Lonnie Rouse shuffled into a wood-paneled conference room at the Washington state Capitol in March 2018. It had been nearly a decade since medical experts diagnosed him with a neurological disease they attributed to his exposure to chemicals at work. In the time since, he had acquired a stutter, begun limping and lost several teeth biting into a banana.

For nearly 20 years, Rouse had packaged plutonium and monitored radioactive waste at the Hanford Site, a now-decommissioned Department of Energy nuclear weapons production plant in south-central Washington and one of the most contaminated nuclear sites in the country. Tanks full of radioactive sludge exposed him to at least 48 potentially hazardous chemicals. The worksite was so toxic, he said, that the floor once melted the rubber off his boots. 

Rouse was among the thousands of workers responsible for the ongoing environmental cleanup at Hanford, which has been underway since the DOE shut down the last reactor in the late 1980s. Congress has acknowledged, based on voluminous studies, that radiation at DOE sites poses health risks to workers.

Over time, some people at Hanford became so sick they could no longer work. Like Rouse, they filed for workers’ compensation. The DOE consistently challenged their claims and tried to shift the blame onto the workers themselves. 

By the time Rouse took his place behind then-Gov. Jay Inslee, he was desperate. His 2009 workers’ compensation claim had been denied. He had burned through his retirement savings and declared bankruptcy. 

As he watched, the governor signed a bill that was supposed to change his life.

For years, Hanford employees filing workers’ compensation claims had to prove the chemicals they were exposed to on the job made them sick. The new law Inslee signed flipped that burden of proof. Under the law, agencies were instructed to presume that working at Hanford had caused certain cancers, neurological diseases and respiratory illnesses. Now the Department of Energy would have to prove to the state that something other than the job had made the workers sick if it wanted to deny their claims. 

Rouse thought the presumption law would speed up his claim for benefits. State lawmakers and the former governor thought it would force the DOE to take responsibility for the harm Hanford workers were experiencing. 

But despite the law, the DOE continues to fight new and existing claims, Cascade PBS and ProPublica found. We asked the state for claims records going back to the presumption law’s passage in 2018, but the state only provided records going back three and a half years, to 2023. In that period, workers filed 102 new claims for benefits, state data shows. The DOE did not recommend approving a single one. 

The state, which has final say, overruled the DOE and approved 75% of those claims. The DOE appealed all but seven of those approvals.

Cascade PBS and ProPublica spoke to workers, surviving family members, lawyers representing workers and state officials. They all pointed to a pattern: The DOE systematically challenges and then drags out workers’ compensation claims for years with recommended denials and subsequent legal appeals. Along the way, it has spent millions on outside lawyers and expert testimony, including doctor evaluations that point to other causes for workers’ illnesses. 

The DOE has paid out benefits to Hanford workers in some cases, lawyers and families said, but it has done so while still actively appealing the claims. It warns workers that they may have to pay the money back.  

Our reporting found that not even death ends the cycle of appeals. About 152 workers’ claims remain stranded in this legal limbo — approved by the state but still under appeal by the DOE. Half of those workers are dead. The DOE continues to fight to deny their families survivors’ benefits.

“It seems pretty coldhearted, calculated, that they’re trying to save money on the back of sick workers who they made sick,” said Gerry Pollet, one of the Washington state representatives who sponsored the 2018 presumption law, who is also a co-founder of the Hanford cleanup watchdog group Heart of America Northwest. “That’s why we needed a state law.”

After Cascade PBS and ProPublica raised questions about the DOE’s pattern of litigating claims, regulators at the Washington State Department of Labor and Industries met twice with DOE staff, state agency spokesperson Carrie McCausland said. But she could not point to any other actions the agency has taken beyond the two meetings.

“Agency staff are concerned and are right now assessing the severity of patterns we’ve seen,” McCausland wrote in an email.

The DOE did not answer detailed questions or respond to the newsrooms’ findings. In a statement, a spokesperson wrote that the DOE is following “all applicable local, state, and federal laws” and “has a long and successful record of accomplishment of protecting human health and the environment.”

The DOE has the right to file multiple appeals against a claim. According to court records, its appeals have sought to overturn claims approved by the state, narrow the period of back wages, or block survivors’ benefits, among other things. In appeals filings, the DOE’s lawyers have argued that factors other than work at Hanford played a role in the workers’ illnesses, including smoking, drinking, obesity or genetics.

In Rouse’s case, the energy department blamed alcoholism and family conflicts. The state agency that handles appeals did not find those arguments persuasive. DOE awarded Rouse most of his back pay in 2024, his lawyer said. Rouse declined to say how much that was, but said he is not touching the money until the legal process concludes.

In the nearly eight years it has been fighting his claim, the DOE has filed more than 20 appeals contesting different aspects of his claim. 

“We were always told that nothing is out here that’s going to harm you — you do what you are supposed to do, and you do what you are trained to do, and you’re going to be fine,” said Rouse, who now receives 24-hour care.

“But that’s not what happens.” 

“Depleted and Disgusted”  

The smell of ammonia serves as a warning, workers say, that the underground tanks holding a mix of radioactive sludge have burped chemical vapors into the air above. From 1998 to 2008, it was Rouse’s job to monitor the toxic waste held in the “tank farms.” The containers together hold more than 50 million gallons of liquid waste. Rouse says he lost count of how many times tanks released toxic vapor that took his breath away, sometimes knocking him to the ground and making him vomit and bleed from his nose. According to a 2014 report funded by the federal government, tank farm workers exposed to chemical vapors commonly reported nausea, headaches and nosebleeds.

The liquid sloshing around in those tanks represented the radioactive byproducts of the Cold War. Hanford produced two-thirds of the plutonium for the nation’s nuclear arsenal and fueled the atomic bomb dropped on Nagasaki, Japan, in 1945. 

The end of production in the late 1980s launched a cleanup effort that is expected to continue until at least 2086. As of January 2025, more than 13,000 people were working at Hanford, nearly all of them for private companies contracted by the DOE. It is one of the largest and most expensive efforts to remediate toxic waste in the nation’s history. 

In 2000, Congress passed the Energy Employees Occupational Illness Compensation Program Act, which provides medical care and one-time payouts to workers at DOE sites across the country. It was an acknowledgement that the nation’s nuclear weapons workers had been exposed to radioactive substances known to cause cancer. In it, lawmakers referred to a DOE policy “to litigate occupational illness claims, which has deterred workers from filing workers’ compensation claims and has imposed major financial burdens for such employees who have sought compensation.”

But the benefits of the federal program were limited: It capped payouts at $400,000. 

Washington’s workers’ compensation system, by contrast, can provide steady wage replacement or a pension benefit, in some cases, for the rest of an injured employee’s life. It’s a program that can easily surpass the maximum federal benefit. 

The state went further with its 2018 presumption law. Such laws generally protect firefighters who are regularly exposed to smoke, burned plastics and extreme heat. The National Council on Compensation Insurance, the Washington state attorney general and Pollet all said they were unaware of any other state that has extended that protection for radiological workers.

The federal government challenged Washington’s state law later that year in court, arguing it was discriminatory because it only applied to Hanford and the DOE.

Anticipating a Supreme Court decision that ultimately agreed, lawmakers passed an expanded version that covered all workers at “radiological hazardous waste facilities” in the state, including the state’s only functioning nuclear power plant and a French-owned facility that manufactures nuclear fuel rods. Nonetheless, roughly 75% of the 428 claims filed since 2018 have come from the DOE’s Hanford workers, according to the state Department of Labor and Industries. 

Kathleen Kersey spent 10 years at Hanford, during both the production and cleanup stages. Much of her work involved measuring radiation around the site and making sure levels were safe. She says her safety training covered radiation, but not other hazards like chemical vapors burping from the waste tanks.

Kersey struggles to walk, has short-term memory problems and at one point lost vision in her right eye for three months. A doctor diagnosed her with multiple sclerosis, which is a neurological disorder, one of the categories of illnesses the state’s presumption law recognizes as related to chemical exposure at Hanford. In 2019 she filed a claim, which the state approved. 

The DOE has appealed, arguing that something other than her time at Hanford caused her multiple sclerosis.

Kersey is one of the 152 workers still awaiting a resolution on her workers’ compensation claim. The DOE has not paid her any back wages, she said. The DOE declined to comment on her case. 

“I feel depleted and disgusted,” Kersey said of the appeals process. “It makes me feel like I’m worthless. I have no value.” 

“When Does This End?”

State records show that the DOE has filed more than 500 appeals since the presumption law passed in 2018. In 20 cases, as it did with Rouse, the DOE has appealed a single worker’s claim half a dozen times or more.

“We have seen tremendous pushback from DOE on essentially almost every single case that’s been brought,” said Washington State Attorney General Nick Brown. 

Rouse’s wife, Melinda, said she knew something was wrong when he could not remember how to cut an orange. His vision started to blur, he stumbled often, and suddenly he felt irritable all the time. His primary care physician first thought he might have had a brain tumor. The physician referred him to a neurologist who noted cognitive impairment, possibly due to exposure to multiple toxins at the Hanford Site. The neurologist then referred him to a neuropsychologist, who diagnosed him with “toxic encephalopathy” in 2009, saying it was “more likely than not” that chemical exposure damaged his brain, according to court records.

The U.S. Department of Labor agreed too, approving him in 2010 for benefits under the Energy Employees Occupational Illness Compensation Program Act, saying it was “at least as likely as not” that Hanford contributed to his illness. A federal medical consultant even praised the neuropsychologist who assessed Rouse for his “unusually thorough analysis of causation.” 

Rouse refiled his 2009 state workers’ compensation claim under the new law in 2018. Washington state approved it later that year. 

The DOE appealed. It hired a medical toxicologist, who reviewed Rouse’s medical records and testified that he did not have the disease he claimed, and brought in an industrial hygienist, who downplayed the exposure risks at Hanford. The DOE’s toxicologist testified that Rouse’s drinking was “the most significant, what we might term, ‘toxic exposure’ that’s described in the medical record.”

A group of three physicians and an industrial hygienist have collectively earned over $1.7 million testifying against Hanford workers since the presumption law’s passage, according to DOE invoices the newsrooms obtained by a federal records request. One of the DOE’s go-to expert witness doctors earned more than $200,000 from the DOE last year alone. He did not respond to multiple emails seeking comment. 

A single law firm, Wallace, Mann, Capener, Bishop & Debney, handles all of the DOE’s appeals. In addition to the fees paid to expert witnesses, the department paid the firm nearly $10 million between 2018 and 2025. The law firm did not reply to multiple requests for comment. 

In cases where the DOE has appealed the state’s approval of a claim since 2018, the agency that handles appeals has sided with workers nearly 9 times out of 10, according to state data. 

Pollet, the state representative who sponsored the 2018 presumption bill, acknowledged that the law has fallen short of his expectation. 

“This was supposed to have ended a decade ago,” he said about sick Hanford workers still awaiting back wages and medical care. “It’s even worse than it was 10 years ago.”

“I think their actions are not only despicable, but they are criminal,” he said of the DOE. 

The state Department of Labor and Industries said it expected “to engage further with the DOE,” which could include putting the department on an improvement plan and monitoring its progress. 

Another option state regulators have is to revoke the DOE’s ability to accept and pay out claims directly. According to the state Department of Labor and Industries, the contractors that employ Hanford workers on behalf of the DOE would then decide whether to join the state-managed fund or seek state approval to manage claims themselves. Doing so could limit the DOE’s power to appeal, but contractors would still have that right. 

Brown, the state attorney general, said he wants to wait and see how the DOE’s appeals of claims play out in higher courts. He hopes that once the DOE’s losses start stacking up, it will slow the volume of its litigation. 

Attorney Charlynn Hull said she thought the DOE’s approach might soften during the Biden administration. But Hull said she observed no change in the DOE’s behavior. Her firm, Smart Law, represents the majority of Hanford workers’ compensation claimants, including Rouse and Kersey.

One of the hardest things about the DOE’s appeals, Hull said, is the testifying that the children and spouses of dead workers must do. 

“I think that it’s just, it’s tormenting to them, in many ways, to relive how awful that experience was, especially with the cancer-related death,” Hull said. “When does this end?”

Dying While Under Appeal

For Isidoro Mata Jr., it ended with his children draining fluid from his lungs through a tube doctors had surgically inserted into his chest.

Mata demolished buildings at Hanford for nearly 30 years. Court records show he was diagnosed in 2015 with thyroid cancer, one of the illnesses that Washington’s law ties to work at Hanford. Sara Chilcoat, his daughter, said he kept working as long as he could.

State claims managers approved Mata’s claim in 2019. The DOE appealed, arguing that “medical opinion supports denial of this claim as not related to the distinctive conditions of employment.” The appeal did not elaborate further. The state forced the DOE to pay his wages and the cost of his medications, Chilcoat said. But the DOE filed a separate motion to stop his benefits while the appeal was adjudicated. 

In its motion, the DOE argued that it was likely to prevail in its appeal because a doctor who examined Mata in 2019 believed his cancer was unrelated to his work at Hanford, according to court records. The state found the doctor’s examination “lacking in objective findings.” 

“He was fighting for his life while they were trying to do that,” Chilcoat said. “That makes me mad.” 

Mata’s case file notes that he missed three meetings with DOE lawyers in 2020. The state attorney general’s office sent the appeals judge a letter in July explaining that Mata was unable to participate because of his chemotherapy treatments. The DOE, which did not respond to questions about Mata’s case, dropped its appeal in December.

Less than three months later, Mata died.

The post Nuclear Weapons Waste Made Workers Sick. Despite a Law Meant to Help, the DOE Keeps Fighting Their Claims. appeared first on ProPublica.

In early August, election workers north of Spokane, Washington, went across the street to the post office to check for late mail-in ballots. It was three days after the primary and they were expecting no more than a few dozen.

Instead, their mailbox was brimming with envelopes — more than 500 of them, each a vote that wouldn’t count. The sight was “jarring,” said Auditor Lori Larsen, a Republican who oversees voting in Stevens County.

Across the region, other election officials were getting similar jolts. In the 11 predominately rural counties in eastern Washington, nearly 2,000 ballots came in late, compared to about 600 in 2022, the previous midterm primary.

In recent weeks, concerns about mail-in voting disruptions have focused almost entirely on President Donald Trump’s now-shelved plan to sharply restrict who can vote by mail. 

But a ProPublica data analysis shows that delays resulting from the U.S. Postal Service’s cost-cutting measures have endangered the validity of ballots cast in rural areas, not only in Washington, but across the country.

Over the past three years, as mail volume continued to plummet and annual deficits ballooned, the Postal Service started consolidating the processing of first-class mail at larger regional plants instead of at smaller hubs closer to local post offices. Then, in a little-noted switch that mostly took effect after the 2024 election, the agency cut the frequency of mail pickups in half at many post offices 50 miles or more from these processing plants, from twice daily to once.

The changes often added a day or more to delivery time and, most importantly for ballots, pushed back postmarking, which doesn’t happen until mail reaches the regional centers. 

In this year’s primary, the effects of the cuts were clearest in five states that make detailed data on mail-in ballots available: Washington, California, Ohio, North Carolina and Oregon. All have or recently had grace periods allowing ballots to count if they come in after Election Day as long as they’re postmarked by the deadline.

In these states, the number of ballots rejected for arriving late soared in counties affected by the service changes compared to 2022, ProPublica’s analysis showed. 

Rejection rates in counties where services were cut doubled or tripled from what they were four years ago, dwarfing any increases in counties where postal pickups remained as they were, our analysis showed. In urban Spokane, for example, the number of ballots rejected for being late actually dropped this year.

Across the five states, the delays have had the most substantial effect in areas that voted for Trump in 2024, ProPublica’s analysis shows. In Washington, Secretary of State Steve Hobbs, a Democrat, said he sees the service changes directed by Republican appointees leading the Postal Service as a way to undermine mail-in voting. 

“I don’t think they realized how much it was going to affect their voter base,” he said, adding that Washington has “a lot of rural Republican voters.”

Postal Service leaders say such delays are less likely in the Nov. 3 general election because of “extraordinary measures” the agency puts into place for these votes, when there’s typically far more turnout. They have circulated a memo to the nation’s more than 30,000 post offices saying that for the 10 days before the election, managers should separate completed ballots from other first-class mail and deliver those intended for local election offices the day they come in.

At an Oct. 15 news conference, Postal Service leaders emphasized the agency’s longstanding recommendation that voters mail ballots back at least a week before their states’ deadlines, while defending the agency’s ability to fast-track ballots through the system. 

“We work to identify and address issues quickly,” said Amber McReynolds, chair of the Postal Service board of governors, “so ballots can continue to move swiftly from election offices to voters and from voters back to election offices.”

Election consultants, researchers and former Postal Service officials told ProPublica that the guidance for the upcoming vote gave more detailed directions on how to expedite ballots. They said they hoped the agency’s special measures would limit delays, but some said mistakes were likely. 

“I don’t think we can say with any kind of conviction that there will be no ballots rejected,” said Tammy Patrick, chief programs officer of the National Association of Election Officials. “It isn’t a question of ‘if,’ but a question of ‘how many.'”

A pilot program instituting the delivery changes in 18 regions before the 2024 election ran into problems. An audit by the Postal Service’s inspector general found that agency staff in these areas sometimes didn’t handle ballots correctly, mainly because instructions weren’t clearly communicated. (A Postal Service spokesperson said “learnings from the pilot” have been applied as the program has expanded.)

After this year’s primary, reports by media outlets noted that mail-in ballot rejection rates were higher than in the past, but ProPublica’s analysis shows these increases were directly connected to Postal Service changes. Research published in September by the Brookings Institution also found this connection, projecting that if the pattern held in the general election, tens of thousands of mail-in ballots could be rejected.

At least seven closely contested congressional districts — including Washington’s 3rd, California’s 22nd and North Carolina’s 11th — are in areas that were affected by service changes in the primary, ProPublica found.

Elena Patel, who conducted the Brookings analysis, said service changes may still imperil mail-in votes in the general election.

“I think there remain risks to ballots,” she said, adding that the Postal Service’s plan for the general election “depends on flawless execution.”

Mail-in voting has become more popular over the last decade, with many states broadening access to it during the COVID-19 pandemic. 

Nearly 1 in 3 Americans voted this way in 2022 and 2024. Trump himself frequently votes by mail, and in recent weeks has started to encourage his supporters to do so as well, though he has claimed without evidence that the process is rife with fraud.

The Postal Service has mostly ensured the timely delivery of hundreds of millions of ballots, even as mail volume overall has dropped 50% from its high in 2006. 

When Louis DeJoy was appointed postmaster general in spring 2020, he inherited an $81 billion operating deficit and rapidly took steps such as eliminating overtime to reduce costs, under pressure from Trump and others in his administration. (DeJoy did not respond to questions from ProPublica.)

The NAACP sued that August, alleging the measures could affect mail-in votes in that year’s general election. Courts ordered DeJoy to reverse some of the cuts and the Postal Service agreed to implement special procedures to ensure ballots weren’t delayed. The Postal Service has continued following those procedures since. 

Still, DeJoy went forward with a 10-year restructuring plan designed to save the agency billions. It ended evening pickups from some post offices, often in rural areas. Trucks serving these places travel long distances and at times were mostly empty. This part of the plan — called regional transportation optimization, or RTO — was projected to eventually save the Postal Service $4 billion a year.

The agency announced the national rollout of the RTO plan in 2024, but DeJoy agreed to pause it leading up to that year’s November election, leaving only about 4,000 ZIP codes in the pilot project affected by the service changes.

In January 2025, the Postal Regulatory Commission, which oversees the Postal Service, warned that moving forward with the plan would be disruptive to rural communities and might not save as much money as expected. The Postal Service rolled out the reductions anyway, extending the changes to almost 20,000 ZIP codes to date. Officials said they expect the system to be fully implemented within two years.

This January, the agency put out a statement saying the transportation cuts would mean it took longer for mail, including ballots, to be postmarked and delivered. But the Postal Service didn’t specify which voters would be affected by the slowdowns and which wouldn’t.

Though the delay from RTO is often only a day, mail can be delayed longer if it’s deposited in a mailbox after the daily pickup time, or just before Sunday or a holiday.

A Postal Service spokesperson said the agency told election officials that RTO would change schedules and reemphasized the need for voters to get their ballots in the mail at least a week ahead of time. Election officials in Washington said the Postal Service wasn’t direct enough about the fact that the changes would lead to delays in delivering and postmarking ballots.

“What they said was, ‘We are going to change the way we do postmarks,'” said Hobbs, Washington’s secretary of state. “That was it.”

Patel, the Brookings analyst and a former Postal Regulatory Commission employee, said that more direct communication to voters could have helped change their behavior. “That’s the part that I think has not been super transparent about the whole process,” she said.

Many of the areas that saw a spike in late ballots were in Western states, which were the earliest and most enthusiastic adopters of expanded mail-in voting.

In 2004, Washington became the second state to start conducting all-mail elections, in which every eligible voter automatically receives a mail-in ballot. Most residents vote by putting their ballots in drop boxes. Still, in 2024, about 33% put them in the mail.

In the 30 mostly rural Washington counties most affected by RTO, the percentage of ballots postmarked late more than tripled compared to the 2022 primary, ProPublica found.

 Is your ZIP code subject to reduced mail service? Use our lookup tool to find out.

In Garfield County, in southeastern Washington, 19 ballots — nearly 1 in 10 cast — had late postmarks this year. In 2022, only a single ballot was postmarked late. In Pend Oreille County, in northeast Washington along the Idaho panhandle, 6% of ballots were rejected for arriving late, compared to 1% in the 2022 primary.

“It was pretty awful telling people we couldn’t count their votes,” said Marianne Nichols, Pend Oreille’s longtime auditor. “They were quite upset because they felt like, ‘Why? This was in the mailbox on election day, the post office picked it up and had it.’ They felt like it should have counted.”

In Stevens County, the percentage of ballots rejected for having a late postmark jumped to 8%, from 1% in 2022.

Steve Hutkins, a retired professor who analyzes the effect of Postal Service changes on Savethepostoffice.com, also found that places in Washington with RTO had more ballot rejections during local elections earlier this year for school board and other measures. The patterns “set off the alarm bells,” he said.

Stuart Holmes, the state’s director of elections, said he reached out to Postal Service officials to find out what had happened, but got few answers and no specifics on delays related to RTO, which were a “total surprise,” he said.

Election officials in California and Oregon also reported thousands more ballots rejected for arriving late during their primaries. Counties affected by RTO, including Kern County, California, had substantially higher rates of ballots rejected for mail-related reasons, ProPublica found.

Kern County’s assistant registrar of voters, Laura Cantu, said election officials are urging rural voters to use drop boxes to cast their ballots in the general election.

The expansion of RTO had a similar effect in North Carolina and Ohio, where the rates of late ballots were about twice as high in counties affected by the restructuring as rates in counties that weren’t. Since 2022, these states have also eliminated grace periods in which ballots postmarked by Election Day could count even if they arrived later. Voters unused to the tighter deadlines also could have contributed to an increase in late ballots.

ProPublica didn’t find any association between RTO and higher rates of late ballots in Wisconsin, even though clerks reported delays involving mail-in ballots cast in its state election, held this spring. (Other Postal Service changes may have contributed to the delays.) 

Wisconsin’s data does not distinguish ballots sent by mail from those cast in drop boxes or in person, making it impossible to definitively measure rejection rates just for ballots returned by mail. Election researchers said Wisconsin’s deadline for mail ballots, which must come into election offices by 8 p.m. on Election Day, also probably had an effect. 

“If you know that you don’t have a grace period, it probably affects voter behavior,” said Patel, the Brookings researcher. 

Recent Postal Service audits have found that RTO-related changes had saved the agency about $2.8 billion by the end of fiscal year 2025 — less money than expected — and are slowing down all first-class mail, not just ballots. Residents of rural areas are waiting longer for everything from prescriptions to bills, a report published in September by the Postal Service’s inspector general said.

A Postal Service spokesperson still defended the plan, both for financial reasons and to adjust to the changing marketplace. “These savings are both significant and necessary,” he said.

In the lead-up to Nov. 3, the agency’s plan is to route ballots meant for local election offices to a nearby postal facility or directly to their destination. They shouldn’t go to regional plants, which the Postal Service says should minimize delays.

Larsen, the Stevens County auditor, is encouraging Washington voters to deposit their ballots in drop boxes rather than relying on the mail. Since the primary, she’s increased the number of red, white and blue drop boxes that sit outside government buildings from seven to 12. Near each box, there’s a large sign encouraging people to take selfies when they vote and send the photos to Larsen. 

In prior years, Larsen said, she avoided telling voters how or when to vote, concerned they might regret choices they made if critical information later emerged about the candidates. That’s no longer uppermost in her mind.

“Now we are more concerned that we get your ballot,” she said.

The post Ballot Rejections Soared in Rural Counties After USPS Reduced Mail Service appeared first on ProPublica.

The civil rights arm of the U.S. Department of Education has dramatically scaled back investigations involving schools and colleges since the second Trump administration began, even as complaints continue to pour in, a ProPublica analysis of newly obtained records found.

The analysis shows how severely the department’s Office for Civil Rights has retracted from its mission, launching an average of about 100 new investigations a month — 1,839 total from Inauguration Day in 2025 through July 2026. The OCR launched an average of 310 new investigations each month in 2024 during the Biden administration, according to data previously obtained by ProPublica.

Under President Donald Trump, the OCR abandoned the public-facing list of schools it was investigating and the reasons for those investigations, including claims of discrimination based on race, sex and disability. ProPublica sued the department to obtain internal case data. The government subsequently provided records of the OCR’s actions in the first 18 months of Trump’s return to power, and we are publishing the data so the public can search the cases.

The decline in investigations is especially dramatic for cases involving sex discrimination. More than 200 new complaints were filed with the office related to schools’ handling of sexual violence — rape, assault and abuse. But the Trump administration launched investigations in only 29 of them, finding fault with a school district only once, according to the newly obtained data. It’s typical for there to be at least 60 sexual violence investigations opened each year.

The department addressed fewer of these cases despite continued concerns about the persistence of the problem — as demonstrated by the intense public scrutiny over how Cornell University addressed a student’s report of a 2024 gang rape.

Beyond that, the OCR launched only two investigations into discrimination based on sexual orientation.

“They’re barely doing anything to protect women and girls, including survivors of sexual violence,” said Shiwali Patel, an attorney who previously worked at the OCR and is now with the National Women’s Law Center. “They just don’t care about women and girls.”

The organization and more than 120 other advocacy, civil rights and education groups sent a letter on Tuesday to Congress’ ranking education committee leaders urging them to hold the OCR accountable for “its failure to enforce civil rights law and protect students from sexual violence.”

With OCR’s online database idle since Trump took office, the only way to know where the agency has launched investigations has been through selective department press releases, when OCR employees provided internal data to reporters or from schools and colleges that acknowledged that their institutions had become targets of the investigations.

The data ProPublica received as a result of our lawsuit can now fill that gap on the more than 1,800 civil rights investigations that the department initiated from Jan. 20, 2025, to July 29 of this year. The database also reflects the 24,000 new complaints logged through May and the nearly 17,000 new and old cases the department closed — almost always by dismissing them. 

The agency is dismissing complaints more frequently than in prior years, the records show. And fewer than 700 cases opened by the administration were resolved with a finding of wrongdoing.

The data does not include investigations that had been opened before Trump retook power but that are pending decisions by OCR — a backlog of more than 10,000 cases.

In response to questions from ProPublica, an Education Department spokesperson blamed the Biden administration for leaving office with 19,000 unresolved cases, which the Trump administration has worked to address.

“Spare us the crocodile tears as the Trump Administration is working to restore OCR to its original purpose: enforcing the law to ensure all students can receive an education free from discrimination,” spokesperson Sabin Sidney wrote.

He added that the administration “treats any form of discrimination on the basis of race or sex as illegal.” And he criticized the prior administration for endorsing policies that allowed transgender girls and women to compete in women’s athletics and use women's restrooms.

The data disclosure comes as the administration is moving forward with efforts to shut down the department and move the OCR under the Department of Justice. Disability rights advocates and others have been critical of the move, while the administration says it will lead to more efficiency and do a better job protecting students’ rights. The majority of cases before the OCR involve students with disabilities, as has been the case historically.

In the early months of Trump’s second term, Education Secretary Linda McMahon fired hundreds of employees and closed seven regional OCR offices, leaving the department severely diminished. Its remaining civil rights workers have described untenable case loads and pressure to dismiss complaints.

The remaining attorneys “are navigating pure chaos,” said Rachel Gittleman, president of the American Federation of Government Employees Local 252, the union that represents OCR staff. “They are being asked to use the tools they have used for their entire careers not for good, not to protect students, but to harm students. You see it in the case dismissals, the cases that target trans students or people of color.”

In examining the new records, ProPublica found the extent to which the agency has shifted its focus, as the OCR places a new emphasis on complaints that men faced discrimination. The agency launched 172 investigations into alleged “discrimination against males,” compared with 104 cases of alleged “discrimination against females” in the period examined.

It also has investigated allegations that campus programs or scholarships excluded men. For example, it investigated a complaint against Skyline College in California that had been filed in 2023 but that President Joe Biden’s administration had not acted on, according to records from the university. The complaint alleged that Skyline discriminated against men by listing scholarships on its website that are exclusively for women and for promoting a program for women.

The civil rights office opened the investigation in mid-April, and two weeks later the community college agreed that it would remove the scholarships from its website and add language that the program was open to all students. A Skyline College spokesperson did not respond to questions from ProPublica.

At the same time, the agency chose to open fewer than 370 new investigations involving racial discrimination, even though about 5,000 complaints were filed.

Of those new investigations, about 11% involved allegations of discrimination against white students. Over the summer, the department announced investigations into five medical schools’ admissions policies.

“They are not allocating their resources to racial discrimination complaints, to sexual assault complaints, to the types of complaints that really often speak to systematic discrimination and problems,” said Johnathan Smith, managing director of education at the nonprofit National Center for Youth Law.

That organization also has sued the Education Department for similar information obtained by ProPublica; the lawsuit is pending.

The post Trump’s Education Department Scaled Back Investigations Into Discrimination and Sexual Assault on Campus, New Data Shows appeared first on ProPublica.

The agency charged with regulating Colorado’s first-in-the-nation legal recreational marijuana market potentially put consumers at risk of using contaminated products, a new state audit found.

The report pointed to inconsistent oversight by the Marijuana Enforcement Division and loose state rules around testing marijuana products or contaminants. As a result, it found, nearly 75% of marijuana processed for eventual sale from 2023 through 2025 evaded testing for pesticides.

The audit, released Monday, identified a host of issues, including regulators’ failure to meet regular inspection schedules or to conduct sufficient random checks at dispensaries for contaminated products. It also found that delayed agency warnings to the public allowed potentially contaminated products to remain on shelves for months, sometimes years.

The audit’s conclusions echo several findings of an investigation this year by The Denver Gazette and ProPublica into the Marijuana Enforcement Division’s lapses in policing contaminants entering the legal marketplace.  

In one case highlighted by the newsrooms, it took 15 months for a manufacturer to discontinue production of a marijuana sleep aid pill despite consumers warning regulators that the product was harming their livers. The pills had herbal extracts that researchers say can cause liver damage.

Auditors said they did not identify evidence of “widespread health and safety issues” but did find that deficient regulations still left consumers vulnerable.

The audit found that unsafe products had remained on the market for as long as three years before the Marijuana Enforcement Division issued a public warning. The auditor’s review of the agency’s health and safety advisories found that, on average, from 2023 through 2025, contaminated products that were the subject of an advisory remained on shelves for more than seven months. That’s the same number of months the news organizations found contaminated products stayed on shelves before warnings were issued.

The audit also found that it took the agency three and a half months, on average, in 2025 to issue an advisory once it launched an investigation into potential contamination. Even after investigators determined an advisory was needed, it still took the agency a month on average to issue one. 

“These issues limit MED’s ability to meet its core objective to identify product safety risks and to help ensure that licensed marijuana businesses meet product safety requirements,” the audit stated. “As a result, there is an increased risk that marijuana products sold in Colorado may have contaminants or that the potency listed on the labels is inaccurate.”

Colorado allows marijuana businesses to test far less frequently than required by state guidelines if they can show consistent compliance with testing rules. The reduced testing program results “in a significant portion of the marijuana product being sold in Colorado not undergoing testing to ensure it is safe,” the audit stated. Manufacturers also can rely on other testing exemptions, such as for certain marijuana-derived skin and body products, but there is “limited MED oversight” of how manufacturers determine they qualify for an exemption.

Auditors reported that a survey of MED investigators found that more than half said there are or may be widespread marijuana product safety issues in Colorado’s regulated market. 

In a statement released Monday night, the Marijuana Enforcement Division emphasized that state auditors found no evidence “to support claims of widespread health and safety issues” with marijuana products for sale in Colorado, but the agency agreed the audit identified areas for improvement. It said that among other things, it would be assessing exemptions to tests currently allowed under state laws and regulations.

The state auditor’s review “allows us to take a critical look at how we can continue to carry out our work, consistent with our commitment to integrity, safety, and continuous operational improvement,” Dominique Mendiola, senior director of the MED, said in a statement.

