flint had almost 200,000 residents in 1960; it built water infrastructure to support 50,000 more, according to the city’s communications director. It connected to Detroit’s system in the first place because it expected continued growth. Vacancy can worsen water quality because water sits longer in pipes before reaching a tap — a problem made visible when metals from corroding pipes saturated the water more in some Flint neighborhoods than in others.

In addition to service-line replacement efforts, the city offers free filters to residents. Beyond legally mandated testing, a unique community water lab provides residents with a free way to learn about their water. Young people lead much of the work. As lab director and Flint City Council member Candice Mushatt put it, “We’re training the next generation to be prepared in a way that we were not.”

Results range from 0.031 parts per billion up to over 50 ppb of lead from water samples tested in Flint, according to Mushatt. Under federal law, if a community water system reaches 15 ppb of lead, based on the 90th percentile of samples, certain public health measures must be taken. No amount of lead is safe.

High school interns carefully transfer water from pipettes at the water lab. A mural is reflected in a window as analytical chemist Cassidy Goyette reviews charts at the McKenzie Patrice Croom Flint Community Water Lab.

Flint residents have emphasized the importance of determining for themselves when justice has been done. In a 2020 paper, a cohort of community advocates wrote that they expect accountability, policy reform and community-driven investments. “And we will be insisting,” they wrote, “as always, that people ask us and our fellow residents before concluding that Flint has been made whole.”

by Eli Hager

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It is one of the enduring myths of the U.S. child support system: that payments made by fathers actually make it to their families. And yet, every year, hundreds of millions of dollars in child support is instead intercepted by federal and state governments — as reimbursement for the mother having received welfare at some point.

But that may be changing. Since a 2021 ProPublica investigation found that child support payments totaling $1.7 billion annually were taken from families and redirected into state coffers, at least six states have rewritten their laws and policies to allow the money to flow directly to kids.

New Mexico, where we focused our reporting, made such a change shortly after our story was published. From Wyoming to Illinois, Michigan to Vermont to California, more child support is now going to children. And several other states are considering similar reforms during their upcoming legislative sessions.

This July, Illinois will start “passing through” all child support paid by fathers to their families, instead of pocketing it as repayment for welfare. “The intent of this change is for more families to receive more support,” said Jamie Munks, spokesperson for the Illinois Department of Healthcare and Family Services. A state’s child support system should not be funded by withholding child support from the lowest-income families being served, she said.

“Not passing through money to a family who is already experiencing financial difficulties will likely exacerbate those difficulties and may make them more reliant on government assistance,” Munks added.

Nicole Darracq, assistant director at the California Department of Child Support Services, said that under a new state law her agency has roughly doubled the amount of child support that it is passing through to families currently receiving welfare. There was roughly a $44 million net increase in payments to families from 2019 to 2022, she said.

Darracq added that starting this week, another piece of new state legislation will allow child support that fathers pay to mothers who’ve previously received welfare to go to those moms and their kids, instead of being intercepted. This change will send an additional $160 million to families each year, she said.

According to the National Conference of State Legislatures’ most recent analysis of state laws, at least 26 states and Washington, D.C., pass through some or all child support payments made by fathers to their families that have received welfare, also known as Temporary Assistance for Needy Families. In the other states, the government takes the cash.

The practice of confiscating child support from poor families persists in part because some conservative policymakers believe that welfare provided to single mothers should be considered a loan from taxpayers, to later be repaid by the patriarch of the family.

“Legislators suggest to me that if a family gets both [welfare] and child support, they’re ‘double-dipping,’” Jim Fleming, past president of both the National Council of Child Support Directors and the National Child Support Enforcement Association, told ProPublica in 2021. “That argument is still out there,” he said, although it is “becoming more and more of a minority view.”

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by Gerardo del Valle

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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.

The Pabón family is among the nearly 8 million Venezuelans who have left their country in the last decade, fleeing an authoritarian regime and a collapsed economy — one of the largest population displacements in the world.

[Watch the film.]

