Kerr County’s emergency management coordinator, William B. Thomas IV, spoke publicly for the first time at the hearing, noting that he was sick on July 3, the day before the floods, and had informed supervisors that he wouldn’t be able to participate in coordination meetings. He slept through most of the day and learned of the devastating floods the morning of July 4 when his wife woke him up at 5:30 am. Thomas then went on to reflect on what he could have done differently. 

“The honest answer is that based on the data we had at the time, there was no clear indicator that a catastrophic flood was imminent,” he said, noting that forecasts from the National Weather Service the day before had not been materially different from previous forecasts that had not resulted in flooding.

More significantly, perhaps, the day’s torrential rain had fallen in locations where limited data could be gathered from the half dozen flood gauges along the Guadalupe River. Those gauges provide critical data for monitoring river flows and, during floods, can provide advance warning that can save lives. But the U.S. has a shortage of such gauges, particularly in rural, tribal, and low-income communities. While the U.S. Geological Survey maintains a nationwide network of more than 12,000 gauges in partnership with local agencies, persistent funding shortfalls have limited their maintenance and operation. As of October 2024, more than 4,750 locations met the criteria for inclusion in the network — but only about 3,400 gauges are active due to budget constraints.  

“We need real-time monitoring of rainfall and river gauges, especially in upstream headwaters and watershed zones,” Thomas told lawmakers. “We cannot rely solely on radar or traditional forecasting from the National Weather Service. We need systems that detect what’s happening on the ground minute by minute.”

More gauges may have helped save lives on July 4. Between 2 am and 5 am, the heaviest rain fell on the south fork of the river before it converged with the north fork by the town of Hunt. 

“If there had been more gauges up closer to where the rain started and where the flood started, where those two forks were coming together, that would have been helpful,” said James Goss-Dollin, an assistant professor of civil and environmental engineering at Rice University. “We want to have as many [gauges] as possible so you can see where the water is and how fast it is coming towards you. There’s a huge need to better monitor rivers.”

At the Thursday hearing, residents shared their accounts braving the floods, as well as their experiences of the recovery process so far. An army of volunteers descended on Kerr County and neighboring areas in the first few weeks after the floods, but as national interest fades, residents are beginning to grapple with the reality of rebuilding. Many have turned to the Federal Emergency Management Agency, or FEMA, for help. The agency offers financial aid to help survivors recover in the wake of disasters. Those funds can cover rent for temporary housing, trailers for those whose homes are uninhabitable, and assistance to cover the cost of funerals.

A new analysis by Texas Appleseed, a nonprofit that advocates for fair housing and post-disaster recovery, shows that FEMA has conducted more than 3,100 inspections of Central Texas homes affected by flooding since July 4 — and rejected more than 1,100 of those applications. Among those approved, funding levels have been modest. The agency has provided an average of roughly $8,600 in assistance to repair homes and $34,000 to those who have to rebuild homes entirely, as of July 26. Despite the modest totals, the aid appears to be in line with that provided during previous disasters.

“Low acceptance rates are not uncommon after any given storm,” said Meg Duffy, a senior policy analyst at Texas Appleseed and one of the researchers who conducted the analysis. “Part of that reflects the difficulty involved in applying for FEMA assistance.”

FEMA assistance was never meant to make disaster survivors financially whole again. Instead, FEMA aid is intended to supplement insurance, loans, state and local assistance, and personal savings. The agency’s grants are capped for the current fiscal year at a maximum of $87,200 per grantee for home repairs and other essential needs.

But most residents in rural Central Texas don’t have flood insurance. (Flood damages are not covered by standard homeowner’s insurance.) In Kerr County, a little more than 2 percent of residents have flood coverage. In fact, Duffy’s research found that about three-fourths of local FEMA applicants didn’t have any home insurance at all. It also found that about two-thirds of those applicants made less than $60,000 a year. 

A number of bureaucratic and logistical hurdles can slow down how quickly aid is distributed. If an applicant has insurance, FEMA requires that they first secure documentation from the insurance company stating how much it is willing to cover. That process can sometimes take weeks, if not months. The agency also tries to meet with individual homeowners to inspect their homes and verify ownership before granting aid. If a resident does not have transportation to meet with FEMA personnel or is unable to secure documentation to prove ownership — because, say, the paperwork has washed away in a flood — the agency will deny applications. In those cases, residents can appeal and provide the missing information, but that can take weeks or months to process. Speeding up that timeline is a key improvement that FEMA should make, according to Duffy.

Grist has a comprehensive guide to help you stay ready and informed before, during, and after a disaster.

Explore the full Disaster 101 resource guide for more on your rights and options when disaster hits.

Are you affected by the flooding in Texas and North Carolina? Learn how to navigate disaster relief and response.

Get prepared. Learn how to be ready for a disaster before you’re affected.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Texas lawmakers grill Kerr County officials as flood recovery plods on on Aug 1, 2025.

This content originally appeared on Grist and was authored by Naveena Sadasivam.

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

Sixteen months had passed since Hurricane Harvey tore through the Texas coast in August 2017, killing more than 80 people and flattening entire neighborhoods. And when Texas lawmakers gathered in Austin for their biennial session, the scale of the storm’s destruction was hard to ignore.

Legislators responded by greenlighting a yearslong statewide initiative to evaluate flood risks and improve preparedness for increasingly frequent and deadly storms. “If we get our planning right on the front end and prevent more damage on the front end, then we have less on the back end,” Charles Perry, a Republican senator from Lubbock who chairs a committee overseeing environmental issues, said at the time.

In the years that followed, hundreds of local officials and volunteers canvassed communities across Texas, mapping out vulnerabilities. The result of their work came in 2024 with the release of Texas’ first-ever state flood plan.

Their findings identified nearly $55 billion in proposed projects and outlined 15 key recommendations, including nine suggestions for legislation. Several were aimed at aiding rural communities like Kerr County, where flash flooding over the Fourth of July weekend killed more than 100 people. Three are still missing.

But this year, lawmakers largely ignored those recommendations.

Instead, the legislative session that ended June 2 was dominated by high-profile battles over school vouchers and lawmakers’ decision to spend $51 billion to maintain and provide new property tax cuts, an amount nearly equal to the funding identified by the Texas Water Development Board, a state agency that has historically overseen water supply and conservation efforts.

Although it had been only seven years since Hurricane Harvey, legislators now prioritized the state’s water and drought crisis over flooding needs.

Legislators allocated more than $1.6 billion in new revenue for water infrastructure projects, only some of which would go toward flood mitigation. They also passed a bill that will ask voters in November to decide whether to approve $1 billion annually over the next two decades that would prioritize water and wastewater over flood mitigation projects. At that pace, water experts said that it could take decades before existing mitigation needs are addressed — even without further floods.

Even if they had been approved by lawmakers this year, many of the plan’s recommendations would not have been implemented before the July 4 disaster. But a ProPublica and Texas Tribune analysis of legislative proposals, along with interviews with lawmakers and flood experts, found that the Legislature has repeatedly failed to enact key measures that would help communities prepare for frequent flooding.

Such inaction often hits rural and economically disadvantaged communities hardest because they lack the tax base to fund major flood prevention projects and often cannot afford to produce the data they need to qualify for state and federal grants, environmental experts and lawmakers said.

Over the years, legislators have declined to pass at least three bills that would create siren or alert systems, tools experts say can be especially helpful in rural communities that lack reliable internet and cell service. A 2019 state-commissioned report estimated flood prevention needs at over $30 billion. Since then, lawmakers have allocated just $1.4 billion. And they ignored the key recommendations from the state’s 2024 flood plan that are meant to help rural areas like Kerr County, which is dubbed “Flash Flood Alley” due to its geography.

Spokespeople for Gov. Greg Abbott and House Speaker Dustin Burrows, R-Lubbock, did not answer questions about why the plan’s recommendations were overlooked but defended the Legislature’s investment in flood mitigation as significant. They pointed to millions more spent on other prevention efforts, including flood control dam construction and maintenance, regional flood projects, and increased floodplain disclosures and drainage requirements for border counties. Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick did not respond to questions.

This week, the Legislature will convene for a special session that Abbott called to address a range of priorities, including flood warning systems, natural disaster preparation and relief funding. Patrick promised that the state would purchase warning sirens for counties in flash flood zones. Similar efforts, however, have previously been rejected by the Legislature. Alongside Burrows, Patrick also announced the formation of committees on disaster preparedness and flooding and called the move “just the beginning of the Legislature looking at every aspect of this tragic event.” Burrows said the House is “ready to better fortify our state against future disasters.”

But Rep. Ana-María Rodríguez Ramos, a Democrat from Richardson, near Dallas, said state lawmakers have brushed off dire flood prevention needs for decades.

“The manual was there, and we ignored it, and we've continued to ignore these recommendations,” said Rodríguez Ramos, who has served on the House Natural Resources Committee overseeing water issues for three sessions. “It’s performative to say we’re trying to do something knowing well we’re not doing enough.”

One recommendation from the 2024 flood plan would have cost the state nothing to enact. It called for granting counties the authority to levy drainage fees, including in unincorporated areas, that could fund local flood projects. Only about 150 of 1,450 Texas cities and counties have dedicated drainage fees, according to a study cited in the state assessment.

Kerr, a conservative county of 53,000 people, has struggled to gain support for projects that would raise taxes. About a week after the flooding, some residents protested when county commissioners discussed a property tax increase to help cover the costs of recovery efforts.

The inability to raise such fees is one of the biggest impediments for local governments seeking to fund flood mitigation projects, said Robert R. Puente, a Democrat and former state representative who once chaired the state committee responsible for water issues. Lawmakers’ resistance to such efforts is rooted in fiscal conservatism, said Puente, who now heads the San Antonio Water System.

“It’s mostly because of a philosophy that the leadership in Austin has right now, that under no circumstances are we going to raise taxes, and under most circumstances we’re not even going to allow local governments to have control over how they raise taxes or implement fees,” he said.

Another one of the flood plan’s recommendations called for lawmakers to allocate money for a technical assistance program to help underresourced and rural governments better manage flood prone areas, which requires implementing a slew of standards to ensure safe development in those hazardous zones. Doing this work requires local officials to collect accurate mapping that shows the risk of flooding. Passing this measure could have helped counties like Kerr with that kind of data collection, which the plan recognized is especially challenging for rural and economically disadvantaged communities.

Insufficient information impacts Texas’s ability to fully understand flood risks statewide. The water board’s plan, for example, includes roughly 600 infrastructure projects across Texas in need of completion. But its report acknowledged that antiquated or missing data meant another 3,100 assessments would be required to know whether additional projects are needed.

In the Guadalupe River region, which includes Kerr County, 65% of areas lacked adequate flood mapping. Kerrville, the county seat, was listed among the areas identified as having the “greatest known flood risks and mitigation needs.” Yet of the 19 flood needs specific to the city and county, only three were included in the state plan’s list of 600. They included requests to install backup generators in critical facilities and repair low-water crossings, which are shallow points in streets where rainwater can pool to dangerous levels.

At least 16 other priorities, including the county’s desire for an early warning flood system and potential dam or drainage system repairs, required a follow-up evaluation, according to the state plan. County officials tried to obtain grants for the early warning systems for years, to no avail.

Gonzales County, an agriculture-rich area of 20,000 people along the Guadalupe River, is among the rural communities struggling to obtain funding, said emergency management director Jimmy Harless, who is also the county’s fire marshal. The county is in desperate need of a siren system and additional gauges to measure the river’s potentially dangerous flood levels, Harless said, but doesn’t have the resources, personnel or expertise to apply for the “burdensome” state grant process.

“It is extremely frustrating for me to know that there’s money there and there’s people that care, but our state agency has become so bureaucratic that it’s just not feasible for us,” Harless said. “Our folks’ lives are more important than what some bureaucrat wants us to do.”

For years, Texas leaders have focused more on cleaning up after disasters than on preparing for them, said Jim Blackburn, a professor at Rice University specializing in environmental law and flooding issues.

“It’s no secret that the Guadalupe is prone to flash flooding. That’s been known for decades,” Blackburn said. “The state has been very negligent about kind of preparing us for, frankly, the worst storms of the future that we are seeing today because of climate change, and what’s changing is that the risks are just greater today and will be even greater tomorrow, because our storms are getting worse and worse.”

At a news conference this month, Abbott said state committees would investigate “ways to address this,” though he declined to offer specifics. When pressed by a reporter about where the blame for the lack of preparedness should fall, Abbott responded that it was “the word choice of losers.”

It shouldn’t have taken the Hill Country flooding for a special session addressing emergency systems and funding needs, said Usman Mahmood, a policy analyst at Bayou City Waterkeeper, a Houston nonprofit that advocates for flood protection measures.

“The worst part pretty much already happened, which is the flooding and the loss of life,” he said. “Now it’s a reaction to that.”

Misty Harris contributed research.

This content originally appeared on ProPublica and was authored by by Lexi Churchill and Lomi Kriel, ProPublica and The Texas Tribune.

Telemundo Atlanta reported on Monday morning that the activist group Indivisible had scheduled a protest for 6 p.m. that day at the jail.

“We are dismayed that immigration officials have decided to ignore a federal immigration court order last week granting bail to journalist Mario Guevara,” said CPJ U.S., Canada and Caribbean Program Coordinator Katherine Jacobsen. “Guevara is currently the only jailed journalist in the United States who was arrested in relation to his work. Immigration authorities must respect the law and release him on bail instead of bouncing him from one jurisdiction to another.”

The journalist, who was initially arrested while covering a June 14 “No Kings” protest in the Atlanta metro area and charged with three misdemeanors, which local officials declined to prosecute due to insufficient evidence. A local judge ordered Guevara to be released on bond, but he remained in custody after ICE opened a detainer against him.

The Department of Homeland Security headquarters and the department’s Atlanta field office did not immediately respond to CPJ’s emailed request for comment.

This content originally appeared on Committee to Protect Journalists and was authored by CPJ Staff.

Originally placed in the courthouse lobby last year by Jefferson County Sheriff Jeff Bullard, the monument was later moved to the lawn immediately outside the Courthouse entrance. While Bullard claimed that the original display was funded by private donations, the lawsuit alleges that he used public dollars to relocate the monument to its current outdoor location, where it is unavoidable for anyone who enters or passes by the courthouse. The monument enumerates a Protestant version of the Ten Commandments.

“With today’s lawsuit, Jefferson County taxpayers are standing up for the fundamental constitutional principle that the government must remain neutral when it comes to matters of faith,” notes Freedom From Religion Foundation Co-President Annie Laurie Gaylor. “Erecting a Ten Commandments monument on public property, whether in the courthouse lobby or just outside the entryway, blatantly violates Illinois law.”

“This Ten Commandments monument represents an intrusion of civil authority into matters of faith,” explains lead plaintiff Pastor Lynn Neal. “As a minister, I object to my government co-opting my religious beliefs for improper political purposes, usurping my role as a religious leader by promoting an officially preferred version of the Ten Commandments and presenting it outside of its biblical context.”

“This monument is particularly problematic for me as a Catholic, because it includes a prohibition on using religious iconography, even though depictions of the crucifixion are commonplace in my faith,” said plaintiff Roberta Shallenberger. “Historically, the Protestant version of the Ten Commandments has been used by some to condemn Catholic religious practice, and showcasing this version on official government property appears to perpetuate and endorse that anti-Catholic bias.”

“Everyone should be made to feel welcome in Jefferson County, including the nonreligious,” said plaintiff Roberta Evans. “The Ten Commandments monument in front of the courthouse accomplishes the opposite, and turns the Commandments into a political statement that cheapens their value.”

Plaintiff Calvin McClintock added: “Jefferson County government officials used the people’s money, time, resources, and land to promote a particular religious message, at the exclusion of others. Government officials have no business endorsing any religion.”

Filed in Illinois’ 2nd Judicial Circuit as a Petition for Writ of Mandamus, the lawsuit comes after the Jefferson County Board of Commissioners voted to retain the monument on county property, ignoring warnings from the Freedom From Religion Foundation and the county’s own attorney that the display raised serious legal concerns.

Heather L. Weaver, senior counsel for the American Civil Liberties Union, said: “The separation of church and state guarantees that we all have the right to decide, for ourselves, which religious beliefs, if any, people should follow. By sending the message that Jefferson County favors some faiths over others, the Ten Commandments monument intrudes on deeply personal matters. We’ll see Jefferson County in court.”

“In Illinois, we do not permit local politicians to use the power and authority of their office to promote their religious views,” added Kevin Fee, legal director for the ACLU of Illinois. “Our organization has always worked to ensure that everyone’s religious freedom is respected. This monument – which must be removed immediately – attempts to undermine that freedom for many residents. We are pleased to represent these clients in seeking fairness in Jefferson County.”

A copy of the petition filed today is available here.

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams and was authored by Newswire Editor.

This story originally appeared in Common Dreams on Apr. 25, 2024. It is shared here with permission under a Creative Commons (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0) license.

This is a breaking story… Please check back for possible updates…

Federal agents arrested a sitting Wisconsin judge on Friday, accusing her of helping an undocumented immigrant evade arrest after he appeared in her courtroom last week, FBI Director Kash Patel said on social media.

In a since-deleted post, Patel said the FBI arrested 65-year-old Milwaukee County Circuit Judge Hannah Dugan “on charges of obstruction.”

“We believe Judge Dugan intentionally misdirected federal agents away from the subject to be arrested in her courthouse… allowing the subject—an illegal alien—to evade arrest,” Patel wrote. “Thankfully, our agents chased down the perp on foot and he’s been in custody since, but the judge’s obstruction created increased danger to the public.”

It is unclear why Patel deleted the post. U.S. Marshals Service spokesperson Brady McCarron and multiple Milwaukee County judges confirmed Dugan’s arrest, according to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. McCarron said Dugan is facing two federal felony counts: obstruction and concealing an individual.

The Journal Sentinel reported that Dugan “appeared before U.S. Magistrate Judge Stephen C. Dries during a brief hearing in a packed courtroom at the federal courthouse” and “made no public comments during the brief hearing.”

Dugan’s attorney, Craig Mastantuono, told the court that “Judge Dugan wholeheartedly regrets and protests her arrest,” which “was not made in the interest of public safety.”

The FBI had reportedly been investigating allegations that Dugan helped the undocumented man avoid arrest by letting him hide in her chambers.

Wisconsin state Rep. Ryan Clancy (D-19) said in a statement Wednesday that “several witnesses report that [Immigration and Customs Enforcement] did not present a warrant before entering the courtroom and it is not clear whether ICE ever possessed or presented a judicial warrant, generally required for agents to access non-public spaces like Judge Dugan’s chambers.”

Clancy continued:

I commend Judge Hannah Dugan’s defense of due process by preventing ICE from shamefully using her courtroom as an ad hoc holding area for deportations. We cannot have a functional legal system if people are justifiably afraid to show up for legal proceedings, especially when ICE agents have already repeatedly grabbed people off the street in retaliation for speech and free association, without even obtaining the proper warrants.

While the facts in this case are still unfolding, it’s clear that actions like Judge Dugan’s are what is required for democracy to survive the Trump regime. She used her position of power and privilege to protect someone from an agency that has repeatedly, flagrantly abused its own power. If enough of us act similarly, and strategically, we can stand with our neighbors and build a better world together.

Prominent Milwaukee defense attorney and former federal prosecutor Franklyn Gimbel called Dugan’s arrest “very, very outrageous.”

“First and foremost, I know—as a former federal prosecutor and as a defense lawyer for decades—that a person who is a judge, who has a residence who has no problem being found, should not be arrested, if you will, like some common criminal,” Gimbel told the Journal Sentinel.

“And I’m shocked and surprised that the U.S. Attorney’s office or the FBI would not have invited her to show up and accept process if they’re going to charge her with a crime,” he added.

Julius Kim, another former prosecutor-turned defense lawyer, said on the social media site X that “practicing in Milwaukee, I know Judge Hannah Dugan well. She’s a good judge, and this entire situation demonstrates how the Trump administration’s policies are heading for a direct collision course with the judiciary.”

“That being said, given the FBI director’s tweet (since deleted), they are going to try to politicize this situation to the max,” Kim added. “That sounds an awful lot like weaponizing the DOJ, doesn’t it?”

Responding to Dugan’s arrest, U.S. Sen. Ed Markey (D-Mass.) said on the social media site Bluesky: “The Trump admin has arrested a judge in Milwaukee. This is a red alert moment. We must all rise up against it.”

This content originally appeared on The Real News Network and was authored by Brett Wilkins.

South Korea has one of the world’s lowest fertility rates and its population of 51 million is expected to halve by the end of the century.

Yeongyang, about 230 kilometers (140 miles) from Seoul in North Gyeongsang Province in the east of the country, has the smallest population of any county in South Korea, excluding islands, with about 15,000 residents.

To make up its numbers, Yeongyang is working with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees on a plan to accept some members of the Karen ethnic minority, who make up approximately 6.5% of Myanmar’s population.

Many Karen people from eastern Myanmar have been displaced during decades of fighting between a Karen insurgent force seeking self-determination and the Myanmar military. About 100,000 Karen people have been living for years in camps on the Thai side of the border with Myanmar.

Yeongyang said it would initially accept 10 families, totaling about 40 people, as early as the second half of this year, but added that it was still discussing details with the South Korean government.

According to the county, there are plans to convert unused buildings, such as former schools, into residential spaces to accommodate people from Myanmar.

Other initiatives to increase Yeongyang’s population include encouraging family members and relatives to register their addresses in the county and offering childbirth incentives of up to 100 million South Korean won (US$69,000).

Largest refugee group in South Korea

Myanmar nationals make up the largest group of officially recognized refugees in South Korea, with 474 individuals granted refugee status, in 2024, said the justice ministry.

In addition, 55 Myanmar nationals, though denied refugee status, have been granted humanitarian stay permits due to the risk of persecution or harm if returned to their home country.

Among the 122,095 asylum applications filed in South Korea by foreign nationals of all countries, 94,391 cases have been processed, while 27,704 remain pending.

The most common reasons for seeking asylum included political persecution, religious beliefs, and membership in specific social groups. However, 42% of applications were dismissed as they did not meet the criteria under the Refugee Convention, including cases based on economic hardships or private threats.

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The Karen people, many of whom are Christian, have faced decades of persecution and conflict.

The Karen National Union, Myanmar’s oldest ethnic minority insurgent force, took up arms to fight for autonomy soon after Myanmar, then known as Burma, gained independence from Britain in 1948.

(David Longstreath/AP)

Following a 2021 military coup in Myanmar, the junta intensified attacks on Karen areas with airstrikes, forced displacement and other abuses, rights groups say.

Edited by Mike Firn.

This content originally appeared on Radio Free Asia and was authored by Taejun Kang for RFA.

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

The scoreboard glowed with the promise of another Friday night football game in Liberty, Mississippi, a small town near the Louisiana border. The Trojans, in black and gold, sprinted onto the field to hollers from friends and families who filled barely half the bleachers.

The fans were almost all Black, as is the student body at the county’s lone public high school. Scanning the field and the stands would give you little indication that more than half the county’s residents are white.

In some swaths of the South, a big event like high school football unites people. But not in Amite County.

Just beyond the Trojans’ scoreboard, past a stand of trees, another scoreboard lit up. At Amite School Center, a small Christian private school, cars and pickup trucks crammed every inch of space on the front lawn and in its parking lots. A charter bus for the visiting team, another private school, rumbled near the entrance to the field.

A good 500 people, nearly all of them white, filled the bleachers and flowed across the hill overlooking the field. They cheered from lawn chairs and waggled cowbells as cheerleaders in red-and-white uniforms performed a daring pyramid routine.

A child waved a handmade white poster that read, “Go Rebels.”

Amite School Center, like many private schools across the Deep South, opened during desegregation to serve families fleeing the arrival of Black children at the once all-white public schools. ProPublica has been examining how these schools, called “segregation academies,” often continue to act as divisive forces in their communities even now, five decades later.

In Amite County, about 900 children attend the local public schools — which, as of 2021, were 16% white. More than 600 children attend two private schools — which were 96% white. Other, mostly white students go to a larger segregation academy in a neighboring county.

“It’s staggering,” said Warren Eyster, principal of Amite County High until this school year. “It does create a divide.”

The difference between those figures, 80 percentage points, is one way to understand the segregating effect of private schools — it shows how much more racially isolated students are when they attend these schools.

Considerable research has examined public school segregation. Academics have found that everything from school attendance zones to the presence of charter schools can worsen segregation in local public schools.

But the ways in which private schools exacerbate segregation are tough to measure. Unlike their public brethren, they don’t have to release much information about themselves. That means few people on the outside know many details about these schools, including the racial makeup of their student bodies — at a time when legislatures across the South are rapidly expanding voucher-style programs that will send private schools hundreds of millions more taxpayer dollars.

ProPublica looked at majority-Black public school districts where private schools also operated. A wide swath of districts across the South exhibited the same pattern: Student populations in private schools are far whiter than in the surrounding public schools.

But a new ProPublica analysis shows the extent to which private schools segregate students. We dug into decades of private and public school data kept by the U.S. Department of Education, including a survey of the nation’s private schools conducted every other year by its National Center for Education Statistics. Outside of academia, few people know about this data.

The surveys are imperfect measures. Schools self-report their information, and about 1 in 4 didn’t respond to the most recent round in 2021. But the surveys are the only national measure of this kind. ProPublica used them to determine how often students attended schools with peers of the same race in tens of thousands of private schools nationwide and compared that to public schools.

A stark pattern emerged across states in the Deep South — Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina and North Carolina — where about 200 majority-Black school districts educate 1.3 million students. Alongside those districts, a separate web of schools operates: private academies filled almost entirely with white students. Across the majority-Black districts in those states, private schools are 72% white and public schools are 19% white.

Many of those districts are home to segregation academies, which siphon off large numbers of white students. In many areas, particularly rural ones, these academies are the reason that public school districts scarcely resemble their communities — and the reason that public schools are more Black than the population of children in the surrounding county.

Which county has the largest chasm? Amite.

Along the two-lane country roads through Amite County, fear still mingles with the red clay. Civil rights violence scarred the place just a few generations ago. At least 14 lynchings and other terrifying acts of racist violence took place here, including one of the nation’s most infamous unsolved civil rights murders. In neighboring Pike County, the town of McComb became known as the “bombing capital of the world” for its violent resistance to civil rights.

“You can’t forget things like that,” said Jackie Robinson, chair of the Amite County Democratic Committee. A Black woman, she remembers going to the neighborhood store with her grandmother and being called a racial slur. Her mother told stories of crosses burning.

Robinson said she encounters Black residents who won’t put campaign signs for Black candidates in their yards. They fear that white residents, who own most of the local businesses, might shut them out if they do.

White adults outnumber Black ones, and white elected officials control the school district that educates mostly Black children.

Only one school trustee is Black. She sent her children to the local public schools, but few, if any, of the white trustees did. One longtime white board member, whose children attended Amite School Center, has as his Facebook profile picture a photo of the private school’s football team. ProPublica reached out to all of the school board members multiple times, but none responded.

That school board hired a superintendent who is white. It selected high school and middle school principals who are white. And all of the people collecting $7 cash from each spectator at the football game appeared to be white.

Janice Jackson-Lyons, a Black woman, ran for a school board seat in 2020 against the white incumbent with the private school Facebook photo. She described her campaign message as: “I’m reaching for all children. I’d love to see all the kids go to school together because all the kids in Amite County are going to compete for jobs with people from all over the world.” She lost by 60 votes.

Woran Griffin, who volunteers with Amite County High School’s football team, ran for a board seat in November. He and another Black resident, an educator in a neighboring school district, both lost to white candidates. “There are too many whites running kids they don’t know nothing about,” he said.

They are among the Black residents who wonder: Why do white people who never sent their kids to the public schools keep challenging Black candidates who have? Many Black residents figure it comes down to control — over property tax rates, district spending contracts and hiring.

“I call that a plantation-style school,” said local resident Bettie Patterson, a Black woman who served on the school board years ago.

Amite County has one of the lowest property tax rates for funding schools in Mississippi. And when the board consolidated schools in 2010, it shuttered the elementary school in Gloster, a mostly Black town in the county, and moved all students to Liberty, a mostly white one. The only school left in Gloster is a Head Start for preschoolers.

Superintendent Don Cuevas wouldn’t comment on the racial dynamic of the board. “We have a good school system,” he said. “We have a safe school system. Everybody’s treated equal.”

Several Amite public school teachers and parents described watching the PTA, the booster club and a parent liaison position disappear. They said they don’t feel their input is welcome. But Cuevas said the district wants to be selective about when it asks for money from its families, many of whom have very low incomes, when the district doesn’t need it.

“Financially, we’re set,” Cuevas said. “We handle money very well.” He pointed to renovations at the elementary school, including improvements to the parking lot and plumbing, a new iron fence around the entire property and a guard shack. The superintendent said it was to ensure safety and order, but Griffin said the fence felt “like a prison wall.”

Multiple Black educators told ProPublica that the district had passed over qualified Black teachers with local roots for jobs and promotions.

Jeffery Gibson, who grew up in Gloster, was a PE teacher and Amite County High School’s head football and a track coach last year when, he said, he applied for two open administrative positions. Given he had coached multiple state championship teams, received his administrator license and worked as a lead teacher, he figured he’d be a strong candidate.

“I know the kids,” Gibson said. “I can motivate them. I can get them to do what I ask. I can get them to reach their full potential. I’m from there.” But he said the district didn’t respond to his applications, so he took a job as the athletic director of a larger district.

ProPublica identified 155 counties across the Deep South with private schools that likely opened as segregation academies. Roughly three dozen of those schools are in Mississippi. One in Amite County has never — over nearly 30 years of responding to a federal survey — reported enrolling more than one Black student at a time.

The other, Amite School Center, began reporting enrollment of Black students in the past decade, but not enough to come close to reflecting the population of children in Amite County, where almost half of school-age kids are Black. In the 2021 federal survey, Amite School Center reported student enrollment was 3.5% Black. It employs no Black teachers.

When asked if his school still creates divisions in the community, ASC’s Head of School Jay Watts said no: “I haven’t seen it here.” The school has a policy that says it doesn’t discriminate based on race.

The nonprofit Christian academy, home of the Rebels, opened hastily in 1970 “in the wake of court ordered all-out racial desegregation of the Amite County Schools,” a local Enterprise-Journal story said a few months beforehand.

Back then, A.R. Lee Jr., a doctor and congressional candidate from Liberty, was president of the nonprofit Amite School Corp. As violence erupted in other Southern towns, Lee told a Mississippi newspaper reporter, “The fact that we have a private school here is the reason everything is calm. If we didn’t have it, it wouldn’t be calm in Amite County.”

In the front office of the modest one-story school, which educates just over 300 students across all grade levels, a Confederate flag with “ASC” emblazoned in the center is tacked to a cabinet. Down a hallway, Watts sat at a desk beneath an impressive deer mount, a wooden paddle perched against the office’s doorframe. He welcomed questions from a reporter who showed up without an appointment.

Watts seemed eager to share what his school offers: a Christian-based education that eschews government interference.

“We are charged with educating academically, physically, spiritually, emotionally,” Watts said. “I’m not sure that that’s the mission of the public schools. They’re there to educate academically. I think our mission is broader.”

Because ASC is private, it can operate without the government dictating whether teachers can lead prayer, what tests they administer — and whether or not that paddle gets used. Watts said many of its families think the broader culture is changing in ways they don’t agree with.

“We don’t have to let a girl go to the boys’ bathroom or a boy go to the girls’ bathroom,” he said.

Josh Bass, the school’s athletic director and basketball coach, worked at public schools earlier in his career, then came to ASC from a larger academy in neighboring Pike County. He said he and his wife enrolled their three children at ASC primarily due to their Christian faith: “If it’s not biblical leadership, then I don’t want it for my child.”

He insisted that racial segregation isn’t the school’s goal today. “That might have been at one time, 100 years ago, and some people hang on to that,” Bass said. “We want all to have an opportunity to go to these schools and be a part of what we’re trying to lead them to be.”

The men also recognized that even though ASC’s tuition is relatively low compared to many other private schools — under $6,000 a year per child — disparities in resources still create barriers. The median white household income in Amite County is $54,688, compared to $21,680 for a Black household, the U.S. Census Bureau estimates.

ASC has received $459,000 in donations over the past three years through a state tax credit program for certain educational charities, including private schools. But Watts said the school still lacks the money to offer financial aid.

Across the tree line at the public school’s district office, Cuevas said in terse tones that he had no comment about anything related to the private schools or the parents who choose them. He knew nothing about what ASC offers and therefore could not — and would not — compare the public schools to it.

“I don’t even know those answers,” Cuevas said. “I don’t know anything about the private schools. I don’t ask.”

He said he didn’t go out into the community to promote the schools he leads. Instead, he opened the schools’ doors and tried to educate whoever walked in. He’s unclear why so many white students don’t come.

“We don’t know why. We offer a good education,” Cuevas said.

Gibson, the public school’s former football coach, turned his pickup truck onto ASC’s jam-packed campus and found a slip of empty grass on the front lawn where he could park amid the football crowd. He had never set foot on this property even though he had worked and attended the nearby public schools.

Halftime approached as he headed toward the football field. A peal of parents’ yells — “Way to go!” and “Keep pushing!” — burst from the entrance. Once inside, Gibson scanned a sea of white people who filled the bleachers and packed together in lawn chairs, most of them strangers to him except for a few who worked at the public school district. The public schools pay more and offer better benefits.

Gibson had come to see one of his favorite players, a gifted senior who was on his team last year — and who was now the only Black player he saw on ASC’s team. It wasn’t hard to find the teen’s father. Nobody said anything unfriendly to him, but Gibson felt hundreds of eyes watching as he strolled over to the man, who stood front and center against the fence.

The player he came to see had transferred to ASC after Gibson left the public high school. Gibson had barely said hello to the teen’s father before the player scored a touchdown. Cheers cascaded from the crowd, and Gibson joined them.

But it felt strange standing there with so many white people at the “white school.” Back when he was growing up, he couldn’t have imagined such a thing. In college and after, while coaching in Oklahoma, Gibson made good friends who are white. As he cheered with the crowd at ASC, he wondered how many white friends he might have made here in Amite had the local kids all gone to school together.

He found an empty seat in the front row of the metal bleachers and took in the manicured field before him. It was so close to the one where he’d been a student and coach. Yet it felt like stepping into another world.

This content originally appeared on ProPublica and was authored by .

“When I talk about it, I have to keep from crying,” they said. “But you know, nothing stops when you’re a hurricane survivor. You still have to go to work.”

About two months after the hurricane, Riley found themself in like-minded company. As Alachua County’s sustainability manager, the 35-year-old spent a recent Saturday helping lead the inaugural Alachua County Climate Action Summit in Gainesville. Facing a crowd of residents, local leaders, activists, and scientists, one presenter asked, “Who has lived through a hurricane when the power went out?” Hands flew into the air.

The daylong program was intended to tell the community about climate impacts in store for Alachua County, and to get feedback on an official climate action plan, which organizers hope to finalize and begin executing early next year. Within the conference center’s rooms, the atmosphere hummed with urgency, and it was hard to believe that preparing for climate change was at all controversial. For decades, Alachua County has remained a haven for liberals, a blue dot in a deeply red state: Democrats hold most local offices and Democratic candidates for president have garnered landslide majorities since the county backed President Bill Clinton in 1992.

But in Republican-dominated Florida, where Governor Ron DeSantis has scrubbed several mentions of “climate change” from the state’s laws, Alachua County’s ambition looks like an easily popped bubble. Even though a large majority of Floridians say they want action on climate change, the state has become increasingly hostile toward many such policies. Recent headwinds, like state laws written to override local ones, precarious federal funding, and a battle over a local utility, threaten to derail the county’s efforts. “To be a Floridian and to be an Alachua County citizen is to hold profoundly different realities,” said Cynthia Barnett, an environmental journalist, in a speech at the summit. 

Alachua County sits squarely in North Central Florida, with several hours of interstate buffering residents from coastlines and the nearest big cities, Orlando and Jacksonville. On the day of the summit, downtown Gainesville — the city at the county’s center — bustled with weekend traffic. The city is home to the University of Florida, and some of its 60,000 students were biking to brunch, while others joined throngs of orange-and-blue clad tailgaters in front of the football stadium. 

The university is the county’s largest employer, and its progressive influence radiates throughout Gainesville and its 150,000 residents. Leave the city, and the bohemian coffee shops and pride flags vanish, replaced by boiled peanut stands, billboards advertising fireworks, and “Make America Great Again” lawn signs. A little further, and the Spanish moss-draped canopies of live oak trees give way to farmland and pine forests grown for timber. In this perimeter lie the county’s eight other towns, with populations ranging from less than 1,000 to nearly 10,000. 

Regardless of where Alachua County’s 285,000 residents live, climate change is expected to upend their daily lives. According to the county’s climate vulnerability assessment, finalized this past summer, the next century will likely bring a litany of disasters, from intensified hurricanes to long periods of drought. An upswing in extreme rainfall events could flood large swathes of the low-lying region, which is built around wetlands. By the end of the century, residents can expect a heat index, a measure of temperature and humidity, of over 130 degrees Fahrenheit for more than a third of the year.  

“It’s critical that we have a climate action plan that considers these future challenges,” said Stephen Hofstetter, the director of the county’s environmental protection department, which organized the summit.

To protect all these people as climate change ramps up, Alachua County is in the final stages of drafting its climate action plan — the first inland county in the state to do so. Gainesville, the county’s largest city, finished creating its climate action agenda in the spring, part of the City Commission’s goal of reaching net-zero emissions by 2045. The two have worked closely together, and each plan focuses on different issues to create a comprehensive series of mitigation and resilience strategies, including establishing more cooling centers, limiting development on floodplains, investing in renewable energy production and electric vehicles, protecting agricultural land, and decreasing waste. 

“It’s about maintaining the quality of life for the people,” said Dan Zhu, Gainesville’s chief resilience officer. She hopes that the City Commission formally adopts the plan at the beginning of next year.

Alachua County and Gainesville are facing an uphill battle, and it starts with the way they discuss their plans with residents. In May, DeSantis signed a sweeping “don’t say climate change” bill that erased most references to global warming from state laws. The next month, climate change references were removed from textbooks after state officials pressured publishers and school boards to take related content out of grade school curriculums.

The hostile political climate has already undercut the county’s work. The organizers of the climate action summit originally included programming specifically for kids, but after local teachers expressed concerns about getting involved with anything labeled “climate,” the youth portion of the summit was canceled — save for an intergenerational panel with college and high-school students. 

Other state laws take direct aim at Gainesville. Florida, along with Texas, has recently become a leader in “preemption laws,” state-level bills that block local government laws from taking effect. A number of the city’s climate-minded policies have already been preempted by the state legislature. These include the reduction of single-use plastic, improving energy efficiency standards in homes, ending restrictive zoning, and increasing electric vehicle charging stations. 

“You never know when the next shoe is going to drop,” said Bryan Eastman, a city commissioner. To Eastman, Gainesville’s climate work is swept up with other issues in a larger culture war. “Climate’s not the only one, but it’s a big one.”

The state law with arguably the most potential for kneecapping the county and city’s plans was passed in 2023, when DeSantis signed a measure that overhauled Gainesville Regional Utilities, or GRU, the largest utility in Alachua County. The measure took control of the public utility from the City Commission and gave it to DeSantis’ hand-picked GRU Authority board. It also mandated that the city’s utilities be managed with only financial benefits in mind, rather than considerations like climate change and affordability. 

“We can’t control our climate action initiatives unless we control our power source,” said John “Ronnie” Nix, a recently retired energy conservation specialist and member of the local citizen climate advisory committee, which works with the city and county’s Joint Water and Climate Policy Board. Gainesville Regional Utilities provides gas, electricity, and water to nearly all of Gainesville. In 2021, 72 percent of that energy came from natural gas or coal. Nearly all the rest comes from a controversial biofuel plant. “We can’t do it without GRU, we need to make it work with GRU,” he said.

The utility’s new CEO, Ed Bielarski, eliminated its office of sustainability and reliance a week after the board appointed him in June. Since then, the utility has stopped sending a representative to attend the county’s climate meetings. The board has also reduced incentives for residential solar energy, and cut the utility’s usual contribution to the city budget — typically millions of dollars that fund essential services — by more than half. 

During the November election, Gainesville’s voters overwhelmingly backed a ballot referendum to return the utility back to the city, with 72 percent in support. Because the GRU authority board had challenged the referendum before the vote, a judge is expected to rule on whether the city can act on the results in mid-December. Even if the referendum doesn’t stick, Nix is hopeful that the citizen committee’s efforts to maintain a good relationship with the utility will be successful. A spokesperson from GRU did not respond to a request for comment.

Other utilities in the area may be able to support some of the county’s goals, but funding remains an open question for Alachua County and Gainesville’s climate action plans. The Inflation Reduction Act, the country’s largest climate bill, allocated money for renewables and cleaning up pollution when it was passed in 2022, but DeSantis rejected the money, blocking local governments from accessing it. And while the city can apply directly for some federal grants, it hasn’t always been eligible. 

“Gainesville has been missing out on a lot of funding because we’re not big enough,” Riley said, explaining that some federal climate funding is earmarked for cities of a certain size. In other cases, the city was required to show it had a climate action plan in its grant application. Now, just as the plan is nearly ready, Donald Trump’s return to the White House with Republican control of Congress means any unspent funds from Biden’s climate law will likely wind up elsewhere. “The timing couldn’t be worse,” Riley said. “The scale of what we can accomplish is going to be so much less.” 

While local proponents of climate action acknowledge the coming years won’t be easy, many are self-described optimists, scattered to various corners of city government and community organizations. Hofstetter hopes that the economic benefits associated with renewable power will encourage the federal government and utility to embrace it, while Zhu points out that key parts of Gainesville’s plan are already underway, like the rollout of electric buses, bolstered by federal grants. 

Alachua County residents have also been taking action on climate change on their own. Last spring, the University of Florida student senate passed a Green New Deal, a first of its kind in the nation. The Community Weatherization Coalition, a local group that started in a church, has spent decades helping low income neighborhoods fortify homes to be more energy efficient. It’s also part of a larger collaboration creating a community solar project for the county. Other organizations, like the local Sierra Club chapter, have tried to nudge the utility’s new board toward solar energy as a cheaper alternative to gas. 

Riley also sees an opportunity for building public support for the plan in more conservative parts of the county by exchanging the word “climate” for less politicized synonyms. “Words really matter, but it’s about doing the work,” they said. In the town of Hawthorne, located in the far east corner of Alachua county, organizers ended up holding a sustainability and resilience summit instead of a climate one earlier this year. Zhu’s title also recently changed from “chief climate officer” to “chief resilience officer.”

Nix, who speaks to churches on behalf of the climate action committee, says that once people understand how preparing for climate change can protect them, they have no problem with using the word “climate.”

“The best way to communicate climate impacts is to meet people where they are,” he said. “Find out how it impacts them. Get them to feel it’s personal. People will work a little bit harder to do the small things that they can.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline This county has an ambitious climate agenda. That’s not easy in Florida. on Dec 9, 2024.

This content originally appeared on Grist and was authored by Sachi Kitajima Mulkey.

“Subei county will be offering birth and maternity leave, medical assistance and other rewards to families with two or three children who are permanently resident in the county,” ruling Chinese Communist Party county health official Shi Wanjun told the state-run China News Service on Nov. 18.

Shi said the government would cover medical expenses for childbirth, including a hospital stay.

Eligible families could receive cash support up to a maximum of 100,000 yuan, the report said.

The move is part of local government plans to “steadily implement the three-child policy, boost birth rates ... and deal with the aging population,” it quoted Shi as saying.

Faced with plummeting birth rates, nationwide kindergarten closures and young people who are increasingly choosing to stay single, authorities in China last month started rolling out incentives to encourage more people to have kids, calling for “a new marriage and childbearing culture.”

Communist Party leader Xi Jinping has called on women to focus on raising families, and the National People’s Congress has been looking at ways to kick-start the shrinking population, including flexible working policies, coverage for fertility treatment and extended maternity leave.

In Subei county, the authorities are planning to hand out cash subsidies of up to 2,000 yuan (US$275) a month in the first year of a new baby’s life, and up to 3,000 yuan (US$413) a month in its second year, the China News Service said.

One-off bonus payouts of up to 10,000 yuan (US$1,380) per baby will be offered to families who have left the county, but who return to register a newborn child there, rather than seeking registration in a city with better education, public services and economic opportunities, according to the report.

Remote and rural areas

Remote Subei county is facing particular challenges, with a registered population of just 12,657 at the end of 2023, and less than five new births a month.

A Gansu-based scholar who gave only the surname Yue for fear of reprisals said many local people have left the area to seek economic opportunities in cities, leaving behind a rapidly aging population.

“Subei is a pastoral area that is home to the Yugur people, typical of an ethnic minority border region,” Yue said. “Birth rates are at much more normal levels in central, eastern, northern and southern China.”

Yue said the turnaround from the strictly enforced “one-child” policy that ended in 2016 to the current drive to encourage births has been startling.

“The birth rate stabilized for a few years in the wake of the [1966-1976] Cultural Revolution, but then the family planning controls started, which meant we couldn’t have lots of children,” he said.

“They started out saying the policy would likely continue for 100 years, and we all had to fill out application forms before we could have kid,” he said. “They promised us then that the state would take care of us in retirement.”

“Now, they’re talking about birth subsidies. Can you believe it?” Yue said.

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A resident of a rural region in the eastern province of Shandong who gave only the surname Lu for fear of reprisals said birth rates are also falling where she lives.

But she doesn’t think the subsidies will do much to improve the birth rate.

“If people can’t even get by when it’s just them, how is a child going to help them?” Lu said. “A lot of the land has gone, now that young people are moving to cities.”

“Their way of life is different from the older generation, and they can’t get by just on what they make from farming,” she said.

‘Just gimmicks’

Authorities in the Hunan provincial capital Changsha announced in July that they would be offering childcare subsidies worth up to 10,000 yuan per child for families who have three or more children.

China’s population grew by just 480,000 in 2021, while the number of couples getting married fell rapidly in the first nine months of 2024 by nearly 1 million registrations compared to last year, amid an economic slump and changing attitudes.

China registered 4.747 million marriages in the three quarters ending Sept. 30, a drop of 943,000 year-on-year.

First marriages have plummeted by nearly 56% over the past nine years, according to the 2023 China Statistical Yearbook. The trend is contributing to a sharp decline in birth-rates amid a shrinking, aging population.

Young people are increasingly avoiding marriage, having children and buying a home amid a tanking economy and rampant youth unemployment, they told RFA Mandarin in recent interviews.

Lu said there is also a lack of public trust in the government’s ability to pay out on its promises that could mean few take up the offer of subsidies and other benefits.

“The subsidies they talk about are just gimmicks,” Lu said. “Nobody takes them seriously.”

Translated by Luisetta Mudie.

This content originally appeared on Radio Free Asia and was authored by Qian Lang for RFA Mandarin.

Members of the press were ejected by sheriff’s deputies from a Shasta County Board of Supervisors meeting in Redding, California, on Nov. 7, 2024. The deputies claimed that the room was cleared for safety reasons as they arrested a protester who had seated herself in front of the dais.

The protester, one of two, held a sign supporting a county official who had been criticized over election monitoring practices. When the board chair called a recess and ordered the public to leave the room, three journalists remained — Doni Chamberlain of A News Cafe, Annelise Pierce of Shasta Scout and David Benda of the Record Searchlight.

The second protester soon left, but the first refused. Pierce told County Counsel Joseph Larmour, who had also ordered the reporters out of the room, that she was staying to document a citizen’s actions, the Shasta Scout reported. Larmour responded that the protester was “a ‘target’ of law enforcement and therefore didn’t ‘count’ as a citizen.”

A group of sheriff’s deputies then entered, some of whom arrested the remaining protester. Another joined security guards in ordering the journalists to move further back in the room, telling them that safety issues and an “ongoing investigation” required that they leave and threatening them with arrest. The lights in the room were also turned off as the arrest proceeded.

Pierce and Benda left the room; Chamberlain was grabbed and forcibly removed by a sheriff’s deputy. After the protester was removed, the meeting reconvened and the journalists reentered.

Later, Supervisor Tim Garman posted an apology on Facebook to media forced out of the meeting room.

“The constitution protects their rights to be where the news is happening, and someone being arrested in a public building is certainly news,” he wrote. “There was zero safety threat inside the board chambers.”

Meanwhile, the Shasta County Sheriff reiterated in a news release that the meeting room had been cleared “for safety,” and announced that “this incident remains under investigation and other individuals who failed to obey lawful orders to exit the chambers may also face charges.”

The board also issued its own news release, alleging that press had been removed under “a protocol that has been in place for more than a year.” Shasta Scout reported that in response to a request for documentation of the protocol, Larmour acknowledged it had “not been memorialized in writing.”

It was the second time reporters were ordered to leave the room during a protest at a supervisor’s meeting. The first was in July, when the same woman protested. That time, journalists remained to report on her arrest.

After that arrest, the board announced a new media policy under which media must stay sequestered in a separate room, watching the meetings through glass windows and only hearing audio spoken through a microphone, Shasta Scout reported. If press chose to stay in the main room, they would be ordered to leave during any “disruptions.”

The policy was rescinded days later, after criticism from the public and advocacy group First Amendment Coalition, which called it a violation of California’s open meetings law and the First Amendment.

Reporter Chamberlain told the Tracker she saw Nov. 7’s events as a reaction to press coverage of the earlier protest.

“I believe Chair Kevin Crye and Sheriff Mike Johnson were angry and embarrassed by our reporting about (the protester),” Chamberlain told the Tracker. “I believe they decided they would not allow press access to report what happened again.”

In a Nov. 12 letter to the board and sheriff’s office, the First Amendment Coalition criticized the media’s removal from the Nov. 7 meeting as another violation of open meetings law and the Constitution, noting that there was little justification for clearing the room at all, let alone ordering the press to leave.

Pierce told the Tracker that she was surprised that the deputies would engage in such “a clear violation of First Amendment rights,” but that “there have been ongoing indication of threats to press freedom under our new board majority,” a reference to the media policy enacted in July.

