A little-known effort to bring an artificial intelligence tool into Texas public schools began about a year ago, with the help of the state’s top education official, Mike Morath. 

In September 2025, Morath responded to an email from associates of a private school chain called Alpha School who wanted to talk about using their AI program to educate kids in Texas classrooms. 

“I’d love to schedule a follow-up discussion,” Morath replied.  

The online platform wasn’t new to Morath, the state’s education commissioner. Just three months earlier, he had supported Alpha leaders’ bid to open a charter school in Texas that would use the same technology. Then the Texas State Board of Education, which has the final say on such charter decisions, voted it down 10 to 3. Board members cited concerns about the company’s use of AI to teach and students’ screen time, as well as lingering questions about the drastic student test improvements Alpha leaders presented. 

But Morath and his agency leaders did not need the board’s approval to help get Alpha’s AI model into public schools. 

Over the last year, Morath and his staff at the Texas Education Agency exchanged a flurry of emails with leaders of companies connected to Alpha about possible partnerships, visited their campuses several times, helped with a one-page explainer about the program to share with school districts and connected them with district leaders, according to communications obtained by ProPublica and The Texas Tribune through public information requests. 

One email revealed that Morath offered to personally introduce an Alpha leader to the superintendent he appointed to lead the yearslong state takeover of Houston Independent School District, the largest in the state. 

“I’d also like to set up another site visit to visit both your Austin secondary and primary with my team,” wrote Morath. “The Superintendent of H.I.S.D. would also like to do a site visit, so l’ll connect y’all separately. And hopefully we can schedule them to happen on the same day.” 

The emails show that state education officials and Alpha affiliates approached at least 10 school districts about the AI program. After the coordination, at least three of those districts — Houston; Fort Davis, in West Texas; and Aldine, near Houston — launched pilot programs incorporating the AI tool. 

The full extent of Morath and his agency’s involvement, as well as the number of public school districts using the AI program, remains unclear. The TEA has not responded to questions about its efforts for months, initially failed to provide some of Morath’s emails in response to public information requests and continues fighting the release of additional communications.

The TEA sent a written statement that said “there is no formal partnership between TEA and Alpha Schools.” But the agency continued that it “is always interested in promising ways to improve student outcomes in math and reading.” The statement said TEA officials connected district leaders who were interested in Alpha’s program but left the decision up to them on whether to use it.

Aldine and Fort Davis leaders told the newsrooms it was not unusual for the state agency to recommend potential partnerships and expressed excitement about the pilot. All three districts with pilot programs said they will use the AI software for supplemental learning rather than fully implementing the Alpha School model of using it to teach all students basic subjects in two hours a day while the human teachers, which Alpha calls guides, focus on motivation and emotional support.

Some education experts and State Board of Education members who voted against Alpha leaders’ attempt to open a charter school last year raised concerns with the state’s efforts to use the AI-led platform given its recent track record.

ProPublica and the Tribune recently reported that Texas was among at least nine states that rejected Alpha leaders’ applications to open publicly funded charter schools that would use its AI-driven learning tool, according to an Instagram post from the company’s co-founder. 

The newsrooms also found that students performed significantly worse on state-mandated exams than Alpha leaders predicted at the one charter school they got approved, in Arizona, and at an existing school in Texas where students used the AI program last year.  

Morath’s agency knew about results in at least one of those charters, Texas Preparatory School in Austin. Last year, state test scores compiled by his agency showed just 21% of students passed. The TEA then gave the charter its third consecutive F rating, mostly based on those scores. 

David DeMatthews, an education professor at the University of Texas at Austin, said it was “disheartening” and “painful” to learn that the TEA was promoting the product when the company has not yet publicly shown its success in public or charter schools, where there are likely to be more students who have learning barriers or struggle academically. 

“That raises questions about whether TEA is serving its public interest and is being transparent and accountable to us,” DeMatthews said. “It’d be one thing if they were approved as a charter and they did have a track record and they could show evidence. We don’t have any of those sorts of things.”   

The platform’s expansion into traditional public schools comes as government officials across the country, including in Texas, have taken an increasingly skeptical view of AI use in schools. New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani recently banned generative AI for elementary and middle school students in the nation’s largest school district. Leaders in Los Angeles implemented a similar restriction. In August, Texas Gov. Greg Abbott proposed further limiting screen time in public schools.

Abbott, who has received over $1.5 million in political donations from Alpha co-founder MacKenzie Price, did not agree to an interview or directly answer whether he supports the AI platform in Texas schools.  

“A great teacher in the classroom is the most important element of a quality education,” Andrew Mahaleris, Abbott’s press secretary, wrote in a statement to the newsrooms. “Any tool a district deploys must keep teachers at the center of the classroom, limit unnecessary screen time, and prove results for students.”

Abbott’s Democratic opponent in the November governor’s race, Gina Hinojosa, recently had a press conference opposing the use of Alpha’s AI program in Houston ISD. That came after she’d already made a campaign promise to fire Morath if she is elected. 

Alpha leaders did not agree to interviews or answer detailed questions for this story. Price has repeatedly told her social media followers that she wants to bring the AI model into public schools to make it accessible for all families. School leaders previously defended the model in interviews and directly in response to Texas Education Board members’ concerns about the proposed charter. They maintained that teachers’ roles remain significant despite lessons delivered by the AI platform and that screen time at the school would comply with national recommendations, and they referred to a self-published paper summarizing that Alpha students learn twice as fast as their peers while earning test scores among the top echelon nationwide.

Pam Little, a Republican serving as vice chair of the elected State Board of Education, said she hopes Abbott’s proposal to limit screen time in public schools leads to the removal of screens in classrooms altogether. That includes eliminating pilot programs like those using Alpha’s AI platform. 

“I don’t want anything AI in our schools, especially at the lower grades,” said Little, who last year voted against the proposed charter, which would use Alpha’s AI platform. 

Gustavo Reveles, a Democratic Education Board member who voted against Alpha leaders’ charter application last summer, said he’s worried the TEA is ignoring the board’s apprehension by helping to bring Alpha’s AI tool into public schools. 

“It certainly raises a red flag that perhaps there’s ways to circumvent that concern,” Reveles said.  

Pilot Program Planning

Last fall, local television news cameras captured Morath alongside U.S. Secretary of Education Linda McMahon as the pair visited an Alpha campus in Austin. Joining them was Price, the school’s co-founder. Morath said that day, “Our goal is to make sure that children have access to great schools,” regardless of who runs them. 

He added, “There are lessons to be learned in a school like Alpha.“

That week, Morath emailed Price and her husband, Andy Price, who business filings show holds various roles at Alpha’s related companies, including chief financial officer. 

Morath also connected with an employee from Studient, a company that uses Alpha’s AI technology, now often called TimeBack. Studient, which uses the tool for students struggling academically, is among the web of corporate entities connected to Alpha, according to its privacy policy and business filings with the Texas secretary of state. 

In his emails, Morath said he would like to learn more about Studient’s intervention work with kids lagging academically. He also wanted to discuss 1882 partnerships, formal arrangements in which a public school contracts with an existing charter, university, nonprofit or state-approved entity to run the campus. Districts with consecutive failing ratings will sometimes use these partnerships to avoid possible state takeovers. 

Morath’s staff set up a follow-up discussion with the Prices for October. 

Emails show the commissioner visited Alpha’s campuses again with six other TEA leaders. His staff coordinated to go on the same day as Houston Superintendent Mike Miles. Not only had Morath chosen Miles to lead the Houston district in 2023, but the two had worked together at Dallas ISD when Morath was a school board member and Miles was the superintendent.

As of August, the TEA said it could not find any documentation of Alpha or its other companies applying for or running an 1882 partnership. But after the school visit, emails show, other state Education Agency leaders began communicating with Alpha and Studient associates about more informal pilot programs.  

Andrew Hodge, associate commissioner of system innovation at the TEA, followed up last November to figure out how the state could test out Alpha’s AI model. Hodge emailed Joe Liemandt, the tech billionaire behind the software company Trilogy, who pioneered and invested $1 billion into Alpha’s AI-learning technology.  

“It was great meeting you and learning about Alpha last Monday,” wrote Hodge on Nov. 5. “I’d like to schedule a follow up discussion with you/your team to talk through possibilities for piloting a few supplemental (you called this Tier 3 in your outline) instances in the state. What’s the best way to get 30-45 minutes to discuss?” 

Hodge eventually had another member of his team, Michael Strange, tour Alpha’s private school in Fort Worth. Strange oversees the TEA’s blended learning programs. 

“I’d like for him to be able to visit your school as we continue to improve our supports for TX districts and better understand the landscape of tech-enabled models in K-12,” emailed Hodge. 

By April, emails show, Strange was regularly in contact with Andy Price and a Studient employee about helping to launch pilot programs in public schools. At one point, Strange sent them a to-do list with next steps, which included him drafting a one-page explainer of the pilot program to share with districts. 

Andy Price, MacKenzie Price, Studient, Hodge, Liemandt and Strange did not respond to the newsrooms’ requests for comment.

In all, ProPublica and the Tribune identified at least five school districts — Ector County, Fort Bend, Irving, Pecos and Pflugerville — that confirmed they were approached about partnering with Alpha but did not pursue an agreement. Only Ector County provided a reason, stating the district “determined our school day is not currently structured to effectively implement or support the pilot.”

But Alpha and Studient officials had some successes. By mid-June, Strange applauded their progress securing pilots with Fort Davis and Aldine.

“Happy Friday!” wrote Strange ahead of a check-in. “Looking forward to seeing everyone today and excited to hear that districts are moving forward.”

Leaders at Fort Davis and Aldine told ProPublica and the Tribune they are using the AI platform this year to help students who are behind academically. Michelle Hartmann, deputy superintendent at Fort Davis, which enrolls around 800 students, said it will deploy the model in its K-8 classrooms for students who need additional help in reading and math. 

“We’re excited because we see it as an opportunity to provide an extra layer of intervention,” Hartmann said. She later followed up with the newsrooms to say the district could not be happier after the first weeks of the pilot and that students are very engaged.

Aldine will deploy the online platform to roughly 300 students across four middle school campuses that require support in math. Ashley Brown, an Aldine spokesperson, said the Alpha intervention model aligned with the district’s mission “to provide a rigorous and enriching educational experience that prepares every student for success in college, career, and life.”

Houston ISD plans to use the Alpha technology for students with strong test scores “to evaluate whether this instructional approach can accelerate academic growth,” according to its press office. 

The office said Houston ISD wasn’t paying Alpha for the pilot but did not provide more details. The district asked the Texas attorney general to withhold the contract from the newsrooms under the state’s public records act. 

Read More

Several States Rejected This Private School Chain as a Charter. Now It’s Eligible for Texas’ Taxpayer-Funded Vouchers.

The post Texas’ Education Board Raised Questions About an AI Learning Tool. The State Then Helped Pilot It in Public Schools. appeared first on ProPublica.

Emma Joyce was sick and vomiting for days until she stopped breathing in her parents’ arms, in a small gray farmhouse in rural Idaho. It was August 2009, and she was 3 years old.

The following summer, Emma Joyce’s little sister got sick. Ava Joan wouldn’t eat or drink anything but a few grapes and some Sprite in a sippy cup. She was breathing hard and fast. And when she vomited, it came out black, the hallmark of internal bleeding. She died in her mother’s arms in July 2010 from a complication of untreated diabetes.

Less than two years later, the girls’ toddler brother died from the same complication of untreated diabetes that killed Ava Joan.

And nine years after that, another sibling died: a 4-year-old boy who’d suffered for weeks with similar symptoms.

The parents told officers that they hadn’t taken the four children who died to the doctor because of their religion, the Followers of Christ, which considers the use of modern medicine a sinful lapse of faith in God. And Idaho exempts parents from faith-healing sects like the Followers from the legal duty to give their children lifesaving medical care.

The sect had at least 15 avoidable deaths among children from 2015 through 2025, according to healthcare professionals who reviewed their records for ProPublica.

Among them were children in five families, including Emma Joyce’s, who had a combined total of two, three or four losses in this period or earlier. 

Most of the siblings died of similar ailments, following similar patterns, that experts said could have been resolved with interventions as simple as insulin, antibiotics or a supply of oxygen. Experts were uncertain on only two of the sibling deaths, saying the death records lacked enough information to determine if the children’s lives could have been saved.

Idaho’s child abuse laws contain such broad religious exemptions that authorities did not intervene — either before or after the deaths.

The exemptions don’t just shield faith-healing parents from criminal prosecution for conduct that otherwise would be charged as neglect. They also keep police and social workers from stepping in to protect a dead child’s surviving siblings from suffering a similar fate, no matter how many of them die.

It is a sharp contrast to neighboring Oregon, which in 1999 began to roll back its own exemptions. Not only did the possibility of prosecution in Oregon prove a powerful incentive for parents to seek medical care when their child’s life was at risk, the change in law also gave the state legal leverage to order medical care for surviving and future children — which happened in one Oregon case, days before Emma Joyce died in Idaho.

According to backers of Oregon’s law, the goal isn’t to punish parents for allowing the avoidable death of a child; the goal is to prevent more deaths.

“If you don’t do anything, kids are going to die,” said John Foote, a former district attorney in Oregon who prosecuted several parents in his local Followers of Christ congregation after their children died from treatable ailments. Keeping more children from dying is “the whole point,” he said.

The graves of Emma Joyce and her sister and brothers are clustered near one another at Peaceful Valley Cemetery, a hilltop graveyard that belongs to the Followers of Christ, a faith-healing sect with at least four churches in Idaho. All four children’s headstones are made from the same light gray stone, bear the words “beloved daughter” or “beloved son” in the same font and design, and have their mother’s and father’s names etched into the back.

Throughout the cemetery are more of the same: siblings buried in child-sized plots with matching headstones.

In addition to the plots belonging to Emma Joyce’s family, there are two newborn siblings who died from treatable birth complications, four infant siblings who died from various causes, and three brothers whose death records prompted doctors to speculate that an immune deficiency ran in the family.

Two babies in a single Followers family succumbed to meconium aspiration, despite how rare it is for a newborn to inhale the tarry stool known as meconium and then die from it. A study of more than 160,000 full-term births found less than 2% of newborns had meconium aspiration syndrome, and only 1.2% of those died, because healthcare providers know how to manage and treat it.

When a child dies unexpectedly in Idaho or elsewhere in the U.S., it almost always triggers close scrutiny from police and social workers. That investigation might find the parents committed a crime, such as beating or starving them, but it can also identify other risks to surviving siblings, such as a health condition that would otherwise go unnoticed — something that doctors who reviewed records for ProPublica suspected in several deaths within faith-healing families.

Surviving siblings aren’t automatically shunted into foster care in such cases, but social workers do visit the home and lay eyes on the children to make sure they are safe and healthy. If they’re not, prosecutors can seek a court order for medical care or other needs.

A parent whose substantiated abuse or neglect leads to a death is permanently registered as high risk in child protection records.

Earlier this year, in response to the death of a newborn whose parents were flagged as high risk, Idaho lawmakers passed Benji’s Law. When such a parent has a new baby, the state now must do an expedited safety check to make sure the new baby isn’t in danger.

Surviving children may be temporarily removed from their parents’ custody. Idaho authorities in 2024, for example, took in eight children after the death of a medically fragile teenage boy in a home where police said they found “deplorable, unsafe” living conditions. Idaho also took a newborn from a mother’s custody this year when the mother was indicted in the deaths of her twin toddlers; she pleaded not guilty to murder charges and is scheduled to go to trial in January.

But it’s a different story when Idaho police or social workers find that the child’s death was a consequence of choosing faith over medicine.

According to Canyon County Sheriff Kieran Donahue, the law’s exclusion of faith-healing practice from the definition of “neglect” means child protection laws for neglect don’t apply, so unless there is evidence of a crime, his deputies can’t take action and don’t notify child welfare agencies.

A deputy attorney general said something similar in 2016, when she testified before a Children at Risk-Faith Healing legislative work group.

“If you were saying that your child broke their femur and you were praying to resolve this medical issue, the Department of Health and Welfare cannot say that you are a neglectful parent because you are not seeking medical treatment,” Mary Jo Beig told the legislators.

The department doesn’t track how many of the reports it receives about medical neglect are related to faith healing. Among all 318 investigations it conducted over the past seven years into reports of medical neglect by itself, the department said it found actual neglect in 28. Most of the time, the agency said, it worked with the family to address root causes so that children could safely remain in their homes; in 10 of the 28 cases, though, kids had to be placed in state custody.

There is one way to mandate medical care without a parent’s blessing: an obscure law that says a doctor can try to persuade a judge that without treatment, the child’s life “would be greatly endangered.” There was a case in recent years where school staff noticed a student from a faith-healing family having up to 13 seizures a day, which ultimately led to a doctor going to court to say the girl needed emergency medical attention.

But use of the emergency care statute is unusual. The law says a judge must still consider any spiritual treatment the child is receiving before ordering lifesaving treatment. And, as Beig pointedly told legislators in the 2016 hearing, “someone needs to know about the child” and notice the ailment before they die from it.

That rarely happens with Idaho’s insular faith-healing communities. Many families homeschool. Few socialize outside the sect. Some families don’t even register their child’s birth with the state until much later, when they need a birth certificate to navigate through society.

Ultimately, because doctors seldom see children in faith-healing families, they typically don’t get a chance to discover ticking medical time bombs — much less witness moments of extreme medical distress when they’d have the strongest legal grounds for advocating compulsory care.

Rather, the first doctor to see the child’s grave illness is often the pathologist who performs their autopsy.

None of the parents of children in this story responded to inquiries from a reporter. ProPublica is not identifying them or using the children’s full names out of respect for the families’ privacy.

Nathan Kangas, an unordained elder in one of Idaho’s Followers churches, said few people are willing to speak because of past news coverage that they felt mischaracterized them. He said parents in his roughly 500-member church keep their children away from the doctor to teach them to avoid the curse of turning to medicine as adults.

Donahue, the Canyon County sheriff and one of the most vocal opponents of Idaho’s concessions to parents who practice faith healing, said he believes they want their children to survive. Other law enforcement officers and former members of the sect echoed that, saying members of the faith are good parents, except when it comes to medical care for their families.

“There’s no doubt in my mind, they love their kids just like you or I would love our kids,” Donahue said. But their church has erased the impulse most parents would have to call 911 for an ambulance or to rush their child to an emergency room, he said.

“They’re indoctrinated, they’re conditioned,” he said.

Read More

Children in a Faith-Healing Sect Keep Dying. The State Lets It Happen.

The social media posts of a mother from the Idaho Followers who lost three boys hint at her grief. A family photo from 2022 shows a baby with the family’s three other children. The next family photo in 2024 shows the same three older children, but with a different baby — one who, like the baby before, is now dead. There’s no updated family photo to document the addition of another baby boy in mid-2025, who died at 2 months old from an untreated infection.

The mother shared a meme that references a Bible verse from the story of Job, whose loyalty God tested by allowing Satan to destroy all the blessings in his life, including his 10 children.

Among those who reacted to the mother’s social media posts was another grieving parent: the mother of Emma Joyce and her three dead siblings.

The post Four Kids in One Faith-Healing Family Died. Authorities Could Do Nothing. appeared first on ProPublica.

Sitting in a pediatric intensive care unit last year, watching a ventilator keep her 17-month-old daughter alive, Emily Marris scoured the contents of her phone for evidence to give to California health and food safety investigators. 

She had bought raw goat milk from a farm recommended to her in a Facebook group run by her chiropractor. Marris had hoped the milk, unprocessed and natural, would help with her daughter Brooklyn’s constipation. But doctors now suspected the unpasteurized milk, which hadn’t been heated to kill off pathogens, was the source of the toddler’s severe E. coli infection. 

To the regulators who’d reached out to Marris, the case was a top priority. The farm appeared to be defying state law to sell unregulated raw milk to unsuspecting families; soon, another child, a 6-year-old girl who’d drunk milk from the same farm, would wind up in the same San Diego hospital, with the same potentially fatal illness, needing blood transfusions. 

Similar cases were popping up across the country as social media influencers and President Donald Trump’s White House kept touting the unproven benefits of raw milk and downplaying its risks. In the past two years alone, hundreds had fallen ill across nine states from drinking raw milk or eating products made with it. 

Recognizing that people still want the freedom to buy it, California had struck a balance: It licenses farms that sell raw milk for human consumption, inspects them for sanitation and requires them to regularly test batches for pathogens.

The system hadn’t prevented outbreaks, as ProPublica previously reported. But it aimed to ensure that customers, at the very least, knew what they were getting into; milk legally sold in the state had to be clearly labeled with warnings.

Which is what troubled regulators even more about this particular outbreak. 

The milk suspected to have sickened the girls didn’t come from one of the state’s dozen licensed farms. The dairy was totally off the radar, selling unknown quantities of unlabeled gallons. 

And inside Marris’ phone was even more alarming information. Months of text messages showed the farm’s owner knew from the start that a toddler was drinking her milk. Then after the farmer learned that Brooklyn had contracted a serious foodborne infection, which doctors attributed to the milk, she continued to advertise on Facebook: “raw goat milk from a clean tested herd.”

After many sleepless nights, Marris screengrabbed the messages and sent them to the investigators, hoping to quell the outbreak before it grew. 

Amid a flurry of emails involving at least four state and county agencies, investigators with the California Department of Food and Agriculture took the lead. They needed to confirm that the farm was indeed selling milk for human consumption. In California, doing so without a license is a violation of state law and can lead to fines of up to $10,000 and jail time of up to a year. 

On the evening of June 17, 2025, an undercover investigator messaged the farm’s Facebook account:  

“Would like to buy like a gallon ”

Someone from the farm replied that they sold goat milk by the gallon, explained that they were temporarily out of jugs and said they would message as soon as their shipment arrived. 

Regulators now had a rare opportunity. 

They had strong evidence: two cooperating families, direct text admissions and access to hospital records documenting the destruction wrought on two young bodies. 

They had a clear reason to act. Raw-milk consumption was a growing hazard, and their state, like others, was teeming with black-market dairies, propped up by consumer demand fueled by misinformation.

They could have pursued penalties under a law enacted to prevent this very conduct, sending a message to other sellers about what the state would not tolerate.

But that’s not what would happen.

Marris was breastfeeding her daughter in her southern California home one afternoon that previous January when a post on Facebook caught her eye.

In a private group of backyard farmers, her chiropractor, Chris Boman, had shared a photo of a refrigerator, filled with gallons of freshly collected milk. In the years Marris had been visiting his office, she’d seen him selling raw milk from his own cow in his clinic’s waiting room. 

She had never thought to try it herself, but milk was on her mind lately. She was trying to wean Brooklyn, and so far it wasn’t going well.

Brooklyn was her “miracle baby.” Marris had become pregnant with her — a desperately wanted third child — at age 48. Then she arrived seven weeks premature, her low birth weight and underdeveloped lungs confining her to the intensive care unit for her first month.

The traumatic birth sent Marris’ protective instincts into overdrive. Already a self-described “crunchy” mom, she’d detoxified their home in suburban Winchester, a small inland community in Riverside County; stripped it of harmful chemicals and synthetic materials; and limited her family’s intake of ultraprocessed food. A trained birth doula and former teacher, she spent much of her days caring for her kids while her husband ran a sports technology startup company. As she had with her other two children, she was determined to breastfeed Brooklyn for as long as needed.

But when her daughter was barely a year old, Marris started a new medication for her chronic hip pain that could pass through breastmilk. She tried organic infant formula, but the number of additives alarmed her, and store-bought cow milk left Brooklyn severely constipated. Marris considered stopping her medication, but then she couldn’t walk without pain.

Desperate for an alternative, she commented on her chiropractor’s Facebook post, “Would this be a good milk for baby Brookie?”

The group’s members quickly chimed in. “I had to put my baby on raw goats milk,” one mother wrote. “Healed her right up. … Goats milk is easier digested than cow.” While sales of raw milk are prohibited on Facebook’s Marketplace, and such ads are removed when flagged, discussions of raw milk are still allowed, said a Meta spokesperson.

The commenter recommended a farm called Moonlight Ridge, and Marris clicked over to its Facebook page, which was filled with pictures of velvety Nubian goats. The farm milked its animals twice daily, it said, so the dairy was “always the freshest and best quality.” It was only 10 miles away. Marris arranged a visit that afternoon.

There were no signs marking the farm, but Marris turned down a dirt road and spotted its 23-year-old owner, Courtney Baker, with long blond hair and a tan, standing by a metal gate near a white pickup truck. Baker and her husband had become interested in raising goats during the pandemic. They started selling raw milk to help animal rescues and breeders, Baker would later say, and got most of their customers by word of mouth.

Baker greeted Marris and handed over an unlabeled jug of raw goat milk, still warm to the touch.

Marris pointed to her daughter, asleep in the back seat of her SUV, and explained Brooklyn’s digestion struggles. “This is the sweet girl you’re helping,” she recalled telling the farmer.