The auditor’s report highlighted a criticism her agency has repeatedly sidestepped: the absence of independent collection of samples for safety testing. The Denver Gazette and ProPublica found that more than half of states with regulated marijuana markets rely on private labs or an independent third party to collect samples. Colorado marijuana businesses are free to collect their own samples submitted for testing.

The enforcement division’s own investigators told auditors that, as a result, Colorado relies largely on an honor code to ensure the safety of marijuana sold in the state’s dispensaries.

Auditors said that allowing businesses to select their own samples “increases the risk that businesses do not pick samples that are representative of the overall quality of their marijuana product.” 

MED regulators at the start of the year said they planned to pursue an overhaul that would have required private lab personnel to collect samples, but they abandoned that effort after manufacturers said it would increase their costs. On Monday, Kyle Lambert, the enforcement division’s deputy senior director, told legislators that the agency opted against an overhaul this year, chiefly because he said it would be a geographic challenge to do away with self-sampling for rural businesses. 

“It was decided now wasn’t the right time to propose that as a policy change,” Lambert said, adding that the agency still might revisit the issue.

State Sen. Byron Pelton, a Republican from Sterling, pushed back, saying it was a loophole he thinks the agency should consider closing.

“If I’m a shady character, I know which products I’m going to go sampling and which ones I’m not,” he said. “That’s a pretty gray area to me.”

The audit also questioned the agency’s reliance on businesses voluntarily recalling contaminated marijuana products, saying that “some of these recalls did not succeed at stopping the businesses from selling potentially unsafe product.”

Just last month, The Denver Gazette and ProPublica reported that a Colorado manufacturer voluntarily flagged 49 of its popular marijuana vapes for recall, nearly six weeks after a third-party lab notified the company and regulators that it detected methylene chloride, a chemical the Environmental Protection Agency has sought to ban for most uses because it can cause cancer. The MED issued a health and safety advisory a day after the publications first reported the manufacturer had warned dispensaries to stop selling the vapes, which consumers had been purchasing for over a year.

The post Colorado Marijuana Regulators Failed to Protect Consumers From Potential Contamination, Audit Finds appeared first on ProPublica.

Peak tourist season had arrived in Ruidoso, New Mexico, and Mayor Lynn Crawford was campaigning to convince the public that the village was safe. A Republican with white hair and a Texas drawl, Crawford said he was frustrated with residents who were sharing warnings of flooding on social media. “They spout stuff off,” he said in a radio address on June 30, 2025. “And I don’t know why they’re so afraid. I do not understand it.” 

The community had experienced severe flooding the previous summer, after two wildfires burned 25,000 acres above town, in the Sacramento Mountains. The fires and floods had destroyed about 1,000 homes. Together, the Village of Ruidoso and its smaller neighbor, Ruidoso Downs, are home to some 10,000 residents, but that number more than doubles during the summer.

Since then, residents had been on edge. A new monsoon season had arrived, bringing sporadic flooding that jeopardized the town’s economic engine of horse racing. At stake were big crowds to celebrate the Fourth of July, watch quarter horse racing and enjoy cool weather that’d lured Texans here for generations.

“We have flooding temporarily,” Crawford had told a Texas news anchor in an interview. “And just almost as fast as it came to town, and went through town, it’s gone.” Crawford, who is 64, managed an exclusive club at the Ruidoso Downs Race Track & Casino and once called that his “real job.” He made less than $26,000 as mayor.

But if the town’s economy was precarious, so was its geography. The South Fork and Salt fires charred the landscape, leaving soils that didn’t easily absorb water. Imagine spilling hot wax on a carpet, letting it cool and repeatedly pouring water over it. Now place the wax on steep hills above a river lined with log homes, tourist shops selling wooden bears and an iconic racetrack. 

Officials were aware of the threat but clung to Ruidoso’s animating idea: that nature could be subdued for the enjoyment of tourists and profit of the community. Nowhere was this more apparent than at the track, where the Rio Ruidoso, channeled through culverts, crossed the infield. After the 2024 flooding damaged the track, the culverts had been rebuilt with a $16 million public investment authorized by New Mexico’s Democratic governor, Michelle Lujan Grisham.

The track had only recently reopened, and flooding was again threatening to derail the racing season. On June 26, internal records show, Ruidoso’s emergency management department was at a heightened threat awareness level. Flooding had destroyed a bridge upstream of the town, and the forecast called for more rain. 

But publicly, the village maintained it was prepared and the community was safe. The next day, the emergency manager reduced the threat level a notch, and the communications department chided residents for sharing warnings of catastrophic flooding on social media, noting that some posts featured old videos. “Protect our community from fear-based falsehoods,” the village implored in a public service announcement.

On July 4, and one state over, violent flooding killed more than 130 people in central Texas. But multiple tourists who were arriving in Ruidoso said they had no idea the town was in danger. At the racetrack, the horses ran, and Crawford hosted members at the Ruidoso Jockey Club, where private tables cost as much as six figures.

That weekend, Sebastian Trotter and his family traveled to Ruidoso from El Paso, Texas. Trotter was an Army helicopter pilot stationed at Fort Bliss; his wife, Stephanie, was a nursing student. They thought the place looked family friendly; they saw no warnings online. They brought their two children and three dogs. On Sunday, July 6, they parked their trailer in a desirable spot on the water’s edge at the Riverview RV Park. In online photos, the river appeared gentle. “You could go put your toes in,” said Sebastian.

That day, the Rio Ruidoso — “noisy river,” in Spanish — briefly flooded and firefighters rescued at least four people. The Trotters saw the water rise, but the campground host said it was a regular occurrence. Then the river receded.

In the park, the Trotters’ children, Sebastian Rowan, 7, and Charlotte, 4, biked under the tall pines. The boy was a soccer player who was enchanted by the idea of camping in the woods; Charlotte was bright and cheery, sometimes applying glitter to her father’s mustache. Later, the family walked through the village, where elk and wild horses occasionally graze near tourists.

On Tuesday, July 8, the Trotters were visiting a lake when they saw clouds form. They decided to head into town, ordering pizza before allowing the children to pick out souvenirs. The younger Sebastian selected a rainbow gemstone, Charlotte a bracelet and a ring. Then they returned to the RV park, where they relaxed by the river. 

At 1 p.m., Crawford presided over a council meeting at Village Hall. He began by recognizing the Texas flood victims and nodding to Ruidoso’s relative success. “We want to keep all of central Texas in our thoughts and prayers and see how bad it was and how fortunate we’ve been,” he said. “The goal of the village is to protect the village.” That meant balancing public safety with tourism, he said.

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Town Leaders Said They Were Prepared for Floods. First Responders Disagree.

At almost the same moment, storm clouds gathered in the mountains. Even short periods of moderate rain on severe burn scars can unleash post-fire floods. By 1:30 p.m., radar indicated storms might douse both scars simultaneously. A little before 2 p.m., firefighters texted images of the radar to one another. “It could be interesting,” wrote one. Only about a third of the department was on duty at the time and the chief, Cade Hall, had for weeks declined to preposition additional flood specialists near low-lying areas.

Hall disputed ProPublica’s reporting about the emergency response but declined to comment with specifics.

Less than an hour later, another flood arrived, carrying debris that backed up behind bridges. The water kept coming, fanning onto roads until the normal course of the river disappeared. What the wall of brown water carried told residents it was time to panic.

Jason Fulcher, an owner of the Riverview RV Park, saw a tree-size log in the waterway. Two miles downstream, a maintenance worker at a mobile home park saw a car float past and lodge against a bridge.

Farther downstream, the track’s executives did not need physical signs of danger; they knew what was coming because they’d been alerted.

But the Trotters were caught unprepared. Around 3 p.m., they retreated to their trailer to escape the rain. Then the flood tore through a wall and took their children.

The wildfire crisis engulfing the West presents a secondary threat that has received less attention: Entire neighborhoods could wash away in debris flows and floods that often follow.

Scientists say there’s a direct correlation between fire intensity and flood risk. Research shows that if more than 20% of the ground burns at moderate to high severity, especially on steep slopes, there’s an increased danger of debris flows and post-fire flooding during storms. The fires that burned above the Rio Ruidoso watershed far exceeded that threshold.

Before the 2025 tourist season, local and state officials had an opportunity to safeguard Ruidoso and adapt to the realities of a warming climate that is exacerbating wildfires and flooding. The state and village each commissioned experts to model flooding scenarios. The engineers’ reports predicted serious flooding. “They told us exactly where it was going to come and what it was going to do,” said Hall, the fire chief. Federal emergency officials suggested that significant parts of the town should relocate away from the river.

Instead, leaders from the mayor to the governor recommitted to tourism and the racetrack.

Ruidoso Is Surrounded on Three Sides by Thousands of Acres of Burn Scars

Since the July 8, 2025, flood, officials have insisted they performed admirably against a historic disaster. Michael Martinez, the village’s former deputy manager, who helped direct the response, said, “We’re lucky we didn’t have a Texas.”

But according to five first responders, the tragedy could have been avoided. All of the first responders spoke on the condition of anonymity for fear of reprisal. Their accounts are supported by public records, including emails, internal reports and hydrologic assessments. Before July 8, Crawford, Hall and others made decisions that left residents and tourists vulnerable, even though they knew a damaging flood was likely, first responders and officials say. 

Some of those choices, such as the village’s promotion of tourism to visitors largely unaware of the threat, appeared to be financially motivated, according to current and former officials who worked on flood response. “Money was the driver,” said Thora Walsh Padilla, the former president of the Mescalero Apache Tribe, which is based south and west of town. “You’re taking a chance with people who aren’t even from this area and don’t know how to get around enough.” She added, “You’re putting them in jeopardy.”

Other missteps were caused by inaction: the failure to relocate vulnerable residents and to replace infrastructure damaged during previous flooding, even as the governor drove the state’s $16 million investment in the track. And just before the flood arrived, at least one of the RV park’s owners received emergency alerts but did not evacuate campers.

Village officials including Crawford did not respond to more than 70 questions from ProPublica, including about whether they had emphasized tourism at the track over public safety. But in an interview last year, Crawford said: “Who’s to blame? I didn’t start the fire.”

Reached by phone, Kerry Gladden, the village’s public information officer, referred questions to an attorney, who did not answer them. Village officials have said that their emergency department sent text-message warnings before the flood through a system that the public had to sign up for.

A spokesperson for Lujan Grisham said the state’s investments in the track were necessary to protect life and safety. The track’s general manager, Rick Baugh, did not respond to multiple inquiries about ProPublica’s reporting, and one of the racing operation’s owners didn’t answer questions sent by email.

The lapses and missed opportunities in Ruidoso offer challenging lessons about the harsh reality facing communities throughout the American West. This summer, post-fire flooding and debris flows killed one person and prompted more than a dozen rescues in Colorado. In August, flash floods in the Grand Canyon killed three; some of those floodwaters had coursed over burned areas. And in Utah, Gov. Spencer Cox declared a state of emergency following post-fire flooding in three counties.

The West is not yet prepared for the spreading threat. While federal scientists have created a national model to assess the likelihood of post-fire debris flows, communities don’t have an easily accessible tool to gauge their risk of post-fire flooding.  

Ruidoso still looks like a tourist hub, but it survives on disaster aid from the state and federal governments. Since 2024, the state and federal governments have spent over half a billion dollars on disasters in Ruidoso — nine times the village’s annual budget.

Even as funding pours in, first responders say the village remains inadequately prepared to protect residents and tourists.

Ruidoso is not a glitzy escape of vast alpine vistas. Homes are close together, built into riverbanks and overhung with trees. Cabins abut RV parks. Located in Lincoln County, it has long been an escape for working families from Texas and soldiers stationed at Fort Bliss, 130 miles to the south. “Our kids deserved this small trip,” Stephanie Trotter wrote on social media after the July 8 flood.

The place they booked sat across from a 19th-century mill that’s recognized as the village’s birthplace. One of the RV park’s owners, Fulcher, said that if you looked hard enough, you might find bullet holes in the trees from old Western battles.

The village’s colonial founders were unwise to set their community on the river. The Mescalero Apache traditionally lived on hills above the creeks and wetlands to avoid rising water and mosquitoes, Walsh Padilla said. Over and over, the river flooded, including in 2008 and 2022. Randall Camp, the former Lincoln County manager and public works director for Ruidoso, said, “The river can’t be trusted.”

Many new residents did not understand the danger. Fulcher and his wife, Lindsey, moved to Ruidoso from the Houston area in 2022, seeking a quiet life near family. Jason was leaving a high-income, high-stress career in gas sales. The 1.5 acre property they purchased sat just below confluences of the Rio Ruidoso and two tributaries. Lindsey’s sister and brother-in-law had their own RV park upriver.

The Fulchers arrived as the threat reached a new extreme. A decade ago, researchers from Northern Arizona University studied tree rings on the Mescalero Apache reservation, finding that fires had occurred regularly — every six to 18 years, in many cases — until the turn of the 20th century. Then they declined in frequency as the government started suppressing fires. With fewer fires, the forests grew thick. The shade drew tourists. But, Walsh Padilla said: “This isn’t natural. It’s not natural anymore.”

The Forest Service’s policy of quickly extinguishing fires was symbolically tied to Lincoln County, where in 1950, firefighters found a singed bear cub in the mountains northeast of Ruidoso. The injured cub was named Smokey and flown to the National Zoo in Washington, D.C., where it became the living icon for the agency’s ongoing messaging campaign.

As the climate warmed, the government’s policy of putting out fires fundamentally altered the landscape. Between 1950 and 2010, wildfires in the Rio Ruidoso watershed burned just under 11,000 acres, according to a ProPublica analysis of data from the National Interagency Fire Center. Since then, nearly 54,000 acres have burned — an area nearly five times larger than in the previous 60 years. And scientists say those fires are hotter than ever, as heavy fuels like Douglas firs and ponderosa pines lose moisture in the warming climate.

In June 2024, two major fires ignited, and monsoon rains soon followed. A 16-foot flood tore through town on July 20, 2024.

The Fulchers’ house, which was located in their park, sustained minor damage, but their relatives’ property, a couple hundred yards upstream, was destroyed. The Federal Emergency Management Agency deemed Chelsey Jarvis and Darrel McKay’s house uninhabitable and prohibited them from building even temporary housing on the land. The couple closed the park for the season. “I wasn’t going to put people in harm’s way because I wanted their money,” Jarvis said during an October 2024 village meeting, as she begged the council to buy their property. “It’s just going to be Groundhog Day. Next year it’s going to wash away.”

Jarvis proposed they turn the park into a retention pond to slow floodwaters and protect downstream businesses. Officials were considering such drastic measures. The Natural Resources Conservation Service, a subagency of the U.S. Department of Agriculture, had raised the idea of a large-scale buyout. It had recently committed $106 million to move more than 600 homes following 2022 flooding in Kentucky.

The project in Ruidoso would be even more costly. Martinez, the village’s former deputy manager, and Camp, who was then the county manager, estimated they needed $650 million to move about 1,000 properties. But the NRCS would only pay if a local partner provided a 25% match, meaning the county, village or state would have to raise vast sums. While Jarvis and McKay immediately said they wanted a buyout, Jason Fulcher was torn. He loved his property. But he and his wife worried that the village’s infrastructure didn’t adequately protect their home. In December 2024, they submitted a form saying they wanted to be relocated. 

During New Mexico’s 2025 legislative session, no lawmaker proposed funding a buyout for Ruidoso. By spring, with the opportunity fading for a mass relocation of homes and businesses, optimism crept back into public discourse.

According to Jarvis and McKay, Crawford encouraged them to reopen their park, saying the village needed affordable rentals. (Neither Crawford nor the village answered a question about the interaction.) As tourist season approached, the families adopted different strategies. Jarvis said she was never comfortable with reopening, but McKay felt the family had little choice given how much they’d invested. They resolved to keep their property open but only to book half the camp sites. 

Fulcher, on the other hand, wanted a full park from June to September, when the most tourists arrived and so did the monsoons. He said he’d withdrawn all his retirement savings to cover the down payment and improvements on the $645,000 property, and he was so attached to the place that he’d rebuffed multiple potential buyers. The park needed to be fully operational, he said, “because at 50% operational, we’re losing money every month.”

On March 31, 2025, the village released a new map of the floodplain online, which allowed viewers to zoom in on their properties. The map was based on flood models created by a company called Cobb, Fendley & Associates, which had months earlier outlined a dire scenario to village officials.

The Trotter Family’s Campsite Sat on the Edge of the River

The Village of Ruidoso’s floodplain and floodway maps show that most of the RV park was at risk prior to the July 2025 flood.

The company had been hired to model what might happen in a 100-year storm — a term that reflects the anticipated depth and intensity of rainfall. In January 2025, a Cobb Fendley engineer sent an email to the village saying that the company thought a 100-year storm would bring six times the volume of the July 2024 flood that destroyed Jarvis and McKay’s home. In a separate report, Cobb Fendley identified more than 200 at-risk addresses. The list included their property, as well as the Fulchers’ RV park.

But the village didn’t make clear the threat to existing properties. When officials discussed the map, they often focused on its impact on development and building permits. “There was never a time where we specifically said, ‘Someone can die,’” Martinez, the village’s former deputy manager, said in an interview. “Never have I ever stated those words. Everything I’ve ever shared with somebody has been: ‘This is the floodplain. This is what was adopted. These are the new high-water marks. If we ever get a flood that is a 100-year flood, the waters will get this high.’”

Both RV parks were in the floodplain. But both Fulcher and McKay said they’d internalized the government’s optimism. “The leadership dang sure makes you feel like it’s gonna be OK,” said McKay. “All they kept saying was build back better. We’re stronger.”

On May 25, 2025, Lujan Grisham celebrated the reopening of the track, aided by the funds she secured. “Ruidoso Downs has reopened for its first races since those disasters in record time,” read a post on the governor’s official Instagram page. “Ruidoso Strong!”

New Mexico’s constitution prohibits the use of public funds on private businesses in most cases, but there are exceptions for certain public and economic development projects. Records show that starting in September 2024, New Mexico’s then-transportation secretary, Ricky Serna, directed a team of engineers to prioritize work at the track, even as his subordinates raised concerns that FEMA might not reimburse the costs because the project hadn’t yet met the agency’s standards.

Crews excavated an 8-acre basin in the infield to serve as a holding pond, while contractors rebuilt the culverts under the track and reinforced the road leading into it. These efforts were designed to slow floodwater, but the project also allowed the track to reopen.

The track was best known for hosting the world’s richest quarter horse race, the All American Futurity, which awarded $3 million annually, with half going to the contest’s winner.

Horses at the track were cared for by grooms, many of whom were immigrants. The grooms worked for horse trainers rather than the track itself. But the track provided space for them to sleep in barns and storage rooms, in what one executive called industry-standard conditions. Baugh, the general manager, did not answer questions about living conditions at the track. Izzy Trejo, executive director of the New Mexico Racing Commission, said in an email that the commission had no authority over the matter. “The living conditions for the grooms is the responsibility of each individual trainer,” said Trejo. 

But there was little scrutiny of such issues at “our beloved racetrack,” as Crawford has called it. In addition to the mayor, the village’s public information officer previously handled publicity for the track and the mayor of Ruidoso Downs previously oversaw its security. 

The racetrack’s various businesses and their owners, Jana and Johnny Trotter — they are not related to Sebastian and Stephanie — contributed more than $35,000 to Lujan Grisham’s gubernatorial campaigns. Michael Coleman, a spokesperson for the governor, said in an email, “The infrastructure improvement projects at Ruidoso Downs and the surrounding area were undertaken because of the life-safety risk the site posed to the surrounding community.” Coleman said the project was “not solely for economic development reasons.”

But the track framed the project differently. “The clock’s ticking,” said Tim Keithley, the track’s former marketing director, in a February report by KRQE, a New Mexico outlet. “We need to race so that the community can have tourism and bring those Texans over to spend some money with us.” 

As work at the track progressed, one urgent mitigation project upriver lagged. Officials were concerned about old and damaged bridges and culverts on the Rio Ruidoso. During floods they could act like dams, forcing rising water onto roads and increasing the threat downstream. “If you have a bunch of debris that comes in and clogs bridges, at some point that’s going to release,” said Eric Queller, Ruidoso’s emergency manager.

In the year leading up to the 2025 tourist season, bridge repairs and replacements once again fell by the wayside as village and state officials argued over who was responsible for them. The work at the track, meanwhile, was completed by Memorial Day.

On Sunday, July 6, when firefighters made at least four flooding rescues, the Ruidoso News posted a video about the track repair on its Facebook page. In the video, which was produced by the newspaper’s general manager, Eugene Heathman, Crawford said the infrastructure was holding.

The next day, an executive at the paper’s parent company, El Rito Media, told Heathman his journalism, which had included footage of severe flood damage, was bad for business. The executive has since left the company and told ProPublica he was acting on the orders of El Rito’s publisher, Richard Connor. In a statement, Connor denied attempting to influence coverage. “We have dug, investigated, and sought out all angles in our flood and racetrack coverage,” he said.

Heathman soon resigned. The video of Crawford at the track has disappeared from the internet, and Heathman’s footage showing flood damage has been removed from the Ruidoso News’ Facebook account.

Just before 2 p.m. on July 8, a fierce rain began to fall near the headwaters of one of the Rio Ruidoso’s upper forks. Within 10 minutes, nearly three-quarters of an inch of rain pelted the charred ground. At 2:12 p.m., the National Weather Service sent out a flash flood warning, which it upgraded to an emergency 35 minutes later, after debris slid down steep slopes and into the river. 

At Village Hall, Crawford adjourned the council meeting just before 3:10 p.m., saying: “We’ve had a wall of water come over. It’s predicted this is the big one.” Shortly after, he called the track’s general manager, Rick Baugh.   

Josh Gibson, a track executive, was with Baugh when the call arrived. He said Crawford “told him he had 45 minutes or so before the water got there.” (Baugh did not respond to repeated inquiries, and Crawford and Gladden, the public information officer, did not answer a question about the call.) 

The advance notice allowed Baugh and his colleagues to alert dozens of grooms living in the barns to evacuate before the flood reached them.

Three miles upstream, at the Riverview RV Park, Jason Fulcher, the Trotters and other campers stood by the river. They talked about the weather. They talked about which trailers they preferred. They talked about whether there were any reports of ghosts in the area. The Trotters’ children played in the shade.

Multiple people who were in the park received text alerts warning of flooding. But all of them, including one of the park’s owners, said the alerts seemed routine. “We received watch and warning alerts daily, sometimes multiple times in the same day,” Fulcher said in an email. He also told ProPublica in an interview that he’d followed the village’s advice: “Just be vigilant. Watch the skies, stay out of low-lying areas, watch the river.” But he didn’t stay out of low-lying areas, because his property sat in one. 

The Trotters said that although their phones were on, they didn’t receive any alerts from the National Weather Service. They did not know about the village’s alerts. “There was nothing,” Sebastian said.

Residents had “alert fatigue.” So officials wanted first responders to drive into threatened areas on dangerous flood days to ensure that people evacuated. In parts of the community, including much of Ruidoso Downs, first responders showed up with loudspeakers, telling people to seek high ground just before the flood arrived.

But at the Riverview RV Park, no one came, even though the park sat just about a third of a mile from the fire department’s headquarters.

After receiving the alerts, Fulcher began his monsoon season routine: He went to the riverbank to ask guests to move back. Fulcher said the Trotters were among those he asked to step slightly away from the river; the Trotters dispute this. 

When it started to rain, the children retreated to their trailer, which had an extending compartment known as a slide-out. The river rose, carrying branches and rocks. The Trotters joined the kids, preparing to drive to higher ground. Then they heard a noise that Sebastian likened to television static through noise canceling headphones.

According to the Trotters, the trailer door was open and blocked by debris. Sebastian stuck his leg out and was temporarily caught, but he managed to get back inside. He was reaching for a mattress when the flood ripped off the slide-out. Stephanie, holding both children, was sucked into the water. “Once I was in the water, I only had Charlotte in my arms,” she said. Sebastian dove in after his son.

Fulcher had steered out of the park in a truck. At the road he was met by brown, sediment-laden floodwaters carrying vehicles and a dumpster. The flood was remarkable for both its scale — a river gauge showed twice the volume of the July 2024 flood — and its bulk. One survivor said it felt like liquid cement. Fulcher left his truck and sprinted to a high point from which he could see his house. His two children were trapped inside. He stepped onto a building, planning to swim to them, but the structure collapsed. Fulcher climbed a wall and tried to swim but was pushed back. In the house, his children clung to a ceiling fan as rising water pushed their mattress toward the ceiling.

The campground host, Jere Stark, had made his way to a pavilion, where he used a post to shield his body from the water. Stark, who is 71, was trying to help another camper, Benjamin Timothy Feagin, from the bed of a truck. The flood pulled them in.

Near their camp site, the younger Sebastian held onto a tree. His father repeatedly tried to reach him but struggled to move in the water. He was hit by a boulder and a floating truck, he said. The boy could not hold on any longer and lost his grip.

By about 3:30 p.m., there were at least eight firefighters at Riverview, including two swiftwater technicians in a vehicle capable of navigating floodwaters. Across the waterway, they saw a man 20 feet up a tree. The elder Sebastian Trotter was in the water below him, grabbing a tree trunk, wounded and barely able to speak.

The two swiftwater technicians waded to the Fulchers’ house and retrieved the Fulcher children, who were huddled together on the mattress.

There were still more children to rescue, but not all the first responders knew that.

The Trotters had been separated. Firefighters found the older Sebastian alone. A few hundred yards downstream, first responders helped rescue Stephanie Trotter and Stark. Stephanie said she’d been with her daughter, but the girl was now gone.

Later, when the water receded, Fulcher and McKay pried open the Trotters’ crumpled trailer. Inside, they found the Trotters’ surviving dog.

The first body was found under a bridge around 5:20 p.m. It was Feagin, who had been in the pavilion with Stark. 

Firefighters split up to scour the riverside for the children. One group walked downstream. It passed Paradise Canyon, where Stephanie Trotter had been rescued, searching the corners of the floodplain where waters had receded.

Another group moved upriver. The light faded, trees casting long shadows. “Couldn’t see much,” said a firefighter. “Everything’s different and washed out, and all you could see was really the little spotlight on your flashlight.” He came to a softball field full of scattered furniture. He passed a bridge and paused. “I looked back. Something told me, ‘Look back.’”

He saw the shape of a child’s body. It was Sebastian Rowan Trotter. Charlotte’s body had been found not far away.

In their private correspondence on July 8 and 9, state officials said they were worried about the racetrack. While firefighters were searching for the Trotters’ children, a senior disaster recovery official named Jeremy Klass sent a message asking if horses needed evacuation. They didn’t.

The next morning, an official notified Klass and other colleagues about the racetrack. “Village is concerned,” he wrote.

“This should be a priority,” responded Heath Dobrovolny, the state floodplain coordinator.

Dobrovolny said he didn’t recall the text exchange, but he was likely focused on preventing casualties downstream from the track. He also disputed that, as state floodplain coordinator, he had favored the track over the village. Regina Chacon, the New Mexico Department of Homeland Security and Emergency Management’s deputy cabinet secretary, said in an email that the agency was concerned that debris buildup “would apply pressure on the dam between the infield” and a downstream community.

At a news conference on the morning of July 9, Crawford repeatedly noted how high the water had crested: “This is historic.” Since then, officials have said they did everything in their power to protect the village.

“We pretty much did everything we possibly could and everything worked out, I guess, as best it could for the situation that we had,” Hall, Ruidoso’s fire chief, said. “I don’t know that I would have done anything differently.”

“Will I tell you it’s successful when we lost three lives? No,” said Ali Rye, the state homeland security director. But, she said, “We put out every bit of messaging we possibly could. I don’t know, from the state’s perspective, what more we could have done.”

And a month after the flood, in a video interview published by a horse racing website, Lujan Grisham said, “No governor, no state, no president, no one at the federal level can sort of predict what happens with the weather and emergencies.”

In truth, the disaster had been all but predicted in the reports created for the state and village. “Unfortunately, it’s stuff that was modeled,” said Joseph Loverich, a civil engineer with the firm JE Fuller, which in 2024 created multiple flood models for the state. And Cobb Fendley’s model had told the village that even worse flooding could be coming. The July 8 flood carried a third of the volume the company anticipated for a 100-year flood. (Cobb Fendley did not respond to detailed questions about how it arrived at its conclusions.) 

On Oct. 8, three months after the flood, Lincoln County held another meeting about a potential buyout for property owners at risk. Martinez, Ruidoso’s deputy village manager, said: “That wasn’t even a big one. I mean, that was half of what we expected, of the max.” July 8 had been a 50-year flood, he said. “It could be twice as much. That’s the honest-to-God truth.”

“So you guys knew?” interjected Fulcher.

“We had campers,” said Jarvis.

Lincoln County’s new manager, Jason Burns, cut her off: “Hold on. Listen to us. That’s not what he’s saying.”

Within weeks, Martinez adjusted his language. In an interview on Oct. 21, he said: “Did I do enough? I ask myself that question every day, and I come to the same realization every day: I don’t know what more I could have done. I honestly don’t.”

Months later, he left Ruidoso for a job in El Paso. He was soon replaced by Dobrovolny, the former state floodplain coordinator who had helped direct work at the track. In July, Dobrovolny emailed village employees, emphasizing a policy prohibiting them from talking to journalists. A video of the contentious October meeting originally posted by the county has been removed from the internet. In an email, Burns said the video’s disappearance was “not intentional.”

The Trotters held a celebration of life for their children on Aug. 15. Sebastian was still recovering from a broken bone in a foot, nerve damage in his legs, and wounds on his legs and arms. Tattoos on his forearms had been partially removed due to the injuries.

A few weeks later, the All American Futurity was held in Albuquerque for a second consecutive season. In Ruidoso, Crawford arranged a viewing party at the Jockey Club. When a bank of televisions showed horses bursting through the starting gate, feet stomped on the club’s carpet. The track outside was empty and quiet. Still, multiple people in the club said they anticipated racing would return. A woman from Texas named Dusty Milanes said the dangers in Ruidoso were being overblown. “There’s parts of the community that are totally normal,” said Milanes, who wore pink cowboy boots. Asked where that was, she said, “High ground.”

The Jockey Club was surviving on restaurant sales and catering contracts, and Crawford had to lay off most of his employees. In private, state officials discussed distancing themselves from their $16 million rehabilitation effort at the track. “We have to keep in mind and project to the public NMDOT had minimal involvement in this,” a district engineer for the Department of Transportation wrote in an email in August 2025.

By spring, green shoots sprouted on the hills above the Rio Ruidoso. New growth on burn scars can slow the worst effects of flooding, but scientists say it’s important to not become complacent. “This is not a one-and-done kind of thing,” said Belize Lane, an associate professor of civil and environmental engineering at Utah State University. “There is still an opportunity for many, many more events that may not look like that, but may still be hugely destructive.”

But in Ruidoso, people started to say that the worst had passed. “Everybody always goes back to sleep,” said Camp, the former county manager.

In July, the Ruidoso News published a story about the village government’s performance during the flooding, which largely relied on the mayor’s analysis. “The legacy is one of resilience, not giving up, fortitude, rugged individualism, the ability for you to be all you can be and not give up,” said Crawford.

The track was closed, and weeds soon grew 6 feet high in the holding pond. The All American Futurity was moved to Texas. Still, the Jockey Club continued to collect dues from members and Crawford promised that hooves would again thunder in Ruidoso. “The track deal isn’t over yet,” he said during a council meeting.

The Fulchers mostly avoided their old RV park. The state had finally secured $249 million for a buyout program, with more than three-quarters of the funds coming from the federal government. But the Fulchers, who now run a mountain-man themed store, selling antlers and rifles, hadn’t yet received an appraisal for their property.

They had settled a wrongful death lawsuit brought by the Trotters and Feagin’s family, with an insurance company paying an undisclosed amount. “Accountability is at the forefront of my mind,” Sebastian said during a March television interview. He said he would not “just let us be forgotten — let our kids be forgotten.” An attorney for the Trotters also sent the village a letter notifying officials that they intended to sue.

Crawford said that he anticipated the Trotters would sue but declined to discuss potential litigation.

The park now sat empty and taped off. The roof of the Fulchers’ house sagged, and a child’s handprints were still visible on the ceiling.

Out front, on a towering tree, there was a white cross and, beneath it, a plaque.

In loving memory of Benjamin “Tim” Feagin,
Sebastian Rowan Trotter,
Charlotte Emery Trotter,
And their two dogs Zeus & Ellie.

The Fulchers put the memorial up on the anniversary of the flood. A firefighter who had helped find one of the Trotters’ children attended. “We carry a lot of guilt for things that we weren’t able to do,” he said. “We feel like we could have done more.”

The village continued to advertise tourism in West Texas. During the summer, a digital billboard near the Trotters’ house flashed a Ruidoso promotion. Sebastian saw it when he filled up on gas.

Just upstream of the closed race track, a mobile home park was mostly full. Children played in the street, and occupied trailers sat above the river. The park’s managers said they were following local rules. “I don’t think it’ll ever flood again like that,” said one. The Rio Ruidoso babbled. It looked welcoming. On a summer day, you could go put your toes in.

The post “The River Can’t Be Trusted” appeared first on ProPublica.