Chamberlain mentioned that several militia group members showed up at the Nov. 7 meeting and stood along the back wall, “which made for an intimidating sight.”

“Shasta County law enforcement has a history of colluding with the militia,” Pierce added. “For this reason, I found the arrival of individuals, some known to be militia members, particularly concerning.”

This content originally appeared on U.S. Press Freedom Tracker: Incident Database and was authored by U.S. Press Freedom Tracker: Incident Database.

Journalist Doni Chamberlain was grabbed and forced out of a Shasta County Board of Supervisors meeting in Redding, California, by a sheriff’s deputy on Nov. 7, 2024.

Chamberlain, publisher and owner of A News Cafe, an online news magazine, reported that she was one of several journalists ejected from the meeting after law enforcement began the arrest of a protester who had seated herself in front of the dais. Chamberlain told the U.S. Press Freedom Tracker she believed that the ejection was intended to prevent them from covering the protest and subsequent arrest.

Chamberlain began livestreaming the meeting when two protesters seated themselves on the floor at the front of the room, one holding a sign supporting a county official who had been criticized over election monitoring practices. When the board chair called a recess and ordered the public to leave the room, three journalists, including Chamberlain, remained.

Security guards asked Chamberlain to leave the room several times and stood in front of her phone camera as she livestreamed the protesters. Chamberlain told him that she had the right to remain there as a journalist.

The second protester soon left, but the first refused. A group of sheriff’s deputies then entered, some of whom arrested the remaining protester. Another joined the security guards in ordering the journalists to move further back in the room, telling them that safety issues and an “ongoing investigation” required that they leave and threatening them with arrest. The lights in the room were also turned off as the arrest proceeded.

“Clearly, law enforcement’s goal was to move the press as far from their dealings with (the protester) as possible, so we couldn’t see, hear, or report,” Chamberlain told the Tracker.

The two other reporters left the room, leaving Chamberlain standing in the open doorway. A sheriff’s deputy ordered her into the foyer; Chamberlain again refused, saying that she had a right as a member of the press to remain there as long as the protest and arrest were ongoing in the board chambers.

The deputy gestured at a colleague, who grabbed Chamberlain’s cellphone, causing her Facebook Live feed to go dark. He then let go of her phone and took hold of both of her upper arms, pushing her out of the room.

She reported that her arms were sore after being “roughly grabbed,” but that her phone was not damaged.

Chamberlain told the Tracker that the security guard and sheriff’s deputies “absolutely knew I was a member of the press, because I repeatedly verbally identified myself as a journalist who had a protected First Amendment right to remain in the room where a peaceful protester was being dealt with by multiple deputies.”

She said that she typically doesn’t wear a press pass because she’s well-known in the county after 30 years of journalism, but added, “From now on, I’ll start wearing a press pass to all events.”

Chamberlain also explained that she prefers to attend the board’s meetings in person because the online livestream is turned off during recesses or if a problem arises — and such situations are “not rare.” “This means anyone watching the livestreaming video is suddenly, literally, in the dark about what’s happening,” she said. So when the livestream stops, Chamberlain said she starts streaming the meeting on Facebook Live for the benefit of the public.

After the ejection, Supervisor Tim Garman posted an apology on Facebook to media forced out of the meeting room.

“The constitution protects their rights to be where the news is happening, and someone being arrested in a public building is certainly news,” he wrote. “There was zero safety threat inside the board chambers.”

Chamberlain told the Tracker she intends to file a complaint with the Sheriff’s Office against the deputies and another with the Shasta County Administration Office against the board chair. She also said that she reported the incident to the ACLU and the First Amendment Coalition, and is looking for an attorney.

Meanwhile, the Sheriff’s Office reiterated in a news release that the meeting room had been cleared “for safety,” and announced that “this incident remains under investigation and other individuals who failed to obey lawful orders to exit the chambers may also face charges.”

Chamberlain mentioned that several militia group members showed up at the meeting and stood along the back wall, “which made for an intimidating sight.” Chamberlain was assaulted in July 2023 while attempting to document a meeting of a group of conservative activists planned by Jesse Lane, one of the militia members present at the Nov. 7 meeting.

“After these two assaults, I feel less and less safe working as a journalist,” Chamberlain told the Tracker. “These are scary days to be a journalist.”

This content originally appeared on U.S. Press Freedom Tracker: Incident Database and was authored by U.S. Press Freedom Tracker: Incident Database.

Advertiser-Tribune reporter Kayla Trevino and her journalistic integrity were attacked in an article published on the government website for Seneca County, Ohio, on Oct. 14, 2024. Nearly two weeks later, the county prosecutor asked Ohio’s attorney general to investigate the incident for possible misuse of government resources.

The newspaper reported that Sheri Trusty, a media relations coordinator for the county, authored an article attacking Trevino for her coverage of a child custody dispute involving Seneca County Commissioner Bill Frankart.

The article — which included a photo of Trevino — accused the journalist of going on a “witch hunt,” alleging that she manufactured or failed to verify facts in her reporting and did not provide Frankart sufficient time to respond before publishing.

“Trevino’s story is a failed exposé marked by faulty journalism and sensationalism and is a little-disguised attempt to destroy the reputation of one of Seneca County’s most respected and dedicated elected officials, Commissioner Bill Frankart,” Trusty wrote. “In the end, Trevino’s lack of integrity in this story may impact the well-being of a child.”

Trusty’s article was removed from the county website sometime the following day.

The Advertiser-Tribune defended Trevino and her article, writing that her report was “entirely based on allegations in police reports and court records.”

“Kayla is a hardworking professional. She was very careful with how she approached this news story, and is careful with all stories she covers,” Jeremy Speer, the newspaper’s publisher, said. “A good reporter is a value to a community and Kayla is a good and trusted reporter.”

Local news website TiffinOhio.net reported that the publication of Trusty’s article on the county’s government website — typically reserved for public information and announcements — was alarming and raised questions about whether county resources had been misused developing and publishing it.

In an editorial published Oct. 19, the Advertiser-Tribune called on Seneca County Prosecutor Derek DeVine to launch or ask for an independent investigation.

“The article attacking the integrity and motives of the A-T’s reporter was inaccurate and offensive, designed, it seems, to intimidate her and prevent her from doing her job,” the editorial said. “This was entirely inappropriate, in our view, and DeVine and commissioners must take immediate action to ensure that county resources are never again misused in this way to attack anyone, ever.”

On Oct. 23, DeVine asked Ohio Attorney General Dave Yost to assign state agents to investigate the issue and for the AG’s office to serve as special prosecutor, in light of DeVine’s conflict of interest as the legal representative for the county’s board of commissioners, the Advertiser-Tribune reported.

The newspaper expressed cautious optimism about the decision.

“Nobody is looking for the proverbial pound of flesh,” the editorial board said. “But, in our view, it is an important question whether county resources were used to attack a reporter because a county official did not like what was being reported. If that did happen, steps must be taken to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

This content originally appeared on U.S. Press Freedom Tracker: Incident Database and was authored by U.S. Press Freedom Tracker: Incident Database.

As Donald Trump and Kamala Harris campaign in Pennsylvania on the last day before the presidential election, false claims of voter fraud are spreading. “The truth is, none of these lies have been about election integrity. It’s always been about power,” says Neil Makhija, chair of the board of elections in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania — the battleground state that “could decide the election” — in a video essay featured by The New York Times. Makhija joins Democracy Now! to discuss his work expanding access to the vote and debunking the myth of mass voter fraud.

This content originally appeared on Democracy Now! and was authored by Democracy Now!.

“Coke and Pepsi need to stop the deception and take responsibility for the plastic pollution problems your products are causing,” said Los Angeles County Board Chair Lindsey P. Horvath in a statement. The lawsuit seeks an injunction against Coca-Cola and PepsiCo’s “deceptive business practices” — their sustainability claims — plus civil penalties and restitution for consumers who were misled by those claims.

The 41-page complaint starts with an overview of the plastic pollution crisis and how single-use plastics affect California and L.A. County specifically. Although L.A. County is investing millions of dollars to collect and manage plastic litter — for example, through street sweepings and large trash booms at the mouths of the Los Angeles River and Ballona Creek — it simply can’t keep up with the scale of the problem. 

Single-use plastics “continually wash into county waterways and storm and sewer systems,” the suit says. Once in the environment, plastic trash can break down into microplastics and leach endocrine-disrupting chemicals such as BPA and phthalates.

Then the complaint describes Coke and Pepsi’s outsize contribution to these problems, using an analysis from an annual “brand audit” conducted by the nonprofit Break Free From Plastic. Last year, the audit found the beverage makers to be the world’s top two plastic polluters, as determined by the collections of plastic with their branding on it by volunteers at global beach cleanups, which turned up more of their products than any other companies’. These results are “consistent with pollution rates in Los Angeles County,” according to the complaint.

Pepsi and Coke are among the largest companies in the world; Pepsi’s market cap is about $228 billion, and Coke’s is $282 billion. In addition to their eponymous lines of soft drinks, the two companies collectively own numerous beverage brands including Dasani, Fresca, and PowerAde (Coca-Cola products), and Aquafina, Gatorade, and Mountain Dew (PepsiCo products) — all of which are sold in single-use plastic bottles.

“I have a lot of both fear and anger with the plastic I’m forced to interact with everyday,” said Emily Parker, an L.A. County resident and a coastal and marine scientist at the nonprofit Heal the Bay, which was not involved in the complaint. “It’s not possible to live and function without coming into contact with plastic.”

The crux of the suit, however, is the claim that Coca-Cola and PepsiCo knew about the problems their plastic bottles would cause — and that they deliberately misled the public about them, particularly through promotion of plastic recycling, but also through general claims about building a “stronger, more sustainable future for us all.” L.A. County paints these as cynical efforts to appease concerned members of the public, and describes a pattern of missing or failing to make progress on quantitative targets for reducing the use of plastics.

According to L.A. County, Coke and Pepsi have framed plastics recycling as a central solution to the plastics crisis, misleadingly stating or implying that their bottles are or will one day be endlessly recyclable. But due to material constraints, plastic bottles cannot be turned into new bottles repeatedly; most plastics recycling is “downcycling,” meaning it is converted into lower-quality plastic products like Adirondack chairs that cannot themselves be recycled. Scientists have estimated that, of all the plastic produced between 1950 and 2015, only 0.9 percent was recycled more than once.

The complaint requests that the companies pay restitution “to all victims of their unfair and deceptive business practices,” and that they pay civil penalties of up to $2,500 for each violation of California’s false advertising and unfair competition laws.

In response to a request for comment, Pepsi and Coke referred Grist to William Dermody, vice president of media and public affairs for the American Beverage Association, an industry group. Dermody said it was “simply not true” that plastic bottles aren’t recycled; in California, he cited a statistic saying that polyethylene terephthalate bottles like Coke’s and Pepsi’s are recycled at a rate of 70 percent. He said the companies’ bottles are “designed to be recycled and remade and can include up to 100 percent recycled plastics.”

L.A. County’s complaint says Coca-Cola and Pepsi’s advertisements obscure the fact that the vast majority of the plastic they use is virgin, not recycled. In 2022, only 13.6 percent of the plastic Coke sourced was recycled; that number was 6 percent for Pepsi. 

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Eric Buescher, a senior attorney for the nonprofit San Francisco Baykeeper, said lawsuits like L.A. County’s could “snowball” if they prove to be effective. “If they win and get a great result, there’s gonna be a lot of copycat litigation,” he said.

That said, a similar lawsuit filed last year by New York Attorney General Letitia James against PepsiCo was dismissed last week on the grounds that it should be up to the legislative or executive branch to tackle plastic pollution and misinformation. The judge said that, while he could think of “no reasonable person who does not believe in the imperatives of recycling and being better stewards of our environment, this does not give rise to phantom assertions of liability that do nothing to solve the problem that exists.”

Buescher said this seemed like a “hostile” way to approach the issue. “Generally, people are responsible for the foreseeable consequences of their conduct and for misleading others about them,” he said. “And reducing the amount of plastic manufactured into single-use products would certainly seem to be a way to at least partially solve the problem.” 

It remains to be seen whether other judges will agree with Buescher. Several lawsuits are still pending, including one brought by the city of Baltimore in June against Coca-Cola, PepsiCo, and Frito Lay over the “public nuisance” represented by their litter, and one brought by the Sierra Club in 2021 against Coca-Cola and other beverage makers for labeling their bottles as “100 percent recyclable.” Buescher’s own organization, along with Heal the Bay, Surfrider, and the Sierra Club, recently filed a complaint against a company further up the supply chain: Exxon Mobil, the world’s largest producer of polymers used to make plastics. California Attorney General Rob Bonta also sued Exxon Mobil over false advertising and environmental pollution. 

Parker, with Heal the Bay, said all the lawsuits share the same overarching goal: to stop companies from producing so much plastic. “I’ve been involved in plastic pollution work for a long time, and the thing that we’ve learned is that cleanup is never enough,” she said. “We have to be holding all types of plastic producers responsible for the mess they’ve made of our environment and for the harm that’s being caused to our bodies.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline LA County sues Pepsi and Coke over plastic pollution and false advertising on Nov 4, 2024.

This content originally appeared on Grist and was authored by Joseph Winters.

On September 24, the Haitian Bridge Alliance filed a criminal complaint in municipal court against Trump and Vance for inducing panic, making false alarms, and disrupting public services based on their repeated false statements about criminal acts allegedly committed by Springfield, Ohio’s Haitian community. They allege that, as a result of these false and dangerous claims, Springfield has experienced at least 33 bomb threats; evacuation and closures of schools, colleges, and public buildings; deployment of state troopers to Springfield; and threats to individuals, business owners, and elected officials.

The Clark County Municipal Court directed Discoll to investigate and determine whether or not to prosecute Trump and Vance. The letter demonstrates that the First Amendment does not protect Trump and Vance from criminal liability for knowingly repeating false and dangerous claims about the Haitian community and that the statements predictably threatened their safety and jeopardized public security.

The letter reads: “Trump and Vance’s continuous use of their national platform to spread dangerous falsehoods that foreseeably cause widespread civic disruption against already marginalized communities falls squarely within the criminal charges your office has been asked to evaluate. The Haitian Bridge Alliance asks only that this office apply the pertinent criminal statutes to Trump and Vance as they have been applied to other defendants, and that both be held to the same standards as the other individuals who have been appropriately and successfully prosecuted under the criminal charges sought here. We hope that this office agrees that the law should be applied equally to all people. Trump and Vance’s positions of authority do not immunize them from the consequences that would fall—and have fallen—upon anyone else. We strongly support the Haitian Bridge Alliance and Jozef’s petition, believe that the requested criminal charges are supported by probable cause, and are justified by Trump and Vance’s severe criminal misconduct.”

Read the full letter here.

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams and was authored by Newswire Editor.

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

Over the past two decades, Tim O’Hare methodically amassed power in North Texas as he pushed incendiary policies such as banning undocumented immigrants from renting homes and vilifying school curriculum that encouraged students to embrace diversity.

He rode a wave of conservative resentment, leaping from City Council member of Farmers Branch, a suburb north of Dallas, in 2005 to its mayor to the leader of the Tarrant County Republican Party.

Three years ago, O’Hare sought his highest political office yet, running for the top elected position in the nation’s 15th-largest county, which is home to Fort Worth. Backed by influential evangelical churches and money from powerful oil industry billionaires, O’Hare promised voters he would weed out “diversity inclusion nonsense” and accused some Democrats of hating America. His win in November 2022 gave the GOP’s far right new sway over the Tarrant County Commissioners Court, turning a government that once prided itself on bipartisanship into a new front of the culture war.

“I was not looking to do this at all, but they came after our police,” he said in his victory speech on election night. “They came after our schools. They came after our country. They came after our churches.”

In Texas and across the country, far-right candidates have won control of school boards, swiftly banning books, halting diversity efforts and altering curricula that do not align with their beliefs. O’Hare’s election in Tarrant County, however, takes the battle from the schoolhouse to county government, offering a rare look at what happens when hard-liners win the majority and exert their influence over municipal affairs in a closely divided county.

Since he was elected county judge — a position similar to that of mayor in a city — O’Hare has pushed his agenda with an uncompromising approach. He has led efforts to cut funding to nonprofits that work with at-risk children, citing their views on racial inequality and LGBTQ+ rights. And he has pushed election law changes that local Republican leaders said would favor them.

O’Hare’s rise in Tarrant County has come as he and his allies continue to align with once-fringe figures while targeting private citizens with whom they disagree politically. In July, O’Hare had a local pastor removed from a public meeting for speaking eight seconds over his allotted time. Days later, O’Hare appeared onstage at a conference that urged attendees to resist a Democratic campaign to “rid the earth of the white race” and embrace Christian nationalism. The agenda prompted some right-wing Republicans to condemn or pull out of the event.

“We’re seeing a shift of what conservatism looks like, and at the lower levels, they’re testing how extreme it can get,” said Robert Futrell, a sociologist at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas who studies political extremism. “The goal is to capture local Republican Party infrastructure and positions and own the party, turning it to more extremist goals.”

Frequently, those aims include pushing back against broader LGBTQ+ acceptance, downplaying the nation’s history of racism and the lingering disparities caused by it, stemming immigration, and falsely claiming that America was founded as a Christian nation and that its laws and institutions should thus reflect conservative evangelical beliefs.

O’Hare declined multiple interview requests and did not answer detailed lists of questions emailed to him. His spokesperson instead touted a list of eight accomplishments, including cutting county spending and lowering local property tax rates.

With 2.2 million people, Tarrant County is Texas’ most significant remaining battleground for Democrats and Republicans. When the county voted for Beto O’Rourke for U.S. Senate in 2018 and Joe Biden for president in 2020, many political observers suspected the end was nigh for the era of Republican dominance in the purple county.

Two years later, voters elected the most hard-line Tarrant County leader in decades. After two years under O’Hare’s leadership, voters in November will decide two races between Republican allies of O’Hare and their Democratic opponents. The election of both Democrats would put O’Hare into the minority.

The changes in county leadership have been dramatic, said O’Hare’s Republican predecessor, Glen Whitley, who served as Tarrant County judge from 2007 until retiring in 2022. Whitley said O’Hare has implanted an “us vs. them” ideology that has increasingly been mainstreamed on the right.

“They no longer feel like they have to compromise,” said Whitley, who recently endorsed Democratic Vice President Kamala Harris for president and U.S. Rep. Colin Allred of Texas in the U.S. Senate race. “You either vote with these people 100% of the time, or you’re their enemy.”

In 2005, when O’Hare initially ran unopposed for a seat on the City Council in Farmers Branch, a small town just outside of Tarrant County, his platform included plans to revitalize the public library and bring in new restaurants. In 2006, however, O’Hare began taking positions that were outside of the Republican mainstream at the time. He pushed for the diversifying town to declare English its official language, ban landlords from renting to residents without proof of citizenship, and stop publishing public materials in Spanish.

“The reason I got on the City Council was because I saw our property values declining or increasing at a level that was below the rate of inflation,” O’Hare said at the time. “When that happens, people move out of our neighborhoods, and what I would call less desirable people move into the neighborhoods, people who don’t value education, people who don’t value taking care of their properties.”

Hispanic residents mobilized and sued to block the rental ban’s implementation. O’Hare doubled down: He pushed for Farmers Branch police to partner with immigration enforcement authorities to detain and deport people in the country illegally, and urged residents to oppose a grocer’s plan to open a store that catered to Hispanics, arguing it was “reasonable” to prefer “a grocery store that appeals to higher-end consumers.”

O’Hare was elected as mayor in 2008. Foreshadowing moves he’d make as Tarrant County judge, he abruptly ended a public meeting after cutting off and removing one resident who criticized him. He led opposition to the local high school’s Gay-Straight Alliance and fought against a mentorship program for at-risk high school students that included volunteers from a Hispanic group that opposed his immigration resolution.

Meanwhile, the city continued to defend the immigration ordinance after it was repeatedly struck down by federal judges. As costs for the seven-year legal battle ballooned, Farmers Branch dipped into its reserves, cut nearly two dozen city employees and outsourced services at the library that O’Hare had campaigned on improving during his City Council run. “At the end of the day, this will be money well spent, and it will be a good investment in our community’s future,” O’Hare said after the town laid off staff in 2008.

O’Hare stepped down as mayor in 2011. Three years later, after the U.S. Supreme Court declined to hear the city’s appeal, Farmers Branch stopped defending the ordinance. It was never enforced, but the related lawsuits cost the town $6.6 million, city officials said in 2016.

After leaving office, O’Hare moved his family a few miles away to Tarrant County, where demographic changes have dropped the share of white residents from 62% of the county’s population in 2000 to 43% in 2020.

Home to some of the nation’s most influential evangelical churches and four of former President Donald Trump’s spiritual advisers, the county is an epicenter for ultraconservative movements in Texas, including those that call for Christians to exert dominance over all aspects of society. In 2016, O’Hare was elected chair of the Tarrant County GOP. Under him, the party distributed mailers that listed the primary voting records for local candidates — breaking with the longstanding nonpartisan tradition of county elections.

In 2020, following a series of racist incidents at the mostly white Carroll High School in Southlake — including one viral clip in which white students chanted the N-word — O’Hare co-founded a political action committee that raised hundreds of thousands of dollars to oust school board members who supported the Carroll Independent School District’s plans for diversity and inclusion programming. The dispute helped catapult the small Tarrant County suburb into the national spotlight amid Republican panic over critical race theory and “gender ideology,” and created a blueprint for right-wing organizing that was copied in suburbs across America.

In 2021, O’Hare launched his campaign for Tarrant County judge, squaring off in the GOP primary against the more moderate five-term mayor of Fort Worth, whom he painted as a RINO, or “Republican in name only.” O’Hare rode a wave fueled by backlash to COVID-19 mandates, baseless election fraud conspiracy theories and opposition to what he called “diversity inclusion nonsense,” according to the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. O’Hare’s campaign was condemned by moderate Republicans, including Whitley, the outgoing judge, who accused him of trying to “divide and pit one group against another.” O’Hare won the primary by 23 percentage points.

Whitley and other longtime Republican leaders declined to endorse O’Hare in the 2022 general election. It didn’t matter; by then, he was backed by a coalition of far-right megadonors, pastors and churches. His top campaign donors included a PAC funded by Tim Dunn and Farris Wilks. The two west Texas oil billionaires have given tens of millions of dollars to candidates and groups that oppose LGBTQ+ rights, support programs that would use public dollars to pay for private schools, and have led efforts to push moderates out of the Texas GOP.

O’Hare received another $203,000 from the We Can Keep It PAC. The PAC’s treasurer is an elder at Mercy Culture Church in Fort Worth, whose leaders have endorsed multiple GOP candidates, including O’Hare. The church’s pastor has claimed Democrats can’t be Christian and dared critics to complain to the IRS that the church was flouting federal prohibitions on political activity by nonprofits.

O’Hare took office in early 2023, as Republicans continued to question President Joe Biden’s razor-thin win in Tarrant County two years earlier. A 2022 audit by Texas’ Republican secretary of state found no evidence of widespread fraud and that Tarrant County held “a quality, transparent election.”

Despite that — and while saying he had no proof of malfeasance — O’Hare immediately set out to prevent cheating he claimed was responsible for Democrats’ steady rise in the long-purpling county. Soon after taking office, he helped launch an “election integrity unit” that he’d lead with the county sheriff who had spoken at a “Stop the Steal” rally in the days after the 2020 presidential election.

No Democrats were initially on the unit. Nor was the county’s elections administrator, Heider Garcia, who by then had faced three years of harassment, death threats and accusations of being a secret agent for Venezuela’s socialist government by election fraud conspiracy theorists. Garcia opted for radical transparency — making himself accessible to answer questions about the election process and earning praise from across the political aisle for his patient public service.

But Garcia lasted only a few months under O’Hare: In April 2023, he resigned his position, citing his relationship with O’Hare in his resignation letter. “Judge O’Hare, my formula to ‘administer a quality transparent election’ stands on respect and zero politics; compromising on these values is not an option for me,” Garcia wrote. “You made it clear in our last meeting that your formula is different, thus, my decision is to leave.”

Garcia, now the Dallas County elections administrator, did not respond to an interview request.

One day after Garcia resigned, O’Hare told members of True Texas Project — a group whose leaders have sympathized with a white nationalist mass shooter and endorsed Christian nationalism — that he was encouraged by the potential for low turnout in that year’s upcoming elections, which he said would help Republicans win more local seats. (O’Hare previously served on True Texas Project’s advisory team, according to a 2021 social media post by the group’s CEO, Julie McCarty).

In June 2024, the election integrity unit reported that, over the previous 15 months, it received 82 complaints of voter fraud — or about 0.009% of all votes cast in the 2020 presidential election in Tarrant County — and that none had resulted in criminal charges. Meanwhile, O’Hare has proposed a number of changes to the election system that Tarrant County GOP leaders have said were intended to help Republicans or hurt Democrats.

In February, O’Hare and fellow Republicans cut $10,000 in county funding to provide free bus rides to low-income residents, a program that Tarrant GOP leaders decried as a scheme to “bus Democrats to the polls.”

O'Hare said he opposed the funding on fiscal grounds. “I don’t believe it’s the county government’s responsibility to try to get more people out to the polls,” he said before the vote.

A few months later, commissioners prohibited outside organizations from registering voters inside county buildings after Tarrant County GOP leaders raised concerns about left-leaning organizations holding registration drives. Democrats and voting rights groups assailed the moves as attempts to lower voter turnout.

In September, O’Hare proposed eliminating voting locations on some college campuses that he called a “waste of money and manpower.” But this time, his Republican allies on the Commissioners Court said they could not go along with the vote and joined Democrats to defeat the measure. Tarrant County Republican leaders condemned the recalcitrant commissioners in a public resolution that made it clear they saw the effort to close polls on college campuses as a move that would help them in November. The GOP commissioners, the resolution claimed, “voted with Democrats on a key election vote that undermines the ability of Republicans to win the general election in Tarrant County.”

Manny Ramirez, one of those Republican commissioners, said in an interview he thinks the GOP should try to win college students with their conservative ideas rather than limit on-campus voting.

“We’ve been providing those same exact sites for nearly two decades,” Ramirez said. His role as commissioner, he added, is to provide “equal access to all of our citizens.”

Less than a year into his term, O’Hare began targeting long-established nonprofits whose websites and social media accounts contained language the county judge considered politically objectionable on issues of gender and race.

In October 2023, he moved to block a $115,000 state grant to Girls Inc. of Tarrant County, for its Girl Power program offering summer camps and mentoring to help participants focus on stress management, hygiene and self-esteem.

About 90% of the youth served by Girls Inc. of Tarrant County are people of color and come from families making less than $30,000 a year, according to the organization’s website.

Four months earlier, the national Girls Inc. group, which has chapters across the country, had tweeted out its support for abortion rights and LGBTQ+ pride, which conservative media and activists seized upon.

“Girls Inc. is an extremist political indoctrination machine advocating for divisive liberal politics,” Leigh Wambsganss, the chief communications officer of Patriot Mobile, told commissioners. Patriot Mobile is a Christian nationalist cellphone company whose PAC has spent hundreds of thousands of dollars in support of far-right candidates across Tarrant County, including O’Hare.

Local leaders of Girls Inc., who did not respond to requests for comment, said at the time their chapter is independent of the national organization. They told commissioners they were reviewing their affiliation with the parent organization.

In denying the funds, O’Hare told the Commissioners Court the government shouldn’t support “an organization that is so deeply ideological and encourages the children that they are teaching to go advocate for social change.”

Commissioners killed the contract on a 3-2 party-line vote.

Six months later, O’Hare raised questions about another local nonprofit, Big Thought. It provides youth in the Tarrant County juvenile detention system with summer and after-school programs aimed at helping them get their lives back on track through music, acting and performance arts. Big Thought has had a contract with the county for the past three years and says on its website that youth who go through its programs reoffend at a lower rate than those who don’t, potentially saving taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars in juvenile detention costs.

At an April meeting of the Tarrant County Juvenile Board, O’Hare raised questions about the program’s advocacy for “racial equity” after reading the organization’s website, according to the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. (The board’s meetings are not streamed or recorded).

Asked about O’Hare’s concerns, a Big Thought spokesperson said in an email that the organization focuses on the realities facing at-risk youth in Tarrant County. “Young people in our communities experience challenges like economic inequality, racism, and more, and it is our responsibility to provide a safe place to build the skills they need so they can thrive,” said Evan Cleveland, Big Thought’s senior director of programs.

The county’s juvenile probation director, Bennie Medlin, who has not responded to requests for comment, told board members the program had not had any “negative results” during the partnership, according to minutes of the meeting. Members of the board were not swayed and voted not to renew the program.

Three months later, at the juvenile board’s July meeting, O’Hare and a district judge proposed ending a contract with the Pennsylvania nonprofit Youth Advocate Programs after probing the nonprofit about the position it had taken in briefs to the Supreme Court, its opinion on school choice and police in schools, and whether “they work to eliminate systemic racism,” according to minutes of the meeting.

Board members voted to cut ties with the nonprofit, which had worked with the county for over three decades to provide mentoring, job training and substance abuse counseling as alternatives to detention.

Gary Ivory, the organization’s president, said that a week after the July vote, he met with O’Hare for about a half-hour in O’Hare’s office. He said O’Hare questioned him about his personal views on the LGBTQ+ community and “hot-button cultural war issues." Also during that meeting, O’Hare pulled up Youth Advocate Programs’ website, Ivory said, and asked him why the group takes funding from Everytown for Gun Safety, a nonprofit that advocates for gun control.

“They are saying if anybody is too woke in Tarrant County, we are going to put them in the dustbin of history and they won’t exist anymore,” Ivory said.

On Oct. 1, Tarrant County commissioners voted to sign a similar contract with another nonprofit. At the meeting, O’Hare denied pushing to kill Youth Advocate Programs’ contract “because of a phrase on a website.” Instead, he claimed Ivory told the juvenile board that 15% of the money Tarrant County gives the program goes to lobbyists and to “law firms to file amicus briefs against many of the things the people in that room that voted disagree with.”

Ivory said that is incorrect. “I said generally 85 cents on a dollar stays in Tarrant County and 15 cents goes to overhead,” he said. “And I made it clear that YAP doesn’t spend any of that 15 cents on the dollar for lobbying.”

Phil Sawyer, a longtime juvenile probation officer in Tarrant County who retired two years ago, said the program was well respected within the department and helped give badly needed services that the department could not provide. “It’s a shocker,” he said of the county’s decision to cut ties with the group. “Without them, it would just be insanity. There are things we can do as probation officers, but it’s not the same.”

In recent months, O’Hare has taken aim at private citizens who disagree with him, ordering several political opponents removed from Commissioners Court meetings and calling for the firing of a local college professor.

As Ryon Price’s allotted three minutes of public comment during the July 2 Commissioners Court meeting expired, O’Hare issued a sharp warning to the man, a local Baptist minister who was a frequent antagonist of O’Hare’s at such meetings: “Your time is up.”

It’s not uncommon for residents to go over their allotted time during public comment sessions. But after Price continued criticizing conditions in the Tarrant County Jail for an extra eight seconds, O’Hare ordered sheriff’s deputies to step in: “He’s now held in contempt. Remove him.”

As Price was escorted out of the meeting, someone in the audience booed. “Was that you?” O’Hare snapped. “Well, try me.”

Price said that in the lobby, sheriff’s deputies handed him a trespassing warning that banned him from the premises. “I think it’s symbolic of a broader, more authoritarian shift” in Tarrant County government, Price said of his removal. “And I have to wonder if he really wants to govern this place, a place that splits red and blue evenly, or just please some higher-ups in his own party.”

Price appealed his ban to the Tarrant County sheriff’s department and said the appeal was granted in August, allowing him to resume addressing the court during public comment sessions.

Minutes after Price was escorted from that July meeting, Lon Burnam, a Democrat who served nine terms in the Texas House, approached O’Hare to confront him about his decision to cut off another commissioner who was requesting information about sheriff department policies. Burnam later received a trespass warning from sheriff’s deputies and said he is banned from public meetings until Jan. 1.

At their meeting two weeks later, commissioners amended public speaking rules as O’Hare warned residents that “refusal to abide by the Commissioners Court’s order or my order as the presiding judge or continued disruption of the meeting may result in arrest and prosecution under the laws of the state of Texas.”

O’Hare said the changes were needed to ensure civility in the meeting room. “This is not in any way shape or form attempting to stifle free speech,” he said during the meeting.

Also in August, O’Hare called for the firing of a Texas Christian University professor over social media posts from 2021 that called for police to be abolished. The professor, Alexandra Edwards, drew the ire of local right-wing activists after writing about them and the pro-Christian nationalism conference that O’Hare attended in July. Not long after, a local right-wing website published an article about her “antifa” views in which O’Hare called her a “radical” and said Edwards should be fired.

“The full force of the repression of the Tarrant County GOP and the various right-wing extremists kind of came down upon me,” Edwards said in an interview, adding that she was inundated with threats and harassment.

Such crackdowns are a sign that the local GOP has been taken over by extremists, said Whitley, the county’s Republican former judge.

“They’ve gone so far to the right that most folks who used to be adamant Republicans are not so much anymore,” he said, adding that some in the GOP are too afraid of retaliation by O’Hare to speak out publicly.

O’Hare’s term doesn’t end until 2027. But this year’s elections will decide which party controls the powerful commissioners court and, in some ways, will be a referendum on the first two years of his tenure in county government.

Whitley said he hopes it will be a unifying moment for voters from across the political spectrum. “I want us to be Americans, to be Texans and to not just care about parties,” he said. “I hope people will vote for the best person and not just vote for the party.”

Jodi S. Cohen of ProPublica and Juan Salinas II of The Texas Tribune contributed reporting. Dan Keemahill of ProPublica and The Texas Tribune contributed research.

This content originally appeared on ProPublica and was authored by .

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up for Dispatches, a newsletter that spotlights wrongdoing around the country, to receive our stories in your inbox every week. This story was co-published with the Tow Center for Digital Journalism and Floodlight, a nonprofit newsroom that investigates the powerful interests stalling climate action.

Word tends to spread fast in rural Knox County, Ohio. But misinformation has spread faster.

The first article in the Mount Vernon News last fall about a planned solar farm simply noted that residents were “expressing their concern.” But soon the county’s only newspaper was packed with stories about solar energy that almost uniformly criticized the project and quoted its opponents.

Then a new “grassroots” organization materialized and invited locals to an elaborate event billed as a town hall, with a keynote speaker who denied that humans cause climate change.

Someone sent text messages to residents urging them to “stop the solar invasion” and elect two county commission candidates who opposed the solar farm. And one day this past March, residents received an unfamiliar newspaper that contained only articles attacking Frasier Solar, a large project that would replace hundreds of acres of corn and soybeans with the equivalent of 630 football fields of solar panels.

To many in the deep-red central Ohio community, it seemed that solar had become the focus of news and politics. They were right. Fossil fuel interests were secretly working to shape the conversation in Knox County.

Each cog in the anti-solar machine — the opposition group, the texts, the newspaper, the energy publication — was linked to the others through finances and overlapping agendas, an investigation by Floodlight, ProPublica and The Tow Center for Digital Journalism found.

The campaign against solar power benefited from a confluence of two powerful forces funded by oil and gas interests. A former executive at Ariel Corporation, the county’s largest employer and one of the world’s biggest manufacturers of methane gas compressors, was working behind the scenes. And helping in a more public way is the Mount Vernon News, a newspaper now in the hands of Metric Media, which operates websites that reportedly engage in pay-to-play coverage.

Ariel and the former executive did not respond to requests for comment. Metric Media’s leader did not answer questions for this story; he has previously denied that his news outlets are partisan.

Across the country, the oil and gas industry and power companies have exploited a struggling news industry and a fraught political process to fight the transition to clean energy and maximize profits, Floodlight and its partners have reported. In Florida, two power companies paid a consulting firm to hire newspapers to attack a pro-solar politician. In Alabama, the state’s largest monopoly electric company purchased a historic Black newspaper, then didn’t write about soaring power bills. In California, Chevron launched its own newsroom when other papers shuttered; it doesn’t cover itself critically.

In Mount Vernon, a city of 17,000 where the local university named its new sports complex CH4 after the chemical formula for methane, a variety of tactics have been deployed simultaneously, creating an anti-solar echo chamber.

Residents are bombarded with dubious claims: Solar panels are toxic. Their construction depletes the soil and floods fields and depresses home values. China is using them to invade. The campaign has stoked their skepticism and ignited their passions. It intensified the debate in a conservative county that prizes its roots in the gas industry.

Bright yellow “No Industrial Solar” yard signs have sprung up everywhere, competing with a smattering of green “Yes Solar” ones. Citizens packed local government meetings. More than 4,000 public comments, both for and against, were filed with the state regulator that will decide if the solar project can be built — triple the number for any previous solar project in Ohio. And all those opinions have drowned out the voices of the nine landowners, mostly farmers, who’ve signed leases with Frasier’s developer and for whom a total of about $60 million is at stake.

“People are so radicalized and they’re not thinking clearly,” said Rich Piar, a third-generation farmer who hopes to secure his financial future by leasing a portion of his 1,650 acres to Open Road Renewables, the Texas-based company developing the Frasier Solar project.

Politicians who didn’t forcefully denounce the solar project were attacked in Mount Vernon News stories. Thom Collier, a long-serving Republican on the county commission who thinks landowners should be able to choose whether to use their property for solar infrastructure, ultimately lost his reelection bid after a barrage of misleading coverage about his stance on solar.

“I pin this on one or two people from Ariel and some close friends that they have,” Collier said of the anti-solar offensive. “They determined it didn’t matter how much money it would take, they were going to fight this and make it ugly, and they have.”

Just 20 days after Knox Smart Development was registered as an LLC in Ohio, the anti-solar group hosted a town hall at a historic Georgian revival theater in Mount Vernon with 1,000 red velvet seats. Attendees were offered free food and alcohol.

The November 2023 event centered on a presentation from Steve Goreham, who argues global warming is natural and who is the author of several books, including “The Mad, Mad, Mad World of Climatism: Mankind and Climate Change Mania.”

“When I think of a town hall meeting, I think of a meeting where everybody from the community can go, everybody has their say. That’s not how their meeting was,” said Kathy Gamble, who said organizers only reluctantly agreed to let her in. She’s pro-solar and not quiet about it.

The town hall established Knox Smart Development as a leading voice against the Frasier Solar project. The group calls itself a simple grassroots defender of Knox County.

It isn’t.

The man who registered the group as a business — and who is its sole member and spokesperson — was an Ariel Corporation employee two decades ago and remained an acquaintance of a top executive there, Tom Rastin. The group’s website was owned for a time by a woman working as an executive assistant at Ariel.

And one of Knox Smart Development’s larger funders is Rastin, a Republican megadonor and a retired executive vice president at Ariel, according to records and sworn testimony. Rastin’s father-in-law founded Ariel and, until recently, Rastin and his wife, Karen Buchwald Wright, led the company. Wright is still the chairman, and her son operates it now. Rastin and Wright did not respond to questions for this story.

The group’s founder, Jared Yost, said in an email that Rastin has not tried to steer its activism. “As a local resident, I believe he should be allowed to donate to whatever cause he aligns with, regardless of his former employment, and to state otherwise is to suggest Mr. Rastin should be censored,” Yost wrote in an email. He said the group relies on volunteers and “our intentions are genuine.”

He added: “The oil and gas industry is not involved in our fight.”

The town hall event headliner, Goreham, said he appeared as a favor to Rastin and Wright. In 2019, he had dinner with the couple when Goreham and his wife were passing through town from Illinois on a road trip to their second home in Virginia Beach. Goreham said that he and Rastin connected over their mutual feelings on the benefits of gas. He said he was glad to accept the invitation to speak at the anti-Frasier Solar event.

“First off, it’s in his county there. Mount Vernon is his city where he lives and where they are based,” said Goreham. “They’re pretty much opposed to renewables and they want everybody to buy gas. That’s their business.”

Goreham says he wasn’t paid to speak, but Wright bought 200 copies of his latest book, “Green Breakdown: The Coming Renewable Energy Failure,” which warns about a net-zero-emissions agenda that will cause energy grids to fail. Local officials were given copies of the book that included a personal note from Wright: “Hello! Given the significant misinformation surrounding solar and wind arrays, I bought you this book that really lays out the facts.” She signed the note “Karen Wright, Chairman — Ariel Corporation.”

Shortly after the group was formed, Knox Smart Development’s “No Solar” ads became a fixture on the Mount Vernon News website and in the paper.

The Mount Vernon News had been owned by the same family since 1939, and for decades it chronicled local doings from city council meetings to the county fair.

At its height in the early 2000s, before newspapers started hemorrhaging advertising revenue and readers, the News employed about 15 full-time local reporters. An orange Maine coon cat named Scoop roamed the newsroom.

But by 2020, the News was barely hanging on. Its reporters were still using clunky 20-year-old computers. The back wall of the building was falling down and needed $250,000 in repairs. Kay Culbertson, who owned both the paper and the building, said that she knew it was time to sell. Paying for the repairs would be impossible; even making payroll was a stretch.

An acquaintance of Culberston’s connected her with Metric Media, part of an eight-company network operating more than 1,100 online local news sites. These sites have been described by media researchers and journalists as “pink slime,” named for a filler in processed meat. The final product looks natural, but it’s been tampered with.

A Syracuse University researcher concluded in a journal article published in February that sites like Metric’s “that seem like original news outlets and that appeal to local identity are filling the void” left by the decline of local news. And The Washington Post reported last year that Republican campaigns requested customized news stories that appeared on Metric-owned sites.

Both conservative and liberal pink slime sites exist. But Metric is run by Brian Timpone, an Illinois-based former broadcast reporter who has contributed tens of thousands of dollars to conservative campaigns and causes. Timpone’s ventures have been criticized for using foreign-based writers to produce material. Some also have been accused of plagiarism and fabricating quotes. Timpone has blamed the problems on foreign writers providing content, and he apologized to readers.

Metric Media’s nonprofit arm has received $1.4 million “for general operations” from DonorsTrust, a dark-money group that has received significant funding from Charles and David Koch, who made their billions in oil pipelines and refineries. The eight-company network that Metric is part of also has ties to conservative billionaires, including oil-and-gas-industry titan Tim Dunn, shipping magnate Richard Uihlein and PayPal co-founder Peter Thiel. (Political groups that organize as nonprofits do not have to disclose donors, which is why they’re called “dark money.”)

DonorsTrust CEO and President Lawson R. Bader said in an email that the organization makes about 4,000 grants a year and that it does not dictate how those donations are spent.

Timpone responded to a request for an interview by writing, “We at the Mount Vernon News are now also working on a story — about Pro Publica and Floodlight’s efforts to promote taxpayer-funded ‘solar energy’ businesses in Central Ohio.” He did not respond to detailed questions.

But in interviews, he has said his business keeps local news alive when many outlets are scaling back or shutting down. Timpone told the Deseret News in Utah that his sites have no political leaning and are “data-driven and fact-centric.”

Research and news investigations have found that Timpone’s publications tend to champion conservative causes and politicians; they often are linked to mysterious newspapers distributed during key elections.

Culbertson and assistant publisher Liz Lutwick said in an interview that they knew little about Metric Media before the sale. But the company’s promises sounded good and, Lutwick said, “You believe people.”

“They were going to keep everything the same for a while. Lo and behold, they didn’t,” Culbertson said.

Metric paid at least $1 million for the Mount Vernon News, the first time it had purchased an established news organization printing a local paper. When the new owners visited the paper after the sale, they told the staff they’d stop printing every day and would no longer provide benefits; instead, employees would become contractors. Half the staff quit on the spot.

“It was awful. You feel like you’ve betrayed people,” Culbertson said.

Today, the Mount Vernon News only publishes once a week and has no local reporters or photographers.

“It’s obvious when you read the stories, either they’re AI-generated or they’re written by somebody who’s sitting in an office in Chicago who has never been here,” said Bill Davis, a sports editor who said he worked at the paper from 2010 to 2019.

Since Metric took over, only 11% of stories credited the work to authors working for Metric or its sister companies. Most of what it publishes are press releases or content submitted by companies and community groups, according to an analysis by the Tow Center, ProPublica and Floodlight.

After the sale, residents said they could no longer get timely obituaries — people were buried by the time funeral announcements were published — but they could read a lot about endangered farmland and concerns that the sun’s reflection off solar panels could blind nearby pilots.

Even Mount Vernon’s mayor, who was once a sports reporter at the paper, said he stopped reading it. Tanner Salyers, a former Mount Vernon city council member who now oversees public safety for the city, said quality dropped after the sale. “Then Frasier kicked up and they were like, ‘No more news.’ We call it the Solar Times.”

Over the last 12 months, the paper has published at least 52 online news stories on solar energy — 42 of them about the Frasier proposal, the analysis found. Of the 40 print editions published this year, 17 have featured front-page stories about solar. And though the paper has occasionally run a pro-solar letter to the editor, nearly all of the stories slanted anti-solar, according to an analysis of coverage by Floodlight, ProPublica and the Tow Center.

The paper began publishing a weekly opinion column called “Afternoon TEA” — TEA being an acronym for The Empowerment Alliance, a dark-money gas advocacy group Rastin leads.

The columns extolled the superiority of gas as a fuel source.

It isn’t clear if The Empowerment Alliance paid the Mount Vernon News to run the “Afternoon TEA” columns. But tax filings show that since 2020 The Empowerment Alliance has spent at least $6.3 million on a “public education campaign,” which included publishing “Afternoon TEA.” The goal was to promote “the importance of natural gas to the economy and national energy independence.”

One of The Empowerment Alliance’s stated goals is “fighting the nonsense of turning corn fields into solar fields.” It has financed online advertisements attacking President Joe Biden’s energy policies and spearheaded an Ohio bill that defined gas as a “green” fuel source.

Half of the Frasier stories published in the Mount Vernon News over the past year have mentioned Knox Smart Development, the anti-solar group linked to Rastin. Articles often quoted people or cited work from a Koch-backed think tank, The Buckeye Institute, but did not interview Frasier or farmers willing to lease land to it.

The Buckeye Institute is part of the State Policy Network, a group of think tanks that has received millions in funding from organizations connected to the Koch family. Rastin’s wife has served as a director on the State Policy Network board, and in 2019 she gave it $700,000, according to a tax record that typically would’ve been redacted but was posted to a government site.

The Mount Vernon News and pro-gas political groups also were working to influence local elections. The text messages that boosted anti-solar candidates were from a conservative Ohio PAC tied to a group that ran a pro-gas campaign.

And, leading up to the primary, a newspaper called the Ohio Energy Reporter was mailed to Knox County homes. The 8-page paper reprinted several Mount Vernon News stories on solar and featured other articles with headlines including “Ohio’s coming ‘solar trash wave’” and “Could the Texas Power Crisis happen in Ohio?”

The publication did not disclose its owners. The Floodlight, ProPublica and Tow Center investigation used source code from the website, its IP address and business mailing addresses to confirm that it is a product of the wider Metric Media network.

The stories the Mount Vernon News published began undermining politicians who were seen as insufficiently anti-solar and boosting the profiles of solar power’s outspoken critics.

In one article, the News accused Mount Vernon Mayor Matthew Starr of bowing to “energy activists” and pledging to try to remove natural gas from the city. It was not true. Starr was furious and asked the editors to take down the article, but they would not.

And in nearly a dozen stories that mentioned Collier, the county commissioner who was later ousted, the paper consistently misused a comment he’d given about newly placed solar panels at the county jail to falsely insinuate he supported the Frasier project.

Collier was never interviewed for those stories. Yet the paper ran a story devoted entirely to anti-solar commissioner candidate Drenda Keesee, a megachurch pastor who’d never run for office before; the article said she had “emerged as a vocal opponent of solar projects encroaching on the community.” Keesee, whose property would border a portion of the solar site, was the only source in the story.

She won the primary against Collier and is unopposed in the November general election.

For the community, the debate over solar has been passionate and persistent. What it hasn’t always been is civil. Yard signs have been stolen. Insults hurled. Middle fingers extended. Friendships frayed.

“Other than solar, we don’t have any problems with each other,” said Kathy Gamble, who runs the pro-solar group Knox County For Responsible Solar.

Many people in the community say they don’t view the debate through the lens of climate science or fossil fuels; they care about land rights and preserving rural life. Members of Preserve Knox County, an anti-solar group with several members whose land borders the proposed solar arrays, said they worry the solar project will scare off the sandhill cranes and bald eagles that visit their backyards.

Many members are distrustful of Biden’s renewable energy initiatives; they are staunch supporters of former President Donald Trump, who questions the scientific consensus that the climate is undergoing dangerous changes. They also don’t trust the solar developer’s promises to plant enough trees to block the panels from view. And they don’t want to lose the farmland that gives the area its agricultural identity.

“You can’t eat solar panels,” said Jim Boeshart, whose home would be adjacent to solar arrays.

Keith Strait, a farmer who lives not far from Boeshart, agreed: “Let’s face it,” he said, pointing at the ground, “They’re not making any more of this. There will be a time when there won’t be any farm left. Where’re you going to get your food from?”

The farmers who want to lease their land feel their voices have been lost in the debate. For them, a 40-year land contract with Frasier Solar would be steady income. One farmer said he could make four times as much money per acre leasing to the solar project as he’d make renting to another farmer.

Rich Piar, the third-generation farmer, is looking to the solar panels as a retirement plan. He said he has no one to take over the operation when he retires, and he doesn’t think anyone should dictate what he does with his land or when he stops farming.

“Most farmers’ exit strategy is their health,” Piar said. “I don’t want to have that kind of predetermined exit strategy.” He went to one of the public meetings about Frasier but said it was so packed he didn’t get to speak until almost midnight.

In August, the Ohio Power Siting Board, which will rule on whether the project can be built, held a final hearing to accept evidence from both sides. One of the attorneys who spoke on behalf of a farmer who is leasing land for the project was from the Sabin Center for Climate Change Law at Columbia University. (The Tow Center also is based at Columbia, but its work is separate.)