Once home, Marris filled up a baby bottle and nervously handed it to Brooklyn. Her daughter didn’t hesitate.

“She is gobbling it down! ” Marris texted Baker. 

“Yay!! I’m glad she likes it!” Baker responded, then later that day asked, “How’s her tummy handling the milk?”

By the next morning, Brooklyn’s problems seemed to ease. “She has had two great and more normal poops!!!!” Marris texted Baker.

Marris believed she had done her due diligence. She had researched raw milk, whose benefits were readily promoted by the local farmers and wellness influencers she followed. Shortly after that first pickup, she and her husband, Josh, visited Moonlight Ridge to inspect the herd. The goats appeared well-kept. And when they asked Baker about her safety practices, they recalled, the farmer repeatedly assured them her herd and milk were “clean and tested.” Marris trusted Baker and thought the farmer was doing everything possible to keep the milk safe.

For six months, Marris gave Brooklyn raw milk without incident.

Then, on June 2, it all began to unravel. On the way home from swim lessons, Brooklyn vomited all over the back seat.

That same day, another couple, Navy veterans Iris and David Galindo, drove to Moonlight Ridge to pick up their first order of goat milk.

They had also been looking for alternatives for their 6-year-old daughter, Victoria, whose doctor recommended limiting dairy products from cows. They began to consider goat milk, which Iris drank as a child in Guatemala. She contacted Baker, who had tutored their son in math years earlier and was now advertising raw goat milk in a local Facebook group. “There was trust there,” Galindo said.

As Baker handed over an unlabeled jug that day, the Galindos said they made it explicitly clear the milk was for their young daughter. 

That evening, Victoria drank her first cup.

The days after Brooklyn first threw up were a hellish blur: vomit that turned bilious yellow, then a tarry blackish-green, then bloodwork that so alarmed emergency room doctors that they called for transport to a pediatric intensive care unit 70 miles away.

Stunned and helpless, Marris and her husband waited as doctors at Rady Children’s Hospital fastened a web of wires to their barely conscious daughter: a tube down her trachea to help her breathe, dialysis lines into her blood vessels to support her failing kidneys. 

Brooklyn had developed hemolytic uremic syndrome, a rare condition in which microscopic blood clots clog small vessels and destroy vital organs. Infectious disease doctors suspected it had been caused by a strain of E. coli and had Marris walk them through Brooklyn’s recent diet. 

When she mentioned the raw milk, she said, they looked at her uneasily and told her that was the likely culprit. E. coli can thrive in animal intestines. As few as 10 cells, hidden in an infinitesimal fleck of feces, can contaminate raw milk and trigger a fatal infection.

Marris was terrified for her daughter and furious with herself. She had searched online for the benefits of raw milk and gotten the confirmation she needed from raw-milk proponents. 

She wasn’t aware of the medical consensus that raw milk has no proven nutritional benefits compared with its pasteurized counterpart, or that it carries over 100 times the risk of foodborne illness. “I’m the one that gave it to her,” she thought. “Just how stupid could I be?”

From her daughter’s bedside, on June 5, Marris texted Baker. “They think Brookie got a strain of e-coli possibly from a bad batch of the milk … I just wanted to let you know in case you want to alert anyone that had milk from the week before this.”

“I am so incredibly sorry to hear she is going through this!!” Baker quickly responded. “None of my milk testing results have showed anything abnormal.”

Later that day, though, Marris learned while texting with Baker that the farmer hadn’t tested for E. coli; it seemed like she didn’t know how to. “All the tests I’m finding looks like it mainly comes from meat,” Baker wrote.

Marris was taken aback. How did Baker not know how to test for a common foodborne pathogen like E. coli? Still, Marris remained polite. “Please don’t beat yourself up either. You are a sweet kind person and I don’t want you or me to go there.”

Two days after Brooklyn arrived at the hospital, on June 6, doctors took her off the ventilator, but she struggled to wake up. For hours, as she continued on dialysis, her eyes drifted back into her head, her body occasionally convulsed and her breathing grew heavy and rapid. 

That evening, her blood grew so acidic that it disrupted the electrical signals of her heart, which struggled to pump enough blood and oxygen to her brain. For hours, the medical team tried to stabilize her spiking pulse. Her parents didn’t know if she would survive the night. 

As they awaited an update, a stool sample confirmed that Brooklyn had contracted E. coli O157:H7, one of the most dangerous strains. When Marris texted Baker about the diagnosis, the farmer detailed her equipment-cleaning process and said she would send a sample to a lab in Colorado. 

After a couple of days, Brooklyn finally turned a corner. But in suburban Murrieta, not far from the Marris family home, Victoria was just starting to decline. 

She’d grown lethargic over the past week, with bouts of bloody diarrhea. After two unhelpful urgent care visits, the Galindos drove her to Rady on June 13. Bloodwork revealed she had the same disorder as Brooklyn, brought on by the same E. coli strain; she was rushed into intensive care. “My world just dropped,” Iris Galindo said. 

On June 14, after Marris learned that another child had fallen sick after drinking raw milk, she texted Baker again: “Maybe hold off on selling any until we know if there is a common thread.”

Baker didn’t reply. 

The next day, however, Marris saw that Baker had recently responded to someone in the Facebook group looking for raw goat milk: “I have raw goat milk from a clean tested herd in wine country … We milk 2x a day so it is always super fresh.”

Marris was aghast, squeezing the sides of her phone to capture what was on the screen.

“Out of respect, I’m giving you a heads up,” she texted Baker. “I wasn’t going to EVER post anything, but I’m appalled that you’re advertising the milk as tested and safe when you haven’t been able to test for that deadly strain of e-coli.”

Marris then typed up a detailed description of what had happened to her daughter.

“My 17 month old almost died this week,” she wrote. “I NEVER WANTED TO have to call her out on this, but it’s prudent that she take a break, make sure she tests for THIS SPECIFIC strain and ensure the milk is safe before resuming sales.”

She hit the post button, heaved a sigh of relief and watched the responses roll in.

“Praying for your sweet baby.”

“Omg I almost bought milk from her a couple weeks ago.”

“Thank you for protecting the rest of us.”

And then her phone buzzed. Baker had finally replied.

At first, she apologized for the slow response, explaining that she’d also been hospitalized with an unrelated illness. She said that, despite her Facebook comment, she had stopped selling milk while she waited for test results. 

And then she asked Marris to take down her post. “As much as I hate and feel bad for what happened to Brooke [sic] I really really do,” she said, “I really don’t appreciate my name being thrown out there like that.”

Reluctantly, Marris deleted what she wrote.

She’d already spoken with state regulators about the outbreak and handed over her text messages. 

Surely, she believed, they would do something.

On June 20, three regulators paid an unannounced visit to Moonlight Ridge, according to internal records from the investigation obtained by ProPublica. 

The farm was located within a larger horse ranch, and they didn’t see anyone at the entrance. They walked along the fenceline until they spotted Baker’s husband, who asked if they were there because of the goat milk. Baker showed up 20 minutes later. 

She told them something she hadn’t said to the parents or the undercover investigator: The milk was for pets only and advertised as such on Facebook. 

“Of course, she insisted that she only sells the goat milk for pet food,” Jill Soares, a regional supervisor with the Food and Agriculture Department, later wrote in an email to the team.

Although California requires licenses to sell raw milk for human consumption, unlicensed farms can sell it as long as they label it as pet food. Sellers have seized on the loophole to avoid scrutiny and prosecution, a health official familiar with Baker’s case told ProPublica, speaking on the condition of anonymity because they weren’t authorized to talk publicly. “There is a gap in regulation,” the official said. 

The gap is magnified in 13 other states, where raw milk can be sold only as pet food, but regulators know people are still drinking it. Outbreaks this year in Louisiana and last year in Florida sickened multiple children, including at least one who developed the same life-changing kidney condition as Brooklyn. No dairy got in trouble. State officials said the milk was legally sold and clearly labeled.

In Baker’s case, the investigative report makes no mention of California regulators interrogating her about the pet food defense, despite the text messages they’d read. “She clearly knew the milk was going to a child,” Soares wrote to her team. 

With such evidence in hand, they could have referred the case to local prosecutors. Instead, before the site visit, supervising special investigator Jeffrey Eggert wrote in an email to the team that pursuing charges was not the priority. 

“The immediate goal here is to get the goat farm to stop all milk related-product manufacturing, and keep the community safe,” he wrote. His unit “typically pursues the criminal route; however, the legal process is lengthy.” 

That decision appeared to inform how the regulators approached their visit to Baker’s farm. 

They handed Baker a cease-and-desist order and a violation notice for operating as a food facility without a valid permit; neither carried penalties, but both threatened consequences if she didn’t comply. 

Then, they told Baker they would return the next morning to collect a milk sample for testing, as the families whose children had fallen sick did not have any leftover milk.

The next day, they met Baker at the gate and accepted a half-gallon jug of raw milk she assured them had been collected the previous night from 11 goats. 

Department officials told ProPublica that California law does not permit investigators to enter unlicensed properties, even when they receive reports of unlicensed activity. 

At licensed farms, California investigators have collected the milk themselves. And because newer batches might not have the same contaminant that sickened consumers, they have also combed the farmland for the pathogen, sampling dirt, groundwater and animal droppings. In some cases when they haven’t found a pathogen strain in the milk, they have found it in the surroundings.

Eleven days after regulators left with the sample Baker collected, the state’s limited test results came back negative for several pathogens, including E. coli. 

Regulators then pivoted to helping Baker get approval to start selling her milk again — still without a license, inspections or testing — so long as she labeled and registered it as pet food. 

Baker soon wrote back to the undercover investigator to see whether they were still interested. “I have gotten confirmation from CDFA that I’m in full compliance for pet consumption milk!”

On Aug. 1, the Food and Agriculture Department closed its case, finding that Baker had “promoted raw milk for sale and sold unapproved milk products in commerce without a CDFA license.” She was given no penalty.

“I was unable to show that she sold milk intended for human consumption,” wrote special investigator Nancy Del Cid. “If this had been proven, the case would have been referred to the Riverside County District Attorney’s Office for potential prosecution.”

The department didn’t respond to ProPublica’s specific questions about the investigation, including why officials had come to this conclusion despite evidence that had made at least one supervisor remark that Baker “clearly knew the milk was going to a child.”

Officials told ProPublica that seeking criminal charges would have slowed down their effort to stop Baker from selling more milk. 

“Issuing a cease-and-desist order almost always results in a product being removed from the market more rapidly than a criminal referral,” said Devon Keeler, a spokesperson for the department, in an emailed statement. “In this case, CDFA acted to protect public health as quickly as possible by taking steps to stop this product’s distribution based on the evidence and information investigators collected and confirmed.”

In response to questions about why it did not pursue prosecution in parallel to its attempt to enforce a cease-and-desist, department officials told ProPublica that local law enforcement often does not pursue criminal charges unless a cease-and-desist order has been violated.

Earlier this year, Baker moved out of California and reopened her farm in Arizona. But before she left town, I visited Moonlight Ridge.

Heading down the same road the inspectors did months before, I came upon the same gate. This time, it was open, so I drove through it, past the sprawling estate of horse corrals and stables. I parked near a grove of peeling eucalyptus trees where I saw a small pen with a large herd of goats protected by a barking farm dog. About 30 yards away was an aging trailer. I climbed the dusty stairs and knocked.

Baker opened the door, in leggings and a tank top, her hair held back with sunglasses. After I explained why I was there — regulators had connected her farm with a recent outbreak — she told me that the case had been dismissed and urged me to call the state’s Food and Agriculture Department. “Everything was negative,” she said. “There were no pathogens.” She added that the results from her own private lab test had also come back clean.

Baker touted the resolution of the case as a total vindication, and the negative test results — from samples she had gathered unsupervised, weeks after the infections started — as proof that her milk had not caused the outbreak. 

If her animals had carried E. coli, she said, she and her husband would have been infected at some point. “Quite frankly, we don’t care if we’ve cleaned the pen and then go grab a sandwich,” she told me. “We’ll eat with our hands filthy.”

She said she tested her herd for some goat diseases, but said she never claimed to have tested the milk for foodborne pathogens. 

She also stressed that families had knowingly bought milk that was not for human consumption. “Everything is sold as pet milk,” she said. “What they choose to do with it is not my business.” She added that Marris made a poor decision and was “trying to find someone to take the blame for it.” 

She suggested she didn’t know the Galindo family well, or that they were drinking the milk. It was just a coincidence, she maintained, that the two families, who hadn’t met each other, both had children who fell ill with the same rare strain of E. coli — one strongly associated with raw-milk consumption — after drinking her product. 

Regardless, she said, she stopped selling it after Marris’ daughter fell ill. 

“I was nice to Emily,” Baker told me in a sharp tone, describing how she gave the family special privileges by allowing them to visit her farm. “She has completely ruined it.”

Several of her assertions didn’t line up with what the families had shared with me, or what I had read in their text messages and the state’s internal records. When I followed up this summer and asked her about what I had learned, she refused to respond to my questions.

Through Facebook Messenger, Baker said she “vehemently” disagreed with ProPublica’s “distortion and mischaracterization of the facts,” but did not point out any specific errors.

When Brooklyn came home from the hospital, she barely resembled the active toddler who had started to cruise and speak simple words before falling ill. The disease had substantially interrupted her development. “It just all sort of stopped and stalled,” Marris said. 

Brooklyn began physical therapy right away, but she walked with a slight limp and couldn’t sleep through the night without terrors. Doctors also warned that she would likely face long-term kidney issues. She would need to be seen every six months by a nephrologist and would not ever be able to drink alcohol.

Victoria, too, will require ongoing medical monitoring. 

Not long after both girls had been discharged, a mutual acquaintance connected their two families, who gathered in Marris’ backyard. Sitting over a spread of cheese, crackers and blueberry jam, they compared the text messages that Baker had sent them. 

It became evident, recalled Marris, that Baker had known that both children had become sick after drinking her raw milk, but had not informed the hospital or told the families that they weren’t alone. Together, they decided to file a lawsuit against Baker and her farm in Riverside County Superior Court, alleging they had negligently sold the families contaminated raw milk that was presented as “fit for human consumption.” The case is ongoing. Baker told ProPublica that the farm will “fully defend against the allegations by Plaintiffs.”

Marris said she felt she needed to hold Baker accountable for what she’d done, given that regulators had squandered their chance to do so. But she also carries her own heavy burden of guilt. 

“I’m going to hate myself to the day I die for having allowed that to happen,” she said. Now more fearful of harming her children, she agonizes over whether meat is undercooked or pasteurized milk has been sitting out on the counter too long. 

Hoping to spare other families the same pain, Marris posted another warning when she saw someone else advertising raw milk in her chiropractor’s Facebook group that summer. 

“Just PLEASE PLEASE educate yourself and make choices about raw milk carefully. My 17 month old baby and one other little girl almost died last month from raw goats milk,” she began. “I’m posting this so you know what can truly happen if the milk has bacteria….know the risks, and make your own personal choices.”

When she later logged back in to see whether people had responded, she saw a notification at the top of the feed: “Your profile is suspended from this group.”

She texted the office of her chiropractor, Boman, one of the group’s three administrators. “I’m now banned from the group Chris runs, despite knowing what has happened,” she wrote. “I’m pretty disappointed.”

Boman texted back with his condolences but said he wasn’t a mediator. “You shared your story, we appreciate it, and people can read it and decide for themselves if they want to assume the risks or not,” he said. “Are you wanting anything else from the group?”

I visited Boman this January at his office in a Murrieta strip mall where he specializes in pediatric and prenatal chiropractics. I found him leaning on the front desk of his waiting room, wearing a sweatshirt that said “PRAY” across the chest. His neatly clipped facial hair framed a welcoming smile. He agreed to speak outside.

After Marris was suspended from the group, Boman said, he hoped it would calm down the conversation. She was “just drumming up a bunch of fear,” he said. “She’s coming out of this traumatic experience. … People need to see all perspectives.”

Boman said he had spoken with Baker to understand hers. “I don’t want someone in the group that’s doing shady things,” he told me. “People have been kicked out for selling bad cows.” But Baker assuaged his concerns. “From everything I understand, her standards are super high,” he said, citing her negative pathogen results. “Her milk came back squeaky clean.”

Boman said he connected Baker with the Farm-to-Consumer Legal Defense Fund, a nonprofit that assists raw-dairy sellers, which Baker said last January was representing her. Boman said the referral wasn’t, “You did something wrong, make sure you lawyer up,” adding that he has a membership that allows him to access the fund’s services. “If something arises, it’s nice to have someone in that corner.” The organization said it is not representing Baker in the lawsuit.

Boman still believed in raw milk, he told me. He’d only stopped selling it in his office because he had dried up his cow. He said he was supportive of what Marris had been through, but “I don’t want a product to get blamed if it wasn’t that.” Boman did not respond to follow-up questions sent by email.

For Marris, his response was a betrayal. But the experience didn’t keep her away from Facebook groups where people continue to spread misinformation about raw milk and advertise it for sale. At night, after tucking her children into bed, Marris scrolls through them, tracking the posts. 

From time to time, she steps back into the comments and shares her story, hoping to prevent other mothers from making the worst mistake of their lives. Sometimes, she is attacked and accused of lying by raw-milk absolutists. And sometimes, the groups delete her posts.

The post A Girl Nearly Died After Drinking Raw Milk. The State Did Little to Punish the Unlicensed Farmer Who Sold It. appeared first on ProPublica.

Without Amy Miller, some elderly and disabled people wouldn’t be able to vote.

The attorney for Disability Rights Nebraska travels the state, investigating the quality of nursing homes and assisted living facilities. As she reminds the residents how they can report abuse or neglect, she also offers voter registration forms. Last month, she helped a veteran with a traumatic brain injury fill out change-of-address paperwork so he could vote in the upcoming midterm elections. “He 100% knew who he wanted to vote for,” Miller said, but he struggled to write with a pen.

Congress funds her organization’s efforts to ensure that even people who might not have access to the internet or transportation have the opportunity to participate in elections.

Now a White House proposal threatens that work. 

The White House Office of Management and Budget wants to change spending rules to prohibit anyone from using federal grant money for voter registration drives or what it vaguely calls “related activities.” The office is headed by Russell Vought, who has long criticized the use of taxpayer money for voter registration efforts and who more recently used his position to cancel, freeze or redirect vast amounts of federal funding in defiance of Congress’ orders.

Miller, who has worked at her nonprofit for six years, said she’s never faced regulators wanting to impede her work.

“Shutting that down and making it more difficult for these Americans to access the ballot box is bewildering to me,” she said. 

The proposal is part of the Trump administration’s broader assault on federal efforts to expand access to voting, especially among groups that have historically faced discrimination and disenfranchisement. 

President Donald Trump has championed the SAVE America Act, a bill that would require people to provide documents proving their citizenship when registering to vote, and that may require everyone to deliver that proof in person, which would effectively end voter registration drives. 

Last year, the Trump administration banned nongovernmental organizations from conducting registration drives at naturalization ceremonies, though the agency temporarily lifted the ban amid litigation over the policy change. The Department of Education also sent a letter to colleges and universities stating that they could not use federal work-study dollars to support voting-related work. (The directive has been contested.) Previously, those funds were used to pay students who had part-time jobs to conduct voter registration on campus and in neighboring communities.

And on the first day of Trump’s second term, the president rescinded an executive order signed by Joe Biden that had directed federal agencies to expand opportunities for registration. Biden’s order acknowledged that some Americans, including Black citizens and people with disabilities, face historic and ongoing barriers to voting access. 

Neither Vought nor his office responded to ProPublica’s questions about the proposed change. But in a letter sent to state officials in 2022, he condemned Biden’s executive order as a “power grab” that would “increase voter registration and turnout, especially among Democratic Party supporters.” 

Vought’s proposed change, which wouldn’t go into effect until after the 2026 midterms, could have ramifications for the next presidential election well beyond voting accessibility. 

Nonprofits that receive government funds to help people sign up for Medicaid benefits, food stamps or other programs subject to the National Voter Registration Act are required to provide registration forms and help people fill them out. Like Disability Rights Nebraska, these groups would be caught between contradictory federal directives if the proposed ban is finalized.

Thousands more nonprofits receive federal funds for other services but provide voter outreach using private donations. Nonprofit experts said the confusion over which groups the ban affects and the burden of proving an organization is in compliance could lead many to pause or curb registration efforts ahead of the 2028 election. Colleges and universities that help students navigate registering to vote while away from home could be similarly affected.

But it is nonprofits like Disability Rights Nebraska and the people they serve that will be among the most directly hit.

“I don’t really think this rule had in mind that we are going to disenfranchise voters with disabilities. But it’s going to have that kind of effect,” said Rabia Belt, a Stanford law professor who’s an expert on disability and citizenship. 

In 2002, Congress helped tackle the challenges people with disabilities face in voting when it passed the Help America Vote Act. The legislation was designed to upgrade states’ voting systems and improve security in the wake of the controversial 2000 election, when close results in Florida triggered a recount, followed by lawsuits that ultimately ended with a U.S. Supreme Court decision that led to George W. Bush being declared the winner. 

The Help America Vote Act, signed by Bush, created grants to assist people with disabilities in registering to vote, casting their ballots and accessing polling places. That funding continues to this day. In recent years, Congress has budgeted $10 million a year, which is spread among 57 nonprofit groups that together cover every state as well as Washington, D.C., Puerto Rico, Native American communities and U.S. territories. 

That funding has narrowed the gap in casting ballots between those with disabilities and those without, according to an April 2024 report from Rutgers University’s Program for Disability Research that was written for the Election Assistance Commission, a bipartisan panel that helps implement the reforms put in place by the Help America Vote Act. 

But challenges persist when it comes to voter registration. During the 2024 election, 3.6% of registered voters with disabilities reported difficulties with registering, compared to 1.4% of registered voters without disabilities, according to survey data from Rutgers. That gap may sound small, but it is statistically significant and represents the experiences of about 740,000 registered voters with disabilities, said Douglas Kruse, one of the Rutgers professors who compiled the survey. 

The draft version of the OMB proposal was published in May. It is part of an extensive attempt to remake the rules governing federal grants. Once OMB’s final rule is released, it will almost certainly be subject to litigation. Legal experts said some lawsuits will likely focus on how the rule contradicts existing laws and policies, like the grants that were enshrined in the 2002 law and repeatedly approved by Congress.

Samuel Bagenstos, who served as general counsel of the OMB for part of Biden’s administration, said the proposal disregards how the Constitution gives Congress the “power of the purse.” The legislative branch sets the budget and gives dozens of federal agencies instructions on distributing those funds; the agencies create detailed policies to select grant applicants and get the money out the door.

Vought understands that federal funding provides a tool to consolidate power into the White House, said Bagenstos, who is now a law professor at the University of Michigan, specializing in disability and appropriations law. 

“This is not even a surgical power grab,” he said. “It’s just a massive across-the-board power grab.”

Disability Rights Nebraska was awarded $141,000 in voter accessibility funds this year. When the organization heard about the proposed rule, it submitted a public comment in opposition. Such a change “would affect the ability of nonprofits such as ours to conduct” voter registration drives, which are “an invaluable service to Nebraskans with disabilities who are otherwise locked out of the voting experience,” the group wrote. 

The organization’s work is strictly nonpartisan as mandated by law, the letter said. During a visit in June to a rural assisted living facility, the group wrote, 30% of the new voters its staff helped register identified as Republican, 20% as Democrat and 50% as nonpartisan or affiliated with a third party.

To ensure their drives are nonpartisan, Miller said she and her colleagues conduct the work in pairs, with each person representing a different party, as required by law. 

Many of the residents she speaks with are essentially cloistered, Miller said. 

She recalled one visit to a rural assisted living facility in early 2024. The community is so small it doesn’t have a library or a gas station. The nearest election commissioner’s office is a 30-minute drive away. 

Disability Rights Nebraska had put up a poster inside the building, listing key facts about voting access for people with disabilities. At one point, Miller said, a young man in a baggy T-shirt pointed at the poster. “Is this true?” He asked her. 

Yes, she told him.

“So I could register?”

“You can,” Miller said. “Do you want to register?”

He did. Miller said he knew what party he wanted to register with, though she declined to identify the party publicly or give personal details about him to respect his privacy. She said he told her he had lived at the home for a couple of years and this was the first time someone had offered to walk him through the registration process.

Miller said she wished the politicians making rules about voting rights could witness such moments.

“If I could just bring a politician with me to stand in the front hall of a nursing home” and see how people react when they realize they can vote again, she said. “I wish they could see that and realize how important the work is.”

The post “A Massive Power Grab”: White House Proposal Threatens Funding That Helps Disabled Americans Vote appeared first on ProPublica.

Earlier this month, the Supreme Court blocked an executive order from President Donald Trump restricting voting by mail in ways that could have thrown the upcoming midterms into chaos. But the White House originally had far more disruptive plans, ProPublica has learned. 