The man was nearly to his waist in a flooded river and couldn’t get out. A firefighter and a police officer didn’t have enough rope or manpower to lift him onto the temporary flood barrier that separated them from the debris-strewn water. The man, Jere Stark, had just been carried a quarter mile by a torrential flood and was covered in mud and extremely cold.

It was around 3:30 p.m. on July 8, 2025, and a flood in Ruidoso, New Mexico, had unleashed chaos at Paradise Canyon Drive, just a couple hundred yards from the headquarters of the village fire department.

Not far from Stark, a woman huddled on the ground, shielded from the floodwaters by the temporary barrier. It was Stephanie Trotter, a tourist from El Paso, Texas, who had been washed away with her young daughter. A civilian tended to her while a second firefighter hauled in a rope he had used to rescue her. “Is somebody coming for her?” asked the civilian.

By that time, at least eight other firefighters were trying to save people upstream at the Riverview RV Park, where Trotter and Stark had been staying. But at the barrier where Stark was waiting for help, the two firefighters and one police officer were the only first responders. One of the firefighters wasn’t even wearing a personal flotation device — a basic safety measure for flood rescues.

They soon got help from civilians, including a property owner in shorts and flip-flops and a second passerby who both helped one of the firefighters haul Stark from the water with another rope.

Trotter and two civilians told the police officer, Jimmy Hernandez, that her family was missing. Lost in the flood were her 4-year-old daughter, her 7-year-old son and her husband. 

Hearing this, Hernandez radioed, “We need swiftwater rescue here.” But no additional swiftwater teams arrived for at least 25 minutes. Both children died, along with an adult man. Trotter’s husband, Sebastian, survived.

The shortage of firefighters at Paradise Canyon Drive illustrates larger problems with Ruidoso’s emergency response that day. Five rescuers involved in the effort said the village’s leadership had not given them enough training or dispatched enough of them in advance of the flooding to protect the community. Because of the flood’s strength, rescuers said, the best chance to save the Trotters’ children was before the water arrived, when they could have evacuated the area where the family was camping.

But they said the fire chief, Cade Hall, had for weeks resisted calls to station additional flood experts in low-lying areas when there was a threat of storms. Doing so would have required paying firefighters overtime. “The village’s mentality is, ‘We’ll have to pay for that, and what if nothing happens?’” said one rescuer in an interview earlier this year.

ProPublica reported that village leaders knew dangerous floods were likely because two intense 2024 wildfires had scarred the hillsides above town. Even moderate rain on severe burn scars can trigger post-fire floods and debris flows. But leaders seeking to encourage tourism scolded residents who warned of the danger on social media. We also examined what went wrong with the rescue itself, consulting with seven experts outside Ruidoso who have experience in emergency response including floods.

The Village of Ruidoso did not respond to detailed written questions about its emergency response, and it has not publicly released a report on rescue efforts during the flood. Reached by phone, Hall disputed ProPublica’s reporting but declined to provide specifics. Mayor Lynn Crawford has said protecting the village includes balancing public safety with tourism, the lifeblood of its economy.

Read More

“The River Can’t Be Trusted”

The fire department employed nine swiftwater technicians trained to perform rescues in floodwater. But when forecasters issued a flash flood warning due to heavy rain, only a handful were working, along with four New Mexico National Guard technicians in vehicles capable of navigating floods. According to a spokesperson for the Guard, its members helped rescue nine people from the flood.

Two additional swiftwater teams had recently been in Ruidoso. But when the weather forecast for the area showed a slightly decreased chance of flash flooding in late June, the state’s Department of Homeland Security and Emergency Management issued an order to send home the team from Las Cruces. One member of that team, who spoke on the condition of anonymity to protect their employment, said, “We didn’t understand why we were being sent home.” The other swiftwater team, which was from Texas, left after deadly flooding hit Kerr County and surrounding regions in its home state. 

A former incident commander for Cal Fire, California’s fire agency, said that the state shared responsibility for the inadequate emergency response on July 8 because of its decision to send home the Las Cruces team. “This should be a clarion call as to reevaluating their resource availability.”

Asked about the decision, a DHSEM spokesperson said in an email, “New Mexico was experiencing multiple flooding threats,” adding that the team needed to be available to respond elsewhere. According to the spokesperson, there are only about eight swiftwater teams in the state.

But the Las Cruces team was not deployed to another flood. Rather, it went home. “I could understand if we were sent somewhere else,” said the frustrated swiftwater technician.

This left Ruidoso’s firefighters to lead rescue operations in the village. But Hall had for weeks declined requests from off-duty swiftwater technicians who wanted to be stationed in flood-prone areas before the waters hit. One of those areas was close to the Riverview RV Park, where Stark and the Trotter family were staying.

Forty-five minutes before the downpour started, Crawford had stated in a council meeting that whenever the village was alerted to flooding, firefighters and public works employees would be at the ready: “Everybody is in position.” 

Over the coming two hours, these words would prove false. 

At 2:12 p.m. the National Weather Service sent out a flash flood warning. About 20 minutes later, Hall summoned all off-duty swiftwater technicians. At 2:38 p.m., a weather service hydrologist wrote in a message to emergency managers, “Water is Out of the Banks in the Rio Ruidoso at the County Line.” At 2:47 p.m., the warning was upgraded to a flash flood emergency. Still, internal fire department records show that Hall didn’t call in his full department until 3:10 p.m., 45 minutes after Ruidoso dispatchers recorded the first call for rescue related to the flood. It was too late for some: Before any firefighters could access the Riverview RV Park, Stephanie Trotter and her daughter were swept downstream.

Trotter and her husband, Sebastian, said they had no idea the town was in danger and didn’t receive the automated alerts sent by the National Weather Service. (They said they had not known about, or signed up for, text-message alerts created by the village.) During the hour before the flood reached them, first responders with loudspeakers drove through other parts of the community, telling people to seek high ground. But no officials with loudspeakers went to the Riverview RV Park, even though the area was known to flood and even though it sat just down the road from the primary fire station.

The village had another warning tool it did not use that day: sirens. During the 2024 fires, Ruidoso’s emergency manager, Eric Queller, had overseen the evacuation of thousands using the siren system. Since the flood, the village has claimed that using it could have put people in harm’s way by sending them onto roads covered with water.

The village had long planned to install additional sirens, including three that could instruct people to seek high ground during flooding, allowing a more orderly evacuation. But the new sirens were not yet operational by July 8. In an interview last year, Queller said that the disasters the community faced since 2024 had delayed the project.

According to firefighters, the department’s flood response was also limited by an antiquated dispatch system. Fire departments typically use computer-aided dispatch systems. Ruidoso’s department didn’t have one. Firefighters say this shortfall preceded Hall, and that he had been in favor of acquiring a computer-aided dispatch system.

Experts say that without computer-aided dispatch, chiefs often rely on memory or notes. Radio channels can become clogged, adding to confusion. According to Ruidoso firefighters, the effect was acutely felt during chaotic situations.

Following Stark’s rescue, the first responders at Paradise Canyon Drive were overwhelmed, according to two civilians who were present and Hernandez’s body-camera footage. Trotter told Hernandez that her daughter was in the water, and that they had been in an RV. According to the property owner, Corey Sexton, he saw a child float past and alerted first responders. Hernandez told crews downstream to look for a child, but he also radioed that he thought the children were in an upstream trailer. (Hernandez and the police department did not respond to emailed questions. Reached by phone, the department’s deputy chief did not answer questions about the response.)

The two firefighters, listening to their radios, hustled to the upstream bridge, prepared rope and watched the water. Minutes later, a call came on the radio: two children were trapped in a house at the upstream RV park. Swiftwater technicians at the park waded in and saved them.

During the crucial minutes immediately after the Trotters’ children were swept downstream, no one had clear information. According to multiple firefighters, the department briefly thought it had found all the missing children. Experts told ProPublica that such chaos and misinformation is common during disaster response. But the experts also said it can be mitigated by having good dispatch systems and adequate staffing.

Records show that Ruidoso firefighters fielded 34 emergency calls on July 8 once flooding started, and the department has stated it made more than 60 rescues.

Despite the deaths, first responders say the village’s leadership has not learned needed lessons and has continued to prioritize tourism at the expense of public safety. 

By this summer the village had finally installed its voice-activated sirens and reversed its position on the standard ones: The village would now use them during floods.

Hall had planned for all firefighters to be trained as swiftwater technicians. But in February, the firefighters, many of whom worked second jobs to make ends meet, unionized. The department’s plans changed, with Hall sending firefighters to get a lower-level certification that limited their ability to perform rescues in rushing water.

In April, senior Ruidoso Fire Department officers held a meeting during which they discussed Hall’s leadership. ProPublica reviewed a recording of the gathering. An officer said Hall, who did not attend the meeting, still wouldn’t pre-position extra firefighters. “How many people are going to die?” the officer wondered aloud during the meeting.

Hall declined to respond to questions about the meeting and the allegation that he hadn’t pre-positioned enough firefighters to avoid paying overtime. 

Once monsoons arrived this year, multiple rescuers say, Hall rarely stationed off-duty firefighters in vulnerable areas. Sometimes in the afternoons, when it was most likely to rain, multiple firefighters weren’t in town. To promote tourism, Ruidoso had signed a contract with Contour Airlines to provide flights between Denver and the village. During takeoffs and landings emergency medical workers had to be present at the airport, 17 miles from where Trotter and Stark were rescued.

The post Town Leaders Said They Were Prepared for Floods. First Responders Disagree. appeared first on ProPublica.

In late August, President Donald Trump announced what he called the “biggest oil deal in world history.” Since then, the full text of the accord — which grants the U.S. sweeping access to Venezuela’s oil reserves — has been one of the most sought-after secrets in Washington, D.C. 

ProPublica has reviewed a copy of the 18-page strategic partnership agreement signed for the United States by Secretary of State Marco Rubio and Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth. The document reveals carefully constructed terms that favor U.S. interests at every turn and cements the power of a small group of people handpicked by the Trump administration to govern and profit from the deal. The role of the Venezuelan government and the potential benefits to its people are largely absent from the text.

One of the most criticized aspects of Trump’s announcement has been his choice of a partner: Alejandro Betancourt, a globe-trotting Venezuelan oligarch who has faced money-laundering investigations in three countries. 

The Trump administration is taking a 35% stake in Betancourt’s firm, North American Blue Energy Partners, by acquiring shares in a Barbados-registered parent company. The deal document provides little information about the owners and investors behind the parent company, who could receive enormous wealth from the arrangement. 

The agreement also safeguards Betancourt’s position as chief executive of NABEP and says the U.S. government will work with the parent company to appoint a powerful seven-member board to govern the venture for an initial 15-year term. Those aspects of the deal, according to people with knowledge of how it came together, were designed to prevent future U.S. and Venezuelan leaders from dismantling the enterprise. 

Orlando Alvarado, a name not disclosed by the Trump administration as a party to the accord, signed the agreement on behalf of the parent company, alongside Betancourt, Hegseth and Rubio. Alvarado has held senior roles in multiple Betancourt businesses, including as chief financial officer of an energy firm that became embroiled in scandals a decade ago. According to the Miami Herald, federal prosecutors identified Alvarado as an unindicted co-conspirator in a scheme to embezzle money from Venezuela’s national oil company.

NABEP spokesperson Terry Wade said that “neither Mr. Betancourt nor Mr. Alvarado has ever been charged with any crime in any country, and any claims against them are baseless.” 

Key aspects of the plan differ from the Trump administration’s public pronouncements. Trump has said the deal will secure America’s energy dominance for the next century. But the text indicates that U.S. purchasing rights expire in half that time and that the underlying operating rights appear to run afoul of Venezuelan laws limiting oil concessions to 25 years.

The agreement does ensure the United States a deep discount from fair-market value on 20% of NABEP’s oil, as Trump has said. It does not, however, explicitly guarantee that Betancourt’s company is obligated to pay the estimated $200 billion in royalties and tax payments to Venezuela that the White House has said would benefit the country. 

There are also significant caveats related to Trump’s central selling point to Americans — that the deal will bring a gusher of low-cost oil imports. 

The agreement gives the U.S. the right to purchase 20% of NABEP’s oil at a discounted rate of $30 a barrel, or less than a third of what oil has sold for in recent months, according to one of three supporting documents reviewed by ProPublica. 

But this fee does not account for the cost of getting Venezuela’s oil out of the country. Much of Venezuela’s raw crude is so thick that it won’t flow through pipelines unless it is first blended with 20% or more of oil thinner products. Under the deal, the potentially significant cost of importing millions of barrels of those blending materials is not included in the price.

The White House, the State Department, the Pentagon and the energy company NABEP all defended the agreement, saying in statements that their new public-private venture will provide meaningful and lasting economic benefits to both countries that cannot be captured in a legal document. 

“This historic deal marks a major step toward stabilizing Venezuela’s economy after years of hyperinflation and almost no new investment, while more than doubling the United States’ oil reserves,” said White House spokesperson Taylor Rogers.

Wade emphasized that NABEP was chosen because of its track record of expanding oil production in Venezuela in recent years and that the agreement was between the company and the U.S. government, not Venezuela.

“Thanks in large part to the agreement,” Wade said, “there is a surge in confidence about the future of Venezuela’s oil industry and, as a direct result, substantial new investments are flowing into the country.”

He added that much of NABEP’s oil comes from fields that require little or no blending materials and that blending costs would not meaningfully impact the price of production. “Our barrel economics are strong.”

The newly revealed details of the agreement are nonetheless likely to raise more questions about whether the unorthodox marriage of the United States and a foreign energy baron can bring lasting benefits to either country — and which private parties might benefit along the way. Trump’s oil deal is likely to face scrutiny in both the United States and Venezuela, especially if Democrats win one or both chambers in the midterm elections, according to former U.S. diplomats and congressional staff.

“Question number one in a new U.S. Congress will be: Why Betancourt?” said former Ambassador James Story, who served as the top U.S. diplomat in Caracas from 2018 to 2023, in an interview. “Why did he get this deal? And was he involved in criminality? It seems reasonable to have a congressional hearing about those questions.”

In public comments, Delcy Rodríguez, who won the backing of the Trump administration to serve as Venezuela’s interim president, praised the accord as “historic.” She has asserted that Venezuela will retain sovereignty over its natural resources and defended the choice of Betancourt. 

People with knowledge of the Trump administration’s behind-the-scenes decision-making and negotiations with Betancourt spoke to ProPublica on condition of anonymity because they were either not authorized to do so or were fearful of retribution. 

One reason that the precise terms of the deal have remained hidden until now is that the signed agreement is marked as a “sensitive” government document. That classification is commonly used to shield a variety of federal records from public release, including those containing personnel information, details about ongoing law enforcement operations and matters protected by attorney-client privilege. The document also contains a confidentiality clause barring Betancourt’s company from disclosing the “existence and terms” of the U.S. government agreement.

One person familiar with the deliberations said that people close to the Trump administration  seemed keen to partner with Betancourt’s company because of the privacy and flexibility it offered. That appeared to give NABEP an advantage over publicly traded oil companies, which would be obligated to shareholder reporting requirements. 

“For example,” the person said, “Chevron couldn’t give 35% of their shares to the Pentagon.”

The Deal

The oil deal is sensitive partly because of likely resistance in Venezuela, where critics have already described it as a U.S. takeover of the country’s precious natural resources.

A ProPublica analysis shows that its terms favor American interests at nearly every turn and try to enshrine the Trump administration’s imprint indefinitely. 

The document states that a majority of the seven-member board must be U.S. citizens at all times, and the U.S. government can appoint one “non-voting observer” to join the group. Betancourt, who will serve as the chief executive, is the only board member named by the agreement. The initial board will establish the process for choosing new members. 

“Throughout the evolution of the deal, it was clear that the governing structure was intended to ensure maximum control by the people making the deal and to insulate them from future administrations seeking to reverse the agreement or call it into question,” a person familiar with the negotiations said.

There is no requirement for any Venezuelan government participation in the board.

The agreement also offers long-lasting protections for Betancourt and unnamed investors. It requires a supermajority vote of five to oust Betancourt as CEO, change the board composition or execute any transactions with a shareholder that isn’t the U.S. government, an indirect equity holder, director, affiliate or “immediate family members.”

The board will determine compensation for Betancourt in his role as chief executive, the document says. As structured, the deal does not appear to require any public disclosures about pay or distribution of shares to executives.

The agreement does not say which shareholders, affiliates or family members have been approved to transact with Betancourt’s company. Under Barbados corporate law, there is almost nothing that can force those interests to be revealed publicly. 

The agreement does, however, require the company to maintain “anti-money laundering controls,” submit to external audits and inspections of its records by the U.S. government, and provide the U.S. government with an annual budget and quarterly unaudited financial statements. It is unclear if these reports will ever be made public. 

It could be some time before the company produces enough oil to fulfill a significant share of U.S. demand. Betancourt’s company currently produces about 200,000 barrels per day — or about as much over the course of a year as the United States uses in three days. 

NABEP aims to increase its production to 500,000 barrels per day by the end of 2028, according to recent reports.

In addition to securing a discount on 20% of NABEP’s oil, Washington also has “first priority” to purchase all of the company’s remaining oil production for the next 50 years, including an irrevocable right to buy its entire oil supply in the event the U.S. declares a national emergency. 

The U.S. also receives a “most favored nation” status that requires Betancourt’s firm to disclose any other business agreements it signs, and, if they are favorable, to grant Washington matching terms.

One person who reviewed parts of the contract was surprised at the tangible benefits for the U.S. compared with the lack of binding commitments to Venezuela: “I gave you 20% of my production at ‘cost plus,’ fine. I gave you all of my production if there’s a national emergency, OK. … So what do I get in exchange?”

A U.S. official said Rodriguez had granted NABEP 100-year oil concessions to operate there, although this figure is not referenced in the accord and appears to contradict Venezuelan law. 

In the event of a dispute, Venezuela can’t challenge the deal in its own courts. The agreement dictates that any conflict between the company and the United States must be settled under U.S. law, not Venezuela’s. The two sides even spelled out that any civil case or arbitration must be argued before the United States District Court for the Northern District of Texas, where Trump’s Justice Department has turned, time and again, for favorable rulings. 

Where U.S. law does not apply, Texas state law governs, the agreement states. 

A Pentagon office has been tasked with someday executing the financial transaction to capitalize on the U.S. government’s 35% share in the venture. The document shows that the U.S. will pay nothing upfront but plans to acquire its stake in Betancourt’s company by paying $0.01 per warrant share. Those terms are set to expire on the 75th anniversary of the closing date.

In a White House statement last month, Trump touted those shares as potentially worth “hundreds of billions,” plus dividends. But Democrats on the Senate Armed Services Committee said they believe the Pentagon office does not have the legal authority to execute an agreement with a foreign entity operating in a country under U.S. sanctions.

Pentagon press secretary Kingsley Wilson said that the Defense Department conducts “extensive due diligence” before extending capital assistance. Wilson declined to comment on any of the legal considerations or further technical aspects of the deal “to protect the integrity of the process.”

Several other detailed aspects of how the company will operate are currently under negotiation among the Trump administration, Betancourt and the parent company, the partnership documents show. The agreement repeatedly cites a set of “Implementation Documents” that will finalize the U.S. ownership stake and the rights of unnamed investors. 

The full force of the deal will not take effect until both parties have complied with its closing conditions, which the agreement indicates could happen within months.

Last month, Senate Democrats blasted what was known of the oil accord and demanded details in a letter to Rubio, Hegseth and Secretary of Energy Chris Wright.

“It is unclear why the American public should support this attempt to entangle the United States with a relatively unknown foreign oil company that lacks the capacity or credibility to develop oil fields of the magnitude described and whose leadership has faced international criminal investigations,” four ranking senators said in the letter. 

They asserted that most of the “oil fields are nowhere near ready for production” and that it could “take up to a decade before global oil markets are meaningfully impacted and the American people see any tangible benefit.”

A Willing Partner

Almost immediately after U.S. special operations forces seized President Nicolás Maduro in January and airlifted him out of Venezuela, Trump left little doubt that his larger goal was to restore American access to Venezuela’s oil reserves two decades after most U.S. firms had been ejected from the country. 

By early spring, an obscure cast of energy officials, lawyers and lobbyists had started to craft plans to deliver on Trump’s America First energy agenda. One person familiar with the deliberations said that U.S. officials had considered backing an idea for publicly held American oil companies like Chevron, Exxon and Conoco to carve up and rehabilitate Venezuela’s aging oil sector. Another potential route went through Betancourt’s company, which is the second largest private oil firm operating in Venezuela. Working with the Venezuelan state company, Petróleos de Venezuela, SA, was never really an option due to its underlying debt and history of corruption, the person said.

The option of turning to large multinational oil companies quickly stalled. In some cases, oil executives balked at jumping back into the complexity of the Venezuelan market; in others, firms struggled to get more than “lip service” meetings in Washington and Caracas, according to media reports and people familiar with the deal. 

“NABEP was given priority,” one person said. “Exxon, Conoco and the others were treated as second class.” 

Betancourt’s star was rising in the Trump administration. He had served as an interlocutor for Washington with the Maduro government and had ties to some leaders of the Venezuelan opposition, according to current and former U.S. officials. He had also provided information that helped the U.S. forces seize Venezuelan oil tankers and that aided strategy and planning before the capture of Maduro, Reuters reported. 

In addition, Betancourt had developed a good relationship with Rodríguez, whom Trump had backed as the country’s interim president. And Betancourt had done so despite the fact that her influential brother, National Assembly President Jorge Rodríguez, had accused him of corruption in a televised speech in 2020, according to former U.S. officials and press reports.

U.S. officials also saw practical reasons to partner with Betancourt, several people said. He and his then-business partner in the U.S., Harry Sargeant, a Trump supporter, appeared to be a rare success story in a battered industry, operating some of the only active oil fields in the country.

“The main thing I found promising is that the fields are producing in Venezuela,” said a former State Department official who analyzed the company’s activities. “I think it’s particularly important that you buy into fields that are producing. … If your policy goal is to raise production quickly, this makes sense.”  

But partnering with Betancourt posed major challenges. 

For starters, the 46-year-old billionaire was confined to house arrest on his 300-acre Oxfordshire estate in England, fighting off a Swiss extradition request tied to an international money-laundering probe. Betancourt could fly to his $46 million London residence by private helicopter — but his Venezuelan and Italian passports were locked down, and British authorities had barred him from driving on public roads, according to media reports about the special bail arrangement.

Betancourt’s legal problems stemmed from his role in troubled Venezuelan energy projects during the corrupt rule of former President Hugo Chávez. Several of Betancourt’s known or alleged associates were charged or convicted in a major U.S. money-laundering investigation known as Operation Money Flight. Betancourt surfaced as a suspect in the U.S. case and is still under investigation for suspected money laundering by authorities in Spain, according to former U.S. and European officials and press reports. 

The most popular leader of the Venezuelan opposition in exile, María Corina Machado, recently described Betancourt as having been involved in “obscene corruption” that caused great suffering for the Venezuelan people, according to a recent New York Times interview. 

Betancourt has not been charged in any country. His lawyer has maintained his client’s innocence, saying Betancourt has been unfairly maligned because people associate him with a group of wealthy young Venezuelans, some of whom have been accused of wrongdoing, according to press reports.

Many Venezuelans see Betancourt as a “totemic, emblematic, corrupt figure,” said Brian Naranjo, a former senior U.S. diplomat in Venezuela, in an interview.

“He is not really an oil man,” Naranjo said. “The talent he brings is that he’s a new person in a long line of Venezuelan businesspeople who deal in influence. Their big lever is connections and influence. It is know-who, not know-how.”

In a recent interview with Spanish language media, Rubio defended Betancourt, praising his oil company’s work in Venezuela and his support for factions of the Venezuelan opposition in exile.

Rubio downplayed the legal scrutiny Betancourt has faced, saying a review conducted with U.S. law enforcement agencies indicated “there were no investigations of him in our system.”

It remains unclear exactly how Betancourt shed the travel restrictions imposed by European authorities. But The Washington Post reported that senior Trump administration officials, including Deputy Secretary of State Christopher Landau, former Attorney General Pam Bondi and then-Deputy Attorney General Todd Blanche, petitioned their foreign counterparts to allow Betancourt to travel freely and to close their investigations into him and his business ventures. 

The Trump administration’s next hurdle to working with Betancourt was figuring out how to legally invest. The government’s $200 billion investment agency, the International Development Finance Corporation, was created to do just that but is currently barred by U.S. law from operating in Venezuela.

At different points through the summer, aides to Office of Management and Budget Director Russell Vought stepped in, pressing Defense and State department officials to consider alternate financing paths, according to one person familiar with the deal’s progression.

By July, the Pentagon’s Office of Strategic Capital, headed by David Lorch, emerged as a potential solution.

Lorch, who had moved to the Pentagon from Deputy Defense Secretary Steve Feinberg’s private equity firm, Cerberus Capital, quickly embraced the idea, according to people familiar with the deal. Lorch and other Pentagon and State Department officials flew to Caracas in the final days of that month and agreed in principle to a deal. The details would be hammered out back in Washington, the people said.

A Pentagon spokesperson said Lorch declined to comment.

On Aug. 5, Betancourt strode into a conference room behind the art deco facade of the old Greyhound Bus Terminal in downtown Washington that houses an auxiliary Pentagon office. The assembled Defense Department officials gave the Venezuelan billionaire the red carpet treatment, lining up to shake his hand, according to people familiar with the meeting. But some in the room were stunned to discover that the U.S. government was preparing to do business with Betancourt, the people familiar with the meeting said. 

Betancourt was accompanied by Jacob Hirshman, the chief executive and co-founder of Erebor Bank, the first new bank chartered after Trump returned to office, according to people familiar with the meeting. The bank, backed by Trump supporters and investors Peter Thiel and Palmer Luckey, has vowed to reconnect Venezuela to the world economy.

Hirshman did not respond to a request for comment.

Lorch told the group, which included dozens of former Wall Street associates he’d hired into the office, that the alliance with Betancourt was a major “opportunity” to fulfill one of the Trump administration’s top goals, securing benefits to the United States and Venezuela for decades to come. 

The meeting touched off a month of around-the-clock calls and video conferences.

People familiar with the deal’s progression said Lorch soon became involved in structuring key aspects of the deal beyond its financing, including how the board would sit for 15 years and choose its successors. One said he put an explicit premium on setting up the venture in a way that it could not be undone by Trump’s successor.

The months of work on the deal burst into public view on Aug. 28 with a Trump announcement on Truth Social.

“The United States of America has just entered into an Agreement with the Country of Venezuela on, THE BIGGEST OIL DEAL IN WORLD HISTORY!” Trump posted on a Friday night.

Two days later, Hegseth, Rubio, Betancourt and Alvarado signed the deal.

The post The Secret Terms of Trump’s Venezuelan Oil Deal appeared first on ProPublica.

On March 3, 2020, Sen. Lindsey Graham walked into a private dining room at Charlie Palmer Steak in Washington, D.C. Graham’s time was expensive. He was meeting with two executives and a lobbyist from a Hawaiian naval defense contractor called Navatek. And he had required them to commit to $40,000 in campaign contributions for a 45-minute meeting.

Navatek’s CEO, Martin Kao, was confident that was all the time he needed.

“Shoot all he has to really do is stop by and say ‘yes,’” Kao wrote to a Navatek lobbyist and a fellow executive the day before, in an email seen by ProPublica. “That should only take a minute and he’s on his way. We don’t need to pretend we give a shit about each other.”

At the dinner, Graham ate little and talked a lot. But Kao got the “yes” he was hoping for: Graham agreed to steer a $10 million government contract Navatek’s way in his native South Carolina, Kao later recounted to the FBI. In exchange, he said, Graham asked Kao to pledge a total of $100,000 to his reelection campaign.

In early 2025, the FBI opened a sweeping investigation into bribery on Capitol Hill with Graham’s steakhouse dinner at the center. Kao confessed to federal agents that his business model consisted of bribing public officials in exchange for government contracts, and that the research Navatek was providing to the government was often worthless.

The scheme involved some of the most powerful figures in Congress, he said — in both parties. In South Carolina, Kao told agents, Navatek made a campaign cash-for-contracts deal not only with Graham, but also with the state’s top Democrat, Rep. James Clyburn, and another influential Republican, Rep. Joe Wilson.

Kao told agents that Graham in particular left little room for ambiguity: “This is how much I want, and how much I am going to give you,” Kao remembered Graham saying, according to notes one agent took during their debrief in late 2024.

Kao’s admissions would constitute a vast criminal bribery scheme if they could be proved in court — a challenge, given recent Supreme Court rulings that have made it more difficult to win corruption cases. Kao himself posed another hurdle. He was facing prison for fraud and campaign finance violations and was speaking to the FBI in the hopes of reducing his sentence.

But the FBI agents who took Kao’s confession — two experienced anti-corruption investigators — could see that much of it lined up with a trove of records they had seized from Navatek. They forged ahead. The FBI took the formal step of naming two former Navatek executives who had worked with Kao as subjects of a bribery investigation. The agency did not designate Graham, Clyburn and Wilson that way, but the agents were actively investigating their interactions with Kao. The agents indicated to their superiors that the lawmakers could become subjects in the future, according to records viewed by ProPublica.

The details of this investigation have not previously been reported.

President Donald Trump returned to the White House and almost immediately gutted the specialized FBI and Department of Justice teams dedicated to taking on public corruption — an act of revenge for having previously investigated him. The two experienced agents on the case were swept up in the purge, and the career prosecutor assisting them quit after Trump appointees forbade the DOJ’s anti-corruption section from filing any new cases. Today, there is no one left to look into Kao’s explosive allegations, as the Trump administration has abandoned any pretense of prosecuting public corruption. The case is dead.

ProPublica has unearthed the investigation by reviewing thousands of pages of legal documents, internal company emails, evidence the FBI used to vet Kao’s claims and dozens of interviews with people who saw how Navatek operated, including an eyewitness to Graham and Kao’s secret steakhouse dinner.

This story is part of a series based on our reporting. Last month, ProPublica reported that the FBI had probed the conduct of Maine Sen. Susan Collins, who steered millions in government funding toward Navatek while Kao gave her illegal campaign donations. Collins denied wrongdoing and dismissed Kao as a “convicted liar.”

Kao is indeed the only person involved to serve prison time. He pleaded guilty to making illegal campaign donations and a loan fraud scheme in 2022. In 2025, he was sentenced to 87 months in prison.

Graham died at 71 earlier this year. His sister, Darline Graham, who was appointed to fill his seat, retained most of his senior staff, including those who dealt with Navatek. She even took up some of his committee assignments, including appropriations. Darline Graham is running for a full term in office this November.

Clyburn, 86, is one of the most powerful Democrats in Washington. He is widely credited with tipping the scales for Joe Biden during the 2020 Democratic presidential primary. Wilson remains influential on national defense spending from his senior perch on the Armed Services Committee.

“Whatever a donor may think or say, a donation would never cause Congressman Clyburn to increase his support for the donor’s request,” Jami LaRue, Clyburn’s communications director, wrote in response to detailed questions. “The Congressman has always striven to assist the University of South Carolina and all of the colleges and universities in his district when called upon to further their important missions. The crimes and lies of an imprisoned fraudster will not cause the Congressman to waver in his support for these fine institutions.”

David Snider, Wilson’s communications director, did not address a detailed list of questions sent by ProPublica. “Congressman Wilson does and has always abided by campaign donation regulations set forth by the Federal Election Commission,” Snider said in an email.

In an emailed statement, Taylor Reidy, who was Lindsey Graham’s communications director and now holds the same post for his sister, wrote that “any allegations of quid-pro-quo behavior or wrongdoing by the late Senator Lindsey Graham or his staff are simply false.” She said the accusations were the “ravings of a convicted felon” and that her office was never contacted by the FBI about the matter. After Kao’s arrest, they disgorged his donations, she added.

The two executives who were subjects of the FBI investigation, Duke Hartman and Joshua Knight, were never charged. Hartman, the other executive at the dinner meeting with Graham, is now the CEO of a new naval research company called Integer Technologies that he co-founded with Knight after Kao’s arrest. Integer was recently recognized as one of the fastest-growing government contractors in the country. It also became the ultimate beneficiary of the Graham dinner meeting, picking up the contract Graham allegedly agreed to facilitate that night.

Hartman and Knight did not respond to detailed requests for comment.

“[It’s] corruption at its best,” Kao wrote to ProPublica from federal detention in South Dakota, before cutting off contact. “But I am the only one rotting in prison.”

Small Company, Big Ambitions

Kao’s dinner with Graham was part of his grandiose plan to make Navatek a major defense contractor.

He had become the CEO at an uncertain moment in the company’s history. Founded in Hawaii in the 1970s, the company originally thrived on a close relationship with the state’s powerful senior senator, Daniel Inouye. When Kao assumed ownership in 2019, it had been several years since Inouye had died, and Navatek was in need of a new patron in Washington.

At times, Kao hardly seemed the person to pull this off. He had started out as the company’s CFO and was openly uninterested in its technology. He told bombastic lies about his personal life. Former employees said he regaled them with tales of selling newspapers for members of the Bloods and Crips street gangs as a youth. In a deposition, Kao later admitted that wasn’t true.