The family arrived in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico — across the border from El Paso, Texas — on Dec. 1, 2022, following a six-month journey across seven countries and thousands of miles. They’d left their homeland at a time when the United States had agreed to suspend the deportations of Venezuelans who were already living in the country because Washington had broken diplomatic relations with that country’s president, Nicolás Maduro. Thousands of new Venezuelan migrants arrived in Mexican border cities like Juárez hoping to take advantage of the opening.

But by the time the Pabóns arrived, the U.S. had reversed course and subjected Venezuelans to many of the same immigration restrictions as people of other nationalities. They were required to use a special app, called CBP One, to make an appointment to enter the U.S. to seek asylum. In El Paso, there were about 150 appointments available a day. Suddenly, the Pabóns found themselves stranded with countless other tired and frustrated migrants in a city of 1.5 million residents that lacked the resources to provide for the staggering number of new arrivals.

The Border and the Election

Join us May 29 to discuss why immigration is a top issue for voters and the U.S. policies that gave rise to the deadly Juárez fire.

The pressure-cooker situation culminated in a fire on March 27, 2023, inside the city’s only immigration detention center. It killed 40 immigrants and injured more than two dozen others in one of the deadliest incidents involving immigrants in the country’s history.

Five months later, the Pabón family managed to get an appointment via the CBP One app and cross into the U.S. They eventually applied for asylum, but after joining a migrant population ever more numerous and visible and without family roots or acquaintances in the country, a clear path for them remains elusive.

Help ProPublica Reporters Investigate the Immigration System

by Robert Faturechi, Ellis Simani and Justin Elliott

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The IRS has launched a campaign to examine whether wealthy taxpayers are violating the law when using their ownership of sports teams to save large amounts in taxes.

The effort will focus on sports industry entities that are reporting “significant tax losses” to “determine if the income and deductions driving the losses” are lawful, according to the IRS announcement earlier this year. That announcement, which consisted of one sentence on a webpage devoted to compliance campaigns by the IRS division that focuses on large businesses, did not specify what kinds of abuses the agency will be looking for.

The initiative comes after ProPublica, drawing on leaked IRS data, revealed how billionaire team owners frequently report incomes for their teams that are vastly lower than their real-world earnings.

When someone buys a business, they’re often able to deduct almost the entire sale price against their income during the ensuing years. That allows them to pay less in taxes. The underlying logic is that the purchase price was composed of assets — buildings, equipment, patents and more — that degrade over time and should be counted as expenses. Owners of sports franchises routinely avail themselves of such deductions, which can be worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

But in few industries is that tax treatment more detached from economic reality than in professional sports. Teams’ most valuable assets, such as TV deals and player contracts, are virtually guaranteed to regenerate because sports franchises are essentially monopolies. There’s little risk that players will stop playing for their teams or that TV stations will stop airing their games. But the team owners still get to deduct the value of those assets over time, sometimes billions of dollars’ worth, from their taxable income.

It helps billionaire sports team owners pay far lower income tax rates than the athletes they employ or even the low-wage workers who sell food or clean their stadiums.

ProPublica’s 2021 article traced how owners, starting with the late baseball showman Bill Veeck decades ago, persuaded the IRS to accept a “gimmick” that allows owners to take massive depreciation write-offs.

Among those benefiting was Steve Ballmer, the billionaire owner of the Los Angeles Clippers and former CEO of Microsoft. His tax records showed that in recent years his basketball team had reported $700 million in losses for tax purposes, despite indications that the Clippers’ real-world financial results were often profitable.

That allowed Ballmer to legally not pay tax on any real-world Clippers profits, and to offset his other income and cut his tax bill. His spokesperson said at the time that Ballmer “has always paid the taxes he owes.”

The practice helps create a counterintuitive overall tax picture that upends conventional wisdom about how taxation works in America. ProPublica found that billionaire owners like Ballmer are consistently paying lower income tax rates than their millionaire players — and often lower even than the rates paid by the concessions workers who staff their stadiums.

The IRS did not immediately respond to questions from ProPublica about what prompted the initiative and what abuses it’s investigating.

In an analysis for clients, the law firm Morgan Lewis credited the IRS campaign to several factors: an increased enforcement budget, criticism that wealthy taxpayers are not audited frequently enough and ProPublica’s reporting.