According to several people knowledgeable about the discussions, the administration initially floated an idea that would have virtually shut down mail voting: requiring all ballots to be delivered exclusively through certified mail. The proposal — which would have required voters to be home and sign for delivery of their ballots — was ultimately abandoned, after vehement Postal Service objections that it would have been impossible to execute. 

Even after the idea fizzled, Postal Service officials were cut out of crucial conversations as the Trump administration moved forward with what became the final executive order, two people familiar with the matter said. Issued in March, its contents came as a shock even to the Postal Service’s lawyers.

Trump’s order would have forced postal workers to serve as gatekeepers, deciding which ballots would be delivered and which wouldn’t. Beyond that, it would have inexplicably handed authority over the plan’s execution to Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick, who has no formal oversight over the Postal Service. 

Inside the Postal Service, which is overseen by a bipartisan Board of Governors, deliberations on whether to comply with the order stretched on for weeks. Some board members found it alarming but feared Trump would respond to a direct challenge by trying to fire them, sources familiar with their concerns told ProPublica. Instead, they remained silent, counting on the courts to block the measure. 

“The board was being careful how or when it took action, knowing that it might be its last action,” one source said. 

ProPublica previously detailed postal officials’ deep concerns with the Trump order. Now our reporting reveals how the order came to be and who was involved in crafting it, as well as the extent to which the White House tried to dictate how mail-in ballots would be processed.

The White House team leading the mail-in voting discussions included J. Brian Sikma, a special presidential assistant who has been involved in other administration election initiatives, including identifying noncitizen voters for prosecution and seeking to ban voting machines. (Sikma didn’t respond to a request for comment.)

The commerce secretary, Lutnick, served in “an advisory and coordination capacity” in drafting the order, a department spokesperson confirmed to ProPublica.

“President Trump values Secretary Lutnick’s advice on many matters,” the spokesperson said.

In an emailed statement, White House spokesperson Lauren Bis denied the administration had interfered improperly with the Postal Service, an independent agency whose governance structure is specifically designed to protect it from political influence. She said the executive order “added important safeguards to vote-by-mail. These were commonsense measures to protect the security of mail-in ballots and to ensure only Americans vote in American elections.” 

Bis also rejected the idea that the certified-mail proposal was “unworkable,” saying this played no part in the administration’s decision “to go in another direction.”

A Postal Service spokesperson declined to comment on the agency’s internal deliberations about the executive order and said it was the Board of Governors’ policy not to discuss them.

He referred ProPublica to an earlier statement by Postmaster General David Steiner that said: “Postal employees take great pride in their responsibility to support the democratic process. We will continue to approach that responsibility with the care, professionalism, and dedication that voters and election officials expect from the United States Postal Service.”

In an interview, Jonathan Smith, president of the American Postal Workers Union, called the Trump administration’s push to revamp mail voting problematic and baseless. 

“The ultimate goal was to create chaos and doubt in the vote-by-mail process,” he said. “You’re creating a rule to solve a problem that doesn’t exist.” 

The White House first reached out to the Postal Service in the fall of 2025, saying the administration wanted to explore how to improve mail voting. 

Trump has long claimed without evidence that mail voting is riddled with fraud, though he frequently votes by mail himself. He’s said the process is “inherently corrupt” and contributed to his defeat in the 2020 presidential election.

Postal Service leaders responded to the administration’s late 2025 overture with recommendations they had been making to local election officials for years. Nearly a third of all ballots in the 2022 and 2024 elections were cast through the mail. Mostly, independent audits showed, the system worked reliably. But at times, ballots got lost or delayed. 

Officials with the Postal Service had long wanted election offices to use standardized ballot envelopes with scannable barcodes, logos and other features that would make it easier to separate election mail from other first-class mail. In 2024, a bipartisan bill to turn those recommendations into requirements stalled in the Senate.

When Trump retook the Oval Office, it soon became obvious the White House had other ideas, including requiring ballots to be sent by certified mail.

Doing this could, in theory, erase some security concerns, but local governments would have to pay a higher fee to send each envelope and postal workers would have to conduct millions of identity checks, crippling timely delivery. 

“It was just, for many reasons, a terrible idea,” one top Postal Service official said.

The White House backed down, but when the final order was unveiled, postal officials said they were surprised to see it demanded that they implement the envelope changes and ballot-tracking measures they’d recommended in time for the midterms.

The directive also required states to provide the Postal Service with lists of eligible mail voters, which workers would then try to match with ballots before sending them out. Designing a new ballot-tracking system would normally take about a year, postal officials said.

They were particularly concerned with the order’s requirement that Postal Service workers reject ballots for an array of reasons, ranging from outdated voter information to unscannable bar codes. All mail ballots from a state could be rejected if the state refused to provide its voter list. 

“That’s not what we do,” a former official involved with the discussions said. “We deliver mail. We don’t decide what goes and what doesn’t.”

Postal Service officials were taken aback that the final order put Lutnick in charge of coordinating with other agencies and the postmaster general in “effectuating all relevant aspects of the implementation.”

Lutnick’s involvement came after Trump had discussed putting the Postal Service under the Commerce Department. At Lutnick’s February 2025 swearing-in, Trump said he thought Lutnick’s “great business instinct” was just what the Postal Service needed. (The postal board fought back, and Trump’s idea of merging the agency into the Commerce Department is apparently no longer on the table.)

Almost immediately after the executive order became public, four separate lawsuits challenging it were filed by states led by Democrats and political and civil rights groups. Democratic members of Congress and postal union leaders urged the Postal Service and its Board of Governors, which had long defended the agency’s independence, to resist. A June 2026 Supreme Court decision allowing Trump to remove leaders of many agencies long considered independent gave the governors pause, however.

Steiner, appointed at Trump’s behest in mid-2025, directed Postal Service leaders to prepare to implement the order. In public statements, he defended the measure and said he would leave it for the courts to decide. At his direction, postal officials began establishing procedures to comply with Trump’s order. 

As they started to craft rules, career postal officials, concerned about voter privacy and disenfranchising legitimate voters, attempted to do as little as they could to comply, three people knowledgeable about their deliberations said. They looked for ways to protect workers from having to step out of their traditional lanes.

For example, they proposed having states turn over their voter lists but not requiring Postal Service workers to use them to decide which ballots to send out. When the Postal Service’s lawyer took the idea to the White House counsel, however, it was rebuffed as “not enough,” the former official said.

Read More

New Mail Voting Rules Moved Forward Despite USPS Officials’ Concerns About Mass Disenfranchisement

The White House team made clear that if even one ballot envelope in a batch mailing didn’t match the state list, the entire mailing should be rejected and election officials should be notified. “That means if four addresses don’t align in a mailing of one million, 999,996 other people don’t get their ballot tomorrow,” the former official said.

As ProPublica has reported, staffers found these issues highly troubling. A whistleblower complaint released in August warned that the system designed to carry out the executive order was rushed into being, untested and error-prone. 

The final rule — 95 pages spelling out how the agency would carry out Trump’s order — was issued on Aug. 21, less than a month before the first mail ballots were due to go out.

It left many questions unanswered: How would lists of voters be kept updated? How would the Postal Service ensure local officials were able to upload voter information to the agency’s new portal? How could postal officials approve the new ballot envelope designs required by nearly 10,000 voting jurisdictions in just weeks? 

“This was going to be a disaster,” the former postal official said.

The Sept. 14 Supreme Court ruling provided a reprieve, but Smith, the postal union president, criticized agency leadership for not stepping in more forcefully. Counting on the courts to halt the order, said Smith, was “a dangerous calculation, and showed a clear lack of courage and integrity.”

The post The Untold Origins of Trump’s Plan to Sharply Restrict Mail-In Voting appeared first on ProPublica.

An Arizona congresswoman has proposed three bills that would fund literacy classes, dual language programs and training for teachers of students learning English in the state, hoping to remedy gaps highlighted by Arizona Luminaria and ProPublica.

Rep. Adelita Grijalva, a Democrat, filed the bills Sept. 16, the same day Arizona Luminaria and ProPublica reported that the state had lowered the score students need to pass its English proficiency test. Experts warned the change will push thousands of students out of language services before they know English well enough to succeed in school. Superintendent of Public Instruction Tom Horne, a Republican longtime defender of Arizona’s English-only policies, approved the change.

Grijalva’s Reaching English Learners Act would create competitive grants of up to five years for colleges that partner with high-need school districts or early childhood programs to train teachers to lead classrooms of English learners. It gives preference to programs that recruit teacher candidates who were once English learners or come from underrepresented groups. Colleges would pay at least half the cost of the training. The bill does not specify a cost for the program.

A spokesperson for Grijalva said she had previously drafted the bills but noted that Arizona Luminaria and ProPublica’s reporting underscored why federal support is needed to improve English learning.

In a statement to the news organizations, Grijalva said, “Superintendent Horne’s mismanagement of the misguided ‘English-only’ model underscores the need for real federal support for English learners, educators, and their families, which is exactly what my legislation would provide. Instead of repeating the mistakes of the past by simply making the English proficiency test easier to pass, we should give students the resources and support they need to actually succeed in the classroom, including through supporting bilingual education.”

Horne disputed Grijalva’s characterization, arguing that the English-only model is superior to bilingual education. “To put bilingual education in schools is to sacrifice the students to dogma and condemn them to not learn English properly, which negatively will affect their future academic endeavors and their hope for good jobs in the economy,” Horne told the news organizations.

The state Department of Education has previously defended its decision to make it easier to pass the test by saying it first administered the exam to 600 native English speakers to set a baseline for the changes. The department skipped this step in 2020, when it made the last major change to the test, officials noted.

As the news organizations reported, after the state lowered the score needed to pass the fluency test, the statewide pass rate, known as the reclassification rate, jumped to 26% in 2026, from 12% the year before. Of the nearly 113,000 students who took the exam, about 30,000 were classified as proficient and removed from English-language services this school year.

Proposition 203, which Arizona voters approved in 2000, established the state’s English-only policies. Students learning English spend two to four hours a day in separate English instruction until they pass a test showing they’re fluent enough to learn in a mainstream classroom.

Past attempts by the state to reclassify large numbers of children learning English as fluent prompted federal investigations. The government alleged that placing such students in classrooms where they struggled because they lacked knowledge of English violated their civil and educational rights. Arizona agreed to a settlement more than a decade ago to resolve the matter.

Grijalva proposed two other bills to aid English learning and literacy.

One of the measures, the Families Learning and Understanding English Together Act, would authorize $75 million a year from 2027 through 2031 for family literacy programs. Head Start programs, school districts, adult education providers and nonprofits could apply for grants of $150,000 to $1 million a year to teach English and literacy to young children and their caregivers together. To qualify, programs would have to serve areas where English learners are a majority, or growing share, of students at local schools.

The Supporting Young Language Learners’ Access to Bilingual Education Act, would fund dual-language immersion programs for children from low-income families from preschool through fifth grade. Students in those programs would learn in English and a second language and would use the second language for at least half the school day. The bill would authorize $15 million for 2027 and unspecified amounts in the following four years.

Since Democrats do not have a majority in either house of Congress, the bills do not stand much of a chance this year.

The post Arizona Lawmaker Proposes More Federal Support for English Fluency Services appeared first on ProPublica.

This past weekend marked the two-year anniversary of Hurricane Helene, which claimed more than 250 lives — 108 in North Carolina — and left hundreds of thousands of people without power for days to weeks. In Asheville, the largest city in the western part of the state, the storm left residents without drinking water for 53 days.

Part of what made the storm so devastating to the region when it hit, 400 miles inland from where it made landfall, is that the Appalachian Mountains’ typically porous soils were already saturated by recent rainfall. The rainwater hit bedrock and raced down steep mountain slopes like water on a slide. It overran the banks of normally shallow creeks and rivers, carrying the earth above it. One in 4 of those who died from the storm in North Carolina did so because of mud and landslides. 

I’m a reporter with the North Carolina online magazine The Assembly, and my stories have also covered natural disasters in California, Arizona and Texas, where I was a data reporter on ProPublica and The Texas Tribune’s investigative team. In my recent story for The Assembly and ProPublica, I wrote about how a gap in federal flood policy is putting mobile home residents in harm’s way again and again, allowing people in North Carolina to move onto the same lots where homes previously washed away. 

Joe Rogers moved into a riverfront mobile home park in Haywood County in 2006, his front door less than 100 feet from the river’s banks. At the time, the flood maps showed that the land the park sat on was at risk but didn’t have his home in the 100-year floodplain, which would have required expensive elevation. The lot was empty, and at $200 a month, the rent was affordable. Rogers reckoned he had at least 40 years until another storm came around. 

In 2021, the park was hit by a tropical storm, and the river rose a couple of inches into the home of Rogers and his wife, Sandra. When firefighters knocked on their door in the middle of the night in 2024, the couple figured Helene would play out like the last storm. Instead, the frigid, muddy river water rose from ankle deep to chest high in under an hour. Neighbors helped Joe escape, but before he could get Sandra out, the river lifted the home off its foundation and drove it downstream. Sandra’s body was found five days later, about 15 miles down river.

It wasn’t the first time that floodwaters destroyed homes at that park. In 2004, Hurricane Frances brought torrential rainfall to Western North Carolina. From his home on the park’s hillside, Dave Masters could see his father’s mobile home surrounded by water. Masters forced his then 63-year-old dad to leave, and the two watched as the river pried the home loose and drove it down the street like a car, where it crashed into a telephone pole before getting stuck under a bridge.

When the county sought properties to buy out to reduce the future risk to life and property after the 2004 floods, it bought out a home across the river but not the mobile home park. New residents moved into harm’s way. 

Asked why residents are again allowed to live by the river, Haywood County’s current recovery officer told us he “did not know it was even possible” to buy out a mobile home park. Small counties like Haywood often look to the state for direction. North Carolina Emergency Management, which reviews buyout applications, said buying out a park is no different from commercial or residential properties, and put the onus on the property owners to participate in the program and work with the local government. The park’s current owners did not respond to our questions.

Allowing people to continue to live in locations with severe and repeated flooding is one of several weaknesses reporters at ProPublica have identified while investigating deadly floods.

When it comes to updating floodplain maps, government agencies have prioritized coastal areas, as they often have large populations that can experience complex storm surges and sea level rise, said John Dorman, the retired director of North Carolina Floodplain Mapping Program. 

Many inland areas are still operating with their original flood maps from the 1970s or ’80s. In rural places that have experienced population growth and development since then, the maps don’t account for the way these places have changed. New homes, for example, take up valuable areas where floodwater is supposed to run, displacing water not unlike what happens when adding an ice cube to a glass of water. 

In North Carolina, my reporting shows what can happen when cash-strapped local governments adopt the minimum federal floodplain regulations, which allow campers to reside in floodplains and enable recreational vehicles to park in locations where they would never approve homes at ground level.

At the park where the Rogerses lived, five campers now sit on riverfront lots where mobile homes were anchored into the soil until Helene hit. 

Weaknesses in flood policy revealed themselves in the Texas Hill Country, too, when floods claimed more than 130 lives over the July 4 weekend in 2025. The majority of the people who died in the 2025 Central Texas floods were in places identified as flood-prone by the federal government, our analysis showed.  

The Hill Country floods highlighted issues about missed evacuation orders and the need for robust emergency action plans. In the months that followed, the Association of State Floodplain Managers developed model ordinances that require annual permits for campgrounds in floodplains, updated emergency plans and restrictions on building floodways. 

Chad Berginnis, the director of the ASFM, likened the minimum federal requirements to a standard recipe and said states can do more. He told me how the state of Wisconsin requires anyone who seeks to even move dirt in the floodway to have an engineer certify that it won’t raise the flood level.

Texas has more structures in flood-prone areas than any state besides Florida, according to a nationwide structure analysis by ProPublica and the Tribune. The Texas Legislature has repeatedly failed to pass bills that would allow local leaders to curb potentially unsafe development, the two newsrooms found. Without major changes, that means the same federal, state and local rules that allowed residents to live near the Guadalupe River are allowing many of them to rebuild there after the floods. 

As the Tribune’s Emily Foxhall reported, Joan Connor and David Stearns were one couple who were determined to get back in their home after surviving the 2025 floods by clinging to their pergola. With help from volunteers who repaired the storm damage and donated furniture, they were home by Christmas. It took less than a year for their home to fill with water again. They still plan to repair the house. 

Likewise, in Western North Carolina’s Haywood and Buncombe counties, residents are going back to the same locations that were destroyed by storms, including the lot where Rogers lost everything during Helene. Rogers wonders how the local and federal government can keep allowing people to live in harm’s way. 

“Ain’t that the definition of insanity: keep doing the same thing, hoping for a different result?” Rogers said. “They’re going to — I hope none of them does, you know — lose a spouse and everything that they own.”

The post Two Years After Hurricane Helene, People Are Still Allowed to Live in Harm’s Way appeared first on ProPublica.

It was late May, the French Open was on and DraftKings was pushing me into the action.

A promotion pinged on my phone. “BET & GET,” it boomed, offering to boost my profits if I threw down on tennis, punctuating the point with a cartoon stack of cash. I was already in the middle of a two-hour betting spree, ripping 64 wagers on the clay courts of Paris from my office chair in New York City.

A $75 bet that Claire Liu would win the fifth point of her first set tiebreak against Maria Sakkari? Wrong. How about an easy $300 on Francisco Comesana to win the first game of the second set against Luciano Darderi? Negativo. 

I’ll be the first to admit that my backhand needs some work. But this wasn’t about sports. It was about scratching an itch.

For the past six weeks, I’d been gambling like a man out of control, testing the guardrails of one of America’s most popular — and controversial — products: online sports betting. I’d morphed from a prudent, just-for-fun $40 bettor into a “degen” (sports betting slang for a degenerate gambler) who casually yeets $1,500 on a game. I’d feverishly jumped from sport to sport, following playoff basketball bets with live Czech table tennis. And I’d gone hog wild at the online casino, doubling down at the blackjack table. Most of the time, I’d lost — then chased those losses with more bets. Now, I was in the grips of yet another binge.

And as I approached $4,500 in losses in 24 hours, transferring money from my bank directly into my DraftKings account, the company seemed to clock the problem, sending me an in-app notification.

“Take a loss? Now take a beat,” it read. This felt right after the tear I’d been on. To date I’d blown about $12,500 in total on DraftKings. That’s the equivalent of six months of mortgage payments in as many weeks.

I followed the prompt to the site’s “responsible gaming” center, where I opted to limit myself to just two hours per day on the app and barred myself from depositing more than $100 in a 24-hour period. That pause is an essential part of DraftKings’ seemingly paradoxical business model — to make as much money as possible from the nation’s growing ranks of sports bettors without encouraging gambling addiction. The company says these limits are a cornerstone of that strategy. 

Yet 30 minutes later, the company pushed me in the other direction. My phone buzzed with the first of four promotional alerts that day. Betting opportunities, they said, were waiting.

This wink-and-a-nod dynamic is now at the center of a fierce public policy debate over online gambling, addiction and consumer protection.

Since 2018, when the Supreme Court allowed states to legalize sports betting, Americans have put more than $600 billion into play. Sports betting is now legal in 39 states and Washington, D.C. Add in prediction markets like Kalshi and Polymarket, and more people are betting on sports than ever before.  

That explosive growth has come with consequences: About a quarter of active sportsbook account holders surveyed by the Siena Research Institute this year said that they’d lost enough on a bet that they’d have trouble meeting their financial obligations. As a result, regulators and lawmakers from Colorado to Massachusetts are starting to question whether things have gone too far — and some are now proposing stricter consumer protections.

Amid the mounting scrutiny, major operators like DraftKings have pushed back, arguing that their responsible gaming system provides adequate safeguards to protect their customers from spiraling out of control. “I think as a business, as an industry, we’re doing a good job of educating people, of raising awareness, of making tools and resources available, of monitoring accounts,” Lori Kalani, the company’s chief responsible gaming officer, told me. If a customer waves too many red flags, she said, the company will proactively close the account. But when I asked how often this actually happens, DraftKings wouldn’t say. 

So I decided to find out for myself: If I bet like a compulsive gambler, would DraftKings stop me — even if it cost the company money?

I opened an account under my own name and linked it to my debit card. ProPublica bankrolled me. When the app asked me what I did for a living, I disclosed that I was a reporter. I assembled a panel of addiction specialists, recovering gambling addicts and professional sports bettors who pointed me to the telltale wagering habits of someone who’s out of control. And then I got to work.

Over the next 10 weeks, I’d mimic those patterns and come to find out just how much DraftKings would encourage my recklessness — and just how little pushback I’d get as I spiraled downward.

I used the NBA playoffs as my launching pad, and, like much of New York, I was all in on the Knicks. After a week of moderate betting, I waved my first red flag during Game 3 of the Knicks vs. Atlanta Hawks first-round series.

I slept fitfully after my night of loss chasing and awoke at dawn to catch a train to Boston, where I attended a symposium on online gambling put on by the Public Health Advocacy Institute at the Northeastern University School of Law. 

There, Matthew Gaskell, a British psychologist and expert on gambling addiction, said that the bettors that companies are most interested in are, well, losers like me. Indeed, a modest set of very active losers account for a substantial amount of sportsbooks’ revenue, he said. (A 2024 study out of Connecticut found that 1.8% of problem gamblers in the state accounted for 51% of sports betting revenue.) And the companies have created sophisticated technology products designed to squeeze maximum engagement out of them, just as social media companies like Meta did years earlier with users of Facebook and Instagram, added Darragh McGee, a researcher at the University of Bath.

In fact, as The New York Times reported, DraftKings employs machine learning and data scientists to identify losing customers and entice them with promotions to keep them going — even if those are exactly the kinds of customers at risk of becoming addicts. DraftKings told the newspaper its promotions are geared toward users who spend a lot of time on the app and that the company “rejects any implication that its marketing practices are unfair or improperly targets customers.” 

To keep users loyal, the major operators offer VIP programs, not unlike what airlines or rental car companies do. As a bettor climbs the tiers, the perks get bigger and better, from free bets and swag to primo seats at games, fancy dinners and even concert tickets. A FanDuel VIP in Pennsylvania received a personalized video message from MLB slugger Bryce Harper.  

I wanted to be a VIP. I wanted cool perks. 

To help get that status, I’d tapped the skills of Isaac Rose-Berman, a precocious 26-year-old professional sports bettor and policy expert at the American Institute for Boys and Men, a think tank that focuses on policy issues impacting dudes. He had a hunch that by chasing losses and displaying other signs of problem gambling I’d eventually get an invite. We just didn’t know when it would come — or how much it would cost. 

It happened sooner than either of us thought. 

At 5:01 p.m. the day after I lost nearly $1,800 on basketball in one night, during the closing remarks of the gambling addiction symposium, an email popped into my inbox. “Welcome to the DraftKings VIP Showcase,” the subject line read. I couldn’t believe it. My night of loss chasing was being rewarded. 

The VIP showcase is basically a three-week tryout. Every week I’d get a new promotion as the company sussed me out to make sure that I was worthy of the title. It wanted to know whether I was actually a big spender, aka a whale, or a wolf in sheep’s clothing — a pro bettor, like Rose-Berman, who, armed with math, can beat the house more often than most by exploiting mispriced odds. Bettors like these, known in the business as sharps, calculate savvy wagers that have as much to do with sports knowledge as with probability. The apps do not like losing money to them and so limit how much they can bet. 

For long-term losers like me, though, those limits don’t apply. I’m not a sharp. I’m a square.

And when I read the fine print of the VIP loyalty program, I was floored to see the incentive structure laid out so plainly: The more I spent on long-odds wagers, the quicker I’d accumulate the credits I needed to advance from tier to tier — from bronze, to silver, to gold, to diamond, to Onyx — and thus get closer to the cool perks I so desired. The upshot? Full send every time, baby! 

Before I could get started though, I encountered my first in-app responsible gaming prompt since I began betting.

In just over a week, I’d gambled away roughly what a minimum-wage worker in New York City earns in a month by chasing my losses and repeatedly tapping my bank account. But the notice wasn’t served to me because of how I’d been betting. It was sent because when New York lawmakers legalized mobile sports betting in 2023, they required the apps to notify users when they hit $2,500 in total deposits. 

The law also requires sportsbooks like DraftKings to submit a “problem-gaming plan” to the state regulator but leaves the specifics of it up to the companies. The plan must include, among other things, procedures “for identifying users with suspected or known problem-gaming behavior” and for “providing information to users concerning problem-gaming identification and resources.” But the exact details are unclear because such plans are not publicly available. (A DraftKings spokesperson wouldn’t provide a copy, and my request for it under the state’s open records law with the gaming commission is under review.)  

The app’s response to my $2,500 in deposits was tepid. With a click I could either set limits on my betting or avoid doing so altogether. Eager to gamble, I clicked “I Understand” and moved on. That was it, warning resolved. I got on the horn with my panel of experts to map out the next phase of my experiment. It was time to up the ante.