Frasier lawyers cross-examined Knox Smart Development spokesperson Jared Yost at the hearing, where he testified that Rastin, the retired Ariel executive, was one of the group’s biggest donors. To Open Road Renewables’ vice president of development, Craig Adair, the confirmation pierced the veil.

Everything changed, Adair said in an interview, “when The Empowerment Alliance decided to use its vast financial resources” to shape the debate in Knox County and in the Mount Vernon News.

The News published two stories on the hearing but did not mention the public admission of Knox Smart Development’s ties to Rastin, the Ariel Corporation and The Empowerment Alliance.

The board’s decision is likely to take months.

In the meantime, construction has started at the old Mount Vernon News building, which is being turned into an academic hub for a local university. The building will be named after Rastin’s stepson, a former president of Ariel Corporation.

This content originally appeared on ProPublica and was authored by .

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An examination of a new election rule in Georgia passed by the state’s Republican-controlled election board suggests that local officials in just a handful of rural counties could exclude enough votes to affect the outcome of the presidential race.

The rule was backed by national groups allied with former President Donald Trump. It gives county boards the power to investigate irregularities and exclude entire precincts from the vote totals they certify. Supporters of the rule, most of whom are Republicans, say it’s necessary to root out fraud. Critics, most of whom are Democrats, say it can be used as a tool to disenfranchise select buckets of voters.

An analysis by ProPublica shows that counties wouldn’t have to toss out many precincts to tip the election if it’s as close as it was in 2020, when Trump lost Georgia by less than 12,000 votes. Based on tallies from that year, an advantage of about 8,000 Democratic votes could be at risk in just 12 precincts in three counties under the new rule, the analysis found. There are 159 counties in Georgia.

A judge is expected to decide soon whether the rule will stand.

The three counties — Spalding, Troup and Ware — voted for Trump in 2020. But each has small yet significant concentrations of Democratic votes clustered in specific precincts. All three also have local election boards that have become stacked in recent years with partisans who’ve voiced support for the false claim that Trump won the 2020 election or have cast doubt on the integrity of the election process.

In Spalding, about 40 miles south of Atlanta, a man who is now county election board chair had previously alerted Trump’s attorneys to what police later determined was false evidence of voter fraud. More recently, he has tweeted that President Joe Biden is a “pedophile,” made sexually degrading comments about Vice President Kamala Harris and, this August, accused a top state elections official of “gaslighting” for saying there was no evidence of fraud in 2020.

In Ware County, in the southeast corner of the state, the election board chair is tied to far-right groups and has called democracy “mob rule.” In Troup County, which borders Alabama, the election board chair maintains that debunked “statistical anomalies” in the 2020 vote still haven’t been explained.

The legality of the rule was debated on Oct. 1 during back-to-back bench trials for two lawsuits. One was brought by the Democratic National Committee and others against the State Election Board, seeking to invalidate the rule. The other was brought by a Republican local board member against her county, the Democratic National Committee and others, seeking a judgment that she had the discretion not to certify election results.

During the trial, Judge Robert McBurney said to the lawyer representing the Republican board member, “You have very successfully pulled me down an intriguing rabbit hole about, well, maybe you could certify some of the votes, but not all of the votes.”

The boards’ new power is the culmination of ground-level efforts in Georgia that began the day Biden was declared the winner of the 2020 election. After Trump lost — and after Georgia’s Republican secretary of state rebuffed his demand to “find” him the 11,780 votes he would have needed to win — GOP state legislators launched an effort to reshape county election boards, paving the way for removing Democrats and stacking them with Trump backers. Boards are supposed to administer elections in a nonpartisan manner, and some of these changes broke with the norm of having equal numbers of Republican and Democratic members, plus an independent chair to break ties.

The legislature also removed the secretary of state as head of the State Election Board and replaced members of the board — stacking it, too, with Trump partisans. At an August rally in Atlanta, Trump praised three of them by name, calling them “pit bulls fighting for honesty, transparency and victory.” The three board members did not respond to requests for comment.

With the addition of its newest member, the state board was able to do in August what the previous iteration of it wouldn’t: Pass rules giving the county boards unprecedented power.

What’s more, the rule allowing county boards to exclude specific votes was secretly pushed by Julie Adams, a leader of a group central to challenging the legitimacy of the American election system. That group’s founder joined Trump on the call in 2020 during which he pressured the secretary of state to hand him victory.

Adams, a Fulton County election board member, was the plaintiff in one of the two lawsuits. She did not respond to requests for comment or a list of detailed questions.

The State Election Board and attorneys representing parties in both lawsuits did not comment.

A lawyer representing the Democratic National Committee referred ProPublica to the Harris-Walz campaign. “For months, MAGA Republicans in Georgia and across the country have been trying to lay the groundwork to challenge the election results when they lose again in November,” deputy campaign manager Quentin Fulks said in a statement. “A few unelected extremists can’t just decide not to count your vote.”

During one of the bench trials, Richard Lawson, a lawyer for Adams and the America First Policy Institute, a conservative think tank aligned with Trump, argued that county board members should have the authority to exclude entire precincts’ votes if they find something suspicious.

A lawyer for the Democratic National Committee, Daniel Volchok, warned that board members making “individual determinations about if a ballot is fraudulent or otherwise should not be counted” is “a recipe for chaos.”

“It is also a recipe for denying Georgians their right to vote.”

Spalding County has for years played a prominent role in Trump supporters’ efforts to challenge election results.

In 2020, Trump’s allies trying to overturn the election quickly realized that the weakest points in America’s election system are its thousands of counties, where the day-to-day work of running elections is done. Previously unreported emails and messages show that one of the first places they targeted was Spalding County.

In the days after the election, Ben Johnson, the owner of a tech company who in 2021 would become chair of the Spalding County election board, began tweeting repeatedly at a team of lawyers challenging the election results on behalf of Trump, including Sidney Powell and Lin Wood, a ProPublica review of his deleted but archived tweets found. Johnson also advocated on social media for overturning the election. The Daily Beast reported in 2022 on other Johnson tweets, including one suggesting that Wood investigate claims of election fraud in Spalding County.

About two weeks after the election, a hacker emailed Wood and others to say that that he and another operative were “on ground & ready for orders” near Spalding County, outlining in a series of attachments how they were seeking to acquire voting machine data to prove the election was stolen in Spalding and another Georgia county. (Wood previously told ProPublica, “I do not recall any such email” and that he did not give the hacker any orders, though he did say he recalled the hacker “leaving one night to travel to Georgia.” The hacker did not previously respond to requests for comment.)

Messages obtained by ProPublica show that about an hour later, the operative messaged the hacker: “Woot! We have a county committing to having us image” voting machine data.

The hacker and operative were able to help their allies access voter machine data elsewhere, which became a central pillar in a long-running conspiracy theory that voting machines were hacked. That theory was key to justifying attempts to overturn the 2020 election. In Spalding County, however, their plan fell apart after the secretary of state made clear in a memo that accessing such data would be illegal. “Our contact wants to give us access, but with that memo it makes it impossible,” the operative wrote, without “her getting in a lot of trouble.”

After Trump’s loss, the Republican-controlled state legislature passed a massive bill “to comprehensively revise elections” in response to “many electors concerned about allegations of rampant voter fraud.” And Republican state legislators began writing bills to revamp local election boards, one county at a time. Since 2021, the reorganizations of 15 boards have brought a wave of partisan Republicans, ProPublica found.

As a result of the 2021 reorganization in Spalding, the election board lost three Black Democrats. Three new white Republicans became the majority — including Johnson, who became chair.

In 2022, after news outlets reported that Johnson had supported the QAnon conspiracy theory on social media, he tweeted an open letter emphasizing that he “took an oath to serve in the interests of ALL eligible voters of Spalding County” and “There’s no room for politics in the conducting of Elections.”

Since then, Johnson has continued to share social media content questioning the integrity of Georgia’s elections.

Reached by phone, Johnson said, “I don’t want to talk to any liberal media” and “You’re going to spread lies.” He did not respond to a detailed list of questions subsequently sent to him.

The new rule says that if there are discrepancies between the number of ballots cast and the number of people recorded as having voted in a given precinct, “The Board shall investigate the discrepancy and no votes shall be counted from that precinct until the results of the investigation are presented to the Board.” If “any error” or “fraud is discovered, the Board shall determine a method to compute the votes justly.”

Minor discrepancies between the number of voters and ballots are not uncommon. For instance, ballots can become stuck in scanners, voters can begin filling out a ballot and then stop before submitting it, or election systems can be slow to update that a provisional ballot has been corrected.

In counties like Spalding, Ware and Troup — with Republican-leaning boards and at least a few Democratic-heavy precincts — the conservative majority has the power to determine how to “compute the votes justly.” At the trial and in court documents, Democratic lawyers argued this could mean not certifying Democratic votes, with one arguing in a brief that county board members “will attempt to delay, block, or manipulate certification according to their own political preferences” by invoking the rule “to challenge only certain types of ballots or returns from certain precincts as fraudulent.”

Democratic voters in many conservative rural counties are packed into a small number of precincts. In 2020, Spalding had five precincts with Democratic majorities, which provided about 3,300 more votes for Biden than Trump. Troup had five such precincts totaling about 3,000 such votes, and Ware had two such precincts totaling roughly another 1,600 votes.

Troup County removed two Black women and two men — all Democrats, one said — from its elections board when it restructured in 2021, shrinking the board from seven to five members.

“They definitely wanted us off the board,” said former member Lonnie Hollis, who is worried the new board will behave partisanly this election. She said Republican officials in Troup have connections to the state party.

The board’s new chair, William Stump, a local banker, said that he believes Troup got its vote totals right last presidential election but that “there were some fairly significant statistical anomalies” elsewhere in Georgia.

“It didn’t pass the smell test,” he said. Stump recently appeared at a GOP luncheon in LaGrange with State Election Board member Janelle King, whose ascension to the board cemented its MAGA majority and enabled the passage of the rules.

Stump said he was at the luncheon, where the GOP handed out Trump gear, to answer questions about the election process. “We don’t have, I don’t think, outwardly partisan folks on the board,” he said. “Everybody’s concern is to get the numbers right and get them out on time.”

When Ware County reconstituted its election board in 2023, it removed two Black members who were Democrats and installed Republican Danny Bartlett as chair. Bartlett, a retired teacher, served as executive director of the Okefenokee chapter of Citizens Defending Freedom, a Christian nationalist group the Southern Poverty Law Center calls “anti government” and “part of the antidemocratic hard-right movement.”

Bartlett also started a Facebook group in 2022 called Southeast Georgia Conservatives in Action that asks potential members. “Are you ready to take action against the assault upon our country?” Bartlett sought to raise money for the group through a raffle that offered as a grand prize a “Home Defense Package” that included $2,000 worth of guns, gear and a “Patriot Pantry 1-week Food Supply Ammo Can.”

Bartlett did not respond to multiple requests for comment.

Carlos Nelson, Ware’s elections supervisor, said he opposed the board’s restructuring but said that Bartlett hasn’t gone along when conservative activists have demanded measures such as hand-counting ballots. “He has been a really good chair,” said Nelson, who is a Democrat. He said he didn’t know about Bartlett’s outside political affiliations but that they were “totally different from his participation on the board.”

Shawn Taylor, one of the Black board members who was removed, said she’s concerned that the new election leaders are too partisan and may try to sway the election results.

“These MAGA Republicans are putting things in place to try to steal the election,” she said, adding she did not think all Republicans supported those attempts. “I believe that it’s going to cause major conflict within a lot of these counties.”

The Ware County commission in July removed a new conservative election board member, Michael Hargrove, who had complained about the “Biden/Harris Crime Syndicate” on social media, after he entered a polling site’s restricted area during spring elections and got into a confrontation with a poll worker. Hargrove said in an email that he “had, as an Elections Board member, EVERY right to be in that location at that time. Any other issue related to that event is juvenile nonsense.”

His replacement, Vernon Chambless, is a local lawyer who told ProPublica that he believes Trump should have been declared the winner in 2020. “We’re going to make sure that everything’s kosher before we certify,” he said.

Alex Mierjeski, Amy Yurkanin, Mollie Simon, Mariam Elba, Kirsten Berg and Doris Burke contributed research.

This content originally appeared on ProPublica and was authored by by Doug Bock Clark and Heather Vogell.

This story describes an attempted murder in a domestic violence case.

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

Before rural Scott County remade itself into a model for managing domestic violence, Jade Peters didn’t know where to turn for help. Her ex-boyfriend was stalking her and threatened to kill other men who talked to her.

She knew he had a gun, but so did many people in Scott County, and she didn’t think the justice system would take her seriously.

If you or someone you know needs help, here’s a guide on how to navigate Tennessee’s justice system for domestic violence victims.

One night in 2009, Peters was walking up her steps when she saw someone approaching. As he got closer, she realized it was her ex-boyfriend. She fumbled with her keys, trying to set off her car alarm.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket. A sudden bright light pierced the darkness — the flash of a gun firing.

The bullet tore through Peters’ mouth and throat, with fragments lodging in her spine. When she was able to drag herself into her house to call for help, she remembers avoiding her reflection in the mirror, not wanting to see what damage the bullet had done.

A few years ago, Scott County decided that the system that Peters and other domestic violence victims across the state contended with wasn’t good enough. Tennessee consistently has one of the highest rates of women killed by men, and most of those homicides are committed with a gun. Yet, over the years, the state has loosened its gun laws, making it easier for people to buy and carry firearms. While the state bars domestic abusers and people with felony convictions from having guns, WPLN and ProPublica found that those laws are rarely enforced.

Tucked into the Appalachian foothills along the Kentucky border, Scott County recognized that victims in rural areas face unique barriers. There are few resources, like domestic violence shelters. Law enforcement and the courts typically lack staff and training. And cultural attitudes about domestic violence and guns can make officers and judges less likely to believe women or more reluctant to take firearms away from abusers.

The county completely overhauled the way it handles domestic violence cases. It brought most of the agencies that deal with domestic violence into one building called the Family Justice Center. It then started one of the state’s only court programs solely dedicated to handling domestic violence cases.

And vitally, the county took steps to better ensure that people subject to domestic violence charges or protection orders don’t have guns.

Peters said that if the reforms had existed when she needed them, she would have known where to get help. “It would have made a difference,” she said.

Separating dangerous people from their guns is an issue that much of the country grapples with. But in Tennessee, “it’s even more inconsistent in these rural communities,” said Heather Herrmann, who oversees a statewide group that studies domestic violence homicides. She said in rural areas, judges are more likely to consider things like whether accused abusers hunt or have jobs that require guns.

In rural Lewis County in Middle Tennessee, for example, Judge Mike Hinson said protecting gun rights weighs heavily in his decisions. It can be hard to justify signing an order of protection — which can bar someone from coming near the victim, contacting them or having firearms — if a gun wasn’t involved in the domestic violence incident, he said.

“It’s those close cases where I try to balance a person’s rights — because they do have a Second Amendment right, and they do have a right to protect themselves, and they do have a right to get a job,” Hinson said. “That’s the tougher balance.”

It’s a balance he acknowledged he doesn’t always get right.

Even if a judge orders someone to give up their guns, there’s a glaring gap in Tennessee’s system. It’s one of about a dozen states that allow someone to give their gun to a third party like a friend or relative instead of a law enforcement agency or a licensed firearms dealer. And it doesn’t require that the person be identified to the court. In such cases, someone could say they gave up their guns but still have access to them, advocates for domestic violence victims say.

Scott County saw that gap and decided to change its firearms form, requiring abusers to name the person who is holding their guns and list their address. That person has to sign to verify they have the guns. Scott is the only one of Tennessee’s 95 counties that has done this, victim advocates say. They have asked the Tennessee Administrative Office of the Courts to change the form statewide, but the office says the legislature would have to do that.

It’s difficult to measure Scott County’s success because the numbers are so small. But data from the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation shows that while domestic violence incidents have fallen slightly across the state, in Scott County, they’ve dropped by more than half, from nearly 250 in 2009 to an average of less than 100 in recent years. Victims are seeking protection orders from the courts more than they did before the reforms — a sign that there’s more trust in the system, victim advocates say. And far more requests are being approved.

No other rural county in Tennessee has yet followed Scott’s lead. And throughout the state, old attitudes prevail. On the other side of Nashville from Scott County is a region of rolling hills and cropland where guns and hunting are also a big part of life.

This area of Middle Tennessee is represented in Congress by Rep. Andy Ogles, a Republican who in 2021 sent out a Christmas card of his family holding guns. (Ogles didn’t respond to calls or emails from WPLN and ProPublica but has told reporters he didn’t regret the card.) Jason Aldean’s controversial music video, “Try That in a Small Town,” was filmed at a courthouse in the area and served as an anthem of old-school, small-town values that critics said was a racist rallying cry for vigilante justice and gun violence. (Aldean has defended the song and video.)

That culture permeates all the way up the justice system to judges, Herrmann said.

“When you have a really insular community, a really gun-focused community, and often a community that maybe has some misconceptions or stereotyping of what domestic violence is and what it means, then you have judges, not always, but often, who carry those same beliefs,” she said.

Judges in Tennessee have an incredible amount of power in how they run their courtrooms, which can greatly affect domestic violence cases. If a case lacks obvious physical signs of abuse, judges may fall back on their own notions about domestic violence, which research shows favors defendants.

Hinson said he sees himself as a representative for the culture of Lewis County. The county proudly boasts one of the largest collections of mounted trophy heads in North America. The old courthouse has a bullet hole from when a man going through a divorce brought a gun to confront his wife. The new courthouse is across the street from a store advertising that “we sell ammo.” With only about 12,500 residents, the county is the type of place where most people know each other, which can make domestic violence cases difficult.

Since 2014, many of those cases have gone before Hinson, a Lewis County native with icy blue eyes and gray hair.

Some folks around Lewis County call him “the people’s judge”: He often wears a quarter-zip sweater or a button-down shirt in court instead of a judicial robe. And he speaks plainly, like he’s talking to a friend he ran into at the store instead of someone in a jailhouse jumpsuit.

Hinson’s casual attitude and off-the-cuff remarks caused him to be suspended by the Administrative Office of the Courts’ Board of Judicial Conduct in 2021. In one case, in which he denied a woman an order of protection, the board said he made a “demeaning” comment, telling the couple that another judge would “wade through the bullshit” in their divorce. He later apologized for the remark.

Sometimes, Hinson said, he finds the law constricting and prefers to take his own approach. Once, that resulted in him dismissing hundreds of traffic tickets because he thought the community was being overly targeted. It made him popular among some residents — and less so with the Tennessee Highway Patrol.

“I don’t believe the law was made for us to worship,” Hinson said. “I believe the law is a tool.”

That applies to the domestic violence cases he sees in his courtroom, which, he said, often result from addiction. It’s a struggle Hinson himself relates to. He said he had a drinking problem and anger issues that ended his last marriage — something he shares with the men who appear before him in court.

“Some people just might need a little anger management,” Hinson said. “Some people, it was just a bad day and the only time it’s ever happened.”

Hinson also said he thinks some women overuse protection orders to gain the upper hand in a divorce case or custody battle.

“This is stuff that we hear from every corner of the state,” Herrmann said. “In these small towns in particular, people talk. They know what the judge has said to other people. They know how other people’s cases have gone.”

Some victims who went through Lewis County court said Hinson’s sympathy for the men made them feel dismissed or like they were the ones being reprimanded. Multiple victims asked not to be named because it’s a small community and they worried it could affect their cases. WPLN and ProPublica also sat in on Hinson’s court.

In February, Hinson admonished a woman who sought a protection order against her ex-boyfriend after he fired a gun into the ceiling during an argument. Instead of granting the order of protection, Hinson put the man under a no-contact order, which didn’t require him to give up his firearms.

He told the man he couldn’t reach out to the woman, but he also told the woman her ex-boyfriend wouldn’t be held responsible if she contacted him first and he replied. If that happens, Hinson said, “I’m gonna take his side.” And he urged her not to do what some women do, reaching out to their partners after leaving court to work out their problems. “We’re not going to be doing that,” he told her.

A month later, another woman in Hinson’s court seemed surprised by the way the judge spoke to her estranged husband after he assaulted her. Instead of chastising him about his behavior, Hinson appeared to try to motivate her husband by telling him his wife thought he was “a great guy.”

The woman, sitting in the courtroom that day, leaned over to a victim’s advocate and said, “I never said that.”

About 200 miles away, as the early morning fog cleared over the Scott County Justice Center in May, men slowly trickled into the courtroom under a sign in Greek that translates roughly to “a man’s character is his fate.” Their work boots thudded on the floor as they found seats on the wooden benches.

“All rise,” the bailiff said. “Domestic violence court is now in session.”

The men had already been convicted of domestic violence or were subject to protection orders. They were there so that Judge Scarlett Ellis could monitor whether they were keeping up with their probation appointments and other conditions like mental health and addiction treatment.

She looked up over her glasses with a kind smile at the group of men in front of her, the way a teacher might greet her class. Then one by one they stood in front of her. Ellis peppered them with questions: How has therapy been going? Have you avoided contact with your victim? What have you learned in batterers intervention class?

Ellis’ approach is encouraging but not lenient. When it’s clear that the men before her have made strides toward changing their behaviors, she doesn’t hesitate to tell them. One man stood at the podium, his hands clasped behind his back as he responded to her questions with, “Yes, ma’am,” and, “No, ma’am.” He had an interview later that day for a better-paying job, he told her.

“You’ve changed your life,” she told him. “I can see it. I really can.”

Ellis can use her discretion to have those who are doing well come to court less often. But if they’re not complying, she can also extend their probation or send them to jail.

Later in the day, when victims came to the domestic violence court for new cases to be heard, they were ushered by a court advocate into a back room to keep them separate from the men they say abused them. It’s one of many victim-centered changes the court has made. When their protection order hearing comes up, the victim stands at one podium, the offender at another, with the court advocate and a sheriff’s deputy between them.

Domestic violence court is held on a separate day from other cases to protect victims’ privacy.

“I was already embarrassed with what all had happened and being assaulted and then to have to be in a room with people who had done drugs and stole from others was just more embarrassing and belittling,” one person wrote in a community needs assessment that was conducted before the court was created.

Ultimately, a judge’s orders are only as strong as their enforcement, which Scott County has also tried to address. Like many rural counties, the Scott County Sheriff’s Department is small and understaffed. But it has a dedicated domestic violence officer to help victims.

“I’m their voice,” Deputy Danielle Gayheart said in a raspy twang. “They’ve done their side of it” by getting the order of protection, she said.

Gayheart has listened to jailhouse phone calls to see if an abuser was contacting a victim. She also checks social media. Once, a man posted a picture of himself hunting deer with a gun. When she sees those things, she’ll charge people with violating protection orders.

“When it comes to anything like that, I’m your girl,” she said.

One of the keys to holding defendants accountable in Scott County is its batterers intervention program. In other rural counties, attending one can mean a long drive: In Lewis County, for example, the closest one is over an hour away. Judges in those places often won’t list it as a court condition because it’s too hard to get to. But Scott County’s class is 10 minutes from the courthouse.

During one class, six men crowded around folding tables pushed together in a square. “We repeat what we don’t repair” was scrawled on a white board on the wall.

The facilitator led them through an exercise on how to recognize the signs of anger in their bodies and stop it before they take it out on someone else. Feeling hot-headed? Try sticking your head in the freezer. Feeling restless? Take a walk. Clenching your teeth? Chew a piece of gum. Many of the men are still in the relationships that put them in court, so creating these plans is urgent.

While the 26-week class is court-ordered, the men weren’t shy about participating.

“I’m not real good at showing my feelings,” one man said. “I never have been. You know, I was raised —”

“You don’t wear your feelings on your sleeve,” another chimed in from across the table.

“That’s right,” the first man said. “Growing up, you know, I was raised that you’re a man. You’re not supposed to show that because nobody gives a shit. You’re supposed to be stronger than that.”

Programs like this one have led to change, according to Peters. After the shooting, her ex-boyfriend pleaded guilty to attempted murder and was sentenced to prison. Peters recovered from her wounds and went back to school to become a lawyer, representing clients in Ellis’ domestic violence court.

She said men in Scott County know that when they’re brought to court on a domestic violence charge, there will be serious consequences.

“Men are somewhat afraid of that,” Peters said. “They’re very aware that you can be dispossessed of firearms for a year, that you can lose a lot of your rights, that you can be sentenced to programs and court appearances.”

She said that empowerment for victims and accountability for offenders has had an impact beyond just the court program — the system change has led to broader cultural change in Scott County.

“There’s still women who are in bad situations,” Peters said. “It’s just that now there’s more help for them.”

Mariam Elba contributed research.

This content originally appeared on ProPublica and was authored by .

The Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department investigated or surveilled multiple journalists during Alex Villanueva’s tenure as sheriff from 2018 to 2022, according to accounts published in July 2024.

The Los Angeles Times reported that its former investigative reporter Maya Lau became a subject of an investigation in 2018, when the department revived an inquiry into the disclosure of a list of roughly 300 problem deputies. Lau had written about the deputies the previous year, prompting the LASD’s initial attempt to identify the source, which quickly ended without success.

The investigation was reopened shortly after Villanueva took office as sheriff and, according to an investigative case file obtained by the Times, officers ultimately alleged that Lau was a “criminal suspect,” having knowingly received stolen materials. The department submitted the case against her to the state’s attorney general in 2021, who formally declined to prosecute her in May 2024.

Lau told the U.S. Press Freedom Tracker that she only learned of the investigation when her former colleagues at the Times reached out for comment after it was closed.

“This investigation is an outrage. They should know better: Journalists shouldn’t be criminally investigated for doing their job,” Lau said. “Whether they want to admit it or not, it is an intimidation tactic.”

She added that her coverage, along with that of her colleagues, helped change state laws to improve public access to police disciplinary records and that the work she did was in the public’s interest.

Lau was not the last journalist investigated under Villanueva’s leadership.

According to a pair of articles published on July 17, 2024, reporter Cerise Castle obtained email records confirming that the LASD began surveilling her almost immediately after she published a 15-part series with Knock LA in March and April 2021 exposing a history of gangs within the department.

Castle gained access to digital communications containing her name after suing the department for denying a May 2021 public records request. It ultimately agreed to a settlement and began turning over the records two years later.

The emails revealed that she was flagged as a suspicious person, that an officer described her reporting as “a potential officer safety concern” and that another described Knock LA as among the “anti-LASD platform(s) we’re tracking,” Castle reported.

“These emails confirm LASD monitored me, a reporter performing her work, protected by the First Amendment of the US Constitution, as well as other people they consider to be in my orbit,” Castle wrote. “It’s not clear the extent of which this is still happening. I have filed similar requests to the original filed in 2021, but have not received any records.”

Castle told the Tracker that before the series was published, a source warned her that she might be surveilled and she took it seriously: She stayed at a safe house while finishing the reporting and through its publication. After returning home, she said she repeatedly saw department vehicles parked in the driveway outside her apartment — located outside of LASD’s jurisdiction — and has been pulled over multiple times recently while reporting on police misconduct cases.

“It’s impossible for me to relax. I don’t really feel safe anywhere, even at home,” Castle said. “It hasn’t killed my resolve. It has changed me completely as a person, but I’m not going to stop doing this work.”

David Loy, legal director of the First Amendment Coalition, condemned the surveillance of journalists in a statement, calling it “truly alarming.”

“It creates a significant chill in the fact that journalists should be able to do their jobs without fear that they’re going to be targets, or potential targets, of law enforcement retaliation,” Loy said.

At a news conference in April 2022, Villanueva targeted another journalist, LA Times reporter Alene Tchekmedyian, as part of a leak investigation. That followed Tchekmedyian’s reporting on internal documents that detailed an alleged department cover-up around an inmate abuse case.

When pressed at the news conference to say whether Tchekmedyian was under criminal investigation, Villanueva responded that the reporter received information and put it to use. “What she receives legally and puts to her own use and what she receives legally and the L.A. Times uses — I'm sure that's a huge, complex level of law and freedom of the press and all that. However, when it’s stolen materials, at some point, you actually become part of the story.”

Hours after the news conference, Villanueva went on social media to address the public outcry over his comments.

“Resulting from the incredible frenzy of misinformation being circulated, I must clarify at no time today did I state an LA Times reporter was a suspect in a criminal investigation. We have no interest in pursuing, nor are we pursuing, criminal charges against any reporters,” Villanueva wrote.

At the time of that statement, however, the department’s recommendation that Times reporter Lau be charged was still pending before the attorney general.

Villanueva was later voted out of office and his replacement, Robert Luna, was sworn in as sheriff in December 2022.

In an emailed statement to the Tracker in July 2024, the department said: “Under the leadership of Sheriff Luna, we do not monitor journalists and we respect the freedom of the press. Our current administration operates distinctively from its predecessor, and actions taken in prior administrations do not reflect our current policies or practices.”

LASD declined to respond to requests for details about when the investigations were opened and closed, and whether Villanueva personally ordered or oversaw them. Villanueva did not respond to a request for comment.

Police investigating journalists isn’t unusual, Castle told the Tracker. “We’ve seen journalists that have gone through surveillance like this by police departments quite frequently,” she said, citing Lau, Tchekmedyian and the raid on the Marion County Record last year. “This stuff is happening all over the United States a lot more frequently than I think people are aware of, and it’s something that should be a concern for all of us.”

Lau said that while she doesn’t have any reason to believe that egregious investigatory tactics, such as tapping her phone, were used, there are unanswered questions. “I don’t know the full scope of this investigation and that is the danger. It could theoretically put other sources, including those that had nothing to do with this story, at risk.”

This content originally appeared on U.S. Press Freedom Tracker: Incident Database and was authored by U.S. Press Freedom Tracker: Incident Database.

• A Georgia appeals court set a December hearing for arguments whether to allow Fulton County District Attorney Fani Willis to continue prosecuting the Trump election interference case.
• As the war in Gaza continues to grind on, health officials in the enclave are sounding the alarm about a concerning spike in skin diseases.
• President Joe Biden returned to the campaign trail for the first time since the assassination attempt against former President Donald Trump.
• Donald Trump’s pick for his vice-presidential running mate, Ohio Senator JD Vance, was once a vocal critic of the former president and is now a staunch MAGA Republican. Meanwhile, Democrats sounded the alarm over Vance’s track record, with President Biden calling him ‘a clone of Trump.’
• Governor Gavin Newsom signed several new bills into law this week, including one aimed at easing the financial burden for Californians recovering from addiction and mental health treatment.
• The UC Berkeley Labor Center released an updated tool this week, compiling data on who gets paid low wages in California.
• Unhoused and formerly unhoused Oakland residents spoke out today across from Oakland City Hall, addressing Oakland’s rising homelessness crisis.

The post A Georgia appeals court set a December hearing for arguments whether to allow Fulton County District Attorney Fani Willis to continue prosecuting the Trump election interference case – July 16, 2024 appeared first on KPFA.

This content originally appeared on KPFA - The Pacifica Evening News, Weekdays and was authored by KPFA.

Temperatures were so hot that the metal on cable cars melted and the asphalt on roadways buckled. Nearly half the homes in the county lacked cooling systems because of Oregon’s typically gentle summers, where average highs top out at 81 degrees. Sixty-nine people perished from heat stroke, most of them in their homes.

When scientific studies showed that the extreme temperatures were caused by heat domes, which experts say are influenced by climate change, county officials didn’t just chalk it up to a random weather occurrence. They started researching the large fossil fuel companies whose emissions are driving the climate crisis — including Exxon Mobil, Shell, and Chevron — and sued them.

“This catastrophe was not caused by an act of God,” said Jeffrey B. Simon, a lawyer for the county, “but rather by several of the world’s largest energy companies playing God with the lives of innocent and vulnerable people by selling as much oil and gas as they could.”

Now, 11 months after the suit was filed, Multnomah County is preparing to move forward with the case in Oregon state court after a federal judge in June settled a monthslong debate over where the suit should be heard.

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About three dozen lawsuits have been filed by states, counties, and cities seeking damages from oil and gas companies for harms caused by climate change. Legal experts said the Oregon case is one of the first focused on public health costs related to high temperatures during a specific occurrence of the “heat dome effect.” Most of the other lawsuits seek damages more generally from such ongoing climate-related impacts as sea level rise, increased precipitation, intensifying extreme weather events, and flooding.

Pat Parenteau, professor of law emeritus at Vermont Law and Graduate School, said that zeroing in on the heat and the heat dome effect are elements that might make the Multnomah case easier to prove.

“When it comes to the extreme heat events that affected Portland, the scientists concluded, in looking at that event and then looking at historical records of heat waves in the Pacific Northwest, it would not have happened but for human-caused climate change,” Parenteau said. 

“That’s actually the first time I’ve ever seen climate scientists state a conclusion like that in such absolute terms,” he added.

Korey Silverman-Roati, a fellow at Columbia University’s Sabin Center for Climate Change, also said the case was distinctive because it focused on a specific event. “A lot of these other suits are alleging more long-term impact harm from climate change, like sea level rise is something that happens over the course of decades,” Silverman-Roati said. “Whereas the Multnomah suit is this 2021 heat dome disaster that they had to deal with.”

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The Multnomah County lawsuit says that Exxon, Shell, Chevron, and others engaged in a range of improper practices, including negligence, creating a public nuisance, fraud, and deceit.

The suit alleges that the companies were aware of the harms of fossil fuels and engaged in a “scheme to rapaciously sell fossil fuel products and deceptively promote them as harmless to the environment, while they knew that carbon pollution emitted by their products into the atmosphere would likely cause deadly extreme heat events like that which devastated Multnomah County.”

“We know that climate-induced weather events like the 2021 heat dome harm the residents of Multnomah County and cause real financial costs to our local government,” Multnomah County Chair Jessica Vega Pederson said in a statement. “The court’s decision to hear this lawsuit in state court validates our assertion that the case should be resolved here — it’s an important win for this community.”

A spokesperson for Exxon declined to comment on the case; representatives for Shell and Chevron did not respond to requests for comment.

A common defense for fossil fuel companies is arguing that existing environmental laws, such as the Clean Air Act, are already responsible for regulating air quality so legal actions should not be allowed under state law, Silverman-Roati noted.

In the suit, officials in the county, which includes Portland — Oregon’s largest city, with about 640,000 people — say that they will ultimately incur costs in excess of $1.5 billion to deal with the effects of the 2021 heat dome.

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“We allege that this is just like any other kind of public health crisis and mass destruction of property that is caused by corporate wrongdoing,” said Simon, who is a partner in the law firm of Simon Greenstone Panatier. “We contend that these companies polluted the atmosphere with carbon from the burning of fossil fuels; that they foresaw that extreme environmental harm would be caused by it; that some of them, we contend, deliberately misled the public about that.”

The suit cites some of the internal correspondence by the companies, which Multnomah County officials said indicates that the industry was aware as far back as 1965 that pollution could have “catastrophic consequences.”

“Nobody in the leadership of Multnomah County imagined that it would ever be 124 degrees in Portland,” Simon said. “But we contend that the defendants did foresee that you would have extreme changes, which can include that kind of harm — and didn’t tell the truth about it.”

Legal experts said that while the allegations in the suit draw on the kind of traditional tort law that is cited in other cases in which public health wrongdoing is alleged, the efficacy of that approach in a suit involving climate change is uncertain.

Chris Wold, a professor of environmental law at Lewis & Clark Law School in Portland, said the county’s case might be helped by technological advances in weather modeling that can tie greenhouse gases to “specific impacts in specific regions.”

“In the past, it was very common for people to say, ‘Look, we can’t tie this hurricane or this heat wave to concentrations of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere,’” Wold said. “Increasingly, we are able to say that. The climate models are now good enough to say, ‘We should expect to see these heat increases or these precipitation changes in these locations.’ And that is going to make it easier, I think, for plaintiffs to be able to argue successfully that emissions from certain companies are causing specific impacts.”

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Silverman-Roati, at Columbia’s Sabin Center for Climate Change, also cited the role of improved modeling as a compelling element to the case. 

“The scientists can tell us, ‘This heat dome would not have happened but for climate change,” Silverman-Roati said. “And then this county can go to court and say, ‘Look, we have to pay for all these damages from this heat dome. And the companies that marketed their product that caused this problem and told us that these products would be fine, those companies would have to pay for a portion of all that we are having to pay in response to this heat dome.’”

Crucially, said Parenteau, of the Vermont Law and Graduate School, modeling that ties climate change to the heat dome effect in June 2021 would be hard to dispute in court.

“They’re not going to have a problem getting that evidence before a jury and getting the judge instructions to tell the jury if they agree with that evidence that leads to a finding of liability,” he said.

“I think in the minds of an average American when they think about climate change, they’re probably thinking about storms and flooding and sea level rise, things like that. But they’re probably not thinking about the fact that it’s killing people,” said Parenteau. Cases like Multnomah County’s are “making that connection clear because it’s true, it is killing people. And it’s not just killing people with heat.”

Jeff Goodell, the author of The New York Times best-seller “The Heat Will Kill You First: Life and Death on a Scorched Planet,” said it is unclear how the pending suits might be affected by the Supreme Court’s recent ruling, which imposed limits on the regulatory authority of federal agencies. But Goodell said the trend toward communities seeking compensation from the fossil fuel industry does not show any signs of abating.

“This question of what does accountability look like and how will it play out is one of the most interesting questions in the climate world right now,” Goodell said. “And I do think that this demand for accountability will only grow. And, you know, we’re at the beginning of a kind of epic fight.” 

He added: “I don’t know what shape that will take in the next few years, but I know it’s not going to be resolved soon. And I know it’s also only going to grow and get bigger and louder and more urgent.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline In a rare court action, an Oregon county seeks to hold fossil fuel companies accountable for extreme temperatures on Jul 13, 2024.

This content originally appeared on Grist and was authored by Victoria St. Martin, Inside Climate News.

• Hurricane Beryl roars toward Jamaica after killing at least six people in the southeastern Caribbean.
• President Joe Biden’s poor debate performance has some Democrats worried about his age, as Biden rejects calls to step aside.
• California Governor Gavin Newsom signed the $297.9 billion budget this week, which includes $16 billion in spending cuts.
• The Thompson fire in Butte County 3,500 acres, 0% contained.
• Oakland Mayor Sheng Thao held her first interview since the FBI raid of her home two weeks ago as she faces calls for resignation and a contentious recall.

(CAL FIRE_Official / Thompson fire)

The post Thompson fire in Butte County 3,500 acres, 0% contained – July 3, 2024 appeared first on KPFA.

This content originally appeared on KPFA - The Pacifica Evening News, Weekdays and was authored by KPFA.

However, local sources told Radio Free Asia that there are likely many more people missing in mountainous Nyagchu county.

The flooding and landslides last weekend took many people by surprise, one source told RFA.

Roads were covered with mud, and some cars and trucks were tossed into the debris as the flooding rushed through towns and villages.

Nyagchu county – referred to as Yajiang in Mandarin Chinese – is in Kardze Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture in the traditional Kham region. 

Tibetans made up the majority of Nyagchu county’s total population of over 51,000, according to 2020 census data. 

Edited by Matt Reed.

This content originally appeared on Radio Free Asia and was authored by By RFA Tibetan.

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

Join us for a virtual discussion of how private schools known as “segregation academies” in the Deep South continue to preserve divisions within communities even 70 years after Brown v. Board of Education.

In the rural community of Wilcox County, Alabama, a Black principal is working to empower students in the segregated public high school. A Black woman is grappling with demons of the county’s past. A white woman is digging into that history. A white high school graduate is realizing the importance of interracial friendships. Others are using art to bridge divides.

ProPublica is examining the lasting effects of “segregation academies,” private schools that opened across the Deep South in opposition to desegregation. In our first story, we wrote about how the local academy in Wilcox is nearly all white while the public schools are virtually all Black. As a result, people don’t often know one another well. When we asked local residents how often they have ever invited someone of another race over for dinner, we heard variations of, “That would be very uncommon.”

Although people haven’t often forged those deeper relationships, we met many who said they want to. We met others who are already doing so.

They confront a long and painful legacy of racism. They battle the inertia of “the way things are.” And they must build trust across racial divides where it often hasn’t existed before.

Shelly Dallas Dale still has flashbacks to being sprayed with tear gas, especially that first time.

Dale was 16 years old in 1971 when she joined a march in downtown Camden, 40 miles south of Selma in the heart of Alabama’s Black Belt, to protest its segregated schools. She and 428 others were arrested for “illegal marching.” They included 87 students. In an article about the march, the local newspaper called them “deluded blacks.”

Dale had grown up afraid of white people, but she still summoned her courage to join the Civil Rights Movement as it unfolded in Camden — even though protestors had lost their jobs and faced violence and arrests.

Before the desegregation march, she had become so fearful for her safety that she wrote her own obituary. Then she went to her older sister with a request. “This is the dress,” she recalled saying. “If I should get killed, bury me in it.”

At the march, someone fired tear gas at her. A white man shot her younger sister, she said, the bullet rocketing across the girl’s back just beneath the skin. But Dale and her family remained determined that Black students in Wilcox County should have access to the same educational opportunities as white children. She would march again — and face tear gas again.

Dale went on to become the county’s long-serving (and first female) tax assessor, a role that brought her into contact with every type of person — including the white people who had traumatized her and other Black children.

She tried to face her fear each day. She said she got to know people beyond the flashbacks and the years of fighting for basic rights like voting and school equality.

“I think it has helped me to embrace people more,” she said. “And to look beyond the evil side.”

Unlike many Black residents of Wilcox County during the 1950s and 1960s, Betty Anderson’s father did not work for a white man. For more than four decades, Joe Anderson ran the Camden Shoe Shop in the heart of downtown. Because he was his own boss, he joined local actions in the Civil Rights Movement without the fear for his livelihood that others, including sharecropping families, faced.

When his health declined in 2006, Betty Anderson moved back to help him. She had spent 42 years away, including a stint modeling in New York, but quickly became a fixture again in Wilcox County.

To honor her father and other family members, she opened the Camden Shoe Shop & Quilt Museum in his old building. The sidewalk leading up to it is painted shades of rose, azure and forest green. A pillow embroidered with “Welcome” sits on the arm of an old chair adorned with flowers. Inside its colorful doors awaits an array of artwork and historical memorabilia, much of it from her own relatives.

Her whole family was involved in the Civil Rights Movement. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. visited their home. Activists stayed with them. Her grandmother and other family living in nearby Gee’s Bend made quilts to earn money for demonstrators’ gas and other needs.

The museum features quilts made by her great-great-grandmother, who had been enslaved and passed the craft down to later generations. Her father’s 1965 voting card and his 1967 NAACP membership card are on display. So are the jeans and a shoe Anderson herself wore in the historic 1965 march from the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma to the state capital of Montgomery, Alabama, 54 miles away. Her Converse — black with a red stripe — has two golf-ball-sized holes worn into its sole.

Anderson marched again for voting rights in Camden a few weeks later with classmates from her school. Although Wilcox County was mostly Black, virtually none of its registered voters were. Police arrested her middle brother. They jailed her youngest brother, just 8 years old, in Selma. For hours, nobody knew where he was.

Despite the pain she lived through, Anderson is one of the people in Camden who seems to know everyone in town — Black and white. An upbeat and gregarious woman, she has no qualms crossing racial lines and is a frequent presence at activities held by both Black and white residents. She opens her eclectic museum as a local gathering spot.

Frequent visitors include the women who work in the nearby Black Belt Treasures Cultural Arts Center. Anderson is an artist in residence there, but the organization means much more to her. In a town where white and Black neighbors remain apart in many ways, she and the white women who run it have become close friends.

When Black Belt Treasures launched in 2005, one goal rose above others: Its founders wanted to craft a new narrative, one that had gone largely untold in a region often defined by poverty and need.

To do this, they wanted to draw people off the interstate and into Alabama’s Black Belt — particularly Camden, in the heart of it — to see for themselves.

“We have gotten so much negative press and yet there’s a richness of life here,” Executive Director Sulynn Creswell said. “We have problems, but there are many, many talented, gifted people who live in this region.”

Among other things, Black Belt Treasures operates a gallery in a former car dealership that is now filled with paintings and pottery and quilts fashioned by hundreds of artists from across the region. Its staffers also work with tourism efforts and take myriad arts programs out into schools and the broader community.

Creswell and the center’s other employees have been key players in revitalizing downtown Camden, including playing a role in the creation of a colorful “Revolution of Joy” mural on a building between their gallery and Betty Anderson’s museum. All of their names are painted on it, along with those of a diverse group of people from around the county who came together to add their own artistic touches. Creswell and Kristin Law, who directs the center’s art programs and marketing, also were founding members of a local racial reconciliation group. The women, who are white, emphasized that they want the community to come together more — and they see the arts as a prime vehicle for that.

“Yes, we have had our bad history,” Law said. “But we are also a beautiful place with beautiful people, and we’re all trying to work together to make a better place.”

That includes two teenagers who work with them. Jazmyne Posey is a Black student at the local public high school. While working in the gallery, she met and befriended Law’s daughter, Samantha Cook, who is white and attends Wilcox Academy, the local private school. The other key women on staff here also have sent their children to the academy.

In a town that is otherwise still segregated, especially in its schools, the two teenagers forged a friendship that likely would never have happened if they had relied on their school encounters.

In 1975, a few years after the private Wilcox Academy opened in Camden when schools were being desegregated, a young white woman named Susan McIntyre took a job there.

During her 12 years teaching French, she admired the school’s instruction and met families whose ancestors had owned plantations in the area. She sent her two daughters to the school and became close friends with another white woman whose children were about the same age.

Back then, it was unheard of, she said, for a Black student to attend the academy, and none did. After growing up in a white world, she didn’t think much about why.

Later, she took a job teaching in the county’s mostly Black public schools, where she still works. She interacted with Black students and teachers far more than ever before in her life.

One day, while watching a group of Black students, a thought struck her. She wondered what message generations of school segregation had sent them. It was, she feared, an unjust lesson of inferiority.

She began to read every book she could find in the local library about slavery. She dug into the ways desegregation played out in Wilcox County — and how it continues to affect students. It was hard to ignore the role Wilcox Academy had played in the continued segregation of students.

“This is the thing that’s haunted me for years,” she said. “What if we had never started the private school?”

The public schools in Wilcox County remain nearly all Black. But in recent years, a few Black students have crossed the county’s racial divide to enroll at the academy.

In August 2020, McIntyre’s granddaughter Anna Crosswhite was about to start her junior year at Wilcox Academy when she volunteered to be a water girl for the football team. One day, she noticed four Black students watching practice. Recognizing a couple of them from her brother’s summer baseball league, she walked over to say hello.

The guys explained that COVID-19 had shut down the public school’s football season. As upperclassmen, they didn’t want to miss their last years of high school sports and they were thinking of applying to the academy.

Crosswhite, who is white and has an adopted brother from China, was excited about the prospect of the academy’s student body becoming more diverse.She only knew of one Black student at the school. And with just 23 students in her class, she liked the possibility of new friends.

She also thought back to when she was younger and volunteered at BAMA Kids Inc., a local nonprofit. Once in a while, she heard Black youth volunteers say things like, “Girl, we’re not allowed at your school.” Maybe the new students would help change that perception.

But old notions lingered. She said she heard pushback from other academy students, although she didn’t want to divulge details that would identify her classmates.

“We were 50 years behind,” she said. “I didn’t realize how behind we were.”

The academy admitted the football players, and Crosswhite said she became friends with them. Although they hung out on the weekends and often went out to eat together, she never went into any of their homes. But she got to know them far better than she would have if they hadn’t gone to school together.

Now a student at Auburn University, she is studying to become a teacher and sees how those friendships better prepared her for what she calls “the real world.”

When a bell blared at Wilcox Central High School one morning this spring, the principal slipped from behind his desk beneath a stuffed deer head with blue school baseball caps propped on its antlers.

Curtis Black emerged into a hallway filled with students who, like him, grew up in a segregated school. Not a single white student attended the one he went to in a neighboring county. He realized the detriments of isolating students this way when he arrived at college and encountered a wider variety of people.

Due to population decline in Wilcox County, the school operates in a building far bigger than its student body of about 400 can fill. Where once the county had three public high schools, it now has just this one. When the centralized school opened in this building near downtown Camden, complete with a competition-size swimming pool, many hoped it offered what white parents wanted — and that they might give it a chance.

That didn’t happen. But Black carefully avoided criticizing Wilcox Academy. Instead, he rattled off programs that his school offers. Students can access the high school’s medical-training lab, its agriculture lab, its welding lab. They can take dual credit courses with area community colleges. They can earn certifications.

As principal, he wants to create broader opportunities for his students, many of whom descend from people who were enslaved in this area. Their grandparents were traumatized by violent reactions to the Civil Rights Movement. His goals include exposing them more to the outside world and providing them the academic tools to land quality jobs out of high school or to succeed in college.

This spring, walking down the school’s hallways, he pointed to the senior class.

“In two or three months, they’re going to be around people from different backgrounds, different ethnic groups, different Christian groups,” Black said. “So we need that exposure.”

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This content originally appeared on ProPublica and was authored by by Jennifer Berry Hawes, photography by Sarahbeth Maney.

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Key Mississippi lawmakers have introduced several bills that would drastically limit when people can be jailed without criminal charges as they await court-ordered psychiatric treatment.

The proposals follow an investigation by Mississippi Today and ProPublica finding that hundreds of people in the state are jailed without charges every year as they go through the civil commitment process, in which a judge can force people to undergo treatment if they’re deemed dangerous to themselves or others. People who were jailed said they were treated like criminal defendants and received no mental health care. Since 2006, at least 17 people have died after being jailed during the commitment process, raising questions about whether jails can protect people in the midst of a mental health crisis.

Civil rights lawyers contend Mississippi’s practice is unconstitutional because it amounts to punishing people for mental illness, but the state’s civil commitment law allows it. That law spells out the process by which people suffering from severe mental illness can be detained, evaluated and ordered into treatment. Under the law, those people can be held in jail until they’re admitted to a state psychiatric hospital or another mental health facility if there is “no reasonable alternative.” If there isn’t room at a publicly funded facility or open beds are too far away, local officials often conclude that they have no other option besides jail.