But what he lacked in engineering chops he made up with ambition. Once, Kao held a company town hall using a map of the U.S. dotted with future Navatek offices as his backdrop, a former employee recalled. “He would talk about how we’re a $10 million company, and in the next three years, we’re going to be a billion-dollar company,” said a former engineer. “He was an absolute megalomaniac.”

Kao hatched a plan to expand Navatek’s presence across the country, making new friends in Congress along the way. He courted politicians using something he called “the method,” as ProPublica detailed in September.

Navatek would open an office in the state or district of a powerful member of Congress and partner with a local university to concoct a proposal for federally funded research. Then, aided by a well-connected lobbyist and the sheen of credibility from its association with the university, Navatek would approach the member for federal research funding.

Kao told the FBI he would strike deals in small, face-to-face meetings with the members or their trusted staff. Navatek — through executives, family members and lobbyists — would make generous campaign donations. In exchange, the member would add detailed language to the defense budget to fund the company’s work.

That legislative language would not name the company. But it would describe specific work that Navatek was already planning to do behind the scenes, making it the only logical choice for the eventual government contract. The lawmakers’ staff would also backchannel with the Navy after the bill was passed to make sure contracting offices knew to direct the money to Navatek, emails seen by ProPublica show — even though the contracts were in theory competitive.

Kao “wanted to build a company as big as he could as fast as he could,” a former executive later testified in court. For a while, he succeeded. Under Kao, Navatek went from having to “rebuild,” as the executive put it, to winning $40.7 million in new government contracts in 2020.

Hartman, the other Navatek executive who went to dinner with Graham, was in charge of maintaining friendly ties in Congress while tracking the millions of dollars the company had requested in research funds. He kept careful tabs on the company’s progress using dozens of color-coded spreadsheets. “If anyone knows the impropriety of the business model, it’s him,” Kao told the FBI, referring to Hartman.

Later, these spreadsheets provided the FBI a detailed picture of which congressional offices worked closest with Navatek. In the tables devoted to South Carolina, Navatek denoted Graham as a “key supporter.”

The company primarily targeted lawmakers from smaller states who sat on appropriations committees, like Collins, Kao explained to the FBI, because they wielded huge power over the budget while having fewer “constituents to ‘feed.’”

The senior senator from South Carolina was another prime target. “You can get access to Lindsey Graham,” Eric Schiff, a former Navatek executive, said in an interview.

Kao, Hartman and other Navatek executives approached the offices of Graham, Clyburn and Wilson — all powerful members of the South Carolina delegation — in the beginning of 2019. The company had recruited the University of South Carolina for a joint research project, and together they asked the lawmakers to find $9.5 million to fund the work. If it succeeded, Navatek planned to ask Congress to re-up the funding for two more years as well as green-light two more projects, internal company records show, for a total of up to $90 million in South Carolina alone.

Yet Navatek had “zero people” capable of doing the research it was pitching, said a former executive with direct knowledge of the work.

Its $9.5 million “power and energy” proposal promised cutting-edge research on how to distribute the limited power on board a ship between multiple energy-intense systems, like radars, lasers and rail guns. Graham’s office later boasted that the work would lead to new technology that would “ensure that our fleet is ready for the fights of the future.”

In reality, Navatek’s initial research “looked like a college senior’s graduation project,” the executive said. “Something you go get from RadioShack.” Graham’s office referred questions about the quality of the work to the Navy and the university. The Office of Naval Research, which awarded the contract, did not respond to questions.

But for Congress, that lack of expertise wasn’t a problem. Throughout 2019, the FBI noted, as the ensuing year’s budget came together, both Graham’s and Clyburn’s offices took steps to make sure it included Navatek’s funding.

In May 2019, Willie Lyles III, Clyburn’s legislative director, alerted Navatek that the House Appropriations Committee would endorse new funding for a “modular and scalable integrated power and thermal system capable of powering a directed energy weapon system of 100 or more kilowatts,” according to an email flagged by the FBI. Three days later, that exact language appeared in the House Appropriations Committee report. Lyles did not reply to a request for comment.

In September, the Senate Appropriations Committee — Graham’s committee — released a budget report that set aside $9.5 million in funding for “Talent and Technology for Navy Power and Energy Systems.” Agents noted that Navatek may have ghostwritten the technical description that accompanied this line item because “an almost identical paragraph” appeared in Hartman’s internal spreadsheets two months before the Senate report became public.

After the Senate advanced its version of the budget in the fall, Navatek dropped $4,799 to send bourbon to a handful of lawmakers, including Graham and Collins, the FBI found in company records — a likely violation of Senate gift rules. Both Collins’ and Graham’s offices denied receiving bourbon. Navatek later sent Clyburn a fruit basket from Edible Arrangements for $102.60.

Congress passed the final spending bill containing $9.5 million for Navatek’s pet project on Dec. 19, 2019.

At that point, Kao and other Navatek executives had not made any donations to Clyburn, Wilson or even Graham.

That would change within days of Congress passing the budget, when an executive pledged $750 to Wilson’s campaign at a fundraiser held at Bullfeathers, a Capitol Hill watering hole for lobbyists and Hill staffers, emails show. In the following weeks, Kao and his lobbyist gave Wilson’s campaign $3,500.

And bigger checks were imminent. Kao kicked off 2020 by making plans to spend $300,000 at a slew of political fundraisers, according to text messages filed in court and a recent deposition. Navatek’s lobbyists at that time were seeking private meetings with Graham, Wilson and Clyburn, where Kao planned to ask for significantly more federal funding. Kao eventually met with all three, and each asked for $100,000, he told the FBI.

During that same period, Kao and Hartman met a top fundraiser for Collins at a Corner Bakery in Washington, D.C. As ProPublica reported, that meeting led Kao to donate $150,000 to the pro-Collins super PAC. Kao told the FBI that the money was a bribe in exchange for the senator’s support for more Navatek funding. The head of the super PAC and Collins have denied Kao’s version of events.

Kao told the FBI it was not unusual for donations to come after the favor: “We became clever in our own right and figured out how to dangle the carrot,” he wrote in a memo seen by ProPublica, “until we saw some assurance that the Ask was in the budget.”

To secure a meeting with Graham, Kao hired Michael Tongour, a veteran South Carolina lobbyist who was old law school friends with the senator and family friends with Clyburn and Wilson. Graham was up for reelection against a well-funded challenger, Jaime Harrison, and had a crowded fundraising schedule, said Tongour, but they eventually found a time.

“The Graham fundraiser says that it [sic] you want to reserve a date for Senator Graham to attend a private dinner, the campaign wants to get $40,000 in contributions,” Tongour wrote to Kao, Hartman and lobbyist Andy Winer, in an undated email seen by ProPublica. Winer, whom Kao described as Navatek’s chief lobbyist, chimed in to say that Graham could stay only 45 minutes, and Kao replied that all they needed to hear was “yes.”

“These discussions are very frank and oddly not at all awkward,” Kao told the FBI. “I suppose once we got that far, everyone knows the deal.”

A Dinner With Graham

Graham showed up late to his March 3, 2020, dinner with Kao, Hartman and Tongour. A fundraiser working for Graham appeared first and accepted an envelope from Kao containing checks made out to Graham’s campaign, Kao said. Kao did not know the fundraiser’s name; in an FBI debrief, he simply referred to the person as the “money man.” After that person departed, Graham entered.

Graham, Kao recalled to the FBI, was “very abrupt” and “straight to the point”: He asked how much Navatek wanted, to which they said $10 million a year for three years. Graham asked Kao to pledge $100,000 in donations in exchange for his support, Kao told the FBI.

Navatek was juggling multiple proposals in South Carolina worth around $10 million, and it’s not clear which one Kao was describing.

Congress had just approved the $9.5 million for the power and energy project, but Navatek still needed the Navy to award the money in the form of a contract. The company was also about to ask Congress to fund the same project for a second year at $10.5 million. On top of that, Navatek was planning to pitch a new research proposal, at $10 million, to study the transport of supplies inland from ships using autonomous vehicles. It was another area where Navatek had “zero past performance,” the former executive said.

The same week of the steakhouse dinner, Graham’s office was working behind the scenes with Navatek and the University of South Carolina to make sure the Navy sent the first $9.5 million to the right company.

A day before the dinner, an official with the Office of Naval Research emailed Graham’s office to ask about the money, which “the Senator may have an interest in.” Craig Abele, Graham’s national security adviser, called her a few days later to confirm that Graham’s office had intended the money to be awarded to the Navatek partnership, emails show. “Spoke to ONR this morning,” Abele wrote March 6. “Should be set.”

The company received the contract, which it split with the university, in July 2020. 

Abele became Graham’s deputy chief of staff and still holds the position for Darline. He did not reply to an email requesting comment. A Graham spokesperson confirmed to ProPublica that their office had indeed added the $9.5 million to the budget at the request of the university and Navatek. The spokesperson said the research was supported by the Navy and rejected the notion that Graham was motivated by campaign cash.

Graham’s spokesperson said requiring a fundraising minimum for a dinner was normal practice.

The checks Kao handed over at the dinner added up to about half of the $40,000 he had agreed to raise for the dinner, according to Tongour. The rest came in May, campaign records show.

“My understanding at the time was that the contributions associated with the event were lawful political contributions,” Winer said. “I never advised Kao to make a political contribution in exchange for official action. I never participated in, witnessed or had knowledge of any illegal political contribution.”

After Kao’s 2020 indictment, the University of South Carolina broke off the partnership. “University officials were not aware of any political contributions from Navatek,” Jeff Stensland, a university spokesperson, wrote in an email. “Our sole objective in partnering with them was to expand our research enterprise.”

One week after the dinner, on March 10, a University of South Carolina lobbyist sent written requests to Graham’s office for $20.5 million in appropriations: $10.5 million to continue Navatek’s power and energy research and $10 million for its new autonomous vehicle research.

Tongour confirmed many elements of Kao’s story. In a recent interview with ProPublica and subsequent emails, he remembered Kao giving the envelope full of checks to Graham’s fundraiser and even agreed that Graham kept the meeting short. “I don’t recall that he stayed more than 30 minutes,” Tongour said in an email. “Certainly not for appetizers, entrée, and dessert.”

But he denied Kao’s most significant claim: that Graham and Navatek struck an explicit, potentially illegal deal for contracts.

“I would remember that forever,” Tongour said. Graham supported Navatek’s requests, he said, because they were good for the state. “If I had seen that kind of quid pro quo, I would have quit earlier.” Tongour fired Navatek as a client later that year, immediately after Kao’s arrest.

Navatek considered Graham its chief patron in South Carolina, internal records show, just as it viewed Collins in Maine. But the company also wanted support in the House.

For that, Navatek turned to Clyburn, a member of Democratic party leadership and one of the most powerful figures in Congress. Agents found Navatek emails setting a meeting with Clyburn for early March. The goal, Kao said, was to make sure that the House draft of the budget “mirrored” whatever Graham inserted in the Senate version.

Over a meal, Clyburn asked Kao how much he was donating to Graham and then asked for the same amount, $100,000, Kao told the FBI.

The FBI tallied $20,000 in contributions that Kao and his family members made to Clyburn a few days after their scheduled meeting. A month later, Hartman arranged for a $10,000 gift to Clyburn’s alma mater, South Carolina State University, according to an email seen by ProPublica. Hartman noted it was “Congressman Clyburn’s favorite school.”

The spokesperson for Clyburn confirmed the dinner occurred but did not respond to questions about what was discussed.

Kao and Hartman struck a similar bargain with Wilson, Kao told the FBI, at a private lunch he secured by donating to his campaign. The FBI pulled records of $3,500 in donations Kao and Tongour made in late 2019 and early 2020.

Wilson has an influential role on the House Armed Services Committee, which authorizes defense spending. Wilson was “very clear and knew what the ask was,” Kao told the FBI. He wanted however much Clyburn was getting in campaign contributions in exchange for his support, Kao said.

Tongour denied this. “There was no ‘pay to play’ with Joe Wilson or his staff either,” he wrote in an email, adding that he donated because Wilson “is a friend and I want to see him re-elected.”

Kao claimed to the FBI that he paid for meals with all three politicians, but campaign finance records appear to show the lawmakers’ campaigns picked up the check.

By August 2020, Hartman had gotten word that Graham’s and Wilson’s committees would each support part of the company’s requests, internal company records show. Clyburn was not on key committees while he was a party leader. In one of his myriad spreadsheets, Hartman projected that the final budget could include up to $15.5 million of the $20.5 million the company had lobbied for.

Kao told agents he was gearing up to make more significant donations to Graham, Clyburn and Wilson by the end of the year. Instead, on Sept. 30, 2020, he was arrested.

Kao reflected on his time at Navatek in a deposition taken last month inside a federal prison. The company’s founder has sued Kao, saying his stewardship defrauded Navatek of millions.

“It’s nothing more than government contracting done through placating senior appropriation members for contracts,” Kao said. “The whole thing is a grand lie.”

An Arrest, a Lifeboat

Kao’s arrest plunged Navatek into disarray. Federal prosecutors charged him with defrauding a federal loan program; not long after, he was also charged with making illegal donations to the Collins campaign and super PAC. Lobbyists, universities and congressional offices abruptly cut off contact. “Don’t call us,” one congressional office told an executive, he later testified.

The Collins campaign said it disgorged Kao’s contribution. Yet the senator, facing a tight reelection bid, has had to field questions following the ProPublica report about her support for Navatek and why the super PAC supporting her accepted the $150,000 donation from the shell company in the first place.

As Navatek sank, Hartman began building himself a lifeboat. In 2021, he and Knight started a new military research company headquartered in South Carolina called Integer Technologies. Integer’s first project was one that Navatek had brokered with Graham.

Hartman didn’t face any criminal charges at the time and left Navatek largely unscathed. He would later settle a civil lawsuit brought by his former employer, which contended he played a role in Kao’s campaign finance and loan fraud schemes, for $425,000. He admitted no wrongdoing.

In September 2024, FBI agents flew to Hawaii for what would be their final interview with Kao. They pressed him for details about what happened in South Carolina, quizzing him on his dinner with Graham and a second in-person meeting he said he had with Clyburn. Agents wanted Kao to help them find more records that would back up his account and asked him to point them toward lobbyists in D.C. who he said facilitated the pay-for-play scheme.

As the year came to a close, FBI agent Michelle Ball felt she had enough material to move forward. The FBI had “uncovered a lengthy history” of a government contractor making donations “in exchange for government contracts,” she wrote in a Dec. 9, 2024, memo viewed by ProPublica.

In federal corruption probes, agents often begin by focusing on lower-level targets with a goal of working their way up to more prominent figures. Ball named Hartman; his business partner, Knight; and their company, Integer, as the formal subjects of the probe, as they prepared to potentially issue subpoenas and gather more evidence. They had Graham, Clyburn and Wilson in their sights. Ball devoted entire sections of the memo to detailing the lawmakers’ conduct. And she flagged the case as a sensitive matter that might implicate politicians in the future.

In the summer of 2024, Kate Fifield, a prosecutor in the Justice Department’s anti-corruption section, had been assigned to join the case. Fifield was wrapping up a high-profile prosecution of a retired Navy admiral who traded a government contract for a future job. Turning her attention to Kao, she and the FBI agents weighed their options. They considered getting high-level approval to deploy undercover agents. Proving an exchange of cash for favors often requires the kind of inconvertible evidence that undercover recordings can provide.

But before the investigation took flight, the new Trump administration began to demolish the Justice Department. The president’s handpicked leaders ordered prosecutors to drop a corruption case against New York Mayor Eric Adams, triggering a wave of resignations in the Public Integrity Section where Fifield worked, and revoked the section’s authority to bring new cases.

Then Trump’s FBI director, Kash Patel, began to purge the anti-corruption unit in the Washington D.C., field office, where many agents had investigated Trump.

Ball was fired in October 2025. Kevin Gounaud, another agent who had been working with her on the investigation, was pushed out in early 2026. Through their lawyer, the agents declined to comment.

The corruption investigation, just launched, suddenly went dark.

Read More

The FBI Anti-Corruption Squad Was Circling Susan Collins — Until Trump Got in the Way

The White House referred ProPublica’s questions to the FBI and DOJ. 

The Department of Justice didn’t respond to detailed questions about the investigation. 

“Under President Trump, the Justice Department is rooting out the weaponization, corruption, and institutional rot that ran rampant under Joe Biden’s two-tiered system of justice,” DOJ spokesperson Audrey Cook said.

Kao’s claims are “half baked” and “misleading,” FBI spokesperson Ben Williamson said. “Additionally, as we have said repeatedly, personnel are only removed at this FBI if they have been found to have acted unethically, undermined the mission, or engaged in weaponization of law enforcement.”

Meanwhile, Integer has rapidly expanded. Last year, it reported $81 million in contracts and announced that number would climb to $375 million by 2030. The company inked partnership deals with universities in New Hampshire, Louisiana and Mississippi. The University of South Carolina called its partnership with the firm a “model for public-private success.”

The company continues to forge ties with powerful politicians. In late 2024, Hartman posted a photo of himself with Speaker of the House Mike Johnson on his LinkedIn. “It was great to visit with the Speaker of the House today,” he wrote. “It’s good to know there are people in positions of power who seem to really care for the people they serve.” Johnson’s office did not reply to an email requesting comment. 

The occasion was a new research partnership in Louisiana. Hartman thanked his lobbyist for making it happen.

The post How Trump’s FBI Purge Saved Lindsey Graham and James Clyburn From a Bribery Investigation appeared first on ProPublica.

What Happened: A New Mexico Democrat in the House introduced a bill last week that would make it easier for U.S. citizens to sue immigration agents and the federal government over wrongful detentions and arrests.

Rep. Teresa Leger Fernández credited ProPublica’s reporting as the catalyst for the bill, the Justice for Citizens Wrongfully Detained by ICE Act. Earlier this month, we revealed that more than 500 U.S. citizens have been detained in warrantless arrests during the second Trump administration.

Leger Fernández said the legislation would roll back the protections from lawsuits that agents and the federal government currently have. It would also establish a minimum level of compensation for people who win their suits, and extend the statute of limitations for such cases.

The legislation would also take back any unspent Immigration and Customs Enforcement funding from President Donald Trump’s so-called One Big Beautiful Bill Act.

Leger Fernández’s bill was introduced with co-sponsor Rep. Bonnie Watson Coleman, a New Jersey Democrat.

Why It Matters: It can be difficult to sue federal officers for wrongful arrests or excessive force, or for local prosecutors to bring charges. Federal agents can claim immunity in response to civil lawsuits or to state charges and can move their cases to federal court.

People who accuse immigration agents of wrongdoing can currently only sue in a narrow set of circumstances, and previous Democratic bills aiming to change that have not passed.

Some local prosecutors have announced investigations into the wrongful arrests of U.S. citizens or prosecuted federal agents accused of wrongdoing during immigration enforcement actions.

What They Said: In an interview with ProPublica, Leger Fernández emphasized that accountability could not only address past wrongs, it may also help head them off in the future. “We know that when there are consequences, bad actors start behaving better because they don’t want to face those consequences,” she said.

Without legislation, Leger Fernández said, agents “will continue to violate the law, to violate their own policy, and to violate the Constitution without any consequences.”

Asked about the legislation, the Department of Homeland Security, ICE’s parent agency, repeated claims that it is not arresting U.S. citizens and defended its immigration operations as “highly targeted.”

Background: The federal government denies that there is any pattern of immigration agents detaining U.S. citizens, but according to ProPublica’s count, more than 100 citizens were held after agents questioned their citizenship. At least 70 children and teens were also detained.

Last year, congressional Democrats announced a wide-ranging investigation into immigration agents’ detention of U.S. citizens after our earlier investigation found that more than 170 citizens were detained by immigration agents.

Read the Investigation

More Than 500 U.S. Citizens Have Been Detained, Including Handcuffed or Held at Gunpoint, in Trump’s Immigration Crackdown

The post Citing ProPublica, Lawmakers Introduce Bill to Help U.S. Citizens Sue ICE for Wrongful Detentions appeared first on ProPublica.

On a cold February morning at West Virginia’s Capitol, children in winter jackets, holding signs and their homework, clogged the hallways outside the House Finance Committee room. Delegate Vernon Criss, the committee’s chairperson, popped outside his office, then promptly walked back in. 

Five days earlier, the Republican lawmaker had proposed to limit payouts from a voucher program that diverts public tax dollars to private education. Since then, families had shown up each morning, and with them lobbyists and organizers posting inflammatory assertions that the proposal would kill the program.

Criss didn’t want that. Five years earlier, he voted to create the Hope Scholarship program, the nation’s first educational savings account program to have no income requirements. Since then, 11 other states have passed similar legislation. 

In the first year of the Hope program in West Virginia, it cost the state $9 million. Now, as 2026 was beginning, it was set to expand, with estimates that it could cost $200 million or more a year. And Criss was concerned that unchecked growth of the program, coupled with a spree of tax cuts, could put the state budget into a tailspin. The state and its lawmakers needed “to face the music,” as Criss would later say.

On that February day in Charleston, a staffer unlocked the committee door. Parents and media filed in, taking seats along the narrow benches lining the committee room’s walls. Kids lay on the floor. A delegate asked if the Hope Scholarship bill would be discussed. When Criss said no, the parents and their kids stood up and filed out. 

Within the next few days, lawmakers would stop the effort to curtail spending on vouchers. And Criss would soon be fighting for his political life.

The money and organizing behind the demise of the bill, as well as the targeting of Criss, can be traced to “school choice” advocates at the local and national levels and their ability to spend huge sums to have their way.

When Republicans assumed control of the West Virginia Legislature in 2015, school choice — their preferred terminology for voucher-style programs — became a rallying point for an array of political nonprofits. Through lobbying and supporting sympathetic lawmakers, they helped establish the Hope Scholarship six years later. 

The first year, a little more than 2,300 students enrolled in the program, which was designed to permit more students over time. Today, 26,000 students are taking part, more than the enrollment in the state’s largest public school district.

West Virginia has been part of a nationwide push, partially funded by billionaire-backed political groups, to use taxpayer dollars to fund private schools.

Among the proponents of these programs are the influential Koch family network and Pennsylvania billionaire Jeffrey Yass, who has spent more than $350 million since 2015 on political campaigns, including a push for public funding for private education.

In West Virginia, Arkansas and Texas, proponents have been eager to challenge anyone who got in the way, including fellow Republicans who voiced concerns. Basic guardrails or efforts to cap spending have been met with intense resistance.

During the 2026 West Virginia primary, three political action committees spent heavily on independent advertisements, targeting 10 incumbent Republicans. They succeeded in ousting four, all of whom had disagreements with the governor; most expressed reservations about the Hope Scholarship.

Their biggest victory was unseating Criss, the long-serving incumbent and high-ranking Republican.

One of the three PACs working to defeat Criss is affiliated with the Koch family. Yass has contributed to the two others: School Freedom Fund and the Sugar Maple PAC. David McIntosh, president of School Freedom Fund and the affiliated Club for Growth, was jubilant afterward.

“These elections are a warning to Republican leaders like Vernon Criss — if you oppose school freedom, expect to be held accountable,” he wrote in a press announcement at the time.

Criss had been unopposed in his 2024 primary. In 2026, the three PACs spent more than $145,000 to help a 23-year-old defeat him.

Criss’ proposal to put financial limits on the Hope Scholarship program came as West Virginia public schools arrived at a dangerous crossroads. The program directs dollars away from public schools, adding to funding shortfalls created by enrollment drops.

Since 2019, 70 public schools have closed throughout the state, with the system losing more than 30,000 students. By the end of this school year, up to 20 more schools could close. 

During the same legislative session this year, when lawmakers passed emergency legislation to help one school district stay open, there was little drama — no crowds in the hallways or the galleries. 

The Rise of Hope 

In 2021, as West Virginia lawmakers worked on the bill that would create the Hope Scholarship, they got some help from the outside: a lobbyist and political operative named Jason Huffman. 

Huffman has been the director of Americans for Prosperity-West Virginia since the mid-2010s. The group is part of the larger Americans for Prosperity, which was set up by the billionaire industrialist David Koch and supported by his brother Charles, longtime donors to conservative causes. Americans for Prosperity advocates for low taxes, school choice and loosened environmental regulations throughout the country. 

In shaping the West Virginia legislation, Huffman said, one goal was to create a school voucher program that other states could model. While other states had already passed voucher-style programs, they hadn’t made them open to all residents regardless of income.

Among those advocating in West Virginia were members of Cardinal Institute, a homegrown conservative think tank. Founded in 2015, the group made public funding for private schooling one of its first policy planks. Over the last decade, Cardinal has received significant donations from organizations that also have received funding from Koch entities and Yass. 

To support the Hope legislation, Cardinal’s leaders distributed research, published columns in newspapers and linked up with other groups, like Americans for Prosperity and the Institute for Justice, which litigates libertarian causes, to push the issue. They also found allies in parents who wanted the financial flexibility to send their children to private schools or teach them at home or in small clusters of like-minded families. 

Katie Switzer, a mother of six, became one of Cardinal’s most reliable advocates. She had started looking into schooling options after her second child was diagnosed with a learning disability. 

“I just felt like this doesn’t feel good to send my nonverbal child to a school that you know isn’t really collaborative, and I don’t know what’s going on when she’s there because she can’t tell me when she gets home,” she said. The experience made her a proponent of alternatives to public school.

Her story appeared in some of Cardinal’s promotional copy for the bill. She sat in on a video call presentation featuring state Sen. Patrcia Rucker, a Hope Scholarship proponent. She took to Facebook to tout the program. 

And she stepped up when the Hope Scholarship was challenged in court by other parents who argued the program would undermine funding for public schools. 

Hope’s opponents in the case gained support from the state Board of Education, which argued the program siphoned money away from public schools. On the other side was the West Virginia attorney general, Patrick Morrisey, defending the law and the state.

The Institute for Justice was looking to get involved, but it needed to find somebody with standing in the case. Switzer and another parent signed up, giving the firm the ability to file motions and argue in court. The Institute for Justice has received $8.5 million from charities controlled by Yass over nearly a decade. 

The case went to the West Virginia Supreme Court, where the justices ruled 4-1 in favor of the program. 

The ruling meant the Hope program had survived. It was good timing for Morrisey. He was about to make a run for governor. When Morrisey waded into a tough four-way primary battle, the Club for Growth Action, a super PAC Yass has donated heavily to over the years, was ready to help.

“Our goal in all of this is to elect people who will be champions for school freedom, lower taxes, less regulation, so businesses can thrive,” McIntosh, the group’s president, said in an interview. 

The Club for Growth Action pumped $10.8 million into that race. Morrisey won the plurality in the Republican primary and went on to trounce his Democratic opponent in the general election. 

On a cold morning in January 2025, Morrisey stood bundled up in a black wool coat on the stairs of Capitol, its gold dome towering above him. He took the oath of office and gave his address. 

“We will expand the Hope Scholarship, putting more control in the hands of parents to choose the best educational path for their children,” he said.

Runaway Train

Hours before Morrisey gave his State of the State address earlier this year, the House Education Committee called a meeting to hear about a report from the Rand Corporation, a nonpartisan think tank. 

Rand called on the state to fix what was becoming abundantly clear: Education in West Virginia wasn’t just in transition; it was in crisis. 

Initially the Hope Scholarship was limited to students attending public school or children who would enter kindergarten. Participation grew over time. And as the 2026-27 school year began, the program opened to any student in West Virginia, including those who had spent their entire academic careers in private school or in homeschooling.

That translated into tens of millions of additional state dollars to private schools and homeschooling. Estimates for the 2026-27 school year ranged from $230 million to more than $300 million in the months leading up to the legislative session. The program costs for the year are still being tallied but are currently projected at an unprecedented $150 million. 

The Rand report suggested placing an income cap on the Hope Scholarship and increasing funding for public schools. 

While the Education Committee would work on public school funding, Criss’ Finance Committee would tackle the ballooning costs of the Hope Scholarship. He was not interested in Rand’s solutions but found his own. By capping the scholarship amount and limiting certain expenses, Criss was hoping he could help prolong the program for families well into the future. But families would soon be rallying against him.

In the time since the Hope Scholarship had withstood the court challenge, Switzer’s reach had only grown. On Facebook, she administered a group that offers practical advice to hundreds of parents, or “Hope Schoolers” as she called them, on questions like what items counted as qualifying expenses and how to properly file for the program. 

Before Criss’ plan rolled out, Switzer said she received word from a member of the Finance Committee — though she did not disclose who — that the Hope Scholarship would be discussed.

Writing a lengthy Facebook post, she warned that the move would severely damage the program. “The bill takes away 19,000 children’s access to online education, tutoring, private schools across state borders, and many other beneficial academic programs,” she wrote. 

Huffman, the Americans for Prosperity state director, took to radio and social media to decry what he described as an existential threat to the program. Parents with kids in tow echoed those fears.

Criss’ proposal would’ve capped the award amount for the Hope Scholarship at a little more than $5,000 a year. He said his intent was to prolong the program for the long run, not kill it.

Read More

We’re Reporters, Not Teachers. We Were Able to Start Private Schools Anyway.

Huffman countered that by capping the award amount, inflation would eventually erode families’ abilities to use the program for private education or homeschooling. 

Looking back, Criss said he anticipated some pushback, because the Hope Scholarship is a “giveaway program.” He blamed political forces for riling people up. 

At a caucus meeting with the Republican supermajority — which holds 91 of the 100 seats in the lower chamber — Criss said he couldn’t muster the votes. A bill to fix public schools that came out of the Education Committee died entirely.

Election season was right around the corner, and Americans for Prosperity-West Virginia and other groups hadn’t forgotten the Hope Scholarship battle. Criss had failed what Huffman called “a litmus test” in trying to restrict public money for parents looking for an alternative to public school.

Meanwhile, McIntosh, the president for Club for Growth, said he received word from his allies in the Morrisey administration. Morrisey was concerned about lawmakers who had opposed him on budget issues and school choice. The governor was looking to replace those he saw as not aligned.

While the legislative backlash had been about one issue, the campaign against Morrisey’s foes went well beyond education issues. 

Ads depicted Criss as a liberal who wanted to open borders for illegal immigration. That was based on a no vote Criss had cast against a piece of legislation that would’ve mandated employers run a citizenship check on every employee. 

Fliers mailed by the School Freedom Fund, a PAC affiliated with Club for Growth, depicted candidates as supporters of drag queens. Americans for Prosperity-West Virginia sent volunteers door to door to rally for their candidates, including in Criss’ district. 

The newly created Sugar Maple PAC — headed by a former state delegate and Morrisey ally — ran ads accusing opponents of being Republicans in Name Only. 

One mailer, depicting Criss driving a garbage truck, accused him of taking “West Virginia’s values to the dump.” On the back, it reiterated his vote against the citizenship check for employees and his vote against West Virginia’s abortion ban. 

“Vernon Criss’ liberal trash,” the flier read, with an image of black trash bags.

“I think that the fact that they called me a liberal, it just stuck out,” Criss said. “You know, as the chairman of finance, I know that it’s a targeted job, obviously, that’s part of the deal. Those types of things happen, that’s just part of the politics involved here.” 

The School Freedom Fund poured nearly $1 million into statehouse races across West Virginia to both retain Morrissey’s supporters and oust detractors, like Criss. Americans for Prosperity did the same, again targeting Criss, and spending around $700,000 across the state. 

A spokesperson for Morrisey said in an email that the governor is a supporter of both public schools and the Hope Scholarship and “is also grateful that organizations that share his worldview of helping West Virginia children having the best educational opportunities in the country weigh in.”

Sugar Maple PAC and Yass did not respond to requests for comment. Yass contributed $450,000 to Sugar Maple in the lead-up to the 2026 primary. Among the three PACs, Sugar Maple spent the most on the Criss race: $86,000 to attack Criss and $15,000 to back his opponent, Charles Hartzog, a 23-year-old gas station cashier. 

Criss didn’t just lose the primary; Hartzog beat him with 61% of the vote. Criss is now running a long-shot campaign as a write-in for his district in the general election.

The post He Tried to Set Limits on His State’s School Vouchers. Billionaires Helped Bankroll a Campaign to Unseat Him. appeared first on ProPublica.

Early in his tenure as Texas attorney general, Ken Paxton issued a statement commemorating what he believed was a national tragedy.

“It’s impossible to fill the void of more than 50 million missing human beings,” he said in 2016. He was marking the 43rd anniversary of Roe v. Wade, the Supreme Court ruling that protected abortion rights — and had long stood in the way of efforts to ban terminations in early pregnancy, when most abortions occur.

Paxton spent the years that followed testing Roe’s limits and ultimately prevailed where others had failed: In 2021, he defended a near-total abortion ban that Texas legislators had designed to evade conventional legal challenges. The U.S. Supreme Court allowed it to take effect while Roe remained in force.

After the justices overturned Roe the following year, Paxton kept pushing, pursuing new ways to extend the reach of Texas’ restrictions. He prevailed against the Biden administration, picked fights with states that protect abortion access and pioneered strategies that his peers later adopted or expanded.

While Paxton’s tenure as attorney general has drawn criticism from across the political spectrum for his personal scandals and alleged misuse of the office, detractors and allies alike agree that his signal achievement as the state’s top legal official has been advancing restrictions on abortion.

A close look at his record shows a clear pattern in his successes: He relentlessly tests the limits of the law and employs novel legal strategies to advance his goals.