One of my advisers, Joshua Grubbs, who studies gambling disorders at the University of New Mexico, said he’d expect to see someone on my trajectory pick up the frequency of his betting, have longer sessions on the app, jump from sport to sport in search of fast action and start experimenting with more exotic betting products, like parlays and prop bets.  

OK, I said. Let’s rip some parlays.

Parlays link multiple events into a single wager, drastically decreasing the likelihood of all parts happening while simultaneously increasing the potential payout. They’re enticing, aspirational bets. And, Grubbs was quick to remind me, they’re known by another name: a sucker’s bet. 

DraftKings heavily promotes parlays, offering “profit boosts” that juice their potential payouts. 

The companies say these bets make watching a game more fun and exciting. They’re a reason to tune in, and hang on, if you’re not otherwise interested in whatever’s on TV. 

Do enough parlays, though, and you become seduced by what’s known as the “near miss” effect — a psychological phenomenon in which your brain basically tricks you into thinking you’ve got skill after almost winning. 

Mathematically, however, you’re actually four times more likely to get three out of four legs of a parlay, for example, than all four. Yet every time I got close, I wondered if maybe I just needed to tweak my formula, even as my rational brain recognized that I couldn’t hit a parlay to save my life.

Prop bets play on a different dynamic in your brain. They are wagers on a player’s stats or a specific event within a game that’s divorced from the overall outcome. Among the most controversial forms is the microbet, which offers very fast action — who will win the next point in a tennis match, will the next pitch be a strike. Another one of my consultants, Natasha Schull, an anthropologist at New York University and the author of “Addiction by Design: Machine Gambling in Las Vegas,” said microbetting is as close as you can get in sports betting to playing slots, widely considered to be one of the most addictive forms of gambling.

So I followed Grubbs’ and Schull’s advice to escalate my risk-taking as I bet from my living room couch.

Betting on the couch was fun enough, but I was itching to feel what it was like to have money riding on a game being played right in front of me. So in early May, when my neighbor and I went to see the Yankees play, I decided to give betting IRL a try. 

It’s hard to overstate how heavy-handed the sports betting messaging in Yankee Stadium is. When I went to get a hot dog, there were ads from DraftKings’ chief rival, FanDuel, on the monitors that displayed the menus. 

I settled into my seat, cracked a cold one and logged into DraftKings. It was time for more microbets. When Yankees shortstop José Caballero was up in the fifth inning, I bet $50 that he’d either get a hit or take a ball on his third pitch. I was right! Easiest $95 I’d ever made. 

So I kept going — with less success. 

I lost $50 on the next pitch to Caballero, then I went 0-5 at $20 a pop trying to guess what Baltimore Orioles center fielder Leody Taveras would do from the box during his third plate appearance. I’d managed to squander my payday in just a couple of minutes. 

Schull told me that since there’s so little lag time between placing your wager and getting your result, you can quickly get into a flow of submitting and repeating bets — exactly the kind of trance she observed in gambling addicts pulling slot machine levers. The result, obviously, is that it’s very easy to lose a lot very quickly. 

I’d soon find out that DraftKings knows this, too, though its take on microbetting was far less full of doomerism.

Three days after the Yankees game, on May 7, following yet even more parlay losses, the company served me a “responsible gaming” pop-up video — the first I’d been served in the app since the New York-mandated one on April 25.

“Took a loss? Now take a beat,” it read, directing me on how to visit the “My Stat Sheet” page on the app, where I could set a budget or impose limits on my ability to spend. I clicked “Maybe Later,” and the interruption was over.

But DraftKings’ apparent concern for my well-being was belied by a promotion the company sent me just hours later: A 20% profit BOOST on bets of up to $250 for an unlimited number of live microbets on baseball plate appearances. This was exactly the kind of bet that had led me to lose so quickly at the ballpark. Now the company was encouraging me to run it back at even bigger dollar amounts for as many times as I wanted until the promotion expired later that day. “Bet, settle, repeat!” read the push notification that popped up on my phone. I could practically hear the crank of a slot machine lever.

When I described this bet-pause-promote progression to Kalani, DraftKings’ responsible gaming chief, she told me she’d “take that back” to her team for review but added, “I just don’t think we should be drawing broad conclusions from, you know, your single account, what you did.”

A few days later, exactly two weeks after my first big night of loss chasing during the Knicks game, I was formally accepted into the VIP program and assigned my very own, personal concierge. It had taken only three weeks and $5,800 in deposits on the app. My rep said he’d be “keeping an eye out for opportunities and perks tailored specifically” to my account, plus “reminders about Responsible Gaming.” 

I could text him directly. I could reach out for special treatment. Rose-Berman explained to me that this meant I could ask for “bonus bets,” free one-time bets using house money, or, more commonly, “deposit matches,” extra house money called DK Dollars, that fattened up my account when I made a transfer from my bank. He said that sportsbooks are happy to provide these freebies to losers like me because they’ve assessed, rightly, that we’re likely to end up gambling it right back — and that the special treatment will keep us loyal. I’d be earning crowns that I could convert to DK Dollars as I climbed the tiers of the loyalty program, which I could use to bet more or buy merch. I couldn’t help but hope that I’d also get the really cool stuff. A personalized video from a major leaguer? Tickets to a game? Swag?

My rapid ascent to VIP at DraftKings made me wonder how its major competitor, FanDuel, would handle a problem gambler like me. So I repeated the behavior there, placing the same kinds of bets at the same odds over the course of a week on their app.

One night I blew $529 on playoff basketball bets and then chased my losses with a $750 wager on professional hockey, backing the Minnesota Wild in a high-scoring matchup against the Colorado Avalanche. When the Avs won and my money was gone, I found the only remaining live action I could: a cricket match between Indonesia and Malaysia.   

Like most Americans, I have no idea what cricket is. But whatever. It was near midnight and this was work, so I deposited $500 and tried to put it all on Malaysia. That bet would’ve netted me $11,000 had Malaysia won, but FanDuel wouldn’t accept it and required me to lower my wager amount. When I later asked the company about this, FanDuel wouldn’t say whether it did so because it didn’t want to lose the money or out of a commitment to responsible gaming. In any event, I put $200 on Malaysia instead and, of course, lost. 

The app also put some speed bumps in my way over the course of that night, prompting me with “Reality Check” reminders six times that showed me the amount of time I’d been on the app and the amount I’d wagered thus far.

And unlike on DraftKings, my weeklong betting behavior on FanDuel didn’t result in a VIP invite. When I reached out to FanDuel for comment, the company touted its responsible gaming tools. A company spokesperson added in a statement that FanDuel’s program is “designed to identify potential risk early and empower customers with real-time information about their play.” For some customers, the statement said, “trained specialists” will intervene “or apply protective measures, including limits or exclusion,” though the company didn’t say how often that happens and what it takes, exactly, to trigger those measures. The New York Times reported that FanDuel is one of several operators that have signed up with third-party firms that help gauge customers’ risk for problem gambling to curb it. DraftKings is not among them but said it has its own tools.

Over on DraftKings, things were heating up. A month into my experiment I’d already lost $4,671 — enough scratch to buy a used car (with a lot of miles) — and my bet size was growing, too. I was getting used to risking large sums. I looked back on how nervous I’d been to place $200 bets when I first started and couldn’t believe that I’d been so naive. 

I’d been wagering so much, in fact, that the quick-tap deposit buttons in the app had increased to $500, $750 and $950, making it even easier to mindlessly transfer large sums from my bank into my DraftKings account.

Computer scientists have a term for this choice of user design: They call it a “dark pattern.” Critics say this is a key way that apps essentially trick you into subscribing to or purchasing things you don’t want or need with just one click.

And boy, was I getting fed opportunities to click. I’d selected the open settings for notifications on DraftKings, and as a result I was just getting pummeled with push alerts to my phone. Sometimes there’d be six in a day, offering BOOSTS. In the app, they’ve even got their own tagline: “BOOSTS DON’T STOP.” 

I was hoping for tickets to a game or swag or anything super cool, but so far my VIP rep had hooked me up with only a 12-month ESPN subscription. That and lots of promotions to bet, at all hours. On Saturday, May 16, as I was getting the kids home from my son’s baseball game, DraftKings pushed me an “Exclusive Offer” to double my winnings on any bet up to $250. I pieced together a parlay on the subway, placing the bet as my service cut in and out.

The Yankees were playing the Mets that night, and Rose-Berman had encouraged me to shoot the moon — to climb the tiers of VIP status — so I strung together a five-leg parlay for the full eligible amount. My payout, highlighted in purple at the bottom of my slip, would be $6,250 if it hit.

The Yankees lost, and I hit only one leg of my parlay. As I nursed my wounds I began to wonder: Would I have spent that $250 but for the promotion?

I promise you I wasn’t trying to lose. Sure, I was firing unlikely bets, but I wanted them to win. If you could lose intentionally then you could win intentionally, and gambling wouldn’t exist. Over time most gamblers lose, and like them my performance was trending southward consistently — and fast. 

But then, heading into Memorial Day weekend, I got on a hot streak. In statistics, this is called variance, but colloquially we refer to it as luck. Over five days, I notched real wins betting serious cash. After winning $3,869 on parlays from a Yankees game and the thrilling double overtime Spurs win in Game 1 of the Western Conference finals against the Oklahoma City Thunder, I almost forgot that, net, I was still down $8,836. And you know what? I felt like Superman. 

To my betting brain, I was flying high. I was hot. I contacted one of my advisers, Rob Minnick, himself a recovering gambling addict who hosts a YouTube channel about problem gambling, and asked what he did after big wins.

He told me to withdraw the deposit I’d made immediately before my hot streak and then bet the winnings left in my DraftKings account with gusto because, hey, it’s just house money.

“I always say on my channel, like all wins are just future losses because when you don’t stop, it eventually gets given back,” he said.

Today, nearly a quarter of all Americans, and half of men ages 18 to 49, say they have an active sportsbook account, according to the Siena Research Institute. And with the advent of prediction markets, millions more are believed to be betting on sports. 

But companies like DraftKings and FanDuel don’t just offer sports action: You can also gamble on casino games like blackjack and roulette in the handful of states where that’s legal. The companies call it iGaming, and they want it to be legal everywhere that sports betting is.

“I do think it’s a when, not if, that a lot of these states are going to legalize iGaming,” DraftKings CEO Jason Robins said at a June investor conference. “Customers want it. The tax revenue potential is real. And so we’re seeing a lot of momentum develop in different states.” 

New York doesn’t permit that kind of gambling, but New Jersey is one of the roughly half dozen states that does. Since I was headed down the shore for Memorial Day weekend and my DraftKings account was flush from playoff basketball betting, it proved to be the perfect opportunity to try out iGaming.

I logged into my account from the beach on May 22 and was hit with a reminder of the app’s responsible gaming suite of tools, including the option to set a budget. I bypassed the prompt with the swipe of a finger, and there, on the main page, was a shortcut straight to the card table.

I explored the expansive casino offerings: I played roulette and tried out blackjack. The cards were dealt on a table that looked straight out of Vegas but for your phone. I didn’t have to think about how much to wager because DraftKings had already done that for me: With the click of a button I could bet as much as $1,000 per hand. And I was struck by how DraftKings cross-promoted iGaming to the sports bettor.

That included “baseball blackjack” and “basketball blackjack” — a regular deck of cards but instead of a felt card table background, there was a baseball diamond or basketball court.

I didn’t think much of that until after I bet on the Knicks and Cavs in Game 3 of the Eastern Conference finals the next day. At the bottom of the receipt of my bet slip, I noticed for the first time a “Suggested For You” section. Mine advertised baseball blackjack and basketball blackjack. The app was drawing me back to the table.

Not that I needed that hard of a nudge to start playing cards again.

Rose-Berman and I had discussed a strategy for the weekend: To escalate my compulsive betting late into the night, I transitioned from my usual sports fare to even faster, more exotic sports action (read: Czech table tennis) and then, ultimately, to the casino, following the path DraftKings was all but paving for me.

As I devolved in Jersey, Draft Kings promoted me to silver-tier status.

I’d played about 500 rounds of blackjack in a couple of days — accounting for just over half of my total betting activity during 10 weeks on DraftKings. By the end of the holiday weekend, I’d blown close to $3,000 on casino gambling. Before I left the Garden State, I asked my VIP rep whether there was any way to get just the casino stuff off my phone.

Days later he responded, informing me that, no, unfortunately, that wasn’t possible. But he did ask me whether I needed “help with setting in app limits.” I declined the offer. 

DraftKings’ Kalani told me I wasn’t the first user to voice this complaint and said the company was working on allowing customers who’d rather just bet on sports to toggle off the casino on their phone.  

I came away from my betting mania with an overarching takeaway: that the “responsible gaming” prompts that were served to me were no match for the product design pushing me to do more gambling.

While I was fighting off sleep to play cards, DraftKings occasionally threw me some responsible gaming speed bumps. Just before midnight, for example, a “time reminder” popped up on the blackjack table, telling me I’d been on the app for three hours and 45 minutes. 

The pop-ups were barely disruptive: They covered a small part of the screen and could be swept away in a second. The design of the blackjack game, by contrast, facilitated betting big and chasing losses. That’s because DraftKings has made doubling your bet one of the options you’re served in between hands — literally enabling doubling down in a millisecond with the push of a thumb.

Minnick, who, in addition to hosting a YouTube channel on problem gambling, has co-founded a nonprofit industry watchdog that Rose-Berman advises, told me this dynamic pretty much summed up how he has come to understand the industry’s “responsible gaming” approach. 

“It’s like an entire system that’s just built to appear to be doing something good while giving them basically like a free pass to do everything bad by saying, ‘Hey, we told you, you know, you have a responsibility, it’s your fault,’” Minnick said. 

In a statement, DraftKings disputed that characterization, saying that all 5,000-plus of its employees are trained on responsible gaming every year and that it’s “not a side initiative. It is embedded across our business and essential to DraftKings’ long-term sustainability.” 

But either way, Minnick and others said the framework for protecting consumers shouldn’t be entrusted to a publicly traded company that’s driven to grow revenue. “It’s unfair for us to expect or require a private business to do something that goes against its own mission of generating profit, right?” Minnick said. “Well, if you choose the industry standard, it’s going to be the least effective means.”

By late May, according to my expert panel, I was enthusiastically waving all the red flags of a compulsive gambler. Loss chasing? Check. Regular depositing? Yup. Exotic betting products? Lots of ’em. Long hours on the app and bets of increasing size and frequency? Yes and yes. 

Yet the only pushback I got from DraftKings came in the form of responsible gaming prompts that required me to opt in to the app’s tools. The company told me it sent a total of 32 such notices over my 10 weeks of gambling, including emails that every DraftKings customer gets. By my count, I got in-app notifications about my betting on 14 of the 71 days I gambled. 

Kalani, who served as DraftKings’ outside lawyer before becoming its responsible gaming chief, says her 51-person team manually reviews user accounts suspected of problem gambling. But I’d never heard from a single one, and I wondered if it was because I wasn’t compulsive enough.

So to erase any conceivable doubts about my status as a problem gambler, I went full “degen,” as sports bettors say when they’re on a particularly wild tear.

This is the moment that I bet feverishly on the French Open. I was fueled with $1,100 I’d won from my second bet ever, on April 16, a $200 wager on the Knicks to win the Eastern Conference finals. Now, six weeks later, I was compulsively betting on tennis, a sport I’d never bet on before. Once I blew my stack, I went straight to the responsible gaming center to set limits on how much I could deposit and how many hours I could be on the app. 

The company says it doesn’t want there to be a stigma attached to using responsible gaming tools, but instead wants to encourage its users to budget, impose limits and avoid going off the deep end. DraftKings says millions of customers have visited its responsible gaming center, but the little data available publicly suggests only a small percentage opt into these tools.

As of April, just over 8% of active DraftKings users in Massachusetts were using them, a company official told state regulators this summer. This number was trending up, which was a good thing, the official said. 

But when I used the tools, it didn’t take long to see their limitations. Just a half an hour after opting in, I received the first of four push alerts.

When I asked Kalani if the push notifications undermined my efforts to control myself, she dismissed the issue.  

“People use our tools all the time, and they also appreciate being offered the same things other customers are also offered,” she said. “I think they are two very different things.” Besides, she said, those kinds of marketing materials aren’t sent to customers who opt into more severe restrictions, like a “cool-off” period. 

I knew she was right about that from firsthand experience because I’d opted into a three-day cool-off after blowing another couple of grand on tennis to really communicate to DraftKings that I was struggling. 

When you’re cooling off, you literally can’t log in. I’d picked a torturous time to enroll — the NBA Finals were underway as I was headed to a reunion trip with the college bros. I couldn’t have scripted a more stereotypical scenario for betting. The Knicks were playing the Spurs in Game 1, but I couldn’t get in on the action! 

When I emerged from betting purgatory, it did seem like DraftKings had taken its foot off the gas. I wasn’t getting push alerts. Some of the bonus perks the app regularly fed me weren’t available. Even the dark patterns deposit buttons had returned to the default amounts of $10, $20 and $50.

So on June 8, ahead of Game 3 in the Knicks-Spurs series, I texted my VIP host to see what the deal was — and to see how firm the guardrails were. I asked whether I could get some extra DK Dollars in exchange for making a big deposit. I wondered if, given the circumstances, he’d invoke responsible gaming. He responded a day later and initially demurred.

But on the advice of a recovering gambling addict I’d been speaking to, I tried another tactic: asking for a bonus bet — just to remind my rep that I was eager for action.

Not one week after coming off my three-day cool-off, my VIP rep juiced my biggest deposit to date with an extra $1,250 in free DK Dollars.

Kalani told me she didn’t see a problem with this, either. It had been me, after all, and not my host, who first made contact following the cool-off. “At that point, again, you’re a VIP customer, and you’re asking for something that we would give to any customer,” she said.

Overall, “the system worked the way it was supposed to” in my case, Kalani said. The range of behaviors and indicators that DraftKings scans for that trigger closing or manually reviewing an account didn’t ping for me, she said. 

While I often played late into the night, I wasn’t playing in the wee-est hours, between 1:30 a.m. and 5:30 a.m., she said.  

I found this response revealing, though perhaps not in the way she’d intended it to be. I’d deposited $21,600 into my account in less than eight weeks, exhibiting just about every sign of compulsive gambling there is, according to my expert consultants. By DraftKings’ metrics, I didn’t even register for a manual review. Kalani had told me that the company was motivated to retain customers who were betting “within their means and can sustain their own entertainment.” 

So I asked Kalani straight up: Does DraftKings ever cut somebody off purely based on their betting history and not because they’ve disclosed that they’ve got a problem? “Yes, we do that all the time,” she told me. She repeated the same answer when I asked her how often. I pressed again, and a spokesperson interjected, telling me he could take the question as a follow-up. I checked in later, but the company told me that “we do not share the specific number of closures.” 

Sportsbooks know how to identify and restrict gamblers’ behavior. In fact, they already do so when it comes to sharp bettors like Rose-Berman. Gaming regulators in Massachusetts who crunched the numbers on this last September found that, on average, just 0.64% of gamblers in the commonwealth were limited as of December 2024 and that, within that group, winning bettors were more likely to have their bet maximums lowered than losers. 

Sportsbooks could do the same to losers who are digging deeper and deeper holes. In fact, the Times reported, data scientists at DraftKings had developed a tool to identify customers who were headed in this direction, but the company didn’t adopt it. Kalani told the Times that DraftKings’ existing system for identifying problem gamblers was a “better methodology.”

As it stands, the current system relies on users to opt into setting responsible gaming tools like budgets or time limits. That model restricts the tools’ utility to those who have the wherewithal to police themselves, said Brianne Doura-Schawohl, a gambling reform advocate who lobbies statehouses to impose stronger consumer and public health protections on behalf of the Campaign for Fairer Gambling. 

To stem the flow of casual money losing and potential addiction, advocates say, the design should be the exact opposite, requiring users to opt out of setting limits, especially since research shows that gambling can impair decision-making.  

The argument about responsible gaming tools, while legitimate, misses an even larger public policy question, Doura-Schawohl added. States that have legalized sports betting derive billions of dollars in revenue from it — even as research shows that gambling disorder diagnoses are skyrocketing in those places. That makes it harder for lawmakers to impose stiffer regulations on specific offerings such as VIP programs or prop bets, like microbets, that are huge sources of revenue for companies and thus state coffers, she said. Other countries have already taken aggressive steps to curb some of the industry’s more problematic products, from marketing practices to advertisements. But in the U.S., the industry has actively opposed proposed reforms in Washington as well as statehouses across the country, and it even seeded a political action committee with $41 million to influence elections this year.

“We want regulations like deposit limits, the reconsideration of microbets. Let’s talk about the inundation of advertising that we’re all sick of,” Doura-Schawohl said. “How do the products themselves impact harm? I think VIP is a big problem with that.”

Midway through June, the unimaginable happened: The Knicks won the NBA championship for the first time in more than half a century.

It’s hard to add anything of substance to the canon of what’s already been written about the historic turn. But what I can say is that from a betting perspective, this was very good for me. My first bet, for $100, was on the Knicks to take home the chip. And ahead of Game 5, I had laid down my biggest bet ever: $10,000 on the Knicks — five times my biggest bet to date. As the city erupted in celebration, my account was as flush as ever, with $25,350. I’d erased all of my previous losses and netted a couple grand in profit.

And as it turns out, I was far from alone. 

In fact, so many New York fans went big that the unlikely win resulted in sportsbook operators reporting a $48.5 million loss for the week ending after the Knicks secured the championship, the first time that’s happened since state lawmakers legalized online sports betting. 

This confusing series of events presented a wrinkle in my experiment: What does the problem gambler who has been a consistent loser do when, by the grace of God, he comes out ahead?  

Minnick, Grubbs and Rose-Berman all had the same answer: He keeps on going. “Congrats on becoming a huge world cup fan,” Minnick texted me. 

It was good timing. The 48-team tournament was a major betting event, with billions wagered on the regulated apps alone. DraftKings was eager to get me into the action. 

For the first time in the 12 days since my cool-off, with my account newly fat with house money, the company turned back on the push notifications notifying me of BOOSTS and betting opportunities. Between 1 p.m. and 8 p.m. on June 16, for example, I got five alerts pushing me to bet. “Defending champs Argentina start their quest for back-to-back glory,” read one. “Can they score 3+ goals vs Algeria (+180)?…” So I threw myself into World Cup betting with enthusiasm. And guess what? I was winning. A lot.

I was up $16,000 on top of my initial investment — astronomical heights. I frankly started to wonder: What if I was really good at this? What if I kept on winning? 

My experts knew better. Winning, and winning big, can actually be dangerous for a problem gambler because it instills in that person a false confidence, a validation of their betting behavior. What I experienced was also a representative snapshot of how it really plays out on a problem gambler’s account.

“Most people’s gambling stories aren’t straight down,” Rose-Berman told me. “The whole point is that so much of the asymmetric downside is caused by the initial upside.”

I had to keep going. I was putting more money than ever into play, placing between $3,000 and $7,000 a day on games, going for lucrative, unlikely parlays. 

Think about that. That’s well above monthly rent for most people. 

But I was hit in the app with responsible gaming prompts on only one of the 10 days that I spent so lavishly on the World Cup, receiving time reminder pop-ups notifying me of how long I’d been on the app, and how much I’d wagered, on June 17. 

In fact, DraftKings was egging me on. Because of my VIP status, I’d been able to bet up to $250 to qualify for a profit BOOST. But as I kept spending more and more, DraftKings lifted the qualifying bet amount from $250 to $500 and even $1,000.

I’d recently hit the gold tier of VIP, but I still hadn’t gotten any cool perks as a result of my status. So I texted my host to see if I could get tickets to a World Cup match in New Jersey. No such luck, he said. 

That should have been an omen. My fortune was turning.

In all, I’d lost $10,702 and decided enough was enough. I’d eventually withdraw the remainder and return it to ProPublica. 

But before closing out my experiment, I wanted to see just how far DraftKings would let me go. So I asked my VIP rep if I could get a match on a (hypothetical!) $25,000 deposit.

If I deposited more, my rep said, he could “look into the account and see what is available to add in.”

The post I Deliberately Bet Like a Problem Gambler. DraftKings Made Me a VIP. appeared first on ProPublica.

If you’re one of millions of Americans who have placed an online bet on a sporting event, you know how quickly you can go from celebrating your wins to feeling like the odds are stacked against you.

ProPublica is trying to understand how sports betting apps incentivize users to keep playing and when they warn users to pump the brakes. To do that, we need your help: We’re aiming for at least 250 people to upload their gambling history from apps like FanDuel and DraftKings. We’re not quite there yet, so if you’ve used these apps, you can help our journalists. If you’ve worked in the industry, you can also help us by answering a few questions. (You can also reach us on Signal.) 