“Putting a person in jail because they’re hearing voices and you don’t know what to do with them — that’s not right,” said state Rep. Kevin Felsher, R-Biloxi, one of the lawmakers behind legislation to curtail the practice. The news stories, he said, showed that people are jailed for longer than he thought and that Mississippi is unique in doing so.

The proposals represent the biggest effort to change the state’s civil commitment process since at least 2010, according to a review of legislation and interviews with mental health advocates. That year, lawmakers standardized the commitment process across the state and gave county officials the option to call on crisis teams first. A measure that would have prohibited jail detentions altogether ultimately failed.

A bill proposed by Felsher would allow jail detentions during the commitment process only for “protective custody purposes and only while awaiting transportation” to a medical facility. It would restrict such detentions to 72 hours.

A bill authored by state Rep. Sam Creekmore, R-New Albany, chair of the House Public Health and Human Services Committee, would clamp down on the practice even more, allowing counties to jail people without criminal charges only if they are “actively violent” and for no longer than 24 hours.

The vast majority of the 2,000 jail detentions in 19 counties analyzed by Mississippi Today and ProPublica lasted longer than 24 hours. About 1,200 lasted longer than 72 hours. (Those figures include detentions between 2019 and 2022 for both mental illness and substance abuse; the legislation would address only the commitment process for mental illness.)

Creekmore’s bill, which passed out of committee without opposition Thursday, aims to reduce unnecessary commitments by generally requiring people to be screened for mental illness before paperwork can be filed to have them committed. Those screenings would be conducted in most cases by community mental health centers — independent organizations, partly funded by state grants, that are supposed to provide mental health care close to home. That bill also would require those organizations to treat people while they’re in jail.

A bill authored by Sen. Nicole Boyd, R-Oxford, to increase state oversight of community mental health centers contains language similar to Creekmore’s proposal restricting jail detentions. Her bill has been referred to the Judiciary A committee, which is chaired by one of its co-authors, Sen. Brice Wiggins, R-Pascagoula.

The bills would bring Mississippi more in line with other states that allow people going through the civil commitment process to be jailed in limited circumstances. South Dakota permits jail detentions without criminal charges but limits them to 24 hours. Wyoming permits them in an “extreme emergency” and only for 72 hours before a hearing.

The Mississippi Department of Mental Health says reforming the commitment process is a priority this legislative session. “We don’t want someone to have to wait in jail simply because they need mental health treatment,” said Wendy Bailey, director of the agency, at a January conference attended by county officials from all over the state.

I think you’ll find all 82 clerks, all 82 sheriffs, all 400 supervisors understand that the jail is not the place they need to be. But there has to be a place. If it’s not the jail, there has to be a place available.

But the Mississippi Association of Supervisors, which represents county governments, has raised questions about whether the bills would force county officials to spend more money. Under state law, counties are responsible for housing residents going through the commitment process until they are admitted to a state hospital. Some local officials contend they don’t have any place other than jail to put people.

“I think you’ll find all 82 clerks, all 82 sheriffs, all 400 supervisors understand that the jail is not the place they need to be,” said Bill Benson, who as Lee County’s chancery clerk coordinates the commitment process there. “But there has to be a place. If it’s not the jail, there has to be a place available.”

Derrick Surrette, executive director of the Mississippi Association of Supervisors, said county leaders are “all for” keeping people out of jail while they wait for mental health care. But, he said, they’re concerned that they’ll be forced to pay for treatment in private facilities because there aren’t enough publicly funded beds. None of the proposals would expand publicly funded treatment beds, nor would they provide funding to counties. The association hasn’t taken a position on the bills to limit jail detentions.

“It’s a whole lot of legislation being proposed telling the county and a regional mental facility what to do,” Surrette said. “Is there very much in there telling what the state shall do?”

The Department of Mental Health advises local officials to direct people who need help to outpatient mental health care when appropriate and to rely on the civil commitment process only when needed. If the commitment process can’t be avoided, the department says officials should work with their local community mental health centers to seek alternatives to jail.

The state has expanded the number of beds in crisis stabilization units, which are designed to provide short-term treatment in a less restrictive setting than state hospitals. Chancery clerks and sheriff’s deputies complain that those facilities frequently refuse to accept people they deem to be violent or in need of additional medical care, though state data shows those refusals are declining.

An additional bill filed by Felsher would require counties to pay for care at a medical facility if a judge has ordered someone into treatment, no publicly funded bed is available and the person can’t pay for treatment. Although the Mississippi Association of Supervisors hasn’t taken a position on that bill, either, it opposed a similar provision last year because the measure didn’t provide any funding.

At a hearing in November 2022, Felsher asked Benson, the chancery clerk in Lee County, whether he would support his county paying hospitals to treat residents as an alternative to jail. Benson responded that if he did, “My supervisors would hang me.”

Benson said in an interview that it costs just $40 a day on average to jail someone in Lee County. By contrast, Neshoba County, which is among those that contract with private providers, pays between $625 and $675 a day to Alliance Health Center to treat county residents when no public bed is available.

Felsher said he hopes to expand the availability of public treatment facilities so counties aren’t on the hook except in rare circumstances. But he also said he believes the cost of alternatives can’t justify jailing people who haven’t been charged with crimes.

“We can’t send people with mental illness to jail because the county doesn’t want to pay for it,” he said. “If it is a fight, it’s a fight that I will have. We may not win it, but we’ll have it.”

Staffers with Disability Rights Mississippi say the bills don’t go far enough because they don’t ban jail detentions outright. At least a dozen states, including neighboring Alabama, Louisiana and Tennessee, have done so.

Without such a ban, Disability Rights Mississippi staff say they’re planning to sue the state and some counties, alleging the practice is unconstitutional. A federal lawsuit in Alabama led to a ruling in 1984 prohibiting the practice there.

“Mississippi Today’s reporting has revealed the horrifying scope of this problem, including those who have met an untimely death and data to back it up,” said Polly Tribble, the organization’s director. “I hope that, in light of these dire situations, the Legislature will be motivated to address these issues.”

Bailey, head of the state Department of Mental Health, said she was not aware of the possibility of litigation until Mississippi Today asked about it. She said her agency is working to find ways to make sure people get mental health treatment without going through the civil commitment process, and to restrict the use of jail when they do.

Agnel Philip of ProPublica contributed reporting and Mollie Simon of ProPublica contributed research.

This content originally appeared on Articles and Investigations - ProPublica and was authored by by Isabelle Taft, Mississippi Today.

This content originally appeared on The Intercept and was authored by Jordan Smith.

Exonerated for the Elderly Mother and Daughter Murders

Mr. Manning was unjustly condemned to death for two separate double murders and has been exonerated of the 1993, case of murdering an elderly mother and daughter in Starkville, Mississippi. The Mississippi Supreme Court recognized vital evidence was hidden, showing that the state’s main witness lied for self-benefit.

The State’s Case against Willie Manning

Two college students, Tiffany Miller and Jon Steckler were found murdered on December 11, 1992. Four months later, in April of 1993, Manning became a primary suspect. The Oktibbeha County Mississippi Circuit Court appointed post-conviction lawyers twice. Both times the attorneys withdrew because they were not familiar with state post-conviction and federal habeas corpus practices. Meanwhile, an exceptionally experienced attorney in post-conviction and federal habeas corpus practice had the desire to represent Mr. Manning, and the circuit court of Oktibbeha County Mississippi ignored the attorney’s motion.

In the parking lot of an apartment building, Tiffany Miller’s vehicle was discovered double-parked. The car was a two-seater and evidence that Jon Steckler had been run over was clear from his blood found underneath the vehicle.  Sheriff Dolph Bryan assumed a connection between the murders and a previous car break-in. Bryan’s theory lacked concrete evidence as he believed the murder victims interrupted a theft in progress from John Wise’s car burglary. The break-in occurred at a fraternity house parking lot on the campus of Mississippi State University. The burglarized car belonged to Wise, who reported missing items which included a leather jacket, a portable CD player, and a brass restroom token. Some of the local businesses used brass tokens for entering their restrooms, and one was found near the murder victims, about five miles from the house Willie lived in with his mother. John Wise declared that the discovered coin exhibited a shiny appearance, contrasting with his own, which did not.

The sheriff created a scenario of the perpetrator forcing Miller and Steckler into Miller’s car, with Tiffany Miller sitting on Willie Manning’s lap and Jon Steckler driving. After reaching the destination, the sheriff surmised that the victims were forced out of Miller’s car and shot, after which the murderer drove the car to an apartment complex and abandoned it. Sheriff Dolph Bryan orchestrated this entire crime scene without physical evidence or witnesses.

This investigation resulted in Manning’s conviction, which was partially based on the discovery of a hair fragment belonging to a Black individual in Miller’s car. The hair fragment was admitted as evidence, and as a result, the sheriff and prosecutor implied Mr. Manning’s presence in the vehicle. The Department of Justice has acknowledged that the FBI’s hair analysis testimony at Manning’s trial was unreliable and false.  Mr. Manning is actively contesting his conviction of the double homicide.

Fabricated Testimonies and Sheriff Dolph Bryan

The case against Willie Manning is fundamentally weak, as it’s characterized by speculative assumptions from Sheriff Bryan, fabricated testimonies, and questionable forensic analysis, including the use of discredited hair follicle science. Willie Manning was convicted on jailhouse informant testimony made by Earl Jordan, Frank Parker, and Renee Hathorn. Each of the sheriff’s informants was facing prison time for criminal charges. Every jailhouse informant gave fabricated testimonies in return for reduced sentences or total exoneration, with two of them receiving financial rewards.

According to Earl Jordan’s affidavit, the sheriff indirectly made it clear that he would assist Jordan with his habitual offender charges in exchange for helping him with Manning. The sheriff and Jordan met four or five times and Jordan’s testimony was fabricated under the sheriff’s influence. In exchange, Jordan received some reward money and a 3-year sentence reduced to time served. Jordan submitted an affidavit because Dolph Bryan was no longer the sheriff. Bryan served as sheriff of Oktibbeha County from 1976-2012.

Similarly, Frank Parker’s testimony included claims of overhearing Manning confess to a cellmate about disposing of a gun and admitting to the murders. An affidavit from Willie’s cellmate challenges the credibility of this statement. Parker also stated he was fleeing charges in Texas and turned himself in at the jail in Mississippi.

Parker’s uncle, who housed Frank for over a decade, informed law enforcement about his nephew’s longstanding dishonesty. He recounted an incident where, during their absence, Frank cleared out their house and pawned their valuables. Frank’s uncle filed charges against him and subsequently informed law enforcement in Oktibbeha County that he would not consider Frank as a witness in any case, due to his lack of trustworthiness.

Renee Hathorn was Willie’s girlfriend at the time and her role was particularly pivotal. Hathorn testified against Manning for the defense. In an affidavit, she states that Sheriff Dolph Bryan pressured her into getting Willie to confess to the murders of Steckler and Miller. He never did, he consistently maintained his innocence. She also visited with Willie in his jail cell at night from time to time, while wearing a wire. Sheriff Dolph Bryan also met with her to discuss and rehearse her trial testimony. Before testifying during the trial, the sheriff gave her money, paid her bills sometimes, and also paid for some furniture. He additionally picked her up and purchased food from a fast food restaurant. Hathorn was facing from 8-10 years in prison and additional years on parole for a total of 33 bad checks in Oktibbeha and Lowndes Counties. She additionally states that she accrued bad check charges in Macon, Clay, and Jackson counties. She owed more than $10,000 in fraudulent checks and court fees. All of this was erased in exchange for her fabricated testimony. Additionally, she received $17,500 in reward money.

No Witnesses, Physical Evidence, DNA, Fingerprints or Fibers

The forensic analysis of hair by the FBI failed to conclusively establish a match between the hair discovered in the vehicle, where two students from Mississippi State were allegedly apprehended, and Willie Jerome Manning. The initial classification of the hair as originating from a Black individual was a critical factor in implicating Mr. Manning in the murder. There is an absence of definitive physical evidence connecting Manning to the crime. There are no witnesses, fingerprints, DNA, or blood, and there are not any fibers. The prosecution’s argument hinged primarily on the testimony of prison informants and a hair that the FBI initially claimed was consistent with a Black person. However, the FBI later withdrew this claim, admitting that such a conclusion surpasses the scientific validity of hair analysis, thereby rendering it unreliable and scientifically unsound.  Mr. Manning underwent trial, was found guilty, and subsequently sentenced to death row, based on contrived testimonies from jailhouse informants, prepared and orchestrated by Sheriff Dolph Bryan.

The prosecution in Willie Manning’s case relied on several key pieces of fabricated evidence. Testimonies from informants such as Earl Jordan and Frank Parker, who later admitted their statements were false and put them under pressure in exchange for wiping their criminal slates clean.

The role of the prosecutor was crucial in assembling and presenting these elements as part of the case against Manning. The prosecution’s case against Mr. Manning included forensic evidence, deemed unreliable. An expert asserted that bullets recovered from a tree in Manning’s yard were discharged from the same firearm used in the students’ murder, claiming this to the exclusion of all other firearms globally. However, current forensic science discredits such bullet comparisons as invalid. Mr. Manning has submitted a new petition to the Mississippi Supreme Court to contest his convictions in this case. Should this petition be rejected, it could lead to the court setting an execution date for him.

This article was composed using information sourced from the following petition:

Willie Jerome Manning, Petitioner, v. State of Mississippi, Respondent. In The Supreme Court of Mississippi, No. 2023-DR-01076. Motion for Leave to File Successive Petition for Post-Conviction Relief. Attorneys: Krissy C. Nobile, Robert S. Mink, Sr., David P. Voisin,  Clocked: September 29, 2023, 19:24:16.

This content originally appeared on Dissident Voice and was authored by Nancy Lockhart, M.J..

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The Serial podcast series “The Kids of Rutherford County” begins with a hum. It’s a low hum, sort of ominous, that lasts for two or three seconds before the podcast’s host, Meribah Knight, comes in with, “It was a March afternoon in Rutherford County, Tennessee …”

The hum is a bass note, a low F, the lowest note J.R. Kaufman can play on his accordion in the Los Angeles home-slash-studio he shares with his half-brother and bandmate Justin Rubenstein. Once Knight begins speaking, Kaufman’s note slips beneath her voice, still there, but in the background.

The stories investigative reporters tell have drama. They have tension and tragedy, a natural fit for orchestration. (See, for example, “The Night Doctrine,” an animated film from ProPublica with music by Afghan composer Milad Yousufi.) Words and instruments work in tandem, as evidenced by the opening of “The Kids of Rutherford County.”

That March afternoon, Knight says, school was out for the day, “and a dozen or so little kids were playing a game of pickup basketball in someone’s backyard.” An upright bass comes in, doubled with Moog synthesizer, making four low thumps. “And then, as kids do, one said something about another kid’s mom,” Knight says. A Juno synthesizer runs through a bunch of guitar pedals, and then a high, oscillating melody arrives, from flutes and clarinets. The insult leads to shoving, Knight says, and shoving leads to a couple of feeble punches. Enter trumpet, harp and electric bass, all still in the background, kind of hidden, the music swirling, in step with the story.

Knight introduces the series, “This is ‘The Kids of Rutherford County,’” and as she finishes speaking, the music comes out of hiding; drums kick in, there’s guitar, a dash of pedal steel, and an explosion of trumpet, trombone and saxophone. It is here, for about 25 seconds, that the listener gets to appreciate the name of Rubenstein’s and Kaufman’s band — The Blasting Company — before the music slips back beneath the surface of the words.

This podcast series originated with a print story that Knight, a reporter at Nashville Public Radio, did in partnership with ProPublica. The story detailed how Rutherford County, southeast of Nashville, had illegally jailed hundreds, if not thousands, of children. After that story published in 2021, ProPublica and Nashville Public Radio partnered with Serial and The New York Times to produce a four-part podcast.

For ProPublica, partnering with Serial meant we got to watch colleagues do something we rarely do. We saw them set investigative reporting to music.

Between the two of them, Rubenstein and Kaufman play at least 22 different instruments on the podcast. Those instruments include the expected (violin, piano) and the less expected (pedal steel guitar). Rubenstein plays a lot of brass and strings, Kaufman a lot of woodwinds and keyboards. They also brought in five friends to play. Kaufman, asked to describe the podcast’s music, says, “I was calling it minimalist country classical synth music, and then Justin added, ‘with maximal tendencies.’”

In an Instagram post, Rubenstein and Kaufman joke that the music reflects their “super inclusive musical methodology: All instruments, everywhere, at all times.”

Rubenstein and Kaufman did not study music at a conservatory. Their education was more organic. Both played cello as kids, and it kind of rolled from there. “I basically learned the piano by not practicing cello,” Kaufman says. Rubenstein picked up the guitar because it was cool. As a young adult, Rubenstein, with a friend, bought a short school bus for $2,000, converted it to run on vegetable oil, and then moved into it with his brother. They lived on the bus while busking across the country, Kaufman on accordion, Rubenstein the trombone. The brothers formed The Blasting Company 15 years ago.

While Kaufman and Rubenstein are the composers, the conductor is Phoebe Wang, Serial’s senior sound designer and mixer. She finds the musicians and commissions the score, working with the musicians on the mood she’s looking for. Then she stitches and weaves the music throughout the story.

With “The Kids of Rutherford County,” Wang wanted the music to convey a sense of place. At the same time, “I didn’t want it to sound like a caricature of southern culture,” she says. She wanted music that isn’t too cleaned up or precious, that makes people feel something.

Wang found The Blasting Company courtesy of Spotify, when their hauntingly gorgeous song “Candy” popped up in her Discover Weekly mixtape. For Kaufman and Rubenstein, getting noticed in roundabout ways is kind of a thing. They got hired to score “Over the Garden Wall,” an animated miniseries on Cartoon Network, after one of the show’s writers heard them busking at the Hollywood Farmers Market. For this podcast, providing a sense of place would not be a reach. The two were born and raised in Nashville, next to Rutherford County.

Julie Snyder is Serial’s executive editor and its co-creator. She says that when scoring a podcast, she wants the music to help with comprehension most of all. These are long stories. There’s a lot of talking. Music can act like a cue for your brain. When music starts, you pay attention. When it stops, you pay attention. Music can be used in the same way that a section break is used in print.

With “The Kids of Rutherford County,” the score can be traced to a spirit of experimentation. On Zoom calls with Wang and Daniel Guillemette, a senior producer for Serial, the two musicians had woodwinds, horns, keyboards and whatnot scattered about, visible in their background. Rubenstein remembers the pair from Serial spying different instruments and saying, “Try that thing, try that.”

“We were game to try anything,” Rubenstein says.

In the end, Serial used close to 20 tracks that The Blasting Company created for the show.

Wang, asked to illustrate how she used particular tracks in the podcast, highlighted three:

“Mother’s Children” is the podcast’s theme song. It’s the track described at the top of this story and used in the beginning of the podcast’s first episode, as a childhood scrap blows up into something more. Wang calls it a “beautiful, ambient track” that is a slow burn. “It feels like it’s setting something up.” Since it moves slowly, she wanted it to deliver a real payoff — and that payoff is the blast that comes when Knight finishes her introduction. “It’s like the world is opening up to you,” Wang says of that moment.

For Kaufman and Rubenstein, that moment in the song is memorable because it’s the one time they were asked to go bigger. Most other times, with most other tracks, they were asked to be more restrained. But in this instance, as Wang kept requesting more, Rubenstein kept layering in trombones and trumpets while Kaufman added saxophones.

The “Stone Door” track — named for a hiking trail in Tennessee’s South Cumberland State Park, is threaded throughout the show. It was inspired by chamber music — a piece for a string quartet by Maurice Ravel, specifically — to which the composers added a clarinet section reminiscent of Tchaikovsky, then layered in electric guitar and rock drums. For Wang, this track provided “a feeling that something is off.” And that’s what The Blasting Company was going for. While scoring the podcast, Rubenstein says, “we’re thinking of the cognitive dissonance in the show, that things are always on the verge of falling apart.”

In Episode 1, the song starts within the first 10 minutes, as a child is writing down names for a police officer. (This will lead to all kinds of trouble.) In Episode 2, the track plays as a lawyer, flabbergasted at what’s before him, looks around a courtroom and thinks, “What the hell are you people doing?” In the third episode, the song comes in as Knight describes the tension between two realities: what the lawyers see (an illegal operation) and what the judge sees (a system with sound criteria). And in the final episode, the track appears one last time, as lawyers who have sued the county are driving around, searching, futilely, for potential plaintiffs who stand to be compensated, if only they can be found.

Kaufman remembers sitting on the floor, on a yoga mat as Rubenstein began playing a beautiful melody on the violin that would become “Rites of Passage.” It was “bendy” and “slidy,” Kaufman says. They added guitar, flute, other strings and drums, and sent it to Wang. Wang remembers listening to the song for the first time. “This is a special track,” she thought to herself. The strings were enveloping. Listening, she got a sense of place. She wound up using the track in a special spot at the end of Episode 1. The track plays as Knight describes how Rutherford County has been jailing a staggering number of children, so many that for the county’s kids, getting jailed was “almost a rite of passage.” The end of an episode is one of Wang’s favorite places for her favorite pieces of music, because the listener sits with the song. It’s a place for the music to shine.

This content originally appeared on Articles and Investigations - ProPublica and was authored by by Ken Armstrong.

ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up for Dispatches, a newsletter that spotlights wrongdoing around the country, to receive our stories in your inbox every week. This podcast was created with Serial/The New York Times and WPLN/Nashville Public Radio.

When a video surfaced of an after-school scuffle, 11 Black children were arrested. Their crime: not stepping in to stop a fight. The arrests set off a firestorm of controversy — and an investigation into the juvenile justice practices in one Tennessee county.

Reporters Meribah Knight with Nashville Public Radio and Ken Armstrong with ProPublica obtained years’ worth of personnel files, state inspection reports, emails, depositions and other records, and reports from all 98 juvenile courts in the state.

What they discovered was that for more than a decade, Rutherford County had arrested and illegally jailed hundreds of children. And behind those decisions was a powerful judge, Donna Scott Davenport, who went unchecked by higher authorities in Tennessee.

That work, done through ProPublica’s Local Reporting Network, led to a series of stories; it also led to an outcry from community leaders and Tennessee lawmakers. The university where Davenport taught a criminal justice class cut ties with her; members of Congress asked the Department of Justice to open an investigation into the county’s juvenile justice system; and Davenport announced that she would step down in 2022 rather than run for reelection.

There was, however, more to tell. In collaboration with Serial Productions and The New York Times, Knight reported and hosted a podcast about the two down-on-their luck lawyers who recognized the broken system and tried to shut it down. “The Kids of Rutherford County” is a four-part narrative series that reveals a juvenile court shrouded by confidentiality rules, illuminating how something so secretive and illegal was allowed to grow. How did this happen? What does it take to stop it? And will the people in charge face any consequences?

Listen to the entire series in the audio player below, or follow the link to your favorite podcast app.

• Apple Podcasts
• Spotify
• Amazon Music
• Google Podcasts

A video of little kids fighting in Rutherford County, Tennessee, comes to the attention of a local police officer. Her investigation leads to the arrest of 11 kids for watching the fight. The arrests do not go smoothly.

The arrests lead to a public scandal. But there seems to be a difference in how people on the outside of this juvenile justice system see things and how people on the inside do. What the outside world will eventually learn is that this juvenile justice system has been locking kids up illegally.

A young lawyer named Wes Clark begins defending kids at the Rutherford County juvenile court. He quickly sees a troubling pattern: kids jailed for minor offenses, even when the law says they shouldn’t be. But he can’t always persuade the juvenile judge to let those kids out.

Wes is frustrated and demoralized, even more so because no one else at the court seems to think there’s a problem with how things are done there.

That is until Wes meets another lawyer who sees things the way he does. When one of Wes’ clients is held in solitary confinement, they both think they have a case that might finally allow them to strike back.

After winning their solitary case, Wes Clark and his law partner Mark Downton get a call from the ACLU: Would they like to represent some kids who were arrested for watching a fight? As Wes begins his research into the case, he comes across a line in a police report saying there was a “judicial requirement” to arrest kids. From this he learns some Rutherford County policies for arresting and jailing kids violate the law. He and Mark realize they have a massive class-action lawsuit on their hands.

The lawyers settle their case on behalf of the kids wrongfully arrested or illegally jailed by Rutherford County. The county ends its illegal detention policy, and some kids who were wronged by the system get paid. But none of the people behind the illegal policies face serious consequences. So what’s changed in Rutherford County, and what hasn’t?

This content originally appeared on Articles and Investigations - ProPublica and was authored by by ProPublica.

We're running this interview again at the request of a Gaslit Nation listener who would like to share this interview and film with their Congressional representative, to demand an end to the "silent genocide" deliberately engineered on the U.S. southern border. We strongly urge you to talk to your representatives wherever you live to help build a culture of change. 

An all new episode of Gaslit Nation will be out this evening, as usual. Thank you to everyone in our community of listeners who work to build a better world and sustainable future for everyone. 

This content originally appeared on Gaslit Nation and was authored by Andrea Chalupa.

The resolution is the culmination of years of advocacy by Chrissy and Art Holt, Phil Ateto and Rob Smith, all members of the Maryland Progressive Healthcare Coalition, with support from National Nurses United Progressive Maryland, Our Revolution Maryland and Public Citizen.

Lisa Rodvien, who represents Anne Arundel County's 6th District, introduced the resolution. “This resolution will add another voice to the growing call for Medicare for All,” said Rodvien. “It is long past time to ensure that every American, regardless of income or employment status, has access to comprehensive healthcare.”

Anne Arundel County is the sixth municipality in Maryland and the 125th nationwide to pass a resolution in support of Medicare for All, following Prince George’s County, Montgomery County, Charles County, Annapolis and Frederick.

The Anne Arundel County health department cites the persistence of racial, income, and geographic disparities in health measures for county residents, noting a 15-year difference in life expectancy between the census tracts with the lowest and highest life expectancies in the county. In 2020, COVID-19 caused 19.8% of deaths for Hispanic residents, compared to 5.9% of white residents. At the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, 18% of Hispanics and 6.9% of Asians in Anne Arundel County were uninsured, compared to 3.2% of white residents.

Medicare for All is single-payer, universal healthcare represented by two federal bills: S-1655 in the Senate, introduced by Bernie Sanders (D-VT); and HR-3421, led by Rep. Pramila Jayapal (D-WA). Medicare for All would be free at the point of service, include dental, vision, and long term care, and cover everyone. Studies have shown that Medicare for All would create better health outcomes, at significantly lower costs, resulting in savings for taxpayers, communities, and municipal, county, and state governments.

“The current health system is not sustainable or equitable,” said Chrissy Holt of Annapolis. “The global COVID-19 pandemic made it clear that we can’t afford not to have universal healthcare. On top of this, Medicare for All makes financial sense. According to the Congressional Budget Office, it would provide the American people and our entire healthcare system $650 billion each in savings each year, improve the economy, eliminate all out-of-pocket healthcare costs, and save precious lives.”

"Medicare for All would save our local government a chunk of money and provide quality healthcare to everyone in the county. It really is that simple,” said Phil Ateto of Annapolis.

"Yes, Anne Arundel County has a low overall uninsurance rate, but that hides a lot and we could do better,” said Robert E. Smith, a county resident in Crofton. “For example, according to Health Department statistics, in 2020, 18% of Hispanic residents were uninsured. COVID-19 became the leading cause of death for Hispanics, accounting for 19.8% of deaths. That’s unacceptable. The COVID-19 pandemic exposed shortcomings in terms of both access to and continuity of care within our current healthcare system. Medicare for All would guarantee health care for EVERYBODY and ALL THE TIME with no gaps in that care."

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams and was authored by Newswire Editor.

We look at the dire conditions inside the Fulton County Jail in Atlanta, where Donald Trump and his 18 co-defendants were recently booked. Ten prisoners have now died in the jail’s custody just this year — the latest on Sunday. Shawndre Delmore had been incarcerated pretrial for five months before he was found unresponsive in a cell on August 31. Delmore’s family is demanding answers as to why a previously healthy 24-year-old would so suddenly suffer from cardiac arrest, and is calling for an immediate independent investigation into conditions at the jail, which is already under federal investigation. “This is systemic. This is not a one-off,” says the family’s attorney Mawuli Mel Davis, whose firm represents three other families with relatives that have died at the jail in the past two years. In 2022, Fulton County Jail recorded 15 in-custody deaths, including that of Lashawn Thompson, a 35-year-old Black man who was “eaten alive” by insects and bedbugs in his cell. We also speak to Davis about another client, the family of Johnny Hollman Sr., a 62-year-old Black grandfather and church deacon who died after a traffic stop in August, and about the Republican Georgia attorney general’s sweeping indictment of 61 Cop City protesters on RICO charges. “This is fascism,” warns Davis. “This is an attempt to have a chilling effect on people who are organizing against police violence.”

This content originally appeared on Democracy Now! and was authored by Democracy Now!.

As former President Donald Trump prepares to surrender in Atlanta on Thursday to face charges related to his efforts to overturn the 2020 presidential election, we speak with journalist George Chidi, who has documented the inhumane conditions inside the Fulton County Jail, where Trump will appear before a judge. “A lot of people are getting killed” inside the jail, says Chidi. “The jail is the largest mental health provider in this county, and that’s a tragedy all on its own.” He also discusses the death of Lashawn Thompson, who was found dead inside his cell after being eaten alive by insects, according to family. Chidi writes The Atlanta Objective newsletter, and his recent piece for Atlanta magazine is headlined “The real behind the wall: A look inside the infamous, deadly Fulton County Jail.”

This content originally appeared on Democracy Now! and was authored by Democracy Now!.

In the backroom, surrounded by old typesetting and a long defunct printing press, it was relatively calm and orderly. The paper’s two-woman delivery team, Barb Creamer and Bev Baldwin, both retirees in their 70s, loaded up copies of the latest weekly edition—the first since police seized the newsroom’s computers, file servers, and reporters’ personal cellphones, triggering a national debate about press freedom in the United States.

“It’s not right, it’s just not right,” said Baldwin, wearing a red “Keep America Great” Trump 2024 shirt and denim shorts for her delivery run, of the August 11 raid.

“We still can’t believe it happened,” Creamer said, as she stacked papers into postal containers and reflected on the Friday raid, which Meyer believes contributed to the death on Saturday of his mother, 98-year-old co-owner Joan Meyer, after the police searched her home.

A small memorial with a photograph of Joan Meyer decorated with bright fake flowers was set up outside the paper’s office by the local Lutheran church. A few locals had stopped to leave bouquets ahead of her funeral, scheduled for August 19.

Creamer and Baldwin, who had been delivering the paper for four years, spoke fondly of Joan Meyer, who had been a writer and editor at the paper since the 1960s, and continued to run “Memories,” a weekly column about local history. This week’s column included entries about the return of an Afghanistan war veteran 15 years ago, a Christian Sunday school picnic 110 years ago, and a political convention 145 years ago. It appeared across the page from her obituary.

“She didn’t care who you were or what you did, she treated everyone the same,” said Baldwin, bemused by, but grateful for, the flurry of media interest in the small Kansas paper.

Marion County Record’s four-person newsroom worked until 5 a.m. Wednesday to get the paper to the printer. It was a grueling task as the police had confiscated vital equipment, including formatting templates and hard drives.

“I didn’t know what an all-nighter really was,” said staff reporter Phyllis Zorn, 63, who wrote five stories despite her phone and computer being in police custody.

The team took turns using the computer of the part-time sports reporter and photographer, and several other devices that police did not seize. Meyer, Zorn, and staff reporter Deb Gruver were sealed off in the back of the office, while the head of the Kansas Press Association, Emily Bradbury, answered phones and visiting reporters’ questions.

The headline for Wednesday’s paper in giant bold font, “SEIZED…but not silenced,” captured the defiant mood of the newsroom, days after Marion Police Department officers executed a warrant to search for devices used to access the Kansas Department of Revenue records and records relating to a local restaurant owner.

CPJ and more than 30 other press freedom advocates condemned the raid as overly broad and intrusive—”particularly when other investigative steps may have been available”—and potentially violating federal law that limits law enforcement’s ability to search newsrooms.

CPJ’s calls and emailed request for comment to Marion County Police Chief Gideon Cody, who said Sunday that the raid was legal and tied to an investigation, were unanswered.

Meyer, 69, said he was determined to keep the Marion County Record going. His father worked at the paper from 1948, purchased it in 1998, and gave it to his wife and son in 2005, the year before he died. Meyer returned home to Marion three years ago to run the paper, leaving his job as an associate professor of journalism at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign.

“The last thing we want to do is to have people believe that we stopped publishing,” Meyer said, after giving an impromptu press conference to the small scrum of reporters who had appeared in his newsroom. “If we hadn’t been able to figure out how to get the computers together, Phyllis and I and everybody else would be handwriting Post-it notes and putting them on doors around town.”

Many people, in Marion and beyond, clearly backed him. Locals stopped by to offer support, while staff and volunteers fielded calls from well-wishers, journalists, and new subscribers from California to Florida, and England to New Zealand.

Office manager Cheri Bentz said that it was heartwarming to receive help from so many of the town’s 2,000 residents.

“That’s the way with a small town, we’re all supposed to look out for each other,” she said, her desk piled with new subscriber requests and notes from the many phone calls she had taken, while she also formatted the paper and uploaded it to the internet.

Dennis Calvert, a 67-year-old U.S. Navy veteran, drove an hour north to Marion from Wichita to purchase a six-month subscription. “It just shoves a burr up my butt, and it’s the kind of thing that shouldn’t be tolerated,” said Calvert, wearing a baseball cap emblazoned with the Great Seal and the words “Dysfunctional veteran.”

Since August 11, the paper received over 2,000 new subscriptions, a huge boost to its pre-raid subscriber base of 4,000, Meyer said.

“Assuming everything comes back, then we can start downloading the literally thousands of email messages we have received,” Meyer said, wryly noting that he was curious to find out whether one new subscriber, Laura Kelly, was the Kansas governor or merely shared her name.

Becoming serious, Meyer said he appreciated how many people had rallied round to get the paper back on its feet.

“Hopefully other places will see that if you run into trouble, there will be people who can help you out,” Meyer said.

He has already secured one victory.

On Wednesday, Marion County’s prosecutor withdrew the search warrant, saying there was insufficient evidence for it. The paper’s staff retrieved their devices from the police and turned them over to a forensic examiner, who was working with their legal team, to assess whether law enforcement had accessed them.

Meanwhile, it was business as usual for the delivery team. Creamer pulled up in her black SUV outside Creamer Dale’s Supermarket in Hillsboro, some 10 miles west of Marion.

“I bet these’ll all sell out,” she said happily, after pushing a stack of Marion County Records into a rusty red newspaper dispenser standing next to soda pop machines outside the store.

Along her 50-mile route, Creamer quickly popped in and out of gas station stations, grocery stores, and a post office, delivering thick stacks of the newspapers.

“Finally! We’ve had people in here all day looking for the papers,” said one convenience store cashier, as Creamer dropped off the new edition.  

“Well, be thankful they’re here!” Creamer replied sweetly, before squeezing back behind three mini rubber ducks and a delivery tally sheet on her dashboard, turning the air conditioning up full blast, and setting off to deliver the slowly shrinking pile of papers in the trunk behind her.

This content originally appeared on Committee to Protect Journalists and was authored by Katherine Jacobsen.

“Our first priority is to be able to publish next week,” Meyer said in an article on the Marion Record’s website. “But we also want to make sure no other news organization is ever exposed to the Gestapo tactics we witnessed today. We will be seeking the maximum sanctions possible under law.”

The police action raised concerns among press freedom groups — including CPJ – and national news organizations about the possible violation of federal law limiting local law enforcement’s ability to search newsrooms.

In a letter sent to Marion Police Chief Gideon Cody on Sunday, attorneys for Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press noted that, “under any circumstances, the raid and seizure appeared overbroad and unduly intrusive.” The letter was signed by CPJ along with more than 30 media outlets.

The use of search warrants against journalists remains rare in the United States, according to statistics maintained by the U.S. Press Freedom Tracker, a CPJ partner. In 2019, San Francisco law enforcement and federal agents seized unreported source material from the home office of freelance video reporter Brian Carmody, who eventually won a settlement against the FBI.

Police Chief Cody told The Associated Press via email that, while federal law usually requires a subpoena — not just a search warrant — to raid a newsroom, there is an exception “when there is reason to believe the journalist is taking part in the underlying wrongdoing.” The report said that Cody did not provide further information about what the wrongdoing was.

Marion County police and the Kansas Bureau of Investigation did not immediately respond to CPJ’s emails and phone calls requesting comment.

To better understand the local context of the raid, CPJ spoke by phone with Sherman Smith, the editor in chief of the Kansas Reflector, a non-profit news website focused on Kansas politics. The interview has been edited for length and clarity. 

Why do you think that law enforcement used this dragnet, and highly questionable, approach? Isn’t there a state shield law in Kansas?

We really need the court to release the affidavit that supports the search warrant to get more clarity about why they thought this was necessary.

The exception to Kansas’ state shield law is only in matters of national security, and I think we can all agree that this does not rise to that level.

From the police statement on their Facebook page, they believed that this conduct [of the Marion County Record] amounted to identity theft and justified the raid. And I think the media everywhere would simply say they are wrong. If there were other motivations [they] are not exactly clear to me right now.

This is a small town of about 2,000 people, and so there is rampant potential for conflicts of interest with everybody involved. There’s a lot of small-town drama that we haven’t all clearly unpacked yet. Hopefully the affidavit will shine a light on that.

What message does this send to journalists working in Kansas?

I think it has this chilling effect on journalists in Kansas. If law enforcement is able to get away with this– and they appear now to have the support of the Kansas Bureau of Investigation– that means there’s open season on journalists everywhere in Kansas,

Police and prosecutors always want to know, who’s giving us [journalists] information? What do we know? How did we know it? And the ability of police to obtain our unreported information, and to identify our sources would prohibit us from doing our job; it would stop the flow of information; it would be a direct attack on democracy. And that’s why we’re all very interested in what happens here.

How has this event affected your thinking about protecting the Kansas Reflector’s unreported source material?

We’re just starting to have those conversations. One of the things that the raid underscores here is the importance of being able to back up information on the cloud in a way that we can continue to access it, if personal devices are taken.

We have to take great precautions to protect our sources, how we store the information on our personal devices and anywhere else.

We are eager for the legal outcome here, and [are hopeful that] it will send a clear signal to law enforcement that this kind of behavior cannot be tolerated.

The first time we spoke in January 2022, it was about how Kansas lawmakers barred media from the Senate floor, stymieing newsgathering. Do you think that kind of state-level activity creates a permission structure for local law enforcement to infringe upon freedom of the press?

It shows that we can’t take our freedoms for granted. We have to constantly fight to preserve them. Part of this is the need to educate people about what we do, and why we do it, and the value that we, as journalists, bring.

There is a general misunderstanding, or lack of understanding, by the public about who we [journalists] are and what we do. And so we have to do a better job of going out and telling our story and making it clear that we [journalists] are people who are in these communities that are gathering information, vetting that information, trying to hold powerful people accountable, and trying to get information out that somebody doesn’t want to have disclosed. That this kind of work is at the heart of so much of what we do.

When we see an action like what happened in Marion County. You know, it’s very clearly a direct attack on newspapers saying things that [powerful people] don’t want the public to hear. 

What are the key takeaways for people outside of Kansas to understand about what’s happening in Marion County right now?

It’s important to push back on the narrative that police have put out there, which is that no reporter is above the law. The issue is not about a reporter being above the law, everybody understands that nobody’s above the law.

The question is whether police can act outside the law in this way and get away with it. What would the repercussions be?

I think there’s a lot still to understand about, for instance, why a judge would sign this in the first place, and also understanding the qualifications for a magistrate judge in Kansas. In this case, [the judge] is a licensed attorney, but under Kansas law, it doesn’t have to be. And so I think, in Kansas, and perhaps elsewhere, we should be looking at, you know, who is qualified to sign off on a search warrant? And are they really doing more than simply rubber stamping them?

Usually when there are these kinds of attacks on journalists, law enforcement try to pick off somebody who is a freelancer, or maybe a contributor of some kind, but not a full time employee for a news organization. And this case is a bit of an outlier: it’s a raid on [an] entire news organization that’s been in operation since the post-Civil War era. 

This content originally appeared on Committee to Protect Journalists and was authored by Katherine Jacobsen.

“Our first priority is to be able to publish next week,” Meyer said in an article on the Marion Record’s website. “But we also want to make sure no other news organization is ever exposed to the Gestapo tactics we witnessed today. We will be seeking the maximum sanctions possible under law.”

The police action raised concerns among press freedom groups — including CPJ – and national news organizations about the possible violation of federal law limiting local law enforcement’s ability to search newsrooms.

In a letter sent to Marion Police Chief Gideon Cody on Sunday, attorneys for Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press noted that, “under any circumstances, the raid and seizure appeared overbroad and unduly intrusive.” The letter was signed by CPJ along with more than 30 media outlets.

The use of search warrants against journalists remains rare in the United States, according to statistics maintained by the U.S. Press Freedom Tracker, a CPJ partner. In 2019, San Francisco law enforcement and federal agents seized unreported source material from the home office of freelance video reporter Brian Carmody, who eventually won a settlement against the FBI.

Police Chief Cody told The Associated Press via email that, while federal law usually requires a subpoena — not just a search warrant — to raid a newsroom, there is an exception “when there is reason to believe the journalist is taking part in the underlying wrongdoing.” The report said that Cody did not provide further information about what the wrongdoing was.

Marion County police and the Kansas Bureau of Investigation did not immediately respond to CPJ’s emails and phone calls requesting comment.

To better understand the local context of the raid, CPJ spoke by phone with Sherman Smith, the editor in chief of the Kansas Reflector, a non-profit news website focused on Kansas politics. The interview has been edited for length and clarity. 

Why do you think that law enforcement used this dragnet, and highly questionable, approach? Isn’t there a state shield law in Kansas?

We really need the court to release the affidavit that supports the search warrant to get more clarity about why they thought this was necessary.

The exception to Kansas’ state shield law is only in matters of national security, and I think we can all agree that this does not rise to that level.

From the police statement on their Facebook page, they believed that this conduct [of the Marion County Record] amounted to identity theft and justified the raid. And I think the media everywhere would simply say they are wrong. If there were other motivations [they] are not exactly clear to me right now.

This is a small town of about 2,000 people, and so there is rampant potential for conflicts of interest with everybody involved. There’s a lot of small-town drama that we haven’t all clearly unpacked yet. Hopefully the affidavit will shine a light on that.

What message does this send to journalists working in Kansas?

I think it has this chilling effect on journalists in Kansas. If law enforcement is able to get away with this– and they appear now to have the support of the Kansas Bureau of Investigation– that means there’s open season on journalists everywhere in Kansas,

Police and prosecutors always want to know, who’s giving us [journalists] information? What do we know? How did we know it? And the ability of police to obtain our unreported information, and to identify our sources would prohibit us from doing our job; it would stop the flow of information; it would be a direct attack on democracy. And that’s why we’re all very interested in what happens here.

How has this event affected your thinking about protecting the Kansas Reflector’s unreported source material?

We’re just starting to have those conversations. One of the things that the raid underscores here is the importance of being able to back up information on the cloud in a way that we can continue to access it, if personal devices are taken.

We have to take great precautions to protect our sources, how we store the information on our personal devices and anywhere else.

We are eager for the legal outcome here, and [are hopeful that] it will send a clear signal to law enforcement that this kind of behavior cannot be tolerated.

The first time we spoke in January 2022, it was about how Kansas lawmakers barred media from the Senate floor, stymieing newsgathering. Do you think that kind of state-level activity creates a permission structure for local law enforcement to infringe upon freedom of the press?

It shows that we can’t take our freedoms for granted. We have to constantly fight to preserve them. Part of this is the need to educate people about what we do, and why we do it, and the value that we, as journalists, bring.

There is a general misunderstanding, or lack of understanding, by the public about who we [journalists] are and what we do. And so we have to do a better job of going out and telling our story and making it clear that we [journalists] are people who are in these communities that are gathering information, vetting that information, trying to hold powerful people accountable, and trying to get information out that somebody doesn’t want to have disclosed. That this kind of work is at the heart of so much of what we do.

When we see an action like what happened in Marion County. You know, it’s very clearly a direct attack on newspapers saying things that [powerful people] don’t want the public to hear. 

What are the key takeaways for people outside of Kansas to understand about what’s happening in Marion County right now?

It’s important to push back on the narrative that police have put out there, which is that no reporter is above the law. The issue is not about a reporter being above the law, everybody understands that nobody’s above the law.

The question is whether police can act outside the law in this way and get away with it. What would the repercussions be?

I think there’s a lot still to understand about, for instance, why a judge would sign this in the first place, and also understanding the qualifications for a magistrate judge in Kansas. In this case, [the judge] is a licensed attorney, but under Kansas law, it doesn’t have to be. And so I think, in Kansas, and perhaps elsewhere, we should be looking at, you know, who is qualified to sign off on a search warrant? And are they really doing more than simply rubber stamping them?

Usually when there are these kinds of attacks on journalists, law enforcement try to pick off somebody who is a freelancer, or maybe a contributor of some kind, but not a full time employee for a news organization. And this case is a bit of an outlier: it’s a raid on [an] entire news organization that’s been in operation since the post-Civil War era. 

This content originally appeared on Committee to Protect Journalists and was authored by Katherine Jacobsen.

This content originally appeared on Committee to Protect Journalists and was authored by Erik Crouch.

Reports said that a search warrant issued by a district court magistrate gave police authority to search for devices that were used to access the Kansas Department of Revenue records and records relating to a local restaurant owner.

“The raid by police on the Marion County Record is deeply disturbing,” said CPJ President Jodie Ginsberg. “Local news providers are essential in holding power to account — and they must be able to report freely, without fear of authorities’ overreach.”

U.S. federal law provides protections against searching and seizing materials from journalists, with requests for material usually going through a subpoena process.

 “This kind of action by police – which we sadly see with growing frequency worldwide – has a chilling effect on journalism and on democracy more broadly,” said Ginsberg. “The actions of the police and the judiciary in this case must be thoroughly and swiftly investigated.” 

A Marion County Record report said the raids contributed to the death of the paper’s co-owner, 98-year old Joan Meyer, whom it said collapsed and died on Saturday afternoon following the police search of her home.

This content originally appeared on Committee to Protect Journalists and was authored by Arlene Getz/CPJ Editorial Director.

Multnomah County’s lawsuit, filed in Oregon state court, is part of a growing nationwide wave of climate accountability lawsuits that seek to make fossil fuel companies pay for climate damages they knowingly caused. It charges some of the world’s biggest climate polluters — including ExxonMobil, Shell, Chevron, BP, ConocoPhillips, Koch Industries, and Total — as well as industry trade groups and consultants such as the American Petroleum Institute, Western States Petroleum Association, and McKinsey & Company, with defrauding the public for decades about the harm caused by the burning of fossil fuels.

It is the first such lawsuit filed in response to the 2021 heat dome, which killed 69 county residents, placed enormous strain on municipal resources, and scientists say “was virtually impossible without human-caused climate change.” Multnomah County is the first local government to sue oil majors for climate damages since the U.S. Supreme Court this spring declined requests from the fossil fuel industry to intervene in similar lawsuits in seven other states. Those cases are now advancing toward trial in state court.

Richard Wiles, president of the Center for Climate Integrity, released the following statement:

“Multnomah County has joined the growing ranks of local governments that are standing up to Big Oil and fighting to make these polluters pay for the catastrophic damage they knowingly caused and lied about for decades. While other communities are seeking to hold Big Oil accountable for the costs of hurricanes, rising seas, and wildfires, Multnomah County is the first to demand that oil companies stand trial for fueling the devastating 2021 heat dome, which claimed lives and wreaked havoc across the Pacific Northwest. Communities should not be forced to pay the price for these catastrophic climate damages while the companies that caused the crisis perpetuate their lies and rake in record profits. The people of Multnomah County deserve their day in court to hold Big Oil accountable.”

Background on Climate Accountability Lawsuits Against Big Oil:

Since 2017, the attorneys general of Connecticut, Delaware, Massachusetts, Minnesota, New Jersey, Rhode Island, Vermont, and the District of Columbia, as well as municipal governments in California, Colorado, Hawaii, Maryland, New Jersey, New York, South Carolina, and Puerto Rico have filed lawsuits to hold major oil and gas companies accountable for deceiving the public about their products’ role in climate change. Two cases — from Honolulu and Massachusetts — are already in pretrial discovery, with others close behind.

To date, six federal appeals courts — including the Ninth Circuit, which has jurisdiction over Oregon — and 14 federal district courts have unanimously ruled against the fossil fuel industry’s arguments to prevent these lawsuits from moving forward in state courts. In March, the U.S. Justice Department added its support for the communities. In April and May, the U.S. Supreme Court denied Big Oil petitions to consider the industry’s appeals of those lower court rulings.

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams and was authored by Newswire Editor.

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

The Northeast Mississippi Daily Journal has sued Mississippi’s Union County, asking a judge to order that search warrants in its county-level justice court be made open for public inspection.

The lawsuit comes after an investigation last year by the Daily Journal and ProPublica found that almost two-thirds of Mississippi’s justice courts obstruct access to search warrants and to the affidavits used by police to obtain them.

That thwarts public scrutiny of searches, including no-knock raids in which police sometimes enter people’s homes at night with guns drawn. Last year, two Mississippi counties settled lawsuits involving such raids in which police shot people, one fatally.

Law enforcement usually must get permission from a judge before searching someone’s property, and normally they must knock and announce themselves before entering. But they can ask a judge for a no-knock warrant if they provide specific reasons.

They must bring search warrants back to court after a search, along with a list of what they seized.

The news organizations found that some Mississippi courts break statewide rules that require clerks to keep those warrants on file. Other courts — such as the Union County Justice Court — have the documents but claim the public can’t look at them.

“Our goal is to ensure that judicial records are kept open and that the government at all levels does its work where the public can see it,” Daily Journal Executive Editor Sam Hall said. “It seems clear to us — and to many other courts across the country — that the records we’ve requested should be public.”