Paxton’s national role as an anti-abortion warrior would change if he wins his U.S. Senate race. As Texas attorney general, he has been able to act largely on his own authority. If he prevails in November, he would become one of 100 senators in a chamber where most legislation needs 60 votes to overcome a filibuster.

But allies who have witnessed his victories see an opening.

“He’ll have the ability to use some of the laws that he’s defended in Texas as influence to draft legislation in the U.S. Senate,” said Mary Elizabeth Castle, director of government relations at Texas Values, a Christian advocacy group that supports a national abortion ban.

Legal experts and advocates on both sides expect he could join colleagues who are pressuring the Food and Drug Administration to revoke its approval of the abortion drug mifepristone.

Anti-abortion activists at the state and federal level are also trying to secure legal rights for fetuses, which could have implications for reproductive care like birth control and in vitro fertilization. Paxton, who has called himself a strong supporter of IVF, recently said he was open to restrictions intended to prevent the loss of fertilized eggs.

His litigation has also raised questions that experts expect the Supreme Court to confront, including whether a federal law, which mandates hospitals provide stabilizing care to patients having an emergency, overrides state abortion bans; whether to treat a fetus as a separate patient that has its own emergency care rights; and how far states can go in pursuing out-of-state doctors who prescribe abortion medication to patients in states where it’s banned.

During the current race, abortion has played a far smaller role than questions about Paxton’s ethics. His Democratic opponent, James Talarico, has said that he supports restoring a federal right to abortion and that his Christian faith calls for an end to “extreme” laws that Paxton has defended and that have forced women to flee the state for emergency abortion care.

Lately, Paxton has said little about abortion — an issue on which he has defended restrictions more stringent than many Texans say they want.

But those who have watched Paxton extend the reach of Texas law beyond its borders are paying close attention to his Senate bid.

Dr. Jennifer Villavicencio, an abortion provider, said she has felt compelled to move her family twice to states with strong laws shielding doctors from out-of-state litigation, partly out of concern that Paxton is creating a blueprint for targeting providers like her.

“It’s very disheartening and scary to think that it’s maybe coming to the U.S. Senate,” she said.

Paxton successfully defended a near-total abortion ban before Roe v. Wade was struck down.

When Paxton became Texas attorney general in 2015, there was no ambiguity about where he stood on abortion.

Raised by an anti-abortion activist, he married his sweetheart from a Christian college, who spoke proudly about the fact that she was adopted, saying her birth mother “chose life.” She campaigned for Paxton, but he had his own bona fides. A law he’d co-sponsored as a state senator banned almost all abortions after 20 weeks.

Similar 20-week bans had taken root across the country as decades of court rulings chipped away at Roe, but no state had managed to enforce a ban as early as six weeks. More than a dozen tried, passing laws that prohibited abortion when cardiac activity could be detected. One after another, they were blocked by judges.

Then, in 2021, a Texas lawyer named Jonathan Mitchell worked with legislators to craft a law that would withstand similar challenges. Instead of having state officials enforce their “heartbeat law,” the new act, referred to as Senate Bill 8, allowed citizens to sue physicians they suspected were providing abortions. The law offered up to $10,000 if they won.

When abortion providers and President Joe Biden’s administration separately challenged the law in federal court, Paxton’s office argued that state officials couldn’t be ordered to stop enforcing it because they had no power to do so in the first place. Only private citizens could.

“Because the executive officials are expressly prohibited from enforcing SB 8,” his office wrote to the Supreme Court, “there is nothing for a federal court to enjoin.”

The Supreme Court agreed that Paxton couldn’t be sued because “the petitioners have not identified any enforcement authority the attorney general possesses in connection with S. B. 8 that a federal court might enjoin him from exercising.”

The law remained in effect, becoming the first enforceable six-week ban under Roe.

Legislators in Idaho and Oklahoma subsequently passed similar laws.

For Dr. Sam Dickman, who worked at a San Antonio Planned Parenthood, the implications were clear: “I was going to need to either entirely change the type of medicine I was providing or leave the state,” he said. He opted for the latter, moving to Montana, where abortion is legal until viability, or roughly 24 weeks.

Days after the Texas ban took effect, Josseli Barnica arrived at a Houston hospital in the midst of a miscarriage. She was 17 weeks pregnant and her fetus’s head was pressed up against her dilated cervix. Because the situation put her at high risk of developing an infection, medical experts said doctors should have offered to speed up delivery or empty her uterus; the fetus was not viable, and losing the pregnancy was inevitable.

But the fetus’s heart was still beating.

Barnica relayed to her husband what she said her medical providers had told her: “They had to wait until there was no heartbeat,” he told ProPublica in Spanish. “It would be a crime to give her an abortion.”

For 40 hours, Barnica waited, her uterus exposed to bacteria.

She died days later of sepsis. Medical experts told ProPublica her doctors did not follow the proper standard of care and that Barnica’s death was preventable.

In a statement, HCA Healthcare, the hospital chain that treated her, said “our responsibility is to be in compliance with applicable state and federal laws and regulations” and said that physicians exercise their independent judgment.

Paxton blocked federal guidance for emergency abortion care, with consequences far beyond Texas.

When the Supreme Court overturned the constitutional right to abortion on June 24, 2022, Paxton dismissed his staff at noon to celebrate. He would later designate the date as a paid office holiday, Sanctity of Life Day.

The Texas Legislature had prepared for the occasion, passing a law that went into effect shortly after the overturning of Roe. The ban threatened doctors with up to 99 years in prison if they performed an abortion. But soon came what Paxton framed as a federal attempt to thwart the state law.

The Biden administration issued a memo to doctors in states with abortion bans saying that a federal emergency care law protected their medical judgment, “regardless of the restrictions in the state.”

The federal Health and Human Services secretary at the time said doctors had an obligation to follow the Emergency Medical Treatment and Active Labor Act, better known as EMTALA. The law requires hospitals that accept federal funding to screen and stabilize every patient who arrives.

For those with complications such as severe preeclampsia, a potentially fatal, pregnancy-related blood pressure disorder, stabilizing a patient might require performing an abortion, even if the state forbids it, the guidance said. “The physician must provide that treatment,” it said, bolding the word “must.”

Paxton sued, accusing the administration of an attempt to use federal law “to transform every emergency room in the country into a walk-in abortion clinic.”

He argued EMTALA was created to make sure hospitals didn’t dump uninsured patients back on the street without treatment, not to override state laws. He took the argument a step further, suggesting that under EMTALA, doctors might need to consider “the life of the unborn child.”

The argument was novel, six legal experts told ProPublica.

“He’s basically suing the federal government to protect Texas’ right to force pregnant women to not get abortions, even when their health is threatened,” said Greer Donley, a law professor at the University of Pittsburgh. “I remember thinking, ‘Wow, that’s radical.’”

Medical groups warned patients would die.

But a federal judge sided with Paxton that August, and the 5th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals affirmed the decision in January 2024.

The ruling did more than keep the administration from enforcing its EMTALA interpretation in Texas.

It barred the federal government from pursuing cases against members of two anti-abortion medical organizations that had joined Paxton’s suit as plaintiffs, the American Association of Pro-Life Obstetricians and Gynecologists and the Christian Medical & Dental Associations. This effectively exempted them from having to follow the federal guidance, regardless of where they worked.

It also served as immediate litigation fodder for another state fighting to enforce its own abortion ban.

Idaho had not had the same success in court as Texas. After the Biden administration sued, arguing the state’s ban conflicted with EMTALA, Idaho lost in lower and appellate courts, leaving its ban effectively frozen in emergency cases, with doctors instructed to follow the federal guidance.

But Paxton’s 5th Circuit win on Jan. 2, 2024, gave Idaho’s ban a lifeline. The ruling conflicted with the 9th Circuit’s decision in Idaho, creating the kind of disagreement between federal appeals courts that the Supreme Court often steps in to resolve.

The following day, attorneys representing Idaho asked the high court to do just that, saying Paxton’s success showed they were “likely to prevail.” In the meantime, they asked the court to unfreeze the ban.

On Jan. 5, the Supreme Court allowed Idaho to fully enforce its ban while the case proceeded.

Emergency doctors began hesitating over when they could legally provide abortions, Dr. Jim Souza, chief physician at St. Luke’s Health System, said on a press call at the time, according to NPR. “Is she septic enough for me to do this abortion and not risk going to jail and losing my license?”

In the three months that followed, St. Luke’s, the state’s largest hospital system, said it had to airlift six patients out of the state for abortions.

In Texas, ProPublica has documented the consequences for women experiencing pregnancy emergencies.

When Tierra Walker sought care later that year in San Antonio, she developed preeclampsia and ultimately died from it, ProPublica previously reported. None of the 90 physicians involved in her care offered her the option of terminating her pregnancy, even after she asked if doing so might keep her safe.

Her family sued Paxton in September, along with state medical officials and several healthcare providers, alleging that Texas’ abortion restrictions and the care Walker received led to her death. Paxton has not responded to the suit and did not respond to a request seeking comment.

ProPublica has identified at least two other pregnant Texas women who died without what experts said was appropriate emergency care. Paxton has not publicly commented on any of their deaths and did not respond to ProPublica’s questions about them. Our analysis also found worsening outcomes across the state for patients experiencing pregnancy complications.

The reach of Paxton’s legal victory may not end there.

The Supreme Court still hasn’t resolved the conflict between the circuit rulings. It declined to do so in the Idaho case, and after President Donald Trump took office, his administration dropped the suit and rescinded the EMTALA guidance.

But legal experts told ProPublica the Supreme Court has yet to resolve core questions that Paxton’s litigation raised: whether EMTALA preempts state abortion laws and whether a fetus also has a right to emergency treatment that could conflict with the mother’s interests in cases where her health is at risk.

To guard against future rulings, a reproductive rights advocacy group called All* Above All is pushing state-level legislation to safeguard emergency care. “We’re seeing the chaos right now and the confusion,” said its president, Nourbese Flint.

Paxton tested expansive new ways to pursue abortion providers. Other states are following his lead.

On Dec. 7, 2023, a state judge in Austin issued a ruling that Paxton immediately moved to stop.

A 31-year-old mother named Kate Cox wanted permission to get an abortion. She was 20 weeks pregnant and carrying a fetus diagnosed with trisomy 18, a genetic condition that kills the vast majority of babies born with it.

Texas doesn’t allow abortions for fatal fetal anomalies, but Cox’s doctor argued that if she was forced to give birth, it could imperil her ability to get pregnant again. It was also medically risky: Cox had already had two children by cesarean section, and the chances of complications increase with each procedure.

The day a Travis County district court judge granted her request, Paxton took a step legal experts told ProPublica they had not seen another state attorney general take:

He sent letters to three hospitals where Cox’s doctor had admitting privileges, threatening legal action if the doctor performed the abortion a judge said she could have. The court order, he wrote, did not insulate hospitals, doctors or anyone else from civil and criminal liability for violating Texas’ abortion laws.

At the same time, he appealed the case to the Texas Supreme Court, saying that Cox did not face the kind of threat to her life that fell under the law’s exception. If legislators had wanted to write an exception for fatal fetal anomalies, he said, they would have done so.

“The Texas Legislature did not intend for courts to become revolving doors of permission slips to obtain abortions,” he said.

The Texas Supreme Court agreed with Paxton and reversed the lower court’s ruling. By that time, Cox had sought an abortion out of state.

“It was incredibly scary,” Cox told ProPublica. “We saw in my case that Texas will go after doctors.”

Paxton was also the first — and, so far, the only — attorney general to criminally prosecute a provider in his state for violating an abortion ban.

According to court documents, investigators got an anonymous tip alleging that abortions were being performed at a medical clinic that catered to low-income, Spanish-speaking patients, managed by Maria Rojas, a licensed midwife.

Rojas was arrested and charged with practicing medicine without a license and violating the state’s abortion ban. Paxton also moved to temporarily shut down the clinic and others she ran while the case progressed through court. Months after her arrest, Paxton announced he had arrested and indicted eight other clinic staffers for practicing medicine without a license.

Rojas has pleaded not guilty to the charges. Her attorneys have accused Paxton’s office of a shoddy investigation and argued that at least one case prosecutors were treating as an abortion was actually the management of a patient’s miscarriage.

A trial has not yet been scheduled, but an appeals court this summer overturned the order shuttering the clinics, finding the state had not presented sufficient admissible evidence to justify a temporary injunction. Paxton said he is appealing the ruling. The court did not rule on whether Rojas had actually performed illegal abortions.

Paxton has not stopped at the state border in his pursuit of doctors.

In December 2024, he sued Dr. Margaret Carpenter, a New York-based physician, accusing her of violating multiple Texas laws when she treated a patient via telehealth who lived in Plano, a suburb north of Dallas, and prescribed her abortion medication.

Because the patient was based in Texas, he argued, Carpenter was subject to laws there that banned abortion and required a license to practice in the state.

Carpenter didn’t respond to the suit, so Paxton won by default. But Texas was unable to collect on more than $100,000 in civil fines and court fees that resulted; a New York county clerk refused to register the judgment, invoking a “shield law” that protects providers of abortion care that is legal in New York from certain out-of-state investigations, prosecutions and judgments. At least 22 states have passed shield laws since Roe was overturned, and New York’s is among the strongest. Carpenter did not respond to a request seeking comment and has not publicly responded to the case.

A New York judge dismissed Paxton’s case seeking to enforce the judgment, but Paxton didn’t give up, filing two more civil suits this year against practitioners and organizations in Delaware and California that mail abortion medication to Texas. 

Three other state attorneys general have now expanded on the strategy. Last month, Louisiana Attorney General Liz Murrill — who brought criminal charges against Carpenter after Paxton sued her (and has faced similar obstacles in New York) — joined the attorneys general of Arkansas and Alabama in filing a sweeping federal civil suit against out-of-state providers of abortion pills. The case names some of the same providers Paxton pursued; they have challenged the suits. The three attorneys general filed a separate action directly with the Supreme Court asking it to strike down shield laws in New York, Massachusetts and California. 

Paxton has moved beyond doctors to target other entities that help patients obtain abortions. Mary Ziegler, an abortion historian and professor of law at University of California, Davis, called him “an innovator in terms of broadening the network of people who were seen as culprits or aiders or abettors.”

He sent cease-and-desist letters to organizations that ship abortion medication into Texas; the attorney general of Alabama subsequently used similar tactics. And Paxton sued cities in his state to stop them from disbursing funds to help women travel for abortions — a move the Legislature followed with a law banning such funding.

Following his legal victory against the city of San Antonio early this year, in which it was forced to end the $100,000 program, Paxton made a vow:

“I will always do everything in my power to prevent radicals from manipulating the system to murder innocent babies.”

The post Ken Paxton’s Anti-Abortion Influence Already Extended Beyond Texas. He Could Take It Further in the Senate. appeared first on ProPublica.

A few months into President Donald Trump’s second term, political appointees at the Department of Homeland Security made an unusual request of its agency focused on cybersecurity: Secretly acquire a voting machine and hack it.

The appointees wanted the Cybersecurity and Infrastructure Security Agency to procure the machine, examine it and report back the findings so they could be given to the White House, according to two former administration officials with knowledge of the request. 

The proposition was shocking to CISA’s career staffers, according to one of the former officials. CISA typically worked to thwart hackers. Moreover, the agency had been directed not to alert the voting machine company if it uncovered flaws, contrary to its standard practices. The request made the CISA employees fear they were being asked to take part in political interference.

“My thought was they could keep it in their back pocket to invalidate any [election] results they don’t like,” one of the former officials said. “This goes against everything CISA represents.”

The CISA employees repeatedly told the political appointees that their request was impossible, in part because the agents capable of pulling off such an operation had just been laid off by Elon Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency initiative. The appointees eventually stopped pressing CISA.

Though not acted on, the request shows how the Trump administration has tried to use the agency for its own ends while draining it of resources for one of its critical missions: protecting the nation’s voting systems. 

In Trump’s second term, his administration has laid off or pushed out more than 1,000 CISA employees, shrinking the agency by about one-third. The president’s 2027 budget proposal would reduce funding for the agency by another $700 million, which could necessitate 900 additional layoffs. 

In response, Democratic lawmakers have called for an investigation into CISA’s ability to do its job and demanded answers as to why federal funds are not being used to support election security as directed by Congress.

Since Trump signed the CISA Act in 2018, the agency has worked with state authorities and voting machine vendors to help protect election infrastructure from cyberattacks. During Trump’s second term, though, CISA has abandoned much of this work. Several state election authorities said the agency provided them no assistance — and no explanation for its absence — during the most critical planning stages for the upcoming midterms.

“There is a difference between deprioritizing and being nonexistent,” said Ryan Macias, an election technology and cybersecurity expert who has worked as a consultant for CISA. In 2025 and through mid-September 2026 — when the bulk of preparations for the election typically would have been completed — “they were nonexistent. Literally nonexistent.”

While Trump has repeatedly warned that America’s elections are vulnerable to hacking, in some cases repeating disproven claims, experts said his administration is undermining the federal government’s role in helping secure them.

Though CISA re-emerged in September with a last-minute security plan for the election, some state officials told ProPublica they fear that what is left of the agency has been compromised by a conspiracy-obsessed presidential administration. In recent months, in reviving debunked theories about the 2020 election, the Trump administration has declassified troves of records, including sensitive material that state officials provided to CISA. Some state authorities said they no longer trusted the administration enough to share information with CISA, a key to the agency’s success in past elections.

“They’ve violated the entire premise of that information-sharing relationship,” said one former high-ranking federal cybersecurity official who now advises state governments on national security. “There’s no fucking way they’re ever going to give any information to CISA. And it’s unclear if they ever will in the future.” 

A spokesperson for the White House declined an interview request but defended Trump’s handling of election security in an emailed statement. “President Trump has done more than any other President to ensure we have free and fair elections,” said Lauren Bis. 

Bis referred specific questions about CISA’s handling of elections to DHS. DHS and CISA did not respond to interview requests or to a detailed list of questions.

Current and former CISA employees and state election officials describe an agency that has become significantly less equipped to help states fight legitimate cyber threats. State leaders say they have used their own resources to shore up gaps left by CISA, such as paying for sensor technology that can detect unusual activity in election networks. But some services, like intel on foreign actors, can’t be replicated. Some people interviewed said they were worried that Trump and his allies continue to ratchet up rhetoric about voting security, particularly about threats to voting machines. Officials in one large voting jurisdiction said they have met privately with machine vendors to come up with a contingency plan if the federal government seizes their machines or declares them unusable.

“I don’t pay attention to what the president says. I pay attention to what his administration does,” Arizona Secretary of State Adrian Fontes said. “And what they’ve done is basically cut us off and left us on our own.”

Defending elections from hackers wasn’t always part of DHS’s remit.

Throughout the mid-1990s and 2000s, a series of cyberattacks rocked the federal government, demonstrating the emerging threat. In 2007, hackers broke into the Pentagon and stole terabytes of sensitive data. The digital heist, by an unknown foreign adversary, was so damaging that one intelligence leader later described it as an “espionage Pearl Harbor.”

Under George W. Bush, DHS underwent a reorganization to more effectively combat terrorism and respond to disasters like Hurricane Katrina. The department dedicated resources under an office called the National Protection and Programs Directorate to help fortify advanced cyber defense systems and important infrastructure. The office’s work ranged from helping secure events like the Super Bowl to protecting chemical plants to issuing cybersecurity warnings to the private sector and the public. In 2018, Trump signed a bill making the office a stand-alone agency, allowing for more federal funding and transforming it into, essentially, the ultimate tech support desk for anything DHS designated “critical infrastructure.” The bill renamed the agency CISA.

Though Trump helped create CISA, he didn’t much appreciate the work the agency did under its old name to expose the extent of Russia’s meddling in the 2016 presidential election. Russian agents had unleashed a massive disinformation campaign, with a Kremlin-backed troll farm creating thousands of social media accounts posing as Americans and promoting Trump, according to bipartisan reports from the U.S. Senate Select Committee on Intelligence released before the 2020 election. A dozen Russian military agents were indicted for what the Justice Department described as “a sustained effort to hack into the computer networks of the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee, the Democratic National Committee, and the presidential campaign of Hillary Clinton.”

Trump publicly downplayed this interference, but DHS leadership saw the Russia attack as an escalation. In January 2017, before Trump took office, DHS upgraded America’s elections to the status of critical infrastructure. This placed the polls and all voting technology used in federal elections under the watch of what would soon become CISA. 

To carry out this function, CISA needed help. But states and voting machine vendors were wary about sharing data on weaknesses in voting systems, fearing it could be exploited if certain details were to become public. State officials were also reluctant to cede any role in election preparation to the federal government.

Gradually, though, CISA and state election officials negotiated a fragile trust. At its center was a commitment: The sensitive information states and vendors shared with CISA would be kept confidential.

“It took years and years of building trust, of talking to election officials, of hiring people with elections experience who could be validators for the work that CISA wanted to do, before they finally built strong working relationships,” said Derek Tisler, who specializes in election security as counsel for the nonprofit Brennan Center for Justice, a nonpartisan institute based out of New York University School of Law.

Under Director Chris Krebs, CISA hosted penetration testing in which its agents would try to hack into a state’s system to locate weaknesses that could then be patched, along with tabletop exercises simulating a series of potential catastrophes around elections. CISA also offered regular secret-level briefings to secretaries of state to share federal intelligence. And CISA paid for sensor technology that looked for potential malicious online activity on election networks, notifying officials about emerging threats.

“The staffing was there, the expertise was there, the visibility was there, the funding was there,” Macias said.

The consortium shared data as run of the mill as spambots as well as more serious threats. If Virginia caught unusual activity in its system, it could let other states know to be vigilant. 

While CISA had prepared for attacks from the Chinese and Russian governments, or lone wolf hackers, few there had expected the threat to elections would come from inside the White House. But when Trump refused to concede to Joe Biden in 2020, claiming the vote had been rigged, CISA became a key component of the guardrails that ultimately led to the election results being certified.

The agency, in a statement co-signed by secretaries of state and voting machine vendors, vouched for the election’s integrity, calling it “the most secure in American history.” When Krebs publicly rebutted claims amplified by the White House as “unsubstantiated” or “technically incoherent,” Trump fired him over Twitter.

As Congress prepared to vote on certifying the election results, it was members of CISA, along with the FBI, who convinced then-Attorney General Bill Barr that the conspiracy theories embraced by the president could be explained by human error, not systemic fraud or hacking.

When Trump returned to the White House in January 2025, his administration immediately started to dismantle CISA. The administrative notices were sent out just a couple of weeks after the inauguration and included the team in charge of dispelling disinformation.

For the employees under the DOGE microscope, work became impossible, said one former senior CISA employee. “Those groups couldn’t even order a pizza.” 

DOGE laid off people critical to the agency’s election work, including those who’d worked closely with states. The Trump administration cut funding for the technology that monitored web and election servers, blinding the federal government to breaches it had detected.

When it came time for states to prepare for the 2026 midterms, CISA had disappeared.

On the evening of July 16, in the Black Hills of South Dakota, dozens of election officials and their staffs gathered for a reception near Mount Rushmore. It was the third night of an annual conference for secretaries of state, drawing participants from red and blue states. They’d spent the week discussing state voter roll maintenance and voter ID — issues that at times made for disagreements. 

At about 8 p.m., a wave of discomfort swept through the crowd, visible on attendees’ faces as they glanced frequently at their phones, according to people at the event. Any minute now, Trump was going to address the nation on election security. Some at the reception worried he would declare a national emergency, as his allies had urged him to do months earlier, and use it as a pretext to direct the government to seize voting machines.

Then reports on the speech began rolling in, and the mood shifted. The claims Trump was making were unsubstantiated and outlandish. Many had been examined ad nauseam, including by those at the reception, and roundly debunked. The collective anxiety that was palpable moments earlier melted away, as many saw the speech as another attempt to revive disproved theories unlikely to be taken seriously by most voters. 

“Everyone just sort of guffawed and put their phones away and went to the bar,” recalled Quinn Raymond, co-founder of VoteShield, a nonprofit that works with states to help monitor voter registration data, who was at the event. 

Still, if the speech made little impact, records published by the Trump administration to support the president’s claims damaged the already eroding relationship between CISA and state election officials. The material included raw information states had shared with the agency that was supposed to remain private, such as a log of communications from Election Day 2020 detailing activity being monitored in several states. 

“It betrayed the trust of all partners who were willing to share information at the time,” said Geoff Hale, who worked on CISA’s elections team from the agency’s inception until last year. Now he specializes in election security at the Center for Democracy & Technology, a nonprofit that advocates for digital and civil rights. 

Bis, the White House spokesperson, denied that the Trump administration broke any agreements in releasing the information. “The release of such information is exactly the sort of transparency news organizations should applaud,” she said. Bis also defended Trump’s speech, saying it had been fact-checked “by the agencies whose evidence was released and did not mischaracterize any information.”

Hale and others said the speech was one of several instances demonstrating the Trump administration’s reckless attitude toward sensitive data collected by CISA. Earlier this year, Politico reported that acting CISA Director Madhu Gottumukkala had uploaded records to ChatGPT, even though DHS had barred its employees from using the unsecure program. A CISA spokesperson told Politico that Gottumukkala had been permitted to use the technology for a “short-term and limited” basis.

Last May, an independent journalist named Brian Krebs exposed that CISA published private data, including passwords, cloud keys and other information, on its public GitHub page, in a folder labeled “Private-CISA.” A CISA spokesperson told the journalist there was no indication that sensitive data was compromised. 

Some state election authorities were also alarmed to see the lengths to which the Trump administration went to legitimize the president’s fixation on the 2020 race. 

In fall 2025, Missouri election officials produced a memo stating Andrew McCoy Warner, a Department of Justice official and prominent 2020 election conspiracy theorist, had called several clerks asking for access to voting machines. Tulsi Gabbard, then the director of national intelligence, had also led an operation in Puerto Rico to seize election machines. When the private cybersecurity contractor hired to examine the machines, Mojave Research Inc., failed to find evidence supporting claims about 2020, the federal government became “dissastified” with its services and stopped renewing its contract, its CEO later told reporters.

A spokesperson for the Office of the Director of National Intelligence told reporters in August that Mojave’s work ceased because it had completed its contract. Testifying before Congress in March, Gabbard said the seizing of voting machines came at the request of an assistant U.S. attorney in Puerto Rico.

“What happened in the second Trump administration is from almost day one — I mean, literally the first two months — they took all that was built up by Trump 1 and just decimated it,” said David Becker, founder of the nonpartisan Center for Election Innovation and Research, a nonprofit that works with state election authorities. “Election officials lost trust in the federal government.”

It didn’t help that, in his speech, the president mocked CISA’s defense of the 2020 election, calling the statement about it being the most secure in history a “very pat line” concocted as part of a deep-state cover-up. One former career CISA employee described being crestfallen at the Trump administration’s erosion of all they’d accomplished.

“We worked so hard to build that trusted relationship,” said Caitlin Durkovich, former DHS assistant secretary for infrastructure protection and co-founder of the cybersecurity firm Civira Partners. “I don’t know how you put it back together.”

A few weeks after Trump’s speech, the state election officials gathered once more, this time for a video call with Nick Andersen, who had replaced Gottumukkala as CISA’s acting director.

Though the primaries were already under way, this was the first time many had met Andersen, a former cybersecurity adviser to Trump’s White House who had joined CISA a year earlier. Andersen is also a district representative for the Republican Party in Virginia, according to the party’s website. In March, he gave a speech to the Fairfax GOP chapter titled “Fighting Democrat Redistricting.”

Speaking over video in August, the boyish-faced former Marine Corps engineer announced that DHS was preparing to release a plan on how it would work together with state officials to secure the election, according to five people who were present at the video meeting, some of whom shared notes with ProPublica.

Many on the call were stunned at what they perceived as a lack of understanding of election planning. Early voting for the general election was just around the corner. They had spent over a year preparing for the midterms, and there was no more time for ambitious work.

Some peppered Andersen with questions: Where had CISA been when there was still time to make improvements?

Andersen blamed any lapses or perceived breaches in trust on the federal government shutdown in fall 2025, twirling his pen uncomfortably and sipping from a Monster energy drink.

Fontes, Arizona’s secretary of state, was blunt about his feelings regarding working with Andersen and CISA, according to several of the people on the call.

“I told him I didn’t trust him,” Fontes recalled in an interview. “I did raise my voice a little bit, because I’m frustrated — very frustrated — that they would have the temerity to come in, clear the entire deck of competent professionals, stop supporting the states, eviscerate the coordination efforts that they had and then suddenly come in and say: ‘Oh, we’re from the federal government. We’re here to help.’”

Indeed, one recently departed CISA official said attempting to do the agency’s typical election work now would be futile. In previous years, CISA had finished almost all its preparations with the states by Labor Day. 

“That ship has sailed,” the official said.  

CISA published its security plan for the 2026 election on Sept. 24. The 13-page document describes how, over the past two years, CISA has “recommitted to its statutory mission and remains resolute in strengthening the security of elections.” 

State officials said their planning will ensure a secure election, even without help from CISA. Yet they and cybersecurity experts worry that Trump will say the election was hacked if Republicans don’t win in November.

The security plan calls for “leveraging collaborative partnerships” with states the agency has abandoned since Trump took office. Shenna Bellows, Maine’s secretary of state, said she’d welcome that but was skeptical of the agency’s motivations. 

“For CISA to promise election officials now, at this point in time, that they are going to be a resource for the 2026 election is too little, too late,” she said.

The post Trump Appointees Asked a Federal Cybersecurity Agency to Secretly Acquire a Voting Machine — and Hack It appeared first on ProPublica.

Since September 2025, the Department of Justice’s Civil Rights Division has sued 30 states and the District of Columbia to demand their unredacted voter rolls. 

The rolls contain confidential information on millions of Americans and have historically been managed by states. Now these lists are a major focus of President Donald Trump’s push to take federal control over elections and prosecute alleged noncitizen voters.

To date, there have been final rulings in 26 of the DOJ lawsuits.

Four cases are yet to be decided, and one state settled. 

Of the judges randomly assigned to the 26 cases, eight were Trump appointees, four were appointed by another Republican — George W. Bush — and 14 were appointed by Democrats.

Tactic No. 1

The first seven lawsuits used the same opening, citing Trump’s March 2025 executive order on election integrity to claim the Justice Department needed states’ voter rolls to check that they were following federal election laws.

The judges ruled that there was no legal or factual basis for the government’s demand. They noted that the laws require states to keep accurate, up-to-date computerized voter lists that include confidential information. But the statutes give the federal government limited power to enforce those mandates.

Several judges accused the administration of using the election laws as a pretext to suppress voting.

In an extraordinary rebuke (echoed by other courts around the country), the judge hearing the Oregon case wrote that the federal government’s actions undermined the judiciary’s longstanding trust in the Justice Department. He called them “chilling.”

All seven lawsuits using the first tactic were dismissed.

Tactic No. 2

The next 19 lawsuits used a different strategy. 

They made no mention of Trump’s executive order and didn’t depend on federal voting laws. Instead, they cited a provision of the Civil Rights Act of 1960 called Title III, which requires the preservation of state and local election records. 

The government lawyers claimed that Title III gave the attorney general “sweeping power” to obtain these records to curb noncitizen voting. In reality, the law allowed the federal government to access such records to protect the right to vote, for example, by enabling investigations into practices that disenfranchised Black voters in the South. 

Judges rejected the government’s arguments, ruling that Title III applies only to voter registration documents, not records that states generate themselves, like voter rolls. They noted the government had also failed to give an explanation of why it needed the records, as the statute requires. 

Several judges marveled at the audacity of the administration’s attempt to use an anti-discrimination law to keep people from voting and condemned the administration’s logic.

Judges also noted that there was a conflict between the DOJ’s claim to be enforcing election laws, which require voter lists to be continuously updated, and Title III, which bans any alteration of voter records.

The administration’s interpretation of Title III, wrote Bissoon, the Pennsylvania judge, “does violence” to the law’s meaning.

To date, judges have dismissed 19 DOJ complaints that relied on the Civil Rights Act claim.

In written opinions, every one of the 26 judges has rejected the Justice Department’s arguments and thrown out its lawsuits. Four cases are still ongoing.  

The Trump administration has appealed most of its losses to federal appeals courts and has said it will consider taking its fight to the Supreme Court.

A Justice Department spokesperson issued a statement in response to ProPublica’s questions: “Our attorneys are skilled, principled advocates who argue every case honestly and in good faith. Disagreement with the government’s position is not evidence of bad faith. We look forward to making our case on appeal.”

The only appeal decided so far backed the district judge who threw out the Michigan case.

On Oct. 9, a U.S. district judge ruled that the Justice Department’s national effort to acquire and share state voter rolls was an illegal abuse of its authority. A Justice Department spokesperson said the department is “reviewing the ruling.”

The post “Devoid of Any Factual Basis”: Again and Again, Judges Have Dismissed Trump’s Voter Data Lawsuits appeared first on ProPublica.

Last month, Texas Gov. Greg Abbott repeated a claim he’s made for the past five years. He stated that the number of people crossing the Texas-Mexico border illegally “posed an ongoing and imminent threat” across the state. In doing so, he renewed a border security disaster proclamation that has greatly expanded his powers without going through the state Legislature.