Sharing your transaction histories and insights about the apps can help us understand when companies provide boosts, invite you into VIP programs and push responsible gaming notices. Without this data, there is no way to know how the companies truly operate. 

Learn more about this project and how to share your data by visiting our website.

The post What Does Your Data Reveal About Sports Betting Apps? Help ProPublica Find Out. appeared first on ProPublica.

A Colorado manufacturer of a popular brand of marijuana vapes warned dispensaries last week that it is recalling products due to contamination by methylene chloride, a chemical the Environmental Protection Agency has sought to ban for most uses because it can cause cancer.

The recall comes amid a protracted delay in state implementation of expanded testing procedures that would have detected methylene chloride and other solvents that pose health risks.

The manufacturer, StayCon, voluntarily flagged 49 of its products, some of which first went up on dispensary shelves more than a year and a half ago. The recalled items include vapes that go by the brand name Maui Wowie and Grape Gorilla. The recall notice said a “botanically-derived” flavoring compound used in its marijuana vapes contained methylene chloride.

The owner of the third-party lab that detected the toxic solvent, which can be used to strip paint, said that he notified the company and the state six weeks before StayCon issued its recall. The state has yet to issue its own alert to consumers. Kyle Boyd, a spokesperson for the Colorado Marijuana Enforcement Division, told The Denver Gazette and ProPublica that the agency “does not comment on investigations” in response to a question about why it hasn’t made the recall public.

The Denver Gazette and ProPublica reported this month that regulatory loopholes in Colorado have allowed contaminated marijuana products that pose health risks to continue being sold to consumers for months, sometimes even years. Regulators have been slow to provide public warnings even after they’ve received reports of consumer harm. Earlier this year, the publications also reported on the dangers of methylene chloride as part of an investigation into Colorado’s failure to adopt many regulations used by other states to keep intoxicating hemp products off marijuana shelves.

Methylene chloride can be used to cheaply synthesize hemp into THC, the psychoactive compound in marijuana that makes people high. That chemically converted hemp is then falsely labeled and sold as marijuana-based products. State law bans the chemical conversion process and prohibits marijuana manufacturers from using methylene chloride, which the EPA banned for most uses in 2024. This month the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 5th Circuit struck down the EPA ban and sent the matter back to the agency for further review.

The still-unimplemented testing rule for methylene chloride and 30 other solvents was meant to align Colorado’s standards with requirements that are already in place in 24 of the 43 states with regulated marijuana markets. The new testing was supposed to be implemented in July — nearly three months before StayCon told dispensaries it was recalling products. A spokesperson for the Marijuana Enforcement Division said the state public health department, which reviews labs and recommends their certification, told his agency it needed more time.

Implementation, he said, will begin at the end of this month.

Denver-based Bona Fides Laboratory in August detected the methylene chloride that prompted Friday’s recall notice during routine testing for other contaminants such as pesticides and mold. Lab owner David Mathis said he immediately notified the state and StayCon. He criticized state regulators for delaying implementation of the new testing rules, saying his company had been ready to conduct expanded screening since the start of July.

“How many samples were not tested but have contaminants in them and were passed to the public?” Mathis said.

StayCon, a Pueblo County-based company doing business as Craft, did not respond to questions from The Denver Gazette and ProPublica about its recall.

Even as the new testing protocols are set to go into effect, the state has backed away from plans to close a related and longstanding regulatory loophole: Manufacturers still get to choose the samples that labs test and the labs that do the testing.

Regulators in January said they were considering overhauling sampling rules to require lab personnel to collect samples, but they backed down after top manufacturers said it would be too expensive.

Read More

Regulators Knew This Marijuana Product Was Harming People. It Stayed on Shelves for More Than a Year.

Smoke and Mirrors: How Intoxicating Hemp Seeped Into the First Recreational Marijuana Market in the Country

The post Colorado Marijuana Company Voluntarily Recalls Dozens of Contaminated Products Amid State Regulatory Delays appeared first on ProPublica.

Across the country, states have been shuttering their youth prisons as juvenile crime has plummeted and research shows the facilities are not effective at keeping youth out of trouble after release. From 2000 to 2022, the number of the highest-security facilities for kids has dropped by more than 40%, the most recent federal data shows.

In contrast, Tennessee’s Department of Children’s Services has budgeted $360 million to build two new facilities with a total of up to 256 new beds for youth. Construction is set to begin this fall, and they are expected to open in 2028 and 2029. 

According to Tennessee officials, the state doesn’t have enough space for kids who courts have found committed crimes. In the last few years, it has held dozens of teens overnight in temporary places, including, at one point, office buildings. In an emailed response to WPLN and ProPublica, the agency attributed the lack of bed space to a number of factors, including teens’ needs for specific mental health services and temporary staffing issues in its facilities. And it said that national trends “do not determine” whether Tennessee has enough youth beds available.

But juvenile crime is down in Tennessee, too, and advocates and experts say the state’s push for more prisons does not line up with the needs of the kids in its care. 

“The argument that’s made is that [juvenile crime is] worse than ever, right? Or the kids are out of control,” said Josh Rovner with the nonprofit research and advocacy group The Sentencing Project, which seeks to reduce incarceration across the country. “The data doesn’t back that up.”

Tennessee said youth are committing more violent crimes. But fewer are entering the juvenile justice system.

To explain its need for more youth prisons, Tennessee’s DCS points to a recent state-commissioned study. It shows that police reports of violent juvenile crimes in Tennessee — including murder, aggravated assault, motor vehicle theft and crimes with firearms — have increased since 2013. 

But not every report results in an arrest, for a number of reasons; multiple people might call police for the same crime, for example. Data from the same report shows that the number of kids arrested and entering the system, even for violent crime, has decreased over that time period. Murder was the only violent crime included in the report for which arrests increased, from 15 cases in 2013 to 26 in 2024. That number is still lower than it was at its peak in 2018.

The state oversees different types of facilities for kids in the justice system, ranging in security level from group homes to prisons surrounded by barbed wire. DCS leaders said in a state hearing that the agency has reached maximum capacity and run out of beds in high-security facilities. DCS said in a recent statement that the number of youth needing space in a particular type of facility can remain high day to day even as overall arrests decline. 

In a 2024 lawsuit over Tennessee’s juvenile justice system, advocates said the state is not appropriately utilizing the bed space it currently has, putting kids into the highest-security facilities without considering their need for mental health treatment and other services. Because of juvenile privacy laws, no publicly available data shows what charges land youth in which setting.

In response, DCS acknowledged that it sometimes places youth in facilities based on capacity, but denied that it improperly held youth in the highest-security facilities. The case is ongoing. 

Tennessee promised its new prisons would be rehabilitative. Experts say they are too big to succeed at that mission.

Unlike the adult system, the juvenile justice system is set up to rehabilitate, not punish, based on decades of research showing that youth are more capable of change. 

DCS told WPLN and ProPublica that it is designing the new facilities to provide care that addresses the trauma youth have experienced, including behavioral health treatment tailored to their individual needs. The design includes dedicated spaces for education, job training and recreation. It also includes rooms for mental health staff to do their work, including “calming rooms” for youth. 

The agency also describes its existing prisons as rehabilitative. All three of the state’s highest-security prisons are run by Tennessee businessman Jason Crews and his company, Wayne Halfway House. The company is required by its contract and state policy to provide mental health treatment, education and other services to imprisoned youth. 

The 2024 juvenile justice lawsuit, which an advocacy group and multiple unnamed youth in the system filed against DCS, argued that the department places youth in facilities that are more punitive than rehabilitative. Some teens placed in prison, the lawsuit said, should not be there at all.

The lawsuit also claimed that Tennessee’s juvenile justice facilities keep youth from accessing education and mental health treatment. Two facilities run by Wayne Halfway House, according to the lawsuit, have had policies barring youth from attending school if they misbehave. One teen, diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety and other mental health conditions, did not get needed individual therapy for months while in a Crews facility, the lawsuit stated, and only got a couple of hours of education each day. Several other contractors’ jails and treatment centers across the state are referenced by name in the lawsuit.

DCS said in a legal filing that it didn’t have enough information to respond to all of the specific allegations about youth mentioned in the suit, but it pushed back against many claims, including that youth were provided inadequate education or mental health treatment. It also denied that the teen in the Crews prison was kept from therapy or education, but did acknowledge that some youth in the juvenile justice system may temporarily “receive minimal educational services.” 

A recent WPLN/ProPublica investigation uncovered several serious incidents that Crews’ facilities failed to report to the state as required. In a statement, Wayne Halfway House said the company “vehemently denies” that Crews or his company has ever discouraged staff from reporting serious or life-threatening incidents to the state. 

Wayne Halfway House said in a statement that it disputes the allegations in the lawsuit and referred the newsrooms to “numerous state audits and/or reports” during that time that refute those claims. It declined to share the specific documents it was referencing. “Wayne Halfway House programs are compliant with state policies and law,” the company wrote in its statement.

Daniel Macallair is the executive director of the Center on Juvenile and Criminal Justice, a nonpartisan, nonprofit organization that works to reduce society’s reliance on incarceration. “These institutions are not humane places,” he said, referring to large-scale youth facilities. “They’re not rehabilitative. They never have been.”

According to Macallair, who has been working on juvenile justice reform for more than 40 years, any facility with more than 10 kids becomes unwieldy, distracting from rehabilitation and becoming more correctional. Research shows that larger facilities often involve harsher treatment of youth, including higher rates of sexual abuse and practices such as solitary confinement. One of the prisons that DCS is planning would have up to 160 beds, making it the largest in the state.

By contrast, the programs that have proven to help youth avoid future crimes are small and based in the communities they are from, Macallair said.

Missouri, a nationally lauded example, has established small facilities throughout the state, keeping youth — even those who commit violent crimes — close to home for therapeutic programs. Research has shown that not only are these community-based programs more effective and affordable, but they lead to low rates of reoffending and high rates of high school graduation. 

DCS told WPLN and ProPublica that it provides community-based services for youth who can safely remain at home. But Tennessee data shows that the vast majority of youth in the system were not allowed to stay in their communities last year. 

One way to assess the rehabilitative success of youth prisons is whether youth are rearrested after release. But Tennessee officials acknowledge that they cannot measure that in a comprehensive or accurate way because the state lacks a centralized way of tracking when a youth commits a new crime.

Tennessee has pushed against outside oversight of its youth prisons. Experts say this is a crucial reform.

The state says there will be a bid process to determine who will operate the new facilities. Right now, two providers run all of the state’s private youth prisons — Wayne Halfway House and Youth Opportunity Investments, a company that runs lower security facilities. 

In response to questions about the new facilities, Wayne Halfway House said it would not comment about its business plans. It also noted that the facilities in which it holds youth in state custody for committing a crime are classified by the state as “residential treatment centers,” not youth prisons. Across the country, states use different terminology to refer to these facilities. By federal law they are supposed to provide treatment, but they also are secure facilities, often with barbed-wire fences and cells that lock, that hold youth long-term after a court finds them responsible for a crime — similar to adult prisons.

Experts say robust independent oversight is crucial to keep youth in juvenile justice facilities safe, but Tennessee does not have this. Instead, it has one agency that helps families navigate the system but lacks enforcement power and a new Juvenile Justice Review Commission tasked with releasing its first set of recommendations in 2028.  

“The main goal is to bring more transparency to what’s going on inside these facilities, to make that information public, to make recommendations about ways it can improve,” said Michele Deitch, a criminal and juvenile justice expert at the University of Texas at Austin. “You really need the external body that is independent.”

In 2024, a bipartisan group of Tennessee lawmakers introduced a bill that would give oversight and enforcement power to an independent organization instead of just DCS. Under the bill, DCS would be required to suspend a facility’s license or stop placing youth there until it fixed violations.

Lawmakers felt that DCS had a conflict of interest — it is responsible for both finding beds for children in these institutions and sanctioning providers if they are not following the rules or regulations. 

Wayne Halfway House, which pays a legislative lobbyist and also makes political donations in the state, opposed the bill. One of the bill’s sponsors said that a lobbyist for the company pushed to exempt privately run facilities from the bill, and the proposal made it into an amendment filed in the House. 

A lobbyist for Wayne Halfway House said at the time that the company had concerns about how the bill would “affect accountability in the governance of youth corrections in Tennessee.” In a recent statement, the company said it supports the state’s policies and laws that “rigorously oversee organizations like ours and hold us to high standards for operational performance.”

Ultimately, the bill failed.

The post Across the Country, Youth Prisons Are Closing. This State Is Building More. appeared first on ProPublica.

In November 2021, the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History opened an exhibit called “The Electric Dr. Franklin,” describing “Benjamin Franklin’s pioneering contributions to electrical science.” The exhibit explained that, prior to becoming an abolitionist, he had enslaved people in his household. “Benjamin Franklin’s remarkable scientific accomplishments were, in part, enabled by slavery,” it declared. 

The exhibit speculated that Franklin may have used enslaved people in his electrical research. “Franklin wrote about experiments in which he took shocks and used family and friends in these ways, although he seldom identified who in particular assisted him,” stated the exhibit, which closed in 2025 but can still be found online. “Indentured servants and enslaved people in his household could also have been used, although we may never know for certain.”

It was an eye-catching conjecture: one of the most revered of the Founding Fathers subjecting people held against their will to possibly painful shocks. And it was one of many details singled out for criticism in a blistering 162-page White House report released in July that argued that the museum had fallen victim to an “ideological capture” that “moved the Museum’s mission away from straightforward historical education and scholarship toward an extreme political activism that seeks to transform our country.”

For decades, the Smithsonian Institution, which draws some 15 million visitors every year to its assemblage of 21 museums — bounty that has no real global peer — has managed to stay mostly above the political fray. There have been occasional exceptions, such as the uproar over the National Air and Space Museum’s planned 1995 exhibit of the Enola Gay, the B-29 that dropped the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima. By and large, though, the institution maintained bipartisan support as the guardian of America’s history, ingenuity and natural heritage, even as political polarization spread and culture wars raged. 

But that institutional exceptionalism is now imperiled as never before. In March 2025, President Donald Trump signed an executive order declaring that the Smithsonian had succumbed to “divisive, race-centered ideology.” This July 4, timed to coincide with the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, came the White House report. Later in July, two House committees held back-to-back hearings on the report, where Republican members took turns lambasting the museum’s director, Anthea Hartig, and forcing her to answer questions about exhibit items such as a “chrome and rubber crotch harness” designed for sadomasochistic sex. That week, Trump signed an executive order instructing the Department of the Interior to erect signs outside the museum “warning visitors about the ideological capture” on display there. The signs have yet to go up, but in late August, Interior Secretary Doug Burgum sent a letter to the Smithsonian’s Board of Regents declaring that other federal agencies “cannot in good conscience continue to support the Smithsonian under current leadership.”

The Smithsonian is independent of the executive branch, governed by a 17-member board led by the chief justice of the Supreme Court and with six members of Congress, three from each party, serving with nine private citizens and the vice president. But it depends on the federal government for 62% of its funding, receiving more than $1 billion per year, and warnings of deep budget cuts have grown ever louder. Finally, on Sept. 8, Smithsonian secretary Lonnie Bunch, the first African American person to lead the institution, announced he was stepping down at age 73, saying “it has been stressful.”

Seen from one vantage, the battle over the Smithsonian is but another example of Trump attempting with characteristic bombast to put his stamp on Washington institutions, alongside shuttering the Kennedy Center, replacing the East Wing of the White House with a huge ballroom and planning a 250-foot arch near Arlington National Cemetery. 

But unlike some conflicts initiated by Trump, this one has been festering for years, independent of him, with complaints lodged by board members before he returned to office. The American history museum, the main focus of the administration’s ire, has wrestled for years with how, or even whether, it should present a unifying national narrative, an ambivalence that left it susceptible to the administration’s broadside. Meanwhile, the Smithsonian underwent a political awakening during the 2020 upheaval over the COVID-19 pandemic and murder of George Floyd that echoed responses in academia and other progressive realms.

This left it exposed to a new administration that viewed itself as a corrective against perceived woke excesses. “I said over and over again that there’s going to be a day of reckoning,” recalled Garret Graves, a Republican former congressman from Louisiana who served on the Smithsonian board in 2023 and 2024, in an interview. “You can either participate in it, help guide the Smithsonian back to something that makes more sense, or you can have an abrupt shift. I didn’t realize my words would ring as true as quickly as they did.” 

Now, in the year that was supposed to be a crowning celebration of the nation’s 250th anniversary, the Smithsonian is instead in Trump’s crosshairs. And the question of how the country’s premier history museum should tell the nation’s story is suddenly up for grabs.

The National Museum of History and Technology opened on the National Mall in 1964. Its mission, said former assistant secretary of the Smithsonian Remington Kellogg that year, was to “awaken” a “clear understanding of the inspiring story of the United States — its origins, struggles, development, traditions, strength.” As the name reflected, the museum contained duelling missions from the start, showcasing American technological advances and telling a more general historical story.

In 1980, it was renamed the National Museum of American History, but the tension lingered. “It started out as a technology museum, and even now it has a lot of equipment, and to move from that to American history, that’s a huge change,” said Ivan Selin, a former chair of the museum’s board. “Unless you’re going to throw everything out and start over again, you’re going to have a very incoherent thing. Unless you have a clear strategy, you’re going to have some apples and oranges.”

Two decades after the name change, the lack of a unified approach had become an issue. In 1999, David Brooks wrote a scathing critique in the Weekly Standard, lamenting that the museum had so little on display about the nation’s defining moments (the Constitutional Convention, the Lewis and Clark Expedition, the Great Depression, etc.) and prominent figures who shaped them (Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr., etc.). “It ignores or virtually ignores most of the major events in American history,” he wrote. “This is a museum of multicultural grievance, which simply passes over any subject, individual, or idea, no matter how vital to American history, that does not have to do with the oppression of some ethnic outgroup or disfavored gender.” 

In 2001, in response to such critiques, the Smithsonian convened a blue-ribbon commission of historians and others led by Richard Darman, a former top aide in Republican White Houses. In 2002, the commission released its report, declaring that the museum “requires what its own leadership has described as a ‘transformation.’ It lacks aesthetic appeal, organizational coherence, and the perception of substantive balance.” The report recommended, among other things, a chronological introductory exhibit that contains “central theme lines for the examination and interpretation of American history” and that “should celebrate America’s remarkable strengths and achievements while also treating fairly and responsibly the ways in which America may have failed to meet the high standards it has proclaimed for itself.”  

This would prove easier said than done. For one thing, the museum’s physical structure itself has never been coherent — “an awkward attempt to marry the classical and the modern, the building is legitimately neither,” wrote New York Times architecture critic Ada Louise Huxtable at its opening. “It’s a challenging space,” Brent Glass, who became director shortly after the blue-ribbon report in 2002, told ProPublica.

Above all, though, the commission’s recommendations faced resistance among the museum’s curators to the sort of great-man-of-history approach that Brooks and others were hankering for. There had been a trend in museum science away from this, and away from straight chronology. “There was this whole museum movement to get away from a march through time, to a more episodic or specific sort of story,” John Gray, who succeeded Glass in 2012, told ProPublica. “It wasn’t done to get away from the story; it was finding a way to get people interested.”

In addition, the museum’s curators tended to be specialized in material culture — collecting and studying the museum’s several million objects and artifacts — rather than in conceptual storytelling. To make up for this, Gray’s team tried to enlist several leading academic historians to instill more of an overarching narrative structure. But they declined, saying they were concerned that such an approach could seem triumphalist and provide fodder for an America-first agenda. “We tried to organize [the museum] around ideas and ideals, ideals that were aspirational,” Gray said. “And we failed many times.” 

The museum’s eventual solution was to divide the national story into subject areas, each represented by a standing exhibit: “American Enterprise” on business and innovation, “American Democracy” on politics,” “Many Voices, One Nation” on immigration, “The American Presidency,” “The Price of Freedom” on the nation’s wars, “Entertainment Nation” on culture, “America on the Move” on transportation.

Developing these required extensive debate, said the former directors. Some donors supporting the enterprise exhibit were upset that it devoted so much space to the role of slavery in American business. In crafting “The Price of Freedom,” the museum consulted with veterans’ groups to try to avoid a backlash like the one that arose on the Enola Gay. This effort succeeded, Glass said, despite the exhibit’s candor about the darker elements of the nation’s military history. “People can handle complexity,” he said. “They don’t feel bad about the country when told the whole story, and they’re grateful that they have access to the information.”

Scattered throughout the museum are countless highlights: the desk on which Jefferson drafted the Declaration of Independence; the top hat Lincoln wore to Ford’s Theatre on the last night of his life; the actual lunch counter from the 1960 Greensboro, North Carolina, Civil Rights sit-in; and, in a recent addition, a gunboat sunk during the Revolutionary War that is being restored on-site. But the overall effect can be disjointed and disorienting. And, with the museum’s dim lighting, dated technology and underutilized areas, it can feel at times as if one is wandering in a past-its-prime shopping mall or in the forgotten corner of an airport terminal.

It’s a stark contrast to the National Museum of African American History & Culture, which opened in 2016 under the direction of Bunch and, notably, has a clear chronological design. Of course, said Selin, the former American history museum board chair, the African American museum and the National Museum of the American Indian, which opened in 2004, have the advantage of a more focused subject, leaving it even less clear what remains for the American history museum, where attendance has declined in recent years. “You can find nowhere in any Smithsonian document a theory of what should be in the American history museum or the more particular museums or how many of these particular museums there should be,” Selin said. “There’s no charter whatsoever that says how they fit together.”

In March 2020, the Smithsonian shuttered its museums for the pandemic. A few months after that, Washington and other cities erupted in protests over Floyd’s murder in Minneapolis. Bunch, who became secretary of the Smithsonian in 2019, and other top officials embarked on a push to rethink the institution’s priorities, as reflected in the minutes of the Board of Regents meetings, which were now being held online. Bunch “briefed the Regents on his efforts to navigate the dual pandemics caused by the Coronavirus and issues surrounding race, racism, and racial identity,” the minutes of the June 2020 meeting stated. He announced the launch of “Smithsonian Cares,” a digital resource that would “provide tools and guidance to empower and inspire conversations about diversity, equity, access and inclusion.” 

That October, the board discussed “the potential creation of a Chief Diversity Officer position, a review of organizational processes and policies that may have inadvertently created barriers to inclusivity, integrating and standardizing DEAI training across the organization, strengthening supervisory DEAI skillsets, increasing senior leadership’s focus on inclusivity, and identifying funding and resourcing strategies to implement DEAI efforts across the Institution’s functions and operations.” In February 2021, Bunch told the board that the Smithsonian’s five strategic priorities would include positioning it as a “trusted source for critical conversations and helping the nation grapple with important issues like race and identity.”

As the meeting minutes show, the institution’s elevation of identity was being encouraged by the newly installed Biden administration. In October 2021, the Smithsonian’s Office of Government Relations reported that the Smithsonian had “brought objects from the National Museum of American History to the White House for a temporary display recognizing Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer Pride Month.” Three months later, the office stated that it “continues to work closely” with the White House on “diversity, accessibility, access and inclusion efforts.” The Smithsonian noted plans for exhibits at the White House to mark “Black History Month in February, Women’s History Month in March, Asian-American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month in May, LGBTQ in June and Hispanic History Heritage Month in September.”

The post-2020 shift extended to the various museums, which started to reopen to visitors in spring 2021. To cite just one example, the National Portrait Gallery revised the signage for a portrait of Henry Laurens, South Carolina’s delegate to the Continental Congress, to reflect that he had made his wealth through chattel slavery. “When Floyd was killed, everyone acknowledged that now is the time to ask: What are the stories that we’re telling and were we being honest and fair in recounting those stories? We all looked at it through this lens,” Kim Sajet, who became the director of the Portrait Gallery in 2013, told ProPublica. “Everyone felt energized by that. We can’t change the past, but we need to acknowledge what happened in order not to repeat it in the future.”

But the new direction caused misgivings for some conservative supporters of the institution, such as Graves, who joined the regents as one of the three Republican congressional appointees in 2023. Graves told ProPublica that he had high regard for Bunch — “his accomplishment with the African American museum was remarkable” — but that he became worried that the Smithsonian was operating within a bubble. Its staff were living in a metro area that had voted overwhelmingly against Trump (and museum employees are generally among the most left-leaning of any profession), yet they were charged with presenting exhibits to visitors from all over the country and the world, a disconnect that the institution seemed insufficiently aware of. 

Many board meetings would kick off with tours of a certain museum, and Graves and a fellow Republican appointee, Adrian Smith of Nebraska, would often be taken aback by what they saw. “Seventy-five percent of the time Adrian and I would be walking around and say, ‘Are you kidding me?’” Graves said. “It wasn’t interpreting science or history. It seemed to have an agenda, and that’s not what a museum should be.” What was missing, he said, was a sense of the nation’s achievements. “This country is a remarkable experiment,” he said. “We’ve had some grave sins, but my gosh, America is a net victory for the world. It’s unbelievable what happened here in 250 years and it’s worth celebrating.”