The U.S. Supreme Court has recognized a centuries-old norm that court proceedings and papers should be open to the public. Judges can order that certain documents be sealed, but that must be done on a case-by-case basis.

Federal appeals courts have agreed that search warrants are judicial records that should be open to inspection, though they disagree about when exactly the document becomes subject to access.

It is “highly unusual” for a court to claim “that search warrants and related materials are simply never accessible to the public,” Katie Townsend, deputy executive director and legal director for the Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press, told the news organizations last year.

But many of Mississippi’s justice courts, which frequently handle search warrants, did just that.

An attorney acting on behalf of Union County told the Daily Journal that records of executed search warrants on file with the clerk of the Union County Justice Court are shielded from public view because of a state law that protects the investigative records of law enforcement agencies.

In its lawsuit, the Daily Journal argues that this claim runs afoul of Mississippi’s Public Records Act and the common-law right to access court records. Mississippi’s public records law does contain an exemption for certain investigative records, but the exemption applies only to law enforcement agencies, not courts.

The county later offered to make some search warrants available, but only if a criminal investigation had concluded and a judge gave permission. The Daily Journal’s lawsuit argues that these conditions aren’t supported by law.

A representative of Union County did not respond to a request for comment on the lawsuit.

Experts say it’s not easy to get access to search warrants in many courthouses across the country. Even so, they said the problems with record-keeping and public access in Mississippi’s justice courts were extreme.

After a search warrant has been executed, it “should be a part of the files and available for public inspection,” William Waller Jr., a retired chief justice of Mississippi’s Supreme Court, told the news organizations last year. He helped draft the state’s rules of criminal procedure.

In response to the Daily Journal and ProPublica’s investigation, Mississippi’s judicial training body has advised court clerks and judges at training sessions that executed search warrants must be kept on file by the clerk and that the documents should be considered public if a judge hasn’t sealed them.

Last month, an insurance program run by many Mississippi counties held a risk management conference for law enforcement agencies, featuring sessions on search warrants and no-knock raids. Lawyers warned sheriffs that deputies should carefully document their reasons for conducting no-knock searches.

Rural Monroe County, in Mississippi’s northeast corner, settled a lawsuit for $690,000 last year over a 2015 fatal shooting by sheriff’s deputies during a 1 a.m. raid to look for drugs. Ricky Keeton came to the door with an air pistol as deputies pried open his door. His girlfriend said he thought someone was breaking in.

Also last year, Coahoma County, in the Mississippi Delta, settled a lawsuit that involved a 2020 raid in which sheriff’s deputies shot an unarmed man multiple times. He wasn’t even the target of the search and only happened to be at the house at the time of the raid. The amount of the settlement has not been disclosed.

This content originally appeared on Articles and Investigations - ProPublica and was authored by by Caleb Bedillion, Northeast Mississippi Daily Journal.

Civil rights attorney Benjamin Crump on Thursday said that former NFL quarterback and racial justice activist Colin Kaepernick will pay for an independent autopsy for Lashawn Thompson, a mentally ill man who died last September in a filthy, insect-infested cell in an overcrowded Atlanta jail.

Crump spoke at a rally and news conference outside the Fulton County Jail, where Thompson, who was arrested last June for alleged misdemeanor simple battery, was held for three months before his death.

"We want to thank Colin Kaepernick for helping this family get to the truth and soon," Crump said, flanked by Thompson's relatives.

"What happened to Lashawn Thompson is a human rights violation," the attorney added. "If we don't ask the questions and we don't get the answers and we don't get to the truth, then next time it could be your loved one. This isn't just about Lashawn Thompson. This is about every citizen in Fulton County, Georgia."

Thompson, who suffered from mental health issues, was diagnosed with schizophrenia and transferred to the jail's psychiatric wing. According to jail records, on September 13 an officer saw Thompson slumped over in his cell, which was so dirty that a staff member who entered it wore protective gear. Inside, Thompson lay dead with his eyes open, his body covered with what Crump said were over 1,000 insect bites. Thompson was 35 years old.

Jail records show that medical and correctional staff repeatedly noted—and voiced concerns about—Thompson's deteriorating health but did not help him.

"They literally watched his health decline until he died," Michael Harper, another attorney representing Thompson's family, said in a statement.

Harper asserted that Thompson "was found dead in a filthy jail cell after being eaten alive by insects and bed bugs."

An official autopsy could not determine the cause of Thompson's death but noted an "extremely severe" insect infestation on his body.

"Can you imagine him screaming and him hollering, saying 'They biting, they biting' and nobody come," Thompson's aunt, Mamie Norman, said at Thursday's rally. "Nobody. Nobody. I still have no understanding until y'all find out what happened to him."

A report obtained last year from NaphCare—an institutional healthcare services contractor repeatedly accused of neglect—revealed widespread medical negligence in Fulton County Jail's mental health unit, where more than 90% of inmates were so severely malnourished that they developed cachexia, a wasting syndrome often associated with diseases like advanced cancer or AIDS.

Additionally, "100% of inmates" in the unit "had either lice, scabies, or both."

Fulton County Sheriff Pat Labat—who called Thompson's death "absolutely unconscionable"—earlier this week asked for and received the resignation of three top jail officials, including Chief Jailer John Jackson.

"It's clear to me that it's time, past time, to clean house," Labat said in a statement on Monday.

An October 2022 investigation by The Atlanta Journal-Constitution revealed that a record number of inmates are dying in Georgia's five largest county jails, and that Fulton County Jail has led the state in such deaths since 2009.

Overcrowding and understaffing plague the facility, where around half of the more than 3,000 inmates have not been charged with any crime. Labat admitted that more than 400 inmates were sleeping on the floor because of overcrowding.

"The type of infestations that contributed to Mr. Thompson's death are going to be a recurring problem in a jail where hundreds of detainees do not have cells and have to sleep on the floor," the sheriff said on Thursday.

Sakira Cook, vice president of campaigns, policy, and government at the racial justice group Color of Change, said Thursday in a statement that "like Lashawn Thompson, countless individuals are currently enduring completely inhumane conditions at the severely overcrowded Fulton County Jail—often waiting for months at a time for frequently minor offenses and small amounts of cash bail."

"This must end. Despite years of scrutiny, the neglect and inhumane conditions within the jail have persisted, with little to no meaningful changes in prosecutorial practices or conditions," Cook added. "The current dark reality of mass incarceration is not accidental, but rather the consequence of intentional policies crafted by a dominant white culture that perpetuates and profits from the suppression of Black individuals through the jailing system."

On Thursday, U.S. Sen. Jon Ossoff (D-Ga.), who chairs the Senate Human Rights Subcommittee, announced the launch of an inquiry into conditions of incarceration in Georgia and nationwide. Previous Ossoff-led probes of U.S. carceral conditions revealed nearly 1,000 uncounted deaths, widespread sexual crimes, corruption, abuse, and misconduct at prisons and jails across the nation.

According to the Sentencing Project, an advocacy group, there are nearly 2 million people locked up in U.S. prisons and jails—a 500% increase over the past 40 years and more than any other country in the world, by far.

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams and was authored by Brett Wilkins.

This is a developing story… Please check back for possible updates...

The Shelby County Board of Commissioners voted unanimously Wednesday to reappoint Democratic Rep. Justin Pearson to represent District 86 in the Tennessee House of Representatives nearly a week after Republican lawmakers expelled him and Rep. Justin Jones over a protest demanding stricter gun laws.

Pearson's reinstatement—following a prayer by his father, a pastor—came after the Nashville Metropolitan Council voted unanimously Monday night to reappoint Jones (D-52). While the GOP-controlled House expelled both young Black lawmakers, the resolution to oust Rep. Gloria Johnson (D-13), who is white and also joined the protest, narrowly failed.

"Nashville thought they could silence democracy. But they didn't know the Shelby County Commission was filled with some courageous leaders," Pearson said in a speech after his reappointment, highlighting that the board's move came in spite of alleged threats to reduce state resources to the region.

Wednesday's vote shows that "we do not speak alone, we speak together; we fight together," he declared. "And so the message for all the people in Nashville who decided to expel us: You can't expel hope. You can't expel justice. You can't expel our voice. And you sure can't expel our fight. We look forward to continuing to fight, continuing to advocate, until justice rolls down like water and righteousness like an everflowing stream. Let's get back to work."

\u201cJust a colossal miscalculation from Tennessee Republicans. \n\nThe only thing they accomplished by expelling two members was 1) grow the members\u2019 warchests and audiences and 2) draw intense scrutiny on the @TNGOP\u2019s recent history of racism and corruption.\u201d

— Kyle Tharp (@Kyle Tharp) 1681325543

Ahead of the vote to send him back to Nashville, Pearson wrote Wednesday in a New York Times opinion piece that "it's not just our individual voices that were sanctioned and silenced last Thursday. It was the voices of the nearly 135,000 Tennesseans we represented—many desperate for protection from the absence of many common-sense gun safety laws in our state."

Pearson noted that "since the Covenant School shooting, the Republican supermajority in the state House has done little but advance a bill that would allow teachers to carry guns in school and propose a $140 million budget increase to pay for the presence of armed guards in public schools, further militarizing them without adequate evidence that this makes schools safer."

"Besides expanding already expansive gun rights, Republican-led statehouses across the country are proposing and passing staggering numbers of bills that serve a fringe, white evangelical agenda that abrogates the rights and freedoms of the rest of us," he added, pointing to GOP attacks on trans children, the social safety net, abortion access, and voting rights.

"I was elected early this year by the people of Memphis and Millington to stand up for all of us against encroachments on our freedoms. I will continue to fight with and for our people, whether in or out of office," he vowed. "We and the young protesters are the future of a new Tennessee. Those who seek to silence us will not have the final say."

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams and was authored by Jessica Corbett.

Wang Dongsheng, former chief of Drago county, now holds an apolitical appointment as director of the Science and Technology Bureau in the Kardze Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture in China’s Sichuan province, they said. Drago county, called Luhuo in Chinese, lies in Kardze in the historical Tibetan province of Kham.

A source in India told Radio Free Asia that Wang was promoted to the position in August 2022. 

Wang had earlier overseen a campaign of destruction at the sprawling Larung Gar Buddhist Academy in Drago in a move that saw thousands of monks and nuns expelled and homes destroyed.

After he took office as Drago county chief in October 2021, Wang directed the demolition of the 30-meter (99-foot) Buddha statue there following official complaints that it had been built too high. Dozens of traditional prayer wheels used by Tibetan pilgrims and other Buddhist worshipers were also destroyed.

Officials forced monks from Thoesam Gatsel monastery and Tibetans living in Chuwar and other nearby towns to witness the destruction that began in December 2021. 

Wang had earlier overseen a campaign of destruction at Sichuan’s sprawling Larung Gar Buddhist Academy in a move that saw thousands of monks and nuns expelled and homes destroyed.

“[J]ust within a month of taking the office, he initiated the demolition of Tibetan religious sites in Drago,” said a Tibetan source inside the region who requested anonymity for safety reasons. “Under his leadership the Drago Buddhist school was destroyed.”

Hotbed of resistance

Since 2008, Drago has been a hotbed of resistance against the Chinese government, prompting interventions by authorities, including significant crackdowns in 2009 and 2012. Beijing views any sign of Tibetan disobedience as an act of separatism, threatening China’s national security.

In this satellite image slider, the 99-foot Buddha statue in Drago in the Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture is shown at left sheltered by a white canopy on Nov. 19, 2019. At right is the site on Jan. 1, 2022. Credit: Planet Labs with analysis by RFA

Earlier this year, Chinese authorities tightened restrictions on Tibetan residents there, imposing measures to prevent contact with people outside the area, according to sources with knowledge of the situation.

Wang’s term as chief of Drago county ushered in a period of heightened assault on Tibetan Buddhism at the hands of the Chinese Communist Party, with the brutal dismantling of important cultural and religious sites. 

Party leaders who suppress Tibetans and successfully carry out harsh campaigns against the Buddhist minority group are often promoted, said Dawa Tsering, director of the India-based Tibet Policy Institute.

“This is the norm, and we can see that happen with Wang Donsheng,” he told RFA. 

Lui Pang, an executive member of Drago Communist Party, has been appointed as the new county chief, the sources said. 

Among Drago county’s dozen administrative officials are eight of Chinese origin who hold higher positions, while the remaining four are Tibetans who work as office employees, they said.  

So far, there’s been a slight easing of the harsh campaigns against Tibetans in the region under the new county chief, said another Tibetan inside the region, who declined to be identified for safety reasons.

“Unlike under former chief Wang, if one does not get involved in any political and sensitive issues and incidents, they [authorities] will not make random arrests as such,” the source said.

Previously, Wang was appointed deputy secretary of Tibetan-majority Serta county in Kardze, called Ganzi in Chinese, in December 2016, and later served as its county chief.

 Translated by Tenzin Dickyi for RFA Tibetan. Edited by Roseanne Gerin and Malcolm Foster.

This content originally appeared on Radio Free Asia and was authored by By Sangyal Kunchok for RFA Tibetan.

Ahead of the Nashville Metropolitan Council voting Monday to reappoint Tennessee Rep. Justin Jones to the state House of Representatives, attorneys for him and ousted Rep. Justin Pearson warned Republican legislators not to further retaliate against the pair.

The letter from the six attorneys, including former U.S. Attorney General Eric Holder, to Tennessee House Speaker Cameron Sexton (R-25) came after Republicans in the chamber voted last Thursday to expel Jones (D-52) and Pearson (D-86) over their protest in support of gun control after the Covenant School shooting in Nashville.

The missive also follows Pearson saying in a televised interview that he has "heard that people in the state Legislature and in Nashville are actually threatening our Shelby County commissioners to not reappoint me, or they're going to take away funding that's in the government's budget for projects that the mayor and others have asked for."

The GOP state lawmakers expelled Jones and Pearson "not for any criminal or unethical act, but for merely exercising their constitutional rights," the Democrats' lawyers wrote. "In so acting, the House Republicans not only wrongfully stripped these representatives of their rights as duly-elected legislators but also disenfranchised the voters they were elected to represent."

"Their partisan expulsion was extraordinary, illegal, and without any historical or legal precedent," the attorneys continued. "The House must not now compound its errors by further retributive actions."

Should the Metro Nashville Council and Shelby County Commission vote to reinstate Jones and Pearson, the letter states, "such reappointment must lead to the full and immediate restoration of their rights as members of the House."

They "should be promptly sworn back in as members of the General Assembly and granted the same benefits, rights, duties, and liberties as any other member," the letter asserts. "That includes, but is not limited to, returning their parking and badge access to the state Capitol, which was cut off before their expulsion, restoring their benefits, including healthcare, which was immediately cut off upon expulsion, returning their status on committees, and being allowed to, in all manners, conduct legislative business the same as any other member."

"The world is watching Tennessee," the letter declares. "Any partisan retributive action, such as the discriminatory treatment of elected officials, or threats or actions to withhold funding for government programs, would constitute further unconstitutional action that would require redress."

In a statement Monday evening, Tennessee House Majority Leader William Lamberth (R-44) and Republican Caucus Chairman Jeremy Faison (R-11) said that "should any expelled member be reappointed, we will welcome them. Like everyone else, they are expected to follow the rules of the House as well as state law."

Jones returned to the House for Monday's evening session, fist raised.

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams and was authored by Jessica Corbett.

This content originally appeared on openDemocracy RSS and was authored by Cherry Casey.

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The courtroom was packed when the North Carolina State Board of Elections convened on Tuesday to consider removing two members of the Surry County Board of Elections from their posts. At the Surry County GOP convention not long before, one board member, Tim DeHaan, had appealed for people to attend the meeting at the county courthouse. And now, dozens of supporters, one with “We the People” tattooed on his forearm and another with cowboy boots stamped with American flags, whispered tensely among themselves.

DeHaan and Jerry Forestieri were facing the state elections board because, at a November meeting to certify the county’s 2022 general election results, they had presented a co-signed letter declaring “I don’t view election law per NCSBE as legitimate or Constitutional.” Then Forestieri refused to certify the election, while DeHaan only agreed to certify it on a technicality.

This month, both Forestieri and DeHaan refused to certify a redo of a November 2022 municipal election. The new contest had been called after a poll worker allegedly made a mistake in telling voters that one of the four candidates had died, which could have swung a race decided by eight votes. (The results of the second race were the same as the first.)

Both elections were ultimately certified by the board’s three Democrats. But DeHaan’s and Forestieri’s refusals to certify, along with similar actions by conservative county election officials in Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico and Pennsylvania, exposed a weakness in the nation’s electoral system. If local officials failed to certify, the disruption could cascade and cast into dispute state and federal election outcomes, potentially allowing partisan actors to inappropriately influence them, according to election law experts. A ProPublica review of 10 such cases found that most officials have not faced formal consequences for their refusal to certify. DeHaan’s and Forestieri’s hearing was to be the first completed disciplinary process for such officials nationwide after the 2022 election.

At the trial-like state elections board meeting, Bob Hall, the former executive director of the watchdog group Democracy North Carolina whose complaint had launched the disciplinary process, argued that DeHaan and Forestieri could not be trusted to supervise elections because of their refusal to follow the law. Forestieri and DeHaan told the board that they could not be certain of the identities of voters or the validity of their ballots because they disagreed with a federal judge striking down a voter ID law for discriminating against minorities. Forestieri defended their actions as a “free speech issue.”

The lone Republican board member present, Stacy Eggers, made two motions to remove the men from office, and each motion passed unanimously, 4-0. “We cannot substitute our own opinions,” Eggers said, for “what the law actually is.”

As the motions passed, one woman exclaimed in the quiet courtroom: “The law is perverted! The law is perverted!”

Afterward, in the hall outside the courtroom, DeHaan and Forestieri were sought out by local supporters and election deniers who’d traveled to the hearing from outside the county. Talk swirled of appealing the decision in court, though Forestieri said a final decision about an appeal would be made at a later date.

“We took a stand for lawful, credible elections appropriate for the owners of this republic, we the people,” said Forestieri at the courthouse. “I cannot apologize for that.” Forestieri later wrote to ProPublica that he disagreed with his removal from office, and that the “NCSBE proved itself unwilling to recognize clear law in General Statutes” by striking down his and DeHaan’s arguments.

DeHaan declined to comment and did not respond to written questions.

Michella Huff, the elections director for Surry County, had watched the proceedings stoically. It was a year to the day since Huff had blocked the chairman of the county Republican Party from illegally accessing her voting machines to further a conspiracy theory, after which he launched a pressure campaign that included attempts to reduce her pay and raucous protests featuring nationally prominent election deniers, as ProPublica has previously reported. (The county chairman told ProPublica that he did not seek to cut her pay, though text messages and emails obtained via public records requests showed otherwise.)

As a result of the year’s travails, Angie Harrison, Huff’s deputy director, has said she will retire in June. “Here in Surry County and across the entire nation, people want to put more scrutiny on the election process, which is a good thing to help voters understand the law — our philosophy is to educate,” she said. But “we take it personally when people start attacking the job that we have been so proud to deliver accurately and without bias.”

In early 2022, a national survey from the Brennan Center for Justice found that a fifth of local elections officials reported they were unlikely to stay in their jobs for the 2024 election. “We’re in the middle of an exodus of election workers,” said Larry Norden, the senior director of the Brennan Center’s Elections and Government Program. An Arizona election official, whose county supervisors refused to certify November 2022 results until ordered to do so by a court, also recently left to “protect her health and safety” after working conditions became “intolerable,” as her lawyer wrote in a letter to the county.

Huff, however, is staying in her post. Last fall, after the state’s attorney general, Josh Stein, read ProPublica’s story about Huff, his office gave her an award for her “incredible commitment to democracy” as “she refused to buckle to those who lie about stolen elections,” Stein wrote in a statement. A year ago, she had felt overwhelmed by the new and unprecedented challenges inundating election officials, but now she felt more capable to confront them. “Not saying that it’s going to be easy” in 2024, she said, “but I’m a little more prepared now for the what-ifs.”

The election deniers departed the courthouse boisterously, talking about going out for lunch. Huff got in a van with another election worker and was driven past cornfields to her office. The November 2022 election was finally done, four and a half months late, and now it was time to get ready for the next one.

This content originally appeared on Articles and Investigations - ProPublica and was authored by by Doug Bock Clark.

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

When a sheriff’s deputy in Georgia’s Houston County sought surgery as part of her gender transition, local officials refused to change the department’s health insurance plan to cover it, citing cost as the primary reason.

In the years that followed, the central Georgia county paid a private law firm nearly $1.2 million to fight Sgt. Anna Lange in federal court — far more than it would have cost the county to offer such coverage to all of its 1,500 health plan members, according to expert analyses. One expert estimated that including transition-related care in the health plan would add about 0.1% to the cost of all claims, which would come to roughly $10,000 per year, on average.

Since at least 1998, the county’s plan has excluded coverage for “services and supplies for a sex change,” an outdated term to refer to surgeries or medications related to gender transition. In 2016, the county’s insurance administrator recommended changing the policy to align with a new federal nondiscrimination rule. But Houston County leaders said no.

The county argued that even if the cost of expanding its insurance coverage to include transition-related health care was low on average, it could amount to much more in some years. The county also claimed that expanding the plan’s coverage would spur demands to pay for other, currently excluded benefits, such as abortion, weight loss surgery and eye surgery.

“It was a slap in the face, really, to find out how much they had spent,” said Lange, who filed a federal discrimination lawsuit against the county. “They’re treating it like a political issue, obviously, when it’s a medical issue.”

Major medical associations recognize that access to transition-related care, also known as gender-affirming care, is medically necessary for transgender people, citing evidence that prohibiting it can harm their mental and physical health. And federal judges have consistently ruled that employers cannot categorically exclude gender-affirming care from health care plans, though prior to Lange’s suit, there hadn’t been a ruling covering Georgia. The care can include long-term hormone therapy, chest and genital surgery, and other services that help transgender people align their bodies with their gender identities.

But banning gender-affirming care has become a touchstone of conservative politics. At least 25 states this year are considering or have passed bills that would ban gender-affirming care for minors. Bills in Oklahoma and Texas aim to ban insurance companies from covering transition-related health care for adults as well.

At the same time, state and local government employers are waging long legal battles against covering gender-affirming care for their employees. With recent estimates showing that 0.6% of all Americans older than 13 are transgender, these employers are spending large sums to fight coverage for a small number of people.

ProPublica obtained records showing that two states — North Carolina and Arizona — have spent more than $1 million in attorney fees on legal fights similar to the one in Houston County. Both have claimed in court filings that the decisions they made not to cover the care for employees are purely financial and not discriminatory.

But budget estimates and real-world examples show that the cost of offering coverage of gender-affirming care is negligible. When the state of North Carolina briefly covered gender-affirming care in 2017, the cost amounted to $400,000 — just 0.01% of the health plan’s $3.3 billion annual budget.

Two years later, North Carolina employees sued to get their gender-affirming care covered. The state hired several expert witnesses who expressed professional beliefs contradicting the major medical associations’ standards, including that transition care is unnecessary and even harmful. One expert, whom North Carolina paid $400 per hour, stated in court proceedings that transition care might be a “fad” or “consumer fraud,” similar to the widespread medical use of lobotomies in previous decades.

Julia McKeown, a professor at North Carolina State University and one of several plaintiffs suing North Carolina officials for denying their coverage, spent more than $14,000 out-of-pocket on gender-affirming surgery, pulling from her retirement account and personal savings. “They’re always talking about saving taxpayer money and being judicious with how we spend it,” McKeown said. “But here they are throwing money left and right to score political points, to discriminate, to target.”

Officials in North Carolina, Arizona and Houston County, Georgia, did not respond to questions from ProPublica about the amount of money they spent or their reasons for continuing to fight the lawsuits. Dan Perdue, chair of the Houston County Board of Commissioners, referred ProPublica to the county attorney, who declined to comment beyond pointing to existing court documents.

Compared to North Carolina and Arizona, Houston County stands out for the huge legal bill it amassed relative to its small size. North Carolina’s employee health plan covers more than 700,000 people and Arizona’s covers over 130,000 people, dwarfing Houston County’s 1,500. Yet Houston County has spent a similar amount of money on legal fees as those states in a shorter time, according to records ProPublica obtained.

In fact, Houston County’s total legal fees on the Lange case have amounted to almost three times its annual physical and mental health budget. “Is this a good use of public money? No,” said Joanna Grossman, a law professor at Southern Methodist University who focuses on sex discrimination. “It’s fair to say that this is an issue where it’s pretty clear they’re going to lose.”

After more than a decade working for the Houston County Sheriff’s Office, Lange came out as a transgender woman to her boss and colleagues in 2017. A therapist had diagnosed her with gender dysphoria, characterized by significant distress at the mismatch between her assigned and actual gender.

Sheriff Cullen Talton, who has been in office since the early 1970s, first thought Lange was joking, according to a legal deposition. When he realized Lange was serious, he told her that he didn’t “believe in” being transgender but that she would have her job as long as she kept working hard.

Lange let herself feel cautiously optimistic. But she soon found that the county’s health plan would not cover any of the surgeries needed to make her body align with her gender — the operations are on a list of procedures that the county explicitly opts out of paying for, which are known as exclusions.

Lange’s insurance does cover the hormonal medication she takes regularly, but not the lab work she needs once or twice a year to monitor how her body is responding to it. She receives a bill for $400 each lab visit, which is hard to afford on her $58,000 salary. The bills go to debt collectors, and she pays off smaller amounts when her budget allows.

Lange was able to cobble together several thousand dollars from savings and retirement funds to pay out-of-pocket for a chest surgery in early 2018, but the next surgery she needs costs more than $25,000, well above what she can afford. She sent letters to the insurance administrator and the county asking them to remove the exclusion in 2018 and 2019. Her appeals were denied.

In early 2019, in a last-ditch effort, Lange walked into the county board of commissioners’ meeting to ask the board to remove the health plan’s exclusion, hopeful they might hear her out. She mentally prepared herself to broadcast some of her most personal struggles to an audience that seemed less than receptive, bringing her son and a friend with her for support.

As Lange nervously waited for her turn at the podium, she watched someone familiar step up right before her. One of her neighbors had come to ask the county not to agree to her request. Addressing the row of commissioners at the front of the room, he launched into his list of questions: How does Lange’s request relate to her work? Why should taxpayers be on the hook for her surgery? How does her request differ from any kind of elective cosmetic surgery that also isn’t covered by insurance?

Watch video ➜

Lange watched, disheartened, as a commissioner reassured the neighbor that the board would not make any changes to the health plan that year. Lange would go on to speak that evening, despite believing it was a futile exercise. “You knew right then and there that no matter what I said, that it wouldn’t matter,” she said. “It’s a really helpless feeling.”

So she turned to the legal system. She worked with a team of attorneys handling a similar case — a lawsuit brought by a transgender employee against Georgia’s university system. In September of 2019, the university system agreed to a settlement that awarded the plaintiff $100,000 and provided all of its employees access to gender-affirming care. Just weeks after the settlement, Lange filed a lawsuit against the county for employment discrimination, arguing that denying her medical care subjected her to “inferior treatment.” Soon after, commissioners unanimously voted to continue excluding gender-affirming care from health coverage for yet another year.

In response to Lange’s lawsuit, the county’s lawyers said health insurance premiums had already soared and that the county wanted to prevent a flurry of requests to remove other exclusions in the plan. The county spent $57,135 — $390 per hour — on a budget expert who concluded that keeping the exclusion in place was “reasonable and consistent with general industry practices.”

The county’s expert argued that removing the exclusion could result in a “catastrophic claim,” in which a member of the county’s health plan seeks multiple surgeries in a single year that, combined, could cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. The county’s plan is self-funded, meaning that the employer — not an insurance company — is responsible for paying all enrollees’ medical costs, making it harder for the plan to absorb a high-cost claim.

Lange’s lawyers hired their own budget expert, whose estimate was in line with what other experts, government officials and academics have found. In her report, Lange’s expert wrote that, over time, the financial impact of removing the exclusion would be small, especially since few people would use the benefit. The expert also noted that the county has a separate insurance policy to cover unexpectedly large claims. She estimated that the cost of covering gender-affirming care would be “an amount so low that it would be considered immaterial.”

Without necessary treatment, transgender people are at higher risk for depression, anxiety and thoughts of suicide. Russ Toomey, a professor of family studies and human development at the University of Arizona, has helped establish that fact through his research on the mental health of transgender youth. He also has firsthand knowledge of discrimination: Toomey is suing his employer for withholding coverage for gender-affirming care.

When he was recruited for his job in 2015, he knew the university had hired other trans faculty members and believed it was committed to supporting them. In 2016, Arizona’s Department of Administration, which controls the health care plan for public employees like Toomey, chose to keep excluding gender-affirming surgery from its health plan, ignoring the advice of its insurance vendors. That same year, Arizona commissioned an internal analysis, in which a state budget expert described the cost of covering gender-affirming care as “relatively low.” A state employee was directed to delete that sentence from the analysis, according to legal documents.

In 2018, Toomey sought coverage for a hysterectomy to alleviate the distress of his gender dysphoria, and he was denied. In 2019, he filed a lawsuit against the state and its board of regents, which oversees all three of Arizona’s state universities.

The experience made him “see and feel very intensely” the link he’d studied between gender discrimination and mental health. Toomey regularly feels the anguish of “knowing that I have these organs inside my body that shouldn’t be there” and not being able to afford a hysterectomy. Toomey said the unfairness of Arizona’s health plan hit hard last year, when his friend and colleague, a cisgender woman, was able to obtain coverage for her hysterectomy, while he had been denied. Arizona’s employee health plan covers medically necessary hysterectomies except as part of “gender reassignment surgery.”

He said that he developed a panic disorder over the last couple of years due to the stress of the lawsuit and his inability to access care. When he heard that the university board had spent more than $415,000 to fight the case, Toomey was shocked. “That hurts in the gut to hear,” he said.

The Arizona Board of Regents argued in court filings that it should not be a defendant in the lawsuit because it has no control over the state plan — the board provides health care through a plan controlled by the state. And the state of Arizona argued that it was not legally required to remove the exclusion, a change that it said would be too expensive.

The case is still ongoing in federal court. The state, a named defendant in the case, now has a Democratic governor, Katie Hobbs, whose win last November ended 14 years of Republican control. In response to ProPublica’s request for comment, a Hobbs spokesperson declined to answer specific questions about whether the new administration would continue to defend the exclusion but emphasized the governor’s support for trans Arizonans.

“The Governor’s Office recognizes the need for the expansion of statewide benefits that are all inclusive,” Hobbs’ press secretary, Josselyn Berry, wrote in a statement.

Like Georgia’s Houston County and the state of Arizona, North Carolina has claimed that its key concern about removing the exclusion is cost. But the statements of officials suggest that’s hardly the only concern.

North Carolina state Treasurer Dale Folwell, one of the named parties in the lawsuit, has consistently referred to gender-affirming care as medically unnecessary, contradicting medical consensus. (North Carolina had briefly removed its exclusion in 2017, before Folwell took office and reinstated it.)

“The legal and medical uncertainty of this elective procedure has never been greater,” he said in a 2018 press release. “Until the court system, a legislative body or voters tell us that we ‘have to,’ ‘when to,’ and ‘how to’ spend taxpayers’ money on sex change operations, I will not make a decision that has the potential to discriminate against those who desire other currently uncovered elective procedures.”

The state also brought forward several expert witnesses who, rather than voice concerns about spending, expressed beliefs that transgender people should be prevented or discouraged from transitioning.

One of those witnesses, Paul Hruz, a pediatric endocrinologist in St. Louis who acknowledged he had no experience treating transgender patients for gender dysphoria, said in an expert report that in many cases the condition could stem from “social contagion” and that delaying care for children allows time for most of them to “grow out of the problem.” In his career and during the case, Hruz cited controversial theories, including that “cancel culture” and a “Gender Transition Industry” are preventing public debate on the merits of transition care. According to his deposition, Hruz has attended multiple events hosted by the Alliance Defending Freedom, a religious group that has pushed anti-trans legislation across the country.

In a deposition filed by the plaintiffs’ attorneys, a mother of a transgender child recalled a conversation she’d had with Hruz years ago about trans rights and her child’s challenging experience. She said Hruz told her, “Some children are born in this world to suffer and die.”

Hruz denied in his deposition that he made that statement. He declined to provide comment for this story.

Hruz’s views are so extreme that Judge Loretta Biggs limited what topics he was allowed to speak about during the case. “His conspiratorial intimations and outright accusations sound in political hyperbole and pose a clear risk of inflaming the jury and prejudicing Plaintiffs,” she wrote in a ruling last year. “It is the Federal Rules of Evidence, not some ‘Cancel Culture,’ that excludes this portion of Hruz’s testimony.”

She ordered North Carolina to remove its exclusion and allow transgender employees to access gender-affirming care. The state quickly appealed.

In 2020, as Lange anxiously watched her case inch through the courts, her legal chances suddenly seemed better than ever: The U.S. Supreme Court ruled that employment discrimination based on transgender status is illegal. Previously, courts had been divided on the issue.

Lange was driving to collect evidence for a financial fraud case she was investigating when she heard the news. She began to cry. “I had to pull over and just lost it,” she recalled. “I was just so happy.”

Still, Houston County kept fighting.

While the case dragged on, Lange was sometimes asked why she didn’t find another job that would cover her health care, but she felt she couldn’t afford to lose her pension benefits. She also loves her work investigating criminal cases, helping victims of violent attacks and fraud. She wondered if any other law enforcement agency nearby would hire a transgender woman, let alone one who was suing her employer. She was in her late 40s at that point and felt too old for a major career change.

“It’s been a lonely process and it’s just a grind,” Lange said. “It just tears at you each day that you go by. You’re constantly reminded that you’re still not who you’re supposed to be.”

Two more years would pass before Lange won her case in 2022, with the federal judge citing the Supreme Court decision as a major reason for ruling in her favor. “The Exclusion plainly discriminates because of transgender status,” Judge Marc Treadwell wrote in his order. A jury soon after awarded her $60,000 for “emotional pain and mental anguish.” Lange celebrated, immediately calling friends who had been there for her through years of heartache, then posting the news on social media. She scheduled an appointment with a surgeon in New York.

But Lange’s joy was cut short when the county appealed the ruling, a move that would cost it tens of thousands of additional dollars; it also meant that Lange wouldn’t get any of the money she was awarded until the process was complete. The county asked the court to let it keep its exclusion in place as the appeal moved forward, arguing again that the cost of covering Lange’s surgery could be exorbitant. In its argument, it referenced a New York Times article, “How Ben Got His Penis,” about a costly surgery not for a transgender woman but for a transgender man. That surgery is much more complicated than the one Lange sought. While the judge weighed the arguments, Lange had to postpone her surgery yet again.

Lange called her friend Shannon West when she found out the county was appealing. “She was really upset. She was crying,” West recalled. “It’s like climbing a stairwell and you get to the top. You’re about to go through the door and then somebody shuts the door and you get hit back down.”

This month, the door reopened: Treadwell ordered Houston County to cover transition care for its employees. He admonished the county for misrepresenting the cost of Lange’s surgery in its most recent legal argument, calling the decision “irresponsible.” He stressed that no connection existed, “anatomically or otherwise,” between the surgery mentioned in the New York Times article and the one Lange sought. The county, he added, had already received a specific, much lower estimate for the cost of Lange’s requested surgery.

Treadwell also said the county was “factually wrong” in suggesting that other transgender people would seek out even more expensive care. “It is undisputed that the Health Plan’s third-party administrator generally ‘concluded that utilization of gender-confirming care was low,’” he wrote. “In the four years this litigation has been pending, no other Health Plan members have sought gender confirmation surgery, or even identified as transgender.”

Lange heard about the ruling from her lawyer and struggled to feel excited. After the roller coaster of the previous several years, she had tamped down her optimism.

In many ways, Lange’s life has been on hold. She feels uncomfortable in her body and self-conscious about participating in activities she used to love: swimming, refereeing soccer, anything that would expose her body to heightened scrutiny. She’s divorced but has been hesitant to date. She goes to work, she comes home, on the weekends she plays tennis. She knows the surgery won’t restore the time she has lost.

Now, for the third time, she is starting the process of scheduling her surgery, hoping that the courts won’t yank the opportunity away again. She’s reluctant to book a hotel stay, already anticipating having to cancel it. “Until the case is done-done and over with, that’s when I can have some relief,” she said.

Have You Faced Barriers to Getting Gender-Affirming Care? Help Us Investigate.

This content originally appeared on Articles and Investigations - ProPublica and was authored by by Aliyya Swaby and Lucas Waldron.

• Secretary of State Antony Blinken and Russia’s Sergei Lavrov hold brief talks at G-20 meeting
• San Bernardino County tries to get food and medicine to snowed in mountain residents
• House Ethics Committee announces investigation of New York Republican George Santos
• Senate hearing seeks to reauthorize funding for community health clinics before it runs out
• Pentagon Papers whistleblower Daniel Ellsberg announces he has terminal cancer

Image: courtesy of San Bernardino County

The post G-20 meeting forum for brief talks between Secretary of State Antony Blinken and his Russian counterpart; State and county officials tell snowed in San Bernardino residents help is on the way; Pentagon Papers whistleblower Daniel Ellsberg says he has terminal cancer: Pacifica Evening News March 2, 2023 appeared first on KPFA.

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Shortly after two progressive lawmakers unveiled legislation that would require more stringent federal regulations for trains carrying hazardous materials, a train carrying propane fuel through Manatee County, Florida derailed and made the latest case for far-reaching action, according to advocates.

Brittany Muller of WFLA News Channel 8reported that "one tanker carrying 30,000 gallons of propane has rolled off the tracks."

South Manatee Fire Rescue was responding to the derailment, Muller said, in which at least six train cars had left the tracks.

Spectrum News 13 reported that "five railcars and two propane tankers have derailed at the site" and that no injuries or propane leaks were evident.

Citing South Manatee Fire District Chief Robert Bounds, ABC7 reported that "more than 150 feet of track has been mangled and will have to be replaced.

"It may take between 1-3 days to transfer the propane from the tankers involved," according to the outlet.

Noting that the exact details of the derailment and the damage done are not yet known, labor-focused media organization More Perfect Union said the "culprit" behind the accident—like the environmental disaster still unfolding in East Palestine, Ohio after a derailment earlier this month—is "corporate greed."

As Common Dreams reported Tuesday, aggressive lobbying by the railroad industry has resulted in lax regulations, defining a "high-hazard" train as one carrying hazardous materials in at least 20 consecutive cars or 35 total.

Rail companies have also adopted a scheduling system that prioritizes speed over safety, pushed to have smaller train crews, and refused to provide paid sick leave to workers.

"Images taken at the site of the derailment show how severely the track has been mangled, and further demonstrate the need to listen to unions rail workers," saidMore Perfect Union, "and take decisive regulatory action."

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams and was authored by Julia Conley.

Around 5 p.m. on Wednesday, February 8, Lambert was giving a live report for cable network NewsNation about a recent train derailment when at least four law enforcement officers approached and asked him to stop speaking because Ohio Governor Mike DeWine was simultaneously giving a press conference, according to NewsNation and news reports.

Lambert finished his report, and then the officers, some with “Trooper” insignias on their uniforms and others in dark green shirts and khaki pants, surrounded him, pushed him to the ground, and handcuffed him, according to those sources.

Law enforcement officials escorted Lambert into a van marked with the Columbiana County Sheriff’s insignia and then brought him to the Columbiana County Jail. He was held until about 10 p.m. and charged with disorderly conduct and criminal trespassing.

“It is outrageous that local law enforcement in Ohio would arrest and charge a journalist for simply doing his job and reporting live from a press conference,” said CPJ U.S. and Canada Program Coordinator Katherine Jacobsen. “East Palestine law enforcement should immediately drop all charges against NewsNation correspondent Evan Lambert and thoroughly investigate why he was arrested in the first place. There is no reason why a journalist should be manhandled while reporting the nightly news.”

Under Ohio law, the penalty for disorderly conduct is a fine of up to $150; the penalty for criminal trespassing is a fine of up to $250 and up to 30 days in jail.

Governor DeWine apologized for the incident and said he did not authorize Lambert’s arrest, according to NewsNation.

When reached via phone, the Columbiana County Sheriff’s office told CPJ that the East Palestine Police Department filed the charges against Lambert. The East Palestine Police Department told CPJ by phone that a press release with all relevant information about Lambert’s arrest was forthcoming. That release was not published at the time of this article’s publication.

CPJ called and emailed the Ohio State Highway Patrol but did not receive any responses.

This content originally appeared on Committee to Protect Journalists and was authored by Committee to Protect Journalists.

Around 5 p.m. on Wednesday, February 8, Lambert was giving a live report for cable network NewsNation about a recent train derailment when at least four law enforcement officers approached and asked him to stop speaking because Ohio Governor Mike DeWine was simultaneously giving a press conference, according to NewsNation and news reports.

Lambert finished his report, and then the officers, some with “Trooper” insignias on their uniforms and others in dark green shirts and khaki pants, surrounded him, pushed him to the ground, and handcuffed him, according to those sources.

Law enforcement officials escorted Lambert into a van marked with the Columbiana County Sheriff’s insignia and then brought him to the Columbiana County Jail. He was held until about 10 p.m. and charged with disorderly conduct and criminal trespassing.

“It is outrageous that local law enforcement in Ohio would arrest and charge a journalist for simply doing his job and reporting live from a press conference,” said CPJ U.S. and Canada Program Coordinator Katherine Jacobsen. “East Palestine law enforcement should immediately drop all charges against NewsNation correspondent Evan Lambert and thoroughly investigate why he was arrested in the first place. There is no reason why a journalist should be manhandled while reporting the nightly news.”

Under Ohio law, the penalty for disorderly conduct is a fine of up to $150; the penalty for criminal trespassing is a fine of up to $250 and up to 30 days in jail.

Governor DeWine apologized for the incident and said he did not authorize Lambert’s arrest, according to NewsNation.

When reached via phone, the Columbiana County Sheriff’s office told CPJ that the East Palestine Police Department filed the charges against Lambert. The East Palestine Police Department told CPJ by phone that a press release with all relevant information about Lambert’s arrest was forthcoming. That release was not published at the time of this article’s publication.

CPJ called and emailed the Ohio State Highway Patrol but did not receive any responses.

This content originally appeared on Committee to Protect Journalists and was authored by Committee to Protect Journalists.

The communications clampdown in Drago county is the latest measure by Chinese authorities to bring locals to heel following the demolitions of huge Buddha statues in the area beginning 2021, as monks and local residents were forced to watch, sources in the region said. 

Drago county is called Luhuo in Chinese and lies in the Kardze Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture in Sichuan province, the historical Tibetan province of Kham.

“Beginning January this year, local Chinese authorities in Drago county have warned Tibetans living in the region to stop communicating with people outside Tibet,” said one of the sources who requested anonymity for safety reasons. 

“Their cell phones are randomly probed and restricted from sharing any kinds of information with the outside,” he said. “They are also not allowed to contact their family members or send money.”

A report issued in January by Free Tibet and its affiliated research arm Tibet Watch said Chinese authorities have ramped up repression of Tibetans, razing significant religious structures while committing serious human rights violations in Drago county.

The demolition of Tibetan Buddhist sites escalated under Drago county Communist Party chief Wang Dongsheng, who had earlier overseen a campaign of the expulsion of Buddhist clergy and destruction at Sichuan’s sprawling Larung Gar Buddhist Academy.

“Ever since Wang Dongsheng was appointed as county chief in Drago, the campaign against the Tibetans has gone from bad to worse,” said another Tibetan who declined to be identified for fear of his safety. 

“There have been massive communication clampdowns and other security measures put into place,” he told RFA. “Also, the staff and those with authority in the monasteries have been forced to attend re-education programs.”  

Since 2008, Drago county residents have participated in acts of resistance against the Chinese government, prompting interventions by authorities, including significant crackdowns in 2009 and 2012. 

Beijing views any sign of Tibetan disobedience as an act of separatism, threatening China’s national security.

Translated by Tenzin Dickyi for RFA Tibetan. Edited by Roseanne Gerin and Paul Eckert.

This content originally appeared on Radio Free Asia and was authored by By Sangyal Kunchok for RFA Tibetan.

Comprehensive coverage of the day’s news with a focus on war and peace; social, environmental and economic justice.

• Palestinians protest while Secretary of State Antony Blinken meets with Palestinian leaders
• U.N. Rapporteur on Myanmar urges no support for upcoming “sham” elections planned by military junta
• New Alameda County District Attorney reopens two death in police custody cases closed by previous D.A.
• Tyre Nichols family gathers with supporters before tomorrow’s funeral

Image of Mahmoud Abbas: Kremlin.ru, CC BY 4.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

The post Palestinians protest visit of Secretary of State Antony Blinken; Opponents of Myanmar regime call plans for elections this year a sham; New Alameda County D.A. reopens two death in police custody cases: The Pacifica Evening News, Weekdays – January 31, 2023 appeared first on KPFA.

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Teachers in at least one Florida county this week began removing or covering books in their classrooms to avoid running afoul of a new law requiring every volume to be vetted by a state-trained "media specialist"—violation of which could result in felony charges.

The Sarasota Herald-Tribune reports the Manatee County School District has directed teachers to remove all books that have not been approved by a specialist, who will ensure that all titles are "free of pornography," are "appropriate for the age level and group," and contain no "unsolicited theories that may lead to student indoctrination."

The vetting requirement comes under H.B. 1467, a Republican-sponsored bill signed into law last year by Republican Gov. Ron DeSantis, who stridently hypes Florida as the "freest state in these United States" while banning classroom discussions of systemic racism,gender identity, and even an entire course of college preparatory study.

Manatee High School history teacher Don Falls, who is involved in a lawsuit against DeSantis' Stop WOKE Act banning the teaching of critical race theory—a graduate-level discipline not taught in K-12 schools—called H.B. 1467 "not only ridiculous but a very scary attack on fundamental rights."

Because few if any books have been screened by media specialists, many Manatee County teachers erred on the side of caution and covered their entire classroom libraries. However, teachers and students found ways of resisting the new law, even as they took action to comply with it.

"Readers Gonna Read," read one student-drawn sign taped to swaths of blue construction paper covering one middle school classroom's library. "Free the Books," demanded another. "There is no friend as loyal as a book," asserted a third sign hanging below a notice designating the room's "safe zone" in case of school shooter attack.

"A perfect picture of DeSantis' Florida," area elementary school teacher Tamara Solum wrote on Facebook.

Manatee Education Association President Pat Barber told the Herald-Tribune that "it's a scary thing to have elementary teachers have to worry about being charged with a third-degree felony because of trying to help students develop a love of reading."

In a final ironic twist, it's Literacy Week in Florida schools, which according to the state's Department of Education "is designed to raise awareness about the importance of reading and to inspire Florida's students and families to make reading part of their daily routines."

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams and was authored by Brett Wilkins.

Despite U.K. guidance affirming that emergency applications should not be granted more than once, the Department for Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs (DEFRA) announced for the third straight year that it will permit the use of sugar beet seeds coated with thiamethoxam under certain conditions in England.

"If the government is serious about halting biodiversity loss by 2030, they must support farmers to explore long-term, agroecological solutions that don't threaten our endangered bee population."

Against the recommendation of an independent panel of pesticide experts, the agency approved the use of thiamethoxam just four days after the European Union's highest court ruled that providing emergency derogations for prohibited neonicotinoid-treated seeds is inconsistent with the bloc's laws. The U.K. withdrew from the E.U. in 2020.

DEFRA's emergency authorization for thiamethoxam-coated sugar beet seeds also comes one month after the U.K. government advocated for a stronger global pesticide reduction target at the United Nations COP15 biodiversity summit.

Calling the authorization "yet another shameful episode in a long list of failures to protect the U.K. environment," the British chapter of the Pesticide Action Network (PAN) said that "putting bees and other insects at risk shows just how seriously this government takes the biodiversity crisis."

"It's incredibly brazen to allow a banned bee-harming pesticide back into U.K. fields mere weeks after the government talked up the need for global ambition on reducing pesticides at the U.N. biodiversity talks in Montreal," Bell said in a statement issued by the Pesticide Collaboration, a progressive coalition of 83 health and environmental organizations, trade unions, farmer and consumer groups, and academics.

"This is the third consecutive year that the government has gone directly against the advice of its own scientific advisers with potentially devastating consequences for bees and other vital pollinators," said Bell. "The health of us all and the planet depends on their survival. The government must fulfill its duty to protect wildlife and keep pesticides off our crops for good—that means supporting farmers to find nature-friendly ways to control pests."

University of Sussex biology professor Dave Goulson has estimated that a single teaspoon of thiamethoxam—one of three neonicotinoids produced by Bayer, the German biotech corporation that merged with agrochemical giant Monsanto in 2018—is toxic enough to wipe out 1.25 billion bees.

A Greenpeace U.K. petition imploring Thérèse Coffey, a Conservative Party lawmaker serving as secretary of state for environment, food, and rural affairs, to "enforce a total ban on bee-killing pesticides" has garnered nearly one million signatures.

Describing DEFRA's move as "a huge disappointment," the Stand By Bees campaign on Tuesday urged supporters to "continue pushing" and "write to your local MP."

In 2013, the European Commission banned the use of thiamethoxam and two other hazardous neonicotinoids produced by Monsanto—clothianidin and imidacloprid—on bee-attractive crops including maize, rapeseed, and some cereals. This was followed by a prohibition on all outdoor uses in 2018, which the European Court of Justice upheld in 2021, rejecting an appeal by Bayer.

The Pesticide Collaboration warned Monday that DEFRA's latest authorization for thiamethoxam-coated sugar beet seeds "raises wider concerns over whether the government will maintain existing restrictions on neonicotinoids and other harmful pesticides, or whether they may be overturned as part of a forthcoming bonfire of regulations that protect nature, wildlife, and communities."

At issue is the Retained E.U. Law Bill, which threatens to rescind E.U.-era environmental standards and other measures enacted prior to Brexit.

"It is inexcusable to see England falling so far behind the E.U. on regulations in place to prevent such a detrimental impact on biodiversity," Soil Association, a U.K.-based research and advocacy group, tweeted Tuesday. "It's not credible to claim an exemption is 'temporary' or 'emergency' when it is used year after year. How many more years will it happen?"