Abbott’s declaration stands in sharp contrast to the numbers reported by the Trump administration, which says the drop in the flow of migrants crossing the border has been unprecedented and has reached historic lows since it took over in January 2025. 

Yet, since Abbott first declared an emergency at the border during the Biden administration in 2021, he’s renewed or amended the proclamation at least 69 times — 21 of those during Trump’s tenure. 

The Republican governor, who is running for his fourth term next month, has consolidated power like no Texas governor before him, building on his predecessors’ efforts to strengthen what by design is supposed to be a “weak governor” state as the constitution limits what can be done without legislative approval, ProPublica and The Texas Tribune have reported. One of the methods he’s used to do that is issuing executive orders and disaster declarations that allow him to shift funds, suspend regulations and award no-bid contracts at times of emergency. 

Since January 2025, two of the top agencies involved with border enforcement — the Department of Public Safety and the Texas Military Department — have awarded more than $5 million in noncompetitive contracts citing the emergency for items like a Ford F-150, rifles and apartments, state records show.

“I think it’s unprecedented,” said Cal Jillson, a political science professor at Southern Methodist University in Dallas. “I don’t think that there is a similar example, certainly not as to the length of the emergency, and certainly not after the emergency has seemed to pass.” 

Abbott’s office did not respond to specific questions for this story, including about the noncompetitive contracts, but Deputy Press Secretary Madeline Waschak said in a written statement that the governor has been clear that border security is an ongoing priority.

“The damage caused by four years of failed border policies under Democrat rule did not disappear overnight, and the progress we have made will not sustain itself without continued vigilance,” she wrote.

“Securing the border requires constant, deliberate action to combat illegal crossings, cartel smuggling, fentanyl trafficking, and other criminal activity that threatens public safety in Texas. Governor Abbott will ensure the tools remain in place to safeguard our state as we work alongside the Trump Administration to deter, arrest, detain, and deport illegal immigrants,” she added.

At the time of Abbott’s first border declaration, four months into President Joe Biden’s term, Border Patrol was making more than 180,000 apprehensions along the southwest border in a single month. According to Abbott, the federal government’s inability or unwillingness to enforce immigration laws had created a humanitarian crisis in many communities in Texas. 

“The Biden Administration’s open-border policies have enabled escalating violence from the cartels, dramatically increased the risk of human trafficking, and created a severe crisis of illegal drugs crossing into the United States,” the order stated.

Since then, apprehensions along the southwest border have dropped on average to about 8,000 a month this year. 

The border security declaration remains Abbott’s longest continuously running emergency proclamation. Abbott similarly renewed his 2020 COVID-19 disaster declaration for three years, even as he downplayed the severity of the pandemic. 

“This is the quiet power of the governor,” said Brandon Rottinghaus, a professor of political science at the University of Houston. “It’s not something often that they brag about because the more that it becomes a political issue, the more that there might be some contestation of it.”

Other than border security, the governor’s second longest-running emergency declaration is related to droughts. He declared a state disaster in July 2022 and within days amended it bringing the total of counties to 189. He’s continued to renew it, but now it applies to about a third of the counties originally identified.

State lawmakers have repeatedly tried — and failed — to curb the governor’s powers under the state’s disaster act. Last year, legislators from both parties filed at least a handful of measures that would mandate Abbott get approval from the Legislature if he wanted to extend a disaster declaration, but none passed. 

Abbott’s emergency declarations have been accompanied by record spending on border security efforts. Texas budgeted over $11 billion during the Biden administration and allotted an additional $3 billion last year, after Trump took office. 

It’s all part of Abbott’s Operation Lone Star, an initiative he launched in March 2021 contending it was needed to stem the smuggling of drugs and people into the country through Texas. Because of the emergency declaration, police could charge immigrants with criminal trespassing for crossing the border through private property, and the governor was able to shift money from other agencies to fund the operation and build border barriers, deploy the National Guard and get help from other states. 

Much of the funding for Operation Lone Star is funneled through the Texas Military Department and DPS, two of the agencies responsible for major enforcement efforts. But the governor’s share of border spending has also ballooned since Abbott took office over a decade ago. State lawmakers allotted his office nearly $230 million last year to distribute through grants, largely to local prosecutors and government agencies helping the state with Operation Lone Star.

Though the situation on the ground has changed, one aspect of the emergency declaration has remained constant: the ability of state agencies to award noncompetitive contracts. 

DPS and the Texas Military Department have awarded at least six noncompetitive contracts so far during the second Trump administration for work related to the operation where they cite an emergency. This includes a more than $2 million contract to Texas-based CTC Gunworks LLC for rifles and pistols for active-duty personnel. CTC Gunworks officials could not be reached for comment. 

Officials with the Texas Military Department referred questions about its procurement process to the governor’s office. A DPS spokesperson said in a written statement that even though the disaster declaration allows for expedited purchases, the department still follows best practices and “aims to select vendors offering the best value, determined by cost, quality, and ability to meet the specific disaster response requirements.” 

Regarding the specific contracts, the DPS spokesperson said they were purchases tied to existing state contracts.

The continued funding and expansion of Operation Lone Star has come even as it’s been plagued with problems. In 2022, an investigation by ProPublica, the Tribune and The Marshall Project found that the state’s reported success included arrests unrelated to the border or immigration and counted drug seizures made by troopers from across the state who were not directly assigned to the operation. The Tribune and Army Times also exposed poor working conditions, pay delays and suicides among National Guard members deployed as part of Operation Lone Star.

During a Tribune-hosted event this week with state lawmakers from El Paso, Democratic state Rep. Mary González, vice chair of the Appropriations Committee, said state legislators have already started to scale back when it comes to border funding and there’s interest from both sides of the aisle to continue to do so in the upcoming legislative session.

“I think that the problem is that some of that border security money still lies in the governor’s office which has no checks and balances and because we are still under an emergency — which is not an emergency anymore — an emergency border security statement which he can just use that money, you have seen some questionable appropriations under the veil of border security,” she said.

Abbott, however, has repeatedly said that Texas’ work in securing the border is not over.

“We must secure the border not just for the next two years of the Trump administration, but we gotta do it forever,” Abbott said at a press conference in early October where he discussed the federal government’s $7.5 billion reimbursement for border security expenses the state had incurred. 

Rottinghaus said that Texas will always have to confront border crossings and drug trafficking, but the existence of those problems don’t always justify an emergency declaration. 

“Even someone who strongly supports the governor’s board of policies might ask whether they want a future governor of the opposite party using the same interpretation of emergency authority for years,” Rottinghaus said, adding that the issue is that “governors, once they get a power, are hesitant to give it back.”

The post Trump Says the Border Is Secure. Texas Gov. Greg Abbott Keeps Declaring an Emergency. appeared first on ProPublica.

Some 86 years ago, Missouri voters enshrined a system for selecting top judges that would remove political influence from the courts. And almost immediately, it came under attack.

Under what has come to be known as the Missouri Plan, lawyers help choose a slate of three candidates from which the governor must make an appointment for the state Supreme Court, appeals courts and, in some populous areas, the circuit courts. 

In the first years after adoption, it faced pushback from party bosses who had historically used judicial seats for political patronage. They said it gave too much power to the lawyers. Voters, though, decisively defeated a repeal measure in 1942. 

More recently, the conservative activist Leonard Leo, who viewed Missouri as a crucial battleground, tried in 2007 to persuade Republican Gov. Matt Blunt to reject a slate of Supreme Court candidates — part of a broader effort to weaken a judicial selection system that had become a model for some two dozen states around the country. 

Blunt resisted and picked one of the three judges from the approved slate. 

Then, in 2012, GOP lawmakers put a proposed overhaul before voters that, if approved, would have given the governor more control. Voters, by a 3-to-1 margin, turned back the plan.

Now the attacks are back, driven by a new grievance. 

At President Donald Trump’s behest, Republican lawmakers redrew the state’s congressional map in a mid-decade gerrymander. The goal: to give the GOP a shot at winning seven of Missouri’s congressional seats, instead of the six it now holds.

But voters gathered enough signatures to force a referendum on the map and put it on hold. While Secretary of State Denny Hoskins tried to keep the referendum off the ballot, the Missouri Supreme Court overruled him. It ordered the old map restored until voters decide on the new one. 

Hoskins, citing a federal court ruling that contradicted the state’s highest court, directed officials to use the new map anyway, prompting Chief Justice Brent Powell to demand that Hoskins appear in court to show why he shouldn’t be held in contempt.

Fourteen Republican lawmakers responded by threatening to impeach “responsible members of this Court” for “willful neglect of duty, incompetency and misconduct” if the justices held Hoskins in contempt; the court did so anyway. Hoskins backed down and instructed local election officials to distribute ballots using the old map; the justices decided not to have him arrested.

The drama played out as Republicans in Missouri and elected officials nationwide have sought to weaken institutions that limit their power. In North Carolina, the Republican-dominated General Assembly stripped authority from Democratic governors. In Wisconsin, Republicans threatened to impeach a newly elected Supreme Court justice to protect gerrymandered maps. And in New York, Democrats bypassed an independent commission to pass a gerrymander that favored them, but the state’s highest court struck it down.

Rather than electing top judges, as Illinois does, or giving the governor primary responsibility for choosing them, like California, Missouri selects its appellate and Supreme Court judges through a commission made up of three lawyers, one elected by lawyers in each appellate district; three non-lawyers appointed by the governor, one from each district; and a state Supreme Court judge selected by the court. After they are appointed, judges face a retention vote at the first general election after completing one year in office, then every 12 years, with voters deciding whether they keep their positions.

In response to the controversy, a number of Missouri Republicans have attacked the system. U.S. Rep. Jason Smith called for the state to switch to electing its Supreme Court judges. Republican Party executive director Miles Ross declared on X, “The Missouri Plan is done.” Dan Seitz, chief of staff to Sen. Brad Hudson, called for replacing it with a system in which the governor could nominate judges directly, subject to Senate confirmation.

State Rep. Cathy Jo Loy, a Carthage Republican who has introduced legislation in each of the past two sessions to replace the Missouri Plan with gubernatorial appointment and Senate confirmation, said she intends to file a new proposal Dec. 1, the first day lawmakers can file bills for next year’s session. Loy said her opposition to the system predates the recent clashes with the Supreme Court. But she acknowledged that those defeats could give the proposal new momentum.

“There will probably be more appetite because there are several senators that feel the same way,” she said.

Republicans, who hold every statewide elected office, supermajorities in both chambers of the legislature and six of the state’s eight congressional seats, seem to have suddenly found the limits of their power. At the ballot box, voters have overwhelmingly rejected major pieces of the party’s agenda, including an effort to weaken their power to bypass the legislature by amending the constitution or putting laws passed by lawmakers to a statewide vote. 

Time and again, when elected officials have sought to limit voters’ use of the ballot initiative, the courts have protected voters’ use of direct democracy. Courts repeatedly rewrote ballot summaries prepared by Republican state officials that they found unfair or misleading, including language describing the initiative that ultimately established abortion rights in 2024.

By the end of that year, after the Missouri Supreme Court rejected a last-minute effort by Republican lawmakers and anti-abortion activists to keep the abortion measure off the ballot, Senate President Pro Tem Cindy O’Laughlin was calling to repeal the Missouri Plan. She proposed replacing the system for selecting Supreme Court and appellate judges with a nonpartisan election. But her bill stalled in committee.

Then came Hoskins. The former state representative and senator from west-central Missouri took office as secretary of state in January 2025 and brought a more combative approach to overseeing elections and ballot measures. Hoskins made a bright-red sport coat his sartorial trademark, often posing with a wood baseball bat and speaking about politics as a series of battles and himself as a conservative warrior. 

Hoskins didn’t respond to questions sent to his office. He has previously said that he disagreed with any suggestion that he and Republican leaders were defying the will of voters. He hasn’t publicly called for changing how Missouri selects Supreme Court judges, but his office’s official X social media account reposted Smith’s message calling for the end of the Missouri Plan.

Gov. Mike Kehoe also complained, saying in a post on X that “unelected judges” have shown a “lack of respect for the legislative process.” On a radio show the next day, Kehoe acknowledged that changing how judges are selected hadn’t even been on his radar before the ruling.

“But I think it’s definitely something a lot of people are going to start asking about,” he said. “And I’m not sure the judges across our state, whether Supreme Court or other judges, really wanted that on people’s radar screen.”

Kehoe’s office said it would not respond to questions from ProPublica.

Although some Republicans have derided the state Supreme Court as being a bastion of liberal activists, five of the Supreme Court’s seven judges were appointed by Republican governors. Among them is Powell, whom the then-chair of the state GOP hailed as a “good conservative” before Republican Gov. Eric Greitens selected him in 2017.

Powell, who also serves as chair of the judicial selection commission, declined to comment for this story. In remarks on Sept. 17 to the joint annual meeting of the Missouri Bar and the Judicial Conference of Missouri, he warned of “threats from those who seek to detract from the ideals of our republic and to undermine faith in our sacred institutions — including our legal profession and our courts.”

“It is incumbent on all of us as lawyers and judges to rise up and defend our constitutions and the rule of law,” he added.

Whether there’s enough support to repeal the Missouri Plan remains to be seen. Peverill Squire, a professor emeritus of political science at the University of Missouri, said some of the bills that would eliminate the Missouri Plan might go to committee hearings, “but my guess is there probably won’t be enough appetite among enough Republicans to really want to put it on the ballot.”

Any change would ultimately have to be approved by the voters, something Loy acknowledged could be difficult after Republicans’ recent losses at the ballot box.

But the renewed calls have also mobilized the system’s longtime defenders. Ed Dowd, a former U.S. attorney who for two decades has helped lead the Citizens for Missouri Courts, a campaign that advocates for preserving the Missouri Plan, said the group has historically become most active when the system is under threat. 

Dowd’s St. Louis-based firm, Dowd Bennett, recently contributed $100,000 to the campaign.

“It’s something that we take very, very seriously and don’t want to take any chances on losing something that we have that works so well,” he said.

The post Frustrated by Losses in the Courts, Missouri Republicans Want to Change How Top Judges Are Selected appeared first on ProPublica.

They were victims, not abusers. That’s what they told police officers, attorneys, visitors and anyone else who would listen. It didn’t matter. The women were all taken to a sprawling immigration detention center in the woods of west Michigan and handed thin jumpsuits — red, to mark them as a high security risk.

Inside the North Lake Processing Center, they talked about the men whose calls to police landed them there. The boyfriends or husbands who threatened to get them deported and cut them off from their children. The men, or sometimes women, who hit them, pulled their hair or choked them, bruising their throats.

They didn’t know where to go for help before, but now, in the confines of a cold cellblock in a former prison, the women helped one another. If one spoke to somebody on the outside who could connect them with advice, legal aid or money for the commissary, she’d pass around a tablet used for calls so others could tell their stories.

Migladys Bermudez, an immigration attorney in southeast Michigan, remembers a call in May from a Peruvian woman detained at North Lake. Her name was Pilar, and she’d heard about Bermudez from a fellow detainee who had been a client. Pilar told Bermudez about the boyfriend she tried to escape before her arrest, when she used makeup to cover the marks she said he left on her face. But he had accused her of being the abuser, resulting in her arrest.

Pilar handed the tablet to a Cuban woman named Leya. Over the echoes of the other detainees’ chatter, she described how her boyfriend insulted her, isolated her and gave her a black eye. Then, after grabbing him by the arm during an argument, she was the one behind bars, separated from their nursing daughter. On video calls, the girl didn’t seem to recognize her mother anymore. She stopped calling her “Mamá.”

Bermudez was taken aback. All three women in that chain — the former client, Pilar and Leya — said they were trying to get out of abusive relationships when they were arrested by local police on domestic violence allegations. In all three cases, the charges were dropped or never filed at all. The U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement detained the first woman during a routine check-in a few months after her charges were dropped. The others were handed over to ICE by local officials. 

It’s long been intimidating for immigrants who suffered abuse to call 911, regardless of who was in the White House. They knew — and their abusers knew — that their immigration status made them vulnerable. But previous administrations treated victims as just that, people who needed help, not as targets for deportation. Bipartisan coalitions in Congress have long supported the Violence Against Women Act, which creates a pathway toward legal status for immigrants who are victims of domestic violence or other serious crimes.

Now, under President Donald Trump, all bets are off. On inauguration day, his administration rescinded guidelines that largely prevented immigration agents from making arrests at sensitive locations — including domestic violence shelters and hospitals. About a week later, the administration eliminated key protections granted to VAWA applicants and other crime victims. For the first time in decades, immigration authorities could disregard those protections and more freely arrest, detain and deport immigrant victims.

Life became more harrowing in other ways for immigrants who were victims of domestic violence. Federal immigration agents made arrests outside specialized domestic violence courts. And the administration persuaded more and more local police and jails to carry out the president’s mass deportation campaign, sweeping still more immigrants into custody. 

Even communities without these so-called 287(g) agreements are helping the government round people up. In west Michigan’s Kent County, where Pilar and Leya were arrested, the county jail turned over more immigrants to ICE in the first six months of 2026 than it did during the entire Biden administration.

Advocates across the country say they’re seeing signs of an alarming increase in the numbers of domestic violence victims who are detained and deported. And many immigrants are staying in abusive relationships, fearful of calling for help or even stepping outside their homes.

“It’s just probably the most dangerous time for immigrant women right now who are victims of domestic violence,” said Bermudez, who took on Leya’s immigration case.

The arrest and detention of domestic violence victims is, in part, an unanticipated consequence of an effort meant to keep them safe. In much of the country, law enforcement officers are encouraged — or even required — to make an arrest when they have probable cause to believe that a domestic violence assault has taken place. Sometimes victims are mistaken as the abuser and taken into custody. Then, if they’re immigrants, they can be turned over to ICE — even if they were never criminally charged.

There’s no comprehensive way to track how often this happens or how many domestic violence victims have been detained by ICE or deported. But ProPublica spoke with a half-dozen alleged victims who were locked up together in a single facility, North Lake, and reviewed police records about others who were there, too. Their stories offer a picture of why Congress created programs like VAWA in the first place, and what’s at stake when those guardrails are taken away. 

A coalition of immigrant survivors and advocates have sued the Trump administration, saying changes to how immigrant victims are treated not only undermined public safety, but also broke promises enshrined in federal law and policy.

“We were seeing our clients be more scared, be systematically targeted, be arrested, and deported very quickly,” said Kathleen Rivas, supervising attorney of the survivors team at Public Counsel, a law firm that’s involved in the litigation.

In May, a federal judge ordered the government to restore protections while the case played out. The Trump administration has appealed the order. 

White House spokesperson Lauren Bis said in a statement that ICE is targeting the “worst of the worst.” The real story, she added, is the “American women whose lives have been taken by illegal alien criminals.” A spokesperson for the Department of Homeland Security said in a statement that “we will never apologize for deporting illegal aliens, because that’s how we save lives.”

But Leya, Pilar and other immigrants we interviewed have no criminal records. And advocates said communities are less safe now because immigrants are afraid to call police when their partners hurt them. This gives more ammunition to the threats of their abusers, said Casey Carter Swegman, director of public policy at the Tahirih Justice Center, a national nonprofit that advocates for immigrant survivors of domestic violence, sexual assault and human trafficking.

“Certainly more immigrant survivors are feeling like the violence and abuse they experience behind the closed door is somehow more tolerable than the violence and abuse they could experience if they tried to leave,” she said.

The first time her boyfriend’s fist slammed into her face was in July 2025, Leya recalled. They were living in Florida with his relatives. Only a month before, Leya gave birth to their daughter.

One night, she said, he heard her laugh in the kitchen with his mother and a man his mother was dating. Leya’s boyfriend flew into a jealous rage, she said, and punched her a few feet from their sleeping baby.

Leya called 911 but hung up when the operator answered. She was afraid of what might happen. She was 26; her boyfriend was a decade her senior. Leya, a recent immigrant from Cuba, had applied for status and was in active immigration proceedings. She said he was a permanent resident, with permission to work in the U.S. and better command of English. She felt trapped.

Sheriff’s deputies arrived and spoke with Leya and her boyfriend. They took photos of her puffy and bruised face, with the white of her left eye bright red. Her boyfriend said the injury occurred during an “argument,” according to the report, but he didn’t specify how. He was arrested on suspicion of domestic battery. 

Leya said her boyfriend’s mother threw her out that night. Unsure of where to go, she and her daughter moved in with another one of his relatives. Pursuing a criminal case felt daunting. She said his relatives urged her to drop the charges and reconcile with him. Eventually, she asked prosecutors to drop the charge because the battery took place in “a moment of impulse that he feels very sorry for,” records show. Her boyfriend didn’t enter a plea before the case was dismissed.

Like other immigrants interviewed for this story, Leya asked not to be fully identified because of her pending immigration case, and because she worries about repercussions for her and her daughter.

She and Pilar also asked that ProPublica not interview their alleged abusers because they’re afraid the men will interfere with their cases, hurt them or take away their children. To report their stories and get their partners’ perspective, we reviewed records from law enforcement, immigration court proceedings and habeas corpus petitions seeking their release from detention. We also interviewed attorneys, family and others who interacted with them.

Soon after the Florida arrest, Leya and her boyfriend moved to the city of Wyoming, Michigan, a suburb of Grand Rapids that’s a magnet for immigrants who come for jobs in manufacturing and food processing. The unpretentious city is dotted with temporary staffing agencies, money-wiring businesses and Mexican restaurants.

Leya said their relationship worsened. Her boyfriend pushed her, pulled her hair and broke her phone, she said. He made her delete her social media accounts and isolated her from friends and family. They fought about money and talked about breaking up. One night in April, during an argument, he called the police.

“I’m having problems with my wife,” he said in Spanish, according to a recording of the call. The operator asked if there had been any violence. “No, no, no. None,” he said. “Just a discussion.”

He told officers who came to their apartment complex that Leya got angry because he had talked to an ex-girlfriend, according to body camera footage and a police report. When he tried to leave, he said, Leya pushed him and grabbed his arm. Then she attempted to hang up his phone when he dialed 911. 

He said he wasn’t injured, though he accused her of hitting him several times a few days earlier.

Officers interviewed his brother, who mentioned the arrest in Florida, according to bodycam footage. “They had a cycle of problems where she called the police for abuse and he was detained for three days,” he said in Spanish. “My brother is trying to avoid having that happen again.”

The police report doesn’t mention the earlier arrest.

Footage of the interview with Leya was redacted due to state privacy laws, in part because she was interviewed inside their residence, unlike her boyfriend, who was interviewed outside. According to the police report, she “minimized” the argument and said there was no physical contact. She acknowledged trying to hang up the phone.

In an interview with ProPublica, Leya said they argued when she learned he sent money to his ex-girlfriend, who is the mother of his son. At the same time, she said, he had told her he couldn’t afford to buy diapers for their daughter. She said she has never hit him. 

Officers arrested Leya on suspicion of domestic assault and interfering with a 911 call. They didn’t arrest her boyfriend or seek charges against him. Leya said she didn’t tell officers she was a victim of abuse because she thought she’d be able to tell a judge.

She never got a chance.

The Wyoming Police Department’s written policy encourages officers to make an arrest in incidents involving domestic violence “when there is reasonable cause to believe an assault was committed.”

Arrests demonstrate that “violence in the home is recognized as a serious crime,” according to Michigan’s law enforcement training manual on domestic violence. This approach is common across the country. Twenty-four states require an arrest when there’s probable cause of a domestic assault.

But domestic violence scenes can be chaotic, with both partners accusing each other of being the aggressor. It can be difficult for officers to understand what happened, said Erin Ross, a former domestic violence prosecutor who works at the national nonprofit Vera Institute of Justice. Sometimes, the wrong person ends up in handcuffs.

“The complexity of DV situations can thus lead to survivors being criminalized by the very system meant to protect them,” Ross and her co-authors wrote in a 2025 report about the effects of arrests on domestic violence survivors. 

The Vera report doesn’t touch on immigration. But Ross and a dozen other domestic violence advocates across the country told ProPublica that immigrants who don’t speak English or understand their rights are, under the Trump administration, especially vulnerable to an arrest that can have irreversible consequences.

ProPublica reviewed hundreds of habeas corpus petitions filed nationwide since January 2025, in which immigrants challenged their ICE detention on constitutional grounds. We found dozens of petitioners who were arrested on suspicion of domestic violence and turned over to ICE, even though they were never charged or their charges were dropped. Using jail and police records from Florida and Michigan, as well as news reports, we identified even more cases.

In their petitions, several immigrants said that officers mistook them for the aggressor. The underlying arrest records show that officers often had to make close calls in messy cases where it was unclear who was the victim and who was the aggressor. Either way, under Trump, there’s little grace for immigrants. 

In one case in Florida, a state where sheriff’s offices cooperate with immigration authorities, a deputy came upon a Venezuelan couple arguing in the street in November 2025. In his report, the deputy said the woman pulled at her husband’s pants, necklace and arm, leaving marks on his body. The woman said her husband had taken her keys and phone. She didn’t want to be left stranded, she said, so she ran after him.

She was charged with misdemeanor battery; her husband wasn’t charged. The woman was turned over to ICE while the case was pending. Prosecutors later dropped charges. The sheriff’s report didn’t mention any allegations of prior domestic violence, but the woman later said that, during their marriage, her husband had beaten her and threatened to kill her. In her habeas corpus petition, she said she was “afraid to report the abuse to the police.” 

The woman was released in May, but during the five months she was incarcerated, her husband took their daughters out of state, her attorney told ProPublica. She still hasn’t seen the girls in person.

For Leya, it was a shock to find herself handcuffed, sitting in the back of a police cruiser, headed toward the Kent County jail. She was silent during the 15-minute ride, unable to make sense of what had just happened: “I had suffered from domestic violence,” she said. “But the one who ended up in trouble was me.” 

The next day, a detective asked the prosecutor’s office to file charges against her. Prosecutors declined to do so, saying there was insufficient evidence, there were no injuries and Leya hadn’t successfully interfered with the phone call. 

Still, she wasn’t released.

Leya had no criminal history, apart from this arrest, according to a DHS record. But her fingerprints had been run against state and federal databases, flagging ICE officials who could match them with her prints from when she arrived in the U.S. In addition, Leya said, a jail official asked about her status, and she told him she was waiting for an immigration court hearing. 

ICE issued a detainer, essentially asking the jail to hold Leya until agents could pick her up. Kent County officials honored their request. A day later, Leya was at the detention center in the woods.

She cried in despair over her daughter. They’d never been separated. The 80 miles between Wyoming and North Lake seemed infinite. Her breasts ached from the drying milk. Leya wondered whether she’d be deported and if their separation would be permanent. 

From a narrow window in her cell, she saw people outside holding signs, protesting ICE. She could hear their chants in English. Though she had trouble understanding them, she felt comforted by the care of strangers. 

Inside, she familiarized herself with the routines. She spent most of her time in a large, open room with other women in red. Cameras eyed them as they talked about their children and upcoming court dates. They shared contact information for relatives in their home countries in case one of them got deported and had nowhere to go. To pass the hours, they watched telenovelas, played rounds of Uno and pieced together jigsaw puzzles of forests and farms.

Leya grew close to a few women from Latin America and Eastern Europe who said they, too, had been in abusive relationships. Several had called police for help, records show. A Honduran woman said her partner tried to choke her. A Dominican woman said her husband, a U.S. citizen, hit her, pulled her hair and chased her with a stick.

Then there was Pilar, Leya’s first cellmate. The asylum seeker from Peru had also been arrested on suspicion of domestic violence in the city of Wyoming.

Pilar, her boyfriend and her teenage daughter called 911 five times in the 15 months before her arrest, records show. On one occasion, Pilar’s daughter said she worried that the boyfriend would hurt her mom; according to bodycam footage, Pilar assured officers that everything was fine. On another, the man said he experienced mental abuse and wanted to find a shelter. On yet another, Pilar said she just wanted him to leave.

None of these calls ended in an arrest. Officers ensured that the boyfriend had another place to stay when he sought help, and they told Pilar to call back if he tried to return and hurt her, according to the footage. They advised the couple to go to civil court for future disputes over money and property.

In an interview with ProPublica from North Lake, Pilar, 48, said that her boyfriend took financial advantage of her and physically assaulted her. And in her habeas corpus petition, she described the relationship as one of “physical, mental, psychological, economic abuse.” Her sister took a photo of the bruises around Pilar’s neck and feared the worst. “I would tell her to leave that man,” she said. 

Pilar said she was ashamed to go to her job at a food-processing plant with bruises on her face. She wondered what her co-workers would think. She distanced herself from relatives and friends. Pilar said she never told the police the full story because she worried about the possible repercussions — not for herself, but for her boyfriend. She didn’t want him to be deported. Despite everything, she loved him and felt he loved her. 

One night in October 2025, her boyfriend drove up to their apartment complex in a rental car. The couple argued in the parking lot. He called 911.

“I need police,” he said over and over in English.

Pilar called moments later: “This man is leaving my house and he’s not giving me my keys,” she screamed in Spanish. “This man has hurt me. He has scratched my whole arm.”

When officers arrived, they separated the couple. The boyfriend said that Pilar slapped his head, grabbed his shirt and tried to pull him out of the car while he was in the driver’s seat, according to bodycam footage and the police report. One side of his T-shirt was torn. He said he never assaulted Pilar and any injuries were her own fault. “I’ve never hit her,” he said in Spanish.

He told officers that he’d become a U.S. permanent resident two months earlier and that Pilar was jealous. “She is making this up because she knows she can get papers,” he said.

Pilar insisted she was the victim. She showed officers the scratch marks on her arm and said her boyfriend was to blame. She begged them to make him return the apartment keys, according to bodycam footage and a police report. “I’ve been trying to kick him out for a while and he won’t leave, and he doesn’t want to help pay the rent,” she said in Spanish.

An officer asked how her boyfriend’s shirt got ripped. Pilar said she grabbed onto him when he started driving away in order to avoid being dragged by the car. The officer asked her several more times about the ripped shirt. Pilar told him she wanted to speak to a lawyer. 

In their report, police noted that the boyfriend had called 911 first. His shirt was ripped. Pilar’s wasn’t. If the boyfriend had thrown her down, the officer wrote, then her shirt should have been ripped because he was “much taller and heavier (around 80lbs more).”

Her boyfriend wasn’t arrested. Pilar was.

Wyoming Public Safety Chief Kip Snyder declined to speak about the arrests of Pilar or Leya. In an email to ProPublica, he said officers don’t “participate in enforcing federal immigration laws. We encourage trust and cooperation with all residents and aim to ensure that everyone feels safe reporting crimes or seeking assistance.”

Shortly after Pilar’s arrest, a police detective asked the prosecutor’s office to file domestic violence charges against both her and her boyfriend.  

Prosecutors declined to file any charges, citing insufficient evidence. Pilar wasn’t released. Apart from this arrest, she had no criminal history, according to DHS records. She also had a pending asylum case.

Still, ICE put a detainer on her and jail officials turned her over.

A few years earlier, Kent County Sheriff Michelle Lajoye-Young said a handoff like this wouldn’t happen.

In 2019, she announced that deputies would stop automatically honoring detainers and instead require warrants signed by a federal judge or magistrate. The move came after a U.S. citizen — a Marine combat veteran — was transferred from her jail into ICE custody.

“There needed to be a judicial oversight inserted into that process to give us the assurance that somebody wasn’t erroneously detained without due process,” Lajoye-Young said around that time. 

Trump called Kent a “sanctuary jurisdiction.” The label haunted the county, which in the 2016 election voted for Trump. A national think tank that aims to reduce immigration put Kent County on its list of sanctuary communities, while Republican state lawmakers tried to compel its cooperation with federal authorities.

Yet it’s unclear whether Lajoye-Young ever delivered on her promise. ProPublica requested copies of all department policies, procedures, memos and instructions on how it handles ICE detainers since 2018. None said a judicial warrant was needed. ProPublica also asked for copies of judicial warrants for Pilar and Leya. The county said no such records exist.

Lajoye-Young, who retired last week, declined interview requests. Sgt. Scott Dietrich, a spokesperson for the sheriff’s office, didn’t directly answer questions about whether the policy was ever implemented. But in a statement he said that detainers are “handled under applicable law and established policy, consistent with our commitment to public safety, due process, and fair and impartial enforcement.”

Gema Lowe, an organizer with the local chapter of an immigrant rights group, said the sheriff had backtracked on her promise and wasn’t being forthright. “I don’t understand why they’re being secretive,” she said.

The shift deepened the mistrust among immigrants in a county with one of the state’s fastest-growing immigrant populations. Lowe, an immigrant herself from Mexico, said she advises victims to think twice before reporting domestic violence to the police because of the risk of arrest and deportation, while pointing them to other local resources like shelters. 

She and others said the stakes are especially high now. ICE arrests have skyrocketed under Trump. Nobody is off limits, including immigrants with pending asylum claims and no criminal records.

And more local authorities are helping ICE make arrests. In January 2025, fewer than 150 state and local law enforcement agencies had signed 287(g) agreements with DHS to help carry out the president’s deportation agenda. That number has ballooned to more than 2,600 today. 

“Partnerships with law enforcement are critical to having the resources we need to arrest criminal illegal aliens across the country,” a DHS spokesperson said. “We have had tremendous success when local law enforcement works together with us.”