Graves retired from Congress at the end of 2024. In his farewell address to the regents that October, he warned against allowing the Smithsonian to become seen as affiliated with one party or ideological bent. “I felt like they were causing sustainability problems for the institution,” he said. “Politicizing the Smithsonian is an awful, awful idea, because then you only receive funds when there’s a Democratic majority. This is America’s museum and there should not be anything partisan about it.” 

One week later, Trump won the election to return to the White House.

In his first term, Trump largely ignored the Smithsonian. In 2017, Bunch gave him a tour of the new African American museum, which Bunch recounted later in his memoir: “The president paused in front of the exhibit that discussed the role of the Dutch in the slave trade. As he pondered the label I felt that maybe he was paying attention to the work of the museum. He quickly proved me wrong. As he turned from the display he said to me, ‘You know, they love me in the Netherlands.’ All I could say was let’s continue walking.”

It took little time for Trump to make clear that, as on other fronts in his second term, things would be different this time around. First came the March 2025 executive order, which directed Vice President J.D. Vance to rid the Smithsonian of “improper ideology.” Two months later, Trump said that he was firing Sajet at the Portrait Gallery, calling her “a highly partisan person, and a strong supporter of DEI, which is totally inappropriate for her position.” The Smithsonian noted that Trump did not have the authority to remove Sajet, but she left anyway, hoping to spare the institution.

In August 2025, the White House issued a 120-day ultimatum to replace “divisive or ideologically driven language with unifying, historically accurate and constructive descriptions,” but with little follow-up, and for nearly a year, it looked as if the storm may in fact have passed. Then came the White House report on the American history museum, with such an exhaustive litany against Hartig, its director since 2018, and Bunch that it made plain the authors had been scouring their public statements and the museum. (Through a spokesperson, Bunch declined to be interviewed. Museum representatives did not respond to requests to speak to Hartig.) 

In addition to citing the Franklin exhibit, the report noted that an exhibit called “Girlhood (It’s Complicated)” had included “the pages of a 6-year-old girl’s diary where she expresses fear about ‘getting boobs’ and wishes for her nonexistent ‘penis to grow.’” Another exhibit, on gay history, had “included a two-piece chrome and rubber crotch harness designed for sadomasochism.”

It criticized the museum for having trained staff using the “Museums as a Site for Social Action Toolkit,” a 200-plus-page roadmap on how to “truly transform the museum space,” which is linked “with white supremacy, hetero-patriarchy, abuse of labor, colonization, imperialist theft of art and artifacts, destruction or absencing of alternative ways of interpreting or representing art and artifacts, structural racism and other oppressions.” 

Above all, though, the report criticized the museum on grounds that echoed Brooks and the 2002 blue-ribbon commission, saying that it failed to offer visitors a unified narrative of the nation’s history. “That story should be a basic consensus view that is not ideological or politicized, but presents the facts of history — what actually happened — as accurately as possible with minimal present-day bias,” the report stated. “It should tell the whole story of a nation, including the good and the bad, so Museum visitors can understand the development that led our nation to where it is today.”

For years, the Smithsonian had avoided major conflagrations partly by engaging in what one former official called the “care and feeding” of members of Congress on the two committees with purview over it, Appropriations and House Administration. If there was a potentially controversial exhibit, the museum would bring members over for a preview tour, so they had some context for complaints they might receive. But these efforts were on hold for a while because of the pandemic closures, and the Smithsonian’s government relations office experienced heavy turnover, as one of its directors had cancer and another died suddenly.

This context, combined with the fuel provided by the White House report, helped explain the level of vitriol that Hartig faced when she appeared at the two hearings in late July. Even by the standards of today’s decorum-less Congress, the hearings were wild affairs. At the first, held by the House Oversight Subcommittee on Delivering on Government Efficiency, Chair Tim Burchett, a Tennessee Republican, kicked things off by playing a lengthy string of video clips of Hartig offering tribal land acknowledgements at the start of her speeches. “I’m wondering, have you ever planned on deeding any of your personal property or property of the Smithsonian to any of these tribes?” he asked Hartig.

She adopted a conciliatory tone, saying the Smithsonian “takes the concerns raised in the White House Domestic Policy Council’s report seriously” but that “it does not fairly or accurately characterize the full body of work at the museum.” She assured the committee, “I love the United States of America. I consider it the privilege of my career to help preserve its treasures and serve the American people.”

This did not assuage committee Republicans. Burchett displayed museum images including the crotch harness and the diary mention of the 6-year-old girl wishing for a penis. “Ma’am, I mean, you have pictures of bondage. You have some overtly sexual things up there,” he said. “I’m not a fan.” Rep. Nancy Mace, a South Carolina Republican, pressed the point: “Are images of sexual fetishes appropriate for children? Yes or no?” Rep. Brandon Gill, a Texas Republican, noted that the toolkit that the museum used for staff training had referred to “politeness” as a feature of “white supremacy culture.”

Those defending Hartig were hardly less outspoken. David Blight, a Yale historian also testifying, compared the White House’s attacks on the Smithsonian to the German Third Reich, saying “their model may indeed be Joseph Goebbels’ committee on enlightenment, which is what the Nazis called their committee that tried to control museums.” Rep. Jasmine Crockett, a Texas Democrat, opened her remarks by saying, “Welcome to the White Pride Committee.” Rep. Kweisi Mfume, a Maryland Democrat, vowed to sacrifice his life for the Smithsonian. “We will not let you destroy that museum,” he said. “No matter how long it takes, how many battles are required, how much effort is needed, we will not allow that to happen unless you find a way to kill all of us and walk over our bodies to change history.”

The next day’s hearing, before the House Administration Committee, was more of the same. The bipartisan consensus around the Smithsonian appeared to lie in tatters.

On a recent Sunday, a group of visitors made their way into the centerpiece exhibit at the National Mall entry to the history museum, the giant Star-Spangled Banner that was flying over Fort McHenry in 1814 and inspired Francis Scott Key to write what became the national anthem. For safe-keeping, the flag is displayed in very low light, giving the chamber a sacred feel, like a cathedral crypt. “Oh my god, it’s huge,” said one woman. “I am shivering,” said another. “It’s insane,” said a third.

Every day, the museum, for all its imperfections, still makes a strong impression on many visitors. But its longstanding search for identity helped make it a target for an administration looking for weak spots, and now its future and that of the entire Smithsonian hangs in the balance. Three of the nine citizen slots on the Board of Regents are vacant, and three more will be next month. Whoever the remaining members of the board — which include Vance — select to fill those slots will help determine who is chosen to replace Bunch as secretary, and the institution’s future course. Much will depend on how much Chief Justice John Roberts, at the head of the board, decides to engage.

Any large institution can benefit from reassessment, and the Smithsonian and the American history museum in particular may well be overdue, especially as yet another focus area is about to be cleaved off, for the National Museum of the American Latino, scheduled to open early next decade. What gives so many supporters pause is for that reevaluation to happen under Trump, who hasn’t shown a lot of interest in how the various museums interact, much less in the nuances and subtleties of history.

“There will be a moment,” Sajet said, “when the American people will have to stand up and decide, is this what they want?”

The post How the Smithsonian Became the Latest Front in Trump’s Culture War appeared first on ProPublica.

As the scandal over Susan Collins’ relationship with Hawaii defense contractor Navatek became the central issue in her hotly contested senate campaign, she and her top aides mustered a defense with a series of incorrect and misleading claims.

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

On Tuesday, ProPublica published an investigation into the senior senator from Maine’s relationship with Martin Kao, the former Navatek CEO and a major donor who told law enforcement he exchanged campaign cash for government contracts. His confession came after his guilty plea for campaign finance and loan fraud.

The ProPublica story revealed that the FBI had been circling the senator, her top aides and a pro-Collins super PAC in recent years, asking questions about their relationship with Navatek. Since returning to office, President Donald Trump fired or pushed out most of the federal agents and lawyers investigating high-profile federal corruption matters, including those working on the Kao case. The dismissals ended the corruption review, which was in its early stages.

After the story published, Collins and her campaign denied any wrongdoing in numerous media appearances. Some of the statements made by Collins and her representatives are not accurate.

Collins: “In 2021, the Biden Justice Department found there was no wrongdoing by anyone on my campaign staff, my office or me.”

Collins: “The Biden-led Justice Department and FBI totally cleared my office, my campaign and me five years ago of these seven-year-old allegations.”

An FBI spokesperson told ProPublica the agency had investigated claims against Collins years ago “and ultimately found nothing implicating Senator Collins or Senator Collins’ campaign.”

But the investigation at the center of ProPublica’s story was based on claims Kao made between 2022 through 2024 — not seven years ago, as Collins states. That investigation did not conclude under President Joe Biden but under Trump, in 2025, after his administration purged the agents and Department of Justice attorneys assigned to the case.

Collins is referring to the FBI’s initial investigation of Kao, which started in 2021. No one in Collins’ orbit was charged as a result of that earlier investigation. 

FBI records reviewed by ProPublica show the agency remained interested in the conduct of Collins and her staff right up until the most recent phase of their investigation was shut down under Trump.

The documents show that Kao was still answering agents’ questions as late as September 2024, when he sat for a two-day interview with FBI agents at the U.S. attorney’s office in Honolulu. During that interview, Kao provided them with a 50-page document offering many new allegations about his interactions with elected officials, including Collins.

And in early 2025, FBI agents were still examining Kao’s relationship with Collins, her staffers and employees of the super PAC, ProPublica found.

Annie Clark, deputy chief of staff to Collins: “The FBI and the Court obviously did not believe Kao.”

The judge in Kao’s sentencing ultimately offered him no benefit for his cooperation with federal authorities, sentencing him to 87 months in federal prison. While Kao had credibility issues — as a convicted felon — FBI documents seen by ProPublica show that agents were able to corroborate some of his claims.

“Pursuant to a Grand Jury Subpoena issued to Navatek, related to the previous investigation, hundreds of thousands of documents were provided to the FBI,” agents wrote in a December 2024 document.

“Several emails and other documents corroborate Kao’s statements made to the FBI.”

In addition, people familiar with the investigation told ProPublica that FBI agents found Kao to be credible.

Clark: “ProPublica took the word of someone who pled guilty to five counts of money laundering, three counts of wire fraud, one count of bank fraud, and making false submissions to the FEC.”

ProPublica did not simply take Kao at his word but reviewed a trove of evidence gathered by the FBI. It also examined thousands of pages of legal records and interviewed dozens of people familiar with Navatek, its Washington operations and the FBI inquiry to independently corroborate much of Kao’s account.

For instance, Kao said that Scott Reed, the head of the Collins super PAC, promised to make the senator aware that Kao was the person behind a large, anonymous donation to the super PAC made through a shell company.

We published emails between Reed and Kao showing that Kao told Reed the name of the shell company he was using to anonymize his $150,000 donation. And we included an email from someone working for Reed to a Navatek representative asking for Kao’s number so Collins could thank him for the donation. These are consistent with Kao’s version of events.

Steve Abbott, Collins’ campaign manager, said at a Wednesday press conference, “We have no record of her calling him.” But he added that such a phone call would not be unusual: “We routinely thank people for contributions. … We try to thank everybody.”

Reed did not answer detailed questions about the $150,000 donation but said he didn’t speak to Collins about Kao. He added, “I understand Martin Kao is now sitting in federal prison.”

The post Susan Collins Dismissed Our Reporting as Old News. Some of Her Claims Aren’t True. appeared first on ProPublica.

Every year, millions of complaints flow to the federal Consumer Financial Protection Bureau from people across the country. The complaints, which range in focus from debt collection to credit reporting to payday loans and more, long served as a window into Americans’ gripes and struggles with various companies.

For over a decade, consumers could opt in to have what they wrote published as public information in a CFPB database. But last month, the Trump administration announced that it would stop publishing those complaint narratives, a decision that aligns the agency with corporations that have critiqued the system for years. 

“Publishing such narratives in the Database provides a less-than-representative sample of one-sided experiences,” the CFPB said in a press release.

In the big picture, the move is part of a trend of the administration taking a friendlier approach with businesses — even at the federal agency tasked with guarding consumers from unfair and deceptive practices.

The complaint system helps consumers get responses from companies about their problems, and sometimes even fixes. It has also given the public — as well as federal investigators and regulators— access to information that serves as a warning or to help spot problems.

As a ProPublica data reporter, I’ve used the complaints time and time again as a tool for accountability-driven reporting. I appreciated reading about people’s raw frustration, written in their own words, which can often point to larger trends. It was a rare federal dataset that captured human emotions. Some were grievances like being unable to get help after spending far too much time calling or emailing customer service. Sometimes complaints had more urgency: desperation to fix crushing high-interest debt, a frozen bank account or a credit score tanked from a reporting error. 

With the recent loss of a crucial piece of the public database, I wanted to share with you some of ProPublica’s reporting using those complaints. And, while these stories about financial harm have often led to some accountability, revisiting the complaints also offers a taste of what we’ll be missing.   

1. A Wisconsin Tribe Built a Lending Empire Charging 600% Annual Rates to Borrowers

I’ve used the complaints to report on high-interest tribal loans that skirt state interest rate caps to charge 600% interest or more. CFPB complaints helped point me and my colleague Megan O’Matz to an opaque but massive lending operation based in Wisconsin, which we estimated to be involved in thousands of bankruptcies nationwide each year. 

The borrower also argued that “no one should be expected to pay over $11,000 for a $1,200 loan,” calling the 790% rate “beyond predatory.”

In emails to ProPublica, the tribe’s president, John Johnson Sr., defended the tribe’s lending business as legal and said the loans help people “without access to traditional financial services.” He added that many borrowers have had positive experiences.

A few months after ProPublica reported on the operation, the tribe settled a civil suit filed by Minnesota’s attorney general. The tribe denied the allegations but agreed to stop lending to Minnesotans and forgive outstanding loans to the state’s residents. 

2. Credit Bureaus Are Leaving More Mistakes on Frustrated Consumers’ Reports Under Trump’s CFPB

In March, I reported that two of the big three credit bureaus, Experian and TransUnion, provided relief to a substantially smaller portion of consumers last year. The credit bureaus are by far the most common subject of consumers’ woes in the database, with over 4 million complaints filed about them in 2025.

A Texan filed a complaint to each of the three credit bureaus, Experian, Equifax and TransUnion, writing that a fraudulent account remained on their credit report despite their disputes:

In response to the story, four Democratic senators wrote letters to the credit bureaus demanding answers on how they handle disputes and complaints. The CFPB’s acting director at the time, Russell Vought, also tacitly acknowledged the reporting during his congressional testimony in July, saying that “with credit reporting agencies we saw things in the news that were concerning to us. We reached out to them.”

The credit bureaus did not comment on specific complaints, but told ProPublica that many complaints are illegitimate, including a large volume filed by credit repair organizations that charge customers to challenge negative information on their reports. (CFPB records show that Equifax provided relief in response to the Texan’s complaint, while TransUnion and Experian did not.)

3. The Trump Administration’s Plan for Protecting Consumers? Politely Ask Companies to Behave.

Last month, my colleague Andy Kroll reported on the Trump CFPB’s light-touch approach to oversight, focusing on its ask-nicely strategy of holding the fintech startup Bilt accountable after it threw users’ accounts into chaos twice in quick succession. The story included complaints about how Bilt’s artificial intelligence support system gave information that was:

(In a statement at the time, Bilt said its new card had “attracted unexpectedly high demand, and some of our members experienced gaps in service that are simply unacceptable to us.” The company told ProPublica it resolved all problems related to the new cards “months ago.” The CFPB did not respond to any questions or requests for comment.)

Kroll’s recent story also examined how the agency has changed under the Trump administration. Under Vought’s leadership, the CFPB attempted to fire roughly 90% of its staff in April 2025 before a federal court ruling stymied the move. When the efforts to dismantle the agency failed, Vought and his allies instead refashioned it into an industry-friendly regulator.

The loss of the public complaint narratives is another example of that. And it is a win for groups such as the Consumer Data Industry Association, which represents the credit bureaus and has argued that publishing complaint narratives would “harm the brands of legitimate, law-abiding companies” by presenting unverified, self-selected negative anecdotes. More recently, the group argued in a January public comment letter that the complaint portal has become “a sort of ‘Yelp for Financial Services,’” and that the CFPB doesn’t have the authority to publish complaint data in the first place. 

Although the CFPB has been subject to partisan fights, the complaint system has been used by Americans across the country. GOP lawmakers even referred thousands of constituents to the CFPB’s complaint system to get help. Still, those same lawmakers voted last year to slash the agency’s budget by nearly half.

While the complaint system is required by law, the agency isn’t mandated to make it public. In theory, a future administration could go back to publishing the complaint narratives, but the agency has removed the option for consumers to consent to making public what they wrote. That means that any complaints filed in the near term cannot be retroactively published. The complaint narratives will still be subject to Freedom of Information Act requests, but getting them could be time-consuming and challenging. 

As the CFPB turns away from its watchdog role, it’s making it harder for all of us to watch as well.

The post The Federal Agency That’s Supposed to Protect Consumers Just Made Another Business-Friendly Move appeared first on ProPublica.

In the final weeks of 2019, a top fundraiser for Sen. Susan Collins walked into a perilous meeting at a Corner Bakery in Washington, D.C.

For the first time in her two-decade Senate career, the Republican lawmaker from Maine was in danger of losing her seat. President Donald Trump’s dismal approval ratings were dragging her down in the polls, and she was falling behind her likely 2020 Democratic challenger in fundraising.

Scott Reed, head of the Collins super PAC, was on a mission to close that gap. Reed was meeting that day with three executives from a Hawaiian defense contractor, Navatek. A year earlier, Collins had helped their company land a multimillion-dollar Navy research contract in Maine. Now, seated at a coffee shop not far from the U.S. Capitol, Reed asked them for a $500,000 donation.

Government contractors are banned from making political contributions. More consequentially, for the company to offer donations to Collins in exchange for an official action, or for Collins to accept, would constitute criminal bribery.

But the company did have such a proposal: Navatek was hungry for more government contracts in Maine. If they cut a big check, the CEO told Reed, Navatek wanted Collins to guarantee tens of millions of dollars in additional federal funding.

To skirt campaign finance laws and conceal the source of the funds, Navatek planned to funnel the donation through a shell company. The CEO wanted assurance that Collins would know where the money came from. Reed confirmed that she would, the executive said — and that Navatek would get its government contracts.

After the Corner Bakery meeting, Navatek’s CEO, Martin Kao, sent an initial $150,000 to the Collins super PAC using the shell company. Two months later, he told Navatek executives that Collins committed to getting the company $32 million in naval contracts, according to an internal company email reviewed by ProPublica.

Three years later, Kao holed up in a conference room to recount the Corner Bakery meeting to a group of four FBI agents and federal prosecutors. The FBI had seen through his shell company ruse, and in 2022 a grand jury indicted him for making illegal campaign contributions. No one working for Collins was charged.

Facing years in prison, Kao hoped to do less time by revealing the entire scheme.

What he told them has never before become public. The Corner Bakery meeting, he asserted, was just one episode in a sprawling pay-to-play operation that embroiled some of the most powerful figures in Congress.

Over three days at the U.S. attorney’s office in Honolulu, Kao laid out in devastating detail how his operation worked. He gave agents a 50-page document naming dozens of lobbyists, congressional staffers and members of Congress who he said helped him trade cash for contracts. Kao and his close associates had donated nearly $900,000 to dozens of politicians, allowing Navatek to establish operations in half a dozen states with over $40 million a year in government funding.

Most damningly, Kao told FBI agents and prosecutors, the company’s work for the government was of no real value. Navatek’s research under his stewardship never resulted in products the military wanted to buy, ProPublica found.

Kao’s tell-all interviews with the FBI lasted into late 2024. His confessions opened up an entirely new phase of the investigation. Agents sifted through hundreds of thousands of records seized during Kao’s arrest and found that many were consistent with his account of widespread influence peddling.

Kao had credibility issues. He was now a felon trying to avoid a lengthy prison sentence. And there were other challenges. Building a corruption case against elected officials requires extraordinary proof of a quid pro quo arrangement, in part because the Supreme Court has narrowed what counts as bribery.

Even so, by the end of 2024, the agents had enough evidence to pursue a sweeping bribery probe that could ensnare top lawmakers of both political parties. They asked their supervisors to approve a new investigation and contemplated using undercover operatives to gather more evidence. Although their effort was in its early stages, and it was unclear where it would lead, FBI agents asked Kao extensive questions about his dealings with Collins and her office.

Then Trump returned to the White House. Consumed by a campaign of vengeance, he stacked the Department of Justice with his personal lawyers and demanded a purge of anyone who had ever investigated him.

The specialized FBI and DOJ teams handling public corruption investigations, some of which were involved in Trump-related cases, were eviscerated. One of the agents who had taken Kao’s confession was pushed out as retribution for her role in investigating Trump’s attempt to overturn the 2020 election. Dozens of agents and prosecutors quit amid the department’s destruction, including the career attorney assigned to Kao’s case.

Trump’s Justice Department no longer takes on public corruption in any meaningful fashion, former officials said. The investigation sparked by Kao’s revelations is dead. And the government is no longer talking to an informant who had offered a road map to corruption in Congress.

The White House referred ProPublica to the FBI.

FBI spokesperson Ben Williamson said the agency had investigated claims against Collins years ago “and ultimately found nothing implicating Senator Collins or Senator Collins’ campaign. Any suggestion otherwise is totally false.” Williamson said the Trump administration has removed agents only “if they have been found to have acted unethically, undermined the mission, or engaged in weaponization of law enforcement.”

Williamson did not respond to questions about the new investigation launched in 2024 based on Kao’s previously unreported cooperation with the FBI.

ProPublica is revealing the existence of the case for the first time. We reviewed a trove of evidence gathered by the FBI and thousands of pages of legal records, and interviewed dozens of people familiar with Navatek, its Washington operations, and the FBI inquiry to conduct our own investigation. We independently corroborated much of Kao’s account. Whether or not Kao’s dealings with politicians amount to criminal bribery, the Trump Justice Department has little interest in finding out, and his sheer success reveals how easily influence is purchased in Washington today. This is the first in a series of stories drawn from our reporting.

Of all the politicians Navatek courted under Kao’s leadership, Collins was its most important patron. The senator’s office steered government contracts worth millions toward the company while her campaign was pumping Kao and his network for donations, according to emails seen by ProPublica. Sometimes they cut checks within 24 hours of the annual defense spending bill, which funds military contracts, clearing a key Senate hurdle.

Collins’ office did not specifically address questions about the Corner Bakery meeting, the senator’s relationship with Kao and the millions she helped appropriate for Navatek.

Annie Clark, Collins’ deputy chief of staff, told ProPublica in an email that Collins’ office “vigorously” denies allegations of bribery and pay-for-play made by Kao, calling his claims “outlandish.” Collins’ campaign was not part of the discussions between Kao and the super PAC, and her office “fully cooperated” with the FBI investigation, Clark said.

“The fact that the FBI and Biden-led Department of Justice thoroughly examined the Navatek matter demonstrates this,” Clark wrote. “These issues were resolved in 2021 and concluded when the Collins campaign disgorged the illegal contributions that Martin Kao had made without our knowledge.”

Collins is once again fighting to keep her seat, in a race that could determine control of the Senate. On the campaign trail, she spotlights the funding she directs to Maine while leading the appropriations committee, which she calls “the most powerful committee in the Senate.”

She demonstrated that power with Navatek. After the budgets became law, Collins’ office pushed the Navy to award specific contracts to Navatek, emails seen by ProPublica show, even though awards are supposed to be competitive.

“I spoke with Sen. Collins office regarding the $8M,” a naval official wrote in an email on Feb. 6, 2019. “The interested company is Navatek.”

In a meeting with Collins and two campaign officials, Kao said, the officials told him the senator expected his ongoing support. Collins told him: “You’ve seen me deliver,” Kao said.

Reed knew Kao was behind the $150,000 anonymous donation, emails showed, because Kao told Reed he planned to donate through a shell company. “Very smart,” Reed replied in an email viewed by ProPublica.

Reed did not respond to detailed questions about the Corner Bakery meeting, the $150,000 donation and Kao’s allegations. “I understand Martin Kao is now sitting in federal prison,” Reed wrote in a brief email. “I never had any communications with Senator Collins [or] her staff about Martin Kao and/or Navatek.”

But an email seen by ProPublica suggests that someone must have relayed the news of Kao’s donation to Collins, just like Reed promised to do in Kao’s recounting of the Corner Bakery meeting.

Seven days after the super PAC cashed the check from Kao’s shell company, one of Reed’s subordinates emailed a Navatek lobbyist asking for Kao’s phone number: “Senator Collins would like to call Martin to thank him.”