According to Amy Heley of the Pesticide Collaboration: "In previous years, DEFRA insisted that the sugar industry must make progress in finding alternatives, but we are yet to see any outcomes of this. The Pesticide Collaboration is deeply concerned that this emergency derogation is simply another example of the government failing to follow through on their own pledges to improve the environment and protect human health."

As Joan Edwards, director of policy & public affairs at the Wildlife Trusts, noted Monday: "Just last month, the Secretary of State Thérèse Coffey committed the U.K. to halving the environmental impact of damaging pesticides by 2030. However, today she has incompatibly authorized the use of a banned neonicotinoid, one of the world's most environmentally damaging pesticides."

“Only a few days ago, the E.U.'s highest court ruled that E.U. countries should no longer be allowed temporary exemptions for banned, bee-toxic neonicotinoid pesticides," said Edwards. "Yet this government deems it acceptable to allow the use of a toxic pesticide that is extremely harmful to bees and other insects, at a time when populations of our precious pollinators are already in freefall. This is unacceptable."

The Soil Association, meanwhile, argued that "if the government is serious about halting biodiversity loss by 2030, they must support farmers to explore long-term, agroecological solutions that don't threaten our endangered bee population."

"Neonicotinoids simply have no place in a sustainable farming system," the group added.

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams and was authored by Newswire Editor.

Comprehensive coverage of the day’s news with a focus on war and peace; social, environmental and economic justice.

• Ukrainian President Volodomyr Zelensky meets with President Biden and addresses Congress. The high profile trip is his first known visit outside Ukraine since Russia’s invasion. President Biden and Congress responded by promising new military aid, including the delivery of highly sophisticated surface to air Patriot missiles.
• One thousand U.S. religious and peace leaders urge a Christmas truce in the war.
• The January 6^th committee delays release of its final 800 page report by a day.
• With temperatures plunging, thousands of asylum seekers wait on the Mexican side of the border with Texas to see if the Supreme Court will give the green light for them to enter the U.S. to press their claims.
• The city of Oakland votes to reinstate a mask mandate inside city facilities in the face of high numbers of cases of COVID and other diseases.
• And a blast of Arctic air threatens to upend holiday travel plans and endanger the lives of homeless people throughout much of the country.
• Power was restored today for tens of thousands of residents across Humboldt County hit by the deadly 6.4 magnitude earthquake that injured at least seventeen, destroyed or damaged dozens of homes and buildings, and resulted in two deaths due to medical emergencies in the aftermath.

Image: A Ukrainian soldier stands near an apartment ruined from Russian shelling in Borodyanka, Ukraine, Wednesday, Apr. 6, 2022. (AP Photo/Efrem Lukatsky) via Flickr

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Comprehensive coverage of the day’s news with a focus on war and peace; social, environmental and economic justice.

• A powerful 6.4 magnitude earthquake strikes Humboldt County. Two people die as a result of medical emergencies, 12 are injured, and dozens of aftershocks rock the region.
• Congress is speeding toward adoption of a 1.7 trillion dollar budget to fund the government for the rest of the fiscal year. Tax credits for kids are out – an increase for the already whopping military budget is in. So is more funding for Ukraine.
• Ukrainian Presidnet Volodymyr Zelensky reportedly planning to travel to Washington tomorrow to meet with President Biden and address Congress.
• The former Texas police officer who fatally shot Atatiana Jefferson through a window of her home is sentenced to nearly 12 years in prison for manslaughter. Family members address the court and the former officer.
• The Biden Administration asks the Supreme Court to end asylum restrictions, but requests a delay until at least after Christmas.
  And Afghanistan’s Taleban rulers order universities to ban female students effective immediately.

Image: Atatiana Jefferson mural by Sachi via Flickr

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Lynn Kawano, the chief investigative reporter for Hawaii News Now, was issued a subpoena on Oct. 13, 2022, seeking communications and testimony in connection with an ongoing lawsuit before the District Court of Hawaii in Honolulu.

Three women filed a lawsuit against a Maui Police Department officer and Maui County alleging the officer abused his position of power to coerce them into having sex with him, according to Honolulu Civil Beat. Kawano first reported on the allegations in August 2019.

According to court records reviewed by the U.S. Press Freedom Tracker, the county sent a letter to Kawano’s attorneys that alleged that Kawano stepped outside of her role as a journalist and acted as an adviser to the women, suggesting they contact attorney Michael Green.

“It is clear that Ms. Kawano has not confined herself to news gathering, but has become an advisor to the plaintiffs,” the letter stated..

Neither Kawano nor Hawaii News Now responded to emailed requests for comment.

The county issued Kawano a subpoena for documents and testimony on Oct. 13, but did not serve her the court order until Oct. 25, according to court filings. The subpoena orders Kawano to produce her communications with Green and the three women, as well as any “attorney referral agreement or client referral agreement” between Kawano and Green or his law firm.

Bruce Voss, Kawano’s attorney, sent an objection letter to the county on Oct. 31 stating that in addition to not serving the subpoena with sufficient time before the deposition date of Nov. 1, that Kawano’s communications are protected by journalist’s privilege.

The county reissued the subpoena on Nov. 9, ordering Kawano to produce the same collection of documents and to appear for a deposition on Dec. 1. According to court documents, Voss filed a motion to quash the subpoena on Kawano’s behalf on Nov. 26.

“HNN can only surmise that the County of Maui is attempting to establish some nefarious plot (that does not exist) for the purposes of distracting from some very bad facts in this case,” the motion states. “Ms. Kawano, as a journalist, is not a discovery depot for the County of Maui.”

Voss declined to comment when reached by email, citing the pending motion to quash. A hearing on the motion has been scheduled for Jan. 5, 2023.

This content originally appeared on U.S. Press Freedom Tracker: Incident Database and was authored by U.S. Press Freedom Tracker: Incident Database.

We look at “Lowndes County and the Road to Black Power,” a remarkable new documentary that shows how a small rural community in Alabama organized during the civil rights movement to challenge white supremacy and systematic disenfranchisement of Black residents, and would become, in some ways, the first iteration of the Black Panther Party. Lowndes County went from having no registered Black voters in 1960 — despite being 80% Black — to being the birthplace in 1965 of the Lowndes County Freedom Organization, a radical political party that brought together grassroots activists and members of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. Co-directors Sam Pollard and Geeta Gandbhir tell Democracy Now! the Lowndes County story has not gotten the attention it deserves compared to other chapters of the civil rights movement, in part because its lessons are “more threatening” to the political establishment. “It seems like it has been deliberately left out of the narrative of history,” says Gandbhir. We also speak with Reverend Wendell Paris, a former SNCC field secretary featured in the film, who says the organizing in Lowndes County reflected an understanding by residents that “they needed to band together to defend themselves.”

This content originally appeared on Democracy Now! and was authored by Democracy Now!.

On this Giving Tuesday, consider making a matched donation to support The Intercept’s independent journalism.

The 45,000 or so residents of Dunn County live off on the western side of Wisconsin, not far from central Minnesota, but not close to much of anything. Like other rural counties, it leans heavily Republican, going by double digits to Donald Trump in 2020. This year, Sen. Ron Johnson, R-Wis., notched a 14-point margin there, and Tim Michels beat the incumbent Democratic Gov. Tony Evers by 9 percentage points.

But when it came to health care, Dunn County voters said they would support a national health insurance program. The overwhelmingly Republican residents of this farming community approved a ballot measure that affirms their support for a single-payer public health insurance program. The idea, which passed 51-49, ran 11 points ahead of Evers, who was reelected statewide, and 16 points ahead of Senate candidate Mandela Barnes.

The largely unnoticed rural election result affirmed support for nationalizing and expanding health insurance, a program popularly known as Medicare for All. While the national media discourse about the election largely ignored health care issues beyond abortion rights, voters across the country registered support for progressive reforms focused on improving health care access and reining in the for-profit industries that dominate the medical system.

In Arizona and South Dakota, like in Dunn County, progressive health care initiatives outpaced Democratic Party candidates by a wide margin. Arizona voters passed Proposition 209, a measure that reduces the allowable interest rate for medical debt and expands exemptions for what can be garnished by medical debt collectors, with a landslide 72 percent in favor. South Dakota became the 40th state to expand Medicaid coverage, making an additional 40,000 residents eligible.

Oregon passed Measure 111, making it the first state to enshrine a right to “cost-effective, clinically appropriate affordable health care” for every resident in the state constitution. In Massachusetts, voters enacted Question 2, which forces dental insurance companies to spend at least 83 percent of premiums on actual dental care, rather than administrative costs and profits.

President Joe Biden speaks about protecting Social Security and Medicare and lowering prescription drug costs, at OB Johnson Park Community Center in Hallandale Beach, Fla., on Nov. 1, 2022.

Photo: Jim Watson/AFP via Getty Images

This content originally appeared on The Intercept and was authored by Ryan Grim.

Pro-democracy advocates are expected to sue a rural Arizona county after a pair of GOP officials on Monday refused to certify this month's electoral outcomes despite a complete lack of evidence of miscounting.

Heeding the calls of former President Donald Trump and other prominent Republicans who have repeatedly lied about voter fraud and advocated for rejecting the popular will, the Cochise County Board of Supervisors declined to certify the results of the November 8 midterm elections in which Democratic candidates won races for governor, secretary of state, and state attorney general.

"There is no reason for us to delay," said the board's Democratic chair, Ann English, who was outnumbered by the county's two Republican supervisors, Tom Crosby and Peggy Judd.

In a 2-1 vote, the board called for "a Friday meeting to have further presentation on the accreditation of the voting machines," according to Arizona Republic reporter Mary Jo Pitzl. Crosby demanded "presentations" from Democratic Secretary of State and Gov.-elect Katie Hobbs as well as "people who spoke November 18 about alleged issues with accreditation."

In the words of Democratic election attorney Marc Elias, "The only presentation Cochise is going to get is in a courtroom."

Elias, the founder of Democracy Docket, said the county "will be sued" for missing Monday's legally mandated deadline to approve the official vote tally.

Hobbs' office had previously pledged to sue if the county missed the deadline. Prior to Monday's vote, Arizona's election director, Kori Lorick, said in a statement that the secretary of state "will use all available legal remedies to compel compliance with Arizona law and protect Cochise County voters' right to have their votes counted" if the board refused to fulfill its "nondiscretionary duty."

Following the vote, Sophia Solis, a spokesperson for Hobbs, told The Associated Press that "the Board of Supervisors had all of the information they needed to certify this election and failed to uphold their responsibility for Cochise voters."

According to NPR, Crosby and Judd's move jeopardizes the votes of more than 47,000 residents in the GOP-dominated jurisdiction in southeastern Arizona, near Tuscon. Solis told the news outlet that the secretary of state's office intends to file a lawsuit on Monday.

As NPR reported:

Many election watchers have been raising concerns that Republican officials may disrupt the process for making the election results official after GOP leaders in Cochise County voted on November 18 to wait to decide whether to certify the results until the legal deadline on Monday.

They cited claims about the certification of election equipment, which Lorick confirmed had been tested and properly certified. Still, Crosby and Judd have called for a meeting on Friday to discuss the claims.

In the opposite corner of Arizona, another Republican-controlled county—Mohave County—may end up following Cochise County's lead in not certifying election results. Last week, GOP officials there said they want to hold off on making a decision until Monday's deadline in order to make a political statement. They recessed their meeting Monday and are set to resume their discussion later in the day.

Elsewhere in the country on Monday, Pennsylvania's Luzerne County Board of Elections also refused to certify the midterm results.

"Certifying election results is a ministerial task," Elias tweeted. "This is what election subversion looks like in 2022."

Suggesting that another lawsuit is coming, Elias wrote on social media that right-wing board members in Luzerne County should ask their counterparts in Arizona's Cochise County "how well this ends for them."

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams - Breaking News & Views for the Progressive Community and was authored by Kenny Stancil.

An official recently elected to the Maricopa County Board of Supervisors, where he holds sway over an ongoing water dispute, was also a lobbyist for a Saudi company looking to protect its extraction of precious groundwater. Thomas Galvin, elected in the midterms to the post he was first appointed to in 2021, lobbied on behalf of the Saudi-owned farming company, which is using Arizona’s most depleted natural resource for foreign exports.

State lobbying disclosures show that Galvin is a partner at Rose Law Group, which lobbied on behalf of a subsidiary of the Saudi corporation Almarai currently tapping U.S. groundwater in drought-stricken Arizona and California to grow alfalfa. The animal feed, which is grown in harsh desert environments, is shipped overseas to support livestock on Saudi dairy farms. In 2014, Almarai bought almost 10,000 acres of farmland in Vicksburg, Arizona, through its wholly owned subsidiary Fondomonte, spending nearly $50 million on the purchase. The near-nonexistent water regulations in La Paz County, where Vicksburg is located, mean that Fondomonte can pump vast amounts of water out of Arizona’s water table, which has declined by over 50 feet in the past two decades.

Large-scale farming of hay and alfalfa located on the border of Arizona and Nevada, on March 10, 2021 in Needles. The desert valley has been farmed for hay and alfalfa using groundwater pulled from the Colorado River, with much of the hay exported to feed animals in countries such as Saudi Arabia.

Photo:George Rose/Getty Images

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This content originally appeared on The Intercept and was authored by Daniel Boguslaw.

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

On a Saturday in late March, the woman who runs elections in the rural hills of Surry County, North Carolina, was pulling another weekend shift preparing for the upcoming primary, when she began to hear on the other side of her wall the thunder of impassioned speeches. She was dismayed that the voices were questioning the election she’d overseen in 2020 and implying that corrupted voting machines had helped steal it. She also believed it was no coincidence that the Surry County GOP convention — the highlight of which was a lecture from a nationally prominent proponent of the stolen-election myth — was taking place in a public meeting room right next to her office.

The elections director, 47-year-old Michella Huff, who’d lived in the county since high school and knew many voters by name, considered it ludicrous that anyone could think the election had been rigged in Surry County. Donald Trump had received upward of 70% of the roughly 36,000 votes cast. Huff, a registered Republican for most of her adult life, had personally certified the vote.

Yet people had begun approaching Huff in church recently, saying things like, “I know you didn’t do anything, but that election was stolen.” In February, a longtime acquaintance of Huff’s cornered her in a bluegrass music store and berated her with complaints rooted in conspiracy theories. Huff started limiting her trips to town, even doing her grocery order online. “I didn’t want to have to deal with that,” she said of the election backlash. But it was hard to live in partial hiding. “I’m not that kind of person. I’m a people person.”

Unbeknownst to Huff, a national network of election deniers had been making inroads in Surry County, on the fringe of Appalachia. In early 2022, several members of the Surry County GOP had attended a training, put on by North Carolina Audit Force, which describes itself as a group that forms grassroots coalitions to “reveal election irregularities.” There, they were taught to “canvass” for election fraud by door-knocking to check for inaccuracies in public records, such as if a different person lived at an address than was listed on voter rolls. Discrepancies, canvassers claim, can indicate fraud — though experts say that canvassers often misinterpret normal imperfections in difficult-to-maintain voter lists, such as someone failing to update their address when moving. By early March, canvassers were crisscrossing Surry County, following “walk books” put together by data analysts associated with North Carolina Audit Force, who mapped routes for efficiency.

The featured lecturer at the Surry County GOP convention, Douglas Frank, is the face of the nationwide canvassing movement and claims to have established campaigns with the help of “supermoms” in at least 40 states. Frank and other speakers spent hours at the convention blaming corrupted voting machines and collusion among Democrats, Big Tech and nefarious forces for stealing the election. The assembly ultimately passed resolutions to create an election integrity task force and push for an audit, tactics espoused by Trump supporters.

The following Monday morning, Frank showed up at the service window of Huff’s office with William Keith Senter, the new chair of the Surry County GOP, and a woman who signed the guestbook as “NC Audit Force.” Huff believed that the group wanted to get inside her office — where voting equipment was kept — so she stepped into the cramped lobby with them, letting the door to her office automatically lock behind her.

The bowtie-wearing Frank began complaining to Huff about “phantom voters” discovered through canvassing and declaring that if he could just take an electromagnetic field meter tool to her DS200 ballot tabulators, he could reveal a minuscule modem that had helped switch votes from Trump to Joe Biden. It wasn’t the first time that Frank had encouraged an election official to let outsiders access election equipment. About 11 months before, he’d offered to help bring in a “team” to “audit” machines for Colorado officials, according to an affidavit for an arrest warrant of an official charged in the incident and to Frank himself. In September, Frank posted on Telegram that his phone had been seized by FBI agents investigating the incident, according to The Washington Post. Frank has not been charged.

“My objective is to help the clerk understand how they’re being hacked and what they need to do to fix it,” Frank said when asked about Colorado, using another term for election officials. In reference to Huff, he said: “I was there trying to offer a service to the clerk. I always assume clerks want to have clean elections, which is why I offered to help her find out if her machines were online or not.” Frank claimed to have convinced “dozens” of other election and county-level officials of the need to probe voting machines, “and that’s why counties all across the country are taking the machines out of the election process.”

It was not Frank who most concerned Huff, however, but Senter — a high school auto shop teacher and cattle farmer with a mechanic’s callused hands and baseball hat declaring “Pray for America” atop his silvering hair. The new GOP chair — who, according to three members of the Surry County GOP, replaced a predecessor who hadn’t sufficiently backed claims of election fraud — would remain in Huff’s orbit long after the barnstorming Frank left town. Indeed, Senter was only at the beginning of a campaign that would include efforts to drastically cut Huff’s pay and call into question even the most mundane functions of her office.

Huff told ProPublica that, as the men pressured her for more than an hour, Senter threatened that she should comply with their demands or the county commission would fire her. (She initially described this incident in an article by Reuters.) She feared that her reddening face and neck gave away her fear. (The commission has no authority to fire Huff; she is appointed by and answers to the county and state boards of elections. Senter denied threatening Huff’s job and wrote to ProPublica that “I speak loudly because I do not hear well. I drove a loud race car for years and have shot high powered rifles all of my life, so I have high frequency hearing loss.” Frank said that descriptions of Senter as threatening were “overblown,” and that “he might have been emphatic, but never, like, threatening.”)

But Huff refused to give in.

Huff is hardly the only election official struggling to stand up to those who believe the voting system is rigged; such confrontations have dramatically unfolded across the country, from Hood County, Texas, to Floyd County, Georgia, to Nye County, Nevada. Her circumstances illustrate how the efforts to target her are part of a larger playbook, with tactics that are replicated throughout the country.

“Election officials in small rural offices are absolutely more vulnerable,” said Paul Manson, who studies the demography of election officials and serves as the research director for the Elections & Voting Information Center at Reed College. Because such offices have fewer resources, Manson said, they have a harder time adapting to the increasingly controversial nature of election administration in the United States. These types of offices also represent the vast majority of the nation’s roughly 10,000 election jurisdictions, according to Manson’s research, with 48% of offices staffed by only one or two people and an additional 40% having between two and five. (Huff’s office has four full-time staff members, including her.)

As she juggled budget challenges and harassment, Huff has sought help from the North Carolina State Board of Elections, but that agency has faced struggles of its own. The GOP-dominant legislature has deprived the board of federal funding it had intended to use to hire and retain staff, instead sending it directly to counties. Moreover, groups claiming election fraud have organized campaigns against the agency, leaving it straining to support the 100 far-flung county boards of elections it oversees, officials say.

Laws and regulations were not written for the hostile environment of today, said Richard L. Hasen, a professor and director of the Safeguarding Democracy Project at the University of California, Los Angeles. Many of the individuals challenging election officials are even using the law itself, such as overwhelming those offices with public records requests, a practice that Senter would soon take up in Surry County and that “election integrity” groups would employ against the North Carolina State Board of Elections.

Hasen warned: “The country’s election infrastructure isn’t designed to stand up to one of its two major parties turning against it.”

When Michella Huff accepted the job as Surry County’s elections director in 2019, she thought she knew what she was getting into. On her first day, in October, she parked at a strip mall neighbored by corn fields, a hunting supply store and a chicken processing plant, and walked into a former grocery store, which had closed as the region bled jobs and had been renovated to house the county’s tax, agricultural and elections divisions. After more than two decades as the head of groundskeeping for Mount Airy, population roughly 10,500 and the largest town in the county, located about 100 miles north of Charlotte, she was giving her aching back a rest and working in an air-conditioned office.

Each fall, for most of her adult life, she’d taken a few weeks off from mowing and planting to be a poll worker during early voting and then run a polling site as a chief precinct judge on Election Day. Though the days could be long and the pay little, she loved how some people kept their “I Voted” stickers pristine to add to lifetime collections and how others brought in homemade grape jelly for poll workers. Most of all, she was motivated by the certainty that she was making American democracy function.

After the 2020 presidential election went off smoothly, Huff was aware of the “Stop the Steal” movement promoted by Trump, but, given her knowledge of how election security worked, she knew that its claims of Venezuelan software flipping votes from Trump to Biden were baseless. In the aftermath of Jan. 6, she assured herself that that kind of chaos would never come to sleepy Surry County.

But instead of the conspiracy theories dying down, they intensified. Soon after taking the job, she had switched her party status to independent “to reflect the way that this office must be portrayed in a nonpartisan manner.” It wasn’t until Biden took office that people in the community began to ask her about this. Huff recalls that one afternoon in early March 2021, she was surprised by a visitor at her office: Kevin Shinault, her former elementary school teacher and a GOP precinct chair, who she said accused her of participating in a debunked conspiracy theory known as “Zuckerbucks.”

In 2020, Meta CEO Mark Zuckerberg had provided grants to election officials through the Center for Tech and Civic Life to help with unexpected pandemic expenses, and critics held that this had been part of a plot to throw the election to Joe Biden. Huff happily explained that the $48,584 she’d received from the group had been used for straightforward expenses, like hiring a Spanish-language interpreter. Nearly every election office in North Carolina had accepted such grants. Shinault, however, argued that hiring a Spanish-language interpreter had nefariously boosted Hispanic participation to the Democrats’ advantage. Huff assured him that helping Spanish-speaking voters wasn’t partisan. (Shinault did not respond to requests for comment.)

That night, Huff attended the biweekly county commissioners meeting, at which the chair of the county Elections Board asked the five county commissioners to split $20,000 left over from the previous year’s federal grants between Huff and her staff as belated hazard pay for their efforts during the pandemic. Huff figured it was a routine request. Numerous other counties had used the money this way; Surry’s bipartisan Elections Board had already signed off on it; and records show that about two months earlier, commissioners had reviewed the grants without comment.

The county commissioners, however, sharply questioned the chair of the Elections Board for nearly an hour, implying that unless more county employees got such pay, it wasn’t fair. Eddie Harris, a commissioner who works at a luxury saddle-making company his family owns, declared, “I will never take one penny from Mark Zuckerberg or any of his ilk,” calling the Meta CEO “a left-wing radical extremist bigot.” (Senter wrote to ProPublica, “As a party, we approached the commissioners and ask [sic] them to send the Zuckerbucks back, and they agreed.” Harris did not respond to requests for comment.)

Huff realized that her decadeslong relationships with people wouldn’t prevent them from envisioning her as part of some dark conspiracy. The next month, the commissioners unanimously voted to return nearly $100,000 in pandemic grant money, including the Center for Tech and Civic Life grant and around $60,000 from the USC Schwarzenegger Institute for State and Global Policy, named for the former Republican governor of California. They also returned the $20,000 in federal funding, rather than divvying it up among the elections staff.

Huff felt that returning the money was “very unfair,” but she resolved not to let it affect her performance. The best way to rebut conspiracy theories was to run her elections perfectly. She hoped the election conspiracy theories “would be a dead issue after the money was sent back.”

But once Senter and Frank confronted her in March 2022, she realized the target on her back was permanent.

After that heated visit, Senter kept showing up at the elections office. With the service window between them, Huff helped him file public records requests, which he insisted on scrawling by hand. (He explained to ProPublica that the handwritten requests were necessary, “so they could not be doctored by anyone else.”) Huff politely did her duty, but whenever she saw him, “My gut flipped. It makes me angry that he has that power — I can’t help how my body reacts.” When Huff and her staff finished work late in the evening, police escorted them to their cars, past campaign-style signs that Senter had put up reading “The People’s Trust is SHATTERED” and “We DEMAND a Full FORENSIC Audit.” Huff repeatedly took them down, until the sheriff decided the signs should stay up, as they were legal political expression on public property.

In March and April, Senter sent numerous emails and texts to the county commissioners, which ProPublica obtained through public records requests. On March 31, he emailed the commissioners asking them to “please consider our recommendations that are in the attachment,” which included a suggestion to reduce her pay and stated that “there is NO requirement to fund any additional election support staff.” Though Huff answers to the county and state elections boards, the county commissioners set her budget and salary.

Later that day, Senter texted the commissioners, “Y’all might better get Michella in check,” complaining about her charging 5 cents per copy for public records. “It’s gonna get ugly if she don’t jump on board. Cut her salary to 12 bucks an hour like the law says you can do.” (Senter told ProPublica: “The ugly part is in reference to the phone calls, text, threats and pressure I was receiving due to her lies and deceit that she reported to the media”; but his message to the commissioners made no reference to those things, and Huff said she had not spoken to the media about Senter as of the end of March.)

North Carolina law does specify that elections directors can be paid a minimum of $12 an hour (less than $25,000 annually), but two lawyers specializing in elections told ProPublica that any attempt to drastically reduce Huff’s salary, which was $71,000 as of March, would almost certainly be struck down, as courts have found that elections director salaries must be in line with those of their peers; a ProPublica review of elections director salaries in North Carolina found that the average is about $61,000.

Commissioners responded only occasionally to Senter’s messages about Huff, according to the documents ProPublica received from public records requests, such as the commission chair texting Senter instructions for how to avoid paying for public information requests to Huff’s office. (Only one of the county commissioners responded to a request for comment. Mark Marion said, “We have signified that we are behind our elections department.” When pressed for specific instances, he pointed to “our day-to-day conversations and visits” with elections staff.)

At an April 18 commissioners meeting, Senter asked the panel during the public comment period to consider not using the county’s voting machines in the upcoming May primary because of his and others’ suspicions that they had been corrupted. He was backed by a parade of speakers, among them Shinault.

At a commissioners meeting the following month, the room was filled, with the overflow watching on a livestream. Essentially, the whole meeting was given over to election deniers, some of whom traveled from elsewhere in North Carolina and the nation and presented slideshows on the vulnerabilities of voting machines and the so-called evidence from canvassing efforts.

Near the end of the meeting, a commissioner read prewritten remarks explaining that the requests to discard the voting machines were outside their power.

Afterward, the crowd assembled on the courthouse lawn, alongside a memorial to Confederate soldiers. People chanted, “Hell no, the machines gotta go!” A succession of speakers promised to fight on, with one declaiming so vehemently that he tore his lips on the microphone mesh, spotting it with blood.

In late August, Senter traveled to Missouri for a weekendlong gathering of hundreds of election deniers put on by Mike Lindell, the MyPillow CEO who claims to have spent at least $35 million of his fortune on efforts to prove the 2020 election was fraudulent. At Lindell’s event, activists from all 50 states touted their campaigns, which often involved pressuring county and state election officials. “We’ve had a few victories,” Senter told the crowd when he presented as the representative for North Carolina. “We feel like if you’ve got a committed group of patriots, and some county commissioners that are not afraid to face the establishment and do their job, and local law enforcement that will hear the evidence that you produce to them, we can actually get something done in your county. So if you’d like that strategy, hit us up in North Carolina, and we’ll help you out with it.”

After returning home, Senter submitted to Huff’s office a time-consuming public records request similar to one that Lindell had promoted, which required one of Huff’s three full-time staff members to spend 60 hours at a scanner uploading 2020 “poll tapes,” the physical receipts from tabulators. Across North Carolina and nationwide, short-staffed offices reported being overwhelmed with often identical requests. Senter’s requests to Huff came atop dozens of others from different sources, including a sweeping request from a lawyer for the Republican National Committee. Before 2020, Surry County’s elections office had received an estimated half-dozen public records requests a year; in the first 10 months of 2022, it received 81.

An ally of Senter’s filed requests for court-ordered mediation and a lawsuit against Huff, seeking the same records that Lindell’s campaign has recommended asking for. While none of the legal actions have so far been successful, shortly before Surry County’s 2020 elections-related paper records were to be routinely discarded, the county Board of Elections agreed to preserve them for three more years. Huff said that each legal action resulted in her and her staff having to spend significant time with lawyers and on paperwork, rather than on actual elections administration.

Most laws and regulations that govern public records requests and elections do little to ease the disruptions that Huff and others were enduring — and offer few means to hold anyone accountable. “I don’t think there’s a silver bullet solution, unfortunately,” said Lawrence Norden, the senior director of the Elections and Government Program at the Brennan Center for Justice, a nonprofit law and public policy institute. He noted that public records laws are necessary tools to ensure government transparency. “In a lot of cases, if election officials had more resources available to them, it would be easier to push back on some of these things.” He said that officials in smaller jurisdictions often need to turn to professional associations, nonprofits or their state election agencies for help.

The organization most responsible for supporting Huff is the North Carolina State Board of Elections, which is responsible for statewide election infrastructure, such as its voter registration database, and which provides oversight and help for county offices. It had dispatched staff to back up Huff when election deniers were holding rallies in the county and offered legal advice and support over the phone.

But the state board, too, was being overwhelmed by public information requests. Before 2020, only several dozen requests would come in per year, said Patrick Gannon, its public information director. In 2021, there were 380, with some coming from the same people who submitted requests to Huff. Meanwhile, the number of people on the communications team had dwindled from four to two, in large part due to reductions in federal funding and the GOP-led legislature not meeting budgeting requests, according to board officials. By late October, the officials said, five employees had accepted buyout offers. To make payroll, the agency also let two people go and did not fill 17 positions — reducing its staff by more than 20% during its busiest time and limiting the services it could provide counties.

Huff’s experiences with so-called election integrity activists were more intense than what other North Carolina election workers were facing, though many of them were also enduring their own challenges. After the May primary, at least 14 counties reported complaints to the state board about aggressive poll observers, according to an internal survey obtained through a public records request. The complaints and additional documentation from one of the counties described two instances in which observers tailed election workers in their cars, among other examples of observers “intimidating poll workers.” This led the agency to pass rules to ensure that observers — the individuals assigned by political parties to monitor election officials — didn’t do things like stand so close to voting equipment that they could see confidential information. However, these rules were nullified when they were sent for approval to a board appointed by the GOP-controlled state legislature.

Even states considered to be on the forefront of election administration — such as Colorado, where legislators have passed laws addressing rising security risks, and Kentucky, where the Republican secretary of state has pushed back against conspiracy theories — have experienced significant disruptions as a result of the organized campaigns by 2020 election deniers. “It’s the new normal, until we have our political leaders in both parties pushing back strongly against it,” Norden said.

One of the individuals helping Senter in his Surry County campaign is Carol Snow, the North Carolina Audit Force leader who accompanied Senter and Frank to the elections office during their March confrontation with Huff. In a May email from Snow to Senter with the subject line “Surry Co Dirt,” which ProPublica obtained through public records requests, she provides him with a PowerPoint presentation. Its 61 slides outline supposed errors in North Carolina’s voter registration database. In an August email Snow sent to the county commissioners, copying Senter, she presented them with supposed evidence of voter-registration fraud in Surry County assembled through canvassing. She also suggested that law enforcement could subpoena information inaccessible through public records requests, which she claimed might reveal “individual voter fraud” or systemwide “election fraud.” She concluded, “We will get to the bottom of this or die (or be imprisoned for) trying.” The commissioners did not respond to the email.

(Snow declined to comment on the emails; in response to earlier questions about North Carolina Audit Force’s efforts in Surry County, Snow wrote: “Americans have every right to oversee our election process. That’s what should happen in a free society.”)

Until recently, Snow was also a leader in the North Carolina Election Integrity Team, a statewide affiliate of the nationwide Election Integrity Network, which has trained thousands of activists in the battleground states to scrutinize election officials. The network’s goal is to make sure there are “local election integrity task forces organized at every local election office in America,” according to its training manual, and it lays out how to aggressively scrutinize officials in ways that are similar to what Huff has experienced, such as through filing public records requests and investigating voting machines and voter lists. “The goal is for the task force members to be ever-present at the election office and board meetings,” it reads.

Jim Womack, the head of the North Carolina Election Integrity Team, told ProPublica that the group had nothing to do with the events in Surry County and that Snow’s actions there were “her business.” He and Snow said she had recently left the organization.

Womack estimated that as of August, the North Carolina Election Integrity Team had trained more than 1,000 volunteers, who would be present in most major North Carolina counties in November, including Surry. “As long as” election officials are “doing things in accordance with the law and the books, they shouldn’t have anything to worry about,” Womack said. “And if that causes stress, I'm sorry.”

In the months before the November 2022 midterm election, Huff decided to go on the offensive against misinformation, giving speeches to various civic groups about how elections actually work, like the local real estate agents association.

One afternoon toward the end of the summer, she showed up at a country club for what she had believed was a concerned citizens meeting — and found waiting for her eight local conservative leaders, including county commissioner Harris, who had fiercely criticized the Center for Tech and Civic Life money. For two and a half hours, Huff answered the Republicans’ questions, largely about election security, explaining the safeguards that kept voting tabulators from being hacked. The discussion was tense but civil, and while Huff kept her hands clasped atop a table, her feet compulsively kicked an orange golf tee beneath it. As Huff headed for the door, she reminded her hosts, “The people who work in the elections office, we’re real people who love our community too.”

Afterward, a ProPublica reporter asked an attendee, Earl Blackburn, a Republican candidate for a local school board, if Huff’s presentation had made him feel better about election security. Though Huff had taken more than 15 minutes to explain directly to Blackburn how the voting machines couldn’t be hacked, he said, “I don’t know that she has satisfactorily answered my question.” To explain how the machines could be hacked anyway, Blackburn referenced a badly reviewed Sean Connery heist movie that hinges on thieves dodging a laser beam alarm system to break into a global bank.

On Sept. 19, Huff hosted a watch party in the public meeting room next to the elections office for a livestream of speeches in which experts and North Carolina State Board of Elections members explained election security, hoping that some of the Surry County GOP might attend — or at the very least some skeptical citizens. But the only people who came were longtime poll workers who already understood how elections worked.

As September turned to October, she and her staff hosted another event at which they publicly tested the dozens of voting machines that would be used in November to prove their accuracy. She hoped some of the election deniers might assuage their fears at the event, but none showed up.

No matter how many questions she answered or how many times she proved the soundness of the voting machines, it wasn’t clear that she was convincing anyone.

When Huff had taken the job in 2019, she had told the Board of Elections that she expected to stay 20 years. But recently there had been many nights she had wondered how she could continue. She said, “If this is what every day and every night looks like, how could anyone keep this up for 17 more years?” She wasn’t just thinking of herself but also about how the stress she brought home and the controversies surrounding her would affect her children, who are in high school and college, and her husband.

Coming home late from work each night, Huff parked beside a plot that was normally filled with heirloom tomatoes, cucumbers, herbs and peppers, but which was now just dirt. Instead of tending her garden, she was trapped all day in the halogen-lit office. Still, in her most hopeful moods, she could imagine that instead of cultivating the land she was cultivating democracy. “It’s a seed. You plant it. It grows. It flowers. It fruits,” she said. “It takes careful tending to make sure that it survives and becomes something beautiful.”

This content originally appeared on Articles and Investigations - ProPublica and was authored by by Doug Bock Clark.

For Anje Duckels, Florida was home. Duckels, 41, was born in the Sunshine State; her family had lived there for generations. But housing prices in Fort Myers just kept rising, so she and her wife decided to find somewhere cheaper to raise their three children. Duckels volunteered to help restore a rural estate with a small farmhouse in the Willcox Basin of southeast Arizona, near the U.S.-Mexico border. After a few years in the area, they bought the property, which was located in a Cochise County neighborhood called Kansas Settlement.

Calling the Willcox Basin “remote” would be an understatement: 2,000 square miles of sand and scrub, strewn with crop fields and lined with dusty single-lane roads, it’s nothing like the subdivided coastal paradise that Duckels was used to. Most residents live at least 30 minutes from the closest store or gas station. Many live several miles from their nearest neighbor. In most of the county there are no public services or utilities. The most famous housing development in local history was a land-fraud scam that marketed empty desert tracts to gullible northerners — a sham version of snowbird refuges like the one where Duckels had grown up.

The day the family moved to Kansas Settlement, they lost their water. When Duckels turned on the faucet, she heard a spitting noise, but nothing came out. It didn’t take long to find the source of the issue: The aquifer beneath her house had dropped below the bottom of her well. The pump was pulling on dry dirt. Duckels soon learned that many of her neighbors had lost water as well, and they’d found themselves forced to haul in jugs of water on their pickup trucks or else pay thousands of dollars to drill their wells deeper.

“Not only was our well dry, but pretty much everybody in this area has a well that was dry, or going dry, or had been dry and had to be re-drilled,” Duckels told Grist.

In times of crisis, people tend to look for a villain. It didn’t take long for Duckels to find one: Surrounding her property on all sides are farms owned by a massive dairy operation called Riverview. Over the previous decade, the Minnesota-based company had gobbled up more than 50,000 acres in Cochise County to build an expansive network of farms and feedlots, according to High Country News, which has covered Riverview and the local opposition it has engendered extensively. The dairy’s wells were far deeper than the one on Duckels’ property, and she assumed the firm was sucking all the water out from beneath her.

Riverview is hardly the only reason for the area’s water crisis — the desert aquifers had never been very robust, and a climate-change-fueled drought had made the area drier than ever — but Riverview and other large farms growing nuts and alfalfa are by far the area’s largest water users. Duckels started to look at the irrigated fields around her with fear and resentment.

“That Riverview man is literally going to try to starve us out of water,” Duckels told me, referring to the Riverview board member who runs the company’s operations in the area. “I hope every single property he owns is set on fire by someone. I hope that someone salts his ground so that nothing grows.” 

Cows look out from the Riverview-owned Coronado Dairy farm near Willcox, Arizona. Grist / Roberto (Bear) Guerra

A cloud of dust floats behind a hay truck passing between two Riverview-owned crops, left. Irrigation equipment, right, sprays water over the dairy’s crops. Grist / Roberto (Bear) Guerra

Duckels’ neighbors all feel the same way. The mounting water crisis has created a groundswell of anger in the Willcox Basin. Libertarian-minded locals who might once have kept to themselves have banded together against the dairy and other large nearby farms, channeling their frustration over dry wells into a political battle against big agriculture. Interviews with almost two dozen residents in the area paint a picture of a once-sleepy community that has erupted into turmoil: Residents have shown up at public meetings to shout at Riverview representatives, sparred in comment wars in local Facebook groups, and flown rogue reconnaissance flights over dairy facilities.

The growing water shortage is driving freedom-loving denizens of the Willcox Basin to a radical solution: state regulation. In two weeks, basin residents will vote on whether to establish new restrictions on large groundwater wells, the first such referendum in state history. If voters approve the new rules, it would constitute a sea change in Arizona water politics. Not only would it be one of the first times a rural community has voted to restrict its own water usage, but it would also be a rare example of rural voters succeeding in limiting the power of large-scale agriculture.

The backlash may portend a broader political shift in the arid U.S. West. Farms are by far the largest water users in the region, and rural communities from California to Texas are watching these operations suck the water from beneath their homes. Places like Cochise County have relied on agriculture as an economic anchor, but the water crisis is drawing battle lines between rural populations and the large agricultural firms that sustain them.

“Back in the day, we used to get a lot more rain, and the theme with water was: If it’s not affecting you personally, nobody’s really gonna care,” said Esteban Vasquez, a lifelong Cochise County resident who has managed local water systems. “Now that people actually see it happening, the conversation has opened. It’s something that has hit close to home.”

Unlike the sprawling Phoenix suburbs 200 miles away, Cochise County remains mostly an undeveloped desert, almost as rural today as it was when the first prospectors and miners arrived to dig for copper more than a century ago. Most residents who spoke with Grist said they moved to the area because they wanted solitude and privacy, even if that meant roughing it. In a county where the population density is a quarter of the national average, they often see more rattlesnakes than people.

“People have to be a little bit courageous or at least ambitious,” said Christian Sawyer, who moved out to the area a few years ago in search of a quiet place where he could pursue various creative projects. “It’s people who want to do their own thing, build their own house, farm their own crops. It’s this kind of back-to-the-land libertarianism, with a bit of a hippie-type of mentality as well.”

Cochise County has a unique “opt-out” permitting system, which allows people who own more than four acres of land to build structures without having to submit to a county building inspection. This has enabled some unorthodox abodes: Some residents have built houses with composting toilets, walls made out of volcanic rock, and frames made out of straw bale.

If the absence of local regulations made Cochise County an attractive retreat for loners and libertarians, it also made it an ideal target for large farms. There have long been small cotton and alfalfa operations in the county, but over the past ten years a number of large conglomerates have moved in to grow nuts and alfalfa; several vineyards have opened as well. The growers needed a place where they could pump water with no restrictions whatsoever, and the Willcox Basin fit the bill.

These conglomerates could afford to dig groundwater wells that are much deeper than standard residential wells, giving them a de facto monopoly on the region’s aquifers. Producers have also snapped up land in unregulated localities elsewhere in the state — like the town of Kingman, where a Saudi-backed company grows alfalfa for export back to the Middle East, and Hyder, where a conglomerate called Integrated Ag has invested $90 million to grow Bermuda grass.

Riverview made the biggest splash in the Willcox Basin. Starting around 2014, the company built or bought out several separate dairy operations in the area to the tune of $180 million, beginning in Kansas Settlement and spreading out from there. With operations in five states and hundreds of thousands of cows, Riverview is one of the largest dairy firms in the country. In other states the company has been accused of muscling out family farmers by flooding local milk markets and then underpaying desperate farmers to buy them out and swallow up their acreage.

Much of the land Riverview bought had already been used for farming, but the firm dug dozens of new wells at depths of more than 1,000 feet and pumped millions of gallons of water to grow food for its large herd of heifers. State records show that Riverview owns more than 600 wells in Cochise County. The majority were drilled before the company arrived, but the wells that Riverview drilled in recent years are by far the deepest, with some of them reaching more than 2,000 feet into the earth — so deep that the water is hot from proximity to the earth’s crust. This year alone, the company has bought or drilled at least a dozen thousand-plus-foot wells.

Unlike other aquifers that are fed by rivers and streams, the aquifers in the Willcox Basin depend on rainfall alone for replenishment, so they have always been vulnerable to depletion during drought. But it wasn’t until large operations like Riverview moved in that residents started to notice their water disappearing. Groundwater accretes underground in basins, so if one user pumps a lot of water from a deep well, they can cause water to drop for other wells even several miles away. The best way to visualize this is to imagine two or three straws stuck in the same milkshake; the straw that plunges down deepest will get the last of the milkshake, even as the ones positioned higher end up coming up dry.

“The amount of groundwater pumping has increased exponentially because of what’s been happening with this dairy. And as that has happened, people’s wells have gone dry,” said Kathy Ferris, a research fellow at Arizona State University’s Kyl Center for Water Policy. Ferris was one of the architects of Arizona’s landmark 1980 groundwater law, which limited underwater pumping in the state’s main population centers.

“I think we know what the problem is,” she added. “It’s not rocket science.”

A 2018 report from the state water department found that groundwater levels declined by at least 200 feet between 1940 and 2015 in the parts of the Willcox Basin with the most agricultural pumping — and that was before Riverview moved in. An Arizona water official who spoke to High Country News last year said the rate of decline has increased since the dairy arrived.

Other farming-heavy regions across the West are seeing similar stress on their aquifers from unrestricted agricultural pumping and an ongoing megadrought. California has recorded 1,287 dry well reports across the state this year, a 50 percent increase since 2021. One town in the Golden State’s Central Valley may run out of water altogether by the end of the year. The massive Ogallala Aquifer that runs from Nebraska to Texas has also shown signs of severe stress in recent years.

In the Willcox Basin, the groundwater crisis began in the immediate vicinity of Kansas Settlement, but it’s since spread out across the county as Riverview and other large farms expand farther out and draw from new sections of the aquifers that run through the county. The crisis has even started to affect the town of Willcox itself, one of the only incorporated settlements in the area, which is ten miles from Riverview’s operations. Esteban Vasquez spent five years helping manage the town’s water system, and he told Grist that even the town’s deep municipal wells were seeing stress as a result of agricultural pumping.

“There’s seriously something going on down there,” he said. “We were dropping about nine feet a year. People used to think that since we were miles away [from the dairy], that wasn’t really going to affect us and our aquifers, but it was only a matter of time.”

When Vasquez left his job with the town of Willcox and started working for a company that manages small water systems across the county, he encountered the same dry well crisis everywhere he went. According to High Country News, at least 100 wells in the basin went dry between 2014 and 2019.

The proliferation of water issues has cast a pall over the area, making life darker and more difficult for all those who live there. Everyone knows someone whose well has gone dry, or who’s had to deepen their well, or who’s taken to hauling water rather than try to find it on their own property. Many of the haulers are elderly people who live on fixed incomes and can’t afford to invest in wells, so they haul water instead, filling up jugs at a water facility in Willcox and driving them back home multiple times a week. In a county where the median household income is just 70 percent of the national figure, options for those who suddenly find themselves without water are limited.

Even for those who still have water, the effects of the crisis are all too visible. In some parts of the basin, the overpumping of underground aquifers has led to the emergence of fissures in the ground that are dozens of feet deep, some of which have split apart roadways and forced local officials to close them for weeks. Dozens of people have left areas like Kansas Settlement over the past few years after losing water and finding themselves saddled with worthless properties. Vasquez said he knows at least 20 people who’ve left the county due to the recent water issues; Duckels gave a similar estimate.

“A lot of people have abandoned their houses,” said Duckels. “You drive up and down our streets over here. You can see houses that are just decrepit, because the people have literally just had to leave their investments to rot.”

Even as the water crisis grew for years, many locals didn’t understand the scale of the problem. Because the population of the basin is so spread out, many people were not totally aware of the growth of agribusiness in the area. Opposition to megafarms was initially limited to just a few committed locals.

Julia Hamel, who lives about six miles north of the town of Willcox, was one of those people. She refers to dairy owners as “crooked bastards” and sees their expansion as part of a campaign to force out longtime residents like herself.

“These folks at the dairy have forced out families that have been there five generations,” she said of Riverview. “We have people who are pumping water, and they can’t sell the land because no one wants it without water. Meanwhile [the dairy has] bought miles and miles of land. We’re the ones who get tromped on.”

About ten years ago, as a dairy company called Feria was expanding its operations in the Willcox Basin, Hamel and two of her friends decided to go on offense. They piloted a small plane from a nearby hangar to conduct aerial reconnaissance on Feria’s feedlots, looking out for potential health code violations. Hamel’s friends photographed large ponds she said were full of urine, as well as burning piles of manure, both of which she could smell from miles away. They tried to show the photos to local representatives, but nothing came of it. A few years later, Riverview acquired Feria. (Riverview representatives did not respond to Grist’s multiple requests for comment.)

Stunts like these were rare, but in recent years more people have come over to Hamel’s side. The local “Willcox chit chat” Facebook group has exploded with debates over how much of the responsibility for dry wells can be pinned on agriculture, with many residents blaming Riverview. Vandals have defaced some of the dairy’s signage, and residents have shown up at county meetings to berate public officials for supporting the dairy.

Anje Duckels said she’s concerned that violence will erupt in the area if water supplies continue to drop.

“You get people who see their moms cry because they’re too old to mortgage their house to pay for another well,” said Duckels. “These people are gonna get desperate and crazy. These people are frightening, they’re poor, and they’ve got weapons.”

Ironically, one major demonstration of this outrage was a pressure campaign against a proposal to actually increase local water access. In the years after Riverview arrived, a group of county politicians started to push for the creation of a municipal water district that could ease the burden on individual wells. Rather than having everyone pump water on their own property, the new district would pump water from a deep communal well and pipe it out to households.

But many residents view the proposed district with suspicion or outright hostility — not because they think it wouldn’t deliver water, but because it is supported by Riverview. Gary Fehr, a member of Riverview’s board of directors and grandson of the dairy’s founder, is one of the lead organizers behind the effort.

The water district doesn’t advertise its association with Riverview, and vice versa. But Peggy Judd, a member of the Cochise County Board of Supervisors and a supporter of the water district, told Grist the district wouldn’t have been possible without Fehr and Riverview, which she said has helped finance outreach efforts and donated office space for the endeavor.

“The power and the brainpower behind the district is the dairy, and they’re keeping it quiet. But if we didn’t have them, we wouldn’t have that gift,” she said.

As a result, many locals consider the water district part of a ploy to make the entire Willcox Basin dependent on Riverview for water access. Rumors have swirled that Fehr is laying the groundwork to build a massive new suburban development in the area: First he’ll dry out everyone’s wells, the logic goes, and then he’ll create a new water district to support the residents of his planned community.

At a series of public meetings about the water district earlier this year, numerous residents cast blame for the crisis on Riverview, suggesting the dairy couldn’t be trusted to solve a problem it had allegedly created.

“The only reason we’re here today is because our water table is going down, and the biggest single reason that water table is going down is because of agricultural pumping,” said one.

“Neighborliness is one of our values in this valley, and good neighbors don’t suck their neighbors’ wells dry,” he added to laughter and applause. 

For the moment, the water district project appears to have stalled amid local opposition; the volunteer committee hasn’t held a meeting since June. Fehr did not respond to Grist’s requests for comment.

Even as residents of the Willcox Basin have spurned the dairy’s proposed water district, many have embraced a far more radical solution: strict regulations on groundwater usage. Decades of anti-regulation sentiment have given way to an unprecedented grassroots campaign for restrictions on new groundwater wells. These restrictions could jeopardize the future growth of industrial farming operations like Riverview.