Kent County doesn’t have a 287(g) agreement. Still, the jail hands over the vast majority of people with detainers to ICE, records show. Dozens of people who were turned over to ICE this year had their criminal charges dropped, or, like Pilar and Leya, were never charged in the first place. 

Dietrich said the dismissal of a criminal charge “does not, by itself, mean the original arrest lacked probable cause.” The sheriff’s office also doesn’t “determine whether criminal charges are ultimately prosecuted, nor does it determine whether an individual is deported,” he said.

DHS told ProPublica in a statement that both Leya and Pilar “illegally entered the country” in 2022 and that both “will receive due process” in their immigration proceedings.

Kent County Prosecutor Chris Becker said he hadn’t heard of victims getting detained by ICE after calling the police. In his experience, he said, more perpetrators with active cases get deported.

Becker said he tries to get the message out that his team serves all victims, regardless of their immigration status. He’s aware that immigrants are reluctant to seek help. His own staff has told him that victims are afraid to testify or file restraining orders. They don’t want their partners — often the breadwinners and the fathers of their children — to be deported.

“There’s been a chilling impact to women coming forward in domestic violence situations due to what’s going on,” Becker said.

As the months passed at North Lake, Leya watched as women she befriended started to leave.  

Some were deported, including at least two Mexican women who were also arrested in Kent County on suspicion of domestic violence. Others were released. New women took their cells. Some told Leya that they, too, had been arrested after 911 calls about domestic violence.

Leya fought for her freedom. She met with volunteers from Kent County, who raised money to hire her lawyers and pay for a required physical exam and fees. Even her ex-boyfriend, the one who she said gave her a black eye, wrote a letter on her behalf to help her case, calling her “a calm person.” He explained that he had called the police after their argument “escalated” and that “problems are situations that can happen in any relationship.”

Leya, he added, “deserves a second opportunity to remain in this country and be close to our daughter, as our baby truly needs her very much.” While Leya was locked up, their little girl celebrated her first birthday, got her first teeth and took her first steps.

At virtual hearings, Leya sat with her arms crossed, her dark, wavy hair neatly braided in cornrows and wearing an oversized coat over her red uniform. She tried to follow the discussion of people who seemed to have her life in their hands.

In late August, a judge granted Leya bond. While her immigration case played out, she could be free.

It was a profound relief. At the same time, it felt awful to leave behind her friends. It seemed like some of them were never getting out. Pilar was approaching a year in detention.

Four months after her arrest, Leya walked out of the old prison. She thought about how she would live on her own now and support her daughter.  

She promised herself she wouldn’t go back to the man who hurt her. 

The post These Women Were Trying to Escape Domestic Abuse. ICE Detained Them Instead. appeared first on ProPublica.

Last December, New Mexico officials celebrated publication of a plan to address climate change, designed to dramatically reduce the state’s greenhouse gas emissions by 2050. A few months later, just across the state line in Texas, El Paso city officials adopted their own such plan with a similar ambition. 

Each report cost millions of dollars to draft, but neither one took into account how the construction of data centers could upend climate goals in both places. 

Work is underway in Doña Ana County in southern New Mexico on one of the largest data center developments in the country: Project Jupiter, built by Austin-based Oracle. Twenty miles away in El Paso, construction is underway on another massive data center, this one built by Meta Platforms. 

A third, larger data center project is planned less than a 30-minute drive from the Meta site, on the Fort Bliss Army post in east El Paso.

The data centers are “going to undo a lot of the very expensive and very meaningful work a lot of people are doing,” New Mexico state climatologist Dave DuBois told El Paso Matters.

The sites are among a wave of data centers under construction across the country, driven by the rapidly escalating demand for artificial intelligence services like Claude and ChatGPT. Such projects have drawn intense scrutiny in recent months, as residents and elected officials have questioned their impact on communities’ water supplies, household electric bills and air quality. Texas alone has 596 data centers that are either in operation or planned across Texas as of early September, according to research by The Texas Tribune. 

But the projects located in this population center of 1.2 million, which encompasses El Paso and parts of southern New Mexico, are particularly notable because of their combined scope. When fully built out, the three data centers, each with its own power plant, will emit millions of tons of greenhouse gas emissions, equivalent to the planet-warming emissions released by more than two million cars in a year.

They will also release air pollutants like particulate matter and nitrogen oxides, which directly affect local air quality and human health. The Meta and Project Jupiter data centers are expected to release these kinds of pollutants at relatively low levels, according to paperwork submitted to state regulators. But even a small increase in air pollution can still negatively impact communities close to and downwind of the data center sites, said Shaolei Ren, a professor of electrical and computer engineering at University of California, Riverside. 

“The health impacts can be significant for local communities,” Ren said.

Because Project Jupiter, Meta and the Fort Bliss data centers are in two different states, and because there is no single federal regulation governing climate change or emissions, regulators have largely considered the projects’ impacts separately.

“We’ve never had a national climate law passed by Congress,” said Ari Peskoe, director of the Electricity Law Initiative at Harvard Law School. “And so what we’ve had in this country are primarily state and local efforts.”

The result is that officials in one state have little say over a project happening minutes away from them. 

Texas and New Mexico also take different approaches to dealing with climate change. New Mexico has codified greenhouse gas reduction targets into state law; Texas has not.

New Mexico state Rep. Sarah Silva, a Democrat, represents the community of Chaparral, directly across the state line from Meta’s data center site in northeast El Paso. Her state has the power to regulate air quality and impose noise requirements, but only in New Mexico, not at a Texas construction site, even if it’s only a few hundred yards away. 

Likewise, residents living in west El Paso across the state line from Project Jupiter have no say in the project despite sharing an aquifer that crosses the state boundary. Emissions do not remain within the state where they originate, Silva said.

“This is why we need federal regulation,” said Silva. “How do we knit something together that makes sense for our region when actually this is the job of the federal government?”

Though they profess a desire to mitigate the impacts of climate change, local governments in El Paso and Doña Ana counties green-lit these projects in a part of the country seeing rapidly rising temperatures. The counties offered Meta and Project Jupiter tax incentives in exchange for corporate investment in their communities, job creation and, hopefully, the ability to attract more technology companies to the region. 

State officials have also provided incentives. More than a decade ago, Texas legislators approved a data center sales tax break, which exempts the facilities from paying sales tax on equipment they purchase, a decision that could now cost the state $3.2 billion in revenue over the next two years, according to The Texas Tribune. 

New Mexico lawmakers declined to advance a bill creating a similar tax break for data centers in 2021. But in 2025, they passed an unrelated law allowing large facilities such as Project Jupiter to generate their own electricity using natural gas. The law exempts these private power systems, known as microgrids, from renewable energy requirements, even as New Mexico requires electric utilities to source 50% of the power they sell from clean energy by 2030. 

The power plants that keep data centers running typically produce large amounts of emissions like carbon dioxide and methane that drive global climate change over time. Combined, the plants proposed for Project Jupiter and Meta’s data center could emit up to 10 million tons of planet-warming emissions annually. Comparatively, the region spanning El Paso County and neighboring Hudspeth County released 8.4 million tons of greenhouse gases in 2019. (The Army has shared scant information about the Fort Bliss data center, so it’s not clear what level of emissions the facility will produce.) 

“This does add to our greenhouse gas emissions in a massive way,” said Gunnar Schade, an associate professor of atmospheric sciences at Texas A&M University. “This is a huge source.”

An Unprecedented Amount of Energy

Silva, the New Mexico representative, was initially supportive of Project Jupiter, in part seeing it as an opportunity to create long-term jobs. Last year, she voted in favor of a bill that included an amendment — tacked on by state Sen. Michael Padilla, a Democrat from Albuquerque — that allows facilities like Project Jupiter, which aren’t connected to the local power grid, a 20-year exemption from clean energy laws, allowing them to generate all their electricity with fossil fuels. 

“We worked this bill pretty much the entire session, but it did not quite get done. So, we found a piece of legislation that was very similar,” Padilla said in an interview last year. “That’s the legislative process. You have to be very creative to get your work done.”

But Silva soon soured on the project out of concern that it won’t employ enough local workers and because it won’t rely on zero-emission renewable energy. Oracle has said the data center will have 750 full-time employees when it’s up and running. The company told Doña Ana County officials in early September that nearly 3,700 people had worked at the site during construction up to that point. 

Silva and other state lawmakers have said they voted for Padilla’s bill without realizing the broader implications for a data center project in the southern part of the state. 

“State regulators, state legislators, I think, were so caught off guard at the speed at which these hyperscale data centers showed up in all of our communities almost simultaneously,” Silva said. “I would support a moratorium.” 

The amount of energy Project Jupiter needs is unprecedented in the region: The data center will receive electricity from an on-site power plant made up of fuel cells built by a company called Bloom Energy. Bloom has said the plant will have the ability to produce up to 2.45 gigawatts of electricity — enough to power around 1.5 million homes and more than El Paso Electric has ever supplied to its 465,000 residential and commercial customers at one time, according to the utility’s corporate reports.

New Mexico Gov. Michelle Lujan Grisham, a Democrat, has specifically lauded Oracle’s promise to use fuel cells for electricity instead of natural gas turbines, which would have used more water and produced more air pollution. However, an air permit — a state-granted license that authorizes industrial facilities to emit a predetermined amount of pollution — would allow the fuel cells to produce up to 8.8 million tons of greenhouse gas emissions per year. Lujan Grisham didn’t address questions from El Paso Matters about the impact of these additional climate emissions.

The Meta power plant in El Paso could release up to 1.3 million tons of climate emissions every year, according to an estimate calculated by El Paso Matters based on El Paso Electric regulatory filings and the Environmental Protection Agency’s emissions factors. Nancy L. Seidman, a senior adviser with the Regulatory Assistance Project, a nonpartisan nonprofit focused on energy policy, confirmed the emissions estimate is sound.

“Regulators should weigh all emissions and other impacts like water usage, noise and local air pollution, which can affect public health, when they make decisions about data center projects,” Seidman wrote in an email to El Paso Matters. “This is particularly important when projects are phased over time, so that an accurate account can be made of the total, holistic impacts.”

The data center planned for Fort Bliss is expected to use 3 gigawatts of electricity that would likely be supplied by natural gas turbines, according to officials with the Department of Defense, who shared details with reporters during a briefing in April. The Army has issued few other details about the project because it is still in “exclusive negotiations” with the developer, Carlyle Group, a large publicly traded private equity firm.

Carlyle Group did not respond to a request for comment. 

“These are cities in terms of their electricity consumption,” Peskoe, of Harvard Law School, said of AI hyperscale data center campuses such as Oracle’s and Meta’s. The facilities are cropping up so fast that “the pace of this and the scale of this — I think there’s no real parallel, at least for 50, 60, 70 years, but probably ever for the U.S. power industry.”

Facilities in New Mexico seeking a state air permit are required by law to disclose estimated amounts of air pollutants and greenhouse gas emissions the project will release. And the state Environment Department has spent months evaluating Project Jupiter’s air permit application, which was submitted in April. A spokesperson for the environmental department didn’t respond to emailed questions.

By contrast, the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality only requires project developers to disclose information about pollutants that affect local air quality, and not about greenhouse gas emissions, which are what contribute to climate change. 

So when El Paso Electric sought an air permit last fall for the Meta data center’s natural gas power plant, the utility didn’t have to share estimated greenhouse gas emissions. The Texas commission approved the permit 20 days after it was filed, following an expedited review. 

Meta directed questions about its data center’s power plant to El Paso Electric. The electric company declined to share estimates of the plant’s greenhouse gas emissions but said in a statement that the Texas environmental commission had reviewed and authorized the Meta power plant “under a standard permit, which is specifically for projects with limited and well-controlled emissions.” The statement said the facility will “operate in compliance with state and federal standards.”

A spokesperson for the agency said, “All Standard Permits have gone through formal notice and comment procedures and have been adopted by the Commission in a public meeting.”

These plants will be releasing large amounts of greenhouse gases even as climate change has become increasingly evident in the El Paso metro area, which sits where Texas’ westernmost boundary meets New Mexico and northern Mexico. El Paso’s temperatures have risen faster than those of almost any other city in the U.S. since 1970, according to Climate Central, a nonprofit that quantifies climate shifts throughout the United States. Drought driven by climate change has amplified the impact of wind storms that fill the air in El Paso with hazardous dust in the spring and summertime.

This year has been the hottest on record in El Paso through the first nine months of 2026, according to the National Weather Service. Similar records have been set across the state line in New Mexico.

“If we started to do these kinds of things — having big data centers with natural-gas-fired turbines — it’s kind of like bringing back a lot of the retired plants that were more dirty, like coal,” said DuBois, the New Mexico state climatologist. 

Fernando Berjano, El Paso’s climate coordinator, wouldn’t comment specifically on effects resulting from the data centers in the region, but he said the kinds of power plants tied to them produce greenhouse gases that will make it harder for the city to meet its climate goals, as well as produce air pollutants.

If emissions increase in the El Paso area, “that has an impact on air quality, that has an impact on pollution,” Berjano said, “which is something that we all know is not good.”

The Road Ahead for Data Centers

Although construction is already underway on the Project Jupiter and Meta data centers, regulatory hurdles remain for both facilities. The public hearing on the Project Jupiter air permit was scheduled to begin Sept. 14, but the New Mexico Supreme Court delayed it when opponents filed lawsuits challenging the state’s approval process and the facility’s use of groundwater. 

The state Supreme Court last month lifted the stay. New Mexico more recently appointed an examiner to preside over the hearing that would authorize the facility’s emissions. Other legal challenges are making their way through the court system. 

In Texas, El Paso Electric is still waiting for the state’s Public Utility Commission to approve construction of the power plant planned next to Meta’s data center, a decision that could come later this year.

Officials with both Project Jupiter and Meta have said they are taking steps to help mitigate the climate effects of their projects and plan to develop clean energy projects elsewhere to create new electricity sources and offset the greenhouse gases their data center power plants will release. Oracle also maintains that its emissions will be lower than what it sought in its air permit application and that it plans to get to net zero greenhouse emissions by 2031. 

“Oracle is committed to building Project Jupiter responsibly and incorporating community feedback into our planning,” the company said in a statement. 

The road ahead for data centers is unclear. Even once-supportive officials have softened or changed course: Last year, Lujan Grisham, New Mexico’s governor, said Project Jupiter “reaffirms New Mexico’s leadership in global trade, advanced manufacturing, and digital infrastructure.” In Texas, Gov. Greg Abbott at one point called his state “the epicenter of AI development.” 

Now, amid growing opposition to Project Jupiter, Lujan Grisham recently said she takes seriously residents’ concerns about the data center “and expects any data center operating in New Mexico to meet the state’s rigorous environmental standards and use water responsibly.” This summer, Abbott called on the Texas Public Utility Commission to ensure the projects pay for their own infrastructure and don’t lead to higher electricity costs for residents. He also recommended the state Legislature pass a number of regulations related to data centers next year, many concerning water and electricity usage, and recently told the Texas Water Development Board to penalize data centers that do not report their water usage. 

Abbott’s new edicts do not address air pollution or climate change, nor the effects that a data center project in one state can have on another. 

Texas Democratic state Rep. Joe Moody, whose district includes much of west and northeast El Paso, near two of the data center projects, said Abbott’s proposals will likely shape the Texas Legislature’s debate over data-center-related policies next year but called them just a starting point. 

“In the governor’s directives, we’re not talking about local control and local autonomy to make decisions on these projects,” he said. “And I do think that that’s a whole other lane of conversation that we’re going to get into next session.”

The post New Mexico and El Paso Spent Millions on Climate Plans. Three New Data Centers Could Undo Them. appeared first on ProPublica.

It wasn’t the kind of call a grocery store gets every day. A customer with a thick Eastern European accent was on the phone saying he wanted to buy several thousand cans of Red Bull. Could the store have them in stock in a few days? Also, did they have equipment to move all those stacks of energy drinks into the parking lot, where two minivans would be waiting?

When the day came, Oct. 19, 2022, employees at the Smart & Final store in San Diego sold 3,960 cans of Red Bull and 720 of Monster Energy to two men and two women, all with the same accent, and helped them wheel the pallets out back. To pay for it all — the bill came to $10,747.05 — the group pulled out piles of plastic. These weren’t credit or debit cards; they looked more like hotel-room keys. There were 25 cards in all, each with a different amount loaded onto it, and the four people took turns swiping one after another. Then, the payment complete, they drove off.

In the days that followed, people as far away as New York and Florida made panicked calls to the store. They wanted to know why their food-stamp accounts (containing their Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, or SNAP, benefits) had been drained at this seemingly random location in San Diego.

It would turn out that what became known as the Red Bull Crew had gotten ahold of their SNAP data and used the funds to buy the energy drinks, which they then sold online or to smaller stores. It was hardly an isolated event. From September through November of that year, the same crew, part of a criminal syndicate based in Romania, bought at least $305,274.52 in energy drinks, using SNAP account information and PINs stolen from at least 174 victims nationwide, according to court documents and federal investigators.

To hear the Trump administration tell it, the SNAP program is under siege by well-heeled recipients of food stamps. Vice President JD Vance, upon being named “Fraud Czar” this spring, said: “There are people who have Lamborghinis who currently receive SNAP benefits.” Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins, whose agency oversees the program, regularly goes on TV and social media to allege that masses of SNAP recipients are scamming the system, driving Bentleys, Ferraris, Maseratis and, yes, Lamborghinis.

The federal government’s own statistics tell a different story. Confirmed cases of intentional program violations — fraud — committed by SNAP recipients account for $64 million a year, or about 0.08% of all benefits issued annually, according to the most recent 50-state reports compiled by the U.S. Department of Agriculture.

Meanwhile a far bigger fraud wave has exploded over the past five years: organized theft from SNAP recipients. In 2025, $470 million was stolen electronically from beneficiaries — and thus from the U.S. taxpayer — according to data supplied to ProPublica by Propel, a company that provides a mobile app for SNAP recipients to check their account balances and transaction histories. More than 990,000 households that received food assistance last year had benefits stolen. (The reason it’s necessary to use data from a private company: The federal government has stopped tracking rates of this crime.)

ProPublica interviewed nearly 100 victims of SNAP theft, federal prosecutors, Secret Service agents, USDA officials, caseworkers and other experts to understand what’s behind this phenomenon and why more isn’t being done to stop it. The victims are almost all working people with families, or retirees, who have struggled to afford groceries in the current economy. Most didn’t learn about the crime until they were in a checkout line, only to have their benefit card declined.

Upon reporting the disappearance of their food assistance, victims are informed that nothing can be done under current federal law. “The only thing they said was that [my benefits] cannot be refunded unless they were lost due to a natural disaster,” said one SNAP theft victim in Ohio. “They told me they’d add my name to the list,” said another in rural Oregon. “They advised if I feel the place is sketchy, don’t run my card there,” a victim in Philadelphia said. Still another, in Virginia, added, “They even charged me $2 for a replacement card.”

Perhaps the most vexing aspect of all: The federal government knows how to prevent the vast majority of this crime in a single step. Congress just hasn’t been willing to take it.

SNAP theft is an old scheme applied to a new target. For years, scammers would surreptitiously install skimming devices on card readers at ATMs, gas pumps and corner stores. These devices could read the data on people’s cards as they swiped — while a pinhole camera or overlay keypad captured their PINs — all of which could be picked up later or sent via Bluetooth to someone sitting in a nearby cafe or parking lot. This pilfered data, in turn, was used to make online purchases, or it was loaded onto cloned cards to withdraw cash.

Skimming became exponentially more difficult when credit and debit card companies installed digital microchips in the 2010s and then introduced tap-to-pay. But one kind of card did not get the new chips: Electronic Benefits Transfer, or EBT, cards, which people use to access SNAP and other public assistance. These still rely on the 1960s-era magnetic-stripe technology that skimmers can easily read.

EBT cards are not a particularly high-value target compared with bank cards. (The average monthly SNAP benefit is about $350 per household.) But funding boosts to SNAP during the pandemic temporarily increased benefit amounts, and profits could be considerable if you skimmed hundreds of people’s card information every month. Skimming teams, often run by Romanian gangs, pivoted. With cloned magnetic-stripe cards, they started buying up huge quantities of SNAP-eligible products like energy drinks and baby formula that are easy to store and resell.

“We’ve started many, many briefings saying that one of the biggest ways we’re going to fight this is to just get chips in the cards,” said Michael Peck, assistant special agent in charge of the Secret Service’s Criminal Investigative Division. Among the Secret Service’s lesser-known functions is investigating many financial crimes, and Peck leads its efforts against benefit theft. He said he and his team have delivered this message on Capitol Hill both at committee meetings and to individual members of Congress.

Yet congressional leadership has continually blocked legislation that would fund chip EBT cards nationally, despite universal support for the measure among Democrats and significant support among the Republican rank and file. For instance, House Committee on Agriculture Chairman Glenn Thompson, a Republican from Pennsylvania, said at a hearing in March that chip technology is “very effective.” But he shut down a bipartisan proposal to upgrade EBT cards with chips, citing unspecified budgetary constraints. (“Chairman Thompson is supportive of finding a fiscally responsible path forward for implementing policy that supports chip cards,” a committee aide said in a statement on his behalf. She added that “there was an appetite” for this reform among Republicans, but that Democrats weren’t willing to “find the budgetary offsets” for it.)

The Congressional Budget Office has yet to formally score the proposal, but multiple Hill staffers said they were told the total cost would be in the range of $215 million, as compared to the $600 million-plus annual loss on theft of SNAP and other benefits.

The main thing Congress has done about SNAP theft is to abandon a previous effort to help victims. The federal government had, since late 2022, been replacing people’s stolen funds, just as banks are required to do if your debit card is hacked. As a result, 753,929 households were compensated.

In December 2024, a bipartisan spending agreement that included a provision to extend these reimbursements through 2028 was on the brink of becoming law. But Elon Musk, who had been named a leader of the new Department of Government Efficiency, attacked the legislation more than 100 times on X, pushing to “defund everything.” (Musk did not reply to a request for comment.) Trump then sank the deal. Victims of SNAP theft can no longer get any of their benefits replaced. And with the government off the hook for losses, there is now less incentive to put money into the solution.

In the 22 months since, the Trump administration has gone on to strip funds for addressing EBT theft from the USDA’s annual budget requests to Congress, while cutting at least 650 of the staff of the federal Food and Nutrition Administration, the subagency that oversees SNAP. More than half of the technical experts whom the agency had hired to help it develop EBT card security guidance have been pushed out, according to the Government Accountability Office.

“Many of us who were working on fraud, we’ve left the federal government entirely,” said Kym Ayodeji, who had been a data scientist in the SNAP program until she departed this spring. (FNA, the agency she worked for, is also responsible for tracking fraud committed by retailers, which is far more prevalent than that committed by beneficiaries.) Ayodeji said she and her colleagues had been working on ways to identify retailers where unusually large quantities of certain items had been purchased and addresses where purchases made with many different EBT cards were being delivered. Some of this work was indefinitely delayed by firings, early retirements, agency reorganizations and government shutdowns, she said.

SNAP is federally funded and supervised. Congress and the USDA traditionally mandate, and pay much of the costs for, major changes to the system, especially involving technical coordination between states. States evaluate applicants and administer the accounts of those who are approved.

That said, states are allowed to adopt chip cards on their own. California has nearly completed the transition, and Alabama and Oklahoma began rolling out new cards this year. A handful of others initiated the process in recent months — before the One Big Beautiful Bill Act, starting Oct. 1, cut 50% of states’ administrative funding for SNAP, which Alabama and the others had tapped to transition to chip technology.

The rest — about 40 states — have likely missed their window, unless Congress acts. They’re also waiting for regulatory guidance on EBT card security and chip card implementation that the USDA has been claiming for nearly four years it is planning to publish. (The USDA Office of Inspector General has found that the agency’s failure to issue this has allowed the theft of at least $555 million in SNAP benefits.)

State-level SNAP administrators have also been overwhelmed with the hundreds of new requirements that the One Big Beautiful Bill Act has saddled them with. For one, the law mandates that states adopt intensive new work requirements for older adults and others, resulting in voluminous additional monthly paperwork. And federal funds will be slashed even further next year if states don’t scramble to reduce their “payment error rate,” a figure that measures unintentional over- and underpayments in SNAP benefits. With all of this to juggle, many state officials told ProPublica that they’ve put chip card implementation on hold in order to implement the Trump law — one of whose ostensible goals was to reduce fraud.

All the while, that law has cut food aid for more than 1.2 million children. The USDA’s Rollins has said that nearly 6 million people in total have been “moved off SNAP” during the current administration.

The White House declined to respond to a detailed list of questions. A USDA spokesperson, in an emailed statement, did not refute that Rollins has focused on individual SNAP recipient fraud rather than on EBT theft, but said that finding “cracks in public statements screams politics, not fact-finding.” The spokesperson also did not address ProPublica’s reporting showing that the agency has failed to deliver solutions on EBT theft specifically. Instead, the statement pointed to the agency’s work, in collaboration with the Department of Justice, combating retailer fraud. The USDA says it has cracked down on thousands of stores that were abusing their SNAP privileges.

Absent action from Congress or USDA leadership, it has largely been left to the Secret Service to apply an enforcement approach to what is arguably a policy problem. Agents first went after gangs like the Red Bull Crew, often by watching hours upon hours of grocery store surveillance footage. More recently, they’ve tried to get ahead of the scammers by heading to cities that have been hit by EBT theft attacks and then going store to store to check card readers for skimming devices. The agency has run more than 70 of these operations since April 2024, independent of any White House initiative.

Most of them are led by Peck, the assistant special agent in charge. With his form-fitting black polo tucked into cargo pants and a contoured beard, he has a flat affect even as he lists off colorful details like how the criminals sometimes ship dishwashers full of cash overseas. But he also emphasizes the vulnerability of the victims and wishes there was even more his team could do for them. “The U.S. has been fighting the War on Drugs and the War on Terror for how many years?” he said. “We are pushing hard and we’re doing all we can with the resources and abilities that we have.”

One bright morning in late June, dozens of law enforcement officers gathered in a Secret Service meeting room on the top floor of a downtown Brooklyn skyscraper, with a commanding view of the New York City skyline. In addition to unarmed Secret Service analysts in short-sleeved shirts inscribed with the field office they were joining from (Nashville, Miami, San Diego), there were agents from the USDA Office of Inspector General as well as a smattering of NYPD officers — who had guns, handcuffs and the jurisdiction to make arrests should anything go awry that day.

From a podium, Peck recapped how the multiday New York operation was going so far, including that the previous day, officers had happened upon two foreign nationals installing a skimming device, chased them down and made arrests. “Be safe, watch backs, stay fed,” he concluded.

Then everyone dispersed into teams of three or four. Each was given a list of dozens of stores in Brooklyn or Queens — disproportionately ethnic and dollar stores, but also some larger chains like 7-11 — that they were assigned to visit, based on data analytics showing where skimming activity was most probable.

The squad that ProPublica joined was headed to Midwood, in South Brooklyn, which is home to Orthodox Jews and immigrants from the Middle East, Central Asia and elsewhere. As we walked around the neighborhood with these federal agents, we got plenty of confused looks and some scared ones, too.

“Hello, we’re here with the Secret Service,” one of the analysts would say upon entering each store. Then they’d ask the store manager for permission to inspect each card reader. They also handed out flyers in four languages telling the cashiers what to look out for.

When they did find a skimming device, they donned gloves and masks to handle it. After prying it off the card reader, they bagged it and tagged it, to be sent in for DNA and fingerprint testing as well as digital forensic analysis. Maybe a lead could be extracted, a connection to a larger EBT theft ring.

These missions are clearly well-intentioned, and every skimmer removed saves families from being deprived of food. Yet, plainly, conducting store-to-store checks of card readers is inefficient. Over the course of two years, the agency has spent tens of thousands of staff hours checking 69,805 point-of-sale terminals at stores, 42,972 gas pumps and 10,661 ATMs. They’ve found 637 skimming devices. And as one agent told ProPublica, “There could be a new skimmer on there tomorrow.”

Ultimately, it just won’t be possible to arrest one’s way out of this crisis, both federal and state law enforcement officials acknowledged. Low-level runners keep arriving from Romania and elsewhere; even if they do get caught, they’re often able to bond out of jail because they’re only facing state charges for nonviolent offenses. Then they disappear.

Funding for chip EBT cards still faces dim prospects on Capitol Hill, according to Democratic and Republican lawmakers and staffers, even with newfound support from major retailer associations and big players like Walmart. There’s a chip card provision in the Senate’s draft version of this year’s Farm Bill, but the whole package is mired in a dispute between the parties — over the One Big Beautiful Bill Act’s cuts to SNAP funding — that looks like it will last until well after the midterm elections. This almost doesn’t matter, given that on the House side, the Farm Bill has already passed, and it contains no funding for chip cards.

And there’s been no movement on repeated bipartisan proposals from Sen. John Fetterman of Pennsylvania and others to renew the reimbursement program for families that have had their food assistance taken.

Certainly, the mass distribution of any new payment technology isn’t easy. California, Alabama and Oklahoma have had to phase in their new cards gradually, allowing customers to still use the card’s magnetic stripe if the chip isn’t working everywhere yet. And they’ve tried to notify rural convenience stores and gas stations, and help corner bodegas update their card readers, so that no one is left with only a chip card in a desert of stores that still just accept magnetic stripe.

But by doing all of this and employing additional data tools, California has reduced the theft of food and cash benefits by as much as 83% in just two years, the governor’s office said. And Alabama officials claim their state hasn’t had any confirmed EBT theft cases since they began to distribute chip cards this year.

Still, chip cards aren’t the entire solution and doubtlessly, scammers will find clever ways to get around this technology. Moreover, SNAP recipients have largely been denied the basic services that banks and credit card companies use to block likely fraudulent transactions in real time. (Think of the email or text alerts you get from your bank when suspicious purchases are attempted with your card information.)

If states were to try this without federal help, they would have to individually pay for the additional security features. Most have gone for cheaper options like advising or requiring SNAP recipients to change their PIN regularly and to lock their card when not using it. Both are useful stopgaps but require constant diligence.

State and county SNAP caseworkers said they’ve been deeply frustrated that ever since Trump and Musk killed the reimbursement program, all they can do for victims is suggest they change their PIN more often and maybe try reporting the crime to local law enforcement. “It is a short conversation,” said Norman Vogele, a caseworker in Oregon. The date of the crime and the missing amount is recorded. “It isn’t clear why we even do that much,” he said, “as there is zero recourse.”

The Red Bull Crew stayed on the run for over a year, using looted food benefits to buy hundreds of thousands of dollars of bulk energy drinks in Oklahoma, Kansas, North Carolina, South Carolina and Georgia. After hundreds of hours of surveillance by the Secret Service, federal prosecutors and local authorities, all but one of the members were arrested and served sentences ranging from one to three years. They’ve all since been released, and some may have been deported.

Meanwhile, every day, SNAP theft sprees keep popping up in new corners of the country. A Secret Service official sounded gloomy about the pursuit of street-level operatives on its own, without policy change. “You can arrest them,” he said. “But essentially once you take them off the street, there’s 10 more that are doing the same thing.”

The post Scammers Are Stealing Millions From Food Stamp Recipients. Congress Could Fix It — but Won’t. appeared first on ProPublica.

In 2020, seven years after he was appointed to represent a client who claimed he was wrongly convicted, attorney Scott Galloway told the judge that he was still looking into the case and needed more time.  

“I am still in the process of interviewing individuals,” the lawyer wrote to the judge in Delaware County, outside Philadelphia, who had already granted him 32 extensions. 

His client, Nolan O’Neal, had been a 20-year-old high school student when he was arrested for murder by Chester police, who had four eyewitnesses identifying him. At his 2005 trial, those witnesses all recanted, saying police had pressured them to accuse O’Neal. 

By the time Galloway joined the case, in 2013, O’Neal had already spent eight years in prison insisting he was innocent. The lawyer’s job was to help him file a petition under Pennsylvania’s Post Conviction Relief Act. That law provided a narrow path to freedom if Galloway could find crucial new evidence or prove that previous lawyers had mishandled the case.

But court records do not show that the attorney did much other than ask for more time. 

In 2022, after nine years, one unsuccessful request to access evidence and 41 extensions, Galloway filed a two-page petition addressing just one of the many issues O’Neal had wanted him to raise. It would not be enough to get O’Neal his day in court. 

For more than half a century, Pennsylvania has promised people who claim they didn’t get a fair trial the right to “effective” post-conviction legal representation, regardless of their ability to pay. That’s more than most states promise people after they have been convicted and lost their appeals.  

Yet Pennsylvania has done little to fulfill that promise. The Philadelphia Inquirer and ProPublica previously reported that Pennsylvania lets lawyers resolve cases quickly using a practice that is discouraged in several states: filing “no-merit” letters, also known as Finley letters, urging judges to reject their clients’ handwritten or typed claims. In Philadelphia, dozens who had received such letters later had their convictions or sentences overturned based on issues their lawyers had rejected or overlooked. 

But the problems go deeper than that: The state’s loose rules and its failure to fund post-conviction work have made the type of breakdown O’Neal encountered a recurring feature of this system. 

By filing public records requests with courts serving all 67 Pennsylvania counties and analyzing a decade of court dockets, an Inquirer and ProPublica investigation found that the system Pennsylvania set up to protect the right to counsel instead allows, or even encourages, shoddy representation.