The Navatek Method

Before Kao’s doomed reign as CEO, Navatek was a sleepy Hawaiian engineering company with a few dozen employees. It was founded in 1978 by Steven Loui, a talented engineer and scion of a powerful Hawaiian shipping family. Navatek was not a profit center but a vehicle for Loui’s passion projects, like an experimental catamaran for navigating Hawaii’s choppy waters.

The company benefited from the largesse of the legendary Hawaii Sen. Daniel Inouye, multiple former Navatek executives and employees said, whose family had been close to the Loui family for generations. Inouye was a master of earmarks, a practice that allowed lawmakers to insert funding for specific companies by name in the federal budget. The self-styled “King of Pork” steered hundreds of millions in federal dollars to Hawaii. Former Navatek employees say he was affectionately referred to as “Uncle Dan.” “Before Inouye took an interest, Congress didn’t even know our companies existed,” a longtime Loui lieutenant wrote in a 1998 op-ed.

In response to ProPublica questions, Loui said that money appropriated by Inouye made up “a minority” of Navatek’s revenue.

Inouye’s death in 2012 made the company’s future uncertain. Not only was Navatek’s direct line to Capitol Hill gone, but Congress was doing away with the abuse-riddled earmark process. Now companies would nominally have to compete on the merits for government contracts.

Kao joined Navatek in 2008 as its chief financial officer. Loui charged him with replacing Navatek’s rainmaker and eventually named Kao CEO. He sold Kao the company in return for a share of the profits.

Kao was an unusual figure among the company’s low-key naval engineers and boat aficionados. He seemed to be aping a Wall Street tycoon, telling employees they could either be “a beast or a bitch,” a former executive said. He drove to work in a Ferrari and abruptly fired subordinates who displeased him — one time, in the middle of the night. “He had very little interest in the technology,” one former employee recalled. “Martin was only interested in dollar signs.”

Kao also exaggerated and lied. He told different people he had stepbrothers whose parents died in a fishing accident or an avalanche, a former employee recalled. He lied to Loui about having law degrees from both the University of California, Los Angeles and New York University. He once told a lobbyist who raised quarter horses that he owned a herd of polo ponies, just to one-up him.

Despite his erratic behavior, former employees agree Kao hit upon an effective way to replace the lost earmarks. If the company could not rely on a benefactor like Inouye, it would develop a stable of them.

Navatek targeted the powerful members who sat on the House and Senate appropriations committees. These members could no longer earmark money for specific military contractors. But they retained the power to budget millions of dollars for equipment or bespoke research and development. Because Pentagon budgets run thousands of pages and are largely prepared in secret, it is easy for appropriators to add a line item intended for a contractor like Navatek without leaving any fingerprints.

Soon, Kao had refined a playbook. Navatek would concoct a research project in partnership with a university in a member’s district or home state, and Kao would make a large initial campaign donation. Working with a team of pricey, well-connected lobbyists, Navatek would get meetings on Capitol Hill to pitch the research to congressional staff. Navatek kept spreadsheets, reviewed by ProPublica, that listed members of Congress as the “specialty” of certain lobbyists.

Separately, Kao later told the FBI, there would be a meeting of just the key players. One engineer, who traveled with Kao to D.C. to explain the technical side of a project, recalled being sent out of the room once the subject of money came up. Sometimes in these smaller meetings, members of Congress directly asked Kao for donations, he told the FBI. In other cases, he said, Navatek’s lobbyists would relay a request from an intermediary for a specific dollar amount.

Kao told the FBI that the lawmakers, lobbyists and Navatek brass understood these donations were bribes and that the payments were essential to the entire scheme. Kao believed he was buying Navatek’s way into the annual defense budget, not winning over members with innovative engineering proposals.

“I’m not red or blue, I’m green,” he would tell congressional staffers, a former Navatek employee recalled.

While a deal was being struck, Navatek and congressional staffers worked closely on the legislative process. Every year, Congress prefaces the defense budget with massive reports describing the purpose of inscrutable line items. Staffers would include a project description so specific that Navatek would be the only logical pick.

Often, Navatek composed language that ended up, word for word, in Senate funding requests, former employees said. In 2019, for example, Navatek’s priorities were tucked into page 185 of the 307-page report released by the Senate Appropriations Committee. The committee set aside $21.5 million for “hybrid composite structures research for enhanced mobility,” “electric propulsion for military craft and advanced planing hulls” and a “test bed for autonomous ship systems.” Although Navatek’s name does not appear on the page, these were all projects the company requested, according to internal documents and interviews with former employees.

Once the budget passed, lawmakers’ staff leaned on Navy officials to award Navatek the money. Former contracting officers told ProPublica they felt pressure to go along because money from those contracts funded their office — and because members of Congress had confronted dissenting naval officials in the past. “There’s only so many battles you can fight,” one said. So Congress sometimes got its way even when Navatek’s projects made little sense.

Inside Navatek, employees referred to this strategy as “the method.” And it enabled the company to string together tens of millions of dollars in contracts. The result was the same as getting earmarks: a reliable, growing revenue stream bankrolled by U.S. taxpayers.

“It was a simple enough play. Let’s find the small states that have complementary universities … [and] let’s get access to their senators,” Eric Schiff, a former Navatek executive, told ProPublica. “I’ve met Susan Collins. You can get access to Susan Collins. Once we got the first things working with Maine, then we said, ‘Well, let’s keep reaching.’ And so we did.”

In a statement to ProPublica, Navatek founder Loui said Kao’s “unethical and illegal method of winning contracts” was a departure from how he operated the company prior to Kao’s ownership.

Kao boosted Navatek’s annual revenue from $10 million around the time Loui sold him the company to almost $40 million when he was arrested in 2020. In the second half of 2019 alone, Navatek paid a roster of five lobbying shops more than $500,000.

Even Navatek’s executives were surprised at how far their money went in D.C. “It was eye-opening for me, frankly. ‘Oh my God, all of it is for sale. It’s all for sale,’” Schiff said.

The key players in Kao’s pay-to-play deals went to great lengths to meet in person and leave no trace of an actual quid pro quo, he told agents. “That is why I literally had to fly to D.C. almost every week,” Kao later told the FBI. “Sometimes for a 15-minute meeting.”

But the FBI compiled emails, which ProPublica reviewed, that were suggestive of illegal bargains. Navatek executives and lobbyists spoke openly as if they were buying lawmakers’ assistance. In one back-and-forth, a lobbyist and a company executive described another senator as “fundamentally transactional” and having “a reputation as a pay-to-play office.”

In another message, Andy Winer, who former executives said was Navatek’s chief strategist, reminded Kao to budget money for political contributions based on how much the company wanted in congressional funding the following year.

Winer was his guide to the political underbelly, Kao said. A consummate insider, Winer had parlayed six years as chief of staff to Democratic Sen. Brian Schatz of Hawaii into a lucrative lobbying career with a firm called Strategies 360. One of Winer’s former colleagues compared him to the slick lobbyist on the Netflix show “House of Cards” who toggles between the political and corporate worlds.

In another email exchange scrutinized by the FBI, Kao asked Winer about making a $5,600 donation to nudge along a senator who seemed keen to work with Navatek: “Would that ‘help?’”

Winer, who had already donated himself, replied, “With my contribution, I think it sends the right message.” He suggested Kao split up his donation to be “less conspicuous.”

The method didn’t always work. Once, Kao complained that a senator had reneged on a deal and he ought to get his donations back.

“You should not feel aggrieved nor should you ever put that in writing,” Todd Webster, another lobbyist Navatek hired, replied. Webster did not respond to detailed questions.

Winer said he stopped working with Navatek following Kao’s arrest. “The political contributions I discussed with Kao were understood by me to be lawful political contributions. I never participated in, witnessed, or had knowledge of any illegal political contribution, bribe, or agreement to exchange a political contribution for an appropriation, contract, or other official action,” Winer said in an email to ProPublica. “I never advised Kao to make a contribution in exchange for official action.”

Strategies 360 has new ownership that did not oversee Winer while he represented Navatek, its CEO, John Oceguera, said.

Navatek employees began to notice members of Congress visiting their East Coast offices. “You would be like, ‘Oh, there’s this senator walking around,’ and we would get a picture with them,” one engineer recalled.

While some projects involved potentially meaningful research, Navatek’s bread and butter was R&D that went nowhere. As a slideshow prepared by an executive explained, “We thrive in the valley of death,” the term for the bureaucratic gap where research languishes without being developed into a product. The slideshow noted that none of the technology had ever actually been deployed.

The Office of Naval Research did not respond to a request for comment.

In Maine, Navatek was studying ways to modify small boats to reduce the “slamming” impact felt by passengers at high speeds. With the help of the University of Maine’s giant 3D printer, Navatek made a prototype and unveiled it at a press conference where a Guinness World Records representative declared it the world’s largest 3D-printed boat. But Navatek executives knew the Navy had no plans to use the new design, former employees said.

“[The work] got rolled into a few PowerPoint slides and a white paper, and that was the deliverable,” recalled one who worked on the project. “The boats weren’t delivered to the Navy — the Navy didn’t even want them.”

Kao to Collins: “Here to Help”

The first time Kao came face-to-face with Collins, in 2018, he told the FBI, he had to pay for the privilege.

Collins would not meet unless he agreed to donate to her campaign, he said. While it is not illegal for politicians to exchange face time for contributions — in this case, just a few thousand dollars — it was not the last time Collins would seek Kao’s support.

Navatek had been eager to expand beyond Hawaii, and Maine was a perfect beachhead — a small, coastal state hungry for high-tech jobs that happened to be represented by a senior member of the Senate Appropriations Committee. Collins, more than most appropriators, likes to trumpet the dollars she brings home.

To work with Collins, Navatek hired a lobbyist, Glen Mandigo, who also lobbied for the University of Maine and was tight with her office. Mandigo asked how much Navatek wanted in funding and how much Kao was willing to support Collins, Kao told the FBI. The University of Maine did not reply to a request for comment.

In that first meeting with Collins and her staff, Kao pitched an $8 million boat hull research project for Navatek and the university. Collins seemed supportive. Not long after, Mandigo called Kao and said Collins wanted him to bundle tens of thousands of dollars for her reelection, suggesting Navatek throw a fundraiser, Kao said.

In an email to ProPublica, Mandigo denied taking part in a pay-to-play arrangement.

“I did not advise Navatek officials, nor would I advise any client, that support from Sen. Collins was contingent on campaign donations,” Mandigo wrote. He said that in his 25 years of working with Collins and the Maine delegation, “I never saw or heard of such behavior from the Senator or her staff.” Clark, Collins’ deputy chief of staff, told ProPublica it was “wholly inaccurate” to say Mandigo was close to their office.

FBI agents had collected voluminous corporate records and email correspondence between Navatek and Collins’ inner circle. Much of that evidence aligned with the story they were now getting directly from Kao.

The FBI had spotted his out-of-the-blue donations in the summer of 2018, just before Collins included $8 million for Navatek’s proposal in the defense budget. Emails showed her staff made it clear to the Navy that it should send the money to Navatek. FBI agents also had evidence of Kao and Mandigo planning a fundraiser starting in April 2019. Their emails — with her scheduler and her campaign’s finance director — freely mixed talk of Navatek’s Collins-backed contract with plans to raise money for her.

The principals settled on hosting Collins for a publicity event at Navatek’s Maine headquarters in August 2019, where she posed for pictures with Kao and a model of the company’s experimental boat. Behind the scenes, the FBI saw in emails and company records, Kao orchestrated over $40,000 in donations from extended family in advance of the event. To avoid the legal cap on individual campaign contributions, the emails show, he told Collins’ team to reallocate his excess contributions to his father — which an agent highlighted and noted is against election law in a presentation to prosecutors — and sent them his father’s full name and address.

“This is perfect,” Amy Abbott, the reelection campaign finance director, emailed Kao after discussing his father’s contribution. “We are so grateful for ALL the Kao support!”

Before the event, Kao said, Collins, Abbott and another staffer met with him in private. One of the staffers told Kao the campaign expected more donations. It was in this meeting that Collins said, “You’ve seen me deliver,” he told the FBI.

Less than one month after the event, the Senate released a draft of the defense budget containing $21.5 million for Navatek’s pet projects in Maine. Kao emailed a Collins campaign fundraiser — who would in theory have nothing to do with a government contract — four days later, saying, “Thanks again for all the support from Sen Collins.”

“I’ve been involved in many tight races in the past and understand last minute ‘needs’ come up,” he continued. “We are here to help anyway we can … financially or whatever.”

Kao’s desire to donate even more money led to the fateful Corner Bakery meeting with the head of the Collins super PAC, called the 1820 PAC, Kao told the FBI. Unlike Collins’ campaign, which could accept only $5,600 per election from individuals, the super PAC could accept unlimited contributions.

The super PAC emailed Kao a memo before the meeting stressing the need to raise money with “urgency.” At the meeting, Kao and Reed, the super PAC’s chair, hammered out a deal for a six-figure donation, Kao told the FBI. Over email, Kao informed Reed of his shell company scheme, saying he had cleared it with his lawyer. “They are super vague and very difficult to get any background info on,” Kao reassured him. “Thanks for doing this,” Reed replied.

The FBI spoke to the other Navatek executives at Corner Bakery, who confirmed the meeting took place. One, David Kring, the company’s top scientist, told ProPublica he had no memory of what was discussed.

The other, Duke Hartman, told an FBI agent it was just “a get to know you meeting” with the chair of the super PAC and they did not discuss the “particulars of a donation.” Agents, records show, came to believe Hartman was lying about his role in Kao’s pay-to-play operation and would name him as a formal subject of a future investigation. Hartman was not charged. He did not respond to a detailed request for comment.

A few weeks after the $150,000 check to the Collins super PAC cleared, in February 2020, Kao and his team met with Collins’ office and secured a new round of funding.

“We were very warmly received,” Kao reported to his colleagues in an email obtained by the FBI. “Excellent meeting. Total of $32M will be supported.” Records show the Senate allocated at least $10 million that year based on Navatek’s proposals.

Navatek’s ambitions peaked in mid-2020. As the company waited to see if Collins would survive her reelection campaign, executives prepared to ask their champion on the appropriations committee for even more funding the following spring, internal documents show.

Other documents from that time show the company was courting senators from seven additional states and gunning for more than $200 million in new appropriations. Navatek expected to have offices in more than a dozen states by the end of the following year, including a new 15,000-square-foot facility in the Portland, Maine, harbor.

Kao, meanwhile, closed on a $4.5 million beachside home in an exclusive Honolulu neighborhood; the backyard pool had a waterfall feature. He renamed the company Martin Defense Group after himself, joking that it would simplify his future takeover of Lockheed Martin.

“It was working well, and it would have continued to work well,” said Schiff, the former executive. “Martin got greedy. Just got damn greedy.”

Downfall, Cover-up

In early 2020, the Campaign Legal Center, a nonprofit good government group, noticed something strange in the public filings for the Collins super PAC. The PAC had received a $150,000 donation from a newly created LLC with a typo in its name: the Society of Young Women Scientist and Engineers, with no S at the end of “Scientist.”

This was the $150,000 Kao donated after the Corner Bakery meeting. The money had come from Navatek’s account, not Kao’s, violating a ban on government contractors making donations.

The center suspected the society was not a real group but a pass-through to hide the identity of a major political donor. It filed a complaint with the Federal Election Commission. It took only a few days for a Hawaii journalist to discover Kao’s wife’s name on the society’s paperwork, linking the shell company to Navatek.

Inside Navatek, Kao shifted into damage control mode. He spoke to Reed and the super PAC’s lawyer, Cleta Mitchell, and began to hatch a cover-up. In an email released in civil litigation, Mitchell suggested the society make charitable donations — preferably in Maine — which would make it seem like a legitimate nonprofit. “I want to be sure that the LLC proceeds with the ideas we discussed — giving scholarships and recognition to women in engineering, etc.,” wrote Mitchell. “That would help both of us, I think.”

Mitchell added, “We should develop a plan and timetable, so there are some scholarships given over the next several months, and particularly, perhaps in Maine, where the bad press was.”

Mitchell, who later played a major role in Trump’s attempts to overturn the results of the 2020 election, did not respond to requests for comment.

Kao and his team settled on donating scholarships to women in STEM. They offered between $5,000 and $25,000 apiece to state universities where they were angling to win government contracts — that way, the cover-up would benefit them politically, too.

But Navatek’s and Kao’s problems were just beginning. Undeterred by scrutiny from the FEC, Kao defrauded the COVID-era Paycheck Protection Program newly passed by Congress. He inflated Navatek’s payroll to amass loans of $13 million, according to a federal indictment. The Navatek founder, Loui, had long since soured on his chosen successor. This was the final straw. He reported Kao to federal authorities.

“This is not how Navatek behaved or conducted business before I sold the company to Martin Kao,” Loui wrote to ProPublica. He said Navatek was successful before Kao’s ownership and had many sources of government funding. After Kao’s arrest, he added, the company fully cooperated with law enforcement.

Loui has since regained control of the company and renamed it PacMar. He is dedicated to restoring its reputation and ability to execute government contracts, he continued. Loui said he fired employees hired during Kao’s tenure who were “not capable of performing quality, professional engineering and science tasks.”

“The company received no Collins-supported funding after Martin Kao’s arrest, nor should it,” Loui added. “What Martin Kao and his cabal did was wrong.”

On Sept. 30, 2020, law enforcement raided Navatek’s Honolulu offices and arrested Kao for fraud. Federal agents in windbreakers seized his laptop and ordered the company’s IT staff to copy the company’s internal servers.

Navatek’s public flameout attracted the attention of Michelle Ball and Kevin Gounaud, two experienced agents in the FBI’s elite anti-corruption unit. Gounaud was a 20-year FBI veteran who had worked on elaborate undercover operations. Ball had made a name for herself taking on politically sensitive cases. In 2018, she led the investigation into Maria Butina, the Russian agent convicted of infiltrating the National Rifle Association in an attempt to influence the Trump campaign.

The agents began digging through thousands of records for details of Navatek’s lobbying operation, donation strategy and ties to politicians.

They zeroed in on Kao’s relationship with Collins. In a 60-slide presentation agents prepared for prosecutors, they highlighted contributions that Kao and his wife made to the senator in 2018, right before Collins placed the $8 million in research funding into the federal budget. Kao had also given Navatek money to various relatives to donate to Collins in 2019, sending her around $33,000 through these illegal straw donors, the indictment said. Kao’s wife and father did not reply to requests for comment.

The government charged Kao in two separate cases: one for defrauding the loan program and another for his campaign finance crimes. His love of talking like a wheeler-dealer — including over email — was a gift to investigators. In one email, he all but admitted the scholarships to young women were a diversion. “Whatever… just a pack of bitches getting free $,” he wrote.

In the face of overwhelming evidence, Kao pleaded guilty in both cases in the fall of 2022. Navatek by then was under court-ordered new management. Awaiting sentencing, Kao worked as a line cook at a Cheesecake Factory.

He began meeting with the same FBI agents and prosecutors who brought him down. For the agents, he was a rare witness: a contractor with deep ties to elected officials saying he would speak candidly about how Washington works.

Kao faced nearly a decade in prison. “My world and life imploded,” he would later recall in a letter to the Hawaii U.S. District Court. “I was fooled and foolish enough to believe that the power elected officials wielded, and [were] actively willing to sell to anyone wealthy enough to pay, was….‘smart business.’”

Over the next two years, Kao sat with agents for at least three dayslong interviews. He told them that politicians, Collins in particular, had been willing participants in his scheme. “It takes two to tangle,” he told them.

Taxpayers funded Navatek’s entire political operation, Kao said. “Most companies of our size do not have the resources to endlessly hire expensive lobbyists and make political donations,” he told the FBI. Navatek solved this by using money from government contracts to hire lobbyists and make campaign contributions, according to interviews, court testimony and internal company records. Diverting money from contracts for lobbying and political donations can be illegal.

For their final meeting, in September 2024, Kao handed the FBI the 50-page document detailing Navatek’s dealings with more than a dozen members of Congress and their staff. It was not only a confession but a road map, with the email addresses and phone numbers of people Kao thought agents ought to subpoena.

Last year, Kao was sentenced to 87 months in prison. The judge in his case offered no leniency based on his cooperation with the FBI. Loui is battling Kao in court to recover the millions he contends Kao stole from the company.

Both Scott Reed and Amy Abbott remain in Collins’ inner circle. Abbott is the finance director for her 2026 reelection effort, and Reed again chairs the main Collins super PAC. Abbott, who is married to Collins’ campaign manager, referred questions to the senator’s communications staff. Clark told ProPublica that Abbott and other campaign staff were interviewed by the FBI and that the campaign was never a target of the investigation.

Earlier this year, Kao agreed to meet a ProPublica reporter at the Federal Prison Camp in Yankton, South Dakota, where he is incarcerated. But on two occasions when guards summoned Kao over the intercom, he refused to enter the visitation room. Over email, he said he was no longer willing to meet, citing the ongoing litigation. He declined through his lawyer to respond to detailed questions.

By late 2024, Ball and Gounaud, the FBI agents, had come to believe there was enough evidence to warrant a broader investigation into bribery of members of Congress, according to a memo seen by ProPublica.

Before they could embark on their new mission, however, they became casualties of Trump’s retribution campaign.

Ball and Gounaud worked for the FBI’s elite anti-corruption unit known as CR-15, which specialized in investigating misconduct by elected officials. When Trump retook power, his new FBI director, Kash Patel, purged the unit agent by agent.

Ball was targeted for her work on the special counsel investigation of Trump’s failed bid to overturn the 2020 election. She was fired in October 2025 in a one-page letter stating she had “weaponized” the Justice Department. She is challenging her firing in a lawsuit. Gounaud was pushed out in early 2026. Both agents declined to comment through their attorney.

Trump also targeted the Justice Department attorneys who worked with CR-15. The team, known as the Public Integrity Section, collapsed spectacularly in February 2025 after staff were ordered to drop a case against New York City Mayor Eric Adams, a Trump ally. The unit’s leadership quit en masse. Trump appointees ordered the remaining prosecutors to halt new corruption cases, just months after Kao made his detailed confession.

Before Ball was fired, however, she managed to take a key step forward.

Based on all the evidence, she persuaded her supervisors to approve a new investigation. It centered on South Carolina, one of the states Navatek eyed for a rapid expansion. The FBI had questions about a steak dinner Kao shared with Sen. Lindsey Graham.

The post The FBI Anti-Corruption Squad Was Circling Susan Collins — Until Trump Got in the Way appeared first on ProPublica.

The Supreme Court continues to make consequential rulings in the shadows. I analyzed tens of thousands of case files from the court’s online archives, parsing through filings to separate simple requests for deadline extensions from challenges to long-established constitutional rights. I discovered that in the term that ended in 2025, the justices issued more substantive decisions on their emergency docket than in cases argued in open court. Experts told me this was likely the first time this has happened in the court’s modern history. 

Representatives from the Supreme Court did not respond to my questions. 

Since I reported that story in July, more major rulings have been made on the emergency docket, often called the “shadow docket,” where justices rarely hear arguments and often issue unsigned orders that don’t explain how they arrived at their decisions or even how they voted.

These decisions are continuing to come down even after the court began its summer recess. For example:

• On Aug. 31, the court allowed construction to continue on a ballroom at the White House. Requests like this one from the president are a big reason why the number of cases being handled on the court’s shadow docket has been so high. 
• On Sept. 10, a decision blocked Missouri from using a redrawn congressional map crafted by the state’s Republican-controlled legislature. The legislature had redrawn the maps at President Donald Trump’s request — part of a string of middecade redistricting efforts that could determine control of Congress. Like most shadow docket decisions, no opinion was issued and there is no record of how the justices voted.
• On Sept. 14, the court stopped the U.S. Postal Service from imposing new regulations on voting by mail that the Trump administration was seeking to impose. Less than a month earlier, the court had said it was too early for states to challenge those regulations. The court rulings came just weeks before most states begin sending out ballots by mail.

Though experts told me rulings on the shadow docket have generally enabled Trump, he has not won them all. The USPS ruling, for one, has not pleased the president. Last week, in a post on Truth Social, the social media website he owns, Trump criticized the justices he nominated, writing that they “are not the people I interviewed to serve.” 

“It is a Court that will go down as having rendered some of the most destructive, hurtful, and damaging decisions in our Country’s history,” Trump wrote.

Every decision the court has made since July has been on its shadow docket. That will remain the case until the court starts its new term on Oct. 5. 

Watch our explainer to learn more about what I uncovered and how the shadow docket works.

The post Watch: The New Supreme Court appeared first on ProPublica.

My colleagues and I had been digging for days. We’d heard a rumor that a Russian oligarch close to President Vladimir Putin named Umar Kremlev had attended Donald Trump Jr.’s wedding this past May in the Bahamas. But to confirm that, we needed visual proof. 