When Arizona lawmakers drafted the state’s landmark 1980 groundwater law, they were trying to solve an over-pumping problem that had begun to threaten development around the major cities of Phoenix and Tucson. Because most of the state’s population lived in these metropolitan areas, lawmakers focused on slowing new well drilling in urban rather than rural areas. The 1980 bill established so-called “active management areas,” or AMAs, in those two cities, as well as in the agriculture-heavy county that lay between them.

For four decades now, farms and large subdivisions in these areas have been subject to stringent limits on how much groundwater they can pump. Outside these three counties, however, unlimited pumping remained fair game. People in areas like Cochise County didn’t want restrictions on their water, and the potential for overdraft in many of Arizona’s more remote regions was less immediate.

“We knew that there are areas of the state where problems are worse than other areas,” said Ferris, the water expert who helped craft the law. However, “in many rural areas, they just said, ‘go away.’ They didn’t want regulation. They didn’t want us to be managing their groundwater.”

But buried within the 1980 law was a provision that allowed for the possibility that rural communities might change their mind: If residents of a groundwater basin gather enough signatures, the law allows them to propose a ballot question about whether to establish an AMA. If the ballot question wins a majority vote, the state then appoints a committee to supervise groundwater in the basin. The committee can impose restrictions on new irrigation activity, capping the amount of land in the basin that is fed by groundwater.

The proviso has never been used — until now.

In Cochise County, a local librarian and textile artist named Bekah Wilce learned about the clause a few years ago. She had started to worry about the impact of agricultural pumping on her town, Elfrida, which sits in the water basin adjacent to the Willcox Basin. Wilce’s husband, an independent journalist, started to talk with Arizona’s state water department about how large water users could be regulated. Those conversations led him to the 1980 statute, and to the clause allowing communities to form their own AMAs.

Wilce soon got involved with a group of local groundwater activists known as the Arizona Water Defenders. The group had been looking for a solution to the dry-well problem for a few years, and Wilce pitched them on gathering signatures for an AMA ballot question, something that had never been tried in Arizona before. 

When Wilce first started working on the AMA campaign, her neighbors warned her that it would be a long shot. Cochise County residents tend to be quite conservative — Donald Trump carried the county by 20 points in the 2020 election — and many are averse to the very idea of regulation. So Wilce was surprised that she and her fellow volunteers had no trouble getting enough signatures. In fact, they submitted 250 more signatures than they needed to get an AMA vote on the ballot — not just in the Willcox Basin but also in the neighboring Douglas Basin, where Wilce lives. Wilce told Grist that the massive growth of big agricultural interests in the area has woken up people who might not have engaged in the past.

“It’s true that it’s a fairly conservative area — and even those on the left side of the spectrum don’t really want a lot of government interference — but I do think we see the need for common-sense limits,” she said. “The dairy has been in place now for a number of years, and people have become increasingly concerned. It’s just been this snowballing tragedy, so there’s this fear.” 

The scale of support for the AMA has also surprised Vasquez, the former water systems manager, who said he’s been trying to warn locals about groundwater for years without success.

“I feel like nobody really cared about water before,” he told Grist. “Water conservation was the last thing I felt in people’s minds when it came to this community. So when the AMA got a lot of positive backing behind it, I’m thinking to myself, ‘Well, that’s crazy, because everybody that I’ve talked to beforehand didn’t give two shits about water.’”

The campaign has deepened the fault lines between farmers — including many small-scale growers unaffiliated with larger newcomers like Riverview — and the rest of the county’s residents. Now that the AMA question is on the ballot, the state has paused all new irrigation in the area until the election, freezing the growth of local agriculture. It isn’t clear how strict the AMA’s ultimate restrictions would be: Should the ballot question pass, the state will appoint a committee that will study the aquifers in the basin and decide what kinds of pumping need to be curbed. Individual households wouldn’t be subject to restrictions, since their wells are too small to meet the legal threshold for regulation, but family farmers might face limits on future growth, and they would need to go through a permitting process to drill new wells. The largest operations would likely be unable to expand at all.

Jacob Collins, a fourth-generation alfalfa farmer who lives just southeast of the town of Willcox, said that the region’s farming community is very worried about new limitations on water usage. Collins farms about 360 acres in total, and there’s a chance an AMA might place a ceiling on the amount of land he can irrigate.

“There’s a lot of fear surrounding a loss of water in the valley, and there’s a lot of fear [about] having our water controlled by an outside entity that isn’t here,” he told Grist. “If we want the valley to continue to be farmable, we do have to do our best to make sure that we’re not using more water than we need, [but] there’s not really anything farmers can do to make a drought not happen.”

Fourth-generation alfalfa farmer Jacob Collins stands in front of a tractor on his family’s land in Arizona. Grist / Roberto (Bear) Guerra

Jacob Collins, right, drives a piece of equipment on his family’s farm, left, near Willcox, Arizona. Grist / Roberto (Bear) Guerra

These sentiments in the local farming community have led to a backlash against the pro-AMA campaign. A group called Rural Water Assurance, which was co-founded by the president of the county farm bureau, has put up billboards by the Interstate urging a ‘no’ vote on the ballot question. The Willcox Facebook group has seen a proliferation of posts warning of draconian water restrictions. Rural Water Assurance even filed a lawsuit against the Douglas Basin AMA effort in June, alleging that the signatures the group had collected were invalid. A court dismissed the lawsuit in August, finding that the plaintiffs had “wholly failed to demonstrate any legal basis” for the challenge.

Wilce feels confident the AMA vote will pass in the Willcox Basin, and a large chunk of the county’s most engaged voters seem to be on her side. If the outlook for the AMA campaign is bright, though, the outlook for the county’s groundwater is far darker, regardless of which way the vote goes next month.

Even the most stringent regulations might not save people like Duckels from having to leave the valley. At its strongest, the AMA can restrict almost all new pumping, but it can’t order current users to stop drawing water, which means Riverview would get grandfathered in. The dairy wouldn’t be able to expand its operations any further, but it could keep withdrawing water at its current rates. And the groundwater levels in the basin will likely keep dropping.

“You’re just trying to stop the hemorrhaging,” said Ferris. 

The depletion of area aquifers will make life harder and harder for people like Duckels. More residents will have to haul water, or spend tens of thousands of dollars to dig new wells, or walk away from their homes and move somewhere else. In the absence of a water district like the one proposed by Riverview, there will be more new dry wells every year, and more people leaving the area. Plus, new limitations on large groundwater pumping will deter new farms and businesses from moving to the county, further sapping its already sluggish economy.

The irony, according to Ferris, is that the dairy can always move somewhere else if it loses water access. There’s a lot of land in the United States, and it’s a lot easier to move cows around than people. The absence of water regulations in the Willcox Basin has allowed Riverview to run down the clock on the area’s future, and the new political backlash against these companies is arriving too late to change that trajectory. Even if residents manage to stymie Riverview, there’s no guarantee the community will survive.

“Industrial ag moved into that basin, and industrial ag can move out of that basin. But everybody else is kind of stuck,” Ferris told Grist. “They’re living there, they invested their livelihood there, and I think the potential outlook is really grim. I think, unless something changes, it becomes a ghost town.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline The Cochise County Groundwater Wars on Oct 25, 2022.

This content originally appeared on Grist and was authored by Jake Bittle.

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

A New Jersey judge this week threw out an eviction complaint filed against an Atlantic City woman who told journalists that her landlord had failed to address unsafe conditions in the home. The property owner, Michael Scanlon Sr., began eviction proceedings against the woman shortly after a reporter for The Press of Atlantic City and ProPublica visited the property in August.

The news organizations were looking at Scanlon’s properties as part of an investigation into a New Jersey agency that paid him more than $1.1 million for three Atlantic City rooming houses, forcing out the residents who lived in them.

Tenants said they had just six weeks’ notice to vacate the rooming houses, including 108 Albion Place. With few affordable options, two residents at that address took the landlord up on an offer to relocate to another of his rental properties, a Westside rowhome, in June 2021.

But the women, Nada Gilbert and Nikki Knight, said conditions in their new home were bad: A persistent leak caused Knight’s bedroom ceiling to bulge overhead and damaged her mattress, and a sagging porch roof was being held up by makeshift pillars. The women, in response, began withholding rent earlier this year, leading the landlord to try to remove them.

Atlantic City Superior Court Judge James P. McGee on Wednesday dismissed the case against Gilbert, citing the landlord’s failure to appear at the hearing that morning.

The women had ended up living there after being forced to move from Albion Place as part of the Vacant Rooming House Conversion Project, which the Casino Reinvestment Development Authority launched in winter 2020. Officials said the initiative would “protect Atlantic City residents by providing improved housing conditions and revitalize numerous properties.” Its leaders variously said the project, which involved CRDA acquiring empty rooming houses, would reduce blight, improve the city’s housing stock and expand affordable housing.

But the news organizations’ investigation found CRDA has fallen well short of those goals while displacing dozens of low-income residents in the process, including Gilbert and Knight.

Scanlon Sr. did not respond to requests for comment about his legal conflict with the two women, but his son Michael Scanlon Jr. said a “miscommunication” preceded the eviction filing. “It was more my fault,” Scanlon Jr. said. He had previously told the news organizations that the tenants had had more than six weeks’ notice to move but did not provide documentation to support that.

He blames the leak on the neighboring vacant home but said he and his father have come to an agreement with the tenants. The women’s outstanding rent balance will be forgiven, and the remaining repairs and additional cosmetic updates will be made, according to Scanlon Jr., who also said he expects to take full ownership of the rental property in the next few weeks. Gilbert confirmed the details but said she has not yet signed any documents outlining the terms.

Meanwhile, the three properties that Scanlon Sr. sold to CRDA are boarded up with no signs of construction. After owning the three properties, which were all within about a block of the beach, for roughly a year, CRDA last month sold them for $150,000 to a hotel developer, who now has until September 2023 to start building.

Asked whether CRDA discussed relocation efforts with landlords in the program, agency leaders said no. “That was solely on the owners to deal with that,” said Lance Landgraf, CRDA director of planning and development, in an interview last month. “Our direction to them was: ‘We will not buy this with anybody in it.’ That’s as far as I went with it.”

CRDA was set up almost 40 years ago to use casino tax revenue to address “the pressing social and economic needs” of Atlantic City residents. But Landgraf said the agency has limited funds to service a variety of goals, which, under the law, also include redevelopment. And he stood by the rooming house project as a critical component of economic development. “We needed to get those properties cleaned up and changed into a better, more viable use in the community that would promote development, not restrict it,” Landgraf said.

However, critics say the state agency had other options besides closing the rooming house down and question how CRDA is using its power. In response to the investigation’s findings, one of the authors of the original legislation establishing CRDA, David Sciarra, said the rooming house outcomes “should be a wake-up call to legislators in Trenton.”

“They need to do some serious oversight to make sure that CRDA is operating in the best interests of all residents of Atlantic City and not just an investment arm of the casino industry,” he said.

This content originally appeared on Articles and Investigations - ProPublica and was authored by by Alison Burdo, The Press of Atlantic City.

Carolea Hassard, a rancher in rural Kinney County, Texas, population 3,100, received a jury summons in April. “They called more than 175 of us for a six-member jury selection,” she said. “I felt like I was in a murder trial. But this was for a misdemeanor trespassing case.”

The trial was for an undocumented Honduran man who had crossed the border into Kinney County, 120 miles west of San Antonio. He was being prosecuted for trespassing on private ranchland by the county attorney, Brent Smith, a major proponent of Texas Gov. Greg Abbott’s Operation Lone Star, which seeks to bypass the federal immigration system by detaining asylum-seekers and migrants on low-level state trespassing charges.

In the end, Hassard wasn’t chosen for the jury. She lost half a day’s work plus gas since it was an hourlong trip to the county courthouse and back. “It was really a waste of time,” she said. “Calling 175 people for a misdemeanor jury is going overboard.”

Like other residents in the border county, Hassard said she’s grown tired of Operation Lone Star and fearmongering by local elected officials like Smith, who paint the region as being under invasion. Over the last year, the formerly quiet ranching community has become a backdrop for Fox News and far-right media to promote the idea that states can declare an invasion under the U.S. Constitution and use force against migrants seeking refuge as if they were a hostile foreign power.

The attention has thrust Smith, Kinney County Sheriff Brad Coe, and County Judge Tully Shahan into the national spotlight. The three have led the charge in Texas, working to push Abbott, who is up for reelection in November, even further to the right. After Shahan and Smith declared a state of disaster last year due to “illegal aliens invading Kinney County,” Abbott quickly followed suit, issuing a broader disaster declaration that granted him emergency powers usually reserved for responding to events like hurricanes or floods. Instead, Abbott used the declaration to tap into state and federal funding and deploy thousands of state police and National Guard members to the border under Operation Lone Star, which has already cost more than $4 billion. But that wasn’t enough for the Kinney County officials.

This past July, the trio held a press conference to declare their 16 miles of border with Mexico under invasion. They called on Abbott to make a statewide declaration and exercise his authority under the Texas and U.S. constitutions to immediately “remove all persons invading the sovereignty of Texas and that of the United States.”

The officials were joined by a handful of other county leaders in the two-stoplight town of Brackettville, Kinney’s largest with just 1,400 residents. “They’re coming through here in droves,” Shahan said of migrants and asylum-seekers. “Ranches are getting their fences cut every day. … The Biden administration is using this as a political act to bring people to the United States so they can go vote.” Shahan declined to be interviewed for this story.

Sheriff Brad Coe in his office in Kinney County, Texas, in December 2021.

Photo: Melissa del Bosque

The county has reaped as much as $3 million in bond money from the migrants it has prosecuted.

“You have the man camps in Midland and West Texas. … It’s the same concept, only they’re prosecution camps.”

Texas Gov. Greg Abbott tours the U.S.-Mexico border in Eagle Pass, Texas, on May 23, 2022.

Photo: Allison Dinner/AFP via Getty Images

Militia members film the apprehensions, then upload the footage to right-wing social media sites like Rumble.

A migrant family rests after being processed in Roma, Texas, on May 5, 2022.

Photo: Brandon Bell/Getty Images

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“How many carried drugs or had a weapon? The sheriff’s never really explained it, and he’s been asked.”

This content originally appeared on The Intercept and was authored by Melissa del Bosque.

Advocates for public utilities are applauding this week following an announcement by the Board of Commissioners in Bucks County, Pennsylvania that officials opposed a plan to sell the county's sewer system to a private company.

"This was a backroom corporate deal from the start, and it only stopped because local residents started to ask questions, voice their concerns, and hold their elected county commissioners who have the power to change the BCWSA's charter accountable."

At $1.1 billion, the proposed sale of the Bucks County Water and Sewer Authority (BCWSA) to Aqua Pennsylvania would have been the largest privatization of a public wastewater system in U.S. history, and local residents had planned to rally against the proposal at Wednesday's Board of Commissioners meeting before all three commissioners on Tuesday urged the BCWSA to halt the sale.

"What we heard from the public was clear, nonpartisan, and near-universal: Do not sell off the publicly run BCWSA sewer system to a private entity," said Diane Ellis-Marseglia, vice chair of the board.

The chairman of the water and sewer authority confirmed Tuesday that the sale would not go through, saying in a statement, "We were never going to be in conflict with the commissioners' position."

The proposal garnered outcry when it was publicized in April, with local group Neighbors Opposing Privatization Efforts (NOPE) warning that handing over control of the public utility would lead to escalating sewer bills for residents and eliminate local control.

About 100,000 residents in 31 towns across Bucks, Montgomery, and Chester counties pay an average of $48 per month for water and sewer service, according toThe Philadelphia Inquirer. Aqua proposed freezing current rates for a year but then increasing them to match its monthly rate, which is currently $88.

Local anti-privatization campaigners applauded the decision by the commissioners, noting that the state must act to stop companies from taking control of public services, as has happened in a growing number of towns since new rules were passed in 2016 encouraging local officials to sell public utilities.

"We are thankful to the commissioners and to the Board of the Authority for coming to this decision," said David McMahon, co-founder of NOPE. "We are grateful to all the residents, township officials, [and] utility workers who devoted considerable time and effort in these past weeks to share the information, spread the word, and stand together in time to turn this sale back. It is important to recognize though, that our state legislators still have a role to play."

McMahon urged members of the Pennsylvania General Assembly to reject S.B. 597, which water rights campaigners say would saddle small municipal systems with "new, inappropriate requirements and oversight fees, which could force them to privatize."

"Our public utility acquisition laws are still broken and there are currently communities fighting these corporate takeovers of public property," said Kofi Osei, a community organizer with NOPE. "The way our utility code is written opens up the floodgates for potential corruption. We need to severely narrow the scope of when privatization is acceptable and give ratepayers a seat at the table with referendum."

Mary Grant, a right to water campaign director at Food and Water Watch (FWW), which also spoke out against the privatization scheme, called the local organizing effort against Aqua's plan a "rallying cry" against corporate takeovers, while the group's Eastern Pennsylvania organizer, Ginny Marcille-Kerslake, credited the residents with stopping the deal.

"This was a backroom corporate deal from the start, and it only stopped because local residents started to ask questions, voice their concerns, and hold their elected county commissioners who have the power to change the BCWSA's charter accountable," said Marcille-Kerslake. "Getting the board to see the light and slam the brakes on this terrible deal is a huge win for clean water, public input, and democracy itself."

The commissioners' announcement came a day after Mississippi Gov. Tate Reeves, a Republican, suggested that the solution to the state capital's water emergency was privatization. After decades of disinvestment in Jackson's water system and recent flooding, residents faced a major drop in water pressure and were left without safe drinking water.

"Corporate interests now seek to exploit the devastation in Black and brown communities like Baltimore and Jackson," Grant told The Guardian Thursday. "[But] privatization would exacerbate the harm by extracting resources and driving up water bills for communities already in an affordability crisis."

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams - Breaking News & Views for the Progressive Community and was authored by Julia Conley.

On Sept. 7, 2022, Las Vegas police arrested a public official on suspicion of murdering a Las Vegas Review-Journal journalist, according to the outlet.

Investigative reporter Jeff German was found fatally stabbed outside of his home on the morning of Sept. 3, with police saying they believe he was attacked the previous morning. In the report of his death, Review-Journal Executive Editor Glenn Cook said German had never communicated concerns about his personal safety or threats made against him.

On Sept. 6, LVMPD released two images during a news conference, including one of a suspect next to a vehicle. Later that evening, according to the Review-Journal, reporters for the outlet observed Clark County Public Administrator Robert Telles in his driveway next to a vehicle matching the description.

German had published a series of investigations into Telles beginning in May which revealed a hostile work environment characterized by bullying, retaliation and an “inappropriate relationship” between Telles and a staffer during his oversight of the public administrator’s office.

On Sept. 7, the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department searched Telles’ home and arrested him that evening, according to the Review-Journal.

This content originally appeared on U.S. Press Freedom Tracker: Incident Database and was authored by U.S. Press Freedom Tracker: Incident Database.

Citizens of Dunn County, Wisconsin, have a plan to place national, publicly-funded health care for everyone on their November 8th county ballot.  In June and July at meetings of the County Board of Supervisors, many spoke of a broken health care system and their proposal to fix it.  After the third meeting, the Board voted unanimously to put the following question on the ballot:  

“Shall Congress and the President of the United States enact into law the creation of a publicly financed, non-profit, national health insurance program that would fully cover medical care costs for all Americans?”

Located in central west Wisconsin and blessed with lakes and farmland, Dunn County is far from bustling cities. About 16,000 of its 45,000 residents live in Menomonie, the county seat, named by the Smithsonian as “One of the Best Small Towns in the USA.”

“Nobody in my family is going to retire sitting pretty and most of the reason for that can be laid at having to pay off medical expenses, even though we were insured, for months and months and months, and that is money we did not spend on all the things that you can spend money on right here in beautiful Dunn County.”

By focusing on the health care crisis in America’s heartland, the people of Dunn County hope to propel the issue onto the nation’s agenda.  They believe that rural concern for neighbors just may outweigh the rancorous partisan divide, and with the idea spreading, influence a Congress that has, so far, refused to consider Medicare for All.

On July 27, 2022, between the pledge of allegiance and the story of how the county fair proceeded despite the windstorm that took out the electric milking machines, they stepped to the microphone at the Board of Supervisors’ meeting to insist that those who represent them allow their voices to be heard in a ballot referendum.  

Margie Hagerman of Menomonie spoke first. “The health care of the majority of Americans has been declining in recent years with lower life expectancy than other developed countries. Other… countries have found ways to cover everyone through a national, non-profit, health insurance system. Why can’t the United States?”

“If you put a referendum out you're giving a voice to the people--you need to do that because we exist only by the consent of the people,” said Michel Brandt.

John Hoff said, “currently the drug pharmaceutical system is totally stacked against the individual—yes, they're working on something in congress but that's only for 20 drugs.” 

Tom Walsh told of his son, a small business owner, who, since the Affordable Care Act, has paid $750 a month for insurance with a $5,000 deductible. “He can get one physical exam a year—that will be free…but the rest of it he pays out of his pocket.  We need Medicare for All basically to save small business owners, save people that are susceptible to bankruptcy because they can't afford to pay for their insurance and if they do have it the deductible is so high it really doesn't help that much…so we really need a national health insurance program.”

Steve Hogseth called attention to the top 23 countries ranked for their democracy and asserted that, of them, the United States was the only one without universal health care of some form.

Lenore Mercer spoke of working in a clinic when the former governor suspended Badger Care. “I'll always remember a clean-cut, hard-working, full-time employed father breaking down and saying I’m not worried about myself, but for my kids, how will they get to see a doctor? I thought this is so wrong.” 

“Our for-profit driven system balloons profits for insurance companies and drug manufacturers and now millions of Americans can't afford health care,” Mercer concluded.

Retired physician Lorene Vedder ended her comments by asking those in the audience who supported putting this measure on the November 8th ballot to please stand. All rose.

Monica Berrier, Dunn County Supervisor for District 13, weighed in at the Legislative Committee Meeting. “I want to make the argument that it really is in the county's interest to be advocating for a better health care system… I'll do this through the perspective of our budget and whether the current system is a responsible use of taxpayer dollars.”

She said that the county spends about $500,000 each month on health insurance and that in the 2022 budget, $10 million out of a $90 million budget has been set aside for health insurance. The $90 million is not just for personnel but includes all county operations. 

“So we’re spending a lot but when we compare that to what the employees are actually getting it’s a pretty bad deal. They’re part of a system where delays and even outright denials of care are routine.  I believe that as elected officials and stewards of taxpayer dollars we have a responsibility to demand better of the federal government that serves us.”

Berrier laid it out. “I want to close by thinking about what we could do with this money instead.  We all know that the budget process comes down to higgling over fifty dollars here a hundred dollars there.  A couple months ago we had a good discussion about the wheel tax and many of us including myself are worried about the potential impact that this might have on people who can't afford it.  For comparison, the wheel tax brings in just $700,000 every year and that's peanuts compared to the 10 million dollars we are budgeted to spend on health insurance this year…instead of wringing our hands over the wheel tax we could be just fixing the roads instead. I think that we as elected officials really have a responsibility to advocate for a more efficient health care system”

Dr. Vedder had spoken earlier to the Dunn County Executive Committee.  “My chief concern is a decreasing life expectancy that we have in this country. If you compare Canada to the United States, they live 4.5 years longer than we do.  Back in 1970 we lived the same life expectancy so why are we seeing this difference?

“People are afraid here in our country to access health care because of the excess cost of medical care--30 million people in this country don't have health care insurance, 44 % don't have the funds to obtain medical care even if they have insurance.

“We access health care a lot less than any developed country in the world. By avoiding health care we have our people…coming to emergency rooms when it's too late to treat them, their disease is too advanced.  We bankrupt people over medical bills—nowhere else in the developed world are people bankrupted by their health.”  

Someone announced that the issue would be placed on the agenda for the Legislative Committee.

The health care advocates came prepared to speak at the Legislative Committee Meeting on July 20.  At a couple of minutes per person, they filled the first 35 minutes of the meeting.  Dr. Steve Brown told of his wife using health care services in Portugal, receiving x-ray, lab services and IV antibiotics.  She was diagnosed with Legionnaires disease and received good care.  He said that even though they did not have travel insurance, the bill was reasonable—about $160.

Steve Carlson of Trego spoke of a precedent in Wisconsin for a health care ballot question fourteen years ago when county voters agreed that everyone in the state should have health care coverage equal to state officials.  He said that people in Washburn, Douglas, and Portage counties are working on placing referenda, like the current one proposed in Dunn County, on the ballot for the Spring election.

Louisa Gerasimo told of medical bills that depleted retirement savings. “Nobody in my family is going to retire sitting pretty and most of the reason for that can be laid at having to pay off medical expenses, even though we were insured, for months and months and months, and that is money we did not spend on all the things that you can spend money on right here in beautiful Dunn County.”

Commission Hager commented that this issue had roused the most public interest and comment since the ATV county road expansion.  The supervisors voted unanimously to place the issue on the ballot.  Chair Kelly McCullough said, “Looks like we will be having the referendum all right…that also answers the question of pressuring your legislators—does it work—it looks like it all right.”

Rural health care is in deep crisis. Over 800 rural hospitals are under threat of closing.  Rural physicians struggle to survive on the meager payments of Medicaid.  Mergers and acquisitions accelerate the pain as hospitals are bought up by those whose only concern is profit.  Delayed care causes untold suffering and death.  Is it possible that the people of these rural communities, under the stress of a broken health care system, can spark a movement to fix health care for the nation?

Some people in Dunn County think so and are working to make it happen. 

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams - Breaking News & Views for the Progressive Community and was authored by Kay Tillow.

The head of Common Cause Georgia on Wednesday welcomed the news that a Fulton County special grand jury investigating 2020 election interference subpoenaed seven key allies of former President Donald Trump.

"We need to know those who broke our laws in their dangerous attempts to hold on to power be held accountable."

"The coordinated attempts by former President Donald Trump and his associates to discount and ignore the will of Georgian voters during the 2020 election cannot be swept under the rug," said Aunna Dennis, the advocacy group's executive director, in a statement.

"That's why I am encouraged that the Fulton County grand jury is continuing their necessary work to uncover the truth of what happened by calling on those who perpetrated Trump's Big Lie to testify," she added, referencing the former president's false claim—frequently repeated by his allies—that the election was stolen from him.

As The Atlanta Journal-Constitution first reported, the subpoenas target U.S. Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-S.C.) along with attorneys Kenneth Chesebro, John Eastman, Jenna Ellis, Rudy Giuliani, Cleta Mitchell, and Jacki Pick Deason.

According to the newspaper:

The subpoenas were filed July 5 and signed by Fulton Superior Court Judge Robert McBurney, who is overseeing the special grand jury. They noted that all seven people were "a necessary and material witness" to the investigation.

Unlike subpoenas issued to Georgians, the summons required McBurney's blessing since they are for people who reside outside the state.

The 23-person special grand jury has heard testimony in recent weeks from a parade of witnesses, including some who had direct contact with Trump and his associates in late 2020 and early 2021. But Tuesday's subpoenas are the closest jurors have gotten to the Trump campaign or inner circle of the former president.

Common Cause Georgia's leader asserted Wednesday that the state, widely known for its voter suppression efforts in recent years, "cannot continue to be the testing grounds for sensationalized propaganda attempts that are designed to deter voters from the ballot box."

"We need to know those who broke our laws in their dangerous attempts to hold on to power be held accountable," she continued. "The transparency in this investigation into potential criminal misdeeds has bolstered my hopes that justice will ultimately be served."

"Our democracy," Dennis declared, "is dependent upon all of us in Georgia participating in the election process, and by knowing that voters' choices will be respected and accepted going forward."

Fani Willis, the Democratic district attorney in Fulton County, launched a probe after an infamous January 2, 2021 phone call in which Trump asked Georgia GOP Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger to "find" over 11,000 votes to reverse the state's 2020 presidential election results.

In her first public comments since the subpoenas, Willis told NBC News on Wednesday that more subpoenas targeting members of Trump's inner circle are coming. Asked whether that will include the former president, she replied that "anything is possible."

"We'll just have to see where the investigation leads us," Willis said. "I think that people thought that we came into this as some kind of game. This is not a game at all. What I am doing is very serious. It's very important work. And we're going to do our due diligence and making sure that we look at all aspects of the case."

Willis convened the special grand jury in May and its work can continue for up to a year. The DA said Wednesday that she will pause the probe's activities in October, when early voting begins in Georgia, to avoid any appearance of election interference.

Graham on Wednesday announced in a statement from his attorneys that he plans to challenge the subpoena in court and accused the Fulton County investigators of engaging in "a fishing expedition and working in concert" with the congressional committee probing a pro-Trump mob's January 6, 2021 attack on the U.S. Capitol.

The New York Times reported Wednesday that Trump White House Counsel Pat Cipollone, who was subpoenaed by the January 6 panel last month, has reached a deal with the committee to "sit for a videotaped, transcribed interview" on Friday, rather than testifying publicly.

According to an email reviewed by the Times, the interview can include his account of the events on January 6 as well as discussions of a meeting with Justice Department official Jeffrey Clark, Trump's interactions with Eastman, and any contact with members of Congress.

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams - Breaking News & Views for the Progressive Community and was authored by Jessica Corbett.

The initial quake, measuring 6.0 on the Richter scale, hit Barkam (Maerkang in Chinese), a county-level city in the Ngawa (Aba) Tibetan and Qiang Autonomous Prefecture, at 1:28 a.m. June 10, Beijing time, the China Earthquake Networks Center (CENC) reported.

According to a state-run media report, the quake injured at least one person and 1,314 rescuers were dispatched to the area. An estimated 25,790 residents of the area were transferred and resettled.

“Most of the houses [in affected areas] are destroyed and many have sustained extensive damage,” a source told RFA’s Tibetan Service Friday on condition of anonymity for security reasons. “Many people have been left injured, but I haven’t heard any death reports so far.”

Another source told RFA that many of the homes still standing are now without electricity.

“The number of fatalities and injured are unknown at the moment. However, the government has strictly instructed us not to share any pictures, videos and other information of the calamity on social media,” the source said on condition of anonymity for security reasons. 

“The earthquake stuck in the middle of the night while it was raining heavily. Though it was frightening, many were able to step out of their houses for safety. But another earthquake measuring 5.8 magnitude and few small ones stuck again in the early morning hours,” said the source.

Chinese media reported that rescuers had been dispatched, but the source said that they had not yet arrived when he spoked to RFA. 

“The schools in Barkam county, where the earthquake stuck, have seen no help from the government and the students are still lying around their school’s playground. They even have to take care of their own food,” the source said.

Residents of Barkam have been barred from posting reports, pictures and any other information about the quake, which has devastated houses, stupas and monks’ residences, a third source who requested anonymity to speak freely told RFA.

Many displaced people have had to find temporary shelter in tents, which the monks and townspeople have set up together.

Government rescuers did not reach Barkam until Monday, three days after the initial quake.

India’s National Center for Seismology reported two more earthquakes in Tibet on Monday — a 4.2 magnitude quake at 4:01 a.m. IST and a 4.5 magnitude quake at 11:49 a.m. IST. Both occurred in Gerze (Gaize) county, Xizang province.

Earthquakes are common on the Tibetan plateau and last year a 7.3-magnitude quake struck Matoe (Maduo) county, killing 20 people and injuring 300. 

RFA reported at that time that authorities had similarly blocked social media reporting, telling citizens to report injuries and deaths only to the government rather than sharing the information online.

Translated by Tenzin Dickyi. Written in English by Eugene Whong.

This content originally appeared on Radio Free Asia and was authored by By RFA Tibetan.

The initial quake, measuring 6.0 on the Richter scale, hit Barkam (Maerkang in Chinese), a county-level city in the Ngawa (Aba) Tibetan and Qiang Autonomous Prefecture, at 1:28 a.m. June 10, Beijing time, the China Earthquake Networks Center (CENC) reported.

According to a state-run media report, the quake injured at least one person and 1,314 rescuers were dispatched to the area. An estimated 25,790 residents of the area were transferred and resettled.

“Most of the houses [in affected areas] are destroyed and many have sustained extensive damage,” a source told RFA’s Tibetan Service Friday on condition of anonymity for security reasons. “Many people have been left injured, but I haven’t heard any death reports so far.”

Another source told RFA that many of the homes still standing are now without electricity.

“The number of fatalities and injured are unknown at the moment. However, the government has strictly instructed us not to share any pictures, videos and other information of the calamity on social media,” the source said on condition of anonymity for security reasons. 

“The earthquake stuck in the middle of the night while it was raining heavily. Though it was frightening, many were able to step out of their houses for safety. But another earthquake measuring 5.8 magnitude and few small ones stuck again in the early morning hours,” said the source.

Chinese media reported that rescuers had been dispatched, but the source said that they had not yet arrived when he spoked to RFA. 

“The schools in Barkam county, where the earthquake stuck, have seen no help from the government and the students are still lying around their school’s playground. They even have to take care of their own food,” the source said.

Residents of Barkam have been barred from posting reports, pictures and any other information about the quake, which has devastated houses, stupas and monks’ residences, a third source who requested anonymity to speak freely told RFA.

Many displaced people have had to find temporary shelter in tents, which the monks and townspeople have set up together.

Government rescuers did not reach Barkam until Monday, three days after the initial quake.

India’s National Center for Seismology reported two more earthquakes in Tibet on Monday — a 4.2 magnitude quake at 4:01 a.m. IST and a 4.5 magnitude quake at 11:49 a.m. IST. Both occurred in Gerze (Gaize) county, Xizang province.

Earthquakes are common on the Tibetan plateau and last year a 7.3-magnitude quake struck Matoe (Maduo) county, killing 20 people and injuring 300. 

RFA reported at that time that authorities had similarly blocked social media reporting, telling citizens to report injuries and deaths only to the government rather than sharing the information online.

Translated by Tenzin Dickyi. Written in English by Eugene Whong.

This content originally appeared on Radio Free Asia and was authored by By RFA Tibetan.

Hannah Molina was buckling her toddlers into their car seats for Wednesday night church when she noticed the faint chemical odor.

She felt a little lightheaded, but she didn’t think much about it.

The air is often stinky in Jacinto City, Texas, a small town 15 minutes east of downtown Houston that’s surrounded by oil refineries and petrochemical plants. Usually, the odors are fleeting. Enough to make Molina’s nose wrinkle, but not enough to trigger her asthma or keep the girls from playing outside.

That night — July 14, 2021 — turned out to be different.

By the time Molina got home at 9 p.m., a nauseating, garlic-like stench had settled over her neighborhood. When she opened her car door, she felt dizzy. She swallowed hard to avoid gagging.

Molina got the girls out of the car, grabbed the groceries she’d picked up at Walmart and stumbled into the little house she and her husband rent. She drew a deep breath, desperate for clean air. But the odor was inside, too.

The noxious fumes felt like a straightjacket around her chest. Her lungs tightened, a signal that her asthma was flaring up. Her eyes burned and her throat stung as if she’d suddenly developed strep throat.

She managed to put 1-year-old Sophia into bed, then collapsed onto her couch, the grocery bags strewn next to her.

“Mama, my stomach hurts,” 2-year-old Maribel said.

Then Maribel vomited.

Molina pushed herself off the couch. It took everything she had just to stand.

“I just went into straight-up mom mode,” she said. “I had to keep my girls safe.”

Two miles away, in the town of Galena Park, Juan Flores was coughing and gagging, too. For hours, his phone had been ringing with calls, texts, and Facebook messages about the smell. Now he was driving through the neighborhood where he’d spent his whole life, trying to figure out where the odor was coming from.

Galena Park, Jacinto City, and other low-income communities are clustered on the east side of Harris County, the third most-populous county in the United States and the epicenter of North America’s petrochemical industry. Ten oil refineries process 2.6 million barrels of crude oil a day. Thousands more facilities store or manufacture the chemicals the industry uses and produces. Trucks and rail cars carrying industrial equipment and synthetics rumble through neighborhoods.

Southeastern Texas — especially the Houston area — is known for its lax zoning laws, so petrochemical plants loom over houses and playgrounds where children gather every day. Forty percent of Galena Park’s 11,000 residents, including Flores, live within a mile of an industrial facility. A terminal that can hold more than 10 million barrels of chemicals lies seven blocks from the middle school. Two metal fabrication companies sit directly across the street from city hall.

Flores works for Air Alliance Houston, a nonprofit that combats pollution in heavily industrialized neighborhoods. He installs inexpensive air monitors outside homes so residents can get some basic information about the dangers they are living with. The Texas Commission on Environmental Quality, or TCEQ, is charged with protecting the public’s health. But Flores doesn’t trust the TCEQ. When he calls to complain about foul odors, the state agency frequently waits hours — sometimes even days — to respond. The odor is often gone long before an inspector shows up.

Instead, Flores relies on his community network and, increasingly, Harris County Pollution Control Services, which has been beefed up in recent years by county politicians determined to rein in polluters when the state won’t act. Pollution Control’s authority is much weaker than the TCEQ’s, but at least the people there take his calls.

Flores knows, firsthand, the dangers petrochemical facilities pose to low-income communities like his.

In 1989, 23 workers died and 314 were injured when explosions broke out at a Phillips Petroleum plant three miles from Galena Park. Flores was a sixth-grader back then. The blast was so powerful that it shattered windows at his school and shook the portable classroom where he was studying.

In 2017, floodwaters from Hurricane Harvey struck two tanks at the Magellan Midstream Partners facility, about half a mile outside Galena Park. More than 460,000 gallons of gasoline poured out, the largest petrochemical spill ever caused by a natural disaster in Texas. Flores smelled the fumes back then as he walked through the town, documenting storm damage. He still doesn’t know exactly what was in the air, because the TCEQ had shut down its air monitors to protect them from Harvey’s driving rains.

In 2019, a gasoline-fueled inferno roared through an Intercontinental Terminals Company facility 20 miles east of downtown Houston. Flames from the facility — which can hold more than 13 million barrels of petrochemicals — shot more than 100 feet into the air. Billows of thick, black smoke darkened the sky above Flores’ home. The fire lasted three days and released so much benzene, a carcinogen that can cause leukemia, that Galena Park residents were advised to shelter in place. Flores’ wife and 14-year-old son were so sick that a doctor prescribed steroids to ease their labored breathing.

Fear of another terrifying accident isn’t what keeps Flores up at night, though.

What worries him far more are the routine chemical releases like the one he encountered as he drove through Galena Park on July 14, 2021. The quiet events. No fire. No explosion. No warning. No immediate deaths. Just silent streams of toxic fumes that many residents accept as a fact of life.

There have been 472 illegal releases — about 16 every month — in Harris County since 2020, according to an examination of TCEQ records by Public Health Watch and the Investigative Reporting Workshop. But watchdog groups think the state’s count is a conservative one. The Environment Texas Research and Policy Center found that the Houston area had an illegal industrial pollution event almost every day in 2019 alone.

To Flores, the noxious odors aren’t “the smell of money” that Texas politicians talk about when they boast of the economic benefits and well-paying jobs the oil, gas and chemical industries bring to their state. They’re the smell of illness and sometimes death — a smell that affects some Harris County communities far more than others.

Affluent, predominantly white residents live on the county’s suburban west side, far from the petrochemical industry’s gritty core. A 2019 analysis by the Episcopal Health Foundation found a 21-year-gap in life expectancy between west side neighborhoods like River Oaks, where the median home price is $2 million, and low-income east side communities like Galena Park, where the median home price is $170,000. 

People there are exposed to pollutants nearly twice as often as white residents, according to a study by the Natural Resources Defense Council and Texas Environmental Justice Advocacy Services. That includes volatile organic compounds like 1,3-butadiene — a carcinogen used to make plastic and rubber products — and fine particulate matter released by power plants, refineries and batch concrete facilities. Fine particles are too small for the eye to see and can settle deep into lungs and seep into bloodstreams. In 2015 alone, 5,213 Harris County residents died prematurely due to fine-particle exposure, according to scientists at Harvard University and the Environmental Defense Fund.

Flores sees these statistics playing out in Galena Park, where four out of five residents are Latino and nearly 30 percent live below the poverty line. His 6-year-old daughter, Dominique, was born with a malignant tumor in her stomach that required chemotherapy and multiple surgeries before her first birthday. His father died of a heart attack on the job at age 51 after working more than two decades in refineries. He has seen generations of neighboring families ravaged by cancer.

“Everyone knows someone who’s died of cancer,” said Flores, who turns 45 in October. “That’s just how it goes around here.”

On July 14, 2021, Flores wasn’t thinking about his town’s past struggles. He was worried about the garlic-like odor that was making him dizzy right now. By 11 p.m. the stench was bad — the worst he’d smelled in years.  

He drove up and down Galena Park’s streets, still wheezing. It was quiet, save for some teenagers playing pickup basketball, seemingly oblivious to the stink that hung in the dense summer air.

He stopped by the house where he’d grown up to check on his mother. The odor was bad there, too, but she was safe inside. He kept driving.

He turned onto Clinton Drive, the thoroughfare that separates the city’s southern edge from the Houston Ship Channel. More than 400 petrochemical plants line that murky waterway, which runs north from Galveston Bay and then turns west and carries ships to within four miles of downtown Houston.

The odor got stronger as Flores drove east along the channel. In the distance, he saw a flame flickering above Houston Refining, one of the largest refineries in the United States. It was a sign that the facility was flaring, a common method of burning off the excess natural gas and chemicals produced during refining and petrochemical manufacturing.

He started gagging again. His throat burned. He could barely speak.

When flares are operated correctly, they can efficiently burn pollutants and limit emissions. But a poorly executed flare can release contaminants like black carbon and benzene, and Texas environmental organizations are suing the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, or EPA, for failing to curb the practice. Flaring occurs up to 20 times more often in Texas than in other states, according to a 2017 report from the U.S. Department of Energy.

A hazy yellow plume swirled above the street 50 feet ahead of Flores’ headlights. The odor was the strongest it had been all night. He coughed so hard that the gold cross he wears around his neck bounced against his chest.

“Oh, God,” he groaned, slowing his car to a crawl. “That’s got to be it.”

Through the haze, Flores spotted the flashing lights of an emergency vehicle from Harris County Pollution Control. 

Pollution Control had been searching for the odor since earlier that evening, when it began getting calls from worried residents.

Latrice Babin, the department’s director, could smell it from her office in Pasadena, a notoriously contaminated town directly across the Ship Channel from Galena Park. The odor was faint at first — just the familiar aroma of the industry that had surrounded Babin since she was a child. But it quickly grew stronger, and she knew something was seriously wrong.

Babin was born and raised in Crosby, a small industrial town in northeastern Harris County. She swam and crabbed in the San Jacinto River, which always had a particular stink to it. Her dad worked in a petrochemical plant, and the scent of the synthetics clung to his work clothes when he got home at night.

“My father used to literally dip his shirt in chemical solvents to cool his body off,” she said. “We just didn’t know any better.”

Babin’s dad died of cancer at the age of 63. The segment of the San Jacinto River where she once swam is now a federal Superfund clean-up site, polluted by cancer-causing dioxin released from the nearby International Paper plant.

Babin has dedicated her life to giving future Harris County residents something she and her family never had: a sense of agency.

In 1992, she got a degree in biology from Texas Southern University, a historically Black college in Houston where she met Robert Bullard, a professor known as the father of the environmental justice movement. In 1996, Pollution Control hired her as an environmental investigator. She got a Ph.D. in environmental toxicology from Texas Southern and began moving up the ranks.

Pollution Control was so underfunded in those days that some of the equipment she used hadn’t been updated since the 1970s. The county mostly relied on the TCEQ to gather information about pollutants and police the responsible parties.

But the TCEQ was cash-strapped, too, thanks to then-Gov. George W. Bush’s lenient stance on environmental regulation. The former West Texas oilman championed a 1995 law that prioritized voluntary, industry-led solutions over government mandates — an approach one of his opponents described as “a lot of sweet talk with no teeth in it.”

In 2004, Houston, the largest city in Harris County, tried to force the state to take action against big polluters. 

“The public owns the air… and nobody has the right to alter it chemically,” then-Mayor Bill White declared in his inaugural speech. 

White, a Democrat who had served as deputy secretary of energy in the Clinton administration, championed two ordinances that gave the city authority to monitor and punish serial polluters. The ordinances didn’t impose any new regulations. They simply allowed the city to enforce existing rules the TCEQ tended to ignore.

But Houston’s ordinances were quickly challenged.

A coalition of petrochemical giants that included Dow Chemical and Exxon Mobil filed a series of lawsuits that dragged on for nearly a decade. Greg Abbott, who was elected governor in 2014, filed a legal brief supporting their cause.

“The Texas Constitution and Texas statutes prohibit city officials from interfering with the State’s enforcement of environmental regulations,” Abbott said in a statement his office released about the 2015 filing. “I am committed to promoting economic development and job growth in the state of Texas by reducing the regulatory burden that drives up the cost of doing business.”

That same year Abbott signed a law that made it even tougher for local governments to sue serial polluters.

House Bill 1794 set a $2.15 million limit on the amount of money a county could receive from pollution lawsuits — a sum so small that it barely covered the cost of a legal battle that would almost certainly last for years.

In 2016, the Texas Supreme Court killed Houston’s air-quality ordinances once and for all. The nine judges, all Republicans, ruled 8-1 that the city had overstepped its authority. Only the TCEQ — and, by proxy, the industry-friendly Texas Legislature — had the power to police polluters, the court held.

In 2018, another uprising began in the Houston area, this one led by county officials.

Lina Hidalgo, then 27, was elected county judge that year, the most powerful office in the state’s largest county. Her longshot victory over a Republican incumbent made her the first woman and first Latina to hold the office. It also made her the presiding officer over the Harris County Commissioners Court, which controls a multibillion-dollar budget and sets policies for everything from public health to law enforcement.

Hidalgo was born in Colombia, but moved to middle-class, suburban Houston at the age of 14. She earned a bachelor’s degree in political science from Stanford University, and a joint degree in public policy and law from Harvard and New York University. 

One of Hidalgo’s goals was to shore up the county’s Pollution Control department, so it could at least try to step in when the TCEQ failed to act.

“These bad actors shouldn’t have free rein to lead to severely worse health outcomes for my family or pollute with impunity,” she told Public Health Watch. “Laws do exist. The problem is they’re not really enforced.”

When Hidalgo took office, there were two Republicans and two Democrats on the four-member commissioners court. Hidalgo had the swing vote, giving Democrats control for the first time in 30 years.

She didn’t hesitate to use that power.

In 2019, Hidalgo pushed the court to ramp up environmental protections. It set aside $850,000 to hire four assistant district attorneys to prosecute environmental crimes. It gave Pollution Control $5.9 million to hire 29 employees and buy air monitors and a mobile lab. It directed $4.6 million to the Fire Marshal’s Office, the lead responder in petrochemical accidents, so it could double the size of its hazardous materials, or HazMat, team.

In 2020, the first year of the COVID-19 pandemic, Hidalgo cast the deciding vote on a 3-2 decision that created the most expansive voting system in Texas history — a system that made voting easier for low-income communities of color like Galena Park. It expanded drive-through and mail-in ballot options. It also added more than 100 polling places, including some that stayed open 24 hours, and dramatically increased the number of election workers. 

 More than 1.6 million people cast ballots that November, the biggest turnout in Harris County history. One of those swept into office was 32-year-old Christian Menefee, the first Black man elected county attorney. As the region’s chief civil lawyer, he had the power to file lawsuits against polluters if the state refused to take action.

Menefee’s victory gave Hidalgo a key ally. He knew what it was like to feel powerless in the face of industry giants.

Menefee’s father and grandparents grew up in Houston’s Fifth Ward, just east of downtown. The historically Black community, once a safe haven for people freed from slavery, had been ignored by city leaders for more than a century. By the time Menefee walked its streets as a child, it was economically depressed, haphazardly industrialized, and riddled with public health hazards.

In 2021, the Texas Department of State Health Services reported that the rate of childhood leukemia in the Fifth Ward was nearly five times higher than expected based on statewide cancer rates. The health department also found a cancer cluster in homes near the Union Pacific rail yard, where a decades-long drip of creosote — an oily substance used to treat telephone poles and railroad ties — had been discovered.

Menefee, whose older brother battled childhood leukemia, knew what it was like to watch a loved one languish in the hospital. He wanted better for the Fifth Ward and other East Harris County communities like it.

Environmental justice leaders were encouraged by the elections of Hidalgo and Menefee. Denae King, associate director of Texas Southern’s Bullard Center for Environmental and Climate Justice, grew up in Kashmere Gardens, on Houston’s east side. The sound of scraping metal from a car-crushing business filled her childhood home, and fumes from a garbage facility seeped into her elementary school classrooms. 

King had watched aunts and uncles die of cancer. And she’d watched too many elected officials ignore her community’s plight — just as they had overlooked the work of her mentor, Robert Bullard, for decades.

King had learned long ago not to pin her hopes on the promises of politicians. But Hidalgo and Menefee’s arrival felt different. If the TCEQ and state leaders wouldn’t clean up Harris County, maybe these young politicians would hang onto their offices long enough to do it themselves.

As the garlic-like odor settled over Galena Park and Jacinto City on the night of July 14, 2021, the county’s upgraded Pollution Control department took action. Its investigators visited nearly a dozen petrochemical plants, asking if they’d had any accidental releases. Lab experts combed through the EPA’s Toxics Release Inventory, a national database that contains the publicly listed chemicals used or stored at each facility.

Pollution Control investigators also checked the new state-of-the art air monitors they had installed to document the flow of toxins into various neighborhoods. The monitors weren’t set up to keep tabs on individual plants, but sometimes they scooped up enough distinctive particles to pinpoint an offender.

By midnight, however, nothing significant had shown up. No company had owned up to an accident. And the odor still hadn’t gone away.

Public Health Watch pieced together what happened next from interviews, Pollution Control investigation reports and TCEQ documents.

On the morning of July 15, Latrice Babin’s investigators returned to Clinton Drive, where Juan Flores had seen one of their SUVs parked the night before. They spent the next several hours retracing wind patterns and driving around the Ship Channel, hoping their noses would lead them to the odor’s source.

A TCEQ investigator arrived in Galena Park that afternoon, 21 hours after the agency received its first complaints about the garlic-like smell. Asked why the agency waited so long to respond, a spokesperson said “the TCEQ prioritizes complaints for investigation based on the allegations. This complaint was prioritized for investigation within 24 hours.”