“The IRS may be acting on its promise to restore ‘fairness’ in tax compliance by taking more shots at partnerships and high-wealth individuals, including sports team owners,” the firm wrote. “With the Sports Industry Losses campaign, the sports industry looks to be the next opponent in the IRS arena.”

Clay Hodges, a tax planning specialist at the firm Moss Adams, said in an interview that the IRS usually selects areas to focus enforcement efforts based on evidence that it will find unpaid taxes. While it’s impossible to judge the IRS’ motivation based on its public announcement, he said, he noted the regular headlines of sports team owners selling teams for huge profits.

“When they announce these campaigns, the IRS is very strategic,” he said. “It’s more than just a fishing expedition. They think it will bear fruit.”

by Sharon Lerner

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The Environmental Protection Agency unveiled a proposal this week to ban a controversial pesticide that is widely used on celery, tomatoes and other fruits and vegetables.

The EPA released its plan on Tuesday, nearly a week after a ProPublica investigation revealed the agency had laid out a justification for increasing the amount of acephate allowed on food by removing limits meant to protect children’s developing brains.

In calling for an end to all uses of the pesticide on food, the agency cited evidence that acephate harms workers who apply the chemical as well as the general public and young children, who may be exposed to the pesticide through contaminated drinking water.

Acephate, which was banned by the European Union more than 20 years ago, belongs to a class of chemicals called organophosphates. U.S. farmers have used these pesticides for decades because they efficiently kill aphids, fire ants and other pests. But what makes organophosphate pesticides good bug killers — their ability to interfere with signals sent between nerve cells — also makes them dangerous to people. Studies have linked acephate to reductions in IQ and verbal comprehension and autism with intellectual disability.

Environmental advocates, who have been pushing the agency to restrict and ban acephate for years, said they were not expecting the agency to make such a bold move.

“I’m surprised and very pleased,” said Patti Goldman, a senior attorney at Earthjustice, who has been part of a farmworker led group that expressed concerns to EPA officials over the past years about the ongoing use of acephate and other organophosphates.

As much as 12 million pounds of acephate were used on soybeans, Brussels sprouts and other crops in 2019, according to the most recent estimates from the U.S. Geological Survey. The federal agency estimates that up to 30% of celery, 35% of lettuce and 20% of cauliflower and peppers were grown with acephate.

A draft risk assessment issued in August by the EPA’s Office of Pesticide Programs found “little to no evidence” that acephate and a chemical created when it breaks down in the body harm the developing brain. The document said there was no justification to keep restrictions on the bug killer that are designed to protect children from developmental harm. Removing that layer of protection would allow 10 times more acephate on food than is acceptable under the current limits.

The draft risk assessment’s conclusion relied in large part on the results of a new battery of tests that are performed on disembodied cells rather than whole lab animals.

The tests have been in development for years, but the EPA’s review of acephate’s effects on the developing brain marked one of the first times the agency had recommended changing a legal safety threshold largely based on their results.

Multiple science groups, including panels the EPA created to help guide its work, had discouraged using the nonanimal tests to conclude a chemical is safe. A member of the Children’s Health Protection Advisory Committee, one of the panels providing guidance to EPA, described the earlier acephate proposal as “exactly what we recommended against.”

But even as it proposed a new outcome this week, the EPA did not change its stance on the use of the cell-based tests.

“Even in this good news proposal, the EPA continues to misuse the cell-based assays,” said Jennifer Sass, a senior scientist at the environmental advocacy organization Natural Resources Defense Council.

Sass said she believes that both pressure from advocates and questions from journalists helped the EPA decide to change course on acephate. ProPublica began submitting a series of detailed inquiries to the agency about the pesticide starting in January.

An EPA spokesperson said late Tuesday that the agency had been working for months on its proposal to ban acephate from food and that neither advocates nor journalists played a role in the decision.

The EPA proposal would ban acephate on all plants with the exception of trees that do not produce fruit or nuts.

While lauding the proposed ban, Nathan Donley, a scientist at the Center for Biological Diversity, expressed concern about the possibility that, after pesticide companies and agricultural groups respond to the proposal, the agency might not finalize its proposed ban. (The agency is accepting public comments through its portal until July 1.)

“The pushback on this is going to be really intense,” Donley said. “I hope they stick to their guns.”