First, we scoured everything the Trumps had released from the event, held on a pair of private islands. On social media and in the pages of tabloids such as Page Six and Hello! magazine, official photos from the weekend showed an intimate chapel ceremony alongside lavish beach parties. Several photos depicted guests, including Jared Kushner and Eric Trump, and we scanned them all for signs of Kremlev. Still, nothing had turned up yet.

We then turned to Kremlev’s social media profiles on the off chance that he’d posted about the wedding. Incredibly, on Telegram, Kremlev had posted videos over the same weekend as Trump Jr.’s wedding that appeared to be from someplace tropical. In one, a single detail caught our attention: As Kremlev speaks in Russian to the camera, the frame gives a partial view of an outdoor patio setting. It wasn’t palm trees or crystal water we noticed, but the wicker furniture.

The chair and its affixed cushion in Kremlev’s post matched what we’d seen in photos of the private islands elsewhere online, such as the promotional image below:

But of course, we couldn’t hang such a big claim — that this Russian oligarch had attended the president’s son’s intimate wedding weekend — on a wicker chair analysis. The Trump family appeared to be curating the wedding’s visual footprint, and not much seemed to exist outside of its control. 

So when my colleagues Justin Elliott, Brett Murphy, Joshua Kaplan and I finally found a photo that confirmed what we’d been looking for, we were floored. The proof had been hiding in an Instagram gallery posted months earlier by a swimsuit model and friend of the bride, nestled among glamour shots and lifestyle photos.

The sunset group shot on a white sand beach shows wedding guests, barefoot and smiling against a backdrop of palms. One guest throws up a shaka. Front and center is the president’s eldest son and his bride, Bettina Trump, surrounded by close friends and family.

But in the back row, just behind the newlyweds, the top half of a man’s shaved head is visible.

We recognized him instantly: Kremlev.

That photo was at the center of our story this week, in which we revealed that Kremlev secretly bankrolled much of Trump Jr.’s wedding weekend, paying to rent out a private island, among other big-ticket items, according to records reviewed by ProPublica and interviews with three people familiar with the events. The photo also showed two others associated with Kremlev, part of a larger group of Russians whose presence puzzled some attendees. That made their absence from all other official wedding photos all the more noteworthy — especially for a gathering of only 50 or so guests.

The story spread quickly. Within hours of publication, the top Democrat on the House Oversight Committee opened an investigation into Trump Jr.’s relationship with Kremlev, asking for communications between the two and records of “all purchases made for your wedding by foreign nationals.” (Trump Jr. did not respond to a request for comment on the investigation.) It also prompted Bettina Trump to post a joint statement with Trump Jr. on her Instagram, which included even more photos from the wedding weekend.

In response to detailed questions, a spokesperson for Trump Jr. did not dispute the wedding payments from Kremlev. “Umar is a personal friend of Don,” he said. The spokesperson said that Kremlev is “not someone he has a business relationship with.” In a statement, Kremlev’s press office said, “Mr. Kremlev and Mr. Trump Jr have a friendly relationship,” and they first met “a couple of years ago.”

Other than the photo we’ve shared, the images from that weekend remain tightly curated and don’t seem to tell the full story. So we thought we’d share a few examples with the added context from our findings. Sometimes, what — or, in this case, who — isn’t pictured is just as important as what is.

The Setting

The weekend festivities were spread across two ultra-exclusive private islands in the Exumas, a chain of storybook Caribbean destinations with white sand beaches and brilliant turquoise water. Islands there have been owned by the likes of Johnny Depp, David Copperfield and LVMH CEO Bernard Arnault. People arrived by helicopter and seaplanes to infinity pools and oceanfront villas. 

The island where Trump Jr. and his bride exchanged vows on Friday was featured in “Pirates of the Caribbean” and “Casino Royale.” (Kremlev was not present for the Friday ceremony, which involved an even smaller group.) 

On a second nearby island, about 10 minutes by boat from where the ceremony took place, a reception party was held. This island can rent for around $100,000 per night, and Kremlev paid for multiple nights. 

The Caribbean-Themed Party

On the second night, more guests arrived for a party on the same island where the ceremony took place. The evening was Caribbean themed, with a beachside DJ and a performance by a Junkanoo band. On Instagram, Bettina Trump described the night as “an unforgettable night of pure joy, music, sunset, and dancing barefoot in the sand, surrounded by nothing but love in paradise…It was everything we dreamed of and more… pure magic.”

Among the guests was Kremlev, arriving just days after accompanying Putin in China as part of a Russian delegation, according to Chinese state media. (Kremlev’s press office said that he was not part of Putin’s “official delegation” in China.) Kremlev’s ties to Putin and the Russian security services prompted the Ukrainian government to impose sanctions on him personally. 

In their joint statement on Instagram, the couple said that Kremlev paid for the parties on both the second and third night of their wedding weekend, but they drew a distinction between the ceremony itself and the rest of the events. 

“Our dear friend Umar very generously hosted two incredible nights of celebrations for us AFTER our wedding. It was an extraordinarily generous wedding gift from a friend, and something for which we were and remain incredibly grateful,” the couple wrote.

The First Dance

On Sunday, the newlyweds shared their first dance to Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Photos published in Hello! magazine showed the couple on the dance floor underneath disco balls strung up among palm trees. They embraced as guests watched. Bettina Trump wore her wedding dress. The night was nautical themed, complete with a seafood boat buffet, an illusionist and scantily clad dancers in stilettos and sailor outfits.

The wedding payments came from a Dubai entity affiliated with the International Boxing Association, a scandal-plagued sports group that Kremlev heads. The IBA has been financed by the Russian state-owned energy giant Gazprom. Kremlev picked up the tab for the festivities on Saturday and Sunday.

Kremlev’s press office described him as a businessman and philanthropist, adding, “Mr. Kremlev has never discussed political matters with any of his American friends and acquaintances,” including Trump Jr. It said the boxing organization itself did not incur expenses for the wedding but did not comment on the payments from the Dubai entity.

The Fireworks

At the Sunday reception, Trump Jr. and his new wife stood on the beach, gazing out as a barge launched a spectacular fireworks display over the ocean. It was an extravagant cap off the wedding weekend. 

Kremlev picked up the tab for the fireworks display. The company that put it on typically charges around $70,000 for such shows.

There are still lingering questions we didn’t get to the bottom of. Among the most pressing: Why did a Russian oligarch who is close to Putin pay for much of the president’s son’s wedding? What is the nature of Trump Jr.’s relationship with Kremlev, and, importantly, how might it change over time? Frank Montoya Jr., a retired career FBI official who held senior counterintelligence roles, put it this way:

“If I’m paying for your wedding, at some point, you’re going to owe me something.”

The post “Our Dear Friend Umar”: How We Uncovered That a Russian Oligarch Bankrolled Donald Trump Jr.’s Wedding appeared first on ProPublica.

A federal judge has denied efforts to remove oversight of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, saying the agency continues to show racial disparities in traffic arrests of Latinos — and that there is not enough evidence that efforts to improve would stick without legal monitoring.

In his 72-page ruling issued Sept. 10, U.S. District Judge G. Murray Snow stressed Sheriff Jerry Sheridan’s role in the department’s racial profiling since the start of the case more than a decade ago, including fighting court-ordered reforms and stymieing investigations. Sheridan was the No. 2 under former Sheriff Joe Arpaio when the county was found out of compliance with federal law.

“Then Chief Deputy, now Sheriff, Sheridan in particular was found to have abused his authority over MCSO’s internal affairs process by obstructing and manipulating misconduct investigations and disciplinary proceedings — including those involving himself — to shield deputies and Command Staff from accountability and undermine the enforcement of remedies designed to address the constitutional violations against the Plaintiff class,” the judge wrote in an opinion that mentions Sheridan 30 times.

The department declined to comment on Snow’s statements about Sheridan. But the sheriff previously told Arizona Luminaria and ProPublica that he disagreed with Snow. “I was very truthful. To this day, I think he got that wrong about me,” Sheridan said.

In his ruling, Snow said it may no longer be necessary for the court to track some areas originally identified for oversight in the 2013 decision, recognizing the “burdens” that go into monitoring certain elements. 

County leaders have repeatedly cited costs as they’ve called for an end of court oversight. Maricopa County filed the motion in December, with the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office later joining, arguing the violations were no longer occurring.

The yearslong federal monitorship of Arizona’s largest sheriff’s office dates back to a 2007 class action racial profiling lawsuit that found the department under Arpaio had violated the constitutional rights of Latinos in the state’s most populous county. Today, according to U.S. Census Bureau data, there are an estimated 1.5 million Latino or Hispanic people living in Maricopa County — all of whose rights are protected under the lawsuit.

In 2013, Snow ordered the department to document all traffic stops to detect any patterns of racial bias and to employ additional investigators to probe reports of deputy misconduct. Snow also appointed a monitor to oversee compliance with the settlement.

In the 13 years since, the department has yet to convince the judge that its deputies don’t racially profile Latino drivers and that it adequately investigates deputies’ alleged misconduct. In denying the recent motion, Snow cited data showing that sheriff’s deputies in Maricopa County continue to search and arrest Latino drivers at a higher rate than white drivers, echoing the racial disparities that first led to court oversight of the department.

“Those disparities remain,” Snow added.

A key part of the judge’s analysis results from traffic reports collected by the sheriff’s office. An analysis of those reports on behalf of the plaintiffs by a professor of computer science from the University of California, Berkeley approximates that Hispanic motorists are 40% more likely to be arrested than white motorists, are stopped 30% longer than white motorists and are 2.5 times more likely to be searched than white motorists. 

The responsibility is on the defendants to explain the stark disparities for Latino drivers, Snow said. “They have failed to do so.” To end court oversight, the sheriff’s office must be in full compliance with the reforms continuously for three years.

An investigation by Arizona Luminaria and ProPublica found that despite the monitor’s annual reviews showing ongoing racial disparities in traffic stops, Sheridan and county leaders continued to press for an end to court oversight. 

Arpaio’s wide-ranging, illegal traffic sweeps prompted the lawsuit, known originally as Melendres v. Arpaio, named for Manuel de Jesus Melendres Ortega, a legal resident who was arrested in such a sweep.

Under Arpaio, Maricopa County became an early testing ground for Immigration and Customs Enforcement’s 287(g) program, which lets local police enforce federal immigration laws. Many Arizonans say abuses from that time, including profiling of Latino motorists, foreshadowed what’s playing out now under the Trump administration’s expanded use of 287(g) and its mass deportation system.

The arrests of hundreds of American citizens by immigration authorities since President Donald Trump returned to the White House have prompted widespread accusations of racial profiling. In response, the Department of Homeland Security told ProPublica that agents do not racially profile or target Americans. “We don’t arrest US citizens for immigration enforcement,” wrote spokesperson Tricia McLaughlin.

The decade-plus of legal oversight of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department, criminal justice experts have said, offers insight into the difficulties of reforming law enforcement agencies charged with endemic racial bias.

Sheridan, a Republican, was found in civil contempt in 2016 for denying knowledge of Snow’s court order to stop making illegal immigration arrests. Sheridan has said he was always truthful. He inherited the settlement when he took office in January 2025. 

A 2025 evaluation by the monitor found the department complied with more than 90% of the requirements but fell short in the two areas that most directly impact Latino drivers: eliminating racial bias in traffic stops and quickly investigating allegations of deputy misconduct.

In trying to end federal oversight, Sheridan and county supervisors argued that racially biased Arpaio-era policies were no longer written department policy and there were few complaints of misconduct by deputies against Hispanic drivers.

“MCSO has reformed its policies, improved its workforce, and implemented mechanisms to assure that racial profiling never occurs. This litigation has been a success, and the time has come to allow MCSO to stand on its own two feet, freed of oversight,” the county’s original motion said.

Since joining the Melendres case and settlement in 2015, the U.S. Department of Justice had supported Snow’s federal oversight and the reforms. But with Trump back in the White House, an attorney with the DOJ’s Civil Rights Division informed the court in January that the department supported ending oversight.

Maricopa County Board of Supervisors Chair Kate Brophy McGee and Vice Chair Debbie Lesko, both Republicans, as well as a spokesperson with Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, said they were disappointed by the judge’s ruling. Steve Gallardo, the county’s lone Democrat on the five-member board, has opposed ending oversight, advocating for continued progress toward eliminating racial bias in policing.

“The court has maintained an unelected and unaccountable federal monitor over MCSO – creating bureaucracy and regulatory burdens that have cost taxpayers hundreds of millions of dollars. That ‘oversight’ comes at the cost of public safety, as the county must pay the monitor and his staff by foregoing other critical services,” said a joint statement from McGee and Lesko. 

Following complaints by Sheridan and Republican county supervisors that oversight costs topped $200 million, the court ordered an audit of the sheriff’s office spending. Court findings, shared in 2025, showed that nearly 72% of the sheriff’s office spending was misattributed or misappropriated. Only $63 million was appropriately charged to the settlement, they said. 

Officials with the sheriff’s office, however, welcomed parts of the judge’s latest ruling.

“We believe MCSO has implemented durable remedies for violations that occurred 19 years and three administrations ago,” Sgt. Joaquin Enriquez said. “We are encouraged that the Court has provided a framework on eliminating portions of the Order that are no longer necessary and focusing compliance efforts on the remaining issues to be addressed.” 

Speaking to a Phoenix-area radio station, Sheridan said he saw positive elements of the judge’s order but wondered whether his office could ever satisfy all parties to the lawsuit.  

“We at the sheriff’s office feel we’re in compliance with all the” court’s orders, Sheridan told KTAR News. “But the court-appointed monitor does not believe so. It’s a matter of us making a pitch to the court directly, not through the monitor.” 

Notably, the judge’s ruling said, there was no evidence that the department would continue to remedy the violations should oversight to ensure Latinos’ constitutional rights end. 

“The record does not support a finding that, absent federal monitoring, Defendants are unlikely to resume the conduct that necessitated the Court’s injunctive Orders,” the ruling stated. 

Raul Piña, a member of a court-mandated community advisory board tasked with helping the sheriff’s office rebuild trust with Latinos, said the problems at the department went beyond one specific leader, to multiple systems that have allowed biased policing long-term. To change that, Piña said, you need a broader overhaul. “You can paint the house, but if the foundation is broken you will have the same problem,” he told Arizona Luminaria and ProPublica. 

The American Civil Liberties Union of Arizona, which originally filed the lawsuit on behalf of citizens and legal residents caught in Arpaio’s sweeps, celebrated the current ruling. 

“Any other decision would have had a devastating impact on Maricopa County’s Latino residents,” Christine Wee, senior staff attorney for the ACLU of Arizona, said in a statement. “The Court’s decision recognizes that any current and future misconduct committed by MCSO will not be tolerated. Simply put, MCSO is not ready for the court-ordered reforms to end.”

The post Judge Denies Efforts to End Oversight of Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office as Racial Profiling of Latinos Persists appeared first on ProPublica.

Four Democratic Tennessee state lawmakers sent a letter to the Department of Children’s Services demanding answers about safety and oversight in the state’s juvenile justice facilities.

The letter cites a recent WPLN and ProPublica investigation that found that juvenile justice facilities run by Tennessee businessman Jason Crews repeatedly failed to report abuse of children and other serious incidents to the state as required. The reporting involved interviews with dozens of former staff and youth, along with a review of emergency call logs, company records and state documents. Crews and his company Wayne Halfway House run all three of the state’s highest-security youth prisons. 

“The allegations that serious physical and sexual abuse, dangerous restraints, injuries, and other critical incidents have gone unreported by WHH demand an urgent, transparent, and independently verifiable response from the Department of Children’s Services,” lawmakers wrote. 

After WPLN and ProPublica sent a copy of the letter to the company, a spokesperson said that Wayne Halfway House “continues to meet or exceed performance standards set by Tennessee,” citing state audits. The spokesperson also said that Wayne Halfway House has helped more than 200 youth earn a high school diploma or equivalent in the last three years.

In emailed statements to WPLN and ProPublica about the previous reporting, the company said it follows state policy and law and “vehemently denies” that Crews or his company ever discouraged staff from reporting serious or life-threatening incidents to the state. It described former employees who spoke with us as “untrustworthy sources” with a “clear bias” against the company and called their allegations “substantially flawed.”

Lawmakers are asking for answers to several questions raised by this investigation, including what steps the department is taking to address the allegations, how much money the state spends to place youth in Wayne Halfway House facilities, and who is being considered to operate new juvenile facilities the department is building. 

“We also request an opportunity to meet with Department leadership to discuss these issues, review the Department’s response, and identify the legislative and administrative actions necessary to ensure that no child’s safety depends on abuse first becoming a news story,” lawmakers wrote.

In response to the news organizations’ initial investigation, DCS said it is looking into incidents that were uncovered by the reporting. DCS did not respond to a request for comment on the letter.

Lawmakers noted that the latest investigation joins a “long and deeply troubling record of reports” on juvenile justice facilities across the state. They referenced previous reporting from WPLN and ProPublica that found a county-run East Tennessee juvenile detention center was locking kids in solitary confinement in violation of state law. The department said it would take steps to address the findings from the 2023 investigation, and the superintendent of the facility, Richard Bean, later stepped down. 

Read More

“They’re Putting Kids’ Lives at Risk”: How Abuse in a Tennessee Businessman’s Juvenile Prisons Remained Under Wraps

State Sen. Heidi Campbell, who signed onto the letter, also pushed for independent oversight of juvenile justice facilities in 2024, after WPLN and ProPublica’s reporting from East Tennessee. Campbell and others working on that bill said a lobbyist for Wayne Halfway House asked them to exempt privately run facilities from oversight. The oversight bill eventually failed. A lobbyist for Wayne Halfway House told the news organizations at the time that the company was concerned about giving regulatory power to an outside agency “without more extensive consideration.”

Lawmakers are also worried about the state’s increased spending on juvenile justice, especially as Tennessee plans to spend more than $400 million to build more facilities. The cost to hold 31 youth at a Wayne Halfway House facility for a year is roughly the same amount it would take the state to expand grocery benefits for 700,000 school-aged children during the summer, lawmakers wrote. 

“Given the amount of money Tennessee is currently spending, and plans to invest, in juvenile justice and residential facilities, we have serious concerns about repeated findings and allegations of lack of oversight, transparency, and accountability in these facilities,” lawmakers wrote.

The post Tennessee Lawmakers Demand Answers on Safety in State Youth Prisons appeared first on ProPublica.

Landmark legislation designed to alert consumers to where their drugs were made is headed for a full Senate vote, but safety experts say the transparency bill has been stripped of two of its most critical provisions.

The Clear Labels Act was introduced earlier this year by Sens. Rick Scott, R-Fla., and Kirsten Gillibrand, D-N.Y., after lawmakers and drug safety experts called for more transparency in the industry. Last year, a ProPublica investigation revealed that the U.S. kept importing generic drugs from foreign factories after inspectors had identified quality and safety lapses at the sites, including leaks, mold and contaminated water.

Medications made at these facilities were linked to thousands of reported adverse reactions in patients.

The bill aims to allow doctors and patients to see on the label exactly where a medication was made — details that had largely been withheld until now, even from Congress. Current generic drug labels often include only the location of the packager or distributor, which can be thousands of miles away from the actual manufacturer. 

One provision made the law particularly strong, experts said: The label was supposed to include a unique code that the Food and Drug Administration uses to identify factories. That code would have made it easier for researchers and the public to track the regulatory histories of specific facilities. 

The requirements also were supposed to take effect as early as a year after the bill’s passage.

Senators have now struck both of those provisions. People familiar with the deliberations said lawmakers worried the requirements would raise drug prices and weaken national security by revealing the precise locations where lifesaving medications are made. 

The unique identifier requirement has been removed from the bill, and the timeline for companies to come into compliance was extended to five years.

“It’s just a clear watering down of the original bill,” said retired Army Col. Vic Suarez, a former medical supply-chain commander who has been leading a push for more domestic pharmaceutical manufacturing. 

He and others also questioned why drug companies need multiple years to comply.

“Five years after it passes might as well be a lifetime,” said Dr. Kevin Schulman, a professor of medicine and health policy at Stanford University who has researched the economic pressures that lead to poor-quality generic drugs. “Why is it that the supply chain, the medical distributors and the retailers don’t want to make sure that they supply the highest-quality product?”

In a joint press release, Scott and Gillibrand praised the bill’s progress in the Senate, calling it a “massive win for consumer safety and transparency,” but did not address the changes.

A representative from Gillibrand’s office said the five-year delay is meant to give the FDA time for rulemaking, which is a complicated, often yearslong process used to introduce new regulations. The delay would also give manufacturers time to come into compliance and redesign their labels, the representative said.

But Peter Baker, a former FDA inspector whose work involved the very companies impacted by the bill, said that amount of time is unnecessary. 

“If they wanted to do it in one year, they could,” Baker said. “I would love to hear their justification on why they need five years to develop some rules and guidance on transparency. … I mean, it’s a simple label change.”

The new version of the legislation also removes the key requirement to include a unique facility identification number on labels, called a DUNS number, which would have allowed the public to more easily trace a generic drug and its active ingredients to the factories where they were made. In some cases, that identifier could also be used to find FDA inspection reports that describe contamination and other safety breakdowns on factory floors.

Read More

Look Up Where Your Generic Prescription Drugs Were Made

ProPublica used that ID number to collect data for Rx Inspector, a first-of-its-kind tool that allows consumers and doctors to look up where more than 40,000 generic drugs are made. Pharmacists and patients are already using the tool to learn more about the drugs they take and prescribe.

Under the bill’s updated language, drug labels will only be required to include factory addresses, which can be inconsistent and hard to trace to a manufacturing facility. A single address in India, for example, can house multiple factories, each producing its own drugs, or each with a slight variation on the same address. 

ProPublica reporters ran into this issue when collecting data for the Rx Inspector tool. In 69% of prescription drug labels, reporters found a generic drug manufacturer’s DUNS number and were able to directly connect it to a specific facility. However, when only a manufacturer’s address was available, linking a drug to a particular facility became much harder, requiring a complicated process of automated address verification, geolocation and extensive manual review.

Experts also worried about certain language in the legislation that could allow manufacturers to avoid identifying where their factories are at all. Representatives for the bill’s sponsors have said that manufacturers are required to identify the factory where drugs were made, but the legislation only mentions a “place of business.” Drugmakers could potentially list the address for their headquarters or a subsidiary location in the United States rather than a factory overseas.

“If, in fact, ‘place of business’ can be interpreted as the location of the importer or the headquarters or something like that, it would be no different than what we have today,” said Ohio State University professor John Gray, who testified before the Senate Special Committee on Aging, led by Scott and Gillibrand.

“Then we’ll be right back to where we are,” Gray said. “It’ll say ‘Manufactured for So-and-So in New York City,’ but it’s actually made somewhere else around the world.”

People familiar with negotiations over the bill’s language said they are confident that manufacturers won’t have a loophole. The changes to the bill were primarily made as a compromise between committee offices and stakeholders, they said, and the FDA will have final say in what counts as an acceptable address.

The Association for Accessible Medicines, the generic drug lobbying group, did not respond to multiple requests for comment. A spokesperson for the association previously spoke out against the bill to ProPublica, saying the additional requirements would cause “significant costs in exchange for limited return.”

The lobbying group spent over $1 million between January and July on healthcare and generics-related bills, including the Clear Labels Act, according to its public filings. 

The trade group for brand-name manufacturers did not respond to a request for comment. Previously, a spokesperson for the brand-name trade group said the industry would “welcome conversations about how to strengthen the biopharmaceutical supply chain.” 

The bill faced pushback from some lawmakers on the Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor and Pensions. Sen. Maggie Hassan, D-N.H, raised the national security concerns, and Sen. Rand Paul, R-K.Y., said he worried about creating an additional hurdle to drug production.

Ultimately, the revised bill passed the committee in July, with only Paul dissenting. The full Senate is set to take up the measure; a date has not yet been scheduled.

Congress will work with the FDA to make sure the law is properly interpreted and enforced, according to those familiar with the negotiations.

Baker said the burden of ensuring compliance will fall to already-overworked inspectors, who will be forced to determine whether manufacturers are skirting the address requirement. It would be easier to require the unique identifier, he said, because inspectors could more easily verify the information.

“The more flexibility they allow, the more complex it is to enforce it,” Baker said.

Baker also pushed back against concerns about a potential national security threat. He said data about where U.S. drugs come from is already well known, so including factory information on labels wouldn’t pose a significant risk.

“It’s a public health concern over a national security concern,” he said. “I would say that those risks outweigh the national security concerns.”

Read More

Threat in Your Medicine Cabinet: The FDA’s Gamble on America’s Drugs

The Clear Labels Act Would Change What You Know About Your Prescription Medication

The post “A Clear Watering Down”: Drug Transparency Bill Stripped of Critical Provisions Ahead of Senate Vote appeared first on ProPublica.