The TCEQ investigator checked the readings at an air monitoring station, took additional readings with a handheld monitor and visited some facilities. The TCEQ then referred the complaints to Pollution Control and took no further action that day.

It wasn’t until about 5:30 p.m. — a full day after Galena Park residents started coughing and gagging — that investigators got their first big break. Houston Refining, the plant whose flare Flores had spotted the night before, had notified the TCEQ of a chemical leak at its facility. Two hours later Pollution Control investigators showed up at the plant looking for answers. They told a security guard they wanted to speak with a plant official. But nobody came out to talk to them. After 20 minutes, they left. 

Things moved quickly the next morning, July 16. The Pollution Control investigators returned to Houston Refining at about 9 a.m. The plant’s environmental engineer told them a roof on a chemical storage tank had collapsed, causing a leak that gave off a foul odor.

A half-hour later, the company released its first public statement. It came from Houston Refining’s owner, LyondellBasell, a Dutch corporation that’s one of the world’s largest plastics, refining, and chemical firms.

“While unpleasant, the smell does not pose any harm to our workers or community, and there is no need for nearby community members to be concerned or take any action,” the statement said. “We regret any concern this odor may have caused.”

When Hannah Molina saw the statement on Facebook, she didn’t feel relieved or reassured. She was livid.

She and her girls were still trapped in their house, and after a day and a half the stench was as strong as ever. Her head still felt light and her throat still stung. How could the nauseating odor possibly be harmless? 

Babin wasn’t satisfied, either. She wanted as much hard evidence as she could get about the chemicals that had been released from the refinery.  

Her investigators had used some of the department’s new equipment — basketball-sized,  stainless-steel tools called Summa canisters — to trap air samples. Now the samples were being tested in the department’s refurbished lab, and the results would be run through its new chemical-matching machines.

That afternoon, LyondellBasell released another statement. This one came from Kara Slaughter, the company’s communication adviser for global external affairs. It included a timeline of the accident that was at odds with Molina’s experience and Pollution Control’s records.

According to Slaughter, the leak didn’t occur until approximately 5 p.m. on July 14, more than 30 minutes after someone on Facebook was already asking, “Does anyone know what that strange smell is outside?”

Slaughter said the odor didn’t surface until July 15 — long after Molina’s daughter had vomited and Juan Flores made his smoggy midnight drive.

Again, LyondellBasell’s message seemed reassuring. 

“We understand that the material is odorous and community members may be able to detect a slight odor,” Slaughter’s statement said. “Air monitoring demonstrated no levels of concern for the community… As always, the health and safety of our people and the community are our highest priority.”

Slaughter declined to be interviewed for this story, and LyondellBasell didn’t respond to written follow-up questions.

LyondellBasell’s statement didn’t identify the chemicals its refinery had released. It was Pollution Control that made that information public just before 5:15 p.m. on July 16.

“PCS has identified chemicals of interest — carbon disulfide, dimethyl disulfide, methyl ethyl disulfide. Residents may experience irritation of the respiratory system and digestive system,” the agency said in a tweet. “Cause of odor has been capped and smell should dissipate later this evening… Sensitive populations should limit outdoor time and use face coverings.”

Short-term exposure to the kinds of chemicals Pollution Control found can cause nausea, shortness of breath, delirious behavior, and severe inflammation in the eyes, nose, and throat, according to the EPA and the U.S. National Library of Medicine. Long-term exposure can decrease sperm counts, disrupt menstrual cycles, and lead to heart disease.

LyondellBasell is a major player in the Texas petrochemical and refining industry. It operates in 32 countries, but its global headquarters are in LyondellBasell Tower, a 46-story skyscraper in downtown Houston.

The company’s facilities occupy more than 6,000 acres in Harris County and employ more than 6,000 workers. At least 20 plants and refineries in Harris County have federal air permits registered to LyondellBasell, according to a Public Health Watch analysis of TCEQ records.  

Over the last two decades, the combined emissions from these plants have made LyondellBasell Harris County’s largest industrial source of two especially dangerous toxic chemicals — benzene and 1,3-butadiene — according to a Public Health Watch analysis of EPA data.

Most of those emissions are legal because they’re within the bounds of the company’s TCEQ-issued air permits. For instance, Texas allows Houston Refining to legally release 72,140 pounds of benzene per year and 136 pounds per hour, although it usually releases far less. The World Health Organization says there’s no recommended safe level of benzene, which is known to cause cancer in humans. 

Releases that exceed a company’s hourly and yearly permit limits are considered illegal and can draw fines from the TCEQ. But in most cases the agency encourages companies to make voluntary fixes. 

When the TCEQ does issue fines, they can be shockingly low. 

LyondellBasell facilities reported 1,378 illegal releases of toxic chemicals between 2002 and 2021, but the $34.9 billion company paid only about $5.2 million in TCEQ fines. That’s just a third of the $15.5 million in salary and stocks it paid its then-CEO, Bhavesh “Bob” Patel, in 2020 alone.

Almost 200 of those illegal releases came from the 104-year-old Houston Refining plant, which processes as much as 268,000 barrels of crude oil per day. It’s among Harris County’s top 10 emitters of volatile organic compounds, particulate matter, and lung-damaging sulfur dioxide, according to the Public Health Watch analysis of TCEQ records.

Menefee, the county attorney, was well aware of LyondellBasell’s pollution history. The company’s 550-acre compound in La Porte, in the southeastern corner of the county, was of particular concern.  

It has two shipping docks and three chemical manufacturing plants, and has been cited for more than 300 illegal releases since 2002, according to the Public Health Watch analysis. Its acetyls facility, which manufactures highly volatile acetic acid used in house paints and adhesives, has an especially egregious record. It has committed “high priority” violations of the federal Clean Air Act during every business quarter over the past three years, according to an EPA report that summarizes infractions by facilities across the country. Although the EPA oversees the Clean Air Act, state agencies are responsible for the law’s day-to-day enforcement.

The EPA defines a high priority violation as “likely to result in impacts that pose a significant risk to human health and/or the environment from the direct or indirect release of air pollutants.” 

Just after sunset on July 27 — 13 days after LyondellBasell’s garlic-odor incident — a text message flashed across Assistant Fire Chief Bob Royall’s phone screen. Three words jumped out at him.

“Mass casualty incident.”

There had been a chemical spill in the acetyls unit at LyondellBasell’s La Porte complex. Workers were being rushed to the hospital.

Royall, who heads the Harris County HazMat team, was visiting family in Fort Worth, a four-hour drive away, when the alerts started coming in.

He jumped into his car and logged onto a Zoom call with his team.

The news was grim. 

Two contractors were dead. Dozens more were being rushed to the hospital. As information began trickling in, a single question kept running through his mind: Just how big and bad is this? 

If the acetyls escaped from the compound, people living in neighborhoods roughly a mile away would be at risk — and Royall’s team would have a full-blown catastrophe on its hands.

The flashing lights of emergency vehicles from all over the county quickly surrounded the industrial complex. 

At this point, nobody — not even the plant managers — knew the extent of the damage. The worry now was that highly volatile chemicals from the facility’s acetyls unit might escape into nearby communities. 

Royall decided he couldn’t hold back: He sent both of his HazMat units to the 550-acre industrial compound.

“We had three chiefs out there, the fire marshal, two deputy chiefs, a captain, seven personnel, and a supervisor,” he said. “I sent everything I had.”

Royall’s staff had prepared for situations precisely like this one.

Each HazMat agent had at least 160 hours of technical training, nearly double the state requirement. They’d sat through rigorous chemistry courses and learned how specific chemicals behave in specific situations. They had at least 150 hours of refresher training each year, while the state required just 10.

Like the Pollution Control department, the Fire Marshal’s Office is funded by the Harris County Commissioners Court. And like Pollution Control, its budget has increased significantly since Lina Hidalgo was elected county judge  — from $6.3 million in 2018 to $10.25 million in 2021.

By the time the HazMat teams arrived, flashing lights already surrounded LyondellBasell’s fence line. Nearby roads were blocked off to make way for emergency vehicles. Firefighters from neighboring towns were there, along with EMS responders, Harris County constables and Latrice Babin’s Pollution Control agents.

The HazMat agents worked alongside LyondellBasell’s technicians, checking wind conditions and prowling the outskirts of the complex with handheld air monitors. They couldn’t move closer until they knew what dangers lay inside.

Harris County Attorney Christian Menefee tried not to check his phone after work hours. But the garlic-odor incident at Houston Refining had unsettled the county attorney and he’d begun breaking his own rule. He kept thinking another chemical release was just around the corner.

Menefee was in bed watching TV with his pregnant wife when his phone lit up at 9:42 p.m. on July 27. It was an email from Sarah Utley, the top lawyer in his department’s environmental division.

Menefee sat up and put on his glasses.

“This is a developing situation, but there has been a terrible incident at Lyondell,” Utley wrote.

Here we go again, Menefee thought. By his count, this was the fifth big petrochemical accident Harris County had suffered in the past month and at least the tenth since he’d taken office six months ago.

This one was by far the worst.

More than 30,000 liquid pounds of hazardous chemicals — including acetic acid, carbon monoxide, hydrogen iodide, methyl acetate, and methyl iodide — had spewed out of a chemical reactor and onto the facility’s floor.

Utley gave Menefee a play-by-play of what was happening on the ground. Two contractors were dead. Another was in critical condition. Five more had been rushed to a Houston hospital with burns and respiratory trauma. Twenty-seven were waiting to be taken to the hospital.

LyondellBasell workers were trying to contain the spill.

Some of the colorless liquid had escaped from the unit and onto the complex’s grounds, spilling into loose gravel, soil, surrounding ditches, and a pond. They built makeshift dams out of dirt and used vacuum trucks to suck up the overflow.

Workers sprayed water to suppress the deadly vapors that were rising from the chemicals. Others scrambled to test the pH levels of a nearby watershed for signs of contamination. If the chemicals reached the watershed, they could travel into a nearby bayou that fed into Galveston Bay, one of the country’s most important fisheries.

They contained the leak around 9:30 p.m. At 9:46 p.m., Pollution Control tweeted that there was “no known offsite impact.” The immediate danger had passed.

Now it was time for Royall’s HazMat teams to go into the acid-filled facility and remove the bodies of the two workers who had died. Dustin Don Day was 36 years old, an Army veteran whose wife had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer. Shawn Andrew Kuhleman was 32, married with two sons.

Removing the bodies was a perilous job. 

The vapors that hung in the air were far less predictable — and even more dangerous — than the liquid concoction that had gushed outside the building. Acetic acid can severely burn even the tiniest patch of exposed skin. If large amounts were still in the room, the HazMat technicians’ circulatory systems could collapse and their kidneys could instantly fail.

The technicians used a chemistry database to determine what they needed to wear to protect themselves. It called for the heaviest-duty gear they had — billowy Tyvek suits lined with a Saran Wrap–like poly coating. An even thicker poly coating sealed the outside, with the gloves bonded directly to the suit. The only opening was a rubber-toothed zipper that was secured from the inside and covered by a protective flap.

Beneath the Tyvek suits, they wore flame-resistant coveralls, cooling vests to safeguard against heat exhaustion and additional garments in case their suits ruptured. Once they were fully dressed, they pulled on thick, chemical-resistant shields and face masks that were connected to oxygen tanks on their backs.

The equipment cost upward of $10,000 per person. A zipper alone was $500.

Royall had never lost a HazMat worker on the job. He didn’t plan to start that night.

“I told them, ‘You’re going into a very dangerous situation. But you’ve got the training. You’ve got the equipment. You’ve got the highest level of protection for the operation we’re about to do,’” he said.

At about 2 a.m. on July 28, four technicians entered the facility and found Day’s and Kuhleman’s bodies. The men’s work clothes had a strong, vinegar-like odor. Their bodies were covered with chemical burns and green, black, and brown spots where acid had splashed against their skin. 

The technicians carried the bodies outside. Before they could be removed from the compound, they had to be decontaminated so nobody else would be exposed to the chemicals that still clung to them. The technicians carefully removed the men’s clothing and rinsed the bodies with water. Then they gently began cleaning them from head to toe using sponges and Dawn dish soap.

The cleaning was supposed to continue until the bodies reached a pH level of 7 — the level that’s normally considered safe for human contact.

But after several washes, the technicians couldn’t get the pH above 6. They decided that was “the most reasonable achievable pH close to neutral” the bodies could reach, given how many chemicals they’d been exposed to, according to the incident report from the Fire Marshal’s Office.

Finally, the corpses were zipped into body bags and handed over to the Medical Examiner’s Office. Royall’s last HazMat technician left the scene just before 4 a.m.

At 5:17 a.m. the all-clear alarm rang across LyondellBasell’s La Porte complex. The immediate crisis was over.

Christian Menefee’s alarm went off at 5 a.m. He hadn’t slept well. He knew he had a long day ahead of him.

The industrial tragedy was the leading story on just about every Houston news outlet. People wanted answers. And Menefee wanted to send a message to the thousands of industrial facilities that dominated the county where he had grown up.

Menefee huddled with Sarah Utley, who had been up most of the night monitoring the situation on an emergency Zoom call. Utley was more than his top environmental lawyer — she was someone he trusted. She’d been with the county attorney’s office since 2011 and she saw the opportunity he saw: A chance to show the people of Harris County that they could stand up to Big Oil.

Together, they laid plans to file a lawsuit against LyondellBasell, one of Harris County’s worst polluters.

They knew it would be a struggle because of two laws the Republican-dominated legislature had passed under Abbott’s watch. 

A 2017 law gave the Texas Attorney General’s Office and the TCEQ the right of first refusal for any pollution-related lawsuit. The state had 90 days to step in and block Menefee from taking action.

The other law made sure the county wouldn’t benefit much if it did sue. It capped the county’s payout at slightly more than $2 million — a fraction of the $5.6 billion in profits LyondellBasell’s made in 2021. Menefee could sue for more, but Harris County wouldn’t see another dime. Any extra money would go to the state.

Despite these barriers, Menefee told his team to press on. He’d entered politics to push back against industry giants. And he felt a kinship with the dead workers and the families they’d left behind.

“It’s something I wake up every morning thinking about,” he said. “It’s on my mind all the time.”

Texas State Rep. Erin Zwiener was in Washington, D.C., when news of the deadly accident popped up on her Twitter feed. She was shocked — but not surprised.

Zwiener’s Central Texas district is a three-hour drive west from Harris County, but she knew the county’s pollution issues well. Since her election in 2018, she’d been trying to give the TCEQ more power over polluters, even though the odds were against her. The legislature had slashed the TCEQ’s funding by 20 percent since 2016, even as it increased the state budget by 16 percent.

In 2019, Zwiener, a Democrat, sponsored a bill that would have made polluters pay fines proportional to the profits they made when they sidestepped regulations. She co-sponsored another bill that would have required the TCEQ to notify state lawmakers every time a plant in their district was cited for an illegal chemical release.

Neither bill made it out of committee. So, in the spring of 2021, Zwiener tried again.

This time, she wanted to create an emergency alert system that would notify people of chemical accidents near their neighborhoods. She also wanted to eliminate the state’s “affirmative defense” loophole, which allows most polluters to avoid paying fines. Instead, they can file written reports describing how they had tried to prevent an accident and what they’d do differently next time. 

According to a report by Environment Texas and the Environmental Integrity Project, polluters in Texas were fined for less than 3 percent of the nearly 25,000 illegal releases that occurred in the state between 2011 and 2016. 

A TCEQ spokesperson disputed those findings. “The current enforcement rate for reported emission events is over 10 percent,” the spokesperson told Public Health Watch.

Zwiener’s conservative peers made it clear her ideas were non-starters. To get a bill out of committee, she’d have to think smaller.

The bill’s final version tied fines to inflation, so the fees wouldn’t lose value while polluters contested them in court. It ordered the TCEQ to study what would happen if companies were fined a dollar for every pound of chemicals they illegally released. And it gave polluters two hours, rather than 24, to give the TCEQ a written report of an “emission event.” That change would have forced LyondellBasell’s Houston Refining plant to report its garlic-like release at least 22 hours earlier than it did.

This time Zwiener’s legislation got a public hearing before the Texas House’s Environmental Regulation Committee. Juan Flores, the Galena Park resident who had tried to track down the garlic-like odor, traveled to the state Capitol in Austin to speak on its behalf. 

When it was his turn to go to the lectern, Flores locked eyes with West Texas Rep. Brooks Landgraf, the Republican committee chair.

“He seemed like a good guy,” Flores said. “But as I was talking, it just went through my mind — like, is this dude even listening to me? … Just looking at him, I could tell he was just like, ‘Whatever, say what you have to say so we can move on.’”

Landgraf is a lawyer who represents oil and gas companies and manages his family’s mineral interests in the Permian Basin of West Texas. His office declined interview requests for this story. But his biography on the state government’s website says he is “working to repeal burdensome regulations that harm the Permian Basin’s oil and gas industry.” 

Landgraf is running unopposed for reelection in November. He has been endorsed by the Texas Oil & Gas Association Good Government Committee, the Texas Alliance Oil & Gas Political Action Committee and the Oil & Gas Workers Association.

After listening to an hour of testimony, Landgraf voted with three other GOP committee members to kill Zwiener’s bill. In a surprise move, Republican Geanie Morrison joined the committee’s four Democrats and voted to send it to the House floor for debate.

But Zwiener’s victory was only symbolic, because House Speaker Dade Phelan never scheduled the bill for a vote before the full House. 

Phelan, a Republican from Beaumont, has received more than $500,000 in campaign contributions from the oil, gas, and petrochemical industries since 2014, according to FollowTheMoney.org. His great-grandfather was a wealthy oilman tied to Texas’ famous Spindletop field.

Phelan didn’t respond to requests for an interview. 

Three months after that painful defeat, Zwiener paced the streets of Washington, D.C., and felt powerless all over again.

She had fought for environmental reform, and she had lost. And now, as she watched news of the LyondellBasell accident pop up on her cellphone, she was 1,400 miles away, fighting another battle that would almost surely end in failure.

For two weeks, she and 55 other Texas Democrats had been holed up in the nation’s capital, trying to prevent the state legislature from passing a law that would make voting more difficult, especially for communities of color. By leaving Austin, the Democratic lawmakers had ensured — at least temporarily — that Republicans wouldn’t have a quorum, the minimum number of legislators needed to move the bill forward.

Senate Bill 1 didn’t call out Harris County by name, but its authors’ intentions were clear: The county’s record-breaking voter turnout in 2020 — and, more important, the pioneering voting reforms that had fueled it — was a threat to the state’s Republican establishment.

“I have news for Harris County: You’re not the capital of Texas,” Republican Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick declared at a news conference. “The state capital resides in Travis County. In the city of Austin. In this building. Not in the county judge’s or the mayor’s office.”

The governor also made it clear that Harris County was a prime SB 1 target. 

“What Harris County did was a complete violation of the constitution by creating their own time, place, and manner for elections,” Abbott told Houston Public Media. “We, being the Republicans, we’re in no mood for additional compromise.”

Republican Attorney General Ken Paxton had singled out Harris County, too. During a June 2021 appearance on Steve Bannon’s “War Room” podcast, Paxton bragged about blocking Harris County’s 2020 plan to send mail-in ballot applications to all of its 2.4 million registered voters.

“Had we not done that… We would’ve been one of those battleground states that were counting votes in Harris County for three days,” Paxton told Bannon. “Trump would’ve lost the election [in Texas].”

Zwiener and the other Democrats trickled home from Washington in August 2021. The lawmakers couldn’t hide forever, especially after Speaker Phelan threatened to drag them back to Austin in handcuffs. 

SB 1 sailed through the House and Senate less than two weeks later, and Abbott signed it into law on September 7.

Drive-through voting, which was mostly used by Latino, Black and Asian voters in 2020, is no longer allowed. Polling hours are sharply reduced and 24-hour voting is banned. Monthly “citizenship checks” search for undocumented immigrants on the voter rolls. Voting by mail is so restricted that public officials can be jailed simply for encouraging it.

On its surface, the law doesn’t have anything to do with Harris County’s efforts to rein in the petrochemical industry’s pollution. But by making voting more difficult for the communities most affected by the industry’s health hazards, SB 1 makes it harder for the politicians who champion their cause to win elections.

Hidalgo, the county judge who put environmental justice at the forefront in Harris County, is up for reelection in November. So is Adrian Garcia, one of the two Democrats on the commissioners court. 

If either of them loses, Republicans will regain control of the court, and four years of hard-fought environmental gains will almost surely be wiped out.  

State leaders are shaping Harris County’s upcoming elections in another way.

In October 2021, Abbott signed a statewide redistricting plan that redrew the political maps for the U.S. Congress and Texas Legislature to heavily favor white, conservative voters and dilute key minority voting blocs. The move, designed to keep Texas Republicans in power for the next decade, shuffled more than a million Harris County residents into new districts. The U.S. Department of Justice has sued Texas over the redistricting maps, saying they “deny or abridge the rights of Latino and Black voters.”

The state’s most prominent Republicans — Abbott, Patrick, and Paxton— are up for reelection in November. Each has received millions of dollars in campaign funds from oil, gas, and petrochemical donors. Each is favored to win, even though Paxton is under indictment for felony security fraud and is being investigated by the FBI for corruption and bribery.

Menefee, the Harris County attorney, sees the state’s new voting rules as existential threats to communities of color and to officials, like him, who are trying to protect them.

His office is working with the Brennan Center for Justice to sue the state over SB 1, arguing that it hinders election officials’ “ability to inform seniors and voters with disabilities about their right to vote by mail.” They won in federal court, but the decision was paused by the 5th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals. Now he’s waiting for the Republican-dominated Texas Supreme Court to weigh in. 

“It’s a threat to democracy… But it’s also a threat to the work that we’re doing,” he said. “If you can change the rules of the game so that 10 percent of Democrats in Harris County can no longer vote, or if you can take out 5,000 Black votes… you can get somebody in office who doesn’t believe environmental justice is a real thing. That’s how you flip seats.”

While the legislature was preoccupied with voting rights, Pollution Control and the TCEQ were investigating LyondellBasell’s deadly accident in La Porte.  

The TCEQ found that the Dutch company had committed at least eight air-pollution infractions. Given the severity of the offenses, LyondellBasell can’t use the affirmative-defense loophole to reduce or avoid penalties for those offenses, the TCEQ said in “a notice of enforcement for compliance” to the company in October 2021. But it said the penalty “may be limited” if the company acted quickly to address the problem. The letter noted that the agency dedicates “considerable resources toward making voluntary compliance achievable.”  

The TCEQ gave LyondellBasell 60 days to submit a plan to fix the problem and prevent future emissions. It did not specify how much the company could be asked to pay in fines.

A few weeks later, Pollution Control sent its own letter to LyondellBasell, a “violation notice” that said the company had committed at least seven air pollution infractions. Each violation carried a civil penalty of as much as $25,000 per day, the letter said. Some violations could  include criminal penalties of as much as $250,000 and up to 10 years in jail.

Pollution Control gave LyondellBasell 10 days to submit a plan to fix the problem and prevent future emissions.

Pollution Control’s investigation found that LyondellBasell’s acetyls unit had recorded 13 unauthorized air pollution events in the year leading up to the deadly accident. They were considered minor events — so small that the company wasn’t even required to report them to the TCEQ, let alone be fined.

The agency found that the deadly accident began when workers from a third-party contractor, Turn2 Specialty Companies, mistakenly removed a pipe-valve cover during a maintenance operation. Kuhleman and Day had died, the investigators said, because LyondellBasell had “failed to provide the contractors with training, or any Standard Operating Procedures for the maintenance activity.” 

But LyondellBasell blamed the accident on Turn2. In an email to Pollution Control, Lyondell said the contractor “was responsible for ensuring its personnel understood and could safely and successfully execute the maintenance activity.”

The workers were dead and injured, LyondellBasell added, because they had “exceeded the scope of the work permit.”

A lawyer for Turn2 told Public Health Watch it is cooperating with all the investigations, but “it would be premature” for the company to comment further. He said this was the first time any of its workers had died on a job.

By November 2021, Menefee’s office was ready to prosecute LyondellBasell for 96 pollution violations, including the seven mentioned in Harris County’s violation notice. Each infraction carried a penalty of as much as $25,000, which could add up to $2.4 million in fines.

But on Nov. 22, three days before the state-sanctioned 90-day waiting period expired, Attorney General Paxton’s office informed Menefee that the state was taking the case — that Harris County could not “institute suit for civil penalties against LyondellBasell Acetyls.”  

It’s unclear how many violations the state will pursue against LyondellBasell or what kind of fines it could face. Documents Paxton’s office filed in court say the state will seek “monetary relief over $250,000 but not more than $1,000,000… or alternatively monetary relief over $1,000,000.” Asked to explain why the state is still vacillating over how much to ask for, a spokesperson for Paxton declined to answer, saying, “This litigation is pending and the investigation is still ongoing.”

Two federal agencies are also investigating the accident at La Porte. 

The U.S. Occupational Health and Safety Administration, or OSHA, found that LyondellBasell had committed four “serious” violations, including failing to inform contractors “of the known potential fire, explosion, or toxic release hazards” related to their work. It proposed a fine of $54,612. OSHA also cited Turn2 for four “serious” violations and proposed a $53,247 fine. 

Both LyondellBasell and Turn2 are contesting the penalties.

A separate investigation by the U.S. Chemical Safety and Hazard Investigation Board won’t be completed until 2023. The board is backlogged with cases after being short-staffed and underfunded for years.

The families of the men who perished or were injured in LyondellBasell’s accident are seeking justice in a different way. 

Day’s family turned to Houston-based lawyer Benny Agosto Jr., who has represented other industrial accident victims in Harris County. 

Agosto knows how hard it is to win against corporations backed by arsenals of top-tier lawyers, so he only takes cases supported by strong medical evidence. In Day’s case, Agosto has the autopsy report from the Harris County Medical Examiner’s Office. It says Day’s face and body were covered with green, black, and brown chemical burns. His voice box had turned green, his tongue had turned brown, and his eyes showed green discolorations.

Agosto also represents 27-year-old Seth Wheeler, who survived the accident. Agosto said Wheeler suffered internal and external acid burns, and his lungs were so badly damaged that for days he needed a ventilator to breathe. He required multiple surgeries on his face and eyes and will need more surgery in the future.

Wheeler, like the Day family, is seeking at least $1 million in damages. LyondellBasell didn’t respond to questions about the lawsuits, but in court filings the company has denied the victims’ allegations of gross negligence and wrongful death.

Agosto is preparing to take the cases to trial. But legal battles against powerful companies can drag on for years and many clients agree to out-of-court settlements. That way, they get their money faster and the company avoids the negative publicity of a trial.

Agosto knows it’s not a perfect solution. But he says it’s the best way he can help “folks that have been downtrodden and pushed down.”

And the garlic-odor incident on July 14, 2021? The LyondellBasell accident that sickened people in Galena Park and Jacinto City but didn’t kill anyone?

Harris County and the TCEQ investigated that leak, too.

The TCEQ found that the stench settled in after more than 2,300 pounds of chemicals — several of them known to cause breathing problems and nausea — escaped from one of the large, white storage tanks in the Houston Refining compound. The tanks have floating roofs that are supposed to withstand severe weather and protect against explosions and fires. But heavy rainfall had caused severe corrosion and multiple holes on the roof of Tank 420. The chemicals escaped through the holes, flowed down the roof’s rainwater drain, and spilled onto the ground.

LyondellBasell argued in emails to the TCEQ that the spill couldn’t have been prevented — even “by good design, maintenance, or operation practices.” The company said no problems were detected when the tank was given its annual environmental inspection in October 2020. The tank’s last third-party mechanical integrity inspection was in 2013, LyondellBasell said.

In October 2021, the TCEQ sent Houston Refining a “notice of enforcement for compliance” that said the company had committed at least 10 air pollution violations over a span of 45 hours. Three were for failing to prevent an unauthorized emission due to “inadequate operation and maintenance practices.” Seven were for failing to accurately report the incident. 

For each violation, the TCEQ encouraged Houston Refining to “submit a written description of corrective actions taken and the required plan/or documentation necessary to address the outstanding alleged violation to prevent recurrence of a same or similar violation.” 

The TCEQ didn’t mention how much LyondellBasell could be fined or set a deadline for the company to file a plan to fix the problem.

A few weeks later, Pollution Control sent Houston Refining a separate letter, a “violation notice.”

It said LyondellBasell had committed at least one air pollution infraction: Releasing contaminants into the air “in such concentration and of such duration” that it interfered “with the normal use and enjoyment of property located in the Galena Park area.” It said that violation carried a civil penalty of up to $25,000 per day, and included potential criminal penalties of up to $250,000 and up to 10 years in jail. 

Pollution Control gave LyondellBasell 10 days to submit a plan to fix the problem and prevent future emissions. 

At the same time, Menefee’s office was preparing to prosecute the corporation. It drew from Pollution Control’s investigation, which said the agency had received 72 complaints about the chemical release from people who “expressed fear of leaving their home” and experienced “headaches, nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, difficulty breathing,” among other problems. The investigators themselves “experienced irritation of the eyes and throat while conducting an odor survey in the Galena Park area.”

Menefee’s office planned to charge LyondellBasell with 114 pollution violations, including the one mentioned in the violation notice. Harris County could ask for up to $2.85 million in fines.

But once again Attorney General Paxton’s office stepped in and exerted its authority to take over the case. It notified Menefee’s office of its decision on March 10, 2022 — the day before the 90-day waiting period expired. 

The court documents Paxton’s office has filed so far don’t specify the number of charges LyondellBasell is facing but say the state will seek “civil penalties that could exceed $100,000.” When asked if LyondellBasell could use the affirmative-defense loophole to reduce or eliminate those fines, the TCEQ declined to comment.

LyondellBasell has since announced that it will close Houston Refining by the end of 2023 as part of its larger plan to leave the refining business. But industry experts think the facility will probably continue operating under new ownership.

On March 1, Texas held its 2022 primaries — the first elections with the new voting rules in place. The results in Harris County were so stunning that they made national news.

Nearly 7,000 ballots — about a fifth of all the mail-in ballots cast in the county — were tossed out, mostly because of technical mistakes people made while trying to navigate the state’s rigid new voting requirements.

“We’ve been saying for a while, that the new voter suppression laws in Texas are designed to do just that. And now we’ve got the receipts,” County Judge Lina Hidalgo told CNN as the first ballots were being flagged for rejection. “It’s throwing sand into the gears of democracy.”

By comparison, only 135 ballots were rejected in the 2018 midterm election.

The stakes will be much higher on Nov. 8, when Hidalgo and Democratic County Commissioner Adrian Garcia will face their Republican opponents. Garcia won his 2018 race by just over 2,000 votes. Hidalgo won by fewer than 20,000 votes. 

Hidalgo’s reelection campaign has been complicated by a scandal in her office. In April, three of her staffers were indicted on charges that they improperly awarded an $11 million COVID-19-related contract to a consulting firm that received a lower rating than other bidders in an initial review. At a recent news conference, the county judge said the investigation is a politically motivated effort “to destroy, to harm my campaign.” 

If either Hidalgo or Garcia loses, Republicans will have enough votes on the commissioners court to roll back the county’s recent environmental justice gains.

In February, the two Republicans who currently sit on the court indicated that’s exactly what they would do. 

Tom Ramsey proposed a budget for the next fiscal year that would have cut Pollution Control’s funding by nearly 20 percent. Jack Cagle proposed slashing public health funding by 47 percent and shutting down the local elections department that had carried out the 2020 voting reforms. Both would use most of the savings to boost funding for law enforcement. 

None of these cuts was included in the budget that Hidalgo and the two Democrats on the court approved by a 3-2 vote. Instead, the new budget increases Pollution Control funding by $1.2 million for the upcoming fiscal year.

For Juan Flores, who has breathed East Harris County’s foul air since he was born, all this political wrangling is just background noise. He has never counted on politicians to rescue the neighborhood where he grew up. He believes it’s up to people like him, who are doing grassroots organizing, to change things. 

As part of his work with Air Alliance Houston, he recently installed two new Apis air monitors in Galena Park — including one on Clinton Drive, where he had desperately searched for the garlic-like odor last July. The $11,000 machines are the size of a bread box and give real-time readings about ozone, nitrogen dioxide, particulate matter, and volatile organic compounds. Residents can view the readings using an online dashboard. That way they can better understand the dangers of pollution — knowledge Flores thinks came too late for him.

These days Flores worries a lot about dying young. His father died more than two decades ago, on a refinery floor, at the age of 51. His father’s warning — Don’t do what I do, mijo — saved Juan from a life of petrochemical work. But Flores, 44, fears that simply living in his small, polluted town will bring him an early death, too. To protect himself and his family, he has cancer insurance that covers chemotherapy and other treatments.

“Any time I see an abnormality in my body, I start freaking out and visit the doctor,” he said. “I just want to live a little longer, because my daughter’s so young.”

Dominique recently turned 6 and is free of the cancer she was born with. Flores’ son, Jean,  just finished his freshman year at the University of Houston. The teenager is still haunted by his experience in 2019, when he needed steroids to ease his breathing after a fire at the Intercontinental Terminals Company plant released a staggering amount of benzene. He hopes to move away after college. 

Flores understands why his son wants to leave. His own brothers and sisters all moved away years ago. But he can’t bring himself to abandon Galena Park.

He sees his fight against serial polluters as something bigger than himself. It’s his chance to protect the only home he’s ever known — and to give the next generation the clean air he never had.

In March, eight months after the garlic odor invaded Galena Park, Flores and his family headed to the Caribbean for a seven-day break from refinery flares and rumbling trains.

They’d never been on a cruise, and Flores was eager to soak up the experience. He wants to make as many memories as he can before it’s too late.

“I can see it coming 15 years from now. Juan, you’ve got cancer,” he said. “You can’t make peace with that. You just have to live your life one day at a time. And if it happens, it happens.”

Hannah Molina, whose toddlers were sickened during the July 14 incident, is trying to get her family out of East Harris County before the next big leak happens.   

To save enough money to move, her husband is taking on double shifts and overtime at the sign-making company where he works. She has started a podcast about motherhood, “The LifeChat Experience,” to try to bring in a little extra money while she cares for the girls.

The family had hoped to leave by the end of this year. But with inflation, it’s hard just to make ends meet, let alone save. Now they’re aiming for 2023.  

“We can’t catch a break,” Molina said. “Maybe it’s just not our time right now.”

According to TCEQ records, more than 150 chemical leaks have occurred in Harris County in the nine months since the garlic-like odor settled over Galena Park and Jacinto City. Asked  whether it does enough to protect communities from pollution, the TCEQ told Public Health Watch it “does all it can to support air quality within the boundaries of state law.”

This story was reported and written by David Leffler and Savanna Strott. Kelly Martin and Chris Campbell handled graphics. Photography was produced by Julie Dermansky and Blaine Young. Kelly Martin, David Fritze, and Lena Huang did the design. Illustration was done by K. Amelia Bates. Katherine Bagley did additional production.

This project was edited by Susan White, Jim Morris, and Lynne Perri. It was copy edited by Suzanne Choney and fact checked by Savanna Strott and David Leffler.

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline A Texas county wants to punish polluters. The state won’t let it. on Jun 2, 2022.

This content originally appeared on Grist and was authored by David Leffler.

One million Americans, over 90,000 people in California, and over thirty thousand Los Angeles County residents have died of Covid-19. The most vulnerable groups are seniors and people with disabilities, especially those that are homebound. The LA County Board of Supervisors should have made homebound people a priority. Instead, it failed them throughout the pandemic and continues to fail them today.

Our story begins with a phone call made in 2020. As the pandemic was getting more deadly, a tenant living at Barnard Way in Santa Monica died of Covid-19. Barnard Way is a 61-unit Section 8 complex with older, disabled, and poor residents. Shawn Casey O’Brien, who lives in the building, contacted the office of the LA County Board of Supervisors to request testing for building residents.

A young staffer spoke with Shawn and Ernie Powell (one of the authors of this piece). After two meetings the staffer indicated that the County itself could not provide the testing. The staffer suggested that the residents go to a local testing location just few miles away. For many residents, who had limited mobility or simply did not want to risk exposure to Covid-19, this was not remotely helpful advice.

We knew that Barnard Way residents were far from the only LA County residents facing a lack of response from the County. Hence, we organized and formed COMIT, the "Coalition for Mobile In-Home Testing and Vaccinations." COMIT activists in each of the five supervisorial districts lobbied the County to support homebound residents.

Homebound people stay at home, typically for medical reasons. They need extra help with shopping and basic daily needs. A homebound person needs the help of another person or medical equipment such as crutches, a walker, or a wheelchair to get them around. The Board of Supervisors estimates that as many as 275,000 people in our county are homebound.

As reported in Becker’s Hospital Review in August of 2021, the percentage of homebound adults increased nationally from 5 percent in 2011 to 13 percent in 2020. Latino adults were most likely to be homebound in 2020 at 34 percent compared to African American adults at 22.6 percent and white adults at 10.1 percent.  

In March 2021, the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors unanimously passed a resolution which created a vaccination program that served "the often forgotten homebound." The resolution asked the Los Angeles County Department of Public Health to present a plan within 21 days.

The plan was approved unanimously. The COMIT team, along with our allies at Social Security Works California, were optimistic that the County would follow its own plan to vaccinate homebound residents quickly and efficiently. After all, Los Angeles County is the biggest county in the nation with nearly two million residents over the age of 60. The County has a budget of $1.3 billion, with the capacity to bring in more if needed.

This is Los Angeles, the place for hopes and dreams. Our Board of Supervisors is a liberal governmental body that cares for the elderly, the poor, the disabled, and people from across the world. Especially given our large communities of color and their health disparities, we trusted that the County would be a national leader in homebound vaccinations.

Unfortunately, our optimism was short lived. For a while, it was difficult to even receive data on how many homebound vaccinations took place. In one two-month period, four different counts were reported. For a while, the County said they could not keep count because they had outsourced vaccinations to other groups.

Finally, on January 25th, 2022, the leader of the Department of Health reported to the County that their program had only administered 4,718 vaccinations to homebound residents. This fell massively short of the County’s March 2021 mandate to vaccinate 275,000 homebound residents. COMIT, Social Security Works California, and the public expected far more from our elected leaders.

So, we re-grouped and moved into full advocacy mode. Our mission was, and remains, to push the County to do what it promised to do. We have four simple "asks" for the County of Los Angeles. They are:

1) Issue a report to the public every two weeks with the number of vaccinations given through the homebound program.

2) Promote the program through television appearances, op-eds, or announcements in the Los Angeles Times and other outlets small and large.

3) Inform each elected official in the county of the program so that they can promote it to their constituents.

4) Reveal the sources of funding for the program, along with dollars spent.

To date, we have not had one clear answer to our asks. Instead, we're constantly told "we will get back to you" or "not my department." Every member of the board voted for this program—Supervisors Hilda Solis, Holly Mitchell, Sheila Kuehl, Janice Hahn, and Kathryn Barger. But getting a meeting with any of them to discuss the program is virtually impossible. The same is true for Dr. Barbara Ferrer, Director of Public Health.   

According to a government agency in Sacramento, the funding for the County's homebound vaccination program is from the American Rescue Plan. California received a total of $22 billion from the ARP, with as much as $1.9 billion going to L.A. County. We are confident that the dollars are there for a robust homebound vaccination program.

Yet that isn’t what is happening. As just one example, the County has told us that they plan to use channel 35 to promote the program. But that channel is known mainly by county and city employees. The County needs to flood channels 2, 4, and 7 with advertisements urging people who are homebound to make a simple phone call to 1-833-540-0473 to receive their vaccinations.

Homebound seniors and people with disabilities can’t wait any longer for life-saving vaccines. It’s time for the Board of Supervisors and the Department of Public Health to keep their promise.

This content originally appeared on Common Dreams - Breaking News & Views for the Progressive Community and was authored by Ernie Powell, Nikola Alenkin.

The ordinance, which applies only to the unincorporated areas of Los Angeles County, targets virtually all carryout food providers, from food trucks to coffee shops to hospital cafeterias. Strict definitions for acceptable foodware will require cutlery and dishes to either be compostable at home or widely recycled across California communities.  The ordinance also places a ban on the sale of “expanded polystyrene” foam and requires sit-down restaurants to provide guests with reusable dishes and silverware.

Sheila Kuehl, who sits on the Board of Supervisors — the five-member governing body of LA County — said in a press release that the move is “a major step forward in reducing our reliance on plastic and reducing its harm to human and marine health.” Meanwhile, in Northern California, Marin County’s Board of Supervisors approved a similar ordinance on the same day.

Plastic waste is a major problem throughout California, where residents throw away more than 60,000 tons of plastic each year — a weight equivalent to that of roughly 400 blue whales. When this waste finds its way onto beaches and into the oceans — as it so often does — it can harm the tourism industry and burden taxpayers millions of dollars per year in cleanup costs. It can also exert a heavy toll on wildlife and human health, strangling marine animals and leaching hazardous chemicals that may travel up the food chain to find their way into humans’ bloodstreams.

Recycling has helped reduce LA’s burden of plastic waste, but likely only to a limited degree. There’s only so much waste that can be handled by the region’s existing recycling infrastructure, leading some 200 tons of items placed in recycling bins in the City of LA to end up landfilled or incinerated each day. (The City of LA is the largest of the 88 cities that, along with 140 unincorporated areas, comprise LA County.) In landfills, plastic trash can resist breaking down for centuries. And incineration creates noxious air pollution that disproportionately harms low-income communities and communities of color.

Because the ordinance approved by the LA Board of Supervisors only applies to unincorporated areas within LA County, it will only take a small bite out of LA’s plastic waste problem. Still, there are about 1 million people and thousands of restaurants in these areas. According to the Los Angeles Times, the law will affect a larger population than any other policy in the state to cut down on single-use plastics.

Some Southern California business interest groups, like the Valley Industry and Commerce Association, have opposed the ordinance. The association’s president, Stuart Waldman, told Grist it would increase costs for small restaurants, since recyclable and compostable dishware tends to be more expensive. However, environmental advocates note that there are already high human health and ecosystem costs associated with unmitigated plastic production.

“There’s an expense now for these products, and it’s an unsustainable expense,” said Christy Leavitt, plastics campaign manager for the nonprofit Oceana. She added that local governments across California are already paying some $420 million annually as they struggle to keep plastic away from waterways, beaches, and the ocean.

Most restaurants will have until May 2023 to comply with the new ordinance, although there is an extended timeline for some vendors. Food trucks will have until November 2023, and the ordinance won’t go into effect for farmers markets and other temporary facilities until May 2024. Violations will cost $100 per day, with a maximum penalty of $1,000 per vendor per year.

Leavitt applauded board members for their leadership and said the ordinance could spur more ambitious policies at the state level. One ballot initiative — the California Recycling and Plastic Pollution Reduction Act — is particularly promising, she said, as it would not only require producers across all of California to transition to reusable, refillable, compostable, or recyclable packaging and foodware, but would also set a target to reduce the production of single-use plastic items by 25 percent by 2030. Californians will have a chance to vote on the initiative in November.

“We need to stop producing and using so much plastic,” Leavitt said. “That’s going to be what helps stop plastic from going into the ocean.”

This story was originally published by Grist with the headline LA County bans throwaway dishes and cutlery on Apr 21, 2022.

This content originally appeared on Grist and was authored by Joseph Winters.

Disappearances reported

The user added that "a large number" of people who spoke out about the Feng county scandal had been called in to "drink tea" with the state security police, or just disappeared.

Beijing-based rights activist Ni Yulan said she still worries about Yang.

"I'm concerned about her too," she said. "I saw someone with a chain around their neck and a lock, engaging in performance art [posting it online]."

"I have also seen a lot of paintings, all kinds of them, and I have also forwarded them."

Ni said Yang had lost most of her life to the trafficking gangs and her abusive husband and his family.

"She was unable to live a normal life for 26 years," she said. "She was abducted when she was still so young, and has gone through so much suffering."

"We didn't even have the opportunity to hear her speak," Ni said.

Hubei rights activist Wu Lijuan said many online activists had switched their usual avatar for one depicting the chained woman.

"We need to learn the truth about what happened, if we are to protect everyone," Wu told RFA. "Without that ... there will be no safety or security for any Chinese woman."

Independent journalist Gao Yu added: "Even the Winter Olympics and Russia's war of aggression against Ukraine haven't detracted from the attention of the Chinese public and the rest of the world on the case of the chained woman."

"It's not going to be fixed by the ministry of public security simply announcing a special campaign against the trafficking of women and children," she told RFA, calling on China's rubber-stamp parliament, the National People's Congress (NPC), to take concrete action.

'SOS (Save our Sisters)'

Meanwhile, Chinese film director Hu Xueyang screened a new film on Monday to mark International Women's Day in Paris, supported by Chinese-American writer Yang Geling, her husband Lawrence Walker and Germany-based artist and writer Yoyo.

The film tells the story of a woman who escaped from North Korea and lived in hiding in northeastern China. But instead of being rescued by South Koreans as they had hoped, they wound up in the hands of a trafficking gang.

Forced to become a sex worker in a hair salon, the heroine meets a man who falls in love with her and wants to rescue her. Despite warnings, he goes under cover to discover a number of shady stories at the crossover between the trafficking and organ-smuggling gangs and the corrupt local police officers who collude with them.

The film ends as a North Korean agent posing as a South Korean missionary escorts the heroine back to North Korea, as she sings a North Korean folk song, "The Ballad of Kikyo," moving the agent to the extent that he takes off her handcuffs.

Poet Yang Lian read out a poem written for the Jiangsu chained woman at the film's premiere.

"Please delete the word mother in Chinese," the poem reads. "Because mother has been chained, dragged ... raped, injured, soiled, ruined, hollowed out, trampled, left cold and hungry, bullied, mutilated, consumed, destroyed and discarded."

Hu arranged the screening as a form of protest at the treatment of Yang Qingxia, according to the event invitation.

Translated and edited by Luisetta Mudie.

This content originally appeared on Radio Free Asia and was authored by By Fong Tak Ho, Qiao Long, Xiaoshan Huang and Chingman.

Manas county (in Chinese, Manasi) is part of the Changji Hui (Changji Huizu) Autonomous Prefecture and covers an area of nearly 9,200 square kilometers (3,550 square miles).

The camp is divided into two adjacent sections, with one housing about 500 male detainees and the other holding about 270 women — all of whom are ethnic minority Uyghurs, said the official, who did not give his name but said he worked at the detention center for four months.

The official also said that the Uyghur inmates had been arrested for committing “serious crimes,” such as praying, and that inside the facility they learned “the national language” of Mandarin Chinese.

“They were divided by an iron fence — males about 500 and females about 270,” he said. “There was no torture of women. They were taught Chinese. These ones [committed] serious crimes — people who prayed five times a day.”

Chinese authorities have targeted and arrested Muslim Uyghur businessmen, intellectuals, and cultural and religious figures in Xinjiang for years as part of a campaign to monitor, control and assimilate members of the minority group.

At least 1.8 million Uyghurs and other Turkic minorities are believed to have been held in a network of detention camps in Xinjiang since 2017, purportedly to prevent religious extremism and terrorist activities.

Beijing has said that the camps are vocational training centers. The government has denied widespread allegations that it has tortured people in the camps or mistreated other Muslims living in Xinjiang.

Changji Hui Autonomous Prefecture has a population of more than 1.6 million people, according to China’s latest census data on Xinjiang issued in June 2021.

Among the residents of prefecture are members of the Xinjiang Construction and Production Corps, a state-owned economic and paramilitary organization based in Manas. The corps, which also is known as Bingtuan, has been sanctioned by the U.S. for its alleged involvement in human rights violations against Uyghurs.

Relatively few Uyghurs live in the county. Census figures put Manas’ population at 247,000 people, of whom only 6,200 are Uyghurs, or about 2.5 percent of the total. The 19,513 ethnic Kazakhs who also live there account for 7.9 percent of its population.

Earlier RFA reports found that many Kazakhs had been detained in internment camps in Manas and Kuytun (Kuitun), a county-level city in Ili Kazakh (Yili Hasake) Autonomous Prefecture, which is also in the northern part of Xinjiang.

In other earlier reports, sources said a large number of detainees in the Ghulja (Yining) area had been transferred to Manas county and to the cities of Shiho (Wusu) and Urumqi (Wulumuqi), which is Xinjiang’s capital.

In early January, RFA reported on the disappearance and imprisonment of Hasiyet Ehmet, a 57-year-old resident of Manas who is serving a 14-year prison sentence for teaching children the Quran and hiding two copies of the sacred text during a time when police began confiscating religious books from residents.

RFA reported that additional internment camps may be operating in Manas, despite the relatively low number of Uyghurs who live there.

RFA contacted police stations, prisons and judiciary offices in Manas county in an effort to find out the number of detention camps operating there, but most officials who were reached said they were not authorized to provide any information.

One said there was only one internment camp in the county, although he did not state its location. Another official said the camp was located inside the county center but could not comment on the number of detainees.

“There’s only one in Manas. It is in the county center,” he said.

When RFA asked one of the officials how many Kazakhs were in the camp in Manas county, he initially said there are none before declining to comment.

“There are no Kazakhs. Don’t ask this. We are not allowed to speak about this,” he said.

Global attention continues to focus on Xinjiang and the well-documented allegations of abuse.

On Thursday, the House of Lords in the United Kingdom passed an amendment to ensure the country’s National Health Service, the publicly funded health care system in England, cannot purchase goods or services from a region where there is a serious risk of genocide.

Last year, the British Parliament designated that abuses against Uyghurs and other Turkic Muslims in Xinjiang constituted a genocide.

The NHS measure, which still must be approved by the House of Commons, drew praise from Uyghur rights groups.

In response to the amendment’s passage, Rahima Mahmut, U.K. director of the World Uyghur Congress, tweeted: “I'm deeply grateful to everyone who has worked so tirelessly on this amendment so far … I know how much this win means for our community.”

Translated by RFA’s Uyghur Service. Written in English by Roseanne Gerin.

This content originally appeared on Radio Free Asia and was authored by By Shohret Hoshur.

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