The news organizations found that:

• Unlike in other types of appeals, attorneys handling post-conviction cases work under no particular timeline and are allowed numerous extensions. The state also has no standards regarding how many cases lawyers should be assigned, and many counties ask lawyers to sign contracts that set no limit on the number of cases courts can assign them. At least 250 people have languished in prison for five years or longer while waiting for their lawyers to act. 
• Unlike some other states, such as North Carolina and New York, Pennsylvania requires no specific training, experience or qualifications for appointed post-trial lawyers, and it holds them to few standards. Lawyers are not required to speak to their clients or take other basic investigative steps before withdrawing from cases by writing no-merit letters.  
• Pennsylvania, which lags behind almost every other state in funding legal defense for poor people, known as indigent defense, dedicates no money for post-trial work. Instead, it leaves it up to each individual county to set pay rates. A majority of county court systems use flat-rate fee structures that some other states ban. 

While almost every county in the state has a public defender office, most post-conviction cases are handled by private lawyers who are paid hourly, by the case or by the year and work with little to no supervision. Our review of court records found pay as low as $500 per case and delays as long as 19 years without a single court filing. 

In some counties, contracted lawyers’ backlogs spanned dozens of cases. In Chester County, an affluent region west of Philadelphia, a lawyer left cases untouched for as long as two years before the county ended his contract last fall.  

Delaware County, where O’Neal was convicted, relies on a group of part-time lawyers to handle most of its post-trial matters. One is Galloway, who has handled 20 or 30 post-trial cases per year for the county in addition to running his own law practice and, for a time, holding local elected office. Galloway said that his ethical obligation to confidentiality prevented him from commenting on O’Neal’s case. Judge George A. Pagano, who granted him 41 extensions on O’Neal’s case, declined to comment.

In the years Galloway was on the case, O’Neal wrote him dozens of letters from state prison, proposing legal arguments and sending leads to investigate. 

“It is a daunting and exhausting task to navigate this legal process and be heard,” O’Neal said in an interview. “We at times even have to fight the attorneys who are supposed to represent us.” 

In 2020, he received a letter from the brother of the murder victim, admitting that his testimony against O’Neal was a lie. “I want to fix it. I know my brother would want me to. It’s been long enough,” he wrote. O’Neal said he pleaded with Galloway to track down the man. 

In 2022, Galloway attached the brother’s signed statement to a sparse two-page brief, which mentioned none of the other issues O’Neal had raised nine years earlier or the other witnesses who’d come forward over the years. The judge started the process of dismissing the claim. One reason: The filing had been made too late. O’Neal is still fighting his case, now with a new court-appointed lawyer.

Delays and Extensions

Before they are assigned a lawyer, Pennsylvania prisoners must write the first draft of their post-conviction filing on their own within a strict one-year deadline. The lawyers appointed to revise their petitions, on the other hand, are not generally held to any timeline. The state courts say lawyers should act “expeditiously so as to reduce unnecessary delays.” Yet judges have granted extensions liberally, court dockets show, and in many cases failed to impose any deadlines at all.  

An Inquirer and ProPublica review of court dockets found that hundreds of people have waited two years or longer, only to receive no-merit letters. That analysis is an undercount, since many court clerks don’t clearly label attorney filings on their dockets. In Philadelphia alone, some 65 people have waited three to eight years for lawyers to take action before reaching that same outcome. Similarly, across the state, dockets show that lawyers received seven or more extensions in dozens of cases before filing Finley letters or nothing at all. 

In 2017, Lee Mandell, who has been practicing law in Philadelphia for more than 50 years, sent a Finley letter saying that he’d written to but never spoken with his client of four years and did not understand his claims.

“It is entirely unclear as to what the defendant really means,” wrote Mandell. In his own review of the case, Mandell failed to flag an erroneous jury instruction that four years later would lead to the conviction being overturned. Mandell was later formally reprimanded for allowing another client’s hearing to be delayed by six years, during which time two witnesses died. He did not return calls seeking comment.

Judges’ inaction added to lawyers’ delays, leaving matters to stagnate for years on end. In 2023, the state’s Superior Court registered such concerns about a case from Wayne County, where a lawyer filed a “two-page, deficient motion to withdraw, and the PCRA court did nothing in this case for 20 years.” 

To be sure, there can be good reasons for delays, since investigations can be complex. Lawyers have spent years chasing down missing witnesses, litigating requests for DNA testing or combing through police files. 

But in almost 200 post-conviction cases across Pennsylvania in the last 15 years, lawyers were appointed, then filed nothing at all over the span of a year or longer before being replaced with a new appointed lawyer. One of the cases stagnated for almost seven years, only for a new attorney to pick up the file. Another man was appointed five lawyers over eight years, dockets show, none of whom filed anything on his behalf.

Court officials have long been aware of the backlogs wracking this system, even publishing a law review article about it in 2003. The study outlined needed reforms but acknowledged the lack of political will, saying the “low status” of these cases stems from a bias among judges and lawyers who believe “that most post conviction claims are frivolous.”

No Standards for Lawyering

The loose timeline is just one dimension of a system with few standards. The state has published no best practices for indigent defense or guidelines on how many cases a lawyer can take; it has provided no training and instituted virtually no guidelines to ensure that court-appointed lawyers are qualified. As a result, lawyers hold widely diverging views on just what obligations they have to their clients.

The Inquirer and ProPublica previously found that about three-quarters of the time, Philadelphia lawyers who ended up filing Finley letters did not take basic steps such as meeting with their client, tracking down the trial lawyer’s file and obtaining all available discovery. 

“I do not know how you can evaluate trial counsel’s performance, which is the main role of post-conviction counsel, without talking to your client and reading trial counsel’s file,” said Jennifer Merrigan, a co-founder of Phillips Black, a nonprofit law firm. That file would reveal whether the lawyer consulted with experts, received all relevant evidence from the prosecutor and investigated potential witnesses. 

The state’s lack of vetting and training stands in contrast with national norms. A majority of other states have centralized defender services or support offices that provide resources, education and oversight. For instance, in North Carolina, appeals lawyers seeking court appointments must apply with the state appellate defender and submit references, work history showing the lawyer is qualified to litigate appeals and legal writing samples. They’re also required to take a training course covering strategy and best practices. 

Even without a statewide office, Pennsylvania’s Supreme Court could establish minimum qualifications for lawyers handling indigent defense. In August, a state court committee published such a proposal, but it recommends only that lawyers have relevant work experience “to the extent practicable.” Work experience requirements have been enforced in some other states, such as Ohio, for years. But the committee’s proposal argued that work experience is not “possible to quantify” and that “less-than-experienced representation is better than no representation.”  

Ted Skaarup, a public defender who has advocated for training and qualification requirements, said inexperienced and untrained lawyers are more likely to default to writing Finley letters. New lawyers, he said, are left to consult with older attorneys who may pass on bad practices. “You go to them for advice and they say, ‘I’ll send you a copy of my [no-merit] letter.’”

Only one of the state’s 67 counties provided written criteria requiring specific work experience for lawyers to be appointed to post-conviction cases in response to records requests. Philadelphia court leadership says that lawyers must complete a training session and show they’ve recently handled three hearings involving disputed evidence. A volunteer panel tasked with approving prospective lawyers there rarely meets and is not empowered to approve or reject candidates based on writing samples, a core part of screening appeals lawyers in some other places.

In Pittsburgh, the nonprofit Allegheny Lawyers Initiative for Justice has urged local court officials to set up a system to screen and supervise appointed lawyers. For now, the organization is running its own voluntary trainings, as well as a resource center with office hours, a library of sample motions and help with social service referrals. 

Without such systems, the organization’s executive director, Rob Perkins, said, “There’s no quality control.” Lawyers can get away with “doing a poor job in these cases for years without anyone really paying attention.”

“Your Incentive Is to Do the Least Work”

When attorney Corrie Woods took over Washington County’s post-conviction caseload in 2020, he was startled to discover about a dozen files that had been untouched since being assigned to the previous lawyer in 2019 or earlier. In some, the lawyer’s inaction had caused the clients to lose their appeal rights.

Looking back, Woods said, it’s not surprising, given that the western Pennsylvania county was paying him $25,000 a year as a part-timer for up to 24 cases. “These cases are not going to take priority in most law offices,” said Woods, who now handles mostly personal injury cases. 

Under such a contract, he said, “Your incentive is to do the least work. You’re not getting more for doing more.” 

The American Bar Association has long opposed such flat-fee pay structures for that reason. States including Colorado, Idaho and Nevada have banned them. 

Not Pennsylvania. The state began contributing any money to indigent defense only in 2023. Today it kicks in just 57 cents per capita; neighboring states, on average, pay $26 per resident. Counties provide the rest as they see fit. A pending American Civil Liberties Union lawsuit claims that has resulted in widespread violations of the right to counsel.

Pennsylvania Spends Less Than Most Other States on Indigent Defense

At 57 cents per resident, Pennsylvania’s state-level contribution toward funding legal defense for poor people is a fraction of what neighboring states pay.

About three-quarters of Pennsylvanians live in counties that use flat-fee arrangements or cap the amount a lawyer can bill for a case. Daniel Buzard, the court administrator in the county where Woods held the contract several years ago, said in an email, “This provides financial stability for both parties.”  

Some counties pay as little as $500 per case. Based on time estimates from Maine, one of the only states to publish post-conviction workload standards, that would come out to $11 per hour.

Twenty-one Pennsylvania counties offer flat annual pay for part-time lawyers — sometimes then assigning them caseloads that exceed Maine’s standard for full-time work.

Only five of the 18 contracts obtained in response to public records requests included a limit on the number of cases the court could heap onto a lawyer. None of the contracts set deadlines, specified a time commitment or described any oversight mechanism.

Stuart Wilder said his contract to handle post-conviction cases in Bucks County, outside Philadelphia, kept the lights on in his office for years. He worked hard for clients, he said, and won several challenging cases. But he said the flat-fee structure did require him to deprioritize cases where he didn’t see merit. 

“Being able to file Finley letters gave me the time to work on cases I could fix,” said Wilder, who recently retired.

But in at least three counties, contract lawyers left multiple clients stranded for a year or longer with no progress on their cases, dockets show.

In 2021, the court in Erie County yanked 50 cases from attorney James P. Miller and eventually reported him for discipline, citing extreme delays that cost some clients their appeal rights. Miller, whose law license was suspended as a result, declined to comment. But Erie court administrator Robert Catalde said the debacle spurred the county to double lawyers’ pay to $46,800 and provide benefits. 

A similar situation played out last year in Chester County, which abruptly ended its contract with the lawyer handling all its post-conviction cases, Charles Thomas Jr., after discovering that he had been putting in an average of just five hours a week across his roughly 25 cases.

One client, Patrick Hickson, said he spent two years trying to get Thomas to track down evidence that could clear him of a 2018 shooting or at least prove he didn’t get a fair trial. His defense lawyer had failed to call a single witness — admitting to the judge, mid-trial, that he’d wrongly assumed the prosecutor would send a summons to an eyewitness who had told police Hickson wasn’t the shooter. 

To raise the issue, Hickson needed Thomas to track down the missing witness. But when he reached Thomas by phone in August 2025, for the first time in months, the lawyer told him he was off the case. “He said the courts told him he was taking too long,” Hickson said. Thomas declined to comment. 

Chester County criminal court administrator Jordan Ludwick acknowledged concerns about the delays but said he resolved the problem by finding a qualified lawyer to take over the contract. 

That attorney, Shannon McDonald, said it was “not an easy transition.” 

“There were many cases that had not been touched at all,” she said. 

She cut through the backlog by filing 17 briefs in just over three months. All but three were Finley letters. 

“The case has to survive on the merits,” she said, “and, frankly, the deck is stacked against overturning a case.”

This March, she also sent Hickson a Finley letter. McDonald said ethics rules prevented her from discussing Hickson’s case, but in the letter she blamed Hickson for failing to track down the would-be witness and said his trial lawyer had a strategic reason for not sending the subpoena.

Reading the letter, Hickson said, “I felt defeated.” 

Since McDonald asked to drop the case, he is pursuing exoneration alone.

The post He Waited Nine Years in Prison for His Lawyer to File a Single Brief. In This State, There’s No Rule Against It. appeared first on ProPublica.

At 4:59 a.m. on Aug. 25, Verlon Jose, the chairman of the Tohono O’odham Nation in Southern Arizona, received an email from the head of the U.S. Border Patrol’s Tucson Sector. Government contractors were en route to conduct soil tests for construction of a 62-mile wall along the Nation’s southern boundary, wrote acting chief patrol agent Henry N. Laxdal.

If the tribe wished to have cultural monitors observe the work, they were welcome to, but they could not interfere with the government’s operations.

The work would begin in exactly one minute.

Jose, 59, was already aware of the contractors’ arrival. An hour earlier, a tribal member had called to report a caravan heading south through the reservation, and Facebook was lighting up with similar accounts. The convoy included not only work trucks and drilling rigs, but Border Patrol vehicles as well.

For months, the O’odham had maneuvered to avoid such a scene, taking their case to federal court. Their homeland straddles the border, and thousands of tribal members live in Mexico. A wall would disrupt routine border crossings for ceremonies and family visits and destroy landscapes they consider their duty to protect, members and leaders say. Their lawsuit argued that the Trump administration’s efforts to build it despite their opposition constituted an historic attack on tribal sovereignty.

But administration attorneys gave assurances that the government was engaging with the O’odham in good faith, and a judge in Washington, D.C., denied the tribe’s request for a preliminary injunction. In his Aug. 25 email providing Jose a 60-second heads up, the Border Patrol chief said his agency’s willingness to accommodate cultural monitors underscored its “commitment to ongoing coordination” with the Nation.

As daylight broke, Jose learned the contractors were guarded by federal agents in masks and tactical gear, drawn from a special operations cadre that participated in citywide sweeps in Minneapolis and Chicago the previous year, which left three people dead, including two U.S. citizens. When the tribe’s chief of police tried to reach the worksite, he was stopped at a roadblock set up by the agents.

Jose issued a statement on the Nation’s website declaring the incursion illegal and revealing that the Department of Homeland Security had deployed a surveillance blimp and enlisted Mexican security forces to help protect the work crews.

For a quarter-century, Tohono O’odham leaders have staved off a border wall by allowing DHS to use the reservation as a testing ground for some of the government’s most aggressive homeland security measures — from vehicle barriers on the reservation’s southern boundary, to state-of-the-art surveillance towers, to law enforcement partnerships with the Border Patrol and Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

Despite the collaborations, and assurances from the Trump administration, ProPublica found that DHS has turned its vast apparatus on tribal members, with 24-hour surveillance directed at an ongoing border prayer ceremony and tribal members being questioned outside the reservation about their ceremonial activities. ProPublica’s account is based on photos, videos, court filings, interviews with tribal leadership, firsthand observations and more than 1,000 contemporaneously written observations compiled by tribal members.

The battle over a border wall on the Nation has broken along familiar partisan lines in Arizona. While GOP legislative leaders have filed briefs in support of the project, Democratic Gov. Katie Hobbs has done the same in support of the tribe.

Progressive U.S. Rep. Adelita Grijalva, whose district includes the reservation, has said she is crafting legislation to rein in the Department of Homeland Security’s sweeping powers to waive federal laws in order to expedite wall construction. The Trump administration has used those authorities to circumvent environmental and cultural preservation statutes on 60 occasions across its two terms.

For Deshane Gregg, whose vehicle was forced off the road by a convoy of contractors and federal agents, the recent show of force on the reservation has felt like a government siege, not cooperation.

“You just feel helpless. You see these people, and they’re just so aggressive. They want you to react. They want you to show them that we could be ugly too,” she said. “We’re just here doing prayer. We’re just here, not trying to bother them, but it gets to you when it’s constantly being like that.”

“The drones flying over us all day,” she added, “it’s a lot.”

ProPublica sent DHS, U.S. Customs and Border Protection, and the Border Patrol nearly 30 questions about the government’s surveillance and interactions with tribal members and leaders. The agencies answered none of those questions. Instead, CBP pointed to a statement Commissioner Rodney Scott made in August, in which he described the reservation’s southern boundary as “one of the most dangerous smuggling and trafficking corridors on the Southwest border” and a “remote desert that has facilitated decades of drug loads, migrant deaths, and cartel activity.”

Regarding construction of a wall, Scott said, “Congress funded this work, a Federal court has affirmed it, and CBP is carrying it out under the legal authorities that apply. Under President Trump’s leadership, we are securing the border and giving our agents the tools and support they need to protect the American people.”

With no sign the White House or the O’odham government is backing down, DHS has cast off any pretense that the agency will work cooperatively with the Nation. Within hours of the judge’s denial of the emergency injunction, on Aug. 14, the department’s general counsel, James Percival, posted a celebratory meme depicting one of the cybernetic Star Trek supervillains known as “the Borg.”

“RESISTANCE IS FUTILE,” it read.

“We respect tribal sovereignty but not to the detriment of border security,” he wrote. “This wall is getting built. Our authority is beyond dispute.”

The O’odham have inhabited the Sonoran Desert, from what is now Southern Arizona to Mexico’s Sea of Cortez, for thousands of years. According to the tribe, roughly 14,000 of its 37,000 enrolled members live on tribal land west of Tucson. Approximately 3,000 more reside in Mexico. At 2.8 million acres, their reservation is the largest on the southern border by a long shot.

During President Donald Trump’s first term, Arizona saw 226 miles of border wall built, but the Nation maintained its status as the longest unwalled section in the state. Confirmation that things would be different this time came in February, when CBP informed the tribe that it planned to seal off the reservation entirely, tapping nearly $52 billion from Trump’s so-called One Big Beautiful Bill Act.

The tribe’s elected leaders met with DHS Secretary Markwayne Mullin in hopes of changing the administration’s mind. As an enrolled citizen of the Cherokee Nation, Mullin is the first Native American to head the department. “Maybe we can work with this guy,” Jose recalled thinking.

But Mullin’s message was clear: We want to work with you, but we’re building the wall. Justice Department attorneys were prepared to defend the project to the Supreme Court. O’odham council member Vivian Juan-Saunders, who also attended the April 21 meeting, recalls the secretary saying, “Don’t mess with me.” Mullin’s office did not respond to questions from ProPublica, including about the exchange.

The message was more direct the following month, when tribal leaders met with Scott. According to Jose, the CBP commissioner told the delegation that if they filed a lawsuit opposing the wall, the Nation could lose access to three border gates members use to travel to and from Mexico. Accessible only to tribal members, the gates are maintained at the discretion of CBP.

Juan-Saunders confirmed that CBP threatened to close the gates, as did another council member, Jesse Navarro. CBP declined to comment on the alleged threat.

In June, a $1.3 billion contract to build the wall, known as the “Tucson 5” project, was awarded to Sullivan Land Services Co., also known as SLS and SLSCO. The Texas firm has a long history of Republican political donations and was a major recipient of border wall contracts during Trump’s first term.

The O’odham filed a lawsuit to stop the project on June 16 in the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia. The tribe contended it would reduce the size of its reservation, which can only be done by Congress — and that the wall would mark an enduring act of trespass on sovereign lands and destroy sacred cultural sites.

The administration’s plans cast aside decades of tribal cooperation with DHS, the Nation’s lawyers argued, and came at a time of record-low border crossings.

Trump and his administration have repeatedly claimed that the border is safer than ever, with CBP reporting border apprehensions 94% lower than they were during the Biden presidency, and Border Patrol “encounters” hitting their lowest levels in more than 50 years. The Nation underscored these figures as evidence that a wall is unnecessary.

The tribe’s interim chief of police, James Cook, claimed there had been a 90% drop in reports of illegal entry over the preceding year, saying in a sworn declaration that smuggling and other border-related crimes had “almost disappeared.”

Benjamin S. Hollinder, a senior Border Patrol official, argued in a sworn declaration opposing the tribe’s lawsuit that the absence of a wall on the Nation has produced a funneling effect, channeling smugglers onto the reservation, and saying that dynamic would intensify once the rest of Arizona was walled off.

“Not having a border barrier system in this particular area makes it a vulnerable and a desirable area for [transnational criminal organizations] to operate,” wrote Hollinder. “If encounters of aliens entering illegally between ports of entry increase, vulnerabilities in the area will become particularly problematic.”

The Nation sought the preliminary injunction to bar border wall activity until the litigation was resolved.

On the eve of a July 22 hearing, DHS filed a notice affirming that to accelerate the project, it was waiving, in whole or in part, more than 30 laws, including several that mandate tribal consultation.

In court filings, the government acknowledged its long history of working “cooperatively” with the tribal government while also arguing that the Nation “does not hold veto power over the United States’ sovereign duty to secure its borders.”

Trump administration attorneys contended that an injunction was premature; planning was ongoing, thus problems the Nation envisioned could still be addressed.

The government insisted construction would be limited to the Roosevelt Reservation, a 60-foot-wide zone that runs across California, Arizona and New Mexico on the U.S. side of the border, where CBP was authorized to construct barriers as it saw fit.

Riyaz Kanji, the tribe’s lead attorney, argued the Roosevelt Reservation doesn’t extend onto tribal land, and even if it did the rugged landscape would force construction to diverge far from the 60-foot boundary.

Sweeping as its powers were, Kanji contended, DHS could not override a sovereign government. The administration’s plans, he argued, constituted a “blatant and unprecedented disregard for the tribe’s rights.”

Adam R.F. Gustafson, a Justice Department attorney, countered that the tribe had already approved a barrier on its land many years ago. The question now was what kind of barrier it should be. That was for DHS to decide, he argued. The department was “committed” to consultation, he continued. “We take very seriously the tribe’s views on this,” he told the court.

The judge appeared swayed by DHS’ assurances but needed time to consider. “I don’t think the government is trying to go outside of that 60-foot strip,” he said.

The O’odham suspected the government would not be as mindful as it claimed.

Two days after the meeting with Mullin, the DHS secretary, a border wall contractor had “inadvertently disturbed a cultural site” west of the reservation. The crew had bulldozed a 70-foot swath through the Las Playas Intaglio, a 200-foot long earthen etching in the shape of a fish that was at least 6,500 years old. The site was well marked and well known to area archaeologists.

Wynona P. Larson Yazzie, an O’odham tribal elder, Marine Corps veteran and former tribal police officer, had organized prayer runs that included stops at the intaglio. She’d visited the site the day before its destruction. Since then, she’d closely followed the Nation’s lawsuit.

On Aug. 6, Larson Yazzie saw a disturbing filing from the tribe’s attorneys. They’d received word that in four days government contractors would enter the reservation to conduct tests. DHS, the tribe argued, was “exploiting” the judge’s reflection period to “move forward with highly disputed actions.”

Tribal leaders erected dozens of 8-foot-wide “no trespassing” signs along the three main access roads leading through the reservation to the border.

Larson Yazzie, meanwhile, began making plans of her own.

She was joined by Amy Juan, a longtime O’odham activist. Juan, 40, had grown up riding in her grandfather’s truck over the clanking cattle guard at Ko:li Ki:jig, a traditional crossing on the U.S.-Mexico line. After 9/11, a locking gate was placed over the cattle guard. The Border Patrol built a “forward operating base” near her grandparents’ home that would eventually feature a helipad, a detention space and an endless cycle of agents. Around the reservation’s perimeter, CBP established some of the largest Border Patrol stations in the country. Checkpoints went up on roads leading north.

Human rights groups documented U.S.-born tribal members being arrested and deported, and verbal and physical abuse by Border Patrol agents. CBP did not respond when asked about the report’s allegations.

For Juan, the Nation’s collaboration with DHS had sacrificed safety and civil liberties for elusive gains. Virtually everyone on the reservation had been touched by the dark side of border smuggling. During the mid-2000s, some tribal members, enticed by a chance at life-changing money, got involved in moving people and drugs, fueling cycles of arrest and incarceration that exacerbated challenges the community was already facing.

At the same time, virtually everyone also had a story about negative interactions with the Border Patrol — a child traumatized at a checkpoint, an unlawful traffic stop or a loved one assaulted by an agent.

“We want safety and the same respect as the next person,” Juan said. “We’ve never been against keeping people safe, but at what cost?”

Larson Yazzie was similarly concerned. She worried that in the face of DHS pressure the Nation would fold and, like the intaglio, the borderlands would be lost.

Prayer fires are an important O’odham tradition, often convened in moments of communal struggle. To Larson Yazzie, the coming of a wall was such a time.

The chosen site was symbolic: the border gate at Ko:li Ki:jig. The camp had limited amenities — cots and chairs that encircled the fire, a cooler for ice, a weathered canopy for relief from the sun. They called it Tadai Me:i — roadrunner on fire.

Someone was always awake to watch the flame, which was lit on Aug. 9, as the Trump administration’s contractors were preparing to enter the reservation. The first drone sighting in the area was recorded the following night, at 11:43 p.m., documented in the first of two activity logs. Kept in spiral notebooks, the logs offered a minute-by-minute account of what participants in the ceremony saw and heard.

The handwritten observations, shared with ProPublica, span 13 days and chart a steady escalation by DHS, culminating in an elite tactical team that blocked tribal authorities from issuing trespassing citations to contractors or removing them.

The camp wasn’t a protest site like those seen in Minneapolis, Chicago or other cities over the past year. Participants didn’t shout at passing Border Patrol agents. They focused on the fire, making sure there was enough sugai — creosote bush, a fragrant desert plant — to keep it burning. They were in ceremony, concentrating on morning prayers and nightly cleanses. The atmosphere was that of a family gathering in a moment of crisis. There were jokes and levity amid the uncertainty.

Larson Yazzie knew at least one legislative council member who opposed the gathering. They feared it could lead to large groups converging on the reservation to physically block the border wall, in an occupation similar to the 10-month protest on Standing Rock Sioux land that halted construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline in 2016. The idea terrified tribal leaders. With its lethal heat and unforgiving terrain, the desert was dangerous enough without outsiders squaring off against Border Patrol.

Supporters of the ceremonial fire were themselves uneasy. They knew the story of Ray Mattia, the 58-year-old who was shot and killed by the Border Patrol in 2023 while unarmed on the doorstep of his home on the reservation. Agents, who were backing tribal police on the call, claimed to have mistaken a cellphone he was holding for a gun.

“My fear is that they gonna start shooting us,” said 24-year-old camp visitor Collin Quasule. Quasule had videos on his phone of recent interactions he’d had with federal agents, including agents trailing him as he drove around the reservation, following him to his home, pulling him over without explaining why, refusing to accept his legal name and birthdate, and winking at him when he protested his detention.

Across the reservation, community members were on the lookout for large trucks traveling together with out-of-state plates. On Aug. 12, Juan received a call about a caravan: six trucks with Texas plates, following an unmarked SUV with government plates. She called the tribe’s police department. The caravan was intercepted and escorted off the land by tribal authorities. The driver of the unmarked vehicle was confirmed to be a Border Patrol agent. The interception was one of nearly a dozen tribal police recorded over a three-day period.

During the camp’s first seven days, the activity log filled with nearly 665 observations, mostly federal agents buzzing around their location.

While many would drive by without stopping, other agents would park and watch. At least one was reported snapping photos of the campers. ProPublica later obtained video of an agent doing exactly that. Mexican security forces, both military and police, were also observed conversing with Border Patrol agents over the international boundary. “It appeared that the 2 BPs were showing the Mexicans pictures on their phones,” read an Aug. 11 entry.

“Surveillance has heightened,” Juan said, days after the prayer fire was lit. “Drones, helicopters, a lot of air activity.” The choppers included both marked CBP and what appeared to be military Black Hawks. The drones were of the handheld quadcopter variety, let loose directly over the camp, at times during prayer song ceremonies.

On the fourth night, a gathering was held. Upwards of 100 people turned up, including members of distant sister tribes.

The evening was peaceful until Juan received a text from an elder couple who’d left early to return to their home near Tucson. The Border Patrol had stopped them at a checkpoint a half-mile outside the reservation, they reported. The officers said they were conducting an “immigration check” and asked to see tribal ID.

“Where you guys coming from?” the agent asked.

“Ceremony,” the couple replied.

“Oh,” the agent said, “is that the one going on down south?”

The encounter was unusual, said Juan. The checkpoint is rarely staffed. When agents are on hand, she said, “they never ask us for a tribal ID.”

When Juan shared the information with the gathering, people immediately began packing up, afraid, she surmised, of a late-night encounter with Border Patrol.

On Aug. 14, Judge Richard J. Leon declined the Nation’s injunction request. “I fully expect the government in the months ahead to follow through on its guarantees of consultation and cooperation with the Nation to address the Nation’s concerns regarding border wall construction!” he wrote.

Eleven days later, on Aug. 25, the Border Patrol sent the Nation its one-minute notice that the contractors were coming. Larson Yazzie jumped in her truck and raced for the border to document what was happening. An agent on foot stopped her. He’d laid a spike strip in the road ahead, he warned. Larson Yazzie filmed the contractors in the distance.

When the tribal police department’s interim chief arrived, he too was stopped at a Border Patrol roadblock. A trio of Border Patrol supervisors approached, including two from a nearby station and a third representing BORTAC, the agency’s special operations wing. The SWAT-style agents wore desert camo, masks and patterned scarves favored by U.S. military units in Iraq and Afghanistan.

It was only after promising not to interfere that the tribal police chief was permitted to record. He observed three drilling rigs manned by a handful of operators. An equal number of agents stood guard. The contractors’ heavy vehicles were all beyond the 60-foot zone that government attorneys assured the judge they would not leave.

The chief also encountered a trio of Bureau of Indian Affairs agents, who claimed to have been sent on orders from Washington, D.C. Their mission, they said, was to “preserve the peace and monitor activities.”

For the prayer camp’s participants, the need to relight the flame, which they had extinguished after a seven-day ceremony, was self-evident. They began that night.

Davy Cross, a stocky 57-year-old with an intricate tattoo running down the left side of his face, was tending the fire when, at 4:33 a.m., he noticed buzzing above his head.

At first, the machines were visible. There were at least five. “I seen all the red lights,” Cross recalled. But as they got lower, the drones went dark. Cross could still hear them and feel the draft of the rotors against his skin. Then, he said, “they disappeared.”

The drones were soon replaced by an airplane and a helicopter. Shortly after 9 a.m., a caravan of Border Patrol and construction vehicles trundled into view. The work trucks continued on, but much of the Border Patrol force remained, forming a semicircle around the camp with Mexican state police closing the loop on the other side of the line.

“We got surround[ed] by over 30 vehicles,” Cross wrote in the activity log. A video of the moment spread across social media in the borderlands.

The tribe’s attorneys filed an appeal of the judge’s order allowing construction to proceed and pleaded for a halt to the government’s activities. They argued that the Trump administration was making “a mockery” of the court’s expectation of “consultation and cooperation.”

That night at the camp, Larson Yazzie was singing prayer songs when Juan pulled in. It was near midnight. Border Patrol agents were coming and going constantly. Some passed without stopping. Others idled at the edge of the firelight while the red lights of a surveillance blimp blinked over the mountains to the east.

Tadai Me:i wasn’t the only pocket of resistance on the border. In Texas, the Trump administration’s plans to run a wall through Big Bend National Park had brought together an unusual coalition that saw environmental nonprofits and river guides standing with hunters, ranchers and local sheriffs in opposition to the project. One week before the armed convoy rolled onto the Tohono O’odham reservation, Republican Gov. Greg Abbott announced that after speaking with the secretary of DHS, he’d secured a pause on the controversial project.

“There are technology tools that don’t include barriers,” the governor said at a press conference. “Think of drones, think of fiber optics.”

Last week, a judge granted a preliminary injunction halting construction in the Big Bend area while a lawsuit against the project proceeds.

To Juan, it was darkly ironic. For two and a half decades, the Nation had been a laboratory for the technology Abbott described. Yet when tribal leaders made that case, they were told to stand down; the wall was coming whether they accepted it or not. “What makes Texas the exception to us is very clear,” Juan said. “It’s good old boy conversations that are happening between the politicians and the CBP commissioners and Markwayne Mullin.”

The early fire watch that morning fell to a young Pascua Yaqui member named Nate Sosa.

At 3:28 a.m., Sosa heard a noise — a round being chambered in a weapon. A Border Patrol agent had exited his vehicle. With a long gun slung low across his back, he shined a light into Mexico. He then walked within feet of the campers asleep on their cots.

A half an hour later, a drone flew in from the north, followed by a helicopter. After that came a convoy dozens of vehicles long. At 6:02, while Larson Yazzie was leading the camp in prayer, a helicopter passed overhead. An hour later, a drone ascended above the fire.

Liz Quiroga, a 28-year-old tribal member and regular at the prayer site, sat with the camp’s logbook open in her lap. Over the next five days, the book would fill with 379 observations. Nearly two-thirds involved Border Patrol units near the fire. The arrival of Mexican authorities was documented six times. An additional 39 entries referenced unmarked vehicles and suspected “undercovers.” Whether those individuals were Border Patrol, contractors or tribal police was unclear. The logbook cataloged a dozen instances of aircraft flying over the camp, including four helicopters, three planes and five drones.

“Nobody has any idea what’s actually happening out here,” Quiroga said. “This is true dystopia.”

While its legal challenge continues, the Nation has ceased attempting to remove border wall contractors from its lands.

The camp and the surveillance that’s come with it remain.

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